fresh out the slammer ❀ s. reid x reader
in which spencer reid comes home from prison, and needs to fulfil everything he has missed about you.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
genre: smut & comfort (18+ mdni)
tags: post prison!reid. soft dom!spencer. teeth might rot i was cringing during some of this. established relationship. the briefest of breast play because what do i hate? the word nipple! fingering. p in v. no protection is mentioned but imagine what you will. casual nudity afterwards. spencer's got bruises from prison. i lowkey forgot about his thigh wound until the very end.
word count: 5.7k
a/n: there's a completely different version of me in a world where i didn't write this. i hope she's doing well. i feel like i've been reborn. this is stupidly long LOL my apologies. pleaseee tell me if you liked this! or if you didn't! i love feedback! here's my monthly smut fic see you all in october!
Three months wasn't a long time, in the grand scheme of things. A quarter of a year usually went by too quickly for anybody's liking, the year sprinting through seasons until all twelve months were complete, and you were repeating it all over again. Usually. Three months without Spencer Reid, however, went by achingly slowly. And you hadn't originally considered just how agonising they could be.
Each day was another painful mirror of the last, waking up and going to bed with the same sense of dread in your stomach, oftentimes swallowing you whole and leaving you unable to do just about anything at all.
Living life without Spencer Reid was hard.
You saw him — of course you did. Despite his original efforts to keep you off the approved visitors list, Penelope Garcia had seen one glimpse of your heart shattered expression upon being told, and marched her way to the prison to slap sense into him. You weren't sure if that was metaphoric or not.
However, seeing him once every other week and living with him were two very different situations. You hadn't realised just how much you had depended on him always being there when you woke up in the morning until you were waking up to cold bed sheets and a pillow clutched petulantly to your chest in hopes of recreating the warmth only Spencer could provide.
And then he was free.
From prison, that is. You hadn't heard it all — information about his time in prison had been kept from you in an attempt to protect your own peace of mind. But you knew from at least the bruises he was always sporting no matter when you went to visit him, that something awful had happened to him in there, and his own brain would keep him imprisoned for as long as it wished.
But he was free.
And he was here, and you were staring up at his face littered with unkempt facial hair and a head of untreated curls, and regardless of everything horrific he had endured brewing behind his eyes, he was staring at you with the same softness he had before any of this happened.
Despite the beginning of a protest when you wrapped your arms around his torso, you hugged him, and he hugged you, and even the faintest smell of grime and blood couldn't stop you from gripping onto him with so much force you thought your knuckles would break.
"You're real," you whispered into his chest, muffled by it, and it shook beneath your face as he laughed, quietly. Beautifully.
"I am," he answered, and you could feel him crushing his own facial features into the top of your head, no doubt inhaling your shampoo. "You're real."
"Yes," you confirmed with a nod.
Maybe hours passed, perhaps only minutes. Whichever it was, you were still reluctant to pull away from him until he did, your face stained with tear streaks you don't remember shedding, his own eyes glassy as your gazes met.
"You don't want to talk about it, do you?" you asked him, walking backwards as you led him out of the doorway you two had been finding solace in, and further into the apartment space you were ecstatic to share together again.
"Not particularly," he answered, strides catching up to you and encasing your waist between his hands, tugging your body closer to his own. "Is that okay?"
"As long as you promise not to keep it in," you replied, teeth chewing into your lower lip in a contemplative habit.
"I have counselling at work," he said, and you nodded, your facial features softening only a little — you knew him well enough to know he wouldn't enjoy said counselling sessions. Breath tickled your lips as he leaned in a little closer, inciting heat onto your cheeks. "Any other questions?"
"No," you replied, your own lips twitching in amusement. "That's it. Why?"
"Because I haven't kissed you in three months," he murmured, "and I want to."
"Maybe," you said with a hum, and he said your name chidingly, eliciting a laugh from you. "Yeah. Okay."
To be honest, you had spent a few too many nights allowing your thoughts to wander and end up dreaming about what it would be like to kiss him again. Whether or not either of you would have the patience to be gentle and kind to one another. In those nights, you had decided you would be. Your heart cracking every time you thought of Spencer alone in a concrete cell that it left you with a gaping hole in your chest. All you really wanted was to hold him and remind him how adored he was.
Right now, you learned you wouldn't be.
There was a tenderness in the way his hands found your cheeks to cup, and there was a softness in his fingertips against your skin. Yet, everything he kissed with was anything but. Feverish and quick, swallowing you whole and inspiring a spark in your chest that resulted in you kissing back just as hungry.
Just when you thought there was nothing left to trigger within him, a squeak left your lips as the result of him tugging you impossibly closer, and he was beginning to walk you backwards, even further into the apartment, his kiss growing all consuming.
"Spencer," you said, breathlessly, jerking your head back, staring at him, waiting for him to realise you weren't returning your lips to his, and his eyes opened.
"What?" he asked, almost irritatedly. When he watched the slight flicker of hurt flash on your face at the tone, his own expression became gentler. "I'm sorry. Is something wrong?"
Immediately, you shook your head. "No. I just wanted to check how far you wanted to go," your hands travelled up to his hair, fingers scratching gently against his scalp. "I know there's a lot going on up here."
"Actually, right now it's just you," he said, tilting a head to the side to lean into one of your palms. "It's mostly you all the time. But right now you're consuming it."
"I make such an impact on your life," you quipped.
"I know you're teasing, but you do," he replied, fingers tracing up and down either side of your jawline, eyes searching each small detail on your face he had no doubt already memorised. "I survived in there for you."
"Oh."
Probably not the most eloquent response for the things he had just confessed, but truly your brain had scrambled within an instant, and you weren't sure what to say.
"Sorry," he said, hands stilling on your face. "To answer your question, I don't know. I really missed you."
"I know," you said when a gaping silence followed his words. "We don't have to."
"I think I want to."
Your eyebrows furrowed. "You can't think, Spence. You've gotta know."
"I've definitely said that to you before," he chided, thinking for a moment, before, "yes. I did. First time we had sex."
"Sue me for repeating important sexual advice to you, Spencer Reid," you huffed. He laughed.
"No, I mean, I do. Want to," he finally replied. "I'm really scared of hurting you."
"Do you want to hurt me?"
"No."
"Then you won't," you reassured him, despite knowing whatever doubt he had in himself would not be resolved just like that, and it'll probably eat at his mind for a long while. "And even if you do, I won't be upset with you." When his face scrunched and his expression mirrored judgement, you stammered to clarify. "Not in a kinky way. Don't look at me like that, Spencer. Stop it. I just meant I'll understand. And I won't be mad."
"Didn't take you to be into masochism," he mumbled, and you groaned at his selective hearing, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, that shook with his laughter. "Kidding, honey. I know what you mean."
"Not funny."
"It was a little," he countered, a hand reaching up to entangle within your hair to pull your head back, gently, so he could look at you again.
"Hi," you said when your eyes locked once more.
"Hello," he answered, his lips pulling into a smile. "I'd like to kiss you again."
"You've used up your kiss for the day, actually," you replied, sweetly beaming up at him.
"Quiet," he shot back, leaning forwards and allowing his lips to brush hesitantly against yours, eyes searching your own with an added hint of desperation. "Please?"
You pretended to think for a moment too long, because he was already mumbling something that sounded a little like 'brat', and pressed his mouth to yours once more.
You couldn't complain.
It was the same intensity as earlier, and yet there was something in it that differentiated the homesickness of the kiss from then, and the desperation now. Large hands — that you would probably allow to encase you whole — pathetically held your face lightly, hips knocking with yours as he walked you backwards and up against the back of the couch.
"Spence," you whimpered embarrassingly, hands clawing at the sleeves of his suit jacket, trialling and failing at tugging it off his body.
"I got you, sweet girl," he mumbled against your lips, not breaking the kiss for even a second as he helped you, shrugging the jacket off and allowing it to fall to the floor — something he will certainly chastise himself for later.
"Bedroom," you said, in between heavy breaths and feverish kisses. A request he was more than happy to comply to, for he had nodded, and you were instantaneously tugging on one of his hands in the direction of the room, his eyes fixated on your body as he trailed behind.
"Missed you so much," he murmured as he tugged you back towards him the second he had kicked the door shut, lips finding the corner of your mouth, then your jawline, then your neck, as he kissed down you.
"So you've said," you breathed out, tilting your head to the side as he gently nipped at the skin.
"Do you get off on being mean to me?" he chided, lifting his head to look at you again, and your heart stuttered.
"No. Just that dominance act that it brings out," you murmured, attempting to keep the mood light. Successfully so, for air huffed out of his nose as his lips twitched, fingers that had dropped to your waist squeezing it gently. In unresolved doubt, you added, "I missed you too. Don't worry."
"I'm not," he replied, and the weight lifted off your shoulders. "Lie down."
"So demanding," you teased, though his tone was anything but firm.
You were met with an unimpressed look, and you merely grinned back as you climbed onto the bed, sitting cross legged atop it, staring up at him expectingly.
Instead of moving over you like you had expected, he crouched at the foot of the bed, holding his hands out on the mattress in front of you. Needing no more than the simple gesture, you untangled your legs and stretched them out in front of you, and he tugged you down towards the end of the bed, breath hitting the skin of your thighs deliciously.
"I'm supposed to be making you feel good," you argued when his fingers trailed up the sides of your legs, finding the waistband of your pyjama shorts.
"Why?" he questioned, halting his movements as he searched your face.
"Because you're the one who just got out of prison," his face scrunched at the verbal reminder. "Sorry. But... yeah. I have thought about making you come the day you got home like daily."
"Oh have you?" his eyebrows shot up, and it was then that your brain caught up to your running mouth, and your cheeks heated up.
"Nope. Forget I said anything."
"No," he pushed himself up from the floor, moving his body over yours on the bed, successfully forcing you to lie back. "Tell me those thoughts."
"Spencer," you moaned, shaking your head as you buried your face into your hands, that he was a little too quick to catch and pry away.
"I'm not going to judge you," he said, amused. "In fact, I aspire to know every single thought there is up in that pretty head of yours. Especially the ones about me. Please tell me."
"I just thought about making you come. There's nothing more exciting to it."
"Yes, but how?"
"My mouth, I guess," you mumbled, voice going impossibly quiet. "I don't know."
"You're acting like you have never given me oral," he said, catching your gaze within milliseconds of you averting it, thumb and forefinger straightening your head again.
"Nobody says oral, Spencer. Say head," your own face now scrunched up.
"Lots of people say oral," he defended.
"Yeah, old people. We are not old people."
"Fine, you're acting like you have never given me head."
Despite it being a jab at him to take the heat off of you, the phrase coming out from his lips sounded exceptionally vulgar for what it was, and it only resulted in your stomach flipping.
Finally, you regained some control over your own thoughts, and you found it in you to reply. "That's what I want to do. Because I want to make you feel good."
"You underestimate how much I gain from making you feel good," he countered, fingers lazily caressing the skin of your jaw as his eyes studied your face with an intensity that had your stomach flipping.
"It cannot be as good as an orgasm," you huffed, stubbornly so.
He nipped at your nose. "It is."
"Can we compromise?"
"So you don't want me to give you oral?" his eyebrows rose.
In every other situation, you would not be fighting him on this. In fact, he would probably have already gotten his foreplay of teasing and teetering you on the edge out of the way by now, and you'd be well and truly content. However, the forefront of your mind was still plagued by how little time Spencer had to take care of himself, and the last thing you needed him to be was at your service. Despite his protests.
"Head," you corrected. "And no."
He searched for remnants of a lie for a few beats longer, before he nodded his head, giving in. "What's your compromise, honey?"
"I don't think there's a sexy way to say to just put it in me," you said, and his lips curled up into an amused smile, followed by a huff of laughter.
"No, I don't think there is," he agreed. "I do think anything you say can be sexy, though."
You pulled a face, and you shook your head. "No. Don't say that ever again either."
"I can't compliment you, I can't give you ora—head," he rattled off. "Is there anything good I get out of this?"
"You get to fuck me?" you batted your eyelashes up at him.
"Such vulgar language," he chastised, ducking his head when a hand of yours rose to swat him.
Despite himself, his head had dropped to the crook of your neck, and he had begun placing feather like kisses along the skin that distracted you just enough to drop your hand back to the mattress beneath you.
Any other day, and you'd probably still be bickering with him until the minute he made you come. However, three months without even the faintest of touches from him left you overwhelmed with everything he did to you, and so the gentle kisses trailing down to the collar of your shirt were enough to destroy any coherent thoughts you could have.
Cautiously, and with a touch so delicate, Spencer lifted your — his — shirt up your abdomen, fingertips leaving behind the warmest of trails as they skimmed along your skin. One quiet whine from you was all it took for him to hurry his teasing along, and soon enough your shirt was discarded.
A quiet, sharp inhale of air was the other sound aside from your quickened breathing, and you felt tears sting your vision as another kiss was placed just below your now exposed collarbone.
The time without you seemed to weigh nothing in his mind as he took every inch of you in separately, lips mapping out your body like it was the first time all over again, though still knowing exactly when to pause and pay attention to for the sweetest of sounds to be ripped from your throat.
He liked to hear you.
Fingers found your waist as his lips kissed down your sternum, then back up and over until they reached your nipple. He spent time on each breast, ignoring your impatient whining as he neglected the rest of you for a few minutes too long (in your opinion).
"Spencer," you scolded, and it was all it took for him to accept you were not in the mood to wait, and for him to decide he wasn't either.
"Sorry, honey," he replied, voice impossibly soft as he returned his lips to your face, a kiss pressed to the corner of your mouth as his fingers found your shorts again. "Can I take these off?"
"I think we're incredibly out of balance," you replied. And though there wasn't really anything wrong with the sentence — you had certainly said it before — he still pulled back, an unrecognisable grey clouding his eyes. "What?"
"I want to keep my shirt on," was his response, the words inciting confusion to your face.
"What? Why?"
"Do I need a reason?"
You wanted to scream that yes, he did. But did he? Wordlessly, you shook your head, but it didn't help the pang of worry in your chest.
"Unless there's something like an embarrassing tattoo, I'm not going to judge you," you decided to say instead. "Did you get an embarrassing tattoo in prison?"
"No," he shook his head, and you were comforted by the amusement in his tone. "I didn't have the best time in prison."
"I know," you replied.
"And I wasn't very liked. By the men in there."
You knew that too, to an extent. You knew the bruises on his face weren't self inflicted. "You're liked by me."
"I know, sweet girl," a heart shatteringly sad smile stretched across his face as a hand lifted to your cheek. "It just isn't very pretty. And I don't want you to worry."
Well, now you were. Regardless, you nodded your head, turning your head to the side so you could kiss the palm of the hand on your face. "I won't worry, then."
"I want to keep my shirt on. Can that please be okay with you?"
Silently, and after a debate inside your brain, you nodded your head. Gratefully, he pecked your lips once more, before his focus shifted back to you and your body.
"Shorts. Can I take them off?" he asked, again.
"Yes."
"Thank you."
His fingers collected the fabric of your shorts' waistband, and gently pulled them down your legs, cool air washing over you despite the final leftover article of clothing on your body. You shivered, and you could hear him mumbling nearly incoherent apologies as he kissed your stomach.
"These too?" he then asked, eyes flickering between your face for confirmation, and the pair of underwear you still had residing on your body. You nodded your head, and he pulled them down too.
You do not remember a time ever fearing being naked beneath Spencer Reid's gaze, and that did not change even now, as an arguably different man drank in your entire body, the love he had for you not having wavered despite the passing of time.
And you certainly did not fear the way one of his hands slid up your leg, seemingly soothingly, until it teetered on the edge of too far up the limb to be innocent, and he was intensely watching your face for every reaction you could possibly make.
Achingly gently, his middle finger ran up the centre, collecting arousal you hadn't realised was there and knuckle gently bumping your clit, eliciting a quiet mewl from you. You watched him smile at the sound, dragging his finger back down, gathering more of your arousal until he was pushing the finger in.
Your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling oh so familiar, and yet seemingly foreign all at once. Too long, you decided then. Three months is too long.
Leaning back down, his lips brushed your jawline, the otherwise odd sensation of there being something — someone — inside of you balancing out with the pleasure that came from the comfort of it being him. And of course the delicate circles his thumb had begun to draw on your clit.
"Did you do this while I was in prison?" he asked you, lips moving against your skin.
"Touch myself?"
"Mhm."
"Yeah," you said, voice breathless. "Was never good, though."
"No?" he asked, curling his finger inside of you and tugging a louder moan from your throat. "Why not?"
"Just never felt as nice. Not like you."
"Oh. I'm sorry, angel," he murmured, pulling his lips away so he could look at you again. Though, your eyes were still planted shut. "I'll make up for it then, yeah?"
You feverishly nodded your head, and he laughed. Fulfilling his promise, he sped up the motions of his finger and thumb, your hands grabbing ahold of fistfuls of the sheets, in hopes that it will provide some comfort from the overwhelming feeling of Spencer touching you again.
"Can I add another finger?" he asked, and though slightly hesitant, you nodded your head.
He waited a beat longer before fulfilling your request, and there was something obscene about how easily another finger entered you. Though, Spencer thought it was pretty, and your back arching was pretty, and yes, he had missed this and he had missed you and he was biting his tongue from telling you that all over again.
"Spencer," a delicately breathy whine left your lips when the heel of his palm collided with your clit — thumb long forgotten once he had gotten distracted with thrusting fingers in and out of you.
"Hm?"
Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, the kindest smile on his face reminding you just how much he adored you, and your heart sporadically beat in your chest. When you didn't say anything else, he quickened his ministrations, eliciting more whines and moans.
"Is two orgasms too much for tonight?" he asked you, the question seemingly innocent regardless of both it's undertones, and what he was currently doing to you.
In hindsight you should've probably said yes. It most certainly would've hurried things along to something he would enjoy as much as you. However, if Spencer Reid fingering you was a religion, you were an eternally loyal follower, and you would do anything to keep him there for as long as you could.
So you shook your head, murmuring a quiet, "No. I can do two," and allowing him to fasten his fingers once more.
Fingers found and massaged that spot inside of you he had probably engrained into his brain, and he was leaning down to swallow the loud moan that followed from the feeling. Practiced motions tore the same sounds from your throat as he repeatedly brushed up against it, until your eyes were forced to squeeze shut once more, and hands that were once seeking solace in the sheets, found his wrist and wrapped around it.
"I can't move if you're going to keep my arm locked up, angel," he said when your nails dug into his wrist, lips smiling against your skin.
A few short jerks of his hand convinced you to let go of the death grip you had on him, instead returning them to the mattress.
Then he was doing that motion again, and again, and you were silently praying he would never stop. Although, if your moans were any indication to where you were at — and they were — Spencer wouldn't.
Your hips bucking told him more than he needed to know, and the absence of his body above you when he lay down on the bed next to you was long forgotten when a splayed hand on your abdomen pushed you back down into the mattress, your heart stuttering at the feeling.
Gentle whines of his name, and a repeated mantra of 'please, please, please' was the only thing your otherwise dismantled brain could come up with, and Spencer was relishing in the knowledge that he was doing this to you. And though it is something he knows he's done before, it had been far too long since and the reminder was always welcome.
"I know, sweet girl," he said against you when your eyes came open and searched his desperately, walls fluttering around his fingers indicating just how close you were.
"Please don't stop."
"I won't," he confirmed, punctuating the promise with his thumb returning to your clit. He had your best interest in mind — you knew that. He now wouldn't stop even if you begged him to.
Overwhelming seemed too insignificant of a word to describe what you felt like when you came, nerve endings all over your body sparking, instead of just the ones he was stimulating.
His thumb rubbing circles and his fingers thrusting in and out of you didn't falter until your shaking body had stilled and your strings of moans had diminished, slowly coming to a stop and leaving your body — seemingly — as fast as they had entered.
The content smile on your face was interrupted with Spencer's hand lifting to your lips, and instinctively you parted them, already knowing exactly what he was after.
His middle and ring fingers entered your mouth, and your face scrunched up despite yourself as you tasted yourself on them. He laughed at that — of course he did — and pulled them out soon after.
"You do that every time," he murmured, hair tickling your skin as he placed open mouthed kisses over your shoulder, up towards your neck.
"It tastes weird," you argued, and his teeth nipping your skin told you he disagreed. Though, he wasn't in the mood to argue, for he didn't say anything else on the matter.
"Still got it in you for one more?" he asked you, pulling his head back so he could see you once again.
"Yes."
"Good."
Your eyes watched him even as he rolled back to take his pants off, and the awkward smile he gave you provided the inkling of comfort that there was still the man from three months prior in there.
"I really missed you, you know?" This time it was you saying it, piercing the air as his hand came down between your thighs to part them. The head of his cock nudged against you, brushing delicately through your folds and eliciting a quiet whimper from your lips.
"I know," he answered, pressing kisses on your shoulder once more. "Are you okay?"
"Me? Yeah. I'm fine," you confirmed with a nod, confusion crossing your features all up until you learned why he was asking.
A broken moan, choked and caught in your throat, left you when he painstakingly slowly pushed inside of you. There's not a lot going on inside your mind when he stops, your entire body aflame and equally desperate for more, as you were for him to take a moment here.
"I love you," he breathed out, the words hurried and encouraging your heart to speed up, and your mind to melt even more.
"I love you too," you said back, voice just as quiet, gently nudging hips ushering for him to move.
"Impatient girl," he muttered, but you smiled nonetheless because he did (move).
His thrusts were slow, and gentle, but you never truly minded how much time he took with you once you two were here. Even more so now, for you were on the same page as him, and you wanted to savour every single moment of this down to the second.
A whimper left your lips, followed closely by the desperate whisper of his name, and lips that were still resting against your shoulder smiled.
"I thought about this a lot," he said to you, his hand that was holding your thighs slightly open sliding up to find your clit. "I definitely shouldn't have."
"Why?" You knew why, but the thought of hearing him answer it aloud excited you a little.
Unfortunately, he knew you better than that. "Don't play coy. You know why, honey."
"You're cruel," you huffed, and he laughed, rolling his hips to meet yours, earning another moan. "Maybe I don't."
"Use that wonderful imagination of yours, then," he answered, rubbing your clit at the same time as he moved his hips once more, effortlessly rendering you unable to respond to him again.
A teenage boy probably could've lasted longer than the both of you, but you decided to blame it all on your already sensitive nerves from a prior orgasm, and the fact that Spencer Reid had not had you like this for over 2190 hours (not that he was counting).
Whimpers escaped your throat as he kept his hips thrusting into you at an achingly slow pace, while his fingers working on your clit did anything but. It was an aching juxtaposition that left you reeling for more, and Spencer was now the one shutting his eyes so he could hold onto some semblance of composure.
"Spencer," you pleaded, and it was a quiet moan from behind you that told you he was exactly where you were.
"I know, honey," he replied, the desperation in his voice jumpstarting your heart. "Need to come, yeah?"
"Mmhm," you nodded your head quickly, breathlessly moaning. "Please."
"You're going to. Don't worry. Don't need to beg, sweet girl."
Commingled moans and obscenely wet noises filled the air, and your hips stuttered as your stomach twisted into knots.
Chanting his name like a prayer, you meet him wherever your two souls go in that moment, and it's a shuddering feeling as you come at the same time as him. For the first time in forever.
His hand drops back to your thigh and he massages the muscles there gently, willing himself to stop before he crossed the line of overstimulation — not that you think you'd complain about that.
There was an emptiness when he pulled out, but then he was kissing you again to make up for it, and you were smiling against his lips as you kissed him back. This time, without the fever.
"How're you feeling?" he asked you, quietly.
"Happy," you answered, forcing your heavy eyelids open when he pulled back. "How are you feeling?"
"Also happy," he agreed, and your heart soared.
"Good."
"You need to go pee," he said, placing another kiss on your cheek, before he leaned his body away entirely.
"Help?"
Arguably, you could do it yourself. Your limbs were tired, yes, and your mind was melting, but you were coherent enough to brave it alone.
Thankfully, you didn't have to.
He carried you to the bathroom, running the bath water after you had silently begged him for it with your eyes (looking between him and the empty bath with wide eyes and a jutted lip worked wonders), and leaving you to pee.
"Are you getting in with me?" you asked him as wobbly legs akin to a fawn carried you over to the now full and steaming bathtub.
"Do you want me to?"
Hesitantly, you nodded your head, fidgeting with your fingers in front of you. "But you'd have to take your shirt off. So you don't have to."
He studied your face for a moment longer, before he nodded, and fingers expertly worked at unbuttoning down the shirt.
"I'm okay now. That's the important thing you have to remember, okay?" his words provided little comfort, but you nodded your head regardless.
You had a suspicion already of what sight you were going to be met with, but it didn't stop the guilt settling into your chest when the shirt fell to the floor anyways.
"Spence," you murmured, taking a hesitant step forwards, heart falling to your stomach.
Bruises littered the skin, some fresh and still purple, others nearly healed and yellowing. But there were so many, and it was then that you were swallowing the rest of him in with your eyes, catching the bandage on his thigh.
"What is that?" you nodded towards the covered wound, and when your eyes returned to his face again, he was staring at you with an unreadable expression.
"A lot happened," he answered, quietly, before repeating, "I'm okay now."
You nodded your head, tears stinging your vision for nothing more than your ridiculous amount of empathy. "Can you tell me about it?"
"I will," he promised. "Eventually. Just not now, okay? I haven't processed it all yet."
"Okay," you replied, and his heart shattered at the sight of a tear slipping down your face.
"Hey," he took ahold of your hand and tugged you closer to him, fingers running through your hair and resting at the base of your scalp. "I promise, honey. I'm not going to disintegrate from a few bruises."
"It isn't just a few," you answered, voice wavering. "There's so many."
"You have a heart too big for your chest," he decided to say instead, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. "Most of them don't even hurt now. Please believe me when I say I'm okay."
"I'm trying," your voice is thick with a sob caught in your throat. "I think I'm just really tired."
"Yeah," he crooned, agreeing. "Your body's released a lot of prolactin, which encourages sleep. Alongside the endorphins and dopamine that you're crashing from upon seeing this."
Wordlessly, you nodded your head, and he kissed the tip of your nose in an attempt to comfort.
"Bath, then we can sleep, and we can talk more in the morning," he listed off, and you merely nodded your head once more, sniffling and wiping your eyes.
"Okay."
your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡
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I really don't think there's enough fics involving butt stuff with The Ghoul. He defo strikes me as the type who fingers your asshole while fucking you from behind just to watch you squirm. It's like a dominance thing for him when you've been disobedient, but you'll never admit how much you love being his submissive little slut. Are readers and writers just not into it? Or have I just been looking in the wrong places?
To comment: from what I've seen in the years I've been consuming and writing erotic fan content, stuff that involves anal does, in fact, seem to be weirdly polarizing (depending entirely on the writer and the audience you're publishing to, of course). I'm not entirely sure whether that's due to writers' own personal taste, audience preference, stigma...a combination of factors? It's definitely a phenomenon I've noticed. I also wonder if there isn't just a contingent of folks who have no experience with anal and therefore no interest in it.
Personally, I try to incorporate lots of different tastes and "moves" into my work, and I think the people that subscribe to this blog have come to expect that. Butt stuff is nowhere near the most potentially scarring thing I've exposed y'all to, and will continue to not be. :)
However, at the same time, when I feature actual anal sex in any of my stuff, I try to be at least somewhat tactful and depict is as a realistic sex act, which can be kind of a task sometimes when you're trying to be both erotic and not completely impossible. Poorly written anal scenes both aren't hot and kinda ruin the vibe of the entire work, in my opinion. I think there's a difference between "suspension of reality for sexual fantasy" and "spreading bad sex ed information through fiction". There's certainly a place for pain play/painal type stuff, but there's also a place for the complete opposite. It's a bit intimidating for me when I write it sometimes; maybe some others feel the same, so they don't write it as often compared to other things? Complete conjecture.
To answer your actual ask:
You're absolutely right. That motherfucker absolutely loves making you squirm by giving you pleasure in ways that gross you out. He sees a sliver of his old self in you, himself when he was new to this ghastly world, when he clung desperately to anything that would give him a sense of normalcy. In this, there's a sick thrill for him; he gets to be the one to show you how things really work, his sheltered little vaultie. The world out here is even meaner and more disgusting than you could ever imagine.
He'll prove it.
You aren't inexperienced, but pretty much all of the experience you do have is vanilla, very straightforward sex. Exploration on this topic isn't exactly at the forefront of your mind, either, what with how much of an adjustment period you're having to go through after leaving home for the first time in your life. The stress of it all is what initially drives you into his arms, seeking any form of real comfort you can find from the only companion you have.
The sex is a good stress reliever when he isn't springing things on you. He is rather good for such a hot-and-cold old prick, and he clearly knows it by his demeanor; the way he preens over your crumpled form after he makes you cum so hard you forget how to speak is infuriating. You like fucking him, but you can't let him know just how much. He'd be genuinely insufferable if he found out.
Whether it's your reserved reactions to his obvious smugness, or something else internal, you're unsure, but he quickly begins to push your buttons for bigger and bigger returns. Most of the tricks he pulls you enjoy the feeling of, but the way he watches you to gauge your reaction makes it feel like he's winning, somehow, and it doesn't sit right with you. Doubling down your efforts, you try your hardest to be unshakable.
Unfortunately, the first time he slides his tongue down to tease at your asshole while he's eating you out makes you fold completely.
"That's disgusting!" you huff, wriggling beneath him. Telling him to stop doesn't follow like you want it to; the words get caught in your throat as he pushes the tip of the wriggling muscle into you, his other hand playing softly with your clit as your aching pussy throbs.
"Had my tongue much worse places, believe me." he replies, his eyes burning up at you from between your legs. It's so embarrassing.
However, the next time he's helping you out, before you even realize it, your hips are moving in a pronounced arc, trying your best to will him to slide his tongue further down without having to suffer the indignity of asking for it, of him knowing he's gotten this over on you. It feels amazing and you refuse to beg. Fortunately, he doesn't make you...this time.
When he's finished with you, he doesn't immediately pull away, both of you lying together in a spent puddle of limbs for a breathless moment.
"It's still gross, you know." you say, flat and halfhearted in exhaustion.
"Oh, shut the fuck up." he grunts back, eyes rolling as he pulls himself into an upright sitting position. "I didn't see you whining when you were tryin' to crush my head with your thighs, princess."
"I can't help it! It tickles when you do that!" you argue, indignant and searing hot in the face.
"Oh yeah, kid. I bet it tickles real good. That why you came so hard?" he smirks, leaning back so he can right his clothing, his eyes never leaving yours. You pull yourself up and storm off to the other side of the room to redress, annoyed.
And yes, probably his favorite overall move is to sneak one of his fingers or his thumb into your ass while he fucks you from behind; the shock in your posture, in your voice, along with the tight, hot feeling of your little hole (holes) around him...it's probably for the best that he can't see your face, no matter how badly he wishes he could. He knows he'd cum instantly.
As for you, the feeling is infuriatingly electrifying, right on the line between pleasure and discomfort. His long, nimble digit isn't even all the way inside you, only sunk to just above the second knuckle, but he's quickly working it further and further in, the rest of his hand curling to cup the roundness of your cheek as he supports your hips. The stretch isn't too intrusive, but his skin is so rough in texture that it makes you squirm as he presses on, spit and your other body fluids the only lubrication you're given.
"Fuck, be careful!" you hiss. His only response is a harsh swat to your bare ass with his unoccupied hand, which draws a yelp from your parched throat as he yanks you back even more firmly by the leverage he now has. Your hands scramble for purchase across the sandy desert floor, unable to hold yourself up properly as he hammers away at you with an almost possessed vigor. Quickly, your head falls further down with the force of his movements, sending you sliding forward a few inches.
He doesn't like that.
"Don't fuckin' run from me." he growls, the hand that isn't spearing you wrapping quickly around your shoulder to yank you back again. His hips snap into yours viciously, the pace increasing as he loses his grip on whatever remaining self-control he has. Your battered cunt clenches hard around him at the feeling, at his words, and soon you're both howling out your release as he digs his nails into your thighs, rutting you so hard you fully face-plant into the ground. When it's over, he at least has the courtesy to make sure you didn't bump your head too hard. He does not, however, apologize for the massive bruise on your ass from where he struck you more than once. Typical.
Eventually, you allow him enough control to restrain you, which you know is almost certainly a mistake. However, by now you're addicted to the feeling he gives you when he takes over, when he pushes your boundaries and uses you to sate whatever passion burns inside him. Besides, he's protected and saved you enough times by now to have earned your trust, even if you know that he'll sometimes use it against you for devious reasons.
The rope he always carries doesn't hurt against your skin like you'd feared it would, but he's also quite delicate in how he secures your arms and legs, each limb immobilized and leaving you on your back, completely at his mercy. He spends forever teasing you, worshiping every part of you with his mouth and hands until you're begging, begging for release, begging for him to stretch you.
"It's alright. I'll take care of you." he promises, the tone he uses with you now so much softer than when you met. You feel relief at his words, ready to feel your aching cunt wrap around him, but he doesn't move to expose himself. Instead, he produces a small bottle of what you quickly discover is some sort of neutral oil, which he applies liberally. The feeling of the cool, thin substance running down your folds makes you shiver in the best way, but you're tense when his teasing fingers move from your clit, prodding at your taut ass.
Slowly, he works his middle finger inside you, the sensation more pleasant now that you've become accustomed to it. After a minute or two, he's moving it back and forth freely, adding another dribble of oil before setting the bottle aside, placing his free fingers on your clit. The way he rubs at you as he fucks you with his other hand makes your toes curl, and you get lost in the sensation until you feel his index finger start to prod at you, as well.
"You trust me?" he asks. Your eyes dropping closed, you nod silently.
He's incredibly gentle as he works the second finger in alongside the first, stretching you further than ever before and making your mouth fall open in a silent groan. He watches your face, your body language, closely, trying his best to stay calm and steady as he begins to move his hand once more, the other never stilling on your clit.
The sensation is incredibly overwhelming, a fullness you've never felt before, especially when he eventually adds a third finger. Your body is lit up with sensation and twitching eagerly the entire time, both wanting to pull off of his hand and to plunge yourself down further. When he leans down and seals his lips around your clit, you scream out an orgasm that leaves you trembling against your restraints, which he actually lets you out of before fucking you so hard you literally cannot stand immediately afterwards.
"You're so mean to me, you know. I don't want to like this stuff." you sigh, mostly joking.
"Don't worry, I'll have you begging for my cock in your ass soon." he promises, that wicked glint back in his eye that makes you nervous.
You hide your burning face in his throat as he chuckles at you, the sound of him lighting a cigarette snapping through the air, his other arm wrapped around your waist as you lean against him. Biting your tongue, you hold back the urge to snarkily respond to him.
You know he's right. It's only a matter of time.
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the scent wafts in, her name making him beg on his knees chap 1.2
pairing: dabi / todoroki touya x fem!oc / reader (MODERN AU)
summary: He mentions her name after 6 months in therapy, absentmindedly narrating vivid memories of her. She was the only good thing during his darkest times.
(In which Touya returns home after rebelling against his family for 7 years. And no, it wasn't about forgiveness. He wanted to fix himself because of a certain someone.)
themes: nsfw, domestic abuse, violence, alcoholism, cigarette smoking, toxic relationships, mental health, co-dependency and other related themes (YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED)
notes: for this one, pls keep in mind that touya didn't have much scars on his face; mostly are on his body to accomodate the plot; charas might be ooc since this is modern au
It was after 4 days that he finally revealed about the Todoroki family, the scandalous story of Enji Todoroki, and the abuse they have endured in his hands based on what he had experienced until 19. To be honest, everything wasn't really how they started. Touya grew up seeing Enji so proud of him, prancing him around as his firstborn, the one who will continue his dream of being the number one corporation in Japan with the best workforce and highest earning. Touya was actually more excited to learn more about business at a young age, studying how money worked through stock exchange games and trying to beat his father through crossword puzzles.
Then the next year, Fuyumi was born, and they were almost the same age, separated by months. One could even say she became his twin, and they shared the same room, the same bed, the same food, the same unisex clothes, the same words—just not the appearance and gender. When it was just the two of them, they somewhat understood each other even if Fuyumi sometimes find him annoying because of his silly pranks.
As he tells this to his therapist, he realizes a shocking truth.
Their family was okay back then. There were a lot of good times, and he had a hunch Fuyumi was the one who remembered most of them when it was supposed to be him, the oldest of the bunch. That's why it was a lot easy for her to forgive him. That's why she hoped so much for him to come back.
His favorite memory was of Fuyumi asking him to create a large drawing of the four of them because she wanted to give something to them. She was holding the same blue flowers their mother liked, and after everything was done, the two siblings met their parents at the living area where they were having tea. Enji ruffled Fuyumi's hair and told her to wash her hands after, noticing the dirt around her hands and in her fingernails. Meanwhile, Rei giggled melodiously, her laughter making Touya embarrassed as she patted his head. They were all happy. Everyone was happy.
When did everything go wrong?
"I think it was when... when Father found me pushing myself so hard because I was so devastated at my achievements that he had enough of me," Touya continued. "Whenever things won't go my way, I tend to neglect my body's capabilities. I stay up all night. I don't eat until I get the equation right. There were times when at a young age, I ripped my hair so bad due to stress. They manifested so bad that I resorted to violence."
A child who throws a violent tantrum. Torn apart posters of comic characters. Ruined picture frames and shattered glasses. Fearful eyes halting in time and unable to stop him from overworking himself. Scattered test papers with scores of 99, 98, 97, and 96 flooded all over like a burning reminder.
"I should've listened to Mother and Fuyumi-chan when they told me to have fun instead."
------
After two weeks, the therapist had the guts to ask him about Natsuo and Shouto. He used to evade questions about his two brothers, usually opting for silence or quickly dismissing the man with answers like, "I don't want to talk about them," or "It's not good." The therapist thought maybe Touya would never be able to discuss things about them, but he knew he had to bring them to the table. After all, the eldest Todoroki had mentioned before that seeing them born had been the small flicker of fire that burned their family down.
"Father thinks me and Fuyumi-chan were failures; it doesn't mean Natsu-kun wasn't either," Touya started, remembering the infant Natsuo and his cries ringing around the Todoroki household. Of course, disappointment was etched again in Enji's face, realizing that Natsuo did not live up to his expectations.
Touya could hear his familiar sigh in head, the way he was stoic but Natsuo was trying his hardest to please him. It broke Touya's heart, the way he could only watch his two siblings casted aside like him, thrown away like a garbage because their potential were wasted. In Enji's eyes, they weren't his children; they were experiments with his wife.
"His masterpiece was my younger brother, Shouto," he concluded.
"Do you hate Shouto?" the therapist asked.
Touya could only shrug, not clearly having a definition of what he felt towards his youngest brother. True, he felt so many things about his brother. He was the bane of his existence, after all. He despised him the day he was born, and yet he felt guilty the moment baby Shouto wrapped his stubby hand around his long finger, cooing at the warmth as he opened his heterochromatic eyes and gazed at him cutely. That day, Touya instantly felt a responsibility as his oldest brother, but at the same time, there was bitterness. He knew the youngest would be Enji's favorite; he just knew it, with the way he watched him all this time while he thinks he's not aware.
It will never be Shouto's fault that they weren't the favorites; but blaming him was so easy Touya could get away with it.
Shouto was unyielding, though; confused as to why Touya didn't like him but still trying his bestest to get along with him. He would trail behind him, meekly asking him to play with him, to ask their father if he could play with them for a bit because he wanted to be like the other kids and play. "You should be grateful he's spending time with you," Touya snarked at him, not speaking the next words. Because he wouldn't do that with us; with me. Of course, Shouto was so pure-hearted he just replied him with, "But being with Touya-nii and the others is a lot better. You all get to play other than study."
But studying and being the best was the only thing that kept Touya driving; it would be his downfall, though. Enji found out what he did to himself, knew from his teachers about his wellbeing. Touya goes to school with deep eyebags. Touya gets sulky about his grades. He snaps at the other kids at school. He almost got into a fight with another classmate for trying to cheer him up with his grades. And the next thing, Touya will be dragged to the hallway and Enji would not hesitate to slap sense in his face, disappointment and anger in his face as he beat Touya up for bringing shame to the family, for acting all so childish over some silly grades.
This was his usual routine. His parents would fight. His siblings will help him up to his feet. Fuyumi-chan will take the first aid kit and tend to his bruises. Natsuo-kun will try to shield Shouto away from the scene even though the youngest was already crying his eyes out, not wanting to see him hurt so bad. Don't cry for me, Shouto. Don't be that way with me. I hate you. I hate you the most. Please, don't be like that.
Afterwards, he would play the good son card, would keep his bursting feelings in check, watch over everything he would say and play right in Enji's palm. He needed his approval again, even if the attention was all showered on Shouto. It was damn frustrating, suffocating him the more he watched Shouto endure the beatings as he treated the three of them like nothing. At that moment, Touya wanted nothing to do with Shouto. If he did, he might unleash all these intrusive thoughts.
Fate was a trickster, and Touya would always find Shouto pleading for help, especially to him of all people. "Touya-nii, save me! Please!" It kept repeating like a broken record, haunting him in his dreams. The wet streaks. The runny nose. His tight fisting on his shirt. The way he would hiss his name. The eyes that cried so many times. Touya will never give in; a lie he told so many times.
Touya did give in, and without much thought. Shouto brought back those feelings he wanted; how it felt so happy that someone needed so much from him. He liked it. He felt appreciated. He felt blessed. He felt so free Shouto had no idea how much Touya wanted this for so long. That's why Touya tutored Shouto in secret, teaching him a thing or two about business, about stock exchange, about the Todoroki family, about the Endeavor Corp.—heck, he even laid down the basics of algebra and science on him, ensuring Shouto would be able to comprehend everything at the age of 5 and 6. It wasn't the same as when Enji acknowledged him, but for Touya, this was enough.
Enji knew about it, of course, and he didn't mind... at first. After all, he thought Touya was just helping his brother learn, keeping his mouth shut as he let them be. This aggravated Touya, pushing him slightly to the edge.
"The least he could do was acknowledge me," Touya stated bitterly to his therapist, remembering how Enji praised Shouto's performance instead of telling him how good of an older brother he was.
"So you used Shouto's kindness, is that it?" the therapist clarified.
Touya nodded. "But sometimes, I pity him. I felt those things only an older brother would feel."
There was a palpable tension as Touya gripped his knees to even out his breathing. The memories were getting more vivid than ever he swore it happened yesterday? Or the other day? But he was a lot younger back then. He was 14 when it happened, and he felt his bruises and scars getting more painful, his skin shivering from a certain coldness. Maybe it was Enji's eyes on him. The same eye color he and Shouto shared. He didn't know. He didn't care.
"Sekoto Peak," he mumbled in a trance, flashes of memories where Shouto held his hand and gazed at the view below him.
"Touya-nii, this is where you go often? It's so cool here!"
"Sometimes, I sleep here under the stars."
"R-Really? Do you bring Fuyumi-nee and Natsu-nii here?"
"I haven't."
"Let's go here, the four of us."
"..."
"Please?"
"I'll see what I can do."
"I couldn't bring them all," Touya admitted, gripping his head to force himself to remember. The therapist recorded his responses through his notes as he muttered everything in a fast pace. "I tried to make a plan. I brought Shouto there a few times without anyone knowing. I asked Natsuo and Fuyumi for help. Before we could all go, Father found out. I couldn't speak. I couldn't fight. I was hit by the bokken. They were all crying. Mother tried to protect me but Father slapped her. I could feel his kick and punch in my gut."
"... did he—"
"No. NO. HE WASN'T DONE!" Touya gulped nervously, imagining the scars on his body burning. "They were hot on my skin. It burned my flesh. I couldn't move. I cried and cried and cried. I begged for him to stop. I want him to stop. The hot iron. Everything. I want the world to stop. I couldn't become the son he wanted. I couldn't be Shouto's big brother. I couldn't give them everything."
And when he ended the story, that was when Touya finally cried, sobbing as fuck. He couldn't care about the world or the pitiful gazes. The boy cried so much from bearing all the sins he didn't do.
------
Touya spent a few months in isolation, his thoughts circling around his childhood and all the painful memories. When he was alone, he would write them all down, narrating that one moment in his and Natsuo's shared bedroom where Shouto secretly snuck in and apologized over and over. He kept blaming himself for Touya's pain. Everything was his fault that Touya was hurt so bad, and Touya wanted to agree. It was true, though. He hurt when he was born. He hurt when he got all the glory. He hurt when he became Enji's pride.
He just went silent about it.
Why did he?
It was never Shouto's fault.
"Shouto," he whispered, his hand reaching out to ruffle his hair despite the searing pain in his arms. There was a weak smile gracing his lips, bruised and battered yet patched up clumsily by a crying Fuyumi. "As I thought, I couldn't be your good older brother. Not anymore."
(Touya never knew but after a few years following his rebellion, Shouto went to Sekoto Peak and stared at the same view Touya admired so much, slept under the stars when everything became too much, and wished the four of them could be there together.)
ps. I removed the last part and placed it on the next chap in case y'all confused bcos the post is too long to read
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