#Automated Call Handling | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anghimalaaynasapuso · 5 months ago

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DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

#könig #könig call of duty #könig x reader #call of duty #x reader #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod x y/n #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig x reader #konig cod #konig call of duty #konig mw2 #konig x you #konig x y/n #📌 könig

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dykeredhood · 5 months ago

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So I’ve been called ‘sir’ over the phone a few times at work and I’d technically be fine with it if we didn’t have a recorded line and other staff members pulling calls for quality purposes every so often; I don’t need questions from people at my job about why my voice sounds deeper

But today was the first time a bank representative called Mr. [surname] and the revulsion I felt at that 😬

My first thought was the classic “oh no, Mr. [surname] is my father”, and it’s not even technically accurate because my father is Dr. [surname] since he has a PhD (not that the rando I was speaking with on the phone has any chance of knowing that)

It was just weird because the entire day I’d been been marathoning the Indiana Jones movies in the background as I worked, at that point in the day I had started The Last Crusade, so names and dads with PhDs were already on my mind

What does it mean

What does it all mean

#it was the weirdest fucking feeling.#also we call him Indiana Pwns at my house #still debating how I’ll handle coworker B (who I do not respect at all) when she inevitably makes a comment in front of everyone about #the different timbre of my voice #I kind of want to be sassy with ‘wow that’s great you pointed out in front of everyone’#but I don’t think that will end the way I think #slash: it would cause others to think more about how I sound 🙄#so I’ll probably go with ‘you’re being silly; I’ve always had an interesting voice and get confused for…#…an automated system voice literally at least once a month’#anyway! it was weird as hell!!! it was weird as hell #I enjoy how my voice sounds I just don’t need anyone at work noticing anything #so. that was my afternoon lmao #personal #riva gender #rant in tags #OH and that’s not even my surname anymore I just haven’t gotten around #to legally changing my name yet

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imaginedisish · 11 months ago

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See You Again (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: This took so long, and it's because it is ABSOLUTELY FILTHY. This one is inspired by "See You Again" by Tyler, The Creator and Kali Uchis. This isn't a request...just a *thot* I had. Heavy on enemies to lovers and forced proximity. And cocky Logan...Enjoy :)

Summary: You're convinced Logan hates you. But when you're forced to run a drill in the danger room, alone, everything changes.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI!!!! Oral (f!receiving), fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), afab!reader/f!reader, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, cursing, some angst, cocky!Logan/teasing!Logan, praise kink, softdom!Logan, mutant!reader, canon typical violence, probably grammatical errors, I think that's it!

Word Count: 5,325 I am disgusting

You could not believe your eyes. It had to be a glitch—your names together on the touch screen built into the wall. You tap the glass firmly with your index finger, but the words don’t budge. This is it. This is the last straw.

There is no way you are going into the training room—the danger room—with Logan Howlett.

“Oh, absolutely not!” You shout, turning to face Charles and Storm. “I am not going in there with him!”

Storm shakes her head. “That is the assignment we are giving you.”

Charles nods in agreement, pointing between you and Logan. “You two need to learn to work together.”

“This is insane,” you stammer. “Does nobody see how crazy this is? I’m not doing this.”

“Why?” Logan asks, arms tucked into his chest, back against the wall. He smiles, cocky and self-assured. “You afraid you might like it?” You try not to think about the deepness of his voice or the way his smile makes your breath catch in your throat.

“N-no!” You stutter, stumbling over your words as you finally process just what Logan meant. “You hate me! I’m afraid you might kill me in there!”

Logan’s smile falls from his lips. He looks almost shocked, but you ignore the sudden change in his expression. You’ve only been a member of the team for a few months now, but you know Logan well enough. You know he doesn’t really care. He’s always short with you. He teases you; he calls you princesscondescendingly. He’s overly protective, incessantly running to your side on missions as if you can’t handle yourself. It is so incredibly annoying. And yet…

You can’t help but harbor a small—maybe massive—crush on him.

And so, being in the simulated danger room, alone, with Logan, is quite possibly your biggest fear.

“Mr. Howlett certainly does not hate you,” Charles assures. “And he will not be killing you, either.”

You roll your eyes, and Charles smiles softly. Storm walks over to the screen, pressing a few buttons. Suddenly the doors to the room open, and she extends her hand, inviting you and Logan inside.

Logan pushes himself off the wall, side-eying you as he steps inside with no hesitation. You look to Storm, exasperation and stress painted across your face. You swallow nervously. “Don’t make me do this,” you plead, pressing your palms together as if praying to Storm.

She tuts, pushing your shoulders softly, but strongly enough to make you fall past the doors and into the room. “Good luck!” She says, smiling widely and pressing a button. The doors quickly slide shut.

“No!” You shout, banging your fists into the doors once before letting your forehead fall against the cold metal. You groan, turning around so that your back is pressed against the doors instead.

“Simulation, starting,” a robotic, automated voice calls out. A blue grid scans the room, and a battle scene appears. You’re in a winter forest, snow covering the ground and falling from the white clouds above. The room even grows a bit colder, a slight chill hanging in the air. It’s surprisingly peaceful.

Too peaceful.

There’s a crash somewhere nearby in the forest, and then an explosion. You jump, turning around. Logan is at your side in a heartbeat, claws extending out. A few feet away, a massive metal sentinel stomps, shaking the ground.

“Die, mutant scum!” The robot’s voice echoes against the trees as if the forest were real. It points its arm at you and Logan, loading its laser gun and shooting. Before you can react, Logan is shoving you to the ground and rolling on top of you to shield you.

There’s a scorching sear—a patch of melted snow and burnt grass where you and Logan had just been standing. The simulation is fake, but it suddenly feels incredibly real. Logan is still on top of you, wide eyes searching yours. Your chests press together. He’s so close that it’s distracting, dizzying, overwhelming. You need him off you. Now.

“I can handle myself,” you spit, but he doesn’t move.

He smirks. “Sure looks like you can, princess.”

You groan, shoving him off and standing up. You dig your heels into the ground, looking up as the sentinel approaches. It aims again, and shoots. This time, you’re prepared, controlling the laser with your mind. The beam stutters in the air as you concentrate on changing its trajectory. It takes so much strength—so much power—but it works. You let go of the beam and it slings back into the sentinel’s face, the metal melting in a fiery explosion.

You turn your head to Logan, the corner of your mouth twitching up. “See! Told you I can—”

Another blast echoes across the forest, and Logan’s arms are around you again, pulling you back down to the ground with him. “You can what? Risk your life unnecessarily to prove yourself to me?”

“Oh, you are so full of shit!” You shout, punching at his chest, but he doesn’t flinch. “You think I’m weak!”

He furrows his brows. “Who the hell said that?” He pushes himself up, jumping onto the sentinel in front of you. His claws slice at the robot’s head, swiping it clean off.

“It’s just the way you treat me!” You call out as you extend your hand and push another sentinel into a tree. You concentrate, bending its arm towards itself. With the flick of your wrist, you pull its trigger, forcing the robot to shoot itself.

You don’t see the sentinel that’s behind you, but Logan does. He grabs your hand, yanking you behind a nearby tree. “And how do I treat you?” He asks, caging you in, his hands pressed firmly on either side of your head.

His eyes are trained on yours, watching your every move. You look away, unable to keep his stare. “L-like you hate me,” you stutter, looking down at the ground and then back up at him.

He tilts his head to the side. There’s that shocked expression again—the same one he had made outside the danger room. He shakes his head, smirking. “I don’t hate you,” he starts. You can see the shift in his face, the softness in his eyes, the playfulness in his smile. He’s close again. So fucking close. “I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

“But you always—”

You’re abruptly interrupted as a sentinel blasts the top of the tree you and Logan are leaning against. The trunk cracks, and you look up, watching as the branches begin to fall.

“Let’s move!” Logan shouts, grabbing your hand again, and leading you to the other side of the forest. “How many of these fuckers are there?”

You can see three coming in, surrounding you and Logan. You instinctively stand back-to-back, readying yourselves for the fight. When you had started this training session, you didn’t think you’d be here, pressed against Logan, guarding his back as he guards yours. You’re working as a team, a unit, equals, partners.

You can hear Logan’s claws shing against the metal of the sentinel he’s fighting. You take on the one straight ahead, while the other stalks close behind. You shut your eyes, listening to its steps as it approaches. You breathe deeply, opening your eyes and extending your hand out. You swallow, concentrating hard as the metal of the sentinel’s head begins to bend. Slowly but surely, you crush it like it’s an aluminum can in the palm of your hand. It caves in on itself, crashing down to the ground.

“Atta girl,” Logan praises over your shoulder, his lips inches away from your ear. He finishes off his sentinel, too, his claws swiping cleanly as the robot crashes to the ground. You try to ignore the way your stomach somersaults, the way your heart beats out of your chest. You’re sure Logan can hear it given his heightened senses.

You’re so distracted by him that you’ve forgotten about the other sentinel. It’s suddenly closing in quickly. Too quickly. It aims, and you shut your eyes, trying to muster up enough energy to stop it before it shoots. But you can’t. You’ve used so much of your energy already, bending metal and stopping the sentinels’ beams. You’re tired, out of breath.

“L-Logan,” you stutter, your head piercing with pain as you try to concentrate, pushing yourself harder than you should. “C-can’t…” You trail off, unable to finish your sentence as the pain worsens, your head throbbing.

Logan steps out in front of you, sweeping his claws at the sentinel’s guns, disarming it. He slashes its legs next, and the robot comes crashing down. But he miscalculates ever so slightly, the sentinel tipping over, threatening to fall on the two of you.

“Fuck!” He shouts, pushing you down to the ground. You don’t fight him this time, allowing his arms to wrap around you as he shields you, his body warm against yours.

The sentinel’s head smashes into a nearby tree, slowing its fall. It scratches against the bark, the sound of screeching metal rattling in the air. You wince, and Logan quickly moves to cover your ears, protecting you from the noise. You’ve long forgotten this is just a drill, a simple training session. The panic has set in, and you squeeze your eyes shut. It all feels too real.

Logan’s hands lift from your ears. His full weight is still on you. He lifts himself up slightly so that he’s hunched over you instead. “Hey,” he soothes, his fingers gently brushing up and down your arms. His touch is electric against your skin. “I think it’s over.”

You finally open your eyes. Logan is still hovering over you. The sentinel precariously leans against the tree, frozen just above the two of you. You’re trembling, shaken, unconvinced that this is all just a simulation.

“A-are you sure?” You stammer, frantically looking around the forest.

“Yeah,” he whispers. He can see the fear on your face, the single tear that runs down your cheek. You’re in shock—literally. He slips his hands under your back, hoisting you up so that he’s holding you in his arms. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, pulling you to his chest. “I’ve got you. None of that was real.” He strokes up and down your back. “It wasn’t real,” he repeats, his voice steady and reassuring.

“I forgot,” you confess, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. It dawns on you how soft he’s being, how kind he truly is. “I couldn’t use my powers. I was so drained, and I was so worried that you’d…” You trail off, too nervous to finish your sentence.

“That I’d what?” Logan presses, holding you tighter.

You’re trembling for an entirely different reason, now. You take a deep breath, and the words fall from your lips. “That you’d get hurt, or worse, and I wouldn’t be able to save you.”

He pulls away from you for a moment, looking down at you. Tender—that’s how he looks. Soft, gentle—so much different from the beast he normally is. A chuckle rumbles through Logan’s chest. “Sounds like you don’t mind me so much after all, princess.”

“I never said I didn’t like you,” you say back, a small smile playing on your lips. You poke your index finger into his chest. “You’re the one who hates me.”

Logan shakes his head, his expression turning somewhat serious. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again: nothing could ever make me hate you.”

You look into his eyes, searching for something—you’re not quite sure what. The truth? He just gave it to you. He laid it bare. “So, w-what do you think about me?” You ask, tentative, anxious.

He’s smirking again. “You really don’t know, do you?” He brings his face closer to yours, his lips just centimeters away. Your breaths meld together. He pulls you in again, tighter this time. Your throat bobs and your heart beats out of your chest. Your noses brush, the proximity driving you wild. He slips his hands down your back and under your shirt—bare skin on bare skin.

Your lips are practically touching—the ghost of a kiss. Logan breathes you in, swallowing harshly as he parts his lips and—

The room suddenly changes, the forest disappearing and the doors opening with a swoosh. The walls are metal and gray; the ground is hard and cold. You and Logan quickly separate, standing up, shoulders awkwardly bumping as you regain your bearings.

“That was…” Charles trails off, entering the room with Storm at his side. “A very excellent execution of that simulation,” he summarizes, perhaps intentionally leaving out the more embarrassing details.

“You two certainly learned how to work as a team,” Storm says, her arms crossing tight against her chest. She raises her eyebrows and smirks knowingly.

“Yeah, well, she’s strong,” Logan says, looking over at you. “And talented.” The compliment makes your chest feel hot and tight. You can see the look in his eyes, the one that screams: We aren’t finished yet.

Charles nods toward the doors, motioning for you to walk with him, and so you do. Logan moves to follow you, but Storm stops him. She’s keeping him busy, telling him where he could have improved during the simulation. You turn around, your eyes trained on him, not paying attention to a word that Charles says.

Later. Logan mouths. Your breath hitches in your throat. You nod once, smiling widely. His eyes don’t leave yours as you walk through the doors of the room and into the hallway.

“Are you listening, my dear?” Charles’s question snaps you back to reality.

“To be honest, Professor, no,” you say, embarrassed.

But Charles smiles. “That’s just fine. I was simply saying that you must be careful. You’re incredibly strong, as Logan said, but you faltered,” he pauses. You’re still barely listening, your mind racing with thoughts of Logan. “When you exert yourself too much too soon you…”

Charles continues talking, but you can’t hear him. You’re thinking about how close Logan was to you, his hands under your shirt, his lips ghosting yours. So close, but not quite close enough.

He made you a promise. Later.

Later later later—it’s a perfect word.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later comes, and Logan is nowhere to be seen. The grandfather clock in the study reads 9:55 PM. You’ve been keeping an eye out for him, searching for him all day. But it’s like he disappeared.

You’re at the old oak desk in the study, reading a book, scribbling notes in the margins. You’re writing nonsense, really. You haven’t been able to think straight all day, not with Logan on your mind. You close your eyes, dropping your head to the center of the book. You feel like a child, impatiently waiting for the thing they were promised if they behaved well enough.

You groan audibly, bumping your head against the book once, twice, three times.

“Well, somebody’s happy to see me.” You shoot up straight at the familiar, bassy voice. Across the room—leaning in the doorway—is Logan. He’s still in his beater and his jeans, still wearing that shit-eating grin, too. His arms are crossed against his chest.

“H-hi,” you stutter, suddenly nervous. He pushes himself from the doorway with his hip, shutting the door behind him. His thumb brushes over the lock and it clicks into place. He stalks over to the desk. You can already feel the fire building between your legs.

“Didn’t think I forgot about you, did you?” He leans over the desk, his hands covering yours. He’s hovering over you, holding you in place. “Thought I wanted to be away from you that long?”

You can’t think of what to say—can’t think of anything except him. You’re frazzled, caught off guard, wrapped up in Logan.

“You like when I tease you, pretty girl?” His voice is honeyed and dark. He lets go of your hands and slips behind the desk. You turn around to face him.

“Y-yes,” you confess, leaning against the desk as Logan towers over you.

He hums, his hands finding your hips, holding you tightly. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” you protest, but it’s no use. You can feel the heat rising to your chest, the way your clothes uncomfortably scratch against your skin. His words are tripping you up and driving you wild.

“Yeah?” Logan asks, taking a step closer, his hips pressing into yours, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt. He slips inside, his nails trailing gently up your stomach. You shiver underneath his touch, goosebumps rising in its wake. He smirks, knowing full well what he’s doing to you. “Then tell me how I’m making you feel.”

Fuck, you think to yourself. You swallow harshly, racking your brain for the words. “G-good…” you trail off as Logan’s fingers travel up to your ribs, hiking your shirt up in the process.

“Just good?” He murmurs, massaging your breasts over your bra. He squeezes, thumbs brushing your nipples.

“B-better than good,” you force out, leaning into his touch, searching for more of him. “Wanna touch you too.” Your hand falls to his lower half, riding up his inner thigh until you find his erection. He’s so much bigger than you expected him to be.

He can’t help but lean into your hand as you slide up and down his shaft. He grunts, losing his composure, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. You can feel him straining against his jeans, the denim tight and uncomfortable. You trail up to his belt, but Logan suddenly grabs your hands and pins them to the desk below.

All you can think about is how he isn’t touching you anymore, how his lips are centimeters away from yours, how he’s holding you down as his erection pushes against your leg. He shakes his head. “Wanna make you come first, pretty girl,” he husks, closing in on you. His forehead presses to yours. “Lay back for me, sweetheart.” You listen as he guides you down to the desk, hurriedly shoving papers and books away and onto the floor.

You sit up on your forearms, watching as he strips his beater away. He’s beautiful—every dip and every curve beyond perfect. He steps toward you again—one hand on the desk for support while the other explores your body. He’s quick, his hand slipping under your shirt and tugging it up and over your head.

He’s squeezing your breasts again, playing with the hem of your bra, fingers sliding underneath teasingly. You arch your back into his touch. “Please,” you whine.

Logan smirks, his nails brushing the underside of your breasts before traveling to your back—to your bra clasp. In the blink of an eye, the clasp is undone, and Logan is sliding the straps down your arms, throwing the bra to the floor.

He drinks you in, his eyes slowly trailing up and down your body. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, shaking his head. He settles in between your legs as he lowers over you again—one hand pins your wrists above your head, keeping you from reaching out and touching him, while he traces and strokes your stomach with the other.

He’s so close—so impossibly close—but he hasn’t kissed you yet. You want to feel the warmth of his lips, the curve of his smile against you. “How could you ever think I hated you?” His hand slides up your body, finally cupping your right breast and brushing over your nipple. You shudder underneath him.

You curse under your breath. “I-I just thought you did. N-never seemed like you liked me,” you say, smiling at how different things are now.

Logan shakes his head, pinching your nipple before moving to the other breast. His forehead rests against yours as he toys with you. “I wanted you this whole time, darlin’.” His confession washes over you, and he finally presses his lips to yours.

It’s all-consuming, the way he moves against you, the way he fits into you perfectly. His lips are smooth and addicting, like a drug you can’t get enough of. The kiss is slow and hard, but you can feel the need behind it—the intention.

“Want you,” you say against his lips, squirming underneath him, trying to break your hands free from his pin. But he doesn’t budge—he simply smiles against you—his mouth still on yours. You try again, more honest this time. “N-need you.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he breathes, kissing your pulse point, and then the hollow of your throat. “But I’m gonna take my time with you.”

He nips at your collarbone, his lips trailing down the center of your chest. He licks a long stripe across your breast, his mouth latching on to your nipple, sucking softly. You moan his name as he travels to the other side, repeating his actions, his tongue teasing you. He continues his course down your body, taking in every inch of you, savoring you.

Logan kisses your belly button and stops at the hem of your shorts. He looks up at you, his eyes dark and filled with lust. He slowly yanks at the waistband, pulling your shorts down your legs, revealing the lacey lavender panties you’re wearing underneath.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss right above your clit. You want him to rip the lace from your legs, but he doesn’t. He sits there, staring as his fingers climb up your inner thigh. It’s achingly slow, but his fingers finally brush over your folds, your arousal soaking through your panties. “Been hiding this the whole time?” He asks, his head cocking to the side, stroking your clit through the fabric.

“I-I...” You can’t find the words, his touch numbing your mind, stopping all coherent thoughts.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. “So fucking wet,” he grunts, pulling them down your legs. “No more hiding, princess.”

You’re laid bare for him, your legs hanging over the edge of the desk. He kneels before you like he’s at an altar, praying to you, worshiping you. You swallow at the sight of him as he brings his face closer to your heat. You can feel his breath fan against your folds, your clit.

“Logan, please. Need you so—”

And then his face is buried in your cunt, his tongue licking a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. His hands slip under your legs, grabbing your thighs tightly, pulling you closer to him, and forcing you in place. “Tastes so good,” he mumbles against you, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking roughly. One of his hands slips out from under your thigh, finding your folds and sweeping through them gently.

Logan’s beard scratches deliciously against you as his tongue laps relentlessly. His fingers prod your entrance, spreading your slick. You’re ready to beg again, to whimper and whine, but he’s shoving two of his long fingers deep inside—down to the knuckles—before you can complain.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he huffs between laps, his fingers still inside you. He slides out and thrusts back in—deeper this time.

“Logan,” you whimper, as he hits that sweet spot inside you. “Feels so good.” He smiles against you, his tongue circling around your clit. “You f-feel so good.”

“Oh yeah?” His teeth graze your core ever so slightly, and you jolt at the sudden feeling. Your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. He notices immediately. “You like that?” He chides, pumping his fingers in and out, quickening his pace.

“Y-yes,” you choke out. Logan’s working you through it, gentle praises flowing from his lips as he laps at you. You can feel yourself getting closer—the pleasure reaching its peak. He adds more pressure with his tongue, sucking harder. “Logan I—”

“I know,” he mumbles, plunging deep inside you, his tongue lapping at you like he hasn’t eaten in months. “Can feel the way you’re squeezing my fingers.”

His thumb strokes your thigh comfortingly—his grip still strong, holding you in place. His eyes are locked on yours, watching your every move, like a predator watching its prey. You know he loves the way you’re squirming under his touch, the way you throw your head back when his teeth graze over your clit.

There’s lust in his eyes, and desire too. But you can see the adoration, the need to have you close, to bury himself inside you. If he could climb under your skin, he would. If he could worship at your throne, he would. You can feel it in the way he pushes into you, the way he swallows you like he’ll never get to eat again—never get to have you again.

And that’s when the tension breaks—snaps in half so easily. Your muscles contract, walls fluttering around him, taking him deeper. “Logan I’m…”

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he husks, “Let go for me. Wanna taste you on my tongue.” His words, his smell, his touch—he’s everywhere—filling your senses. He rides out your orgasm, pumping in and out as you come undone underneath him. It’s pure bliss, perfect release—more perfect than anything you’ve ever felt before.

And it’s because it’s Logan. It has always been Logan.

His fingers rub against your walls, his pace slowing. He laps gently at your clit as he carefully pulls out. He lifts his face from your cunt, your arousal dripping down his chin. Logan stands, taking the two fingers that were plunged deep inside you and bringing them to his lips. His mouth wraps around the digits and he sucks softly. Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him savoring the taste of you. His fingers slip out with a pop, and he smiles.

That fucking smile. So goddamn cocky.

Logan grabs his belt, undoing his buckle and slipping the belt away. He’s unbuttoning his jeans, pulling down the zipper, hooking his thumbs into his waistband, and slipping off the denim and his boxers in one quick move. His cock springs up to his stomach, and your jaw drops at the sight of him.

You sit up as Logan steps in between your legs, his erection pressing against your stomach as he slots into you. He brings his hands to your hips, gripping tightly, and you wrap your legs around his waist.

He lays you down on the desk, hovering over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand guides his cock to your entrance. He captures your lips in a kiss as he slides through your folds, notching against your clit.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers between kisses, his tip slipping in your entrance teasingly, and then slipping back out. “You’re so perfect.” He slips in again just a bit but doesn’t move. “Can’t believe you thought I hated you…”

And then he’s plunging into you, sinking down to the hilt. “…When I wanted you this entire fucking time, pretty girl.”

His hand leaves his cock and finds your clit, stroking lightly. You’re already close, still overstimulated from your first orgasm. Logan hasn’t moved, his cock still deep inside from his first thrust. “Logan,” you mumble, helpless underneath him. He finally pulls out and pushes back in again—somehow deeper this time—bottoming out. You moan at the feeling.

“That what you needed?” He growls, building his pace, his hips rutting into yours. “Needed me to fuck you?” His words alone could make you come.

“Fuck, yes,” you answer as he pounds into you, his fingers drawing rough circles into your core. Logan isn’t restrained anymore—he isn’t taking his time like he said he would. He’s letting go, slamming into you, flicking your clit, taking what he wants.

And fuck does it feel good.

“You feel so fucking perfect,” Logan praises, biting your lower lip and kissing away the pain. “Doing so good for me, beautiful.” You can feel him rubbing against your walls, stretching you out, fitting inside you like he was always meant to be there. He’s right: it is perfect.

Nothing will ever compare to this.

Logan’s hips snap into yours, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with every single thrust. He’s still working your clit, chasing your orgasm, making you feel good. That adoration is still vibrant in his eyes, still rocking you to your core.

You clench down around him, squeezing him, taking him in deeper. “Fuck,” he mutters, his pace faltering. He’s close, and so are you. He’s letting go, pumping harder, faster. “So tight, so warm,” he groans. “Such a good girl, letting me fuck you into this desk.”

Your chests heave together—skin against skin. He’s so warm, so solid, so constant. You can feel yourself melting, sinking, slipping. “Lo…” You trail off, wrapping your legs tighter around him.

He moans into your mouth. “Love it when you call me that, sweetheart.” He pinches your clit, lighting your skin ablaze.

“I’m s-so close,” you stutter, stumbling over your words.

Logan’s throat bobs as he fucks into you, fingers swirling your clit. “Gonna get you there, princess,” he pants. “Wanna feel you come on my cock.” You curse under your breath and Logan swallows the words with a kiss. You’re squeezing him tighter now—inches from the edge, and he knows. “That’s it, pretty girl,” he coos, stroking harder, pounding into you. “Come for me. Know you can do it.”

You listen, your orgasm crashing into you. It’s uncontrollable—wave after wave of pleasure surging through your body. You’re a mess underneath him, arching your back as you let go. You’re seeing stars, heat flooding your vision. There aren’t words to describe the way you feel—the way that only Logan can make you feel.

He’s close behind, rocking into you. His hand reaches under your back, lifting you so that he’s standing and you’re sitting up on the desk. The angle is brutal—giving him more room, more depth to fuck up and into you. It’s too much, but it’s just what he needs.

“Wanna…” you trail off, struggling to get the words out. “Wanna f-feel you come too.”

“Fuck,” Logan curses, pressing his forehead to yours. “Gonna give you what you want. Always gonna give it to you.” And then he’s coming deep inside you. You can feel him filling you up, painting your walls.

His thrusts slow as he finishes. He pumps in and out a few more times before slipping out of you, but he doesn’t pull away. He wraps his arms around you, keeping you pressed tightly to his chest. The contact is comforting—stabilizing—as you come down from your high.

Silence fills the room as you melt into him. All those months spent thinking Logan hated you…how could you be such a fool? He was yours the whole time.

He presses a chaste kiss to your temple. “I meant what I said, you know. About wanting you.”

You smile softly, your head falling into the crook of his neck. “I never knew.”

He shakes his head. “Still want you now.”

“You have me,” you say, lifting your head to look up at him. He’s got that look—that glimmer—in his eyes again. It dawns on you that it isn’t just adoration. It’s love. You know it’s love. Your breath hitches in your throat at the thought.

“Good,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he teases, his voice raspy and deep. “When can I see you again?”

You laugh. “What are you doing after this?”

He pauses, as if thinking through his mental calendar. And then he smirks that shit-eating, cocksure smirk. “You.”

Well fuck.

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scottiexmariee · 9 months ago

Note

Hiii 💜 can I request LAD short for the boys with a reader who gets arrested (for something stupid) and calls the boy to bail her out? Please and thank you!!

How the boys would react to you getting arrested <3

Characters: Xavier x Reader | Zayne x Reader | Rafayel x Reader | Sylus x Reader |

Word Count: 1.4k

Masterlist

Warnings: Slight violence mention

“This is a free call from Linkon City Corrections Facility from inmate: (Y/N). To accept this call, please press 1.”

☆Xav would definitely come get you ASAP

☆This man trusts your judgement and knows you wouldn't end up in jail without a good reason, so he wouldn't even question you until you're safely in his arms

☆ He'd get there in record time so you didn't have to sit too long

When Xavier answered his phone at 2am, he hadn’t even looked at the screen to see who was calling. He knew you were out with your friends tonight, so he was already by the phone waiting for you to let him know you’d made it home safe. However, he expected your voice on the other end of the line, not a robot telling him that you were currently calling from Linkon City jail.

Xavier blinked rapidly, trying to make sure he’d heard the automated message correctly. The message repeated itself when no button was pushed, confirming that he had definitely not been mistaken.

Xavier immediately pressed 1, listening to another spiel from the robot before the call finally connected. His shoes were on before he even heard your voice.

“(Y/N)?”

“Xavier,” You began, “I promise I’ll explain everything but I need you to come pick me up. Please.”

He’d already been planning on it, but the pleading tone in your voice would have had him folding regardless.

“I’m coming,” He assured you, already halfway out the door.

On the other end of the call, you breathed out a sigh of relief. “I owe you my life,”

The second you get released from custody, he's giving you a hug and telling you to discuss it when you're ready.

When he found out that the reason you were arrested was for clocking a man square in the jaw for being unable to keep his hands to himself, he almost took a turn in a jail cell for the night.

"Xavier, it's okay," You insisted, cupping his face with your hands. "I already took care of it. Can we please just go home?"

"I can assure you it will be handled twice if I see him anywhere,"

❅Zayne definitely comes to get you, but he’s not even gonna pretend that he isn’t a little irritated

❅Imagine working a grueling 16 hour shift as a surgeon, and when you finally sink down into your couch, ready to relax, your phone rings and it’s a a call from jail

❅because that is zayne’s reality and he is STRESSED

❅#ringring #helpiminjail

❅He’d cool off on the drive there, but you’re definitely still getting scolded (absolutely a ‘make better choices’ talk)

❅definitely shows up with heavy ‘disappointed but not surprised’ vibes

You'd gotten arrested for the dumbest thing on the planet.

While out on a walk, your Hunter's Watch notified you of a nearby metaflux fluctation, so you sprang into action without second thought.

You located the Wanderer pretty quickly and gave a good chase, even hopping a fence to put and end to it before it caused any severe damage. Unfortunately for you, the fence you'd hopped just so happened to belong to a private government building. You were very swiftly apprehended and loaded into the police car. The officers refused to hear any of your excuses, charging you with Criminal Trespassing.

You were not going to spend the night in jail over this, so you called the only person you thought might still be awake.

Zayne.

Zayne who, unfortunately, had just gotten home from a horrendously long shift not even an hour before your call came. When the Caller ID popped up for Linkon City Jail, his stomach twisted uncomfortably, already having a pretty good idea of who could potentially be calling him of all people. Initially, he was a whirlwind of frustration and annoyance. Not to mention stressed. His lovely partner, currently sitting in jail like a criminal. He'd leave right away, and most of his frustration would dissipate on the drive to come collect you.

Zayne greeted you with crossed arms and a deadpan expression, waiting until the pair of you got in the car before demanding an explanation. After you explained, his frustration was no longer directed at you, but more so at the absurdity of the situation.

Once you two were parked at his house, Zayne cupped the side of your face in one hand, gently resting his forehead against yours in a much needed gesture of affection.

"Please just try to be a little more careful," He said, his tone surprisingly soft. "I'm going to get grey hairs by the time I'm 30 if I have to keep collecting you from jail,"

❀ let’s be honest Rafayel is probably the reason you’re in jail anyway

❀ probably trespassing to get a material for rare paint or something

❀ he’d be mad at you because how are you supposed to protect him (miss bodyguard) if you’re getting arrested?

You felt your jaw tick as your name was finally called for your one free phone call. Of course, you were going to call Rafayel and make bailing you out his problem, since it was his fault you were here anyway. "If you aren't doing anything, I have a quest for you, Miss Bodyguard,"

"I'm out of a custom color for this painting. It's in a suuuper easy spot. You can do it, right?"

Unfortunately for you, Rafayel had failed to mention that his stupid 'custom paint color' was located in an area that was restricted to the public. Maybe he didn't even know. It was hard to tell with him. Either way, you'd gotten busted trespassing and whisked away in a police car.

When Rafayel's voice connected on the other end of the line, he was already running his mouth before you could say anything.

"'Getting materials for my paint' doesn't exactly sound similar to 'end up in jail.' How did you get them confused?"

"You're not a very good bodyguard. How are you supposed to protect me if you can't even dodge the police?"

"Wait. Why are you even in jail? Don't tell me you like...punched a baby or something,"

When he finally shut up for long enough for you to explain yourself, he laughed the second you finished talking.

"Really? That's it?"

"It's not funny, Rafayel. Come get me out of here!"

"Oh, relaaax. I'll be there in 20," Turns out, that plot of land actually belonged to Rafayel. He'd bought it when he realized he could get specific (rare) paint colors from the resources. The police, however, weren't aware that he'd send anyone other than himself to get anything from there, so when they just so happened to see you as they passed by, you really didn't stand a chance.

Rafayel was absolutely not going to let you live it down, either.

Now, in addition to your 'Miss Bodyguard' nickname, you had a less appealing one.

'Miss Criminal.'

⟡ Sylus is genuinely amused when he gets the call

⟡ "You don't typically hear of kittens allowing themselves to be caught,"

⟡ He knows you had a damn good reason for whatever you did

⟡ He'd come get you and lowkey bully you about it on the way home

⟡ any trace of you being in jail mysteriously disappears from the system less than 24 hours later

Sylus almost didn't answer the phone call.

When the unsaved number popped up on his screen, he instinctively reached to dismiss it. He didn't give his personal cell number out often, so he was well aware of who had this number. There wasn't a single person worth his time that would realistically be calling from an unsaved number.

However, a split second later he realized that he hadn't heard from you for a bit longer than usual.

He cracked a grin the second the robot started speaking, informing him that he was receiving a call from his incarcerated lover.

When the line connected, he spoke first.

"Having a good time, sweetie?"

You could hear the smirk in his voice through the phone, which only added to your annoyance. "Sylus. Please come pick me up,"

"Of course,"

When he arrived to retrieve you, he learned that it was an assault charge. You'd beat up a man nearly twice your size, apparently, and a witness had described you as a menace.

As the two of you exited the building, he looped an arm around your shoulders, asking the only question he cared to ask: "Did he deserve it?"

"Absolutely," You responded. "I'd do it again, actually,"

He chuckled, shaking his head with a fondness reserved for only you. He knew that you were the type to stand on business, and he loved that about you. He was honestly a little proud, even.

"Let's not make this a habit, though." He said, gently tugging your motorcycle helmet over your head. "Stick with me more. You wouldn't have gotten caught,"

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace rafayel #lads sylus #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lnds sylus #lnds xavier #lnds rafayel #lnds zayne #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #lnds headcanons #love and deepspace headcanons

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scarletttries · 6 months ago

Text

Write A Kiss Request: Kang Dae-Ho/Player 388 (Squid Game) x Reader...a kiss in a rush of adrenaline

(prompt list here) & 2025 Request List - requests open

..a kiss for Dae-Ho in a rush of adrenaline

You hadn't really thought about finding an ally in this awful place. Honestly you thought the desperation that filled the sad dorm every night would make everyone here focus on only looking out for themselves. But amongst the darkest times there is always a glimmer of hope in the kindness of others, and the Squid Games were no exception. After only the first game you found yourselves falling in with the previous winner Gi-Hun and the team of friends he seemed to so effortlessly gather around him. One of your teammates in particular seemed to have the innate ability to keep the lights of hope on in your heart when they could have so easily been extinguished - Dae-Ho.

The awkward former marine had been the first to offer you a seat with them, dusting off one of the metal steps you perched on as if he was pulling out a chair at a nice restaurant. It was easy to feel safe around him; his strong arms always settling him in the seat beside you, his kind eyes seeking reassurance you were okay as the games progressed, and his sweet smile telling you this situation would be over soon enough, even though you had no reason to believe him. The two of you were clearly drawn to each other as you entered the game of Mingle, Dae-Ho swearing on his life to keep you close no matter what. But with each passing round the crowd got more aggressive and desperate, the sea of frantic bodies pulling you apart in its current, even as you fought to stay together. After each round you managed to find each other again, only to be grabbed by different groups in the next round and left desperately hoping and praying you both would emerge safely when the doors unlocked again.

"Hold onto my hand." He said firmly as you reunited for the final round, a renewed intensity in his eyes knowing that he only needed to keep you safe for one more torturous minute of this terrible game. "In-ho thinks it will be two per room next, so I promise, me and you are going to be safe." He tried to sound confident, but even in the dim lights you could see his eyes were glistening on the edge of tears as he clung to your hand and braced himself for the wheel stop.

"Groups of Two!" The automated game voice called out for above, and suddenly you felt your whole body getting heaved upwards, the ground below you moving faster than you thought possible from this strange new angle. As you saw the spinning platform disappear from your view, your hands clung desperately to the shape moving at full pelt below you, everything happening in such a blur you couldn't make sense of it.

You heard a door slam and lock, and finally the same strong arms that had made you feel welcome in this strange, scary place gently lowered you back to your feet from where you had been resting over Dae-Ho's shoulder.

"I wasn't taking any chances that time." He laughed out with a nervous smile when he saw your awestruck expression. Rather than risk losing you in the crowd again, he'd just held you tightly and ran as fast as he could to the first free room, never looking behind him because he knew he had everything needed with him.

You stared up at his bashful grin, his head shaking apologetically for the rough way he had handled you, feeling the sheer weight of the situation finally sink in. You were safely through another game. Because of him.

"We're safe! You kept us safe!" You cried out excitedly, your heart hammering in your chest at the realisation, your skin tingling with electricity where his hand still rested lightly on your back until he was sure you wouldn't fall.

"I told you I'd keep you safe." He said simply, offering you a small smile that felt so sincere you couldn't stop yourself from crashing your lips against it. Your hands reached over his shoulders to thread through his long black hair, desperately pulling him closer as if in this moment you two were the only people here. Like you would always be safe if you could stay this close.

Not losing a moment Dae-Ho arms wrapped tightly around your waist, lifting your feet off the ground as he dragged you closer, diving into your kiss like it offered him salvation from your solemn surroundings. His teeth nipped against your bottom lip clumsily, all hungry desperation and making the most of every second, shutting out any noise from outside your little room; your little sanctuary, a place where everything would be okay.

As the lock on your door clicked open you both reluctantly parted, unsure if anything so sweet could exist in the rest of this foresaken place. Dae-Ho spoke first, goofy smile plastered across his face where once a worried grimace had been.

"We should go vote to leave, and then maybe I could buy you dinner with my winnings?"

#writing #fanfiction #requests #one shot #kang daeho #dae ho #dae ho x reader #dae ho squid game #player 388 #player 388 x reader #player 388 imagines #dae-ho #dae-ho x reader #squid game #squid game 2

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 1 month ago

Text

No Eject, No Goodbye

jake “hangman” seresin x fem!aviator!reader

call sign: Raven (again)

They used to call you two fire and gasoline.

Now? You barely share air.

The briefing room feels colder than it should. Not just from the frigid blast of the A/C rattling through the overhead vents, but from the silence that thrums between you and Jake Seresin like barbed wire. You can feel him across the table. Feel him not looking at you.

Typical.

“Target window is ten seconds,” Cyclone says from the front of the room, tapping the map with the sharp end of his pointer. “And Seresin and Raven are running backup sweep. Any deviation in their timing and you jeopardize the extraction.”

Your stomach coils.

Backup sweep. With Jake.

Of course they’d pair you with him again. You were too good in the air together.

Even when everything else between you had fallen apart.

You swallow the lump rising in your throat and nod once. Rooster glances at you from across the room like he’s checking your pulse. Like he knows you’re already vibrating under your skin.

Jake doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even twitch.

He used to sneak you winks across this room. Used to walk you to the lockers after briefing, shoulder brushing yours, warm fingers grazing your wrist like he couldn’t help it.

But then he left.

No goodbye. No warning. Just a deployment notice on your locker door and your name wiped off his contact list like it never meant a damn thing.

You blink hard and refocus on the mission details.

“Questions?” Cyclone finishes. The room stays quiet.

“Good,” Warlock says. “Wheels up in fifteen.”

The second the chairs scrape back, Jake’s already on his feet. Already walking. And just for a second — just a second — he pauses at your six.

“Watch your six up there,” he mutters without turning around.

You hate that your chest clenches.

You hate that your voice is soft when you say:

“I always do.”

He keeps walking. You watch him go.

———

The sky is too quiet.

That’s the first sign something’s wrong.

You’re flying high, running support on the outer perimeter, when the static begins — sharp and sudden in your ear, like a scream underwater. The warning lights follow. One, then two. Then everything starts blinking red.

“Raven, you’re drifting!”

Jake’s voice slices through the comms, thick with alarm.

You adjust. You try to stabilize.

And that’s when it happens.

A sharp crack — not from outside, but within.

Your jet stutters, drops hard to the right, smoke billowing from the rear thrusters. The G-force hits you like a punch to the chest. You gasp. The sky spins.

“You just lost engine one—Raven, eject!”

You reach for the handle.

But then you hear his voice again — softer now. Not yelling. Not commanding. Pleading.

“Don’t you dare leave me, Raven.”

“Altitude. Altitude. Pull up. Pull up.”

The automated warning drones in your ears, a cold voice counting down your life. You can barely see through the smoke. Through the tears.

You’re not going to make it out.

“Jake—go. Please. Just go.”

“No.”

“You’ll die!”

“Then I’ll die next to you.”

The wind howls around you both as your jets descend in tandem, two blazing comets screaming toward the Earth. His voice is ragged now, breath hitching as he fights the controls, trying to guide his jet between yours and the ground.

“I left once.”

“Jake—”

“I’m not leaving you again.”

“…Don’t…”

You feel your grip slip.

On the stick. On hope. On him.

“It was always you, Y/N.”

And then—

Impact.

But not yours.

You see it happen, just before everything goes black. Jake’s jet dives underneath yours, takes the worst of the collision. Shields you with his own body, his own bird. The explosion consumes his left wing first.

And in those final seconds—

As the sirens die out, as gravity wins—

You hear nothing but static and his breathing. Slow. Shallow. Dying.

And the softest echo of your name:

“Y/N…”

Then nothing.

Just smoke.

Just silence.

Just the Earth swallowing you whole.

——

Beeping.

That’s all there is at first.

Steady. Mechanical.

Sharp little notes echoing behind your eyes like sonar. You don’t know what they mean, not yet. You just feel them — in your skull, your chest, your bloodstream. They’re dragging you out of the dark. And it hurts.

The light is blinding.

Sterile white. Too bright.

It sears behind your eyelids and digs into the soft spots of your skull like a drill. And then the pain comes. Slow at first, then sharp. Your ribs, your legs, your arms — it’s like your whole body was ripped from a second skin and stitched back together wrong.

You gasp — or try to.

But your throat is raw, sandpapered. Dry. Like you’ve been screaming.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling is too white. The room too quiet.

Then you see the machines. The tubes. The IV in your arm.

And finally—finally—

Jake.

The name flashes through your mind like lightning.

No images. No words. Just instinct. Pure and gut-wrenching. You move — just barely — but it’s enough to make the monitors spike. Pain punches through your chest like a bat.

And then—

“Y/N—!”

You hear the voice before the face.

Fanboy.

He’s standing to your right, in his khaki uniform, dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight like he’s been grinding it for days. His hands hover over you like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you.

Halo is on the other side. Her hair’s tied back messily. Her eyes go wide when you look at her. She swallows hard.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, and you realize she’s crying. “She’s awake—somebody page the doctor—!”

But you don’t care.

None of it matters. Not the pain. Not the wires. Not the fear on their faces.

“Where’s Jake?”

Your voice is sand, but the question is clear. Fanboy glances at Halo. Halo doesn’t say anything.

Your heart starts to race.

“Where’s Jake?!”

You try to sit up again — agony rips through your side. The beeping grows louder, faster. Alarms join it this time. The machines are screaming for help. So are you.

“Y/N—please, calm down—”

“I need to see him—take me to him!”

“Raven—just breathe—”

“TAKE ME TO HIM!”

The door slams open. Nurses rush in. One of them shouts for a sedative.

“Don’t touch her!” Halo barks, stepping in front of them. “Don’t sedate her—she just woke up, for God’s sake—”

Fanboy’s voice cracks when he speaks. “Okay. Okay. We’ll take you. Just—please calm down.”

⸻

You don’t remember the hallway.

Just the wheelchair. The way Halo holds your hand the entire ride down. How Fanboy’s eyes don’t stop watching you — like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again.

They stop in front of Room 309.

Fanboy opens the door. He’s silent. Halo squeezes your hand before she lets go. You think she says “we’ll be right outside,” but you’re not listening.

You’re already looking at him.

Jake.

Your Jake.

Hangman Seresin.

Unconscious. Wrapped in gauze. Bruises blooming across his skin like shadows under glass. His jaw is taped. His arms are bandaged. His chest is rising — but only because a machine is breathing for him.

You forget how to breathe yourself.

The nurse locks the brakes on the wheelchair, but your fingers already reach out, slow and aching, like they’re afraid to find out he’s real.

You slide your hand into his. It’s warm — not limp, not entirely lifeless — but there’s no grip back. Not yet.

You curl your fingers tighter around his.

“You stayed,” you whisper, broken and shaking.

The words are barely audible over the machines. Just enough breath to carry them from your lips to his skin.

“You… fucking idiot.”

You don’t have the strength to shout, and even if you did — the only thing behind your ribs is sorrow. Deep, sharp grief laced with something rawer than rage. Something older. Love, maybe. Fear.

“You should’ve ejected. You should’ve saved yourself.”

You lift his hand — slowly, tenderly — and press it against your cheek. Letting it rest there, against the tears he doesn’t get to wipe away.

“You don’t get to do this to me.”

A sob bubbles up and you clamp your jaw to stop it. You fail.

“You don’t get to die for me. You don’t get to decide that.”

Your forehead presses against the edge of his mattress, your shoulders quaking as everything you’ve held in starts to bleed out.

“I would’ve rather died up there than live down here without you. You hear me?” you cry, voice cracking. “You think that’s love? Leaving me behind?”

His chest rises once, slow and shallow. The machine sighs for him again.

“Wake up, Jake,” you whisper. “Please. You have to wake up. I still love you. I still love you and I didn’t get to tell you.”

You press your face into his hand again. Just for a second. Just to feel it. Just to remember that he’s still here.

“Please come back to me.”

———

It starts with a twitch.

Barely noticeable — just the tiniest shift in his fingers beneath your grip. You almost think you imagined it.

Then again. His thumb nudges yours.

Your breath catches.

You lift your head, blinking fast through the tears as your eyes zero in on his face. The bruises are still there. The bandages. The lifeless slack of his jaw held open by the tube. But then—

His brow furrows. Just slightly. Like he’s trying to wince.

“Jake?” you whisper, barely daring to believe it. “Jake—?”

His eyes flutter.

Twice.

And then they open.

Just a crack at first — enough to show the green beneath them, glassy and confused, unfocused. But awake.

The heart monitor beeps faster.

“He’s awake!” you gasp, your voice finally rising. You fumble for the call button, slamming it with the side of your fist. “He’s—he’s awake! I need a doctor!”

Chaos erupts outside the door, but you don’t take your eyes off him. A nurse rushes in with two doctors, and you’re forced to wheel yourself back slightly to give them room. You feel your chest burning as they start shouting codes, checking reflexes, taking the ventilator out. He gags against it, his throat dry, voice rasping from disuse.

But then he coughs. And then—he speaks.

“…Y/N?”

You could shatter.

The doctor tells you he needs to run a few neurological checks, and though you don’t want to move, you nod and let them work. You watch it all like it’s underwater — the lights too bright, your head too full of white noise, your heart too loud in your ears.

They test his pupils. Ask him questions. Ask what year it is. Where he is. What happened.

Jake mumbles through dry lips and cracked jokes — something about “didn’t think Heaven would be so fluorescent,” and the doctor chuckles, but you don’t.

You can’t.

When the tests are done and they’re confident he’s neurologically stable, they let you roll back beside him.

The room empties.

It’s quiet again.

Jake turns his head toward you — slowly, like it takes all his strength — and offers the softest, most wrecked smile you’ve ever seen on him.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.”

Your chest caves.

“You’re such a fucking idiot, Jake.”

It comes out too fast. Too loud. Too cracked to be anything but truth. His smile fades.

“You could’ve died,” you snap, hands gripping the wheels of your chair until your knuckles go white. “You almost died.”

He tries to sit up. Winces.

“I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“You don’t get to choose that!” you cry, heat rising in your chest, behind your eyes, burning past your ribs. “You don’t get to decide whether I live with you or without you! You don’t get to leave me just because you love me!”

He looks stunned. Shaken. Like he wasn’t expecting this to hurt worse than the crash.

“Y/N—”

“If you died… if you had died for me, Jake, I would’ve spent the rest of my life wishing I hadn’t survived. I would’ve followed you.”

That shuts him up.

“You think you did this out of love?” you whisper, tears running freely now. “You don’t love someone and leave them behind. That’s not love. That’s cowardice wrapped in sacrifice.”

You push back from his bed. It hurts to move. Every muscle screams. But you roll to the door anyway, furious and devastated and barely holding it together.

Jake tries to reach for you. His voice is hoarse.

“Wait—Y/N, please—”

But you’re already out the door.

Rooster’s standing right there, wide-eyed.

“Y/N—?”

You can’t speak. You roll right past him.

Rooster turns to watch you go, then looks into the room. And that’s when he sees it — Jake, broken in bed, shoulders shaking in quiet grief.

“She was here every morning,” Rooster says softly.

Jake’s head lifts, barely.

“What?”

“Since she woke up a week ago. She cried herself to sleep every night, and every morning she made them wheel her in so she could sit beside you. Wait for you to wake up.”

Jake looks gutted.

“She thought you were going to die,” Rooster says. “And it scared the hell out of her.”

———

The hospital room feels colder now.

Dimmer.

You haven’t turned the lights on since you left Jake’s room. Just let the sun sink lower and lower past the blinds, wrapping yourself in the quiet like it could numb everything echoing in your chest.

Your body aches. Your ribs hurt. Your wrists are bruised from impact, your legs are stitched and sore, but none of that pain compares to what’s pressing against your heart.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you could speak if you tried.

It opens anyway — just a crack at first — and then Phoenix slips in, a gentle smile already tugging at her lips.

“Hey,” she says, and when you glance at her, she gasps. “Oh my God. Y/N. He’s awake. Did you hear?”

You don’t mean to. You really don’t.

But your chest caves in again. Your chin crumples, and before you can stop yourself, a sob escapes — broken and small, and then another, and another. It all comes spilling out like the second crash you weren’t ready for.

Phoenix is at your side in an instant.

“Hey—hey, hey, it’s okay,” she murmurs, dropping to the edge of the bed, pulling you gently into her arms. “I’ve got you. Let it out.”

You bury your face in her shoulder, tears soaking through her scrubs.

“I still love him,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “I do. I never stopped. But I don’t know what to do, Nat. I don’t know how to look at him without remembering that moment. That second in the air when I thought—when I knew—he was going to die with me.”

She runs her hand up and down your back, steady and slow.

“You don’t have to know what to do right now,” she says softly. “You just have to feel it. Feel all of it. And when you’re ready… when your heart stops screaming and starts whispering again… then you decide.”

You nod against her, tears still falling.

“He loves you,” Phoenix adds, after a beat. “I saw it. The way he looked at you before the mission. Like he knew it might be the last time. Like he’d already made peace with dying for you.”

“But I didn’t want him to,” you croak.

“I know.”

Silence settles between you, heavy but safe.

“Do you think…” you whisper, swallowing hard. “Do you think it’s stupid to want him again after everything?”

Phoenix leans back just enough to meet your eyes.

“No,” she says. “I think it’s brave.”

You nod. Barely. And whisper, “I’m not ready.”

“Then don’t be,” she smiles. “Not yet. But don’t shut the door forever. Just leave the light on.”

She squeezes your hand before leaving.

And down the hall — in his own hospital room — Jake is sitting upright now. Grimacing through the pain, IVs still running, but there’s a fire in his eyes again.

“She came to see me,” he tells Rooster. “And then she left.”

Rooster nods. “She’s scared, man.”

“I know.”

“But she loves you. That much is obvious.”

Jake exhales slowly, his voice hardening with determination.

“Then I’m not giving up. Not after everything. I’ll wait. I’ll fight. I’ll prove it to her every day, however long it takes.”

Because she was worth crashing for. And she’s sure as hell worth staying alive for.

———

It starts small.

A knock at her door that isn’t a nurse.

A little bouquet of yellow roses in a glass on her side table the next morning. No note. Just the kind of flowers you give someone when you’re sorry, when you’re still hopeful, when you’re trying not to scare them away.

The next day, it’s a book. The same dog-eared copy of the novel she used to read on base, the one she thought she’d lost on deployment. There it is, sitting on the windowsill with a single sticky note tucked into the cover:

Thought you might want something familiar. —J

The door never opens. He never waits around. But every morning, something’s there. Gentle. Thoughtful. Quietly desperate.

Phoenix catches her one afternoon, staring at the third note — the one tucked into a chocolate bar.

“You still take two squares at night, right? Couldn’t forget that even if I wanted to.”

“He’s trying,” Phoenix says, softly, from the doorway.

Y/N doesn’t say anything. Just runs her fingers over the torn corner of the note, the ache in her chest flaring hot again.

⸻

Then one evening, it’s not a note.

It’s Jake.

He’s leaning in the doorway of her hospital room, out of uniform, pale and stitched up and still moving like he aches in every bone. His left arm’s in a sling. There’s still a bruise blooming beneath his jaw. But his eyes are clear.

Focused.

Fixed on her.

“Can I come in?”

Her breath catches. Her hands grip the blanket over her lap like it might hold her together.

She nods. Barely.

He limps in slowly, gently shutting the door behind him. No more cocky grin. No practiced swagger. Just Jake — wrecked and real and standing in front of her like he’s showing her every bruise she gave him without ever meaning to.

“I know you’re not ready,” he starts, voice low. “I know I scared you. Hurt you. And I’d take it back if I could. But I can’t. All I can do is tell you the truth.”

She doesn’t speak. Just watches him like he might vanish.

“That day… when the jet went down,” he says, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t trying to die for you. I was trying to live with you. I stayed because you were there. Because I couldn’t leave you alone in that sky.”

Her chin wobbles. Her throat burns.

“You think I was brave?” he says, voice cracking. “I wasn’t. I was terrified. Because I knew if you died and I lived… I wouldn’t want to. I wouldn’t know how.”

Her eyes brim over.

“But I lived,” he continues. “We both did. And I’ll spend every day proving I didn’t survive just to let you go again.”

He takes a few slow steps closer, then kneels down beside her wheelchair, eyes never leaving hers.

“You don’t have to forgive me yet. Hell, you don’t even have to like me. But if there’s even one piece of your heart that still wants this… I’ll wait. I’ll show up. I’ll be whatever you need.”

Silence.

Thick. Crushed.

Her hand twitches in her lap.

Jake watches it — watches it reach out, just a few inches, then stop, trembling.

“Jake…” she whispers, voice shaking.

“I’m here,” he breathes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, when she lets the tears fall, she doesn’t cry alone.

Her lips part, but the words knot in her throat. Her fingers twitch again — reaching — and this time, they find his.

She grabs his hand like it’s a lifeline. Like if she lets go, she’ll drown.

Jake’s breath hitches, just once. He holds her hand like it’s glass, like he’s afraid to break it — or her.

“You don’t get to do that again,” she says, voice raw, shaking, barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to die for me.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to apologize again, but she doesn’t let him.

“You said it was love, but it felt like a goodbye,” she chokes out, tears spilling. “I thought you were saying goodbye, Jake. I thought you were choosing to leave me.”

He closes his eyes. Pain flickers across his face.

“I wasn’t,” he says softly. “I was choosing you.”

“You don’t get to choose for me,” she snaps, breath hitching around a sob. “You don’t get to decide that my life goes on while yours ends. That’s not love, that’s…” Her voice cracks, collapses. “That’s not fair.”

She leans forward as much as she can, pressing her forehead to his. Her hand stays locked in his like she might fall apart without it.

“Do you know what I would’ve done if you didn’t wake up?” she whispers. “I would’ve stopped eating. I would’ve stopped trying. I wouldn’t have cared if I ever walked again. I would’ve blamed myself every day until I finally found a way to join you.”

Jake shakes his head, fiercely, desperately, and tries to pull her closer with his one good arm.

“No—no, baby, no,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Don’t say that—”

“You were my world, Jake. Even after we ended. Even when I hated you,” she says, shaking. “You were everything. And when you stayed with me in the air, when you refused to eject—God, it broke me.”

He closes his eyes, tears slipping past his lashes.

“I thought I was being brave,” he whispers. “But I wasn’t. I was just… in love.”

Silence wraps around them. Thick. Fragile.

Then she exhales, broken and shaky, forehead still against his.

“I still love you,” she whispers. “I never stopped. But I don’t know how to move past this.”

Jake nods, breathing shallow.

“Then we take it slow,” he says gently. “One hour. One day. Whatever you need. I’ll wait. Just… don’t shut me out. Let me try.”

She lets the silence stretch. But she doesn’t let go of his hand.

Not once.

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brucewaynehater101 · 4 months ago

Note

i've been thinking about Tim's 16th birthday, and had an idea, what if after that disaster Tim realizes he couldn't handle another birthday like that, so on his next birthday he decides to try making his own party, he invites his friends from YJ, rents a place outside of gotham and just completely ignores everything that comes from the Batfamily that day. And it ends up being the best birthday of his life, and so he decides to keep doing it, and it continues going well, until a couple of years later when Dick realizes he never celebrated Tim's birthday, so he decides to give Tim a surprise party. Surprisingly everyone of the batfamily gets together to make the party, and they think they managed to hide it from Tim, only despite the fact that his last few birthday parties were amazing Tim still has a lot of paranoia near his birthday, so as soon as he noticed the family was planning something on his birthday he left Gotham a week before his birthday. No one noticed until the day of Tim's 21st birthday, when Dick tried to find Tim, only to get an automated message saying that Tim's not working today because of his birthday, also that message was always on Tim's birthday ever since he first decided to truly celebrate it, only that was the first time Dick saw it because he never sent a message to Tim on his birthday. Later the batfamily discovers that Tim had a party without even mentioning it to them and get angry because they put a lot of effort on a party for Tim, while he didn't even want them on his birthday. Up to you how Tim responds to that.

I love exploring Tim's 16th birthday trauma. I'm going to tweak your idea slightly, if you don't mind. I myself hate celebrating my birthday, so imma be biased :) Let's go!

Warning: This is an AU, so obviously a lot of details aren't gonna be canon accurate.

Tim's birthdays have always been a hit or miss for him [If you want extra trauma, y'all could make the Flying Grayson show a birthday gift/celebration for Tim. Can be the weekend before, after, or directly on his birthday... Just for fun :D]. Before Tim became Robin, his parents... tried. They tried to be home, to celebrate, to be there. More often than not, they were too busy to actually be present. In those cases, if the connection allowed, they would call Tim.

His parents believed the gifts they gave him, the money they spent on him, made up for them not being there. This is when Tim started to have a complicated relationship with gift giving.

This was the case until Tim's fourteenth birthday.

Tim asked Bruce to become Robin at thirteen, but didn't actually hit the streets until he was fourteen. Obviously, a grieving Bruce didn't celebrate Tim's birthday with him, particularly because Tim wasn't Robin.

For Tim's fourteenth birthday, imma present you with two options:

His parents actually managed to come home and this is the last birthday he gets to spend with his mom

Tim was training in Europe over his fourteenth birthday and thus he was the one to tell his parents they can't celebrate with him

For Tim's fifteenth birthday, his dad is in a coma and his mom is dead. He's also a temporary ward with Bruce. Thus, he gets a fantastic and normal birthday for once. It goes far better than his previous one, giving him hope for future birthdays.

Then the 16th birthday happens.

After this, Tim doesn't trust Bruce and Alfred. Dick, Barbara, Steph, and YJ didn't know about it, so he still tentatively trusts them.

To add extra trauma, let's say Tim's 17th birthday occurs during the BruceQuest :)

Now, for Tim's 18th birthday, he's an adult. He has rocky relationships with his family, and he knows how to engineer distractions/excuses to avoid celebrating his birthday with the Waynes. Usually, he has "missions" with his friends that are really fun adventures or vacations.

He used to leave Gotham two weeks in advance, but, after his eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth birthdays, he calms down. He isn't expecting The 16th to happen again.

[To flesh out some of his other relationships (and feel free to regard as you please), let's say that Cass gets invited to the nineteenth and twentieth.

Steph (after Tim and Steph fix their relationship with one another) gets invited to the twentieth.

Jason and Tim both share a dislike for birthdays or presents, so they usually just send each other some text message phrased as an insult ("Seems you actually survived another year. Would you look at that?") and a cheap gift (a pack of cigarettes for Jason and a pack of Zesti for Tim).

Barbara and Tim send each other puzzles/challenges for each others' birthdays. Maybe Duke is the same way too.

Dick goes out with Tim *after* Tim returns to Gotham post-Birthday (if you want a trying/good brother Dick)

Tim does not accept gifts from Bruce nor Alfred. Alfred will instead make Tim's favorite meal and leave it in his apartment for when he returns. Bruce, on the other hand, feels immense guilt over it and only sends Tim a happy birthday text and money.]

But... Then, for Tim's 21st birthday, he notices his family planning shit. His ass immediately flees town and doesn't return for an entire month, just in case.

The Waynes are pissed at him, particularly the ones who don't know about the 16th. I think Cass probably told them not to plan anything and went with Tim when the Waynes continued their plans despite her warning.

Anyways, if anyone actually yells at Tim that they "put a lot of effort into that party for Tim," I hope he crashes out and yells at them for getting upset without even asking him what he wants. All of this could have been avoided if even one of them had asked him about his plans for his birthday and how he likes to celebrate.

#thank you for the ask!!!!#tim drake #dc au #tim drake's 16th birthday

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gothamite-rambler · 3 months ago

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Ra's Al Ghul (frustrated and failing to fix his phone): How do you work this blasted thing?!

Talia: Need some help?

Ra's: I'm not saying the H word! Just press some buttons so I can hear my voicemails. This man named Bill kept calling me and released a hostage I need to hear why this idiot did so!

Talia: Of course, Father.

Talia took the phone, entered the passcode to access the voicemails, and played them on speaker.

Bill: Ra's, call me back! This Batman guy is too used to whips, and it’s pissing me off!

A whip crack could be heard making contact with flesh.

Bruce (apathetic): Were you whipping me? I thought there was a mosquito on my back.

Bill (angry): Start sobbing or screaming or begging me to stop, damn it!

Another whip crack sound was heard. Talia glared at her father while continuing to hold the phone. Ra's stared at the device, refusing to respond.

Bruce (reveling in this): Trust me, if I start begging, it won't be to stop… I haven't felt anything yet. You really suck at this as the kids say.

Bill (whipping Bruce again): I'm better at puzzles!

Bruce (flatly): Hey, when the real torturer arrives, I need to talk to them about your performance. This is incredibly disappointing. I have some tips on how to truly torture me…

Pause as Talia shook her head.

Bruce: It wouldn't cause me bad pain, though.

Bill: You are freaky as hell! Damn it, Ra's can stab me; I'm letting you walk, you nasty! Ra's, call me back, and you are paying me for this!

The message ended, and the automated voicemail played, asking if he wanted to save the message or delete it.

Ra's: Let's just press seven to delete that.

Talia: When I deal with you, be prepared for bandaging your wounds.

The next message played while Talia talked to her father.

Ra's: I just wanted to torture the man! He's a thorn in my side and a constant reminder that we're linked due to your seed! I wasn't aware he was a sadist!

Talia: More of a mild masochist. I couldn't handle him sometimes… You didn't want to hear that, did you?

Ra's (double facepalm): You know I didn't!

Talia: That's what you get for kidnapping Bruce again. You better hope he got away safely.

Meanwhile, Bruce casually left the torture chamber with the keys to a jeep that his kidnapper had let him take.

Bruce (starting the jeep): Huh, no bomb in the jeep. That was nice of him. Poor man, he doesn't know much about my pain tolerance.

Bruce fiddled with the radio and then silently drove down the road as '80s music played on the stereo.

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loveharlow · 5 months ago

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SEVEN Blurb

The Pogues Realize You're Missing

set during s2:005, swearing

“POPE, SIT THE HELL DOWN, MAN…” John B groaned from where he was sat on the patio sofa, feet kicked up with his hands clasped over his stomach as Pope paced the length of the outdoor deck and JJ’s blue eyes trailed the boy’s every step, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What’s wrong with you?”

Pope just gave the brunette a side-glance, his thumb going in between his teeth quickly as he gnawed on the limb. He didn’t want to say anything — he wanted to let you handle it. You told him you’d be fine. But you also told him that you’d pick up his calls and answer his texts…and you didn’t. You still weren’t.

3 Missed Calls. 7 Unread Messages...

You okay? I called you twice. At least react to the message or something… Dude. Say something or I’m calling again. That’s three calls. Hello??? You said you’d respond. I’m getting worried. Y/N I’m shitting bricks here, so if you’re joking it’s not funny. This is the last text.

Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he quickly jammed his thumb against your contact and put the device to his ear, still pacing the balcony. “I shouldn’t have let you go by yourself…” The boy mumbled to himself.

“Dude, who do you keep calling?” JJ asked from his place in the lounge chair, combat boots kicked up on the coffee table. Pope simply ignored him, whether it was for JJ’s sanity or his own safety, he didn’t know.

The line rang until it didn’t.

“252-414-0313 is not available. At the tone, please leave your message…” The automated female voice directed the stressed boy once again, but he angrily hung up before the beep could even sound — groaning and tugging dangerously at the roots of his hair.

“Okay, seriously,” The blonde started, sitting up straight in his seat. “Hell’s wrong with you, dude? You’re freakin’ me out…”

Pope simply sighed, letting out a large gust of air as his hands fell limply to his sides before turning around to look at his two friends, both of their eyes on him — wide and waiting. “...It’s Y/N.” He gave up, tossing his arms out carelessly as he spoke, defeat in his tone.

The blue-eyed blonde boy immediately perked up at the mention of you, shoulders once relaxed now square and tense. “What about her?” He asked, mildly confused as John B sat up slowly, the same look of confusion etched onto his face.

“I…” Pope stuttered, shifting on his feet. “She didn’t want me to say anything and I was trying to let her handle it on her own-”

“Pope, what’re you talking about?” JJ pressed, standing from his seat — John B looking up at his two friends from where he sat on the sofa, wondering what exactly you had done to have Pope losing his mind on the patio of The Chateau.

“...She left.” Pope blurted, rising and dropping his shoulders awkwardly.

JJ’s eyes went wide, his neck lurching as his lips contorted, a sentence forming itself. “Left? What do you mean she left?” He asked, incredulously. “Left and went where? I thought she was inside.”

“She went to get Marley, or try to-”

“The fuck?” JJ reacted. “And you didn’t stop her?”

“I offered to go with her but she wouldn’t let me-”

“Why didn’t you say something?” JJ countered — eyes squinted, cheeks flushing an angry shade of red.

“She told me not to!”

“Why would you listen to her?!”

“Okay!” John B finally stepped in, standing up and in between the boys who’d grown dangerously close to each other — a hand on each of their chests. “Yelling at each other isn’t going to fix anything. So, chill out…” John B directed, slowly lowering his hands and angling his body more towards Pope. “You said she went to get Marley back, right? So why are you freaking out?”

Pope swallowed harshly, rubbing a hand over the top of his head as he spoke. “She thinks Barry has her at his trailer and you know how that part of town is…” Pope alluded, referring to the countless criminals and dealers who lived under the radar and in that exact trailer park. “I offered to go,” He reiterated, eyes on JJ. “But she said it was too dangerous for me and that she’d dealt with them before. But we agreed that if I didn’t hear from her then I’d tell you guys.”

“Stupid fuckin’ agreement…” JJ scoffed, turning and taking a few steps away from his friends — running his fingers through his hair. “Is she fucking crazy? Why would she….” He trailed off angrily, balling and un-balling his fists trying to quell his anger, to no avail. “Dammit!” He screamed, kicking the coffee table causing the objects on top of it to shake and fall.

“Calm down-” John B tried.

“Don’t tell me to calm down-” JJ warned, swiping the boy’s hand off of his shoulder and stepping closer.

“Why can I hear you idiots from all the way outside?” Kiara appeared, the screen door closing behind her — a look on her face between annoyance and confusion.

“Pope let Y/N go to Barry’s alone and now no one can get a hold of her-”

“I didn’t have a choice!” The distressed boy defended.

“Yeah fuckin’ right…” JJ dismissed.

“Screw you-”

“Shut up!” Kie screamed, hands in front of her. The boys went silent, eyes going to the brown-haired girl closest to the door. “She went to Barry’s? Alone?”

“Yup.” JJ said, drawing his lips into a thin line before scoffing unbelievably. “And you just let her leave without saying shit to anyone…” He threw out at Pope once again.

“It’s not his fault, JJ.” John B defended. “We all know how she is, none of us could’ve stopped her from going. And let’s not jump the gun here, alright?” JB tried, locking eyes with each of his friends. “It’s just Barry, right? Rafe’s in jail and Barry wouldn’t do any-”

“No, he’s not.” Kiara added, all heads whipping in her direction — the girl standing with a hand clasped over her mouth, her eyes pointed aimlessly at the ground as she came to several realizations at once.

“...What?” Pope blurted, brown eyes going astronomically wide.

“The hell do you mean he’s not?” JJ questioned aggressively.

“They…” Kie stuttered, trying to think and speak all at once — her hands waving wildly in front of her as she struggled to get her words out. “They let him out like, an hour ago.” She said, voice and hands shaking.

“You don’t know that.” John B immediately dismissed, fear and anger coursing through his veins at the new world of possibilities of things that could happen, could’ve happened, or could be happening to you. “...How do you know that?”

That’s when Kiara took a single step to her left, revealing a mourning Sarah standing by herself outside — arms wrapped around herself like a child as she made eye contact with everyone on the patio. No one had expected to see her so soon after what happened.

Seeing someone die. Seeing someone you love die…It sticks with you. For a long time.

“...Because she told me.”

The environment fell into a tense silence, everyone’s eyes trained ahead of them or at the floor or at nothing at all. Until they all heard the familiar pattering of paws approaching — everyone’s heads whipping towards the sound to find Marley running towards The Chateau.

“What the hell…” JJ mumbled under his breath, running to let the animal in as she ran up the steps and jumped onto the sofa. Everyone looked at each other — confused, angry, worried…

Suddenly, John B’s jaw was clenching, the boy swiping his car keys up from the coffee table with no hesitation. “..The van. Now.”

©loveharlow.

#Spotify #jj maybank x reader #svn #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank smut #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank imagine #obx jj x reader #obx jj #jj maybank x you #jj maybank #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank x kook!reader #jj maybank angst #obx jj maybank #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank x pogue!reader

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divinit3a · 2 months ago

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thing au drabble for @magspieart :o)

word count: 1513 jack-of-all trades YN, corrupted research drone Sun cw: fear, "living" circuitry/wires

PS- check out their lovely artwork&ideas >:D

The nights here are pitch black.

Like dwelling beneath the surface of the Earth’s crust, hidden away in cave systems. The notion sounds comforting at this point. To be isolated far from mankind without a care in the world.

You blink through fatigue and sleep deprivation. Muscles strung like a bowstring, taut with stress and ready to snap apart.

Yawning as you mix together an elixir of instant coffee and boiled water into a blackened sludge. The sludge swirls around in your thermos. You stare into it, as if a magical answer would appear from the ether within and answer your countless questions.

The meager light of your head lamp, fastened to your snowcap, barely ignites parts of the impromptu research station. You don’t bother wasting the power reserves on your late night excursions anymore.

You find it hard to sleep. Difficult to dispel the images from your mind. Of the injuries you saw on others. Unnatural. Unholy.

The rest of your crew chalked it up to an unlucky streak. It was best to not let paranoia fester in close quarters like this. With a storm raging overhead, the helicopter couldn’t be called until it subsides. And after the first of your crew was picked off… well, there is only so much stress a human mind can take before–

You startle when you turn the corner.

A towering figure stands there. Your eyes travel up, and up. Blinking rapidly to accommodate the jarring dilation of your pupils, as the overhead lights burn an afterimage into your retinas.

It’s Sun.

You relax your shoulders. It’s odd to see the research drone out this late. The night time patrols are handled by its security counterpart, Moon.

But it has been more active lately, perhaps on high alert from the emergency status of your team. The blinking of a radio in the helm that is constantly relaying out an “SOS” into an uncaring, unlistening void.

The fate of your injured coworker is still uncertain. They are resting in the infirmary. They said they were attacked by some sort of wild animal; but you cant imagine what sort of fauna around here could do such damage, yet leave them alive...

The drone stares at you for a while. Most of your crew find it unnerving. A corporate, friendly design. A model that was once considered cutting-edge and sleek is now more of a hindrance and a pack mule for the company. Almost lost to time and disrepair, until you started taking them on as a personal project to rejuvenate and remove from the chopping block of becoming obsolete.

The upgrades have landed the model a ‘new’ job: act as a wall of metal set about to do menial tasks. To monitor the station and keep the research on track. Yet you've always been endeared toward its rigid personality.

"Hi Sun," you greet it with a dip to your head.

Expecting that to be the end of the brief encounter, you try to walk past it, but the mechanical creature stands stagnant in your path. Unmoving. The hollowed-out grin seems to stretch wider in your presence. You blink, imagining two pinholes, two dots of light in its mouth, but that would be— "E-evening, researcher," the robotic hum of an automated response churns through its circuitry. You find your concern taking a backseat, enjoying its simple yet effective pleasantry procedures.

“Evening,” you return the greeting. Sun’s posture never relaxes, mechanisms stiff with weathering. Yet its face plate swivels on its neck hinge, keeping a monitor on your every movement to shuffle past the robot.

Before turning the bend of the hallway, you pause.

There's a nagging thought inside your head that just won't leave. Maybe it's the paranoia bred from lack of sleep – of feeling like someone in this station could be a murderer. A screw loose that shatters the whole facade of being somewhere safe, surrounded by well-equipped professionals.

No, that would mean admitting that even now, your life is in danger. Leaning in to the certainty of a predictable machine, where your faith in mankind has been tested.

All that fear winds up tight until it becomes an uncomfortable knot in your chest. So, you seek to take on a task that is familiar. Reassuring.

It will keep your mind from wandering – worse yet, spiraling, at least for the rest of the night.

"Actually, Sun—care for an early maintenance check up?" You call out to the drone.

Its face jolts on a rotation to mime a head tilt. The cracking sound it makes reminds you of a neck snapping. "Soundsounds just peachy, friend! Lead the way!" The jovial voicebank continues, a sway to its arms that is cartoonishly friendly. You admire the gusto while the world is otherwise so bleak.

Sun marches after you. A slight drag to its left leg. The metal is torn into, panels hanging off the hinges.

You take note of the detail for later.

The two of you walk to a smaller offset of the lab: the mechanic’s room. You are a jack-of-all-trades, a hire put on to keep an eye on company tech. Such as the assistant drone across from you.

Sun sits down on your work bench. The mechanical being leans forward, the expanse of its back on view. You feel around the planes of curved metal, fingertips knowing where the latch is that opens up the entire panel.

The panels open with a groan. With strong resistance. A snapping noise like vines torn apart. Far beyond what you’d mark down as a need to have hinges oiled, almost as if an opposing force was trying to hold it together. To keep them whole.

"I'm going to power you down now," You instruct. Sun's eyes flash a burning white glow. Then in a flicker, dim to their regular intensity. "Y-you got it, researcher!" The lines exalt from their circuitry. Complacent. Yet something curls into its wires, a frantic and fleeting moment of panic that suddenly expires in a supernova the moment you are reaching in and turning off their systems.

The switch is easy to access. Though it parts with difficulty.

The sounds of their internal workings still. The fans stop. The coolant ceases pumping. Electricity stuck without an outlet. Frozen.

You fall into the lull of the routine maintenance check. Dutifully testing wires, cleaning out stubborn gunk that clogs up their delicate machinery. You frown at a particularly stubborn batch of gristle. You lean closer to allow your headlamp to illuminate the situation, but find that–

"Ow," you utter. The small shock to your finger feels insignificant. A faulty wire. You hadn’t been able to check over their systems as frequently, not on this research mission. Perhaps it had put a strain on their foundation, caused a few glitches and bugs that you’d normally catch well in advance.

You move to retreat. But you freeze up. Eyes widening at the sight before you.

The wire matrix pulses. A hypnotic array of neurons sparking and activating. An expanse of circuitry interconnecting and linking. The lights flash once, twice.

Rippling throughout the dense machinery like a wall of flesh—sentient, breathing, cascading.

You panic. Rush to turn the assistant's system back on. To stop this horrid hallucination and ground yourself back into reality, because this can’t be real–

You find that you don't need to flip the switch.

Sun powers back on without prompting. The twisting innards interlock with the lines of electricity, completing the system. Routing electricity through like a nervous system.

You jump back as his hull shuts close in a rapid motion.

Fast, like it had tried to snap down swift enough to decapitate you.

Sun rises to stand before you.

Moving so swift, with such fluidity, that the drone is hardly recognizable from the clunky machinery you’ve grown accustom to.

Like it is alive, breathing, and not–

"D-don't dont do that again," ‘friend.’ Your breath catches in your throat. Its grip on your wrist is so tight that your muscles spasm and you drop the screwdriver held tight in your fists with a clatter.

“I d-don’t like being shut,” ‘off,’ Sun says. The faceplate swivels and dangles on its flimsy hinge. Within its mouth, shadows ripple and seep out. Reaching toward you. Wisps of claws and unearthly matter that caresses across your face. Cold, bitterly cold.

Your mind stops working.

‘so dark.’ The shadows murmur, like a chime lost on the breeze. The temperature of the room keeps plummeting until your breath is crystalizing in the air. Every panicked, hushed wheeze. As your lungs shudder, your body pumps out adrenaline, yet you are stuck in place.

"Good," 'good,' it utters. Synthetic voice blending with a whispering shush. Almost natural like breathing, an exhale that speaks alongside its record-like voice.

Alarm flashes through you.

You need to tell the others.

You need to check in on your coworker in the infirmary—you need to, to—

pass out — expecting a thud of your head hitting concrete, only to be caught. Enveloped in arms made of metal and unreal, wispy sinew alike.

#such a fun AU :D #ty ty for letting me ramble out some thoughts. mwehehe #pom writes #fnaf #dca community #dca fandom #sun fnaf #dca x reader #dca x yn #dca fanfic #the thing au #cafe menu #🐦‍⬛

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leighsartworks216 · 8 months ago

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Yes This Fear's Got A Hold On Me

Zayne x gn!Reader

Literally drabbled this out earlier while cooking dinner bc it hit me so hard. I think I'm just in the mood for putting Zayne through angst rn

Title from "Death" by White Lies

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fear of death, overthinking, domestic moments, established relationship, rain/storms, recklessness, self-sacrificing behavior, cooking/food

Word Count: 1,767

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“I can’t answer the phone right now, I’m too busy kicking Wanderer butt! Leave a message and-”

Zayne sighs and hits the end call button again. Every call goes straight to voicemail. He can’t help but be worried.

The rain is coming down in torrents outside. It hits the windows like angry fists. The wind howls like wolves in the night. The streets are flooded, but even if they weren’t you took your bike into work today and all public transport is closed. He called your coworkers earlier, just on the off chance you actually listened to the shelter in place warnings, but they said you’d left an hour ago.

His pacing is going to eat through to the apartment below if you don’t turn up soon. He tries calling one last time. Not two words into the automated message, he’s ending the call and shoving his phone in his pocket.

He shrugs on his coat, prepared to make the last ditch effort of going out there to find you himself when there’s a knock on the door. One sleeve hangs half off his shoulder as he swings it open. His heart is caught in his throat.

You force a smile through chattering teeth. A puddle forms under your feet on the welcome mat, with smaller puddles trailing down the hall from the elevator. “My hands are too pruny,” you manage, gesturing with a nod at the door handle and its biometric lock.

He doesn’t quite register your words, pulling you inside hurriedly. Your shoulders are soaked with water where he touches them. Your whole body is soaked with water. He helps you take off your coat. It drops to the floor in a wet heap to be dealt with later. “Did you walk all the way here?” he asks. He already knows the answer.

You nod. You tuck your hands in your armpits, desperate to contain what little warmth you have left as he helps tug off your shoes. Your socks are soggy and uncomfortable. A forceful chill wracks your entire body, before settling back into the consistent, exhausting chills they were before. “I was gonna call, but my phone died.”

Well, that explains his last 20 minutes of frustration. “I’ll scold you after you get warmed up.”

“‘Preciate it.”

He shakes his head as he takes his coat off to wrap it around your shoulders. It’s ever so slightly warm from the short amount of time he had it on, enough to provide a smidge of relief.

Your steps slap against the hardwood as you’re led across the floor he was pacing only minutes ago. He leads you straight to the bathroom and abandons you by the sink to start running the water for a shower. You whine at the sight of even more water.

“Aren’t I wet enough?” You know it’s for the best, but you feel oddly reminiscent of a cat being forced to take a bath.

Zayne doesn’t dignify your complaint with more than a stern look. As the water runs, steam starting to billow up overtop the glass doors, he returns to you and steals the dry outer layer you’d only just gotten. You whine again, unbidden. He has the decency to look a little sorry as he continues to strip you down. “You’ll be warm soon. While you heat up, I’ll make you dinner.”

You shiver. Goosebumps raise up all over your body, exposed to the unforgiving air. You rub your arms. “You don’t have to.”

“It’s for my own sanity, if you must know.”

On any normal day, Zayne’s hands usually ran pretty cold. You liked to joke that it was because he’s a doctor, and all doctors seem to have cold hands all the time. Right now, they feel so warm against your skin as he helps you into the shower, under the blessedly hot water. He doesn’t pay attention to the water that gets on his sleeves as you cling to him. You think you see a hint of a smile before you close your eyes and put your face right under the spray, shuddering with the temperature shock.

“Take your time. I’ll leave some clothes out for you.” He shuts the glass door and gets to work gathering the soaking wet clothes left behind. If you didn’t get sick after this, he’d have to write it up in a medical journal as an unexplained phenomena.

“Thank you~” you call out.

He shakes his head, though you can’t see it. You really drive him up the wall, sometimes. Walking for an hour through a monsoon for no justifiable reason is up there in the most stress-inducing things you’ve done on the ever-growing list he has. And yet, here you are, thanking him as he takes care of you, fighting against the possibility of a cold that hangs overhead like an undeniable certainty. God, he loves you so.

He closes the bathroom door behind him and beelines for the laundry room. All your clothes go into the wash. Your coat gets hung up to air dry. He stuffs your shoes with newspaper to draw the water out. Then, to the bedroom, where he pulls out some fresh, dry clothes for you to change into. He sets them on the bathroom counter, listening as you quietly hum to yourself. At last, he gets to work preparing your favorite hot drink as he works on making a batch of soup.

All the while, his body readjusts to the fact that you’re okay. He hones in on your humming while he chops up vegetables, willing himself to relax and release all the thoughts that had plagued him before - terrible images, all made worse with his own medical knowledge putting names to all the conditions and effects that could have destroyed you. The rain knocks on the kitchen window as a cruel reminder of what could have been.

But none of it happened. You’re here. You’re only a couple rooms over, taking a shower. You’re here. You’re going to drink from your special mug and sigh with the first bite of your soup. You’re here. You’re going to be safe in his arms tonight, fast asleep, not face-down under the harsh flood-

The image of your bloated body, drowned and lifeless, jolts through his system like an ice bath.

You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.

He stirs the soup around the pot.

The water of the shower shuts off when it’s just about done. He pulls down two bowls from the overhead cabinet and ladels some into both. Though he doesn’t really have an appetite, he knows he should eat something. Maybe the normalcy of a quiet night in will bring it back. For now, he puts more of the savory concoction in your bowl than in his.

Your socked feet don’t make much sound as you shuffle through the apartment to the kitchen. The sleeves of one of his many cardigans is bunched up at your elbows, as they’re far too long on you otherwise. The sight of you in his clothes - something he didn’t lay out for you to change into, nonetheless - only makes the fear in his chest ache even more.

You smile at him, apologetic and grateful all at once. “I’m ready for your lecture now,” you say. He can see the way you seem to brace for it. The way you avoid looking him directly in the eye, like a child who knows they’ve done something bad and is about to be grounded for it. The way you pick at the threads of the cardigan, restless and anxious. The way your shoulders bunch up toward your ears without you even realizing, preparing for the blow of his scolding.

It’s all too much.

You look up at him with wide-eyed confusion as he crosses the short distance between you and wraps you up in a tight hug. His face is pressed securely into the crook of your neck. His hands rest on your back, drawing you close to his body. The warm air of his sigh graces your skin when you hug him back.

“Zayne?” You gently pet his hair. He doesn’t let you pull back to see his face.

In all your time with him, he’s never hugged you like this before. You can feel the way his fingers curl around the knit of his cardigan, the slight shudder in his breath, the tension in his muscles.

“Please,” he whispers - begs, “don’t do that again.”

Slowly, as the realization begins to sink in, you squeeze him tighter.

It’s easy to throw yourself into danger - you do it every single day at work. If you get hurt, you’re saving someone else the pain. If you get a scratch, a civilian doesn’t. If you break a leg, someone else gets the chance to run away. It’s a commendable trait for a Hunter.

You didn’t realize how painful that would be for someone else.

“I thought… I thought getting back home would… I didn’t want you to be alone.” The explanations all feel hollow, for how true they are.

“What if you didn’t make it?” he questions. His voice is tight with emotion. It’s locked away under a layer of severity. “Nobody had any idea where you were. All I knew was that you weren’t at work. If the storm overpowered you, we wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t know.” He holds you tighter. “I’d rather spend one night alone than the rest of my nights alone. Do you understand?”

You nod immediately. “I’m sorry.”

He exhales shakily. “Please, think of your own safety first. Just once.” His fingers slowly release their hold on you. His shoulders fall as he reluctantly lets you go. His eyes stare into yours like a turbulent forest, trees kicked all around by hurricane winds. “Are you still cold?” he changes the subject. You let him.

“A little.”

He takes your hand and leads you to the counter with the bowls of soup and your favorite mug. “We can eat this on the couch. By sitting together, we can conserve our warmth.”

You tug on his shoulder lightly. He leans down without restraint, watching you. You kiss his cheek. “I love you,” you remind him, feeling as though you need to after the hell you must have put him through.

He closes his eyes for a second, taking in those wonderful words. When he opens them again, the hurricane has been reduced to nothing more than a light breeze. He looks at you with all the love of winter giving way to spring. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

---

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rocheshire · 1 month ago

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𝙲𝙾𝙳𝙴 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 - 𝙰 𝙷𝚈𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙳 𝙹𝙹𝙺 𝙰𝚄

ᴄʜᴘ.04

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴛɪɢᴇʀ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ!ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ x ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ᴛᴀᴍᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴛᴡ/ᴄᴡ: ʜʏʙʀɪᴅꜱ, ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʙʀᴀᴛ ᴛᴀᴍᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴏᴘ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴀ/ɴ: ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴀꜱᴋ! ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ/ᴀɢᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴅɴɪ!!!

ʟɪɴᴋꜱ: ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ɴᴇxᴛ | ᴍ.ʟɪꜱᴛ

After the fiasco that went down the previous night, you had started to seriously question whether you were capable of handling the code black by yourself. Your phone starts ringing as you get ready for work. You accept the call and put it on speaker. The belt just won't hook right around your waist, thanks to your unusually clumsy fingers.

"Good morning, y/n." Yaga's deep and stoic voice comes through the phone. "How is the code black?"

You chuckle. "So straightforward, Yaga. No wonder you're still single at that ripe age of yours," you tease. It's always fun to provoke the big teddy bear-man.

You can hear him huff from the other side. "Y/n. You need to be more serious."

You click your tongue. "If I were to be more serious, it would be over for you guys."

"Probably." Yaga agrees.

That takes you by surprise. You gulp before replying, "So what calls for the big man to be contacting the oh-so-un-serious me?"

"Bring the code black to the agency today."

You pause mid-applying lipstick. "What?"

"Bring him in. We can't risk your life. Especially when you are the head of this project."

You internally sigh, slightly disappointed, although there was nothing you could have done.

After discussing the details of his containment in the agency dungeons, you hang up, heading towards the code black's room.

After giving some thought to the decision, your initial disappointment ebbs. You reckon it's for the best. You would finally have your home all to yourself, watch whatever you want, and not be cautious at any point within your quarters. Fuck, you could even get laid after so long. You feel gleeful the more you think about it. Oh, how you missed those days when you could roam around the house butt-naked. Kicking the door open, you call out to the Code Black

"Good morning, Hybrid King! Wakie wakie!"

Sukuna groans, clamping the pillow against his ears, "Shut up, bitch." he croaks, in his crusty morning voice.

"You're going out with me!" you exclaim.

He sits up and gives you a wary gaze. "What ghost fucked you?" he asks.

You tsk. "Such a filthy mouth. Better wash it. I'm taking you out hunting."

You almost see a hint of perky cat ears above his bedhead. But it's gone as soon as it came. "What are we hunting?" he asks, more active.

You almost feel bad for lying. He looked so cute like this.

You mentally slap yourself. This wasn't a kindergartener you were dealing with. It was a world hazard. And you had to act accordingly. "I got a special permit to kill the hybrid who did this." You hold up your hand, showing him your wrist that was barely bruised anymore. You had a bullet-fast recovery rate and the rogue hybrids could cry about it. Sukuna grins, fully awake now. You open the cage, and he darts out, pulling you with him and pinning you against the wall. “How are we killing him? I want to rip his guts out and make him choke on it.”

You shake your head, wringing your hands free of his grip. His eyes narrow, “What—”

Your forehead meets his with a loud thud, making him stagger back. You recoil and throw out another punch to his temple. The unfortunate hybrid is knocked out cold once more. You shake your hand, surprised by how tough his skull is, taking your punches day after day without giving in.

Fast-forward five hours, and you are sat in Yaga’s office filled with dozens of automated plushies. They serve you tea and snacks. Occasionally, the big panda plushie comes over to give your shoulders a nice little massage. Sukuna has been taken down to the detention facility – a basement renovated with the strongest of metals to withstand the best of hybrids. Whether it could withstand Sukuna was still to be decided.

“You look disappointed,” Yaga notes.

You shrug, “Who wouldn't be if their pet was taken from them?” Yaga hunches over the table, fingers intertwined under his chin as he observes you. “Can I assume that you have not grown attached to the Code Black?”

You roll your eyes, “You overthink, Boss. I am not into monsterfucking. Besides, he's too vulgar for me.” You bite your tongue. If you overexplained yourself, Yaga would quickly catch on that you had gotten used to the hybrid’s presence. Even if by the slightest bit.

And you couldn't have that. You couldn't afford that. This wildly embarrassing lustful feeling that had started within you would go down with you to your grave. You will make sure of that.

However, you had another thing to say: “I want to talk to him. Five minutes would be enough.”

Yaga assesses you over his glasses. “Sure.” He says, “That's all I had for you.”

You jump to your feet, casually stretching, “Alright, I'll drop by the detention facility on my way to intel.” You turn around, hurrying to the door. When your palm closes over the door knob, Yaga’s gentle voice reaches you, “If you feel like it, I can approve you a license to adopt a yellow hybrid.”

You open your mouth to say no, but he cuts you off. “Please, I hope you understand his threat level. Do not trust him ever.” You don't turn back. Instead you nod, eyes cold as you make your way to the detention facility. You loathed it when people acted like they knew you. And some more when they were right.

At the detention center, a hybrid lady dressed in a white coat, Shoko, guides you through the well lit maze of corridors. The walls are made up of stone with heavy metal doors embedded into them. Once in a while you would see people exiting the soundproof rooms, loud howls and groans leaking out in their wake and cut off as the doors silently slid shut. You had been in them your fair share of times, always as the executioner. Yet they never failed to creep you.

“Here we are,” Shoko says, coming to a stop before a red door.

Your eyebrows rise, impressed that they detained him in the most superior room. It'd take the fingerprint and voice sensor of the detention facility’s top dogs to open this room. You quietly observe as the door opens.

Stepping into the room you observe a glass wall that looms ahead, partitioning the room into two halves. Your side is dimly lit, all the light being streamed from the well lit other side. Three well armed B-rank tamers stand by on either side of an electric chair in the center of the room.

Your cold gaze locks onto the figure strapped to the chair, hands and feet held in place by metal cuffs. They muzzled him, going as far as putting a metal collar bound to the chair. You tilt your head, finding all the constraints wasteful given how easy it was for you to restrain him at your home. But then again, you did have an inkling he was holding back his full strength. You stare at his face, ragged and panting from struggling against the straps.

Sukuna looks up, blazing red eyes meeting yours. You stiffen, unable to look away. Your body immediately goes into hunter mode. You were pretty sure the glass only allowed one-sided viewing.

Shoko clears her throat, breaking you out of your trance, “Shall we?” She motions you towards the door at the side.

“I want to talk to him. Alone.” You punctuate, moving towards the door. Shoko scoffs, “Not a chance. You should have left that arrogance of yours outside the door.” You sigh heavily. Against the detention personnel, you wouldn't have enough authority to order them, so you let her follow you.

You walk into the room, the bright light washing over you. Sukuna’s glare follows you as you come to stand before him.

You request the head of the six-person team to remove his muzzle. He hesitates, looking towards Shoko for confirmation. She nods, and he roughly pulls it off.

Sukuna scowls before spitting at your feet. “Here to suck my dick, slut?” He sneers.

You look at him emotionlessly. “You better be on your best behaviour.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “Or what?” His biceps bulge, and the cuffs strain against him. The team leader's eyes widen when he sees the cracks forming on the cuffs. “Ma'am please leave. We will put him in immediate isolation.” His requests fall on deaf ears as you learn down to Sukuna’s side, coming so close your breath hits his neck and ear.

You whisper, voice laced with venom, “Or I will take you down personally. And I promise you, it won't be pretty.”

You see the goosebumps forming on his skin and smirk, smugly. Sukuna stays silent, letting you have your moment. You walk away, for the first time leaving your back open to him.

He looks at your ass, swaying to the sides as you make your way to the door. He whistles, “I must say I regret not having you when we were at your home." You are a blur as you charge towards him, poker faced, as you bring the taser against his skin, electrocuting him. Sukuna growls before passing out, his muscles slowly relaxing against the metal. The team leader, who took a moment to realize that the taser from his side pocket was missing, looks at you in awe, before running to replace the cuffs.

He injects Sukuna with a green fluid. “Sedating him.” He clarifies, when he sees your frigid expression.

You walk out of the detention center, uncaring for the discussion happening in your wake. “Y/n is as ruthless as the rumors said.” The second in command mumbles, as they stand with their guns aimed at the unconscious man. “Charming too.” The team leader adds.

Unnoticed by the entire team, a muscle ticks in Sukuna's jaw.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @fayelvsu @that-one-wall @nanamis-wifey-reye @shaak-ti-s @lucyrocks86 @mysteryincarnate @marit332 @illuzminate @miguelsfavwife @anan-baban @kitzusune @jiminie-08 @virali-ty

#[Ro.CodeBlack]#hybrid sukuna x fem!reader #sukuna x fem!reader #hybrid sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #jjk hybrid au #ik the punching is a tad bit too much - i swear to god I'll do it only one or two more times

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