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endofthelinegang · 2 months ago

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the things we don't say

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ based on the prompts "don't go on that date." "why?" "you know why." "say it."

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ cursing

use this magical link to pick your favorite marvel character and send in a request :)

The zipper trembles slightly between your fingers as you pull it up. Not because your hands are shaking—at least not much—but because you’re second-guessing the decision you made twenty minutes ago. The jacket is soft, tan suede, something you haven’t worn since before the Thunderbolts—back when “casual” didn’t feel like an act of rebellion. Underneath is a black camisole that clings just enough to make you feel alive again. Real.

You told yourself it wasn’t for him.

But in the mirror, you can’t ignore the way you check your profile—your hair tucked just right, your collarbones exposed, the gloss on your lips just a touch shinier than usual. Your fingers linger at your throat for a second too long, brushing against the delicate chain necklace you threw on without thinking. A gift to yourself. A piece of the old you.

The door creaks behind you. The energy shifts instantly. You don’t need to look. You already know who it is. That same low, smoldering pressure that always coils at the base of your spine when he’s near.

John Walker.

You can see him in the mirror before he speaks. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns it—broad shoulders tense, one hand gripping the frame just tight enough for the knuckles to go white. He’s in black tactical gear, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he was either coming from training or looking for an excuse to fight. His hair is a mess, you knew he had been messing with it. His eyes are already on you. Not just watching—reading.

“You going somewhere?” he asks, voice casual—but the kind of casual that cuts, his shoulder was pressed into the doorframe, his body completely blocked up the space.

You smooth your hands down the front of your jacket, mostly to keep yourself busy or at least to look busy. If you didn’t there was just the smallest chance you wouldn’t go anywhere. “Yeah. Civvies. Off base. Crazy, I know.”

He moves closer landing his feet on the ground from where one leg had been crossed over the other, a slow step that echoes across the floor. “With who?”

You shrug, not turning yet. You want to make him wait and you do not wanna give him the idea that his presence would affect anything. “Someone who asked.”

In the mirror, you catch the flicker in his jaw. That’s where it always starts with him—just a little tension that spreads like cracks through ice. He blinked and looked to the window before looking back at you. He knew you were making a dig, and man was he happy you did because it was giving him a reason to dig back.

“Right,” he mutters, his tone shifting. “Let me guess—one of the new handlers? The guy who can't even clear a sidearm properly?”

You turn now, slowly, facing him with your arms folded. A casual stance, but defensive. You catch the way his eyes drop—not to be disrespectful, but because he’s scanning. Reading your body, your outfit, the way the light hits your collarbone. His gaze lingers at your neckline a second too long before he tears it away. All that did was anger him more, not even he deserved to have you dress up to go do something with him let alone some other idiot.

“You been spying on me now, Walker?” you ask, your voice cool, laced with something sharper. You knew he was, he had been for a while. At first it was to figure out what you liked and what he could be doing for you that would be considered little gestures. The biggest issue was that John had a hard time making up his mind on what to do about you. So he would go back and forth between bringing you lunch and organizing your laundry in its basket to not talking to you at all. Which is one of the biggest things that led you to this situation.

He shrugs. That signature Walker arrogance, but there’s no real heat in it. Only frustration. “Just observant.”

You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth twitching. What hurt you was that you knew that he knew how you felt about him in some way. If he didn’t he would’ve never done any of the nice things he had been doing. ��No, you’re being a dick.”

He stiffens. The smirk disappears like you flipped a switch. “I’m just wondering when you started going for guys who talk big and fall apart the second they’re in the field.”

You step closer, boots scuffing against the tile. “You don’t know him.”

“And you do?” he bites back. “What—he bought you a drink and suddenly he’s worth your time?”

You flare at that. Your fingers tighten around your arms, gripping your own skin like it’ll keep you from lunging. “What’s your problem, John?”

He’s silent, but his eyes are screaming. That unreadable expression cracks at the edges—his jaw clenched, shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding. He takes a step forward, then another. The air between you grows thick, electric. You can smell the faint scent of cedar from his cologne, cucumber from shampoo, and mint from where he must have brushed he teeth , something grounded.

“My problem is you’re going out with some paper-pusher while we’re still knee-deep in this Thunderbolts circus and pretending like it’s normal.” He was sounding meaner and meaner the more he talked, his tone was rough and his volume was rising.

You hold your ground, you knew that he could be mean it was no shocker. “You’re right. It’s not normal. None of this is. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit around waiting for someone who doesn’t say what he means.”

That hits harder than you mean it to. You see it in his eyes. The wounded flash behind the blue. His hands flex at his sides—twitching, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and grab you or punch the wall behind you. His chest is heaving and he is tapping his left foot slowly on and off like he can’t stand to be in his own skin. He steps closer quickly, if you didn’t know any better you would think you were about to be attacked. He was now close enough that the fabric of your sleeves brushes with every breath. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch forward, you’d be touching.

And at that moment, he hated himself a little.

Not for wanting you—but for waiting this long. For letting mission after mission bury whatever this thing between you was. He told himself it was about professionalism, about keeping a clear head. But really, it was fear. Because the second he let himself want you, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And guys like him? They don’t get the girl. They get grief, and consequences, and orders they don’t question. But watching you walk out that door tonight—for someone else—feels worse than any battlefield he's crawled off of.

The amount of control he was using was insane, his skin was turning red from being so angry and he was using his left hand to fidget just a bit. He doesn’t let himself touch you. So he speaks instead.

And then—

“Don’t go on that date.”

The words are barely above a whisper, but they punch the air out of your lungs. You are completely still, you are the deer in front of the car. You saw the sadness in his eyes, the desperation that sat there. This was not his forte, it never really was. The only girls he had dated before his ex-wife were just with him because of his physique or just to brag that they were with someone clean cut. At first he minded and really wished he could find something, anyone to be real. But eventually he fell into the game of who gives a fuck lets just have some fun. But when he looked at you he felt like that teenager again, the one who really did want something, anything real.

You just blink. “What?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. His voice doesn't shake, but there's a quiet desperation laced through every word. He was above crying, at least he told himself that but he was not above begging at this moment. “Don’t go.”

You should walk past him. You should be the one who doesn’t break. He had done this to himself, you did nothing but show him kindness back when he graced you with his. In fact you had been the one who was constantly trying to figure out what was going on between the two of you. But the crack is already spreading. That part of you that had been trying to put the pieces together was still very curious.

“Why?”

His lips part. His brows pull together just slightly. He looks at you like a man who’s spent weeks on the edge of a cliff, finally realizing the fall might be worth it. He moves his hands from his sides to put them on your waist but before he can he puts them right back.

“You know why.”

That’s not enough. Not anymore. You need to hear him say it. He was not going to get away with just leaving things so broad that it could be taken as anything, this was all or nothing.

“Say it,” you whisper.

The tension breaks like a snapped wire. His shoulders sag an inch, just enough to betray the weight he’s been carrying. The eye contact was unbearable. He hoped you could not see what he was feeling, but if you could he was hoping that nervousness was not one of those things.

“Because he’s not me.” John was looking down at you, his eyes practically begging you to say something. But you had to see that he was being honest, that what he said was not some mean joke.

Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, unsure whether to reach for him or shove him away. The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy. Charged. Like the moment before a lightning strike. The corner of your kip was now underneath the weight of your teeth. All of a sudden your clothes felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds and were hot as hell. And still, neither of you moves because the ball is in your court. Normally he would not care nor would he respect that but this was different. This was not the same shit he could usually pull.

“John—”

It comes out quieter than you meant. Like the sound got stuck in your throat on the way out. Barely a breath, just enough to reach him. He flinches. You would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely—the way his shoulders twitch, the way the line of his jaw tightens under the weight of that one syllable. Your voice, soft and uncertain, wrapped around his name like it means something. Like it still means something.

His eyes close for half a heartbeat. You catch the flash of restraint in his face like a wave crashing through him and barely receding. He exhales through his nose, slow and rough, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re burning. Not angry. Not wild. Wounded.

He’s standing there like a man carved out of stone—but you see the cracks. In his silence. In his knuckles, where his fingers twitch against the fabric of his pants like he’s desperate for something to hold onto. In the way he’s biting down on the inside of his cheek, hard, like he’s punishing himself for letting the words out at all.

You know what this is costing him.

You know what it takes for John Walker to admit that he feels anything.

And maybe that’s why your chest aches as you stand there, heat crawling up your neck like shame and hope are fighting for space beneath your skin. You shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your boots scuff on the tile, the way your jacket feels too tight across your chest now, the way your lip is still caught between your teeth.

You want to ask him why now. Why not two weeks ago, when you sat next to him on that rooftop and the air between you had been just as electric, just as close, and he said nothing. Why not that night in the common area, when your knees brushed and he looked at you like he might say something real, then didn’t?

But you don’t ask.

Because you’re afraid of the answer.

And because right now, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re a decision he’s been avoiding for too long—it feels like he’s trying to make up for all of it in this one impossible moment.

He shifts his stance again, but he still doesn’t reach for you. His hands twitch at his sides—useless, hesitant, undone. He’s never looked more dangerous. And he’s never looked more unsure.

The silence after is louder than the words.He waits. Not breathing. Not blinking. Like he’s on a wire, waiting to be pushed. And you don’t know what you’re going to do next. You don’t know if you’re going to take a step forward or tear the door open and leave. Because there’s something in your chest clawing its way out. A scream. A sob. A kiss.

And then—

There’s a knock.

Sharp. Urgent.

Your head snaps toward the door.

His eyes follow.

Neither of you moves.

A voice calls your name from the other side.

John’s jaw sets. You see the walls go back up behind his eyes—fast, brutal, practiced. His fists clench, and for the first time in the whole damn conversation, he looks away.

You take a breath, ready to say something—

But the door handle starts to turn.

And you’re both still standing there.

Too close.

Too quiet. Too late.

#john walker fanfic #john walker positive post #john walker x reader #john walker imagine #john walker #us agent x reader #us agent fanfic #john walker x fem! reader #thunderbolts x you #thunderbolts x reader

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dirtyvulture · 9 months ago

Text

No Glory

Beefy!MMA Fighter!Natasha Romanoff* x Fem!Stripper!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 3570

Summary: Your club gets a visit from rising boxer Natasha “Black Widow” Romanoff.

*Nat has a 🍆 and is a virgin

AN: Been working on this one for a while... 😉

Sometimes Natasha wonders why she chose this path in life. The chain-link fence of the octagon cage rattles from the spectators’ excitement, reminding her that she’s only here for their entertainment. The eyeballs and cameras drink in the violence and bloodshed like an elixir, the crowd cheering for more. They didn’t pay all that money for a ten-second fight that ends with a single punch to the temple and a body lying still on the mat. They want to see the full three rounds, pushed to the last second, where the fighters can hardly stand straight and blood soaks through the mats.

She circles the pen warily, shifting her weight back to her left leg because her right thigh has swollen to a near-bursting point after taking a rapid succession of roundhouse kicks that probably could’ve fell a house support beam. Blood drips into her left eye and she hopes her eyebrow is at least still attached to her face. She lifts her hands to protect what’s left, her forearms and biceps aching, but she knows if she doesn’t end things soon, she’ll be the one laid out while the audience celebrates.

Her opponent, a pixie-cut blonde with a few inches over her, bounces on the mats with a seemingly endless supply of energy. The only visible damage Natasha’s left on her is a fattened bottom lip. Natasha is annoyed, wishing she had done a better job wearing her opponent out so the end wouldn’t be so difficult.

She shuffles forward a few steps as much as her injured leg will allow, causing her opponent to bounce back in response. She fruitlessly throws a few punches, which her opponent blocks effortlessly. Her opponent might have the capacity to play around with her the rest of the evening, but Natasha doesn’t have the time.

She moves backwards now, practically inviting her opponent in for a free hit. When Natasha sees the light of realization in her opponent’s eye, she knows it’s over. She momentarily shifts her weight to her right leg, a spike of adrenaline masking the pain long enough for her to spin on her heel, lifting her left leg as high as she can manage. Her left heel connects with her opponent’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

“KNOCKOUT!” the announcer roars. “Danvers is down!”

Natasha wobbles on both legs as the referee jumps in between her and Danvers, lying frozen stiff on the mats with one arm still raised. She is momentarily jealous of Danvers’s unconsciousness, wishing she could lay down too, but when she sees the look of shock in Danvers’s eyes as she comes to, she isn’t jealous anymore.

“Your winner…Natasha ‘Black Widow’ Romanoff!”

She turns to face the audience, raising a fist and hearing their screams and cheers grow louder. But the win feels empty to her. There was not much at stake at an amateur fight and her reward would be even less after her manager/coach/adoptive father took his cut. Training would be even worse with her new injuries and she already had another fight scheduled in less than a week. As she squints through the bright lights shining down on the octagon, she looks out at the audience, knowing she won’t find you there but wishing she would.

***********************************************************************

“Hey, turn that up,” you say, catching a glimpse of the TV in the mirror.

“Why?” Wanda asks, smearing red lipstick around her mouth. “You’re not into MMA.”

“No, but that one client of hers is,” Jane chimes in and you feel her cheeks heat up.

“Which one?”

“You know, that buff redhead.”

“Ohhhh.”

You tune them out to focus on the fight. You didn’t really consider Natasha Romanoff a client of yours because she never seemed to want to get actually near you–you could always feel her eyes on you from afar, but every time you approached she suddenly turned icy cold, murmuring excuses and turning down your offer to take her to one of the back rooms for a private show. She was an enigma and a little rude too, but you found yourself hopelessly drawn to her.

You watch as Natasha limps forward, before spinning around and kicking Danvers in the face.

“KNOCKOUT! Danvers is down!”

You try to hide your smile. You knew she could do it. She might not have had the greatest track record, but she was still just starting. Maybe she’d come visit you tonight as a way to reward herself, and maybe you’d finally get a real chance to be with her. You turn back to your mirror, reaching for the mascara. You always wanted to make sure you looked the best when she came in.

***********************************************************************

Natasha watches unblinkingly as the nurse presses the enormous ice pack to her bruised thigh, holding it in place with a plastic wrap she’s sure she’s used in the kitchen before. Her ankle is elevated on a chair and she’s only in her underwear now so she caught a full glimpse of the damage Danvers caused before the ice pack hid away most of it.

She winces when a second nurse pinches the skin above her left eyebrow and presses on a pair of butterfly stitches.

“How did you win but Danvers walked away better than you?” the first nurse says to no one in particular. Natasha doesn’t answer.

“I bet the gamblers were not happy with that upset tonight,” the second nurse responds.

“My daughter knows how to give a show,” a deep Russian voice slurs from behind them. Natasha doesn’t move to acknowledge her father lumber into the locker room. “Very good today, Natasha. Very, very good.” A heavy hand slams painfully on her shoulder and she jolts. “You almost had me fooled, too.” He shakes her and Natasha holds onto the sides of the flimsy metal chair she’s propped in so as not to fall to the floor. “But I trained you well. I know I did.”

“Yes, Dad,” Natasha mumbles, trying to shake his hand off her shoulder. She just wants to be away from everyone now. She hardly cares that it’s her first win in weeks. These were the last people she wanted to be celebrating with.

“Alexei!” The manager walks in next. He’s shorter and smaller than Natasha’s father and Natasha only knows his name as Dreykov. He wears thick-rimmed glasses and has his thin gray hair perpetually slicked back. “I’ve got a good payday for you.”

“For once!” Alexei cheers, walking over to Dreykov. The men share an awkward but enthusiastic handshake, before Dreykov reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. Natasha swears she can see the dollar signs in her father’s eyes as Dreykov begins peeling and counting bills.

“We’ll be celebrating tonight,” Alexei says as he proudly accepts the money. Almost like it’s an afterthought, he turns towards Natasha and offers her a single, hundred-dollar bill. “Here you go, honey. Treat yourself tonight. Go to that club that you like, but don’t bring any of the girls home.” He and Dreykov laugh. Natasha snatches the bill out of his hand. She knows she’s owed more for her share, but she’s too tired to complain. She hates the situation she’s gotten herself into, but knows there’s no escaping it now.

***********************************************************************

Your eyes scan the club, your vision so well-adjusted to the dim lighting and red LEDs that you can still see faces perfectly well. Either she’s not here yet, or she’s playing her usual game and hiding in the corner with a beer.

Wanda bumps your hip with hers and you remember to keep moving down the catwalk, continuing your performance for the rowdy men cheering by the edge of the stage. But you’re not interested in a single one of them tonight. You’re waiting for the redhead to appear, because this time, you aren’t just going to ogle from afar.

Natasha carefully lifts herself into a stool at the corner of the bar. The ache in her leg is softened a little by the painkillers her father forced her to take before she left the gym, so she orders a Coke instead of her usual beer. She takes a sip, letting the sugar dissolve in her mouth, and rubs her eyes, suddenly feeling a wave of exhaustion hit her harder than Danvers had. Maybe she should’ve just gone back to her apartment and slept instead of coming here.

“Hi there.”

Natasha nearly jumps out of her seat. You’re suddenly standing next to her, and you look even more beautiful up close.

“Um, uh…” Natasha splutters, trying not to spill the Coke on herself and setting it back on its coaster. “Hi.”

“I saw your fight earlier. The girls all pitched in for the pay-per-view,” you say.

“Oh.” Natasha feels her cheeks heat up as red as the mood lighting in the club. “That was nice of them.”

“I knew you’d come here to celebrate your win. Congratulations.”

“It was a lucky kick,” Natasha deflects, feeling infinitely embarrassed by your praise.

“No, you won fair and square,” you insist.

“Thanks,” she finally concedes.

“Not even a beer tonight?” you ask, gesturing to her glass of bubbling Coke.

Natasha shakes her head. “I didn’t want to mix alcohol with painkillers.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.” Natasha hears pity in your voice and her stomach twists. She wishes she could appear stronger and cooler. She’s worried that she’s not living up to your expectations as an MMA fighter, even though she had just won a fight (a first in weeks).

“Can I get you something to drink?” she squeaks, desperate to distract herself from the self-loathing.

You wave her offer away. “I was thinking maybe we could go back to one of the private rooms tonight. If you want to, that is.”

“Me? With you?” Natasha blushes as red as her hair. “I…um…” she splutters. “Sorry, I don’t think I have enough money for that right now.”

“My treat,” you say, putting your hand on her forearm, which tenses up considerably under the leather jacket she’s stretching out.

“Oh, that’s um…very nice of you for offering,” she stammers, pulling her arm away. “But you don’t have to. I don’t want to take your time away from paying customers,” she stalls.

“I want you,” you emphasize, and it makes Natasha’s stomach do somersaults. She’s dreamed of this moment for months, but resigned herself to the fact that she would never have the confidence to ask you this herself. You probably deserved someone much better than her, not a loser who allowed herself to get beat up for a living.

“Are you sure?” Natasha asks, giving you one final chance to walk away. She didn’t want you to do anything you might later regret.

“Yes,” you assure, and there’s no way someone as dense as Natasha can mistake the passion in your voice for anything less. Natasha finally takes your hand and she hopes you won’t mind the callouses roughening up her palm. She looks around, as if she’s embarrassed someone will catch her with you. But no one is paying attention with the dancers on the stage, where Natasha would normally watch you from afar.

You take her past the bathrooms, through a door she had never noticed before, to an empty hallway marked with more doors. Buzzed on excitement and nerves, Natasha hardly notices the ache in her leg anymore.

“This one,” you point out the third one on the left and usher her in.

Natasha isn’t quite sure what she expected, but it almost reminds her of a hotel room. However, she notices there’s no lock on the inside of the door.

“Um…” Natasha stands there awkwardly behind you as you close the door. “I need you to know something,” she blurts out.

“Yes?”

“I’m a…um, I mean…” She doesn’t know why it’s so hard to admit, she would rather fight Danvers again with both hands tied behind her back. “I’ve never done…this before,” she says lamely, her face reddening in shame.

“Oh.” Natasha deflates when she hears your reaction. “Well, that’s okay,” you add quickly and she stares at you while holding her breath. “I’d love to be your…first.”

“Really?” She doesn’t want you to see her like a chore you have to get done so you can move along your day. “I’m sorry I never approached you first and just watched you from the bar like a creep. I just thought you were so beautiful that you’d never want to give someone like me a chance–”

You lean forward and press your fingers to her lips. Her eyes widen at your touch but she finally picks up the courage to gently lift her hands to your hips, beckoning you to close the distance between the two of you.

“Are you sure?” Natasha whispers one last time, her breath warm on your cheeks. You nod as she quickly presses her lips to yours, still carrying an air of nervousness. “Should we…the bed?” she suggests, cringing at how crass it sounds.

You hide a chuckle and allow her to lead you to the queen-sized bed, where she sits on the edge first, parting her legs so you can stand between them. You lean down and kiss her again, this time with more passion, and she cups your cheek with her rough palm. She feels the sudden tightening in her pants and shifts her leg to adjust herself.

“It’s your leg okay?” you ask.

“Um, it’s not my leg…”

“Maybe I can help?” you propose, turning your focus first to her belt and then her zipper. Natasha tries to help you but you push her hands away; instead, she lifts herself off the bed so that you can pull down her pants and boxers. She moans when your hand closes around her shaft and starts tugging at her gently.

“Y/N,” she whispers, rocking her hips slightly to push more of herself through your hand. Your hand feels infinitely better than hers ever has and just the thought of what your pussy might feel like has her head reeling already.

“Do you like that?” you ask, ghosting your lips over hers. Natasha tries to kiss you but pulls back and gasps when you squeeze her head, collecting the pre-cum that dribbles out on your finger. She watches with wide eyes as you bring your finger to your mouth and suck it off, and she throbs even harder in your hand.

“Please, Y/N,” she begs, and even her legs are shaking now too (but she suspects that might also be because her muscles are weak).

“Sit down and take your clothes off,” you tell her, taking off your jacket and tossing it on the floor. Natasha eyes your curves with a spark of lust, but she doesn’t touch you without permission. She hastily tries to follow your instruction, wanting to watch you undress instead, but with a few fumblings rids herself of the leather jacket and the plain white T-shirt she had been wearing underneath. You’ve left yourself in a pair of lacey lingerie as you crawl onto the bed to join her, pushing her back until her spine bumps against the headboard.

“Still okay?” you ask, straddling her waist but mindful of the enormous dark bruise on her right thigh.

“Can I touch you?” Natasha asks, almost squirming underneath you in desperation.

“Of course,” you say, guiding her hands to your hips where she squeezes them roughly, sliding to the backside of your thighs and pulling you towards her. Her hard cock is pressed against her abs when you fall against her and she jogs her hips to create a slight friction between your bodies. You rock forward, smearing some of her pre-cum onto your stomach. Natasha gasps at the sight and feels herself harden even more, until she’s afraid it’s about to burst on the spot.

“I don’t…know how much longer…I’ll last,” she pants, trying to slow the movement of your hips. You’ve hardly touched her and she isn’t even inside you yet, but the shameful thought deflates her just a little bit.

“Just a little more,” you tease, wrapping your hand around her slick cock and pumping it back to full mast again. Natasha grunts and moans, her muscles flexing in an impressive display for you as she tries to enjoy the pleasure without ruining the moment. Her fingers slip under the band of your panties, but you slap her hand away and she looks up at you guiltily.

“Let me,” you insist, leaning back to slowly shimmy out of your panties. Natasha is worried she’ll start drooling when you finally expose yourself to her, where she can see the glimmering wetness of your anticipation. “Look what you’ve done to me,” you say as you lower yourself to press your wetness against her cock. “Feel it.”

“Fuck, Y/N,” Natasha mumbles, wondering if you can feel how hard her cock is throbbing for you too. She cants her hips up to slide herself through your heat, even though the movement reminds her of the pain in her leg. “I need you, baby.”

“I need you too,” you say, moving to match her rhythm. It fills Natasha with happiness to hear you say this; she’s never had it said to her before and quite literally spent most of her time as a punching bag for others. But even if you’re just caught in the heat of the moment and only viewing her as a favor, she wants to enjoy this and couldn’t be more excited you chose to spend time with her tonight.

“Did you bring protection?” you ask, startling Natasha out of the moment.

“Oh…um, yes. It’s in my wallet,” she says, reminded of the little foil packet one of her sparring buddies had given her as a joke. They wouldn’t be laughing anymore when they learned she had finally gotten the chance to use it.

There is an awkward pause as you lift off of Natasha enough for her to slide out and grab the wallet in her jeans, tearing open the packet as she gets on the bed again. Her hands are trembling as she tries rolling the plastic over herself, but you end up helping her finish.

“Thanks,” she mutters, embarrassed by her own helplessness.

“It’s okay.” You kiss her forehead and hold onto her shoulder with one hand to steady yourself, the other hand gripping onto her shaft and guiding it towards your entrance. “Ready?”

“Yes,” she says, holding her breath and squeezing your hips tighter.

She easily slides into you, trapping her in a velvet heat that seems to swallow her whole. The two of you moan in unison and Natasha holds herself very still, torn between wanting to bury her entire length in you and not wanting to hurt you. Her heart is racing with exhilaration but she patiently waits for you to start moving, the arousal in her stomach spiking to an almost painful point when she feels how easily she moves through you.

Her back arches against the headboard when you purposely squeeze her and her nails claw at your thighs.

“Come on, Nat,” you say, “Come and fuck me.”

Natasha doesn’t respond with words, but jack her hips up hard, meeting your thighs with hers with an audible slap. Her arousal is so strong now it completely drowns out the lightning bolts of pain from her leg as she pistons eagerly into you, trying to fit all of herself into you. She wants your tightness around every inch of her, massaging her in the best way she’s ever been touched before. She can feel herself leaking in the condom and knows it won’t be too much longer until she busts completely.

But she wants you to feel good too, and doesn’t want to focus too much on her own pleasure.

You bounce higher with every one of Natasha’s thrusts and she starts to lose her rhythm the closer she gets to release. Her hips and abs burn and she buries her face in your chest, mouthing at your breasts in a last-ditch effort to distract herself, but to no avail.

Natasha finishes in a few hard spurts that seem to drain all the energy out of her. She lays back limply against the headboard, the muscles in her thighs still twitching. Your riding slows to a full halt as you wait for her body to stop shaking. Natasha reaches up to stroke your face tenderly.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and you beam down at her.

***********************************************************************

Natasha opens her eyes, feeling like she had been hit by a bus. She looks around and doesn’t recognize the space, before she suddenly remembers her successful fight against Danvers, and then the night she had with you.

But you’re nowhere to be seen now, although Natasha’s clothes, which she had haphazardly tossed to the floor, are now collected in a neat stack on a chair. She gets up to put her clothes on and her phone falls out of her jeans pocket. The screen lights up with text messages from her father, wondering why she was late to practice that morning.

The harshness of reality slapping her in the face, she hurries to dress. She isn’t even sure if she’s supposed to be here, but she finds a back door and sneaks out, unsure if she’ll ever have the confidence to return.

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

AN: Sorry this ended kind of sad, I’ve been really sad lately so it only made sense lol.

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

#natasha romanoff #black widow #beefy!nat #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine

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motherismotheringggg · 8 days ago

Text

slow burn blues 🎸

summary: the very stubborn and independent reader met the SmokeStack twins in Chicago, along with their friend Bo Chow, who left quite the impression on her, so when she came down to Delta it wasn’t a new start she had to look forward to

type: plus sized black fem! reader x my best eater bo chow (single ofc)

warnings/tags: oral (f! receiving), talks of violence, blood but not in a sexual way

author’s note: mamas got a new fixation and it’s this man right here 😭😭 huge shoutout to ryan coogler for making every man in this movie an eater and/or a pleaser

The back office stank of old whiskey, gun oil, and panic.

You shoved bills into the canvas satchel, fingers trembling as you counted under your breath — twenties, tens, a crumpled five. The single bulb overhead swung in its chain, throwing long shadows over the filing cabinet and the stained wallpaper. Your heels clicked against the scuffed wood floors, pacing fast and tight between the desk and the back exit.

"Didn't I tell y'all to keep it quiet?" you snapped, eyes flashing at Stack. "Lord have mercy, I said lay low. What happened to layin’ low?"

Stack shrugged, leaning against the filing cabinet like it was just another Friday night. "Ain’t nothin’ but a little ruckus, folk get hot, that’s all." His smiled beamed as his grilled accessorized his cockiness.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "Ain’t no such thing as just a ‘little ruckus’ when you Black in this city, Stack. Them Irish boys and dago types don’t come to just talk when they get stirred up."

Smoke stood by the door, tall and still, hand resting over the butt of his pistol, eyes scanning through the cracked glass pane. His jaw clenched tight, the way it always did when he was choosing silence over rage.

Outside, the night was thick with smoke and anticipation. The bar lights were off, the windows boarded. Somewhere down the block, tires screeched, and you all froze, just for a second, before you zipped the bag closed.

“They gon’ burn this place down tryin’ to get to y’all,” you muttered, thrusting the satchel into Stack’s chest. “Train rolls south at a quarter to midnight. You catch the last car, y’hear? Get on and don’t look back.”

Stack’s cocky grin minorly faltered for the first time that night. He took the bag slow, hands brushing yours. “Always lookin’ out for us,” he said, voice lower than usual. “Even when you oughta leave us to the wolves.”

“I oughta, but I ain’t that cruel,” you said, voice cracking on the edge of tears.

Smoke turned and hugged you first; firm, full-bodied, but still reserved. Just one arm wrapping around you. You smelled the tobacco smoke on his coat, the cologne he always wore, too and felt the hard edge of a revolver at his waist.

Then Stack stepped close, all heat and hesitation. He didn’t hug you right away. Just looked at you, real soft. “If it turns mean up here,” he said, thumb grazing your wrist, “you come find us. Down in the Delta. You got no business lettin’ this city chew you up.”

You stared back at him, heart hammering. His lips twitched like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He just disappeared out the door, melting into the night behind Smoke.

The last thing you heard before they vanished down the alley was Stack’s voice, faint in the wind: “We’ll be waitin’, darlin’.”

The train car rattled beneath you, a steady, hypnotic clatter as the tracks stretched out like an endless, silver thread. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the Chicago skyline shrink into a haze of smoke and brick until it was nothing but a jagged memory. Your fingers traced circles in the fog your breath left behind, the chill from the glass seeping into your skin.

It’d been a week since that knife fight in the alley behind the bar. One of the Irish came at you fast, but you were faster. Didn’t mean you got out clean, though. The gash on your thigh still ached, wrapped tight beneath layers of wool and gauze. You’d fought him off and left him bloodied on the pavement, but the message had been clear — they weren’t lettin’ you stay. Not after you protected the twins.

You took what was left of the bar’s cash drawer and everything you’d managed to save. Bought a one-way ticket south with a gashed leg, a heavy heart, and no real plan beyond Stack’s promise: We’ll be waitin’.

You had no clue how you were supposed to find them — Stack always said they were big-time down in the Delta, and if that was true, maybe the wind would carry your name to the right ear. Or maybe you’d just follow the smoke and music and hope for the best.

The station platform was buzzing when you stepped off the train, warm air thick with dust, fried batter, and sweat. You were still dragging your suitcase down the steps when you heard it: the sound of a harmonica that was so rich, so full of ache and fire, it nearly stopped you where you stood.

The crowd pulled you in before you could think. You pressed through bodies, Black folks in Sunday hats, little boys barefoot and wild-eyed, travelers fresh off the train and made your way to the front.

There he was: Delta Slim.

The man bent low over his harmonica, rocking with each note like the music was being dragged out of him. The sound wound through your ribs and pulled at something soft in your belly. The kind of playing that carried ghosts. The kind that made you forget you were tired, that you had no place to stay.

And suddenly, you were a little girl again, standing in your grandmother’s hot kitchen while she fried catfish and hummed songs older than the house itself. Blues tunes with names you never learned but could hum in your sleep.

When Slim finally stopped, the crowd clapped and whooped, some tossing coins into the open case by his boots. You stepped forward, dropped in a few bills. “God bless you,” he said without looking up.

You opened your mouth to thank him, but froze.

Somewhere behind you, a voice cut through the crowd: “Smoke said he’d be done ‘round sundown.”

Your head snapped around.

It was a dark-skinned woman in a plaid navy blue dress, carrying a market basket. She had cheekbones sharp enough to slice air and eyes that didn’t miss a thing. She looked just like the woman Smoke used to talk about in low, rare moments — like she wasn’t just anyone, like she was sacred.

“Annie?” you asked, stepping closer, unsure.

She stopped, instantly guarded. “Who’s askin’?” Her voice was soft, but it carried steel.

You lifted your hands, palms up, no threat. “Name’s Y/N. I knew Smoke and Stack back in Chicago. Helped ‘em get out when things turned bad. I… I came down after the Irish and Italians ran me out. Figured I’d find ‘em if I could.”

She stared long and hard. Then something shifted in her face — the tightness melted a little, and her lips curled just slightly.

“Heard plenty about you,” she said. “More from Stack than Smoke, naturally. But still.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the Delta. “We settin’ up the juke joint for tonight. I gotta make a stop first, but they’ll be awful glad to see you.”

You nodded, heart picking up pace. For the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe you might actually be safe.

————

The car groaned as it skidded around another bend in the dirt road, gravel popping under the tires like gunfire. You gripped the door with one hand and braced your good leg against the seat in front of you, praying the back axle wouldn’t snap clean off from the way Delta Slim was pushing it. The wind screamed through the open windows, whipping your scarf into your face, and the sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold across your lap.

Slim drove like he was being chased by every ghost he ever crossed — fast, erratic, and with a bottle tucked between his knees that he sipped from like it held the secrets of the universe. The smell of corn liquor was thick in the cab, sweet and sharp enough to make your nose sting.

You hadn’t said much. Between the pain in your leg and the way Slim was flirting with death at every turn, there wasn’t much breath left for conversation.

Annie, sitting on the passenger side turned and looked over her shoulder. Her expression was calm, like she’d seen this a thousand times. “Don’t worry,” she said, tapping a small leather pouch that hung just above her chest. It bounced lightly against her sternum with the movement.

You blinked. That pouch.

You’d seen it before. Smoke wore one just like it; dark leather, worn smooth from years of wear. He kept it tucked under his shirt, said it was “for protection,” though he never explained what it was from. Seeing it now, on Annie, made something settle in your stomach.

Slim cackled then, throwing a lazy arm out the window to flick ashes off the stub of a cigarette. “Girl sittin’ back there like she expect me to drive us into the river.” His voice was scratchy, coated with booze and heat. “You scared o’ me, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer, just glanced sideways at Annie, who smirked like she was used to this foolishness.

He twisted around in his seat, one bloodshot eye squinting at you. “So how you know them twins anyhow?” He offered you his cigarette.

You obliged and leaned forward to take it, the effort tugging at the self-done stitches in your thigh. “Back in Chicago. Ran my family’s bar. Smoke and Stack used to come in all the time. They eventually became suppliers until a few weeks ago, I helped get ‘em out when things turned bad.”

“Bad?” Slim echoed.

You nodded. “Knife fights. Bomb threats. The Irish tried to burn the place down. I caught one in the thigh, but I gave as good as I got.” You took a final drag of the cigarette before handing it back to Delta, whose eyes were wide with awe.

That laugh again — loud and ugly and amused. “Lord, girl! You ain’t tell me you was a brawler. I’m gon’ have to put some respect on your name. Might be more scared o’ you than them boys.”

You let your head fall back against the seat, lips curling slightly. The pain in your leg throbbed with every bump, but you couldn’t help the pride that bloomed warm and fierce in your chest.

The landscape started to shift as the road flattened — less forest now, more clearing. Sunlight pooled like honey between the buildings, and the air carried the heavy scent of river water, fried fish, and the faintest trace of honeysuckle.

Children darted between storefronts barefoot and wild-eyed, chasing marbles, tossing sticks. A woman stepped out of a seamstress shop holding a bolt of fabric to her chest, her laughter rising over the whir of cicadas. The whole town breathed like it had a heartbeat.

Then you saw the sign.

Chow’s Groceries.

Your breath caught mid-inhale. The letters were hand-painted, a little faded, but clear as day.

Bo.

It couldn’t be.

You hadn’t thought about him in months, not properly — but now it all came rushing back.

————

He’d come to Chicago once, maybe 6 or 7 months ago. The twins said he was gonna help them with a deal so he just needed a quiet place to sleep for a few nights. You gave him the back room of the bar, didn’t think much of it. Figured he’d keep to himself.

But Bo... watched.

Not the way most men do. Not with that slow-lidded hunger that made your skin crawl. No, he watched like he was reading you — like every move you made behind that bar meant something. He’d sit at the end stool, drink barely touched, just following you with those steady eyes.

And that night, well you remembered it like it was pressed in amber.

The bar had been full, the floor sticky with old beer, the air thick with sweat and cigarette smoke. A regular, one who’d had too much, reached for you when you passed. Grabbed your hip like he’d paid for it and pulled you down on his lap.

You squirmed free and went to grab your switchblade knife from your pocket. You hand grazed the handle but before you could fully draw it, Bo was behind you. Quiet. Calm.

“Baby,” he’d said, voice like warm molasses, “everything alright here?”

His hand slid to your hip — not rough, but firm. Protective. Present. The drunk’s hands went up in defense, and he muttered an apology before slinking away.

You didn’t say anything then, just kept moving.

But later, when the lights were low and you were wiping down the counter, he came out from the back. Started stacking chairs like he worked there. You paused but you didn’t stop him.

“Thanks for earlier,” you said, going back to wiping.

He kept working. “Didn’t sit right, lettin’ that slide. You hold your own. I seen it. But still...”

You tilted your head at him, teasing. “So you been watchin’ me?”

Bo smiled as he met your gaze with something quiet and serious. “How could I not?”

He came closer — close enough that the scent of sandalwood and clean cotton filled your lungs. His arms were bare, veins rising like rivers down his forearms as he placed a chair upside-down on the table beside you.

You were perched on a barstool by then, thighs aching from the long shift, apron wrinkled, hair pulled back. He stepped between your knees, eyes locked on yours. One hand drifted up your leg, slow, fingers grazing the inside of your thigh.

He reached for your hem.

Then—

Bang bang bang.

A knock at the door. Heavy. Familiar.

The twins.

You both froze like your thoughts had been read aloud. Bo stepped back, jaw tight. You fixed your skirt, heart pounding.

Nothing else was said.

————

But now, staring at the sign for Chow’s Groceries, you felt it all at once: the heat of his hand, the weight of his stare, the possibility that had lived for one long moment and never got to grow.

You stood outside caught in a trance so deep you didn’t realize Annie and Delta Slim had already gone inside. The porch boards creaked under your heels, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the hand-painted sign.

The Delta air wrapped around you like a shawl—thick, warm, and humming with life—but your thoughts were tangled up in memory. The way Bo looked at you that night in the bar, the way he made you feel seen without saying much at all. You hadn’t realized how long you’d been standing there until—

“Y/N?”

That voice—gritty, familiar, a little more worn than before.

You turned just in time to see Stack walking up, grin wide and arms already open. He pulled you into a hug that squeezed the breath out of you.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “Didn’t think you’d really come down.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Yeah, I ran into, Annie, Smoke’s wife at the station. Figured the Delta might do me some good.”

He draped an arm over your shoulder, guiding you through the screen door into the store. The cool air was a welcome shift, carrying scents of lemon oil, tobacco, and flour dust. The sound of laughter rolled from the back of the store where Smoke, Delta, and Annie were gathered around a woman you didn’t recognize—dark-skinned, with a narrow waist and wide hips, cheekbones like razors and eyes that missed nothing.

“That’s Pearline,” Stack whispered. “And that fool next to her is our cousin Sammy.”

Sammy tipped his hat. Pearline’s gaze lingered a little longer before her mouth tugged into a polite smile.

Then the group shifted slightly.

And there he was.

Bo Chow.

You could’ve sworn the floor tilted. His sleeves were rolled up over strong forearms, hands dusted with flour as he sorted through a ledger. His hair was still parted neat, his face still quiet and kind, but those eyes—those dark, steady eyes—lit up the second they landed on you.

And then he smiled.

Your breath hitched.

He crossed the room in just a few strides, pulled you in like no time had passed. His arms were solid, the kind that made you feel safe whether you wanted to or not. He leaned in close enough for his lips to brush your ear.

“Still fine as ever,” he said low, that slow, careful drawl curling around your spine.

You didn’t even hear the rest of it—blood roared in your ears, your heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

Smoke clapped his hands once—sharp, loud, enough to cut through the noise.

“Alright. With Y/N here, she’ll be good to keep the bar running. Annie, I’m movin’ you to the floor. I want eyes everywhere, and I want 'em sharp. Ain’t no slip-ups tonight. Everybody bring your best or don’t bring nothin’ at all.”

The group talked more and then started filing out, talking plans and logistics. You followed them out onto the porch, ready to head toward Delta Slim’s rusted-out ride. Your bags were still in his trunk, and you started toward them on instinct.

But then—

“Where your bags at?” Bo asked, already coming up beside you.

You pointed with your chin. “Back of Slim’s car. I got it.”

You moved quick, hands already reaching for the straps, but Bo was faster. His hand came down over yours, firm but gentle.

“I said I got it,” you repeated, trying to shoulder one of the heavier bags.

He stepped in front of you and took the strap clean out of your hand. “No, you don’t.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Bo—”

He cut you off with a quiet look, already lifting both bags like they weighed nothing. “You been carryin’ enough,” he said. “Not today.”

You paused, caught off-guard—not by the help, but by the certainty of it. You weren’t used to that. You were used to men saying one thing, meaning another. Used to them letting you do the heavy lifting ‘cause it was easier for them to stay out the way.

But Bo didn’t move like a man who wanted to stay out your way. He moved like he wanted to make space for you to rest.

Stack passed behind you and tossed a look over his shoulder. His gold tooth flashed as he smirked. “I knew somethin’ happened.”

You swatted at his arm. “Ain’t nothin’ happened,” you muttered, but your face was already hot.

Bo opened the passenger door for you without saying a word. Just stood there, waiting. You hesitated a second, then put your hand in his. His grip was warm and steady, guiding you into the seat like you were something precious.

He slid into the driver’s side, lit a cigarette with one hand, then passed it to you after a slow drag. You took it between your fingers, felt the heat through your fingers, inhaled.

The smoke tasted of cloves and pine.

————

The car rumbled to life and bumped down the dirt road, dust kicking up behind the tires. For a long moment, you didn’t speak. You weren’t scared, but you were out of your element. Most men you knew were loud, demanding, rough in the ways they loved or claimed to. Bo didn’t press. He didn’t rush.

He just drove, eyes on the road, the silence stretching out like something sacred.

Then finally, he said it—quiet, plain.

“I missed you.”

You looked at him, sharp. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Ain’t stopped thinkin’ about you since Chicago. Swear I almost caught a train up myself a few months back. Store kept me tied up. Always somethin’ needs fixin’ or orderin’. You know how it is.”

You nodded, listening to the slow melody of his voice, the way it filled the cab like music—low and familiar.

“I was worried,” he added. “Heard what happened with the Italians and the Irish. Stack said you handled it, but still. I hated not bein’ there.”

You took another drag, eyes narrowed at the road ahead. “Held my own. Like you’d expect.”

He smiled, proud and quiet. “Course you did.”

There was a beat of silence before you added, softer, “But there’s a reason I’m back.”

That made the smile fade.

“What happened?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached over and gently brushed your fingers along the back of his head, where his hair gathered soft at the nape of his neck. He leaned into it just barely—like he wasn’t used to being touched so kindly.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, thumb dragging slow across his skin. “I handled it.”

“As always” he completed your sentence with a dry smile, like he didn’t like his own response.

————

The juke joint was jumpin’.

Floorboards creaked and groaned under the rhythm of feet—heels stompin', bodies grindin’, skirts twirlin’ like the hem was on fire. Heat rose off the crowd in waves, thick with sweat, perfume, and the sharp bite of corn liquor. Every inch of that room was alive with bottles clinking, laughter breaking like thunder, and voices lifted in song.

Up on the makeshift stage, Pearline and Sammy were singin’ like the Devil himself was in the crowd and they meant to save every soul in it. Her voice was honey dipped in iron, his the low rumble of a storm rollin’ over the river. The two of ’em tangled their harmonies like vines, and the people hollered, clapped, swayed—caught in it.

Stack was out on the floor, two-steppin’ with a girl in a red dress, the kind of pale that made you double take. She laughed with her whole body, and Stack twirled her like he had something to prove. You had to remind yourself she wasn’t white—her curls thick and coarse under that hat, her smile quick but knowing. Still, you clocked every eye that lingered on them too long, just in case.

Smoke was up on the rafters, leanin’ over the rail, watchin’ the whole scene like a man used to puttin’ out fires before they started. He didn’t drink, didn’t dance, didn’t smile much—but his presence settled folks. Like the room itself calmed a little when he laid eyes on it.

You were where you always felt strongest—behind the bar.

Sweat beaded at your temples, and your thigh was barkin’, but your hands moved fast. You flipped a bottle, poured two at once, wiped down the counter, grinned at whoever cracked a joke—all muscle memory. Folks leaned in and said things like, “Lawd, I ain’t never got a drink this fast down here,” and “Where you been hidin’, sugar? We needed you weeks ago.”

You gave ‘em a wink, passed the jars, and kept it movin’. If your leg wasn’t actin’ up, you’d have been damn near flyin’.

Bo was somewhere across the room, duckin’ between folks, noddin’ to the band, checkin’ on tables. He moved quiet, like a shadow with good intentions. And every time your eyes searched for him, you found him already watching you—chin tilted, lips curled into that half-smile that made your stomach dip low. He even blew you kiss at one point and you had to fight off the smirk creeping on your face.

He had on his work shirt rolled up to the elbows, slick black hair pushed back neat, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. That man looked like the kind of sin folks wrote sermons about.

You bit your lip and leaned into the counter.

Your thoughts drifted back to Chicago. That night. The way he stood over you, big and careful. The way his voice wrapped around you like a warm coat. The way his fingers started slidin’ up your thigh slow, reverent like church hands.

Lord help you, if the twins hadn’t knocked when they did…

You blinked yourself back into the present, only to feel it—warm and wet against your leg. You looked down.

Damn. That cut had started bleedin’ again. The fabric of your skirt had gone dark, stickin’ to your skin. You shifted, wincing.

“Ain’t no need to look like that.”

You turned, and there was Annie, slidin’ in behind the bar with a look that saw everything.

She nodded down. “Go on. Closet in the back. I keep bandages and clean rags in there just in case. You don’t need to be pourin’ whiskey with blood on your hem.”

You hesitated, but her face brooked no argument.

You grabbed a damp rag, limped through the wall of sweat and song to the back. The closet was little more of a pantry—narrow, hot, and full of stale air and mop buckets. You sat on a crate and pulled your dress up. The gash wasn’t terrible, but it was mad. You hissed and pressed the rag to it, biting the inside of your cheek.

A knock hit the door just as you reached for the gauze.

“Give me a minute!” you called, but the knob jiggled.

“Anybody decent?” a voice came—low, deep, unmistakable.

“Bo, wait—!”

Too late.

The door creaked open and in he stepped. He took one look at you—skirt bunched, thigh bleeding, breath caught—and his whole body shifted.

“Hell,” he muttered. Then louder, “Why didn’t you say somethin’?”

“I was handlin’ it,” you muttered.

But he was already movin’. The door clicked shut behind him and he reached out a hand to help you up. You grabbed it and he hoisted you onto the table so he could help you. He dropped to his knees in front of you. His hands were steady as he took the rag from you and started cleaning.

You bristled. “Bo. I said I got it.”

“And I heard you.” He dipped the cloth in a bowl of clean water and wrung it out. “But I ain’t leavin’ you to patch yourself up in a broom closet like some stray.”

You rolled your eyes but your breath hitched when his fingers grazed your skin—tender but sure. He wrapped the bandage slow, careful not to tug, his thumb brushing your inner thigh to smooth the gauze.

“You always this bossy?” you asked, voice softer now.

He glanced up, a smile ghostin’ his lips. “Only when I care.”

When he was done wrapping you up he looked up at you like you were some rare bloom he wasn’t sure he deserved to see twice.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough like gravel but sweet on the edges.

You huffed a laugh. “For what? I’m the one leakin’ all over the bar.”

He chuckled, but didn’t move.

“For lettin’ me tend to you,” he said. “Ain’t a thing I know you take lightly.”

That settled in your chest like something dangerous.

“I should be thankin’ you,” you said.

And in that little hush, that pause where everything else in the world pulled back, you weren’t in a closet anymore. You were somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere that made you believe, just maybe, you could let your guard down for longer than a moment.

You meant to move.

Meant to hop off that table, tug your skirt down, and march back out there like nothing happened. But Bo was still kneeling, still starin’ at you like you were somethin’ to be held tender and tasted slow.

His thumbs brushed the outsides of your thighs, slow as molasses, not bold yet, just curious. Testing. Seeking permission.

“You always look at folks like that?” you asked, your voice low but steady. “Cause it’s powerful rude.”

His smile ticked up, crooked and warm. “Ain’t lookin’ at folks,” he murmured. “Lookin’ at you.”

And then he stood — easy, unhurried, like a man who’d already decided where this was going. He filled the space in front of you, hand coming up to trace your jawline, rough fingers gliding soft over your cheek. You didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Not when he leaned in slow enough for you to change your mind, but you didn’t.

His lips touched yours — soft, like a question. And you answered it.

You kissed him back, mouth parting, your hands gripping his forearms as you tilted up into him. He kissed like he fixed things — patient, exact, but sure. Like he wasn’t about to rush a damn thing unless you begged him to.

Then he kissed your jaw, trailing the heat down, down, until his lips were ghostin’ your neck.

“Bo—” you whispered.

“Mm?” he hummed against your skin. His breath was warm, his voice thick.

His teeth grazed your neck — slow, deliberate. Then he bit. Just enough to pull a gasp from you. A wince, sharp and involuntary. Your thighs twitched around him.

“S-sweet Lord—” you hissed, half scolding, half desperate.

He pulled back, eyes dark with something that made your heart knock against your ribs.

“Didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, not sorry in the slightest. “But I can make it better.”

He dropped again to his knees — the same place he’d been moments ago, only now his hands didn’t hesitate. He gripped your thighs and eased them apart like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You always gotta be the strong one, huh?” he said, voice low and reverent. “Always takin’ care of folks. Lettin’ ‘em lean on you.”

You swallowed, already breathless. “Somebody’s gotta.”

“Maybe,” he said, inchin’ your skirt up again, kissin’ the inside of your thigh like a prayer. “But tonight, let me carry some of it.”

Then his mouth found you — slow, open, tender. And you stopped thinkin’ about the juke joint. About the blood. About Chicago. About anything but Bo, and the way he worshipped with his tongue like he’d waited his whole damn life to learn your taste.

Bo’s hands were warm, steady as they parted your thighs—one guiding you gently, the other firm at the back of your knee, coaxing it over his shoulder like it belonged there. And maybe it did. Maybe this whole moment had been waitin’ on you both to catch up to it.

“Relax f’me,” he murmured, voice honeyed and low, almost like a song. “Ain’t gon’ rush. Let me taste what I been missin’.”

He leaned in slow, breath warm against your bare skin, and kissed the inside of your thigh again—closer now. You gripped the edge of the table with both hands, eyes flutterin’ shut as his mouth ghosted over your center, not touchin’ yet, just breathin’ you in. That alone made your hips twitch, made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he licked you.

Soft, slow, and low—just one long drag of his tongue, like he was learnin’ you. Worshippin’. You let out a broken little sigh and felt his hum vibrate against you, pleased and hungry all at once.

“Sweet,” he muttered, barely liftin’ his head. “Goddamn, you sweet.”

His tongue circled your clit, gentle at first—just a tease, just enough to make you melt further into the heat risin’ off your own skin. Then he flattened his mouth and sucked, slow and full, and your legs clamped around his shoulders before you could stop yourself.

He liked that. You could tell. His grip tightened on your hips, holdin’ you right where he wanted you while he worked—firm strokes, deep licks, his tongue movin’ like he meant to undo you one breath at a time.

“Bo,” you whispered, not even sure if it was a warning or a prayer.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed against you, the sound rumblin’ right through your core. His tongue flicked faster now, more deliberate, and you felt yourself unravelin’—little by little, tension leavin’ your shoulders, your chest, your hands. All of it leakin’ out through the way he kissed you.

And Lord, he kissed you there—like he’d missed your mouth and settled on the next best thing. Like it was a favor to him, not a gift for you.

He paused for a moment, just to look—his mouth slick, his eyes dark as syrup, lips swollen from the work. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he said, voice rough and reverent. “You deserve to be looked at. Tasted. Taken care of.”

You could barely speak. You just nodded and leaned back, and when his mouth returned, he wrapped both arms under your thighs to hold you open—locked in now. No runnin’.

He went slower this time—steady, rhythmic, pulsin’ against you like the bassline of a blues song. Your stomach tightened. Your back arched. You felt it coiling deep and low, that pressure threatenin’ to split you in half.

“Bo—Bo, I’m—” you gasped.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, lips grazin’ you. “Give it to me. Let go.”

And you did. Right there in that closet, dress hiked up, sweat on your skin, hands buried in his hair. You let go with a cry you couldn’t bite back—and Bo held you through it, mouth never leavin’, like he needed every last bit of you to stay alive.

When you finally sagged back, chest heaving, thighs trembling, he pulled back and kissed your inner thigh like he was thankin’ it.

Then, voice soft and hoarse, he asked, “I told you I missed you.”

#publishing this while im finishing my dinner in chipotle 💀💀💀💀💀#anyway enjoy #also my new bo tag will be #my BEST eater #bo chow #bo chow sinners #bo chow smut #bo chow x reader #bo chow x you #sinners smut #sinners fanfiction #sinners fic

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yeyinde · 10 months ago

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thinking of big gross simon once more 😔

he’s just so fucking huge imagine him finally getting his precious girl home with him one night after work. he didn’t ask, obviously, just slipped a little smth extra into the tea he made her! it took her no time to fall straight into his arms

the ride back to his cabin has to be excruciating for him,, imagine having to keep his attention on driving when his girl is sat next to him. the urge to pull over and take you apart right tugged on him every couple minutes

when he does finally pull up imagine him gently peeling off your seatbelt and shifting your weight into his beefy arms uggghhhhhh 😖😖 his chest pressed against your side as he placed you down on the couch. takes him no time to go back out to the truck and grab what he needs,, a thick pair of leather cuffs and a chain.

maybe he traps her arms, hooking the chain into a loop on the floor. he does it so she won’t hurt herself trying to fight back, it takes nothing for him to put you in your place. the thought of getting too rough and breaking his favorite toy so soon didn’t rest easy with him… gotta keep her safe

or maybe he traps her legs, cuffs wrapped around her ankles. can’t have his little bird trying to escape the nest!! not until she’s finally trained! stops you from kicking or running from him, perfect to keep your legs together tight… but maybe seeing your limbs pressed together like that does something to him, makes his blood boil in a way no one else ever has 😏

big bloody hands rub your body down, mapping out every part before you even wake up. he can’t wait to break you in

-🧸 i’m horny.

ohhhhhh yeah. yes to all of this. i saw this tiktok a while back about this girl who was going skydiving or something. and the instructor was getting her harness on, and when he knelt down to do the straps on her thighs, he was basically eye-level with her. it fucked with me so good.

and now i can't stop imagining poor reader frantically searching for an escape after he chained you to the wall only to see Simon stagger back over with ankle straps in hand, drop to his knees in front of you, and suddenly you're eye-level with him. or the top is his head comes up to your chin and it's like. well. okay 🫠 guess i'm staying.

he probs secretly starts taking things from the slaughterhouse, too. hooks, chains. chain hoist. block and tackle. stockpiles it in his cabin for you. has everything prepared because this isn't a spur of the moment thing. everything is meticulously thought out. planned. has your routine memorised the first week of knowing you. no changes. home, work. groceries on the weekend. might stray to the odd friend's house on occasion. but it's shockingly easy to narrow your world down into home and his shop. even easier to tell everyone in town that you went back to home for a little while.

to your honeymoon, as he calls it, mockingly. mean. and you come to the horrifying realisation that he's more cunning than you gave him credit for when you ask why he's doing this, and he plainly says that he just wanted you. and so, he took you. simple as. old school prison mentality. finders keepers.

but don't worry. he'll give you a better one later on when you come back to town as a Riley.

you just have to learn how to behave.

#goddddd hes disgusting #and this is shifting more and more into the tcm au i think i deserve #rural America in the early 70s—farmland; maybe Texas a la the og #nobody and nothing for miles #simon ghost riley x reader

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ellemarianne555 · 10 months ago

Text

Munch

Summary: Aegon is obsessed with fucking you. He’s used to getting what he wants and doesn’t understand that you don’t seem to want him. Fluffy smut as always. Childhood friends to mild enemies to lovers.

Author’s note: Again I got so sidetracked with the plot I don’t know if the smut is any good! This is heavily inspired by that one scene in Heartbreak High where Spider says nah I’m good to Missy after eating her out in the car park. I hope you enjoy and as always please leave comments or feedback! Sorry if it’s cringey but I think we all kind of want a hot prince to make us feel a little bit like home.

Content warnings: eating out, coming untouched, dry-humping, shameless flirting, semi-public sex, Aegon being a dick, Aegon having a dick. You being fed up.

Word Count: 2500

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As a prince, with a certain reputation, Aegon II Targaryen knew a lot about sex. He wasn’t weird like his brother, Aemond, who kept a diary of all his conquests with notes on how to best improve his performance. But he did know how to please a woman.

As one of his sister’s lady-in-waiting, you had always been in the periphery since you had left your home and came to court as a young girl. Though you had become even more beautiful as time passed, as the Tyrell’s were renowned to be, there were so many beautiful women at court. And who was Aegon to ever deny himself?

But you did catch his eye one day. He saw you sitting in the gardens, under a shady tree in the heat of summer, making a daisy chain with your nimble and deft fingers. His mind immediately went to how those hands would feel around his cock.

“Why, hello there.” The prince purred. You looked up at him in confusion, he had just blocked your light and seemed to be talking like a character from one of those scandalous and well-thumbed romance novels you hid under your bed.

Aegon leaned against a tree, purposefully flicking a strand of straw like hair from his eyes and smirking in such a way that made it seem like he was doing his best impersonation of a twat. You giggled. You had rarely interacted with Aegon since your childhood together. You used to be close and constant playmates, but propriety had pushed you apart as you became a respected lady and he seemed to become, well, a whore. You had heard he was a dangerous womaniser now, but was this really the man the maids spoke about in reverent tones? This silly boy leaning against a tree and doing his best to cross his arms so that his doublet barely strained against his soft forearms?

You smiled, teasingly. “Can I help you with anything?”

Aegon paused, unsure of how to respond. Surely it was obvious what he wanted? You must have become a very virtuous maiden, he thought, unused to talking to men.

“Well, I was wondering if you’d like to have a romp under those bushes over there. I’m quite an excellent lover as I am certain you are aware.”

You froze. Had you just been propositioned by the prince? Who wanted you to have a quick tumble in the mud like a pair of rowdy pigs? You had heard he had become arrogant, but this was pushing it.

You curtsied dramatically, your knees hitting the floor as he looked at you, seemingly bemused.

“I’m SO sorry, your grace. But I fear I am need elsewhere. So that would be a no.”

You smiled sweetly and dropped the daisy chain at his feet.

You didn’t bother to look back, but if you had you would have seen a prince rubbing his forehead in confusion with one hand and thumbing the delicate flowers in the other.

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The second time Aegon attempted to impress you while hopefully communicating his desire to lay with you was a few weeks later. Aegon had been unable to get you out of his mind. As a prince, he was thoroughly unused to rejection and even more unused to having to work for what he wanted. He was training with his brother in the courtyard, or rather losing appallingly, when he saw you standing on the stone balcony overlooking the square.

He hadn’t been able to forget your smile, so sweet even when cutting him down to size. The way your eyes sparked as you dropped into that ridiculous curtsy. You reminded him of a time when he was more carefree, before the overwhelming responsibilities had twisted him into a man he barely knew.

Aemond, forever the opportunist, took this moment to swipe dirtily at him with his rapier. Aegon dodged to avoid the blade, but in doing so he failed to notice the butt of the sword smacking into his chest as he fell, face down in the mud.

When he came to, you were there, standing over him. At first he thought this was just another late-night fantasy. But this time you seemed to be laughing hysterically instead of moaning sweet nothings.

“W-what’s going on?” Aegon said as you pressed your hands into your stomach to stop the pain caused from laughing so hard.

“I’m sorry.” You gasped. “It seems you really did want to roll in the mud.”. Aegon grunted in confusion as she held out a hand to help him up. His pride and backside already bruised enough, he gracelessly accepted.

“So… Do you come watch me train often?” He preened, trying to smooth the dirt off his fine clothes.

“Well…no. I was on my way to the Maester’s to find your sister a new magnifying glass so as to examine her insects. But I saw you getting beaten so embarrassingly, I just had to stop.”

He blushed in shame.

“You deserve that you know. I’m not just some number to add to a tally on your bedroom wall. Did it ever occur to you that not everyone wants to sleep with you?”

“Don’t you?” He couldn’t help but try, grinning sheepishly.

You smiled, but it was more condescending this time and you patted his head. Staring at you again in utter confusion, he watched you walk off. The way your hips swung in that dress, the way your hair glinted in the sun, the way that you made him feel so ashamed. But also strangely aroused.

That night in his bath, Aegon attempted to rub you out of his mind while he rubbed furiously at well, his dick. But his release eluded him as he thought of how you teased him again and again. He was so close to the edge but his hand seemed pathetic compared to the soft pout of your lips. Groaning, he sank back down into the water. Now thoroughly cold and miserable.

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The third time Aegon tried to impress you, it was at a tournament held in the honour of his younger brother‘s nameday. The entire royal household was assembled in a grassy meadow as you watched the men assemble their armour to go kill some great goose or moose or something so as to revel in their masculinity.

Bored, you joined Helaena where she sat cross legged on the earth, tracing the wings of an iridescent beetle in her palm. Aegon caught sight of you and waved. He actually waved.

Helaena squinted into the sunlight as she tried to figure out who was flapping their arms so furiously at you.

“Is that my brother?”

“Unfortunately.” You groaned, covering your face in exasperation as he refused to get the message.

“I know you’ve had an affection for him since we were small, you know. It seems he feels the same way.”. Gaping, you looked at your friend. She was extremely observant when it came to her bugs but often neglected to notice the small gestures between people you took for granted.

“Really.”. She said drily. “You are both quite obvious.”

“I know. But he’s just such a twat! I mean all the women, and the drinking and the preening and the posing! It’s so infuriating how he’s always swishing his hair and smiling!”.

“Yes.” Said Helaena bluntly. “You seem utterly uninterested.”

You groaned again as the man in question strode out to where you sat.

“My lady! I shall catch a fine beast in your honour and together we shall feast!” Aegon said with flourish. Without even giving you time to pick your jaw up the floor, he galloped off merrily.

“Well, whatever happens between the two of you, make him work for it.” Said Helaena as she turned back to her little ones, and you again struggled to find any words.

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It was some time later, when you came across Aegon again. It was late in the evening, the hunting party had returned. But the prince had mysteriously not been with them.

You had been walking back to the tent in which you were sleep that night, “tent” being an understatement for the leather hides mounted on poles to cover you and sumptuous furs spread on the floor.

Aegon was sat on a tree stump. Pouting furiously as he kicked the stones under his feet. You approached him from behind, quietly so as to hear what he was grumbling about.

“Just wanted to catch a damn quail or something to impress her, and I couldn’t even shoot a squirrel!” He cursed to himself.

“You know those things really don’t impress me. Neither does inviting me to suck your cock in the gardens or falling on your face so frequently.”

He jumped out of his skin. “M-my lady! I didn’t hear you coming!”

You sat on the stump next to him, looking out at the sky. It was a cloudless night and the stars seemed to wink at you both, little pin pricks of light against the inky oblivion.

“How can I impress you then?” Aegon spoke quietly. “You don’t seem to act like most woman I know.”

“What because I don’t fall to the floor to suck your cock?”

“Well. Yes!”

“Have you ever tried even talking to me before? Just the two of us? About something other than yourself? We used to talk about everything, when we were younger.”

He sat quietly, contemplating your words. What you had said was true. He had acted like rather a prat to be honest. When you’re used to getting everything you want, the world seems a lot harder to understand as people tend to orbit around, instead of directly interact with you. And here you were, colliding with him.

“I’m sorry. I keep trying to be someone else but I’m not sure I know how.”

“You don’t have to be someone else.” You said softly. “I just want you.”

He looked at you, again throughly confused. “Even though I’m an absolute twat?”

“Especially because you’re a twat. And a pig, and a flirt and in insufferable idiot.” And with that you leant in and kissed him.

His eyes bugged open in confusion at the feeling of your lips against his. But you deepened the kiss as he tried to open his mouth.

“Please.” You smiled. “Don’t talk.”

“Now that I can do.” He grinned and returned the kiss as he grasped your waist and pressed his body against yours.

The kiss continued for what felt like an age, but like it could never be enough. His tongue was soft and questioning at first, while yours was passionate and hard. His hands remained frozen at his side as you broke apart and smiled at him. You placed his baking hands on your breasts as you undid your corset and stays.

“I want you to feel me.” He gulped nervously but seemed to find some resolve and went back to kissing and nipping at your breasts intensely. How was it that he had slept with so many women and had no idea what to do around this one. His cock was hard and aching in his trousers, but his mind could not be less focused on his own release.

He slowly sank to his knees in front of the stump, kissing up your calves as he stopped above your knee and looked at you questioningly. You smiled reassuringly and nodded, before he started licking at your inner thigh and you were unable to do anything but moan uncontrollably.

Aegon slowly kissed around the edge of your underwear, mouthing at your soaking core before tearing off the undergarment and tossing it to the soft earth beneath him.

He ate you out like a man starved, like he couldn’t get enough of how you tasted. Sucking your clit into his mouth he looked up at you as you shook and writhed. You cracked open an eye and looked at him.

“Why did you stop?” You gasped out as your heart hammered in your chest.

“I just wanted to make sure this is what you wanted.”

“Aegon, you idiot. I’ve loved you ever since we were ten years old and you pulled my braids.”

“If I remember correctly, you then pushed me down onto the dirt and then made me eat a mud pie.”

“Well” You said. “I’d be happy to make it up to you.” You reached to unfasten his trousers but he put his hand out and stopped you. His hand squeezed yours as he looked into your eyes. “Let me. I have all I want right here.”.

You nodded as he immediately went back to licking at your core. You gasped as he nipped your clit slightly and then again when he breached your entrance with a gentle but firm finger. The pressure of three fingers inside of you, stroking your walls, combined with his unrelenting attentions on your clit made you cry out as you felt a strange feeling deep inside you.

It felt like a dam breaking after a flood, like everything between you had been washed away as your release trickled out of you and onto his shirt.

Coming out of your high, you realised he was still fully clothed and surely his back hurt from crouching over for so long. You opened your mouth as if to apologise, when suddenly his lips stopped you.

You tasted your cum in his mouth and the sweet bitten-raw lips that you had bruised earlier. Looking into your eyes, he smiled.

“C-can I?” You said and he looked to the ground sheepishly.

“Ah… I’m good. You suddenly noticed the wet spot on his trousers and remembered how he had rocked himself against your leg like a bitch in heat.

You smiled and pulled him into your lap. Kissing him sweetly, you felt something fall out of his pocket and onto the forest floor. In the moonlight you could see it was a dried daisy chain.

“How did I get this lucky? ” You mused and he placed a finger over your mouth; “I want to spend the rest of my life asking you that question myself. If you’ll let me.” He finished nervously and you knew in that moment that you were home. Not at the Red Keep, not in Highgarden but here with your prince wrapped up in your arms.

A/N: part two is up and down below!!

#aegon ii targaryen #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #aegon targaryen x reader

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ilium-ilia · 1 month ago

Text

As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter Eight: apologies

tw: non-con, blood, threats, violence

Summer nights are brutal.

They’re a far cry from your slight bit of reprieve a few days ago when you were outside chained to the tree in what little taste of freedom you’ve been able to scrounge up. Stuffy, stagnant air hangs thick around you. Its fingers curl around the back of your neck, between your thighs, along your chest, leaving nothing but perspiration in its wake. The window is open, but you’re caught in a doldrum. It’s still. No wind tickles the leaves of the trees; it’s painfully quiet. So much so that the football game blaring on the TV seems ten times louder than normal. It shakes your eardrums, rattles them until your brain turns to mush.

Man United is playing against Liverpool, and Simon has been cursing profanities for the last half hour as he sips on a glass of whiskey. It’s the same brand he ordered the night he hunted you in the bar. You hate that you recognize it. Spiced aroma wafts through the still air—too familiar, like a faded scar.

You despise being around Simon more than you do Johnny these days. Of course, you still dream of a day when both their blood soaks the mattress in the bedroom, fresh corpses acting as the keys to undo your bindings and set you free. But there is something rancid about Simon that grows more foul each day. His eyes are darker, mouth set firmer; he looks at you not like a toy to be played with, but a dog to be trained. One he wants to bend and snap until you’re curled up at his feet just like Johnny; mindless, and unknowingly cruel.

His sweet Johnny boy has been overly kind lately; saccharine. Sometimes, he almost seems more human than mutt, kind words lulling you into the safety of the chair in his study where you curl and hide like a feral cat. He watches you—you know he does—studying you as he commits your likeness to paper. You’ve seen the drawings. He always shows them to you with glee, like a child proud of their primary school art project. Elegant and lovingly, he captures your essence like you’re more flesh and blood than a rubber toy.

You do not mind it. It’s easier for him to devour you with his eyes than with teeth and claws.

Still, there are times where he grates your nerves. Greedy hands paw at you from your spot on the couch, mindlessly trailing over the meat of your thigh as his eyes stay locked on the screen in front of you. He’s the whole reason you’re sitting here watching this stupid game. Dragged you by the hand with boyish excitement the moment he heard the announcers. He talks about his time as a kid playing football with his cousin. Goalkeeper was his favorite position, which has been reflected in him poking fun at Liverpool’s inability at blocking shots.

You attempt to get the name of his cousin, but he stays silent. You suspect he might not even remember.

“Bleedin’ Christ,” Johnny curses, fingers squeezing your upper thigh. “How’d you miss that one?”

Another failed save by Liverpool. Simon grunts in satisfaction, reveling in his home team’s success so far. You tried not to care about the game. Thought that disconnecting yourself from the situation would make it easier on yourself. Instead, you find the game a nice distraction to Johnny’s aimless wandering of your body. You watch the dancing feet maneuvering tricky shots and passes. Annoyed, twisted expressions brand their faces as things don’t go the players way.

Though, as usual, it only gets worse.

Johnny stretches, arm leaving your knee in favor of wrapping around your shoulders, drawing you closer to him. Warmth radiates off of him like a space heater, and you find yourself grimacing at the sweat that coats your side at the mere contact of him, but it’s nothing compared to the way his hand now paws at your chest. It’s aimless; uncoordinated. You try to ignore the intrusion as his other hand joins in, mindlessly squeezing between your thighs.

One lesson you’ve learned well is that no matter how much you pray, it always gets worse. Testosterone rises in Johnny’s blood, and you feel the change in his body as his groping becomes more firm, as if he’s just made sense of the fresh meat in his palms. You see the flash of blue eyes in your periphery, and you attempt to will it away. Him away. Starve an animal of attention, and it has to get bored eventually—but Johnny never tires.

The tip of his nose rubs against your temple, and the cheering of the crowd mixes with the harsh sound of his inhale as he breathes you in. Eyes fluttering shut, you attempt to keep your breath steady as he places a kiss on your cheek. It’s sweet, but barely restrained—he quickly takes more as he turns your head to face him, mouth wasting no time crashing against your lips.

With a muffled grunt, you place your hands on his chest and push against him. You should know by now that it’s no use. Johnny only unlatches himself from you when he’s had his fill. Otherwise, he sinks his claws in deep and refuses to let go.

“Johnny,” you mumble against his lips. He hums as if you saying his name, even obstructed by his own mouth, is the most mellifluous sound he’s ever heard, and he offers you reprieve from his assault on your lips. “Should… shouldn’t we be watching the game?”

Gentle redirection. It’s the only thing you can think to do when he’s this hungry. You might as well be offering dry kibble to a dog—why would he trade the bone in front of him for that?

“The game?” he repeats. “I don’t care about the game. Not when I’ve got something so soft and pretty right here in front of me.”

There’s no time to argue with him. There never is. He’s smart and quick, and he’s already got you sitting in his lap by the time you even come up with a response. Teeth knocking against yours, hands pawing at your back; he nearly growls. Damn near whimpering like a dog. Gently moaning into your mouth as his fingers tear you to shreds at an excruciating pace. Shirt bunched up, breasts hitting the warm air, your nipples perk against their will as he tugs on them. He stimulates them until they’re fully hardened, and he chuckles.

“Getting excited for me, Bonnie?” Johnny teases.

You squirm. Writhe like a worm while you’re finally able to breathe without a tongue down your throat. Unwavering esurient hands continue to paw at you while your brain attempts to scrounge up words that might allow Johnny to show pity on you. Babbling, you press against his chest, legs twisting, feet flailing—you have been so good at making yourself behave. Numbing the fear in favor of your torment being swift. Yet now, some latent terror licks its unforgiving flames along your spine, burning you alive until you melt in the palm of his hands.

“I just—erm—wanna watch the-”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon barks.

His words silence you with a mean yap and a violent shove of your legs. Having been so caught up in your attempted escape, you were left unaware of the way your body so disgustingly desecrated Simon’s sacred space. As you yelp and cling to Johnny—the very creature you’re trying to flee from—Simon glares at you with so much rancor you feel the acidity of it begin to scar before the wound is even made.

“If you’re gonna fuck the bitch, do it on the floor,” he grumbles before swallowing down the remainder of his whiskey.

While Johnny looks at him in disbelief, the bile boils in your stomach. Thick bubbles sting like vinegar against your vocal chords, terribly sore and overused with pitiful begging. This is the precipice you’ve been dragged towards this whole time. Nothing but sharp, jagged rocks await.

“Really?” Johnny asks. He can’t be too sure if this is real. If his dreams and wants are finally coming to fruition. “You mean it?”

Simon huffs. “Just stay quiet so I can watch the game.”

Announcers drone on about the game on the screen as Johnny lays you on your back. Though you’re on the hardwood floor, you feel as if you’re being lowered into your grave. He shucks your shirt off, then everything else along with it, peeling you apart like sweet maize. You allow him to do this without protest, your pacifism turning you into a victim, and it isn’t long before he’s bare and hovering over you like an incessant insect lured by the sweet aroma of fear that permeates your skin.

The restiveness that haunts Johnny finally seems to be satiated once he’s got you like this. Ignoring the cursing gaze of your eyes, he knows that he’s finally got what he’s been wanting this whole time. He’s too insatiable to take his time. To savor the taste of you as his teeth drag along your stomach. Impatient fingers prod against your cunt and you jolt, skin rippling as muscles tense and flex. There is no arousal for him to collect, yet he grins like a jackal all the same.

“Look at you,” he croons. A weight settles on your abdomen, hot and needy. Your eyes flutter shut, heart tensing to the point you feel it tear in the cavern of your chest. Mistaking your disgust for adoration, Johnny slides back, pressing the tip of his cock against your reluctant hole, before blanketing your body with his once more. “So pretty. My sweet Bonnie. I told you. I promised you. Always keep my promises.”

When he presses into you, you’re reminded of the papercuts you used to get as a kid. Obsessed with crafts, they’d litter your fingers in little lines, like railroad tracks. Sometimes, you’d pull the severed skin apart. Watch the blood pool between shredded cells. You don’t know why you did it.

As Johnny presses further, splitting you apart, skin searing with the burn as it stretches further than it should, you start to think you did it because it was proof that you were alive. A reminder—just as it is now as he bottoms out and groans against your ear. You are alive on this hardwood floor. You are alive even as you tear, even as you’re bifurcated.

So you lie and take it. Despite the pain. Despite how much you want to flee. It’s the only reason you continue to draw breath, even if it’s staggered with silent sobs as Johnny gives you everything he swore he would. You wonder if he can feel you dirl.

Once Johnny finds his rhythm, the pain becomes nearly unbearable. The friction is too strong, shredding your skin off layer by layer, but if it’s uncomfortable for him, he says nothing of it. Just continues to mutter praise as he pistons himself between your legs with no regard for the way your hands press against his shoulders—desperate waves against unmoving rock.

“Johnny, please,” you choke out. Your plea is hardly heard over the announcers droning on the television. “T-That hurts.”

He offers you little reprieve, a gentle slowing in his pace before he grunts and continues his assault like he’s already forgotten. He says something to you, but you don’t understand it. It’s the same mindless muttering he’s spewed since he’s sunk himself into you, but it’s drowned out by the audio of the game. Someone’s scored another goal—Manchester, judging by Simon’s grunt in approval—and everyone cheers. They cheer and scream and shout, smothering our attempts of garnering mercy.

They’re mocking you. Players run across the field with their fists pumping high in the air, reveling in their accolades, in the love, all while you’re torn apart by a dog on the floor. Skin from bone. Sinew off muscle. It should be one of them here being ravaged by a beast. Bad things aren’t supposed to happen to you. But they do. And they continue to cheer as Johnny gets rougher, and they laugh as nails trace the curves of your body, and they enjoy their drinks and meals as the cameras zoom in—as they enjoy the show in front of them.

Something inside of you snaps as the tip of Johnny’s cock butts against your cervix. It sends a shock throughout your body, synapses jittering, limbs flailing, throat shredding as you cry out. There is nothing you can do to control the way your arms jerk any more than you can control anything else that’s happened to you in the last few weeks. They snap violently before seizing tight against your chest, clinging close to your body as if you can comfort yourself in the midst of such violence.

Johnny stops with a curse as something warm dribbles on your stomach, pooling just above your womb. You grimace as it adheres to your skin, sliding along your epidermis as it dribbles down your hip and onto the floor. It isn’t until you get your eyes to focus that you realize it’s blood. Brilliant coccineus blood, and it’s dripping from Johnny’s nose despite the way he presses his fingers to the bridge.

“Ah, Christ,” he mutters. Johnny slides out of you, wet and slick, while he leans back on his haunches, ichor spewing from his face and onto your torso in a haphazard mess.

It isn’t until Simon’s feet hit the ground that you fully realize what you’ve done. Eyes widening, your hands cover your mouth as you watch the beast loom behind Johnny, gaze fixed on you as he takes in the bloody evidence staining your skin.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to,” you sputter.

No apology reaches Simon’s ears. He stomps around Johnny, knees colliding with the floor as his fingers hook underneath your collar. It takes little effort for him to yank you up, back jumping off the ground as your hands hold onto his wrist for support. Hot breath fans across your face and the stench of booze has your eyes watering. Or maybe you only want to think that, because you don’t want to admit you’re crying out of fear.

“Which hand?” he asks.

Throat growing dry, your head shakes. “What?”

“Which fuckin’ hand did you use to hit him?” Simon repeats, voice cutting. Keeping his fingers firmly locked underneath your collar, he grabs your right hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. It almost feels kind, but it’s falsely saccharine. “C’mon Bonnie, I need to know which hand to break.”

Fat, hot tears seep from your eyes as Johnny groans, still trying to get his nose to stop bleeding. Simon’s head tilts as his grip grows more firm. You feel your tendons shift. Metacarpals strain underneath his strength, and you sob, snotty and pathetic as you shake your head with a pule.

“I’m sorry!” you cry out, a broken record that can do nothing more than apologize.

“Doesn’t answer my question. Think you can hurt my boy ‘n get away with it? I’ll break ‘em both if I have to,” he threatens.

“Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to, I swear,” you babble.

Hardly containing the enmity in his eyes, Simon pauses. His thumb continues to rub across your knuckles, relishing in the way you tremble beneath him, craving to feel the bones splinter and crack.

“Sorry?” he repeats, voice terrifyingly tepid. “Sorry ‘nuff to make it up to ‘im? Gonna lay back down like a good girl then? Gonna let ‘im fuck ya ‘til he’s had his fill? Aren’t you Bonnie?”

Mustering as much feigned enthusiasm as you can, you nod and it seals your fate. Contemplating for a moment, Simon stares at you before he drops your hand and drags you by your collar. You squeak as his hands twist you, contorting and manhandling you until you’re on your hands and knees. The floor digs into your palms, but it gets worse as he pushes your head down until your cheek is kissing the ground.

“Keep that arse up,” he warns. “This is your apology, ‘member?”

Penance. Apology. Punishment. Once Johnny’s able to get the bleeding to stop, he continues. You sob throughout it all. Blood stained hands grip your hips as he pushes himself back into you, and it hurts. Spears you apart. That ache burrows deeper, stretching far into your stomach until you’re sapped of every breath you attempt to inhale.

Pressure builds on the side of your head as Simon’s fat palm keeps you pinned, cheek squished against the floor as your tears soak into the wood. He talks Johnny through it all with a low voice, but you refuse to hear it. Refuse to listen to him praise his favorite dog for tearing you apart.

Atta boy, Johnny. Takin’ that cunt as your own, finally makin’ good use of this naughty fuckin’ bitch, yeah?

He’s faster at this angle. Hits deeper. Unrelenting. Grunts and snarls echo against your back as he leans over you, lips brushing against your spine. You wish he’d bite down. Snap his jaw through your spinal cord and end the suffering they subjugate you to.

“Ah, fuck,” Johnny groans. “I’m gonna come.”

“Go on, then,” Simon urges, bored. “She’s not good for anythin’ else.”

Johnny continues for a little while longer before his hips stutter and cease. Thick cum spills into you with the vibrant pulse of his cock and your body betrays the disgusted feeling inside of you with relief. Bittersweet succor that it’s finally over. He pumps into you a few more pathetic times before holding himself inside of you, refusing to waste a drop as he pants and heaves. There was nothing you could have done to outrun this. Your only reason for being here has been to satisfy this insatiable mutt, and it’s finally over with a strained runt and gentle curse.

It’s over. For now.

Once Johnny’s able to pull himself from the supple softness of your cunt, Simon barks at him to go wait in the bathroom so he can clean him up. The poor boy reaches for you, fingertips brushing against the crux of your ass, but you do not respond. He slinks out of the living room with careful steps, leaving you and Simon alone. The monster’s lips brush against the shell of your ear as he leans down, voice low and quiet as if he’s telling you a secret.

“If you ever hurt my boy like that again, I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body before killin’ you,” he growls. “You understand, Bonnie?”

The muscles in your neck tense as if to nod, but he’s trained you to know better than that by now. “I understand.”

He gives you no response or praise as he stands, towering over you like you’re nothing but a miserable insect, and he does not linger. Heavy footsteps wander off out of the living room, making way to the bathroom before the door shuts closed behind him.

Cheering erupts on the television just as you allow your body to twist and fall sideways, giving your knees the break they so desperately need from the unforgiving ground. Bloody fingerprints stain your body as if calling you out for the hot sin you committed tonight. It crusts and chips like cheap paint. Flaking off to the ground. Bleary eyes focus on the screen just as confetti trickles over the football field like fat flakes of snow. Players sprint across the field, enveloping one another in hugs as camera men storm the field.

The game is over. Man United is triumphant. Water begins to run in the bathroom. You continue to rot on the floor.

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legendofmorons · 3 months ago

Text

Written in the stars (forever on loop) chapter six - Black hole sun

Pairing: pre poly!chain x reader, Wind & reader

Rating: T

Summary: Your group finds a town which gives you the chance to visit the local library, it also gives Four the chance for a peer review and Time the chance to spiral. Dark Link watches from the shadows and you experienced another strange dream. (Aka: Dink kicks down the door to drop some lore and be in love, Four gets a turn to break down, reader ignores evidence, and I need to pay for the chain's therapy.)

Warnings: cursing, grief, plotting, possessiveness (Dink and Dreader/ Onyx)

Other: If I missed anything please let me know

Current curse counter: two :)

Previous masterlist next

-------

The group of you all find the next town the evening after your talk with Legend. It's a small thing by your standards but a large town by hylian standards. Watching most of the group get dragged away on side quests to help the residents within the first ten minutes isn't a surprise.

Time, Wind, and you are the only ones not dragged into work, and of course, Epona is with you.

You look around, able to read everything despite it being in hylian and not any language you remember learning. This goes promptly in the 'examine after your the boys leave' pile. This pile is always growing lately. It could probably build a fairly good giant sand castle at this point.

Wind stands on your other side, doing something to a small trinket of some sort in his hand.

"Are you going to be okay here?" Time asks you stiffly.

You nod, "I should be. Are you going to be okay on the road?"

Time gives you a strained smile, as if he's going through the motions. "We'll be fine. We've faced worse."

"That dosen’t mean it's easy, but I hope you're all able to go home soon," you say, trying your best to convey sympathy.

"Thank you. I hope you make it home soon too." Time says.

He dosen’t sound right. Something about the cadence of his words is wrong. Very wrong.

You can't name it, but it makes your brain scream.

It makes you want to wrap him up in a hug. It makes you want to ask him if he's hurt. You don't do either.

Wind has hisntounge poking out when you glance ovedthis time. At least he seems okay.

"I should probably try to do that, I don't want to be on buzzfeed unsolved." You say with a half shrug.

"I - have no idea what that is." Time frowns.

"It's a buzz feed series - It's like a video show about unsolved things." You try to explain, quickly realizing that you have to explain what a video is.

"Video?" Wind asks, finally piping up from where he's been fiddling with something in his hand.

"Like a moving picture with sound."

"That seems strange." Time says.

You have to bite back the laugh.

The man who can time travel, summon storms, summon a horse, and heal with a song thinks a moving picture sounds strange? The world of Zelda is bizzare.

Nope, we will examine that 'world of Zelda' bit later.

"There's a lot about my world that is probably strange to you," you offer.

"Perhaps," Time says.

"No, definitely. I think if you saw what light pollution has done to the night sky, you'd riot," You smile a little at the thought.

Time turns his gaze to you, heavy as ever. "What is light pollution?"

"Too much light blocks out the stars."

"How strange." Time says.

"That sounds made up," Wind scoffs.

You shrug, "That's how it's always been."

"Your world sounds wild," Wind laughs.

"You would love how to train your dragon, sailor," you grin, fairly confident in the idea.

"Dragons?" Wind frowns, looking somewhere between intrigued and disgusted.

Time also seems less than pleased. "Dragons are not easily trained."

"It's - like a video story."

"How odd. Tell me, does your world have a hero?" Time asks.

You aren't sure how to answer that. There's so many answers and viewpoints.

Time and Wind both watch you.

Time has an exhaustion you can't understand. There's a grief that you only ever see turned on you that's deeper than the grief he wears at all times.

Wind seems curious, with bright eyes and rapt attention.

"Sort of... There's no tri-force or anything like that back home. But heroes exist."

"No tri force?" Wind asks.

"Only in the stories." You say.

"Stories." Time muses.

"Is there a ganon?" Wind asks.

"Only in stories."

"Count yourself lucky." Time says.

Traveling with them, you definitely find yourself greatful that there's no Ganon nack home.

"I do." You say honestly. "Ganon is a real piece of work."

"He is." Time nods.

Wind laughs. "Sword through the head works wonders."

You snort, recalling that particular moment in the game - examine that later. "I'm sure."

"What's going on with you and Legend he went from being a major fucking asshole to stiff but friendly.... or friendly for him," Wind wonders to you.

"Languagyou. Time hisses.

"I'm a pirate!"

"We talked... He apologized. It's not perfect but he's obviously stopped being an asshole." You shrug.

"I'm glad. He was being rather rude," Time says.

You have to ignore the urge to roll your eyes. Time hasn't been too much better. He just hasn't been hostile.

The man has been a silent weight that's stiff and formal and distant.

"You've all been asses," Wind rolls his eyes.

You bite your cheek. At least Wind is on your side.

"Sailor." Time says with a world-weary sigh that might as well start in his toes.

"It's fine, Wind," you say quickly, not wanting to be the cause of any issues.

Wind rolls his eyes again. "You shouldn't let people treat you bad."

"Wind," you sigh, "It's okay. Time hasn't been bad to me."

"Whatever." The teen scoffs.

Time sighs, slow and heavy. "We'll talk later, Wind. (Y/n), I apologize if I have treated you poorly."

"It's okay. I think I'm going to go check out the library, I'll see you guys at dinner?" You ask.

"Of course." Time says.

You detach from the two heroes and make your way to the library, hoping to get some sort of answer about anything. Maybe they have something to explain the portals, or the dreams, or how you are in a video game world.

Alright, again, we aren't examining that until after the boys leave.

You smile at the librarian and go to the shelves to see what you can find.

There isn't anything too promising, but you find a book titled 'tales of heroes: a children's story collection'. There's that curiosity that wells up from where ever it is the dreams and half memories originate from.

You take out the book and go to sit at a table alone.

It's the introduction that makes your brain pause, something telling you that the words are important. That the words hold answers.

You just don't understand how yet...

' When you read the stories ahead, I caution you that they are centuries old and also aimed at children, but they stay true to the spirit. When you read these stories, you will see the soulmate of the hero never lives long, but how lucky is it to have a soulmate who reincarnates with you every time?

They say that the shadow version of the hero was created with a shadow version of the soulmate.

These stories are an ode to our heroes, princesses, and everyone else who has ever helped save our world. When you read them, may you find your own courage to pursue whatever you desire. '

Wow.

Okay.

First of all, the fact that the stories are passed down is good, your the heroes deserve that and more.

Secondly, the soulmate thing is new. You've played the games, read the lore, and seen playthroughs... but this is the first time you've ever heard of a recurring soulmate.

It dosen’t sound like the princesses are the soulmate either...

Since when does Link have a soulmate?

Maybe you can find more about this?

Is it rude to go looking?

Why does the soulmate never live long?

If it's common knowledge and in a children's book.... does it cross a line to learn more?

In theory, you won't see the boys again after they leave anyway... and you have always had a hard time ignoring your own curiosity....

You shut the book before standing to go see if you can find anything else about this supposed soulmate to the hero.

You're able to find quite a few things, especially after checking the 'triforce' section. You sit yourself down and start wading through everything you can.

' In the ever reincarnating cycle that is the triforce wielders, there is a soulmate to the hero that joins them every lifetime. Many believe that Ganon or whoever is following Demise targets the soulmate every time.

There is no proof of whether the soulmate truly dies early or simply steps out of the public light each time, and the further back in history, the more muddy the details get.

Many believe the soulmate is a late add-on to the already muddied stories of barely remembered heroes.

The most frequent account of the soulmate regards them as being named (Y/n), and they are often depicted as kind and loyal to the hero. '

Woah. Okay. Apparently, you have the same name as this soulmate. That's weird.

That... might explain the reaction the chain had to your name when you met, too.

If this is real, you think it's better that the media in your world never mentioned the soulmate... fans get a little strange sometimes.

You keep reading, there's so many questions you have now, but frustratingly few answers.

Any answers you do manage to find are either repeated everywhere or incredibly vauge. Sometimes both.

Apparently, most of this was passed down orally.

-------

After dinner, Time finds himself pacing in his room, mind entirely too loud. He is so - Time is tired of everything. All he wants is his lover. All he wants is his dearest.

Here he is, though, leading a group of heroes to hunt after an enemy he thought slain while juggling grief and duty.

Oh, it isn't your fault.

Time knows that.

But your presence is digging up a loss he thought he was over.

(How could he ever actually be over it? He spent a year of time loops trying to change their fate. He never ceased to fail...)

You are the best and worst ghost he's ever seen. You sound and act like his lost love, and yet you are not them.

If you were... You'd have thrown yourself into his arms when you saw him.

Though... his lover never did see him this old... did they? They didn't live much past twenty...

You aren't them, though. You would have recognized him by now.

You are the closest to them he will ever get now.

He groans lowly, pulling his hands down his face.

Hiding and pacing aren't going to handle his problems. He should really be checking on you and making sure you have enough gear to be okay on your own for a while.

He's a hero. He's a leader.

He already failed you when he let you get sent away with Epona.

You got ambushed all alone!

He was glad he found you and that you were still standing... but he still failed you.

Failure is not a luxury he can afford, it hasn't been since her was a boy the first time.

Time takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders. He has a responsibility to you as a hero to make sure you are going to be okay.

He leaves his room, going towards where he can hear Wind leading a sea shanty.

He hopes that you are near the sailor as you often are.

You prove him right, laughing next to Wind as he struts around on a table, leading the tavern in a sea shanty about drunken sailors.

Your laugh is the best and worst sound he's faced in a while.

He knows he should move, but he can't make himself.

Here, without you looking at him like a man you barely know, he can pretend that you're his lost lover.

Time lets himself pretend a moment that you're his Beloved.

He lets himself pretend they are here on this adventure with him, laughing as they cheer on the youngest of the group. Smiling as they clap along to a beat.

He lets himself pretend that they just haven't noticed him yet, and when they do, they'll run to him.

Time is a fool, a fact he knows all too well.

When you see him, your smile loses some of its brilliance. You offer a weak little wave to him.

Time waves back, heart cracking further still. He works his jaw to keep from letting his grief show. (He fails.)

He turns around and leaves because he can't look at you again without breaking. He will always be that scared little boy who had to rewind time over and over and over to finally save a town.

Time will always fall short, and others will always pay the price.

He supposes all he can do is try even harder next time.

Maybe his Beloved can forgive him for all his mistakes.

Maybe he can find a way to make up for everything.

-------

Dark sits in the shadows of the forest around the town, his darling lamb - Onyx - to his right. He holds their hand in his own, idily swiping his thumb across the back of their hand.

He allows himself to bask in the shadow and in the presence of his darling lamb. How he has missed them, the years without them have been nothing but torture.

Their place at his side being filled is a soothing balm to his festering soul.

He can't stop marveling at the ethereal beauty that is his darling lamb.

"Once your goody two shoes counter part is left behind, we can focus on tearing the heroes apart," Dark says with a sharp smile.

Onyx gives a hum, leaning their head against his shoulder. "Thank Demise, the heroes have been so obnoxious."

"I'm sure, being stuck in (Y/n)'s shadow until you were strong enough to move, you saw far more than I."

"I'm still mad about that," They say as they squeeze his hand.

It isn't quite mean, but it's tighter than usual. Perhaps a warning, perhaps only checking to be sure he is real.

"I know," he assures as he returns their squeeze.

The solid shadowy flesh in his grasp is cool to the touch and a perfect reassurance it's all real. He's had to many dreams of Onyx only to wake alone.

He both loves and hates those dreams.

"I meant what I said. If you ever send me away like that again, I will stay gone. Don't you ever fucking do that to me again," Onyx turns to give him a dirty look even as they lean against him.

The spite and dark promise in their voice is a beautiful steel blade that he will never tire of witnessing them wield.

How lucky he is to be given such warnings from his darling lamb. They never warn others, preferring the satisfaction of surprising others with their vengeful plans.

Dark smiles softer, the way he only does for them. "You won't get away from me again."

"Good. Being in that magicless realm was horrible."

"I know." Dark sighs, moving to press a kiss to their head. "I know, my darling lamb."

Onyx sighs heavily, "You're still a fucking asshole for sending me to that stupid realm."

"I won't do it again," He says.

He dosen’t apologize, he probably never will. He does know that he won't do it again, not when it weakened his sweetheart so much.

But he can't make himself be sorry for attempting to save them.

"Good." They say as they scoot a little closer.

"We need to get the heroes away from (Y/n), then I think we shall overwhelm the men with a few gleeocks," Dark muses, raising their hands up to press a kiss to the back of his darling lamb's hand.

Onyx laughs, delight drips from the sound. "Electric?"

"Of course."

"Good. They deserve it, they have no idea that their soulmate is right here and they're being fucking dicks."

"I don't doubt it."

"Thank Demise you saved them from those Lizafos."

Dark huffs, using his free hand to run through his hair. "Sending their soulmate away on a horse without the ability to fight atop a horse was reckless and incredibly poor planning."

Onyx laugh again, darker and meaner. Eyes crinkling with mirth they say, "They are the bumbling heroes."

He snorts, squeezing their hand in his once. "I wouldn't care if your life were not on the line too, darling lamb."

"You're a true saint, Dark," They roll their eyes, squeezing his hand back anyway.

"Only for you."

They hum once, low and pleased. "Good, I don't share."

"Neither do I."

They turn their silver eyes up to him, shadowy form flickering a little in the gentle breeze. They still haven't leveled out their magic levels, but they are better than when they arrived yesterday.

They offer him a sharp, borderline, vicious smile. As beautiful as it is deadly. "My strong man. Shall we arrange those gleeocks?"

Dark feels his chest swelling with pride and affection like flowers in the damnable season of spring. "Anything you want, my darling lamb, you shall have."

"And if I want your heart?" They ask sweetly, as if they don't already know.

"I shall serve it to you on a platter," He informs sincerely, giving them a soft look that is only ever for them.

They preen at that, moving to press a kiss to his cheek. "I think I prefer you alive over physically possessing what is already Mine."

"How generous."

Onyx scoffs, "Only for My beloved viper."

Dark hums, letting himself smile at them. He has never much enjoyed being owned. He is nothing but a pet to Demise some days... but he dosen’t mind belonging to them.

Why should he?

Onyx is His. They are his to cherish and protect through Any Means Necessary.

What is love if not reciprocation of all you are gifted? What is love, if not the willingness to do what you need to even when it hurts?

"Oh, my darling lamb, I shall not waste my time with you. Perhaps we will get a longer go around."

"I'm not so sure... That pirate already really likes (Y/n). The curse very well may already be tripped."

"That blasted curse! Of course, the heroes manage to trip it."

Onyx hums, sitting up and turning to fully face Dark. "We'll figure it out."

"Once we take down the heroes, Demise will break that damnable curse. Your life force will no longer be tied to the Hero's soulmate's. Never again will you face death," Dark declares with a grandeur he must have learned from Demise.

His lover just laughs a little, softer with him. They are always softer with him. "I look forward to eternity with you."

"And I with you."

Onyx leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips before pulling away with a vicious smile. "Let's finish this."

Dark returns their smile, wondering how he got so lucky to have such a spiteful sweetheart. "I think I like that plan."

"Good."

-------

Four finds himself alone finally in the night as he settles near the town garden. He lets the night air flit about as he finally lets out a deep, slow sigh that has his shoulders dropping.

His mind is still too loud. The colors all have their own thoughts, but being alone is far better than he expected.

He groans as he stands by the garden, looking up at the sky.

Splitting will help the headache, at least...

Maybe it will help the emotions, too.

He straightens up and holds his sword up to the sky.

With a flash of light, Four is split into his colors, and the headache of a week is gone.

"This is bullshit!" Blue hisses as he kicks the ground with a glare.

Green sighs heavily, "Blue, we can't control these things."

"I know this is hard, but we got (Y/n) to a town, and they'll be safe here," Red chimes.

Red offers a weak smile, as if trying to convince himself as well as the others.

Blue groans loudly, dropping his head back even as he stands. "So? The only good thing is we're leaving them behind."

Blue!" Green hisses.

Vio sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No wonder I have to take control around them."

"Be nice," Green chides with a heavy tone.

Red sighs, "Guys, we've already gotten through the hard part!"

Blue rolls his eyes and shoots a glare to the optimist. "How do you want to go on knowing there's a perfect copy of them?"

"What choice do we have?" Vio challenges as he raises one brow.

He would like to know. Ehst other option is there but to suck it up and keep going?

"I don't know!" Blue scoffs, throwing his hands up.

"Guys, please," Green sighs.

"We have to figure something out. We can't keep going the way we have been," Vio crosses his arms.

Red bites his lip, raking his brain for some sort of helpful idea. Repression isn't working, obviously, but what else is there?

Perhaps there's crying?

There is also sleeping until things suck less, but that's not sustainable.

"Why don't we talk about it?" Green suggests.

"Yeah!" Red agrees immediately.

The relief that floods Red at not having to offer a solution is immediate, which makes his throat feel thick anyway.

"You want to talk about it?" Blue scoffs and rolls his eyes, "I'll fucking talk about it."

"Go for it," Vio motions to the ground with one hand while watching the other.

Blue gives a dirty glare. "Our soulmate is fucking dead and there's a perfect copy who isn't them. I miss our soulmate, Vio. I really fucking miss them and I am so fucking mad that they aren't actually here!"

Red frowns, hugging himself. "Blue, we all miss them."

"Yeah, I know. But it's like our soulmate is right there! But they fucking aren't! They're still gone and this is just another fuck you from the goddesses!" Blue snarls as he balls his fists up and starts to shake.

Green winces, realizing just how much they've actually been repressing.

If Blue is this worked up... it's no good.

That can only mean they are even worse off than they thought.

"You can't be mad at (Y/n)... They didn't do anything wrong," Red says with a sigh.

"I'm not mad at them! I'm mad that they're fucking with our heads because we're too fucking stupid to stop missing someone!" Blue crosses his arms again, nails digging into his arms

Green sets a hand on his brother's shoulder, trying to will something softer to the other. All he wants is to help Blue...

Vio sighs. "So we should get it all out there then? I am barely holding on because the resemblance to our angel is too much to bear."

"You're telling me," Blue huffs, letting his hands loosen against his arms.

Red sighs, "I can't help hoping that it's them somehow..."

"I miss them so much," Green breathes out.

Blue clenches his jaw for a moment. Then he sighs heavily. "I would do anything to see them one more time... What would they even say to us? They passed before - before we ever touched the four sword."

"Do not insult them by insinuating they would turn on us," Vio warns in a low hiss.

Green frowns, "I'm sure that's not what Blue means."

"We don't know what they would do!" Blue scoffs.

"I think... I think we're looking at this wrong," Red says as he looks at each of his brothers.

"Oh?" Vio prompts.

"Maybe... instead of being upset that (Y/n) isn't our soulmate like we want we should focus on the fact that someone so much like our angel is living a life away from all the danger that follows us," Red suggests.

"That's... not the worst idea we've had," Vio hums, allowing himself to sit with the idea.

Blue just glares at the ground, kicking a small group of pebbles away from himself. All he wants is his angel here. Apparently, that's too much to ask.

Green bites his lip before he sighs. "That's probably a better solution than what we've been doing."

"We can try it," Vio reasons.

"I think we should," Green offers a weak smile.

Red smiles back, "Okay."

"Blue?" Green prompts.

Blue sighs heavily, looking up to the stars. "I guess."

--------

You allow yourself to bask in the forge, soaking up the heat after the cold air outside thanks to winter. Watching your boyfriend at work is interesting as ever. His blacksmith work is something he enjoys.

Watching his muscles flex is always a treat, too. Your sweet boy works so hard.

"Are you sure you don't mind staying until I'm done? I don't mind if you want to go home." Link calls, turning to look at you during a break in his work.

You shake your head with a smile, "I'm sure, Link. I like to be around you."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

Link flashes you a smile over his shoulder, hair falling a little out of his headband. His blue eyes all but sparkle.

You let yourself settle into the chair you take up.

You listen to him work, muttering to himself as he hammers out the metal into whatever form he needs it to be.

It's hot in the forge, but you expect that.

Existing within the same space as Link is relaxing, soothing to your heart.

It's nice, being able to watch him working at his craft. He's good at it. Everything Hes ever given you from his work table has been amazing.

You absolutely adore the damascus steel dagger he gifted you for your last birthday.

Minutes and hours feel the same as you bask in the atmosphere.

It's not until your stomach growls that you give in to the fact you should really go make dinner.

You stand, stretching your arms above your head before you call out to Link. "I'm going to start dinner."

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, flashing a smile. "Thank you, angel."

"Of course."

You exit the forge and go into the house to start dinner.

It's been a good day.

You enter the kitchen humming -

You bolt up in bed, head spinning like a broken carousel.

What on earth was that?

--------

After one last breakfast made by Wild, you stand at the edge of town with the group of heroes you've been traveling with.

This is it.

The boys will leave and you will stay.

For reasons you doubt you could name at sword point you crave to follow them despite all danger and strange attitude. Despite the video game thing, your dreams, and all safety, you want more than anything to go with them.

You shove that into a far away box in your mind.

"I guess this is it," you say with a weak smile.

"You promise you'll send the letter for me?" Wind asks.

You nod, "Of course I will, sailor."

"And you'll write me?"

"If you want me to."

Wind hums, then snaps his fingers. "Hold on, I have something for you!"

"You don't have to do anything for me, I'm just grateful to have your friendship," you counter quickly.

Wind rolls his eyes.

The others stand behind him, all looking somewhere away from you except Legend, who just stares at you with a strange, almost seasick look.

At least you won't have to deal with all the tension.

Wind pulls something out of his bag with a triumphant grin. "Aha! Here, I wanted you to have this. It can be a good luck charm for you."

You smile a little, looking at the hand he holds out and finding a small seagull figurine carved out of a dark wood. It's small enough to fit in Wind's palm and your own as well.

"Really?" You ask.

Wind nods. "Of course! You obviously need it. You fell out of the sky."

You laugh, "I did. Thank you."

You take the small figurine and smile at the boy.

Wind grins up at you, "You better write me."

"I will. Don'tcause too much trouble."

"Good, and I don't cause trouble!" Wind grins before he hugs you tightly around your middle.

You smile as you hug the boy back.

When Wind steps out of your arms, Legend steps up to you, holding something behind his back. He gives you a straining smile.

"Hey, I have something for you too." The veteran says.

You smile a little at him, "You really don't have to do that."

"Consider it an apology for being an asshole?" He offers after a moment, voice half playful.

There's a choking sound from someone in the group behind him.

You snort a little. "You already apologized."

Legend rolls his eyes, "Then call it me, taking a step to do better by you."

The words are easy enough, but there's something weighty in his gaze and tone.

His eyes are like lavender, and for a second, you swear you can remember them lightning up just for you.

You hum once, considering. "Alright."

Legend pulls his hand out from behind his back and holds out a red health potion. "This is for you."

You gasp, well aware that the potion isn't cheap to obtain or to make. "Legend! Are you serious?!"

He gives a nod, "I am."

"You're sure that for me? Those aren't cheap."

He rolls his eyes this time, "Yes, I'm sure it's for you, trinket."

Your brain short circuits.

Trinket?

("It's for you, trinket," a man with lavender eyes smiles as he presses your favorite candy into your hand.)

You smile as best you can. "Thank you, Li-egend."

You catch yourself halfway through his name, but hopefully, no one notices or calls you on it.

Legend presses the potion into your hand, "Try not to die, okay?"

You laugh, "You try not to die too."

He frowns, looking you over.

Whatever he was thinking seems to pass, he gives you a lazy smirk. "Take care of yourself."

"I will." You say.

You put the potion and the little wooden seagull into your bag.

Legend steps back, falling into the group.

No one else comes forward, not even Sky.

Sky looks rough, red eyes and staring at the nearest tree...

Maybe it was a bad night for him?

"Well, I 'spose this is it... Take care of yourself." Twilight says.

You smile, "I will."

Epona walks up to you, nudging your shoulder.

You laugh, patting her neck, "You be good, sweetheart."

Epona knickers a little, nipping your shirt before she backs up, trying to pull you with her.

You stumble but catch yourself, "Epona hey, I'm staying here."

"Damn." Wind sighs.

"Language." Time calls.

Twilight grabs Epona's reigns, "I'm sorry she dosen’t usually act like this."

"It's okay, at least she isn't being mean," you assure as you gently pull your shirt from her.

You step back again, readjusting your top.

"Don't be a stranger." Time says to you, stepping forward to put a hand on your shoulder.

You look at him, trying one last time to make sense of the man. "Okay."

The man squeezes your shoulder, nodding once before he steps back.

"Remember you have a shield for a reason. Okay?" Warriors asks as he looks at you with a pinched expression.

Seriously, what is it about you that upsets them all so much? Is it their soulmate? Maybe it's your name.

That makes sense.

They just miss their soulmate. Too bad you can't help them.

You nod, "I definitely will."

"Keep your weapons sharp," Four chimes in helpfully.

"Stay safe," Hyrule says with a weak smile.

Wild steps to the front of your group, offering a fairly convincing smile. "Try to have some fun too."

"Good luck," Sky tells you absently.

You smile a little sad this time. "You too."

"Stay outta trouble if you can," Twilight says.

That's the last thing any of them seem to need. All of them turning and leaving, though Wind waves to you as he leaves, and Epona trails behind.

Legend shoots you a smirk as he leaves at least.

You wave them off and wait until you can barely see them before you turn to go back to town.

Everything is so strange...

You sit yourself on the edge of the town square fountain, trying to figure out what you do now.

Sighing, you look towards the library again. Maybe you could go read more?

There's a low meow that makes your attention jerk to the right - and holy fuck that's a panther!

What the fuck?!

The heroes leave and now the animals decide to attack?!

The panther stalks towards you, tail swishing slowly.

You can't remember if you're supposed to get big or small. Running seems bad though...

You won't out run a panther probably...

In a moment of desperation you take a deep breath and decide to try taking your way out if this one.

"Heeeeey, pretty kitty," you manage in a mostly steady croon.

The animal keeps stalking until it's a foot away from you.

It stares at you with an intensity that's frankly a little terrifying.

Spooky.

That's not really enough of a descriptor but it's what your brain has.

"Who's a good kitty?" You ask.

The panther sits down, yawning at you.

Wow that cat has giant, pointy teeth.

"You're a good kitty! Look at you, not attacking, such a good panther," You say in what is probably terror.

The large cat stretches it's front paws our until it's laying down, paws two whole inches from your boots.

Well... they aren't attacking. That's good! You like not being attacked by large ambush predators!

It's still fairly spooky to be so close to the animal... but if they aren't attacking maybe they'll let you try to touch them?

There's the animal loving part of you that starts to awaken now that you aren't positive you're going to be attacked.

You move so you are crouching, holding your hand out to the panther.

The animal sniffs your hand carefully, then immediately nudges your hand with it's nose as it shuffles closer.

Well fuck.

Okay.

Are you the animal whisperer now? First Epona, now this panther?

There are probably worse things to be.

You cautiously try to gently scratch their chin, almost preening when they lift their head to allow you better access.

Smiling, you wonder if you'll see them around more?

Maybe you can call them Spooky, the previous descriptor seems a nice.

Forget the library, you're going to soak up this previously impossible experience.

As you move to use both hands to dole out gentle scritches Spooky begins to purr.

A low rumble that makes you want to giggle.

Maybe it won't be so bad here.

-------

Taglist:@danyzta @vrsin @silver-the-pendejo @tulip-does-stuff @justanotherweeb666 @yourlocaltreesimp @blueberrysungie @victoryssong23 @shu-leepy @sleepifonlyigoti @sour-patch-delight @phlying-squirrel @pumpkincitrus

#misty writes #linked universe x reader #lu written in the stars (forever on loop) au #lu written in the stars au #written in the stars au

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queenendless · 3 months ago

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TWISTED DEVIL 😈

A/n: Prologue to a potential AU series, mini or otherwise.

May edit this into a masterlist if I write enough fics about this. So sorry about this short piece. Future oneshot parts may be just as short. Wanna write twst x reader fics based off the dorm songs being released lately.

I honestly am having Solo Leveing writers block/burnout. So I need to write other stuff. Sorry about those that are waiting for those Jinwoo fics but I need a break.

CW: GN!human demon hybrid Reader. Yandere esque vibes. One-shot esque AU series. MAJOR SPOILERS INVOLVED!

NO REPOSTING, PLAGIARIZING, TRANSLATING, AI USAGE OR BOT/AGELESS BLOGS ALLOWED. Reblogs, likes and follows are appreciated.

You are the sole child of Chernabog; the King of Bald Mountain, Controller of Demons.

Your birth alone brought about waves of fears

upon the world. The religious naysayers that already feared him hunted you down.

So you and your mother went into hiding, away from the loonies of that variety as well as those that desired to use you for their self-serving machinations.

Because you're half demon, you age much more slowly than mortals. Which was why when your mother was on her death bed that night, you were physically a teenager but your biological age was nearly a century old. The moment she passed away, you already felt your father reaching out through your infernal bond.

Your dormant monster side is only brought forth amidst emergencies or such intense emotions. And thus, your true nature was suppressed from the unaware public masses. Hiding away in seclusion, just you and her, until it was only you in that now lonely cottage.

Yet as you pictured his imposing presence in the far off distance on that eerie foggy night, the double horse black carriage carrying the coffin came out of left field and struck you head on.

The moment you awaken from the coffin at your orientation ceremony at Night Raven College results in your fellow freshmen and senpai tensing up at your already strong magical presence.

Despite your soft features and demure presence, the aura of corruption hung over you. Your eyes glinted with the promise of mystery.

They're all, initially, intimidated by you. Although these prideful mages in training wouldn't let their true faces nor feelings show that much. Some more so than others …

Despite that, your soul didn't align with the other dorms, despite your magical potential. Much like the prefect — prefects actually. There's a few of them.

And so, you were placed in Ramshackle Dorm with them and their dire beast companion Grim.

The ghostly residents flocked to you immediately, retaining your father's ability of attracting the spiritual variety.

Preferring this over being on your own for the first time in your existence or even staying with the literal embodiment of evil himself, you chose to give this arcane boarding school a chance.

And so, you, Y/n L/n, became a freshman at NRC.

Expanding your mind and knowledge about this new world that you were brought into on your first year here.

Becoming close with your fellow schoolmates, mending the scar left upon your beastly heart, leaving your own mark on them, bringing forth their deepest darkest desires.

You had yet to show any of them your suppressed nature, your true form, horrified at the potential cataclysmic chain reaction that would be set off should the time ever come. Until then, you would appreciate your chaotically enjoyable school life for as long as it lasts.

Ah yes, indeed, you fell in love with the world of Twisted Wonderland. For your precious mages existed in it, side by side with you.

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sweeneydino · 4 months ago

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can you pleaas give us random facts about woh au? I really love it i can hear you (will read you talking to be more correct) all day long! But I don’t have and certain things to ask

I will eat anything (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

Of course ^^

This might be long…

Not really accurately shown here, but their general heights are: Weapon! Raph(Red)8 ft. , Don(Purple) and Leon(Blue) 7ft. , Mikey(Orange) 5”7 and April(Yellow) 5”4. Their height varies a-lot so don’t mind it much :)

Due to their very flashy and quite destructive arrival, the Hamato Clan was created centuries earlier. The original Foot is still older, and their rivalry is still bloody.

The weapons got a-lot of nicknames over the years, but for some reason, it always loops around to their colors.

While their surroundings differ for each individual, their realms always consist of a cherry blossom tree and Japanese bellflower.

Donatello and Michelangelo sneak out alone a lot, often either coming back with scrap or covered in paint stains.

Their visits happen during meditation or sleep.

Michelangelo learns how to cook a lot quicker, especially after the incident™️…. He is much more ready to bounce, hop, and swing around with his chains. He CANNOT stand still, especially after mystic discharges.

Quite often, he picks up his brothers without thinking. He is also more likely to act without thinking(wow this place is really quiet, let's scream-)

Donatello watches a lot of melodramas and often paints his weapon a bright purple despite his brothers teases. He always has his weapon near him at all times and talks out loud more than his brothers, rivaled by only Mikey.

He was the first to have a conversation with his weapon.

His sass is immeasurable, but his social skills are 0.

He always has a project in the works, and it's always more grander than the last.

Yes, he might have committed a few crimes, but if there is a purple fuzz blocking the view of the cameras, clearly, it didn't happen.

Leonardo has gained an annoying habit of leaning on his sword and often leans too far and falls. He also experiences insomnia after his portals activate and hates being alone in the dark.

April and Donnie start out as friends. I.e I have been infected by this beautiful post .

Apriltello/Capriltello/Jonatello/Capril or any other ships will not be the main focus, dw. Also, leo and karai will not have that whole… situation. Only friendship to bffs to siblings, thanks to the fruity sword 👍

Leonardo and Raphael fight less often, but when they do, it gets quite messy. Doesn’t help they have a hard time opening up.

Fear his puns.

Leo is very spiritually inclined and is usually sleepy, sometimes falling asleep during katas. He gets the most visits because of this. Not in season 3 tho-

He has to clean his sword(s). Daily.

Raphael still paints and has a giant collection of teddy bears. When Michelangelo asks him why he has many teddy bears, he is often pelted by a few. It doesn’t seem like he made them for himself.

Raphael suffers from chronic brothers-climbing‐on-his-shell syndrome. Literally. There is no brick left unsmashed when he gets into a fight, and at least on bone must be cracked. Why? Stress release.

Strangely, after activating his mystics, Spike gets a bit hissy for a while. And he stinks.

He shows a bit more affection to his brothers, mostly Mikey, but only hugs.

She hangs around much more often in the lair because of a familiar pull. She's a sucker for romances, and all the shows the turtles show her. Her favorite is, of course, SRMFF(Super Robo Mecha Force Five!)

Similar to canon, April hates being belittled and her family being in distressed. After her dad is mutated, she does try to take some time away from her friends. Including her weapon, much to their chagrin.

Once she starts training, April becomes an adrenaline junkie. Sometimes, she invites one of the boys to join her, albeit with a disguise. Leo and Raph often try to avoid those outings.

She's a little introverted, but becomes more open towards others when she meets the turtles. Especially when she gains her weapon.

Due to her being psychic, it's a lot easier for her to discover a new friend, with a few... setbacks, of course.

Yoshi has seen the weapons outside of their weapons. So has Saki.

Splinter is a bit more laid-back, not enough to not be extremely worried every time his kids come home with bruises, but enough that it's easier to convince him they may go topside. Maybe because he too, likes the TV.

After he uses his own mystics, he usually disappears to the dojo. Snores always follow

When the turtles leave Splinter with their weapons, either from being grounded, a lesson, or end of training pre-episode 1, he usually looks annoyed, amused, or tired. And it's not because of his kids.

Splinter is able to wield their mystic weapons masterfully, but their ninpo ones are a different story.

Like always, some of these might be different in the future but I think I got it right for now ùvú

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #art #rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #crossover #tmnt crossover #tmnt 2012 #vinny asks #asks #woh #woh au #weapons of hamato au #weapons of hamato #some stuff was saved for later #others were put here for impending dread #i dont make the rules #sketch #eyestrain

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davey-the-disturbed · 3 months ago

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A dabble in Super Power Retention

Been planning my Super Hero whump story for a bit, and kept thinking about different ways to block/control different powers…

thought you weirdos might like these >:)

Someone with siren-like powers, whose source is their voice: gag them! Whenever they aren’t training or fighting for you, make them wear a mouthpiece that blocks their voice. They won’t be able to talk, but they’re a weapon, what more is there to be said??

Someone who can fly: WEIGH THEM DOWN. metal shoes that they have to drag around. Chains on their wrists attached to the floor or a heavy metal ball. This is one of my favs.

Someone whose power comes from their mind (telekinesis, telepathy, mind control): DRUG THEM. Make them drowsy, their mind too foggy to understand what’s happening. Eyes half closed, stumbling as they’re led somewhere, limbs heavy and feet dragging. Whenever their eyes begin to brighten, hold the mask up to their face until they take a deeeep breath and relax once more. (or give them another shot or pill if that’s your thing) Whatever you do, don’t let them think clearly. They’re dangerous when they can.

Don’t have a lot today but any powers you wanna hear about just comment ;)

@sunglowfi asked about someone with electrical powers! i’m not very knowledgeable about this subject, but i propose: hook them back up to themselves. Wires attached to them (either surgically to their spine or topically to their skin) that direct any electrical current right back into them! If they even attempt to use their power, they’ll get a painful shock. OR, if they are immune to any type of shock as a result of their ability: A device that circles their wrists or neck or both, that tightens when it senses electricity. The panic from their first time trying to escape, having their circulation or air cut off for a moment. I wasn’t sure about this one but it’s kinda growing on me!

#whump #super hero whump #super power whump #whump prompt #whump ideas #whump inspiration #whump tropes #whump writing #superhero #hero

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lunajay33 · 4 months ago

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Searching for You Part.3

•🪽🧺🧟‍♀️•

Summary: Reader and Daryl have been together since you were teens, you have crazy news for him but then the world falls apart and your searching for him every second

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

Warning: Pregnant

Part.2

•Masterlist•

Its been two months since the attack in the farm, separating me from the love of my life, from the people I grew to call my close friends, even Andrea left me alone but thankfully I was able to escape the hoard and found a near by farm house that still had some food left, I packed what I could, blankets, clothes, water and food and took a truck, the truck didn’t last long till it ran out of gas and I was left to walk on foot, now 7 months pregnant everyday was was a struggle just praying I’d find Daryl in time to give birth

After lots of alone time thinking I’ve decided that if my little Dixon is a girl I’m going to name her Lilah it seems fitting, Lilah Dixon

Winter came and it was harder with the scarce food supplies, I came across a house with a random dog food can smashed against a wall and some owl feathers scattered across the floor, the house was cleaned of any food that could’ve been there, I found a big enough coat that fit around my belly that would help me keep warm

Months went by and now any second I’m waiting for my water to break adding more stress, but atleast the snow was now melting, walking along train tracks like Daryl always taught me to do I found a prison, for some reason I felt a pull and I decide to check it out, maybe they still have an emergency food supply

I drag my feet exhausted, covered in walker blood and dirt and just my luck there’s a chain around the gate and post, I sigh resting my head against the chain link

“Please god I know I don’t pray much but please just this once give me a break” at that moment the door to the watch tower just behind the gate opens and out comes a darker skinned beautiful woman with a sword at the ready

“Please help me I’m about to pop any day and I just don’t want to be alone” I say desperate as my voice waivers

She lowers her katana and smiles as she undoes the chain and lets me in before looking it behind me

“Thank you so much, is it just you here?” I ask as we walk up to the prison

“No there was a group here before me, secured the place and have been doing pretty well”

“Seems we both got lucky, I won’t be in your hair for long I just need some food and time to have my baby and I’ll be on my way, back to finding my husband”

“We’ve got a guy here, goes out everyday looking for his wife, poor guy” as we get close to the prison I see a truck, a mini van and…….motorcycle, I’d notice that motorcycle anywhere, I wobble over to it tracing my hand over it

“Who owns this” I cry looking back at her

“His name is Daryl” she says confused

“Take me to him NOW” I suck in a breath and she shows me inside the cell block, and I see Maggie, Beth, Rick Carl sat around a table I almost fall to me knees

“Y/n?” Maggie said as she got up and came and gave me a hug

The others circling around with bright smiles but I was only looking for one face

“What the hells goin on down here” that voice makes me weak in the knees like it always did

The group parts and the world stops and it’s just me and Daryl, he drops his cross bow and comes straight for me pulling me in right and breathing me in

“I thought I lost ya but I never gave up Angel” he whimpers

“I knew I’d find you D, it’s been hard alone but I kept going for you and our little girl” his hands come down to rest on my big belly and I feel her kick right into his hands

“We missed you” I smile

“Trust us when we say he’s missed you more, he’s kept a whole bin of baby things he’d get when he went out saying one day he’d give them to his baby” Carl laughed

“Can I see, I’ve been alone for months I just want you to talk to me about all the things you got us” I sigh into his chest

The others gave us some space and we went up to his cell wear he took off my worn down shoes and helped lay me on my side

“I found this pink jumper fer when she gets cold, found these bottles, some pacifiers fer when she cries, a baby blanket that’s brown and pink cause I know ya love that, got ya some fluffy pajamas fer after the baby so yer comfortable, and all yer favorite snacks I could find” he showed me each one like he was the happiest kid in a candy store

“I can’t believe you got all this for me and Lilah, I can’t wait to show her all this but for now can you just hold me while I sleep” I yawn not being able to get a full nights sleep in so long

He got in the bed next to me and held me tight and covering me up

“I’ve never leaving ya again my love, I’ll be here when ya wake up”

•

I woke up abruptly to a harsh pressure in my belly then the bed under me was wet and a contraction came on strong making me gasp

“Daryl wake up!” I cry and he’s up immediately picking me up and bringing me to Hershel’s cell

“Hershel she’s in labour” the poor man woke up startled and got his crutches as we made our way to the medical room of the hospital

He laid me down softly and pushed my hair back kissing me on the cheek

“I’m scared D, I thought I could do this what if I’m not good enough” I cry as they get me ready

“Hey yer the strongest woman i know, ya made yer way back ta me and i know ya can do this, she’s almost here” hours of screaming and crying I finally hear it, little cries, Hershel cleans her up and hands her to me

“Ya were right, a lil girl” Daryl says as he sits on the bed holding us both

“I can’t believe she’s here, our Lilah, she looks just like you D, brown hair, cute blue eyes”

“But she’s as pretty as you, now get some rest our family is finally together”

•

Short one but just didn’t want to leave the story unfinished!!

Taglist: @heidiland05 @i93jjk @stories4you04-x @itsjustmeandmyanxiety @writer-ann-artist @buck-this-nasty @holdmytesseract @whump-loverz @kodzukenie333 @clairealeehelsing @nanoowl-blog @rubyylovestoread @alex22007 @fairysukii @ashsallyblue2 @minaxcarter

#twd fanfiction #twd daryl #twd x reader #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon #twd fluff #daryl dixon x reader #twd negan #twd rick #daryl dixon twd #Daryl Dixon x pregnant reader #daryl dixion smut #daryl x reader #daryl imagines #daryl dixon smut

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writing-mlm · 6 months ago

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sharky the writer you are.. 🙏 could we get another scott x male reader where the reader is a more dominant figure? like kinda playing into the fact scott says he likes people stronger than him and tells emma “you know me, ms. frost. i live to serve.” doesn’t have to be super smutty or anything but sub scott has been on my mind since i saw the cover for the 100th anniversary special where emma pulls a riding crop on him.

Get a room

Summary: After recovering from being held hostage, Scott uses training as an excuse to get under you. Pairing: Scott Summers x Winged!Male!reader Wc: 1.6k Tags: no smut, very sexual though, some medical talk because Scotty is injured, Scott is a loser when it comes to displays of strength

Scott Summers; family man. The kind of guy you can happily bring to meet your family; the type of guy who’d stare your father's gun down with a smile and still shake his hand with a firm grip.

Cyclops; the leader. The kind of guy who commands a room without entering it; the type of guy who’s fought his whole life and will continue to do so.

Scotty; your love. He’s Scott Summers and he’s Cyclops. He’s a man with an incredibly complex upbringing with too many feelings to unravel in one lifetime.

You know him inside and out, boring his soul into yours like a warm hug. So it’s to no one's surprise when you’re put in charge of the extraction team to get him and other mutants out of wherever they’ve been held captive for a week now.

The large metal keys clank to the ground as the door swings open. Breathing a sigh of relief when you see Scott is there, you take a moment to compose yourself and look around the room. It’s just an empty room with a tiny window at the top and Scott in the middle. You frown, seeing that he is tied up in some weird dungeon in the middle of the ocean.

But he’s otherwise unharmed.

He looks up at you, a ghost of a smile resting nicely on his face.

“That pose looks good on you,” You grinned, running your fingers along his arms flexed behind his back, pinning him to sit on his knees.

“Just help me,” He groaned, tugging at the metal cuffs but they didn't budge. Snapping the chain with a tug, you carefully grab his wrists and break the metal connecting them together. He shudders and rubs his wrists; sure they’re going to be sore for a while. “Thank you,” He says as he stands up.

“You can kiss me later, this place is about to blow up— can you open the wall?” He blinks but grabs onto you and blasts the cement wall. It explodes and you cover the two of you with your wing, the thick white feathers blocking the rubble and dust. It oddly sounds like rain hitting an umbrella. When it stops, you shake the wing off and grab him before diving out.

Scott smells the salty sea air as you’re barreling towards the water before you spread your wings and shoot into the sky. He tucks his head in, fearing the air will blow off his shades until you land inside the jet. His feet touch the metal and he unwraps himself from you but still holds onto you for support as you guide him up to the cockpit.

“That’s everyone,” You huff. “Took me a minute to find Scotty.” Rubbing his head, he clears his throat- a silent plea that he needs to look professional right now - and thanks everyone on your temporary team. Not a moment later several explosions can be heard in close succession and then the sound of heavy stones hitting the water.

He settles onto his normal seat on the jet while you check over everyone; providing snack boxes to all of them because you’re sure they were starved in that place.

Once you’re back at the mansion, you drag Scott into the infirmary. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have even entertained the idea but there’s not much he can do to convince you to let him go.

“I’m fine,” He insists while Hank checks his vitals for the third time. It’s been an hour of him sitting there in the uncomfortable hospital gown.

“You have a greenstick fracture on both of your arms,” You correct, flipping through his chart. “Your blood pressure is dangerously low, you’ve lost seventeen pounds in two weeks, and your hips and knees were dislocated— they’re still dislocated.”

“Then heal me, angel,” He grins but winces when the pressure band expands on his arm. You chuckle, shaking your head.

“Charming, but you need your fluids first. Hank will start an IV drip once he’s done with that and then I’ll transfer you up to our room, ‘kay?” He sighs but nods.

“Can I at least help you?” He asks just before you leave. “You still have bits of concrete in your wings.” Thinking about it, you see Hank give a noncommittal shrug.

Sitting on the bed between his legs, Scott helps pick out the rubble from your feathers. His careful fingers preane and pry, dusting and gentle fixing. It doesn’t bother you, your wings and feathers are strong. You hardly feel it when someone touches them. But he still takes such good care of them when you can’t.

After he’s done, Hank cleans up his arm and you watch as he starts the IV drip. He doesn’t need to tell you the instructions for Scott; you’ve done this enough times and gotten through half of your residency to know how to handle an injured Scott.

Scooping him up, he looks away but holds onto your shoulder with this non-IV arm. He’s ever aware you’re carrying him with one arm, the other holding the monitor and drip bags the whole way up from the basement to the second floor.

Oh, how he envies Kurt for having blue fur.

—

When Scott fully heals, which takes longer than he likes because you refuse to heal his hip until he’s put back on the weight from before, he goes back to normal. Almost immediately he begs for a fight; a training exercise— anything. He literally gets on his knees begging because you’d rather spend your afternoon outside than in the stuffy training room. But how can you deny your Scotty? Especially when he’d taken your orders while injured like a champ.

“C’mon Scotty,” You coo, trailing your finger along the length of his jaw, stopping just before your finger left the tip of his chin. “I know you can do it, just a little more.” He grins, his lips wobbling as he struggles against your wings. He grunts, feeling you put more pressure down on him.

“That’s my boy,” You tease, watching him squirm and huff under you. You’re not even touching him, hovering above his stomach with just your wings pinning his chest to the ground. “You can last longer, right?”

“I can,” He nods rapidly, breathless. “I can take it.” His eyes dart from the white feathers to your teasing face and he blows air from his mouth. You lessen the grip, causing a soft whine to escape him, his hands clawing at your pants.

Originally, he wanted to prove that he could escape from under you without his beams. You disagreed, naturally. Because he benches maybe three hundred while you bench four times that, but he was incredibly insistent. A part of you knows he’s getting off to this, though.

“Good boy,” He moans, closing his eyes and biting his bottom lip before he gives up, chest heaving as he relaxes against your grip. Giving up, he rests on his elbows before staring up at you as you scoot up, sitting on his chest. Like putty underneath you, he stares up, resting his head on your leg. You run your fingers through his hair, the sweat from the edge of his hairline makes his hair awfully messy.

“Can you two stop train-fucking already?” Emma scoffs as she walks into the training room with some students. You roll your eyes and lift yourself up, hovering in the air while Scott quickly stands up and gives the students a quick acknowledgment.

“We’re preparing for tomorrow’s lesson,” He tells her but he’s unable to deny the red that’s spread across his face.

“Hopefully it’s less sexually charged.” She teases and you laugh, knocking her with your wing before you drag Scott out. There are other rooms where you practice— actually practice this time. Scouts honor. But Scott just wants to finish up his workout so you join him. He’s on the Stairmaster while you’re using the leg press.

The height advantage he has allows for him to watch you as he tries to beat his record on that horrible machine. He watches as your legs tense under the heavy plates, how you’re not holding onto the bars but rather on your phone. It’s crazy but the lack of acknowledgement of the weight makes his legs wobbly and he holds onto the handles for balance.

“You okay, Scotty?” You ask, hearing the sloppy foot placement and the near slip. “Need a break?” Immediately the idea of beating his record is thrown out the window and he shuts down the machine.

“Mhmm,” He nods and climbs down, making his way over to you. He goes to sit on the floor but you place him over your lap, smiling up at him. Your phone is tossed to the floor, and all of your focus is on him.

“Do your legs hurt?” You ask, feigning being oblivious to the real issue as you work on massaging his calves. “I wasn’t too harsh earlier, was I?”

“No,” He holds your wrists, keeping your hands there. “You weren’t. Yes, they hurt a little.” You hum while you shift a little and watch as his eyes close before he looks down at you.

“What? I have to be in the right position.” You defend yourself as the door to the gym opens. He looks up while you continue your reps, using your wing to wave at whoever walked inside.

“Must you two always be touching each other?” Storm chides as she walks past the two of you. Scott grins, resting his arms on the plate behind your head so he can watch her head over to the treadmills.

“I need a spotter for the leg press, Ro!” You laugh at the poor excuse, looking up from Scott's chest and at his neck where you press a soft kiss. He hums, closing his legs further on your thighs.

“And you know me, Ororo, I live to serve.”

#x male reader #x reader #scott summers x you #scott summers x male reader #scott summers x reader #cyclops x male reader #cyclops x reader #x mutant reader

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lemonade4wanda · 1 year ago

Text

Sniffle any louder

Natasha Romanoff x reader

Minors dni!! Masterlist°•☆

Summary - when you show up to work il lit aggravates Natasha that is until she sees your dire state

Warnings - mention of illness, nonsexual nudity, hurt comfort, as usual not proofread

Word count - 2k

A/n - I started rushing at the end because I wanted to have it out by tonight so the ending might not be as good srry

Fractures of pain shot through your aching body like icicles as you left the team meeting. God how you wished you'd just admitted you were ill this morning instead of letting your pride get in the way and pretended to the team that you were right as rain. I guess that's what happens when your on a team with literal super soldiers, you too start believing your above any illness or injury. Oh, but how wrong you realised you were when this flu hit you like a ton of bricks. The combined migraine alongside with the distrsssing chill of your bones left little energy left for you to do anything except lie down and rest, which you hated to admit and wouldn't ever given the choice, despite how sickly you'd begun to look.

Your usual bright eyes full of life and wonder became dull and bloodshot from the lack of sleep your blocked nose had caused you the previous night when you chose to ignore it. The skin on your face that was often painted a rosy colour now paled almost deathly looking, comparable to that of a ghost. Your unshakable senses, often remarked as some of the best had become overworked and dulled from the sickness using up all your remaining energy causing you not to notice people around you until they had begun to speak. The gravelly gasping and choking noises that spluttered from your inflamed throat were foreign to your usual bubbly voice.

Despite these stark and clear changes in not only your physical appearance but also how you carried yourself around the compound you had tricked yourself, somehow, into the belief no one around you would notice. Obviously you were unwell anyone could see that from a mile off and if you didn't think out of a house full of spies, enhanced beings and military personnel that not one of them would pick up on something up with you then you must have been seriously down with something.

Unlucky for you someone did notice after your sniffling had interupted their train of thought for the seventh time, it didn't take a genuis but she'd been ignoring the signs since you arrived. Natasha Romanoff had been trying to reread and correct a badly written mission report written by an incompetent intern. This had already been stressful enough for her without the woman next to her trying to desperately through her blocked nose instead of just going home. The first time she actually noticed something was up was when you nearly walked into the door, stumbling around like bambi on ice. This was something someone with your spacial awareness and high senses would never manage to do if they were as okay as they were telling everyone they were. She spotted it again when you began to cough like a smoker and at that like someone who smoked at least five packs a day, a thing she knew you were not. You'd told her a while back that despite your bad habits which were endless and definitely on show today that you never wanted to smoke because it reminded you of your mother. So unless you'd switched up on that which she very much doubted and had taken up chain smoking the answer was clear; you were ill, very ill.

She also questioned why you were even here, how you were even here. Natasha would leap at the first chance to avoid these dull meetings even if it meant admitting illness to the rest of the group. She'd actually faked being ill before to skip debriefs and instead head to the gym. At one point she had no clue how you were even still able to be alive and functioning with how shallow your breaths were. Everytime your mouth opened a disgusting noise alike to the disgust she felt at nails on a chalk board rung from deep in your throat. Aswell your ever scratcher voice that was beginning to drive her insane. It was one thing to come in sick, it was another to make yourself more ill by working harder than usual.

This had made her angry more than anything, angry at your selflessness. Angry no one else would ever do this, including herself. Angry you put working above your own physical health. Angry that you'd risk everyone else getting ill instead of taking a sick day. Angry you couldnt just admit your illness and leave.

Your eighth sniffle really sent Natasha over the edge as she turned to look dead at you and gave you a menacingly dirty look. A scowl that could kill glowering into your soul. Yet in feverly state you could hardly even register the spy looking in your direction as you still tried to process something said in conversation several minutes ago. Throughout the rest of the meeting she sideyed, scowled, gritted teeth, frowned, muttered under breath and cursed in your direction much to you ignorance. On an average day you could recognise what emotion someone was going through just by being in the same room as them and the tone of their breath but right now even with Natasha directly next you, practically right in your face you couldn't pick up a single negative emotion.

After the meeting you quickly stumbled in the direction of your room, hoping to avoid anyone on the way there, which you managed with much ease despite your worsening condition. Once you reached your room you shut the door without bothering with the lock. Stripped to your underwear and crawled back into bed without a sound. Curling up under your soft thick duvets you shivered and slowly cried yourself into a feverish slumber.

Natasha stayed behind to finish her reports, which she easily could have done hours ago without your incessant coughing and sniffling and all round ill noises. It only infuriated her more as she worked quickly, alone and welcoming the silence since the end of the meeting. When she finished up the work she was just about ready to give you a piece of her mind. And thats what she was gonna do. She had strong feelings about you prioritisation of work over wellness and she was gonna share them with you whether you wanted to hear or not.

Easily, she threw open your door and it hit the wall with a bang, enraged she didnt notice your crumpled whimpering figure writhing under the duvet.

"Sniffle a little louder next meeting." She comments loudly and sarcastically before instantly wincing at the sight of you in the bed.

Instantly her whole demeanour changes into one of care and pure unhidden worry. Natasha crouched over your trembling figure on the bed. Quickly she removed the pile of blankets from overtop and pressed a palm to your forhead before just as swiftly pulling it away with a frown. You were boiling 38°c at the very least and yet your body was still shivering. Without thinking twice Natasha knew the best thing for you was a cold, very cold shower.

She carried your somehow still sleeping figure easily into the bathroom as if you were no more than a light weight to her, which you probably were considering her max dead lift. Gently and ever so carefully she sat you down in the bath before turning the cool shower on next to you. Adjusting it so the water pressure was lower than usual so that it maybe less of a shock for when you fully woke.

Soon after the water began to flow your eyes opened to the hazy view before you. Natasha knelt over the bath making sure you were just alright. When you noticed the water and the bath, definitely not where you fall asleep you began to panic. Quickly flailing much like a fish out of water. Thrashing to get out the bath and attempting to scrabble to your feet. Natasha noticed your sudden frenzy and much quicker than you could, grabbed a hold of your hands halting your movements while whispering affirming words to you.

"Shh sh its okay. Your just in the bath, don't worry were just trying to soothe your fever." She begins to rub your palms slowly in a way which soothes you and instantly slows your panic as you go to rest your head on the bathroom wall.

"Hm don't do that darling. Try and stay awake while your in the bath, just for now." She's says quietly afraid to worsen the headache you already had as she coaxes your head off the wall. "That's it good girl. You can do this."

Her small praises would have usually annoyed you and felt almost condescending but right now they were almost enough to make you smile. She was making you feel as if your feeble attempts to stay conscious were really doing anything.

"M' so tired." You mumbled out a response that slumped together into your mouth so it was barely understandable to Natasha yet she still smiled and nodded at you, not wanting you to feel any worse than you already did.

"That's okay sweet girl, the sooner we get you out the bath and some medicine down you the sooner you can sleep." All the while she kept rubbing at your hands and fingers to keep you grounded in the moment. "I'm going to find you some fresh clothes just stay here."

You nodded but the minute Natasha left your head flopped back against the wall as if magnetised towards it. Upon her return with fresh clothes Natasha tutted.

"You really aren't well, are you?" A small attempt at a nod on your part did not surprise her one bit. "See if you told someone earlier we wouldn't be here right now. You have to ask for help when you need it." She knew her words meant little to you in your current state but she wanted to start bedding them in now nonetheless.

"Now, do you need help getting dressed? There's no shame in needing the help."

"Uhm.. I think a bit." Your response was croaky and your voice was beginning to sound worse by the second.

"That's okay, I'll help you then." She gives you a hand getting out the bath and holds you upright as she helps fully undress you. In her panic to get you in the bath she hadn't thought to remove what you were wearing.

You weren't insecure about your body but something like this would usually not be on with you. But right now you knew you couldn't refuse the help Natasha was offering as you could barely even stand still yourself. So begrudgingly you allowed her to undo your bra and slip off your underwear before tossing them in the bath saying something about getting them to the wash later. Putting on the fresh clothes was easier than either of you anticipated as you didn't resist and her strength helped you from falling against the cold tile floor.

Natasha helped you hobble back towards your bed which you instantly fell against ready to embrace sleep again.

"Ah. Not so quick, first the medicine then sleep." She said softly handing you first a couple pills and some water. "For your headache." Begrudgingly you took them and Natasha smiled as she saw the look of grimace on your face finding it both amusing and adorable. "Okay sweet girl just the syrup left, this will help for your throat." You stared at the syrup in your hand with a frown. Just the smell of its contents was enough to make you dry heave and its colour wasn't tempting either. After two minutes of more convincing and praise you managed to stomach it, not all of it but enough so Natasha was happy enough to stop bothering you.

You knew after that you could finally emmerse yourself in a blissful slumber and with little care curled up, face pressing into Natasha who watched over you as you slept making sure nothing interupted your much needed rest.

Tags: @wandasfifthwife @yanaromanov @idkwhatever580 @stayevildarling

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