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cowboybeepboop · 3 months ago

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Rescue

"Please, p-please, I want you to make me feel good."

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Reynolds x f! Reader

Genre: Smut

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: Needy and whiny Bob, kind of a dom fem reader, oral m! recieving

a/n: Sorry chat.. This is such a ramble, but I LOVE BOB omg Lewis Pullman is on top!!! As always, send any requests you have my way! I will write for any fandom or character, but I would especially love some Lewis Pullman character requests 😛

Bob stood in the dimly lit room, a flickering fluorescent light casting eerie shadows across the sterile walls. His arms were shackled behind his back, held tightly in place by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, a woman who radiated calculation and control.

He felt utterly isolated. No one was treating him with any kindness; he was merely an object to them, a tool to be used and discarded at their convenience. After his shift into Sentry and then the Void, she’s kept him locked up in this damn room.

The room he was kept in was small and confined, barely large enough for him to move a few paces in any direction. The air was thick and stale, almost stifling. There was no comfort here, no human kindness. It was as if they wanted him to feel isolated and forgotten.

Bob looked around the room, his eyes darting from corner to corner. The only sound was the steady hum of the fluorescent light and the occasional clink of his shackles as he shifted his weight. He tried to take deep breaths, to keep his fear and anxiety at bay, but it was getting increasingly difficult.

While he could use his powers, he’s simply just too scared to bring out the void again. So instead, he spends his time pacing his tiny concrete room. The fluorescent light overhead flickered intermittently, casting strange shadows on the sterile walls.

Every now and then, he would glance up to see if the light was about to go out completely.

He was exhausted.

Not just physically, but mentally as well. The constant fear and anxiety of being in this small space with no human contact was taking its toll on him. He could hear footsteps in the hallway outside, but no one came to visit him.

They weren't even giving him any food.

After Valentina realized she couldn’t *use* him for what she wanted, she decided not to deal with him at all, assuming he would be too fearful to try and escape. Plus, if he did use his powers against her once again, she would just hit her kill switch.

You'd been working with Bucky and the "Thunderbolts" to rescue Bob from Valentina's capture. This plan only works if everyone works together, which, for the most part, they've been doing pretty well, at least until you became involved.

Creaking open the door, you hold your breath as you step into the small and dimly lit room, the sound of your footsteps on the cold concrete floor making the space feel even more claustrophobic. The room is barely illuminated by a single flickering fluorescent light above.

As you enter, you notice Bob pacing the length of the room, his arms shackled behind his back, looking exhausted and tense. He glances over at you, his eyes widening slightly as he realises that someone has entered.

"You're Bob?" Your voice is gentle while you creep over to him, eyes roaming over him, taking in his timid stance.

Bob pauses in his pacing as you approach, his body tense and wary, but he nods slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Y-yes, I’m Bob,” he says softly. He studies you warily, his eyes darting to the knife between your teeth before returning to your face.

"I'm Y/N, I'm gonna get you out of here, alright?" You slip the knife into your pocket, skillfully you begin to pick the locks on his shackles, which are surprisingly weak for being meant to hold someone with his powers.

Bob looks at you with a mix of surprise and relief, his eyes widening slightly as you begin to pick the locks on his shackles. "You're...you're here to help me?" he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.

He watches you with a sense of awe as you work on the locks, clearly impressed by your skill. The locks seem to come undone surprisingly easily, given the fact that they're meant to hold someone as powerful as him.

"Of course, I'm here to help you." You smile sweetly at him, brushing your fingers against his shoulder, offering some comfort, waiting for Bucky's all clear signal.

Your touch seems to momentarily surprise him, and he flinches away from it, before realising that you’re trying to help him. He gives you a small, hesitant smile back, clearly not used to any kind of human contact in this place.

As you wait for Bucky's signal, the tension in the room continues to build. Bob glances around the room, his eyes darting to the door, clearly anxious to get out of here as soon as possible.

Bucky lets you know that it's time to move, you carefully pull out your knife again, preparing for any necessary defense. "Come with me, Bob, stay close and hold onto this just in case." You hand him the blade, pulling out a small gun as both of you move toward the exit.

Bob takes the blade from you, holding it tightly in his hand. He follows you closely as you move towards the exit, his footsteps quiet behind you. He’s clearly on edge, glancing around the room as if waiting for someone to come bursting through the door.

The gun in your hand is a reassuring presence for him, and he sticks close to your side, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of danger. As you reach the door, Bob places a hand on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You'll p-protect me, right?" he whispers.

"I'll keep you safe," you respond gently, using your free hand to pat his hand that's resting on your shoulder before moving forward. Putting your focus back on getting him out.

Bob nods at your reassurance, his hand remaining on your shoulder for just a moment longer before pulling away. He takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to steel his nerves as you move forward, your focus now fixed on getting him out of this place.

Together, you move through the building, keeping an eye out for any guards or obstacles in your path. Bob keeps close by your side, gripping the knife tightly as he follows you, his eyes darting around nervously.

With Bob safely in the back of the vehicle, you let out a ragged sigh of relief. The adrenaline that had been rushing through your veins starts to wear off, and you suddenly feel the overwhelming tiredness of the rescue mission catch up to you.

As soon as the vehicle starts moving, you look over at Bob, who is now sitting next to you, still clutching the knife in his hand. He seems just as exhausted as you are, if not more, his eyes tired and weary.

Brushing your fingers over his hand, you gently pull the knife away from his grasp. "You're safe now, Bob, I promise." The team knew that Val wouldn’t come after them, not with their hold over her, so it would be an easy trip back.

Bob doesn't resist as you take the knife from him, his grip loosening as soon as your touch. He looks up at you, his eyes weary and tired, but there's a glimmer of trust there now, a hint of vulnerability that he couldn't have shown before.

"Thank you," he whispers softly, his voice hoarse. "Thank you for getting me out of there."

"Of course," you grin at him, scooting closer to his side so he can rest against your shoulder. "You should rest, close your eyes."

Bob looks at you with a tired expression, seeming hesitant for a moment. But then, as if too tired to resist, he starts to lean into your shoulder, his head heavy against your body.

He lets out a weary sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as he begins to relax, finally feeling safe in your presence. "I...I haven't slept in days," he admits quietly, his words slurring slightly with exhaustion.

"You deserve some good rest, Bob." You run your fingers down his arm, attempting to lure him to sleep.

Bob's eyelids seem to grow heavier with every passing moment, his body sagging against yours as fatigue washes over him. With your gentle touch, he seems to relax further, his breathing beginning to even out as he drifts closer and closer to sleep.

He mumbles something, a single word that escapes his lips in a tired slur. "Safe," he whispers, his voice barely audible.

A few weeks have passed since you all successfully rescued Bob, and thankfully, Valentina never tried to take him back. You sigh as your training with The Winter Soldier ends in another defeat, lying against the exercise mat, you take a few steadying breaths.

Bucky stands above you, a smirk on his face as he regards your defeated form. He offers a hand to help you up from the mat, his grip firm as he pulls you to your feet.

"Not bad," he says, eyeing you up and down. "You're getting better." Despite your defeat, there's a hint of pride in his voice, as if he's impressed by your improvement.

You catch a glimpse of Bob outside the room, letting go of Buckys hand and ignoring his compliment, you practically skip over to him. "How are you doing this morning, Bob?"

Bob looks up as you approach, a small, shy smile forming on his lips as he sees you. "M-morning," he manages, his voice soft and tentative. "I'm, uh, I'm alright," he says, running a hand through his messy blond hair. He glances down at the floor, then back up at you, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before darting away.

"Wanna grab breakfast with me?" you grin sweetly, stretching and cracking your back.

Bob nods shyly, a slight flush on his cheeks as he watches you stretch, his eyes darting away quickly when he realises that he was staring. He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking every bit the shy, awkward, but sweet man you're beginning to learn he is.

"Uh, yeah, that sounds nice," he replies, barely managing to meet your gaze. He's clearly trying to hide his nervousness, but failing miserably.

"Here, let's grab something from the kitchen, and then we can watch a movie in my room!" You're giddy at the thought of spending more time with him, you’ve been doing everything you can to get him more comfortable with you.

Bob nods eagerly, his eyes lighting up at your suggestion. "Yeah, that sounds great," he says softly, a small smile on his lips. He follows you eagerly as you lead him toward the kitchen, his footsteps light behind you.

"Movie in your room?" he asks, a hint of surprise in his voice. "J-just the two of us?"

"Yeah, why not?" You grab some cereal for both of you, focused on the small task at hand.

"Uh, no reason," he says sheepishly, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks again. "I just, uh, didn’t expect it to be just the two of us." He fidgets nervously as he follows you back to your room, his hand occasionally clenching and unclenching at his side.

You open the door for him, gesturing for him to walk in. "Well, we can keep things purely PG," you tease as you shut the door behind you, which is more a less a goal of yours than anything else.

You find him simply irresistible; his kind, sheepish demeanor gets you weak in the knees. The two of you have never been alone in a private space very long before, so this opens up the opportunity for more than just friendly interactions.

Bob's cheeks visibly redden at your playful comment, and he lets out a small, nervous chuckle as he steps into your room. He looks around, taking in the space with a sense of curiosity and wonder. It's clear that he's a bit out of his comfort zone.

"Purely PG," he repeats, his voice cracking slightly. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for you to lead the way.

"Come sit," you plop on the bed, patting the mattress beside you. "We can find something together," your heart races as you notice the flush of his cheeks.

Bob hesitates for a moment before slowly walking over to the bed and sitting down next to you. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his body tense and stiff as if he's afraid to get too comfortable.

He glances at you, his cheeks flushed red, as he tries hard to avoid your gaze. "Uh, sure," he stutters, his eyes darting around the room. "What do you like to watch?" he fumbles with the sleeves of his shirt.

"I like comedy, shit to take my mind off of... Well, all of this." You scoot closer to him, reaching over his lap for the remote on the other side of him. Your breasts slightly brushing over his thighs with your swift movements.

Bob's eyes widen and his cheeks flush bright red at the unexpected contact, and he tries hard to keep his gaze averted.

He lets out a soft, strangled noise, something between a whimper and a gasp. There's a brief moment of tense silence as he tries to recover his composure, his body completely stiff under your touch.

"You can relax, y'know," you grin as you turn the TV on, enjoying his reaction to your subtle touches. "I don't bite, Bob."

Bob blushes even harder at your words, his body slowly starting to relax under your touch. He tries to laugh it off, though the sound comes out as more of a nervous cough. "I know, I know," he stutters, his eyes flickering over to you before darting away again.

You find a random movie, glancing over to him, you question, "Is this okay?" Bob nods, his body visibly relaxing a bit more as he hears your words. He risks a glance at you, a small, shy smile appearing on his lips.

"Yeah," he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is...yeah, this is fine." He shifts a little closer to you, his thigh now lightly brushing against yours, as he focuses on the movie playing on the screen.

Butterflies fill your stomach as you notice the small gesture he makes; it's nothing crazy, but it's the first time he's really initiated anything between you since the day you met.

Bob seems to realise what he's done, and he quickly stiffens up again, his cheeks reddening once more. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his expression a mix of nervousness and shyness.

"Uh, sorry, I, uh...sorry," he mumbles, his gaze darting back to the screen.

"Hey, it’s okay! Don't worry about it at all." You both begin eating your breakfast, your eyes wandering to him every once in a while to admire his adorable features.

Bob seems to relax a bit more with your reassurance, his body slowly unclenching as he starts to eat his cereal. He notices you glancing at him, and every time you do, he can't help but feel his cheeks heat up again.

He steals glances at you as well, his gaze darting over to you every now and then, his eyes lingering on your face for just a moment before darting back to the screen. There's a growing sense of comfortable intimacy between you two.

With a sigh, you push the empty bowl to the side, content with the feeling of fullness, you lean back on your arms with a small yawn. Bob finished eating his cereal as well, placing his bowl beside yours. He glances at you as you lean back on your arms, a slight smile on his lips as he hears your yawn.

He looks more relaxed now than he did when you both first walked into the room, his body no longer as stiff as before. "You tired?" he asks softly, tilting his head slightly to the side as he looks at you.

"Yeah, Bucky kicked my ass in there," you groan, thinking back to the morning training. "He always does."

Glancing over to him, your lips curve into a small smile as you move to rest your head in his lap. "Is this alright with you, Bob?" You’re making some sneaky moves, which you know you shouldn’t, but fuck, the way he looks at you has your body aching.

Bob blushes furiously as you rest your head in his lap, his body stiffening for a moment before relaxing again. He tentatively places a hand on your shoulder, his touch light and gentle.

"Yeah," he mumbles, sounding a little breathless. "I… I don't mind." He seems surprised that you're being so close to him, but there's a hint of pleasure in his eyes as he looks down at you.

"You're so cute," you give him a slight teasing response, nuzzling into his warmth as you relax, eyes slowly fluttering shut.

Bob blushes even harder at your words, a soft, startled noise escaping his lips. He's not used to being called cute, and your teasing comment has thrown him off slightly.

He feels a pleasant shiver run through his body as you nuzzle into his warmth, and he unconsciously starts to stroke your shoulder gently with his hand. "Y-you're the one who's cute," he mumbles, his words coming out a little indistinct.

It was your turn to be flustered now, his response catching you off guard. "Yeah? You think so?" You bite down on your lip, fingers tracing small shapes into his thigh mindlessly.

Bob seems to realise that he's made you flustered this time, and he can't help but feel a small sense of pride in it. He looks down at you, a small smile on his lips as he notices your fingers tracing shapes on his thigh.

He subconsciously moves his hand from your shoulder to your hair, his touch light and tentative as he starts to run his fingers through it. "Yeah," he says softly, his eyes flickering away from yours briefly before returning. "I...I really do think so."

Bob's breath hitches slightly as he feels your hand moving further up his thigh, your nails grazing him, sending a wave of tingling through his body. He tries to keep his composure, his eyes darting away from you for a moment as he struggles to control his reaction.

"S-stop that," he mumbles, his voice shaky and uneven. "You're teasing me," he practically whines the last part.

"Teasing?" you question, knowing exactly what you're doing, fingers getting achingly close to his crotch.

Bob lets out a soft whimper as your fingers get ever closer to his crotch, his eyes widening as he looks down at your hand. His cheeks are flushed red, and his words come out as strangled stutters, "You know you're teasing me."

His body is tense under your touch, every muscle coiled taut as he tries to control his reaction to your actions.

"Is it okay?" You shift slightly, lips pressing gentle kisses onto his clothed thighs. "Can I touch you, *tease* you like this?" your fingers continue their wandering, slowly inching closer and closer to his cock.

Bob's breath hitches at the feel of your kisses on his thighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he tries to control the sensations coursing through him. His hands clench and unclench, and he can't help but whine softly under his breath.

He nods, his head tilting back just a bit, and his voice comes out as a strangled whisper, "Yes, yes, it's okay. You can, uh, you can touch me like that."

You fumble with the waistband of his sweat pants, slowly exposing his lower half, eager to taste him, to take care of him. "I wanna make you feel good, Bob..." Your lips continue their torment, but this time against bare skin.

Bob's breathing becomes more ragged as you start to expose his lower half, his body quivering under your touch. He lets out a soft gasp, his eyes wide and fixed on you as you begin to lay kisses on his bare skin.

"Oh, God," he manages to groan out, his thighs trembling with anticipation. He wants you just as badly, his words coming out in a breathless, needy whisper, "Please, p-please, I want you to make me feel good."

You push Bob's boxers down, revealing his hardened cock. Your eyes rake over the length of him, admiring his size and girth before you lean in closer, letting your warm breath tickle his skin.

Bob's entire body jolts at the sensation, his cock twitching in anticipation of what's to come.

You wrap your soft, warm lips around the tip of his erection, your tongue swirling around the head as you gently suck. Bob's hands instinctively grab onto the bed sheets, knuckles turning white with the effort it takes not to touch you.

You can hear his muffled gasps of pleasure as you slowly take more of him into your mouth, your teeth lightly grazing the sensitive skin. Your hands come up to gently caress his thighs, the smoothness of your skin gliding against his.

Increasing the pace, your tongue dances around his shaft as you take him deeper, your throat muscles tightening around him. You can feel him getting closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, his hips bucking slightly as he tries to keep still.

The wet sounds of your mouth working him fill the air, mingling with Bob's breathy moans. You're thorough in your ministrations, not wanting to leave any part of him untouched.

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, pumping in rhythm with your mouth, your other hand gently cupping and playing with his balls.

Bob's breathing becomes more erratic, his moans growing louder as you work him closer to climax. His thighs quiver under your touch, and you know he's close. You look up at him, eyes locked with his, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to handle.

With one final, deep suck, you feel his cock pulse in your mouth, and with a strangled cry, he releases, his warm seed filling your mouth. You swallow it all, not missing a drop, the taste of him lingering on your tongue as you pull away, giving his sensitive tip one last lick before sitting back with a satisfied smile.

Bob's body goes lax, his eyes fluttering shut as he tries to catch his breath, a blissful expression etched onto his face.

The room is filled with the sound of his heavy breathing, and the sight of his spent cock against his stomach is incredibly satisfying. You lean up to kiss him, sharing the taste of him on your lips, and whisper, "I told you I'd take good care of you."

Bob's mind is completely overwhelmed by pleasure, his body trembling beneath your touch. He can barely form coherent thoughts, his whole world reduced to the sensations you're bringing him. Your name escapes his lips in a breathy moan, and he clings to the bed sheets tightly, trying to anchor himself to reality.

When you finally pull away, he pants heavily, his body flushed and spent. He looks up at you, his expression one of pure bliss, and he can barely manage to speak, his voice rough and low as he whispers, "You're...you're incredible."

Here’s part 2 😛

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jodantittle01 · 2 years ago

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alexispunkkk · 2 months ago

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no mercy in seattle

- pairing: dark!tommy miller x fem!reader

- summary: on tommy’s rampage in seattle after the death of his brother, he needs a way to get his anger out. he uses you as his outlet, taking his emotions out in the best way he knows—sex.

- warnings: rough sex, cussing, unprotected piv, dark!tommy, dubcon, boot riding, boot humping, oral sex, spanking, face slapping, spitting, hair pulling, manhandling, creampie, mentions of murder and guns blah blah blah, joels sooo dead sorry

- word count: 5.1k

- weird mix between the game/show plots adjusted for this. anyway i wrote this in protest against the show writers because where tf is tommy!!! jesse says he’s in seattle with him but they’re not even gonna show me my man?? need him picking off the hoes one by one at the wlf with a sniper. soooo here u go here’s tommy’s deserved vengeful journey

based on this ask | on ao3 | masterlist

For Tommy, mornings don’t exist in Seattle. Not anymore. There’s no sunrise, no one to wake him up. Not Joel, obviously, not Ellie, not Dina, and not you.

Just sudden jerks out of sleep where his hand automatically reaches halfway to his gun, his breath caught in alarm. He’s endlessly alert and anxious, alone, every noise sounding suspiciously like footsteps and every little rustle in the woods like someone’s about to take a shot at him.

He sleeps in fragments: an hour there, and another thirty minutes on occasion–never in the same place twice. Temporary safehouses, abandoned rooftops and buildings. He misses having a real bed. Especially the part where he’d have someone next to him.

Everything is covered in moss, rain leaking through cracks and soaking into his jacket, pooling by his thick boots. He doesn’t care much, though.

He’s a smart guy. A good hunter. When he moves, it’s silent and calculated–each move is normally from a vantage point, though. Seattle is a fucking maze of concrete and glass and vines and rot that invade the city. And the damned Washington Liberation Front patrol it like they own it. They’re well-armed and well-fed, something Tommy can’t afford or handle all by himself out here.

So, he watches from above. Behind the scope of his gun, he watches. Never hesitating.

He takes them clean out, one by one. One shot, one body. Quick, clean, never caught by the others. Another shot.

It’s not for trophies, but simple revenge–he gets closer, mind searching aimlessly for the names reported by Dina on the day that his brother died.

The list burned into his soul like a brand on the hyde of Jackson’s cattle, giving him the motivation to keep cleaning the WLF off in hopes to find one girl in particular. He moves silently and quickly, gone before they can catch sight of the figure taking them out one by one.

But, every time he thinks he’s found a trail, it went cold. Every time he gets close enough, they slip away in time and it becomes harder–he feels like he’s being hunted in return. Being played. Has to ration his ammo so, so meticulously. Three bullets for his rifle, two for emergency. Every shot counted with Tommy.

The same goes for his food: little pieces of jerky that he ripped up and chewed while his eye remained in his scope. Ate in silence, slept with a shiv clutched in his hand and his rifle right next to him.

All the while, the ghost of his brother followed him. Not in body, but in the quiet of the city.

Tommy sees Joel in the corner of his vision, egging him on to find Abby and end it. He hears his grumbled laugh in the rustling leaves, his flannels in the cold air when it rains. Seattle is a rainy place. It worsens it.

Sure, it kept him motivated in his killings. But moreover, it kept him angry. Not just the fact that he’s gone, but how it happened. The mere sight of a golf club drives him off the wall nowadays, and he rages in silence.

When he does take a shot, it’s quiet, but it’s not exactly clean. He’s taking them out, destroying them. Knees, throats, headshots. Watched their blood boom and splatter across concrete from over a hundred yards away, but it still didn’t feel like enough. Not enough for the taking of Joel.

Not even close.

There are days his hands still shake, days he punches walls if he misses a shot, or if he catches the scent of something in the air that reminds him a little too much of his older brother. The guilt swallows him whole, bringing him into a mindless pit of rage and vindictiveness.

It’s not resentment that he has for the WLF–it’s genuine loathing.

So, when three familiar figures show up, he’s acting a bit different.

Ellie and Dina allowed you to tag along to Seattle with them, trusting you enough with your knowledge of weaponry and hunting. Thanks to Tommy for teaching you, of course.

The three of you have been doing surprisingly well, beginning your arrival with a stay downtown: searching synagogues and courthouses and banks before landing yourselves in a hotel. There were dead bodies–not many infected–but of soldiers and humans.

Tommy’s doing.

Naturally, there are instances that put your group in grave danger, but you make it out decently. An elementary school, news station, tunnels, a theater. Clickers and runners and more bodies, a horse that had once been Tommy’s as well, and lots of Ellie’s guitar playing.

On the third day, Dina isn’t feeling too hot. Finding Tommy would be the best decision right now, in equal importance to finding Abby. In a mix of luck and the opposite, your group clashes with him in the Seattle Waterfront Aquarium.

In a frenzy where Ellie had managed to successfully kill both Mel and Owen, leaving her with a panic attack due to the now-dead woman’s unknown pregnancy, he shows up behind her and prompts you all to leave. Always a pragmatic thinker.

The reckless first three days, thankfully, did leave you back in the hands of your Tommy. The same tanned, flirtatious man you once knew now ruined by the guilt of his brother’s passing and having to strip himself of sleep and life in order to kill civilians over and over in a ruthless rampage of revenge.

His eyes, once a soft brown, seem darker, flicking over you in silence. When Ellie and Dina were around, his mouth opened like he might say more, but he doesn’t. Couldn’t.

The air stretches thickly between the two of you as if waiting for something, but the energy is off. Your sweet, caring man now tortured with a lack of sleep and too much violence, even for him. That says a lot, considering his days as a combat veteran in the Gulf War and the strenuous times spent hunting infected ever since the outbreak.

He’s always been the strongest man you know, ever since the two of you met in Jackson a few years back. Goes on every patrol without a word of complaint, gets over serious injuries like they’re simply papercuts, can take out six clickers in a row without the blink of an eye or a breath harsher than the last.

Hell, he’s handled bloaters by himself before.

But something about him seems different–not only in the sense that he’s tired and sick of killing, but he’s truly hurting.

You know Joel’s death got to him. Badly. He and his brother were so close growing up, stuck together for years at the start of the outbreak. Tommy was there for him when Sarah passed, when he lost hearing in one ear from a missed shot to his own head. They hunted in Boston together, took the lives of so many. A strong bond.

So you have a basic understanding of his drive for revenge. You certainly didn’t know it could reach this extent, though.

The theater door clicks shut, the sound echoing longer than it should’ve when Ellie and Dina head out for a bit on a supply run. That was their excuse, at least–it was probably because they could feel the tension and the way Tommy was about to unravel.

For a long second, you just stand there and watch him from across the room.

It’s the first time the two of you are alone since he left, and as much as you missed him, you’re a little scared. You feel bad, obviously, but you’re terrified for him. He’s seemingly going insane right now, looking incredibly tired. A big gash on his hand from accidentally grabbing his knife too quickly, hair plastered to his neck, jacket soaked and rain-damaged.

His back is to you, crouched beside a bench while he unstraps his gear and sets his guns down for once.

“Tommy…” you take a breath, stepping closer and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He’s literally radiating fury in the form of heat, seething profusely with each breath.

He doesn’t answer yet, just stands. Slowly. Too slowly. It doesn’t feel like your Tommy.

He turns around, and it feels like it hits you in the chest this time. His face is hollowed out, wrenched with exhaustion. His eyes are bruised and sunken in, his jaw clenched so tightly that you can see the veins of muscles tick. Not just grief, like you would’ve expected out of a normally soft-spoken man.

It’s fury. Bare and red seething rage curled under his skin, eating him from the inside out.

“Can’t do this shit anymore,” he begins, voice rough and gravelly. He hasn’t spoken in a few days now, and he’s severely dehydrated. “I can’t—fuckin’ can’t.”

You step forward carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, unknowing if it’s docile or not.

“Tommy.”

Your fingers slide from his shoulder to his arm, working down gently until reaching his hand. It’s the same hand you always hold, the same soft and big fingers that have graced and worshipped every part of your body back in Jackson. Just now, hardened by a week in the wilderness without access to much clean water or resources other than his need for carnage.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. That look on his face. And I swear to God—” he cuts you off, swivelling around to grab the back of a chair and slam it into the ground. The wood splinters under his grip, two of the legs breaking off entirely as the piece of furniture hits the surface.

“Could fuckin’ kill every one of ‘em with my bare hands.” He resumes, turning back around after the crash of the chair. His chest heaves. “Still wouldn’t be enough.”

You’ve never seen him so angry. You didn’t know he had the capacity to be so angry. Back home, he’s all sweet and southern–a townsman, good with the animals and kids. Never yells. Jokes and flirts his way out of situations.

Now, his eyes are dark and bloodshot. Genuinely wildlike.

“Tommy,” you repeat, trying to calm him down. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in a while, so you want it to be nice–but his mind is racing. “C’mon, hon’. Calm down a bit. We can sit. Take a break.”

“No.” He scoffs, breath picking up quickly as his chest rises up and down. Deep, dense heaves that he can’t control.

“I’m losin’ my mind out here, baby,” he rasps, shaking his head and beginning to pace around the room, trying to keep from looking at you while his pants start to feel just a little bit tighter. “I’ve been out here alone, killin’ and hunting and shit. None of it’s fuckin’ changing anything.”

He steps forward now. Fast and desperate. He smells differently than usual, that usual clean cedar adjacent scent replaced by an unwashed musk and the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering on the fabric of his jacket. He’s a little gross and smells faintly of the mildew that comes alongside heavy rain, but he’s still your Tommy. Your poor, tortured, grieving, angry Tommy.

“You get it?” He asks, grabbing your face. Rough and needing as ever. “I’m gonna explode and I can’t—-I don’t know where to put it. Don’t know where the fuck to put it.”

You nod. No, you don’t really understand. But you’ll always do anything for him.

“I know,” you respond, voice hardly above that of a whisper.

Tommy only stares at you like he doesn’t fully believe you, like he needs you to prove it.

“Don’t need any talkin’,” his forehead presses hard against yours, breathing coming out in pants now with your face this close against his own–his breath isn’t the freshest, either. Jerky and days without brushing. He gets a pass, though.

His hands slip down to your hips, holding onto you for dear life. He’s always been one for constant consent, but now his eyes are asking all that he needs. After all, he did just say he doesn’t need you talking.

“Please. Tell me you want this. Just need something that ain’t anger right now.” He gasps when you nod and rut against his hips in return, taking that as a pathetic excuse for consent.

“Tell me I can have you right now before I lose it and don’t ask.”

You don’t speak. Just pull him in. And he completely breaks in that moment after one of the worst weeks of his life.

The threat of not asking gets your heart racing, showing how badly the trip has really treated him. The Tommy you know wouldn’t even be able to conjure up that thought, but he’s filled with such unfathomable rage and frustration that he physically needs a place to dump it. Luckily, your pussy is up for offer.

Your back hits the wall with a hard thud, the cracking plaster of the theater catching your shirt and tugging it up to expose your stomach as his body presses flush into yours. His breath is hot against your neck, raising the baby hairs on the back of it and eliciting a flush all the way up to your cheeks.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You don’t get what you’re fuckin’ doing to me right now. What you are to me.”

His hands are everywhere in seconds, rough and dirty palms ghosting up your sides and moving the shirt further. He fully untucks it from your belt, shamelessly forcing his hands up the fabric and snaking around to reach the familiar clasp of your bra.

He’s done it a million times, but somehow manages to get it off faster than any previous attempt. The fabric hits the ground while his mouth trails up to your ear, front teeth nibbling at the dangling bit of your sensitive earlobe.

There’s no foreplay like usual. No finesse. Just want and frustration.

Raw, filthy, desperate need.

He bites down, hard, right after moving his set of teeth to the base of your throat. Your gasp makes him almost snarl, grinning and breathing out the filthiest noises onto the skin he’d nearly ripped through with the force of his jaw.

“That’s it.” He mutters, voice meaner now. He tries again, sinking his teeth into the area above your collarbone, leaving a sticky patch of saliva where he’d also left his mark. “Like it when I’m mean. Fuckin’ slut getting off to me bein’ angry about my brother.”

He’s never talked to you like this before. Never even been close to something that resembles an attitude with you. But here you are, growing wetter at the sound of his mumbling and yelling after a rough week.

“Tommy–” your hand curls into the bottom hem of the damp flannel under his coat, fingers barely grazing the hot skin on his lower belly that lies under.

“Nuh-uh.” He growls, forcing your legs apart with his knee and shoving his thigh between yours. It locks you in place, his hands grinding you down on the thick, meaty stretch of thigh enough to make you whimper. “Think I’m gonna be soft on you? After what they did to Joel?”

His voice cracks again. His head dips with a grunt, forehead pressing hard into your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist to keep himself from falling apart. His chest is heaving, and he’s gripping onto you like you’re physically keeping him alive and intact right now.

“Could be out there killin’ someone. Finding the bitch who did it to my brother.” Tommy laughs, one hand moving from your waist to your jaw, tilting that pretty head back to look up at him.

He kisses you, absolutely devours you in one go–like you’re air after he’s been drowning. A lifeline. His tongue is hot, teeth clashing carelessly into yours. His hands yank at your clothes until the shirt you’re wearing joins your bra on the ground and your belt is half unbuckled. Doesn’t pay any mind to seams or buttons like usual.

“But I’m here with you, yeah? So you gotta make it good. Give me something, baby.”

He says between kisses, slightly guilting you into helping him out. It’s not that you don’t want to, but the delivery is so strangely unlike Tommy. Fuck it, though. You’re admittedly a slut for him–you take any chance to get on your knees.

Each movement is loud and chaotic as he pushes you to your knees, already grabbing your head of hair in one hand and twisting it up into a makeshift ponytail–or a grip, in his case.

The man’s belt is off in seconds, discarded to the ground before you can even acknowledge what’s going on. The waistband of his jeans drops, hitting the floor quietly. Before you know it, his hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back while his thumb finds your lips to part them.

His tip comes in contact with your lips, smearing the sticky residue of precum on the pink surface of them. It’s been too long since he’s felt them on him.

“Fuck, you’re takin’ it. C’mon now, open up.”

You obediently open, parting both of your lips to allow room for his puffy, sensitive head to slip in. At the simple feeling of your wet, warm mouth, he groans. Head falls back, hips stuttering pathetically. To come back to the feeling of a familiar, welcoming mouth on his cock after the worst week of his life was the best feeling.

Normally, Tommy would allow you to do the work on your own. Meaning you would hold his hips, go at your own pace, take as long as you’d like with the tip versus the shaft.

Tonight, though? Oh no. He’s not waiting. The hand gripping your hair tightens mercilessly, yanking your head toward his body, his thick cock sinking deep into your throat without warning.

“Mmphm—” you try your best to mumble to tell him to slow down, but he’s already thrusting. In, out. Using your mouth like some useless ten dollar pocket pussy. Saliva is dripping from the corners of your fucked-out mouth, groans escaping from the depths of your throat each time he hit it.

“Fuck, take it. Lemme use ya,’ honey.” Tommy groans, yanking your head again until he’s balls deep between your lips, your nose buried in his graying bush of pubic hair.

He’s too distracted by the overwhelming feeling of having this after a tortuous week, getting a break for his own pleasure. From his girl. His perfect girl who’d do anything for him.

So, he doesn’t quite pick up on the rustling beneath him.

While you’re taking his dick as far back into your throat as possible without gagging, you’re getting wet. As you do. He’s right–you are a slut for him. He’d already undone your belt, so it wasn’t that much work to get the rest off.

You managed to shimmy your pants off, leaving you in a pair of dangerously wet black panties. The pooling in them soon transferred onto leather while your aching pussy came in contact with Tommy’s boots. Grinding softly at first, just to relieve the tingling.

In a mere thirty seconds, it became more than gentle grinding. Oops. You’re losing focus on the cock in your mouth because of the feeling of his hard, dirty boot against your sensitive cunt. Even through the fabric, it was fucking orgasmic. You haven’t seen him in a whole week. You’re clearly needy, is that so bad?

“Baby,” Tommy whines petulantly when your usually skilled mouth starts to lose its practiced technique, giving your face a soft slap.

His eyes finally open, drifting down to take in the sight of him between your lips. One of his favorites. Instead, his eyes draw downward further to the desperate movement of your hips.

He raises an eyebrow and snorts, gripping your jaw again and fucking your face harder. Forceful, now. It does hurt a bit, the muscles of your jaw aching as much as your poor pussy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he begins, shaking his head scornfully. “What’chu doin,’ huh?”

You whine and feel a few pathetic tears slip when he uses your throat more.

Tommy doesn’t stop at the tears, but does manage to get his hips to still when you gag much harder this time. Sure, he’s angry right now, but he’s not evil. He knows your limits.

“M’kay. I know, I know. Fine.”

Pulling his cock out of your mouth slowly, he groans at the sight of the long string of saliva that connects the two. Sticky and stringy, stretching out a few inches before falling back and dribbling down your chin. His hand reaches out, rubbing a bit of it off and cleaning his thumb in his own mouth.

“Y’can’t take it? Gaggin’ already?”

He belittles you, bringing his hand back down to the right side of your face. He rubs it, gentle for a quick second, before drawing his palm back and meeting the cheek with a slap. Not the hardest, but enough to leave a mark. Just a little bit of his frustration escaping.

“M’sorry.” You begin, but Tommy’s shaking his head in disappointment.

“Usually better than this. Usually waitin’ your turn all good and proper, not gettin’ yourself off on my boot like that.”

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. You didn’t think he noticed the grinding on his shoe. Somehow.

Tommy tuts, shaking his head and rubbing the reddening patch on your cheek he’d just hit. It burns so good, a hot feeling rising in the stinging skin the same way it was rising in your stomach while you got yourself off on his foot like a slut.

“Can’t wait, huh? Just had to? That it?” He grumbles, thumb dipping down between your lips and parting them yet again. There’s still a drop of precum on the corner, some saliva dribbling down. He likes the look of you, all spent and messy like this.

“Guess so.” You answer quietly, mouth opening for him when he spreads the two lips.

Without saying anything else, Tommy takes a moment to collect some saliva in the warmth of his mouth. He swishes it around, lips puckering up before opening as he spits right into your now-opened jaw.

It catches you off guard. But you take it, feeling guilty you couldn’t even finish off the head earlier out of your own neediness distracting you. You remain on those knees like a good girl, staring up at him patiently with the gob of his saliva pooling in your mouth, his thumb on your chin.

He raises his eyebrows, just testing you like a fucking asshole right now. Waits too long, a good ten seconds, before nodding.

Obediently, you swallow it, eyes shutting as you savor the taste of his spit after too long.

“M’kay, up, baby.” Tommy nods in approval again, hands slipping under your armpits in order to hoist you up.

He’s always been able to manhandle you so easily, and you love it. The fact that he can pick you up, toss you around, make you his, without you being able to do anything about it. Yum. He’s so muscled and just large, especially his hands. Vascular, thick, hardened from work like all of him is.

You’re in his arms for a few seconds before he finds a little chest to sit down on, grunting while he sits back and sets you down on his lap. Your legs come around his hips, straddling him, your body resting on top of his.

“Might as well give ya’ what’chu want. Clearly not doin’ me good being apart from you.”

His hand comes down your back, feeling the soft plunge of the dimples on the small of it. He rubs your soft skin, slipping up under the shirt he’d previously pulled up, before his hand moves lower. It comes in contact with your ass, the little black panties not giving your skin much protection.

A loud slap sound snaps in the air, louder than the one to your face earlier. It draws a whimper out of you, making you bury your little head in his sweaty neck.

Tommy chortles, rubbing the spot and tapping it a few times.

“Fuckin’ mess. Whimperin’ and shit.”

Another slap, and then he eases up. Your whimpers make him feel bad about it–the sounds of actual pain. But, on the down low, they’re making his cock stand up more.

You’re shifting around, trying to get it to hit perfectly against your clit through the fabric. No luck, though, as his hands come to still your waist.

“Uh-uh. M’doing this tonight. Sit still for me.”

Tommy advises, raising his eyebrows while he gives your right hip another tap of reassurance. You can hardly sit still, even with his hands keeping you in place. Pathetic. Today, there’s no gentleness like the Tommy you know. Just fervor and need. Absolutely raw and heightened by his anger.

He lifts your thighs, turning you around, so you’re in his lap and facing forward. Your back is turned to him, hair tousled from his grip in it earlier, shirt pulled up and bra discarded. Oops.

“Gonna sit and take it for me. Lemme’ use you, hon’.”

His voice is rough in your ear, hand snaking around your waist to the front of your body. It works up your shirt more, moving upward to grip your breasts tightly. His other hand carelessly scoops beneath your thighs, pulling the fabric of your panties to the side.

No, he’s not taking them off. Not enough care for that. Just gonna do what he knows he needs.

Your pussy is exposed to the warm air of the abandoned theater, pressed down on the skin of his hair thighs. His hand spreads your legs, finding your folds and humming at the feeling of how wet you are.

“Goddamn. Soaked.” He snorts, tapping at your clit pitilessly. It’s tortuously teasing, making you gasp and writh. “All cause I’m angry, huh, baby? Likin’ that?”

You nod and lean your head back, not even listening. Already cock dumb, and he hasn’t put it in yet.

“Fuckin’ slut. C’mon, now. Up for me.” Tommy lifts you so he can slip his cock under you, pressing it between your slick folds. “Fuck.”

The two of you both moan, hips moving in practiced unison to rub together for utmost pleasure without penetration. You usually both withstand teasing for a bit, so you’re expecting more of the pussy job, but he’s not wasting time.

Tommy sinks in, sliding his thick shaft right into you without any issues. So soaked, so excited that you’re all opened up and pulsing for it.

“Ah, baby. Wet as shit tonight.”

His hands both find your hips, watching your ass jiggle each time he thrusts up between your legs. He’s pressing you down on him, minimizing the amount of space possible between your two sweaty bodies.

“Tommy.” You whine out, leaning your head back and trying to fall back into his body for comfort.

“Uh-uh. Lean forward, honey.” He growls, pushing you forward and tightening his grip on your hips to ensure you stay like that–it’s the deepest angle, after all.

In seconds, you’re fucked out. You have no clue what he’s saying, but you pick up on the occasional mumble while he slams in and out of you.

“Take it all. Every fuckin’ inch, baby.”

“M’not okay. Only thing holding me together is you.”

“Fuckin’ hell–look at you. Look.”

“Should’ve been me they took. Not Joel.”

“Gon’ kill that motherfucker.”

It's an almost sad range of pure neediness to grief for his brother, the rage shining through yet again while his brain unravels. His thrusts get more reckless, the grip on your hips bruising with each.

And soon, he was close.

You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his fingers dig in tighter as if you’d disappear.

“Fuck–” he rasps, voice torn. “Fuck, baby. Can’t…can’t hold it.”

The anger dissipates as need numbs his mind, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His sweat-slick skin rubs and burns against yours.

Tommy is panting entirely, shaking now. His rhythm falters, picks up harder and rougher, all until your breath catches in sync with his and your knees nearly give out.

“Too good. Oh.” He growls into your ear, speeding up impossibly and closing any distance left between your crotches until he’s bottomed out, hardly moving.

His teeth graze your neck, eliciting a moan from your throat. And that’s it.

Tommy snaps, a pained and guttural sound ripping from his own throat. He slams into you a final time, hips jerking in brutal strokes. You feel his entire body tense, but the hot pulse of his cum spilling inside you calms the two of you down.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t want to. He can’t.

He can bury himself there for days and stay right where he is if he could. He could live in your sweet little spent pussy if it meant he wouldn’t have to go back out and find those fuckers who murdered his brother.

But no, Joel takes his mind again. This time, it’s less of rage, more of sadness. Guilt for going too rough out of anger.

His hands are fisted in your hair, jaw clenched like he’s trying to fight something. They both loosen up and he shakes his head, slowly pulling out and wrapping an arm around you.

“Shit.” He whispers, panting into your ear. “I’m sorry, baby. But fuck, I needed that.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, returning for a bit to the Tommy that you know.

“S’okay. I get it, you’re mad. Understandable.” You respond, turning in his lap and tucking your head in his neck. You’re straddling him now, kissing the soft skin wherever you can reach and stroking his hair.

He stays like that, rage finally quieted by your presence, his arms wrapped around you.

For now, at least.

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monicfever · 3 months ago

Note

Hiiii 👋👋👋 could you write hcs about punisher n daredevil characters finding reader badly injured? Like in the brink of death. Maybe in a scenario where reader is a vigilante, your choice :)

you’re critically injured 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

the first thing matt notices is the smell of blood. sharp, metallic, thick in the air. his heartbeat spikes as he’s running through the alley, scanning the shadows with a heightened sense of panic. he hears the faintest shift of breathing, shallow, labored, and he knows. he knows it’s you.

his heart sinks into his stomach when he finally locates you, crumpled against a wall, blood staining the concrete beneath you. you’re barely conscious, barely holding on. his hands shake as he drops to his knees beside you, instinctively checking for a pulse. it's weak, but it's there.

he’s trying to keep it together, but the fear in his chest grows. his senses are overwhelmed: the sharpness of your blood on the air, the brokenness in your breathing, the way your body is trembling under the weight of what you’ve endured. matt’s fingers graze your skin, feeling the warmth of your body despite the chill of blood pooling around you. his usually steady hands tremble as he pushes your hair back, his voice soft but firm. “stay with me. please, don’t do this. please.”

his mind is racing, calculating, desperate. every second matters. he can feel the damage, but he knows there’s no time to waste. he’s no doctor, but he knows the signs of severe blood loss, and he won’t lose you like this. his grip tightens on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, even as his thoughts are whirling in a thousand directions. you’ve always been the one to keep fighting, to push through the impossible, and it kills him that he can’t be the one to save you this time.

the guilt hits him like a punch to the gut. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. he’s supposed to protect you. but he didn’t. now he’s staring down at you, blood staining his hands, the overwhelming scent of iron mixing with the faint scent of you. his radar sense is a mess, overwhelmed with every small sound: the crackle of your shallow breaths, the faint tremor in your heartbeat, the sickening thud of blood dripping onto the pavement.

every instinct in him is screaming. no. no no no. not like this. he’s scrambling, trying to hold you together in his arms, his voice urgent and strained. for the first time in a long time, he’s terrified. he’s scared. his world is spinning out of control. you’re in his arms, slipping away.

you open your eyes just enough to meet his gaze, and that small, fleeting moment of connection — your weak, barely-there smile breaks him in ways he can’t explain. he hates himself for not seeing this coming, for not being there sooner. “i’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice shaky, barely a breath as he presses his forehead to yours. “i’m so sorry. i should’ve—” he cuts himself off with a sharp, frustrated sound. he’s shaking, his control slipping further as he feels your blood seep through his fingers, your body limp in his arms. the sound of your heartbeat is slowing, and every second that passes is like a knife in his chest.

without thinking, he scoops you up. he’s already calculating, running through every alley, every shortcut he knows, his mind fixated only on getting you to the hospital, getting you help before it’s too late. matt’s mind is already running, already picturing the faces of the scum who did this. they don’t get to hurt you and walk away. he bursts through the hospital doors, a breathless, wild mess, the doctors rush to take you from his arms.

as they pry you away, matt lingers in the doorway, his heart still in his throat. he’s torn between wanting to follow them, make sure they’re doing everything right, and wanting to tear through the streets and hunt down the monsters who put you in this state.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

the second he sees your body slumped in the dirt, blood staining the concrete beneath you, something inside him snaps. not breaks — snaps. like a wire pulled too tight finally giving out. a deep, terrible silence settles over him for half a second. then it’s gone. replaced by fire.

“no, no, no.” he growls, running to you. his knees hit the ground hard but he doesn’t even register the pain. all he can see is you. broken. bleeding. your gear torn. your skin pale. your chest barely rising. the world around him turns red. frank’s voice is low and frantic as he presses his hands to your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. “you stay with me. you stay with me, goddamnit.”

you’re still alive, barely. he can hear it. the ragged hitch of your breath, the faint stutter of your heartbeat. it’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. just barely.

he scoops you up in his arms, movements stiff with rage, with desperation. there’s no subtlety, no care for being quiet — he’s a storm tearing through the night, carrying your broken body like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade out of hell. the hospital is too far. too slow. he takes you to someone off the grid — a medic he knows, someone who won’t ask questions. and even then, even when they start patching up, frank can’t sit still. his fists are clenched. jaw tight. body vibrating with fury. he stares at the blood on his hands like it’s proof that he failed you.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but the guilt is unbearable. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. the second he took his eyes off you, someone tried to take you from him. and now all he can think about is revenge. he demands a name. doesn’t care if you’re awake enough to answer. he’ll find out anyway. he always does. and once he does, that name becomes a death sentence.

there’s no hesitation. no mercy. whoever did this is already dead, they just don’t know it yet. frank will hunt them, one by one, slow and brutal. no warnings. no speeches. just bullets and blood and silence. he’s not out for justice. this isn’t about balance. this is personal. they tried to take you from him. they crossed a line, and frank castle has never let something like that go unanswered.

the second they say you’re stable, just stable, not awake, he’s gone. no words. no goodbye. just the heavy sound of the door slamming behind him and the fire in his chest finally given permission to burn the world down. the rampage doesn’t start with guns. it starts with intel. names. faces. affiliations. once he has them it’s over. brutal. no survivors. they’re not just dead, they’re erased. to frank, this isn’t about sending a message. it’s about making sure they never touch anything he loves again.

the bodies pile up fast. each one worse than the last. there’s no pattern except brutality. knives. bare hands. point-blank execution. he’s not even covering his tracks — he wants them to know who’s doing it. he wants the fear to spread. he leaves behind chaos. and a message, unspoken but loud: you fucked with the wrong person.

in the rare moments he’s not out hunting, he’s sitting beside you. still bloodied. still burning. he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping him alive too. sometimes he talks to you. quiet, raspy words like confessions. he wipes the sweat from your forehead with a rag, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the carnage he left behind hours before. his thumb brushes your cheek, he breathes deep. you’re still here.

he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t eat. not until you open your eyes again. and when you finally do, even if it’s just for a second, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he found you bleeding in that alley. “i got ‘em,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough. “every last one. they won’t ever touch you again.”

but even when you’re awake, he’s not the same. there’s something darker in him now. something permanent. he’s more aware that you are easily a target and can get ripped from him at any point. depending on the strength/length of the relationship, the next time you see him once you open your eyes may very well be the last.

if he has to become the devil to keep you safe — so be it. he’s already halfway there.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he’s not supposed to find you like this. he’s supposed to be waiting at home, maybe pacing with a mug of coffee gone cold, maybe falling asleep on the couch with the tv on low. but instead, he’s running through a dark alley, heart in his throat, phone in his shaking hand, following some half-panicked tip from someone who "saw someone in your suit" go down hard. he rounds the corner and sees you crumpled on the ground. at first, he doesn’t even register that it’s you. the blood, the way your body is twisted, your mask half torn. it doesn’t look real. it looks like a nightmare he’s having with his eyes open.

“no,” he whispers. it’s the only thing that comes out. then louder, frantic: “hey! hey, baby, come on. stay with me.”

his knees hit the pavement. he doesn’t care about the blood or the dirt or the way his hands shake as he pulls you into his lap. you’re too still. too quiet. your breathing’s shallow. he presses his hand to your side and it comes away soaked. he nearly vomits. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay. we’re gonna — shit, okay— i need to call someone.” but he can’t even dial. his hands won’t stop shaking. his voice keeps cracking. “you’re gonna be fine, i swear. you’re not dying. you’re not dying. you’re not dying.” - he tells you, but it’s more for himself.

foggy has seen matt come home busted up. he’s patched bruises, stitched wounds. he knows what this life does to people. but this —you — he never imagined this. and now that it’s happening it’s like time is moving too fast and too slow at once.

he finally calls someone — matt, karen, someone who knows what to do. he blurts out the location, doesn’t even know if they can understand him through the panic in his voice. “they’re hurt, they’re — shit, they’re not waking up.” when help does arrive, he won’t let go.

at the hospital he’s a wreck. pacing, snapping at nurses, tears in his eyes. trying to keep it together but failing miserably. there’s blood on his clothes. he hasn’t sat down in hours. he keeps replaying it over and over — how pale you looked. how quiet. how close he was to losing you. when the doctors say you’re stable, he sits down for the first time and just cries. full-on, head-in-hands, silent shaking sobs.

he doesn’t leave your hospital room. not for food. not for sleep. not even when they ask him to. he’s curled up in one of those uncomfortable chairs, arms crossed tight like he’s physically trying to keep himself from falling apart. his eyes are on you constantly, watching your chest rise and fall. counting the seconds between each breath like it’s a lifeline.

the doctors tell him you’ll be okay. they say it a few times, gently, like they think it’ll finally sink in. but foggy doesn’t believe it until you open your eyes. when you finally do, he lets out a breath so heavy it sounds like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “hey.” he greets, voice cracking just on that one word. he tries to smile but it’s broken around the edges. “you look like hell.” you say, and then his eyes get glassy again because even half-dead, you’re still you, and he almost lost you. the tears come quietly this time. no drama. just him brushing your hair back with shaking fingers, but he’s not himself enough to joke. he just leans down and rests his forehead against your arm, letting the silence say what he can’t.

when you’re strong enough to come home, he sets up everything. extra pillows, blankets, meds. he googles like ten different recovery guides and keeps your favourite soup on the stove. he jokes, tries to keep things light, but you can see the fear still living behind his eyes. he flinches when you wince. apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. checks on you every few minutes, even when you’re asleep. “i know i said i could handle this,” he whispers one night while you’re resting, your hand in his. “but this, what happened, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

he won’t ask you to stop. not out loud, because he knows this is who you are. he’s proud of you. scared for you. but proud. still, of course he wishes you would quit. he’s not a fighter. not in the way you or matt or frank are. but he’d go to war for you all the same, and you know if he had gotten there a minute later that night, he would’ve never recovered.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s not the first time someone she loves has bled out in front of her. but this hits different. it’s you. and karen has already buried too many people. she told herself she couldn’t do this again, couldn’t love someone who runs headfirst into danger. but then there was you. and now you’re lying on the cold floor, broken, barely breathing, and she can’t stop shaking.

she stumbles when she finds you. almost slips in the blood. her hands go to her mouth before she can stop them — silent shock. her heart is in her throat. she drops on the floor next to you, her hands hover over you, afraid to touch, afraid she’ll hurt you worse — but she has to do something. she presses down on the worst wound, even though her hands are slick with blood. her fingers are slipping. she’s talking to you the whole time, voice trembling, like if she stops talking, you’ll slip away. “hey, hey, i’m here. you’re gonna be okay. just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

her phone’s already on speaker, the dispatcher talking her through what to do. she’s holding pressure, crying without realizing it, trying not to fall apart because you need her. and she’s not going to let you die — not when she just started to believe maybe, just maybe, you were the one she wouldn’t lose.

when the ambulance arrives, they have to pull her away from you. she fights it at first, grabbing onto your jacket, her bloodstained fingers clutching the fabric like she can keep you tethered to this world just by holding on. at the hospital, she’s stone-faced. too still. too quiet. people keep asking if she’s okay, but she just stares straight ahead. she’s not okay. she’s watching nurses rush in and out of your room, scrubs soaked red, machines beeping. it all feels too familiar. and the worst part? she doesn’t know if she can do it again. the waiting. the not knowing.

when they tell her you’re stable, she doesn’t cry. she just walks into your room like a ghost and sits by your bedside. she doesn’t touch you at first. just watches you breathe. listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor and lets it stitch her back together, one slow beat at a time. eventually her hand finds yours. she stays the whole night, doesn’t sleep. just sits in that hard plastic chair, watching the sunrise paint shadows across your face. her eyes are red. her soul is tired. but she’s there. because she always is. because you’re worth the pain.

when you wake, she smiles — small, watery, but real. not forced. relived. “hey,” she says. “you scared the hell out of me.” she doesn't ask you to stop. she knows she can't. but her voice goes low, soft, trembling with something fragile. “next time, come home. don’t make me find you like that again.”

after the worst is over, after the colour starts returning to your face, karen shifts. she goes quiet, withdrawn. controlled. because that’s how she survives this: by doing something. by finding out who did this to you and making sure they can never hurt you again. she starts digging the second she leaves your hospital room. doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat. just her laptop, a folder full of crime scene photos no one should have, and a growing web of connections on her wall — sticky notes, red string, scribbled names and locations.

she’s not reckless. she’s methodical. she calls in favors, slips into police records she’s technically not supposed to have access to, traces shell corporations and burner phones. if the people who came after you thought they were ghosts, they picked the wrong woman to cross. every night she comes back to your bedside like nothing’s changed. she talks to you softly, like she hasn’t spent the entire day tearing through criminal networks with a pen and a stare.

her version of revenge isn’t bullets or fists. it’s facts, it’s evidence, it’s exposing everything they’ve done and nailing them to the wall in court. she’s seen what blood-soaked justice does to people. it nearly destroyed frank. nearly destroyed her. so she’s doing it her way this time. but even she has limits, and when she finally tracks down the name of the person who ordered the hit on you, when she sees their face, reads their file, realizes how close they got to killing you - - there’s a split second where she considers just sending that name to frank. or matt. or taking a gun and doing it herself. she doesn’t. not yet. but the thought lingers.

there’s steel in her eyes when she looks at you. love, yes. but fire too. a dangerous kind of loyalty. she almost lost you. she kisses your forehead and brushes your hair, “you just focus on healing,” she says softly. “i’ve got the rest.”

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she finds you by scent first. blood in the air, and her instincts flare. everything in her stills. her fingers twitch toward her sai. her heart? it drops, immediately. she knows it’s yours. her body starts moving before her brain catches up. the sight of you nearly guts her. crumpled. gasping. blood soaking into the street like it’s trying to swallow you whole. her face doesn’t change, not yet. but her heart is screaming.

“you idiot.” she breathes, kneeling beside you. her hands hover, uncertain. for a second, she looks down at you like you’re already dead. like she’s staring at a body and trying to convince herself it’s not real. then she snaps into action, fast, precise, pressure on wounds. a whispered curse in greek under her breath.

she doesn’t call for help, she is the help. she picks you up, cradling you close to her chest, and moves like a shadow through the night. rooftops. alleyways. no hesitation. she gets you somewhere safe, somewhere secret. a place no one but her knows. her hands are stained red by the time she’s finished patching you up. it’s messy, but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stop moving. if she lets herself feel even for a second, she’ll come undone.

and then she disappears. without a word. you’re alive — so now someone else won’t be. she hunts with the kind of violence that comes from fury. she doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t give warnings. she carves a path through the people who touched you like she’s making a statement in blood and she smiles while doing it. not because she enjoys the kill — but because it quiets the ache. for a moment, revenge is the only thing louder than her fear. she doesn’t care who they are. a gang, a syndicate, a hand of god — it doesn’t matter. they’re in her way and they die for it.

when she returns, days later, she’s cleaner. calmer. like she’s shed the blood and stepped back into her skin. but when she looks at you, still pale, still healing, that mask slips just a little.

she doesn’t sit by your bedside like matt or foggy or karen. she watches from the shadows, perched near the window like a ghost. barely breathing. doesn’t want you to see how shaken she is. doesn’t want you to know how deeply she feels this. how much of her identity unravels the second she admits: you’re not just another casualty. you ask her where she went, her gaze sharpens. “handled it,” she replies flat. but her jaw is tight, her knuckles white. you know what that means.

the night you wake up crying from pain, she’s already there. no sound. no warning. just a gentle hand on your ribs, shushing you softly. “breathe. it’s just pain. you’re alive.” but you see her eyes shimmer for a split second. not with tears — she doesn’t cry. with something that looks like grief curling inward.

when you ask if she’s okay, she laughs. cold and low. “you almost died, and you’re asking me?” she cups your face then, thumb brushing your cheekbone. the softest touch from the most dangerous hands. she doesn’t promise you’ll be safe. she never lies. but she does promise one thing, with venom in her voice: “if anyone tries this again, they’ll beg for hell by the time i’m finished.”

some nights you wake to find her pacing. barefoot. silent. a blade spinning in her fingers out of habit. it’s not restlessness, it’s restraint. she’s still seething beneath the surface, waiting for another name, another threat, another reason to hurt something in your name.

she starts training with you again before you’re ready. not because she’s cruel — because the thought of losing you again is unbearable. her touches are rougher. her critiques sharper. but her eyes never leave you. she’s watching, making sure it never happens again. you confront her, tell her she’s pushing too hard, that you need time. her jaw clenches. “time didn’t stop them from almost killing you.” she snaps.

she doesn’t ask you to stop being a vigilante. she’d never try to take that from you. but she does expect blood if anyone touches you again. it’s not a question. it’s a fact.

and still, on the quietest nights, she curls into your side like a girl afraid of the dark. because she’s seen death. been reborn by it. but the only thing that’s ever truly terrified her is the thought of living in a world where you don’t exist.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he finds you by accident. it’s not a tip. not intel. he’s just out — tracking someone else — when he turns the corner and sees you. the second he recognizes your body slumped on the pavement, he freezes. mid-step. breath locked in his throat, eyes wide. everything goes quiet in his head. no noise. no inner voice. just a sudden, terrifying blankness that only ever comes with trauma.

and then it all slams back in. heart pounding, breath shaking, footsteps too loud as he rushes to you, dropping to his knees hard enough to bruise. his hands are shaking. “what the fuck —no, no — hey. hey. look at me,” he snaps, voice cracking as he lifts your face roughly. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to leave me.”

he presses his hands to your wounds, barely noticing that he’s getting blood all over himself. his suit. his arms. his face. he doesn’t care. he’s muttering now, voice slipping fast between anger and panic. “you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re gonna be fine.” there’s a twitch behind his eye, the way it always starts when he’s unraveling. the restraint is gone. he’s fighting the part of him that wants to go find whoever did this and carve their eyes out with a fucking pen.

he carries you himself. doesn’t trust anyone else to touch you. gets you to a safehouse, not a hospital — he doesn’t trust them, either. “i got you,” he keeps saying, over and over like a mantra. “i got you. i got you. i got you.” he patches you up with the kind of surgical precision only someone trained to kill would have. he’s been taught where to stab, where to shoot, where to break. now he’s using that same knowledge to keep you alive. hands still shaking. breath uneven. eyes wide and glassy.

when it’s over — when the bleeding’s stopped, and your breathing evens out — he just sits next to you. hands covered in your blood. staring at nothing. numb. it doesn’t last. the next day he’s gone. doesn’t say where, doesn’t leave a note. when he comes back there’s blood on his collar. a new rip in his jacket. a dark look in his eye. he doesn’t say a word. just washes his hands in the sink, slow and quiet. “they screamed,” he mutters later. voice low. flat. “when i found ‘em.” he doesn’t ask for forgiveness. not for the blood. not for the kill. he needs you to know what he did. in his mind, that’s love. that’s loyalty. that’s what he is.

at first he tries to hold it together. stiff jaw. blank face. but it cracks fast the moment he hears you groan in pain, or sees you wince when you move — it’s like a glitch in his programming. he paces. mutters. his breathing gets shallow. hands in his hair. “fuck. fuckfuckfuck.” he can’t stop replaying it. you on the ground. the blood. your eyes going glassy. the way your body felt in his arms — too limp. too quiet. it haunts him. he’s twitchier than usual, zoning out mid-sentence, jaw clenching like he’s trying not to scream.

when you sleep he stands at the door with a gun in his hand. all night. doesn’t blink. doesn’t rest. he hears every sound, every creak, every car outside — and for every single one, he’s ready to kill. he will not let it happen again. you wake up and find him cleaning weapons on the kitchen table. obsessively. over and over. something in his expression isn’t right. too calm. too blank. eyes dead.

you tell him you’re okay now. he snaps. kicks a chair so hard it splinters against the wall. slams his fist into the fridge. breathing too fast. too shallow. “you almost died.” he shouts, turning toward you, eyes wide and wild. you try to calm him. he steps back. shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the panic out of his skull. “i can’t lose you. i can’t—” voice cuts off. he’s choking on it. shaking. “if you leave, i’ll fucking burn down the world.”

he becomes obsessive. even more controlling — not in a cruel way, but in that desperate, self-destructive, bpd way where his fear of abandonment becomes everything. he checks on you every hour. double locks the doors. hides weapons around the apartment. watches you sleep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. doesn’t want you going out with anyone that’s not him. “i don’t trust the world with you,” he tells you. “only me. only i can keep you alive.”

god help you the moment you try to suit up again. he begs. angry, terrified. “please don’t go.” his voice goes so soft, like he’s reverting back to the little boy inside him who just wanted someone to stay. he will beg you to quit, to stop, to give up that part of your life completely. if you go anyway he unravels. waits at home, pacing, crying, screaming into his hands, punching walls, whispering your name. “please come back. please come back. please come back.” when you finally do, and you’re safe, he grabs you, pulls you into him so tight it hurts, and presses his face into your neck. he’s trembling. sobbing.

he doesn’t let go for hours. doesn’t care how messy it looks. doesn’t care how unstable he seems. because when it comes to you? he needs. it’s not just love, you’re his survival.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

the moment he sees you, his whole body freezes. it's not panic — it's shock. billy's usually composed, cold, the kind of guy who can walk through hell and come out smiling. but this is different. you're not just another casualty in his world, you're his everything. and when he sees you lying there, barely conscious, blood seeping into the concrete, it feels like the air leaves his lungs. for the first few seconds, he doesn’t move. his eyes go glassy, disbelieving. his heart is pounding in his ears, and he can’t process it. he doesn’t know what to do. everything he’s ever known, every instinct, every move, every cold calculation — it’s gone.

when he finally rushes to you, he’s all hands, desperate to pull you close. “hey. hey, baby. hey, look at me,” his voice shakes slightly, like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. something that isn’t this nightmare. “you’re gonna be fine. you hear me? you’re gonna be fine.” he pulls you into his arms and holds you against his chest, completely oblivious to the blood staining his suit. all he cares about is keeping you conscious. “just stay with me,” he mutters under his breath, over and over again. “don’t close your eyes. don’t fucking close your eyes on me.”

he knows hospitals aren’t an option. hospitals don’t work for people like you — people with blood on their hands, people like him. so he takes you to a private location, and pays for you to be privately attended to. he’s talking to you. low. soft. like if he can just keep you engaged, keep you anchored, he can fix you. “don’t think for a second you’re getting away from me,” he says, trying to sound confident, trying to sound calm. but it cracks. “you’re too much of a pain in my ass to just die on me, okay?”

the bandages are tight. the pain meds are there. but when you don’t respond, when you still look too pale, too still — he breaks. he can’t stop there, not now, not ever again. the fear that’s gnawing at his chest is unfamiliar. he doesn’t like it, so he drowns it. dives headfirst into revenge. the people who did this to you? they don’t just die. no. they’re tortured. billy goes into full punisher mode — ruthless, calculated, brutal. nothing is off-limits.

the nights are worse. he stays close, watches you like a hawk, like if he looks away, you’ll disappear. he doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a fear in him now. one that claws at his insides, reminds him of all the things he’s lost before. he doesn’t let you go anywhere alone. not even for a second. when you try to go out, when you even mention getting back into the game too soon, he flips. “don’t you dare.” his hands grip your shoulders a little too tightly. “you’re not going anywhere. you almost fucking died. you’re not risking it again.”

if shit hits the fan and you’re caught in the crossfire again, if things go wrong, if you're too exposed, too vulnerable, billy goes feral. the change is instant, an animal’s rage flipping the switch in his brain. his body goes into autopilot as his mind snaps into pure chaos. without hesitation, he’s on the offensive. you’re the only thing that matters, and anyone who tries to get close to you, even just a second too long, is dead before they know what hit them.

he doesn’t give you time to breathe after that. the moment the adrenaline settles, billy’s back at your side. he’s close, too close. his hands roam over your body, making sure you’re intact, making sure you’re real. “are you hurt?” he asks, though he knows you’re not, he’s just making sure. his eyes don’t leave you for a second. his breath is still fast, ragged from the violence.

when you try to pull away from him, when you try to leave his arms or distance yourself even an inch, billy tightens his grip. his whole body freezes, and his gaze darkens. “don’t.” it’s low, dangerous. it’s a warning. and you can feel it. that slow, creeping panic that is threading itself into his soul. billy isn’t just holding you now, he’s clinging. because if you slip away again, if you pull too far from him, he’ll lose himself. and he knows it.

if you think you can get away to go out and continue your work he’s already planning how to stop you. every exit is blocked. every path you could take, every little crack in the world you could slip through, billy knows it. he knows because he’s thought about every possible way, and he’s ready for it. it’s not just that he wants to keep you close. it’s that he can’t breathe when you’re not around.

the possessiveness isn’t even the scariest thing about him. it’s his insecurity. billy russo knows he’s capable of destroying anything — and that includes you, if it comes down to it. “I’m the only one who can protect you,” he tells you in the dead of night, his face barely an inch away from yours. “no one else can. not like I can.” his presence is more a demand than an option.

his world is you. the only one who’s ever loved him. the thing that keeps him going, the thing that defines his decisions. no matter how violent, no matter how twisted, he’ll do anything to keep you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

the moment she finds out you’ve been hurt, she’s frozen. it hits her like a ton of bricks. when she gets the call, when she hears what happened, she can’t breathe for a second. her chest tightens. her hands shake, but she doesn’t let it show. she’s a professional. she’s been trained for this.

her first instinct is to get to you fast. dinah’s never been one to waste time. but when she sees you, when she takes in the severity of your injuries, something inside her snaps. that sharp edge that’s kept her moving forward, her ability to compartmentalize? gone. in its place is the cold, biting realization: this is all too familiar.

she fights to keep it together as she kneels beside you at the hospital, checking for signs of life. her hands hover above you, but she’s too afraid to touch you at first. afraid she’ll make it worse. but when she sees your eyes flicker open, when she hears you weakly call her name, she snaps into action. her voice is low, soothing— something she learned to use to keep people calm in the chaos of her work. “you’re okay,” she says, even if her voice shakes. “you’re gonna be okay.”

but the worry doesn’t fade. in fact, it just makes her more determined to hunt down the people who did this to you. she’s driven by vengeance. this isn’t about breaking the law or falling into chaos — it’s about justice. it’s about doing things the right way. she has to — she’s always believed in the system.

her flashbacks hit harder now. she thinks of sam, how he died, how she couldn’t stop it. every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. his blood. his empty eyes. she sees you in the same way, and the guilt starts to fester. she’s relentless in her search for answers, and every dead end, every failure to get closer to them, feels like she’s failing you all over again.

the guilt and anger bleed together in her dreams. she wakes up in cold sweats, her mind flashing back to that night, the night sam died, and how helpless she felt. then there’s you, and the helplessness is even worse. the thought that she couldn’t save you. that she might lose you too.

but when she gets closer, when she finally has the chance to make them pay, it’s not a feeling of triumph — it’s just a cold, hollow satisfaction. revenge, for dinah, doesn’t bring peace. it doesn’t bring closure. it just empties her further. she’s not sure if what she’s doing is right anymore, but she can’t stop herself. the justice she’s been chasing her whole life feels hollow now.

the weight of the revenge still hangs over her, even after she gets it. madani knows that she’s done what she had to do, but there’s no true peace. the law isn’t enough, and she’s not sure she’ll ever find solace. the trauma lingers, the flashbacks to sam, and the faces of those who hurt you haunting her every step. but she’ll keep going. because that’s what she does. she survives. she endures. and for you? she’ll keep fighting.

⏜︵ DAVID / MICRO. 𐂯

fear grips him hard. you’re everything to him — he can’t even process the reality of what’s going on. he tries to call you, but there’s no answer. panic sinks in deeper. he’s trying to keep it together, but it’s all falling apart. he can’t lose you.

he knows he can’t do this alone. he’s smart, he’s good with computers, but this is beyond his control. so, without even thinking, he picks up his phone and dials frank. he needs help — real help. not the kind of tech solutions he usually works with, but someone who can find the people who did this and make them pay. frank picks up. david’s voice cracks when he speaks, but he tries to keep the desperation in check. the words spill out of him, but he knows frank doesn’t need any more details. frank doesn’t need him to explain — it’s always been a silent understanding between them. frank will help.

frank’s response is immediate. there’s no hesitation in his voice. “get to me. now.” david doesn’t need to be told twice. he hangs up, grabs his bag, and doesn’t stop moving until he’s at frank’s location. he’s shaking, from fear, from the overwhelming guilt and helplessness clawing at him. when david finally arrives it’s a blur of frantic energy. he’s pacing, his mind spiraling through a hundred different thoughts at once. frank listens, david explains what little he knows, but it’s clear he’s not thinking straight. his focus is broken, distracted. he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to come after him. frank doesn’t judge him for his panic. he knows david’s been thrown into a situation he’s not prepared for.

with castle at his side, david dives headfirst into research for revenge. he’s typing away at the computer, pulling up every piece of data he can get his hands on, but he’s still not in control. every lead he follows feels like a dead end. he’s so close, and yet it’s so far. he feels helpless again, like he’s failing you. frank knows exactly what to do, starts tracking down leads the way only he knows how, and it’s not long before david starts feeling that old rush of adrenaline. david watches as frank works, and a part of him feels sick. he doesn’t like the things frank does to get answers — he never has — but in this moment, he doesn’t care. he wants the people who did this to you to suffer. they will pay.

when he gets back to you, he’s exhausted, drained. he holds you close, his fingers trembling. the adrenaline’s worn off, and now he’s just done. his mind keeps running through what happened, but he’s too tired to make sense of it all. all he knows is you’re here, you’re alive, and somehow, somehow, that’s enough for him.

even with everything settled, the guilt never goes away. david knows he couldn’t have done it without frank, and that thought haunts him. he hates that frank had to be the one to pull him out of his panic, to get him to this point. he feels weaker for it. but he’s trying to hold it together for you. he’ll always try to hold it together for you.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

it’s like his whole world stops. wesley is used to being in control, to managing every detail of his life with precision, but this is different. you are different. you’re the one person he can’t control, the one person he’s allowed himself to care about, and now you’re in danger. it shatters his calm, makes everything feel like it’s slipping through his fingers.

the moment he hears what happened his first thought is to get to you. immediately, he starts making plans, pulling strings, organizing everything in his mind with military precision. nothing is left to chance. he won’t leave anything to luck or fate. he’s already running through every possible solution in his head — getting you to safety, finding out who did this, and making them pay.

when he sees you hurt, it’s worse than he expected. his eyes narrow, scanning you for injuries, his expression hardening. this shouldn’t be happening. you shouldn’t be in this state. he’s quick to assess the situation — if you’re still conscious, he’ll call your name, trying to keep you awake and alert, reassuring you that everything will be taken care of. but deep down, he’s losing control. this is his fault. he wasn’t there when you needed him, and that thought claws at his gut.

he doesn’t waste time on emotions, at least not outwardly. wesley is all about efficiency. he’s trying to keep his cool because he knows if he loses it, if he shows any sign of weakness, the situation could spiral even further. he pulls you close, his tone sharp, “we’re going to get you help. stay with me.” there’s no comfort in his words, no softness. just cold, calculated action.

he won’t take you to a hospital. he’s already got another plan in place, one that he knows will guarantee your safety. he’s not leaving your side for a second, and he’s certainly not letting you be treated by anyone who could jeopardize the situation. he’ll take you to one of fisks safe houses, somewhere he’s already set up for emergencies. he’ll make sure you’re patched up, but not by a doctor, by someone he trusts, someone he knows won’t ask questions.

the person who did this is as good as dead. wesley doesn’t even need to think twice about what he’s going to do. the moment he finds out who’s behind this, they’ll pay. he’s methodical about it, just like everything else in his life. he’ll track them down, piece together every detail, and make sure no one escapes. they’ll regret crossing him, crossing you. he’ll track down every lead with obsessive precision. while youre recovering he’ll monitor every movement, every conversation, making sure no one can get close enough to hurt you again. he’s already planning, moving pieces on a mental chessboard, keeping you protected in ways you can’t even fathom. it’s almost clinical the way he works, and it’s terrifying. there’s no room for failure. when he catches the person who hurt you, there’s no mercy. wesley doesn’t do mercy. there’s no room for hesitation. he’ll handle them swiftly, in the way he’s always been trained to — calm, efficient, without remorse.

once it’s over, once the danger has passed, he’ll find himself restless. he won’t relax. not fully. the guilt gnaws at him. no matter how much he tells himself he did everything right, that you’re safe now, he’ll never fully shake the feeling that he could’ve done more. he’s been trained to protect, to control, and yet, in this one instance, he couldn’t stop what happened. it eats at him. he wasn’t fast enough.

when he checks on you later, there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. he’s there, by your side, but it’s not the gentle reassurance you might expect. he’s not soft about it. he’s focused on your well-being, but there’s that edge to him, an intensity that makes it clear he’s not quite done. not done with protecting you, not done with his need to control the situation. he’ll stay close, but it’s not because he’s worried for you. it’s because he can’t bear the idea of losing you or letting anyone get close enough to hurt you again.

if you ask him about it he’ll brush it off with his usual coldness. “it’s done. you’re safe. that’s all that matters.” there’s no emotion in his voice, no sign of the internal battle he’s fighting. because for james wesley, admitting weakness, admitting fear, isn’t an option. he’ll never show that side of himself.

but deep down, the fear never really goes away. it’s not just the fear of losing you, it’s the fear that he’s not good enough to protect you in the way he needs to. he’ll bury it. he’ll hide it. but the cracks will start to show, just a little. and as time goes on, he’ll start to wonder if he’ll ever truly be able to shield you from the world that’s out there.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

everything else fades away. he’s used to the violence of his world, the chaos of being part of hell’s kitchen, but seeing you in this state — broken, bleeding, close to death — shatters him. he’s good at shutting down his emotions, but this? it’s like a punch to the gut.

his first instinct is to move you, get you out of there. he doesn’t care about the blood or the injuries; he just needs to get you somewhere safe, somewhere away from the people who did this. he’s not gentle when he picks you up. muse’s hands tremble, but his movements are urgent, almost frantic, because this isn’t just any injury — it’s you. the one person who’s shown him a hint of softness, the person who doesn’t treat him like a joke. and now, you’re this. he hates it.

when he gets you to a safe house or wherever he’s decided you need to be, he’s not leaving your side. he’s patching you up as best he can, trying to stop the bleeding with hands that shake. he’s muttering to himself, cursing, moving like a man possessed. he knows this isn’t going to be enough, that the injuries are too severe for him to handle, but he can’t bring himself to call for help. not yet. not when he’s still trying to keep control over this.

when he finds out who did this to you it’s bad news for them. muse isn’t the type to sit around and wait for someone else to fix things. he’s always been the kind of guy who takes care of problems on his own terms. and if someone hurt you? well, there’s nothing stopping him from hunting them down and making them wish they’d never laid a finger on you. he’ll go after them with everything he’s got, no mercy, no hesitation, draining every last drop of blood from their body.

he gets reckless. the more he tries to keep his head together, the more the anger builds. he wants answers, he wants vengeance, but most of all, he wants to fix things for you. he’ll keep pushing until he finds out who did this, and when he does, he won’t hold back.

he’s constantly checking on you, watching you like a hawk. when you wake up, he’s there, hovering over you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief, panic and concern.

as much as he tries to stay detached, you’re changing him. the more time he spends with you, the more he cares. it’s not something he’s used to, not something he can easily admit, but it’s there. you’re important to him in a way he never thought possible.

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

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tangyneon · 1 month ago

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lychee pops!

It's Tokyo, summer of 2005, and Gojo Satoru is thriving.

He's free, he's fabulous, he's fifteen—and way too busy being iconic to miss anyone from Kyoto. Like, please.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: teen!gojo; teen!reader; fluff; mild angst; humor; gojo and you have been engaged since childhood owing to an agreement between his clan and yours; neither of you really knows what that means now; mutual pining; some might describe gojo's dynamic with you as an unestablished relationship; few might describe it as a long-distance relationship; word count—1794. warnings: malfunctioning cursed charms and kitchen distasters. notes: the jjk hi movie frames have left me terribly unwell. never mind me, though—hope you'll enjoy reading this, babes!! ❤️❤️

Tokyo smells different.

This is the first thing that Gojo notices after stepping off the train and into the hustle and bustle of the city. There's the sharp, biting tang of fuel and exhaust, there's the slightly burnt smell of warm asphalt and the dry undertone of the concrete and dust. There's the cloying blend of perfume and cologne, made far worse when mixed with the stench of sweat and body odour. Even the cursed energy in the air feels quite different—more raw, more chaotic, much less calculated...

Gojo likes it.

Or. Well.

The boy is deciding to like it.

After months of—no, an eternity of—dealing with shouting, threats, three different elders trying to bribe him in three different ways, and one disgustingly dramatic fainting episode by yet another elder, he's finally here. And he thinks it's totally worth it.

His room is small and full of dust, but it is his. His side of the dorm smells like his deodorant and microwave cup ramen. There's a tiny balcony right next to it, that overlooks an alley where he saw a cat fight with a crow this morning. On the other side of his bed, there's Geto, who acts like he is an eighty-year-old grandpa and reads out loud from his philosophy books and acts way too proper in front of their teachers. On the far side of the room, there's an empty bed, in which Shoko crashes once in a while, who drinks cough syrups like herbal tea and smokes cigarettes like hell and has already said she'll kill him, then resurrect him—just to murder him all over again—if he dares to steal her snacks a second time.

It is loud, it is weird, it is likely cursed too—but in all the best ways.

Gojo should be completely, deliriously happy now.

And he is. He really is.

But still, the boy finds himself just lying on the bed, his phone on his chest, his unguarded eyes fixed on the ceiling fan as if it'll transform into a divine messenger any instant now, and drop a divine message or two from the heavens.

Then—the phone buzzes.

Gojo doesn't even need to check the name.

He knows it is you.

It has never not been you.

You always call after dinner. Neither too late nor too early. You always wait until your clan elders are done with their evening work, and your family members have gone to bed, and it's finally safe to whisper. He can already imagine you tiptoeing to the farthest corner of your room with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder and your ugly pink blanket wrapped tightly around your frame.

Gojo waits for a moment. Then, he flips his phone open, watching its screen light up with the [chatterbox CALLING...].

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

He picks up after the fourth ring.

"Yo," he says, hoping he sounds as nonchalant as he feels right now. He frowns when he ends up sounding a bit too eager, a bit too warm—nearly stupidly so—however.

"Hi," your voice comes through a second later, very soft and just a bit shaky. It's only one word, but you say it like you mean it, like you were not too sure he would answer—which is why Gojo doesn't really mind when he tries not to smile, then fails.

"Took you long enough," he mutters, shifting onto his side so his hair flops back from his forehead—not that it is that long, though—"I was starting to think maybe you forgot your beloved betrothed, left to rot out here in the cursed wastelands of Tokyo."

"You have been there for less than a week, 'Toru," you huff—amused, he can tell. "And Tokyo is hardly a wasteland. Tokyo is Tokyo."

"Which is the biggest lie ever," he says, dead serious, "There are vending machines here that sell hot corn soup. In a can. Can you believe that? Hot corn soup in a can!"

There's a pause. A brief pause.

"...Okay, that is horrifying," you finally reply, sounding vaguely disgusted.

"Right?" Gojo exclaims, almost triumphantly, "I feel cursed just standing next to it. And Shoko drinks it."

"You need to report her to someone."

"I could," he says, but it comes out more like a whine, "but I think she would dissect me if I tried."

You giggle at that—the sound of it barely more than a breath, yet it's real and sweet and bright, and it fills the spaces between and behind his ribs like the warm spring sun. Gojo presses the phone closer to his ear.

"You sound good," you say after a while.

"Why do you sound surprised?"

"I'm not. I just..." He hears you falter for a beat, then speak again—softer this time, "I just—I'm glad. You were so tense before you left. Especially during the ceremony."

He shrugs, only to realise a moment late that you cannot see it. He settles on a careless hum, instead, "Those old geezers were breathing down my neck. Kept saying I would 'dishonour my role' by leaving the estate."

"Dishonour it how? By getting an education?"

"By thinking for myself, apparently."

He gets a sympathetic hum for that. And the quiet that follows feels soft, he thinks—definitely one of the comfortable ones—only for you, ever the chatterbox, to break it not even two full seconds later.

"And, 'Toru," you ask, "did your room end up okay? Is it strange, living with other students?"

"It's fine," he answers easily, "Geto is neat. Sort of a clean freak, though. Shoko is messy—way more than me. I took the bed near the window."

"Of course, you did."

"Of course, I did," Gojo echoes back, grinning at the chuckle you give, "Gotta have a dramatic background for my morning monologues, you see."

You snort. "What, like... 'Alas, o cruel world, my breakfast cereals expired yesterday'?"

"No, like—" Gojo deepens his voice dramatically, "—'The weight of the Gojo clan bears heavily upon my shoulders. Woe is me, for I am but a vessel of power and dashing good looks'."

A loud laugh erupts out of you at that—the sound of it so full and so open, it crackles in his ears and makes his chest hurt in a fashion he isn't too certain he has the training to identify.

The boy does not mind the pain, though. Not really, anyway.

"You're such a drama queen," you gasp out between giggles.

"You love it," he shoots back, flipping onto his stomach and grinning into his pillow.

You suddenly pause. And then—

"...I do."

Gojo almost doesn't hear you at first. But when he does, he thinks it's too soft, it's too blunt, it was said in a way too uncomplicated for it to have been by anyone who isn't you.

His smile stutters. It nearly collapses. He stares down at the triangles on the bedsheets, heart suddenly doing something irritatingly stupid inside his chest.

He changes the subject faster than he has ever teleported.

"So, well, um—what's going on in Boredom Central?"

You snort again. "Besides the elders calling me in for 'refinement sessions'? Nothing much, I guess... I did nearly get killed by a few cursed charms, though—"

"What!?" Gojo chokes.

"Your fiancée was nearly killed by cursed charms this morning," you repeat cheerfully, clearly mistaking his shock for something entirely different, "According to my aunt, I must not have handled them with enough respect. According to me, the charms were clearly made by someone moronic—why else would a charm backfire on its first use, hm? They clearly weren't made well."

"Your aunt's husband is the one who supplied those charms, right?" he asks slowly.

"Yeah, so? My point still stands."

Your reply draws a bark of a laugh from Gojo—the noise of it, short and sharp yet breathless. And it's not until he hears himself that he realises how tightly he has been holding onto his breath ever since arriving in Tokyo.

Not willing to go too much into what it may mean, he sobers himself, and listens as you talk about your day. How you caught your cousins sneaking out of the estate to go to a baseball match. How your mom scolded you for saying "UGH, I hate this," in front of an ancient scroll. How you tried to make his favourite dango, but almost burnt yourself in the process.

Gojo makes the appropriate noises as you speak—laughter, outrage, exasperation—but he mostly just listens. To your voice. To the many small shifts in your voice. To the way it never makes him feel like he's the strongest, or the most important, or the heir saturated with way too much power for only soul to hold.

To you, he is just 'Toru.

And he likes that. Maybe a little more than he ever should.

"...Hey," you say after quite some time, your voice much quieter now, "You're really okay, right?"

"I told you, I'm great," he quips, as casually as ever.

"I know, I know. It's just that... you sound tired, 'Toru."

Gojo falls silent for a beat—then sighs. It's an almost inaudible sound, but he thinks he can feel the weight of it settle some place deep in his bones, if only for a second.

"I think I am," he admits, slowly, softly, "But not in a bad way. Just... new place. New people. New everything. I'm learning how to be me, and not just what the elders want."

You hum in agreement, and a moment later, your voice follows—so gentle, it barely rustles the line.

"You can be you with me too, you know."

Gojo's throat tightens, just a little. "Yeah," he says, clearing his throat, "Yeah, I know."

"Good," you hum, the smile evident in your voice even if he can't see you right now—and then you yawn. The boy grins—suddenly feeling himself back in familiar territory again.

"Falling asleep on me already?" he smirks.

"No, no," you mumble—then yawn again. "'S just warm. And it's late."

Betraying his intention, his smile softens into something annoyingly yet unsurprisingly affectionate. He does not bother to fight it. "Go to sleep then, dummy."

"No... you hang up first, 'Toru."

"No, you hang up first."

"No, you!"

A sleepy laugh escapes you. "We are ridiculous," you mumble.

"We've always been ridiculous."

A tiny giggle answers from the other end.

There's a beat. Then, your voice drifts back, soft and sleep-drunk, "So... four rings tomorrow?"

"Four rings tomorrow," he echoes, his tone light and easy—before a yawn escapes him this time.

You giggle again, and the line goes quiet.

Gojo stays exactly where he is, phone cradled to his chest, and a soft, contented smile curling at his lips—as if he doesn't want the moment to end just yet.

find the sequel fic here!!!! © tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || header is from pinterest || masterlist.

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rafesteddy · 8 months ago

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𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝔽𝕠𝕦𝕣: 𝔹𝕖𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝔹𝕒𝕣𝕤

𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛𝙼𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 × 𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚢!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: dark!rafe, swearing, cheating, pet names, degredation, name calling, mentions of murder, guns mentioned, drugs mentioned, biting, jacob’s ladder piercing, public p in v, edging, denial, threats, blackmailing, boot riding, oral sex, fingering, rough oral, hair pulling, ownership kink, icky!rafe

📖 this was a mix of two asks & I did put my own twist on it: #1 anon ask: omg for the holiday slutacular could you do dealer!rafe, forbidden love, biting, hair pulling and maybe a cute little piercing on rafe iykwim, and line 8 xxx #2 request by @nocoolusernamesavailable-blog - Mobster Friends to lovers love triangle / Obedience training with edging, denial and ruined orgasms. Maybe end the session with a ruin or just denial. Or maybe count the edges / Try to stay quiet understand

Reader’s POV:

The door clangs shut behind Shoupe, and with it, a part of you feels lighter.

You watch him through the glass partition as he adjusts his duty belt, his expression stoic. The downtown holiday parade’s underway—Shoupe heading out to oversee his deputies, managing crowd control. His movements are crisp, efficient… Everything about him screams order and discipline. He’s a good man, a good deputy, and a good boyfriend. He’s just good…

“You sure you’ll be okay here?” He asks, his blue eyes softening on yours.

“I’ve got this,” you reply, forcing a smile. “Go save Christmas.”

His lips quirk into a smile before he leans in, pressing a light kiss on your lips, quick, professional, almost impersonal. But that was Shoupe—steady, dependable, never reckless. He was the kind of man you built a life with.

He turns and walks out, and you watch him disappear into the chilly North Carolina night. The sound of the heavy door slams shut behind him. Then, like clockwork, you hear it. A slow, lazy chuckle that raises every hair on your body.

“Still settlin’ for vanilla. Huh, pretty?”

Your heart drops at the sound of his voice. Deep, smooth, and laced with mockery. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. Rafe Cameron. You swallow hard, willing yourself to stay calm.

“You’re not gonna say hi, baby?” His voice was louder now, drawing the attention of the other inmates. “We go way back. Don’t be rude, sweetheart.”

You turn slowly, boots echoing against the concrete floor as you walk toward his cell. You keep your expression neutral, but inside, everything’s unraveling.

Rafe stands at the bars, his big hands casually wrapped around the cold steel. He looks good. Too good. Prison’s sharpened him, but it hasn’t broken him. His caramel-colored hair is cut short; jawline more defined than you’d remembered, his five o'clock shadow gives him a dangerous edge. Rafe’s eyes—those goddamn eyes—they’re the same: fierce, calculating, and maddeningly irresistible.

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me,” you scold, folding your arms across your chest.

“And yet here you are.” Rafe’s lips bend into that lazy, confident smirk that once made you weak.

“I’m just doing my job,” you crack. “You wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. “Still got that fire. I fuckin’ love it.” You roll your eyes, turning to leave. “Wait.” His voice softens, taking on that familiar, enticing tone. “Come on, we can catch up. No harm in talkin’. Yeah? Just two old friends.”

“We were never friends,” you clip back, though the words feel hollow.

He chuckles again, low and rich, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach flip, and it does just that. “That’s not what I remember. We were more than friends, princess. You gotta remember that, no?”

Don’t let him get to you.

“You’ve got nothing to say?” He pushes, eyes narrowing. “Maybe Shoupe knows all about your past. Or maybe he doesn’t.”

And in a moment, everything comes to a screeching halt.

“I wonder what he’d think,” Rafe muses, tongue-in-cheek. “Deputy L/n, the straight-laced officer used to run guns… for me-”

“Stop, Rafe.”

“… Used to party a little too hard. Used to beg me for a taste.”

“That’s enough,” you hiss, stepping closer to the bars.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You think you can outrun who you are? You and me, we’re the same. We always have been.”

You shake your head, but the words cling to you like smoke. No. I’m not that person anymore. “I’ve got a good life now,” you stammer; voice shaky and hoarse. “A good man. A real job. I’m not your girl anymore, Rafe.”

His smile falters for a moment, but it’s back, more dangerous than ever. “Sure, you’ve got the uniform, the badge. But deep down? You miss it. The rush. The freedom-”

“You’re wrong-”

“… me. I know you do,” he smiles, as he finishes his words.

You hate how right he sounds. The weight of the badge on your chest feeling heavier with every second you stand by him.

“I should walk away,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

“But you won’t,” he smirks as his eyes lock onto yours, challenging you. “You never could say no to me.”

Your mind tells you to move, turn, and leave, but you don’t. Your feet stayed planted, pulse spiking.

“Come closer,” Rafe whispers.

You step in, hating yourself for it. The space between you is nothing now, just the cold steel bars. Rafe reaches out, his fingers brushing your wrist. The contact’s electric, sending a shiver down your spine. “Stop actin’ so tough, baby-”

“You’re delusional,” you whisper, but the conviction in your voice wavers.

Rafe’s thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, and you feel your resolve crumble to pieces. Rafe always knew how to break me down, piece by piece, until nothing was left but the truth.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” he says softly. “But you can’t lie to me.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in. Rafe’s lips meet yours through the bars, a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s raw, consuming, filled with years of anger, longing, and darkness.

Rafe reaches out, cupping your sex in his large hand, before rubbing two long fingers on your clothed clit. “Remember how good I made you feel?” He mumbles, and you do.

“I remember you planting drugs and a gun in my purse, Rafe,” you hiss. “You would have ruined my life.”

“You were keepin’ ‘em safe,” he whispers as he undoes your belt with a single hand, plunging it into your panties the next, making you bite back a gasp. He clicks his tongue, chuckling smugly at the messy lace. “How are you always so wet?”

Your hand draws to him, too, cupping his bulge through his thin cotton uniform, feeling his rock-hard length underneath. “Fuck, Rafe,” you moan, remembering how he filled you just right.

“Try to stay quiet, understand?” He smiles cruelly. “Wouldn’t wanna stop,” he pulls away his fingers, stealing your pleasure with it, denying you only to start again, working harder and faster.

“Come in here. Yeah? I won't bite.”

“No… I can't. I-”

He laughs wickedly, rolling his lust-blown eyes. “Fine… Have it your way.” Resting his big hand on your head Rafe shoves you down to your knees. You grab the iron bars, peeking both ways fast before looking up at him nervously, the angle of the cell concealing you for the moment.

He runs his hands through his messy fringe, pushing bangs out of the way, giving you a better look at his beautiful blue eyes.

You wrap your fingers around his loose cotton pants, pulling them down, then his boxers. Your eyes widen as you take him in your hand, feeling the chill of six metal balls against your palm. You glide your thumb along the underside of his cock, touching the metal bars; one, two, three… You look up at Rafe, and he smirks.

“Don’t get too excited now,” Rafe mocks as his hand moves around, cupping the back of your head. You look at his fat tip, a tear of precum weeping onto the floor below. “Fuck, you look so pretty on your knees, baby.”

He pulls you forward, lips parting as you wrap your mouth around his swollen head, tasting him, tongue toying with the metal with every flick. Sucking him deep into your throat, you hear him moan; the man quickly catches himself, tilting forward, biting down on his muscular forearm to dampen his pleasured sounds.

Rafe thrusts forward, sending his cock deeper into your mouth, making you gag. “Jesus fuck, you got a throat on you, huh?” He lauds as he wraps a hand under your chin, feeling his dick pump in and out as he fucks your face.

You moan around his thickness, feeling pressure between your thighs as Rafe teases you with the toe of his shoe on your clit, urging you to rock against him, making your thighs quake. “You like that don't you?”

“Mpfhh…” You moan with a mouth full of dick.

“Like ridin’ daddy’s boot like a whore? Got this whole department under my thumb… Got their prettiest deputy ruttin’ her shit on my boot, chokin’ on my dick. Fuckkk… M’just show in off now. Ain’t I?” He drawls as tears tumble down your cheeks.

Your hand strokes and rolls his balls—his body tightening in your hand as you deep-throat his cock. “You better swallow it all,” Rafe rasps, with a challenging bite to his voice.

He throws his head back to the ceiling, hips stuttering as he paints your throat with his climax. You stay frozen in place, feeling him throb on your tongue, careful not to get any on your uniform.

“Mmm… Damn, that’s my girl,” Rafe sighs as he rolls his neck, taking and pushing out a deep, satisfied breath. “The fact that Shoupe’s gettin’ this shit’s gonna kill me,” Rafe mumbles darkly as he tugs you to your feet. “Ya know… M’not gonna be in here forever. Let me take care of him for you, angel. Hmm?”

“Rafe…”

He sucks his teeth and smiles. “Then again, what’s the fun in takin’ you away from him if he’s dead? Huh? I’ll think about it, n’get back to you.” He mutters through a breathy laugh.

“Don’t even joke about that shit-”

“Who said I am, princess?” Rafe wraps a hand around his cock, squeezing the base. “Turn around. Let me show you how much I missed you.” You turn around, and Rafe reaches for you, pulling your back into the bars, his big arms reaching around your waist, fighting with your zipper, tugging your uniform off your hips.

He wraps his big fingers around your panties, ripping one side then the next, making your eyes widen in horror at the volume of the tear. “Rafe, please,” you beg for him to stop being so loud, begging at the same time for his cock, a whirlwind of emotions swirling through your mind.

He tosses the panties back to his bed, turning back his attention to you with a toothy smile. “You can't imagine the shit I’m gonna do to those…” He whispers as he presses the tip of his cock against your glossy hole. You reach behind you, grabbing for his hips to coax him forward, but he doesn't budge, running himself through your arousal—teasing you shamelessly.

You can feel your wetness on your thighs, and so can Rafe. He lifts his uniform, taking it between his teeth to get a better look. Your head falls forward in pleasure as he thrusts in suddenly. His hands snake forward, grabbing your hips, pulling you as deep as he possibly can go with the bars in the way, making you let out an airy, soundless cry.

Rafe pulls out nice and slow, letting his piercings drag across your wet walls, making you gasp as you feel the little pops.

He starts to slowly pick up the pace—your pleasure growing with each movement of his toned hips. Your body claps against his, and you should stop, but you just can’t, the plop plop plop of his wet skin against yours, filling the space around you.

Rafe starts pistoning his hips into you, fucking you at a rapid pace, making you cover your mouth with both hands—tears rolling over the tops. “How bad do you wanna come in my cell right now? Got what, an inch or two more cock for that greedy little cunt of yours.” Rafe reaches forward, taking a fistful of your hair, yanking you back to his chest.

Your panting lips find him, Rafe smiling nastily against your mouth before sucking on your tongue. “That’s my girl,” he mumbles as he fucks into you sharp and hard, making your ass ripple with each thrust.

Rafe turns towards your neck, his warm breath fanning against your hot skin. He kisses you messily, gliding his tongue along the column of your neck before biting down.

“Don’t be so rough… There can’t be any marks. Please,” you plead with Rafe, his teeth already driving into your skin; your words just making the man even more determined to do so, nipping down harder, making you grip the steel bars to keep from screaming, a muffled whine coming out nonetheless.

“Baby, you have to be quiet, or they’ll figure out what Kildare’s finest is doin’ on the clock… Fuck, I always knew you were a slut f’me,” Rafe grunts, his hips never faltering, slamming harder into your warm, wet pussy.

“M’gonna cum,” you whimper.

“I know you are,” Rafe smiles, his hand already halfway up your body to cover your mouth before the first utterance even leaves your lips.

You cry out against his big palm, just praying he won’t pull his hand away, but you know Rafe wants to get out of here… He wouldn’t take that risk himself. Vile squelching fills the space around you. You reach down, grabbing the iron bars for support, hands twisting around the metal as your thighs clap against Rafe’s.

Your vision blurs as your body is taken by pleasure; Rafe continues to rail you from behind, pounding you through your orgasm as you cum around his big cock. Rafe groans in pleasure at the feeling—his toned hips snapping back, pushing into you as he cums hard, pressing his lips against you to swallow your moans and mewls. He pulls away, leaving you gasping for air. “You’re gonna help me, princess,” he says, his voice jagged and rushed. “You’re gonna get these charges dropped. And when I’m out?” He smirks. “You’re mine again.”

“Rafe, I can’t,” you sniffle.

“Can’t?” Rafe asks smugly. “But you’ll do it. Because if you don’t…” He trails off, letting the threat hang in the air.

Rafe pulls out nice and slow, making you shudder at the loss of him. You reach down, grabbing your pants fast, tucking your uniform in before anyone can see. You feel the warm sensation of Rafe’s cum rolling wet down your inner thigh, making even more of a mess.

You stumble back, breathing hard; your mind still spinning from your orgasm. You look at Rafe’s body as he pulls up his prison uniform: wet teeth marks at the neckline of his shirt, your arousal pooled around the bottom, his stiff, throbbing dick’s trapped in his pants, sticking out of the top of the elastic band, his swollen head glistening with your shared release. Rafe’s blue eyes glint wildly, staring right through your soul.

Your mind is screaming to run—to get as far away from him as possible. But you know the truth. Rafe Cameron wasn’t someone you run from. He was someone you face or surrendered to.

And right now, looking at the beautiful, wicked man before you, surrender felt inevitable.

#rafe #rafe smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe blurb 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#kinkmas event .𖥔 ݁ ˖❄️˚. ᵎᵎ #felon!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #my library ᝰ.ᐟ

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