#Splinter POV for the first time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stellaspectral · 2 months ago

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I have two requests, both with the Bayverse turtles. This is the second one:

Raphael x Female Reader.

Fluff. Lots of Fluff. With some introspection too maybe? Extrovert Grumpy (Raph) x Introvert Sunshine (Reader).

I was thinking of something that would focus on their blooming relationship but seen through the eyes of Leo, Donnie, and Mikey. Or just one of them of your choice if this request gets too long. It's the first time they've seen Raph act so soft, sweet, and calm and awkward around someone and they'll definitely have a lot of thoughts going on in their heads about it. And maybe a lot of teasing too ;). Thank you so much in advance if you decide to write it!

A/N: Hello, anon! To be honest, I wasn’t sure whose POV of Raph and the reader’s relationship to write in. But it seems I ended up gravitating towards Leo the most. Though the other two still have commentary, of course.

Enjoy! 💖

Drawn to You (fluff)

❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Fluff, soft/awkward Raph, implied crush/pining, brotherly teasing. All characters are aged-up.

You’re curled up on the couch in the lair, nestled deep into the cushions, sketchbook open on your lap. The paper is smooth under your pencil as you draw one of the graffiti markings on the wall opposite you. You add a final flourish to the spray-painted tag you’ve replicated, tilting your head to admire your work.

Suddenly, the lair’s entrance tunnel echoes with boisterous sounds. Footsteps herald the return of the turtles from whatever topside excursion they were on. You instinctively snuggle a little tighter into the couch, a cheerful smile tugging at your lips.

The first one who enters is Leo, already mid-sentence, gesturing emphatically. “… and I told you the grappling hook wouldn’t hold on that gargoyle, Donnie, but did you listen? Nooo.”

Donnie follows, looking mildly exasperated. “My calculations indicated a 93.9% structural integrity probability. Clearly, the masonry was older than I initially thought.”

Mikey comes in last, practically vibrating. “Dude, did you see that flip Leo almost didn’t stick? Epic fail waiting to happen, bro!”

Last comes Raph. He enters more quietly than usual, rubbing the back of his thick neck, his usual post-patrol scowl firmly in place. His eyes scan the lair, likely checking if Splinter is meditating nearby. Then they land on you.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know him. But from the entryway, where his brothers have paused their bickering to shed their gear, the change is glaringly obvious.

Leo stops mid-gesticulation, his eyes widening slightly. He nudges Donnie, who adjusts his glasses purely out of habit, and raises a questioning brow ridge. Mikey just freezes, his usual bouncy energy stilling as he watches.

Raph’s shoulders, typically tense and ready for action, visibly relax. The deep V of his scowl softens, not quite disappearing, but smoothing out into something almost … hesitant. He takes a step towards the living area, then another, his heavy footfalls strangely muted on the floor. He seems to be actively trying not to stomp.

He stops a few feet away from the couch, his enormous frame suddenly looking a little awkward in the open space. He clears his throat, a low rumble that’s much softer than his usual volume. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough but lacking its typical edge. “You, uh, good?”

You look up, beaming at him. The brightness of your smile seems to physically hit him; he blinks, shifting his weight. “Hey, Raph! Yeah, I’m great. Just drawing.” You hold up your sketchbook. “How was the patrol?”

“Uh, fine. Usual.” He glances towards the graffiti you were drawing, then back at your face. There’s a flicker of something warm in his eyes, a stark contrast to the ‘ready-to-rumble’ look he usually sports. “Looks good.” He takes another step closer, peering over your shoulder, but careful not to crowd you. There’s an uncharacteristic gentleness in his proximity.

Meanwhile, by the entrance, a quiet conversation is happening.

“Dude, look at him,” Mikey whispers, pointing with a slight nod of his head. “He’s doing ‘the thing’ again.”

“Define ‘the thing’,” Donnie begins. “His heightened state of peripheral awareness when she’s present? His decreased vocalizations? The slight, almost imperceptible softening of his default scowl?”

“All of it, brainiac!” Mikey whisper-shouts. “He looks like a big, shy puppy trying to ask for pets without barking too loud.”

Leo, leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watches with a more measured expression. He’s noticed it too, of course. How could he not? Raphael, his brother who communicates primarily through grunts, glares, and the occasional explosive outburst, becomes … subdued around you. Gentle. It’s baffling.

And, Leo has to admit, a little heartwarming.

Donnie pushes his glasses up again. “Fascinating. Physiologically, his respiration rate appears elevated, but his aggressive posturing shows a significant reduction. Perhaps a neurochemical response triggered by proximity to a preferred individual?”

“Or maybe,” Mikey stage-whispers, leaning closer to his brothers, “he liiiikes her!”

Back by the couch, Raph shifts again, his gaze locked on the sketchbook page. He points at a specific detail in your drawing. “You got the … the little flicky bit there just right. The way the paint kinda dripped.” He clears his throat again. “How’d you get so good at this?”

“Years of practice,” you say, offering him another warm smile. “Want to see the others I did?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide for a fraction of a second, that warmth flickering more brightly. “Uh … yeah. Sure. If you wanna show me.” He moves closer but doesn’t sit. His gaze drifts from the sketchbook back to your face, lingering for just a moment longer than strictly necessary.

Across the room, hidden partially by the archway leading to the dojo, the espionage continued.

“See? SEE?” Mikey whispers. “He’s leaning! Like, actually leaning in to look at her drawings! Raph never leans! He looms. Or glares.”

Donnie analyzes the scene. “Observation: Raphael’s typical personal space boundary appears significantly reduced in relation to her. Approximately 45 centimeters closer than his baseline average with non-familial individuals. Also, note the lack of fidgeting typically associated with his impatience. Instead, he exhibits micro-shifts indicative of … social anxiety? Or perhaps, contentment?”

“It’s called being smitten, Donnie,” Leo supplies, pushing off the wall. Casually, he saunters closer to you and Raph, ostensibly to put away his katanas. But truthfully, he’s only positioning himself for a better view.

“Never thought I’d see the day Raph looked like he was afraid of scaring someone just by breathing too hard,” Donnie murmurs.

“He asked how she got good at drawing,” Mikey adds, eyes wide with dramatic effect. “He usually just grunts and says ‘cool’ if he likes something. He used words. Multiple words! In a question!”

Back at the couch, you’re flipping through the pages of your sketchbook. Raph remains standing, his large hands clasped loosely behind his back, a pose that looks strangely formal and uncertain on his powerful frame. He’s genuinely looking at each sketch, his brow furrowed in concentration, not anger.

“This one’s the mural down by the old noodle shop,” you explain, pointing to a vibrant, detailed reproduction. “And this is that little stencil someone keeps putting on the mailboxes near the park …”

“Yeah … know that one,” Raph mumbles, his gaze flicking up to meet yours for a second before darting back to the page. That warmth is definitely there, a banked fire behind his usual tough-guy facade. “You … uh … you really capture the … the feel of ‘em.”

“He’s complimenting her artistic interpretation,” Donnie murmurs, sounding genuinely astonished. “The probability of Raph using such nuanced appreciation is statistically infinitesimal under normal circumstances. This deviation is remarkable.”

“Translation: Raph’s got it BAD!” Mikey giggles, barely containing himself.

It’s Leo’s cue. He finishes securing his swords and wanders over to the couch area, stretching nonchalantly. “Hey, Raph,” he calls out, his voice deliberately casual but loud enough to carry. “Everything alright? You look a little flushed. Feeling okay?”

Raph visibly tenses. His head snaps towards Leo, the soft expression vanishing, replaced by a familiar annoyed glare. “I’m fine, Leo. Just … lookin’ at sketches.” The last part comes out defensive.

“Oh yeah?” Leo stops near the armrest, peering over Raph’s shoulder, mimicking his earlier pose but with deliberate exaggeration. “Whatcha got there? Wow, Raph’s right, these are amazing! You really captured the … spray-e-ness.” He gives Raph a pointed look.

You smile up at Leo. “Thank you.”

Raph shifts uncomfortably, caught between your presence and his brother’s obvious teasing. He shoots Leo a warning look that clearly reads, ‘Don’t push it’.

Mikey, never one to miss an opportunity, comes over. “Ooh, lemme see! Wowzers! Raph, you never told us she was this talented! Usually, you just grunt about stuff.” He grins cheekily. “Guess some things make you wanna use your words, huh?”

A faint reddish tinge creeps up Raph’s neck. “Shut it, Mikey.”

Finally, Donnie approaches. “Indeed. Raph’s verbal communication frequency increases by approximately 35% in her presence, correlating with a decrease in aggressive posturing by nearly 50%. Fascinating psycho-social dynamics are at play.”

“Donnie!” Raph snaps, turning fully towards his brothers now, creating a partial shield between them and you. It’s a protective gesture as much as a defensive one. “Can’t you go … I dunno … invent somethin’ or annoy Splinter?”

“Aw, but Raph,” Mikey whines playfully, leaning around him to beam at you, “we just wanna hang out! Like you’re hanging out! Looking at pretty drawings.” His gaze flicks meaningfully between you and Raph.

You look between the brothers, catching the teasing undercurrent and noticing Raph’s struggle to maintain his composure. A small, amused smile tugs at your mouth. You reach out tentatively and pat Raph’s arm, feeling the muscle beneath twitch slightly at the contact.

“It’s okay, Raph,” you assure softly. “I don’t mind showing them.” You look back at your sketchbook. “Maybe you guys could even give me ideas for what to draw next?”

The effect on Raph is instantaneous. His glare softens again as he looks down at you, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders. The slight flush on his neck deepens, and the anger has dissipated, replaced by that familiar, flustered awkwardness. He clears his throat again. “Uh … yeah. S-sure. If … if you want.”

Leo, Donnie, and Mikey exchange looks. Whiplash. One gentle touch, a few soft words from you, and Volcano Raphael is dormant once more.

Leo can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. Oh yeah; this was definitely unfamiliar territory. And watching Raph navigate it, with all the grace of a tank trying to tiptoe through a minefield, was going to be endlessly entertaining. Regardless, he steers Donnie and Mikey away to give you and Raph some space.

“Did you see that?” Mikey whispers dramatically, eyes sparkling. “Poof! Grumpy gone!”

Raph lets out a breath as his brothers retreat towards the kitchen, their voices fading but their knowing glances still palpable. He visibly deflates, the tension leaving his body in a rush, but he remains standing.

“So,” you prompt gently, tapping your pencil against the sketchbook. “Ideas?”

He glances around the lair, eyes snagging on a training dummy, then the weapons rack, before finally landing back on your sketchbook. “Maybe … maybe you could draw … you know that bit of wall near the docks? The one where the bricks are all busted up and kinda looks like a face if you squint?”

You tilt your head, picturing it. “Oh, yeah! With the really deep cracks running through it? I know the one.”

“Yeah. That.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “It’s kinda cool. Looks tough. Like it’s been through stuff.” He seems pleased with his own description, though his gaze flicks nervously towards the kitchen, checking if his brothers overheard.

From the kitchen doorway, Mikey leans out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Ooh, busted bricks! How romantic, Raph! Maybe she can draw a little heart graffiti next to it?”

Raph whirls around, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Mikey! I swear—”

“Easy, you two,” Leo’s voice drifts from deeper within the kitchen.

Raph clenches his fists, his neck flushing that familiar red again. But then he catches your eye. You’re watching him, not with fear, but with a patient, amused expression. He forces himself to take another deep breath, turning back towards you. The growl subsides, though his jaw remains tight.

“Ignore them,” you say, offering a reassuring smile. “I like that idea. The texture of those old bricks would be interesting to capture.” You flip to a fresh page in your sketchbook, wanting to get Raph involved. “Show me again where the cracks look like a face?”

His anger drains away almost comically fast. He steps closer, bending at the waist to peer at your blank page. He hesitates, then lifts a finger, hovering it just above the paper, careful not to touch. “Okay, so … the big crack goes down here, like this …” He traces the shape in the air above the page. “And there’s these smaller bits that kinda … yeah, like eyes. And the busted bit at the bottom looks like a grumpy mouth.”

He’s leaning closer now, his usual intimidating presence softened by his focused explanation. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint scent of the city night still clinging to his gear. He’s completely absorbed in describing the broken wall, his voice losing some of its earlier hesitation.

“Grumpy mouth, huh?” you muse, sketching lightly based on his description. “Sounds appropriate.”

He glances up, meeting your eyes directly for a solid second. The warmth there flares, intense and unguarded, before he quickly looks back down at the sketchbook. “Yeah. Guess so.”

You continue sketching, adding details as he describes them. He stays close, watching the image appear on the page. A few more details he points out include a loose wire hanging nearby, and a specific pattern of moss. He’s surprisingly observant.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the others continue their own observation at a lower volume.

“He’s practically an art historian now,” Mikey says, his voice full of suppressed laughter. “Describing moss patterns! Who knew Raph noticed moss?”

“Or maybe,” Leo murmurs, leaning beside Donnie, arms still crossed, “he just actually wants to talk to her.” He keeps his voice low, not wanting to break the weirdly calm bubble that seems to have formed around the couch.

You finish the rough sketch of the brick wall face, holding it up. “Like this?”

Raph leans in again. He’s closer now, close enough that you could probably count the scars on his face if you wanted to. “Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, almost a rumble. “Looks good.” He doesn’t pull back immediately this time, his gaze lingering on the drawing, then flicking up to meet yours again.

But then he seems to realize how close he is and moves back half a step, a faint pinkness rising on his cheeks this time.

“They almost touched noses!” Mikey whisper-squeals from the kitchen, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Proximity threshold breached and self-corrected,” Donnie observes.

Leo just shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. Donnie could analyze the shell off a turtle, but even he couldn’t miss the obvious: Raph is head over heels.

You flip to another blank page. “Any other cool spots you think would make good sketches?”

Raph hesitates, glancing around the lair again as if searching for inspiration that isn’t potentially embarrassing. His gaze falls upon the worn-out punching bag in his room. “Maybe the bag?” he suggests, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Got a lot of … history.”

It’s a simple object, beat-up and functional, but the way he suggests it feels oddly personal, like he’s offering a small piece of himself.

Leo watches you and Raph. You’re smiling, considering the punching bag with genuine interest. Raph looks at you as you watch the bag, his expression a strange mix of hopeful and apprehensive. The usual storm cloud that follows Raph seems to have dissipated, replaced by this uncertain, almost sunny humidity. It’s weird.

Good weird, mostly, Leo thinks.

Donnie and Mikey look at Leo expectantly, waiting for the punchline. The teasing remark. But Leo looks past them, back towards the couch. Raph sees him, his shoulders tensing again as he braces for the usual barrage. He glances from Leo, back to you, then to Leo with a silent plea in his eyes.

And, for once, Leo listens. He sees the vulnerability there, the raw awkwardness that his brother tries so hard to hide behind muscle and scowls. He’s navigating something new, something that doesn’t involve fists or threats, and he’s doing it clumsily. But he’s doing it.

Leo catches his eyes from across the room. He gives Raph the smallest, almost imperceptible nod that says, I see you. It’s alright. Then Leo turns to his other brothers, lowering his voice. “Alright. Squad, you’re dismissed.”

Mikey opens his mouth to protest, probably armed with a dozen heart-related puns.

“Now,” Leo orders, cutting him off with a look that says I mean it. “Let the big guy breathe. Go sort your gear or something.”

Donnie raises a brow but nods slowly, seemingly accepting the logic of allowing the current social experiment to proceed without further variables. Mikey pouts but follows Donnie, muttering something about ‘mood killers’ and ‘romantic potential.’ Leo leans back against the counter, crossing his arms.

You’re sketching the punching bag, asking Raph about a specific tear near the top. He’s answering, his voice still low, leaning in again, pointing with that same hesitant finger. He looks … quiet. Focused. Almost peaceful.

It’s a side of Raph Leo rarely sees. The fighter, the hothead—that’s the Raph they all know. But this Raph, the one who describes moss patterns and gets flustered by a smile, is new. For Leo, it’s actually kind of nice to see his younger brother soften, even just for a little while.

Perhaps Raph wasn’t just doing ‘the thing,’ as Mikey put it. Maybe he was just being Raphael.

And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

#my writing #filled requests #tmnt bayverse #tmnt raphael #tmnt raph #tmnt x reader #tmnt bayverse x reader #bayverse raphael #bayverse raph #bayverse raphael x reader #bayverse raph x reader #raphael x reader #raph x reader #tmnt raphael x reader #tmnt raph x reader #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt requests #scheduled post

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shadows-shells · 4 months ago

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liveblogging: 2k3 S6E23 'DNA Is Thicker Than Water'

(why did it take me half a lifetime to notice this visual parallel, diabolical)

The Dark Turtles make me so sad, seriously. It's an outright dystopic fate, living without safety or love under the cruel control of Darius Dunn. They don't even have names 💀 Less than 12 differences in their genomes between Leo and Dark Leo, the show makes a point of emphasising. Less than 12 - and where Leo is smug after gently pointing out that kindness comes around, Dark Leo is smugly anticipating them falling for his ruse and trap. That's a world of difference right there.

it surprises me on a rewatch how OBVIOUS Dark Leo's ruse is. The Dark Turtles were winning the fight - and then fled once Dark Leo is injured. Their objective was clearly to leave Dark Leo there to infiltrate/sabotage - but the narrative POV following the younger, naive Cody primes the audience to see Raphael's blunt skepticism as pure unsympathetic cynicism. They decide to give Dark Leo a chance, because his injuries require immediate medical treatment (Dark Don overdid it, probably).

at the 08:05 mark: Dark Leo and Leo consecutively saying "poison?" in offense but you can hear the slight difference, chef's kiss, ASMR, Michael Sinterniklaas SERVED the whole series 💯

The sheer offense in Raph's tone when told Dark Leo is almost a perfect genetic copy to his brother 🤣 "Leo's Leo, and THAT is a mess." Savage. The team discussion is an interesting look into Leo's leadership style behind-the-scenes/off the battlefield. Everyone sitting in a circle, Cody having been won over by the life-saving, Don willing to try this out...Raph thinks this direction of thinking is cray and he openly says so. But without directly attacking anyone, he instead takes this to Leo: "Leo, come on, you're not buying this, are ya?" That is admirable restraint right there, when older audiences know Raphael is 100% right and this is an important matter of their family's safety. i don't think it's a coincidence that they show that Leo barely spoke except when asking for opinions. It gives a more 'listener' and 'panel facilitator' vibe, a more collaborative atmosphere. The end of the discussion was not shown either (deciding to let Dark Leo join them at the family table) - probably mostly to maintain narrative suspense and pacing - but it also softens Leo, in leaving out the 'decision' and focusing on the 'discussion'. Right after the family breakfast test? Leo asks outright for everyone's evaluations. He's listening, encouraging discussion, compromising between standpoints and always making sure no one gets injured. The whole team is visibly used to brainstorming and collaborating, that the '87 team frustrated Raph enough to (re)raise the issue to Leo in 'Turtles Forever' ("Leo i TOLD ya you can't brainstorm with these bozos" 😂)

i love that Raph unhesitantly raises his objections to Leo and clearly expects a solution/direction. That is trust right there - given to a leader Raph has judged deserving. i will forever blame other incarnations for a less-wholesome and more-petty-rivalry dynamic between them. It can be a satisfyingly angsty dynamic for sure but it is not one that is faithful to the 2k3 canon.

Mikey losing appetite at Dark Leo's table manners 😂 you know it's bad when a teenaged athlete loses appetite LOL (4 meals+a snack everyday and yet i was STILL ALWAYS starving)

Don catches the inconsistency when Dark Leo was 'struggling' with the physical test; Raph steps in to rile Dark Leo up and force him to show his true strength. That's a nice bit of teamwork.

And Leo had his hand on his blade ready to draw, both times, when Don was first releasing Dark Leo for the physical test and when Dark Leo was getting into Raph's face. Yes, Leo wanted to give Dark Leo a chance, making the initial executive decision to take him in - but he is neither stupid nor naive, or careless.

Splinter's story about the scorpion and the frog is an unhappy cynical fable. i imagine Splinter told it as a cautionary tale to young reckless turtles to help keep them safe.

Leo presents the fable here as an opportunity and open question for his clone. Dark Leo seemed to waver, when Leo was still extending a second chance to him (saying that they can all still turn back and discuss options the next morning).

But i think Leo lost him, when Leo accurately pointed out that Dark Leo had inner conflict about what he is and who he wants to be. Leo did hit a nerve there, and Dark Leo doesn't want that vulnerability and intimacy with him.

Leo is disappointed, but also not surprised. The frog in Splinter's story was shocked, where Leo was not - but i do think the part of Leo that was hoping Dark Leo could someday become a fourth brother did die, too.

i think the most tragic part of it was that Dark Leo, in his 'reformed redeemed' act, did waver. He WAS almost there. And the whole act is basically improv - while the turtles' compassionate reactions and decisions can be predicted to some extent - i don't believe the clones knew the team+Splinter+Cody well enough to script the whole act.

On SOME level, Dark Leo could think up and deliver those redeeming thoughts and dialogue (only to reject them). The theming of Fast Forward was never going to deliver the creepy Gothic doppelganger atmosphere that teenaged me wanted, or go into existential horror like the Lovecraftian Volpehart episode did - but it stands up to scrutiny, beneath the bright colour palettes and narrative framing. The most dedicated and self-sacrificing brother we know, gone 'wrong'...that is an existential horror premise all on its own.

Dark Leo IS Leo gone wrong...but he did not have to be, and thankfully the ending shows that he won't always be. i do think it's worth noting that the voice direction and acting had Dark Leo upset when calling himself a scorpion - instead of gleeful or prideful or even just calm.

it is poignant that Leo in the end admits he hates that scorpion story, when Raphael mentions the fable. Leo, the most guarded and strategic brother by necessity - prefers to trust, wants to be optimistic...but life has made him a practical, paranoid man of contingencies and clear-eyed wariness.

S6 Leo was never going to be openly critical/blunt the way a righteously-angry Raph can be - but he did not shut Cody's naive optimism down, either, where he can and has shut down shenanigans from rowdier people. He had hoped Cody could be right.

People have betrayed and disappointed Leo before - most painfully of all, himself - and this won't be the last. It is still hopeful and heartening to think, that despite all of it, Leo will continue to extend the benefit of the doubt while keeping clear-eyed awareness.

This is a nice balance, between Don&Mike's relative idealism and Raph's decisive skepticism. It is so valuable to the team and as a leader, for Leo to be able to understand and reconcile the full spectrum of viewpoints.

This is a new maturity, that S1's too-trusting-too-inexperienced Leo and earlyS4's too-cynical-too-pessimistic Leo did not have. im happy for our boi!

The ending to this ep is open and hopeful. While the turtles never get to find out that their kindness and mercy DID make a difference - it DID make a difference, and i'm hopeful that things will gradually change. All those fics writing the dark turtles eventually spiralling upward and getting away from Darius are 100% canon in my book!

im SO glad they made this ep hahaha. for me at least this ep alone could justify the whole season ☺️

#tmnt 2003 #tmnt #tmnt 2k3 #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt leonardo #meta #dark leo

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willowser · 26 days ago

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sweet as cherry wine—

bakugou katsuki x f!reader wc: 2.6k+ tags: katsuki pov, tough family conflicts including emotional and physical abuse (non-graphic), toxic relationship dynamics (not with reader), bakugou x f!oc, eventual office romance, canon-typical violence, light smut, slowburn emotional growth, mentioned death of a family member, happy ending, tags subject to change.

once again, very big thank you to @kodzu-ken for giving me the opportunity to pursue this idea !! our office romance is coming.....i promise......i just have to give bakugou several different layers of trauma first akhfkahfa

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄 ˎˊ˗

title | part two

When Katsuki is 8, his grandmother dies.

There's very little he knows about death then, but he feels it coming in the months before it happens, before any of the grown-ups sit him down. It startles in his brain at her arrival, sudden and instinctive, like the little animal of him has smelled that something is off.

One day Obaachan visits—and then just never leaves, instead installed into Katsuki's playroom: the "office", once a kingdom of color, overrun with swaths of fabric his father brought home in great bundles, spooled out across the floor.

It takes both his parents and his aunt and even his oldest cousin to complete Obaachan's hostile takeover, and once she's settled in, he's entirely barred from the room. Not even allowed to dig through the scraps of red and blue and yellow, to pull satin over his shoulders or to chase tulle down the hallway.

No, after that, Katsuki can only stand at the door with an eye pressed to the crack, breathing in time to the hiss of Obaachan's machines.

Sometimes she watches him in return, catches him in her cloudy, sunken stare from her final resting place on the futon. It scares him in a way he doesn't know how to translate yet, all her protruding bone and thin, transparent skin, the way her mouth folds in on itself when she sees him. It makes something cold coil in his tummy, something that feels far too big for his little body.

There isn't much she says and that makes it worse, somehow. Her voice is as frail as she is, but there's an echo after she speaks, the same sudden silence that follows glass shattering. Most of the time, he's already on his way out of the room, moving much too loud and much too fast to show his respect and to slow down and listen—

But the one time he does, her words splinter something, hard, inside of him.

"He's just like his mother."

It hits him hotter than his mom's palm, shuts his mouth before another word can form. He's yelling about something, because he's eight and still throws ugly tantrums and because the witch matches him beat for beat, feeds his unruly little fire. It's not the first time he's ever heard it, even that young, how much like her he is, but the way Obaachan says it. Like she's peeling something rotten off the sole of her shoe.

When she looks at him, really looks at Katsuki, it's like she's seen something. Caught him, somehow, doing something he should be ashamed of, even though he's only eight and doesn't know any other way to be.

That night, he lies in bed and tells himself he doesn't care. That she's old and mean and wrong. That his mother is a hag and his grandmother's even worse and he doesn't care, he just doesn't give a crap.

And he remembers it all anyway.

Obaachan's machines go quiet in the spring.

The office becomes an office again, all her things are packed and put away; his mother scrubs it all down herself, and his old man sews late, late into the night for a couple of weeks. Katsuki avoids that room for a while, walks past the door too fast, hears phantom hissing where he knows there is none.

He doesn't cry through the incense and sutras, and he never says that he misses her, doesn't even think it, and yet still—sometimes her voice rises up right behind his mother's, just as sharp.

Time drifts forward in slow, heavy pulses, with days folding into months and months folding into years. By sixteen, Katsuki's more of a weapon than a young man and he fights like violence is the only language he knows. Anger lives in him full-time, pressed tight behind his ribs, radiating out through every word, every action. There are moments it's so strong and he doesn't know how or why, almost like it's not even his but something that was passed down, written in his blood. Like a birthright, or a curse.

He sparks off his mother like dry wood under a match.

It doesn't take much, just a glance, a shift in tone, a scrape of chopsticks a little too hard against her bowl. At this point in his life, they don't even try to talk very much, because when they do, it never ends very well.

And tonight is a perfect example.

Katsuki's halfway through with dinner, voice sharp with frustration and a mouth full of rice, "—busted my ass on the field and still lost points just 'cause I didn't kiss the ground Eraser walks on." He doesn't stop to breathe, doesn't notice how his mother's stopped chewing across the table, only continues when Masaru nods sympathetically. "And class rankings are a joke, anyway. What's the point of top scores if they're just gonna kiss up to who they like better? If they're gonna act like I'm the problem for pointin' it out?"

There's a pause as he stops to swallow, as he glances up at his dad for—something, validation or anything. Since he was a kid, his old man has let him talk himself in circles, cry over the same damn things over and over again, and sometimes Katsuki needs that space and sometimes he just wants—

"You know," Mitsuki suddenly murmurs, as casually as a blade slipped between ribs. "For someone that's supposed to be so smart, you sure run your mouth like an idiot."

The air stiffens, between all of them. Katsuki goes still, jaw tight around the bite he hasn't swallowed, because he wasn't expecting it when he should have been. From her, he always should be expecting it.

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

The old witch hates when he swears, but she doesn't jump on him for it, doesn't yell, only shrugs like she isn't tearing him right open at the dinner table. "You come home whining about how everyone's out to get you, how the system's broken when it's really just your big mouth that's getting in your way, Katsuki."

"I'm top three in my year," he grinds out. "Ain't nothin' in my way."

"Top three," she repeats, "not top."

Katsuki flushes, immediately. It stings because it's true, because it's the same thing he's been telling himself over and over again every night. Only now is he realizing just how familiar that voice inside his head is.

"All your talk, all your pride," she shrugs again, lazy and offhand. "Not worth a damn if you have nothing to show for it."

The scar on his shoulder is still pink, under his clothes, just like the one near his hip; they're the softest parts of him, a tenderness that had to be torn out and stitched back together.

Some nights he wakes up choking, breath caught sideways in his throat, gagging like he's trying to spit up sludge that isn't there. Some nights he closes his eyes and all he can see is what's left of All Might, brittle and burned out—and it's his fault. Katsuki is the shadow. Katsuki is the reason the light doesn't reach.

"I do have something to show—"

"Then show it." Finally, she looks up at him, lip curled in—annoyance, like this is the stupidest conversation she's ever had, like this is all shit he should know by now. "Quit walking around with your head up your ass, acting like being the loudest in the room makes you the winner." She snorts, one cruel sound. "That's not being the best, that's just your big, fat ego."

Katsuki scoffs, to scratch the itch in his throat. "Yeah, you'd know, huh?"

"Don't get smart with me, kid."

"I wouldn't have to if you knew a goddamn thing!"

"And there it is, Mr. Know-It-All!"

There are so many things he wants to say and doesn't know how to, none of them fit in his mouth. They feel small and tiny and weak, and he never learned how to be that way.

He settles on: "What the hell is your problem?"

That bites. Not deep, but enough to scar, and she blinks, like it's hit something she thought she fortified. Her mouth twitches like she's biting something back and just for a second, he sees it: the edge of guilt, or fear, or some soft thing she won't let live. And then it's gone just as fast, buried like everything else.

"You're my son," Mitsuki says, final and flat, "and I'm not gonna let you turn into some loser just because you don't know when to shut your mouth and listen."

And that—that's what guts him.

Some loser.

It's not the first time he’s heard it, even that young, but the way she says it. Like she means it, like it's already true. Katsuki stares at her and he doesn't know what his face is doing, but it burns—in his throat, behind his eyes, down to the fists he has in his lap.

When he shoves back from the table, the whole thing rattles, even the legs. Plates clink and cups slosh, chopsticks jump. Whatever, he growls—maybe, he doesn't know and doesn't care—and he stalks away with a fury so hot that it takes his breath away, and it's rooted in him, that fire.

Inherited. Thrumming inside his chest like a second heart. Less of something he feels and more of something he just is.

Her voice bites at his heels, trails him down the hallway and past the genkan and framed photos of their family, hung like ornaments, and Katsuki hits the garage door open so hard it splinters all the cracks in the wall even further.

Masaru finds him thirty minutes later.

Katsuki's hands are greasy, buried in the guts of an old Toyota Crown they've been picking at for months; some shitty thing Masaru bought half-rusted out of a field in Noto because he liked the bones.

The old man doesn't say anything, just walks around to the passenger side and leans onto the open hood. Katsuki doesn't look up, still breathing too hard from his nose, fucking hands shaking in small, infuriating ways.

Silence stretches between them, thick and oily, until the socket wrench slips for the third goddamn time.

"Fuck!" Katsuki spits, louder than he should. Masaru won't nag him about it, but that bothers him even more, to just have to sit in the quiet judgement and listen to his behavior echo back at him.

He flinches when his dad raises his hand, and so the old man makes a point to soothe the tension in his neck, to pinch at the muscle above his shoulder until it releases.

"Use the 13 mil," he murmurs, and—

It makes Katsuki's jaw tick, because he knows, he knows what the fuck to use. He just didn't want to.

Still, he swaps the wrench and gets the bolt loose with a hard, angry crack, and the sound satisfies something small and mean in his chest.

They work in that silence for a little while, the kind that feels like it's pressing up against his ears. Half-seething, Katsuki hunched over the hood like a dog waiting to be struck, scowl deep enough to scar; Masaru only hums under his breath, passing a rag and the right socket without being asked.

There's a little radio on the shelf, tuned low to some enka station neither of them have ever bothered to change.

"Did I ever tell you how we met?" Masaru gives Katsuki the chance to answer, but he doesn't, so he doesn't push. "We met at the fabric house. She came in red-hot over a shipment, some dyed silk that came out wrong. She lit into the floor manager like it was personal."

Katsuki snorts. A short, cruel sound. "Sounds about right."

"She was wrong about the dye, but she wasn't wrong about the way they were handling it." He smiles, like it's a fond memory and not an admission that the witch has always been psychotic. "Your mother saw through the nonsense faster than anyone else in the room."

Maybe at another time, he would have tried to picture it: his father younger, wide-eyed, caught in the orbit of a woman like Mitsuki, all fire and sharp elbows, raising hell like it was second nature, like it still is—but the thought tugs at some raw, unnamed thing inside of him, so instead he shoves it down as far as it will go and seals the lid.

"I don't know what caught me first," Masaru continues, soft. "That she was loud, or that she cared enough to be."

Katsuki's frown deepens. "You're both insane."

"Maybe," His father laughs, and when Katsuki glances at him, the apples of his cheeks are red, glowing. Still that young man, still enthralled. "But we know what matters, and we look out for each other."

It burns something deep in Katsuki, hearing that, and he doesn't know why. It feels like disgust, but—that's not quite it. More like disbelief. Furious, bone-deep disbelief, to think that someone as gentle and quiet as his father could ever understand the wildfire that is his mother. To think there is some unseen side of her that he's never met, hidden and whole and that knows how to be gentle back.

"How?" Katsuki stands so fast that bolts clatter, that Masaru looks up at him in surprise. "How the hell do you deal with her? She never shuts up, she never backs off, she gets in everyone's face, always has to win—"

"She's not trying to win," Masaru disagrees, quietly.

"The hell she ain't!" Katsuki scoffs, throwing his hands out, because it's right there in front of his father's face and all he does is frown. "You always take her side! Even though she starts everything, and she's always pushin'—pushin' like 'm some little brat that doesn't know squat, that can't do anything right!"

Masaru doesn't flinch, or argue. Only watches him, silent and steady.

It makes his voice rise, crack with all the heat. "You act like she's perfect or somethin', but I'm not you! I can't—jus'—sit there while she tears into me!"

He’s nearly as tall as his father, but the old man kneels anyway, settling down to meet him, gripping both of Katsuki’s forearms; firm, unguarded, showing no hint of threat.

"She's not perfect, son," Masaru murmurs, voice low, "none of us are. She pushes you harder than she should, sometimes, because she sees the strength in you, even when you don't, because she doesn't want you to ever be unprepared—but that doesn't mean it's always right. That doesn't mean you have to be okay with it."

His face pinches tight, and he squeezes his eyes shut and when his father tries to hug him, Katsuki yanks away. Because he doesn't know any other way to be. The wrench in his hand doesn't shake anymore, but on the inside, something is splitting wide open, a slow kind of panic. Creeping, like rust spreading under paint.

His old man talks about love like it's so simple; patience is just something you give, forgiveness is just something that comes—but Katsuki isn't built that way. His mother isn't, either. They burn too hot, too fast, and leave ash in their wake without meaning to. Masaru will never get it, because he's not wired the same way and doesn't carry the same pressure in his chest, the same sharpness in his teeth.

But his father is right about one thing: just because he is stupid enough to endure the shit, doesn't mean Katsuki has to.

#✿ willow writes #...reader is coming i promise skhfakhgkahf #holding him gently in my hands..........offering this small baby out to you..........#please treat with care...........#bakugou x reader #i forgot how to tag things #let me know if i forgot anything okay thanks love you bye

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idkyetxoxo · 29 days ago

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Ten | The Cost of Loving Her | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.1k

Warnings - Injury

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Azriel's POV -

The training ring was empty, just as I knew it would be. No one in their right mind came up here this early, not unless they were running from something.

Or waiting for someone.

My shadows curled around me, tighter than usual, restless and frayed. They'd been like this ever since she left—ever since I lost the warmth of her presence.

They missed her. I missed her.

The straw dummy stood across from me like it had something to say. Something cruel. I stepped toward it, flexing my fingers, the wraps already snug around my knuckles. I knew the pain was coming. I welcomed it.

It had been a week. Seven days. Seven hundred thousand heartbeats since I last saw her.

Since that fleeting moment outside Mor's cottage, when I knocked and she didn't answer. I'd felt her behind that door. I'd felt her silence.

And I couldn't bring myself to knock again.

I love her. I love her more than I ever thought I could love anyone. And I know, I know that some part of her feels something for me.

Maybe not the same, maybe not enough, but it's there.

I see it when she looks at me. I hear it in the way she says my name, like it costs her something.

But she won't let it happen. She won't allow herself to go there.

And I understand. But it still breaks me.

She terrifies me—not because she's cruel or cold. No. She terrifies me because she makes me feel like I'm not just shadows and scars.

She sees the male beneath it all, and every time she does, I forget how to protect myself.

The day Rhys and Cassian first brought me to their home—to her, I think some part of me knew. Knew that I would never walk away the same.

She was radiant, light in every sense of the word. Those violet eyes had locked on mine, full of something impossibly soft. And then she kissed my hands. My ruined hands. As if they were worth touching, worth loving.

She took a piece of me that day. And I don't think she even knew it.

She never gave it back.

That thought lodged itself in my chest like a shard of glass, splintering further with every breath I took.

I struck the dummy again, harder this time. The thud echoed across the ring, sharp and hollow. My fists moved on instinct, each blow heavier, faster. I didn't hold back. Didn't care if the straw burst, or if my knuckles split open beneath the wraps. Maybe I wanted them to.

Because no amount of training, no amount of blood or sweat or exhaustion, could drown out the truth of her absence.

I saw her everywhere, heard her laughter in the whisper of wind through the pines, felt the echo of her touch in the stillness that followed.

I fought harder.

When the dummy finally gave way under the force of my fists, I turned on the stone wall at the edge of the ring. My shadows flitted around me, trying to pull me back, to shield me, but I didn't listen.

I drove my fist into the stone. Once. Twice. Again.

Pain tore up my arms, white-hot and cleansing. Blood bloomed through the wraps, dripping down to the cold stone below. But I didn't stop.

Not until I heard footsteps. A low curse. Then a familiar voice, soft with worry and steel, wrapped in concern.

"Az."

I didn't turn. Just rested my forehead against the wall, breath shuddering, hand still clenched into ruined stone.

"You're bleeding," Cassian said, stepping closer.

"I've waited four hundred and fifty years," I murmured, barely recognising my own voice. "And I would wait a thousand more."

Cassian went quiet.

I finally looked at him. The rage and sorrow twisting in my chest cracked wide open under the weight of my next words.

"But it doesn't matter, does it? She's not mine to wait for."

Cassian exhaled slowly, his face softer than I'd seen in a long time. "No... she's not. Not now. But that doesn't mean you stop loving her."

"I don't know how," I admitted. My voice broke, and I hated how it sounded like weakness. But it was the truth. "She made me believe I could have something more. That I could be more."

Cassian stepped beside me, shoulder to shoulder. "You are more, Az. With her. Without her. You always have been."

I laughed bitterly, blood still dripping down my knuckles. "Then why does it feel like I'm coming undone?"

"Because you let yourself feel something real." Cassian looked out over the trees, his voice heavy with something like memory. "We're warriors, Az. We're trained to survive, not to hope. But you hoped. And that takes more strength than any blade or fist."

I looked down at my hands, at the ruin I'd made of them. "I don't know how to let her go."

Cassian gave me a sad smile. "Then don't. Carry her with you. Love her quietly. But don't lose yourself in it."

Silence settled between us. Not the painful kind. The kind you only share with someone who knows what it is to bleed the same way.

He clapped a hand on my shoulder, firm and grounding. "Come on, brother. Let's get your hands patched up before you turn to stone yourself."

I followed him inside, my body aching, shadows still coiled tight.

That night, the House was still.

The kind of stillness that settles after pain has wrung you dry. After blood has been washed from skin and bandages wrapped too tight to forget the damage beneath.

I sat alone in the hall, the one with the big windows that looked out over the Sidra. Moonlight pooled across the floor, pale and quiet.

My shadows had calmed. Not completely, but enough. They hovered low and loose, brushing against the floor like mist.

I didn't expect to see her. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again, if I was being honest. Not after the silence. Not after Mor's door stayed closed.

Which was why, when the front door creaked open, I thought I'd imagined it. My breath hitched.

And there she was.

Wrapped in a soft coat, hair tousled from the wind, eyes shadowed with exhaustion but still glowing with something that always felt like starlight.

She looked tired. There were faint circles beneath her eyes, like sleep had been an afterthought. And still—still, she looked more radiant than anything I'd ever seen.

The kind of beauty that didn't need paint or polish. The kind you didn't even notice at first, until it undid you entirely.

She saw me and stopped.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Just stood there, suspended between all the things we'd said and all the things we hadn't.

Then she finally smiled. Faint. Weary. But it reached her eyes.

"Hi, Az," she said.

It nearly undid me.

I swallowed around the ache lodged in my throat, forcing out a word I had rehearsed a thousand times. "Hi."

She stepped inside, and the door clicked softly shut behind her. I stood, stiff and uncertain, barely trusting myself not to go to her. Not to reach out and touch her just to be sure she was real.

My heart pounded like it might break through my ribs.

"Thanks for the roses," she said, her voice quiet, careful.

I nodded once, managing a rough, "you're welcome."

And then just as she shrugged out of her coat, I saw it. The chain. Fine and familiar, barely visible beneath the collar of her sweater. But I knew it.

The necklace I'd given her. Still there. Still hers. A thread between us, tucked close to her skin.

The silence between us stretched. Not heavy. Not hostile. Just... full.

I cleared my throat, needing something—anything, to bridge the space between us.

"How were the brownies?"

That got the faintest twitch of her lips. A half-smile. It lit something in my chest I hadn't felt in days.

"Terrible," she replied, tone dry.

I huffed a laugh through my nose, and something cracked open inside me at the sound. Something warm.

"I knew it," I said. "I overbaked them again, didn't I?"

Her shoulders relaxed just the slightest bit. "You could do better."

"I could," I said, deadpan.

A thousand words perched on the tip of my tongue. But I swallowed them all down. Because she was here. She hadn't cut me off. She hadn't run.

And for tonight, that was enough.

"I'm glad you're back," I said finally.

She looked away, like the weight of those words was too much. But she nodded. "I am too."

I didn't reach for her. Didn't touch her. But I stood there, breathing in the same space again, letting her presence stitch something fragile back together.

The next morning, I woke before the sun.

I hadn't slept much. Just drifted in and out of dreams that felt more like memories, ones I couldn't quite touch without bleeding. The kind of dreams that left your chest hollow when you woke, like something had been taken while you weren't looking.

I didn't know if she'd stayed. I hadn't checked. I couldn't bring myself to.

Part of me was afraid that if I looked and she was gone, something inside me would finally break for good.

But I went downstairs anyway. I told myself it was for food. For routine. But really it was hope, quiet and aching, still holding its breath.

The scent of breakfast hit me first. Warm, familiar. Spiced bread and coffee and something sugary Cassian probably shouldn't have been trusted to make.

Voices drifted from the kitchen. Laughter. Soft, strained.

I slowed at the threshold, every step suddenly heavier and there they were. Cassian. Feyre. Rhys.

And her.

She sat at the far end of the table, fingers curled around a mug. Her hair was damp, like she'd showered not long ago. She wore one of those oversized sweaters that made her look softer, smaller—like something delicate you weren't meant to touch.

Cassian looked up first. His gaze flicked to me, then to her. Just for a beat. And then back again. His brow twitched, almost imperceptibly, but I saw it. I felt it.

No one said anything right away. Just that pause. That silent, stretching pause that meant everyone knew but no one was brave enough to say it out loud.

"Morning," I said, voice low, rough with the weight of everything I didn't say.

"Morning," Rhys returned easily, ever the diplomat.

Cassian nodded, then gestured toward the table. "Careful with the chair on the end. I think it's trying to kill people again."

Feyre chuckled under her breath. "It tried to take me out yesterday. Gave me a bruise the size of a peach."

I took the seat beside Cassian, opposite her. Our eyes didn't meet and I didn't know if it was her choice or mine. Maybe both.

The joke floated there like a lifeline tossed in too late. A little too loud. A little too rehearsed.

I forced a smile. Let it sit on my face like a mask I'd worn too many times. "Guess we should put the chair on trial."

Cassian smirked. "It'd be the most dramatic trial since you caught Amren rearranging your dagger wall."

I huffed something like a laugh, but it didn't reach my eyes. I could feel it, the way she avoided looking at me. The way her laughter, soft and tentative, bent away from mine.

And still she hadn't said a word to me. Not a good morning. Not a hi.

Just silence.

I focused on my plate. On the way my fork moved. On keeping my hands steady even though my stomach felt like it was trying to cave in.

My confession, the truth I'd ripped from my chest and handed to her like something sacred—it had landed in a void. No echo. No answer.

She hadn't turned away. But she hadn't come closer either.

And now she sat across from me like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't cracked myself open and waited to see what she'd do with the pieces.

Cassian handed me the breadbasket with a sidelong glance, like he was trying to read my mind. I didn't meet his eyes.

Feyre and Rhys talked softly about court meetings, about a shipment arriving late. The usual rhythms of life. Easy. Controlled. But underneath it all, the tension buzzed, quiet, sharp. Like a wire strung too tight.

I risked one glance at her. She wasn't looking at me. Her face was calm, unreadable. But her hand tightened slightly around her mug.

I looked away before it could mean anything. Before I could let myself believe it did.

The worst kind of heartbreak wasn't loud. It didn't scream or shatter. It sat beside you at the breakfast table, silent and smiling like everything was fine.

It laughed at chairs and passed the butter and pretended that nothing had changed.

But I had. I had changed.

And sitting across from her, the truth burned in my throat like a blade I couldn't swallow.

She knew. And it hadn't been enough.

A/n - Azriel’s POV… I’ve never written in anything other than first-person (reader), so this was definitely a shift for me. I always knew that at some point in this specific story, I wanted to dive into Azriel’s head and this felt like the right moment! Part 10, after he lays everything bare, just needed his voice :)

Hopefully I did ok. I’ve edited this like four different times trying to make it feel right, so fingers crossed it landed the way I hoped it would.

Thank you for reading, truly. I hope you’ve been enjoying the story so far <33

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86 @saamanthaag3 @whydohumansss @xlosttdreamss @bookishwondersworld @plants-w0rld @i-am-infinite @ly--canthrope @lreadsstuff @urfunnyvalentin3

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softlysoul · 1 month ago

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pov ❀ kim jongseob x fem!reader

genre fluff, jongseob being a king as usual

a/n i’ve been on an ariana grande kick lately so enjoy my second fic based on one of her songs 🙂‍↕️

listen here

── .✦

You’ve always been good at pretending.

Smiling at the right times. Laughing when it’s expected of you. Keeping your rough edges dull and hidden away, while the softer ones were buried beneath walls you swore no one would ever break down. You’ve kept yourself at arm’s length—from others, from yourself—for as long as you can remember.

But Jongseob never asked you to take off the armor. He just met you where you were until you didn’t need it anymore.

It starts small. It always does.

A hand brushing yours while you lounge on his old couch, some obscure movie on the television casting a soft glow across the both of your faces. A look across the room when you say something wrong, or when you brush someone off, no judgment in his eyes, only patience.

He has this way of looking at you that makes you feel like maybe you're not as messed up as you think. Like you’re not hard to love. Like you’re not all jagged edges and great expectations.

You still remember the first time he saw you cry.

You’d been laughing a second before, recounting something stupid and trivial from your past. But something about the way he looked at you, really looked, unearthed something you'd buried deep. You broke mid-sentence, eyes stinging, voice splintering. You turned away, embarrassed.

He didn’t say anything.

Just reached out, gently turning your face back to his with the tips of his fingers. Then, when he was sure you weren't goin to run away, his voice came out, soft and gentle. “Don’t hide that from me.”

── .✦

Sometimes, you wonder how he truly sees you.

He listens when you ramble, even when you have nothing of substance to say. Somehow, he hears the things you don’t say, rather, the things you won't say. He reads between your words with incredible ease, never asking for more from you. You’ve never had to explain your fears to him, he just gets them.

You once asked, half-joking, “Are you psychic or something?”

He smiled at you from the floor, head resting against your knee. “No,” he murmured. “I just… care. That’s all.”

── .✦

It’s late when he shows up to your apartment.

You’d had a bad day. Your thoughts were overwhelming and you were close to drowning in the sea of your mind. You didn’t text him. You didn’t say a word, you could never ask him to pick up your broken pieces. But he knew. He always knows.

He doesn’t ask for permission when he lets himself in, knowing you always keep a spare key under your doormat. He walks to where you’re curled on the couch and pulls you into him. You melt before you even realize what’s happening. His warmth, his scent, his presence, it’s grounding and comforting, distracting you from any negative thoughts that intrude on your peace of mind.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers into your hair. “Just let me be with you.”

So you do.

And in the quiet, something clicks: you trust him. Somehow, despite him seeing you in your lowest moments, trapped with all your ugliest thoughts, he didn't run away, didn't push you to say more, he was just there, offering whatever you needed.

He didn't think less of you, although he definitely had the right to, he just took all your messiness in stride and loved you anyways.

── .✦

“Sometimes I wish I could see myself how you do,” you admit one night, voice small in the dark of his room.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You can. You just have to let yourself.”

You turn your head to look at him. He’s watching you like he always does, eyes filled with a gentle sort of wonder, like you’re art and haven’t realized it.

“I see everything,” he says. “Even the parts you think are too ugly, too broken. And I still think you’re... everything. Do you know how amazing you are, just for trying?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Why are you like this?”

His lips twitch. “Because I love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “And you deserve to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions.”

── .✦

Loving Jongseob feels like slowly thawing.

You're slowly learning to stay. To trust. To breathe.

And maybe you’re not all the way there yet. Maybe there are still days you want to run away, still nights you flinch when he gets too close, when he accidentally brushes something in you that still hurts. But he stays, and so do you.

And maybe, one day, you’ll be able to look in the mirror and see what he sees.

But for now, this is enough.

His hands in yours. His eyes on you. And the quiet understanding that, for once, you're not running.

You’re finally home.

── .✦

softlysoul perm taglist - @markkiatocafe @theozia @hyeinsveil

#softlysoul #kim jongseob #p1harmony #p1h #jongseob #jongseob x reader #p1h jongseob #p1h kim jongseob #jongseob x y/n #kim jongseob x reader #p1h x reader #piwon x reader #p1harmony x reader #piwon #p1ece #p1harmony imagines #p1h fluff #piwon fluff #p1harmony fluff

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clandestineivory · 3 months ago

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Affogato Cookie x Healer Reader

Summary: The guy who keeps getting himself into the most weirdest situations (exiled) and the healer who followed him because they KNEW he wouldn't get far without someone else helping him. (aka; "help I'm hurt, I need a savior" x "you fucking moron why would you fall into freezing river water") Written with 2nd pov <3

TW: Wounds but not graphic, kinda angsty but not..? idk. Highkey self-indulgent tbh. He's like some kind of shunned creature I love him other: This ain't even headcanons that much, it's just weirdness uploaded into this thing. This doesn't even need to be seen as romantic now that I think about it. It could be really close buddies y'know..

Affogato Cookie used to come all the way to where you worked because of ANY minor scratches or splinters. Being the oh-so kind and considerate healer, you helped him (even when you knew damn well that he had a higher amount of medical knowledge needed for an advisor)

And this guy was highkey dramatic half of the time, and would treat you more like a friend or a gossip-companion than a doctor.

You helped him when he first appeared in the Black Citadel, which was quite a while ago, by the order of Dark Cacao Cookie when he found the stranger in the snow.

You were the one who often heard his complaints and rants about Dark Cacao Cookie in the first years he became an advisor.

- "Thank you for treating my wounds, y/n, now I'd really like to get back to talki-" - "I would rather watch you get hurt by a cream wolf and stitch you up again than hear you complain about the King. Just put matters into your own hands if you're so mad about his ideals and his thoughts on the kingdom." - "...that doesn't sound like a half-bad idea." THIS BITCH REALLY TOOK THAT SERIOUSLY, DIDN'T HE?

You were there when you watched his exile occur (more like his immediate retreat). When his disciples were in chaos because of the Great Wall breaking, you slipped away with him, watching when Caramel Arrow Cookie asked to hunt the advisor (or, ex-advisor?) down.

He seemed lost. Of course he was, he had just failed a scheme he had tried to devise and plan out meticulously. You two didn't speak for a while.

But you just had to ask: - "Royal Advisor, are you alright?" - "I got beat by a group of measly travelers. Like it was child's play. Do you think I'm alright after trying so hard to fight, trying to obtain enough power, only for it to crumble away?"- "I'm worse than 'alright', y/n. You wouldn't understand." - "...Affogato Cookie, help me understand."

And he did. Well, he tried to. He was pretty bad at explaining his emotions and past. It was messy, and he went quiet sometimes, like he was hiding the way his voice would tremble at certain moments and failing miserably when he tried to talk again.

But you tried to get it. And he seemed to like that, even if there was no fancy throne, or overly sweet food and banquets. Just the two of you, staying together in some old cave in the mountains while the chaos from the Kingdom subsided, far away with nothing but your first-aid kit and a spare blanket.

You two stayed in that cave for a while. Snowstorms were bad, and besides, it was too mentally taxing to go back out.

Affogato Cookie had huddled close to you. Seemed like his clothes, even with so many pretty layers, could not shield his body from the biting cold.

So, with the consideration you practiced from years past, you let him have the blanket...even with some back and forth. - "You take the blanket, y/n. Your clothes aren't suitable to the cold." - "Neither are yours, you moron." - "But you deserve it more. I'm ashamed that you want to care for me even after I've failed and got beat by children.." - "Affogato Cookie, I'm the healer, and I order you to keep that blanket and stay warm-"

Note: it went on for a full minute before you two came to a compromise to share the blanket instead. Yay for teamwork, i guess?

You noticed that he fell asleep pretty slowly. Sometimes his eyelids would droop, then he shifted a bit and tried to grab a bit more of the blanket, then not (because he says, "it's too hot now" oh, cool, call me Fortuna i guess because HOW are you hot in the middle of a snowstorm bud, pick a side)

But eventually, he drifted off into slumber, curled up like some kind of tall creature who simply needed a place to reside and be seen. Cared about. Understood.

And it was strange, seeing him in this light. A softer shade instead of the confident and self-assured dark indigo he portrayed himself as.

It was kind of nice, seeing him with this quiet tint of lavender.

#cookie run kingdom #writers on tumblr #affogato cookie #affogato cookie crk #cookie run #crk headcanons #affogato cookie x reader #crk affogato #affogato crk #affogato cookie run #cookie run x you #cookie run x y/n #cookie run x reader

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darlingdreadwrites · 7 months ago

Text

Still and Breathless

pairing: Ticci Toby x Final Girl!Reader

part: 1, 2

summary: Having escaped from Toby the first time, you decide to go back to the woods. You know this is a stupid decision, but something has pulled you back. Toby is more than ecstatic, and equally confused. He gave you a chance to leave, to keep your life. He thinks one more chase would keep you safely away, but your body thinks otherwise.

contains: getting chased by toby (again), slight pov switches, flashback, kissing

warning: logic has gone out the window

word count: 2.6k

masterlist

a.n: naming part 2 something else because ticci toby x final girl!reader part 2 looks ugly LOL im finally done with part 2, sorry for the wait. im making it up with a kiss! this took so long im so sorry.

The ride back to the woods was deafeningly silent, apart from the engine’s low hum. You were punishing yourself with it, or maybe allowing the silence to give you a chance to change your mind. You let out another shaky breath as you kept your eyes on the road. You shift and the leather seat creaks, remind you that this isn’t a dream – you’re doing this. Yor grip on the steering wheel tightens more than it should. Your nails dig into the soft groves, knuckles white from the force. Your gaze flickers to the rearview mirror for the millionth time and, yes, it’s still there. The hatchet – his hatchet – is resting on the backseat. The sunlight causes the spots where it’s not caked in mud and aged blood to glint at you. It’s as if it’s winking, mockingly remind you that what you were doing was completely, undeniable fucking insane.

Who drives around with their almost-killer’s weapon?

But you were even worse, it seems.

You were driving with it to him. What was your plan? To give it back to him? You tried to tell yourself it was for revenge – to finish what you should’ve done that night. But who were you kidding? A disgusting part of you you didn’t understand yet wanted to see him.

“This is crazy,” you mutter, shaking your head – and the memories – away. The woods, the blood, the house, the bathroom, his eyes – wide, crazy, and… adoring. You were sure that’s what it was – adoration. You’ve had a lot of time to think about it. You’ve never been looked at like that before. It was clear you were still prey to him, but in the way that he’d kill you and devour you with reverence. Your jaw tightens.

The woods around you grow denser, your apprehension mixing with a strange thrill. You shouldn’t have gone to a party so close to the woods at night. They’ve always freaked you out, so why did you? It must’ve been the same impulse that pulled you to mechanically walk deeper into the swallowing edge of the forest. You should’ve called the cops when you escaped out of that house.

Your heavy, erratic breaths made your head feel lighter than it should. It hurt to breathe at that point, the weight of the hatchet made your arm ache. Your hand shook as fingers wrapped around the splintered wood, but you gripped the weapon. Your attacker was sprawled out in the tub, eyes half-lidded and dazed. You managed to hold the hatchet with both hands, then.

“If you move,” you managed, your voice a trembling murmur, “I will chop your dick off.”

The threat felt ridiculous as it fell out of your mouth, but you meant it. God, you meant it.

He didn’t react, he just kept watching you. You didn’t know why, and it pissed you off greatly. He had the energy and time to chase you and hurt you, but he couldn’t even give you this one thing? He whispered something, but you couldn’t make it over the pounding in your ears. Anger bubbled in your chest, and you had the courage to speak up again.

“Did you hear me?” you snapped, raising the hatchet.

This time, he slowly nodded before a tic caused his neck to twist. He let his head fall back against the tub, still watching you. You stumbled back with shaky legs, determined to get out before he changed his mind. You mumbled an “okay” as your back hit the doorframe. Readjusting your way, you started to run.

The gravel crunches under your wheels as you roll to a stop, the sound fading into the quiet of the forest around you. You turn off the engine and let your hands linger on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. There was one other car here, an old blue sedan with tinted windows. You look in the rearview mirror again before twisting in your seat to face it head-on. You didn’t want to touch it, but your hand moved anyway, getting hold of the hatchet’s neck. It was a familiar surface now, the feeling of worn wood. It shouldn’t have been. A voice in your head whispers, urging you to think again and head back home. But you were tired of constantly thinking about that night – you wanted to end whatever had started.

The woods seemed to have known you would be back, it was quiet, dense, and dark. The trees stretched endlessly in all directions. You had been walking for a few minutes, the crunch of leaves eliciting a memory in you. You paused for no particular reason other than to take in the cool air. Your beaths were shallow, a pulse hammering in your ears as you just stand there. The hatchet hangs limply at your side, and you begin to regret everything. I’m not being brave, you told yourself, I’m being stupid.

Something sharp snaps behind you – a twig. You freeze, making your grip firm on the hatchet. Your head turns slowly, heart racing as your eyes scan the trees for any sign of –

Him. You see him.

He was standing just a few feet away, just past where the light faded into shadow – just off the path. You would have missed him if it wasn’t for the way his shoulder twitches. The sight was jarring, he was so out of place and yet perfectly at home among the trees. He doesn’t move, he just watches you. Instead of the mask he had worn that night, his mouth was now covered by a black bandanna. The narrow stream of sunlight caught on the orange lenses of his goggles, perched atop of his curly brown hair. His hands were loosely at his sides, but you could just make out the twitch of his fingers – a subtle, restless energy that matched the slight tilting of his head as he looks at you.

Your heart pounds, every muscle in your body screaming at you to run away as fast as you can. But you can’t – not yet.

Not yet?

As if it were possible, the forest grew quieter around you.

Toby didn’t think in all his life that he would ever see you again. He had replayed the last encounter so many times in his mind that it felt like a fever dream. There was no way he let you escape – to let you live and risk revealing his actions to the world. But here you were, standing there like something out of a story he didn’t deserve to read twice. His breath hitches, eyes shutting tightly involuntarily. You weren’t supposed to be here. But you were, and it didn’t matter why – here you were. And, yup, he was still obsessed with you.

You really are something, aren’t you?

He moves slowly toward you, stepping out of the shadows as if he were approaching a skittish animal. This whole thing was surreal. Even the soft crunching of the ground beneath his boots sound fake. His limbs buzz with a nervous energy, and he clenches and unclenches his fists. He needed to steady himself; he can’t take this moment for granted – if it was real. As his eyes dart down and around you, drinking you in again. You stood there with the same defiance he had missed, your fingers tightened around his hatchet. You held it like it was yours. You certainly earned it.

You came back, he thought to himself. After everything I did to you. You came back. To me.

Every inch of him twitches with a need to reach out and touch you – to make sure this was real. He stops just a few paces away, waiting for you to do something first.

You felt as if you had stopped breathing the second he stopped in front of you. You didn’t know what he was feeling behind the bandanna, so you wouldn’t let him find out any of the emotions that swirled around your head. Your eyes glance down at the hatchet on his hip, making you tighten your grip on yours. He whistles, but you are used to his tics by this point. You didn’t know if he would hurt you, he wasn’t making whatever he could–would–do clear. You were just glad to have a weapon this time.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you swear he could hear it. You think back to that night, his unpredictability. He’d slow down, waiting for you to do something, before exploding into violence with no remorse. But he stopped in that bathroom. You were so sure that you were going to die that night. He easily could have.

What the hell is wrong with you?

If you made it out again, maybe you would have the answer.

He moves closer, and your pulse quickens. This isn’t one of the dreams you have had recently, you are in the same woods. You drove here and looked for him. What did you want from him?

Your eyes meet his again, and something inside of you snaps.

You don’t wait for him to make the first move. Your legs start all on their own, darting in a random direction in the woods. The same adrenaline that drove you that night was surging through you now. Branches whip at your arms and legs, your heartbeat in your ears. You don’t look back. You knew he was coming.

The wind sung in your ears with every wide step you took. Twigs snap, leaves crunch, and it was considerably harder to do this while holding a hatchet. You still don’t know why you decided to run, it’s not like you were heading to the safety of your car. It was just thrilling; you got a strange high from it. The distant thump and rhythm of his pursuit pushes you on because you’d be pretty pissed at yourself if you let him win this time. Imagine surviving the attack of a serial killer, only to come back to him willingly and lose. That would be devastatingly embarrassing.

“Y-you’re slow tod-today,” he taunts from behind you, cutting through the silent concentration.

You didn’t answer. Your lungs burn, and you weren’t sure if anything that came out would be coherent. You dare to glance over your shoulder, seeing him closer than before. You refuse to let that scare you, though. You beat him once before.

He was playing with you.

You hear a laugh echoing between the trees behind you. He’s going to try and pop out beside you, you realize. You prepare, holding the hatchet closer to you as you duck under a low branch. Just as you thought – there he was.

“Tired?” he sang, coming from somewhere to your left.

But you were already veering to the right instinctively. The unrelenting aggression from when you first met wasn’t there anymore. You could tell by the way he kept laughing and taunting you. He wasn’t trying to catch you – not really. This was just a game to him, just how you thought it was when you “won” last time. The rush you got from “winning” against a serial killer – you want that again.

The forest floor gave away and your view of the world tilts – fast. You both hit the floor with a thud, your bodies a tangling mess of limbs. The air was forced out of your lungs in a sharp gasp, but you move quickly.

Toby scrambles under you for a second, but you’re faster. You press your knee into his chest, pinning him down and wrestling the hatchet into position. Gripping the handle with both hands, you press it sideways against his neck. You knew he had an uncanny way of not feeling pain, but you were sure he could feel his breathing constricted.

You shift your knee, digging it into the dirt beside him. You lean over him, just enough to hear the slight hitch of his breath behind the bandanna. For another moment, neither of you move. The forest fell into silence again. His goggles were one movement from sliding off of the disheveled mess of his hair. Wild eyes flick up to meet yours, and you silently dare him to try anything.

Toby’s body betrays him almost immediately. They start small – his tics make him shut his eyes tight, his shoulder twitching against the ground. Each movement was maddening and uncontrollable, and he hates how vulnerable the tics make him look – how vulnerable he feels under you.

The sharp, rapid jerking of his head causes the bandanna tied around his face to loosen. He can feel the knot undoing itself, the fabric sliding upward and partially covering his eyes. He let out a low, frustrated growl. He tries moving his chin downward, trying to shake it back into place, but it was too late. With another involuntary neck twitch to the left, he stiffens at the realization - that side of his face was now visible. And he could only make out part of your forehead, obscuring any reaction you could’ve had right now.

His lips twitch into a grimace, the scarred corner pulling awkwardly. A cold sense of dread forms a tightening knot in his stomach as the silence drags on. He knows you’re looking at it – you’re eating up every detail, probably disgusted.

Don’t look at it, he pleads, don’t stare.

The old wound throbs faintly, not from any type of pain… but from a distant memory he could never seem to grasp. His jaw clenches and his grip on the hatchet tightens, fingers brushing against yours. He can feel you trembling from the remaining adrenaline in your body. He hates how much he wants you to look away and how much he doesn’t. It was a maddening thrill to be so close to you, but he was sure he would never see you again after this.

The sounds of your breathing silenced all the sounds of the world around both of you. The tension between you was unbearably suffocating – as if it was you with the wooden handle pressed against your neck. Something, you didn’t know what, was threatening to snap. You didn’t know what you were thinking – if you were thinking.

You lean down, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was as brief as it was forceful. It was like a car crash – a collision charged with adrenaline and defiance. You were taking and claiming your victory, proving once again that you could overpower him. There was a weakness in him, and you were proud to hold that title.

Your heart beats violently in your chest as you pull back. You can’t make out the emotions in his eyes, but by the way his lips part makes it clear – he’s just as shocked as you were, if not more.

This time, you were sure some kind of demon was possessing you. The kiss was slower this time, a curiosity driving you now. His lips are chapped, but not entirely unpleasant. You can feel the vibration of his grunt as the handle of the hatchet stays pressed to his neck. This isn’t enough, you think. It wasn’t enough to satiate the myriads of confusing emotions thrashing inside of you. But just as you let your lips part – just as the tip of your tongue touches his – you snap back into attention.

You sit up, still on his stomach and keeping him in place with his hatchet. It all seems to come back rushing at once – the wind in the trees, the chirping of birds. Your face burns as you stare down at him. He doesn’t say a word - you were getting tired of this.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into a crooked grin. The bandanna is still bunched up awkwardly over his eyes. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, as if not wanting to taste anything left of the kiss. You don’t know what any of this means – what twisted bond you just solidified. All you knew was that the air felt heavier than anything you’d ever experienced before.

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jmkjournalblog · 8 months ago

Text

"Soulmates" Part 2

Part 1

Pairing:Wednesday Addams x FemVampire! Reader

Summary: The Fem!reader, vampire with a penchant for dark humor and psychopathic tendencies, is sent to Nevermore Academy by her parents following an unpleasant incident involving the murder of a couple of triple students in her previous school. Despite their contrasting personalities, the reader and Wednesday form a complex bond, navigating their differences while facing challenges that threaten to keep them apart.

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes

Warnings: None

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

Y/n POV

My boots clicked against the cobbled pathways as I trailed slightly behind Enid and Wednesday. The cold seeped into my skin, but it was a welcome chill—reminding me that I was awake, alive, and in the midst of something new and dangerous.

Enid chattered on about classes, the cafeteria’s dubious offerings, and the school’s annual Poe Cup race. She walked between me and Wednesday, trying desperately to bridge the chasm of our conflicting energies. Her voice, warm and bright, seemed to wrap itself around us, a shield against the gloom. I tried to listen, but my senses were sharper than usual, picking up every rustle of the wind, every whisper of movement around the stone parapets.

And then I felt it—a shift in the air, like static before a storm. My eyes flicked upward, catching sight of a massive stone gargoyle teetering precariously on the edge of the nearest building. Time slowed. In that instant, I saw it lean, its shadow stretching long and ominous across the courtyard.

“Wednesday!” I shouted, already moving.

I didn’t think. My body reacted, faster than I’d ever needed to move before. In a blur, I lunged, tackling her to the ground. We hit the cold stone hard; I cushioned her fall, but it was far from graceful. The gargoyle crashed to the spot she’d been standing, splintering into jagged shards. Dust filled the air, mingling with the scent of crushed stone.

I was on my feet in an instant, senses searching for the threat. My eyes, now blazing, scanned for movement in the shadows above. Whoever had done this was either very bold or very stupid. When I felt no immediate danger, I turned my attention back to Wednesday, still on the ground.

Her dark eyes were locked on me, a mix of shock, rage, and—dare I say it—a hint of something else. She quickly masked it, but I’d seen it. Vulnerability. And it struck me more deeply than I cared to admit.

“Get off me,” she said coldly, her voice as sharp as the shards scattered around us. She pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from her clothing. I expected her to be grateful—or at the very least acknowledge what had just happened. But this was Wednesday.

“Not even a ‘thank you’?” I asked, my voice low but laced with something raw, something I couldn’t quite suppress. I’d just saved her life.

Her eyes met mine, unblinking. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, stepping closer, my voice losing its playful edge. “Even if you’d prefer to be flattened by a gargoyle.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. But her breathing was slightly faster, her gaze searching mine. For what, I couldn’t tell. “If you think that earns you any kind of favor, you’re mistaken.”

I exhaled, a humorless laugh escaping me. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Her expression didn’t change. But there was a spark in her eyes—an acknowledgment that, despite her words, she’d felt something. She stepped past me, brushing my shoulder. “Don’t expect gratitude from me, Y/n. Your heroics are… unnecessary.”

I watched her walk away, every fiber of my being alive with tension. I had never wanted to both throttle and kiss someone more in my life.

Wednesday POV

Wednesday strode quickly, the sound of gravel crunching under her shoes grounding her. Her heart was pounding, and she cursed herself for the betrayal of her own physiology. Why did this girl, this aggravating, cocky newcomer, make her feel so… off balance?

In the distance, she heard Enid’s voice, calling after her with frantic worry. She forced herself to slow, to breathe, to appear unfazed. She needed control. Always.

“Wednesday! Are you okay?” Enid’s voice was frantic, and she gripped Wednesday’s arm with surprising strength.

“I’m fine.” The words were curt, but Enid’s grip tightened. Wednesday’s eyes met hers, softened slightly by the uncharacteristic display of worry. “Truly, Enid. It was a coward’s attempt.”

“Still, it could’ve—” Enid’s gaze flicked to Y/n, who stood a few paces back, watchful, tension evident in the set of her jaw.

Wednesday turned away, focusing on her breathing, on the anger simmering beneath her skin. She hated needing help. But she’d been seconds from a painful, possibly fatal end. And she couldn’t quite shake the way Y/n’s voice had cracked when she’d shouted her name.

“I’ll find who did this,” Y/n said, voice low and dangerous. It wasn’t a question. It was a vow.

“Do whatever you like,” Wednesday replied, refusing to meet her gaze again. “But don’t expect me to owe you anything.”

Y/n’s lips curved into a humorless smile. “I never do.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Wednesday with the realization that for all her careful plans, all her walls—there was a crack. A very, very dangerous crack.

******

The crowd had started to thin, curiosity satisfied for now. Some students whispered as they walked by, eyes darting to Y/n and then quickly away. The sound of crunching stone underfoot punctuated the silence, and as the commotion faded, Y/n found herself standing alone for a moment, watching Wednesday's retreating back.

She clenched her jaw, feeling an unexpected weight in her chest. Annoyance, mixed with something far more complicated. She’d acted on pure instinct. She wasn’t sure what she had expected in return—gratitude, certainly not—but Wednesday’s cold dismissal struck deeper than it should have. She turned sharply on her heel, shaking her head, and made her way toward the forest edge. She needed air, space to think, and to cool the simmering heat of anger, frustration, and a hint of fear she still couldn’t shake.

The woods were thick with life, the scents and sounds amplified by my heightened senses. Birds rustled above, and small animals scurried through the underbrush. I took deep, steadying breaths, but my mind was restless, racing with everything that had just happened. That gargoyle wasn’t some random accident—it was deliberate. Someone had aimed for Wednesday, and that meant the stakes were higher than I’d thought.

But even as I replayed the scene, the sound of her heartbeat against my chest lingered. Her scent—a mix of pine, ink, and something uniquely her—clung to me. I cursed myself for noticing, for caring, when I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.

“You’re getting sloppy,” I muttered aloud. “Dangerously sloppy.”

The snap of a twig pulled me from my thoughts. I spun around, fangs bared. But it wasn’t a threat. It was Yoko, her dark eyes gleaming as she leaned casually against a tree trunk, arms folded across her chest.

“Rough day?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I relaxed slightly, though I didn’t let my guard down. “You could say that.”

She stepped closer, her gaze flicking over me with a curiosity that was anything but casual. “Word spreads fast here. You saved Wednesday Addams. Bold move.”

“I wasn’t trying to be bold,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Just doing what needed to be done.”

Yoko tilted her head, her smile a touch too knowing. “Still. Not everyone would’ve jumped in like that.”

Her words, though seemingly harmless, carried an edge of challenge. I chose not to rise to it. “What do you want, Yoko?”

She moved closer, and I noticed the faint glint of crimson at her throat—likely some concealed charm or ward. Smart, considering what she was. “Maybe I just want to see if you’re as interesting as everyone says.”

“And?” I crossed my arms, forcing my body to relax. It was a game, and she was playing it well.

Her smile widened, showing the barest hint of fangs. “Still deciding.”

She turned and started to walk away, pausing just long enough to throw a parting glance over her shoulder. “If you’re looking for allies, or just a way to blow off steam… I’m not hard to find.”

As she disappeared into the shadows, I felt a flicker of something resembling intrigue. But there was no time to dwell on it. I needed answers. Whoever was targeting Wednesday had just made this personal.

*timeskip*

The sun dipped low, casting the dormitory hallway in warm hues of amber and crimson. I walked beside Enid, her endless chatter filling the otherwise quiet space. She spoke of the upcoming carnival with childlike enthusiasm, her bright energy a welcome contrast to Nevermore's dark corners. It was amusing, watching her bounce from one topic to another like a hyperactive puppy, but my attention was elsewhere. Specifically, I could feel a pair of eyes boring into me.

Wednesday Addams walked just a pace behind us, her stare unwavering, analytical. The air between us was always charged, a pull of magnetic forces she’d never admit to feeling. I caught sight of my reflection in a cracked windowpane and couldn’t help but note the difference between us. Enid’s optimism radiated like a halo, Wednesday’s presence was a storm cloud of calculated indifference, and me? I was fire—dangerous, hot, and burning too brightly in all the wrong places.

“You know,” Enid said, spinning on her heel to face me, “I bet you’d look killer in one of those leather jackets they sell at the carnival. Add some chains, maybe a dark rose, and bam!” She gestured with her hands as if sketching the outfit in the air. “You’d make half the school faint.”

I chuckled, the sound low and throaty. “You think so?”

“Please.” She rolled her eyes playfully, her gaze flitting over my figure. “I know so. Trust me. You have the look.”

She wasn’t wrong. I’d always known my body held an edge over others, though I wielded it sparingly. My movements, whether deliberate or casual, were often accompanied by lingering glances or stammered words. Wednesday might claim indifference, but I’d seen her eyes travel across my silhouette when she thought I wasn’t watching—a barely perceptible flicker of interest she’d never acknowledge. I took a moment, stretching languidly, making sure my form spoke volumes in that fleeting gesture. Behind me, there was silence. I smirked.

“So, what do you think of the carnival?” I asked, turning slightly to catch Wednesday’s reaction.

She arched a single eyebrow, her voice cool and flat. “If you’re asking whether I find frivolous celebrations amusing, the answer is no.”

Enid nudged me with her elbow, eyes sparkling with conspiratorial glee. “Don’t listen to her. Wednesday just likes to pretend she hates fun. Deep down, she’s probably planning which rides to go on first.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath her pale skin. “The last time I attended a carnival, it ended with a burning Ferris wheel and at least three casualties.”

“Spoken like a true thrill-seeker,” I teased, stepping closer. “Why am I not surprised?”

For a brief moment, her dark eyes met mine, flickering with an intensity that made the air grow thick. She took a small, deliberate step back, as if to regain some semblance of control over whatever had just passed between us. I enjoyed the challenge far too much to let it go.

“Come on,” Enid chirped, dragging us toward the room we shared. “We need to pick outfits! And yes, Wednesday, you’re coming too. I already got us matching wristbands!”

Inside the dorm, Enid’s whirlwind energy took over. She flitted around, pulling clothes from drawers, and chatting about the carnival’s attractions—the haunted house, a shooting gallery, some wild fire-breathers rumored to perform. Meanwhile, Wednesday settled into her usual corner, methodically preparing for whatever tasks her peculiar routine demanded. I moved with a certain feline grace, feeling their eyes on me. I could almost hear Enid’s excited thoughts and Wednesday’s more guarded curiosity.

“Y/n,” Enid called, tugging a black leather jacket from her side of the wardrobe and tossing it my way. “Try this. It’ll suit you.”

I caught it mid-air, feeling its weight against my hands. As I shrugged it on, the material hugged my form perfectly, accentuating curves and lending a dangerous edge. Enid clapped in approval; even Wednesday’s gaze lingered for a second longer than usual. My lips curled upward.

“How do I look?” I asked, spreading my arms slightly. The question was meant for both of them, but my eyes found Wednesday.

She tilted her head, lips parting as if she were about to offer a cutting remark. Instead, she hesitated. “Acceptable,” she said finally, her voice devoid of emotion.

Enid laughed. “Acceptable? Please. You look like you just stepped out of a gothic romance novel.”

“Perhaps a dark tragedy,” Wednesday corrected, her voice low. “A fitting choice for her, don’t you think?”

“Tragedy, romance, it’s all the same,” I replied, stepping closer to where she sat. “And you, Wednesday? Will you blend in with the crowd or haunt the carnival like one of its ghost stories?”

She stared at me, unblinking. “I don’t blend. Ever.”

“Good,” I murmured, leaning back against my bedframe. “Neither do I.”

*Later that Evening*

The grounds were transformed, strung with twinkling lights and bustling with life. Music thrummed from hidden speakers, blending with the laughter and screams of students on various rides. Enid dragged me past vendors selling everything from candied skulls to twisted metal trinkets. Her excitement was infectious. But all the while, my attention remained divided. Wednesday walked a few paces ahead, her dark aura unbroken by the revelry. I wondered what she thought of all this—a chaotic mix of joy and hidden danger.

“Y/n!” Enid’s voice cut through my thoughts. “This way! There’s a mirror maze! You’ll love it!”

I let her pull me along, glancing over my shoulder just in time to catch Wednesday watching me. I gave her a playful wink before disappearing into the maze's gleaming hall of glass.

The air within the mirror maze was different—cooler, more distant from the vibrant sounds of the carnival outside. The walls stretched around me in reflective splendor, distorting every angle of my form. My image twisted and elongated as I walked past each mirrored surface, creating endless copies of myself. A faint smirk tugged at my lips; there was something poetic about the illusion of infinite versions of me, each gaze equally challenging the world.

Enid had dashed ahead, her laughter echoing faintly through the labyrinth. I let her voice guide me for a few moments before deliberately slowing my pace, the thrill of isolation too enticing to resist. My senses sharpened, honing in on every small noise. The flicker of carnival lights outside cast shadows that danced on the glass, creating shifting patterns that felt almost alive.

I took a step forward, and there she was—Wednesday, standing perfectly still amidst the sea of reflections. Her dark hair framed her pale face like ink spilled across porcelain. For a brief moment, I thought it was another trick of the mirrors. Then she moved, her gaze cutting through the maze to find mine.

"Lost already?" I called out, my voice bouncing through the mirrored walls.

"Hardly," she replied, her tone sharp. She moved closer, her steps silent against the polished floor. Each reflection of her was as precise and menacing as the real thing.

As she neared, I leaned casually against one of the mirrored panels, my body language deliberately relaxed. "And here I thought you avoided carnival nonsense."

Wednesday stopped a mere breath away, her eyes narrowing. "I am simply observing how quickly people lose themselves in meaningless distractions."

I tilted my head, tracing her silhouette with my eyes. "Is that what you think this is? A distraction?"

She didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a measured step closer. We were surrounded by endless versions of ourselves, each silent and expectant. “You tell me, Y/n. Why are you here? Is this another stage for you to perform your games?”

Her words hung between us, a challenge I couldn't resist. I closed the distance, letting our reflections align behind us in perfect symmetry. “If it is a game,” I whispered, “then you’re playing too. Deny it all you want, Wednesday. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

For a second, her gaze softened. Something unspoken lingered there, in the depths of her stormy eyes—something raw, uncertain. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by the iron control she wielded like a shield. She stepped back, the tension snapping like a taut string.

“You give yourself too much credit,” she said, voice cold again. “This is merely a test of your predictability.”

I chuckled softly, the sound echoing in every direction. “Predictability? Oh, Wednesday, you haven’t even begun to know me.”

She turned, a fluid movement that sent her raven hair cascading down her back. “Then stop wasting my time.” Her footsteps were precise, deliberate. I watched as she walked deeper into the maze, becoming a shifting ghost of mirrors and reflections.

Wednesday’s POV

As I moved through the maze, the glass surfaces reflected Y/n’s form—always watching, always following, even if she stood still. It was irritating how her presence lingered, carving out space in my mind where none should exist. She was a paradox; a being I wanted to avoid, yet always found myself confronting.

She’d gotten too close. Not physically—there was always some distance I could claim. But with words, looks, her damnable confidence. It gnawed at me that my composure had faltered, even if briefly. The carnival’s noise and chaos outside seemed to amplify what I refused to acknowledge.

Focus. The word repeated itself in my mind like a mantra. I turned a corner, scanning the mirrored path ahead. This maze, this ridiculous charade, was a distraction. I needed control, not confusion. Yet every step brought her voice to mind, every reflection a reminder of the tension neither of us would name.

Footsteps approached. I stiffened, ready to parry another round of words. But it wasn’t Y/n who appeared—it was Enid, her bright smile glowing under the carnival lights that crept in through slits and cracks. “Found you!”

She grinned, unaware of the storm raging in my mind. I nodded and allowed her to take my hand, leading me away from the maze’s grip. Before stepping fully into the open air, I glanced back one last time. In the distance, one reflection of Y/n lingered, a silent promise of more games yet to come.

#wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter x reader #wednesday addams #jenna ortega x you #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday addams x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday netflix #jenna ortega x fem reader #tara carpenter x fem!reader

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writerunnamed · 9 months ago

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note: I am both shocked, and grateful at the response this story has gotten. I didn't tag anyone, and I expected maybe a few people to be into it but you proved me so wrong. So thankful that you all like it, please don't be shy. Slide into the dms, spam me with asks, lets go nuts together. xo (thanks so much for going through and betaing this chapter @frannyzooey xo) Joel(stepdad), significant age gap, female reader. 18+ legal, reader is 20 (warnings: pov sex, shower sex, really inappropriate dirty talk, slight Dom-Joel vibes, daddy kink, heavy guilt) 4k word count masterlist

The guilt doesn’t creep in, it consumes like a five alarm fire. It’s weight holding you pressed to your bed as the shadows in your room stretch out with the fading of the golden hour light. The darkness helps, but not nearly enough to make any kind of a difference.

He’d left after, closing your bedroom door behind him with your slick still smeared all over his dick and the realization of what you’ve done keeps hitting you. It keeps dropping stones in your gut, further weighing you down, naked, in the incriminating wet patch on your sheets. You hear your mother open the front door an indeterminable amount of time after. Your face burns, your heart races, she has to know. Surely she’d felt it, like a phantom limb while she was working, a ghost knife in the shape of her daughter, stabbing her in the back.

You wait, barely breathing, sheets clutched in the talons of your fingersfor her to storm in, to rip you out of the house by your skin but it doesn’t happen. You hear him laugh, hear them chat as though nothing has happened. Your heart rate steadily lowers, and it becomes apparent that her wrath isn’t pending.

The ax hanging over your head is being held by you, and no one else.

You stay there, uncomfortable, ashamed, cold, until it’s late enough that the house falls silent. Then, and only then do you get up and change the sheets. You pad out to the bathroom and shower, silently telling yourself that it was a temporary lapse in judgment. It was a psychotic episode. It was a hallucination, there’s no way you’d actually done that. It must have been imagined, but then you clean between your legs and feel the soreness and curse yourself all over again.

You do your best to wash him off of you, wash the whole encounter, the whole mistake, and vow to yourself to never give it another thought. You console yourself with the thought that he must feel awful too, surely. He was probably lying there next to your mother, terrified with guilt. The devil on your shoulder, that cruel thing inside laughed at your naivety, practically yelling at you to smarten up. He doesn’t feel guilty, he’s probably snoring, his balls empty, his body pleasantly tired without a care in the world.

Sleep eventually finds you, giving you the blissful respite of the dreamless dark.

—

A week goes by and you can almost convince yourself it had been a dream. Your mother is her normal, distant, distracted self. Joel works and blessedly you have managed to avoid any unsupervised interactions. Your brain however, has splintered and each shard has its role. The first keeps you sane, it does it best to make sure you focus on anything but the event you will not name. Another convinces you that things have almost fixed themselves since… well, that. It fools you into believing that it was somehow a cure. Things feel better in the house. The tension is gone, Joel seems disinterested, your mother is preoccupied. A tentative truce has somehow been enforced.

There is another shard, an unwelcome and unruly and now untethered part of you that screams for a repeat performance. It begs and pleads for you to corner Joel and take what he gave again and again. The other aspects keep it restrained for most of the day. Work, responsibilities, the general needs and demands of the day take up most of your bandwidth but at night, at night it reigns supreme and without opposition.

In the comforting dark of your now tainted space, that illicit part of you floods your mind's eye with the vision of Joel there, in your bed. It recalls the feeling of his mouth on your nipples with crystalline clarity, makes you feel the way he molded your body to take him, the way you came around his cock with that word in your mouth.

You were grateful for the toy, but he’d been so frustratingly right about it not doing much. After him, the toy was a tease. It was barely a taste of what he’d been able to do, but it didn’t stop you from using it. It was the safest option, until you could find someone appropriate.

Or get the fuck out of that house and forget about the whole thing.

More days pass, and that tension filters through your defences, It glides in and fills every angle of the house, every corner with a need borne of your interlude.

Joel’s eyes linger again, he tracks your movements whether your mother is around or not. He smiles, he tests, pushes your limits with a passing hand on your lower back. His fingers linger when he hands you a plate or a mug, he sits close enough for his thighs to press to yours on the couch, the soft light of the tv and the lamp casting shadows across you both.

Your mother doesn’t pay attention, or doesn’t see it. You are not a threat to her relationship, why would you be? In any normal, healthy family this would never be something to be worried about, not in a million years. In a proper family, a stepfather would not fuck his stepdaughter.

A stepdaughter would not fantasize about it either.

The guilt builds the more time passes, but it wars with another, less wholesome feeling. Desire. Unadulterated lust. There is a part of you, a growing, strengthening part that craves him, that bombards you with different ways to have him inside you again, to beg him to fuck you harder, to give it to you longer, to beg for him to come inside you and mark you as his own and this scares you half to death.

Soon though, it eclipses that guilt and takes you to the breaking point.

It comes to a head one day, when you come home to both of them smiling and happy.

“Hey babygirl.”

He smiles when you set your bag down and you ignore the way your body comes to life with that endearment.

“Go on up and get dressed, I’m takin’ my girls out for dinner.”

Your mother beams, sliding her arms around his waist with a dreamy smile. “I got a promotion, Joel is going to treat us.” She’s in a very good mood.

“Oh, I’m alright, bit tired but you two go ahead. Have a drink for me.” You smile your sincerest smile, urging them to leave you alone. The toy floats in your brain, calling to you with the promise of the momentary relief it brings, however paltry compared to him.

“Nonsense. Go on, we’re all goin’.” He raises an eyebrow, and you sigh, already resigned. “Go on, don’t make me ask you again, we gotta celebrate.” There is a playful, yet iron-strong tone that you know in your heart you cannot disobey.

“We can go on our own if she wants to stay.” Your mom combs his hair back with her fingers, fixing it and he lets her, smiling down at her as you make your way up the stairs.

“We’re all goin’-” It’s the last thing you hear him say before you close your door and go about getting dressed.

It’s a pretty fancy steakhouse, a place you’d only ever been to once on a date. He’d put on a nice shirt, and your mom wore one of her nicer dresses. You couldn’t exactly wear leggings, so you’d dug out a dress of your own and trudged along despite your wish to be anywhere but.

He slid into the booth beside you. You said nothing.

Your mother talks about her job, about how happy she is they’re taking notice of all her hard work and you’re genuinely proud of her. Growing up you don’t remember her holding down a job for more than a few months, Joel had changed that too. He’d pushed her to buckle down and take her employment seriously and it had paid off. It was just another one of those contradictory things about him, something you should have loved him for, a genuine, paternal thing but it didn’t mesh with your new dynamic.

Paternal. What a joke.

The food is good, and you enjoy it in relative silence while your mother prattles on about her work, her manager, her team while Joel smiles and looks her in the eye. It’s almost pleasant, almost normal, the three of you, mother, father and daughter in a dark little booth celebrating a win.

It’s almost nice, until you feel his hand on your knee under the table.

You jump, the shock of it making you drop your fork.

“You alright babygirl?” He smiles, genuine concern on his face as heat floods your body and you nod, frantically. With a tight smile you go to pick it up but he stops you, and ducks under the table to fish for it. Your mom laughs it off and you smile, blood pounding when you feel his hand again while he’s reaching for the fork. It moves your skirt up, exposing more of your thigh.

“I’ll ask the waiter for a new one.” He sits up and winks, adjusting himself so he’s a little closer. His hand lands back on your thigh and his thumb strokes at the skin, little circles that make you lightheaded.

“I think I need to use the little girls room.” Your mother puts her napkin on the table and for a moment you think this is your chance. If she asks if you need to go, you’ll jump at the chance – but his hand tightens, just enough to let you know to stay put.

She doesn’t ask, and when she rounds the corner he turns to you, eyes bright with the same lust you’ve been stomping down inside.

“Happy you’re here babygirl, been missin’ you.” His hand slides up until it’s pressed against your core. Your breath comes in pants, and you’re rendered silent.

“Been dreamin’ about havin’ you again. Been fightin’ the urge to sneak in and spread you out on that little bed, eat that pretty little cunt til you’re cryin for me to fuck you.”

He presses close, tilting your face up to press his lips against yours soft enough to tickle. “You been thinkin’ about me?” He presses another little kiss, and you pull away, terrified to see strangers staring at you disgusted.

No one is looking though, and he knows.

“Joel, stop, not here.” You’re frantic, heart racing, pussy leaking.

“Who am I?” he raises his eyebrows, expecting.

You close your eyes, letting out a sigh. “She’ll be back any minute.”

“Say it babygirl, say what I know you’re wantin’ to say. Who am I?” His hand lands on your thigh again.

It’s on the tip of your tongue and you hate that he’s right, you do want to say it. You want to scream it.

“...Daddy.” It’s barely a whisper, but it feels so good.

“Little louder honey.” He slides up, pressing his fingers against your clit.

“Daddy, please–” You give in, and it comes out almost a moan. There’s that sense again, of falling into a trap you hadn’t seen him set but it’s secondary to the self-satisfied smile on his face, to the way your body primes itself for whatever he deems fit. Your thighs clamp around his hand, the restaurant falls away and all that matters is his warm breath ghosting across your face, his strength, the press of his fingers.

“That’s better.” He smiles, and moves away and it’s with an unspeakable relief that you see your mother round the corner again, eyes on her feet while you adjust and move further away. The guilt gnaws at you, but the other thing rages, paints her as an interruption for a moment before you reign it in. She smiles when she slides into her side of the booth.

“How ‘bout we get dessert? I could do with a little somethin’ sweet.” He smiles, and she agrees.

They chat idly on the drive back to the house. She mentions how the excitement has given her a headache, and he urges her to go rest. It’s terrifying, the change in him: his attitude with her, his obvious care and the juxtaposition to his behavior in the restaurant.

Needing a break from the tension he built inside you earlier, you grab a change of clothes and run for the shower, grateful for the temporary oasis.

You try to take your time, to focus on anything and everything except the overwhelming need to be fucked into your matress. A few, blissfully steam-filled minutes later you hear the bathroom door open.

“Mom?” You call out, but after a few silent moments you think you might have imagined it. Until the curtain opens and Joel steps in as naked as the day he was born.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You let out a terrified whisper and your first instinct is to cover yourself.

“Calm down, your mama’s sleepin’. She was feelin’ drained' from work and everythin’ so she took an ambien.” He steps towards you, forcing you to take a step back. “This water’s fit to burn my skin off.” He hisses but doesn’t adjust the temperature.

He steps under the spray while you tuck yourself against the corner, shaking from the chilly tile pressing against your back. Your arm is pressed to your front covering your breasts, and the other is cupping your pussy, hiding your bits from his gaze. In contrast, he’s unbothered by his nakedness. His cock is soft, his arms are strong, his middle a little soft, but his beauty is undeniable. This is a man’s body, and you take it in with increasing want.

Your eyes betray you, your body betrays you, everything inside you seems to scream betrayal when he’s alone with you like this. He tilts his face up into the hot spray. He’s so fucking handsome, so virile, so hung. You kick yourself as you stare at his cock, already knowing that you’re going to give in to him, despite your mother being asleep just down the hall.

“Come on babygirl, get under the water with me.” He reaches forward, taking your hand and pulling you towards him. You let him, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage at the feel of him pressing you close to him. The water cascades over you both, steam billowing out and his hands travel the expanse of your back. They slide over your shoulders, reaching down to cup your backside. He pulls you closer, pressing his mouth to yours and you can’t help but moan.

He smiles, moving his kisses to your neck, your shoulders and that thing inside you wins yet again. Your hands press against his chest, they move over the muscles of his arms that you cannot help but stare at, they caress his back and up to curl through the hair at the base of his neck.

You pull his face to yours for a deeper kiss, the kiss you’ve been craving since he left you wet and trembling in your bed. He groans when your tongue licks into his mouth and then it changes. From an almost sweet exploration, to a desperate need to consume one another. His cock hardens against your belly and your cunt aches at the feel of it.

“Give it to me, I want it.” Someone who cannot be you begs him, clutching at his hair when he licks at your neck, his hands palming at your breasts as your back hits the tile again.

“What do you want, baby?” He lifts your thigh, wrapping it around his hip as he slots his cock at the seam of your cunt. He doesn’t press, just glides it between your legs, never notching the blunt tip of it at your entrance like you hope he will. The head of it nudges at your clit and he rocks it against you, teasing you into madness.

You know what he wants, you want it too. As hard as he is, as desperate as you know he is to slip inside, he has all the patience in the world.

He knows this. He also knows that you are much more desperate than him.

“I want your cock daddy, please, I need it.” You all but moan, some, pathetic, half-human thing burning with a fever, begging to be fucked like a whore. Begging him. The one person you shouldn’t beg this from.

“Such a good girl, such a quick learner.” He finally grasps himself in hand, making sure you watch him as he angles himself and slides home in one smooth, brutal stroke. The moan you let out is a loud, filthy thing.

“Shh, can’t have you makin’ all that noise honey,” He slips his forearm under your calf to open you up wide, his other hand coming up to wrap around your throat. He snaps his hips hard enough to make everything bounce and you cannot imagine ever being this fucking turned on, this hot for another person.

“Or maybe you do, maybe you want your mama to come in here, see how well her babygirl takes her daddys cock.”

You close your eyes at that, it’s too filthy, it’s too depraved but your cunt still drools out its passion for him.

“You get so wet when I tell you how well you take it, even here I can feel her soakin’ me.” He stares at the juncture of your thighs- watches himself spearing you with his cock. Your eyes are half-glazed, admiring the way his neck strains, the definition in his arms, the way his mouth hangs open. His skin red from exertion and the heat of the water.

He’s right, something inside feeds off his praise no matter how fucking wrong it is, you need it.

“Yes daddy, I like it.” You confess, already damned anyway.

“I know baby, I know.” He lets go of your throat and holds onto your ass before sticking his tongue down your throat. You whimper into his mouth, holding onto his neck for dear life while inching closer and closer to the orgasm building in your hips, in the base of your spine.

“Wanna feel her now, come all over me honey-“ he begs in your ear, his hips stuttering slightly and a madness overtakes you as you shove your fingers into his mouth and slip them down over your clit. He moans, pressing his palm into the hinge of your knee, somehow opening you up even more and then it’s there, in your fingers, in your limbs and in your very soul.

“Yes, that’s it baby, yes-“ he turns his thrusts into a grinding roll, and it’s with a horrified glee that you feel him paint your insides in his come. Your eyes glued to the place you’re joined, a curious thought springs up unbidden: nothing in the world could pull you away from him at that moment, with his cock inside and his hands on your body. That realization should scare you but it doesn’t. Would your mom bursting through the door make you come to your senses? Do you really want to know the answer to that question?

“Daddy… I can feel it really deep.” You say the words in what feels like a drunken stupor and he lets out a punched out groan, pulling out to watch as he drips out of the place you now know he fucking owns.

“That’s where it belongs, honey. Nice and deep.” He lowers your leg, but pulls you close and tucks you under his chin.

“Daddy loves you, you know that right? I’m so proud of you baby.”

You’re exhausted, but the guilt doesn’t come as quickly as the first time. It’s hard for it to make it through the comfort of the hot water, the cocoon of his arms, the steady reassuring thump of his heart under your cheek. The soft press of his lips to your forehead.

He stays. He washes your hair, cleans his come from between your legs and the fatherly lines of him blur even more.

It’s wrong. You know it. It’s obviously so fucking wrong. But it feels so right, it feels good, it feels safe for him to shield your eyes from the suds, for him to massage the knots out of your back, for him to kiss you soft, for his fingers to pluck at your soapy nipples.

When you’re done and in bed, you fall asleep, and dream of a steamy bathroom and soft, chapped lips at your temple.

–

The next morning finds you well-rested. That might actually bother you more than it should, comparatively speaking. That he would be the person to fuck you well enough to give you a good nights sleep seems like some cosmically cruel joke. Memories of your mother sleeping in on Saturdays after a night out with him make you groan into your pillow.

Any acceptance, any complicity was far and foreign in the unforgiving light of day. All of the comfort you’d felt in the tail-end of that unholy shower now angered you. It was manipulation, it was coercion, how could you do that? Let him in, in all of the different ways he’d managed to push inside you in the time since you’d been home, past your protective walls and quite literally between your fucking legs. It had to be something he’d done to make you crazy. A temporary insanity, surely,

You let out a huff, noting but almost unseeing the dust motes dancing in shafts of light coming in through the window. The guilt was heavy and hot in your belly, and not only because of the betrayal but because you knew, deep in your soul, that you would not–could not deny him. That was a fact.

The pillow at your side found itself pressed to your face to cover the groan of frustration at the cringy realization that you were just another woman with daddy issues.

Hours you laid there, torturing yourself with so many flavors of guilt.

Guilt at indulging, guilt at craving, guilt at knowing that you’d most likely doing it again, guilt at tentatively imagining other places you wanted him to fuck you. Guilt at the look of devotion on your mother’s face when he smiled at her. Guilt at the dark, cruel little thing that rejoiced at him wanting you so bad.

They were both sitting at the kitchen table when you finally came downstairs. Your stomach dropped at the sight of him sitting there, in his usual place with the paper in his hands. His face gave nothing away when he looked up at you, a talent he shouldn’t have.

“Good morning, sleep okay?” Your mom smiled, moving to the sink.

“Yeah, slept great.” You smile back and you almost feel Joel’s chest puff out. You ignore him.

“That’s good, why don’t you come do groceries with me? I’m going to do a big trip so you guys aren’t starving while I’m gone next week.”

She misses your frown as she empties the dishwasher. Something big wraps itself around you, something foreboding, something inescapable. His paper flicks almost imperceptibly in the corner of your eye and still, you ignore it.

“What do you mean?” You question her, but it’s almost prophetic, because you already know.

“I thought I’d told you, I have a work trip. A conference, because of the promotion. I’m leaving on Monday morning, and I’ll be gone until Thursday. I wanted to leave the fridge full so the two of you don’t have to worry. Want to come?”

She’s still focused on putting away the dishes when you finally meet his eye. Your stomach rolls at the wink he flashes you. You can feel his thoughts like a sunburn, skin tight with the burn of it, at the promise of all of the things you already know he’ll make you do.

The things you know, deep down, you’ll beg him for.

Fuck.

#joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel x y/n #joel x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #tw stepdad #daddy joel #daddy k!nk

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highprettybabyy · 1 month ago

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Seeing Red

Part 17: The Aftermath

jenna ortega x fem!reader apocalypse au

summary: y/n comes home

warnings: 18+! enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore, angst, some fluff, alcohol consumption, insane man, stabbing, animal abuse and cruelty, murder and attempted murder, neglecting personal health

AN: ANGELO IS OKAY- also is it confusing if i switch between perspectives? POV's?

word count: 2.3k

Part 16

Y/N walked with a slow, tired rhythm down the gravel path leading to the villa’s back gate, the midday sun casting dappled light through the trees overhead. The heavy cooler thudded gently against her thigh with each step, sloshing with lake water and the weight of fresh fish inside. A satisfied ache settled into her arms from the long walk back from the cabin, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Just grounding.

She passed through the garden, brushing past overgrown lavender and tomato vines. It was quiet - peaceful, but eerily so. No sound of Jenna’s humming from the kitchen, no bark from Angelo as she approached. Her brow furrowed slightly.

The gate creaked shut behind her, the latch catching as she reached the back porch. That’s when she saw it.

A long, red-orange streak smeared across the metal handle of the sliding door. Not rust. Not paint.

Blood.

She froze. Her breath caught in her throat as she slowly placed the cooler down on the porch, fingers instinctively reaching toward the machete strapped to her hip.

She slid the door open with her shoulder, one hand gripping the hilt tightly.

The air inside the villa felt… wrong.

Too still.

Too quiet.

She stepped in.

The living room was a wreck. Cushions ripped from the sofa. A vase shattered, flowers crushed underfoot. Blood - bright, fresh - streaked the floor. A trail led through the hallway. The pantry was ransacked. Drawers emptied.

He’d destroyed everything.

Her throat closed.

Her chest seized. “Jenna,” she breathed.

She bolted for the stairs, boots slipping once on the slick red smear left in her wake. “Please be alive. Please-” Her voice cracked into the empty stairwell. The house was deathly silent, save for the distant whine of wind brushing against the windows.

Halfway up, she saw the blood trail - faint at first, then thickening with every step. Smeared across the wall. A streak near the railing. A drip at the top stair.

Her stomach turned.

She followed it. Past the guest room. The hallway bathroom. Then - to the furthest door. The one near the back. It was locked.

“Jenna?” she choked, pounding her fist against the wood. “Jenna, open the door- Please Jen-“

Angelo barked.

Her shoulder slammed into the wood once-twice-three times until the lock splintered and the door crashed open. The sight made her legs nearly give.

Jenna lay slumped on the tiled floor, pale as snow. Blood soaked her jeans, her shirt, streaked the side of her face. Angelo was curled tightly against her, his thick fur matted with streaks of red and orange.

Y/N dropped to her knees, the machete clattering to the floor. “Oh God. Jenna-” Her hands shook as she brushed her fingers over Jenna’s throat, searching.

A pulse. Weak- but there. A fragile, stuttering rhythm barely holding on.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” she whispered, hoisting Jenna into her arms with strength that came from somewhere she didn’t understand.

She carried Jenna to their bedroom. She needed light. She needed supplies.

Carefully, she laid Jenna down. Her head lolled to the side, lips parted slightly, chest rising in slow, shallow movements. Y/N’s vision blurred with tears.

“You’re okay. I’m here.”

She ran to the bathroom - grabbed the first aid kit, clean towels, everything she could find. Her hands were already soaked in blood as she knelt beside Jenna and began cutting away the shredded clothes.

A stab to the shoulder. Another to the thigh. A gash along her ribs. A superficial cut on her cheek. Deep bruising along her jaw. Scrapes along her back.

“Fuck. Fuck, Jenna,” Y/N whispered, pressing a towel to the thigh wound to staunch the bleeding.

Her brain was spiralling, but her body moved on autopilot.

She cleaned the wounds. Used the numbing gel, even if Jenna couldn’t feel it. Glued and stitched what she could. Her fingers worked fast but steady. Her own breath ragged, sobs catching at the edges of her throat.

And then - she saw the transfusion kit. Buried at the bottom of the emergency supplies bag. She grabbed it with trembling fingers.

Jenna had lost too much blood.

She looked like a ghost.

And Y/N remembered - second year anatomy. That dumb group project where blood types came up. Y/N had made some joke about being a universal donor. Jenna had snorted and teased, “Cool. So I can suck the life out of you if I ever need to.”

Y/N wanted to laugh. She nearly did. But it caught in her throat like broken glass.

She tested their blood types just to be sure. She was right.

She prepped the transfusion, frustratingly poking into her own vein after two failed attempts because it simply wasn't going quick enough. Her arm throbbed. Her vision dipped - but she focused. For Jenna.

The needle slid into Jenna’s arm on the first try.

Y/N watched her blood snake through the clear line, watched it enter Jenna’s body. She felt her own strength fading with every drop - but she stayed upright. She had to.

She gave more than she should have. Her body screamed to stop. Her head spun. She kept going.

Then - she sealed Jenna’s line. Pressed a unicorn plaster over the needle wound and exhaled. Her lungs ached. Her skin felt cold. But Jenna’s colour - she swore - looked better already.

“Stay with me,” she whispered. “I’m not doing this without you.”

She forced herself to her feet, stumbling. The world tilted. She caught the wall. Took a breath. Another. Then turned to Angelo.

He whined, licking her bloodied fingers.

She collapsed beside him. “Thank you,” she whispered, petting his head as tears finally spilled. “Thank you for saving her.” Her voice cracked and soon she was wailing, fingers threading into his fur and crying like she never has before. Her fingers touched something wet.

"Angelo, baby, no- I" She leaned back on her heels. Her chest felt so tight she had trouble breathing. She only seemed to realise the cut above his eyebrow, the patch of blood in his fur that didn't look like the other stained areas.

She grabbed the same scissors that she used to cut off Jenna's clothes to cut away at some of the fur on Angelo's side, revealing a second knife wound, luckily not that deep.

"Okay baby, this might sting a little-" Y/N said as she went through some of the same motions. Numbing gel, disinfecting wounds, gluing them shut, bandages. Angelo was not a fan of the disinfecting step.

His eyes closed, a soft huff of breath escaping him as Y/N finished up.

She stood again, looking around like she was possessed. The blood. The wreckage. The living room.

“She can’t wake up to this,” Y/N muttered.

She couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t.

Not until everything he touched was gone.

Y/N stumbled from the bedroom, still light-headed, but fuelled by a strange and savage clarity.

Jenna couldn’t see this.

Couldn’t wake to this.

Y/N moved automatically.

The shattered vase - swept. The dried blood on the stairs - scrubbed until the wood glowed. She scoured the kitchen, bleached the tiles, changed the sheets on the beds.

Every surface that bore his presence was erased.

Scrubbed. Cleansed. Bleached clean.

The sky began to pale outside, brushing the world with early hints of grey.

She didn’t stop.

Not until everything was gone.

It was morning by the time she stood again in the living room, her legs shaking beneath her.

Her hands throbbed, raw and blistered. Her back screamed.

The villa looked… clean.

Like it hadn’t been a crime scene only hours ago.

Like it hadn’t just become a war zone.

Jenna. Jenna.

Y/N turned, heart clenching, and crossed the room to the couch where she’d carefully tucked Jenna beneath four thick blankets. Her face didn't look grey. Not anymore. Good. Her chest moved - steady, rhythmic. Her hair, matted with dried blood, framed her face like shadowy ink strokes on fragile parchment.

She doesn’t remember carrying Jenna downstairs.

Y/N touched her gently - fingers barely brushing Jenna’s cheek.

Still warm.

Still here.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, her shoulders sagging.

She collapsed onto the ottoman beside the couch, her body finally caving in on itself.

She didn’t remember shutting her eyes.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

But her head slumped forward, and for the first time in nearly thirty-six hours, everything went dark.

You woke with a gasp that tore through your chest like a blade.

Sweat clung to your skin, cold and clammy, and the dim light from the windows bled slowly into the living room like an apology. You didn’t even know what time it was - somewhere around 5:30 in the morning, maybe - but it didn’t matter. Time had stopped meaning anything the moment you’d walked into your home and found hell.

Jenna was still breathing beside you. That was the only thing anchoring you.

She lay still beneath the mound of blankets you’d tucked around her, her chest rising faintly, evenly. You didn’t know when she’d adjusted them - maybe during the night - but the way they clung tighter around her shoulders made your chest ache. She must’ve been cold. You’d slept through the night. You hadn’t put water within reach. You hadn’t left her painkillers. What kind of partn- what kind of person- does that?

You pushed yourself up slowly, every muscle in your body stiff, heavy, hollow. You ignored it. You had no right to feel pain. Not after what you’d done.

Because it was your fault. All of it.

You’d found the radio. You’d heard the SOS. You were the one who’d insisted. You’d said “he was my friend.” You’d said, “we have to help him.” You brought him home. You opened the fucking door.

And Jenna almost died because of you.

You stared at her face, pale and bruised, wrapped in gauze and soft candlelight. Her lips were cracked. A spot of dried blood still clung stubbornly to the edge of her cheek. You wanted to scrub it off. You wanted to rewind time. You wanted to disappear.

Instead, you stood up.

You moved on autopilot - your body not your own - as you stepped barefoot to the cooler on the porch where you’d left your fish and flowers. You’d meant to surprise her. You’d meant to ask her to be your girlfriend. You'd picked the bouquet with steady hands and smiling thoughts, like any of this was still normal, like you deserved to be happy.

You lifted the lid, and the stench hit you like a punch to the face -rotting meat, slimy and putrid, flowers melted into a brown, sludgy paste. You gagged, breath caught in your throat, but you didn’t throw up. You carried it down the garden steps, out to the compost pile you’d carefully maintained for weeks. And dumped the contents in.

The bouquet landed with a wet slap against the dirt.

The smell lingered in your nose.

You stared at the mess until your vision swam, then turned away. It was a bright morning. Clear. Birds chirped from the trees like they didn’t know how close you’d come to losing everything. Like they didn’t care.

You went inside, and you started doing everything.

There was no ceremony to it, no great decision. Just your body in motion. One task after the other. You refilled water bottles. You boiled kettles. You set up a tarp on the roof to collect rainfall. You moved gallon jugs of purified water into the pantry. You laid out a clean outfit for Jenna in case she woke up and wanted to change. You cleaned every inch of the bathroom. You fixed the old water heater using a patch kit and half a spool of electrical tape, praying it wouldn’t explode the first time you tested it.

And then you moved to the pantry - or what's left of it

You pulled everything out and lined it across the floor. Took stock. Wrote lists. What you had, what you needed, you didn't want to think about what Cam had taken. You counted every can and packet of rice and bean. You rearranged the shelves so that the emergency rations were easy to reach. .

It wasn’t enough - you would need to go out soon. Very soon.

So you went outside.

Rain had started to fall, soft and persistent, and you welcomed it. You were soaked within minutes but didn’t care. You dug through the shed and found a few seed packets - some still legible, some too faded to read. Cucumber. Corn. Squash. Maybe green beans? Something else? You didn’t care.

You dropped to your knees in the garden beds and dug your fingers into the wet earth.

The tears started there. Quiet, silent things that slipped out of you as you pressed seeds into the ground. It wasn’t sobbing. It was quieter than that. Just a dull ache that dragged itself out of your chest, breath by breath. You whispered to the dirt like it would answer you. Asked the sky to forgive you.

Planted your sorrow into rows of food you hoped would grow.

You weren’t crying anymore by the time you stood. You were empty.

And then you heard it.

A bark.

Short and loud, followed by another - sharper, more urgent.

Your heart seized.

You turned and saw Angelo sprinting toward the back door - ears up, tail wagging, the first smile on his face since the attack.

You dropped your tools and ran barefoot across the yard, mud splashing your ankles as you stripped off your rain-soaked jacket at the door. Angelo darted inside, whining urgently, tail thudding against the wall.

And you followed him.

Through the kitchen.

To the living room.

Where Jenna stirred beneath the blankets - her eyes cracked open, confused, dazed, half-conscious - but awake.

You fell to your knees beside her.

“Jenna,” you whispered, voice breaking on her name.

But this time, you didn’t cry.

You breathed. Because for the first time in two days, it felt like you could.

--//--

AN: i'm sorry to say that it will take longer for the next chapter to be out- the frequency of posting once a day or every few days like i did in the beginning just isn't realistic for me anymore and i'm sorry if that's become the standard. it's a very stressful period for me and i would like to focus on my animals for a while.

i'm thinking about taking a break for about a week.

again - very sorry.

#jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega fanfic #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #lesbian fanfiction #wlw fanfiction #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #hpb.fanfics #hpb.jenna #hpb.seeingred

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snoopylover69699 · 18 days ago

Text

ashes of silence

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊

rick grimes pov x fem! reader

summary: After losing everything, Rick Grimes is a ghost in the ruins of Alexandria until, you a survivor through everything helps him find his purpose again. As they rebuild a broken home, a quiet bond forms, through hate filled glances and bouts of silence. Rick learns that even in grief, life can begin with you again.

cw: LEGAL age gap, possessive rick, damaged rick, eventual smut, reader in 20s rick in late 30s, reader is mean at first

3k work count

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊

The gates of Alexandria creak in the wind, half torn from their hinges, one sagging like a broken limb. Ash coats the road in a gray film, and the smell of burnt wood lingers beneath the breeze. What once was a sanctuary is now a ghost town, and in it walks a ghost.

Rick Grimes.

You watch him as he moves like he’s still bleeding, like somewhere under the dirt and beard and silence, something inside him won’t stop hemorrhaging. He doesn’t speak anymore. Doesn’t eat much either. Mostly he sits on the porch of a half-collapsed house, in the shade of trees that once lined safe streets. Just breathing, if you can call it that.

You know that he’s lost everyone. Judith. Carl. Michonne, gone on some hope-chasing expedition before the world caved in for good. The others scattered or dead. The last time you saw Rick hold a gun, he didn’t shoot anything. Just stared at it long enough that even the weapon looked away.

You approached him like that, a few days ago. Skinny, sunburnt, eyes glassed over. You were hunting rabbits when you saw him kneeling by a gutter, staring into the water like it might answer back.

At first, you didn’t say a word. Just dropped a bottle of water beside him and walked away.

The next morning, he was still sitting in the same spot, and the bottle was empty.

Now, he follows you sometimes not close enough to call it company, just a few paces behind. Like a dog that doesn’t know if it wants to be fed or put down. You don’t talk. Neither does he. The silence between you two is thick enough to carve a hole in. You hate it. You hate him, maybe. Hate how broken he is, how small he’s become because we all know how powerful he was.

But you also know how familiar grief like that.

It comes in waves, and Rick? He’s drowning and your just passively watching.

⸻

You don’t ask him to help rebuild. Not at first.

You start with the simple things. Boarding up windows. Clearing rubble. Fixing the fences even though no one’s around anymore. It’s less about safety and more about sanity.

One day you leave a hammer by the pile of splintered wood you’re working on. Don’t say anything, just leave it there. When you come back an hour later, Rick’s using it, like the silence between you has shifted just enough to let movement in.

He works slow, methodical. You watch from the corner of your eye, he’s as striking to your senses now, then when you first laid your eyes on him. He still doesn’t speak, but now he works. That’s something.

The first time you really talk, it’s because he fucks up.

You’re both repairing the remnants of a gate, and he drops a beam on your foot. You hiss, curse, shove him hard enough that he stumbles.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” you snap.

Rick doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at you.

“I’m not your damn babysitter,” you add, breath harsh. “If you’re gonna be a ghost, go haunt somewhere else.”

He doesn’t flinch, but something flickers in those dead eyes. A crack in the numb.

“Sorry, kid” he states. It’s barely audible. His voice is hoarse, like it forgot how to make sound.

You stare at him, that stupid name that slips his lips is infuriating. But It’s not the apology that gets you, it’s that he means it.

⸻

Days turn into weeks. The sky warms. Alexandria begins to look less like a tomb.

You find tomatoes growing wild in an old greenhouse. Rick builds a bench in front of the church that still has a roof. You think maybe he does it for Carl. Maybe for himself.

You still don’t talk much. But the silence changes. Less sharp. You start to hear other things in it footsteps on gravel, the scrape of tools, the wind moving through leaves. Sometimes, at night, you sit on the same porch. Not together, not close. Just near. He drinks from a bottle you bartered from some travelers weeks ago. You sit with a knife in your hand, whittling wood down to nothing, carving something that doesn’t need to be anything.

One night, he says your name. First time he’s said anything unprompted.

You don’t answer.

“I used to be a sheriff,” he says, as if you didn’t know.

Still, you don’t reply.

He drinks again. “Used to think keeping people alive was enough. Turns out, watching them die makes you wonder if it was worth it.”

You close your knife and put the wood aside. “They’d say it was.”

Rick laughs, bitter. “Maybe. But they’re gone, and I’m still here. That’s the worst part.”

You don’t say you understand. You don’t have to. He sees it in your eyes.

⸻

You start fighting more. Not walkers, each other.

It starts over little things. How to build the water collection system. Whether it’s worth the risk to go scavenging. You say he’s too careful. He says you’re too reckless. The fights get louder, harsher.

“You think this place is gonna be your redemption?” you spit at him one day. “It’s still ash, Rick. You’re still ash.” .His eyes burn into your soul as he fires back “You think I don’t know that?” ,eyes blazing across your cold face. “You think I asked to still be here?” You storm off.

Later that night, you find a bowl of rabbit stew by your door. Still warm. You don’t eat it. Not right away. But you don’t throw it out, either.

⸻

There’s a night when it all simmers over.

You’re fixing a pipe in one of the houses. He’s holding the light. You’re sweating, on your back, cursing under your breath.

“You’re not exactly helping,” you snap.

“You’re not exactly grateful,” he shoots back, eyes narrowing.

You sit up fast, wiping grime off your face. “I didn’t ask you to follow me in here.”

“I didn’t follow you,” he growls. “I’m the one who lived here doll.”

You get in his space, closer than you should. “Right, and how’s that been working out? You sitting on porches waiting to die while the world eats itself?”

His jaw tightens. He steps closer. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve known men like you.”

There’s something dangerous in the air now. Not violent. Charged. Hot. You could kiss him. You think he wants you to.

But instead, you shove past him, rough enough your shoulder clips his chest. “Keep holding the light, Grimes.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Bossy as hell.”

You smile, though he can’t see it.

⸻

The tension doesn’t break. It coils tighter, wraps around your ribs like wire. Every glance is heavy. Every silence, thick with words neither of you will say. You trade insults like matches on dry grass.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that and calling me that stupid name rick,” you say one night, “if it continues I’m gonna need to start charging you rent.”

He leans against the wall, arms folded. “You’re the one always pickin’ fights sweetheart.”

You tilt your head. “Fights keep things interesting.”

He steps forward, slow and sure. “You wanna fight, or you wanna feel somethin’?”

You stop breathing.

But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t move closer. Just looks. Then walks away. you’re left burning.

⸻

You dream about him.

Not tender dreams. Tense ones. Teeth and hands and breathless words.

You wake up angry.

The next morning, he’s already fixing a fence. You walk up, toss a hammer at his feet. “Sleep well?” you ask, tone light but sharp.

He doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t sleep.” You bend down beside him, too close again.

“I could help with that.” He finally meets your eyes. His voice is low. “You want me to?”You hate the way your heart jumps. You don’t answer. Just take the hammer and start working.

⸻

The first time it happens, it’s a fight. Of course it is.

You say something that cuts too deep. He says something cruel in return. You both throw words like blades. Until suddenly, the words are gone and his mouth is on yours and your fingers are in his shirt and you’re slamming him against a wall like you might tear him apart.

He tastes like anger and regret. His hands are rough, desperate clawing at your clothes.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s not healing.

But it’s real. And for two people half-drowned in their own wreckage, it’s enough.

you sit side by side on the floor, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you. “Shouldn’t’ve happened.” He states knowing he’s lying.

You say, “Yeah. Probably.” Neither of you moves.

Later, as you leave, he says your name softly. Not like a question like a warning.

You pretend not to hear it.

Your footsteps are loud when you cross the room, loud in the way a heart can pound right through your chest. You stop in front of him, so close you can feel the heat rolling off his body, the tight coil of energy he’s trying to choke down. His gaze drags down your face, then your mouth, and when it comes back up, his smug smile is there slow, infuriating, smug.

“You get off on pushing people to their limit, don’t you?” he says, voice low, rough as gravel.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Only because you bite back Rick.”

And then it’s done something breaks. Shatters. He grabs you by the collar and crashes his mouth into yours with all the restraint of a dam bursting. Your back hits the wall with a dull thud, his hand already tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight you’re sure he’s going to bruise it. You taste him anger, sweat, and something bitter underneath. He kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point. You kiss back like you’re trying to win.

Your hands are in his shirt, tugging it up, yanking it off without grace. You rake your nails down his chest, just to feel the way his muscles jump under the pressure. He grunts a sound between pleasure and approval and spins you around so he’s the one pressing into the wall, pulling you with him. He’s grinning now, almost laughing, like he’s enjoying this more than he should with someone of your age.

“You got a mouth on you sweetheart,” he mutters against your neck, biting at your skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch. “Bet it’s good for more than talkin’ shit.”

You shove him back, just far enough to drag your shirt off and throw it to the ground. He takes one look at you, and the smile vanishes replaced by something raw, something hungry. His hands are on your waist, then your thighs, and he’s lifting you like you don’t weigh a thing. You wrap your legs around him, breath caught in your throat, as he carries you across the room and drops you onto an old wooden table with a clatter.

He doesn’t ask. You don’t want him to.

His fingers fumble with your pants, rough and impatient. Yours do the same with his belt, and the way he looks at you head tilted, cocky smirk back in full force makes your stomach flip.

“Eager, huh?” he teases, breath warm on your skin.

“You’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me,” you growl, dragging him back in for another kiss. This one’s messier, wetter, all tongue and teeth. Your hips buck toward him without thinking. He groans into your mouth, low and deep, and pushes your pants down your legs with one hand while the other settles between your thighs.

“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re already soaked.”

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to tell him to keep talking. You settle for grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him even closer.

“Don’t tease.”

He chuckles,smug bastard but he listens. His fingers slide through you, slow at first, just enough to make you squirm. He watches you the whole time, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every breath, every curse that slips from your lips.

And then he slides two fingers inside you, and your head falls back with a soft gasp.

“Still got that attitude?” he mutters. “Thought I’d shut you up by now.”

You meet his gaze, eyes burning. Not able to say a word

That cocky smile flashes again, and a second later, he’s lining himself up, pulling your hips toward him, eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t ease in he thrusts, hard, deep, sudden. You gasp, biting your lip to keep from crying out too loud.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, gripping your hips, starting to move. “Tight little thing. Didn’t expect that.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

But you’re holding onto him like he’s the last thing keeping you grounded.

His rhythm is rough, relentless hips slamming into yours, the table creaking beneath you. His hands are everywhere gripping your ass, sliding up your spine, tugging your hair. His lips find your throat, biting, sucking bruises into your skin like he wants to leave proof.

Your moans mix with his grunts, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the room. He says your name once not soft, but desperate.

“You gonna come for me?” he growls, voice strained. “Or you still too damn stubborn?”

You glare at him, breathless. try to fire something back but the words catch in your throat. Your breath stutters, and you glance away for a second too long.

But you’re close. Too close. Each thrust pushes you higher, and when his thumb finds your clit, you bite down hard on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

You break first. Of course you do. Your body goes taut, thighs shaking, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave of heat and grief and something else you can’t name.

Rick follows seconds later, cursing low against your skin, hips jerking as he buries himself deep. His breath is hot against your ear, ragged and uneven.

For a moment, there’s nothing but panting. Sweat. The way your hearts hammer in sync, two fists against the same bruised chest.

He pulls out and leans back, running a hand through his hair and his grey stubble, still catching his breath. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“That what you needed?” he asks, tone low, teasing, that familiar cocky edge curling at the corners of his mouth.

You slide off the table slowly, still shaky. You pull your pants back up, grab your shirt. “It’s a start.”

Rick smirks and leans against the wall, arms crossed like he didn’t just fall apart in you five minutes ago. “Next time, maybe we skip the fightin’ and get straight to the part where you stop acting like you hate me.”

You move toward the door, pause with your hand on the frame. You don’t look back you don’t have to. The heat of him is still under your skin, the weight of his hands still ghosting along your thighs. You hear him shift behind you, slow and deliberate, like he knows you’re waiting for something and he’s going to take his time giving it to you. His voice comes quieter, but no less sharp. “Hey.” You don’t answer. Just stand there, pretending you’re not breathing him in with every shallow inhale. There’s a beat of silence. Then “Next time,” he drawls, that smug grin curling into his voice, “you gonna let me finish what I started, or you still gonna play hard to get, Sweetheart?” You blink. Just once. Of course he’d end it like that all cocky charm and the kind of nickname that sinks its teeth in and lingers long after the door’s closed. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You walk out, spine straight, blood still humming. But you take the name with you. Tuck it somewhere deep. And you know he knows you will.

Ps: this is my first fic please give me tips and if you liked it!

#the walking dead #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes #smut #foryou #rick x reader #i love dilfs #jeffery dean morgan #fine ass man #age difference #angst with a happy ending #angst #twd smut #p in v sex

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stellactrums · 3 months ago

Text

My Dear, Big Snowman ❄️ | AO3

Pairing: Zayne x MC Summary: Zayne's mastery over his ice Evol has many uses, from stopping bullets and holding enemies in place to cooling a room on a hot summer day. He can conjure a single snowflake or towering walls of ice if the situation requires it. One day, after pulling a splinter out of your thumb, he even soothed the pain with an icy kiss. So it comes as no surprise to you when he employs a similar technique in bed. Rating: Explicit 🔞 Words: 1,286 Tags: POV Second Person, Reader Insert, Unnamed Main Character, No Use of Y/N, AFAB Reader, Temperature Play, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Inappropriate Use of Evol, lots and lots of kissing bc I still think about Silent Poem daily okay, long live titty lover Zayne Li and his beautiful cold lips, PWP, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Established Relationship, no beta we die like grandma Notes: Originally posted to AO3 on Jan. 28, 2025. This fic was brought to you by Zayne's third chapter of Twilight Chronicles. I couldn't get the temperature play potential out of my mind. Originally, this was going to be a thread on bsky, but... I got a little carried away lol tale as old as time. Enjoy!

Zayne’s mastery over his ice Evol has many uses, from stopping bullets and holding enemies in place to cooling a room on a hot summer day. He can conjure a single snowflake or towering walls of ice if the situation requires it. One day, after he pulled a splinter out of your thumb, he even soothed the pain with an icy kiss.

So it comes as no surprise to you when he employs a similar technique in bed.

His lips across your collarbone are fleeting and sweet, trailing soft kisses lower and lower until he reaches your chest. Zayne pauses there for a moment, and his warm palms cup your breasts as he continues to make his way down.

A soft moan escapes you when Zayne draws your nipple into his mouth. You slip your fingers into his hair and hold him there, desire beginning to stir to life within you, and you can’t help but watch him. He’s beautiful like this, you think. His long lashes flutter when he closes his eyes, and a slight crease forms along his brow the more he concentrates. He always enjoys this part almost as much as you do, and you love to see that enjoyment reflected on his face.

The first kiss of ice against your skin when Zayne summons his Evol to his lips tears a gasp out of you, and your back arches off the bed at the contrasting sensations—warm breath and cold lips, a soothing caress followed by a firm grasp. It makes goosebumps graze the back of your arms and a shiver run down your spine and a bolt of pleasure shoot straight to your core.

Another moan catches in your throat when he suddenly draws back. Your hands fall away as Zayne lifts his head and meets your eyes.

Concern fills his gentle gaze. He gives you a brief once-over and brushes his thumb over your nipple, soothing your cold skin with his warm touch.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

A faint smile pulls at your mouth. You shake your head.

“Not at all,” you reply. You try—and fail—not to sound too eager. “Keep going.”

Zayne huffs out a laugh, and even in the low light of his bedroom, you can see the tips of his ears turn red. With a quiet hum, he lowers his mouth to your sternum and begins to kiss a new path downward.

“Someone’s enjoying herself,” he murmurs against you, and he punctuates the sentence with another kiss.

The muscles in your abdomen flutter beneath his lips. Each kiss is colder than the last, making your skin tingle, and as Zayne continues down your stomach, you simply can’t find it in you to come up with a retort.

Instead, you return your fingers to his hair and guide him down to where you want him most.

Zayne scoops his arms beneath you and drags you even closer, drawing another sharp breath out of you. You nearly jump when he presses a tentative kiss between your thighs, but he holds you down against the bed as you squirm, not letting you wriggle away that easily. He takes his time and lets you adjust to the coolness of his lips as he alternates between cold and colder—not cold enough to make you numb, but just on the delicate edge of being too much.

The pleasure tightens like a knot in your gut, and quickly, already threatening to snap from the anticipation alone. You writhe under him, rolling your hips upward, desperate for more—

“Relax,” Zayne says, firm but quiet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You’re ready to whine in protest, ready to beg, but he doesn’t even give you the chance, because those cold lips wrap around your clit before you can make even the smallest noise, and your mind screeches to a halt as Zayne goes in for the kill.

“Zayne!” You can hardly form thoughts, let alone words, but his name slides effortlessly off your tongue. “Zayne, please—”

He groans at the sound of it, and the gentle vibrations of his voice against your cunt are almost enough to bring you over the edge on principle. He breathes deeply through his nose, warm inhales and exhales that make you quiver.

With a sigh, you finally surrender, your eyes closing and your head falling back against the pillows. Your brows pinch together and your thighs go tense as Zayne ventures lower. He moves so that he’s kneeling at the foot of the bed, laying your legs over his shoulders so he can devour you in earnest.

The first swipe of his tongue over your clit sends you reeling, and fuck, even that’s cold—cold and wet like he’d just eaten a popsicle. A needy, pathetic little whimper spills past your lips when he does it again and again and again. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s nothing like what you expected to be, because it’s better, so much better than you could have ever imagined.

You tighten your grasp on his hair and pull, and he rewards you with another low grunt that makes your cunt clench around nothing. You lock your ankles behind his back to keep him exactly where you need him, and your rhythm falters as your hips gradually rise off the bed. And Zayne—God bless him—doesn’t let up, not for a single second, concentrating his Evol right on the tip of his tongue and licking into you at a practiced, steady pace like he has all the time in the world.

You’re shivering when you finally come, shuddering breaths and wavering moans filling the room. The chill of Zayne’s Evol spreads through your limbs, intertwined with the liquid, molten heat of desire simmering deep within you. Your release consumes you from the inside and out until your body just can’t take any more. Your thighs tremble with the effort of holding yourself up until you finally collapse back down against the mattress.

You bite your bottom lip around a euphoric grin as the aftershocks settle in, legs twitching, skin prickling. You feel giddy with pleasure—almost drunk on it. Your cheeks burn hot as the rest of you slowly warms up too.

When you look down, Zayne eases back and lifts his head. His lips glisten obscenely with your arousal, and the air condensates with each ragged exhale as he catches his breath. You can’t help but laugh at the sight of it.

Zayne smiles as he rejoins you on the bed. He settles over you, hips nestled in the cradle of your thighs. His body is a warm, comforting weight, as are his lips against yours once his Evol fully dissipates.

“Something funny?” he whispers.

“Mm,” you murmur, your answer muffled by another kiss. “Just thinking.”

He draws back, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Uh-oh.”

You playfully swat at Zayne’s arm, laughing again when it makes him laugh too. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you pull him back down toward you.

“I’m thinking,” you say, “you’ve been holding out on me all this time.”

“Have I?” Zayne closes the scant distance between you to kiss you yet again. “You liked it that much?”

There’s a genuine note of wonder in his voice. You nod, your smile reassuring.

“I did,” you reply, because a little verbal confirmation never hurts, either. “And now, I’m also thinking about whether or not that trick works… elsewhere.”

Zayne blinks a few times, but it’s not long before he catches on to your meaning. A soft smirk spreads across his lips, and then he’s lowering his mouth to your neck, dropping brief kisses along your throat that are warm—

But there’s an unmistakable coldness nudging between your thighs.

“Should we find out?”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #l&ds smut #zayne love and deepspace #zaynemc #zayne x mc #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne li #stellarfics

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side-shuffling-hyperfixations · 6 months ago

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Is it just me or do 2003 Leo and Raph have the best relationship out of all the iterations? It's my favorite, at least. Like they do get snappy with each other sometimes but their spats aren't nearly as often, as intense or festering as long as some others I've seen.

It was refreshing that Raph didn't challenge Leo's position as leader nearly as much. Sometimes he would challenge the decisions he made while leading but not undermine his position. He learned and mostly accepted that Leo would be a good leader in childhood and he backed him up nine times out of ten (even when Leo didn't know it: e.g. the "If Leo needs us, we're here. But let's see what this is all about." An instance of Raph pulling a Leo-type move, hanging back to recon rather than rushing in, while Leo's judgment was clouded. Learning from each other and supporting even from a distance)

How ready they are to be there for each other? How openly protective they are of each other? Like they're not as coy or begrudging or emotionally constipated as others about showing how much they care. Small gestures, big gestures, it doesn't matter. Leo's having trouble focusing on a plan because of the noise? Raph makes the noise go away. Wasn't Raph the first one who wanted to look for Leo when his morning training (getting ambushed by the Foot) ran unusually late? Or the scene where Leo's suddenly getting pulled away by an unknown magical force and he calls out to his brothers in alarm. Don cries, "Oh, no!" as he and Mikey stand there and watch; they freeze up. Raph dives headlong after him instantly.

And how they take it when they can't be there for each other? He dove headlong and he didn't actually make it in time to grab Leo's hand before he's gone. Master Splinter has to physically hold him back as he's still shouting and fighting to get to him (and then he has to be restrained again by magic when it looks like Leo's in danger in the 1v1 he was pulled to. Screw the fact that he's obviously outpowered by the almighty binding rules of the duel, he'll go kicking and screaming anyway, that's his bro!) And the scene where they're on top of a moving car, Leo loses his grip on Raph and he falls and from Leo's POV, time slows until he sees Raph land alright. Raph facing his fear ick about bugs, jumping down to defend Leo from the big boss bug with no hesitation when he sees him get stung? And of course when he cries just the once (as far as I recall) in the whole series when Leo's seriously hurt. How he makes me cry in SAINW as he crawls to Leo's side, reaches out for him, calls his name with his dying breath, his last word is his brother's name as he falls beside him, hand against his??? And that was after being estranged in that what-if future! LIKE BRO THAT SCENE MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM

Even just the two or three lines where Leo's waxing poetic about their family, being completely sincere, and Mikey bursts out laughing and teases him for being a sap. Raph immediately tells Mikey to lay off and that Leo's got a point.

They're just so good. They have a few arguments like all siblings do but there is zero doubt that they love each other to pieces and they don't hesitate at all to show it on the regular. And outside of that estrangement timeframe where they were traumatized and grieving and in a literal apocalypse where they lost all hope, they didn't let their relationship fall apart the way some other iterations did. (Like I love 2007 but that fight on the rooftop? Where Raph could have killed him? I watch it and I can't help but think to myself, "2003 Leo and Raph would never." We saw them have a tussle on a rooftop and the moment there was a possibility he put Raph in real danger, Leo came to his senses and dropped everything to make sure he was okay. I dunno)

Asfjskjfks this is all just biased four AM rambling. The point is I love them, your honor, best/closest/healthiest R&B dynamic duo forever in my heart <3 (Natural disclaimer: I don't say any of this to crap on any of the other iterations. I like them all! I just like 2003's portrayal the most)

#teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2003 #tmnt leonardo #tmnt raphael #agh my heart #my boysss #brotherly love #do not tag as ship #i wish i didn't have to specify that but y'know #r&b bros #sword and shield duo

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honeyandruin · 27 days ago

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Between the Shadows

Chapter Three: Blood, Then Silence

"It was never the blood that broke her. It was the silence after."

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: PTSD, emotional distrust, mild violence, trauma recovery, survivor’s guilt POV: Second person Status: Ongoing

"You didn't cry when it happened. Not once. But the silence afterwards—that's what stayed."

----

It’s been two days since you told Tommy you’d take the job.

He was elated—thanked you about ten times, and told you to take your time setting up.

Even though you could feel that he was hoping it’d be sooner rather than later.

You start with the cabinets.

The top ones first, where someone crammed mismatched jars of gauze and tape beside a cracked ceramic mug. You toss what’s expired. Keep what’s salvageable. Make a pile in the corner for anything that might still be useful—half-full bottles, torn gloves, unlabeled antibiotics.

The room smells like dust, antiseptic, and something faintly metallic that never quite left the tile.

You open the window to let the cold in. Fresh air cuts through the stillness.

It helps, just a little.

You’ve been seeing minor things—splinters, rashes, sprains, a boy who split his chin on ice, a man with a bad cough. Nothing urgent. Nothing dangerous. Just the kind of work you’d never let yourself imagine again.

It’s quiet. Routine. Peaceful.

And it terrifies you.

You don’t trust calm. Not when it lasts this long.

You’re halfway through writing a supply list when the clinic door slams open hard enough to rattle the hinges. The sound jolts straight down your spine.

You whip around—and freeze.

Ellie is standing in the doorway. She’s pale, wild-eyed, blood smeared across her sleeves and throat. She’s breathing too hard to speak at first, but her arms are full.

She’s dragging someone.

“He’s hurt,” she gasps, stumbling inside. “I didn’t—he—please, I didn’t know what to—”

You move. “Back here,” you say, your voice already steady, already shifting. “Now.”

You rush forward as she hauls the boy toward one of the padded tables. He’s older than her—maybe fifteen—but limp. His shirt’s soaked through with blood, dark and spreading. A jagged wound tears across his left side, just below the ribs.

Ellie helps you get him on the table. Her hands are shaking.

“It was a tripwire,” she stammers. “Out near the mill. He stepped on it. It—” her voice catches. “It was metal. Not infected. I swear. Just metal—”

You press your palm into the wound, hard.

He groans, barely.

“Is he bit?”

“No,” Ellie says. “No, I swear—”

“Then help me.” You grab her wrist, place her hand where yours was. “Hold pressure. Don’t stop unless I say so.”

She nods quickly, jaw clenched. Her fingers are trembling, but she presses down with everything she has.

You’re already ripping gloves from the tray, already opening gauze, grabbing the clamp, the suture kit.

The bleeding is bad. Not arterial, but deep. Long. Ugly.

You’ve seen worse. That doesn’t mean you’re not panicking under your skin.

You work fast, sharp. Clean the edges. Clamp what you can. Stitch in fast, uneven lines. You don’t talk. You don’t breathe.

Ellie stays still beside you. Blood soaks through her sleeves. She doesn’t ask questions. She just keeps her hand where you told her.

Eventually, the bleeding slows.

The boy is unconscious. His pulse is faint, but it’s there.

You sit back slowly, wiping your hands on your jeans, heart hammering.

He’s alive.

You look up—and find Ellie staring at him, shoulders shaking. There are tears on her cheeks she hasn’t noticed. They slide silently down her face, cutting clean through the blood.

You watch her for a moment.

Then you get up, cross to the sink, and start scrubbing your hands.

Neither of you says a word.

You’re still cleaning the blood off your hands when the door slams open—hard enough to shake the frame.

You turn quickly—your hand gripping the knife you keep strapped to you now.

It’s a man you’ve seen around Jackson, primarily with Tommy or Ellie. Broad shoulders. Heavy coat. Jaw locked tight beneath a scruff of salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes burn like he’s searching for someone to blame and already found them. There’s something dangerous about the way he moves—like every step is a threat he doesn’t need to say out loud.

Joel, you think is his name.

Joel storms in like he’s already halfway through a fight, eyes blazing and jaw set hard enough to crack teeth. He sees Ellie first—her bloodstained sleeves, the boy on the table, your hands still red.

“What the fuck, were you thinkin’?” He barks.

Ellie flinches. “I—”

“You left,” he growls. “Didn’t tell anyone. Not me. Not Maria. Not a single goddamn adult knew where you were.”

He takes another step into the room, fists clenched at his sides.

“And now he’s hurt,” he snaps, nodding toward the boy. “Bleedin’ out on a table. You think that’s somethin’ you just walk back from?”

Ellie opens her mouth to speak, but Joel cuts her off before she can.

“You don’t get to decide shit like that, Ellie. Not when people are countin’ on you to be smart.”

You stay near the table, checking the boy’s pulse. Stronger now. Stable. But Joel’s voice is rising, sharp and cutting, and Ellie’s shoulders are curling in like she’s shrinking beneath it.

“You don’t even know how bad it is,” Joel continues. “How the hell are we supposed to explain this to his parents? You didn’t think about that, huh? About what they’ll say when they see him with stitches down to his ribs and no clue how it happened?”

Ellie’s voice comes out small. “I didn’t think he’d get hurt—”

“You didn’t think,” Joel snaps. “That’s the whole fuckin’ problem.”

You lift your head, finally. “That’s enough,” you say.

Joel doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps his eyes locked on Ellie, who’s standing there like the wind’s been knocked clean out of her.

“You’re on thin fuckin’ ice,” he says. “You pull a stunt like this again, I don’t care what you think your reasons are—I’ll have you off patrol rotation so fast your head’ll spin. You hear me?”

Ellie’s voice is raw. “I was trying to help him—”

“This ain’t about help,” Joel growls. “It’s about responsibility. And whether or not you can be trusted with it.”

Silence stretches wide and stiff between them.

You turn back to the boy, adjust the bandage around his torso, and say nothing. Not because you don’t have things to say—but because they won’t hear it right now.

Joel looks at the boy one more time. Then back at Ellie. His voice is quieter when he says, “We’ll talk later.”

And then he leaves. Just like that. No thank you. No apology. To either of you.

Just boots across the floor and the door shutting behind him like a warning.

----

The clinic is quiet now with Joel gone.

The boy is alive, stable, breathing. The crisis has passed, but the tension hasn’t. It clings to the walls, to the floor, to the blood still drying on the tile.

You exhale, slow. Your hands tremble.

You’re about to tell Ellie to go—because she should, because it’s late, because you don’t want anyone else in the room right now—when you hear the soft scrape of a stool.

She’s already moving. Grabbing a bucket. Filling it with water from the sink.

You blink.

Then reach for the towels.

No words pass between you for a while. You scrub the counter where your gloves had landed, where blood pooled and smeared and settled in the grooves. Ellie wipes up the trail near the door, then moves to the wall. There’s a rhythm to it—back and forth, rinse and wring, breathe and hold.

Finally, she speaks. “Do you ever get used to it?”

Her voice is quiet. Not shy, but uncertain. Like she already knows the answer.

You glance at her. “The blood?” You ask.

She shrugs, eyes still fixed on the floor. “The panic. The way it hits your chest like it’s gonna break something.”

You don’t answer right away. You think about all the nights you woke up sweating. About the bodies you couldn’t save. About the ones you didn’t try to.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to,” you say finally.

Ellie huffs a breath that sounds a little too bitter to be a laugh. “Yeah. Joel’s definitely not.”

That makes your lips twitch. Just slightly. “Is he always like that?” you ask.

“No,” she mutters, then sighs. “He’s just scared. But he doesn’t say it. So he yells instead. Acts like a dick.”

You glance at her. She shrugs. “You get used to that, too.”

You nod once. “That part I believe.”

Another pause.

Then Ellie lowers her towel, sets it in the bucket, and leans against the wall. “That boy,” she says, quieter now. “He’s my friend. One of the only ones I got here.”

You watch her.

She doesn’t meet your eyes. Just stares down at the stained floor. “I didn’t think anything would happen,” she says. “I just wanted to show him something. A spot I found. Somewhere quiet.”

You know what that means. You know what it is to want quiet.

“He’s lucky you brought him here,” you say. “And you’re lucky he didn’t bleed out on the ride.”

Ellie winces.

You shake your head. “That’s not a scolding. It’s just the truth.”

She looks up at you, eyes red-rimmed, tired.

You hold her gaze.

And for the first time—you see it.

Not just the fear, but the grief behind it.

How much she’s holding in. How much she can’t say.

“I won’t tell Joel,” you add, “about the place.”

Ellie looks up at you. Her mouth presses into a thin line “Thanks.”

You go back to cleaning. She joins you. Neither of you speak again until the last stain is gone.

----

You lock up the clinic as the sun dips below the ridge. The streetlights glow with soft amber warmth. Chimney smoke curls into the air, carrying the scent of pine and something faintly sweet—bread, maybe.

Ellie walks beside you. She doesn’t ask if she can. She just falls in step, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched.

The silence feels less heavy now. Not comfortable, exactly—but shared.

Halfway to your house, Ellie clears her throat.

“He’s not always like that,” she says. You know who she means. “He just doesn’t know what to do with people he cares about,” she adds.

You don’t respond. But you understand.

When you reach your gate, she stops.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “For not letting him die.”

You glance at her, but she’s already turning away.

She walks down the path without looking back—until, just before she rounds the corner, she lifts one hand.

A small wave. More a gesture than anything else.

You watch the street long after she’s gone.

Then step inside and lock the door behind you.

#joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel tlou #the last of us fanfiction #between the shadows #the last of us #tlou fic #joel x ellie #ellie williams #joel miller

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astracora · 6 months ago

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Reckless Fool

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc

Warnings: Lots of hurt/some comfort.

Word Count: 970

Written: 29th December 2024

Notes: Pre-relationship Sylus/MC, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. I finally got out the lil brain thing that was like 'MC yells at Sylus'. There's so many memories involving this, one day we'll get a memory where MC is gentle with his wounds.

Masterlist

He’s reckless. That’s what you’ve settled on.

Throwing himself into danger. Getting himself injured.

He can’t die, so Sylus takes injury after injury. Covers you in battle, lets you shoot him, all in the name of that.

You know he can feel pain, he’s told you so.

You know that for some reason his evol just… stops. Not working, not healing, and those are the moments you fear your heart might stop.

When he’d been cursed by the cats, you’d worried that made him killable. On edge, angry at him when he followed you on a mission, his tail a stark reminder he didn’t have his powers.

It’s a stupid thing that finally breaks you.

He covers you when some kid on a bike is not paying attention. Pulling you into his arms. It’s stupid, if a gunshot to the heart didn’t kill the man. You doubt a kid on a bike would.

It doesn’t matter though, you feel the anger, the worry, the frustration settle in your gut.

He’s reckless, and you hate it.

You’re silent as you both walk home, he tries to talk to you, but you can’t respond with anything other than a word, or a grunt. It stews and it burns.

The feeling dregs up things you don’t want to think about. Fire and ash. Ice speared through skin. It hurts.

The moment you get through the apartment door, Sylus finally reaches out, hand clasping around your wrist as you keep walking, pulling you back. Whirling around to look at him. Whatever look you must have on your face, whatever he must see in your eyes causes his to widen. “Kitten?”

“Do you want to die?” You snarl, voice ice cold but trembling. His surprise gives you enough time to rip your hand from his grasp. Pulling away from him like his touch burns you.

You haven’t felt that since he held your throat in his grasp.

“I told you-”

The snarl is unbidden and unfamiliar, like you’ve grown fangs, become a beast with scales and horns. “You can’t die. You can’t die.” You reach up to push him, hands planted against his chest. Forcing him against the door. “So you’ve said. Like it changes anything. Like I feel any less horrific when I see you injured or bleeding.”

Sylus is a strong man, you’ve seen him fight and survive things that most would cower at. You’ve seen him lead and forge forwards. He has never been anything other than a pillar of strength, despite his words that the strong can’t always be strong. He has always tried to be, with and for you.

You feel sick to your stomach. Is this what you’ve done? Made him this reckless beast, in order to keep you safe?

You think about the injuries you’ve stitched up, the pain hissed through his teeth, the way he turned you away when he pulled bullets out of his flesh. ‘So you don’t have anymore nightmares of me.’

Like he knew intimately that the first time you lay awake thinking about his threat to your life.

It bubbles and it ripples, lava in your stomach, melting through you.

You pound a fist on his chest, as he stands there, hands wavering. Taking your expended frustrations. Salt on your cheeks as tears spill from your eyes, “Why don’t you care about yourself more?”

Pound.

“Why aren’t you more careful?”

Pound.

“Why don’t you stop throwing yourself into danger?”

Pound.

Skin under your fists as you hit, and hit, and hit. The pain burning through you.

It cracks and it splinters and you fall inwards and forwards, crumpling in on yourself. Sobbing, and breaking, and crumbling. He catches you as you fall, following you to the ground and pulling you up and into his lap as you shatter to pieces.

Pressing you against the chest you hit, holding you tightly, hands shaking against your skin.

“I can’t lose you too.” You rattle out, cracked and quiet. Mumbled into this skin, carried to him on tears.

He sighs against your hair, pressing a kiss against your head and when he speaks he sounds like he’s close to tears too, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shake your head against him, “You can’t promise that, no one can.”

“No, I can’t, but as long as I can, as long as there’s any life in me, I’ll crawl to you if I have to.”

You hiccup, and cling to him. Trying to fuse, to be one, “It’s not enough.”

Sylus nods, “It’s not.” He uses both hands to pull your face away from him, so that he can look right into your eyes. Deep red, filled with tears he can’t shed, but trembling and wavering like a weak flame, “It’s never enough, but I won’t go down easy Beloved.”

You think of the ash and fire, of things taken from you, of lost memories and broken promises. You think of all the ways the world has failed you. You think of every night when you can’t sleep. Thinking of things you wish you could forget. As thumbs stroke your cheek, and this man who wants to be strong for you breaks his back against the torrent, you reach for his. Tracing under his eye, leaning forwards to place a kiss there.

For a moment you feel a ghost of a tear on your lips, before the sensation disappears. “Not just you.” You manage to let out, “Both of us.”

His chuckle is relieved and broken all in one, and he closes his eyes at your touch, nodding against your hold. “Both of us. Together.”

As you hold each other, against the cold and against the ashes, you whisper your apologies in kisses against his chest. Everywhere you hit, to scatter the fear to the shadows.

#wonder writes #love and deepspace #sylus #reader x sylus #sylus x mc #lads x mc #lads x reader #sylus x reader #lads #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #this is messier than my writing normally is #so i apologise #you know i'm just realising i was writing with another headache...#man my health do be bad.#anyway #enjoy i guess SWEATS

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