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yeyinde · 4 months ago

Text

shadow monsters on wooden church walls

SIMON RILEY X READER

an escaped convict finds shelter inside an abandoned chapel in rural New Mexico. and with it, a very obliging woman on the run from her fiancé.

(well. obliging, asleep. is there really much of a difference?)

18+ | HEAVY NONCON. COCK WARMING. SOMNOPHILIA. PUSSY SLAPPING. NONCON CUM EATING. UNSAFE SEX/BREEDING. MARKING. SIZE DIFFERENCE. IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. WILD WEST AU. SEXISM/MISOGYNY. BASTARDIZED RELIGIOUS MYTHOLOGY.

He finds you asleep on a pew.

A gloved hand shoved under your temple. The other curled into a loose fist, knuckles resting against the bench seat. Your elbow tucks itself nicely into the slope of your waist, forearm balanced on your belly as you slumber, fully relaxed and utterly unaware of who—or what—stumbled upon you.

Too relaxed, maybe.

There's a softness to the spill of you that makes his teeth ache—melting candy. Spun sugar. Something that makes him want to burrow his jaws into the marshmallow sweetness sitting pretty for him like a little treat.

His belly grumbles. He can't remember the last time he ate.

And lucky for him, there's no artifice to the steady rise and fall of your lace-covered chest. The swell is a lulling rock that disturbs the dust gathered along the wood in a thick, dense blanket of moulder and disuse.

He tucks the pistol he snatched on the way here into the pocket of his stolen jacket, cocking his head to the side as he considers this unexpected discovery.

The church was meant to be empty. A sequestered haven for him to hide inside until the lawmen chasing him passed by further in the north. This diverging path known only to the man who shared his wisdom of it in the prison. Locatable only by staggered markers left behind by the pilgrims who were plundered of their goods and left to die in the sprawling, untenable wilds of New Mexico.

(It's always been man eat man in the dust.)

He's not sure how you found it. The state of your boots and the bottom of your dresses make him believe you'd been on the run for some time. Coincidence, maybe. Or—

You don't stir at all, even as his boots clunk against the loose, dusty floorboards as he prowls closer to your prone form. His breath drawing ragged from his broad chest. Heart dropping down to his empty belly where it pulses thunderously in his guts. The reverberation thrumming in his groin—

It's been a long time since he's seen a woman.

Even longer since he had one.

It never seemed like much of a necessity when he was younger. His life split between survival and hunger. Ripped from his ramshackle home in Manchester and squeezed into an overcrowded boat headed to America.

Land o' opportunity, his old man promised, but much like all of his predictions (and schemes), America had little forethought to spare on a poor family with nothing to their name. Opportunity—but only inasmuch as the wealth carried with you provided. And being poorer than dirt, it only made sense that New York had little to offer except rubble—more dirt. More soot staining his fingers, blackening his father's teeth.

He doesn't find it too surprising they were chased out west within a week. Trudging along the same dirt-covered road as everyone else in search of something to call home.

The only place willing to take them was an aptly named town called Tombstone. A place where both his dad and brother rest.

Incarcerated at eighteen for enacting revenge on their murderers, and now a full-bodied man of some thirty-odd years, it's a jarring, encompassing thing to see you sleeping like this. So vulnerable. So soft.

Maybe it's the fragility of these curled parts making up the cluttered framework of your body that appeals to some aspect of himself that longs to break small, soft things between his fists. Crush bone like paper. Shatter it into pieces like fine china. Brittle porcelain.

Whatever it is, it itches in his guts. Makes his hands grow slick, dampening with sweat. Blooms a vicious fever in his head. This unquenchable thirst clawing at the back of his throat is only sated by the spill of your soft, cottonlike body tucked into the pew.

It's—

Precious, he thinks, cock stirring, thickening in his borrowed pants. Sweet lil' thing, he coos, tongue scraping over his teeth. All curled up inside a church. Alone.

Waiting for him.

He isn't one for religious zealotry. It held no appeal even as the priests visited the prison, beseeching him to repent. The idea of god, gods, never held much interest to him, but he learned the Bible they carried with them, this sacred object of divine wisdom. A fairytale, not too dissimilar to Chaucer, he found.

But he can't deny there's something a little poetic about this. Something divine.

Almost as if that mighty, tempestuous god they preached about was smiling down on him. An offering not at all dissimilar to the riches he bestowed on the men who caught his eye.

And don't all those men face trials and tribulations before being given grace, too? Lands, and honour, and sanctified, but most of all—

Wives.

And a sweet one, too.

Folded up into yourself like a little bird who fell from the nest. Shivering on the cold, unfamiliar ground as it waits for its parents to come and bring it back. Unaware of the viper in the grass behind it. The hawk circling overhead.

Lucky for you, god thinks you'd fare quite nicely in his stomach instead.

And really—

You should know better, he thinks, hands dropping to the stolen buckle of his belt. Sleeping in a lonely building like this. Practically waiting for him to come along and take what he's owed, aren't you?

And who is he to pass up such a pretty little gift from God?

You come awake on a gasp.

Clawing against iron wrapped around you—tentacles, maybe; you were at sea seconds ago, lost to the whims of the ocean as something tried to pull you down, down—and choking on an inhale that gets stuck in the hollow of your throat, glueing to tissue. A bubble that won't pop. That you can't breathe around—

"Keep squirmin' like tha', birdie, an' I’ll be ready t’go again."

The voice, slinking slowly through the thick fog spooled densely over your mind, comes in a lazy drawl half-growled into your crown, warm breath tickling over your scalp. Unfamiliar, too. And much too close.

Pieces click in the back of your head. You remember running. Hiding in the church. Being moved. Dreaming of a turbulent sea that rocked you back and forth—

Seasick. But no—

This isn't the ocean. It isn't your fiancè.

The thing behind you is bigger, broader. Where you would have expected to meet solid muscle, you instead sink into a thick, warm pelt. One that's all heat. A raging fever. Burning against your back, under your thighs.

This laden heaviness in your limbs. Your belly—

A burn there, too. A pulsing, terrifying ache; this pressure you can't squirm away from, can't breathe around—

Panic pops the bubble stuck in your throat when it surges up your esophagus like a fist. The world slowly loses the haze, the thick cloud of confusion and sticky-eyed sleep clinging like molasses to your awareness, but what is left behind when the veil is ripped off is nothing short of abject horror.

There's a man behind you.

But that's only half-true.

In the sluggish grapple of your cognizance flailing around for solid ground in the heavy drape of hypnagogia, you shove your fingers into the degree of separation between sight and dream, curling against awareness, and—

You're cradled in his lap like a child. Spine liquid against his chest, legs pulled taut over impossibly thick thighs, knees bent at an angle that makes your hips twinge in discomfort. Pulled too far apart, and done so to make room.

Nausea claws up your throat when your bleary eyes drop down to the immodest, intrusive spread of your legs, feet dangling helplessly in the air, bouncing with some unfathomable motion. The position takes a second to unravel, to work out with the sleep-sticky tremble in your fingers. Mind still chasing the end of a dream even as the sudden spill of massive, bare thighs takes shape in the trembling ruins of your cognizance.

And God—

You wish it didn't.

With your skirts rucked up beneath your bared breasts, held in place with a big, heavily scarred forearm looped around your ribs, crushing your arms to your body, you can see the unmistakable rut of pale, mauled muscles flexing, tensing

And then suddenly, lifting.

“Told y’to stop squirmin', birdie—”

But you're not moving—

The pressure from before sharpens into a blistering ache as this—thing—inside of you grows. Stretches. Presses against tender, sore muscles as it snatches the last wisp of air from your heaving lungs.

There's a sting so deep, so wide, inside of you that you almost think you can see the soft curve of something moving against the skin of your belly. A trick of the mind, maybe.

Nightmare on solid ground.

You clamp down against the urge to scream when it shifts within you, pulling on soft, tight walls.

It hurts. Feels like you might be impaled on a dagger, maybe. A knife. A writhing mass devouring you from the inside out. But no—

You know what this—what it—is even if your brain refuses to acknowledge it. To let it take shape.

It keeps you cradled in the protective cup of its palms where the world is superlunary, your body incorporeal. Weightless.

But with every hiccup, each gasp, this nebulous sanctity congeals a little more into the brutal reality of what you've woken up to.

A man.

Unfamiliar. Unknown.

Rasping in your ear. His breath soured by the leftover communion wine you'd found tucked beneath the pulpit. Reeking of sweat and stale tobacco. Dust and dirt. Days on the road. Something wild. Primal. Animal, maybe. The musky scent of a horse, fur heated under the sun. Unwashed man. Masculine and potent. Dirty. Carrying the scent of loam, humus, with each harried breath he heaves against you.

But it's not just the smell of him. His hands, his skin, is covered in a hazy watercolour of grime from days without washing. From the sands of the barren, empty plains soaking into his skin, and smearing across scarred, torn tissue as he sweats in the heat.

Maybe it's his own internal fire causing him to burn so hot. Pyretic. An inferno against your back, under your thighs. So scorching, you wonder, dazedly, if it isn't the devil himself rutting into you below like a bullish beast.

With his feet tucked into big, dusty leather boots, you can't tell, but the sight of hooves emerging from them instead of pale, dirty skin wouldn't surprise you in the slightest.

Maybe it'll be easier to stomach if he was just that because what sort of man would do this to you in an abandoned house of worship.

A beast—

His arm tightens. With a grunt, he shifts, grinding you down into that ineluctable pressure, maneuvering you on his lap like some oversized doll, a child's toy. A plaything for him to amuse himself with. To use—

In the pit of your belly, something blooms. A vicious, untenable feeling of fragility. Weakness. You can't move an inch in his ferric grip. Can't breathe without his assent. You're little more than an object cradled in his hands. Utterly powerless in a way you haven't really felt at all—not even when the man you were supposed to marry curled his hand around your wrist and told you that he'd enjoy chopping your independence down into bite-sized pieces. Gorge himself on your helplessness.

This makes the frailty, that clawing, desperation feel like a boy's play at patriarchal ownership. Clumsy stumbling through the motions. A pantomime of sadistic cruelty. Revelry in power.

That was a loss of control.

This—

This is not.

In order to lose something you need to have had it in your grasp to begin with.

It was yours when you ran from the man, your fiance, when he clamped his hand around your wrist, eyes wild and feverish with delirium, and said he'd keep you forever. Life of imprisonment chained a man who scared you more than the gnarled scar on the side of his head.

And after, too. As you fled from the coach on a whim when it rattled over a small hill, tumbling down the embankment. Hiding in a small alcove, waiting for them to grow tired of searching for you.

Cradled when you found the church. A safe haven. A place to rest—

Only to wake up to a hand on your throat. A purr in your ear.

Hands empty.

Useless.

Curling into the messy spill of your skirts, clinging to the fabric until your joints ache from the strain, and your nails bite through cloth to sink into skin, because that's all you can do.

Clutch. Hold. Plead—

"Takin' me so well, ain't you, birdie?"

Even his voice sounds devilish. A robust, brassy rumble you've never heard from a man before. More akin to the growl of a tiger. Beastal and wrong. Drenched in a thick, unmistakable bliss as he seats himself deep inside of you like he's been bestowed the privilege. Allowed to claim what you denied even to your intended husband—

"P-please stop—"

Each steady pump of his hips fills your belly with more of that impossible, overfull feeling. The too-tight squeeze of you around something that wasn't ever meant to fit pulls at your flesh until it burns.

"Please—" your moan is a wretched, mournful thing, but it makes him grunt into your ear like a starved, taunted beast. The arm slung possessively around your ribs tightening into a painful squeeze that forces the air from your lungs in a huff.

The dizzying spill of hypoxia makes you almost thankful when it dulls the blunt, fat split of him bludgeoning into you in response. A sharp, full jerk that tears through you. Forcefully eking space where there is none left to give. Stretching, rearranging, until you can feel him in the very apex of your being.

But in that, a strange, horrifying trill brims, leaking from the pressure cracks of your bones. Spinal fluid dripping out. Thick, hot oil that steadily floods the mess between your thighs, eroding the bones, the muscles, in your pelvis until all that remains is an oozing, gooey pool he rocks into. Molten.

Sticky, wet sounds spill from the cradle between your thighs, each one burning through your chest until you choke, mortified. Blistering from shame.

It's difficult to catch your breath around the squeeze of his arm over your ribs, and the too-full stretch in your belly. Harder, too, to think. To make sense of the wall of solid, soft heat against your spine. The ache in your thighs as your legs are spread much too wide.

Everything below his arm feels like an open, pulsing wound—

But it changes when his hand, just as scarred, as ugly, as his thighs, the forearm clenched tight around your waist, slides down from its lazy perch on your neck, lowering to the gaping, throbbing wound between your thighs.

He curls it into a loose fist, scabbed, scarred knuckles sharpening into fattened peaks. His fingers bend inward, seeking.

It doesn't make sense until he touches you.

With your swollen folds spread over the thigh (impossibly thick; monstrously so—) girth of him, it opens you up to his wandering hand. He delves into the split seam of you, rubbing calloused, rough fingers over throbbing, stretched flesh.

And for a moment, it's just a tickle. Pressure on your puffy, outer lips, but then he leans back, shifting the angle of your pelvis until he can slide his dirty fingers up, up—

"Fuck, lil' bird. Gonna strangle my cock if you get any tighter—"

You're howling. Thrashing in his hold as the ache pulses, squeezing like a vice around the unfathomable, fattened mass bullying itself desperately inside of you. Rutting bluntly against something just behind your navel that makes you nauseous with each stroke. Every muscle in your body seizes as he grunts, ugly and vicious, into your ear and starts moving you against him, lifting and jerking your body into his lap, meeting his own thrusts.

“Must want it bad, eh, birdie? Listen to you—” his fingers slide through the mess between your thighs, and the sound that spills makes you think of the shores of Asphaltites. The splash of brimstone—slick, wet. Wanting. Am-heh lapping at the waters. “Fuckin’ gagin’ for it.”

You're not. No. You want to scream but the air is snuffed from your lungs. Sickness writhes in the back of your throat, clawing desperately at the walls of the esophageal prison it's locked inside. Inescapable. You can't let it out—

He wouldn't like that, you think, and it splinters in the back of your head. Separating into fragmentary pieces. Their sharp, obsidian edges, still slick with those broken, polluted whims—be good, it drips; be good and take it—press into soft tissue, cutting open gyri. Stuffing the wound—

And he's speaking, too. Groaning in your ear as he rocks into you. Bein’ so good f’me, ain't you? Takin’ my cock like this—

Good.

Against your will, you relax. Swallow down the sickness trapped in your throat. Good. The tension bleeds out of your muscles, and in the slippage, your softened thighs sink into his lap a little more, pushing him deeper than he was seconds ago.

It rips a whine from the back of your throat when that too tight, stinging feeling spins into something else. Still overfull, but—spreading. Evolving. Shifting as spills into the gaps, flooding, and filling, and—

Good. It's good.

The noises he makes change suddenly as your body eases, melting around him almost without thought, wholly against your will. Turns animalistic, feral, as you breathe into the heat swallowing you whole, chasing more of that overwhelming fullness, that hazy, ghosting pleasure that peppers delicate kisses over your nerves—gentling, distant; but growing closer with each shift—

“Tha’s it—” he snarls, shoving his face into your sweat-slicked nape. All teeth. The whitehot brush of a tongue. “Can feel your little cunt openin’ up f’me. Want more o’ my cock, birdie? Such a greedy thing, ain't you?”

The physical sting of jagged teeth scraping over your damp skin marries the burn scorching your chest in a brutally demeaning synchronicity.

It's intentional, of course.

You know what this mockery, this cruelty is, but they reave through the vestiges of propriety, unearthing your shame until it lays between those crooked teeth he keeps pressed into your skin.

The etchings of a smirk tickle along the knob of your spine when his mangled mouth pulls upward at your harried whimper.

“Bein’ such a good girl, ain't you?” He coos, digging those assailing fingers deeper into the soil of your mortification. “Takin’ my cock like this—” a groan trembles over his words, a clawing, helpless thing he can't seem to bite down on. “An’ in a ‘ouse o’ god, no less.”

His voice is airy. Thinner. Drenched in thick amusement as he cleaves into you with a growing desperation.

“Who knew I ‘ad such a sweet little cunt waitin’ for me?”

You want to refute his words, but he just squeezes your ribs before you can shape them on your tongue. Renting your protestations until they fall in a choked gasp, a mewl, at his feet.

“Been locked up a long time. Got a lot saved up f’you—”

This new dip in his abasement doesn't make sense until he shifts, shuffling forward on the pew. It brings your line of sight closer to the broken window on the wall to the right of the crooked pulpit. A candle burns on a worn, wooden stand beneath the shattered glass. In the flickering candlelight, and hazed against the unfathomable blackness of a moonless night in the desert, the image that forms in this swelling abyss is nothing short of horrifying.

As the contours render slowly—spilling like liquid ignominy in midnight satin—the hulking shape behind you begins to fill out.

The first thing you notice—

He's big. His broad chest nearly swallows you whole as he leans over you like a hellish beast readying itself to devour you alive.

But it's not just his size that trips your pulse into a painful sprint, but the sight of him.

He looks mauled. Decorated almost entirely in thickened scar tissue running in strange, jagged lines along his skin, coloured in swaths of soft pink and blotchy purple. Deep pocks. Slashes. The meat beneath the right side of his jaw, right beside his chin, is missing, leaving behind the indented slope of shiny pink tissue cratering deep down to bone.

The baleen lines scraped into his wound look like the flat press of teeth and you wonder if someone took a bite out of him.

He makes a strangled noise when you shudder, tensing at the cannibalistic nature of the wound—of the mosaic of brutality sliced into skin.

“Go’ so fuckin' tight, birdie—” in the window, the blurred image of this beast draws closer to you, mouthing along the slope of your neck with a ruined mouth. A mockery of a lover's kiss as he shifts you in his lap, rasping: gonna make me fuckin' cum if you keep squeezin’ me like tha’

It rips out another shiver that tickles along your spine, making you tense up again with a choked sob as the thickened press of his cock grinds against something inside of you that makes your vision swim and your ears ring—

Cutting through the pulsing roar in your ears is a thunderous groan from deep inside of his chest. It's a savage, terrifying thing that claws over the haze, ripping it to pieces between it can spool over your head.

Blinking through the tears in your eyes, you're met with a swell of cold, deadened fury.

“Fuckin’ hell—” he spits on a biting snarl, tendons in his neck bunching together. A vein pops out from beneath his skin, throbbing in a dark, blue line—

“Ain’t givin’ it to you good enough, huh, birdie?”

You don't know what you did. Can't untangle the sudden anger in his voice as it sunders that thread of his derisive subjugation, ushering in an unfathomable anger slashing over his brow.

With your arms trapped under his, you can't brace yourself when he pushes to the edge of the pew with a growl, and begins to shove himself inside of you with a terrifying speed.

It's too much. You can't breathe around the punishing pace he sets. Forcing himself into you over and over again. Taking you. Making you take him.

There's no escape. His hold is like iron around you. You can barely cling on as he moves you up and down his cock, forcing the fat, blunt head into your sore, tender walls at a bruising pace. Each rock jarring your body as he makes you swallow him down to the root—look'it tha', he coos, ugly and biting and mean, his hand dropping to press tight against your belly; the pressure making you feel sick: go' my whole cock in there now, birdie—

"Tha's it," he rasps, rubbing his mauled, torn muzzle over your shoulder. Jagged teeth catching skin. "Squeeze my cock, birdie. Fuck, go' such a tight lil' cunt, don't you? 'nough t'make a man go half insane, ain't it?" He tilts his head suddenly, blowing warm, humid breath over your cheek when he exhales on a mean, callous scoff.

"S'what you do, birdie? D'you offer this sweet pussy up t'anyone who passes by?"

His words are uglier than the moulting scars on his skin, and they sink deep inside your head when he presses his foul mouth up against your ear, groaning the words out between rasping pants. Tha' what y'do, birdie? Spread these pretty thighs t'anyone? Don't even know who I am and y'pantin' for it. Gaggin' for m'cock—

You flinch away from the sting of them, twisting in his hold to escape. To run—

But he just huffs mockingly in your ear, deriding you about how you're tightening up like a pretty fuckin' bow around his cock.

"Made for it, weren't you?" He taunts, words rolling between jagged, fangled teeth. Sharpened to a brutal, devastating point.

You shake your head as much as you can with his face tucked inside the curve of your throat, mewling feebly in denial because that's all you can do. Whine. Sob. Wailing like an animal as he pistons his hips into you, each jarring thrust accompanying a sting on the back of your thighs as his hard, unyielding flesh slaps into yours.

It's humiliating. Shameful. His finger presses into something that makes your belly knot. Muscles tightening. Spasming. Your leg kicks out against the back of the pew when he smothers his thumb over that place again, drawing tight circles that make your navel throb, pulsing as if your heart dropped down to the pit of your belly. Beating like a drum behind your mound.

It's agony. Terrifying, awful agony—

But it isn't. It's not. Not really.

Not when he drapes himself over your back, lowering his stubbled, unevenly textured chin to your shoulder, and shoves you forward. The angle gives him more room to pull out, and the emptiness that follows each retreat has you sobbing. Fingers clawing at the tangled mess of your skirts to cling to something as the ugly, awful feeling inside of you tips on its axis. Shifts.

It's wrong. So, so wrong—

You don't want this.

But he doesn't give you much of a choice except taking it. Letting it happen.

"But tha's not true anymore, is it, birdie?"

His arm tightens around you. Squaring against the ground as he spreads his thighs further apart, rutting into you with a fit of anger that steals the scant air from your lungs. Drills real, tangible fear into your head that he's going to break you if he doesn't slow down, doesn't stop—

"...'cause you're mine," he snarls, lips tucked against your ear so you can hear him over the awful noise made as he hammers into you, the sickeningly lewd squelch. The stinging slap of soft skin of firm muscle. "Ain't you, birdie? An' this cunt—" his fingers trail down, grazing over the skin of your rim stretched too tight around the thick of him. Pressing until it hurts. "Belongs to me now, don't it?"

He mocks your pained whimper with a patronising coo of his own, but mercifully, the pressure shifts away. The respite, however, is brief.

The arm locked around your ribs shifts as his fingers slide to the cradle of your mound, his thumb brushing over your tender, sensitive clit in slow circles. His other hand peels off of your forearm, reeling back slightly before shoving inside the loose gap of your unlaced dress, cupping your breast in a rough, scorching palm.

He squeezes it tight in his hand until you whine, squirming against the discordant sensations dragging over your nerves. The pleasure of his thumb doing something magic between your thighs and the bruising ache in your breast—

It shifts again when he moves his hand, dragging it back until your pebbled nipple is trapped under the broad trap of his thumb. Just pressing. Holding. The touch is daunting. Possessive.

You tense again. Waiting—

The pain doesn't come.

It's just—strange. Ticklish. He rubs his finger over your nipple in slow, ghosting swipes. Barely a whisper of a touch. A mere graze. And as you slowly acclimate to these soft, small circles, the pleasure grows, pulsing between your thighs.

Every pass of his fingers feels like it's strumming against some taut line that coils behind your navel, tightening. Growing—

And then it's gone. Dissipating into frustration with a mean huff spilling out against your nape, quickly reshaping itself into a low, mocking taunt when you thrash, mewling pitifully at the loss of that heady feeling liquifying in your veins.

“We're you about t’cum, birdie?”

He tuts at that; making a low, mordant coo in the back of his throat when you whimper in response.

“Didn’t know you were so greedy.”

There's a strange undercurrent in his tone you can't make sense of. This loose, looping thread that weaves between the seams. Incomprehensible—

But you find the answer in his touch.

It tightens almost in warning, but you know him better now than to let yourself trip into that fallacy. A notion that solidifies itself when the hand that was once pushing you to that heavy, all-encompassing brink steadies itself on your belly. Pushing. He anchors his hold against your breast, letting it fill the cup of his palm as he squeezes once more, another mocking warning, and then begins to move.

The pace is rougher, faster, than before. With you tipped forward slightly in his lap, the angle makes it easier for him to unleash that thread of ire on you. Using the space to plant his feet solidly on the ground, knees spreading as he bucks his hips, pounding his cock deeper, harder, into you with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers and sobbing moans from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust.

Your teeth clack painfully together when he pulls you down to meet each one, cock shoving so deep inside of you, you could swear it was lodging against your heart. Knocking everything inside of you askew to make room, to fit—

There's a sudden, stinging pain that blooms from between your thighs, and you thrash as it happens again, again—

His hand comes down over your clit, and you yowl at the burning sensation of him slapping you there—

"Please, please—!"

You can't recognise your voice anymore. It sounds wrecked. Raw. Each blow draws out a deafening wail as the heat reaches a blistering zenith. A devouring, ravenous heat—

His voice cuts through the shrill ring of it all. "Say it, birdie. Who does this cunt belong to?"

It tips off your lips in a desperate litany. A plea. You, you, you—

"S'not good enough, birdie. You gotta say it. Who does this cunt belong to?"

You say it because that's what he wants—you. it belongs to you. my cunt belongs to you. please, please, pleasepleaseplease stop—but he groans like you've gutted him. Slamming his palm down against your tender, swollen clit as he sloppily ruts into you, grunting in your ear about God and wives and fuck, buried, this sweet cunt was gonna drive him fuckin' mad—

Everything narrows down to raw sensation. Just the constant, feverish push of his cock dragging against your walls, bluntly pushing into that spot behind your navel that makes your ears ring, and your vision swim. The scorching press of rough skin against your stinging, throbbing clit; the abrasive stroke of each clumsy, pawing circle catching on swollen flesh. Blooming a vicious heat in your belly.

It draws tight. Coiling into a tense knot as a ruts into you, grunting about being close, so fuckin' close, birdie, so you better come on my cock; want this pussy coming all over me—

There's a sharp pain burrowing into your nape, his teeth sinking in deep, breaking skin with jagged teeth, and that knot snaps. Shattering into a series of intense, dizzying pulses that squeeze behind your navel, liquid bliss saturating through the cracks, and bubbling, molten, in your veins.

You're a twitching, shuddering mess. A sicky spill melting into his chest as he clamps down harder against you, grunting around the bite of flesh he lodged between his jowls as he swells inside of you, finding his release.

As he throbs inside of you, his teeth dig in deeper, biting down harder on your nape to smother the snarl ripped from his throat. His hips pump into you with staggered jerks bereft of all finesse; just a clumsy rut as he chases the aftermath of that same mind-numbing euphoria rippling through the honeyed mess of your body.

But it's this bliss that mutes the pain, hiding it under the deluge of endorphins that mushrooms inside of your head, blotting out the pain that you can feel lingering on the periphery. Looming on the edges of the syrupy spill of bliss still pounding in your veins.

Even with clots numbing the worst of it, you can feel the ache in your muscles each time you move. A prelude to the rest of the night, perhaps.

A thought that scraps against the film covering your fear. Panic an acrid burn in the back of your throat, a sting in the corners of your eyes—

Just as you open your mouth to rasp out the words let me go, he unhinges his jaw from your nape, and huffs.

There's a paralysing stab of fear cudgelling into you whenever he moves. It wells up from the wound, and you wait, teetering on a knife's edge as he slumps back against the pew, body unspooling from its tight coil as he lazes with you still sat on his lap, on his cock, purring like a satiated cat, ignorant of (or purposefully ignoring) the way you flinch at his touch when he drops his hand down between your thighs to cradle your sore, abused cunt. Even spent, softening, he still feels so big inside of you. A thickness you can't think around.

"Never came inside anyone before," he muses, catching the trickle of slick, of cum, that leaks out when he shifts back. "Ain't you lucky, birdie? Was savin’ it all up for you. An’ you go' the honour o' bein' my wife."

It cracks through the air like a whip. The echo resounds in the back of your head, smothering the whimper of panic that claws up your throat. Wife. Wife—

"I—I have a fiance," you stutter out, heaving through tattered lungs. "I can't—"

"How's I supposed to know? I don't see 'im, do I?"

"He's—he's looking for me. And he's a real, um, powerful man. I won't—I won't tell anyone if you let me go. You can just—just leave, and I'll never speak of this to anyone—"

His arm tightens around you, snuffing the words out on a pitiful gasp.

"Fucked you nice an' full o'my cum, birdie. You jus' gonna go back to 'nother man when I'm drippin’ down your thighs?”

Your lungs ache. "Please, you didn't—you can't—"

He swipes his fingers through the mess puddling under your thighs with a derisive snort, and brings his hand up to your face. Making you look at the thick, milky smear sticking to his skin. Slowly, he pries his index and middle finger apart, twisting his wrist to show you the web that glues between them.

It's a lot, you think, stomach churning. Too much.

"An' there's more o'tha' all nice an' plugged up inside you, birdie. Gonna sit here til it takes."

He draws his hand closer, thumb and ring finger closing around your cheeks, squeezing painfully until your mouth pops open on a whimper. His fingers bully between the gap of your lips.

It's bitter. Salty. You try not to gag as he roughly shoves them in deeper, knuckles knocking into your teeth as he forces them in, petting his fingers over your tongue. Your gums. Your teeth. The soft skin of your cheeks. Smearing his spend all over your mouth. Making you taste it.

And it's as vile as it is demeaning, and you shudder at the chuff of amusement that rumbles out when you gag, choking when he shoves his fingers in too deep. Trying not to weep as he lowers his head to your nape, nipping the throbbing, torn skin around the bite mark, grunting out a callous demand of swallow it. All o' it. Every drop. If you don't, then I'll jus' make sure you get it from the source next time—

"Bet you'd look so fuckin' pretty on your knees f'me, wouldn't you? Gaggin' on my cock. Could barely take it all in your sweet cunt, an' tha' was made for me, wasn't it? Be a struggle to get it all down—"

"Please," you slur around his fingers, shaking your head pitifully as his cock stirs inside of you, twitching at the revolting image he draws. "I'll—"

He taps his fingers against the roof of your mouth and you clamp your lips shut to stem the nausea that surges. Swallowing reluctantly around the bitter taste of him on your tongue. A painful gulp that makes him groan.

"See, birdie? You're full o'me now."

His fingers tickle when they drag over the wet, sticky skin of your lips. A tease.

He grunts when you shiver, cunt inadvertently clenching around him—

"Ain't ready for another round jus' yet," his voice drops, pitching low. You freeze instantly. Falling still on a shallow gasp. "But if you don't stop squirmin' on my cock like this, birdie, I reckon I'll 'ave you bent over the pulpit soon enough. What kinda husband would I be if I didn't give my wife what she was achin' for?"

Wife. There it is again. And nestled within the cruel word is the clink of a metal collar locking around the inflamed curve of your chewed up neck. Bound to a man you don't know. Don't want to know—

With you held in his grasp, tucked securely to his chest, he settles back into the pew with huff. A quiet admonishment when you try to stir, shushing you with a brief flex of his hand tightening around your neck. A warning. Be good.

It's hard to think with him buried inside of you, still taking up so much space.

And maybe that's the crux of it all. You can't breathe around the softening swell of him to let the thoughts form. Take shape. They flicker past in the moonless midnight of your mind; comets dying in the atmosphere.

Or maybe you're too haunted by the pulse of his heartbeat somehow lodged inside of you, echoing in tandem with your own. A deafening rataplan you can feel in your belly. Your guts.

You squirm—

“Birdie.”

The cup of his palm flexes around your throat—a warning, maybe—and he's pulling you further back against the broad, thick swell of his chest. As easy as breathing. As easy as taking you apart in a church. Unmaking you in a pew.

Turning a house of worship into a mausoleum.

It's a little unfair, all things considered. You pay your dues on Sunday, head bowed over the back of a pew, hands demurely clasped in your lap as you mumble through the familiar beats of mild flagellation. Prettied up in penance. Handing out a fistful of coins and spare nickles when the offertory passes by.

To be trussed up and tossed to the wolves twice over in a single night makes you tip your chin towards the angled, crumbling rafters in silent mutiny. But the bold, blasphemous display of fury doesn't cause the heavens to split, and some grand being to smite the demon sniffing the skin behind your ear.

It only makes his hand settle more firmly around your throat, thumb sliding along the smooth curve from collarbone to jaw. The wide, unfathomable expanse of his hand is more than enough to bite at the vitriol brimming in the back of your throat. Don't be stupid.

(At least—not yet, anyway.)

Without anywhere else to direct the smouldering embers of your anger—and not nearly stupid enough to break it on the jagged cut of his teeth—you slump against the steady rise and fall of his chest, letting it whisper out on an exhale. But even with self-preservation keeping the ugly words under a firm heel, you can deny that this tastes like defeat.

A sour, bitter sting in the back of your throat—full o’me, birdie—that you struggle to swallow around.

It feels like a tremendous weight you can't escape. Like everything is collapsing around like the raining ruins of a condemned house, leaving you half-buried in the rubble. Holding the roof overhead in your hands. This Atlassian task sinks your soles deeper into the dirt, dragging you down.

His threat, his presence, is an anchor buried in the seabed—utterly immovable despite how hard you yank at the chain.

Something has to give.

You're not terribly surprised when that something is you.

Riddled with holes, in tatters, the fight is quickly snuffed under the flood of water surging through. Filling space.

It's fatigue. Exhaustion. You're drained, you think. Mentally, physically. Emotionally. Everything catches up all at once, and your heavy eyes start to blur around the edges, listing shut.

For a second. Just a second.

Through the sluggish putrefaction of mouldering grey matter, you try to promise yourself that you'll run, that you'll escape, after. You just need rest. Sleep. And once you have it—

He squeezes, choking the wayward thought out under the broad cradle of his palm almost as if he knew it was there.

“Get some sleep, birdie,” he rumbles, low and brassy; the murmur of his voice purring through your ribs. “Go’ a long trip ahead o’ us yet. Gonna need it.”

It isn't the soft uttering of a man worried over your condition, but rather the rough, patronising drawl of a brute relishing the prize he caught. A plunderer preening over his loot.

You don't spare much thought to where you're going, and let him pull your weak, battered body deeper into the broad spill of his warm chest, holding you against him as the residuum of your wounded survival instincts drown in the spill of exhaustion dripping out of each decisive cut trephined into your head.

His muzzle is back on the side of your neck as your eyes slip shut, licking between the bracket of his fingers spreading possessively over your mauled skin with a rumble that trembles through your bones, shaking loose the last vestiges of your fight.

It's much too late to bemoan your lack of luck. Your lot in life. Even so—

Going from skirting around the grasping hands of a doglike man drooling on your toes, wagging his tail for just a taste—somethin’ tae take th’ edge off, doe, jus’ somethin’ tae quench this thirst; ah can't take it anymore—to waking up in the jaws of another beast, half-devoured, is such a devastating, almost Grecian sort of irony that had you any room to spare inside your belly (and if his hand not been so firmly clenched around your throat), you might have laughed until your knees gave out, and the world collapsed down on top of you.

Instead, all you can do is try to get comfortable around the bellyaching fill of him, and pretend there's still a chance you can wiggle out of his grasp as easily as you did your fiance—

But as his molten tongue lashes over the wounds on your throat, digging the tip into the puncture mark he left behind, you can't help feeling the sharp sting of defeat hew through the lingering tendrils of hope, severing it at the root. Letting it bleed out in his hands. The same ones that shackle you to his chest, keeping you in his clutch like a stunned bird in the gaping maw of a wolf's jaws.

Rather fitting, you suppose, as those artful fingers smear through the blood and sweat, pinching the stubborn remiges that remain until they're stuck firm between the tips.

A tug, a pull—

They come loose, clutched his triumphant, bloody fist.

And as the candle flickers, crawling down the wick, the flutter of them falling to the dirty floor casts shadows on the old church walls:

(crushed birds, burning dogs, and grasping hands surging from the depths—)

He stirs later, rousing you from a fitful sleep running from a burning dog by taking refuge in the gullet of a lake on fire.

You blink, scrubbing your numb fingers over your sore, tired eyes. “What—?”

“Been thinkin’,” he says, and something about his tone prickles sharply at your paltry instincts, making them stir like lead in your guts. "What's the name of tha’ little fiance o'yours anyway?"

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Jus' think I should meet the man, is all. Considerin' I stole his little wife—"

A noise is wrenched out of you—some strange, strangled amalgamation of denial and dread. “Don't,” you whisper, a fever pitch; a plea. “Don't—”

He's unpredictable. His moods are as mercurial as the sea he crossed over to find you. Tempestuous: you think of his eyes, those burning pits. Much too wide. Wild. A frenzy.

Like a fox—the one you saw when you were a child. Rabid, they said, tugging you away from those big, round eyes. Gone fuckin’ mad.

With its lips peeling back, spitting up foam and sickness, it looked like it was smiling.

Oh, doe; the same eyes, the same grin. Sickness dripping down his chin as he stared, slack-jawed and hungry. Been waitin’ so long fer ye—

“C’mon, can't be s’bad as all o’tha’.”

You think of him, then—perhaps the lesser of two evils—and shudder at the ripple of desperation spilling like oil into your chest.

“Johnny,” you mutter, wondering if he'd still take you like this—ruined as you are; a pittance of what your father promised—if you ran back to him, broken tail tucked between your legs. Back to that foaming mouth and those big, wild eyes. “Johnny MacTavish.”

If he hadn't been stroking your jugular as he asked, trailing the tips of his fingers around the aching curve of your thigh with the other, you might have missed the frisson that crackled across his implacable veneer at the name.

So suffused to him are you that any idea of distance is only divisible between atoms, and your skin hums with this little hiccup. The tensing of his muscles under your thighs; hands stuttering along flesh—

Something about that name makes him pause.

“Johnny,” he says it like he's testing the word, feeling the way it fits between his teeth. Shifting the weight of it around his tongue. Warm-up. Stretching a muscle. Familiarity thrums along the seam of his mouth; pregnant with a mordant, mocking delight. “Might ‘ave to pay ‘im a visit after all.”

In its the afterbirth breathed into the world on his name where you see the cosm split, unveiling a world between them marbled in blood and viscera.

Home in the manner of a botfly.

Something that takes. Makes fecund land from flesh and bone; a parasitic kinship that eats itself, and everything else hapless enough to stumble inside its gaping, wounded maw.

You think of a foaming grin. A sickness that burns from the inside out.

A burning dog—

And when his smouldering hands reach between your thighs to cup your cunt in the broad spill of his palm, you feel the flaming waters of a blazing lake lapping at your spine.

“‘ow ‘bout tha’?” he muses, a needling thread of ice splitting through his tone. “Guess it's a small world after all.”

(—and a rather bleak one for you when he decides that God's will is stronger than a still-wet signature on a piece of paper.

Finder's keepers an' all o' tha'.

Besides, if Johnny really wanted you, he wouldn't have let you go, would he?)

#this really didn't need to be so long but one of my biggest flaws is being unable to get to the point #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghostfics

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itneverendshere · 7 months ago

Text

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - EIGHT

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy; abortion.

MASTERLIST

Topper prided himself in keeping out of people’s business.

He hadn’t noticed anything was off with you on his own, he wouldn’t have; he didn’t do the whole “emotional radar” thing.

But Rafe had practically cornered him, demanding he figure out what was going on with you.

You were his cousin, after all.

That didn’t stop the way his stomach twisted from thinking about lying to you, or how every part of him had always silently rooted for you and Rafe. He’d loved seeing you two together. You were a mess most days, for years, sure, but it was the kind of mess that made sense in a way, and Topper couldn’t help but admire it.

You were like fire and gasoline.

But that was before the break-up, before everything got fucked.

Now, you were just… distant. He never knew how to approach you without feeling like he was crossing a line, but the way you’d passed out on Rafe at the beach had him worrying in a way that was more personal than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t a thinker, not really, he liked simple things: good waves, cold beer, and not getting roped into drama.

But there he was, standing outside your door with Korean fried chicken. He didn’t do feelings, and he didn’t do heavy conversations. Rafe owed him big for this. The conversation had been good, even when you started talking about Sarah and Ruthie.

Topper was all in—laughing along, throwing in a dumb joke here and there, the usual. It felt nice, like when you were kids, sneaking your dad’s beers and pretending you weren’t gonna get caught.

But then he had to go and ruin it by asking if you were okay.

You went all stiff, then weirdly far away, laughing it off like he’d just asked you to explain calculus or something. You mumbled something about being fine and then bolted to the bathroom before he could even follow up with his usual Topper-brand wisdom.

He sat there, feeling uncomfortable, which wasn’t a thing he usually did. You were acting off, and it was messing with him more than he wanted to admit.

Finally, he decided he needed to move, so he got up to grab some water. Except, as he walked past the counter, his hip caught a pile of your mail, and an envelope went sliding to the floor.

“Crap,” he muttered, crouching to grab it. It was just some random envelope, but there was a phone number written on the front in messy blue ink.

Topper didn’t think about it—because thinking wasn’t really his strong suit—he just whipped out his phone and typed it in. Curiosity, man. It got him every time.

He hit call. He wasn’t trying to snoop or anything. It was just one of those things you do on autopilot, right? Call a number just to see who answers? Except this time, someone did answer.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then:

“Women’s Health Center, how can I help you?”

His brain short-circuited, full-on panic mode. He stared at the phone like it had grown a second screen, then frantically hit the hang-up button just as the bathroom door creaked open.

You were back.

Topper, sweating for no reason, slapped the envelope back on the counter like it was about to explode and turned to you with a smile that definitely didn’t match his pounding heart.

He got out of there as soon as possible, as he drove to meet Rafe, the whole thing was still playing on a loop in his head. That phone number, the voice on the other end of the line, the way you’d acted when he’d asked if you were okay—he couldn’t stop trying to force the pieces into place.

Something was going on, he wasn't sure what, and he wasn’t exactly the guy you went to for deep insights, but he felt something was up.

When he pulled into Tanyhill, he spotted Rafe leaning against his truck, scrolling through his phone with that permanent scowl he seemed to have these days. He barely had the car in park before Rafe was pushing off the truck and heading his way.

He climbed out, doing his best to act normal—which, for him, meant cracking the same goofy grin he always did. His mind was still spinning with a dozen half-formed thoughts about that phone call, that clinic, and how the the fuck he might fit into all of it.

The only thing he knew for sure was that Rafe knowing could be catastrophic. Like, meteor-hits-earth catastrophic.

“You gotta chill,” Topper said, slamming his car door shut and giving Rafe a once-over. “Why do you look like you’re about to punch somebody?”

Rafe just glared, shoving his phone in his pocket. “What’d you find out?”

He blinked, thrown by how fast he cut to the point. “Nice to see you, too. Second, what makes you think I found out anything?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Top. Did you figure it out or not?”

“Yeah, I figured it out,” Topper shot back, crossing his arms. “But why the hell did you make me go through all this work if you already know what’s going on?”

Rafe shrugged, leaning back against the truck like this was all just some casual conversation. “Didn’t think you’d actually get it, to be honest.”

“Bro, I’m not that stupid. How did you get to the bottom of this shit? I’m still confused as fuck over here.”

Rafe’s mouth twitched like he was deciding whether to smirk or yell, hesettled on neither. “She passed out on me, remember?”

“So?” Topper shot back, frowning. “I’ve seen you pass out for, like, way less.”

“It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a hangover or heat stroke, it was different. And she’s been weird lately, avoiding everyone.” Rafe leaned back against his truck, arms crossed, talking fast. “The hospital did blood work.”

Topper, who’d been zoning out halfway through his little doctor act, suddenly perked up.

“Wow,” he mused, dragging the word out. “Okay. So, how’d you take the news? I mean, shit, you look pretty calm for once. Didn’t think that was in your wheelhouse."

Rafe frowned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing, the crease between his brows deepening like it always did when he thought someone was wasting his time.

"The fuck are you talking about?”

Topper shrugged like this was totally normal. “I just expected you to, like…freak out or somethin'. Throw a punch, maybe.”

“Throw a punch about what?” Rafe snapped.

“About—” Topper paused, squinting at Rafe like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Wait. What are you supposed to do?”

Rafe’s hand twitched toward his jaw, fingers brushing over the stubble there, a telltale sign that he was gearing up to lose patience. He didn’t wait for Topper to answer before shaking his head, the movement quick and irritated.

“Don’t do that, man,” he added, pointing a finger “I’ll help her figure it out. What else can I do?”

Topper tilted his head, genuinely impressed. “Damn. You really matured, huh? I mean, good for you.”

“Top, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Rafe demanded, his tone sharp now like he was finally catching on to the fact that they weren’t on the same page.

Topper blinked, “I’m just saying you’re handling it better than I thought. Especially since she’s not—uh, showing yet.”

“Not showing what?”

“…The bump?”

He immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing, or maybe the right thing, but in the wrong tone, with the wrong level of context, and—okay, maybe he should just stop talking.

Abort mission, abort mission. Topper immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. Dude, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“What the fuck?” Rafe’s voice cracked; his eyes blazing as he stepped closer. “What bump?!”

His laugh fizzled out under Rafe’s glare, it was starting to feel less like “concerned ex-boyfriend” and more like “interrogating cop.” He felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck.

Cool. Stay cool.

“Wait,” Topper held his hands up, trying to physically stop the situation from spiraling. “What do you think is wrong with her?”

His brain was spinning in a way it wasn’t built for. He was a simple guy—he liked clear problems and easy fixes. But this? This was a category-five disaster, and he was stuck right in the middle of it.

Rafe let out a sharp breath through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, the small strands sticking up in every direction.

“I think she’s got a fucking infection! Why the hell would I think she’s pregnant?”

Topper hesitated, glancing toward the house like maybe Sarah or Wheezie might miraculously appear to save him. No such luck.

“Well fucking shit,” Topper blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. His heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure he’d just signed his death warrant. “I—I didn’t say she’s pregnant, okay? I found this number, and it was for a women’s health center, and—fuck, man, I’m dead. I’m so dead.”

Rafe grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close. “Start talking. Now.”

“I wasn’t snooping, okay? It just—happened. I wasn’t trying to get in her business, but—”

“But what?” Rafe barked. His other hand twitched at his side, curling into a fist before flexing out again, a warning of how close Topper was to eating pavement, but Rafe wasn’t the one he feared right now.

You were going to kill him.

He could already picture the look on your face when you found out—those cold, furious eyes, the way your voice would drop, he was officially dead meat. He gulped, his mouth dry as his brain scrambled for something—anything—that wouldn’t get him killed or disowned.

“You better explain what the fuck you mean by ‘happened,’” Rafe growled, his grip tightening, giving Topper’s collar a shake, just enough to make his point clear.

Topper was done, leaving nothing but pure panic and the faint, distant sound of his voice saying things he definitely shouldn’t.

“I called the number!” Topper yelped. “I didn’t even mean to, it was—dude, she’s gonna kill me, and I mean that literally. She will.”

“Not if I kill you first,” Rafe shoved him back, his grip finally loosening, his face unreadable now, which was somehow worse than when he’d looked ready to punch him. “You’re telling me you think she’s pregnant? And you didn’t remember to tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t!” Topper said quickly, panic bubbling over. “It’s not like she’s gonna tell me this kind of stuff.”

“Did she say anything to you? Anything about seeing a doctor or being sick?”

Topper shook his head so fast it made him dizzy. “I asked if she was okay, but she just brushed it off and changed the subject.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, both of them staring each other down.

“No, no way. She’s probably… I don’t fucking know, changing her pill or something.”

Topper raised an eyebrow. “Changing her pill?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said quickly, “Or—what else do they do there? Those check-up things. Maybe she’s getting one of those.”

“Uh-huh,” Topper replied, not convinced but also not dumb enough to call him out on it outright. “Sure. Just a… routine check-up?”

“Exactly,” Rafe agreed a little too loud, his tone almost defensive as he started circling again, his hands gesturing wildly. “They don’t just deal with… y'know. They do all kinds of shit. Tests, prescriptions, all that stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Topper scratched the back of his neck, his expression caught between agreement and unease. “I mean, yeah, they do other stuff… but don’t you think—”

“I don’t think anything, there’s nothing to think about. She’s fine. She’s—she’s fine.” He stopped pacing, standing rigid with his hands on his hips, glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Topper started, his tone cautious. “I get that you don’t want to jump to conclusions, but—”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions!” Rafe barked, spinning around “You’re the one making it into something it’s not! She’s not—she wouldn’t—she hasn’t told me anything,” He muttered finally, “And if she’s hiding this… from me…”

He’d never seen Rafe like this—angry, yeah, but there was something else there, either way, it wasn’t good. His glare burned into him, but for the first time, there was hesitation behind it. He wasn’t just mad—he was scared. Topper couldn’t decide if that made him feel better or worse.

“Holy shit,” Rafe muttered, gripping the side of his truck for balance. His vision going fuzzy as his heart raced like he’d just sprinted a mile. “Holy shit, what if—what if she is?”

“Dude, breathe,” Topper said, stepping closer cautiously like Rafe was a live grenade. “You don’t even—”

“Even if—if—she was, how the hell would that even—” He cut himself off, his face twisting like he couldn’t decide whether to finish the thought or abandon it entirely.

Topper didn’t need him to finish, he understood exactly what Rafe was thinking. The timeline, the breakup, the way everything had gone down between you.

Rafe’s breath hitched as he let go of the truck and paced a few steps, his hands on his hips, muttering under his breath. “No. No way. It’s not—she’d tell me, right? She’d fucking tell me.”

Images started flashing through his mind in rapid succession, each one more ridiculous and unhinged than the last. You, standing in some clinic, staring at a test with a blank expression. You, trying to figure out how to tell Rafe.

You, holding a baby—Rafe’s baby—in your arms.

“This doesn’t make any sense. We were careful. She’s just stressed, girls go through shit. Hormones or whatever. Right?”

“You’re asking me? I barely passed bio. I’m not exactly a walking textbook on—” He stopped himself, seeing the look on Rafe’s face. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, okay? But if this is what I think it is, you gotta handle it right. Don’t screw it up more than it already is.”

“And if I don’t handle it right?”

Topper forced a shaky grin, even as his stomach twisted in knots.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in hell, man. Because she’s gonna kill us both.”

Rafe’s hands went to his hips, his thumb brushing the edge of his pocket as he stared past Topper, he was trying to work out an equation that wasn’t adding up.

“She hasn’t said a word to me,” Rafe muttered, “Not at the hospital, not since. And you think…” He trailed off, dragging a hand over his face.

Topper shifted on his feet, resisting the urge to bolt to the other side of the world.

“I guess, but I swear, it wasn’t on purpose.”

Rafe shot him a look, his brows knitting together, and Topper felt like he was under a microscope. “You called a random number. How does that ‘just happen’?”

He huffed, throwing his hands up. “I was grabbing some water, and her mail fell, and there was this number—I didn’t think! I just… acted.” He groaned, his head falling back as he stared at the sky. “I didn’t mean to put two and two together, but what was I supposed to do? You’re the one who made me go digging in the first place!”

“You really think that’s what’s going on?” Rafe asked finally, his voice quieter.

“You said she’s acting weird, and then there was that number, and…” He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck.

“Do you even understand what this means? If she’s—if there’s a—” He broke off, “I’d have to—Jesus Christ, what would I even do? I’m not—God.”

His hands gripped the edge of the truck bed so hard his knuckles turned white, the veins in his arms standing out as he glared at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“If she didn’t tell me—” His voice was low, quiet in a way that made Topper wince because he knew what came next.

“Maybe just... ask her?”

“Ask her?” he repeated, his voice disbelieving.

“Yeah, you know,” Topper said, gesturing vaguely. “Talk to her? Maybe find out what’s going on instead of losing your shit over worst-case scenarios?”

Rafe shook his head, “No. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. She’s... she’s dealing with her own stuff. It’s not my place to push.”

“Since when do you not push?”

“Since now,” Rafe snapped, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Rafe—”

“No, seriously,” Rafe interrupted, his voice rising now, the tight restraint unraveling with every word. “If she’s—if she’s going through this, if she’s pregnant, and she didn’t tell me?” He let out a bitter chuckle, “What the fuck does that say? About me.”

Topper opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. This felt like a minefield, and if anyone was good at stepping on the wrong spot, it was him.

Rafe pushed off the truck, he couldn’t physically stay still. His eyes were burning as he raked a hand through his buzzed hair.

“I was—fuck. She thinks what? That I wouldn’t show up for this. She didn’t tell me because she doesn’t think I deserve to know.”

“That’s not true,” Topper said quickly, stepping closer, but Rafe’s empty laugh stopped him.

“Isn’t it?” Rafe’s voice was hollow now, all the fire drained out of him, turning his head slightly, just enough for Topper to see his throat working as he swallowed hard. “What the hell have I ever done to make her think I’d be there? That I’d—” He broke off. “Shit. I wouldn’t blame her. I can't even fucking blame her.”

“You still care about her, right?” Topper pressed, knowing he didn’t have to ask to know the answer.

Rafe’s head snapped up, “She’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about.”

He nodded slowly, “Then prove it.”

The envelope sat exactly where you’d left it, the faintest corner of folded. You froze for a second, your pulse quickening.

No. No way.

It was fine. Fine.

The number wasn’t even labeled—just digits scrawled hastily, you hadn’t touched it in days. Still, you couldn’t stop the tiny seed of panic attaching itself to your chest. There was absolutely no way Topper could’ve seen it, let alone put two and two together.

You exhaled slowly, placing it back on the counter.

He didn’t see it. He couldn’t have seen it.

Then why had he acted so… off? The pale face, the sudden excuse, the jittery energy—it was all so unlike him.

You shook your head, trying to push the thought away, a million things could’ve set him off.

Maybe Ruthie had texted him something awful, or maybe he’d remembered he had to pick up his dry cleaning before the shop closed. Knowing Topper, it was probably something stupid and unrelated to you entirely.

Still, the nagging lingered as you cleaned up the counter and threw away the napkins. You glanced at the envelope one last time, then slid it into a drawer and shut it firmly. Whatever was going on with your cousin, it couldn’t have anything to do with that. It was impossible. And yet…

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

“Pregnancy brain,” you muttered to yourself. “Making me paranoid over nothing.”

Of course that didn’t stop your heart from jumping every time the drawer creaked, or when you saw anything even remotely similar to that envelope’s color lying around the house for the entire night. Not that he’d ask, of course—Topper wasn’t the confrontational type, especially not with you. But he noticed things. And when he noticed, he worried.

The next morning you sank onto the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. Topper was close, but he wasn’t like Sarah. She had been able to look you in the eye and say, You know I’m here, right? and mean it without any strings attached. Topper, though…

Your fingers itched toward your phone, even though it was stupid to call her so early over this. Still, you needed someone to remind you that you weren’t losing it, that Topper’s weirdness had nothing to do with anything serious.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you found Sarah’s number, pressing the call button. She picked up on the second ring, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You could picture her, sitting in her car or probably stretched out somewhere in Poguelandia with her feet propped up on a table, looking concerned.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just…” You trailed off, fiddling with the edge of a pillow.

“Topper’s been acting strange. And I think I’m just overthinking it, but it’s making me crazy.”

She made a sound between a hum and a laugh. “So the Topper panic spiral. That’s what we’re dealing with?”

“Basically,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone light. “But this time… He was here last night, and I thought he saw this random piece of paper I had with, you know. A number on it.” You took a shaky breath, embarrassed for how paranoid you sounded. “But he couldn’t have, right? I mean, it was buried under five other things.”

“Okay,” Sarah said slowly, clearly choosing her words. “First, let’s just say that if he did see anything, which he probably didn’t, he wouldn’t assume the worst. He’s your cousin; he knows you don’t tell him everything, and he respects that. Right?”

“Yeah… I guess.” You chewed your lip, feeling a little stupid for even calling her. “But what if he does put it together, Sarah? I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“He won’t,” she reassured, like she could see right through your anxiety. “And you don’t need to feel bad for wanting to keep this private. You’re allowed to handle it however you need to. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You exhaled, the knot in your chest loosening a little. She always knew how to talk you down, "Okay,” you murmured, and a shaky laugh slipped out. “Maybe I'm being paranoid.”

“Pregnancy brain,” she teased, and you couldn’t help but smile.

You hung up feeling marginally better.

Sarah had a way of calming you down, but the uneasiness stayed with you, the way it always did when you couldn’t fully explain something.

But the relief was fleeting, by lunchtime, the nagging voice in your head was back. Topper wasn’t malicious, but he did have a habit of talking without thinking, and the last thing you needed was for this to get out before you were ready. Not only was this a huge scandal, but it was your business.

You busied yourself with small tasks—folding laundry, wiping down the counters, pretending that everything was fine. It wasn’t until almost noon that your phone rang. The hospital’s number flashed on the screen, and your stomach dropped.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Miss Thornton?” the voice on the other end asked politely, too polite for comfort.

“This is she."

“This is Linda from the hospital. I’m calling about your recent bloodwork. We had a bit of an issue with our system, and unfortunately, there was a delay in getting back to you. We also lost some patient information temporarily—”

“Wait, what?” you interrupted, not liking where this was going, “What do you mean you lost information?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Linda said quickly, as if that would make you feel better. “We managed to recover most of it, but in the meantime, we had to rely on emergency contact information to reach out. Dr. Harris called yours last night.”

Your breath caught. “Called... my emergency contact?”

“Yes.”

“Sarah Cameron? She didn’t tell me someone called.”

“She’s not listed as your emergency contact in our system, Rafe Cameron is. It might be an older record?”

Fuck.

Your heart was in your throat. “What... what did he tell him?”

“He only left a generic message asking for you to follow up about your bloodwork. Nothing specific.”

“Nothing specific,” you repeated, more to yourself than to her. Relief and panic warred within you. If Rafe knew, he’d already be there, the night before, demanding answers. Right?

“We need you to come back in. It’s possible you may have an infection, and we need to run a few more tests.”

You didn’t even hear the rest of her explanation.

Your fingers felt numb as you mumbled something that vaguely resembled agreement and hung up.

Infection, that was what she’d said. That was all it was. Not… not anything else. If it were anything else, they wouldn’t have just called—they’d have told Rafe.

“Stop,” you muttered aloud, shaking your head. “Stop spiraling.”

But your brain wouldn’t listen.

“Generic message,” Linda had said, but did it sound generic? What did he think when he got it? Had he laughed it off, or was he running his stupid pristine bedroom, piecing together clues you hadn’t even realized you’d left?

You didn’t want to text Sarah again.

You could imagine her smirking, “I told you, he’s not going to magically grow psychic overnight.” Yeah, sure, but this was Rafe.

He didn’t need magic. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus on Sarah’s voice in your head. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Except it didn’t feel like that. You hadn’t thought about Rafe as your emergency contact in months, hadn’t needed to.

You sank into the couch, hugging your knees to your chest.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered, but your voice didn’t make it feel any less real. You weren’t even sure what you were spiraling over anymore. The envelope? The hospital? The baby?

“Okay,” you said out loud. “Okay, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

The sound of your voice didn’t even convince you. Your brain wouldn’t stop jumping from one thing to the next, spinning every scenario you didn’t want to think about.

What if he did know? If that was enough to set him off, to make him call someone, pull some strings...Shit, what if he did show up, and you had to explain why you were dodging everyone and keeping things from him and—stop.

Stop.

You were doing it again. The spiraling. The pregnancy brain Sarah teased you about like it was some sort of cute quirk, but wasn’t cute.

You sat up straight, squeezing the couch pillow so hard you thought it might burst. Breathe. Just breathe, you’d made it this far without imploding.

You glanced toward the drawer again, the one with the envelope. You should’ve burned it, shredded it first. No, you had to keep it—just in case. But just in case of what? Just in case you needed more reasons to feel like a lunatic.

Oh my god. What if Topper saw the stupid number, and then Rafe got the hospital call, and then—bam—suddenly, they had the whole damn thing figured out?

You could feel it already—the panic. You liked to think they were both too stupid for their own good, but they were also observant. Rafe, that bastard always knew how to put things together faster than anyone.

What if—what if it’s that simple for them? What if they both saw it, and then they were just sitting there, having some stupid-ass conversation, connecting dots you didn’t even realize were dots?

No. Stop. Stop thinking like that.

You were getting carried away, jumping to conclusions like some manic soap opera character. You weren’t that girl. Not really. But the thought of them talking—Topper with his concern and Rafe with his overbearing intensity.

Your fingers tapped a frantic rhythm against the pillow. The idea of him figuring it out? Oh, that made your skin crawl. Not because he’d be cruel—no, that wasn’t his style. He’d just be so… himself.

Overwhelming, determined to “fix” things for you, even when you didn’t ask for it.

You groaned, dropping the pillow and standing abruptly, like the movement might kill the growing dread. No, you told yourself firmly.

You weren’t spiraling over things that hadn’t even happened yet.

But the voice in your head, the one that always sounded a little too much like Rafe, had other plans: What if it’s already too late?

You paced the living room, arms crossed tightly over your chest. This was ridiculous, you were ridiculous. Nothing had happened, nothing was going to happen. The number wasn’t even that suspicious, it could’ve been anything.

You groaned again, flopping onto the couch like the dramatic mess you were currently embodying. Rafe had probably gotten the hospital call, rolled his eyes without a second thought, too busy with his new precious life.

Your stomach churned, and you pressed your hands against it instinctively. It wasn’t showing yet—thank god—but you couldn’t help the way your mind spiraled back to it, to all the ways this could go wrong.

You grabbed your car keys without thinking, maybe it would clear your head. A drive—that’s what you needed. Get out of the house, and put some distance between you and the stupid envelope, the phone calls, all of it. You turned the knob, yanked the door open—

—and froze.

Rafe’s hand was raised mid-air, clearly about to knock. You didn’t even try to hide the way your breath hitched.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Standing there on the porch like he hadn’t just derailed your entire plan. As if it was still perfectly normal for him to show up unannounced, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other gripping his phone, his head tilted in a maddeningly familiar way.

His hand hovered uncertainly on the doorframe as you stepped back, your arms folding protectively over your chest. He didn’t push past you, didn’t move his weight forward—just stood there.

He glanced down at the spare key still in his hand, turning it over like he was considering whether he even had the right to use it. “They called me last night.”

Okay, he was just here because of the hospital, a coincidence, that’s all it was.

“And? You could’ve ignored it.”

His hand flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it. “I thought something might be wrong.”

“It’s not.” Your voice was clipped, cold. “They called the wrong number. End of story.”

He didn’t rise to the bait.

“I thought—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “I thought you were sick.”

“Like I said, it was a mix-up.”

His jaw ticked. That tiny muscle in his cheek twitched, the one that always flared when he was suspicious.

“Funny, they didn’t sound mixed up when they said your name,” he drawled, his tone probing. “Wanna try again?”

“Mind your fucking business,” Your voice was defensive, and you hated the crackle of guilt in your chest when he flinched. “I don’t need you to pretend to care. Why are you even here?” you snapped, taking a step back. The space between you felt vulnerable. “Don’t you have someone else to worry about?"

You felt cornered with every second he stood there.

“We need to talk.”

Maybe if you acted calm, like nothing was wrong, he’d stop looking at you like that. Vulnerability wasn’t something you were good at, he’d already taken too much. He always took too much.

“I don’t owe you shit. Not explanations, not answers, nothing. Leave.”

He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

Rafe didn’t know how to let shit go, not when it came to you, he didn’t back away.

“You’re right,” he said, surprising you. “You don’t, but I’m not leaving until we talk.”

The way he said, it wasn’t even a threat. It was worse than that. It was calm, resolute, like he’d already decided, and nothing you said or did could change it.

That scared you more than anything.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you hissed, “Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

He arched an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to the edge of the couch where your phone still sat, “You sure about that?”

“God, you’re always like this. Always overstepping, always assuming—”

“I know."

All the noise in your head—your spiraling thoughts, your excuses, your endless denials—went silent, except for the way your heart thudded in your chest, so fast, it hurt. He hadn’t raised his voice, but those two words hit you like a kick to your chest.

No, he couldn’t—he didn’t, he was bluffing, he had to be. Air caught in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might choke on it. He didn’t move, didn’t repeat himself. He couldn’t know.

Your tongue went dry.

“What are you talking about?” You couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone was squeezing your chest. You shook your head again, more violently this time, stepping back, “You don’t know shit.”

“I think I do.” His voice was quiet, and that made it worse, it wasn’t cold or angry; it wasn’t even accusing. He didn’t sound like he wanted to be right, he just sounded tired.

You prayed to come up with something—anything—to deflect, to deny, to keep the truth buried where it belonged.

“You’re delusional,” you took another step back, putting more space between you and the man who had always known you too well.

He just shook his head, “You don’t have to lie to me, you’re scared, you’re not even trying to hide it.”

It was the way he stared with those stupid blue eyes, he was peeling back your layers. He always did that, made you feel like he could see something in you that you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

“Oh, fuck off.” You threw your hands up. “You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling. You’ve got no right to—I’m not lying.”

It still hurt how much you missed him, hurt to even look at him.

“Don’t pull this cryptic bullshit with me, if you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

The thing you’d been running from, denying, hiding, you simply stared at him, trying to decide if there was any way to lie your way out of this.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You tried to laugh, but it came out strangled, desperate. “T-That’s insane. You’ve lost your mind.”

Rafe wasn’t gloating or triumphant—he just looked… resigned, he’d pieced it together before he showed up.

“Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me, not about this.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him, to do anything that would make him stop looking at you like he cared. Like he knew you. Because if you stopped long enough to think about it, you knew it was over.

He’d already seen it.

“I mean it, Rafe.” Your hand tightened on the door, nails digging into the wood. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

God, this was so fucked. You wanted him gone, but wanted him here, needed him to leave you alone, but at the same time, you hated that he could just leave.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You thought about what he’d do if he knew—really knew. Not just the vague sense he had now, but the details. Would he try to stop you?

Your lip quivered, and you hated yourself for it. “You’re wrong.”

You stared at him, at the way his shoulders hunched slightly, his usual confidence worn down. You hated him for being calm for once in his fucking life, for being here, for not letting this slide when it was none of his fucking business.

“Am I?”

Your hands clenched tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Why? Why do you even care? It’s not like you—”

“Because it’s mine.”

Your breath hitched again, and this time, you couldn’t hide it. You wanted to deny it, to throw something—hell, anything—back at him to make him shut the fuck up. But your throat felt like it had shut off entirely, and your mind had gone blank.

“I—” you stammered, shaking your head violently, “No. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re—”

“Hey, hey, just—just stop,” he said, his voice careful, as if he was trying not to spook you. “I’m not—Jesus, I’m not here to fight with you, okay? I’m not here to make this harder.”

Your chest heaved, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. He was too late—late to care, late to help, late to fix anything. Five days, that’s all you had to get through.

Five days until you didn’t have to think about it anymore.

This is the right choice, you told yourself for the hundredth time. You couldn’t bring a baby into this mess.

“You’re doing a hell of a job at that.”

“I just want to help. If you let me—”

“No,” you interrupted, grabbing the edge of the door. “I’m fixing it.”

“Fixing—?” Rafe’s brow furrowed, his confusion almost comical He started to step forward, but you stopped him with a resentful glare that made him stop. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you can take your fake concern and shove it up your ass.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not fake—” His face twisted in confusion, mouth opening like he was about to argue, but you didn’t give him the chance, slamming the door in his face, so hard the frame rattled.

“Of course. Of course, it’s mine,” you muttered to yourself, mocking his stupid, self-righteous tone.

You leaned back against the door, sliding to the floor, arms crossed over your knees as your brain whirred like it was trying to kill you.

It wasn’t like you had a choice.

Technically, you did, but what were you supposed to do? Keep it and become a tragic sob story? The words almost felt like you’d ripped them out of someone else’s mouth, right or wrong didn’t even matter anymore. There wasn’t space in your life for this—for him, for a baby, for any of it.

A muffled knock sounded from the front door—tentative, like he was giving you a moment.

“Go away,” you yelled, your voice hoarse.

“Open the door.”

Your thoughts taunted you with memories and possibilities you didn’t want to entertain. The way Rafe had looked at you—like he knew—it was unbearable.

How had he put it together? Maybe you'd slip up in tiny ways, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow. You hated yourself for being so careless, despised him even more for being so fucking relentless.

You wiped your cheeks roughly, not realizing you’d started crying until your sleeve came back damp.

“Please, just open the door. We can talk—just talk, okay?

“No,” you muttered to the empty room. “No, I’m not doing this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the door and pressing your hands over your ears to block him out.

“Don’t shut me out like this,” he begged. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t stand it when you do this. Just open the door. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

He had a key. If he wanted to, he could let himself in at any moment, but he didn’t, that wasn’t the Rafe you were used to.

Before, he'd have barged right in, shouted until your ears bled, and demanded answers. He would’ve tried to fix it or destroy it, maybe both.

You hated that he still acted like he cared, that he was trying to be so fucking reasonable now, when just a few months ago, he would’ve lost it, broken through any barrier to get what he wanted.

This was worse, this Rafe was wearing you down.

Another hushed plea made it through the door, but all you could think was how thin the wood felt, how it barely drowned the sound of his voice. A new door might be better, something heavier, more solid, that could drown out everything—the desperation, the crack in his voice.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you bit hard on the inside of your cheek to keep them from falling.

“I know you’re scared,” he continued, “And I know you think I’ll screw this up—God knows I probably will. But please don’t keep me in the dark. Just tell me what’s going on.”

You pictured flipping through hardware store catalogs, weighing your options: oak? steel? soundproofing foam?

“Please,” Rafe whispered, and the rawness in his voice scraped against you like nails on a chalkboard. You tilted your head back against the door, willing yourself not to cry again.

Steel doors don’t warp as easily as wood.

You swallowed hard, your body aching as you fought the sob threatening to escape. He didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve to sound so wrecked over you. He'd done this to himself.

Your fingers twitched against the door handle, the temptation to open it curling around you, but instead, you thought about bolts.

Deadbolts, a second lock could work, something he couldn’t get through even if he had the key.

His voice wavered again, you thought he might start crying, too, yet all you did was glance at the base of the door. A better seal would muffle the noise more. Maybe weatherstripping? That could help.

You pressed your hands tighter over your ears, as though it would help. It didn’t. Nothing would—not until you replaced the lock, the door, the memory of him standing there and breaking himself open for you.

God, you really needed a new door—and a new heart.

One that didn’t twist at the sound of his voice, that didn’t flinch every time he called your name like it was a prayer. A heart that didn’t feel for him, you told yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If you could just stop the way your chest tightened at his pleas, stop the ache in your ribs when he said he couldn’t let this go.

You wanted steel walls, that could keep everything out—his voice, his touch, the memories of all the good parts of him that had kept you hanging on for so long. Because of this heart? It was useless, too soft, too easily swayed, still willing to believe him, even when you knew better.

“Please, just talk to me,” Rafe begged. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this calmness came from Sofia.

Perhaps she was the reason he’d changed, maybe she had somehow made him different, had softened the sharp edges of the guy you used to know. She was calm, collected—nothing like you. It hurt like a bitch, the thought that someone else could make him this patient. You wondered if she’d taught him how to handle his emotions, how to be this way—he’d learned some secret he never bothered to share with you.

You couldn't let yourself go there, couldn't let the bitterness of that thought settle in your mind for too long.

“Talk to me.”

No. Not this time.

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for-ests · 11 months ago

Text

When I talked to the moon last night, I told her about you.

husband!gojo x reader drabble. he loves his wife SO much. just little romantic rituals.

∘∙∘☾𖤓∘∙∘

Shirtless, leaning against the railing of his balcony, Gojo exhaled blissfully. The curtains from inside flapped against the wind, reminding him that he hadn’t slid the doors shut. But he didn’t mind, as he was able to view your half-covered body tangled in his sheets, chest rising and falling in slow, peaceful breaths. A smile on your face despite the deep slumber he lulled you into.

Satoru did promise that you would never fall asleep without a smile on your face if you married him.

And he was proud to keep it.

You were everything to him, and he found a routine to follow after making love to you—wandering out to his balcony to thank the moon, the stars, or whatever was shining down on him from above. Like he often did as a child, gazing up at the moon as if it contained all of life’s answers, as if its wisdom whispered the key to your happiness.

Satoru found solace in the moon. And when the moon told him about the sun, he told the moon about you. The brightest, most important star in his universe. Nothing would ever outshine you in his mind.

He was so lucky to have you, and a day never passed without him acknowledging it.

Overcome with emotion, Satoru’s fingers tightened around the metal railing, slumping over it, as if he was afraid to keep gazing at the moon and its brilliance. The same overwhelming understanding washed over him. Gazing up at the moon was the equivalent of looking into your eyes.

Such beauty. An indescribable force. You. His Goddess. How lucky he was to have you by his side, in his bed, in his life.

The brightness from outside shined so perfectly into your eyes, that they flickered open. As you sat up, the first thing you saw was your husband on the balcony, deep in thought.

The muscles of his back seemed to contort under the moonlight. Your husband was so melodramatic.

“Is it a full moon tonight?” You whispered groggily from behind, not giving him a moment to reply before embracing him and resting your head against his back.

He didn’t need to ask why you joined him, as the first few times he asked, you always mumbled a cute and tired, “Toru, you know I can’t sleep without you.”

Chuckling softly, Gojo turned around to face you and pulled you into his chest. “Look for yourself, my love,” he whispered, pressing a light, gentle kiss on your forehead.

Exhaling, your nose scrunched, a playful glint in your eyes as you glanced up at him. Every time he held you so tightly, so carefully and protectively, you felt like you were falling in love with him all over again.

The brightness of the moon was clear, and it seemed to light up the entire sky, casting shadows along the drifting clouds, and highlighting Gojo’s features. Sometimes, it was hard to believe he was your husband. How lucky you were.

“What is the moon saying tonight?” you teased with a lighthearted tone.

Satoru claimed that the moon told him to marry you, after all. You are my sun, Y/N. He whispered every time he had to depart from you.

Without the sun, the moon would know nothing but darkness. And every morning, the light and joy you greeted him with was an everlasting reminder that he found his other half.

Glancing back to the stars dotting the sky, hardly visible from the moon’s brilliance, Gojo’s eyes twinkled. “The moon congratulated me.”

Arms slipping around his waist, you questioned in a curious murmur. “For what?”

His head tilted back to gain a better look at you. “Somehow convincing you to marry me.” He smiled sleepily, leaning down to capture your lips again. Kissing you would never grow tiresome, it was the action he looked forward to most every morning and every night. It was like he would die without it.

“Well the sun knows it didn’t take much convincing.” You took both of his hands in yours and tugged him back to the door’s entrance. “But maybe I can ask it again in the morning.”

“Just to make sure?” He smiled.

Falling back into the king-sized bed, you sighed innocently, beckoning Gojo to follow you. Once he did, you cuddled up next to him. One hand on his cheek, you pressed your lips against his.

“The sun makes no mistakes, my love,” you mumbled against his lips.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jujustu kaisen #gojo x reader

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wstviewvidal · 19 days ago

Text

A414- w. maximoff

summary: they always say to never fall for a coworker, but what if it’s mutual?

pairing: teacher!r x teacher!wanda maximoff

a/n: i actually haven’t written in a while guys so…

the hallway seemed bigger the day you first arrived. the walls were bleak and wet with a new coat of white paint, but today’s hallways are filled with back to school bulletin boards and club flyers.

a small sigh escapes your lips as you unlock the classroom door, A414. a small shiver creeps up your spine as you look over your classroom— the string lights hung from the ceiling and the red bean bags in the far corner of the room remind you of how new you are to the teaching profession.

“overthinking again?” a voice teases from behind you.

you’re met with a teasing smile and a fresh cup of coffee— wanda.

you roll your eyes playfully and open the door wider for her to enter. she slides past you and you note how she scans over your room with a hint of a smile.

“this year will be better than last year,” she turns to face you, her hair moving softly as she does a 180, “i promise.”

the previous school year was your first year teaching, and by no means was it easy. you had grown close to wanda in the few months she taught next door to you.

she offered words of wisdom and the occasional breakfast sandwich she made for you prior to arriving on campus.

you let out an exasperated sigh, “i just don’t want to get pink slipped, you know?”

you sit at your chair and lay your head in your hands, “i was on the verge of getting pink slipped last year, im sure.”

wanda watches your defeated form with a small pout on your face, “your first year is always the roughest.”

she walks over to where you’re sitting and places a comforting hand on your shoulder, “i’ll be right next door to you, okay? i won’t let anything happen.”

and there it is— the part of you’d been dreading but also anticipating for the past three months. wanda’s affection.

you smile as you lift your head from your hands, a pink hue on your cheeks as you look up at her.

“thank you, ms. maximoff,” you tease.

she scrunches her nose, a grin on her lips as you call her that, “dummy.”

wanda leaves shortly after that and you’re left to review your upcoming lesson for the start of school next week. you can still feel the warmth of her hand on your right shoulder, and you can still smell the faint scent of her perfume left behind.

hours pass and before you know it, it’s lunch time. rolling away from your desk, you grab your bag and prepare to head to your car.

“leaving me already?” you can hear from your door way.

wanda is leaned against the door frame, arms crossed and a playful pout on her lips, “thought you knew better than to leave without saying goodbye.”

your stomach does flips at the flirty remark, and your face does nothing to hide the blush on creeping up your face.

clearing your throat, “i’m just off to lunch, maximoff. join me?” you smile sweetly at her, tilting your head to the side the slightest bit.

she takes in your appearance and lets out a soft chuckle, “i’ll drive.”

the drive to grab a quick bite was comfortingly quiet. wanda’s music played in the background while she hummed along.

you two end up at a drive thru, the same one you two had been to on frequent occasion during the school year.

you face wanda to let her know your order, but are interrupted by her already ordering for you. you stare at her side profile for the briefest of moments, admiring how beautiful she looks doing such a mundane task.

you internally groan, hating yourself for falling for a co-worker. your co worker who you’re sure wants nothing to do with you outside of work.

you let out a soft laugh as wanda parks into that parking spot— the same one you two always parked in during last school year.

wanda smiles and turns the ignition off, “you love this spot.”

“no, you love this spot,” you respond, inserting the straws in the to go cups.

she laughs, shaking her head, “it has the best view of the field.”

you scoff, looking at her with an unamused look, “this is a dry patch of grass.”

“but it’s our patchy grass field.”

you glance at her— she’s not even looking at you. she’s sat there just sipping her drink as if she didn’t just say something that made your heart hurt in the nicest way.

you sit in the passenger seat of her suv, legs crossed over the other as you eat your fries.

she peels the wrapper off her sandwich and glances over at you, “so, what are your goals for this year?”

you sit and think for a second, shrugging your shoulders, “not cry in the storage closet.”

she snorts, “low bar.”

“fine, i guess not cry in front of you again.”

that day had to have been one of the lowest in your life. the semester was close to ending and your students hadn’t been getting the best grades on their tests. part of you wondered if it had anything to do with your teaching.

wanda consoled you with ease and offered words of advice that day— and things shifted after that.

she raises her cup to that, “that sounds like a real goal to me.”

there’s a brief pause, just the sounds of the wrappers crinkling and the beat of the music wanda had queued.

“you know,” she begins, “you’re way too hard on yourself.”

you glance at her, eyes narrowed as you watch her, “says the girl who rewrote her syllabus three times.”

“that’s different,” she wipes her hands on a napkin and cleans her area, “i know im good at this. you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not terrible.”

you momentarily freeze. you know she’s right, but you can’t help but try to find some lie in her truth.

wanda smiles at you with a fond expression, “your students love you— i can see it in how they treat you.”

you blink, caught off guard, “stalking me now?”

she rolls her eyes, “you were the teacher with the most gifts during teacher appreciation week. not even i have received that many in the eight years i’ve been teaching.”

you laugh and something in your chest flutters. you don’t realize you’re staring at her until your eyes meet. her nose scrunches and she tilts her head to the side. her mouth opens to say something— she doesn’t.

instead, she brushes a crumb off the sleeve of your top.

“messy eater.”

she sits back and fixes her hair, as if nothing happened in those few seconds.

you try not to freeze— to overthink the way her fingers lingered for just a moment too long.

the lunch break ends and just before you two go into your respective classrooms, she turns to you, “if you do end up crying again..”

“yeah?” you say softly.

“i placed a box of tissues in your bottom drawer. use as needed.”

you smile at the thought, then furrow your brows, “wait, that’s your supportive gesture?”

she smiles teasingly at you just before she walks back into her classroom, “you’ll do great this year, kid.”

#wanda maximoff #noe writes #wanda maximoff x r #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #elizabeth olsen #wanda mcu #wanda maximoff fanfic #wanda x you #wanda x reader #wanda marvel #wandavision #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda maximov #wanda maximoff x you

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revelboo · 12 days ago

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I hope this finds you well, I just got my wisdom teeth removed and I can't help but wonder how any of the medics would react to that. Have a nice day, I'm going to go and take some ibuprofen.

Oh, yeah I remember that and it’s no fun

Care

TFP Ratchet x Reader

• Palm sliding under your head to lift it slightly, he eases a pillow under you. Fussing over you even though you’d told him you were fine. Repeatedly. And he’s surlier than normal. You suspect part of it is worry and a most of it is that you went to someone else for healthcare. It’s not like he’s a dentist, though and even if he’s been brushing up on human medicine, you’d rather he didn’t try to play dentist.

• Venting as he passes the scanner over you again, you make a halfhearted attempt to swat him away. And maybe scanning you every joor is excessive, but he doesn’t know this human who removed your wisdom teeth. Doesn’t know their medical background, their education. You hadn’t even let him tag along to watch the procedure in his holomatter avatar. He’s had to sit in the lobby and wait while the other humans surreptitiously avoided him. Until they’d wheeled you out in a wheelchair, loopy on medication. You’d giggled at nothing most of the ride back to the base, told him that you loved him, accidentally spit out some of the packing they’d put in your mouth, cried for a breem thinking it was a tooth, screamed about a cute dog, and eventually fell asleep in his alt mode.

• Watching him squint at the scanner’s screen like he thinks something’s changed since he checked you an hour ago, you curl on your side, jaw sore down in the bone and you’re exhausted, the meds wearing off to leave you uncomfortable. “I’m cold,” you say and he clears his vents with a little huff, but mass shifts, hauling himself up on the Medbay berth. Letting you wiggle closer to snuggle into his warmth. “Thanks.”

• “You said you loved me,” he rumbles, servos brushing your hair from your face and you catch his hand, pulling it down to you. Examining his servos, his joints, instead of meeting his optics as you make a soft noise to acknowledge his words. “You also drooled all over my upholstery and had a fit over a dog you saw in another car,” he adds and you snort, then wince with a soft ‘ow.’

• “Did you say it back?” You ask, unable to look him in the face. Idly manipulating his servos, amazed at how similar his hand is to yours. Alien, but weirdly the same. What are the odds? Same number of digits, same shape. It’s a coincidence, but it’s so weird. And he clears his vents to stir your hair. “Did you?”

• “Did you mean it?” He counters, voice gruff and embarrassed and you finally look up at him, those eyes snaring him like they always do. Frozen watching you press your mouth against the center of his palm. ‘You know I do,’ you whisper and he leans down until his chevron brushes your forehead. “I love you, too. Even if you drooled on me,” he says solemnly and you laugh with a little pained groan as he tucks you close against him.

#transformers x reader #ratchet x reader #tfp ratchet

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darkmatilda · 2 months ago

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𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which one spencer just wants to have his quiet moment with a book and coffee in the morning, but the universe (or more specifically a certain someone) demands his heroics instead.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, ARACHNOPHOBIA! (talk about spiders but no real spiders lol)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.9k

𝐚/𝐧: request marathon masterlist

Spencer’s day started off very well.

He woke up feeling well-rested, so the coffee he grabbed on the way was more for the taste than for the guarantee he’d survive the next few hours. Even his step was somewhat lighter when he arrived at work among the first, only running into Derek and Rossi, who were engrossed in a discussion about cigars.

"JJ told me she might be a little late," he informed them, taking a seat nearby and placing a large white mug on the table.

His friend had indeed called him about fifteen minutes earlier, asking him to pass the message along. Henry had suddenly fallen ill, and she had to find someone to watch him at the last minute. The two he addressed didn’t even react, too deeply immersed in the universe of cigars to concern themselves with the outside world.

Rossi was just raising one hand and leaning forward slightly, as if about to deliver a piece of life wisdom recorded somewhere on ancient scrolls. Morgan, listening intently, barely blinked, as if he feared missing some secret hidden in Rossi’s every move.

Reid rolled his eyes.

If he tackled a crossword puzzle with that much dedication, he’d be greeted with a cheerful morning, nerd.

He decided to take advantage of having arrived early and bury his nose in a book for a while, but before he could pull it out of his bag, his phone rang.

He reached for it, briefly thinking it might be JJ again, calling to say she’d be even later. But the number flashing on the screen wasn’t hers — it wasn’t even saved in his contacts — yet he recognized it.In fact, very few numbers in his phone were saved, and when they were, it was formally, with full names. Most of them, though, he simply remembered.

Just like this one.

He looked at the phone and sighed.

There was a good chance that, right at that very moment, his good morning was coming to an end…

“Come here,” ranged out a sharp order, just as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“What?”

Had they agreed to meet and he’d forgotten? Maybe she’d told him she would pass him some results that day. Still, if it was work-related, there was no way he would have forgotten. Which left him more than confused.

“To my lab,” the woman said, her words coming out through clenched teeth. She let out a breath through her nose and, still with a strange tension in her voice, added, “You need to come here.”

He stayed silent for a moment, pushing his lips out in thought.The coffee and the book sitting in front of him were practically looking at him with puppy eyes, and who was he to abandon them for someone who was probably about to use him for something weird?

Maybe she actually needed a test subject.

Either way, he didn’t really feel like going anywhere just because she said so.

“S-sorry, can’t hear you, bad–conne-ction,” he muttered into the phone, cupping his hand slightly over his mouth to create that robotic, crackling effect. “S-ome interference…”

“You fucking asshole,” she hissed so sharply he felt a shiver run down his spine. “I want you here in five minutes. If I’m still alive by then. It’s an emergency, Reid.”

After those words, she simply hung up, leaving him staring at his phone. Emergency, she’d said. And she had sounded like something serious had actually happened.Spencer cast one last, longing look at his book and coffee, then rose from his seat.

Rossi and Morgan didn’t even notice.

On the way to her lab, he wondered what could have possibly happened so early in the morning. A few potential theories crossed his mind, but none of them seemed very likely.

Besides, if it had been something really dangerous, she probably wouldn’t have been able to reach for her phone. And even if she could, he would have been the last person she’d call. She’d rather be rescued by Strauss riding a white horse than by him.

He assumed she was lying to get him there. For some reason.

He pushed the door open with a sigh and...stopped dead in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. His eyebrows raised. The woman shot him an angry look, suggesting she had expected him earlier. He might have been scared, if not for the fact that she was standing on the counter, both feet planted firmly, looking down at it as if it were her boat in a vast sea.

"Kill it,” she said.

Spencer, still confused, looked around. The lab was empty, and perfectly safe.

"IIs there a serial killer hiding here or something?”

“Worse,” she replied, shaking her head seriously. He continued to stare at her, more than skeptical, at which point she sighed in irritation. “Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind. I didn’t just jump on this damn table for sport.”

“Well, there are different kinds of hobbies. Not everyone has to hit the gym...”

"There’s a spider,” she interrupted, pointing at a spot on the floor. She took a breath as if preparing to recount a traumatic story. “I dropped something, I bent down to pick it up, and it ran across my hand.”

Watching her shudder, Spencer nodded in understanding, giving her exactly six seconds of silence for her dramatic performance.

He then snorted.

“And this is the emergency you called me for?�� he asked with pity.

She crossed her arms over her chest, which, in its own way, looked impressive but mostly funny, considering she was still standing on the counter. Her posture remained perfectly straight and proud; he had to give her credit for that.

“Yes, this is the emergency because this…pest is preventing me from doing my job. And my job is connected to your job. You know, for your own benefit, just kill it.”

They stared at each other in prolonged silence. She, clearly frustrated by his lack of response. Reid… unexpectedly finding a source of amusement in the whole situation. After all, it was rare for him to be the one on the mocking side of their interactions. What a wonderful feeling.

So he decided to have a little more fun, standing in a relaxed, unhurried posture.

"How big was it?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

She rolled her eyes upward, at the ceiling not that far from her head.

“It’s important that it was there. Not important how big.” After these words, her thoughts wandered for a moment, blinking. “Probably the only time anyone has said that seriously, actually meaning it.”

Spencer couldn't understand why anyone would have never said something like that about spiders before. He shrugged, continuing.

"What color was it?”

"For heaven's sake…”

"Black, brown, gray…”

“Black!”

“Was its abdomen more round or elongated?”

“WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING—”

“I’m trying to identify what species it is,” he spread his arms. “I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

She took in a deep breath, frustrated.

“Why are you acting like catching a spider is harder than catching an unsub?”

“Unsubs are usually a little bigger,” he pointed out, using two fingers to indicate the size of a typical spider that sometimes makes its way into a house. “It’s easier to, you know, notice them…”

“Oh, why did I have to call you?” she asked, burying her hands in her hair in regret over that decision, her voice dripping with exhaustion from the situation.

Unable to stop a satisfied grin, Spencer shrugged.

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” he admitted.

She stood there for a moment, hands furiously on her hips, her eyes gleaming with the question of whether he was ever actually going to do anything. He held her fiery gaze for a second, before sighing in surrender. His coffee and book were still waiting for him, and since he'd decided to take on this side quest, he might as well deal with it quickly.

Feeling her watchful eyes on him, he moved toward the spot she had pointed to as the monster's lair. He leaned over, trying to spot it in the shadow cast by one of the cabinets. After a moment of analysis… he scoffed.

He picked up the black, hairy thing and turned toward her.

At the sight, she instinctively took a step back, nearly falling off the counter. She spread her arms out to the sides to keep her balance.

"How can you touch that…”

“It’s not a spider,” he interrupted, holding out his open hand. His eyebrows were raised with a mix of genuine amusement and sarcastic mockery. “It’s an eyelash.”

He took a step toward the counter where she stood so she could take a look. With an unreadable expression, but her jaw slightly clenched, she leaned in to get a closer look, still not coming down from the counter. She did it slowly and carefully, as if suspecting he might be joking and actually holding a spider.

Her jaw tightened further as she realized.

“It’s an eyelash,” she confirmed with a barely noticeable nod. “A fake eyelash. It must have fallen out of one of my team members.”

She avoided his gaze, which Spencer deeply regretted. After a minute of silence, without a word, he extended his hand toward her, offering to finally help her down to the ground. Only then did she catch his eye — and he deliberately hid his smirk for a moment. Slowly, she accepted his offer, placing her hand in his, and grabbed onto his elbow as her other foot touched down, still seeking her full balance.

Before she could say anything, Spencer tilted his head slightly to the side.

"So the fake eyelash ran across your hand?” he asked.

She yanked her hand out of his grip.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“What an irrefutable argument.”

"That was the last time I ever asked you for help with anything. The real spider probably escaped while you were interrogating me about what it had for dinner!”

He actually gaped at her, impressed she still managed to turn this whole situation against him. At that, the corners of her mouth curled up smugly.

He shook his head.

“Fine. And that was the last time I saved you from a spider.”

"Fine!”

"Your fine was completely unnecessary.”

“I’m not giving you the last word.”

“Oh, babe, how could you give back something you never had?”

Her scoff sounded louder in his ears than it should have, and combined with the mischievous glint in her eyes—and the fact that her face wasn't exactly far from his—it made swallowing feel like a real task by the time he finally turned to leave.

"You’re even later than I am,” JJ noted when he finally returned, eyeing him with surprise.

It pulled him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t caught all of what she said, but he figured she was commenting on the fact that he’d been the lastto show up — the rest of the team was already there.

He scratched at his forehead, fighting off a small, traitorous smile that had decided to creep onto his mouth without asking for permission. Or consent. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I had a…minor emergency.”

He grabbed his abandoned coffee cup. His smile disappeared as fast as it had come. The coffee was stone cold.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #diva reader ♱#diva reader marathon 💄#spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid

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onsomenewsht · 5 months ago

Text

I've got peace and I've got love

About a surprise for your birthday even if you hate your birthday

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: +1k

》 for anyone who needs to feel celebrated

Birthdays are a complicated matter.

You don’t hate them, no one really does.

People should be loved loudly, their mere presence on Earth should be reason enough to celebrate them.

You care about your family and your friends, baking cakes and inflating balloons and dressing up for a themed party are not a problem - you’re the first one to arrive and the last to leave.

Celebrating your birthday though? Hell, no.

For most, it doesn’t make sense.

A day in a whole year when anyone is entitled to be under the biggest spotlight, getting gifts and all the wanted attention. Yet, you’d rather hide in the remotest corner of the planet than hear someone sing “happy birthday” to you.

Despite the insistence and the repeated attempts over the years, your mother has finally accepted that you don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Your best friend has accepted that you’ll avoid a surprise party like the plague. Everyone who knows you, knows it.

Alexia included.

At least she knows now, after last year.

The two of you got together just shy of three months before your birthday. Bless her good heart, she thought a surprise ambush might be appreciated.

She’s not going to make the same mistake twice in a row, but she wants to do something.

“You told me she hates birthdays”, Alba points out, a bit confused, sipping her coffee as if her sister isn’t in the middle of an inconclusive rant.

“She hates her own, not birthdays in general”

“I still think you should just buy her a nice present, wish her a happy birthday and move on like she asked you to do”

“It seems so, I don’t know, incomplete?”, the blonde tries to explain, “How do I make sure I show how much I appreciate her if I can’t celebrate her?”

“You better celebrate her every day, not just on the birthday–”

“I do it, idiot!”

Alexia is quick in her jab, but thankfully the younger girl is used to her attitude by now.

Cup saved from any spill, Alba barely has enough patience to give another, simple pearl of wisdom, “So do it like any other day, but, you know, on her birthday”

It’s good advice, even if she’d never admit it.

Alexia spends most of her day off plotting, her free time during the week before your birthday completely taken over by careful planning and prep.

You can tell immediately that something is off, but you let it slide because she’s cute when she’s on a mission, and you don’t really want to spoil her fun.

At the stroke of midnight, like a mischievous fairy godmother, your best friend calls you to sing a personalized rendition of “Die, Die My Darling” like every year since you’re sixteen and think you’re oh-so-funny.

Your mother sends a present from the entire family, along with a picture of a cake you’re not going to eat but you’re glad they’ll enjoy in your name. Alexia’s mother and sister send flowers, and you have to reassure your girlfriend that it’s a genuinely appreciated sentiment.

Said girlfriend kisses you for every year spent on this Earth and then moves on, as if nothing happened. As if nothing is going to happen.

It’s suspicious, really suspicious.

The day passes by without any major incident.

At work just a few colleagues know it’s your birthday, they politely hand you a card with bad jokes written all over it. You mindlessly send the same three reactions at every text message, nonetheless appreciating everyone who remembered and took the time to wish you a happy birthday. A kind waitress adds a slice of dessert as you pick up take-out at your favourite Mexican place, probably prompted by Alexia when she ordered over the phone and sent you to the restaurant.

Guard down, you open the door to your girlfriend’s apartment, still not connecting the dots.

Thank the goddesses and gods above for that nice waitress, because what you find inside is definitely a first and the food wouldn’t have survived the surprise if not for the well-secured package.

Soft music - that, to your shame, you only realise too late is your favorite record - resonates through the room, which is filled with dozens of floating balloons reaching the ceiling.

You take a few tentative steps inside, noticing pictures carefully tied to each string with numbers scribbled on the corners.

Snaps of the past year, memories so simple in their significance you sometimes fail to give a good measure of. Dinners out with friends, an unflattering portrait of an early morning during the summer, the first time holding your niece. You linger over a photo of you and Alexia talking on Mapi’s couch, neither of you looking at the camera, as it’s clear you had eyes only for each other.

“I’ve never seen this one”, you whisper, emotion thick in your voice.

Your girlfriend is leaning on the further wall of the entrance, a confident stance failing to hide a note of nervousness. The way her hands are buried in the pocket of old sweatpants and her eyes are studying every single macro-expression shifting on your face are a clear tell for you.

"Ingrid sent it to me some times ago”

“It’s beautiful”

“It is”, she agrees easily, still not daring to come closer.

Alexia’s gaze drops as soon as you notice there’s a handwritten message on the back of every photo, her cheeks flushing slightly.

You take the time to read each one attentively, smiling at her thoughtfulness and the care she put into all the moments chosen. People and occasions that hold meaning for you, no matter how big or small. You feel love in every single one.

“You put a lot of thought into this”

“I had to sacrifice a couple of good ones”, she mumbles, almost upset with herself.

The commitment to matching the number of pictures to your age it’s impressive, you have to admit.

A burst of laughter fills the entire apartment, Alexia finally meeting your gaze and taking in how moved you’re by her surprise.

The fear of overstepping had been like an annoying voice, whispering in her ear as she scribbled on the back of the photos or tried to wrap gifts without running out of patience or tape.

“Do you like it?”, her doubt creeping in her voice.

“I don’t hate it”, you joke, still eager to ease her worries, “No one has ever put this much thought or effort into– I don’t know, celebrating my birthday, I guess”

“You deserve to be celebrated”

You take the few steps to fill the gap between you two, food forgotten somewhere behind, and throw yourself into her already open arms.

“Thank you”

“I love you”

The kiss you share is a clear enough answer. Sometimes, it’s not even necessary to spell it out - action speaks louder than words, they say. She holds you for as long as you need, music still playing softly in the background.

“Is this a good moment to mention that you have to open as many presents as you have in years?”

“Alexia!”

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso #woso fanfics #my wo(rd)so #woso community #for all the birthday girls who hate their birthday #i know its rushed and bad #its my own birthday present #writing more just because

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songbirdseung · 27 days ago

Text

𝑺𝑬𝑳𝑭 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑹𝑶𝑳 he knew what he was getting into, especially after knowing you. so, why did he tease you pass the pushing point?

you'd think knowing someone to where you know their breaking point, what irks them, or what's it going to take for them to lose all control would stop them from acting a certain way or do things to avoid casualties.

but why did none of that wisdom and knowledge on you didn't deter jake from pissing you off and doing too much?

simple. he can be a jackass and also because he knows you could never be mad at him, especially with that little crush you have on him, that little crush you think he didn't know about.

“Why are you so prissy? Lighten up, Y/N,” he teased, smirk painted across his lips like he was born to annoy you.

If anyone else said that, you'd take offense. But when it came from him, delivered with that smug glint in his eyes and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, you knew better. He didn’t mean it. Not really.

Still, you groaned, clutching your stomach, pain blooming with every movement. “Shut up. You’re not helping.”

You wanted to slap that smirk off his face. Or maybe kiss it. You weren’t sure anymore. Either way, the bastard wasn’t fazed.

Jake had made it his personal life mission to get under your skin the moment he became your best friend. And now that he knew you liked him? He dialed it up tenfold.

“Oh please,” he said, leaning against the edge of your desk like he lived there. “You love me, don’t you, pretty baby?”

Pretty baby.

What the hell?

That was new. Even for him. But somehow… it didn’t feel foreign. It rolled off his tongue like it had always belonged to you. Like you were made to be called that.

Your breath hitched, and all your smartass comebacks died right there in your throat. Pink flooded your cheeks like a slow burn, crawling down your neck, betraying you in full.

Jake saw it. Oh, he loved seeing it.

“What? Something wrong, my pretty baby?” he purred, voice softer now, deeper, warmer. His hand reached out, grazing your cheek. His thumb brushed along your flushed skin before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he did it every day.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning every inch of your expression, memorizing the way you looked at him right then wide-eyed, breathless, wrecked from a simple nickname.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered.

You were gone. Done for. There were no thoughts left. No words. Your vocabulary? Gone. Stolen by the boy now inches away from you with a hand on your face and the most sincere look in his eyes.

You couldn’t tell if this was another one of his games or something more. Something real.

Because someone like Jake who was bright, warm, magnetic... how could he possibly fall for someone like you? It didn’t make sense. Not in your head.

But in his? It made perfect sense.

He watched your reactions, how your eyes dilated whenever you looked at him, how your voice softens when you spoke to him, your lips turning upright as you saw him walk in the room.

It was so different from the first few months of adjusting him to your life. You were so mean, but in a lighthearted friendly way, you would narrow your eyes at him and mock him all the time. But now, you toned it down and he sees the look of pure adoration in your eyes.

You were awfully horrible at hiding your feelings, which made it ten times easier for him.

He leaned in, lips just barely hovering near your temple, his voice dropping into a breathless murmur. “It’s a shame,” he whispered, “you can’t use your pretty little head to figure out that I love you too.”

You blinked, once or twice, maybe more but that doesn't matter, so you just laugh it off.

It wasn’t loud, it was small, breathy, a little bitter. Because your chest was tight and your throat was dry and your brain was trying to convince you this was just Jake doing what he always did, teasing.

“You’re such an ass” you whispered, trying to smile, trying to pull away but he didn’t let you. His thumb lingered on your cheek, soft and grounding.

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’m serious.”

“Sure you are,” you muttered, reaching for a cushion or something to throw at him, to break the moment before it became something dangerous. Something real.

But he caught your wrist, held it gently in his hand. “Y/N.”

You hated the way your name sounded in his mouth. Hated how it made your stomach twist and your heart do that dumb little jump. Hated how even now, even when you knew he was probably messing with you. “You don’t get to say that,” you said quietly. “Not if you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation.

You stared at him, searching his face for a crack. The classic smirk, maybe that usual glint of mischief in his eyes but there was none.

Just Jake. Calm. Sure. Focused, like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to believe him.

He stepped closer, slowly, like he was afraid you might run. “You think I’d joke about loving you?”

You looked away, trying to laugh it off again. “Jake, you joke about everything. You literally called me prissy ten minutes ago.”

“I joke because it’s the only way I could say anything without you shutting me down.” His tone was different now. Lower. Honest. “You’d never believe me if I said it seriously. Not until you heard it through a joke first.”

You were quiet. Meanwhile, he wasn’t done.

“I watched you fall for me,” he said. “Piece by piece. I saw it. The way you started softening. The way you look at me now like I’m the center of the damn universe.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re so full of me.” He grinned, but it was gentler this time. “I didn’t think someone like you could ever feel this way about someone like me. But once I knew, I couldn’t let it go. I wouldn’t.”

He stepped closer again, crowding your space now, his hand still on your cheek, the other one dropping your wrist just to wrap gently around your waist.

“I’m not playing with you,” he said. “Not this time.”

You hated how badly you wanted to believe him.

“You’re confusing,” you whispered. “You mess with me so much I can’t tell what’s real.”

Jake leaned in, lips brushing your temple, voice barely audible.

“This. Right now. You. Me. It’s real.”

The silence that fell between you two was electric. It wasn't that awkward silent type. It was the kind of silence where your heart was the loudest thing in the room. Where every second stretched thin and taut like a string about to snap. You were staring at him, really looking. And Jake... God, he just stood there and let you.

Let you take your time. Let you search his eyes like you were waiting for the moment he cracked and said “just kidding.”

He just stood there, inches away, fingers resting on your waist, warm and steady, eyes softer than you’d ever seen. The kind of soft that made you ache.

You didn’t know when your hand lifted to his chest, fingers gently curling into the fabric of his shirt like muscle memory. Your body moved instinctively, drawn in by the gravity of him. Your forehead tilted closer, breath mingling with his.

You got so close that your nose brushed his.

His lips parted and your eyes flicked down to his mouth briefly, fleeting and just when his lips twitched into the beginning of a smile because he knew that's when you pulled back.

You did it not to tease him, you didn't lean back that far away, just enough to put an inch of air between you. Just enough to test him.

To see if he was still playing, to see if he’d chase you.

And oh, he did.

Jake didn’t hesitate. Not even a second.

The moment he realized what you were doing, he surged forward, one hand threading into your hair, the other pulling you flush against him as he kissed you.

You gasped against him, fingers fisting his shirt, knees threatening to give out. Jake’s lips moved with purpose, like he’d been waiting forever. Like he was done playing. Done pretending.

Your back hit the wall behind you, and he didn’t even break the kiss, just groaned low against your lips like he’d been holding that sound in for too long.

And when he finally, finally pulled back, barely an inch and his voice was hoarse, breath ragged.

“I’ve been dying to do that.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What took you so long?”

His eyes burned into yours. “You did.”

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #engene #enha #enhypen x reader #jake #jake enhypen #jake sim #jake sim imagines #jake sim x reader #jake x reader #jaeyun #sim jake #enhypen jake #enha jake #sim jaeyun

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moonlight-joy · 6 months ago

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The Queen’s Flame

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: Your marriage to Daemon Targaryen reshaped Westeros, bringing balance and stability to his fiery nature and securing his place as King. While Daemon commanded respect with dragonfire and ambition, you proved that strength lay in unyielding resolve, diplomacy, and loyalty. Together, you forged a reign that united the Targaryens and established a legacy of power, love, and stability, remembered as one of the most celebrated in the realm’s history.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

Your marriage to Daemon Targaryen was a union that altered the course of Westeros forever. Daemon, the fiery and unpredictable Rogue Prince, had found in you not a dragonrider but a partner of unshakable resolve and intelligence. Where others bent to his will or recoiled from his tempestuous nature, you stood firm, becoming his equal and complement. Though you had no dragon of your own, your influence was undeniable, and together, you proved that strength could take many forms.

King Viserys, observing the balance you brought to Daemon’s life and rule, made a decision that shocked the realm. Against the expectations of the court, he reaffirmed Daemon as his heir, declaring that the line of succession would pass through Daemon and you. The announcement sent ripples through Westeros, and while some welcomed it, others bristled at the idea of the once-reckless prince taking the throne. Yet, your partnership with Daemon began to silence even the harshest critics, cementing your place as the future queen.

The day of the proclamation was one of grandeur and tension. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was filled with lords and ladies, their whispers echoing as they speculated on the King’s intentions. You stood beside Daemon, his hand resting at the small of your back, a subtle but powerful gesture of support. His violet eyes scanned the room, and a faint smirk played on his lips as though he found their unease amusing.

When Viserys rose from the Iron Throne, silence swept through the hall. His voice, steady and commanding, carried to every corner of the chamber. “The realm has faced its share of challenges,” he began, “and it is my duty as your king to ensure its stability for generations to come.” His gaze swept the gathered nobles before settling on you and Daemon. “My brother, Daemon Targaryen, has long been my chosen heir. Though some have doubted his worthiness, I have seen his loyalty, his strength, and his commitment to this realm. With his marriage to Lady Y/N, their union has brought wisdom, balance, and stability to House Targaryen.”

Daemon’s hand on your back tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment of his pride in this moment. “Today,” Viserys continued, “I reaffirm my decision. Daemon Targaryen shall remain my heir, and his line will inherit the Iron Throne.”

The hall erupted into murmurs. Some lords exchanged wary glances, while others bowed their heads in reluctant acceptance. You stood tall, your composure unshaken. As the lords began pledging their fealty, Daemon leaned close to you, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Let them whisper,” he said, his tone edged with amusement. “Soon, they will kneel.”

Though you lacked a dragon of your own, your presence at Daemon’s side was a power unto itself. In a realm where fire and blood commanded respect, you proved that strength could be found in diplomacy, intelligence, and unyielding resolve. Daemon often teased you about it. “How is it,” he asked one evening as you walked together along the battlements of the Red Keep, “that you, without a dragon, command more fear and respect than half the lords in Westeros?”

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t need a dragon to remind them of my strength.”

He laughed, pulling you close. “And perhaps that’s why you’re the only one who can tame me.”

Your bond with Daemon became the foundation of a renewed Targaryen dynasty. While he ruled the skies with Caraxes, you ruled the court, weaving alliances and extinguishing rivalries with quiet precision. Together, you presented an image of unity and strength that silenced dissent and inspired loyalty. The smallfolk began to speak of your influence in reverent tones, calling you the “Queen of the Hearth,” a symbol of fire’s enduring warmth rather than its destructive force.

Even Rhaenyra, once her uncle’s closest confidante, struggled with the changes your presence brought. Though she respected you, the bond she had shared with Daemon had been replaced by your unshakable connection. During one rare moment of shared company, she raised her goblet with a faint smile. “It seems you’ve managed what none of us could,” she said, her tone half admiring, half begrudging. “You’ve turned my uncle into a man of reason.”

You returned her smile, sensing the truth behind her words. “He has always had the capacity for reason,” you replied lightly. “He just needed the right cause.”

Daemon smirked, raising his goblet. “Or the right woman.”

As the years passed, your partnership with Daemon became the cornerstone of House Targaryen’s stability. When King Viserys’ health began to decline, the court braced for Daemon’s ascension. By then, even the most reluctant lords had come to accept the inevitability of his rule—and with you by his side, the realm began to anticipate a golden age.

On the day of Viserys’ passing, the court gathered to witness Daemon’s coronation. Standing before the Iron Throne, his hand in yours, Daemon addressed the realm. “We are the blood of the dragon,” he declared, his voice resonating through the Great Hall. “And together, we will forge a future worthy of our ancestors.”

As the lords and ladies knelt before their new king and queen, Daemon turned to you, his violet eyes burning with the intensity that had drawn you to him from the start. “You are my crown, my love,” he murmured. “And with you, we will rule the world.”

Though you lacked dragonfire, you proved that strength was not born of fire alone but forged in love, loyalty, and resolve. Together, you and Daemon reshaped the fate of Westeros, your reign remembered as a time when the blood of the dragon burned bright and unbroken. Your legacy, built on unity and ambition, became one of the most celebrated in the realm’s history—a testament to the power of fire tempered by unyielding strength.

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#daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x you #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x reader #hotd daemon #daemon targaryen #daemon x y/n #hotd x you #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #house targaryen #house of the dragon

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gav-san · 17 days ago

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Pipe and Prejudice

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Oneshot Length: 3.5 K+

Pirate law says don’t screw the crew. Beckman says: Not unless it’s him.

To gently encourage @jintaka-hane to never stop writing Benn Beckman.

Benn Beckman doesn’t walk. He arrives.

Every step is deliberate. Every movement measured, like he has all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a second of it. He’s tall in the way that makes people straighten their backs when he passes, broad-shouldered and lazy-limbed like a wolf that hasn’t bothered to hunt yet. Everything eventually comes to him.

Salt-kissed hair falls in careless waves, streaked with silver at the temples in a way that shouldn’t be hot, but absolutely is. There’s stubble along his jaw, the kind that begs to be scraped against skin. His voice, when he actually chooses to use it, is low and smooth with just enough gravel to feel like sin you can’t afford but want anyway.

He doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t need to.

One glance from under those heavy-lidded eyes and people either shut up, shape up, or rethink their life choices. He carries himself with the quiet confidence of a man who could kill you with a look. He’d rather ruin you slowly though. A hand on your throat. A smirk at the edge of his mouth like the punchline to a private joke.

And that damn cigarette?

Always within reach. Cradled between his fingers or tucked into his mouth like a warning. He lights it lazily, exhales like he’s bored, and watches you like he’s anything but.

His lips are always slightly curled, like he knows something you don’t.

Spoiler: he does.

And his hands. Scarred, steady, infuriatingly controlled. The kind you imagine gripping the wheel of a ship or the curve of a thigh with the exact same precision.

Benn Beckman isn’t loud. He’s just there. In your space. In your thoughts. In your blood.

And if he ever really touched you?

You’re pretty sure the ship would burn down from sheer atmospheric tension. He wouldn’t even flinch.

He’s so hot. And it’s starting to make you a little pent up.

Okay. A lot.

Especially since, you know, it hasn’t exactly been easy being part of his crew.

And that hypocritical asshole Benn Beckman?

Still has the nerve to act like you’re the one who can’t behave.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s doing it on purpose.

You know it. The crew knows it. Even the damn birds flying overhead know it.

Ever since you glanced, and yes, it was just a glance, thank you very much, at that long-legged mercenary in port (the one with the smirk and the suspiciously clean fingernails), Benn Beckman has made it his life’s mission to personally torpedo every attempt at affection in a fifty-nautical-mile radius.

Which would be fine. You’d respect the effort.

If it weren’t his rule. And if you weren’t quietly nursing the unspoken, increasingly loud need to climb him like a tree.

But he said:

No crew hookups, he said.

No emotions. No entanglements. We’re pirates, not a soap opera.

No babies (Bold, and underlined three times)

He said it with all the smug wisdom of a man who could bed half the port with nothing but a smirk and a well-timed flash of abs. At the time, you thought it was pretty reasonable.

And yet, months later, you’re the one dry as the Calm Belt and twice as volatile.

It started subtly.

A look. A step. That pipe leaned too casually on his shoulder as he just so happened to be standing between you and a promising flirtation. Then, almost lazily, he tapped the ash right onto the poor man’s sleeve.

No apology. Just a low, amused hum and a look that said, “Oops. My bad. You were in the way.”

And then it escalated.

You tried to sneak off during docking to meet that handsome tanner with the kind hands and the stupid, endearing laugh. Benn suddenly developed a deep, burning interest in knife-throwing drills. Right outside the exact door you needed to slip through.

You tried a drink with a sailor from another crew. Benn sat beside you without invitation, then proceeded to clean his pipe with the slow, deliberate menace of a man gutting a fish. Somehow, soot ended up directly on your date’s collar. The man excused himself immediately. You didn’t even get a sip.

You flirted with a charming rogue who wrote you a song. Benn whistled the same tune behind him. Off-key. Loud. Deeply disrespectful. The poor man gave up halfway through the second verse and muttered that he “wasn’t feeling it anymore.”

You chatted with a quartermaster from a supply ship. Benn strolled past, eyes flat, voice cool. “Didn’t know you were into men who can’t read a tide chart.” He was gone before the poor guy could finish blinking.

You danced. Just danced. With a noble in a tavern.

Half a spin in, Benn appeared like a mid-boss encounter. He stole the man’s drink right off the table, took a slow sip, then leaned in and muttered something so vulgar it made you blush. You. Who once out-cursed Shanks during a hurricane and won a bottle of rum and a lifetime of respect from Lucky Roux.

It was psychological warfare. And he was winning.

The crew?

Of course they noticed. But they said nothing. They remembered the rule.

Benn’s rule.

No emotional or physical entanglements within the crew.

For harmony. For professionalism.

For reasons™.

Which would be fine. Noble, even. If Benn Beckman weren’t out here acting like you belong to him, without having the decency to follow through.

Every time someone flirts with you? Benn shows up. Every time you flirt back? Benn exists louder.

And you?

You haven’t even kissed anyone in months. Not a stolen kiss in a shadowed hallway. Not a drunken mistake after a raid. Not even a pity peck from a crewmate with too much rum and not enough self-preservation.

You’re going mad. Horny. Lonely. Emotionally blue-balled by a man who won’t even break his own damn rule.

And worse?

He’s not possessive in a way you can fight. He’s calm. Polite. Maddeningly composed. No theatrics, no yelling. No sulking in the corner like a jealous idiot.

And it’s not even jealousy. He’s not possessive.

He’s interfering.

Casually. Constantly. Confidently.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to think he’s enjoying it.

Every thwarted suitor. Every lingering stare. He plays the calm, superior puppetmaster of your dry spell every moment.

A one-man blockade.

A silent, pipe-smoking shadow who somehow appears at just the right moment to obliterate your chances at intimacy like it’s a goddamn hobby.

You're not even sure why anymore. Does he think he’s protecting you? Is it some twisted sense of duty? Or is he just a power-tripping hypocrite who enjoys watching you suffer?

At this point, you’re not sure whether you want to slap him, kiss him, or set his stupid pipe on fire.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You try. Gods, you try.

You flirt.

You flutter lashes. You laugh at jokes that aren’t even funny. You lean forward during card games and pretend not to notice when shirts ride a little low. You compliment knife skills. You fawn over his muscles. You even complimented a very unfortunate mustache because the owner had good calves.

None of it works.

Because Benn Beckman is everywhere.

Like salt in the sea, like mildew on wood, like some extremely judgmental barnacle that has emotionally latched onto your libido and refused to release it from the hull.

You try again with a visiting swordsman. A tall one. Sweet. Mutter's poetry when drunk.

Benn walks by mid-conversation, glances at your companion’s sword, and says, “Bit small for compensation, isn’t it?”

The man leaves instantly.

Then there's the shy medic from a nearby ship, who offers you flowers. Real flowers! You get one whiff before Benn “accidentally” drops his coat over them and says, “Allergic?” You aren’t, but the medic panics and runs anyway.

The next guy, you try to kiss. Try. You’re in a shadowed hallway, lips inches away, and a pipe taps lightly on the wall beside your head.

You both freeze. And Benn, not even looking at you, says casually, “Captain’s looking for you. You were going to report in an hour ago.” The man flees like a rat from a sinking ship. You’re left alone. Again. With a heat in your veins and a scream caught behind your teeth.

You really try to be normal about it, at first.

You flirt like a polite menace. You offer compliments. You even bake—bake—a pie for a carpenter who helped fix a busted plank near your quarters.

Benn drops the entire dessert into the ocean with a casual “Oops.” The carpenter pretends it never happened and never speaks to you again.

Fine.

You flirt harder. You wear a necklace with cleavage implications. You lean against barrels in suggestive ways. You ask questions like “Do you believe in soulmates?” with all the sultry poise of a woman about to commit crimes.

Each time, Benn appears. Never angry. Never loud.

Just present.

He looks at men like they’re bread left out too long. One man you try to woo tells you, “I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to be buried at sea.”

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely in Benn’s direction. “He looks like the type to anchor a man with weights.”

Eventually, you grow unhinged enough to ask Shanks for help.

Desperate times. Desperate measures. Spoon in hand.

“Shanks. I haven’t been kissed in six months. I’m going to throw myself off the side of this ship and hope I land on something hot.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just grins that ridiculous grin and takes a sip of his drink like you didn’t just declare a romantic emergency at sea.

“Sounds like you already did,” he says.

You throw a spoon at him. Not hard enough to cause damage, but with intent.

He ducks, still laughing, and yells, “Yasopp, she’s officially snapped! We’re five days from a Beckman-related homicide!”

From the crow’s nest, Yasopp calls back, “I give it three!”

Down on the deck, Lucky Roux mumbles something about prepping a mop, just in case.

And somewhere behind you, you can feel Benn’s gaze burning into your back like a storm rolling in.

You don’t look.

You’ve got at least one more spoon in your pocket. And if he says something smug tonight, it’s going straight between his collarbones.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The celebration night starts simply.

Rum flows. Music plays. The Red Force is riding high off a fresh victory, and for once, you think…maybe tonight?

You wear your best shirt. The one that says, "I’m available, dangerous, and fully prepared to ruin lives with eye contact alone."

You lock eyes with a visiting sharpshooter. Dimples. Fast hands. Good aim. He makes a joke that’s actually funny, and you nearly cry from the sheer relief.

He invites you to dance. You accept before Benn can emerge from the shadows like the final boss of celibacy.

The deck glows with lanterns. The stars are bright. The music is rowdy, but melodic. The sharpshooter’s hands settle just right on your waist. Confident. Respectful. Warm.

You laugh at something he says. You lean in a little. It feels… nice. Not electrifying. Not dangerous. Just easy. Normal. The kind of moment you haven’t had in months.

He dips you in a practiced move. Eyes bright. Smile easy.

The air tightens. The laughter dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world. The music still plays, but now it echoes like it’s coming from the bottom of the sea.

You don’t have to look. You feel it.

The storm has arrived.

You turn your head just slightly. And there he is. Benn Beckman.

Leaning against the mast like he owns the moonlight. Not borrowed. Not shared. His.

His coat hangs open, sleeves pushed to the elbows like he just handled something violent or intimate—maybe both. The lantern glow catches the line of his throat, the edge of his jaw, the slow drag of smoke curling from his lips like he’s sculpting the tension on purpose.

Hair tousled by the sea breeze. Scar barely visible under the lamplight. Cigarette balanced between two fingers like a threat. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.

He just watches.

Not even looking at you. He’s watching him. The sharpshooter who unknowingly walked into his territory.

Assessing. Judging.Plotting a deeply personalized murder, with footnotes and a dramatic conclusion. Complete with a warning label and monogrammed body bag.

You try to ignore it. You force yourself to keep dancing. You laugh again, louder this time. Sharper. Petty. Just to prove you still have free will.

But Benn’s gaze doesn’t shift. He’s locked on you like you just committed high treason in full view of the mast. Like the moment you let another man’s hand touch your waist, you started a war.

The sharpshooter dips you again, still smiling, still unaware he’s dancing in a blast radius. You meet his eyes. And then, he kisses you.

Soft. Simple. Perfectly acceptable. You let it happen.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not poetry. But it’s something. And for one brief, fragile second, you think maybe the curse has been lifted.

But in your periphery, Benn straightens.

He moves with that infuriating calm. Like gravity, parts for him. One step. Two.

Towering. Broad-shouldered. All slow fury and sharp angles, radiating heat like he just walked out of a fight, or your last three fantasies.

His coat shifts with every step, open just enough to flash the knife-honed lines of his chest, sea-worn and sun-bitten. That scar along his side catches the lantern light, his cigarette glowing dim between his fingers like a fuse counting down.

His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, flick to the sharpshooter with all the warmth of a storm cloud about to ruin someone’s year.

And he stops.

Just close enough to make your skin burn.

The sharpshooter opens his mouth to say something.

But nothing comes out. Not a word. Not even a breath.

Benn doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

The look he gives is a sentence, a verdict, and a funeral all in one.

The poor bastard swallows hard, nods like it was his own idea to leave, and looks away so quickly you wonder if he regrets ever being born.

Benn turns to you. Slow. Unhurried. Dangerous.

His eyes drag over you with the weight of something that sees too much and dares you to flinch.

You say nothing. You can’t.

Not with that look.

Not with the way your pulse trips in your throat like it forgot how to function.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, eyes still locked on yours.

Then he exhales. Smoke, silence, and something that coils in the air between you like a wire pulled too tight.

He doesn’t touch you.

But your whole body knows he could.

And if he ever did?

You’re not sure the ship would survive it.

You’re not sure you would.

“Get. Off. Her.”

Benn doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It slices through the music like a blade to canvas; clean, cold, and final.

Your poor dance partner releases you like you’re made of dynamite. He takes one last glance at Benn, stammers something about needing another drink, and vanishes like a man fleeing death.

You turn. Jaw tight. “What is your problem, Beckman?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You.” His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly.

“You and your damn flirting. You and every bastard who thinks they can put their hands on you.”

The words hit like a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. You’re too stunned to speak. Too furious to breathe.

And then he steps closer. Too close.

Close enough that the scent of smoke and sea salt curls into your lungs, warm and dizzying. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’s been holding back fire, and you’re the match that finally struck.

His eyes never leave yours. They’re dark, hungry, infuriating. And his voice drops. Smooth. Dangerous. Unapologetic. The sound of a man who’s done waiting, and doesn’t give a damn about consequences.

Your voice is low. Shaking. With rage. With exhaustion. With months of unmet needs and tension wound so tight it’s a miracle you haven’t combusted on the spot.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in, all six-foot-something of sun-bronzed, scar-marked, sea-weathered menace, radiating heat and bad decisions.

His shirt’s open at the collar, the dip of his throat catching the lantern glow. That scar along his ribs was just visible beneath the edge of his coat. His hair was tousled like he had just rolled out of someone’s bed, his cigarette was forgotten between two fingers, and smoke was curling lazily past lips you’ve spent far too long imagining.

And his eyes, dark, hooded, locked on yours with the precision of a man who already knows what you taste like. A man who could wreck you with a look. A man who is.

He steps closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough that your breath stutters, and your pulse has nowhere to run.

“You’re not mine.” He breathes the words like a vow, slow and deliberate. Low enough that they settle against your skin. “But if I’m not allowed to have you—no one is.”

Silence. Around you. Between you. Like the moment before a storm breaks. Still, sharp, electric.

And he just stands there, too good-looking to be legal, with the firelight turning him into temptation carved from smoke and salt and every bad idea you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Someone drops a mug. Somewhere, Shanks mutters, “Thank the sea gods—I was two weeks away from staging a fake wedding.”

You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.

You slap him.

Hard. Sharp. Satisfying.

You kiss him.

Harder. Hotter. Meaner.

It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle. It’s months of frustration. Of sabotage. Of cockblocking so relentless it deserves its own bounty poster.

It’s a collision. Of ego. Of need. Of finally.

And he kisses you back like he’s been waiting, like every smug look, every quiet stare, every damn lit cigarette was just foreplay he’d been layering like kindling.

You don’t remember how you ended up below deck. One second you’re biting his lip; the next, there’s a wall at your back and Benn’s hands at your hips, kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s been starving. For you. Specifically.

He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t rush. He devours with the steady, unhurried confidence of a man who’s thought about this in excruciating detail.

Later, when you’re pinned against a storage crate, breathless, barely dressed, and actively questioning your spinal alignment, you pant against his throat.

“Is this against your rule?”

He doesn’t even pause. Just mutters against your skin, warm and wicked: “An exception.”

Clothes? Gone. Pipe? Dropped and probably rolling somewhere beneath a barrel. Your dignity? Folding like a busted card table.

You moan something that might be his name or might be a new swear invented on the spot, probably one the crew will adopt out of context.

He kisses your throat again, biting this time. A warning or a reward. Then mutters, “New rule. Just for you.”

“What’s the rule?” you pant, somewhere between delirious and ready to throw him down again.

His mouth brushes your jaw as he grins, slow and cruel in the best way: “No one touches you but me. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically. Twice on Sundays just to be sure.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re too busy making absolutely sure he never rewrites that rule again. Possibly ever.

Up above, the crew takes bets on how long you’ll last before you both break something important.

Shanks wins. He bet on ten minutes and a broken table.

You wake up in a supply room. Naked. Sore. Smug.

And unfortunately? So is he.

Benn Beckman, in all his post-sin glory, is still half on top of you. Bare chest rising and falling, scarred and golden in the early light slanting through the hull beams. His hair’s a mess, his lips are kiss-bitten, and one hand is still resting possessively on your hip like he’s asleep but ready to fight anyone who looks at you wrong.

And he’s hot. So hot it’s personally offensive.

The kind of hot that should come with warning signs. All long limbs, sharp edges, and that low, lazy strength that screams if you run, I’ll catch you—and not in a healthy way. Even now, bruised from your fingernails and still smug from last night, he looks like he walked straight out of your most unhinged fantasy and into a problem.

You glare at his perfect jawline and whisper:

“You’re still an asshole.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just smiles, the smug bastard, and murmurs,

“You can glare all you want. Doesn’t change who you woke up under.”

The worst part? You can’t even pretend to be mad. Not when your legs are still jelly. Not when his scent is still warm on your skin. And definitely not when his hand is still resting exactly where it shouldn’t be, curled possessively on your hip like he knows you’re not going anywhere.

Because you’re not. Not yet. Not when he’s this warm, this close, and just barely awake enough to be soft about it.

You sigh. "You’re lucky you're pretty."

He grins without opening his eyes. "That’s not the only reason you kept me."

You smack his chest gently. Mostly.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Upstairs, Shanks updates the crew manual. Section 6B now reads:

Crew fraternization is forbidden.

Addendum: Unless your name is Benn Beckman and you're a tall, pipe-smoking menace with sniper eyes and slutty forearms.

In which case, fine. But at least pretend you’re conflicted, you smug bastard. Also, buy her dinner, you coward.

#benn beckman #one piece #x reader #beckman x reader #benn beckman x reader #benn beckman fiction #benn beckman x female reader #one piece fanfiction #red haired pirates #Red Force #inappropriate use of #force #trying to confess #comedy #gav story #fanfic #reader

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lordprettyflackotara · 1 year ago

Text

Hitchhiker SFW & NSFW Headcannon’s:

a/n: getting my wisdom teeth out in like ten minutes so imma be offline and recovering for a few days. enjoy these head cannons until i get back <3

Tim | SFW:

-lives off of coffee & cigarettes. half the time can’t digest regular food & ends up throwing it up from stress :( poor bby

-despite being a proxy for years, still has reoccurring nightmares that keep him up at night. certain things trigger ptsd episodes, specifically memories of jay or brian (who brian used to be before the operator came along)

-rough exterior, doesn’t believe he’s even worthy of being in your presence or anyone else’s. firmly believes that anyone he interacts with The Operator could and would kill just to fuck with him

-major anger issues that he mainly keeps under wraps, masky’s the one who REALLY shows that side of him

-memory is spotty, but he puts more of an effort to remember things since meeting you

-drinks straight black coffee, absolutely despises cream & sugar. its a miracle this man has any water intake at all

-overly protective, to an intense degree

-enjoys bands like the smiths, the neighbourhood (idc bite me), and cigarettes after sex

Tim | NSFW under the cut:

-tim wants to absolutely worship you. a shameless munch who wants to do nothing more than make you cum on his face

-prefers missionary, wants to bury his face into your neck as he pounds into you

-This man loves nothing more than to hear your pretty noises

‘Fuck, keep moaning my name princess’

-doesn’t care too much about receiving head, would rather please you

-ADORES watching your facial expressions as you cum on his fingers. the little o shape your mouth makes drives him feral

‘Yeah? Gonna cum on my fingers?’

-best after care on the PLANET. baths, snacks, cuddles. whatever you want he’s got it ready for you.

Brian || SFW:

-vegetarian (loves tomato soup because it reminds him of what his mom used to make him when he was sick)

-distrusting; even though he tries to attempt from speaking his mind is absolute madness

-lots of ptsd, genuinely fears what happened to him will happen to you

-depressive tendencies. allows hoodie to front when he starts getting too upset

-he doesn’t allow himself to have too many interest or too much of a personality. he lives in constant fear anything he may grow to like or show interest in will be destroyed by the operator

-you instill an unknowingly amount of happiness into his life. an amount so much that he fears he may be beginning to claw his way out of the trenches of despair

-enjoys bands like linkin park, papa roach, and green day

Brian || NSFW

-a TEASE

-this mf wants you to beg for his touch just to turn around & give you what you want & more

-adores the feeling of your nails digging into his back. he gets so turned on by it, it’s borderline nauseating for him

-praise to the absolute MAX

-‘you can take it pretty girl, such a good girl for me’

-possessive & determined to make you feel better then anyone else, especially in group activities

-‘go on, tell tim how good i make you feel’

-loves to overstimulate you to the point of no return. if you aren’t a squirming mess on the brink of passing out from pleasure, he feels like he didn’t do his job right

-wants to manhandle you. something about picking you up as if you weighed nothing to readjust you into the position he wants you in is so addicting to him

-good aftercare, thinks more about cleaning you up than anything else

Masky || SFW

-he’s so tired of being the ‘leader’

-like seriously, he’s sick of it

-firm believer since Hoodie came around first he should be forced to lead the band of misfit toys but he digresses

-thinks tim is a big softie and borderline pathetic, but after he saves you, he thinks more highly of his decision making skills

-when fronting he is absolutely not sleeping. real life is terrifying enough. the last thing he needs is the creativity of nightmares haunting him too

-carries wads of cash in case he’s in a bind. will just throw them at people before storming out of where ever he is

-did i mention anger issues? like to an unhealthy concerning degree? masky believes in punching or shooting his way out of any situation that pisses him off

-delusional but in the best way, imagines you and him to eventually become a bonnie and clyde like duo

-enjoys more edgy bands like three days grace, skillet, and hollywood undead

Masky || NSFW

-there is not a submissive bone in this man’s body

-spitting, spanking, slapping, and choking you really gets him going

-humiliating you and degrading you turns him on so much it’s unbelievable

-‘Fuckin slut. Get yourself off on my tongue. Get on with it before I change my mind’

-Either overstimulation or orgasm denial. No in between

-Gun play. I said what I said. You giving him head while he points a loaded gun at your head drives him feral

-‘Suck it harder or i’ll pull the trigger. Dont think I won’t. You’re not special’

-if you’re into it as much as he is, he’d like to fuck you with his gun🫣

-Lowkey is kinda cruel, enjoy the idea of putting his cigarettes out on you but won’t since he shares you (he doesn’t want to argue with toby/hoodie/brian/tim)

-leaving you covered with bruises in particular is satisfying to him. the shapes of his fingers digging into your waist being there the next day make him hard all over again

-decent aftercare. if we’re being honest you’ll be too dazed to remember most of it. he won’t necessarily cuddle you but he’ll at least clean you with a washcloth before putting you to bed

Hoodie || SFW

-silent but aggressive

-doesn’t enjoy fronting unless it’s to complete a mission or task for the operator

-enjoys stalking his victims just to see what they’re doing before they’re killed🙈

-that ski mask? yeah prefers that mf to stay ON. things that involve you are the only exception he’ll make once he grows fond of you

-him & brian are in an agreement having any real interest is too much risk. of course, they combat this narrative once you come along

-will tell you he doesn’t like music but secretly enjoys shinedown, breaking benjamin, and seether

Hoodie || NSFW

-sadist

-orgasm denial. the sight of you squirming beneath him while begging to cum? euphoric.

-cnc (sorry mom)

-‘shut up and take it. pathetic whore’

-breath play. likes choking but he’d prefer to have you on all fours with a belt around your throat if he’s being honest

-loves recording you. not only to watch back later, but to threaten you with the blackmail

-‘you better behave or i’ll show everyone how much of a slut you actually are’

-hair pulling. whether you pull his hair or he pulls yours. the whimpers that come from it are like heroin

-bondage. if hoodie could have it his way he’d have you tied up and spread out like a starfish on a bed so he could play with you until you break

-probably the worst aftercare out of everyone on this list. doesn’t care for it, thinks it’s your problem. at most will just tell you to pee

Toby || SFW

-toby is pretty much your loyal guard dog. he’s at your disposal and you don’t even realize it

-he never really got an opportunity to be a teenager. now that he’s roughly 21-23, you make him feel like the flustered horny teenager he never got to be

-before you he’s extremely unhinged. toby didn’t have a lot of motivation besides the thrill of a kill. now that you’re around and practically a ball of sunshine, you make him feel something other than blood lust or boredom

-has nice curls but never knows how to take care of them so they always turn out straight since he immediately brushes his hair after a shower

-out of the three proxies he’s the most content with the situation. he views tim and brian as his best friends, even if they don’t feel the same way

-don’t let any of the fluff headcannons deceive you though, there’s a reason he’s a proxy. the unknown strength this man has is concerning. chopping up bodies doesn’t tire him

-enjoys russian roulette. masky and hoodie will play with him on special occasions

-likes to play with fire. if he has an opportunity he will commit massive amounts of arson

-his music taste bounces around everywhere, similar to his personality. top three is violent vira, grimes, and bones

Toby || NSFW

-hardcore switch leaning towards sub

-toby has his dominate moments, most of them just enjoying seeing you blush from his teasing

-‘you like m-me fucking y-you huh? such a p-perfect pussy’

-likes to see you take control.

-i’m sorry but despite being a sub he’s very vanilla, minus a few very specific kinks

-hickies. wants tim and brian to see you’re just as much as his as you are theirs

-cream pies. not even necessarily contributing to a breeding kink, he just likes to watch his cum drip down your abused cunt

-pulling his hair drives him feral. he can’t necessarily feel pain but he feels your eagerness and that’s enough for him

-considering toby can’t feel things his sex drive is extremely high considering it’s one of the few things he can’t actually feel

-one of his fantasies is fucking you with the handle of his axe

-aftercare is peak. he’s just as exhausted as you, but will wait on you hand and foot to ensure you’re taken care of

Nova || SFW

-her dad was a detective, she simply followed in his footsteps

-her parents were very academic driven. praise and affection was only shown to her when she excelled academically

-bi sexual. leans more towards women

-protective, blunt, and head strong

-working in a field that’s pro dominantly men, she ensures to be full of bark AND bite to make sure she’s taken seriously

-became a detective to help people. despite her tough exterior, she genuinely just wants to bring people peace through her work

-obsessive tendencies. once she starts a case she has to finish it. will not rest properly until it’s done

-has a fantastic memory. memorizes all the little details of anyone and everything

-out of the three proxies she likes tim the most, but will never admit she likes any of them

-enjoys hozier, asap rocky, and adeline troutman

Nova || NSFW

-THE BIGGEST SWITCH TO EVER EXIST

-either wants to be called mommy or a good cum dump

-an absolute freak in the bed

-this woman has a chest of sex toys at home of all varieties and sorts

-pegs men

-‘your whimpers are so cute baby boy’

-either wants to put YOU in handcuffs or have you put handcuffs on HER. either way she wants them involved

-doesn’t believe in vanilla sex. if she’s fucking she’s going all in. no lovey dovey shit. just pure feral behavior

-on the other end of the spectrum, loves being fucked into the mattress until she’s dizzy

-‘please keep going, fuck, i’m so close’

-has attended several bdsm sex parties on the down low

-aftercare is peak. she doesn’t gaf ab herself. you’re the star of the show

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