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sc3ptre · 2 days ago

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‘No’ is a full sentence pt.2

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem! reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Here's part 1 both requested by @astridphantom

a/n: (Changed the blogs name! hope you guys stick around) I went ahead and assembled your requests into a full piece so you wouldn’t have to wait ages for it. Toward the end, I took some creative liberties. Your storyline was beautiful and heartbreaking but I chose to steer away from some of the more graphic elements to keep it emotionally resonant without being overwhelming. I hope what I wrote still honors your intent and gives your vision the space it deserves. I truly tried to meet you halfway. 💛

Era: season 1 to 2

Word count: 3.3k

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains depictions of attempted sexual assault and its aftermath. While care has been taken to handle this subject with sensitivity, the content may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Please prioritize your well-being and feel free to skip this story if needed.

Resources for survivors are listed here. Remember you are loved and not alone and if you haven't heard it today, I love you and i'm proud of you. There is help and support available, wherever you are in the world. Below are resources for confidential support:

RAINN (U.S.): https://www.rainn.org/

UK - Rape Crisis: https://rapecrisis.org.uk/

Canada - Sexual Assault Centres: https://endingviolencecanada.org/

Australia - 1800RESPECT: https://www.1800respect.org.au/

International - Women Against Violence Europe (WAVE): https://www.wave-network.org/

You deserve to be heard, you deserve safety. and you most definitely are not what happened to you. ❤️

Morning crept gently over the horizon, spilling golden light across the camp in soft, honeyed ribbons. Birds dared to sing again, low and tentative from the trees beyond the quarry and for the first time in days, the air didn’t carry the weight of fear or violence. Inside Daryl’s tent, you lay curled up beneath a patchwork blanket, your breathing deep and even, cheek pressed into the shirt he’d lent you. The scent of pine needles and faint smoke clung to the fabric making it warm and safe. Outside, the canvas glowed faintly with the rising sun, the sounds of the waking camp muffled and far away.

Daryl was already up, careful not to disturb you. He moved like a shadow through the trees, silent and precise, his boots barely cracking twigs beneath him. His crossbow was slung over his shoulder but he wasn’t hunting, not this time. He had a purpose and it started with gathering what was left of your things from Shane’s tent as he didn’t trust anyone else to touch your belongings.

This wasn’t just about clothes or supplies, it was about cutting the last thread that tied you to that man.

The zipper on Shane’s tent creaked quietly as Daryl knelt, pulling it open. Inside was a mess, blankets half-crumpled, a musty smell of sweat and gasoline and the suffocating staleness of a place that had never once felt like a home. Daryl’s jaw tightened as he spotted your bag tucked in the corner, partly hidden beneath Shane’s jacket like something claimed. He didn’t hesitate, he grabbed it along with the small handful of items that still smelled faintly like you— a worn paperback, a spare shirt and a toothbrush wrapped in cloth. He slung the bag over his shoulder, gave the place one last cold look, then slipped out and zipped the tent closed behind him.

By the time Shane returned, the sun was high enough to throw long shadows across the clearing. He walked in with that same cocky swagger he always wore, a fake layer of confidence over something far meaner and far more fragile. He slowed when he saw his tent from a distance, its shape subtly altered, like it had been touched. His eyes narrowed and then he saw you.

You stepped out of Daryl’s tent, still wearing his shirt, your hair mussed with sleep, eyes squinting in the sun as you scanned the camp for him. The bruises on your face had softened into shadows, but they were still there as reminders. Shane’s jaw flexed as he followed your line of sight and there, just a few yards away, Daryl was crouched beside the fire pit, skinning a rabbit with sure, experienced hands. He didn’t look up when Shane started toward you but you noticed. You stiffened, and your eyes flicked to Daryl, who noticed that.

In a single motion, fast as instinct, Daryl dropped the rabbit and stood, his crossbow raised and steady before Shane had made it three steps. The morning light glinted off the metal and silence fell so fast it rang in the air.

“You take another step toward her,” Daryl said, voice low and dangerous, “an’ I swear to God, you won’t hit the ground ‘fore you’re dead.”

Shane froze as the weight of the crossbow’s aim settled on him like gravity. He turned his head slowly, scanning the camp, like he expected someone to come to his defense. No one moved, no one even looked his way.

His hands lifted in mock surrender, but the smug smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, stepping back. “Ain’t worth the trouble.”

“Nah,” Daryl said, eyes burning through him, “it ain’t.”

Shane turned and walked away but not before shooting you one last look over his shoulder, a look that wasn’t apology or guilt, or anything that mattered. Just anger, because you weren’t his anymore, because you had never been.

Once he was out of sight, Daryl lowered the crossbow slowly, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His eyes flicked to you then, softer now, searching your face for any sign of panic.

You walked toward him slowly, arms wrapped around yourself not because of fear but because the morning air still carried a chill.

“I didn’t expect him back so soon,” you murmured.

“I did,” Daryl replied simply. Then, after a beat, “You okay?”

You nodded, then looked down at the rabbit. “Want me to help?”

His mouth quirked, just barely. “Nah, s’all good. You just sit where I can see ya and eat somethin’ soon, yeah? Dun gotta be a whole lot if ya dun wanna.” He reassured.

And you did, right there, beside him, watching as he went back to skinning the rabbit with slow, methodical hands. The worst was behind you, but the way he had stepped between you and danger, again, told you everything you needed to know about him.

The CDC had been a miracle in the eyes of many with hot water, full meals, clean sheets and doors that locked. For a few fleeting hours, you let yourself believe in comfort again, in the kind of peace that didn’t require a knife under your pillow.

You’d walked behind Daryl as the elevator doors opened, your heart skipping when his arm brushed yours. He didn't say much, just glanced back at you once with those sharp, steady eyes as if to make sure you were still there, still safe. After everything, he didn’t hover, he just… made sure.

The food helped and so did the wine, the warm water most of all. You hadn’t taken a real shower in months and when you stepped under the stream, it almost made you cry. Your fingers lingered against your skin longer than they should’ve, not out of vanity but just trying to remember that it was still yours.

When you stepped out, towel wrapped tight around you, steam clinging to your body, you were humming to yourself quietly, barefoot on clean tile.

Then your door opened and closed behind you and something shifted. You didn’t have to look to know who it was and it all passed within minutes of blurred images.

The pressure at your back, the hand that stifled your voice and the sharp panic that bloomed in your chest before you could react. You struggled, your mind trying to block it all out and when his grip loosened for just a breath, you struck out. Your knee hit something vital, hard and he hit the floor with a growl, cursing your name.

You didn’t wait to see if he’d recover, you just grabbed the shirt Daryl had given you, the one that still smelled like pine and smoke and tugged it over your head with shaking hands before bolting out the door.

Your feet slapped against the hallway tile, hands trembling so hard and eyes so full of tears you could barely see straight. You didn’t know where you were going, only who you needed to find.

Daryl.

He was halfway to your room when you collided with him, your body trembling, your voice caught in your throat. His hands caught your arms automatically, steadying you and his face changed the moment he saw your eyes, the way they brimmed with tears and the terror barely hidden behind them.

“Sunshine?” His voice was quiet, barely a whisper but it hit like thunder.

You couldn’t speak, you just shook your head and pressed your face to his chest, fists clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it might keep you from falling apart completely.

He didn’t ask and didn’t make you say it. He just wrapped his arms around you, protective and sure, and held you like a promise.

“C’mon,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp. “Let’s go.”

He walked you back to his room, kept one hand on the small of your back the whole time like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. Once inside, he shut the door quietly behind you and led you to the couch, not saying a word when you sank down onto it with a broken breath.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said, already moving giving you space, control, whatever you needed, but your voice cracked out behind him, quiet and small. “No. Please… stay.”

He paused.

You didn’t even have to look up. “Just for tonight. Please.”

He nodded once, stripped off his jacket and boots without a word and lay down on top of the cover beside you close, but not entirely touching.

The lights were off, but you could feel him there, and when your hand reached blindly for his beneath the blanket, his fingers were already waiting. He held on firmly, unmoving and didn’t let go, only tightening his hold when your sobs broke through the silence.

You fell asleep like that, heart still racing, grief still fresh and a pounding head but not alone.

The days that followed passed like the hush between thunder and lightning, tense and heavy with the kind of pain that doesn’t bruise the skin but hollows out the soul. You didn’t leave the RV much, barely spoke, barely ate… The bruises were fading faster than the ache inside you but even that, somehow, was quieter with Daryl around.

He never asked for details, never pressed you to explain what you weren’t ready to say out loud, but he saw enough to know and he carried it like he always carried his crossbow, always prepared to use it if he had to. What he did instead was simple: he showed up.

One morning at the farm, as the sun began to creep over the fields and the air turned soft with the promise of autumn, he tapped gently on the door and handed you a thermos. “Hot coffee,” he said simply.

“If ya got some time t’ waste, I’d like ya t’ walk with me…got a place I wanna show ya.”

You hesitated, shoes half-on, eyes still raw with sleep and memory but something about the way he stood there, patient and calm, the way he didn’t tell you what to do, only asked, made your chest unclench just enough to nod.

He took you deep into the woods, past the spots where the others usually hunted. He walked ahead most of the way, letting you follow but every so often he’d glance back just to make sure you were still there. He didn't speak much at first and you understood the silence was his way of letting you breathe, so you didn’t press.

Eventually, he stopped at a clearing you’d never seen before, tall grass swaying gently and a crooked tree leaning like it had secrets to keep. A stream cut through the earth just a few paces away, glistening under the morning light. It felt untouched, quiet in the way only safe places could be.

“Wanted ya to see it,” he said, dropping his gear. “This is where I go when things get...too much. Ain’t no one else comes out this far.”

You looked around slowly, something like calm settling into your bones. “It’s beautiful.”

He didn’t say anything but the way he watched you with soft eyes and an unclenched jaw, was louder than any compliment.

He taught you how to track that day. How to spot broken branches, how to crouch without snapping twigs, how to breathe slow so your heartbeat didn’t give you away. At first, you flinched every time he moved too quickly or brushed against your arm and every time, he backed away gently, raising his hands and saying, “It’s okay. You tell me what’s too close, alrigh’?”

Later, when you sat together by the stream, the sky melting into gold, he passed you a piece of jerky and nudged your knee with his. “Ain’t much,” he said, “but I figure teachin’ ya all this… migh’ help ya remember your body’s yours again. Ain’t nobody gets to take nothin’ from ya, not without you sayin’ yes.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching on something that felt like hope and grief all tangled up. You turned to him, slow and vulnerable. “What if I never feel normal again?”

He looked down at the dirt, then back up at you. “Ain’t about bein’ normal. It’s about feelin’ safe again, feelin’ strong again, and I’m gonna do whatever I can to help ya get there…long as ya let me.”

You reached out then, just barely brushing your fingers against his. He didn’t move, didn’t pull you in or hold you too long. He just let it be a touch freely given, a moment that belonged to you and only you, and in that moment, under the setting sun and surrounded by trees that asked nothing of you, you started to believe that maybe, just maybe, healing didn’t have to be quiet and lonely.

It had been a week since Daryl took you to the clearing and though the bruises faded and the swelling ebbed, something inside you was still tender, still healing in ways that couldn’t be seen but you were waking up a little earlier now, eating more and even letting sunlight touch your skin again.

You’d started helping Carol with chores, even laughed once at something Glenn said at dinner. You didn’t notice it, but Daryl did. He noticed everything, how you stood a little straighter, flinched a little less and even walked up to him one morning with his shirt still hanging loose around your shoulders like a second skin.

“I wanna go again,” you told him, arms crossed like a shield but eyes steady. “To the woods, just you and me.”

He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press, just nodded and a few minutes later, you were back on the trail, walking beside him this time instead of behind.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said after a while, stepping over a root. “’Bout what you said… about my body being mine.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he let you speak, the way he always did.

“I used to hate being touched, still do sometimes.” You looked down at your hands. “But when you touch me, it’s different, you wait, you ask…you stop when I flinch.” You then paused, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t mind it…when it’s you.”

Daryl cleared his throat, glanced away. “Ain’t nothin’ noble ‘bout that. It’s just what should be done. Shouldn’t have to earn trust like that back, but… I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

You paused, heartbeat loud in your ears. Then, slowly, you reached for his hand, not by accident or in fear, but with intent. You let your fingers wrap around his calloused ones and this time, he didn’t freeze. He just looked down, then up at you and gave the faintest, softest smile.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

The rest of the day was quiet, but full— rabbits were tracked, traps set, a couple caught. He showed you how to clean one and when your hands shook at first, he didn’t mock or rush. He steadied them, his hands brushing yours only when needed, always gentle, always after asking.

Back at the farm, after dinner, you sat next to him under the stars. You didn’t need to be anywhere else.

“Daryl?”

“Yeah?”

“If I ever freeze again… or if I need to stop… or go slower… you’ll still be patient with me, right?”

He turned his head, watching you with that quiet, unwavering gaze that made you feel less like a broken thing and more like someone trying to heal.

“Sunshine,” he said softly, “you say the word, and I’ll stop, every time, for the rest of my life if I gotta.”

You believed him, not because he swore it, but because his every action already had.

You hadn’t meant to tell Rick, not then, not like that, but with Daryl standing beside you, his arms crossed but his presence warm and unshakable, the words tumbled out anyway, like water breaking through a dam that had been straining too long. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been holding the truth inside until it was already in the air between the three of you. The fear, the shame, the quiet nights with Daryl’s shirt pulled tight around you while you pretended you weren’t scared to sleep. Rick didn’t interrupt, not once. His face had gone still in a way that scared you and for a long time after, he didn’t say anything, he just nodded, like each word you spoke landed heavier than the last and he couldn’t lift any of them until you were done.

You never saw Shane after that conversation. Rick made it clear, quietly but firmly, that Shane was to be sent away at dawn. No goodbyes and no confrontation, just gone. You felt sick that night, your stomach tight and unsettled even when Daryl sat beside you, brushing your pinky with his under the lantern light, letting you lean against him without saying a word. Maybe you would’ve found peace with it in the morning, or maybe you wouldn’t have, but you didn’t get the chance to find out because the world ended, again.

It happened fast, faster than anyone could react to. Fire spilled across the barn roof and smoke billowed into the sky like the world itself was trying to erase Hershel’s farm from the map. Walkers came in droves, their shrieks piercing the night and your only thought had been to find Daryl and stay close. The two of you moved through the chaos like magnets, drawn to each other through fire and ash, dodging walkers and shouting names but never losing each other, not even once.

Amongst the chaos you saw him, Shane.

He was crawling in the dirt, half-covered in mud and blood, dragging himself across the grass like an animal that didn’t know it was already dying. One of his legs looked mangled, bent at a wrong angle and his face was twisted in pain and desperation and something far uglier when his bloodshot eyes locked onto yours.

“Help me!” he cried, hand reaching out toward you like it had every right to. “Please! You owe me— I saved you!”

For a second, you stood there, your feet planted and your heart pounding, the gun hanging from your shoulder as if it belonged to someone else. You watched him writhe and plead, blood soaking into the soil beneath him, his voice rising in panic as walkers closed in and you thought about that night in the woods, the shower at the CDC, your ripped shirt on the quarry rocks and all the nights he pretended kindness was a currency he could cash in.

“No,” you simply said, no apologies and no explanation linked to it. Just the one word that had always been enough and this time, he’d learn what it meant.

You didn’t raise your weapon or move and you didn’t blink when the walkers reached him.

You only turned when you heard the distant growl of a motorcycle cutting through the chaos like a promise. Daryl came fast, his body low over the handlebars, eyes locked onto you like he’d known exactly where you’d be, like his whole body was wired to find you first, no matter what. You ran before he could stop the bike fully, your legs moving faster than your thoughts and when he extended a hand toward you, you didn’t hesitate.

You climbed on behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, pressed your face into the back of his vest to muffle the sound of your ragged breathing and let the roar of the engine swallow everything you couldn’t say out loud.

The farm shrank behind you, the barn, the smoke, the bodies, the ghosts, all swallowed by flame and ash. You took your pain with you, heavy but honest and still, you never looked back, because silence would never own you again, not even in the fire.

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sc3ptre · 3 days ago

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A healing touch

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: Clark Kent fics will be posted Thursday nights/Friday mornings depending on where you live so there will be another fic this week but I really wanted to post this extra sweet lil thing bc I’m having so much fun writing these.

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) This is descriptive! Okay? Read at your own risk and keep both hands on the damn phone!!! | safe sex, p-in-v, oral m! receiving and mutual masturbation, mild D/S dynamics, physical restriction kink? and power play, mild mentions of injury and blood (non graphic), nipple play, c*m play?, big dick syndrome (size kink) and use of superhuman abilities during intercourse.

Disclaimer: This fic has no spoilers for the movie! But if you're still wary, feel free to skip this for now and come back later!

Word count: 4.7k (i kept telling myself i would stop soon and then didn't)

The open window barely rustled the curtains. From this high up, the city sounded like a distant ocean, with its sirens, horns, and ultimately the murmuring echo of a city that had just barely survived another disaster.

You were already standing near the floor to ceiling windows, watching the sky like you’d been doing for the last hour. The news played footage on a loop until it cut to analysts and headlines, yet none of it was useful making you turn the sound off after the third segment. You didn’t need the voiceover, you’d seen enough to know how bad it was.

You heard it then. It wasn’t a crash or a thud, just a shift in the air pressure and a flicker in the shadows outside. You turned just in time to see him glide through the open window.

He didn’t land so much as fold, his cape catching on the breeze and dragging softly behind him before falling like a second shadow. Clark stumbled with a groan, catching himself on the wall while his other hand gripped his side.

Your heart dropped when you took in his state, his suit torn across his shoulder and chest, the fabric also blackened from being dragged around by a creature fifty times his size and stained with a mix of dried and fresh blood you hoped wasn’t his.

You didn’t speak, not right away but as always, he felt the need to reassure you. Maybe it was your face, or the sound of your heart shattering at the mere sight of him.

“It looks worse than it feels,” he huffed, walking a few unsteady steps to the edge of the living room and sinking down onto the floor beside the low couch, pressing his back to it like he couldn’t trust himself to stay upright without something behind him. Only then did he actually meet your eyes, flashing you the tiniest of smiles. “It’s not that bad.”

Your mouth parted slightly as you looked at him closer, taking tentative steps toward him. There was exhaustion in his eyes, and it wasn’t the kind that sleep could fix. His jaw was tight and his knuckles were bloody and scraped raw. His perfect hair was tousled and one eye slightly swollen and still, he smiled.

You opened your mouth further to ask, but he shook his head slowly, warning you that telling you exactly what happened wouldn’t make it any better.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded silently, trying to ignore how much your heart ached as you moved quietly to the bag you had brought, unzipping it and pulling out several different bottles, gauze, needle and thread. It looked like you had robbed a pharmacy on the way to his place.

You returned and kneeled beside him, his eyes following every motion. Clark didn’t stop you or object just focused on breathing slowly through his nose, like each inhale took more effort than the last.

When your fingers grazed his skin, just near the edge of a gash along his ribs, he flinched. Not from pain, but from something else…surprise, maybe, and a tenderness he didn’t expect.

You soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic and spoke before you could really think about the words. “This might sting.”

He let out a faint grunt, more breath than sound, but didn't respond.

You worked carefully, wiping away ash and blood. The suit was partially peeled back, exposing more of him than you were used to, but either way, his skin wasn’t flawless tonight. It was streaked with bruises that didn't belong on him—purple, green, and already yellowing around the edges. You couldn’t imagine the force it took to actually hurt him.

You soon realized he was watching you as you worked—your face, not your hands—with that intense, unblinking stare of his.

“What?” you asked, glancing up.

“Your heart’s racing.”

You paused, fingers stilling over the line of a cut and let out a quiet, long breath, something you always did around him to regulate your system. It never worked. “And you’re still bleeding, since we’re…pointing out the obvious,” you said softly.

His lips twitched to just the ghost of a smile, too painful to reach his eyes. “I’ll heal. The sun–”

“Would you rather bleed out until sunrise, Kansas?” you cut in, gentle but firm.

He didn’t argue further. Clark had a feeling you often forgot who he was and what he could do, and he didn’t mind it one bit, especially when you got snarky this close.

You continued swabbing and bandaging with care, letting the heavy silence stretch between you. It was far from uncomfortable since you’d lived in it before. It was where your connection always seemed to grow, in those quiet corners and not with loud confessions.

Once the wound across his lower side was as clean as it would get, you threaded the needle and pressed it to the edge of his skin. You pushed it in with steady hands and watched as it bent before your eyes.

You sighed, lifting it up towards the dim light of the living room. “I always forget about… that.”

The look on your face earned you a small exhale through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but close.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You protested.

He couldn’t help the grin now spreading across his face. “Couldn’t bring myself to. You look the sweetest when you’re focused.”

You sighed, sitting defeatedly on the balls of your feet, a sight he couldn’t bear seeing.

“You’ve done more than anyone has…thank you. The sun will take care of the rest,” he assured quietly, wincing as he lifted his hand to your face, caressing it with dizzying softness.

You looked at him again and this time, he didn't look away. His gaze flickered over your face like he was tracing something he already knew but still didn’t understand—There was a pull between you in that moment, an ache that had had you circling each other for months now, too close and then too far, never quite on the same page, yet always in orbit, always looking.

His fingers went to your chin, thumb tracing your lower lip as the both of you surrendered and leaned toward the other, not stopping until your lips touched tentatively for a stretched second before Clark pulled back just enough to give you time to retreat, but you pushed forward, pressing your lips against his in a loving, long awaited kiss.

It was slow and gentle, careful in a way that made it burn even deeper. It was obvious that both of you were trying to learn where the other’s limits were but that line got pushed further back the more he welcomed you into his life. The kiss deepened, and your tongues danced a heated tango influencing you to straddle his hips. He sucked in a breathy wince, his hands moving to rest on both sides of your face, tilting your head while holding you close.

You accommodated yourself on his lap, letting your full weight fall on him and despite yourself, letting out a quiet moan.

His lips migrated from your mouth to the corner of your lips, then your cheek, as his hand guided your face to enable his actions. You closed your eyes, letting your shaky fingers trace the emblem of his suit.

Clark’s full lips latched onto your neck then, breathing out against your pulse point before kissing higher, toward your earlobe. You moaned quietly, keeping your body from moving too much over him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you breathed.

Clark’s hands went to both sides of your hips, grabbing you and pressing you down against his hardness, then smiling into your neck when you gasped quietly. “You won’t.”

Your hands steadied on his body as you began moving slowly, seeking relief while allowing his mouth to explore you freely, in the same manner your hands were—both of you acting like this was a common occurrence, with the familiar way his lips wrapped around yours, taking their time in learning what you liked and what made your breathing hitch.

You kissed in tandem, loving on each other like you were made to do.

“I want you,” you breathed when you pulled apart. “I’ll understand if this isn’t the night for it.”

He shook his head slowly, dismissing your last comment as he gathered your hair in one hand, keeping it off your face so he could see all of you. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

At his nod, you carefully got off his lap and helped him stand the best you could, each groan from his aching body stabbing your heart with a thousand tiny needles.

Once on his feet, he raised a finger to you, signaling for you to wait a second before walking awkwardly—while cursing at the uncomfortable tent in his pants—toward the closest cabinet.

You stood there watching in a daze, your fingers brushing your tingling lips as they stretched into a soft smile, while your pulse rabbitted in your neck. Until the rattle of a chain cut through the quiet, your gaze snapping to him, eyes wide. It was thick and heavy, the kind strong enough to pull a car.

“Clark…what the hell is that?”

His face didn’t change much as he held it up, looking at it like his thought process was the most obvious answer, but his voice was calm. “It’s for me.”

“So we’re flying straight past the handcuffs, huh? D–do I need a safeword or a damn prayer?...Jeez, Clark, warn a girl before you bring out the industrial sized kinks.” you said, cracking a grin.

He laughed with little to no humor. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up…This is serious, okay?” he said. “If I lose control and… I hurt you–”

“You won’t,” you interrupted.

“You don’t know that,” he pointed out.

You stepped close to him again, pressing a hand to his chest, warm beneath your palm. His heart was beating slower than yours, strong, but still at an unusually fast pace.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I would never be able to forgive myself if–”

You shook your head. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me because you won’t let it. I’ve seen you at your worst, Clark,” you said. “And I’m still here. That should tell you something.”

You were still touching him, waiting for an answer and he was still looking at you like he didn’t know how this was real. He surrendered then, letting the chain fall to the floor with a loud thud.

“Should I even ask why you have that?” you asked quietly.

“Work-life balance clearly isn't my strong suit." he murmured, leaning in to let his lips brush yours once again, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it at all.

Your hand brushed his jaw, thumb resting just below the cut at the corner of his mouth. Clark leaned right into it, eyes closing briefly while anchoring himself in that one quiet point of contact.

He kissed you back with the kind of care that felt earned, tempered by pain, longing and too much time spent pretending not to feel what he clearly did.

His huge arms snaked around your body, holding you close to his as your feet lost contact with the ground. The air shifted gently around you both with the quietest sound of lift, like a breath held within the walls. He flew you across the room like it was second nature, like carrying you in his arms was the only thing keeping him upright. His body was still heavy with bruises and cuts, but in the air, he was light, weightless.

His bedroom was quiet when you landed, soft light filtering in through the windows, stars visible beyond the glass. He didn’t let you go right away, no, he just stood there, holding you close to his chest and kissing you like letting you go after setting you down might break the spell.

Your lips parted as his hand brushed the neckline of his ruined suit, the torn, ash-smudged fabric stretched beautifully across his chest. He winced, moving his shoulder again to detach his cape and letting it fall to his feet.

You helped him peel his clothes off slowly and as gently as you could, letting your hands graze over his warm skin unabashedly while his hands trembled under your touch, especially while you helped him undress from the waist down, taking over your steady ones as if your touch could make this end far too soon.

You had daydreamed about how big he would be, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw—thick, heavy, quite literally struggling to hold its own weight up and covered in angry veins that led to a swollen, and already leaking tip. Your mouth watered the more you looked at it.

His hands grabbed at the fabric of your shirt mid-daze, steadier now as he undressed you, taking his time to memorize every dip of skin and muscle that made you who you were, weakening him beyond the damage kryptonite could do.

He carefully hooked his fingers under the straps of your bra and pulled them off your shoulders, letting them dangle there while he reached behind to unhook it, sliding it off your arms and letting it clutter the space between you on the floor.

The air current flowing through the room made you suck in a breath, yet it wasn’t what made goosebumps spread all over. It was his scrutiny, just how closely he was looking at you. Your nipples hardened under his unrelenting gaze, pupils dilating as his cock grazed your stomach, spreading a bead of precum under your belly button.

Clark lowered himself to the edge of the bed with a groan, his hands tracing the outside of your thighs up until his fingers hooked under your panties, pulling it down and watching a string of slick stretch and shine in the moonlight. His cock throbbed against his thigh from the sight, and the groan that escaped him could’ve been enough to undo you too—He let his forehead fall to your stomach with a sigh, his hands bringing you close as you could be.

“…This isn’t exactly how I imagined it being.”

You tensed at his words while he flushed, pulling back to look up at you, brow furrowing like he didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Not—not like I’ve imagined it a lot,” he added quickly, stumbling. “Because I haven’t. I mean, not a lot. Just... moderately. I thought maybe when this happened, if it ever happened, you know… I’d be whole. Not like this, bruised and broken and... It should’ve been different.”

You reached to brush a piece of hair back from his face, making sure he looked right at you.

“Clark.” The name was quiet but firm. “You’re always taking care of everyone… let me take care of you.”

You whispered, pushing him just enough for him to take the hint and lay down in bed, ribs rising and falling unevenly. He groaned quietly under his breath as he leaned back, head hitting the pillows just as you kneeled on the other side of him, leaning down to press soft kisses to his marked and bruised skin, careful not to press into any of the deeper cuts. You traced a path from his sternum down and spoke between kisses.

“Can you do that for me?” you whispered, glad to see him visibly sink deeper into the mattress.

“…Are you sure the chains aren’t needed?”

You smiled faintly, not in mockery whatsoever. “Let’s not pretend they’d hold you back.”

He studied you for a long, still second, holding eye contact as you neared his heavy cock. Something changed behind his eyes then, the tension melted, just enough for him to give you the tiniest of nods.

Your fingers wrapped around the base, tongue flicking out to lap at its length from the very bottom to the sensitive tip. You felt him shiver, letting out a sigh as his hand went to your side, eyes watchful while you teased the tip’s slit with your tongue, tasting the saltiness of him before taking him fully into your mouth, tongue flat, allowing it to create its own path down your throat.

“Golly, sweet mercy…” he breathed as he watched you.

You took him in until his head blocked the very back of your throat, with more length to take and not enough space to do so. You got to work then, for your own pleasure more than his, from the way your eyes were rolling back. You used your hands to take care of the remaining length as you bobbed your head slowly with hollowed cheeks, massaging the base with just enough pressure to keep him on the edge.

His moans slowly grew louder and less timid, as did his hands, with fingertips that caressed your wet folds from behind while you worked him.

From the way he lifted his fingers and looked at them glistening, it was clear he didn’t believe all of that was for him, yet you moaned, pushing your ass back against nothing to incite him for more. He complied by replacing his fingers there, twisting his head in an awkward angle to watch himself dip them in slowly, eyes flickering between that image and your face as he pushed both digits deeper and deeper, your body spreading to grant him access.

He drove them in as far as they could go, then pulled them out slowly, watching your reaction whilst repeating the movement, his body trembling with pride once you moaned around his cock, one hand grabbing at his thigh for support.

His pace quickened accordingly, letting the sounds from the finger-fucking mix with the ones from your sweet mouth. Clark matched the rhythm at which you worked, loving how you backed your body to meet his hand shamelessly, until the pleasure from his fingers clouded your resolve—long forgetting the fact his cock blocked the path out for your moans and whimpers while you let him fuck you senseless.

It was a beautiful sight to him, the way your back arched and your pebbled nipples brushed against his skin while you hesitated between giving him pleasure and surrendering to your own. His fingers, covered in slick, moved in and out of you with such ease he envied them, shamelessly licking his lips every time he was strong enough to tear his eyes off your face.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth with a whimper that almost made him come, so desperate and raw, just like the view from where he laid envying a string of spit linking your plumped lips to his gleaming cock.

“Ugnh!” you whimpered, closing your eyes and letting your forehead fall to his lower abdomen, a hand still absentmindedly pumping him while your body rocked to meet his fingers. You turned your head to find his eyes on you, and the mere sight caused your own to roll with pleasure, granting him a nod.

“F–feels so good,” you said breathlessly, knees spreading further almost like you wanted to rub your clit against his dark blue sheets.

“You like that?” he asked, with a boyish grin that almost didn’t belong.

You nodded rapidly, sucking in a breath. “Mmmmyes…yes…fucking love it.”

You felt your inner thighs getting wetter and that knot tightening gradually in your lower abdomen, just as your body arched into his touch and tensed, your eyes shutting forcefully as you came with a hybrid between a moan and a groan.

Your walls fluttered around Clark’s digits as he maintained the same pace through your climax, only pulling them out when you inhaled—like you’d been underwater the whole time.

His hands massaged your skin to soothe you, easing you back down to earth, while working up the courage to tell you that you could slow down, except your lips were already reaching for his.

Succumbing to his own needs, he pulled your body down against him—damned be the pain—and hugged you close while kissing you senseless. His hands grabbed at your hair and everywhere he could reach as you stretched across his bed, legs now limp.

“Bedside table,” he murmured mid-kisses, and immediately your hand went to it, pulling out a brand-new box of condoms that you smashed against the edge of the wood to pop it open and haphazardly pulled one out.

You straddled his lap, only stopping the messy kissing to carefully roll on the condom, the latex stretching around his girth and marking every single vein on it. Wasting no time, you lifted your body up and lined him to your entrance, tip pushing past your folds and threatening to slip-in in one swift thrust from how wet every surface was.

You watched as his chest rose and fell, holding eye contact while slowly sinking down on his thick cock, walls accommodating his girth beyond capacity and already twitching as if his size alone was enough to make you climax. You eased down inch by inch, thighs trembling as you took him to the hilt, savoring the delicious curve of him already caressing your g-spot while the base promised exciting friction to your clit.

Clark gasped a low, broken sound at the pressure your body subjected his to. His hands clutched your hips, guiding your descent, while his eyes lit up at the slight bulge in your stomach.

“Take it easy on me, will you?” he groaned, eyes roaming your body reverently as you lifted yourself barely an inch before dropping back down on him. You moaned, your head already falling back in pleasure before you repeated the same movement a few times. As sick as anyone might’ve thought it was, Clark couldn’t help but look deeper, using his x-ray vision to see his tip pressed flush against your cervix.

“You hear me? I said “take it easy”.”

You grinned. “Worrying about hypotheticals, Clark?”

“There’s nothing hypothetical about it, trust me.” His palms smoothed over your thighs and up your waist before cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.

Your eyes narrowed briefly before catching onto the way he was staring at your stomach. “I feel as though my anatomical privacy is being invaded.”

His eyes snapped up to your face, slightly wide. “What? No. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... well, I did–”

“Joke, Clark. It was a joke,” you chuckled, giving a tentative roll of your hips to savor the stretch of him inside you, feeling fuller than you ever thought possible. “Fuck, you’re big,” you breathed, more to yourself than to him, then leaned forward, ghosting your lips over his as you picked up a rhythm that his hands on your hips eagerly assisted.

"Attagirl," he murmured, voice thick from a side of him you didn’t know had always belonged to you, thumbs brushing over your hips as you moved.

“Like this?” you asked, voice fading into a moan, your breath catching every time he bottomed out.

“Mhm,” he nodded, sucking in a sharp breath. “Exactly like this, beautiful.”

No more words were needed and you both knew it. Language dissolved into moans and the sharp rhythm of skin slapping against skin.

He was big, and every thrust brought that aching kind of pleasure that made your toes curl and your core clench. You arched your back, bracing your hands on his chest and rode him with growing confidence, lifting then dropping, slick and hot and impossibly connected. Your entrance stretched for him, his unforgiving thrusts scraping your walls clean of every drop of slick, only to serve as lubrication for the next. Wetness clung to your bodies, forming clear, glistening strings between you as you fucked.

Clark’s aching body was long forgotten as his sheets took the worst of it, blood and precum baptizing the bed on both ends of the human experience. Your clit pulsed from the friction, every motion sparking fire through your nerves while he groaned beneath you, wounded but desperate, watching every twitch of your hips like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He moaned proudly into your mouth, hands trembling as they kneaded your flesh, squeezing your tender breasts with care.

He knew then that he wouldn’t wait for your moans to grow louder or your pace to grow messier. His hand hovered between your legs, sliding his thumb over your swollen clit and circling in slow, precise motions that made you gasp and clench around him. His touch was reverent, worshipful and skilled, building you up until your thighs quaked with the effort of holding back.

“There you go,” you heard him murmur softly, just before your climax shattered through you.

You came with a cry, shuddering around him as he whispered more praise that pushed you to keep going. You collapsed forward for a breath, forehead resting on his shoulder, while allowing your hips to still roll as you rode the aftershocks.

Clark stroked your back and kissed your temple, his voice ragged but still so gentle, splitting his focus between your bliss and holding himself back. “I want to make you feel good again.”

You surged up for another kiss, grinding down harder now, chasing your next peak while he looked at you like he could do this ten more times without pause. One hand gripped your hip, firmly, while the other slid up to cradle your breast again, rolling your nipple between two fingers until you were a whimpering mess.

Despite the pain, he began to thrust up to meet your rhythm, careful and still mindful of wounds that would begin healing at sunrise, but you could still feel the effort thrumming under his skin along the tension, the coiled power and the pent-up need trembling through every muscle of his.

The room became a black box of rhythm and ruin—skin colliding, masculine groans, airless moans, and high-pitched whimpers as you took each unforgiving thrust with parted lips and rolling, wet eyes.

Unsurprisingly so, your third orgasm crashed into you suddenly and far more intensely, leaving you wrung out and boneless. Your nails clawed at his skin as your body bowed and clenched.

Clark was trembling beneath you, sweat gleaming on his brow and chest heaving as he stared at the thundering flesh of your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls like it belonged to him.

Blinking through the blur and focusing on his expression felt like seeing an entirely new man, one who sounded and looked just as mortal as you were. Which was exactly when it dawned on you that he wasn’t.

“Ughhh! Fuck, Clark! Are you–are you c-close?” you whispered, breathless.

He nodded, jaw clenched tight, trying to hold off for a few more seconds with you.

You kissed messily along his jaw, down to his throat, then sat upright, rolling your hips with abandon and meeting each thrust with grace despite the ache in your thighs and your trembling body. From this angle, it felt like he was rearranging your insides.

With a ragged cry, he finally let go, roughly pulling you down and crushing your lips to his as he spilled a heavy load inside the condom, hips jerking up into you with such force that each thrust stole the air from your lungs.

He halted with a groan, staying buried deep inside you for a few shuddering seconds before collapsing onto the mattress, your body limp and slumped over his. Your chests heaved in unison, hearts slowing in tandem, caught in those still, fragile minutes that made you question whether you had ever truly enjoyed sex before this.

One of his hands cradled the back of your head, gentle and rhythmic, while the other traced along the curve of your side so softly it almost felt imagined. You laid there unmoving, your ear over his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart and the steady rise and fall of his breath as the sun began stretching over the horizon, casting a golden light over your glistening skin.

“So…where exactly were you planning to attach those chains?” you asked quietly, your breathing finally levelled.

It took him a few seconds to reply, his fingertips lazily tracing small, absentminded shapes along the curve of your back. “I didn’t think that far ahead,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your body shaking against his. “Liar.”

You laid there way past sunrise, trapped in your own bubble with no news from the outside world, letting yourselves believe every day could be like this. Maybe you'd work toward it, because when two orbiting bodies drift too close for too long, gravity does what it does best: pulls, tangles and devours…And eventually, combustion isn’t just inevitable... it’s the only possible ending.

----

💌: This is one of the longest pieces i've ever written and it's lead me to ask myself everyday since why tf i didn't chose to write in my own goddamn language. anyway this was great and i want dick :(

1K notes · View notes

sc3ptre · 6 days ago

Text

Off the record

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: I just had to and if you’ve seen the movie and that scene, you’ll understand why

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) | safe sex, p-in-v, oral f! receiving during a professional environment, praise, superpowered sex?, power imbalance, destruction of property during sex

If you’d like something a bit hotter, check out A healing touch Disclaimer: This scene is loosely based on content shown in the trailers for Superman (2025) — so technically, no major spoilers! That being said, if you're trying to go into the movie completely fresh, feel free to skip this for now and come back later.

Word count: 3.3k

You got home late, again. The city was quiet in that way it only ever was past midnight with streetlights buzzing faintly, the sound of your boots echoing in the stairwell and your coat carrying the weight of the day like a second skin.

Once inside, you kicked off your heels, pulled your scarf free in one motion and slung your bag onto the hallway hook like muscle memory. The apartment welcomed you with familiar silence and the gentle creak of old pipes. It smelled like dust and the faint ghost of coffee and maybe the takeout you didn’t finish yesterday.

You locked the door behind you without looking and then you heard it, a sound that shouldn’t be there, one of a pan shifting.

It was soft and deliberate, like someone trying not to make noise in your kitchen.

You froze, coat still half-off. Your brain went cold before your hands did, every hair on your arm standing. You moved without breathing, slow and smooth, peeling the coat the rest of the way off and dropping it on the hook while simultaneously reaching for the bat you kept stashed by the door, the one with the worn grip and the cracked stripe of duct tape at the end. You hadn’t used it in years, not seriously, but your fingers still curled around it like you’d never stopped.

The hallway felt longer than usual as you crept toward the sound. Your breath came shallow and the refrigerator hum gave away nothing. You rounded the corner, raised the bat and swung hard without thinking twice.

The bat made solid contact with something unmoving and unbothered, and then cracked violently in half. It felt like hitting a steel beam with a stick of chalk.

“Shit–!”

You staggered back in pure panic, already wincing and then realized, mid-heart-attack, that the man now holding the broken bat with one hand and a sauté pan in the other was, in fact, Clark.

Still wearing his work clothes, pressed dress pants and the white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his chest just barely stretching at the buttons. His hair was tousled, his eyes unfairly soft and he smelled like butter, basil and the kind of quiet only he seemed to carry in your space.

You stared at him, wide-eyed while he looked at you, entirely unfazed, holding half your weapon like it was a bouquet.

“I’ll get you a steel one,” he said calmly, as if the most normal thing in the world was letting you try to brain him with a Louisville Slugger and then continuing to sauté garlic.

“I knew it was you and I still panicked,” you said, chest still tight, adrenaline peaking. “I am so sorry. God, did I–did I hurt you?”

“You can’t hurt me...physically that is, so if you’re planning on breaking up with me tonight then the answer would be yes, emotionally.”

“I’m not and that’s not the point. The point is I hit you with a bat.”

“And I made you dinner,” he said mildly, nodding toward the stove. “One of us is clearly ahead in this relationship.”

You blinked then laughed, nerves breaking like surface tension. You stepped closer, smelling whatever he was cooking, pasta, maybe. Something with cream, pepper, garlic and fresh herbs, because of course he would make it taste better than the best restaurant in Metropolis.

Of course he would do this without asking.

Of course he would smell like rosemary and feel like a safe house in the middle of a war.

He didn’t even wait for you to react or respond. After setting the pan down, he just leaned forward, touched your hips gently and lifted you like you weighed nothing, placing you on the kitchen counter with a softness that felt like something sacred. He stepped in between your knees, pulled you forward by the waist and kissed you slowly, like the world didn’t matter.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt and kissed him back, melting and losing track of everything except the solid warmth of his hands and the way his mouth moved like he already knew what you needed but eventually, your brain kicked back in and you pulled back slightly.

“Mmmm…you’re hiding, aren’t you?”

He paused, forehead leaning against yours.

“You made dinner,” you continued softly, “...You never make dinner unless you’re avoiding headlines.”

“I’m not hiding,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your jaw.

“You’re literally in the middle of a political firestorm, Clark. There’s a subcommittee meeting about you on four separate networks.” You shifted your head back slightly, forcing him to meet your gaze. “They’re calling it a ‘failed interventional conflict.’ They're saying you lost a war you started.”

He didn’t flinch but he didn’t meet your eyes, either. You exhaled, pressing your palm to his chest. “Let me help, let me do something. I’m not just…whatever this is. I’m still good at my job and you can’t interview yourself forever, it’s suspicious.”

“It’s really not.”

“Oh yeah? Not to mention it’s wildly unprofessional, unethical and quite simply stupid–”

“That’s taking it too far…and I know you’re very good at your job,” he said quietly, one hand brushing your thigh. “Too good.”

“Then let me interview you…him. You know how much it matters, and–”

He was quiet for a second but then nodded. “Fine.”

“…What?” you paused, registering his words. “You’ll let me interview you as…Superman?”

“Yeah… sure,” he agreed, voice sheepish with a slight edge of doubt.

You slid off the counter then, still buzzing from his kiss and went to your bag, pulling out your small field recorder, the one you kept for quick takes and on-the-fly quotes. You placed it on the counter, clicked it on and gave him a small smile as you sat back up on the counter and crossed your legs.

“Alright,” you said, in your best calm-journalist tone, the one that always made people lean in without realizing it, “Superman.”

Something in him changed instantly. You heard it more than saw it, that shift. The register of his voice dropping a full octave, steady, strong and smooth like ocean pressure. It was calm and assured, the voice the world believed in.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said and just that tone, sent a ripple down your spine that made your knees tighten.

You cleared your throat. “There’s been a lot of controversy around the UN vote last week. Some say you overstepped–”

“I acted on intelligence I believed to be urgent,” he said. “And I take full responsibility for my actions, but I believe they prevented greater loss of life.”

You nodded, swallowing. “And the report about your…uh, withdrawal–”

“I withdrew because I was asked to. Not because I was defeated.”

You were about to ask the next question when he stepped between your legs again, parting them with ease, close enough to touch and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.

You jolted slightly. “Clark.”

“I’m still answering.” He murmured, voice dipping lower, kisses trailing now to the base of your neck, each one melting something inside your chest. His voice was unsurprisingly steady when he spoke again. “I intervene when the scale of a disaster surpasses what human systems can handle…I don’t weigh in on politics.”

“You entered a country illegally.”

“I stopped a war.”

"You crossed borders without permission, ignored airspace alerts, made a decision entire governments didn’t agree on…what–” you began, breath hitching slightly when his fingers gently swept higher, drawing slow circles through the fabric of your pants “–what happens when the public perception of your involvement shifts?”

He tilted his head slightly. “If I’d waited for permission, there wouldn’t have been anyone left to thank me. Bottom line is, I care what the truth is, I care about the people who are afraid and I care when I become a reason they feel unsafe, which I’m not.”

You let out an embarrassing moan which was supposed to be a warning. “Fuck, Clark–”

“Superman,” he corrected, deep and rich in your ear, the sound of it sending something hot and traitorous spiraling in your stomach. “I thought this was formal.”

“It was, Superman.” You gritted out, watching as his hands went higher and higher, “I swear to God–”

Before you could protest any further and remind him of the running recorder, of your journalistic integrity…of anything remotely rational, he kissed you. Full and deliberate, every part of your body folded into it like you’d been waiting to be touched like this again.

The recorder was still on and the interview far from over but neither of you seemed to remember.

His mouth was everywhere, devouring your lips, tracing a desperate path down your jaw, your throat and the hollow where your pulse thundered so loud you were sure he could hear it. His large hands roamed under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, fingertips so broad but gentle– always so careful—even when he was trembling with need.

The countertop was cold beneath your thighs but the rest of you was burning. Clark stood between your knees, pressing himself forward until there was nothing but heat and fabric between you.

His hands found the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with almost superhuman precision except when he lost patience, then the fabric tore apart, seams splitting and buttons flying beneath his grip. Your bra followed, straps flicking off your shoulders before his mouth found you again, hot, wet and all teeth scraping gently around your nipples as he sucked and groaned, letting you hear how much he ached for you.

You arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as he lavished attention on your hardened nipples, causing your lips to part in pleasure. Your legs parted for him in anticipation as your panties clung to you with unabashed heat. When you gasped, Clark grinned against your skin, catching every tremble in your voice and every spike in your breathing.

“Your heart,” he growled, moving up to kiss under your jaw, leaving wet kisses and soft bites you wished pierced through your heated skin, “it’s racing. Like you’re about to run or come from me just touching you…so which one is it? Mm? I can hear the blood rushing in your veins.”

His voice vibrated everywhere, inside your chest and especially between your legs in a way that made you grind against the cold marble, erupting soft whimpers from your plumped lips. He brought you even closer to the edge so you could rock your hips against the hardened tent in his pants, desperate for more friction. Your head fell back as he gained more access to your neck, groaning into it as you continued to rub your clothed center against his erection.

The sheer understanding of what was missing settled between the both of you and Clark acted on his desperation first by grabbing the sides of your pants and yanking them down your legs, your panties disappearing with them in one smooth motion as air cooled your swollen and wet folds, making you whine as if it had been your lover’s touch, suddenly withdrawn. He looked down at your nakedness then, eyes darkening with pure want as its sweetness filled his nostrils.

He dropped to his knees as if he’d been defeated, a sight that nearly undid you, spreading you wide on the countertop before he shamelessly buried his face between your thighs, tongue broad and hot, licking a slow stripe from entrance to clit, spreading your folds apart to accommodate him.

Clark groaned at the taste of you, pressing a kiss to your swollen and aching clit before sucking and flicking his tongue against it at just the right pressure. It was never random, he listened to every thud of your heart, every tiny gasp or shuddering inhale, adjusting his rhythm to what made you crazy. His spit mixed with your sweet arousal, coated his lips and chin as he penetrated you with the tip of his tongue. You closed your eyes and gently grinded your hips against his mouth as he continued, eliciting the softest of moans from your beautiful throat while you pulled him closer to you by his hair.

His fingers slid inside you then, replacing his tongue as he let it flick against your bundle of nerves again, making you shudder. His digits were long and thick, curling up to hit a perfect spot that made your vision go white and your eyes roll, a sight he couldn’t help but grin at. He worked you over with a skill that could only come from pattern recognition beyond human ability, sensing precisely when your pulse jumped and when your breath caught just when you were about to fall apart.

“Let go,” he murmured against you, tongue relentlessly moving against you until he felt you pulse. “I know you’re there.”

You cried out, fingers clutching at his hair so hard you were thankful you couldn't hurt him, as you came for him with your hips jerking helplessly against his tongue and fingers. You could feel him smile against your heat as he worked you through every aftershock, sucking and licking you off all you had to offer him.

He stood in a rush, eyes wild, moving with the kind of urgency that said patience was not on the menu tonight and just as your fingers fumbled at his belt, he froze.

“Hang on,” he murmured and vanished in a gust of air so fast it nearly knocked the blender clean off the counter. It teetered for half a second and whoosh he was back, one hand catching it casually mid-air while the other held up a foil square like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier to practice safe sex. You reached for his belt then but he was already outpacing you, ripping his shirt open like it had personally wronged him and then flinging it aside, exposing the stretch of muscle he was made out of. You ran your hands across his chest causing him to shudder under your soft and warm hands, your lustful gaze heating his skin more than a thousand suns ever could.

He shoved his pants down, boxers barely cleared before his cock sprung free, thick, flushed and achingly hard. You wrapped a hand around him and he groaned like he was a second short of combusting, the sound vibrating in your bones as you watched him roll the condom on. He pulled you to the very edge of the counter guiding his cock against your entrance and slowly pushing in with a clenched jaw and a deathly grip to your thighs. The sight of your pussy leaking and fluttering around it made his hips jerk forward then retract pulling a wince out of you. He paused only to look into your eyes.

“Tell me if I’m too much,” he said, voice hoarse but utterly tender.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, tilting your pelvis back and pulling him in slowly, moaning as he slid deep inside with ease, stretching you so wide you could hardly breathe. Clark gritted his teeth, fighting not to move too fast but the way you squeezed around him made his control snap slightly.

He thrusted slowly at first, savoring every inch of your slick pussy as his lips fell apart, letting out soft gasps of pleasure that made your nipples harder as they tickled his chest. Your hands grabbed at any skin available, nails digging into almost unbreakable skin as his rhythm sped up, fueled by the overwhelming pleasure building between you. Each movement was deep, powerful, filling you so perfectly you could barely hold yourself together.

You both moaned in the same space, sharing breaths as you kissed while your tongues fought for control. You could taste yourself on his lips, the same sweet slick that was now leaking onto the counter and between your naked bodies as he delivered unforgiving thrusts that seemed to split you open, while his hands were around you, making it impossible to even think about pulling back.

“You don’t know how many times…I’ve thought about fucking you over your desk afterhours.” He mumbled onto your mouth with a grin that could’ve made you come. Your heart had staggered and he knew it. “Like the sound of tha’?”

You nodded quickly, messily as pleasure took over your brain and the only thing you could voice were moans and drawled whines.

“Uhhh–What? Want me to…write a piece…about how well Superman f–fucks?”

He chuckled deeply and the counter creaked, threatening to give beneath the force of his grip on the edge whenever he couldn’t force his hands to be gentle on you. He wanted them everywhere, really…on your ass, your thighs, cradling your head while he kissed you silly while his dick caused addicting damage within you. He whispered your name like a secret prayer between grunts and moans that made you forget he wasn’t an ordinary man.

“So beautiful…fuck… sweeter than any sunrise. I’m never giving this up.”

He listened to your body, tuning his pace to the staccato of your heart as it started to climb again and your nails failed to dig deeper into his skin. “That’s it,” he panted. “There, just like that…you’re so close, breathe, baby.”

You were both getting louder now, his voice rougher, needier, while yours was high and desperate as he pounded into you harder, faster, until the counter and everything on it shook violently around you.

“Clark…I–” You broke off into a wail as he hit just the right spot over and over, until your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. Your whole body went tight around him and he lost whatever little restraint he had left when your head fell back against the upper cabinet, lips parted and letting out the most sinful sounds he had ever heard. Your pulse points were on full display as blood rushed down, making your pussy and clit pulse for him.

He slammed in hard one last time and crack!. The edge of the countertop sank under his grip as he came inside the condom with a helpless and guttural moan, hips locked tight to yours, burying himself deep inside you so you could feel his cock throb.

You collapsed against each other, sweat-slick and shaking, his arms still holding you close like he never wanted to let go. Then came the sharp press of something under your hip, the cracked edge of the countertop, jagged and out of place.

You winced and instantly, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against him as he stepped back, brows furrowed with guilt.

He pressed soft kisses all over your face and shoulders while you caught your breath. “Sorry about the mess…I’ll pay for it.” he added with a sheepish little smile, leaning in to kiss the spot behind your ear he knew made you sigh.

You brushed a kiss over his lips and chuckled breathlessly. “Yes you will.”

Clark grinned against your mouth, his hands still sliding softly over your sides but then your gaze drifted and landed on something that made your stomach drop.

The recorder. Still blinking and running.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back slightly as panic flooded your chest. “Shit, shit. The interview.”

He blinked, lips parted and twitching into a smile as he fumbled for the stop button like it might bite him. “I trust you’ll keep this part off the record.”

You turned your head to glare at him. “You have to say that before you rail me into the countertop!”

He smirked, hugging you closer like the most unbothered man alive. “Noted. I’ll…make sure to think about that the next time”

You stared at him, still breathless, ruined and absolutely already planning on letting him destroy you again…after you destroyed the recording, of course. Just in case.

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sc3ptre · 7 days ago

Text

A lieutenant's midnight snack

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

💌 a/n: Insane choice of the pic of his hands, I know 😪 hope you guys can forgive me, i didn't have time to pull out the ouija board and ask Soap if it was okay

Setting: Office on base, late night encounters

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Oral sex and fingering.

Word count: 0.9k

It was past midnight when you finally navigated the labyrinthine halls of the base with your badge clipped to your belt and a heart thudding with anticipation. Most of the lights were off, but you knew the one office that would still be glowing, a single strip of fluorescent casting shadows across Simon’s broad shoulders.

Mask-less, he looked up when you tapped quietly at the door, eyes softening behind his mask of exhaustion. You knew that look well, late-night paperwork and a mind too busy to surrender to sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmured, closing and locking the door behind you.

He shook his head, smirking. “Never do. Not until you’re around.”

You smiled, warmth spreading beneath your skin. You crossed the room then, boots barely making a sound on the thin rug and perched yourself on the edge of his desk, legs dangling just above the floor. Your hips were level with his face as he swiveled in his chair, looking up at you, big hands coming to rest on your thighs.

“Figured I’d say goodnight before I go,” you breathed, combing your fingers through his short hair, feeling the tension that lived in his neck and shoulders.

He slid his palms up under the hem of your shirt, rough fingertips kneading your hips. “Stay,” he murmured, voice gravel-low. “Need a better reason than a sleepless night to put these files away.”

You glanced back at the locked door and suddenly the thrill of secrecy shivered down your spine.

His eyes never left yours as he worked the button on your pants while you kicked off your shoes, then the zipper, knuckles brushing slowly over your skin. He helped you lift your hips, tugging your pants and underwear down your thighs and legs with practiced care, exposing you to the cool air and the heat of his gaze. You chuckled lightly when he scrunched up your panties and put them in his pocket for later use.

Simon leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh as a silent promise before settling between your legs. His hands gripped your hips firmly, pulling you forward until you were perched right on the edge of the desk, knees falling open for him. The anticipation was dizzying, so much that you couldn’t help but bite your lip as he breathed you in.

He was patient, savoring every second. His thumbs spread you open, exposing your glistening folds. He was so close you could feel his breath, warm and teasing, before his tongue finally traced a slow, deliberate line up your slit.

You gasped, hands clutching the edge of the desk as your legs rested on his shoulders. The office was so quiet that every wet sound, every soft moan, echoed between the walls.

Simon hummed against you, tongue flicking expertly over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking gently.

He ate you like he’d been starving, like you were something sacred. His stubble grazed your thighs in the most delicious way, nose pressed into your skin as his tongue delved deeper, tasting everything you had to offer.

You tried to stay quiet knowing how thin the walls were and how risky this was but Simon relished every shaky breath and muffled whimper you couldn’t contain. He guided you with his hands, tilting your hips just right so he could devour you deeper even when you gave up on sitting upright and fully laid down shamelessly on his desk.

“Fuck, Simon,” you whispered, voice trembling. He looked up at you, eyes dark and wild, lips glistening, with a smug, silent question: Can you keep quiet for me, love?

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them expertly as his tongue fluttered against your clit in perfect rhythm. It was overwhelming, the pressure building with every stroke, every swirling flick of his tongue. You bit your fist to stifle your cries, head thrown back as pleasure threatened to swallow you whole.

Simon groaned against you, loving every twitch and buckle of your hips. His free hand wrapped around your thigh, pinning you in place so you couldn’t escape and so he could finish what he started.

The world narrowed to nothing but him, his mouth, hands and the relentless, perfect pressure that pushed you right to the edge.

You came undone with a shudder, thighs clamping tight around his broad shoulders. Your orgasm rolled through you in waves, intense, silent and blinding while Simon kept licking you through it, not letting go until you were spent, shaky and gasping for breath.

When he finally pulled back, he sucked his fingers clean and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing with satisfaction.

You both knew you’ll never forget the sight: Simon Riley, the legendary Ghost, nearly on his knees for you, tasting your pleasure like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He helped you dress, minus your panties, while you focused on calming your trembling hands, finally stealing one last kiss before slipping away into the night.

In the morning, as you strode into the mess hall, coffee in hand and cheeks still warm at the mere thought of it, Simon walked past, cool as ever and murmured just loud enough for you to hear:

“Slept great last night. Must be the melatonin on you.”

You almost choked on your coffee, grinning as you shot back, “Or maybe you’re just a hungry son of a bitch.”

He just smirked, eyes lingering on you like a promise. No one else knew about the two of you but that was only half the thrill.

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sc3ptre · 8 days ago

Note

hiii, can i get like tennis player! reader with drew? maybe like drew come to reader's match or something, i play tennis and wimbledon is happening rn so its kinda cute i think, its okay if you dont wanna, i love your works btw:)🩷

The match point was you

Pairing: Drew Starkey x f!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: Thank you lovely, hope you enjoy it! I tried to be fancy with the tennis terms so if something's wrong just shhhhhh keep it to yourself 😙

Genre: fluff.

Warnings: none.

Word count: 0.7k

The sun hung over the Wimbledon courts like a spotlight and the buzz in the crowd was that you were about to step onto Centre Court for one of the biggest matches of your career, but none of that mattered in this exact moment, because sitting three rows from the front, in a sharp navy button-down and sunglasses that did nothing to hide how intently he was watching you warm up, was Drew.

Your boyfriend.

Secret boyfriend, technically…kind of, depending on who was asking.

You’d met him months ago at some random event, him repping a new show while you were invited as a rising name in tennis. He told you he didn’t know anything about tennis but found it “weirdly hot when people yell during matches.” You rolled your eyes and still gave him your number.

Now here he was, Wimbledon, watching you stretch.

He waved casually, then pointed to the Gatorade bottle in your hand with a little eyebrow raise that seemed to say, Is that one of the gross ones again?

You smiled, despite yourself.

“Who’s that?” your coach asked, catching your reaction out of the corner of her eye, tone more curious than suspicious.

You cleared your throat quickly, tightening the wrap on your wrist. “Uh…just a friend.”

Just a friend who flew across the Atlantic last minute. Just a friend who wore a hat low and kept his sunglasses on even when the clouds moved in, just so people wouldn't recognize him and just a friend who’d memorized your match schedule before your coach did.

You know, that kind of friend.

The match began with the familiar pressurized quiet, broken only by the thud of serves and the sharp squeak of sneakers pivoting across the pristine grass. You slipped into rhythm quickly, your footwork tight and returns clean, your body and mind as locked in as they’d ever been, but every time you glanced toward your box, your gaze found him and he was watching you like it mattered.

Not just the match. You.

He clapped even when you double-faulted. He cheered louder than your team when you hit that impossible crosscourt forehand to break serve. He reacted like he felt every point with you, like he wasn’t just some boyfriend in the stands but a tether to everything that reminded you why you even started this game in the first place.

By the end of the second set, one you lost in a tight tiebreak, your legs were trembling slightly, the kind of fatigue that wasn’t quite physical but born from pressure, heat and the weight of expectations.

During the changeover, as the crowd buzzed and the umpire called time, you sat with your towel pressed over your face and let your eyes drift toward your box again.

Drew had his elbows on his knees, hands clasped and mouth pressed into a line like he was concentrating for you. His sunglasses were off now, resting on the collar of his shirt and you could see that his eyes, stormy, soft and wide with focus, hadn’t left you once.

When the final set began, something shifted. Not in the opponent or even in your play, it was in you.

Something steadied, anchored, like his presence pulled you back to your center.

You took control of the pace. Your volleys were sharper, your body lighter, your shots more fearless and when that last point hit the net and you realized you’d won— your match, your moment, your Centre Court debut— the roar of the crowd blurred, because all you could see was him.

Standing and clapping, beaming like you’d just rewritten history.

You wrapped your towel around your neck and walked off the court like you were floating.

Security ushered you past press and protocol but before they could lead you too far, a hand gently brushed your arm. Discreet, familiar and warm.

“You killed it,” Drew murmured, just loud enough for only you to hear.

You turned, still catching your breath and laughed softly, your forehead resting against his for a second that felt like it existed outside of time. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice low and steady, “but I wanted to.”

He smiled, brushing a bit of sweat-soaked hair off your cheek. “Also, you’re way hotter when you’re pissed off after losing a set.”

You shoved him lightly, rolling your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m yours,” he said, almost without thinking. Then paused, cheeks pinking. “If that’s still the plan.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stood on tiptoes, pressed your lips gently to the corner of his mouth, not quite a kiss and not quite not one.

“Yeah. That’s still the plan.” You whispered against his skin.

#drew starkey imagine #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fic #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #drew starkey fanfiction #rafe cameron fluff #obx cast

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sc3ptre · 9 days ago

Text

Full house

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem! reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Genre: No plot filthy smut

Warnings: fingering, unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie

Era: season 10?

Word count: 1.3k

This just didn’t happen often. Mornings where neither of you had to hunt, lead or deal with someone else’s mess. No responsibilities, no chaos. Just you and Daryl tangled in warm sheets, the sun barely starting to stretch across the floor through thin curtains.

Still, you’d woken up early, your instincts sharp no matter how peaceful things seemed but the second you tried to shift away from him, Daryl’s hands found you, grabbing at your waist, sliding along your bare thighs and pulling you right against his chest. His lips latched onto your clavicles and neck, hungry and unrelenting, his scruffy goatee dragging over your skin in that way that made your breath hitch.

Your thighs parted instinctively when his rough fingers grazed over your slick heat, his mouth swallowing the soft gasp it pulled from you. He pushed one finger inside, slow, deep and pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes before sliding in another. Your plump lips parted to let out a quiet moan.

“Shhhh,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. “We doin’ this?”

You nodded into the pillow and he kept at it, curling his fingers in just the right way, letting them be coated with your slick. His lips brushed yours, feather-light between the small, helpless sounds you couldn’t quite suppress.

“What?” you panted, chest rising fast. “Afraid you wont get your dick wet this morning?”

He gave a low, amused laugh, one only you ever got to hear. “Afraid ‘m gonna ruin more of yer underwear by cumming onto it again”

Your eyes snapped open, mouth parted in disbelief. “I’m sorry, w–what?”

He didn’t answer, just sped up, fingers thrusting into you harder, dragging a cry from your throat that he caught with a hand over your mouth as you turned onto your back, your legs parting to accommodate his hand. You still tried glaring at him as he moved himself on top of you but the pleasure wiped your brain clean as your body melted into the mattress.

Then, in one smooth practiced motion, he pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his cock, thick and full, all the way inside before you could do more than gasp. He groaned low into your neck, your walls fluttering in a pre-orgasmic way around his thickness in response.

Once the shock wore off, you pushed his hand off your mouth and hissed, “My underwear? Really?”

“I clean ‘em real good,” he muttered without a hint of shame.

“Oh yeah? What about the half that disappeared? Was it—was it Dog?”

“Mhm…Dog” he said simply.

Your jaw dropped at the repeating lie but he soon pressed a hand over your mouth again, kissing the back of it as he thrusted, slow but deep, making you lose your train of thought all over again.

”Ya wanna fuck or argue?” he grunted.

You tried to glare in a way that let him know you obviously couldn’t respond with his hand over your mouth. When he finally moved it, you took a deep breath, only for the next stroke to hit a perfect spot that left you gasping. He quickly covered it again and seconds later you nodded, for him to let go.

“Is there…” you swallowed a moan, breath catching, ”Is there a secret third option?”

“Not righ’ now, no.”

You whimpered again, your body giving up on resistance. You clung to him as he worked you open, your walls sucking him in deeper, desperate for every inch. His smirk grew with every breathy sound you made. Soft, pathetic whines that drove him wild.

“Wha’s wrong? Gettin’ hard t’ think?”

You pulled him closer, smiling lips brushing his ear. “Probably for your own good, Dixon.”

He grunted, then shifted, hooking his arm under your leg and lifting it slightly. The angle made your eyes roll back, every thrust pressing deep and true against your cervix in a way that made you delirious. Talking stopped altogether, only gasps and moans filled the air.

You held onto him for dear life, moaning into his shoulder as you felt that high sneak up on you, your eyes widening as you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep it in.

“D—Daryl…” you whimpered, the knot in your stomach coiling tighter.

Without a word, his hand came back over your mouth as his forehead met yours. You came with a cry muffled into his palm, your body trembling beneath him. The way you clenched around him pushed him over the edge, the pulsations from your sweet release caging him in. His cock throbbed inside you, filling you completely just as your pussy milked him dry.

He groaned into your shoulder.

“I’ll get ya new underwear, I swear,” he mumbled.

You laughed breathlessly. “You blamed Dog…twice. What is wrong with you?”

He lifted himself just enough to pull out carefully, watching as the last of his release dripped from his reddened tip onto your swollen folds. He groaned at the sight.

“You,” he said, falling back down beside you and dragging you close, “you’re wha’s wrong with me”

You smiled, turning to face him and starting to press soft kisses along his jaw. “Sounds like we both owe each other an apology.”

He hummed low and you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.

“Five minutes,” he muttered.

“Five minutes” you agreed, already leaning in for another kiss until voices echoed from downstairs causing you both to turn and stare at the door.

“’S locked” he assured.

Your eyes went wide. “Daryl…what day is it?”

"Wha’ do ya—” He squinted, then groaned. “Shit. Saturday ”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” you repeated, launching yourself out of the bed.

“Yeah tha’s wha’ we were about t’ do” he mumbled.

Saturdays meant everyone was over. Lydia, Judith and RJ who lived with you but also Aaron, Maggie, their kids and Carol. All letting themselves in like the big, chaotic family they were.

As you rummaged through drawers, Daryl sat up and swung his legs off the bed. His voice soon stopped you.

“Sunshine, ya migh’ wanna…shower first” he said, eyes on your legs.

You looked down too. A thin stream of his cum was trailing down your inner thigh. “Goddamnit.”

You met his gaze, then your glance lowered to his newly half erected cock. “Stay away from my drawer.” you pointed.

Daryl simply scoffed, already getting up and walking to you. “‘M gettin’ in tha’ shower with ya. We’re already late, migh’ as well.”

After a quick shared rinse that nearly made you later, you both got dressed and headed downstairs, preparing for the worst.

“Good morning,” you greeted as you entered the kitchen. Maggie, Carol, Lydia and Aaron were already there.

“Seems that way for you two,” Carol teased from the stove, grinning over her shoulder while Daryl brushed past you toward the coffee pot.

“You heard?” You asked, mortified.

“No,” Maggie said with a smirk. “Call it an educated guess. I wanted to wake you up when I got here and you weren’t already downstairs…decided not to”

Daryl glanced around. “The kids…?”

Aaron shook his head, setting plates down. “Outside. Been out since they woke up.”

“Thank god” You sighed in relief, your hands running over your face as Carol, Maggie and Aaron broke out in giggles.

Then Lydia blinked. “Wait…I thought Daryl lived in the basement bedroom”

The laughing stopped and everything went still. You and Daryl exchanged a sharp look before you smiled awkwardly, tight lipped “Yeah, so about that…”

Daryl raised his mug. “I ain’t havin’ that conversation with the kid. Yer the mother figure.”

“Fuck you” you said, shooting him a glare.

He didn’t even flinch. “Go right’ ahead. Ya won’t hear me complain ‘bout it“

Lydia looked between the both of you, blinking “I’m… going to tidy up my bedroom until breakfast.”

“Great idea.” you said quickly, giving her a quick hug as she walked past you.

“Proud of ya, kid.” Daryl added, not missing a beat.

Carol chuckled, “You guys are doing a great job.”

You sighed, finally sitting down at the dining table “At traumatising kids, maybe.”

Aaron cackled and Maggie clinked her coffee mug with your empty one.

“Best parents at the end of the world,” Aaron added.

You snorted. “Yeah…by sheer lack of competition.”

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sc3ptre · 11 days ago

Text

Coffee breaks before sunrise

Pairing: Simon Riley x reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: been writing so much lately for Ghost so here goes an extra fic this week! Enjoy!

Setting: Military base kitchen, early morning

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 1k

The base at 0430 was a ghost town. Most of the soldiers were still tucked in their bunks and those on the night shift dragged themselves to the showers like zombies.

You, however, were already in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder and glaring at the coffee machine like it had personally wronged you, because it had. Twice.

You jabbed the start button again, watched the little green light blink, then nothing. No sound, no drip, just a faint hum and your own caffeine-deprived frustration.

“You gonna try threatenin’ it next?” came a deep voice from the doorway.

You didn’t even need to turn around. “I might,” you mumbled, rubbing your temple. “Nothing else seems to be working. I think it’s possessed.”

Ghost, Simon, walked in slowly, his footsteps softer than they should be for a man his size. You could tell it was him even without watching. The way he moved was unmistakable, methodical and quiet, like he didn’t want to leave a footprint behind.

“I’ve seen you fight men twice your size with less aggression,” he added, voice dry.

“Yeah, well, those men didn’t stand between me and caffeine,” you muttered.

He let out a low, quiet chuckle and rare sound. You gave up and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. Simon moved past you to open the upper cabinet. He didn’t say anything, but you could see the corners of his eyes crinkling above the balaclava, amused.

“I brought my own,” he finally said, pulling a small tin from the shelf.

“Of course you did.”

He shrugged. “Base coffee tastes like regret.”

“And wet dirt.”

“You make a face every time you drink it,” he added, already heating water in a battered kettle he must’ve smuggled from somewhere.

You squinted at him. “So you’ve been watching me drink it?”

Simon didn’t answer, just pulled down a second mug, yours, because apparently he had been watching, then set it beside his without a word. You watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he stirred, silent and focused. He moved with the calm, practiced rhythm of someone used to routine, to quiet mornings and getting in and out without waking anyone.

“How long have you been awake?” you asked.

“Long ‘nough to know you’d be here.”

Something flipped in your chest. You didn’t respond and truly didn’t need to. There was too much unsaid between you both already.

Simon poured the drinks, slid your mug over without meeting your eyes. “Careful, ‘s hot.”

“Thanks.” You took a sip of real coffee, not sludge. Smooth, dark and strong making your eyes nearly roll back. “Holy shit.”

Again, you noticed that faint curve in his eyes, a smile you clearly weren’t supposed to see. You leaned against the counter again and took another sip, slower this time, watching him from over the rim of your mug. He was still standing, leaning one hip against the counter, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave…and like he’d made coffee for two with the intention of staying.

“You always up this early?” you asked, quietly.

“Old habit. Never stopped.”

You nodded. You got it, some of those habits never left, even when the war wasn't actively knocking at your door. Sleep was shallow, dreams were loud, and coffee was non-negotiable.

“Why bring enough for two?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, gave you a look you couldn’t quite read. “Didn’t.”

You raised a brow at that and Simon hesitated, just long enough to make you notice.

“…Started bringing it a few days ago,” he admitted. “Figured you’d be here, eventually.”

The weight of his voice, quiet, honest and definitely far from teasing, hit you right in the gut. You opened your mouth to say something, maybe thank him, maybe admit you looked forward to these little shared silences, but then–

CLUNK.

The damn machine sputtered to life behind you and you both turned. Watched it belch out two drops of oily, burnt coffee into the empty pot.

You snorted. “Now it wakes up.”

He shrugged, sipping his mug. “Too late. I win.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hide the grin his comment pulled out of you.

A few minutes passed in that comforting early-morning silence. You both just… stood there. Not talking and not needing to.

It was a strange thing…this quiet familiarity with a man you didn’t really know, not in the usual ways, but you knew the way he moved, the way he breathed heavier when the day ahead was going to be difficult and how he loosened his gloves by an inch or two when he trusted the room.

He didn’t hide around you, not really.

“Are you going to the briefing later?” you asked, your voice soft.

He shook his head. “Already got what I need.”

You nodded again. Of course he had.

He finished his coffee before you and rinsed out his mug, but instead of leaving, he hovered for a second. Then stepped close, closer than usual, and slid something small across the counter toward you.

You blinked. It was a travel-sized tin, the same one he’d pulled from the cabinet.

“You’re giving me your coffee?” you asked, surprised.

“Not giving.” He met your eyes. “Loaning.”

You smiled. “And what’s the return fee?”

His gaze held yours, steady. “Another cup. Same time tomorrow.”

You couldn’t help it, you just smiled again, this time slower, warmer.

“Deal.”

He gave you a nod and backed away without another word but just before he disappeared around the corner, he paused with one hand on the doorframe.

“Oh,” he said. “Don’t go gettin’ soft on me…just means I like good coffee.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.” You replied with a smile.

He muttered something about being too early for cheek and disappeared into the hallway.

You stood there for a while, staring at the tin in your hand, it wasn’t what warmed you, though. It was the fact that he’d been thinking of you, quietly, without needing anything in return, and that said more than any mission debrief ever could.

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sc3ptre · 12 days ago

Note

Hello! This is my first ever request! I was wondering if you could do a Drew starkey x actress(reader) who have been together for a while now but the public doesn’t know. And they’re spotted together in the set OBX 5 being all cute

I loved you here

Pairing: Drew Starkey x fem!reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: Extra fic this week! this is my favorite trope so ask for more, i begggggg. Actually i'm already plotting for a fic hehehe, might've already written it even 👹

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 0,8k

It was the last first day back on set and as bittersweet as that was, you couldn’t help the flicker of joy curling in your chest. For the first time in months, you and Drew would be in the same city, your schedules finally aligning like stars that had kept missing each other in orbit. It sounded like an insane way to maintain a healthy relationship, seeing each other between shoots, flights, time zones and premieres, but it worked and had worked for five years now, soon to be six.

Quiet, solid and steady amidst the chaos.

Everyone was already out in wardrobe, gathering in groups on set to take promo pictures when you finally stepped out of the makeup trailer. Your stylist adjusted a hair strand behind you as the makeup artists trailed out, checking your face under the light one last time.

You picked up your pace slightly, not wanting to keep anyone waiting and then you saw Drew standing near the edge of the uneven ground where the trail met the set’s main path, a little higher up than the rest. His gaze lifted, caught yours and as always, softened instantly.

You smiled. “Hi baby.”

“Hi,” he said back, just as warm. “You didn’t have to rush.”

You reached the edge of the drop and before you could think of climbing down, Drew stepped forward, gripped your waist and lifted you gently off the ledge, placing you down right in front of him like it was second nature. You steadied yourself with a hand on his chest. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I wanted to,” he simply said, his voice low and easy. “You look beautiful.”

You brushed his hand as you fell into step beside him, pinkies barely brushing until they caught and looped together for just a second between you and around, castmates and crew chatted as they walked, heading toward the first shoot location.

“Last first day,” he said quietly.

You glanced around, the familiarity of it all sinking in. “I’m definitely crying on the last day.”

“I’ll start tonight,” he laughed.

You chuckled, nudging his shoulder. “Have you thought about what you’re gonna ask to keep?”

“Yeah,” he said, almost too quickly.

You gave him a look. “Oh really? That confident?”

“Mhm. I’m not asking though and I already stole it.”

You blinked, curious. “It better not be more of the gold, because if you’re stockpiling, I’ve got to return mine before we get in trouble.”

Drew grinned, turning his head just enough to catch your expression. “It’s you, baby. Found you here first and I’m not giving you back.”

You bumped into him with a laugh and slid an arm around his waist as you walked. He squeezed your side gently in return.

“That was smooth,” you said, impressed.

“I try.”

You reached up and plucked the sunglasses off his face, sliding them onto your own. “You nailed it, baby. Don’t doubt yourself.”

It had been obvious from the start that you were each other’s best thing. The quarantine FaceTime calls, all the red carpets, night shoots, line rehearsals and late-night takeout meals in cramped trailers, were all part of the story. Growing up in this industry with Drew had changed your life in more ways than you could count but most of all, it had made everything feel a little less heavy and a whole lot more worth it.

For the next few hours, as you moved between locations for the photos, you and Drew created a game. One of you would point at a spot on set and the other would tell the memory tied to it. That bench where you both fell asleep during a night shoot in season two, that path you’d ran off to, to kiss hiding from prying eyes and the dock behind the crew tent where you’d whispered “I think I’m in love with you,” when you hadn’t meant to.

As always, unsurprisingly so, you forgot people could see that sort of connection, much less film it, which was what happened.

You and Drew had always been quiet about it and as discreet as you could, or at least, you thought you were. But that moment had been captured, as many others by the always-watchful lenses of fans across the field. The videos were posted within the hour and then they were everywhere.

obsessedfilmupdates are they friends?

outerbnxfiles Sooo much worse

rafeanatics Last year hoping they’ll fall in love 😪

sunkissedstarkey I need them to realise they’re perfect for each other like FAST

outerbanksfeed Stand down, soldier. I think we did it

The comments poured in like waves, relentless, warm and achingly observant. Fans had always seen it, what had always lived quietly between the takes and under the surface. The comfort, the soft familiarity and the way you looked at each other like home. Even without confirmation, it was a fantasy millions had collectively chosen to internalise. It maybe wasn’t yet real to them but clearly it wasn’t a performance either and that was more than enough.

If this was the beginning of the end, this last season, this last stretch of long nights and early mornings, you were okay with it—because he had been there at the start and you knew, no matter where the story ended on screen, he’d be there long after the credits rolled.

370 notes · View notes

sc3ptre · 13 days ago

Note

heyy dear, can you write some fluff with daryl and gf reader where glenn gets one of those polaroid cameras and start taking pictures of everyone at the prison, and when he checked the photos he noticed that daryl is lovingly gazing at reader in all the photos they appear together? even when glenn or carol starts teasing daryl about it he still ask glenn if he can keep them🥰

Picture perfect

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: here goes another extra fic this week. I swear it won't always be like this but i have far too much free time and i don't know what else to do with myself.

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none.

Era: Season 4

Word count: 0.9k

“You’re gonna run out of Polaroids,” Carol said with a smirk, arms crossed as she leaned over Glenn, who was hunched at a table like it was a science project.

He didn’t look up, just grinned. “Already did. Totally worth it, though…look at this.”

He fanned out a handful of glossy squares, all slightly curled and sun-warmed. Carol leaned in, her expression curious until she saw it. You and Daryl, in nearly every shot but the focus wasn’t on the two of you smiling. In most, you were doing something completely ordinary…laughing with Maggie, cleaning your knife or merely walking next to the others, but in every single one, Daryl was looking at you, really looking. Unfiltered, soft-eyed and completely unaware of the camera. Sometimes he was in the background, sometimes next to you but never not watching.

Carol blinked and looked up. “What am I supposed to be seeing here?”

Glenn smirked like a kid holding a secret. “Blackmail, Carol, gold-tier. I'm talking ‘Dixon blushing’ level ammo.”

Carol laughed. “Oh, no. You don’t wanna play that game, Glenn.”

“Oh but I do. He stole my candy bar last week, this is divine justice.”

Despite her warnings, when Daryl finally rode back from his run that afternoon, Glenn was already posted up by the third gate like he was waiting to serve papers.

Daryl climbed off his bike with dust and grime smudging his neck and arms and his crossbow still strapped to his back. He dropped his bag onto the seat and looked around, automatically searching for you.

“Looking for someone?” Glenn teased, a grin stretching on his face.

Daryl scowled. “You know where she’s at?”

“Depends. How bad do you want to know?” He paused. “That hatchet you got there’s pretty sweet,” Glenn said with a sly grin, nodding at the weapon strapped to Daryl’s bike.

Daryl squinted, suspicious. “Ain’t for you.”

“It is now,” Glenn smirked, pulling a single photo from his pocket like it was top-secret intel. He glanced around dramatically before flashing it.

The archer looked down at it, then let out a low scoff, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Think she dun know I look at’er like tha’?” he muttered, tapping two fingers against Glenn’s temple once, snatched the photo and then, thwap!, he flicked Glenn’s ear, muttering “You creepin’ on me now?”

“Ow! What was that for?!” Glenn hissed. “You’re the one gazin’ like a lovesick outlaw.”

“Ain’t news to her, dumbass. Now, move.”

Grumbling, Glenn backed off but a few steps away, Daryl’s voice called after him. “Hey, Glenn!”

He turned. Daryl just stretched his hand out and Glenn sighed like he’d just lost a poker game, face falling. “All of them?”

“All of ’em.”

A second later, a stack of photos landed in Daryl’s palm, photos he quickly tucked into his bag without another word, meaning to look at them more closely later.

The sun warmed your skin as you approached the scene, steps slowing as Glenn passed you on his way back inside, rubbing his ear with a crooked smile.

“Hey…” you said, brow raised.

“Hey,” he muttered, shooting a sheepish glance over his shoulder at Daryl. “He’s all yours.”

“Right...” You frowned confused, then turned toward Daryl with that big smile he always pulled out of you. “Hi, handsome.”

He glanced up, immediately straightening a little, lips twitching upwards as he hid something behind his back. “Hey.”

“What was that about?” you asked, motioning toward the way Glenn had gone.

Daryl shrugged. “Kid’s troubled.”

“And you’re not?”

He smirked, still holding something behind him. “Maybe, but ya like it.”

“That I do,” you grinned, stepping closer. “Now, what are you hiding?”

With a little grunt, Daryl pulled two leather-bound journals from behind his back. One was your favorite color and unsurprisingly, it made the gift all the more meaningful. Your jaw dropped.

“Are you gonna start journaling with me?” You asked excitedly, taking them both from his hands.

Daryl scratched the back of his neck, glancing down like it was no big deal. “Kinda tired of watchin’ ya do it alone before bed. Even started wonderin’ if ya got a secret crush or somethin’.”

You wrapped your arms around him, laughing softly into his shoulder. “It’s you, so not very secret.” He hugged you back then, gentle and a little awkward, like always…exactly in that way you loved.

“Ya gotta teach me what t’ write, tho’, or it’s gonna turn into sum’ creepy book ‘bout ya.”

You pulled back with a giggle. “Doesn’t sound awful”

“Really doesn’t.” He reached out to gently squeeze your side, making you yelp and bat his hand away, but the more you looked at him, the more you could tell he was still hiding something.

“So…what’d Glenn give you?” you asked, poking at his bag with the journals.

Daryl hesitated for a beat before pulling out the photos, thumbing through them like they were old keepsakes. “Journaling material, ‘cause he’s nice like tha’” he said.

“The…troubled kid” You repeated in the same tone he had used.

“Mhm, the one.” He pointed at the pictures now in your hands, “For scrapbookin’. That wha’ ya call it?”

You smiled and nudged his arm teasingly. “Look at you, already learning and collecting.”

“Kinda fell into my hands,” he mumbled.

“Uh huh. I’m sure it did.”

You watched him a second longer, your heart fluttering as he carefully took the photos and tucked them into his vest’s inner pocket, like they were precious.

“You always look at me like that?” you asked, pointing at where the pictures were now carefully kept.

He shrugged looking away, ears already a faint pink. “Nah. Just when yer breathin’.”

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sc3ptre · 14 days ago

Text

The silence we chose

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Genre: Angsty fluff

Warnings: none.

Word count: 1.6k

There was a distinct peace on mornings in this quiet town…the kind of quiet that felt earned.

Where the sound of wind chimes and distant dogs replaced radio static and encrypted comms. It was still early, just past 5:30 and you were already up, clearly still used to early mornings. The kettle on the stove was rattling softly, steam curling up in lazy tendrils. You sat on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders, legs tucked beneath you and fingers wrapped around a mug that had long since stopped steaming. Simon walked out of the kitchen with his own in hand, wearing that old gray t-shirt and the sweatpants he swore he’d never leave the house in.

Neither of you spoke much in the mornings, not out of habit but because there wasn’t much that needed saying so early anymore. You both knew the way the day would go. Slow and unremarkable…exactly the way you’d grown to like it.

But then came the knock.

Three precise raps, too clean and far too intentional.

Your gaze flicked to Simon before you even registered your own breath catching. He didn’t move, not at first but you could see his spine straighten, jaw flexed and his arms dropped to his sides slowly, leaving the mug on the coffee table. Then, his fingers twitched toward where he always kept the sidearm behind the hallway door frame while yours sat wedged deep between the cushions, not even loaded but your fingers inched toward it out of instinct anyway.

In your old lives, knocks like that didn’t mean friendly visitors, especially so early.

Simon finally moved to the door, quiet and measured and glanced through the small crack in the curtain. The loud sigh he let out through his nose said enough before he even opened the door without greeting, without ceremony, and standing there in the filtered morning light were four familiar silhouettes. Captain John Price, upright as ever. Kyle, arms folded tight, expression unreadable. Johnny behind him, shifting on his feet like he didn’t want to be there and Laswell. Neutral, steady and unreadable as always.

They didn’t say why they were there…they didn’t need to.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Simon asked, voice low, calm in a way that didn’t suit him. His arms crossed again, gun visible and his stance shifted just slightly, still and solid in the doorway like he might physically block them if he had to.

Price stepped forward, not hesitating. “We need you.”

Simon didn’t budge. “You don’t.”

Gaz glanced past him and gave a small, uncertain nod in your direction. “Nice place.”

You didn’t say anything, just blinked slowly from the couch, still wrapped in your blanket, tea growing colder in your hands. You didn’t get up or offer anything because this wasn’t a social visit and you all knew it.

Laswell walked in without being invited and dropped a thick folder onto the coffee table, making you almost flinch. Maps, surveillance stills, paper-clipped intel briefs…the whole package. The only thing missing was the order.

“Start reading,” she said. “It’ll speak for itself.”

Simon practically slammed the door behind them and didn’t look at the contents of the folder even after putting his gun away. Instead, with one sharp motion, he picked the whole pile up. Folders, papers, files…and shoved them roughly back into Laswell’s hands.

“Not in this house.”

Price raised a brow. “You’re being dramatic and we don’t have time for that.”

“I’m being protective,” Simon snapped while your gaze remained glued blankly where the papers had been, almost as if something had been slaughtered on it.

The room shifted. You could feel it in the air, it was tight and tense, like standing at the edge of something steep and you couldn’t move.

“We know it’s been a few years,” Laswell tried again. “But this isn’t some ordinary op. You two were some of the best field assets the CIA and 141 ever saw. The kind of people who ran toward the fire and–.”

“And now we don’t,” You said flatly, meeting her eyes.

“Why?” Johnny asked, tone almost pleading. “Why the hell would you just stop after everythin’ we built together?”

You shifted slightly with a quiet sigh, mug still in hand. Simon didn’t want them here and neither did you, that much was obvious. You could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers kept twitching at his sides. He wasn’t agitated, he was bracing.

“Those were fulfilling years,” Gaz said softly. “You can’t deny that.”

“You don’t get to ask for this,” Simon said, tone hard again. “You weren’t here when we couldn’t sleep for days or even through the night. When we woke up reaching for weapons and pointing them at shadows or when we had to teach ourselves how to live without always waiting for a flashbang to come through the window.”

“Ghost—” Price started.

“Don’t call me that.” He warned, pointing a finger in his direction.

Silence. It was heavy and sudden. That correction felt final even if he hadn’t raised his voice, he didn’t need to, that name didn’t belong there.

Then, soft…so soft you almost didn’t hear it, sounded a small voice.

“…Daddy?”

And just like that, time stopped.

You turned toward the hallway, already knowing what you’d see. A small girl, in her favorite pink pajamas, clutching the edge of the wall with the sleepy confusion of a child suddenly surrounded by strangers and loud voices. Her hair stuck out in every direction and her thumb hovered near her mouth, she blinked slowly at the cluster of unfamiliar faces, looking for yours.

Simon turned too and changed. Gone was the steel in his eyes and the sharpness in his jaw. He softened so immediately it was disarming and moved to her in three quiet steps, then knelt down, hands gentle on her face as she rubbed the sleep off her eyes.

“Hey, lovie,” he whispered, like the others had vanished. “You alright?”

She nodded, tiny and slow but when her eyes slid toward the guests in your home again, she immediately snuggled up to his chest and pressed her face into the soft fabric of his shirt, meeting your eyes through that space between his arm and side, waving at you good morning from the safety of her daddy’s arms.

You smiled, waving back. “Sorry we woke you up, princess. It’s still early.”

It took a few seconds for her to speak. “Loud ‘n…strayn-juhs.”

“Strangers?” you repeated softly, watching her nod slowly.

“I know, I’m sorry. Daddy didn’t mean to get too loud,” he murmured, scooping her up effortlessly. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed for a little more.”

With a shy blown kiss from her to you, he walked away without so much as a glance, his daughter tucked against his chest, one tiny hand clutching his shirt.

The room changed when he left, it was airless, quiet almost overwhelmingly so. Soap blinked slowly, mouth slightly ajar. Gaz looked like he was holding a breath and Laswell just stood there, stunned.

“When–” Price started.

You cut in, finally setting your mug down on the table and sitting up straighter. “I found out I was pregnant before our last mission,” you said, voice even but low. “By then it was too late to pull out of it.” You then shrugged, “We had already talked about walking regardless, but… we never got to finish the conversation properly, not until that happened.”

Laswell turned to you, frowning faintly. “He didn’t know?”

“If he had, he wouldn’t have let me walk into that final extraction. Would’ve pulled me from it…hell, from the whole agency with a single call if he could’ve. We finished the job, got out clean… and that was it.”

Price’s face tightened. “So you walked.”

“No,” you corrected. “We ran. Full speed. We changed everything that could be changed and then we built this life out of what was left of ourselves.”

Soap leaned forward, his voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Why not tell us the whole story?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Would you have believed us? That the two people who were always first into the fire wanted out? Wanted quiet?”

“You were both so–” Soap started, then paused. “I just… never saw him being–”

“A dad?” you offered with a dry smile. “He didn’t either. Not until she laid in his arms for the first time and wrapped her hand around his finger and then everything else just stopped mattering. He isn’t…him anymore.”

Ghost.

There was a creak of the floorboards as Simon returned, his face calm again, his body language unreadable but softer now. He stepped behind the couch, resting a hand briefly on your shoulder as he looked at the room, at all of them watching him like he was a stranger. Because he was.

“I used to fight for orders,” he said quietly. “Because I didn’t have anything else.” He looked toward the hallway, where white noise was now the only sound.“Now I’ve got something worth protecting and it’s not out there.”

No one argued, or even tried because in that moment, the silence said more than they ever could. They left not long after, quiet and slow, like they’d stepped into a sacred place their words would paint red. You didn’t walk them out and neither did Simon.

Your days of serving flags and orders were long done. The only duty either of you answered to now was the life that breathed behind those quiet walls. A life he'd fight to protect.

---------

💌 a/n: I'm a sucker for girl dad! Simon.

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sc3ptre · 15 days ago

Note

Drew with his girlfriend who is a very vocal feminist and activist and he is just so supportive because the world can still let you down :'((

In her light.

Pairing: Drew Starkey x fem!reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 0.8k

There were many things you knew before you ever met Drew Starkey.

You knew how the world worked and how it would praise you for being beautiful and punish you for being loud. You soon learned that speaking up meant being called difficult, too emotional, too much but you learned to sharpen your voice anyway, to speak even when your hands trembled. You found power in knowing what you stood for and built something out of that.

And then you met him.

It would’ve been easy for someone like him, famous, tall, charming and handsome in the way magazines loved, to want to dim that fire…to feel threatened by it, even. You’d met men like that before, men who said all the right things in front of you and mocked the fight behind your back but Drew was never like that.

From the very start, he listened, really listened.

He didn’t interrupt when you got heated talking about reproductive rights or street harassment and he didn’t try to explain anything to you that you already knew. When you first told him about being followed home or about freezing up during a panel because a man on the board made a joke about your looks before your work, he didn’t minimize it, he didn’t laugh and he didn’t rush in to make it about himself. He just… sat there and listened. His jaw clenched, brows furrowed and then he said, “I’m so sorry you’ve had to carry that.”

There were times when you were tired, too tired to go on another panel, post another carousel of resources or correct another ignorant comment online. When that exhaustion settled behind your eyes and you were too drained to even talk about it, Drew knew just by looking at you and you’d find a glass of water beside you, your phone tucked away and his arms already open.

“It’s okay to rest,” he’d whisper. “You don’t owe the world all of you, all the time.”

Sometimes, he’d sit in the front row of your panels, baseball cap low but his eyes never leaving you. You always found him in the crowd and when your voice cracked, when a question caught you off-guard or your chest burned with frustration, you’d look at him and he’d nod, just once and just enough for you to notice. You got this, it said.

Once, after a fundraiser where you had to explain for the third time that no, feminism wasn’t about hating men, you stood behind the venue shaking with rage. He didn’t say anything right away, he just stepped up, wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I hate how much you have to explain things people should already know,” he said softly. “But I love the way you still show up anyway.”

Drew never tried to perform his support either. He didn’t post half-hearted instagram posts or wear t-shirts for clout. He didn’t want credit for standing beside you and that’s exactly why it meant everything. When trolls filled your comments after a post about the gender pay gap, he was the first to block them. When your organization needed an anonymous donor, one quietly appeared and you never had to ask.

But what moved you the most weren’t the grand gestures, it was the quiet consistency. The way he referred to your work like it was the most important thing in the world, the way he corrected his friends when they crossed a line, not when you were watching, but when you weren’t and especially, the way he asked questions not to debate, but to understand.

He made you feel safe, not because he protected you from the world, but because he never stood in your way as you faced it.

One night, curled up in bed after a long event, you laid your head on his chest and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. It always calmed you like a lighthouse in a storm.

“I worry sometimes,” you said quietly. “That I’m too much.”

He looked down at you, brows drawn. “Too much for who?”

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “The world. Even you, maybe. I just... carry a lot.”

He tilted your chin up gently so your eyes met. “You don’t scare me,” he said. “Your anger doesn’t scare me. Your passion doesn’t scare me. Nothing about you has ever felt like too much.”

You blinked, throat tightening. “You really mean that?”

He smiled, soft and sure. “I love every single part of you. Especially the parts the world tells you to shrink.”

That was Drew.

Not a savior, just a man who understood what real love looked like, showing up, staying soft in a hard world and choosing every day to be the quiet shelter for someone who was never given one.

You didn’t believe in fairytales, but this? This was something better, because the world could still let you down, but Drew never did.

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sc3ptre · 16 days ago

Note

Hello! Could you write something about a reader from Rio Grande do Sul and Daryl? He calls her a cowgirl because she wears a traditionalist hat and boots.

thanks!

Lessons in riding.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: Did some research, i hope it lives up to your expectationc love!

Genre: suggestive fluff

Warnings: suggestive word play

Era: Season 2

Word count: 0.8k

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the Greene farm. You leaned against the fence near the barn, one boot propped up, hands tucked into your belt as you watched the horses graze lazily. Your bombacha pants were dusty from walking the fields, and your lenço was tied tight around your neck, but it was the chapeu tradicionalista, wide-brimmed, worn and proudly yours that drew attention more than anything else.

"Thought we had enough cowboys 'round here," a low voice drawled from behind you. You turned, unsurprised to find Daryl standing there, crossbow slung over his shoulder, eyes flicking from your boots to your hat. "Didn't know we were recruitin' from Brazil."

You smirked, already used to his half-teasing, half-curious tone. "I'm not a cowgirl, Dixon. I’m a gaúcha…different things.”

"Uh huh." He stepped closer, peering at the hat with an amused squint. "So wha's tha’ make ya? Pampas princess?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like a princess to you?"

He gave a half-shrug. “Definitely ain’t seen none carry knives like tha’.”

You tilted your head. "Don’t forget I shoot, too."

His lip twitched and for Daryl, that was practically a full grin. “I noticed.” He leaned against the fence beside you, shoulder brushing yours briefly. “Ya ever ride?”

“I was ridin’ before I could walk,” you said proudly, eyes flicking to the horse pen. “My grandfather had a farm… taught me how to lasso cattle and dance chula before I learned long division.”

Daryl let out a rare, quiet chuckle you loved. “Dance wha’ now?”

“Chula. You jump over sticks to the beat. It’s a southern Brazil thing.”

“Mmm…fancy footwork ’n dangerous weapons, sounds just like ya.”

You turned to face him fully, hand on your hip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’ bad.” His eyes held yours for a moment too long. “Just sayin’ ya handle yerself. Ain’t many ‘round here tha’ do.”

There was a soft moment of silence between you filled by the distant sound of Carl laughing by the house, accompanied by a breeze lifting the corner of your shirt. Daryl cleared his throat, looking back out over the fields.

"Still don’t get the hat, though," he muttered. "Ain’t it hot wearin’ tha’ all day?"

You took the hat off and twirled it in your hand. “It’s tradition. Back home, if you wear boots and a hat, people know you’re proud of where you come from.”

Daryl was quiet for a second and then, softly… “Ya miss it?”

You blinked. He rarely asked questions like that. “Every day,” you admitted. “The food, the music, the way we’d sit around the fire and drink chimarrão…even the rain.”

“I miss the woods,” he said. “Back home. Me and Merle used to hunt squirrels with slingshots. Dumb stuff. But it's home.”

You gave him a knowing look. “This place starting to feel like home to you?”

He didn’t answer right away. “When’s quiet. When people ain’t screamin’ or fightin’….’n when I get t’ sit next t’ you and talk ‘bout nothin’.” He nodded to himself “Yeah. Kinda does.”

Your heart skipped just a little. Daryl looked away, ears a touch pink. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face.

“Well then,” you said, gently bumping his arm, “guess we’ll both just have to bring a little piece of home with us.”

He glanced back at you. “Guess that explains them cowgirl boots.”

You laughed. “Gaúcha boots, Daryl.”

“Righ’. Gaúcha.” He nodded, dead serious now. “Gotta get my words right. Can’t be insultin’ no Brazilian cowgirl.”

You leaned in just enough to tease. “Mhm, you’d be smart not to.”

He leaned back, eyes crinkling slightly. “Ain’t tha’ smart.”

“Noticed,” you shot back, playful.

“Watch it” He crossed his arms, mock affronted.

You tipped your hat back on and started toward the house with a sly smile. “C’mon, Dixon. I’ll show you how to clean a saddle the right way. Might even let you sit in it if you promise not to fall off again”

He followed close, the crunch of his boots in the dirt steady behind you. “Pfff I don’t fall easy,” he muttered.

You threw a wink over your shoulder. “Good. You’re gonna need stamina if you ever wanna get a ride from a real cowgirl.”

Daryl stumbled for half a second before catching himself, his ears immediately turning red. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath but he couldn’t stop the crooked grin spreading across his face.

You just kept walking, hips swaying with casual confidence, calling back over your shoulder: “Don’t worry, Dixon. I’ll go easy on you… the first time.”

Behind you, he groaned, muttering under his breath. “Damn crazy South Americans.”

But he followed and the smile on his face didn’t leave even after the sun dipped below the horizon.

#the walking dead #twd fanfiction #twd fluff #daryl dixon #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixion imagine #twd daryl #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon fic #daryl x reader #daryl imagines #daryl one shot

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sc3ptre · 18 days ago

Text

Fallout

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: Been working pretty consistently on these so i thought i could spare some extra fics this week 😙

Genre: Angsty fluff

Warnings: suggestive comment

Word count: 1k

You sat on the other side of that table, spine straight and face blank, as though your entire career hadn’t just been put under a microscope. Simon stood across from you, the skull mask making him unreadable but you didn’t need to see his eyes to know the storm behind them.

“I didn’t leak shit,” you repeated quietly, arms folded. “And you know it.”

Ghost didn’t answer, only stood perfectly still with his arms behind his back like a soldier awaiting orders, except he was the order now. Your badge of CIA clearance sat on the table between you, useless now.

“Laswell tried to stall,” you added. “Said it was external but I was benched anyway and then someone with a personal vendetta against me changed the orders.” You leaned forward, voice sharp. “That someone sent you.”

Ghost didn’t deny it either and you let out a breath, leaning back. “Jesus Christ, Simon. If they think I’m a mole, why send you specifically? They think I’ll crack under your gaze or something?” Still nothing from him, just breathing in a slow, methodical way, like he was buying time or bracing. “Say something!” you bit out.

“You’re not the only one being watched,” he said finally, voice low and steady. “They’ll be listening.”

“Should I sign the confession now then, so you can take me to a cell and let me rot?”

“No,” he said, something like strain curling at the edges of his words. “I’m here to find the truth.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, that was never within his obligations or orders. “That’s rich, coming from the man I’ve slept with for the last six months.”

He flinched, just barely but you saw it. “Fuck it,” you added, voice low and accusatory. “You want the truth, Lieutenant? We both have secrets, yours just come with a balaclava…but that wasn’t me. You have to believe me”

He finally moved, pulling out the chair and sitting across from you. The gesture made your stomach twist. It was too normal and too intimate, the way the room felt like it was closing in.

“I’ve been through the files,” he said, accent thick. “The breach happened through a secure CIA node in Jordan. Yours was the only login used in the last 24 hours.”

“I was in London,” you snapped. “Ask Laswell, hell, ask Price… I was in a fucking debrief.”

“They scrubbed the logs.”

You stared at him expectantly despite the obvious continuity this situation would follow. “So that’s it then.” You shrugged, “You’re gonna take me to a shadow site, interrogate me…break me like a fucking twig and watch me die!?”

“No,” he barked, voice dropping. “I’m going to prove it wasn’t you.”

Silence spread between you, thick and pressurized. You watched him closely, trying to understand what was going on in his head.

“You’re not authorized to do that.”

“I don’t give a damn.” For a moment, the mask didn’t matter, his voice did. You felt it settle beneath your ribs, somewhere between fury and relief.

“What’s the plan then?” you asked.

Ghost leaned forward, lowering his voice. “In 2 minutes, Soap and Gaz are going to simulate a containment breach. While everyone’s distracted, I’m getting you out.”

“You’re going AWOL.” you whispered, shocked.

“I’m gettin’ answers.” he corrected.

“You’ll get court-martialed.” you said, every word deliberate while looking into his eyes.

Simon’s gaze didn’t waver. “If I fail.”

You stared at him for a long time, something clenching in your chest. “Why risk it?”

He didn’t blink. “Because if they break you, they break me too.”

The lights cut before you could say anything else. It was a flicker and then pure darkness for seconds before the emergency lights turned on, barely bright but enough to shroud the room in shapes and outlines, enough to make your pulse skip.

You heard the shift of his boots first, slow and sure, then the quiet clink of the cuff key in his hand. Your wrists stung as the metal shifted, the weight of suspicion falling away with it. You didn’t say thank you, didn’t say anything at all.

His gloved hands brushed your skin, steady, methodical but you could feel the tremor anyway, beneath the practiced calm, the soldier’s mask…he was furious, not at you, not really but at them. At the idea that someone thought they could put you in a box, tie a noose around your name and make him the one to deliver it.

"You’re risking everything,” you whispered, breath catching. “For me.”

Simon didn’t answer at first as he fiddled with the key in the dim light, getting angrier by the second.

“I thought we agreed,” you say, softer now, “we weren’t… this.”

“This what?” His voice was a murmur, barely audible above the hum of emergency lights outside the door. “Stupid? Attached? In too deep?”

You exhaled, shakily. “Whatever this is. It doesn’t belong in debriefings and holding cells.”

Another beat of silence and then suddenly, the cuffs tighten back around one wrist.

Not locked, not harsh. Just enough pressure to make your eyes widen and your breath hitch.

Your head jerked toward him. “Need help with the fucking key?”

In the near-dark, you heard a breathy low chuckle before the cuffs slipped free from one wrist, then the other, the metal clinking to the floor like a secret dropped too loud.

“I thought you liked it when I took control.”

You blinked, standing and rubbing your wrists to ease the pain from having them on too long. Your voice came out flat. “You’re an asshole.”

“Mm.” He hummed, handing you a gun, holding it for just a second longer between you before letting go. “Takes one to love one.”

The word love landed heavier than it should have. You didn’t flinch but you felt it and chose to ignore it. You stepped back, tucking the gun into the back of your waistband but he followed, just a fraction too close.

The air between you simmered with misplaced heat, unresolved tension and all the things neither of you ever said out loud, but that conversation wouldn’t happen anytime soon because whatever this was, you’d just stepped into something far bigger than either of you.

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