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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 2 months ago

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Ludos Imperiales 11

A/N: A little bit of wound-tending to make up for the wait of this chapter :)

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Gladiator Fights, Unnamed Character Death; Reader Tends to Rhys' wounds post fight (I know nothing about medical procedures, this is based off a Google search don't come for me)

Previous Chapter/ Masterlist

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Torchlights flicker in monstrous shapes across the rough stone walls, the path beyond ominously dark. The rattling of chains and distant sounds of wheezing coughs lead me forward as I pull the hood of my cloak a little lower.

If I don’t find them down here, I think I might die anyway.

The bond is a bleeding thing in my chest, the tether echoing with agony that feels like it might just rend my soul from my flesh. I can’t breathe beyond the pain that pulses through me, that compels me to move faster in the dark. Danger is irrelevant. My mates need me. Nothing beyond that matters.

The path curves to the left and slopes, loose rock crunching under my feet with every step. I’ve never been so aware of how loud my own footsteps are until now.

Once the path levels out, it goes straight for what feels like miles, I keep a hand on the wall as I inch forward little by little, until another torch finally comes into view. It’s anchored above a door, the wood old and faded, the iron edges covered in rust. Beside it, on a stool that’s seen better days, sits a guard. Not a Praetorian, which is the only reason I know this reckless decision of mine will work. A Praetorian will give word back to my Father, but this male? He’s human, round enough that he’s using his stomach as a table to balance a plate piled with bread and grapes. Crumbs cling to the patchy stubble that rims his round face, eyes glassy. There’s at least four empty bottles around his sandaled feet. Not drunk enough to be asleep, but not awake enough to remember I was here.

I slide a bag of coins out of my belt and toss it at him as he registers my presence. “I was never here.”

He opens the bag, nods to himself and hands over the key to the door with a chuckle. “Or you could stay for the company, doll.”

I ignore him as I jam the key in the worn lock and force the door open. The fact that it doesn’t creak when it opens tells me I’m not the only one that’s been sneaking through these tunnels lately.

I lock it behind me and slide the key into a pocket on the inside of my cloak. I don’t need anyone sneaking up behind me.

The room I find myself in is leagues taller than the tunnels, the roof stretching high out of reach, supported by massive iron pillars. We’re far beneath the Pit floor, but the smell of rot and decay and damp earth assaults me as soon as I step in.

There’s a door to the right, locked with a padlock, probably a way towards the Pit, but no Guards on this side. Why waste them when you know the occupants can’t fight their way out?

My heart clenches so tightly in my chest I almost can’t breathe.

The Orc crawls its way up the boulder, meaty hands grabbing for purchase on the lip of the rock, just missing Rhys’s shoulder.

My mate’s movements are terrifyingly slow as he manages to roll onto his side, pushing Cassian’s shaking frame off his chest.

Azriel is screaming beneath him, throwing rocks and debris, trying desperately to get himself airborne, but his wings aren’t strong enough. The membrane shutters and twitches and Azriel is a deep shade of green as he keeps flapping them harder and harder, managing to get up an inch or two before they give out. He hasn’t had enough time to heal!

The rocks make the Orc chuckle as it gets another hand on the lip of the rock and begins hauling himself over the edge.

I can’t do anything but sit there uselessly, my heart in my throat, watching in terror as Rhys manages to sit up, face twisting in pain. Only desperation has him throwing a punch into the Orc’s good eye, but the blow lacks the muscle he needs to dislodge him, he has to throw them again and again until the monster slips an inch or so down the rock.

Rhys manages to twist so he’s sitting on the edge, using his heels to kick at the Orc’s hands and keep him from climbing back up, but it’s not doing enough. Cassian can’t yet help him, any attempt to sit up has his whole body shaking, the twitching starting all over again with each and every moment.

I watch as Azriel’s gaze sweeps over the arena, looking for any remaining weapons, anything he can use to his advantage. There’s nothing, everything that had been left on that floor is ash. His gaze sweeps to our booth, past Amarantha and my Father, before settling on me. Without the bond it is hard to be sure, but that look, the way his lips droop, the way his hazel eyes turn pleading, it feels an awful lot like an apology.

There aren’t enough words to describe the terror that lodges itself in my throat as his shadows dislodge from behind his back, writhing through the air like a living breathing thing.

“You said the gorsian would keep them at bay!” The Emperor snarls at Amarantha. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him find a flaw in her and it would be an entirely more unsettling experience if Azriel’s shadows weren’t pulling the Orc from his perch!

The crowd is in an uproar, booing and hissing and throwing things into the arena in outrage. The amount of money the crowd will lose has to be astronomical. And while they may lose the money on a technicality, Azriel will still have cheated.

It’s like a bad dream, watching the Orc’s arms pinwheel as the shadows drag him through the air towards the yawning chasm of lava below.

The Gamemaker’s mage flails his hands frantically, trying to shift the floor around in time to keep the Game going.

Half a dozen of those disks come shooting out the walls, all aimed in Azriel’s direction, the buzzing loud enough to be heard over the screaming of the crowd.

The ground splinters beneath Azriel’s feet, and even as he jumps to safety, a single shadow peels away from the writhing mass around the Orc, arching towards the Mage like an airborne snake.

“Az no!” Rhys screams.

But the shadows and their master pay him no mind as the tendril snags the Mage around the throat and hurtles him down into his own lava!

The crowd suddenly goes deadly silent.

The ground stops shifting, the loss of magic making the pieces of rock floating around the air come crumbling down. Rhys manages to get an arm under Cassian’s shoulders and hauls him off their descending perch so they don’t get smashed as it tumbles, their fall so hard I can practically feel the impact in my teeth.

They land at the same time Azriel’s shadows bring the Orc down into the rapidly disappearing lava, the creature’s massive bulk just barely hitting the magma before the rock closes over his head, effectively sealing him in a fiery tomb. It all happens so fast there’s not even time for the male to scream before he’s gone and the world finally stops moving.

The tether in my chest is finally reachable, leading me through the twisting tunnels, past cages filled with grizzly, slumbering males. The stench of decay and infection gets stronger the deeper I go, fighting against the heavy press of booze and opioid smoke. Can’t have rebelling gladiators if they’re too drunk and high off their winnings to fight back.

At least it’s late enough that my sneaking doesn’t alert too many people. I’m sure this whole place has been in enough uproar as is.

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” The Emperor snarls so loud I see Eris and Tamlin flinch in their seats.

I don’t let myself look at him, don’t fold in my shoulders and duck my head to try and make myself as small as possible. My attempts at playing the subservient little girl have failed me. Fainting like a weak-hearted child did nothing but piss him off. If we are to survive, we have to be smarter than this.

I have to be smarter than this.

So far, playing this Game by my Father’s rules has gotten us to this point. It has brought us nothing but pain and misery.

I don’t want to play anymore. I want to win.

I told Azriel that I wouldn’t let anything come between us, and I meant it. Maybe that means it's time to do this another way.

“Yes. I knew.”

The silence in the booth is deafening.

I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting every instinct I’ve ever had to run and hide.

I am not weak. I am not helpless. I beat that Raven; I will beat its Master too.

“I was curious,” I continue, drawing a deep breath to steady myself as I turn to face him. The playing field was never going to be level between us. He’s spent my entire life making sure that I would always be small and weak and too scared to move. “They seemed so eager for the opportunity I presented them. I wanted to know how far they would take it.”

“And yet you did not consult me on this?” The Emperor snarls, not buying it.

“It needed to look real. I needed them to think I was vulnerable.”

“And what have they shown you?” The contempt in his voice is clear.

Almost as clear as the confusion Eris is trying really hard to keep off his face. At least for now, he keeps his end of the bargain.

“They’re trying to get close. See if they can use me. The Shadowsinger slipped up with the shadows one night. I told him I’d keep his secret in hopes of finding what else they’re hiding. It is a long game. One I need more time in, but I assure you, Father, it was never for ill intent. I am only acting on the good of the Empire. You can have the twins look into my head if you’d like confirmation.”

Maybe that’s too much of a lie, but I’ll find a way to use it to my advantage. Whatever I need to do to ensure my mates walk out of this; whatever roll becomes necessary for me to take on I will take it.

He runs a hand over his mouth, thinking. If this had happened in the Senate Meeting during one of his episodes, I’d be dead already, but he’s in a good mood today, far clearer headed than he was then. It might save them.

At least for today.

The Emperor stands. It’s customary for him to give a judgment before a death, the crowd is waiting to see what he will do now that one happened before his intervention.

“You truly expect me to believe that you’re capable of handling this sort of thing?”

I bite back the bile rising in my throat. There is only one way I get him onboard with this; only one way I ensure he doesn’t kill them right here and now. “Weakness must be purged from the Empire.” The words stick like tar in the back of my throat. “You told me that story every night as a child.”

He goes very, very still. Only he would know which story I’m referring to; I doubt he’d tell anyone else that the gods cursed him with a mate.

“The Shadowsinger thinks he’s your mate?”

I raise my chin, hoping he can’t see how hard it is for me to swallow, how hard it is to even get air down. He will not kill them for this. No, this is grounds for him to test me, to see if I can purge the supposed weakness he has always seen in me and rise to the occasion, or if he can finally get rid of me.

It’s my last card.

“They all do.”

Romulus swears beside me. I don’t look at him. Only at my Father, who suddenly looks a little green. He has to know what mates were considered before the Empire changed the story, has to know that legend says mates are to be equals. I’ve just put a giant fucking target right over my chest.

But I’ll take it. It means the arrows are pointed in my direction, instead of there’s.

“You can’t be serious,” Amarantha starts, but the Emperor raises a hand to silence her.

“This is a grave weakness, child.”

“And an advantage to your cause. Illyria doesn’t share your sentiment with mates. They think it can be used to turn me against you. With enough time, they’ll tell me everything, and I in turn, will report it back to you. This rebellion nonsense can finally be put to bed, and the Empire will have the peace it deserves.”

“And when the time comes, you will kill them, as your Emperor demands.”

Red tints my vision, even as I bow my head. “That has always been the plan, Father.”

He smooths his hands over his robes. “Then they live to see another day.”

I have to clench my hands in my skirts to try and hide the shudder of relief that rolls through my body. I’ve bought them another day. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

The Emperor turns to face the crowd, the Guard flanking him, just in case Azriel’s shadows decide they want to try and yank him out of the booth this time. Before he reaches the railing to address the crowd, he says to his Captain, “Instruct the Gamesmaker to bring out the posts. I want them flogged for their disobedience.”

My stomach pitches. No no no!

“I said they’d live. I didn’t say this behavior would go unpunished. We can’t have the other gladiators thinking they can cheat and get away with it.”

I find Rhys first, his cell cramped and dark, his body dumped onto the dust covered floor like he’s nothing, no better than an animal. I can see the rust covered chain tied to the wall, looped around a new collar. The Emperor made sure the gorsian was stronger this time around. The edge of it juts farther out, scratching back and forth across his shoulders with every wheeze of a breath he draws. The metal has to be scraping against the gashes carved into his bare back.

There’s no more mirthroot in my system, I never went home to give Anise the chance, and without it, the bond becomes a roaring, living thing in my chest. Darkness leakes from my fingers, hissing as it slithers out my skin.

How could I let this happen?

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess, every bit of my Mother’s training to keep my powers from tearing the doors off their hinges. My hands shake as I slide the key through the lock and slip inside.

The iron door screams on rusted hinges as I open it, and Rhys groans as he tries to lift his head off the floor to see who’s coming for him.

My heart might just bleed out my chest as I kneel beside him, gently running my hands through his hair, matted with sweat and blood. They’ll pay for this! Every last goddamn one of them.

“Shouldn’t… be here… Princess,” his voice is raw from screaming. There was no tuning out the sound of it as they tore through his flesh with a metal spiked flagrum over and over and over again. I hadn’t needed to pretend to be lighthearted, I’d grabbed a pale and vomited twice before they were done. Much to Amarantha’s glee and Eris’s evident pity.

“I’m sorry.” This is all my fault! This is so much worse than the brand. I could blame Rhys for that one, but this? This one’s on me. I hadn’t done anything to stop it! “I’m sorry.”

Rhys rests his forehead on my knee and I can’t stop my hands from the frantic patterns I comb through his matted hair, trying in vain to soothe him. “You didn’t…” he grunts, trying to find a more comfortable position and blood falls freely from one of the deeper wounds that spans from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. “Didn’t make Az do that.”

The pack of supplies I’d brought with me feels inadequate at best, but the sight of fresh blood knocks some sense into me and I start grabbing gauze and some oils I’d found at a small market in the street. An old Elvish healer has said olive oil and honey would help keep out infection, I’d bought out every bottle she’d had.

“I should have done more.” My hands shake as I try to find the best place to hold the gauze to stop the bleeding. There isn’t a patch of undamaged skin, any pressure at all will be horrific. It takes a solid thirty seconds of reaching for one spot, then changing my mind and searching for another, before he mumbles out something that sounds like “above my hip, love”. I settle my hand as lightly as I can as directed and even then the noise he lets out sounds like a cat being stepped on.

Tears drip down my cheeks, I have to turn my head to make sure they don’t accidentally land on his ruined flesh. “I’ll fix this. I’ll find a way to make this better.”

He draws a shaky breath beneath my hands. “How… are we alive?”

Figures he’d ask me that first.

I start at the spot he’d directed, dripping a bit of oil into the most shallow cuts to weigh my options here.

His whole body spasms like it had when he’d been electrocuted and I stop what I’m doing entirely. “Fuck!”

“Shit! Shit I’m sorry, the Elf said it would help.”

Through his teeth, Rhys hisses, “I’m sure she’s right but fuck me!”

I just make everything worse in every department, don’t I?

“Um, you want to try the honey instead?” Thank the Mother I never had the notion to become a Healer, I would have been absolutely awful at it.

“I’m not hungry.”

“For your back, Rhys.”

“Oh,” he chuckles softly, realizing the mistake, then immediately groans from the way it pulls on his back. “Either has got to be better than the salt water.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Forget the long game, I’m burning this whole godsdamned Empire down tonight.

“Easy, Darling,” he coos, and our bond ripples with a warmth I don’t deserve. “Just talk me through it.”

I give myself a little shake to clear the red tinting my vision. They will all pay for this.

“Tell me what happened last night? Why couldn’t we feel you?”

“Anise drugged me,” I say and I can’t tell if he flinches because I’ve started again with the oil or if that’s in response to what I’ve said. “Some kind of faebane and mirthroot mixture. She said my Mother had it made in case… in case I ever lost control.”

In case I ever turned into my Father.

“Mother’s tits!” Still not sure if that’s in regard to the oil or the story.

“I was trying to get to you, to tell you that…” the coughing of one of the males in the cell across me reminds me of the lack of privacy. “That I’d found something that might be useful, but you were already gone and she jabbed me in the back of the neck with a needle. She must have done it again this morning, I don’t remember anything until arriving at the Arena.”

His breathing is labored as I work, body tense beneath me. I should have brought mirthroot, as unpleasant as my own experience had been, it could have eased his pain.

“Guard came quick last night,” he says through his teeth.

The last twenty-four hours had really gotten away from me, I swear on the Mother I’ll never let myself be that powerless again.

“I’m sorry.”

The oil makes the blood look like it’s flowing freely, once I’m satisfied that it's covered enough, I reach for the bandages.

“Don’t,” he says gently. “They’ll know you were here.”

My chest constricts. How can I tell him what I've done? He was already so angry about the marriage contract, this might just break him, but if I tell him the truth, would it give me an opportunity to help him. I can explain it away to the Emperor in the morning, claim I was trying to strengthen their trust in me by pretending to betray him.

“I won’t leave you down here like this.”

“It will only make it worse,” he insists.

“Maybe not,” my voice betrays me, nothing more than a cracked whisper in the darkness of these awful dungeons.

The bond ripples with enough concern I can feel a faint hum on both Azriel and Cassian’s end. At least I know now that they are all conscious, and that the gorsian hasn’t removed our ability to feel each other like the faebane had.

Rhys’s own voice shakes and the pain I can hear in it makes me look away from him when he asks, “What did you do?”

When I don’t immediately answer, he tries to sit up, tries to turn and look at me and I have to pin his palms to the floor to keep him still. “Don’t do that!”

“Tell me you didn’t marry any of those pricks? Tell me you didn’t barter another piece of yourself away-”

He’s going to tear his back open beyond repair if he keeps trying to move like this. “I told him we’re mates.”

I might as well have sucked the air from the room! Rhys goes deathly still beneath me and I think I liked it better when he was yelling.

I try not to worry my lip between my teeth. “My Father murdered his own mate because he believes mates are a weakness that must be purged. I needed him to think I was trying to do the same.”

He doesn’t say anything, the minutes stretching out between us as I start using a bit of the honey to stick the strips of bandages over his back. The quieter the cell becomes the more the tether betweens us howls in pain. Maybe I need to resign myself to the fact that I might have been right all along; maybe this was always meant to end with him hating me.

“I can’t beat him at his game by just sitting there uselessly. It wasn’t working. I needed to try another way.” If he can’t get past this fine, I will not let myself regret my decisions. I can’t afford to. They have to work. I have to make them work.

It might break my heart beyond repair if he can’t find it in him to understand where I’m coming from, but I’ll take that pain over the agony of him being dead. If I hadn’t acted, he could be another body rotting on the Pit floor right now. I do not need his permission, nor will I sit here and hold my breath for his forgiveness. We have to be willing to adapt. I have been so stubbornly set in my ways for years; I won’t let the stubbornness that ruined my Father ruin me.

I’m finished with the bandages before he speaks again. “When we went to war with the Empire, I gave up a lot of myself to be what my people needed. I wore whatever mask was necessary. I have worn cruelty and hatred in equal measure. There were days, weeks, where I looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize who was staring back at me. I can’t… I can’t let you do the same thing to yourself.”

I let my fingers drift back through his matted hair. Nothing would make me happier than to take him home, to get him cleaned up and into a bed that was safe; into a place where I knew he could rest. One day I will give him that. One day there will be no more dungeons or bloodshed or torture. One day we won’t have to swap horror stories to comfort each other. I can hold him and he can hold me and there will be no more pain between us. There will not need to be a question about whether we can live with our decisions.

“I can live with my decisions,” I say. “Let me help you shoulder this burden. You do not have to be alone to carry it.”

“People die when I let them in,” he whispers.

I can’t hold him like I ought, not without hurting him, so I allow myself a moment to lay down on the floor next to him, the filth covering the old stones seeping through my skirts as I lean my forehead against his.

“The things I love have a tendency to be taken from me.”

The bond hums between us, warm and alight even in this darkness. We are one and the same, Rhys and I. “Me too,” I confess. “But I never did anything to stop it then. I won’t ever do that again.”

His breath stutters out of him, a twinge of fear slithering down the tether to me. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to take that boat you talked about?”

That boat is long gone.

And so is that girl who was so scared she’d need it.

I can do this. We can do this. “We can beat him. Together.”

He nods gently, like it’s too much effort to do anything more, it probably is. “Together.”

I feel a twinge of pain flash across my left hand, just a flash and then it’s gone. Almost like something bit me. In this cell, bugs are a given. I raise my hand to take a look, and am surprised to find a band of black ink around my ring finger, a trio of stars circling the thin band of what looks like a tattoo.

Even wounded, the smirk Rhy’s flashes me is infectious. “Illyrian bargains come with ink.”

“You’re impossible,” I say, rolling my eyes. He’s honestly worse than Az.

He manages to tilt his head just enough to kiss the tip of my nose, his lips cracked and dusted with dried blood still. “If you’re going to make life threatening statements to the Emperor, so am I.”

I won’t admit to him that I like it, not now anyway. “I should go check on the others.”

“What if there were other parts of me that needed tending to?” He pouts.

I stand and dust off my skirts, rolling my eyes again. “You’ll survive.”

I push the door to the cell open. “I’ll bring some mirthroot next time. So you can sleep.”

He waits until the door is locked again. “Be careful, Princess.”

I won’t lie and tell him I will. The time for being careful is over.

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igotanidea · 11 months ago

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Coke and disappointment: Jason Todd x reader

Warnings: SMUT MDNI!, friends to lovers, bad date on reader's part

Summary: when a date goes wrong, who's better to talk to if not a best friend. Even if that best friend happens to secretly have feelings for you and the complaining may actually push him over the edge...

A/N: sorry for the typos and mistakes, no time to proofread :D I'll fix it later :D

***

He was a fool.

A stupid, idiotic fucker who was too stubborn to speak up.

Too scared to tell the girl he liked that he liked her.

And now he was about to lose her.

Jason let out a shaky exhale, feeling his heart shutter at the thought she was about to move on with her life and leave him alone. Again. And then he punched the wall in a poor attempt at transforming that sadness into rage.

Rage was easier and he knew how to navigate it.

He took in the surroundings of his apartment, a little cluttered and shabby, but still it was the place he called his. Just last night she was casually lunging on his couch, texting on her phone with that stupid smile that always made his heart melt.

She was texting him. That other guy who obviously did not deserve her. HE could have been the prince charming himself, be a gentleman with the look, but in Jason’s opinion he did not deserve her.

She was so close on that stupid couch.

So close.

All he had to do was take one step forward, take the phone from her hands and fucking tell her how he felt.

And then she jumped in the air, laughing and spinning around, proudly announcing she had a date.

And suddenly she was not so close anymore. Almost like those three words made a mountain grow between them.

A mountain, a sea, a valley and a desert.

His words died in his throat and he just smirked, throwing his usual meaningly funny comment and shut his heart once more.

And now he was spread on the same couch she was yesterday, with a bottle of beer in his hand, thinking stupid thoughts.

***

“Are you drinking without me?” the door swung open and Y/n walked inside like she owned the place, almost immediately heading towards the fridge and grabbing herself a bottle of cola zero.

“The hell Y/N? The hell you’re doing here?!”

“Can’t I just pop in at my friend’s place?” she raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her drink.

“Oh, no, you know what, by all means come in at any time. What if I was with someone?” Jason hissed in response, moving on the couch to make space for her.

“Well then, if so, you should remember to close the door. As much as I wouldn’t mind the show, I’m pretty sure the girl you’ll be taking advantage of would not be delighted with an onlooker.”

“You’re disgusting Y/N.” Jason sighed with a hint of a smirk.

“But I’m not wrong, am I?” she grinned and poked his ribs playfully.

“No. No you are not.”

“Yeah…”

That yeah coming from her was supposed to be said in a funny tone, but came out a little desperate, the silence that fell after only added to that sensation.

“Hey Y/n/n?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“About what?”

“You know what.” Jason frowned and cupped her chin making her look at him

“That little failure of something that I already romanticized in my head before?”

“Yeah. About that.”

“Actually, yes, let’s talk about it. Maybe you can tell me what is wrong with today’s men.”

“Oh, shit talking the fucker that clearly made you upset. I’m game.” Jason stood up gathering another beer and coke from the fridge, getting ready for the long conversation. “Do tell.” With the force he jumped back on the couch, Y/N flew a few inches in the air.

“He came late.” She started and Jason booed “he was dressed as if it was a beach or something. And then he took me to the park—”

“Hopefully those punches and moves I taught you helped?”

“Right, cause we were fighting squirrels.” Y/N rolled her eyes “come on, be serious, it was the middle of the day in a public place. Using those punches will only make me get attention to myself. I settled on the good old kick in the groin.

Jason laughed. It was obvious the meeting did not go well.

“He was only talking about himself. Like all the time. Never once asking a thing about me.”

“You could have started talking yourself. I’m pretty sure the fucker had to make breaks for breathing?”

“Actually, I’m starting to believe he’s that one parasite that scientists discovered and that does not.”

“A parasite huh?”

“Pretty much so.”

“So, he took you to the café?”

“Nope.”

“Nope?”

“Nope.”

“Wait, you’re serious!?” Jason turned abruptly to meet her eyes. “So the hell were you two doing?”

“Walking in the park?” Y/N raised an eyebrow “just told you?”

“For two hours?! How big was this fucking park?”

“Well….” Her gaze traveled lower and she started fidgeting with her fingers.

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“What else, Y/N?” Jason almost groaned in frustration.

“At some point we took a turn and had to literally bush-bash.”

“No!” much to her surprise Jason started guffawing

“Hey, stop laughing! It was not funny! I had a dress!”

“Oh, poor little you.” He cackled even harder. “You don’t really want my opinion on that so-called “date” do you?”

“Of course not. I’m not exactly blind to red flags. I just wanted to vent.”

“You can be blind to red flags sometimes.” Jason muttered, quickly drowning the words with the sip of a drink.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“You’re spending time with me, instead with one of your girlfriends.”

“I don’t have girlfriends and your red flags are the reason why you are my friend and why there would never be anything else.”

Ouch. That was like a punch to the guts.

“What if there was?” he blurted without thinking, only because the bottle turned out empty and he couldn’t swallow the bile.

“What--?” with a broken word and the way her eyes focused on his face, Jason knew there was no going back. It was now or never.

“What if there was Y/N? What if there was something more…?” with a gentle touch he grabbed her coke and put it on the nearby table, instead intertwining their fingers. “What if—”

“Jason, don’t—”

“Don’t tell me to stay in the shadows while you keep dating men that can’t even take you for coffee!” he yelled and it made her stumble backwards, letting go of his hands. “Fuck! Why can’t you see it?!

“See what…?”

“You deserve –” he started, but she cut him off.

“No. No, don’t you dare tell me that I deserve someone better. I don’t really see men lining up for me” Y/N chuckled dryly “I’m not a teen anymore, soon my expiration date will come and –“

“Shut up!” he hissed, in a blink of an eye finding himself on the other side of the couch, his eyes boring a hole into her face, his hands aching to do so many things… “You deserve more than a mindless stroll in the park, not that the walk itself is a bad thing. You deserve to be spoiled and –“

“Please don’t…”

“If anything more, you at least deserve a good orgasm.” He groaned, unable to control himself anymore, eyes filled with lust and unspoken promises of pleasure.

She was so close. Once again. Only now, he wasn’t going to cross the line. It was her choice. If she wanted to walk out and close the door on him – fine. This would hurt like hell, but eventually Jason would get over it.

But it was her choice and there was no way he would take advantage of her.

As if making her hot and bothered with the look in his eyes, the closeness and the heat from his presence and words was not taking advantage.

***

Y/N was lost only for a second.

It’s been so long since she’s been touched. So long since she felt anyone in that way. And her body needed it.

God knows she needed it.

And she had no power to swim against the tide, grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him.

***

Jason reacted instinctively.

His strong hands moved to her waist, pulling her on top of him, starting to grind against her, even through their clothes.

He was going to make her feel so good.

So fucking good, taking her to the places she’s never been before.

Only for her. Just for her.

Her.

Now not only in his thoughts and crazy fantasies, but in flesh and bone in his arms, on his couch, pliant and needy for attention.

“Jason….” His lips moved from her lips to her neck, brushing over her pulse point.

“Jason…” his hands rolled her dress up until it was on her waist.

“Jason…” the word became hoarse and breathy when he lifted her up so she was now straddling him.

And he was only just beginning.

Teasing her with one finger, pulling her panties away, feeling the wetness already seeping on his jeans. She was so ready for him just from a few touches. How touch starved and neglected she must have been if just a little foreplay was enough?

“You’re mine tonight…” he groaned into her ear. “Mine. Say it Y/N…”

“Yours…” she whimpered, shuddering at the way his index finger inched closer to her heat.

“Yeah. Mine.” For Jason it felt just right to call her his.

“Please….”

“Not yet baby.”

“Don’t be mean… You promised me—”

“A good time. And that’s exactly what you’ll get. But not like that.”

“Then what—Ah!”

Her cry of surprise tore the air as he grabbed her by the waist, lifted her in the air and carried towards the bedroom, miraculously avoiding all the stuff on the floor. Once in the room, with one hand around her, he threw the cover alongside every little thing on it onto the floor, making quite a noise. But what was a little background mess in comparison to the passion they were both experiencing right now.

They were clearly not friends now, but it was not important.

All the labels, unanswered questions and doubts left their heads as fast as their clothes started flying in all the directions. Bra on the lamp, boxers on the bedpost, shirt on the floor, a mess of clothes in the foot of the bed.

They didn’t care.

All that mattered at that moment was his lips on hers, her hands in his hair, the way his fingers kept pumping in and out of her prepping her for what was coming and the smell of her arousal in the air.

And those moans of pleasure that hit his ear made him hard enough to drill through the concrete.

“So wet…” he muttered

“So good!” she cried out arching her back, turning into a wanton, a bitch, not caring in the slightest about losing control. It felt good to just let go.

“Yeah?” he breathed out pulling fingers out of her, now coated with her juices. “Good?” Jason made sure to trace them up her body, spreading wetness on her stomach, her breasts with those deliciously pert nipples just begging to be abused and finally on her mouth. As if knowing she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from licking those plump red lips in a motion that was both innocent and obscene. “I'll show you good…”

With a groan, almost losing control, he spread her legs, hovering over her, leaning so close that his breath was hitting her face and his chest pressed against her breasts creating unbearable friction.

“Jason… Jason, please…” she squirmed, arched, begged and pleaded.

“I’ll give you everything you need…” he promised, leaning on forearms, slowly pushing inside her, mindful of every expression on her face. Only upon making sure she was feeling the pleasure and not the pain, his eyes moved lower, watching his cock disappear in her.

The dirty look that once again shuttered the fundamentals of his self-control.

“More!” she cried out, closing eyes, grabbing his shoulders, earning a groan from him.

“Fuckin more!”

There was no interim between bottoming out and adjusting to his size and frenzied pace of lovemaking. They just went from 0 to 100 in a blink of an eye.

He was gripping the headrest, too scared to touch her body In fear he’ll break her from the force. His forearms were straining from the power in those strong arms and Y/N knew he could snap her like a branch. Instead, somewhere deep inside that lust filled brain, he was still focused on her well being and safety.

Not that she could say the same about the way his cock was thrusting. Pulling in and out of her like she was made out of a rubber, shaping her to his girth, making sure to leave the memories of that night not only in her brain but also gouging the flutes on her pussy. For she was his.

Crying out his name

Touching him.

Letting him feel that tight wetness groping him like a vice.

So fucking tight only proving the point that she didn’t get nearly enough sex as she deserved.

“Tell me-“ he gasped, leaning his forehead on hers with sweaty hair clinging to it “How many times before you’ve came-“

“I – I don’t – I can’t-„ she cried out when he lifted her hips, changing the angle hitting deeper, harder, more intensely, effectively silencing all the thoughts. All she could focus on then was matching his pace, keeping that delicious stretch going, igniting the friction, running hands all over his back, holding him tight enough to not fly out into space right away.

“Tell me baby. I need you to say it.” He muttered between ragged breath, feeling his own release knocking at the door more and more stridently.

“Ne- never!” she cried out “Please!”

“Cum for me sweetheart.” He whispered in her ear with the silent promise of catching her and keeping her safe.

And he knew she believed him when her sobs, cries and gasps of climax filled the room, completing the scent of sex with the sound of pleasure.

Perfection incarnated in the form of a sin.

***

“Go on a date with me…”

Once they both came out from their high, laying side by side in the bed-

Once he dared to let out that soft side of his feelings, tracing circles on her sensitive body –

Once the arousal and horniness was gone-

There was no regret. No oh-my-god-what-have-we-done moment.

In fact, in some crazy way, it all seemed natural. Like both Jason and Y/N knew that it was bound to happen and their sex was not an accident or a mistake.

But a date?

“I’m serious, Y/N. Go on a date with me.”

“You don’t owe me—”

“It’s not about owing, baby. I want it. To be able to hold your hand in public, to beat to pulp every single guy that comes too close to you. To kiss you under the moonlight. To walk you home after and come upstairs just to cuddle on the couch together.”

“You sure?” she teased, laying her upper body on top of his, looking into his eyes with a happy smile “that would ruin your reputation as a cold and heartless motherfucker.”

"Some people are worth sacrificing like that…”

“Must be someone special.” Y/N whispered, her heart fluttering at the sensitivity Jason was expressing now.

“She is. A one in the million.” He tangled fingers in her hair, unable to tear his eyes from her naked form next to him.

The happiest fucker in the universe.

And to think she came to his place only to have a coke and complain about a bad date.

Coke and disappointment turning into a chance at a relationship.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd smut #red hood smut #jason todd x you #red hood x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x y/n

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thef1diary · 6 months ago

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HEAR ME OUT: mafia danny 😵‍💫 just thinking about him working for some important mafia family as either a personal bodyguard or a hired gun, and you being the daughter of a rival family…. maybe he’s sent to gather information on your family…….. and if he happens to snap a few pictures of you suntanning, then that’s his business and his alone 🫣

— a new idea?? I’m very intrigued nonnie. I like the idea of Daniel’s role as a hired gunman of the mafia (the most reputable gunnman thankyouverymuch) 18+ content below

Daniel wasn’t supposed to linger. His orders were clear: get in, gather intel, and leave without a trace. But the moment he scaled the fence of your family’s estate and found a vantage point overlooking the sun-drenched backyard, his mission took an unexpected—and utterly depraved—turn.

You were sprawled on a chaise lounge by the pool, the golden rays of the late afternoon sun kissing every inch of exposed skin. And God, there was a lot of it. The slinky bikini you wore could barely be called clothing, the triangular top stretched over your tits, leaving little to his imagination. Every slight movement threatened to spill your tits free, but you didn’t seem to care, casually adjusting the thin straps every now and then without urgency, as though the privacy of your family’s fortress made you untouchable.

Daniel’s camera roll started innocently enough—if snapping photos of the rival mafia’s princess in the most sinful swimwear imaginable could ever be called innocent. His pulse quickened as he captured the arch of your back, the curve of your hips, the sheen of sweat glistening on your abdomen. Each image made his mouth go dry, his focus narrowing on the screen of his phone.

He told himself it was for the job—something to distract or blackmail you with later, but the truth was far filthier.

Then, you moved, trailing your hand lazily down your stomach, and Daniel’s pulse skyrocketed. His finger hovered over the shutter as he watched your fingertips graze your pussy, lightly circling your clit, over the fabric of your bikini bottoms. His phone almost slipped from his grip. Fuck. He hadn’t planned for this.

He watched, frozen, as your hand disappeared under the thin fabric. A sharp intake of breath left your lips, and his own breath hitched in response. He should’ve turned away. He should’ve stopped. But instead, his thumb hit record.

The faint sound of your slick movements reached him even from his hidden spot, and his cock throbbed painfully against his pants. He adjusted the angle, zooming in to capture the way your hips rolled, your legs spreading slightly wider as you worked yourself. He could hear your muffled moans, breathy and soft, the kind of sound that made his chest tighten and his cock strain harder.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible as he shifted uncomfortably, trying to relieve the growing ache in his pants.

You bit your lip, your brows furrowing in concentration as your fingers worked faster beneath the fabric. The sight of you unraveling in your backyard—so blissfully unaware that you were being watched��was the most obscene, most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Daniel’s free hand drifted to the bulge in his pants, pressing down against it as his breath grew uneven. His phone was still recording, capturing every gasp, every shiver of your body. His mind whispered weak excuses: This is just leverage. Something to use against you. But he knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t share this with anyone. These photos and videos weren’t for the mafia. They were for him.

Your moans grew louder, your head falling back against the lounge as your hips bucked upward, chasing your release. Daniel zoomed in further, his focus sharpening on the way your thighs trembled and your chest rose and fell with each gasping breath.

When you finally came, your whole body arched, a broken cry escaping your lips. The sound hit him like a punch to the gut, his own body responding in kind. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, his free hand gripping the base of his cock through his pants to stave off the inevitable.

He couldn’t stop himself from recording every second of your afterglow, the way your chest heaved and your fingers lazily trailed over your stomach, smearing the remnants of your cum. You looked utterly wrecked, completely oblivious to the fact that Daniel had captured it all.

The moment you stood and stretched, disappearing back into the house, Daniel let out a shaky breath, slipping his phone into his pocket. His fingers brushed against his hard cock, and he groaned quietly, already imagining the night ahead—when he’d be alone with his phone, reliving every sinful second, his hand sliding beneath his waistband to finish what you’d unintentionally started.

want more mafia!daniel? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

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daryltwdixon · 5 months ago

Text

Summary: You find a familiar stranger waiting outside your house, asking for your dad, and eventually, a car. Reluctantly, you agree to help, but what seems like a simple task quickly turns dangerous as you face infected and navigate the town outside your familiar neighborhood. The mission becomes a fight for survival, testing your trust and endurance.

warnings: violence against infected, lots of action in this chapter.

a/n: long chapter, sorry! so much going on. closer to game canon.

The stupid truck broke down the next day.

“Damn thing,” you mutter, slapping the wheel as the blue truck sputters to a halt outside the small storefront. So much for painting the house today. There was no way you’d make it back with everything you needed. The only reason you even cared was because Frank would’ve rolled in his grave if he saw the chipped paint on the front door or the shutters, more green than gray after weeks of rain.

With a resigned sigh, you grab your bow and quiver, hop out, and pop the hood. One glance tells you the problem: the battery’s shot. Of course. You can almost hear your dad’s voice, gruff and irritated, reminding you to store it in the fridge. You didn’t. Now you’d earned yourself a long walk home in the midday sun.

By the time you turn onto your road, sweat clings to your forehead, and your legs ache. You barely have the energy to curse the heat anymore when something stops you dead.

There’s someone in your yard.

They’re just standing there, staring up at the house. Adrenaline spikes as you scan the area. The fences were secure this morning. None of the traps had gone off—you’d have heard them. So how the hell had they gotten in?

Gripping your bow tighter, you nock an arrow and step forward, heart pounding. But as you close the distance, you realize, with some relief, it’s not an infected—it’s not even a stranger.

You blink, stomach twisting. The only person you ever knew, apart from Frank and your dad, is standing on your lawn. He’s broader now, his frame heavier with age. His beard is thicker, streaked with gray, but that scowl on his face hasn’t changed a bit.

Joel fucking Miller.

And with him, a girl.

“Joel?” you croak, your voice catching as you lower the bow, though your grip remains firm.

He turns, startled, and his dark eyes sweep over you. Recognition settles in slowly, like it takes a moment for him to piece it together. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he mutters, his voice quieter than you remember. “You’ve grown up.”

“Yeah, well,” you deadpan, swallowing the tightness in your chest, “time does that to a person.” You narrow your gaze, lowering the string fully but keeping the bow in hand as you step closer. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

Joel looks at you with a deadpan expression, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Your dad gave me the code. Years ago.”

“Definitely doesn’t sound like something he’d do.” you mutter, suspicion creeping in. Your eyes dart to the girl beside him. She fidgets, glancing between you and Joel like she’s trying to read the tension in the air.

Joel shrugs, ignoring your tone. “What’s it been? Six, seven years?”

“Closer to seven.” You take a slow breath, your fingers flexing around the bowstring. “So, what are you doing here, Joel?”

He shifts his weight, gesturing vaguely toward the gate. “Came to ask your pop for a favor. Where is he?”

The question hits like a punch to the gut. For a moment, you can’t answer. “Um, he and Frank...” you say finally, the words thick in your throat as you try to form them. “They’re… gone.”

Joel’s expression softens, a flicker of something—regret, maybe guilt—crossing his face. The girl beside him shifts uncomfortably, her eyes darting to the ground.

“Sorry to hear that, kid,” Joel says after a beat, his voice low.

You nod stiffly, forcing the ache in your chest to settle. “Right. Well… you hungry?”

The girl perks up instantly. “Starving!” she blurts, her face lighting up in contrast to the tension.

You can’t help a soft laugh, the awkward moment breaking slightly. Joel turns to glare at her, but she’s still smiling at you.

“Come on,” you say, moving past them toward the house, the gravel walkway crunching under your boots as you lead the way.

You maintain that this is just downright weird. Having people in your house. Talking, even. To someone who… responds.

“You’re welcome to shower, too. We still get hot water,” you say, motioning up the stairs.

The girl’s eyes light up, wide with amazement. “Awesome,” she whispers, scanning the house like she can’t believe her luck—lingering on the lights, the hum of the generator, and the sound of running water as you rinse your hands at the sink.

“Go on, get cleaned up,” Joel orders, his voice clipped. He takes her bag, and she shoves it into his hands without hesitation, bolting up the stairs two at a time.

“I’ll get her some clothes,” you say quietly, already moving toward the closet where you kept some of your old clothes that no longer fit. A simple red shirt with a black long sleeve, a pair of jeans that would probably fit her with a belt.

As you walk past Joel, you feel his eyes on you—not warm or curious, but assessing, like he’s sizing you up. It makes your skin flush in a way you can’t explain.

“You’ve got this place locked down pretty tight,” he mutters when you return from laying the clothes out for the girl upstairs. Not a compliment, not really. More of a statement of fact.

“Yeah,” you reply, keeping your voice even, “Someone had to.”

He grunts in response, leaning his weight against the counter as you move into the kitchen. You wonder if he knows how much he reminds you of your dad. That same gruff exterior, the same sharp eyes that seem to see too much. You’re not sure if you’re unsettled or comforted by it.

The silence between you and Joel grows heavier, almost suffocating. You busy yourself, lighting the stove, pulling out a pan, doing anything to avoid looking at him too much. But he doesn’t move, just stands there, arms crossed, watching you with that same unyielding intensity.

“So,” you say finally, just to break the quiet, “you and the girl… traveling together?”

“Yep,” he replies curtly, offering nothing more.

“She yours?” you ask, glancing at him. You don’t remember him ever mentioning a kid with Tess.

“Nope.”

Another beat of silence stretches between you. You study him for a moment, the lines on his face deepened by the dim light, before he finally says, “Just cargo. Her name's Ellie. Takin’ her to the Fireflies.”

“The what?” you ask, your brow furrowing at the unfamiliar name.

He exhales sharply, like he doesn’t have the energy for a full explanation but knows he has to give one. “Rebel group. Started out tryin’ to save the world—'find a cure’." he scoffs, "Freedom fighters against FEDRA. You know FEDRA, right?”

You nod, your gaze lingering on him as he speaks. His jaw tightens, his eyes clouding over as if he’s remembering something he’d rather not. There’s more to the story, you can feel it in the tension radiating off him, but you know better than to ask.

“And Tess?” you venture cautiously.

His frown deepens, his arms folding tighter across his chest. He shifts uncomfortably, his gaze skirting away from yours. “She’s fine,” he mutters, his tone clipped and final.

You don’t push, but his reaction lingers in the air, heavy and telling. Whatever “fine” means to Joel, it’s not the full truth. You smile weakly and eventually give in to the quiet. The smell of roasting chicken and garlic fills the air, and you catch Joel glancing toward the oven, his expression softening just a hair. He doesn’t say anything, though, just stays rooted in place like a sentry.

Ellie thunders back downstairs a little while later, her hair damp and sticking to her cheeks, wearing the clothing you left out for her, “This place is insane!” she announces, plopping into a chair. “Hot water? Electricity? Real food? You’ve got it all.”

Joel grunts, but his expression remains as unreadable as ever. You set a plate in front of Ellie—bread, chicken, and a fresh salad with everything from your garden—and then one in front of Joel. He doesn’t thank you, just mutters, “Smells good,” before digging in.

You sit across from them, picking at your own plate as you watch Joel eat. He chews with the same grim determination as everything else he does, like the act of enjoying food would somehow cost him something. Ellie, on the other hand, is practically inhaling her meal, moaning softly as she tears into the bread.

“This is amazing,” she says around a mouthful of chicken. “Like, seriously. I forgot food could taste this good.”

You huff a small laugh, but Joel doesn’t even look up. “Slow down,” he mutters to Ellie, his tone sharp. “You’ll choke.”

Ellie rolls her eyes but does as he says, albeit reluctantly.

You push your food around your plate, not sure how to keep the conversation going. After a moment, you speak up, feeling the awkwardness in the air. “So why are you here, Joel?”

He chews thoughtfully, then meets your eyes, holding your gaze for a long beat. He leans back in his seat, wiping his mouth with the dark green napkin you’d set out for him.

“Well,” he begins, sucking his teeth, “I was hopin’ to ask your dad for a car.”

You nearly choke on your food. “A car?” The only one you had that still worked was that damn truck, and it’s sitting a mile away, just waiting to be picked clean.

Joel glances at you, waiting for your response. “So… that’ll be a ‘no,’ then?” he asks, his tone hesitant.

You swallow, collecting yourself. “I only got one working truck left, and it broke down this mornin’ before I saw you. But…” you trail off, thinking. “Dad kept extra parts around, across town. Pretty sure there’s a garage by the high school where he kept stuff. If we head over, we can grab a battery and get it in there by tonight, no problem.”

Joel looks at you for a moment, eyes narrowing. “You don’t need it?”

You shake your head. “I do.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, both of them waiting for you to elaborate. Finally, you put down your silverware, taking a breath before you continue. “Look, you're actually doing something good. With her, I mean,” you nod toward Ellie, your voice softening as you meet Joel’s gaze, “So I’ll get the truck fixed up for you, and I’ll figure something out for myself once you’re gone. There’s a couple other cars I could work on, get ‘em running with some effort.”

Joel shakes his head. “I don’t wanna take your only mode of transportation.”

You look at him, your tone steady. “You need it. I can tell.”

He studies you for a moment, brown eyes searching yours before he finally nods.

“So when do we go get that battery?”

You lean back, the question heavy on your mind. “We could go today, be back before sundown. But…” You hesitate.

“But what?” Joel asks, his voice low, his interest piqued.

You let out a long breath, looking at the two of them before speaking again. “It’s in a bad area. My dad didn’t like me going there, and he barely ever did himself. Only went if it was an emergency. He always said it was the safest place to store stuff if we ever got raided, but…”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “What’s the problem with it?”

“There’s a nest.”

“A…nest…?” Ellie asks, her eyes widening.

You nod, “Dad thought it’s like some sort of hideout for them, they’re everywhere.”

Neither Joel or Ellie had to ask what you meant by “they”.

You lead both Joel and Ellie down a narrow steps of the basement, the faint creak of the old wood above almost drowned out by the steady rhythm of your breath. At the end of the stairs, a thick steel door opens with a loud groan, revealing the bunker—your dad’s old workshop and storage. The smell of oil, metal, and rust hits you instantly, the air thick with the remnants of a life long gone. You pause by the wall of heavy machinery, your hand lingering over the cold metal as you assess the weapons lined up in front of you.

“If there’s any supplies you need, this would be the place to stock up. Help yourself.” you offer.

Joel steps in beside you, his gaze immediately locking on the shelves where various guns, knives, and ammo are neatly arranged. His eyes narrow as he surveys them, clearly weighing what might be useful.

“You okay?” Joel asks, his voice low when he turns and sees you examining the wall.

You nod, but the tension in your shoulders is still there. You grab a backpack and a rifle, its weight unfamiliar in your hands, not feeling quite right. You grimace, adjusting the strap as you shoulder it. “I prefer the bow,” you mutter.

Ellie, meanwhile, is practically bouncing on her heels, her eyes wide as she looks at the guns. “Seeing as it's just us...” she says, her voice almost playful, but there’s an edge to it, the unmistakable excitement of someone eager for a weapon.

“No,” you say, your voice firm, and it takes you a second to realize Joel said it at the same time, his tone just as sharp. Ellie holds up her hands in mock surrender, rolling her eyes, “okay, okay…”

After a moment, you turn to the wall, pulling a box of ammo from one of the shelves and loading the rifle. The metal feels heavy in your hands, and the weight of the decision to carry it makes you uneasy.

Joel is already grabbing a long range shotgun with a scope and a box of ammo, his movements steady and practiced. As he slides the gun around his chest, he loads his smaller pistol into the holster at his side, his gaze flicks to you, his brow furrowed. The silence stretches for a moment as Joel watches you. Then he nods, and without another word, he turns and heads toward the door.

“Let’s get moving,” you say, tone as steady as ever, walking out the front door.

Once you're out of the safety of your gates, the air smells stale, the scent of rot mixing with the distant remnants of the world that used to be. The neighborhood is quiet, too quiet, and every step you take feels like it could be the last.

You take a deep breath, pushing down the creeping paranoia that seems to grow with every second you’re out here. You’ve been through this town before, sure, but not in a long time, not without your dad, and never like this—everything feels unfamiliar, even though it’s a place you thought you knew.

“We just gotta push through a couple houses up here, down through the church, and out the back. Then we’ll be in the schoolyard. Be ready for anything,” you whisper, your voice low but steady.

Joel gives a sharp nod, his eyes scanning the area as he moves into position. Ellie’s behind you, her footsteps a little too heavy for your liking, but you can’t exactly blame her—this place is unsettling for all of you.

You glance over your shoulder, catching Ellie’s eye for just a second before you slide through a broken window into the house. The frame is twisted, the edges jagged, and it takes some effort to climb through without cutting yourself. You land lightly on the other side, your boots sinking into the dirt and overgrown weeds. The place is a mess—abandoned long ago, windows boarded up, and furniture toppled.

Frank would’ve had a fit about this. You can almost hear his voice in your head, nagging about how this place could’ve been cleaned up. He always wanted everything in its place, kept tidy, even when it seemed pointless.

But that was before. When he was here. Not that you care enough to waste any of your resources on this ruin.

You make your way through the house, stepping over debris with practiced ease, and signal to the others to follow.

Once Joel and Ellie are inside, you give a quick nod, pointing toward the back door. “This way.”

Joel’s already moving, his hand hovering near the gun at his hip. His eyes never stop scanning the space around you, and for a second, you wonder if he feels the same unease you do. But he doesn’t show it—just keeps moving, calm, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

You all move through the house, making your way toward the back door. The wood creaks under your weight, and the faintest sound of something scratching at the walls makes you freeze for a second. Your heart hammers in your chest, but you don’t say anything. You’ve learned not to overreact to every little sound—it could be nothing.

But it doesn’t stop the feeling crawling up your spine.

Finally, you make your way out onto the roof on the other side of the house, pausing to survey the courtyard below. You gesture with your hand, your voice low but clear.

“Alright, through this area, there’s gardens before we hit the church. It’s a bit of a maze, so stay close and keep your ears open. You’re lucky we haven’t run into any of them yet.”

You start to descend the overgrown fauna below, moving cautiously. Then, just as you’re about to reach the ground, the noise pierces through the air. That click. That unmistakable, haunting click. The sound that’s been in your nightmares for weeks. The one that freezes your blood and makes every muscle in your body tense.

You stop dead in your tracks, quickly turning around. With one hand, you press a finger to your lips, signaling for silence, and with the other, you gesture toward the other side of the overgrown brick wall. The wall is tall, covered in moss and vines, flowers dotting the cracks between the bricks.

Clicker, you mouth. Ellie’s eyes widen, but Joel takes a deep breath, nodding.

Getting low, you crouch and move forward, peering around the gate. There they are—two Clickers. Their faces, nearly consumed by fungus, are unrecognizable, with only their limbs resembling something human. Green, pink, and yellow growths where their eyes and noses once were now serve as a grotesque reminder of what they’ve become. They can’t see, but god, they can hear. Echolocation, using the clicks and guttural noises that bounce off walls—make even the slightest sound, and they’ll be on you.

You glance at Joel, then back at the Clickers. The air feels stiflingly heavy with the sound of their inhuman clicks, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Slow. You move slow, agonizingly slow, as you inch through the gate, keeping your body low. Your fingers graze a piece of brick that’s fallen from the mossy wall. You pick it up carefully, eyes never leaving the Clickers as they move in circles, completely oblivious to your presence for now.

When you see the perfect moment, you throw the brick, the sound of it hitting the far end of the courtyard loud enough to catch their attention. You draw your bow in one fluid motion, an arrow nocked and ready. If you just make this strong enough, you could potentially aim it through both of their heads at once. Might lose an arrow over it, but worth it for you.

Joel’s eyes are locked on you now, his focus unwavering. You can feel the weight of the moment—the pressure to get it right. You breathe in, your aim steady as you watch the two Clickers rush to investigate the noise. As they move into position, you release the arrow.

The shot is clean, precise. The arrow drives straight through the first Clicker’s head, sending it tumbling forward, the momentum carrying it into the second, pinning both of them together.

“That…” Ellie’s whisper meets your ear, “Was…. Awesome.”

You can’t help the ghost of a smile that tugs at the corner of your lips, but you stay focused. “Right, well, there’s definitely more of those assholes.” You turn back to Joel, lowering your bow. “And I’m not wasting all my arrows on them than needed. You got a knife?”

Joel’s still watching the downed Clickers, his eyes flitting between them and you. Then, without a word, he pulls out his homemade shiv, the blade worn but sharp enough.

“Better than nothing.” you say looking at it, and he rolls his eyes, scoffing.

You move swiftly through the courtyard, your boots barely making a sound as you pass the stone fountain in the center. The once-pristine structure is now a jungle of overgrowth and rot, a sad reminder of a world long gone. You don’t stop to look at it, though—there’s no time for distractions.

Ahead, the gate looms. You pull out the keys, keeping them pressed tightly in your hand to avoid any jingle, and rise up to unlock it. The metal groans as you push the gate open, but it’s Once Joel and Ellie slip through, you close it behind them, the sound of the latch clicking into place strangely loud in the stillness. You’re not sure how much longer you’ve got before something hears you, so you don’t waste any time.

Ahead, two Infected are hunched over, twitching in some half-rest, their bodies contorted and unnatural. The sight makes your stomach turn, but you can’t afford to hesitate. You wouldn’t be getting any sleep the next few nights if you made it through this.

You turn to Joel, your eyes meeting his with a silent understanding. You mime your plan quickly, knowing he doesn’t need a full explanation, just confirmation. You hold two fingers down into your open palm, directing him to sneak up on the creatures ahead. Then, pointing to his shiv, direct him to use it on the one on the right. Then, you gesture to yourself, drawing your knife with practiced ease, and point to the Infected on the left.

Joel watches your hands carefully, his expression unreadable. He glances up at you one last time, meeting your gaze for a split second before giving a small, nearly imperceptible nod. You return it, then drop into position.

The two of you move forward without a sound, careful not to let the ground betray you. You’re close now, the heavy foresty, damp earth smell of the fungus wafting off of them, almost suffocating. Their twitching bodies are oblivious to your presence, but that won’t last long.

You reach them before Joel, though he’s only a step behind. His shiv is ready, and you feel the faintest pressure in your chest as you watch him close the distance. One clean move, and it’ll be over for it.

On your side, the Infected on the left twitches again, its face a grotesque mess of fungus and decay, but it doesn’t hear you coming. You’re almost there.

You exchange one final glance with Joel, a silent confirmation between the two of you that it’s time. You strike at the same moment, both knives sinking deep into the Infected’s skulls in one fluid motion. No sounds. No mess. Just done.

You stay crouched over the bodies once they hit the ground, chest still tight with adrenaline, eyes scanning the area for any more movement. There’s no time to linger. You motion for Joel and Ellie to keep moving.

You move through the garden with practiced silence, each step deliberate as you take out the Infected one by one. Sometimes it’s a clean strike with a knife, other times you skirt around them, keeping to the shadows and staying out of their reach. The quiet is unnerving, but it’s necessary. One wrong sound, and this all goes south.

You breathe a little easier when you reach the other side of the garden, the familiar structure of the church looming ahead, its colorful windows glinting almost like a sense of safety. Almost.

You pause, letting the silence settle before you speak, your voice low but steady. “My dad kept some things in here for explosives—Molotovs, nail bombs, you name it. I’m gonna grab a few things, and then we’ll head out again. You guys good?”

You give them both a quick look, and when they nod, step inside the church, your boots echoing slightly in the still air. The shelves and corners are lined with the supplies your dad left behind—bottles of alcohol, nails, makeshift explosives. You grab a few Molotovs and a couple nail bombs, tucking them carefully into your pack.

As you finish up, Ellie’s voice breaks the silence, her tone quieter than usual. “Those things... they’re freaky, huh?”

You look over at her, catching her eyes for a brief moment. There's no fear there, but you can see the unease lingering in the way she stands. "Yeah, they're something else," you say, your voice low. "But we made it through, didn't we?"

Ellie gives a small, tight smile, nodding. “Yeah. For now.”

Joel looks between the two of you, his face unreadable as always, but you know he’s just as relieved as you to be moving on. “Let’s get going then,” he says, his voice calm, steady.

With the supplies secured, you head back toward the door, ready to face whatever else comes next.

You turn to them, keeping your voice low but clear. “Okay, through here, there’s some cars. We’ll use them to hide behind—there’s a lot of them that can see here. They get more riled the closer we get to the school, at least from what I remember. Might have to make some noise, but we’ll be fine if we keep our wits about us, yeah?”

Joel swallows, then nods. “I got your back.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, feeling the weight of his words. “And I got yours.” After a beat, you glance at Ellie. “Stay close.”

Ellie nods, her face set, and you adjust the strap on your bag before moving forward. You enter the large schoolyard, the familiar sight of broken-down buses bringing back memories of years ago. You spent hours siphoning parts with your dad, before the yard got overtaken by the nest inside the school.

You crouch behind a wall, nocking an arrow. The creature ahead is unaware, its back to you. But before you release, you feel a tap on your arm. You drop your bow and glance at Joel.

Going over here and I’ll go meet you on the other side, he partially mimes with his hands and says softly under his breath. You follow his gaze, then nod in silent agreement.

You adjust your grip on the bow, hearing Joel’s footsteps fade to your right. You wait, focus sharp as you pull back and release. The infected goes down easily with little to no sound and you peer around at the others nearby. Two more are to your right, and the other three are on the other side of a chain link fence, if Joel manages to take out the two he’s aiming for with stealth.

You see him move—silent, calculated. His biceps strain in the sunlight as he grabs one of the Infected by the neck, twisting and pulling it to the ground with practiced ease. One down, with no noise, no fuss.

With that, you move forward, quick and silent. You pull your knife from your belt and plunge it into the head of the Infected in front of you. It drops without a sound. You spin and hide behind a bus just in time as the second one hears you.

You wait, breath steady, before the creature rounds the bus, oblivious. You pounce, knife flying, embedding into its skull before it even has time to react.

Finally, you meet up with Joel, your back pressed against the side of a short yellow bus. Your breath comes in quick, heavy gasps, but you force yourself to steady it, letting the adrenaline subside just enough for a moment. Behind the vehicle, you can hear the faint, strained breaths of more of them, riled and restless. You don’t have much time. You can handle a few if you make a run for it, but you don't want any nearby hearing you.

Ellie’s eyes flick between you and Joel, her body tense, waiting for the next move.

“Alright,” you say, your voice low but firm. “If we take a right here, and go over that truck,” you point to the chain-link fence opposite, pushed in by another vehicle with a climbable bed in the back, away from the remaining Infected, “we can avoid these guys. But we need to be fast. That’ll get us around the school and to the house where the garage with the extra supplies is.”

Joel, catching his breath, nods. “Sounds like the best option we’ve got. Let’s move.”

You move fast, heart pounding, feet shuffling the ground with urgency. The distance to the car is almost within reach, but as soon as your foot steps into the clearing, you hear it—aching yells, guttural growls, and shrieks echoing across the yard. A chorus of pain and hunger.

You freeze.

The Infected—more than you thought—are already turning toward you, spotting you within seconds of stepping out behind the bus. The sound of their calls fills the air like a warning siren to the rest that are hiding. The moment their eyes lock on you, they scream—loud, desperate calls that bounce off the walls of the schoolyard, alerting every creature in the vicinity. You feel your breath catch in your throat. The plan—hell, any plan—just fell apart.

“Go, go, go!” You shout, panic surging through you.

Ellie’s already moving, but you can hear the desperation in her footsteps, the same frantic rhythm in Joel’s as they rush toward the car. You run, but your gut twists with the feeling that they’re closing in too fast, the air heavy with the sounds of them coming after you.

You’re not going to make it to the car. You know it, feel it in your bones. Your eyes dart to the left, where the chain-link fence lies ahead.

“Joel!” You grab his arm, tugging him sharply as panic spikes through you. “Left! Now!”

You don’t wait for his answer. You can’t. The Infected are closer, already running toward you. The sound of their screams only grows louder, the shrieks and clicks mixing into a maddening symphony of death.

Joel reaches the fence first. He grabs Ellie’s leg, hoisting her up so she can climb over quickly. Then, he grabs you, shoving you up the chain-link with a firm push. You climb, your hands finding the gaps in the fence for grip as Joel follows, doing the same.

Ellie lands on the other side, already moving forward, while you scramble to get a grip going up. You scramble, adrenaline pushing you faster, and Joel boosts you over the top of the fence, his hands steady on your waist as he lifts you with surprising strength.

Once you get your legs over to the other side, you jump, hitting the ground hard, but there’s no time to recover. There’s already more on this side of the fence, and so you push yourself up, pulling Ellie along as you both run toward the nearest window, Joel right behind you.

The sounds of the Infected are deafening now, the shrieks of their painful calls only growing louder. You don’t dare look back. You round a corner of the side of the high school's classrooms, spotting a dumpster with a window open above it.

“Through the window!” you shout, urgency clawing at your throat.

Ellie’s already moving, squeezing through the small opening, her body sliding in with ease. You follow close behind, but the second your torso is through the gap, you feel something sharp grab onto your ankle.

A screech escapes you as you turn to see the twisted face of a man who is no longer human–fungus growing through his eyes and ears and splitting his scalp– its hands clamped tightly around your leg, pulling you back toward the ground. Panic surges through you. You kick out, trying to break free, but its grip is strong.

Before you can make another move, you hear the sound of a shotgun cocking, and a split second later, Joel’s shot rings out. The Infected’s head explodes, the force of the blast sending you flying forward.

Inside, you collapse to the floor, chest heaving, heart racing. You hear Joel’s quick footsteps behind you, the window slamming shut as he pulls himself through, his face flushed but focused. The classroom's walls rumble with the slamming of more infected against the window.

This was the last place you wanted to be stuck in.

"They’ll be able to push through that glass in any minute," Joel mutters, catching his breath, scanning the room.

You nod, still breathless. "We keep moving. We don't stop."

Ellie’s already on her feet, eyes wide but determined. "Let's go."

In the back of the room, you spot a set of double doors. Without hesitation, you push through, the cold metal of the door scraping against the frame. You shut it behind the three of you as quietly as possible, heart racing in your chest. Every sound, every creak feels like it could echo across the room, drawing attention to your every move. You don’t need to hear any more of those shrieks.

You knew what you were walking into, and you’d be damned if you let any more of those things hear you coming. The air in the hallway is thick, and the silence feels suffocating. You knew what you were walking into, and you’d be damned if you let any more of those things hear you coming. The air in the hallway is thick, the silence suffocating. You hold your breath for a moment, listening for any sign that you’ve been followed. The low, unsettling clicks and the sound of labored, painful breathing drift from up ahead.

You glance at Joel and Ellie, a quick, silent check-in. They’re close, eyes alert, waiting for your lead.

You give a small, subtle nod toward the hallway, your eyes scanning for any sign of safety. The school’s checkered floors are cracked and stained with time, the lockers rusted and open, papers and textbooks scattered across the floor like forgotten memories.

Up ahead, a Clicker paces back and forth, its clicks reverberating off the walls. You move fast, pulling your bow from your back, nocking an arrow with practiced ease. The shot is quick, clean. The arrow drives into the Clicker’s head with a soft thud, the creature collapsing silently to the floor.

Joel moves forward next, his eyes scanning the hallway as he spots a stray Infected wandering into the center. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands move with swift efficiency, grabbing the creature by the throat, choking it into submission until it drops to the floor.

You don’t miss a beat, drawing another arrow and letting it fly. It finds its mark, taking out another Infected in one smooth motion, the body crumpling without a sound.

The hallway feels heavier now, the tension thick in the air as you move forward, staying close, staying quiet. The school might be falling apart, but for now, you’re still fighting to stay one step ahead of the chaos that’s hunting you.

Through a classroom to your right, you hear more of them, this time a clicker and two fucking runners, so you had to both be silent and out of sight. Great.

Joel snags a beaker from the ground, tossing it across the room. The sound of shattering glass distracts the Infected, and you mentally praise him for his quick thinking. Without wasting time, you notch another arrow, taking careful aim. The Clicker’s head snaps back with the impact of your shot. It drops instantly, silent as the others continue to shuffle.

Moving forward with practiced stealth, you skirt around the desks, careful to avoid the broken glass scattered across the floor. As you approach one of the Infected, you draw your knife, throwing it with precision. The blade sinks into its head with a sickening thud, and it collapses without a sound. Meanwhile, Joel takes care of the other, his own knife flashing as it drives deep into the creature’s skull.

They’re down. You stand, your breath steady, and collect a few bits of resources from around the classroom including the arrow you managed to keep intact from the clicker's head. It’s been years since you’ve been in here, maybe you missed something useful. Anything.

You reach for another beaker, preparing for any distractions you might need later. Then, you rifle through the drawers, checking for anything you can use—chemicals, alcohol, sulfur. Luckily, you find a couple bottles and bag them quickly.

Joel turns to you, his face set with determination but marked with the same adrenaline that’s running through your veins. "Which way?"

You point to the back classroom door into another hallway, chest still tight, eyes scanning the room one last time before you lead the way out. It’s not safe yet, but for now, you’re still alive. And that’s all that matters.

You move down the hall further, each step quieter than the last, heart pounding in your chest. It’s clear—too clear. The silence around you grows thick, making every sound feel louder than it is. It’s almost unsettling.

Then you reach the end of the hall. A double door stands before you, but it’s not just shut—it’s blocked by a large cabinet. Your stomach twists.

That’s never a good sign.

You step closer, eyes narrowing at the cabinet, your pulse quickening as a sinking feeling creeps up your spine. This wasn’t just some random obstruction. No. This cabinet was meant to keep something in. Something worse.

You glance at Joel, his face darkening as he recognizes it too. He doesn’t say anything, but the tension between you both is palpable.

A beat passes, and you can almost hear your heart in your ears.

"Not good," you mutter under your breath, eyes flicking to the cabinet, then back to Joel. "Whatever’s in there, it’s not gonna be pretty."

Joel’s hand hovers near his weapon, eyes locked on the door. "We don’t have a choice," he says, his voice grim. "We clear it, or it clears us."

You swallow, a cold knot tightening in your stomach. You know he’s right. You don’t have the luxury of waiting, not with everything that’s been chasing you. You sheath your knife, pulling around your rifle to point forward.

Ellie looks between the two of you, her voice barely a whisper. “What are we waiting for?”

Without another word, Joel moves forward, slowly pushing the cabinet aside. The sound of the heavy wood scraping against the floor is deafening in the silence, each movement deliberate, measured.

The cabinet shifts, inch by inch, revealing the faint crack between the doors. You hold your breath, every sense on high alert.

And then, from beyond the door, you enter into the old basketball courts of the highschool.

The door is holding back something that’s not just dangerous—it’s horrifying.

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siriusblacksbxtch · 9 months ago

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I'm in love with your dean x male reader smuts- is there any way you could do a pretty extreme dom!dean sub!male reader with any combination (your choice) of the following kinks?: gun play, bondage, choking, knife/blood play, oral fixation, stalking/cnc/kidnapping, religious play, spit sexual fighting (like slapping, punching, etc.) , violence/gore, demon!dean, edging/teasing begging, sub not being able to form words, degrading and praise- and could you include specific terms? like pretty boy, good boy, kitty, slut, bitch, whore, dumb, and easy for the sub and for dean just simple stuff like sir, dean, stuff similar. I'm writing you a book I'm so sorry bjfjd I just have a really hard time finding male reader smut as good as yours that suit my kinks 😭😭 I also love a good sub!dean dom!male reader and the kinks and names I provided earlier would suit a fic like that too!! thank you sm for reading this NOVEL jdjsjs i hope you have a great day- aaaaand if you're not comfortable writing something with such extreme kinks I completely understand, I just thought I'd ask cause I love your work!! xoxo 💞💞💞

A/N: everybody kiss this requester on the mouth I demand it/ I wish I did better but I did what I could! I hope you still like it!

Pairings: Demon!Dean x male!reaader

Warnings: unholy, seriously.

Summary: Demon!Dean had been around for too long, and he looked much too like your boyfriend

You glared across the kitchen at the flannel wearing monster. Oh you hated him. Hated him bad, wearing your beautiful Dean’s face to be an absolute fucking psycho.

Sam had come to terms he’d be sticking around until they found a cure, but you couldn’t stomach it. It made you so goddamned mad.

Like right now in your own home glaring invisible lasers into his head as he sat across from Sam eating food like he was normal.

“(Y/N),” Sam sighed with a conflicted look. “It’s nothing new.”

“Better get used to it, baby boy.” Dean, or not Dean, or whatever— gave you a devilish grin.

“Oh, both of you fuck off. I can’t standing seeing his disgusting ass every second.”

“This disgusting ass can remember some pretty nasty images of you as well.” The demon lowly chuckled as you flushed red, Sam looking down at the table to avoid the conversation.

“Fuck you, psycho.” You rolled your eyes, stomping to your room and slamming the door. You kicked the metal irritably muttering curses under your breath as you pulled off your shirt.

You were hot, nearly feeling as though you were sweating from the interaction. You hated him, god more then you thought you could, walking around with your boyfriends face and just about everything that made him an asshole.

“Let me get this straight—”

“God!” You let out a gasp as you clutched your heart, turning to face the very demon himself.

“Not God,” he smirked. “Just me (Y/N).”

“No shit, what the hell do you want?”

Before you could move for your shirt he stepped closer, walking you back into the wall until your chests were touching.

“What do I want?” Dean laughed, his hot breath hitting your face. “I want to know why you could bend over like a bitch—” His eyes flashed black— “Before I got these babies.”

You swallowed harshly at the words, staring into the abyss of black.

“You used to be so good for me.” He began rubbing at your crotch, you breath hitching in your throat as you tried to look anywhere else.

“You’re not—”

“But I am,” he hissed before you could finish. “I’m still Dean. The Dean who would sleep next to you, fuck you til you cried baby.”

You once again shuttered at the thought, cheeks growing hotter as he continued to palm you through your jeans.

“The one who knows how secretly bad you’ve wanted something like this.”

At that you shoved him back, swinging a fist into his jaw and slamming him into the wall across from you.

He punched you straight back, pushing you onto the bed and swinging his fist again for good measure.

You could taste the blood on your teeth as he grinned down at you, moving his hips down to meet yours as a strangled moan left your lips.

“Quit trying to fight it and be a good boy.”

“Fuck you,” you sighed out.

He backhanded you, grabbing your jaw in a stone clutch, moving so his lips pressed against yours.

“I know how bad you want it, (Y/N). Stop fighting.” With that he pulled back slamming his lips into yours.

You couldn’t help but pull him closer, missing his soft lips and strong build.

As soon as it started it seemed to be over, Dean pulling off your pants and flipping you over before you could even process.

“See how good things go when you’re a good boy?” A strangled gasp left you as his hand slammed down on your ass cheek. He did it once again with enough strength to cause you to move forward. “You just love being my little slut?”

Dean’s low chuckled filled the air along with the sound of his hand coming down on your ass.

“Fuck,” you were struggling not to be a drooling mess at this point, Dean flipping you around again to face him.

“You ready to stop being a little bitch and be a good boy, (Y/N).”

You stared into his black eyes finding what you used to despise all too intriguing as you finally gave a stiff nod.

“No, no,” he chuckled lowly as he ran a hand over your torso. “You are a pretty boy, but your mouth,” he whistled lowly. “We gotta make up for all that ugly talk, baby boy.”

Dean pulled you by your hair, and you let him, shoving you roughly to your knees as he undid his belt.

“Open.” Came the cold voice, much less playful than he had been when he entered your room.

You did so, opening wide as he slid his dick into the back of your throat, a soft sigh escaping as he did so.

“Jesus, slut.” Dean’s moan was like music to your ears, the demon grabbing your hair roughly as he moved you up and down on his dick.

“You act so tough now I get it,” came his devilish laugh, “you’ve been so worked up because I haven’t used you like the dumb whore that you are.”

You moaned around him at this words, his movement suddenly slowing as he pulled you forward and rested his dick down your throat.

“Acting like a whiny bitch when all you wanted was me back in your bed.” Tears and drool began to escape you, struggling to breathe on his dick.

The sight seemed to amuse Dean, you felt his dick growing in your throat as you struggled.

“All you had to not do was be a whiny slut, and instead here you are choking.”

You began to try to pull off, but he held you there a few seconds long before pulling you back into a wet kiss.

“You gonna be a good boy now, (Y/N).”

His black eyes poured into yours and instead of hatred all you felt was desire.

“Yes—”

Dean smacked you hard, pulling you close by the jaw as he bit on your lip and pulled, a hand going to your throat to squeeze roughly.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.” You breathed shakily. “Please.”

He grinned as he flipped you back onto the bed, hovering over you as your chest rapidly began to rise and fall.

“Please what, pretty boy?”

“Please,” you whined. “Please, fuck me. I’ve wanted it for so long please, Dean.”

His arrogant smile never left his face as he spit into his hand, the other going to squeeze around your neck. Dean shoved his fingers into you, loving the way you squirmed around him, trying to moan but nothing coming out from the force of his hand.

“Cant have Sammy hear us. Can we dumb whore?”

You only tried to moan more as he worked you open, then suddenly without warning he flipped you over and pressed at your entrance.

“You want me to fuck you, baby.”

“Yes sir, please.” You were trembling at this point, wanting nothing more than for him to fuck you into the mattress so hard you couldn’t walk.

“Not very convincing for a needy whore,” he sighed teasingly.

“Please, Dean. I need you to fuck me, please. I need it so bad—”

A low moan escaped you as he suddenly pushed in, grabbing the back of your hair to control his thrusts as he set a fast pace.

Dean’s hand slammed down on your ass once again, a whiny moan escaping you as you felt him stretch you open.

“You gonna be a good boy now, or do I need to remind you who you belong to all the time?”

“A-All the time,” you muttered out between gasps. “Need this all the time.”

Dean laughed grabbing your hips to pull you back even harder as your moans only grew.

“Say you’re my whore,” Dean grunted as his pace began to falter.

“Yours. All yours, Dean. All the time.”

With a final hard thrust, and another smack to your ass, you felt the demon finish deep inside you, as you did on the sheets below.

You were gasping for air, tears of pleasure gathering in the corners of your eyes. You slowly turned to meet Dean, a shit eating grin always seeming to appear on his face.

“What?” You snapped with an angry glare, a flush of embarrassment falling over you.

However, Dean leaned forward pulling you into another warm kiss.

“Been wanting to do that since I got here pretty boy.”

#dean winchester x male reader #dean winchester #dean x reader #smut #x male reader #x male reader smut #x male smut #supernatural x male reader #demon!Dean x male reader

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allfearstofallto · 1 year ago

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saw yr posts abt submissive yanderes, and hear me out, tartaglia. i mean this from the bottom of my heart he is the one that wants you to do things to him, and while that’s not exactly submission i think it’s close enough?

just… in my mind he wants anything you’ll give him, he’ll give his body up to you, even if you punch and kick him, he takes it, sure he’d rather you treat him the way he would (does?) you, but any touch you give makes him feel like a wild animal.

tartaglia, who just needs you. idek i’m losing my train of thought 🙏

I don't think it's exactly what you wanted, but I got carried away and wrote masochist Childe👉🏾👈🏾. I hope that's okay!!! Personally, as a woman who loves femdom, it felt so good to write this though!! It was like I was going back to my roots.

TW: NSF.W Yandere themes, BDSM (bondage, sadism/masochism), violence, nipple play, unprotected sex, finishing inside, dub-con, overstimulation(?), choking

“Hurt me more,” he cooed while looking up at you with big, eyes full of anticipation. Drool leaking from his lips, his cheek was already red and warm from your stinging slap across it, “C’mon, I know you hate me. Now's your chance to treat me like you do.” He'd goad you with that same smug, smirk on his face.

Childe's big strong arms were tied with a rope to the headboard. The material was tight, digging into the flesh of his wrist anytime he'd struggle against them. But despite the aching pain you could imagine he was feeling, he showed a face of hunger, of desire for more.

His cock, large and twitching, was strained against his boxers, begging to be let free from its confines. When you brought another rough slap down across his cheek, you watched it twitch and leak and darken that already deep fabric with his precum, while he trembled with his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

He'd grind his hips up, wanting you to free his aching dick, but you never did. You knew he could cum without it and he did too. Your hand would slide up his chiseled stomach, his body was always slightly colder than what it was supposed to be, and you squeezed one of his pink nipples between your finger tips. As hard as you could. Squeezing and twisting until your hand shook.

Lips clenched together, he muffled his own moans. His cock twitched in his underwear a few more times, the head of it rubbing against the precum he'd already spilled on his boxers .He came like that, the many shots of his semen continuing to soak the cloth until it began to drip down his cock again.

When he stilled from his orgasm, his body still twitching, he smiled at you lovingly. All the disgust you felt towards him still there, you'd turn away without a word.

You never took yourself to be much of a sadist, the idea of it being like a whisper of the night, never being brought to the day, but that was before Childe took you. Locked away in his home, falling victim to his torture that he called love, you felt animosity towards him grow. That animosity would turn into violent fits of rage, ones that he never took seriously. There was no way you could actually hurt a harbinger, especially without a vision, but that didn't stop you from trying. And one fateful day, you actually managed to connect a punch to his jaw.

It was your first time ever punching someone and felt more like you were hitting a brick wall than a person. You shook your sore hand out, immediately regretting what you'd done for the pain it caused you instead. But Childe stood there stiff, a little bruise forming on the side of his face. His eyes had rolled back, body beginning to shutter. His mouth agape, he let out a soft, low moan. You were going to tell him to stop joking around, that he wasn't funny, until he dropped to his knees in front of you, a wet patch forming on the front of his pants. Childe had cum just from your little act of violence.

While he loved the art of fighting. The rush that ending another life gave him, the way his body felt while he was throwing punches, it was an unmatchable adrenaline rush, he never knew he was one for pain. Pain from your hands felt different. It felt pleasurable. A familiar stinging followed by tingles that shot through his body. Only you could do that to him.

“You're incredible, my angel,” he moaned while kissing up your thighs, wanting to do more with this new found knowledge of his.

He had you laid back on the bed, pounding into your tender cunt with little mercy. Each long stroke of his cock made your toes curl from the unwanted pleasure of him hitting your insides. Your legs on his hips, you squeezed the sheets for leverage as you begged for him to stop, or at the very least slow down. He was going to fast, too drunk and clumsy from the satisfaction your dripping pussy was giving him.

Childe’s large hand engulfed your wrist, a feeling you were familiar with. Instead of holding you in place so he could fuck you deeper into the mattress with less struggle from you like you thought he would, he lifted it up and placed your palm to his neck.

“Make me,” he growled, lust clouding his eyes. Uncertainty caused you to tremble for a moment before you realized that this was Childe, nothing you could do could actually hurt him. He was asking for it, even going as far as to lift your legs higher, to thrust into you deeper, to make you try to stop him more.

You squeezed that muscled throat, choking him with the hope that he might actually die, but knowing better. He loved it, his already obnoxious moans were even louder than before. His thrusts felt even more rough, hips slapping against yours as you actually felt yourself growing a little aroused from this and he noticed too. A smirk on his face as he struggled to inhale, but still fucking you at that same brutal pace with those same deep, strokes.

He strained to speak as he tried to tell you he was cumming, his mouth just opening and closing, drooling down his chin. Childe forced his cock balls deep inside of you, going so deep with his length it almost felt uncomfortable. He began to cum, dick twitching like mad against your walls. Soft whimpers and groans would drop from his lips as you didn't let go of him, only squeezing his throat tighter.

His cock didn't get the chance to soften, he stayed hard as he started slow, shallow thrusts into your pussy again. The mixture of the pain of overstimulation and lack of air from your choking has him convulsing, but he didn't pull out, using his own cum as lube.

“Ah…hah…just say you want to milk me dry, my love, I'll keep going,” he managed to grunt through tears, his orange hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

#mai<3 answers #genshin #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere x you #genshin impact #yandere smut #yandere imagines #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere childe smut #childe smut #childe x reader #mdni

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dovahkiin796 · 1 year ago

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Poppy Playtime: CH 3 (What-if)

John watches in horror as dozens upon dozens of the Mini–Smiling Critters he has been dealing with ever since he found himself in the Playhouse. Crawl out of the walls and toward the hanging DogDay. The giant version of the toy screams out in panic when seeing the little monsters.

"Leave me! Please! Save yourself!" Every fiber of John's being agreed with what the humanoid dog said. But John couldn't get his legs to move.

He was too caught up in the horrific sight to even twitch a finger. But eventually his brain screamed at him to go, and John responded.

Though instead of running away to get to safety. John fired a few flares at the Mini-Smiling Critters. Like the other times they reared back in fright at the bright fireball.

However, this time, not all of them were backing away. Some continued to crawl toward DogDay. Their feral nature being more powerful than their fear. So, with only one option left. John starts bashing away the plush toys with his GrabPack arms.

"What are you doing?!" Asked a confused DogDay. "I told you to leave me!" John ignored him and continued his assault. One of the Smiling Critters manages to get onto DogDay's head, and it seemed it was about to crawl into his head by his large, black eyes,

John stopped this from happening by actually using his own hand to grab it and then punch it in the face with his other hand by turning it into a fist. John heard a sickening crack, but he pressed on and threw the dead thing away.

In quick speed John was able to free the large dog from his straps and have his arms wrap around his neck for support. "You're a fool for doing this. You're going to get yourself killed."

John could only grin. If that was the case, then at least he died trying to save someone. The Mini-Smiling Critters, angry that their food supply was now free. All snarled in anger.

John didn't bother to wait and see what they'll do and ran back the way he came. But when trying to run through the cell doors, wooden planks that were put in place to cover a large hole in the floor. Collapsed by the combined wait of John and DogDay's.

They fell to a floor beneath the holding cells. Clearing his dazed head from the sudden fall. John sees an open tunnel. Up above he can hear the little Critters coming to where he and DogDay fell.

Wasting no time, he crouch runs down the tube till coming to another tunnel and taking it. It was series of running, taking sharps turns, running up ramps, waiting for shutter doors to open up, and taking a slide down. But eventually John spots their salvation. An elevator that was behind a gap that led to a bottomless pit.

Switching to the purple hand and with what little adrenaline he had left in him. John sprints toward the gap, "Hang on! This won't be an easy landing!" Just as his foot touches the purple hand pad. John fires the hand on it and both he and DogDay launch high in the air.

Fortunately for them they were able to make it. Though John ended up not sticking the landing. He lost his footing and fell to the ground. The giant Smiling Critter rolled off of him, only being stopped by the elevator railing.

Without his choice John's body happened to land on his side where his front would be facing the open doorway he just came through. He can see the horde coming for him and DogDay. He wasn't actually sure if they would make the jump or not. He prayed that they didn't. But he wouldn't be able to know as the shutter suddenly closed before any of them could even make the attempt.

From behind the door, he could hear the little beasts roar and snarl in absolute fury. Crashing their little bodies against the metal in hopes of breaking through it.

Though the door wasn't budging in the slightest. Letting out a much-needed sigh of relief. John turns to DogDay to see if he's alright. "Are you ok?" John asked. The Smiling Critter coughs a little before asking why he saved him. John was silent for a few seconds till saying. "Because this place already has enough death occur in it. It needs at least one life that was saved in these walls."

DogDay took a second to digest what he heard. He lets out a ragged snort. "You really are an Angel. Something this place really needs."

John snorts too. "By the way. The name is John." DogDay said the name sounded too generic and will continue to call him Angel. Rolling his eyes. John picks up DogDay and steps onto the elevator and pushes the button. The contraption heading upward that led them to another slide. With no other option they took it, and it actually took them outside the Playhouse.

"It's been so long since I've been outside. I honestly can't believe that I'm truly free." Said DogDay. "Well believe it, you'll no longer be someone's dinner."

After a phone call from Ollie and telling him what to do next. John first takes DogDay to the elevator where Kissy and Poppy were last seen using.

When reaching it John sees the elevator was still raised up. He calls out for either Poppy or Kissy to lower the elevator so DogDay can be safe with them.

For several long seconds he didn't get a reply back. He was worried that maybe they were no longer up there. But his worries were put to rest when he heard and saw the elevator descending.

The elevator finally reached the bottom and John rested DogDay against the railing. "I don't know about this. Can you trust them?" The Smiling Critter asked. A hint of worry in his voice.

Despite what DogDay said to him back at the Playplace about he and Poppy being the only ones to stop the Prototype. John doesn't blame him for it. For years he was at the mercy of toys who he thought were his friends. And after all those years, he's finally free, only be at the mercy to a different set of toys. John reassures him that that they'll keep him safe while he deals with CatNap.

Pressing the button so the elevator can go back up. DogDay says, "Please don't die, Angel. I don't want to lose any more friends in this place."

Promising he won't. John turns around and heads for the counselor's office to bring more power to the generator.

#poppy playtime #dogday #oc #fanfiction #fanfic #poppy playtime chapter 3 #what if #smiling critters

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gav-san · 3 days ago

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Safe Harbour

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Oneshot Length: 7 K

You met Emiliano first; loud, charming, all flash and no brakes. He grinned like the world owed him attention and flirted like it was a sport he intended to win. But it was Enzo you noticed. The older brother. The quiet one. His love is shaped by duty and devotion, built in the spaces between glances, in the quiet weight of callused hands. Reader x Older Marine Brother (Enzo) Here's my love letter to One Piece's Fan Letter (and because, your honor, he's a cutie-patootie). The brothers are named Enzo and Emiliano here.

You met Emiliano first.

He was loud in the way young men often are when they’re trying to be noticed; boisterous, charming, too eager to impress. You remember the Sabaody rainstorm best: thick clouds rolling in like trouble, the kind of downpour that came down sideways and soaked you in seconds. Emiliano had peeled off his coat before you could blink and draped it over your shoulders with the swagger of a stage actor hitting his mark.

“Dibs,” he announced, to no one in particular. “Just saying it now.”

You rolled your eyes.

Behind him, someone sighed.

You hadn’t looked up yet. But you felt it—that stillness, the kind that settles over a room just before a storm breaks. Not cold, not heavy. Just quiet. Anchoring.

When your gaze finally lifted, you saw him.

Enzo stood a few steps behind, as if he hadn’t meant to be seen. He wasn't looming. He was just… there. Steady as the tide rock. His uniform was damp at the shoulders, his face unreadable, and his eyes calm but unreadably deep. He’s tall and broad, with sun-brushed brown hair and a jaw that looks like it’s clenched more often than not. His eyes are sharp, a deep bronze that holds steady even when everything else is chaos.

He speaks low, like he means every word. People listen. He’s calm, unreadable, quietly emphatic. Not flashy, just solid. Unshakable.

And when your eyes met his, something subtle shifted in your chest. Not the lightning-bolt kind of thing. Slower. Heavier. Truer.

That was just Enzo.

Emiliano visits often. Flirts always. He talks with his whole body, gestures widely, and his eyes bright. He calls you “his future civilian wife” with a grin like a private joke between you and fate. You’ve never answered it.

And Enzo… lingers. Always just behind.

He’s the one who notices when your shutters stick and fixes them without a word. The one who catches your empty kettle before it whistles. Who quietly puts your favorite brand of tea on the pantry shelf before you realize you were out. He doesn’t ask how you’re doing—he already knows. Somehow.

He never interrupts. He just… waits. With presence. With patience.

But he never says anything.

Maybe because Emiliano won’t stop saying everything.

Maybe because Enzo’s never been the kind of man who takes what someone else has claimed, even if the claim is all noise and air.

Still, when the evacuation drill turns real, and the panic breaks like a wave through the crowd, when you trip over a curb and go down hard, it’s Enzo who reaches you first.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice low. Steady. And when he looks at you like you matter, it hits like a punch to the ribs.

No one argues.

You feel the strength in his arms as he lifts you, the careful way he holds you close without drawing attention. The restraint. As if even now, when the world is chaos and you’re trembling in pain, he won’t allow himself the indulgence of holding you too tightly.

Emiliano hovers. Shouts for medics. Tells the story like he lived it. But it’s Enzo who sets you down gently, who brushes the dirt from your sleeve without being asked. His fingers pause just above your wrist—almost a touch, almost not. His eyes meet yours.

And in that look, something slips through. Not a confession. Not quite.

But something raw. Something simple and unattainable. A truth he keeps so carefully guarded that it barely survives the air.

The problem with Enzo is that he never lets himself want anything.

You see it every time he lets Emiliano take the lead; his younger brother charming a room like it’s his birthright, tossing out jokes and half-true stories with a grin so bright you’d think the sun spun just for him. Emiliano has that kind of confidence. The kind that assumes you’ll laugh, swoon, and follow.

And every time he points at you and declares, in that theatrical, smug voice,

“That one’s mine! I called dibs!”

Enzo says nothing.

Just exhaled. Quiet. Almost tired. Then turned his face away.

It hadn’t been flattering. Not really. But you’d laughed it off. Let it slide.

Until you started noticing Enzo.

You noticed how his name always seemed to appear on rosters for your district. How, when Emiliano got too bold, too handsy, too loud, Enzo would materialize at your side with a calm word or a task to pull him away. How, during those long dusk patrols when you asked about the sea, the old wars, the shape of the stars, his voice would turn low and thoughtful, as if you were the only person he trusted with the truth.

How his hand would drift close to yours. Just enough. Just barely. Then pull away like it had crossed a line he’d drawn in stone.

And he'd look down whenever your eyes lingered too long on his. Swallow thickly.

Then, say, almost pained, “He’s young. He likes you. Don’t… don’t…Hurt him.”

It goes on like that for months.

Emiliano brings you flowers, always loud, always colorful. Enzo repairs your doorframe and doesn’t mention it.

Emiliano boasts that he’ll be Commander by thirty. Enzo carries a wounded child across a field of broken glass, runs four miles on foot, and never tells anyone.

Everyone says how sweet Emiliano is. How lucky you’d be.

But you know better.

You know who clears your garden path the morning after a storm. Who sweeps up the broken branches before you even open the shutters. Who replaces your gate hinges so they don’t squeak. Who oils the latch, mends the step, and tightens the handle.

He never says a word. Never leaves a note.

But the signs are everywhere.

Your garden has never seen a weed. The soil is always turned. Your boots, muddy one day, gleaming the next. You know it isn’t magic. And no one else seems to notice.

Except you.

The week after you and the brothers became friends, life changed.

A special blend of tea you once mentioned in passing starts appearing in your pantry. A kind you haven’t had since childhood. The bag’s always freshly sealed. Always tucked behind the usual groceries. Always there just when you’ve had a bad week.

He doesn’t ask if you like it. He just… makes sure you have it.

One afternoon, as you cross the yard, someone watching from the fence whispers to their friend, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Enzo smile before.”

And the other replies, quietly, “He looked like he saw the sun.”

They don’t mean for you to hear it.

But you do.

You know who you’re falling for.

The breaking point comes one evening, your ankle twisted, your patience worn raw. You sit on a rock, wincing, while Emiliano rushes off to fetch bandages and a lecture about learning to “look where you step.”

It’s Enzo who kneels in front of you. Who doesn’t speak at first, just cradles your foot like it’s something breakable. Like he’s afraid even his touch might make things worse.

He won’t look at you.

“You should’ve let me help sooner,” he mutters, barely above the breeze.

You lean in, voice low and pointed.

“Are you really going to let him win by default?”

He freezes.

You see it all: his guilt, discipline, the quiet ache he’s worn like armor for most of his life. He’s breathing hard, thumb trembling faintly against your ankle. Like he knows one wrong move could undo him.

“He called dibs,” he says eventually, and it sounds like defeat. You would smack a lesser man for such nonsense.

You huff a laugh. “I’m not a treasure chest. I choose.”

Your fingers brush along his jaw—careful, slow—and tilt his face toward yours. His breath hitches, like it’s the first time anyone’s touched him like that. Like he wasn’t ready, but never wanted anything more.

You kiss him first.

It’s not a firestorm. It’s not a moment that unravels you both. It’s reverent, like he’s been holding his breath for months and can finally exhale.

When you pull back, he doesn’t open his eyes right away. Just presses his forehead gently to yours.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers.

“Too late,” you murmur. “Now you have to take responsibility.” He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s slow, crooked, and dangerous. You’d sell your soul to see it again.

That’s when Emiliano returns, with bandages and his usual dramatic flair.

“Don’t worry, I brought two kinds—one for sprains, one for being clumsy and cute. You can guess which—”

He stops cold.

Enzo is still kneeling beside you, flushed, eyes wide. Your hand rests calmly on his shoulder like it always belonged there. And Enzo looks like the dirt beneath his boots just whispered a secret it wasn’t supposed to tell.

“Wait. What the hell?” Emiliano stares. Then points. “You kissed him?”

His voice cracks like a boy who’s just been betrayed by a bedtime story.

“Bro. I called dibs.”

You blink. “You also called dibs on the last piece of sea pie and threw up for six hours.” Your voice is dry.

Enzo tries to speak. Tries again. Fails.

“I told her not to—”

“But I did.” You say smugly.

“And I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” you finish for him, eyes steady.

Enzo finally looks at you. Really looks. Not like a protector. Not like a man who’s buried himself behind duty and distance.

He looks at you like you just shattered something, and he never had the courage to break himself. And now he’s caught in the wreckage, half-terrified, half-relieved.

Emiliano throws up his hands.

“I cannot believe this. I had a whole speech planned. There were going to be flowers. I was going to dramatically quit the Marines.”

He glares at his brother. “Enzo, you’re the boring one!”

Enzo blinks. Still dazed.

“You were going to what?”

“Never mind!”

Later that night, Emiliano sulks on your porch, eating pity pie straight from the pan. You leave him there, wrapped in a blanket of his own dramatics.

Enzo stands just outside the reach of your lantern light, like if he steps into it, the moment might vanish.

“You really… meant it?” he asks quietly.

You cross to him. Stand toe to toe, though he towers over you.

His shoulders are tight. His breath shallow. You reach up, gently smooth the crease from his brow with your thumb.

“I didn’t kiss you by accident, Enzo.”

His hands settle slowly at your waist. Light. Unsure. Like he’s learning the shape of wanting.

“I thought… wanting you was unfair to him.”

You tilt your head, smile just a little.

“Then let me be the unfair one.”

A pause.

“Just… give me a bit.”

And that’s when he finally pulls you in. Not like he’s claiming you. But like he’s finally, finally allowed to hold what he’s been carrying in silence.

Emiliano sulks for three straight days.

Not quiet-sulking. No, it’s performative sulking. He sighs like it’s a competitive sport. Writes long, tragic journal entries in full view of anyone who might ask what’s wrong (no one does). Once, you catch him on a dock bench feeding half his sandwich to a seagull while whispering,

“Take it. I know what it’s like to lose something you loved.”

At breakfast, he levels a glare at Enzo so intense it might qualify as a war crime.

“Et tu, big bro?”

Enzo, sipping his coffee like it personally betrayed him, says nothing. Just grimaces at the horizon and endures.

Eventually, Emiliano corners you.

Enzo’s off doing something unnecessarily heroic and, for reasons beyond your comprehension, sleeveless. His arms are like your daily sweet treat. Your complaining.

Emiliano crosses his own arms, face pinched in long-suffering dignity.

“He’s so bad at flirting, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You could’ve had someone fun. Someone who knows how to compliment people without looking like they need a defibrillator.”

You smile. Soft and sure.

“I know. That’s why I picked him.”

He groans like you’ve physically wounded him and buries his face in both hands.

“Ugh. Fine. You win. True love, whatever. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

He peeks at you through his fingers, solemn.

“If he proposes like an idiot, let me hold the ring. He’ll drop it. Probably into a ravine. Or a soup.”

You laughed it off because at the time, you underestimated something important.

You underestimated how hard Enzo falls and how hard he takes falling. Since the kiss, he’s become an utter menace.

Not to you, or anyone else, but himself.

It all started the night you kissed him. You thought that would be it. That the tension would break, the walls would fall. That your Enzo, the quiet, steadfast Marine with hands built to lift wreckage and a voice soft enough to hush storms, would finally let himself have something gentle.

You.

But he didn’t.

The next morning, he couldn’t meet your eyes. He turned pink when you handed him tea. Emiliano made kissing noises behind your back, and Enzo dropped a spoon like it had personally betrayed him.

You pulled him aside, heart pounding.

“Do you regret it?”

His answer came fast.

“No. Never.”

Then quieter. Like it hurt to admit.

“I just don’t know why you’d want… me.”

He wasn’t retreating because he doubted you. There was something deep inside him that he couldn’t bear to overcome.

So you started pushing.

Gently, at first.

You invited him to sit beside you during the harvest festival. He did, stiff, formal, like the bench might reprimand him for improper conduct. You complimented his dark hair after a sudden rainstorm, and he blushed so hard he nearly walked into a tree.

You sent him home with warm bread wrapped in cloth. The next day, it came back folded with military precision, pressed, and faintly scented with his soap; brine, citrus, and something clean and warm beneath.

You caught yourself smiling for hours.

And then came the flowers.

He started bringing you bunches of them. Beautiful, thoughtful… soaking wet and untrimmed. Still clumped together at the stems like he’d yanked them from the ground and second-guessed himself the whole way over.

He tried writing poetry. Serious, clumsy verses in neat block letters. You found the torn-up drafts in the trash beside your porch. Lines about your laugh. About the sea. About how your presence felt like quiet after a storm. He hadn’t meant for you to see them, but once you did, you couldn’t stop rereading the pieces.

Then he built a bench. Sturdy, well-made. Placed just outside your home beneath the shade of the lilac tree.

Then he panicked.

“Too forward,” he muttered.

For a week straight, he sat on it every morning like it was a crime scene. Never looked up when you passed. Refused to speak more than three words at a time.

Took extra shifts just to avoid you. You tried, one last time, to ease him out of it.

“You know I already like you, right?”

He shifted his weight like he was reporting for inspection.

“I know. But if I don’t do it properly, it’s like I cheated.”

“Cheated on what?” you asked, exasperated. “Time?”

He hesitated.

“On… courting. I never did it right before.”

That stopped you.

Because underneath the military polish and restraint was the truth. He didn’t want to just be with you. He wanted to earn it. Not once. Every day.

You softened.

“You don’t have to. I already chose you.”

He finally looked at you then, really looked. His eyes full of hesitation and hope, like your words had cracked something loose in him.

“Then let me prove why you should keep choosing me.”

And from that day forward, you were relentlessly, sweetly, awkwardly courted by a man who already had your heart… but refused to take it for granted.

From a distance.

Enzo delivered flowers wrapped in old service paper. Left thank-you notes by your window, written in his most formal tone, like reports turned love letters. He bowed when greeting you. Once, he asked if he should speak to your parents about “declaring intentions.” You laughed so hard, you dropped your laundry basket and scared the chickens.

Even Emiliano, with his endless commentary, eventually said:

“Alright. I still hate this. But… okay. You two are stupid. In love. But stupid. Him especially.”

You sighed.

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

Each time you thought, maybe this is it.

Maybe today, Enzo would say what he felt out loud.

Each time, he stayed silent.

Until the day you finally snapped.

You cornered him behind the naval outpost, palm flat to his chest, eyes blazing.

“Enzo, I kissed you. I chose you. I keep choosing you. Are you ever going to let me?”

His hair was messy that day, the brown falling into his eyes, which you mercilessly took advantage of. You ran your hand to straighten the locks.

He looked like you’d short-circuited something vital.

Eyes wide. Breath caught. No sound.

He blinked once. Then again. His mouth opened slightly, like he had a response queued but forgot what language was. His ears turned pink. Then his neck. Then the entire back of his neck, visible under the collar of his uniform like a slow-spreading confession.

You hadn’t even said anything.

He stepped back too fast, nearly bumped into the chair behind him, and muttered something that might have been your name or a swear word.

“You could have anyone,” he said, voice barely audible.

“I don’t know why it’s me.”

And in that moment, you finally saw the full weight he’d been dragging like armor.

Not just duty. Not just the uniform. But the belief that love was for other people. Softer men.

That Marine who stayed standing while others danced. The girl always chose someone more straightforward.

So you took his hand and pressed it against your heart.

“Because I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

A breath.

“The man who notices when I limp? Who fixes my porch? Who listens like I matter?”

He didn’t answer with words. He just pulled you into his arms and held you like the world had finally made room for him in it.

After that, he got a little closer.

He built you a second bench, and this one is clearly meant for sharing. You knitted him a scarf for cold-weather patrols. He brought you seashells from every port. You gave him a carved wooden comb after noticing his hair always dried wild and unbrushed.

You started writing him notes. Tucking them into his coat. Little sketches. Jokes. A pressed petal or two and he cherishes each one.

It became your quiet language.

Until the raid.

It was supposed to be routine until it wasn’t.

Word spread: ambush, wounded, names not yet released. You tore through the recovery tents, shoving past Marines who tried to stop you. Your hands shook. Your lungs barely worked.

You found him at last. Blood on his uniform. An arm in a sling. Alive. You didn’t say a word. You ran to him. Collided with him.

He blinked. Dazed. His good hand hovered, then wrapped around you, tight, desperate, grounding.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you snapped, voice cracking. “I thought I lost you.”

He pulled you into his lap, unthinking. Breathed you in like you were the only thing keeping him together.

“I didn’t know anyone would ever look for me like that,” he whispered, broken.

You leaned back, took his face in your hands, and met his eyes.

“Enzo,” you said, steady as truth.

“You’re the only one I’d look for.”

That was the moment the last wall fell.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t sorry anymore. Like he finally, finally understood.

You weren’t choosing him in spite of who he was. You were choosing him because of it.

A year passes.

Since the day you kissed Enzo.

Since the day the Straw Hats sailed off in a flurry of cannon smoke, cheers, and one of Emiliano’s sandwiches flung like a farewell gift from the dock.

So much has changed.

The archipelago is quieter now. The world, louder. Rumors drift in like fog, of rising tides, rebel winds, pirates with absurd bounties, and louder dreams. But here, in your little corner of the coast, the seasons turn as they always have.

And Enzo?

Enzo’s been promoted, and he seems to find a little more confidence these days.

He’s a Lieutenant now. The new stripes sit heavy on his shoulders, though he carries them as he does everything else, with discipline, silence, and the occasional glance toward you that says he still hasn’t quite figured out what he did to deserve this life.

His patrols stretch longer. The decisions come harder. You see it in the way he stops mid-sentence, caught between telling you the truth and sparing you from it. In the way he rests his forehead against yours in the dark, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to shore.

He never says it outright.

But you know.

The sea is pulling harder, and Enzo is the kind of man who never lets the current drag someone he can save first.

Still, despite the weight, he always comes home to you.

Even if it’s late. Even if it’s only long enough to kiss your cheek, lean against your shoulder, and fall asleep upright while you untie his boots. You leave him notes. Knit him fingerless gloves for winter drills. He brings you back little things: foreign coins, rare teas, and a compass he swears points to you instead of north.

The time between your moments has stretched thin. But he’s never once stopped trying.

And lately?

He’s been… weird.

Weirder than usual.

Jumpier. Too formal. He nearly saluted you once when you brought him coffee. You caught him practicing a prewritten speech at his reflection in the window. Then watched him flinch and claim it was “a new Marine protocol.”

His uniform is cleaner than normal. His hair is slicked back instead of just combed, and his boots are a mirror shine instead of just polished.

And there’s a little wooden box in his coat pocket that he guards like it contains both a dream and its consequences.

You know. You’ve known.

He’s just taking forever.

So when he invites you on “a walk to check sea fog patterns,” you sigh but follow. You already know where you’re headed.

The cliffs.

The same spot where, months ago, he told you he didn’t think he was worthy. Where you cupped his face and told him you didn’t care.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate.

He turns to face you fully and holds your gaze, no retreat in sight.

“You once said you’d keep choosing me.”

You smile, already tearing up.

“Still true.”

His hands shake slightly as he pulls the box from his pocket, kneeling with all the ceremony of a man proposing to both a goddess and a landmine at once.

“Then… will you marry me? Not because it’s safe. Or proper. But because I want a future where I don’t have to let you go.”

Your breath catches.

It’s everything you wanted.

Stupidly sweet.

Painfully sincere.

Perfectly Enzo.

And then—

“YOU HAD ONE JOB—DON’T PROPOSE WHILE I WAS PEEING!”

Emiliano screeches from behind a tree and stumbles into view, hands flailing.

You both whirl.

“Why are you even here?!” Enzo barks, still down on one knee.

“I was supposed to hold the ring if you dropped it! You PROMISED!” Emiliano howls, now fake-sobbing into his sleeve. “I CAN’T BELIEVE MY OWN BROTHER IS MARRYING MY CRUSH.”

You stride over and smack him across the back of the head with the precision of a seasoned marksman. Birds take flight in every direction.

He freezes, stunned. Rubs his head.

“Ow! That’s assault.”

“That’s restraint,” you snap. “Try me again.”

He squints. Narrows his eyes.

“I’m making a speech at the wedding, and no one can stop me.” He retreats, still grumbling.

Enzo is flushed. Embarrassed. Still kneeling like a soldier caught in crossfire.

You exhale. Then gently reach out, take the box, and slide the ring onto your own finger.

“Before your brother breaks something else.”

Enzo laughs, soft, stunned, completely yours.

“You deserve something better than this,” he murmurs, overwhelmed.

You cup his face. “This is better.”

And then you kiss him, slow and certain and steady.

The ceremony is small.

Quiet. Intimate. And just a little chaotic, because of course it is.

Marines aren’t known for softness, but for Enzo? His command makes an exception. They gather in dress uniform, row by row, stiff-backed and stoic, though more than a few blink too much and pretend it’s sun glare. Even a Vice Admiral—who only ever signs paperwork with “Mmmm”—sends a bottle of champagne and a note that simply reads: “Don’t screw this up. Congratulations.”

You wear white. Enzo wears awe.

He stares at you like he’s never seen the sun before and only just realized it rises for him. His hands tremble as you walk toward him, and by the time you reach the vows, he’s shaking like a green recruit at his first inspection.

The words are simple. Barely spoken.

The party makes it through the ceremony without embarrassing Enzo. Barely. When it comes time to exchange rings, Enzo’s hand shakes so hard he drops yours. It hits the dock with a soft clink.

Emiliano immediately dives in like he’s recovering a sacred relic.

“See?” he says, holding it aloft like a trophy. “This is why I needed to be part of this.”

You glare. He winks. Enzo looks like he might pass out.

Then the kiss comes. Sweet. Steady. Reverent.

The kind of kiss that says, we fought for this, and we won. Enzo’s hands cradle your face like he’s still not entirely sure you won’t vanish. Like, if he lets go too soon, he might wake up.

But you don’t disappear.

You’re married.

You’re his.

And he is entirely, breathtakingly yours.

The party unfolds beneath warm lantern light, right by the sea. Laughter, music, the scent of roasted food, and salt air mix in the breeze. Someone breaks out a guitar. Someone else spikes the punch. A retired Rear Admiral starts crying during the cake cutting.

Then Emiliano finds the mic.

He clinks a fork against his glass and climbs onto a chair with the gravity of a man about to deliver either a wedding toast or a declaration of war.

“As the best man—self-declared—I feel obligated to speak.”

A chorus of groans rises. Enzo immediately buries his face in his hands.

“When I first laid eyes on my new sister-in-law, I said ‘dibs.’ And I still stand by it.”

You stare.

“But fate is cruel,” Emiliano continues, “and my brother’s stupidly good with his hands if not his emotions. So here we are.”

Enzo peeks through his fingers. “What does that mean?”

“It means I lost,” Emiliano sighs, placing a hand to his chest like a tragic hero. “But damn if the guy who beat me didn’t deserve it.”

He looks at you then. The mischief fades for a moment.

“You made him better. Softer. I’ve known him my whole life, and I’ve never seen him like this. Except maybe when he won that chili cookoff, which was weirdly intense.”

You snort. Enzo groans louder.

“To the couple who proved you can have duty and love. Justice and joy. And to my brother, who finally figured out he’s worth it.”

There’s cheering. Clapping. The captain in the back wipes their eyes with a napkin and yells,

“I’m not crying, you’re crying!”

And when the party begins to wind down, Enzo leads you away, quietly and gently, down to the edge of the docks.

The moonlight dances over the water, and he holds you close, the sea breeze wrapping around you both like a blessing.

He strokes his thumb along your ring finger.

“Still sure?” he asks softly.

You press your forehead to his.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He kisses your temple.

“Then let me keep proving you right.”

You lean into his chest, your heartbeat syncing with the waves below, and know that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

The honeymoon is peak Enzo.

He books the most boring, out-of-the-way island he can find. No war. No missions. No Emiliano. Just wind-swayed palms, sugar-sweet drinks with little umbrellas, and a private cabin with two hammocks on the porch—even though there’s a bed inside.

“Just in case the weather’s too warm,” he mumbles, refusing to make eye contact when you raise an eyebrow.

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no uniform. No title. No orders.

Just Enzo.

And Enzo is so, so lost.

He tries to act cool. Casual. Like he’s totally the kind of man who’s been barefoot on a beach with his new spouse a dozen times. But he carries your bag, over-apologizes when sand gets on your shoes, and re-checks the sunscreen like it’s a combat manual.

When you finally strip down to your swimwear, he completely short-circuits.

“You—uh—You-uh-you’re gonna get sunburned,” he blurts, staring very intently at a palm tree.

“Enzo,” you say, deadpan. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“Right. Right. Just… safety first.”

He’s adorable.

“Want to inspect the bed for hazards?” His entire face goes crimson.

“I don’t think I’d survive that.”

He does.

But that night, with the island breeze soft through the open windows, Enzo kisses you with quiet confidence. No urgency. No hesitation.

Just reverence.

He kisses your knuckles. Your shoulders. The scars you once tried to hide. You cup his jaw and whisper, “You can relax now.”

And he does.

He exhales like it’s the first full breath he’s allowed himself to take in years.

You wake the next morning tangled together, limbs knotted like driftwood, his arm locked protectively around your waist as he snores into your neck.

“Still sure?” you whisper.

Without even opening his eyes, he mumbles,

“Marrying you is the only thing I’ll never second-guess.”

You press a kiss to his brow and smile until your cheeks ache.

Later, you watch him attempt to cook breakfast shirtless over a fire pit, completely covered in flour, mumbling to himself about “structural pancake integrity.” He burns half of them. One falls in the sand. You eat them all anyway.

Best meal of your life.

A couple months later Emiliano watches the two of you across the base yard, your laughter ringing like music, Enzo’s rare smile pulled wide and real in a way he’s never worn it before.

And it hits him.

You were the one thing that got away.

Not because he didn’t try; he did. Flowers, jokes, his best smiles. Not because he didn’t want you (he still does, a little, in that tender part of himself that always hoped someone like you would say “yes”).

But because Enzo was always going to be the one you reached for in the dark.

You were the spark. But Enzo? Enzo was the flame that never went out.

And that used to sting.

It still stings, sometimes—especially when you wave at Emiliano like he didn’t once declare you his future wife at age 19 with full confidence and zero plan.

But then he sees the way Enzo looks at you, like you’re not just a person, but the first thing he’s ever let himself love loudly, and Emiliano feels something he never expected:

Peace.

“You picked him,” he mutters under his breath, standing alone under a barrack awning, arms crossed. “And for once… he picked himself.”

Because Enzo never did that. Not really. He always let Emiliano shine. Took the back seat. Chose duty. Let him call dibs on everything—even you.

But not this time.

“Good for you.” He smiles.

Emiliano can’t hate him for it.

Not when his brother looks like a man who finally stopped holding his breath and started living.

Later, he finds you alone on the balcony, sipping tea. You raise a brow when he approaches, ready for teasing.

Instead, he bumps your shoulder and mutters, “Take care of him, okay?”

You glance over with a soft smile.

“Always.”

He nods once, turns, and walks away, hands in his pockets, grin crooked.

“Still calling dibs on naming your future daughter, though. She’s gonna be hilarious.”

Being married to a respected Marine officer means you live in two worlds.

One is quiet: a sun-drenched coastal home with creaky floors, sea breeze through the curtains, and the sound of Enzo’s boots hitting the porch at exactly 1800 hours. There’s a lilac bench in the yard and tea on the stove. He always checks the porch light twice before bed.

The other world is uniform and orderly: sharp salutes, base protocol, and Marines who clear a path when you arrive, because you always do. Frequently. With lunch. And sometimes revenge.

On base, your reputation is soft-spoken but steel-edged. You’re the sharp-eyed civilian wife who fixes your husband’s collar, brings him food he forgets to eat, and once outshot a Vice Admiral during a festival game because you “had a feeling.”

People talk.

Your name is spoken with reverence. The younger Marines watch how Enzo treats you—how he respects you—and they start following suit.

You’re not just the pretty wife. You’re his world..

“She’s too pretty for him,” someone mutters behind a stack of reports.

“He treats her soooo well. I’d marry him,” someone else replies.

“She called him ‘husband’ right in front of the Vice Admiral last week. He almost fainted.”

Which, to be fair, is true.

You’d said it casually—“Well, my husband says—”—in the middle of a conversation about leadership changes, surrounded by Marines, townsfolk, and one poor sergeant who very clearly has a crush on you.

And Enzo?

Enzo dropped an entire crate of tools.

Everyone turned.

Someone gasped.

You glanced at him, brow raised. He stood frozen. Ears red. Eyes wide. Like someone just summoned the sea god behind him.

“Did I say something wrong?” you teased.

He swallowed. Twice. Cleared his throat. Failed.

“No. No, I just—it’s the first time you said here. Like, out loud.”

“You are my husband.”

“I know! I just… can you… Say it again?”

So you leaned in, all warmth and trouble, and whispered,

“My husband.”

He was useless for the rest of the day. Filled out half his paperwork with your name instead of his own. Emiliano found him hours later, still staring into his tea like it had revealed the secrets of the universe.

“You okay?”

“She called me her husband.”

“Yeah. Because she married you?”

“But like… in public.”

You had started small, to try not to overwhelm your poor, shy marine husband.

A rice ball. A thermos. A handwritten note slipped into his field kit:

“Don’t forget to eat, dummy. Love you.”

He flushed scarlet and hid it behind a personnel file for two hours.

The next day, you added a fruit tart.

The third day, Enzo tried to pack your lunch instead.

“You do enough—let me take care of you for once,” he muttered, fumbling with toast.

“Enzo. The last time you packed me lunch, it was three boiled eggs and a spoon.”

“A protein spoon,” he defended, mortified.

You won that round. You usually do.

Now, he shows up to work with a perfectly tied bento box wrapped in floral cloth, and every Marine in the yard watches like he just won the damn lottery.

“He bagged a goddess who feeds him. How?”

“I heard she visits at noon just to kiss him and leave. That’s power.”

They’re not wrong.

You sweep onto base like sunshine in a hurry, breeze past security like you own the place, because, in Enzo’s eyes, you do.

You find him hunched over paperwork, jaw tight, ink staining his fingers.

“Enzo,” you call sweetly, arms crossed.

He looks up, already smiling. “You brought it again? I was going to—”

You kiss him before he can finish.

A long, thorough, shameless kiss. One Marine drops his clipboard. Another accidentally salutes you. Emiliano, watching from a tower, shouts:

“I AM TOO YOUNG FOR THIS MUCH AFFECTION IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.”

You pull back slowly, murmur:

“Eat the dumplings first. I used the good sauce.”

He’s red from his ears to his collarbone. Watching you walk away like the tide just stole his soul.

At home, he packs your tea for early mornings. Polishes your boots when you’re not looking. Presses kisses to your shoulder when you yawn while brushing your hair.

And one night, after dinner, he wraps his arms around you from behind and says softly,

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you… But I’m so glad I didn’t stop myself.”

You turn, tuck your fingers under his chin.

“You deserve all of this. You always did. You just didn’t know it yet.”

And when he kisses you—slow, deep, grateful—you know one thing with absolute certainty:

His life didn’t just get better. It finally started.

And yes, the Marines still talk.

“She’s his actual wife?”

“She’s the one who brought the dumplings?”

“I heard she once fixed a bayonet and a bureaucratic form error in under five minutes.”

It’s a lie you don't correct.

“No wonder he’s unstoppable.”

Back on the tower, Emiliano sighs dramatically, hands on his hips.

“If they have a kid, I’m calling dibs on being favorite.”

You gave birth to a walking contradiction; your grace, Enzo’s quiet storm.

From the very beginning, your child was a perfect balance of opposites. Wide, curious eyes. A furrowed little brow. Tiny fingers curled into decisive fists, even while peacefully asleep. Sweet one moment, imperious the next. Somehow, already more self-possessed than half the base.

Their name was chosen carefully; something soft, meaningful. Something with roots. Something that sounded like home.

And then Emiliano stormed into the hospital with a whiteboard, two marker options, and the exact energy of a man who had not been invited but chose to interpret silence as a green light.

“Hear me out: Stormblade. Middle name optional. First name? Absolutely not negotiable.”

You didn’t even look up.

“They’re not a sword, Emiliano.”

“Fine. Justice Jr. Final offer.”

Enzo, seated beside your bed with the baby tucked carefully in his arms, adjusted the blanket and kissed the baby's forehead. His expression didn’t even flicker.

“He’s not naming our child,” you said firmly.

“Agreed,” Enzo replied, calm as a rising tide. “They deserve better.”

Emiliano sniffed. “Rude. But fair.”

It happens on a quiet afternoon, the baby finally napping like a tiny, blanket-wrapped warlord after a long campaign of chewing on everything in reach. You and Enzo are sitting at the kitchen table, sun spilling in across the floor, tea cooling between your hands.

You’re casually flipping through name ideas in a little notepad. Doodled hearts. Crossed-out contenders. A few joke entries, courtesy of Emiliano.

“We still haven’t settled on a middle name,” you muse aloud, tapping your pen against the paper.

Enzo hums in acknowledgment, completely unsuspecting. He’s focused on folding a dish towel with the kind of precision normally reserved for battlefield maps.

You smile, wicked in intent.

“What about Luffy?”

Silence.

Utter, spiritual silence.

Enzo’s hands were still mid-fold. His head snaps up so fast it’s practically a salute. His ears are already turning pink.

“Wh-what?”

You glance up, all innocent curiosity.

“Luffy. It’s soft, but strong. Kind. And… well, it’s a good legacy, isn’t it?”

He looks like you just proposed naming your child after a thunder god, a cannon, and a national scandal all at once.

“You… you want to name our child after Strawhat?”

You smile sweetly.

“Why not? I’ve heard you speak about him with admiration.”

Enzo sputters. “Admiration is not—I mean, yes, fine, I respect the guy, as a symbol, but that doesn’t mean—” He’s waving his hands now, flustered and deeply cornered.

You tilt your head, delighting in every second.

“You called him ‘unshakable in moral alignment’ just last week.”

“That was during a disciplinary briefing! It was contextually relevant!”

You lean forward, elbows on the table.

“You also once said, ‘If more people had his conviction, we wouldn’t need as many warships.’” Enzo covers his face with one hand.

“You memorized that?”

“You said it very passionately.”

He groans, voice muffled behind his palm.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

From the other room, Emiliano yells,

“Tell us what? Wait—is this about Luffy again? I told you we should name the baby ‘Strawblade!’”

“No!” Enzo shouts back, then turns to you, looking genuinely panicked.

“Please don’t put that in the name records. The paperwork lives forever.”

You reach over and take his hand, gently, thumb brushing along his knuckles.

“Okay. Not Luffy. But it’s sweet that you admire him.”

Enzo goes still.

“He’s brave. And kind. He makes people believe in better things.” He glances away, voice quiet.

You squeeze his hand, and your smile is very soft.

“A lot like you.”

He looks back at you sharply, startled.

“You really think so?”

You nod.

“Only difference is you fold laundry like a Marine and he’d probably just wear it as a cape.” Enzo chuckles. Relaxes. Blushes, still.

And later that night, as the baby sleeps and you’re curled together in bed, he quietly admits:

“I did once think… if I ever had a kid, I’d want them to be that brave.”

You kiss his temple.

“They will be. Just like their dad.”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter. And the next morning, tucked beside the bento you laid out to pack, you find a note in Enzo’s neat handwriting:

“Middle name’s your call. But… if you did write Luffy, I wouldn’t fight it.”

(P.S. Please don’t tell Emiliano.)

Three years later, your contradiction is marching across the yard with toddler-level authority, brandishing a homemade paper badge and barking orders at Emiliano like a pirate admiral on a deadline.

“Uncle ‘Liano, stand still! You’re under cannon arrest!”

“That’s not even a thing!” Emiliano yelps, ducking behind a garden barrel.

“You’re being tried for lunch crimes and excessive whistling!”

From your seat in the sun, tea in hand, you watch it all unfold with mild amusement. Enzo stands nearby, arms crossed, his gaze bouncing between you, the chaos, and your wildly imaginative child.

His expression is a cocktail of love, fear, and existential awe.

“They’re too smart,” he whispers.

“They’re ours,” you murmur back. A beat of silence.

“So, yes. Too smart.”

Life is louder now.

Messier. Sweeter.

Enzo still makes tea. You still pack his lunch. Now, you take turns rocking a child who insists on being carried like they’re reporting for formal review; back straight, blanket draped like a ceremonial cloak, paper crown tilted with purpose.

Enzo still brushes your hair from your face when you nap. Still looks at you like he’s seeing a miracle unfold daily. Still calls you his wife, like the phrase was forged just for him.

And when he finds your child asleep beside you on the couch, curled up like a comma between paragraphs, he kneels down, leans in, and kisses both your foreheads in turn.

“My whole world in one place,” he whispers.

And then—The kid farts. Loudly. Triumphantly.

Enzo freezes.

You peek one eye open, already grinning.

He straightens up.

“My whole world,” he says again, this time with pride, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Loud and majestic.”

You sip your tea to hide your laugh.

And when Emiliano peeks in the window, holding a hand-drawn “Wanted” poster with his own face on it, he shouts:

“YOU’VE RAISED A MONSTER—AND I’M SO PROUD!”

Your child stirs just enough to mutter,

“Justice never sleeps.” And drifts back off. You and Enzo look at each other.

And then you laugh together, warm and full—because this is your life now.

Too soft.

Too silly.

Too perfect.

Just like you wanted.

#one piece #one piece fan letter #marine older brother x reader #one piece fan letter x reader #slowburn #gav story #yearning #sibling rivalry #sweet story #one shot #monkey d. luffy #slow burn #friends to lovers #mutual pining #stoic but gentle #older brother complex #he fell first

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katyawriteswhump · 6 months ago

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Can I help you? (steddie holiday drabble, day 10)

For @steddieholidaydrabbles day 10 prompt, shopping; and @whumpcember day 10 prompt, “Let me help you.”

WC: 985 Rating: M; CW: self-harm (wall punching); Tags: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, established steddie, sexual content. Summary: After a crappy day serving holiday shoppers, Steve is gonna explode… or curl up and cry. Fortunately, he’s also got the best boyfriend ever.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

As the final customer left Scoops, Steve balled his fists. He was already late closing and still they’d been a dick about it. He hauled down the shutter, muffling the chaotic din of late-night-shoppers and the jangling hell-loop of holiday music.

Festive shoppers were fucking feral. And when Robin was off sick, work sucked.

He bagged the cash from the register, dumped it in the box, worrying about Robin, though she swore it was ‘only a super-disgusting cold.’ Plus, it was Hellfire night. His dream of catching five-minutes with Eddie beforehand was dead. It’d take hours to finish up without Robin, and… Fuuuuuck!

His foot flew from under him. He crashed backward, elbow whacking the counter. Pain bloomed then screamed, and worse…

…he’d dropped the cash box.

Coins rolled off toward every corner of the store, while Steve gawked at the villain of the piece—a banana skin. Like in a dumb cartoon, which figured. He was dressed like Popeye.

He slid down onto his butt, dumped his face into his hand, non-bruised elbow supported on one bare, hitched-up knee.

How did my shitty life come to this?

He’d worked non-stop for ten hours. He trembled with exhaustion, felt bruised inside and out—like he’d been repeatedly punched in the gut. Astonishing how many ‘merry’ customers proved hellbent on making him feel like dirt, and he shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care, and yet…

…now he had to get up, collect the cash. Tough, when all he wanted was to curl up and cry.

The unlocked shutter creaked up. Steve’s chin snapped up with it. Dustin ducked under first, then Eddie, both in their Hellfire t-shirts.

“Woah!” said Dustin. He wasn’t pissing himself laughing. Yet. Steve figured he must look fucking hilarious, slumped against the counter. He didn’t even say ‘hi,’ instead scrunching his face against a snarling sob.

“What the hell happened?” Eddie rushed over, crouched beside him.

Steve’s sweary rant only made him feel dumber and more inarticulate, self-loathing skyrocketing till he smacked his fist into the nearest hard surface. Would’ve done it again, wrecking his knuckles, had not Eddie caught them—gently yet somehow inarguably, stroking with his thumb. “Steve, you’ve done amazingly. It’s gonna be okay. Dustin?” The kid zigzagged the store like a pinball, collecting scattered coins. “Call Gareth. We’re postponing Hellfire.”

“No way! I’m being a fucking muppet. You never postpone—”

“Tonight, the schemers of Baldor’s Gate will remain unprobed by bold adventurers!” boomed Eddie, those darn chocolate-button eyes managing to laugh and be soul-destroyingly sincere. Eddie jumped up, offered a hand: “Let me help you.”

Steve slipped his fingers into Eddie’s warm clasp, mouth quirking toward a ‘screw-it-all’ smile.

Dustin counted the float and takings. Eddie handled the paperwork, being used to similar crap at the bar where he worked. Steve left them to it, mopping the floor, rolling his eyes at himself when his bruises bitched.

After Dustin scooted off, Steve eased himself into a seat beside Eddie, who’d finished the banking. “Nice job,” Steve swept gross sweaty hair from his brow—Ugh, he was wrecked. “That could really be my handwriting.”

Eddie pulled a face, daftly adorable. “Forgery is, tragically, carved deep as metal into my bones.”

“You’re a fucking angel,” whispered Steve, suddenly unable to meet Eddie’s gaze. “I feel shitty. You shouldn’t have postponed Hellfire.”

“Yeah, I should. I have zero doubt you’d roam waaaay farther from your plotted route for any of your friends. Tho’ half of them are snot-nosed brats who’d never thank you.” Eddie rose and started massaging Steve’s shoulders, heels of his hands working the meat of Steve’s tension, thumbs tenderly caressing his nape. Steve’s snarled-up muscles didn’t exactly turn to putty. Still felt so nice.

“Anyhoo, I got me a shady ulterior motive.” Eddie’s breath drifted balmily across Steve’s cheek, sending a delicious shudder down his spine. “Not gonna miss out on an evening when my boyfriend is literally screaming-out to be dragged to bed.”

Steve’s smile spread slowly. This time, he felt it, warming his heart and the pit of his belly.

My boyfriend. Hearing that never got old.

“And… hark!” announced Eddie, in his best Dungeon-Master tones, “there’s also the not- insignificant-fact that I love you.”

Now, Steve was genuinely laughing, then sniffling, because he was choking up. He grabbed Eddie’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “Love you too.”

Soon, they huddled nose-to-nose under the tepid trickle of their shower. “Showtime,” beamed Eddie, as he glided his fingers up through Steve’s hair, lathering up the bubbles. Steve’s scalp tingled and he sighed, shivered. The graze of Eddie’s fingernails, even the slight burning-tug of the snags…

“How the hell do you make this feel so sublime?”

Eddie answered by brushing Steve’s parted lips with his own, then repeating over and over—which managed to be stupidly erotic—and their tongues tangled and touched. Eddie’s relentless kisses sent Steve’s blood rushing south. On cue, Eddie’s sensual hands traced down Steve’s flanks, arrowing towards Steve’s needy dick.

It was a wonderfully lazy hand-job, but Steve couldn’t quite relax—this was too one-sided! He kinda squirmed, reaching for Eddie’s dick. Eddie batted him away, growling jokily into Steve’s mouth. “What do you not get about me taking care of you?”

“Whatever… fuck… you slay me, man… Gnnng!”

Steve flopped back against the tiles, arms flailing, knees turning to jello. Eddie flopped into him and stroked them both towards super-hot-messy orgasms.

“Hey, Eds,” Steve murmured, later, after they crawled into bed. The live-wire hum in his brain had faded, for sure, but he still wasn’t sure he’d sleep. “I wanna make up for Hellfire. Let’s fu—”

Eddie’s soft snore ruffled through Steve’s still-damp hair. Steve smiled tiredly. He had to face christmas shoppers again in eight-and-a-half hours. Life still kinda sucked… tho’ not all of it. At least Robin called, to say she’d be back. He watched Eddie sleep, until the entire crappy world crumbled to dust.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

tags: @wheneverfeasible 💚 My stranger things fic on AO3

#steddie #steddieholidaydrabbles #steddie holiday drabbles #steve harrington whump #whumpcember24 #steve x eddie #steddie fanfic #steddie smut

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stchisaki · 8 months ago

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DAY XIII. — OVERSTIMULATION

cw: Dub-Con Implied, Overstimulation, Torture, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Gore, Violence, Bodily Harm and Incapacitation, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere, General Dark Content Not Suitable for Immature Audiences, Fem! Reader. Reader discretion is advised. 18+ Only!

author's note: I can't stop thinking about the different possible routes that a relationship with Overhaul would look like. Would he be so distant and confusing yet needy and desperate at the same time? Would he be completely transparent and firm to the point of torture? Would it be a mix of anything and everything—just never good? I like to explore different aspects of how he could be. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is strictly fiction! Do not force yourself to read if you're uncomfortable.

word count: Approximately 1.6k words.

“P-Please, Kai, stop!”

But your plea goes ignored, hidden within the thick gusts of smoke and murky shadows that spill from Kai’s mouth. He’s breathing so thickly against your skin, head buried within the bend of your neck and folding his lips over the prickly flesh. You gasp whenever his teeth graze you, but it’s lost whenever Kai thrusts in again—hard—and your eyes shutter before you whimper.

“Kai, I can’t take this—can we please stop? Can we—”

“We can’t stop.”

His response is curt, each word clipped and sharp. You’re taken by surprise, left dangling by his sorrowful tone, suspended by those deep and husky chords that guitar their way into your silly mind. Kai sounds apprehensive, but it doesn’t make sense, so you’re positive that there’s something more underneath the shoddy threads. What does he even—but his cock is sturdy and rough whenever it retracts and shoves itself back into your cunt, punching through your guts and making you sick. How long has he been laying into you? Time keeps fumbling through the edges of your fingers, and you find yourself left perched on a dangerous balcony.

“W-Why can’t we? Kai, it’s… this hurts so much … !!”

At your words, Kai’s thrusts slow down by half a mile but he doesn’t stop rolling his hips, sawing through your velvet walls with hissing agony. His head is no longer hidden within the depths of your neck, instead he hovers, eyes wide and imploring. Those golden honey hues glowing in the dark of the night, small, pinpricks, impending needles filled with chloroform and doxepin. It’s almost like he’s stopped breathing.

“It can’t hurt. Why would this hurt? You’re still wet, aren’t you?”

Those strange and unusual thinking patterns, a depression that compresses your lungs and makes the back of your ribs flare in protest. Kai’s become nothing short of a total stranger lately. It’s like you don’t even know him anymore—or, maybe, maybe you never did in the first place. Sometimes when he talks to you, it’s like he’s become a shell of someone long gone, a gravestone chipped and faded underneath a stormy gray. It’s always like this whenever you have sex with him anymore. You stutter.

“It’s because I’ve—already cum a few times. A-And haven’t you?”

Kai’s eyes never waver.

“Yes.”

Bold, firm, and absolute. That one word makes your head spin, makes you swallow.

“Th-Then isn’t this, umhh, haa, getting to be a little too much for you, too?”

Those eyes seem to shrink.

“No.”

You’re left gaping.

“K-Kai. I… don’t…”

Kai’s hips have started slowing down, like the dying embers of a candle wick, fading, dreamy. His eyes just continue to grow, grow, grow, and they’re full moons, they’re stars in the universe, galaxies filled with unknown territory and possibilities. A needle threads his brows, a line down the center of his face.

“This is all I’ve ever wanted and more. You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted. Don’t you need this as much as I do? Why would you make love to me in the first place if you didn’t?”

Oh, Kai’s so gone, he’s the hurricane, and there is no eye that you can ground yourself in. It’s all sweeping planes, underbrush and wildfires.

“Please d-don’t say it like that. I did want you—”

You can barely comprehend what’s happening before Kai’s cock slices through you, through your heart, thirsty for you, rust and dust crumbling over you, seasoning, and his arms are caging your head. His elbows dig into your breasts, his paws are scratching into the frame of your face. Terror frosts through your veins, phosphorus and venom, a headless snake in the grass. Kai grits his teeth together so loudly that you hear them squeak, he’s shivering, he’s trembling, and he’s breathing faster than ever. Tornadoes of insanity, hyperventilation that slips into those hooked fingers.

“Did want me? What are you trying to say to me, angel? Do you not want me anymore? Is there something wrong with you? Because I can’t understand why you’d back out of us now.”

Shaking your head is difficult, claws.

“That was—Kai, God, of course, I still want you—I just. Kai, that was just a slip of my tongue, I—I don’t know, but I do want to have sex with you. I do, but you’re hurting me.”

Your eyes are wide and lifeless as soon as those words leak over your lips. The haze from your orgasms, from the highs that kept you bouncing cloud to cloud, everything happy, and every tickling sensation that nibbles away at the edges of your nervous system—gone, vanished before your being. Time is still, everything is still. If you prayed hard enough, could the Universe wink back in on itself—because you can feel it, can feel the pressure building up beneath the surface. It’s an emergency, urgent, and it starts to swell, an infection ready to implode. Kai isn’t human anymore.

And then,

An anguished yell, something furious, tearing through the bottom of his throat, screaming, vibrating behind clasped teeth. Kai rips his hands away from your head so that he can lean back on his haunches, the smiles of his fingernails raking down your abdomen to your hips so that he could easily drag you along with. And maybe you scream too, something silvery and scared, but Kai’s growl rumbles dangerously. His cock is thumping inside of you again, rocking, riding, and he’s thrusting into you with a fever that makes you cough and choke on your own spit, hot tears trickling down your cheeks.

“What the hell do you mean I’m hurting you? This is all for you—I’m all yours and I’ve always been all yours, but now I’m hurting you? I can’t…”

He doesn’t finish his train of thought, too focused on pounding into your abused and aching cunt. The heartbeat of your clit is buzzing through the walls, gone and pained, and you feel bloody and raw—full but so empty. Kai’s abhorring words—the blame that slices through your skin, that’s a dagger hitched into the center of your soul. You should have stayed in the shallow end, you should have just let him keep pouring himself into you, you should have just let Kai finish, you should have just kept your stupid fucking mouth shut.

“Angel.”

Your eyes are all on him.

“Angel, do you not want to be with me anymore?”

Each time the head of his cock finds the dead end of your cunt makes these stepping stones of gasps dry on your lips. You start violently shaking your head.

“I do. I do want to be with you, Kai—”

Kai interrupts you with a thunderous thrust, stars and bullets that zip into fireworks, making the whites of your eyes show their underbellies. He’s all the way in you, he’s in your tummy, he’s in your everything.

“I’ll make sure that you don’t lie to me.”

It’s like a trumpet that sings into the night sky, modulating, and electricity that blares into your eardrums. Nothing feels real whenever your eyes roll back down and you meet Kai’s deranged visage. Your lips are quivering, your body is, your cunt is, your clit is, your heart is, your brain is—you can feel yourself losing yourself, amplitude. And yet you can still focus on his cock inside of you, primal and divine.

His hands leave your hips, palms flat on the home below your belly and above your mound. Kai never looks away, never leaves. He presses down once, twice, and whenever you open your mouth to speak—it’s everywhere.

Confetti, strings of flesh torn up and serrated, blood swimming like a school of fish, weightless and flying around your intertwined bodies. And it digs deep, and horror and tears and a barely shaking head watches in disbelief as the you below the origin just explodes into nothing but something. Screams, high-pitched and feminine, something animalistic, something begging, something so unbelievably afraid that vomit shoots into the back of your mouth and your bladder twists. But before you can comprehend it, before the trauma imprints on the carpet of your brain—it all comes back together, neat and tidy.

Kai is crying. You don’t understand why he’s crying. What is he always crying for? He’s stopped thrusting into you, but the faded chemicals and emotions from your timeless sex make you dizzy and confused.

“K-Kai, what—”

Your legs won’t move.

You blink.

“K-Kai! W-What’s wrong with my legs—what did you do to my legs? Kai, Kai!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll… I’ll fix you once you prove that you don’t want to leave me. Now you can’t leave me. You can’t leave me.”

Your fists are bound around his wrists, sinking in, and you’re yelling. The palpitations of your heart send your body into the atmosphere.

“Kai! No, no no nooo, no! Please fix me now, please, Kai—fuck, Kai, I was never going to leave you—I just, I just needed to stop having sex for a little bit. Kai, Kai, Kai! Are you listening to me? Kai—Kai!”

He starts thrusting again, and the insanely subtle feeling of wet cotton and plumage start to tickle up your body, dead weight sagging you below the surface.

“You can’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You can’t leave me.

You can’t leave me.

You can’t leave

You can’t

You…”

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thottythoughtdaughter · 4 months ago

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MAY i request headcanons/one shots/anything for vincent please and thank u... your writing style is giving me brain worms (affectionate)

( i'm obsessed w u tbh. also sorry this is unedited loll )

PICNIC. vincent x lovely . pre-lovely's turning . fluff!

You loaded the car with a heavy wicker picnic basket, the woven kind you only really see on television. But Vincent had seen one while thrifting with Sam and thought of you instantly, plunking down fifty bucks without hesitation.

Bottles of lemonade clinked together, water droplets sliding down their glass necks, ice rattling cheerfully. The setting sun cast an orangey glow on everything, turning your eyes a liquid golden color.

From the window, Vincent stuck his head out into the part shadowed by the roof. "You know, Lovely, when I bought that basket I meant for you to use it with someone else. Like the Shaw pack, maybe. You really don't have to do thi--"

You held up a hand. "Vince, I already put the sandwiches in the car."

"I just mean, a picnic in the dark can't be entirely--"

"Vincent."

"You don't have to do all this for me--"

"Vincent Solaire."

He shot you a sheepish grin. "Well, I can't say I'm not excited."

You moved to the window, placing a kiss on his lips through the glass panes and shutters. His lips gently parted yours, the cold press of his fangs against your warm skin. The sun sank below the horizon, plunging the world into dusky purple light.

You pulled away, and Vincent chased the kiss, eyes still shut. You laughed, stroking his nose.

"Silly," you teased. "Hurry up and get in the damn car."

"Hurry, you say?" Vincent cocked a dark eyebrow, and in a blur, you were in the passenger seat of the car. Your stomach churned, and you turned and punched him.

"Asshole!"

He laughed, giddy, like a little boy playing a prank. "I was just trying to make my Lovely happy. Is that so wrong?"

"Yeah, it is when you make me puke!" you rolled your eyes, smacking him in the chest for good measure.

He caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your wrist. You watched his lips touch your skin and felt a flutter erupt in your stomach.

His eyes met yours, red and serious. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, lips moving against your wrist. "I didn't actually make you sick, did I?"

You cupped his cheek with your hand, stroking those sharp cheekbones with your thumb. "No, no," you reassured him. "I like it when you pick me up."

He wiggled an eyebrow. "Oh? Is that so, hmm?"

You yanked your wrist away, smirking. "Drive the car, you miscreant."

"Anything you say, Lovely," he smiled, and pulled out of the driveway.

The sun was fully set as Vincent pulled into the parking lot, the headlights of the car creating two triangle-shaped beams through the stalks of the cornfield. Gravel crunched as he hopped out of the car, zipping around to open your door.

"My Lovely," he bowed, proffering a hand.

"Cornball," you took his hand and hopped down. Before you could make your way to the trunk, he pulled you into his chest, holding you close.

"I am a cornball. But only because you're so lovely you make it easy," he smiled. You stood on tip toe to kiss him, then pulled out of reach.

"Enough kisses, lover boy."

"Sure. For now."

He took the basket from you, and you tucked the bottles of lemonade under your arms. Still cold, they pressed against you in the muggy summer heat with a refreshing kiss.

"Where to?" Vincent asked, his red eyes gleaming in the dark. Ordinarily, you would've been terrified, stumbling in the pitch black in the middle of a cornfield. But Vincent was so self-assured, so calming, you would've felt safe even if he wasn't a highly powerful magical being.

Plus, he was so hot, it was almost too distracting.

"Just a little way in. Turn the car lights off, so we can see the stars."

He clicked the car keys, and you were both plunged into darkness. His hand found yours, seamless and familiar.

"All right. This way. Oop, careful there Lovely! Big branch in the way, step up-- yep-- Good. Almost there!"

As he did everything, Vincent led you gently and encouragingly through the dark, his voice guiding you with the warmest affection. His hand squeezed yours with every word, as if thrilled to be reminded that you were still there with him.

You broke into a clearing of grass, the moonlight finally breaking through the cornstalks, glittering constellations filling the sky. You craned your neck upward, soaking it all in, so dazzled you didn't see Vincent approach.

His lips pressed against your neck, then down your collarbone, across your chest, up the other side of your neck. You shivered, hands automatically threading themselves in his thick hair.

"Lovely," he sighed, a prayer.

"Vincent," you murmured, stroking the back of his neck. "This is a picnic, not a freak-fest."

He groaned, collapsing his face in your neck. You laughed, stroking his back. "Up, baby," you cajoled. "The point of a picnic is to eat."

"Then I guess I can only hope you're on the menu for dessert," he winked, that sparkle in his eyes.

You kissed his cheek. "Maybe."

You both set up the picnic, laying out a red-striped blanket, taking out silver spoons and gleaming white plates that looked like little moons themselves. Vincent poured lemonade into plastic cups, and you dished out little sandwiches, angling them just so. A bag of blood was chilled among the ice packs, and you handed it to Vincent with a smile.

He gave you an awed look. "Lovely, this is..."

"I know," you winked. You drew out a few candles, lighting them with a match.

"You're magical," he breathed, drawing you in for another kiss. His lips, so cold, tasted like ice cream on a summer day. His tongue felt like fire.

The stars glittered above you, and you curled into your boyfriend. Vincent Solaire. The love of your life, the joy of your heart. Candles flickered in the wind, illuminating his thoughtful face, as he looked at you warmly.

"I love you," he said.

Your heart nearly burst, full to the brim. "I love you, too."

#vincent solaire #redacted asmr #redacted fandom #redactedverse #redacted audio #redacted lovely #redacted oneshot #oneshot #fluff

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wedriftlikelonelyplanets · 9 months ago

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26 for landoscar 🤭🤭

26 - A kiss on a scar

This ROUGHLY takes place in the GITHHHW verse, just kind of as a slice of life moment. Inspired by You're The One For Me by Good Great Okay Fine and If You Ever Leave, I'm Coming With You by The Wombats. This isn't polished, but I kinda think that's the point of this a lil too

The sun is warm where it lingers on his skin, as he wraps the blanket a little more tightly around himself. He’s missing the warmth of Lando pressed against his back, and he lets out a sleepy, indignant sound at the loss, buries his face into a pillow that smells like Lando instead, shifting onto his stomach to hug it closer.

He’s not usually the heavy sleeper of the two of them, but Lando’s bed is more comfortable than he thinks his has ever been. There’s a belated, sleepy thought that he should ask Lando where he got this mattress so he can get one of his own. He tucks it away in the back of his mind, yawns so wide his jaw cracks, and lets his eyes shutter closed against the onslaught of the morning sun.

Half thinks to call Lando’s name out loud into the silence of the apartment, but is asleep before he has the time to think it through any further.

“Osco,” Lando’s voice is soft in his ear, prickling into his subconscious, and he shifts, pressing himself back against the warmth of Lando’s body, seeking him out like a cat to the closest ray of sunlight. “Osc, wake up,” Lando’s voice is soft and sweet, and Oscar lets out a grumble, presses himself closer, still doesn’t want to open his eyes because this is heavenly. He doesn’t think he’s allowed himself to enjoy sleep this much in a long time. When they’re heavy into the race schedule, he feels like he gets enough sleep to get by, but it’s not restful, not like this.

“Don’t wanna,” the words are slurred out, hazy, as he gravitates more to Lando’s warmth, nuzzling his face against Lando’s chest, “Come back t’bed,” he murmurs against the soft fabric of Lando’s shirt, has to resist the urge to open his mouth and bite at the fabric, and the jut of Lando’s collarbone beneath it.

Lando’s soft laugh is endearing, and sometimes he wishes he could bottle it up and save it forever, these happy moments that they’ve only really just started to settle into. “Osc, come on. I got you breakfast,” Oscar can hear the lilt of amusement in Lando’s voice, and does give into the urge, unhinges his jaw, closes his teeth around Lando’s clavicle and bites, light press of teeth.

“Oscar, ow, what the fuck,” the noise that’s punched out of Lando is less indignant, laced with a hint of arousal. It gives Oscar a host of other ideas that take place of going back to sleep, has to stop himself from squirming, from moving to quest out the hot press of Lando’s thigh. Almost wishes that Lando had woken him up with the press of his body against Oscar’s back, insistent roll of his hips. Thinks about saying it out loud, but doesn’t, tamps down the urge instead, because the mention of breakfast is filtering into his sleep-hazy brain.

He cracks open one eye to glance up at Lando, and wants to squeeze it shut again, because the look on Lando’s face is impossibly soft and endeared, smile lighting up his features with a boyish joy that sends a twist of warmth through Oscar. Sometimes it feels like this is something he doesn’t deserve, seeing Lando warm and soft like this. Sometimes he wishes that he was better at showing his emotions, better at wearing them written on his face like Lando does.

“Love you,” he murmurs, nuzzles his face even harder against Lando’s chest. Lando tangles his fingers his hair, scratches at his scalp softly, and Oscar lets out a soft sigh, shimmies himself closer, wraps his arms around Lando’s torso. He feels the huff of Lando’s laugh, the twitch of his ribcage, “Get up, you slug,” Lando grumbles, poking a finger into Oscar’s side, hard. Oscar can’t help the yelp that escapes him as he jumps away, eyes flying open to fix Lando with an indignant stare.

“Mean, I take it back,”

But Lando’s still just smiling at him, eyes glimmering with mirth and amusement. “Get the fuck out of bed, breakfast’s getting cold, and I’m not going to listen to you complain about your eggs being rubbery because you didn’t want to get your lazy ass out of bed,”

“A week ago, you were feeding me breakfast in bed. What happened to that version of you,” Oscar mutters, shoving the blankets back, making a face at the cool room air, despite the warmth of the sun shining in the window. “Next time, I’m going to bite you harder,” he grumbles, and Lando laughs, loudly, the sound shatteringly bright in the room.

Oscar pauses the search for the hoodie that’s tossed in some corner from when he and Lando fell into bed the night before. Just turns to look at Lando, the way his face scrunches up, the brightness reflected there, and can’t help the smile that breaks across his own features. Moves back towards him with a smile, palms settling gently on the sides of Lando’s face. “Love you,” he murmurs, all over again, pressing a kiss to the scar that’s shiny across the bridge of Lando’s nose, a press to the tip of his nose, and then a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Now stop being mean and feed me,”

#landoscar #prompt games #this is...yeah #cute #githhhw verse

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rodibee · 2 months ago

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MegaRod Day 2: Vigilance / { Rest }

<- Previous - Next ->

Megatron usually fell into recharge first.

Of course, the old mech would vehemently deny it if it was brought up-- had actually sat Rodimus down early on in their... unlabelled situationship thing as soon as they reached a point where spending a recharge cycle together wasn't weird, and had grumbled something out about 'wartime insomnia' and 'traitorous second-in-commands' and 'potential reflux reflexes' and to not take offence if he did something or left during the middle of the cycle, but low and behold, whenever it came time to get horizontal together on the berth in an unsexy way, Megs would be out like a light and sounding like on his own personal snorechestra within the orn.

Afterwhich, obviously, Rodimus had free reign to wiggle up onto his elbows and just... trace his gaze over Megatron's sleep-softened expression. One hand slid against her chassis, digits gently tracing the curved edges of her engravings before stilling over where hhr spark chamber should be. Also maybe a black hole, but that's wasn't nearly as important. It probably wasn't possible for Rodimus to feel the rotation of her spark in its chamber through her heavy plating (and also maybe the black hole because seriously she not a scientist), but hey, Rodimus liked to think that she could.

There were few times where Rodimus had the opportunity to see her overly stern co-Captain looking so at peace, so despite the inevitable exhaustion that would linger and follow her until the next charge cycle, she made sure to get her fill of examining her co-Captain in this relaxed state while she could. It was... Nice. He looked nice like this. And yeah, maybe Rodimus still occasionally felt a weird flicker of dissonance whenever he looked at Megatron and didn't feel the familiar simmering rage of grudges left unfulfilled, but no one could ever say Rodimus wasn't good at rolling with the punches when he wanted to. Especially when the punches led to sights like these.

There were small pale lines carved into her derma around her optics by the passage of time, pale where the repeated creasing had heated and folded the metal to a smooth shine. Invisible during the waking hours due to a perpetual scowl and the deep shadows of her helm in the ship light, but here in the dark of their sleeping quarters, the lines seemed to glow an otherwordly silver as they were illuminated by nothing but faint biolights.

Rodimus wasn't sure how long he watched over Megatron's slumbering frame before the other's vents hitched, the silver lines around his eyes disappearing once more into a familiar frown as some unconscious fragment of thought disrupted his recharge. Reaching up, Rodimus gently smoothed his digits against the wrinkles of tension until they disappeared, only to be replaced by the dim, flickering glow of Megatron's optics as they came online at low power. The old mech had clearly not risen completely from recharge if his dim optics were any indication, and probably hadn't finished booting up any higher processing power yet, so Rodimus offlined his own optics in response and shifted from all-elbows to sprawling out across Megatron's broad chassis, before wiggling even further up the other's frame to press a soft kiss to Megatron's chin.

“Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

Megatron somehow managed a grunt of distaste at the human phrasing despite his lack of coherency, but nonetheless complied, shuttering his optics and relaxing back into the berth and resuming his awful, strut-trembling snoring. In any other situation, that probably would've sent Rodimus into a fit of hysterical laughter, but the last thing he wanted was to wake up Megs. Or have the hysterics turn from laughter into cry, which admittedly at this point he was liable to do both, and then where would they be? Nowhere good, that's for damn sure. Certainly not where they were now, all soft and warm and comfortable and safe. Safe. What a strange thing to be in a place like this. Stranger to know without the shadow of a doubt that it was true.

So instead, Rodimus traced gentle digits against the edge of his co-Captain's helm and watched the way he unconsciously turned his face towards Rodimus' palm and tried his best to commit it all to memory.

#my writing #megarod #megatron #rodimus #mtmte #i still prefer rodimegs as a ship name it makes me laugh every time #if i use aspects from both prompts no i dont #rodimegs

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arlana-likes-to-write · 2 years ago

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Resting on Your Shoulder

Masterlist

Summary: Your sisters decide that a trip to Iowa is exactly what you need to help you work through the effects of Daniel’s interrogation but they didn’t know you were battling with an angel and a devil on your shoulder.

Warning: mention of past torture, past guilt, the Bartons are my favorite people to write, love confession, self-hatred.

Word count: 3.5

You caught the sandbag as it swung back towards you, resting your head on it. Every one of your muscles was screaming for you to take a break; to rest and recover. But you needed your mind to turn off. You needed your mind to stop reliving your interrogation with Daniel. It was a constant battle with the angel and devil on your shoulder as you knew getting him to talk was necessary to save Natasha but did you need to do it? You could have let Steve or Sam handle it and stayed far away from that mindset. However, there was a part of you that craved that power, that control. Oh, how you missed it and that scared you more. “There you are,” you looked over your shoulder to see Natasha walking towards you. You frowned.

“Cho will have a fit if she sees you in here,” your sister rolled her eyes. She was banned from active missions until she was fully healed but you knew she was hitching to get back out there.

“I’m not here to work out,” she said. “I’m here for you.” You raised an eyebrow at her as you bent down to pick up your water bottle.

“What’s up?”

“Since I’m benched I’m thinking about going to Iowa,” you cocked your head to the side. “Clint and his family live there.” That made more sense. “Do you want to come with us?”

“Is that a good idea?” You asked. It was her turn to tilt her head in confusion.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” That was a fair follow-up question. “They’ve been pretty eager to meet you,” you sat down, leaning against the wall. She sighed, sitting in front of you. “Look, it will be good for you to get out of the compound.”

“Nat, I’m fine,” you said, taking another sip of water. She gave you a pointed look but you remained silent.

“I know interrogating Daniel wasn’t easy for you and you don’t have to talk to me but you need to talk to someone about it. I’ve learned that Bartons have a healing presence,” you chuckled, shaking your head.

“Sure I could use a vacation,” you stood up, holding out your hand to help Natasha. “Besides, it will be nice to meet the man who was tasked with killing my sister.” She rolled her eyes, punching you lightly on the shoulder. “When are we leaving?”

“As soon as you shower, you stink,” you pulled Natasha into your arms, hugging her tight. Her laughter filled the quiet gum as she tried to push you away from her. Since the interrogation, Dainel’s screams were no longer in your mind, only the sound of your sister’s laughter.

“Why did they pick Iowa?” You asked as Natasha landed the Quinjet near the wooded area of Barton’s land. “Is it because it’s the Hawkeye state?” You knew it came from the Native American warrior named Black Hawk but it was too much of a conscience to not bring it up. Yelena giggled at your joke.

“I bet he’d love to hear that joke,” Natasha deadpanned. “But Fury set this up for him when he decided to join the team,” she explained. “Only myself, Yelena, and Maria knew about it.” You nodded, you’ve yet to meet Nick Fury. You knew of him. He was a high target for the Red Room and HYDRA.

The Quinjet landed and you met your sisters by the ramp as they collected their stuff and turned off the jet. You were hit with a wave of anxiety.

“Are you ready?” Yelena asked, standing next to you as the ramp descended.

“Yeah,” you told her. “I'm a little nervous.”

“Don’t be,” she said, pumping her shoulder against yours. “They are some of the best people.”

The house was beautiful, painted white with green shutters and a wrapped-around porch. It was a split image of the American dream. Before you could comment the front door of the house swung open and a little boy came running out towards you. “Brace yourself,” you heard Natasha mumble as the boy yelled, “Auntie Nat,” and threw himself into her arms. You caught your sister before she went tumbling to the ground.

“Woah little hawk,” Yelena said. “We have to be careful,” he looked at Yelena with a shy family on his face.

“Sorry Aunt Lena,” Hearing this little boy call your sister's aunts was tugging at your heartstrings.

“It’s okay,” Natasha set him down on the ground. “I'm very excited to see you,” she tapped him on the nose. “I want you to meet someone really important to Yelena and I. Nathaniel, this is our oldest sister.” He hid behind Natasha’s legs but he did give you a small wave.

“Hi, Nate. I’ve heard a lot of great things about you,” you said, kneeling so you were level with him. He still didn’t come out behind Natasha. “I got you something.” You noticed he wasn’t hiding anymore at the mention of a gift but you didn’t draw attention to it. Instead, you took a Lego set out of your duffle bag. “A little birdie told me you like building legos,” he gasped, taking the box from you. “Do you think we can build it together?” He excitedly nodded.

“I don’t have this one,” his eyes were glued to the box. “I have to show you the other ones I have.” You smiled.

“Sounds like a plan, bud.”

“Spoiling my kids already,” you looked at the porch and saw Clint with his wife and two other kids. You stood up, following Nate and your sisters to the house. Nate was already showing his new toy to his siblings.

“I have to make up for the lost time,” you said, handing Lila and Cooper a box. You got Cooper a drone and Lila a new bow and arrow set.

“Why don’t you bring us anything?” Cooper asked Yelena and Natasha. Yelena rolled her eyes, punching him on the shoulder.

“Because I don’t like you anymore,” your youngest sister deadpanned. Cooper smiled. “Meet the other Bartons. Clint, Laura, Cooper, and Lila.” Yelena introduced.

“Welcome to the Family,” Laura said, pulling you into a quick hug. You were shocked by the action, not expecting it from the mother of three but you hugged her back not to make it weird. It was odd how welcoming they were. They knew nothing about you and the darkness you put into the world. The devil on your shoulder began to talk - hurt them, kill them, you’ll enjoy it. The angel was nowhere in sight.

Natasha was right. It was impossible to be so deep inside your head when you were around the Bartons. Nate showed you his Lego collection and explained in great detail each. You enjoyed listening to the stories that Clint told and the banter between Yelena and Cooper. At night when everyone was asleep, you found yourself sitting on the porch with a 6 pack of beer. The stars were beautiful out here, it made you realize how small you were in the universe. You heard the front door open and Laura stood next to you. “Mind if I join you?”

“Your house,” you said as she sat down.

“My beer too,” she smiled, taking one. You chuckled.

“I made a mental note to buy you guys some more,” it was Laura’s turn to laugh. You both sat in silence, drinking beer and looking up at the stars. “You have a beautiful family,” you said, breaking the silence. “Thank you for opening it up to me.”

“It’s your home too,” she smiled.

“Not sure how smart it is to offer your home to a stranger,” you joked. “I could be a killer and endanger your entire family.” She smiled.

“Do you think you're a danger to my family?” She questioned. “Or your sisters?” ‘We have the same level of darkness inside of us,’ Daniel taunted. ‘You could conquer the world, burn it down, and rebuild it. If you just embraced it.’ You could never hurt your sisters or anyone innocent. But the devil on your shoulder wasn’t going away. It was so loud.

“I’d never hurt them,” you finally said. “Them or your family.” Laura nodded. Another beat of silence passed. “Sometimes I worry,” you told her and took a sip of your beer. “That they broke something inside me. It scares me.”

“What did he say to you?” She asked. You weren’t surprised that she knew what happened. Finally, you looked at her.

“He said that he and I were the same,” you said. “We have the same level of darkness. I could set the world on fire and rebuild it from the ashes,” you looked away. “He was right in a way, you know? Drekyov trained us to bring down empires. Maybe that’s all I’m good for.” Laura was quiet. Both her hands wrapped around her beer bottle as she stared ahead.

“Have you seen the Harry Potter movies?” She asked. You shook your head. You knew they were on Yelena’s list to show you. “There is a quote that describes you and the other Widows - ‘You’re a very good person, who had bad things happen to you. Besides, the world isn’t split between good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us.” You frowned, letting what she said to sit with you.

“Which one do I listen to? The angel or the devil?” Laura smiled.

“You’ve already beaten one devil,” she said, standing up. She stifled a yawn and you felt a little guilty for keeping her up. “Another one can’t be that hard, right?” You smiled, nodding your head. “From what Yelena and Natasha have told us, that angel is a lot louder than you think.”

“Thank you, Laura.”

“Get some sleep and come get me if you need anything,” she squeezed your shoulder as she walked back into the house. You sighed, finishing the rest of your beer and placing it in the holder. You looked up at the stairs. It was so easy to see them. Were they always this bright or were you too busy to look up?

“Has anyone seen my sister?” Natasha asked, walking into the kitchen. The kids were already eating breakfast and Yelena was working on a mission report for Maria that Natasha told her to get done before they came. She wasn’t surprised that it wasn’t done. Natasha knocked on your door for breakfast but the room was empty.

“She was up early,” Clint said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “She went on one of the trail runs.” The two sisters looked at each other. It was like at the compound. They’ve had to drag you out of the training room most days to eat or sleep.

“Not sure how much sleep she got,” Laura said, passing by Natasha with a gentle hand on her back. “We were up late talking.” Before Natasha could question what they talked about, she heard the front door open. You walked into the kitchen with a smile and sneaked a sausage link from Cooper’s plate.

“I thought you were never going to wake up,” you teased, filling up a glass of water and downing it quickly.

“You know some people like to sleep in when they go away.” Natasha countered. You laughed.

“Breakfast is ready,” Laura said. “Help yourself.” You smiled.

“Let me shower and I’ll be back down.” You said. Before you headed upstairs, Natasha grabbed onto your arm.

“If you aren’t back in 10 minutes I’m dragging you back down here,” she threatened. You smiled.

“I would expect nothing less, Natalie, but I’m okay,” that was up for some debate but Natasha let go of your room. She watched you go upstairs, suppressing a sigh.

“Sestra,” she turned to face Yelena. “She’ll be okay, we’ll make sure of it.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, freshly showered, and with a new set of clothes on. You were taking care of some cuts on your knuckles. On your run, you got so lost in a memory that you punched a tree. You were a little surprised your sisters didn’t see it. Dreyokv brought you into a room where a Red Room guard and a fellow Widow were handcuffed to the ground. Her name was Anastasia and she was a few years younger than you. The man’s name was a mystery but you’ve seen him around. Dreyokv told you that the pair were in love and were plotting to escape, your job was to get them to talk and tell them the details of their plan. So you tortured them. You could see the blood on your hands. Their screams made your heart pound and you felt the adrenaline rush through your veins. When they gave in and told you everything, Dreyokv still made you kill them.

“Hey sestra, are you with us?” You glanced up, getting pulled out of your thoughts, and saw your sisters kneeling in front of you. God, how many times have they been in this position? You needed to get your shit together. You nodded, pressing the palm of your hands to your eyes.

“I lied,” you said, bringing your hands down to look at them. “I don’t think I’m okay.” Yelena smiled.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “We know.” You chuckled. Of course, they knew. Your sisters were so much smarter than you.

“Come with us,” Natasha said, holding out her hand. “We want to show you something.” And you took your hand without hesitation.

They brought you to a secluded part of the Barton’s property where they had a small swimming pond. Yelena laid out a picnic blanket and you sat down looking at the water. “Can you imagine having a place like this?” You asked as they sat down.

“I’ve thought about it,” Natasha admitted. “Leaving the team and getting a house big enough for all of us.” Yelena leaned back on her hands and looked at the view.

“I couldn’t live out in the country,” she said. “But a house of my own does sound nice.” You let the silence fall between you and your sisters. It was peaceful as a nice breeze blew through.

“Did you watch it?” You asked Natasha. “Did you watch me torture him?” The redhead nodded, pulling one of her knees to her chest. You knew the entire thing was recorded and it wasn’t a surprise Natasha watched it. “Originally, Steve and Sam were going to talk to him but I said it should be me to do it. I convinced them that he wouldn’t talk under normal circumstances but I could break him.”

“And you did,” you nodded. “You did it to save me, that doesn’t make you a monster.” She was right.

“But the thoughts I’ve been having after do,” you said. “A dark part of me missed it, you know? That control, the power, and that adrenaline rush,” you shook your head. “I wasn’t lying when I told him that my bite kills. No matter who Dreykov sat in front of me I could break - men, women, or another Willow.” You sighed, running your hand through the grass.

“You did what you had to do to survive,” Yelena said as if it was the simplest answer behind everything you did.

“And what about now?” You questioned. “What’s the reasoning for these thoughts? I have an angel and devil resting on my shoulder and I don’t know who to listen to. I’m afraid they broke something that can’t be fixed,” you admitted. You sighed, picking up a nearby rock. It was smooth against your fingers as you twirled it around. “I wonder if they were always there.” You looked back at your sisters. Yelena had her knees to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. She was looking at the swimming hole. But Natasha was looking right at you.

“Nothing about you is broken,” she finally said. You scuffed, looking away. “I’m telling you the truth. I have those same thoughts,” Natasha sighed. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched her run her hands through her hair. “When Loki kidnapped and brainwashed Clint I was ready to kill everyone in my sight and when you were kidnapped I was ready to burn the compound to the ground if they got in my way.” you chuckled. “We go back to that mindset when things get out of control. It’s how we cope.”

“Fucked up way to cope,” you mumbled, leaning back on your hands.

“We had a pretty fucked up childhood,” Yelena smiled. “But I think we turned out okay.” You smiled.

“Yeah, we did.”

“How’s Iowa?” Carol asked. Once again you found yourself sitting outside the Barton’s house but you felt different, lighter almost. You were video-calling Carol, who was laying in her bed at the compound. You smiled.

“It’s nice,” you said. “And quiet. I needed this more than I realized.” She smiled.

“Good, I’m glad you are enjoying yourself.” You looked past your phone into the vast darkness. Your mind couldn’t help but wonder and dream of owning a place like this. “What’s got you thinking so hard, pretty girl?” You blushed, biting your lip.

“I was just thinking,” she gave you a look for you to continue as she sat up in bed. She was wearing a tank top and you were slightly distracted by her muscles. She smirked.

“See something you like, baby girl,” she teased.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, cheeks feeling hot from embarrassment. Carol chuckled. “Anyways, I was thinking about the life Clint built out here. One day I want to have something like this,” you looked into the vast darkness. “A place to call my own away from all the fighting.”

“You know,” she said slowly, causing you to look back at her. “No one would be upset with you if you walked away from the fight. You’ve spent your entire life following orders. You can live for yourself.” You smiled, it wasn’t happy.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “Not yet at least,” you looked down at the steps you were sitting on. “I’ve done a lot of bad stuff. There is so much red on my ledger. I can’t stop.”

“Sweetheart, can you look at me?” It took a minute for you to look at her. There was a look in her eyes that you couldn’t pinpoint the emotion. You saw it when Maria looked at Natasha when Alexei looked at Melina, and now when Clint looked at Laura. Love. Did she love you? “Why are you being the judge, jury, and executioner of your fate?” You didn’t answer. “The way I see it you paid your dues and if you want to stop, you can be done.” You chuckled.

“What gives you the right to be my judge?” You asked. You didn’t ask it to be mean or rude but you were curious. She looked shy all of a sudden, scratching the back of your head.

“Because I love you,” you felt your stomach drop at her admission. It was different hearing those three words coming from someone that wasn’t your family. It wasn’t a bad difference, just different. “And all I want for you is to be happy and safe. So if that means tomorrow you hand up your suit and get a 9 to 5,” you laughed, throwing your head back. “Then I’ll support you and I will always remind you that you deserve a chance to walk away from all of this.” You were stunned into a shocked silence at everything she said. But there was a part of you that felt the same, somewhere deep inside you knew that you loved Carol. ‘Tell her. Be happy and tell her.’ for once the angel was louder than the devil.

“I love you too,” you whispered like it was a secret for only you, her, and the stars could know about. “Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?” She asked.

“For loving me and all of my scars.” She chuckled, shaking her head slightly.

“You do not need to thank me,” she said. “I should be thanking you.” You looked at her confused. “You opened yourself up to me and made yourself vulnerable. Loving you is a gift I’ll treasure forever.” You smiled.

“You are a sap.”

“Only for you,” you tried to cover your mouth as you yawned. “Go get some sleep, baby girl.” You stood up.

“Will you stay on the phone till I fall asleep?” You asked, gently walking back into the farmhouse. You saw her nod her head. You opened the door to the guest room you were staying in and immediately climbed underneath the covers, placing your phone on your nightstand. “I love you,” you said again. Oh, how good it felt to say.

“I love you too. Goodnight, sweetheart,” you closed your eyes. The devil on your shoulder was silent and you no longer heard Daniel’s screams. You smiled as you weren’t afraid to fall asleep.

Tag list: @ cd-4848

I have such an idea for a longer work for this AU where something happens to the Reader and she becomes the next villain the Avengers have to fight. Idk if I have time to write it so send me asks and I would love to talk about it more.

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#family is more than blood au #yelena belova x natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #yelena belova x reader #black widow sisters #black widow fanfiction #clint barton x laura barton #laura barton x reader #carol danvers x reader #carol danvers x you #carol danvers x y/n #yelena belova x natasha romanoff

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