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angelseraphines · 5 months ago

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ೃ⁀➷ playing dangerous ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ player 177. your assigned number. the three digits stitched in stark white thread on the coarse forest-green tracksuit now clinging to your body. you didn’t remember putting it on. you didn’t remember anything between falling asleep in your cramped apartment and waking up in this sterile, alabaster void. the tracksuit was loose in some places, tight in others, the fabric rough against your skin, a similar sensation for the discomfort that had settled deep into your bones.

˚ ༘♡ the air here was heavy, oppressive. tension hung over the room like a storm cloud, pressing down on everyone in its path. you sat on the thin mattress of your cot, the iron bars of the bedframe biting into your back as you leaned against them. your throat was dry, your lips chapped, and a faint crust of dried blood clung to the edge of your mouth, an unpleasant reminder of the chaos you’d barely survived. in your lap rested a cold metal bento box, unopened. the thought of eating its contents of rubbery eggs and starchy rice, made your stomach churn. it wasn’t hunger gnawing at you but dread. eating felt like acknowledging the possibility of another day here, in this place where death lingered so close you could almost taste it.

˚ ༘♡ death. it wasn’t something you’d ever had to think about seriously before. you were young, healthy enough, aside from the occasional winter flu. life’s struggles had been mundane, bills, work, nothing quite noteworthy. you’d thought financial trouble was the worst of your problems. how naive that seemed now. the sharp crack of gunfire still rang in your ears, and the memory of bodies crumpling mid-run played in an endless loop in your mind. every scream, every desperate gasp for air as life left someone’s body, was etched into your mind.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t life. it was survival, twisted into something grotesque. children’s games weaponized against desperate people for the amusement of others, with the promise of money as bait. one hundred million won for every life taken. your own life, reduced to a figure on a balance sheet. you’d survived the first game, the horrifying version of red light, green light, but at what cost? surely, after witnessing such carnage, the others would have voted to leave. you’d been certain of it. but the desperation was stronger. greed was stronger. most players had chosen to stay, ignoring the horrors of what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ “the next game,” player 456 had said, “will be cutting shapes out of dalgona candy. pick the triangle. it’s the easiest.” his voice had carried a strange conviction, and he claimed to know these games intimately, even to have won before. but how could you trust him? maybe he was lying, or maybe it didn’t matter. maybe none of you were meant to leave this place alive.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, 177!” the crude voice shattered your thoughts, dragging you back to the present.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced up to see player 230, “thanos,” as he called himself, sauntering toward you. his garish purple hair stood out like a bruise against the sterile backdrop, and his brightly colored nails flashed as he gestured. he’d painted them to match the infinity stones, leaning fully into the nickname he’d given himself. behind him, player 124 followed, all sharp angles and slicked-back hair, his grin as eager and sly as ever.

˚ ༘♡ “why didn’t you vote for one more game, huh?” thanos sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “you had no problem playing foul last round.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, rising slowly to your feet. “you and i both know it was an accident,” you replied steadily. “everyone was running for their lives. i didn’t block your way on purpose. we both finished in time, didn’t we? no harm done.”

˚ ༘♡ he rolled his eyes, his expression exaggerated and spontaneous. “yeah, sure, whatever. typical cold-hearted bitch behavior.”

˚ ༘♡ player 124 cackled at the insult, his laughter harsh and grating. “that’s right. cold, stuck-up bitch,” he echoed, his voice dripping with scorn.

˚ ༘♡ their taunts were designed to provoke you, but you refused to give them the satisfaction. your hands curled into fists, but you forced yourself to relax them, forced yourself to breathe. these two thrived on conflict, and the best thing you could do was walk away. you turned on your heel, ignoring their shouts, and started to move toward the far corner of the room.

˚ ༘♡ “hey! i’m talking to you!” thanos barked, stumbling after you with heavy, uncoordinated steps. he didn’t get far. player 001 stepped into his path, his expression stoic and unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t you boys have any respect?” player 001 asked, his voice quiet but firm. there was something about him, an emanation of authority that made everyone within earshot pause.

˚ ༘♡ thanos bristled, his arrogance faltering for just a moment. “mind your own damn business, old man,” he snapped, jerking forward.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 didn’t flinch. when thanos lunged at him, the older man moved with startling precision, sidestepping the punch with ease. he grabbed thanos by the wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply, forcing a guttural yelp from the younger man as his knees buckled. with a swift motion, player 001 yanked him forward and drove an elbow into his chest, the dull, cracking impact echoing in the room. thanos collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ribs and coughing violently.

˚ ༘♡ player 124 scrambled forward, his face twisted in fury. “bastard!” he yelled, charging with reckless abandon. player 001 turned just in time, catching the younger man by the collar and using his momentum against him. a sharp twist and a well-placed shove sent player 124 sprawling into the edge of a nearby cot, the metal frame rattling as he hit it with a thud.

˚ ༘♡ the fight wasn’t over. thanos struggled to his feet, his face contorted in pain and rage. “you’re gonna regret that, old man,” he spat, lunging again. this time, player 001’s response was more deliberate. he ducked under thanos’s wild swing, stepped inside his reach, and delivered a devastating blow to his lower torso. the younger man doubled over, gasping, before player 001 swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor once more.

˚ ༘♡ not finished, player 124 staggered up again, charging at player 001 with fists raised. the older man sidestepped and grabbed player 124 by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and forcing him to the ground with a hoarse cry of pain. he planted a knee firmly against player 124’s spine, holding him there as the younger man squirmed and cursed.

˚ ༘♡ thanos, blood now trickling from his nose, crawled toward his friend, wheezing apologies and swearing obscenities all at once. player 001 released player 124 with a shove, stepping back as the two younger men lay crumpled together on the floor.

˚ ༘♡ the room was silent, every player watching in stunned awe. then, slowly, the silence broke into cheers and clapping. player 001 straightened his posture, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. without a word, he turned and walked back to where player 456 and a few others were gathered, leaving the two troublemakers to nurse their wounds.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, then followed him. when you reached his side, you spoke softly. “i wanted to thank you, sir. if you hadn’t stepped in, they wouldn’t have stopped harassing me and disturbing the peace. you’ve done us all a favor.”

˚ ༘♡ player 001 turned to look at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded. he said nothing, his expression unreadable. there was something deeply weary about him, a weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders. his posture was rigid, his face lined with exhaustion, and though he was relatively handsome, it was the kind of masculine appeal eroded by time and hardship.

˚ ༘♡ you wondered what had brought him here, what had led him to the point where he’d chosen, or been pushed into, to enter this place. you didn’t ask. prying into his past would be an impolite gesture and an indignity for what he had done for you.

a/n: my first squid game fanfiction! i definitely want to write more for hwang in-ho in the future so let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

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steveyockey · 1 year ago

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In the absence of a clear and obvious angle to attack Bushnell’s protest, most likely due to his status as a serviceman that would make outright insulting him or suppressing the news itself scandalous, discussions on Western shores have now taken on the familiar framing of mental illness. In Time Magazine’s write-up of Bushnell’s death, the article finishes with a link to the suicide hotline, and asks readers to contact mental health providers if they are experiencing a “crisis.” Mark Joseph Stern, a writer at Slate, seemingly unasked, also wrote on Twitter/X:

“I strongly oppose valorizing any form of suicide as a noble, principled, or legitimate form of political protest. People suffering mental illness deserve empathy and respect, but it is wildly irresponsible to praise them for using a political justification to take their own life.”

Conviction does not exist to the American. To be willing to die in a selfless act for what they believe in only exists for those outside America's sphere of influence. Many will recall reporting on those who self-immolated in protest in Iran and in Russia for instance where this sort of approach, unwilling to engage with the root of its cause, would not even be entertained, let alone written and published with sincerity. The Arab Spring began with a self-immolation. The self-immolation of Buddhist monks in protest of South Vietnam’s persecution became defining images of the war and its corruption. Within America’s walls however, there is a belief, unspoken and ingrained from birth, that democracy allows for everyone’s voices to be heard and that its representatives are inherently inclined to respond to the people and their widespread wishes.

Desperation at inaction or complicity in terror and atrocity need not apply. Everyone incensed by their government to such an extent must simply have something wrong with them. To be able to go about one’s day knowing that children are screaming from the hunger that is eating their insides and that pregnant women are eating bread made from animal feed, and that the United States is supporting Israel’s creation of this famine, is apparently the real sign of well-adjustment.

Seamus Malekafzali, “The Words Burned Through His Throat: The Sacrifice of Aaron Bushnell,” February 26, 2024.

#seamus malekafzali #palestine

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wild-jackalope · 1 month ago

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summary :: in another dimension Mark is born a full blooded Viltrumite and is sent to conquer earth, but you change everything.

warning :: Nolan! Mark x Debbie! Reader, smut, porn w/ plot, fem reader, grinding, no use of cock or cunt (yes I'm a prude), cumin inside, breakups, relationship is a little rocky at first, pregnancy, having a child together eventually, Mark is a clueless viltrumite, soft lowkey, likely some mistakes but I tried my best

note :: h..herrow..

You should've known Mark Grayson was too good to be true. Should've known when he stopped an airborne car from ending your life, that his impossibly handsome face wasn't meant to be yours.

Maybe you did know, maybe you just didn't care.

When you first met, he literally swept you off your feet. One moment, there was screeching of metal and car horns: you were stunned, heart racking your bones with intense thudding, eyes blurred with stress-tears and legs failing your desperate, internal pleas to stay alive and run!

The car being hurled towards you wasn't going to stop and you weren't going to move. You were going to die.

But you didn't.

Instead, you looked up into the sky and landed on a stranger who held back your death like it weighed nothing.

Meters above the ground, wrapped in an unknown white and grey uniform that clung to a frame sculpted by something more brutal than earth could offer. A single hand held up the vehicle that had almost killed you.

His silhouette shielded the sun from your eyes and you could just make out the stoic expression holding his face.

"Leave." He ordered.

And just like that, a breath of life filled your lungs, your legs had begun dragging you away from the destruction, although poorly, because you'd fallen to the ground twice. The spasming of your muscles kept you from running far enough. It was like moving in a dream, your mind willing you to escape but your body reduced to uselessness due to shock.

The large arms that had just stopped the car from killing you; scooped you from the ground and took you miles away from the destruction. You caught a glimpse of the ground, watching as you were flown away from the slaughter whilst others ran.

"No— I'm fine! Go back." You blurted, your visceral thought only being that he'd left the fight for you—and more might be hurt because of it.

He didn't respond, only letting you from his arms on a nearby tower. Before he'd completely let go, he took a millisecond to give your smaller frame a squeeze, as if testing the durability of your body. You hadn't time to question it, nor process it, as he was right back into the battle, hair whipping your face from the rush of air he left behind him.

After about ten minutes of regaining your breath and slapping your legs awake, you attempted to find an exit from the roof. The only door to the lower levels had been locked from the inside.

It was funny, really, something you still teased Mark about even on your wedding night. 'You left me on a roof, seriously?' You asked, laughing. 'I came back for you, didn't I?' He replied.

Indeed he did come back, but not a moment before beating the villain wreaking havoc on the city unconscious. Whilst watching dust fly into the sky and buildings sustain damage you had time to consider that maybe this superhero was new.

He returned to you and took you to the ground, resting you on some calm rubble.

"Thank you. I think I owe you— coffee maybe? Dinner? My life?" you laughed.

He angled his chin up, eyes looking down on you suspiciously, almost to study you. "You didn't run," he stated.

You flushed. Were heroes supposed to make you feel embarrassed for becoming a deer in literal headlights? "Next time I'll try to dodge the flying Sudan."

He hovered beside you, perfectly still in waiting. Expecting something.

"Who— are you?" You asked.

"Mary Grayson. I've come from the planet Viltrum to protect your people." He said, as if it were memorised from a script.

"Mark Grayson?"

"Dinner."

"What?"

"I'll accept your offer for dinner." He said.

He was gone before you could even mutter, "Oh."

You didn't expect him to actually show up for dinner— certainly not tapping on your seventh story apartment window like he'd made his reservation at your dinner table. Actually, you weren't sure what to expect. You weren't even sure how he'd known where you lived.

He arrived just after the sun set, wearing the same strange uniform. His hair messily curved, no doubt blown out from his quick flying during the day's catastrophe. Scuff marks peppered his jaw and hands, and a stain you hoped wasn't blood specked across his chest.

Against your better judgement, you pried open your window and let him in.

He didn’t have a clue about how dates worked, let alone human interaction. You offered him water, and he looked at it like it could've been some suspicious poison. You tried to make conversation, and he answered everything in the most literal way possible—no small talk, no polite questions, just raw honesty. At one point, he stared at your TV for a full two minutes, then asked if humans had always been obsessed with wasting their life with entertainment.

Still, there was something oddly endearing about him. He was out of place, odd and— call it crazy— but you enjoyed it.

That meeting seemed to seal your fate, because Mark Grayson was far from done with you.

You'd see his saves plastered on the news, and sometimes even catch him flying by the city. Some weeks, he'd appear at your window with a worn look— like your home was the only place he could think of going.

Asking never seemed to cross his mind; he just appeared.

And you always let him in.

Whenever he showed up at your doorstep, it was always a new surprise— Like the time he brought you a tree, instead of flowers.

"Mark?" You yelled up, startled, your bag slipping from your shoulder as you stepped out of your building. You side-stepped to avoid the crumbling dirt falling from the uprooted tree in his hand.

"This is for you." He landed, touching down with professional ease. The tree thudded into the patchy yard outside your apartment.

"Mark— this is— why?" You croaked.

"It's customary to present someone you're courting with a plant, is it not?"

"Well, yes, but this?"

"I suspected this will outdo those smaller, weaker plants." He stated, as if he were far above handling flowers.

You stared at the massive plant, trunk thick and roots crammed into the dirt. No flower pot could ever hold it and your landlord would likely have an aneurysm if he saw it left on the front lawn.

But Mark was so earnest about it. Prideful, even.

"So you stole a whole tree?"

"I've relocated it," he stated, very surely. "It was unappreciated, it'll be much better with you."

"Mark, this is a cherry blossom tree... from— somewhere. You can't just—"

"There were no nesting animals," he said, "do you not like it?"

That stupid furrow of his brows and the drop in his voice had your heart pulling at your chest. You sighed, long and reluctant. "No, I like it. It's just... different."

"Good," he said, pride returning to his voice, "then I'll continue with my efforts."

One week, it was a tree, the next it was a quartz crystal straight from the earth's crust, still raw and covered in dirt. "Humans like to be adorned with crystals." he reasoned, as though ripping a rock from the earth was the most natural thing to do.

Once, he'd brought you a wild rabbit, its fur bushy and eyes wide in fear. He stated its weak and terrified nature reminded him of you. You took the poor creature from his hand, cradling it and telling him not to kidnap wild animals between light laughs.

You couldn't help but smile at his complete lack of understanding. The innocence in his actions always disarming you. His earnestness was endearing and with each strange gift, each odd comment, seemed to draw you closer to him. Yet, despite the love that bloomed in your chest, there were moments when the differences between you were so glaring they seemed impossible to bridge.

Then came the night when Mark decided you'd be the one he'd try 'marriage' with.

He came to your window, a gash in his arm still seeping blood from the fight you'd seen the news cover just moments ago.

"Mark! Are you alright?" you ushered him to your room, sitting him on your bed and searching your medicine cabinet for anything to stop the bleeding.

He seemed unimpressed with your worry, stating, "I'm going to be fine. I've survived much worse."

"Don't be an idiot," you muttered, placing a gauze on his wound and tightly bandaging it up. You hadn't realised how close you'd become. He fought for the city, then came straight to your home, not the hospital, or Cecil—you.

It was the first time you'd tended to his wounds, but it wouldn't be the last.

Afterward, you sat beside him, eyeing the tight bandage in hopes that it wouldn't bleed through. Mark couldn't take his eyes off you, feeling your warmth radiate on him.

"You always let me in." He stated, not asking but still unsure.

"Shouldn't I?" You asked, meeting his brown eyes.

His jaw clenched, "it's dangerous," he said. "You know what I am, what danger I bring."

"You being a superhero doesn't scare me," you said.

He studied your face, looking for a lie in your eyes but found none. "Reckless." He muttered.

"Says the man, bleeding on my bed." You mused.

That earned the smallest twitch of his mouth, not quite a smile.

You shifted and the space between you dissipated. His breath entwined with yours, short and shallow.

"You're not dangerous to me," you cooed, leaning in and kissing him.

Your first kiss seemed long overdue, because it revealed a deep need through its fever and roughness.

His mouth moved against yours, like trying to find the rhythm of it— trying to immediately master this new experience.

Your fingers found his hair, dragging gently across his scalp until he grunted into your mouth. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his hands hovering, tense and strained over your sides.

You brushed it aside as a silly alien trait and pressed his hand against your side. "It's okay Mark," you breathed, kissing his jaw, "you can touch me."

His breath hitched, flickering between your lips and where his hands tightly rested. "I appreciate your forward approach, but are you sure you're ready to procreate with me?"

"P—Procreate? What?" You snorted, unable to hide how the absurdity jolted your body.

"That is what you're intending, isn't it— to mate?"

"Lord no—" You said, attempting to suppress any giggles rising up your chest. "On Earth, sex isn't just about having children."

"No?"

"Sometimes, but most times..." you trailed, a finger brushing Mark's arm, "it's simply for pleasure."

That got his attention. His muscle stilled beneath your touch, watching you like you were some rare thing. "I want to feel it for myself," he said.

"I bet you do." You leaned in and pressed a lingering, light kiss to his jaw.

Your hands landed on his chest, the hardness a reminder of his impossible strength. You moved, straddling his lap and letting him feel the curves of your body against him. His breath quickened and you could already feel the effects of your touches, hard against your inner thigh.

Your hands, bold and needy, began to map out the muscles of his body, curving over the planes of his stomach before finding the firm ridges. You let them linger there, listening intently to the puffs of Mark's heavy, anticipated breath.

Once you decided to let up on your teasing, your palm found the curve of his bulge, the heat of him palpable even through the fabric of his suit.

He sucked in a sharp, defensive breath, grabbing your hand tightly as protective instinct kicked in. You took a moment away from his lips to study his face.

You were faced with an expression you hadn't yet seen painting Mark's features. His brows were furrowed in an unfamiliar expression: soft frown, flushed face and wide pupils. You could only describe it as desire wearing the mask of nervousness.

You tilted your head, offered him a knowing smile.

Despite his internal turmoil, you easily freed yourself from his grip and continued your pursuit of his pleasure.

You had managed to reach a strange equality in your relationship: Mark was a super-powered hero with incredible strength, but he knew nothing of the world, and you had to teach him. But this? With Mark's breath spiking at the pressure you touched him with, the way he shivered at your wet kisses. He'd never been at your mercy before.

You pressed Mark down onto the bed, rising only to take your shirt off.

He seemed torn between action and simply taking whatever lesson on human interaction you had to give him. His hands hovered closely, but not close enough.

You took his wrist and guided him to the fabric of your bra. "You're not going to break me, Mark."

"You're frail."

You huffed, raising a brow at his expression, "I can take whatever you want to give me."

That did little to soothe his concern—but it didn't stop him.

You pressed your weight into the stiff shape poking your thigh, driving your hips forward. Mark grunted, the hand on your breast squeezing, the other finally taking a stronger hold of your waist.

"Fuck," he cursed, fingers pushing craters into your soft skin. You repeated the motion, adding kisses alongside it.

"You want to take your suit off?" You drawled, slow and sensual into his ear.

He was naked below you before you knew it. You decided to even the playing field by taking off your bottoms.

He admired your body for a moment, enough to send a kick of embarrassment to your cheeks.

“I’ll turn the lights off.” You offered, reaching towards the lamp.

But he stopped you with a firm hand.

“What is the point of nudity if I’m unable to see you?”

“Well—" you paused, "it’s more about feeling.”

He took two fingers and softly dragged them down the middle of your breasts, along the ridges of your sternum until he reached the plush of your tummy. “I’m more than capable of seeing and feeling.”

You shivered. No hiding, then.

“Let me see you.”

“Mark…” you protested. He was having none of it. You slowly relented, unclasping your bra and sliding off your underwear, the last remaining pieces.

As the covers slipped from your skin, you felt like a dish—and Mark, with his scrutinising gaze, could’ve passed for a food inspector. His eyes roamed slowly, meticulously, like he was checking every bump and curve for perfection.

You took the pause to gander at him, finally letting your eyes settle on his sex. Am I prepared to take that? You asked yourself, god if his hands don’t break me, his dick might.

“Stop staring,” You muttered, unsure if it was for you or Mark.

With no further instruction from you, Mark decided he’d better inform you how quick of a learner he was.

He took you into him with a swift motion, his flushed skin meeting your own burning flesh in a tight hold. As quickly as he palmed your skin, his mouth painted your chest with rough and inexperienced kisses. You could feel his teeth drag and catch on your breast, making your thighs quiver.

Okay, yeah, I can take him. You decided.

You reached down, fingers trailing down his defined abdomen before brushing against his shaft, and you took the size of him in your hand, feeling a hot breath ghost your shoulder. You gave him a firmer grip and Mark’s arms around you became rigid. A slow stroke drew a groan from him, one that was unguarded and ragged.

With a more assured pace and grip, you quickened your rhythm. He twitched and a dribble of precum slicked your hand.

You would save the rest of foreplay for another time.

You aligned yourself with his length and hovered over his tip, slowly fitting him into you.

There was a slight discomfort at the wet tightness but it was taken away by a sharp pain at your shoulder. Mark's teeth had sunk into your flesh, not enough to break the skin but enough to distract you whilst he pulled you flush onto the remaining size of his sex.

"Mark!" You yelped, hands circling his neck to pry him away from your shoulder.

His lidded eyes met yours, and little dazed and partly apologetic.

"You bit me." You stunned.

"I—"

"It's okay," you said, "just.. not so hard." You thought you saw a flash of a surprised grin but became distracted with the twitch of his full length inside you.

"You're soft everywhere," Mark rasped, his hips rolling into you, slow and deliberate.

The confession made your gums itch and your moan met his groan halfway. You steadied yourself on his chest, feeling the intense drum of his heartbeat. His hips continued to push into you in an untrained attempt.

You aided, rolling into him and feeling the slide along your sensitive insides. You cursed.

The two of you found a disjointed rhythm— Mark matching the sway of your hips with a quick intent, whilst you took your time on him, working to have his length hit that perfect spot which drove you quicker to your orgasm.

Even through the fog of his desire, Mark couldn't help but study the way you reacted to him. How you quivered when he reached the deepest part of you, right where his dick curved into your most sensitive part.

He angled his hips to reach further, and your breath caught in your throat.

Mark's grip on your hips tightened and in a possessive motion he guided your hips further on him replacing your grinding with his strong, quick thrusts.

Your body shook against his, responding to him instinctively and Mark couldn't help but think this is right. This is exactly where I need to be.

Your nails pierced his chest, raking white lines against Mark's skin as his dick pushed you to your orgasm.

"Fuck!" You cried, your body racked with the flood of pleasure reaching every nerve in your body.

Mark was sent over, too, consumed by the fluttering of your insides sucking him in. A guttural groan escaped him with his final, messy thrust. His seed filled your twitching sex, kept inside by his length still filling you whilst the two of you caught your breath.

Both of you stayed, matching pants filling your otherwise silent room.

"Fuck..." you exhaled, half from exhaustion and disbelief. Your mind still swam in the afterglow and you couldn't help but mutter, "It took my last boyfriend forever to..." and as the words left your mouth your heart dropped. Seriously? Mentioning an ex while he's still inside me?

"Continue," he said, a flicker of tension in his eyes.

You hesitated, considering backtracking. "I've... never finished the first time having sex with someone.."

His lips quirked into a smirk. "So does that earn me the title of boyfriend?" he asked, his voice tinged with playful confidence. Without waiting for an answer, he shifted his hips upward, lifting you off the bed with ease. You gasped at the sensation, smacking his chest.

"Don't be arrogant," you shot back, raising yourself off of him with a silenced wince.

You pulled a drawer open, rummaging for an oversized shirt to slip on, and tugged it over your head before heading into the bathroom to clean up the warm mess between your thighs.

When you returned, Mark hadn't moved. But his eyes were fixed on the ceiling as though it were the endless night sky.

"What are you thinking about Mark Grayson?" you asked, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

His gaze shifted to you and something of a smile formed on his lips, but soon dropped to a slight frown. "On my planet, home. Mating— sex, is purely to procreate. I never thought it could be a tool for anything else."

"Sounds boring." You hummed.

Mark remained silent.

It really was just the two of you from then on, living life in a new rhythm, one that included Mark in ways you hadn't considered. He was at your side whenever he had time away from saving the world,

but that still left you plenty of time alone.

The quiet away from Mark allowed you to remain yourself. You—not just the girlfriend of a superhero.

Still, his absence was... undesirable, so it didn't take long for him to decide he needed to make it up to you. He had been away for a week, trapped in another dimension battling a monstrous race, and when he finally returned, he insisted on doing something to make up for lost time. That’s when he took you across the globe on your first trip together.

It was supposed to be a nice time, a way to reconnect. But like most things with him, it ended up being more complicated than either of you expected...

That trip was the first time you two broke up.

"I can't believe you organised this, Mark." You poked your chicken chasseur with a fork, "you can be romantic after all."

"I figured you must've missed me," he replied as casual as ever.

"Probably not as much as you're hoping I did." You grinned over the rim of your champagne glass.

Mark's brow lifted, amused. "No?"

"Well, you left with no warning, no goodbye." You said, tone light but edged with something real.

"I would've," he said, softer.

You sighed, warm but honest, "I know. It's just... hard sometimes, not knowing where you are, or how long you'll be gone."

He leaned in, elbows resting on the table. "But I'm here now. So, you'll spend the night with me."

You blinked, he must've really missed sleeping with you. "That's pretty direct."

"I took you to Paris, it's considered to be earth's most romantic city," He said plainly.

"You think because you took me to Paris I'll just crawl into bed for you?" You asked, sitting back in your seat.

"Yes— and continue the course of our relationship."

You laughed, but it was dry and full of disbelief. "So that's what we are? A transaction? You leave for weeks, take me to a nice place and I give you sex?"

His jaw tensed. "That's not what I meant."

"But it's what you think, isn't it?" You leaned forward, voice low but controlled.

"Don't twist my words."

"Pretty sure I'm hearing them clearly." You sighed, attempting to soften to him, "you can't expect everything to return to the way it was when you're ready, like my life is on pause until you come back. Then you expect me to worship you when you get back?"

His brow furrowed, caught somewhere between frustration and confusion. "I'm trying to fit your pace, your customs."

"I don't need you to fit anything, Mark, I just want you to understand me." You pushed your plate aside to reach his hand, "A relationship isn't about scoring points."

He glanced down at your touch, but instead of taking it, he pulled his hand away, fingers curling tight around the edge of the table. "I'm tired of your people's petty traditions. Will you come home with me tonight or not?"

Your mouth parted in utter disbelief, "No." You said, tossing your napkin on your plate and standing.

Mark quickly followed, his chair scrapping loudly behind him. "I brought you here, you can't leave without me."

"Like hell I can't."

That led to you blowing a thousand dollars on a very long plane ride home.

It was the first time you and Mark broke up, but it wouldn't be the last.

He won you back of course, only because you saw him save two children on the news, you decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The second time the two of you 'broke up' was a tad bit... bloodier.

Mark had taken you to a Christmas market, the kind that lit up at night, with fairy lights strung across every stall, holiday music echoing from an unseen speaker being muffled by laughter and chatter.

It was the kind of place that felt safe and warm, despite the freezing winter.

You'd stepped away from Mark for only a moment, drawn to a stall that sold hand carved snow globes. Each little world held in them were so delicate and sweet. You were smiling, ready to call Mark over to show him one that held a home with a joyful family— when a feeling struck you.

The kind that made your scalp tight and your stomach feel light.

You looked up, eyes instinctively grazing over the people nearby when you landed on a man whose eyes glistened red in the cold. It was a man, mid forties with a glare that pinned you in place.

You straightened, looking over the heads of the crowded market to find Mark.

You spotted his distinctly dark hair and tall frame a few stalls down, half listening to a woman trying to sell him mittens.

You walked to his side, pressing to him and keeping your voice hushed, "let's leave, Mark."

He blinked down at you, "why?"

"There's a guy giving me a look and I am not interested in sticking around to see if he'll try anything."

Mark's expression hardened, not in dismissal but recognition. He stared at your face a moment too long waiting to catch your fleeting gaze to the man. When you did, Mark followed your eye line.

You caught a brief sight of his fists curling before he was gone from your side, leaving you with a strong gust of wind.

"Mark no—" it was too late.

He was already gone.

You stumbled by, weaving through people and muttering apologies to reach him. A tight circle of people had surrounded him and by the time you'd pushed through them, the man was stumbling back, clutching his mouth with a bloodied hand.

Mark's fist connected again, a loud thwack! sounding out. The man dropped like a rag doll to the ground.

"Mark!" You shouted, grabbing the back of his coat—the one you'd just gifted to him, still smelling of the store you bought it from. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"He was looking at you with ill intention," He said flatly, disgusted eyes still on the unconscious man, "just as you said."

"Mark, men look at me. Intent isn't a crime! you can't beat them because they stare!"

"I protected you," he said, eyes cooling when they reached you.

"No, you just attacked someone!" Your voice began to crack at the realised gazes around you. Recording phones, light whispers.

Just then, you caught specks of blood on his collar. It didn't seem to bother him. He was too calm, too sure he'd done the right thing.

"You can't hurt people because you think they're bad. The world doesn't work like that."

"I'll do as I please," he said.

Your chest ached. "Yeah?" You whispered, eyes narrowing. "Then good luck fitting in because I'm not going to babysit some alien psycho." You released your grip on his coat, stepping away.

His expression didn't break, not even twitch and somehow that made it worse.

But, third times a charm, right?

You hoped to God it was when you decided to give Mark his third— and final—chance.

He showed up at your window weeks later, disheveled, like he had forgotten how to dress like a human. His shirt was stained, pants crinkled and still wearing the coat you gave him.

He didn't beg, didn't argue, just said: "I've been learning."

A simple truth, a real promise.

You let him back in, not because he had changed but because he wanted to, for you.

Thankfully, no breakups came about after that. There were missteps, yes—misunderstandings, nights on the couch—but no fights that broke your relationship.

There was growth too, and tenderness. Nights in one another's arms, domestic mornings, and something close to peace.

And it stuck.

So the two of you got married. Not long after, you had a beautiful baby girl.

But really, it was all too good to be true.

The night before you found out Mark's true intentions for coming to Earth—that he was the one who killed the Guardians of the Globe and was going to try and indoctrinate your child into a ruthless empire—he'd made love to you like it'd be the last time.

Things had shifted since your daughter had gotten her powers. Mark was quick to anger from the smallest things, his body was continuously tense in a way it hadn't been in years.

But when he laid you down with soft kisses, you thought maybe this was the Mark you'd missed, until he spoke.

"You know you were the first person I ever experienced this kind of love with." His voice was low and subtly disturbed.

"Mark?" You took his face in your hands, trying to soothe whatever sadness had come over him.

"You'll be the last too."

"Don't talk like that, Mark—" A gasp pulled from your chest as he filled you. You must've had sex with Mark hundreds of times over the years, yet the feeling of his length sliding inside you and the spark it ignited never tired.

It likely felt the same for him, because he halted, regaining the steady pace of his breath.

"I'll never want this with another," he whispered.

"Mark—" He kissed you, enveloping his name on your tongue and hushing any further talk. No, he only wanted moans from you.

His arms encompassed you tightly, as did his smell and taste. Just Mark, all around you and inside.

Too good to be true. You knew it. You had always known it.

read a continuation of this AU here

#invincible #invincible fanfic #invincible x oc #invincible x reader #invincible x y/n #invincible x you #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x y/n #mark grayson x you #viltrum mark #Viltrumite mark x reader smut #mark x reader smut #mark grayson x reader smut #viltrumite mark x reader

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jacesvelaryons · 11 months ago

Note

Can you write something about Jacaerys velaryon x targaryen wife reader

Where she gives birth to a baby that looks like jace and it bothered alicent but they don't care? :3

Saving Face (Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!Reader)

(a/n): i’m sorry this request took over a year but my, what a great idea! i hope you like it

word count: 3.0k

summary: with what was supposed to be a happy moment in the new chapter of your family with jacaerys, only wounds linger when your mother is unhappy with your child's appearance.

warnings: slight angst, family tensions, complicated family relationships, implied incest (the targaryen way), not alicent hightower friendly

request status: OPEN

The joy of his newborn child is nearly eclipsed by the fear that his beloved would be called to face the same humiliation his mother endured upon his birth.

Even in distress, his beautiful wife still looked otherworldly silver hair spun in gold, and with her pale lavender eyes, he would not have that ginger sucker of joy to rob him from this life changing celebration. His relief that his beloved survived the precarious birth, worried about her lithe frame and the prostration it weighed on her during the pregnancy.

His little boy, his beloved son, a fragment of the other half of soul and his own. He is perfect, with his ten little toes and fingers, and he is all his.

Jacaerys is thankful his mother was in the birthing room with him and his wife, breaking protocol (as always) to be with the mother as she went into labour. Without her, he thinks he would’ve been hysterical and lost his mind without her guiding hand and comforting presence in seeing Y/N in distress.

“Where is my mother?” Y/N cradles the babe to her breast, as he suckled in his mother’s warmth and he feels his heart drop to his stomach as her face contorted in disappointment.

The child yearned for nourishment, and the midwives guided the young mother so she could feed the child with her milk.

The Dowager Queen remained unyielding even as her step-daughter arose as Queen, and she was still given some privileges even with her dispute with his mother. The marriage of Jacaerys and Y/N, her youngest daughter, was made as a desperate attempt to patch the two sides together and make peace as his mother sat on the Iron Throne.

Her mother attended the wedding, wearing a dark muted forest green that still appeared obsidian in certain angles, but the flame patterns could not be missed on her gown.

A mockery indeed as if she did not accept his mother’s ascendance to the throne and wanted her small rebellions in forms of cloth, he would not grant her the satisfaction of his reaction, for the sake of the realm and his wife, her daughter. It would be too scandalous to do so.

When his beloved was called abed, all pretense of dignity and calm collapsed underneath him. Whatever confident front he had broke apart as fear consumed him, sweat dripping from his forehead, hands shaking, heart beating wildly as he realized his wife was to cross the barrier between life and death to birth their child.

Seeing Y/N’s clean white robes stained the bed in scarlet as she quickens and the pain increases as the babe nears reminds him of the chills whenever he walks the path from the princess’ chambers to the queen’s, the same path forged in blood when his mother then Princess Rhaenyra, the crown princess and heir to the Throne, had to face the humiliation called upon by her stepmother, now Queen Dowager Alicent.

His blood boils when he sees the auburn former queen walk that path meekly nowadays on her way to see her daughter, as if it was all an act when she had pulled rank and caused so much suffering to his beloved mother. Jacaerys fears his wife, now the Princess of Dragonstone will have to walk those same halls, perform the same walk of shame and mummery with all the courtiers of the Keep to bear witness.

There is no possibility he will allow her to endure the same, he would bring fire and blood to all of Westeros shall she have to face that, yet it brings him relief when he reminds himself that woman is no longer Queen but his mother is, Queen of her own right and first of her name, and yet all the same, that woman is also his mother-in-law, mother to his darling. And grandmother to the child that shares his blood.

Jacaerys never left the side of his wife even when her birth continued onto the hour of the wolf, his hands intertwined with her own, assuring kisses on her temple and cheek and encouraging her when she would cry she wanted to relent. Across from him stood his mother, whose locks resembled her half sister and his wife, an experienced mother who has felt such joy and such sorrow too, with a maternal comfort gained with experience.

He would not allow a woman filled with hate to the brim in her heart to rob him of the joys of fatherhood and the relief of his wife safe and sound after such birth to their babe. Jace felt relief like no other when he began to see the dark haired head of the child crowning, and the guttural, final scream she exerted as the child exited her womb.

Jacaerys comforted and whispered assurances of gratitude and encouragement to his lady wife, that she be reminded how grateful he was of her efforts to grow their family, of her devotion and love for him, and fulfilling her duty with nothing but grace, peppering kisses all over her flushed face.

As he caressed the fine hair of his child much like own while he fed from his mother’s breast, his elated expression dropped as if in a chilling reminder when she asked for her mother. As despicable as that woman was, he could not deny her wishes if it brought her reprieve. Jace smiled and promised her that she would be coming and has been informed of the birth of her new grandchild.

When Y/N was beyond earshot, he approached the young midwife with a hardened gait, grinding through his teeth. “If the Dowager Queen wishes to see the prince, she will make her way here herself. She can walk, can she not?!"

While his wife was preoccupied and in isolation during the last few months of the pregnancy, Jace had made efforts to convince his mother to move the Lady Alicent to the second floor below the palace where the current royal family lived. “To remind her of what she’s done to us and may feel the pain we have endured.” He told Queen Rhaenyra, who was hesitant but accepted afterwards.

Jacaerys marched his way outside the ornate doors where his wife and their babe rested, raising his chin and standing with his chest puffed out, a cold indifferent expression, back straightened and fists clenched white as his wife’s mother made her way up the stairs with difficulty.

In the years since her queenship, the then young queen had begun to develop striking pain all over her body, especially down her spine and legs no matter what the maesters or foreign healers would advise. Jacaerys thought it was fitting for when he would make his mother walk up with him and his newborn siblings, bleeding across the hallways and staircases due to the green queen’s attempt to humiliate them.

Perhaps he is his mother’s son, as diplomatic, gracious, intelligent and cunning as he may be, grudges linger.

He could hear a pin drop as the auburn haired woman nearly stumbled down the final stairs and tripped over her gown, with a few septas rushing over to assist her but he showed no commiseration.

The doors swung open as Alicent limped towards her daughter’s bedside, slightly softening in consolation her daughter was safe in childbirth and the child was kicking like a goat.

“Praise the Mother, my girl.” She brushed her blood-smeared fingers over her silver hair shakily, whispering. He did not miss the glimpse of disappointment when she noticed the dark brown hair of the child, even when the boy had her pale lavender eyes.

Alicent cleared her throat, avoiding the gaze of those around her. “I see that the prince strongly resembles his father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, instinctively reaching towards the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword. “Is that supposed to be a problem, Dowager?” He stomped forward, hovering above his wife and child.

“Not at all, my prince. He is a handsome boy-”

Queen Rhaenyra noticed the tension beginning to develop and interrupted with a smile. “She means no ill, Jacaerys. Merely an observation.”

“An observation?! She wished to have us named as bastards to replace you as heir with one of her spawns and humiliate you.” He raised his voice, accusatory at his mother’s former adversary, and he could feel Lucerys next to him, pulling him away to calm him.

His wife Y/N, exhausted and delirious from the birth, began to grow pale and overwhelmed from the commotion around her, just as her babe broke out in tears and wailed. The Queen ordered everyone but Jacaerys to exit the room and give the family their space. The door shut with a thunderous thud.

…

Hours later, the midwives finished cleaning up the afterbirth, bathed and cleaned the lady and the child before they both fell asleep in new linen sheets and fed.

Jacaerys never left his young family’s side, despondent he had lost his cool, distressing his family during a vulnerable moment, turning what should have been a celebration into an altercation.

He cringed as he could only imagine what the murmurs and whispers about his behaviour and the events that followed with his wife’s mother would share about him. He had brought this upon himself and his family.

AS Y/N began waking from her first rest since the labours, he turned to her as soon as he could hear her rise from her sheets, reaching for her hands in his.

“I have failed you, wife. I should have protected you but I have only raised in anger over old wounds and created altercations when I should have.” Jacaerys felt his tears brim, cheeks red with ignominy and shame.

Her eyes fluttered awake, still weary from the long delivery but visibly more rested already. She shook her head in understanding with an enervated sigh.

“I understand your relationship with my mother has been tense, for what she had done to Her Grace and your family. But I can assure her she has changed, if she is not with me, she is on the knees at the Sept begging for forgiveness and giving alms-”

“She looked at our son the same way she used to look at me and my brothers as children, when she would use her tongue to call us bastards! I fear she will do the same to you and the boy. What good will alms do if she still wishes to see me and our son six feet under ground for the colour of our hair!?” Jacaerys exclaimed, lips quivering in fear as he felt tears brim in his eyes.

Y/N brought their son closer to her arms, only comforted by the sight of her child and her beloved.

“I will handle her, trust me. She thinks I do not pay attention to these things, but I do.” She reaches her free hand to his, unmoving to not wake the babe and squeezes his larger palms into her own.

Jacaerys sniffles, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “I do not wish to drive you apart from your mother, my love. I only worry about you and our family’s safety, and the throne. That you and our son may not suffer on my behalf.”

Their son had just begun to fall asleep in her arms, and she began bouncing him instinctively, quickly gaining the ropes of what it took to be a good mother. Jacaerys knew she would be nothing like her own mother, eagerly learning from his mother Queen Rhaenyra, speaking with other royal and noble mothers and even listening to wet nurses and nannies on how to rear children best.

“Are you sure you can handle this conversation? Would you like me outside or in the room with you?” He asks with uncertainty, not entirely confident with his wife even with her own mother.

The wife of the heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone nods fiercely. “You forget I am a dragon too. We do not bow to these snakes that suck from their prey.”

…

In the overmorrow on the first day of spring, Y/N had just put her son in his cradle, handcrafted in limestone and marble with seahorses and dragons, lined with sheets of silk with pearls and aquamarines, befitting the future King, and the scion of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon.

She hummed as she watched him sleep, having gone through feeding him herself to the surprise of the wet nurses she had followed through, unlike most royalty. She swore she would leave nursing and care to others if she had no other choice.

Underneath sat the hearth of the magenta and mauve swirled dragon egg surrounded by pieces of coal, emitting whirls of smoke that signified the life alive in those eggs. The egg was special as it was the first from her young ride, a nervous flighty thing who only managed to hatch when she found out she was expecting herself, rarely only having one dragon when most on Dragonstone laid many.

As she hums old Valyrian nursery hymns from the crypts of ancient Valyrian text retrieved from the tombs of the Keep’s libraries, she recognizes the steps of her mother without a glimpse.

In her jade hued robes, Lady Alicent was quaint yet undaunted to remind the court of her former standing as once the queen who ruled these halls. A black veil hid part of her auburn hair that turned to flames in certain lighting.

Her mother grimaces with a smile that does not reach her eyes, but relief is painted all over her being. “You are well, daughter? I presume so is the babe.”

Y/N curtly interrupts her. “The babe is your grandson, my child when I am your flesh and blood, mother. Most importantly, he is the future heir to the throne, second in line to my husband.”

Alicent frantically fidgets with her fingers, tugging at her old emerald rings in consternation.

“Of course, yes. His name, Aemon, is fitting for a future monarch.” She could hear the strain in her mother’s words, laced with lies. All her life she had learned those sealed with malice and deceit.

“You forget yourself, mother. My husband and my children are of the blood of the dragon, as do I. You do not understand the ways of the dragon, in your jealousy of wanting to unseat my sister and put Aegon on the throne. Your attempts to disgrace and dispossess my future husband and his brothers has brought the Stranger hanging over mine and my own son’s head!” Y/N chides in betrayal, voice tinged with disbelief her mother would do such a thing.

“Y/N-”

“I could not believe you, mother, that you still harbour such ill will after many years. My marriage with Jacaerys should have buried whatever disagreements you may have had with Queen Rhaenyra, but you value imbuing hate and division on this house more than choosing the peace and stability of this kingdom!”

“Your husband and your son are unbecoming of what Targaryen princes are supposed to look like-” The Dowager attempted to reason, but was impeded as her daughter held an imposing hand towards her.

“Unbecoming? Have you not glimpsed into a mirror? You are nothing of what a Targaryen queen should be, a mere second son’s daughter who brought nothing of value to the throne, and only sought discord to advance her family. Who replaced the Targaryen tapestries with ones of the Seven in hopes of bringing your radicalism to the rest of the kingdom!”

Guards barge in the doors of the babe’s nursery, their armour and swords clattering loudly in the quiet hall.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Y/N coldly turns away from her mother, even as she frowned the same way she would. “By order of the Princess of Dragonstone with the seal of approval of the Prince of Dragonstone and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,

I order your arrest for treason, and insubordination not only for your past grievances but your efforts to call my son a bastard. You will be stripped of your privileges of Queen Dowager, and turned into a septa who will serve the Seven for all her days.”

The former queen is astonished, struggling among the grips of the soldiers who surround her. “Daughter, you are mistaken, please do not do this to me. For all I have sacrificed for this realm and for your father, you must understand why I am the way I am.” She pleaded on her knees, hands clasped as she cried for mercy.

“No, you have served your ambitions and my late grandsire’s treacherous longing for power and the throne, that you would put the Hightower banners and replace Targaryen customs with the Seven and southern ways, that you would tear the kingdom apart for it. I have given you too many chances, forgiving you and turning the cheek in hopes you have accepted it and at least been happy for me, but I am a fool. I am not as forgiving as my father was to your digressions!”

Y/N paced slowly around her mother, sorrow on her face, but no regret or forgiveness.

“You are lucky I will not be putting you in a cell, because for better or for worse, you are still the mother who birthed me. But you would understand, there is nothing a mother would do to grant protection to her children.”

The princess dazed into the window, grasping onto the rails as she heard her mother being dragged out the halls and stripped of her royal ordinances. She could feel herself biting into her nails nervously after years of no longer doing so.

Jacaerys sauntered carefully, approaching his wife with comfort, rubbing her shoulders and bringing her into his arms, looking down at their son as he slept.

“Was I not too cruel, Jace?” She whimpered, weeping into his arms as she was devastated at whether treating her own kin in such a way was a fatal mistake.

He rests his chin on the top of her head before pressing kisses on her temple. “I understand why this troubles you, wife. As abominable and misguided she was, you still are her blood, her daughter.”

She glimpsed at her son, cooing at him as he quietly sleeps. “As a mother, I want to be nothing like her. My son will never be safe while she is around.”

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sludgewolf · 2 months ago

Text

How they nap with you - Invincible cast

Characters: Mark Grayson, Samanta Eve, Rex Splode, Shrinking Rae, William Clockwell, Powerplex, Mohawk Mark, Sinister Mark x reader (separately) Masterlist Invincible Masterlist Disclaimer: do not copy, repost, take or feed to AI or NFTs anything I post

Mark Grayson / Invincible

Mark mostly sleeps on his back with arm holding you close

Recently he started having more restless sleep, moving around a lot, doing small jerky movements with his arms, kicking in his sleep

and even having nightmares that wake him up in the middle of the night searching for you

Can't seem to sleep well unless you're by his side

you feel guilty for even getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night just to come back to a sad Mark sitting on your bed waiting for you to return

Samanta Eve / Atom Eve

Due to her powers Eve isn't one that likes to have loads of blankets or pillows as she sleeps

her body is like a mini star from how hot she usually runs

so her preferred sleep position is far from romantic, which is butt to butt

just enough contact to assure each other that you're there but no grabbing unless you want to wake up as if you just ran a marathon

and you also run the risk of her snoring from sleeping in a weird angle

nothing really bad, but if you're awake you might hear it

Rex Splode

Now Rex may've had gone through some major personal growth since his very close brush with death,

but sleeping Rex didn't

sleeps like a starfish smack in the middle of the bed no matter what you do

if you do choose to share a bed tho he will sleep on top of you, arms spread and snoring loud

in the off chance you can wake him back up Rex will practically jump off you apologizing profusely, promising to not do that again

but no matter what, in the morning you still wake up in the same position

and no matter how big the bed is, Rex will still seek you out in his sleep to crush you with his body

Rachel / Shrinking Rae

Rae enjoys sleeping on her side, blankets only over her waist holding you close

She doesn't snore nor move much from that position, once she's asleep she's out

one of the best napping partners tbh

though you do need to get used to her shoving her face in your chest as she sleeps

William Clockwell

William is a true sweetheart, always considerate but brutally honest when needed

that's not him when sleeping

When asleep will is so selfish and he doesn't even realize

he has the horrible habit of hogging all the blankets, leaving you to freeze in your cold dorm room

just to later on kick them all off the bed

once he gets cold again he smushes you against the wall, spooning you like a koala

he just isn't the worst bed mate because his hugs are the best there are

Scott Duvall / Powerplex

Scott used to be an angel in his sleep, didn't move much, no snoring, knew how to share blankets

but since his sister and niece tragic passing it all changed

now Scott is restless, he moves a lot during his sleep, sometimes even waking you up with it

he also sleep talks, which is kinda funny when you can hold a whole conversation with him but not so much when you absolutely need to sleep

Not to mention his frequent nightmares that wake him up in tears, always repeating that day as if torturing him in his sleep

For both of you to have a proper night of sleep you need to hold him still with a death grip to help him calm down

and also to prevent him from accidentally slapping or zapping you

Mohawk Mark

Pushes you off the bed as soon as your guard is down and laughs at your surprised yelp of pain

if anyone even thinks of doing anything similar to you he'll rip their arms off and torture them until they die the slowest most agonizing death he can think of

Sinister Mark

don't

#invincible #invincible show #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #atom eve x reader #samanta eve x reader #rex sloan x reader #rex splode x reader #shrinking rae x reader #william clockwell x reader #scott duvall x reader #powerplex x reader #mohawk mark x reader #sinister mark x reader

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cosmicwavelengths · 3 months ago

Text

slip 'n slide

minors, DNI! - 18+ only pairing: bucky barnes x reader summary: one day, you admitted to bucky that no one had ever made you squirt like that... and naturally, he took this as a challenge.

a/n: happy saturday! i was hoping to write something like this at some point. it's a bit of a quick one, but i hope you enjoy!

cw: smut (just... ridiculously smutty), bucky forces reader to squirt, pet names, pwp/pnp :3, love bites/hickeys, explicit language

wc: 1.4k | masterlist | ao3 ────୨ৎ────

“Are you serious?”

You groan out with embarrassment hiding your face in the sheets. “Don’t make me say it again…”

Bucky chuckles lightly, before reaching over and stroking your hair with his flesh hand. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart.”

You shoot up dramatically, turning over to look at him. “Well, it’s not entirely their fault. I figured that I was maybe… faulty? I dunno, it’s just never happened before…” you trail off shyly, flush creeping up your neck. “It’s a ‘me problem.’”

Bucky smiles lazily at you, blue eyes displaying a hint of mischief. He brings his metal hand up, and you shudder lightly when you feel the tips of his fingers begin to trace the outside of your thigh. “Would you let me try?”

You nod at him, eyes blown and lips parted. It took you an embarrassingly short time to get worked up, feeling the fabric of your panties stain with your wetness. You rub your thighs together in an effort to stave off your arousal. “Please?”

It wasn’t long before he had you on your back mewling for him. You writhe under him, desperately trying to angle yourself up to his mouth. “Bucky… please don’t tease me,” you pout. “Your pussy is so perfect, what did I ever do to deserve you, angel?” He murmurs to himself, dragging his thumb through your folds. You keen loudly at this, hardly being able to contain yourself. “Bucky!”

At that, he begins sucking on your clit. You moan out, your hands scrambling to tug his long locks. “Oh God, yes, Bucky!” He groans at how eager you sound, causing vibrations to travel up your core. “Please don’t stop, please!” He kisses your clit gently, before returning to eating you out like a starving man. He fucks you with his tongue, eager to taste your arousal before it comes out. He traces the tender flesh of your clit with his teeth, sending shivers up your spine. You grind uncontrollably against his tongue as it flicks up and down your slit. You couldn’t help but yank his hair roughly so hard that Bucky himself felt lightheaded. Your body shakes, back arching as you moan Bucky’s name out.

Lapping at your folds, he slides his longest fingers in. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperately chasing your release. “Fuck,” you moan out. “Please make me cum, Bucky! Can I cum, please?” He grunts out a response, still busy tracing swirls into your clit. He reaches up with his metal hand, gathering your wrists in his grip and pinning you down. His fingers hit a sensitive part of your walls, which spells your end. You can only cry his name out before you’re clamping down on him again, pleasure washing over you.

He pulls his fingers out, whistling as he watches his fingers shine with your arousal. “My, won’t you look at that. Shit, you’re so wet for me. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he sighs. “Careful not to have a heart attack, old man,” You giggle. You yelp when he swats the inside of your thigh. “Don’t brat me,” he warns, eyes flashing at you dangerously.

He rises, coming over you to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. He trails his kisses down your neck, lingering in a few spots to leave behind dark red bruises. Groaning, you grind yourself softly into his clothed crotch, his erection causing it to tent harshly. “Bucky, fuck me, please, I need it. I need you.” He moans at your wantonness. “Sure thing, don’t say I don’t do anything for you.”

He leans up, unzipping his pants and pulling out his hardened cock. He strokes himself a few times before lining up with your folds. “Ready for me, angel?” he asks, gazing into your eyes. “Yes,” you whisper into the air. “Please, Bucky, I need you inside.”

He grins, stroking your cheek softly. “You’re such a good girl.”

He presses your knees into the mattress as he works open your pussy with the head of his cock. You sucked in a harsh breath, trying to adjust to his size. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, unable to resist how tight your pussy feels around his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful f’me,” he grunts out. You whine uncontrollably as he sets a rough, short pace. “Please ruin me, Bucky.” He starts to fuck you in earnest, trading out the short strokes for long, deep ones. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, unable to take the pressure. “Fuck,” he hisses, bitting harshly into the side of your shoulder.

You wail out, squeezing him harshly. God, you squeeze him like he had never felt before. Your cunt flutters wildly around his cock, making his head spin. You’re almost there and he can feel it.

“C’mon, I feel it coming. Let me have it, doll,” he beckons you between thrusts. “Let. Me. Have. It.” Your eyes roll into your head again as you fill the room with loud, wet sounds of your arousal. He continues to pound deeply into you, causing the headboard to slam against the wall rhythmically.

“Look me in the eyes while I fuck you. You’re doing such a good job taking my cock. I need to feel you cum, darling.”

“No! Stop, Bucky, I can’t do it! I can’t!” You choke out a sob, squirting and soaking the bed below you and his thighs with your clear liquid. Your orgasm hits you harshly, sputtering as waves of pleasure course through you. You babble mindlessly as he puts all his strength into his final thrusts. Your cunt convulses around his cock, causing his breath to hitch in his throat. Your nails scratch down his back, shoving him over the edge aggressively, filling up your overstimulated pussy with load after load of his cum. You pant together, trying to catch your breaths.

You stay wrapped up for a moment, reveling in the moment. Bucky holds you as your body twitches. You can feel every part of him, how his skin feels sticky with sweat under your thighs. How the scent of his cologne sticks to your nose. You throw your head back, a small smile etched into your face. Brought about by a sudden tiredness, your eyelids grow heavy.

He rolls over next to you, propping himself up on his arm. “So?” he inquires, poking your cheek softly. “How did I do?” You continue to lie there nearly motionless, still in complete bliss. “I think the state of our sheets show how well you did,” you joke, rolling over to poke his cheek back. “I still can’t believe you made me do that.” He chuckles, smiling bashfully. “Anything for my girl.”

Bucky rolls closer to you, pressing kisses over your neck where he had previously left marks. You squirm, giggling as his teeth lightly tickle your neck. He puts his teeth harder into the flesh by your collarbone, sucking in another dark, needy mark. “Careful,” you warn. “Don’t want to start anything you can’t finish.”

He brings his fingers down to your cunt again, teasing. “Who said I won’t be finishing you? Be good for me.” He slowly slides in his middle finger. You sigh into his touch, heat pooling in your lower abdomen. “Bucky?” You caution, unsure of his next move. He circles his thumb lightly over your clit, trying to be gentle due to your overstimulation. “Please, Bucky, right there!” Humming deeply, he feels how he mixes around his cum with your arousal with his fingers.

The precise robotic movements of his fingers push you closer and closer to the edge. A guttural sound pours from his lips as he feels the familiar clench of your pussy around his fingers. You sob, losing yourself in the wonderful pleasure of his fingers. He presses continuously against that soft spot inside you, forcing you to arch into his touch.

“Bucky, Bucky, Oh my God, Bucky, Please?”

One roll of his fingers, a swipe of his thumb over your swollen clit, and you’re cumming on his fingers again, shuddering and shaking in his arms. Your whiny, pathetic moans echo in the room, only to be matched by the sound of your sopping wet cunt. He helps you through the aftershocks of your orgasm before sliding his fingers out again.

Staring into your eyes, he takes his arousal-soaked fingers and puts them in his mouth. “That’s my girl.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes / reader #bucky barnes / you #bucky barnes #mcu #mcu fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader smut #female reader #reader insert #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction

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bluemerakis · 4 months ago

Text

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ cream pie ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ munch .ᐟ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, reader somewhat oblivious to the obscene meaning of munch, tooth-rotting fluff, mentions of a sexual!cream pie, mild food play, finger-sucking, oral f receiving, pet names. pls lmk if i forgot any!

synopsis ─ dean’s always poked at you for being a slow-eater. likewise, you’ve always poked at him for being a fast-eater—going so far as to accuse him of an early death should he continue at that pace. so, on the night of his birthday, he decides to make a change to his eating habits, becoming deliberately slow in his meal’s devouring. only, that meal is you.

word count ~ 5.4k

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The doors to the diner announced the next newcomer with a shrill tinkle of bells, and by the nature of human curiosity—or a hunter’s paranoia—you found yourself glancing past Dean to witness a little girl ushered inside by an older woman.

You circulated a mouthful of fries as you watched the child bound over to the front counter, short, stubby finger outstretched to prod at a large print of the most obnoxiously decorated milkshake you’d ever seen—a mound of cream, candy and sprinkles that must’ve accounted for half the drink’s weight.

“Scoutin’ out for Sammy?” Dean asked suddenly—the words muffled by the burger he’d taken to devouring almost instantly after it’d arrived. Not even five minutes ago.

You forsook the view of the little girl to tune into the booth’s space, where the Winchester sat across from you with cheeks that had grown comically round. You couldn’t help but briefly stutter on your ground fries, perplexed by the plate that he’d wasted no time in clearing out. All that was left was the half-eaten burger currently clutched between his talons, where his lips closed in on to wrap around the bread-cocooned glory. The fries that had previously formed the burger’s first line of defence had not stood a damn chance.

With a thick swallow of your morsel, you cleared your throat to voice your concern—Dean’s question hurled out the current window of care. “Where the hell did all your food go, Dean? It literally just got here!” You reached across the table to take up your glass of water, downing a much needed sip that moistened the walls of your throat after the fries had brushed it dry on their downward journey.

Observing Dean, you almost felt like you were intruding on some intimate moment between himself and his burger, which he currently ogled from every angle in search of his next, perfect bite—yet to swallow down the last bite he’d taken. The appetite on this man was astounding. And so was the seemingly unlimited mouth space that he seemed to cram full squirrel-style, given any and every chance.

At your perplexed pry, the Winchester strayed from his guilty pleasure to grace you with a stupidly triumphant look, his vigorous chewing coming to a halt. “Just gave it a tour o’ my insides,” he mumbled grossly, eyes narrowing with smug amusement while he went out of his way to part his lips in a messy, food-kissed smile—just to get a rise out of you.

“Stop that!” You groaned, hand coming up in a defensive spread to shield yourself against the view of the chunky stew plastered along his teeth. “You’re disgusting,” you added with a meek giggle, chin perking slightly as you attempted to peer at him over the jagged horizon of your fingers.

You caught his Adam’s Apple bopping with a hefty swallow, the lump striding down the lean length of his neck, and it was a sight that made you feel safe enough to lower your hand once more. You watched him pass his tongue across both oil-kissed lips, savouring the essence with a pleasurable hum and smack of his mouth—like he’d never known the first thing about table manners. He passed the remainder of his burger to one hand, the other now freed to gesture in your direction.

“Hey!” he began—a clearer, more sophisticated sound. “I get my hands on somethin’ as delicious as this, I show her a good time,” he explained with a laughable seriousness. “You, of all people, should know this.”

You’d taken to plopping another fry into your mouth while he spoke, but at that last sentence, you dusted the lingering salt grains from your hands and made a hasty swallow before answering. “That you’re a munch?” You established innocently.

Dean perked at the observation you’d made many dinings prior—wore the title like a badge of honour. “Damn right I am, baby—and this was a damn preview,” he said with a charming wink, one that entertained his own, mental scheme.

“A preview of what?” You tested with a confused grin.

Dean’s glare turned the type of determined he usually reserved for an exhilarating hunt, his lips quirking with the utmost pleasure that you’d asked. “You, me, and your good friend down south—later tonight—” he began enlightening, but neglected to finish the sentence as he brought the last of his burger to his lips. Then, they crashed down onto the buns in an obnoxious motion—gluttonously garnering every inch into the compartment of his cheeks.

He began chewing with difficulty, at first, but no look of panic flashed across his features, despite your own worry that he might’ve started choking at any instant. Then, he rolled the empty burger wrapper between his palms, eyes droning into you with an unvoiced expectancy while his jaw circulated like a cow’s. You returned his stare with a cluelessness, taking a second to mull over his incomplete sentence—and it was then that his insinuation clicked into place.

Your cheeks flushed hot at that, the hands you’d nestled at either side of your plate drawing into fists. “I was talking about the food!” You said accusingly, his innuendo drawing a disbelieved laugh from your lips.

“Yeah, no, that ain’t what munch means, sweetheart,” Dean said smoothly, rocketing the crushed wrapper into the air before catching it and plopping it down onto his plate. His palms then came together in a scheming rub, eyes lowering to the menu beside his emptied plate. “Speakin’ of food,” he hummed thoughtfully, and you lifted your chin to get a better view of the options he was scanning through. Light meals.

You shook your head lightly, turning your attention back to your own plate. “You’re going to implode,” you remarked.

“Hey—drop the freakin’ fuss,” he grumbled indignantly. “‘Cause it just so happens that shit’s on the house for this birthday dude,” he added, hands coming up to gesture to himself almost proudly. “And I’ll be damed if I don’t do somethin’ ‘bout it.”

You flashed him a hopeless smile, but didn’t push him on his appetite any further. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen Dean so unbothered and chirpy. As of now, life had been good—great, even. Bobby had offered to take care of this week’s hunts in order to free up Dean’s schedule, giving him the time to celebrate an event he hadn’t deemed worthy of a celebration for a long, long time. And Sam—ever the content third-wheel to you both—had taken the afternoon to kill time in his own Sam ways.

The deal you’d struck with the younger Winchester was that he get the morning to entertain Dean’s birthday, and you get the afternoon. The brothers were up at the crack of dawn to motor it over to some shooting range, where they’d completely obliterated the targets—earning dubious glances from the other, inexperienced hobbyists. You’d thought about asking why they’d opted for picking up a gun on their off-days, but Dean had returned with such a beaming smile that you’d swallowed the question entirely.

The only thing that mattered was that he was happy. Enjoying himself.

Eventually, Dean let out a decided exclamation, index finger coming down on the table to single out an option amongst the menu.

Your head lifted curiously. “What you got there?” You asked, plopping a fry into your mouth.

“The best thing to exist after cars,” he answered vaguely and with a playful waggle of his brows, his head then averting to do a sweep of the diner.

“With how easily amused you are, that could be narrowed down to an endless amount of shit,” you scoffed lightly.

“T-t-t,” he silenced with a finger in your direction, eyes still doing an intent scan of the space. When he managed to spot a waitress, it almost looked like his eyes could’ve slipped the keep of his sockets. His lips pierced to execute a perfect whistle, hand waving through the air to beckon her over—which she made haste on.

You turned your attention to the waitress as she pranced on over, fluster heavy in her rosy cheeks and sheepish smile as she glanced between yourself and Dean. “What can I get for you both?”

“One o’ these bad babies, please,” Dean requested with a show to the menu, hands then coming up in a thankful clasp as the waitress nodded lightly in response. “Sweet,” he murmured contently, his attention turning back to you. “Anythin’ for you?” He asked politely, but the hitch of his singular brow as he glanced between you and your stacked plate told you that he knew the answer.

“I’m good, thanks,” you told the waitress, who gave a small nod before scampering off. You turned back to Dean with a light shake of your head. “Oh, I know your heart hates you. You’re going to die an early death at this pace,” you scoffed, glancing down to where you began picking through your cooled fries in search of the crispy pieces.

“Yeah, whatever, happy deaths,” he answered lightly. “You gonna eat any o’ that?”

You glanced up to Dean’s famished eyes hounding the pot of edible gold still crowning your plate. “Yes, I’m gonna eat it!” You answered almost instantly. “I’m starving!”

“Well, you don’t look it,” he scoffed with a dramatic widening of his eyes—like he couldn’t believe you’d fault him for asking when your plate currently housed twice the calories of his. “Man, if my heart hates me, then your stomach hates you—teasin’ it like this with the one bite an hour ritual you’ve got goin’. You’re playin’ hard to get with the damn thing,” he huffed amusedly.

“It’s called savouring it,” you retorted with a light shake of your head. “You should try it some time.”

“Hey—I savour plenty, alright?” His brows perked pointedly, eyes lowering down your figure and straying to some view below the tabletop, where they lingered with a mischievous tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

You caught on immediately, apples of your cheeks rounding with a grin. “I can’t even with you,” you sighed dramatically; warmly.

Dean’s eyes lifted back to you, forming a wink that he’d come to reserve just for you. “And yet you do, anyways,” he chuckled, then straightened in his seat with some new resolve. “Alright, c’mon—start stuffin’ up on fries. For every bite you don’t finish, your ankle’s gettin’ ganked—” he paused to reinforce the threat by nudging the toe of his boot against yours, “—and then I’m eatin’ whatever’s left.”

“What are you—five?” You giggled, and then his boot came forward to deliver the first of its taps against your ankle. You let out a squeal despite its gentle nature, hand flying forward to scoop up a handful of fries with a grin heavy on your lips.

Dean’s arms crossed as he watched you with equal amusement. “It’s called buildin’ character,” he said. “Consider this your motivation to eat faster.”

“Maybe you should try eating slower!”

He tsked in response to that, then offered a tiny nod. “Yeah, alright, alright, I’ll try it sometime,” he entertained, jerking his chin at you. “C’mon, wrap it up and we’ll go half on that apple pie I ordered.”

⋆ .˚⋆ ≐ ⋆ ˚.⋆

On the drive back to the motel, Dean had rattled Baby’s entire infrastructure with some deafening rock, his jaws testing out new heights as he accentuated every tune with utmost enthusiasm. He’d glanced your way a couple of times to enlist you into his self-hosted concert, still blaring along to the music, but you’d only managed to pick up on a few phrases here and there through your time spent as an audience to his hunting playlists.

Whenever a song came on that you recognised, you’d chime in to harmonise with Dean in a word or two before dropping off and taking to watching him ensue into musical madness, a grin heavy on your lips. God, you loved him. You loved him so much. And you loved seeing him recognise how much of his free-will he could cash toward buying his own happiness, instead of worrying about everything and everybody else—especially on a day like today.

The drive back to the motel was a cheery one you’d mentally documented as a day to remember. When you’d eventually pulled up at the motel, Dean had laid the engine to rest with an intense glance in your direction—one that you’d come to recognise as something to question. Because if you didn’t, there was no telling what was on a mind as carefully guarded as his.

You met his gaze with light confusion, acknowledging the silence he’d coupled with his dramatic shift in demeanour. “Is everything okay?”

Much to your relief, Dean’s features grew soft, his lips spreading with a thankful smile. “Everythin’s perfect,” he soothed quickly, but no less gentle. “Just. . . thinkin’ ‘bout today—how you and Sammy went outta your way to make this day so freakin’ awesome. I appreciate it—I do,” he added with a light chuckle, his head tilting slightly as he drank you in with love-struck eyes.

You shifted across the seat until your leg was flush against Dean’s, your hand coming up to gently cradle his jaw. “First off,” you began, thumb stroking gentle lines over the apple of his cheek, and you felt the unbridled weight of him melting into your hold—because he’d always felt safe enough to entrust all of him to all of you. “When it comes to you, nothing will ever be out of the way. You’re worth the time—worth taking that moment to think about how we can celebrate the man who tries so hard to keep us all together. You’re always jumping at the opportunity to do things for everybody else, but tonight—on your night—I’m going to honour everything that you are. And reflect on how blessed the world is to have its very own Dean Winchester. How blessed I am.”

Dean’s eyes twinkled at that—like a starstruck fanboy—and you felt honoured to be the recipient of his admiration. His love.

“Secondly,” you continued. “This day is all about you—officially, and everything—there’s a birth certificate out there to prove it. But I want you to know that you’re the type of person worth celebrating every single day. And I do, quietly—with every glance I steal of you because I’m just so thankful that we exist at the same time. And even in a life that gets as shitty as ours, I’m glad that it’s you I get to share the small breaths of a break with—you that I’m laughing it up with over a burger and beer, you that I get to share a cuddle with each night that feels like it could fend off every worry, and you, in all that you are, reminding me every single day of what good looks like—and why this world is worth saving. You’re the face of all things precious and scare in this world, Dean.”

At those words, Dean cracked with a twitch of his lip, giving rise to a smile that was simultaneously hurt and healed. As he gazed into your eyes, you saw their beautiful, green depths begin to glimmer at the borders. At the first comprehension of his growing tears, he was quick to dip his head into concealment, jaw turning an inch to catch his lips onto the hand you’d cradled his cheek within.

There, in thick silence, he pressed a long and tender kiss to your palm—as though trying to brand himself with the taste, touch and scent of you. A gesture to remind you just how much of himself he’d devoted to loving you, living for you, and embracing everything that you meant to him in ways that didn’t always embody words.

You sat there for a few seconds, watching as he became one with you—choosing you as his safety confines while he worked to sort through the feelings he’d never been apt at acknowledging this gently; vulnerably. Eventually, he stirred from your hold, but not to forsake it entirely, his hands outstretching to frame you tenderly at the neck.

“God, I love you,” he whispered with a shuddered breath, the tears he’d tried to quell with a moment of silence proving to be stubborn. But they came as gentle streams, providing just enough moisture to cast a soft sheen amongst his cheeks. “I love you so damn much,” he reinforced—the sound gruff, raw and passionate—and then his lips were pressed against yours with a hunger that felt desperately pushy and shy all at once.

You reciprocated the kiss with equal devotion, hands coming up to wrap around his wrists as you steadied yourself within his passionate grip. His thumbs rubbed gentle lines down the ledge of your jaw as his kiss continued to deepen—not particularly lustful, but just a very physical, passionate vow of loyalty. A show that he was yours, and all yours.

For a while, your lips remained entangled in a fervent dance, the world all around you dissolving into nothingness. What was out there didn’t matter, anyway, not when your whole world was right here, right beside you.

⋆ .˚⋆ ≐ ⋆ ˚.⋆

Back in the motel, you and Dean had slunk inside with the intent to not wake up Sam—only to find that when you’d flicked on the lights, the younger brother was nowhere in sight. For a second, you both stood in dumbfounded silence, heads swinging to scan the modest space that he couldn’t have possibly been hidden away in—not with the height on him.

Then Dean let out a soft noise of realisation as he left your side to stroll into the kitchen, hand outstretched to pluck a note from the fridge’s barren door. He brought it toward him with a focused furrow of his brows, eyes scanning over the information before he let slip a smug chuckle.

You wandered over to Dean curiously, and just then, he turned to you with the note waving about. “Sammy’s slipped out for the night—called a cab and said us naughty teens could have the place to ourselves,” he explained with a heavy, cheeky undertone as he glanced you over.

You drew up beside him with a smile to entertain his implications, arms coming up in a cross. “Oh, yeah? Guess we better make the most of it, then,” you murmured, leaning yourself against the counter bordering the fridge.

Dean wandered close enough for the fabric of his jacket to graze your arms, head lowering to yours in a painfully slow manner. “Hm. . . what’d ya have in mind?” He asked before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then to the bridge of your nose.

Your nose scrunched playfully beneath his lips, eyes screwing shut at his very welcomed trespass. “I think—” you began, but were quickly silenced by the press of his lips against yours. After a few, greedy kisses with a point to prove, he pulled away to let you finish. “I think,” you repeated with a breathless laugh, eyes falling open once more. “You get the gist of it.”

“Think I damn well do,” he grinned, coming in for round two, but you stopped him with a finger to the lips.

“Not so fast, Casanova,” you steadied with a smile, making a point to tap his lips before pulling away. “I’ve got a little surprise for you, first.”

“What—it ain’t this?” Dean said ruefully, gesturing to all of you. “C’mon, man, quit teasin’ me.”

“I’m not teasing you,” you giggled before pushing yourself off the counter to round him in favour of the fridge. “I made you something.”

He hummed interestedly. “Well, colour me intrigued,” he drawled, turning to face you as he leaned himself against the counter to watch after your every move.

You opened the fridge and briefly ducked inside, rounding onto the point of your toes to grab the mystery meal off the top shelf. Beside you, Dean uttered a whistle of admiration, and you scoffed at his apparent leering. You lowered yourself with the prize in hand, shifting it to a one-sided grip as your free hand moved closed the door.

Dean studied the dish with interest as you strode over to him and placed it onto the counter. A part of you felt a sense of annoyance as you reflected back to the diner, where he’d gone and ordered himself two slices of pie despite your protest. You hadn’t wanted him to have his fill of it before tonight, where the dessert pie you’d baked him had been waiting for its time to shine.

Slowly, you pulled back the wrapping to reveal the dish—a dainty cream pie.

Dean took a moment to flutter his lashes, his lips forming a thoughtful pout—like he was trying to find the right words to decline your offer. You’d been afraid of this very reaction after he’d eaten enough pie for the next month. “More pie?” he remarked with an almost pained expression.

You let out a loose scoff, tossing the wrapping onto the counter. “I told you not to order another slice of pie at the diner!” You exclaimed, head shaking lightly.

“Yeah, but I just thought you were hasslin’ me over the eatin’ thing—not because you went and baked an entire one,” Dean laughed before moving to take a swipe at the topped cream. You watched as he crowned the pad of his index finger with a considerable cluster, then brought it up to his lips for a taste. After swallowing the smooth sweetness, he smacked his lips appreciatively. “But this tastes freakin’ amazing,” he praised with a warm grin. “Thanks, baby, I’ll savour it as much as the diner’s pie.”

“You’ll do that and more,” you shot back with a pretence of annoyance, but you couldn’t fend off the grin peaking through. “Cause it was hard work making this thing!”

He cocked a brow smugly. “Really? ‘Cause when last we hit the sheets, I seem to remember doin’ it in five minutes,” he said pointedly, teeth flashing a lewd grin as he gave an obnoxious wink.

Your jaw dangled at his shameless obscenity—alluding to a few nights ago where you’d begged him for a quickie, and had him finish inside of you. “Dean!” You exclaimed, hand coming forward to swat his arm lightly. “Think you’re a funny man, yeah?”

“I think I’m hilarious,” he replied charmingly, hand diving down to take another swipe at the cream. Just then, he brought it up to your face to slather the side of your cheek, which made your mouth curl around a gasp as you seized up on the spot.

“Asshole!” You sniped with no real anger, hand coming up to wipe some of the cream from your face, but Dean caught you at the wrist before you could eradicate the stickiness entirely.

“Fun-ass,” he corrected cheekily, gaze holding yours as he leaned himself down to wrap his lips around your index finger. You felt his tongue swirl around it to gather the cream, and even once he’d sucked it clean of all tangible sweetness, he kept up the wet whirlpool.

“Dean,” you laughed weakly. “Stop.”

Eventually, he freed your finger from his lips with a jarring pop, his chin wagging subtly with the pride of his action. “What?” He asked innocently, releasing your hand. “I’m just findin’ ways to make eatin’ this pie more excitin’.”

“Very innovative,” you giggled. “And messy.”

“Darlin’, don’t you worry—when I make a mess, I clean it up right after,” he remarked.

Suddenly, you became keenly aware of the cream still slathering your cheek. “Oh, is that so?” You retorted. “Because the records aren’t exactly reflecting right now.”

Dean’s hands came up in a gesture of his defence. “Hey, give me a chance,” he chuckled, then moved to wrap a hand around the nape of your neck. There, his fingers fanned the hair draping your neck, and he pulled you into his frame as his jaw made a dive toward your face.

You felt the warmth of his tongue drag a gentle trail up the curve of your cheek before drawing back to repeat the motion. You squirmed against the humid wetness, hands coming up to his chest as you let out a strained giggle. “That tickles, you weirdo!”

Eventually, he pulled back to face you, and the view of him was silly enough to send you into another giddy fit. The bridge of his nose was dotted with cream, and the trail dissipated along the curve of his glistening lips only to reappear within the divot of his chin.

“You look ridiculous!” You remarked with a warm laugh, finger lifting to wipe some of the cream off the button of his nose and present it to him.

“Yeah, well, you taste delicious,” he mocked childishly, linking his finger with yours to wipe the cream from the tip before plopping it into his mouth. He jerked his chin to the counter behind you, wiping his hands together. “Could ya pass me a paper towel, please? Behind you.”

Just then, an idea sparked to mind—shameless, and a little dirty, but fun. “Don’t bother,” you replied, and Dean’s brows shot up in surprise. Just then, you turned toward the pie, hand coming forward to scoop up an impressive amount of cream.

Behind you, Dean let out a soft huff, like he’d had an idea of what game you were about to play. Turning back to him, you hovered your cream-laden hand out in front of you, your other chaste one slipping beneath the hem of your tank to lift it up the expanse of your stomach. You terminated the stripping beneath the curve of your breasts, revealing enough of your abdomen to spur the Winchester on.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed, his eyes unashamedly lowering down your exposed stomach before darting back to the cream cradled within your palm.

Without a word to spare, you began spreading a slow and messy trail across your stomach—starting at the divot between the curves of your breasts.

“Oh, I think I like where this is goin’,” Dean chuckled absentmindedly, lower lip drawn into a bite as he watched you paint the sticky trail down the length of your stomach—where you stopped just shy of your short’s hem.

Once you’d planted a generous path of cream, you brought your hand up to your lips to lick the last of it from existence, other hand still anchoring your shirt in its unobstructive place. “Rules of the game,” you began with a grin, Dean reciprocating one far more exhilarated. “Leave no mess behind—should be easy for you, he who always cleans up after himself,” you poked lightly.

“Easy?” He tutted cockily. “I’m gonna nail this out the freakin’ park. And then nail somethin’ else,” he added with a wink.

“Okay, mr. Big Talk, enough of the chitchat,” you laughed, free hand beckoning him forward.

Dean obliged with an eager, yes, ma’am, before inching his way toward you, leaning in to place a kiss on your forehead, then at the crook of your neck before he pulled back to gaze you in the eye.

“Happy birthday,” you murmured with an adoring smile.

“Happy freakin’ birthday to me, indeed,” Dean breathed in astonishment, taking a moment to lower his eyes along the candy trail that paved way to his personal jackpot down under before glancing back up at you. Then, with a determined smirk playing at his lips, he ducked from your view.

His hands took up firm grip at your waist, anchoring himself there as his lips took to your cream-kissed skin like the famished jaws of a zombie. Your head lolled back at the sensation of his tongue swirling along your skin, your free hand coming forward to plant itself within the jagged field of his hair. There, your fingers curled around unruly wisps—as if needing to ground yourself against the skilled tongue currently deconstructing your every sense—and your lips parted with a soft moan.

Dean, as if spurred on by that singular, sweet sound, added teeth into the mix, nipping lightly at the surfaces he’d licked clean before continuing to lower himself down your stomach. His grip at your waist became firmer—more desperate—and as if he couldn’t restrain himself any longer, his fingers grazed down your sides to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear. There, he tugged ruthlessly, successfully managing to pull the items down and over the curves of your hips and thighs.

You aided his efforts to strip you with a shimmy of your legs, allowing the clothing to plop to the ground. Shortly after, Dean’s fingers made a return to your waist, his tongue doing one, last greedy sweep of your navel to terminate the creamy line. He pulled back to gaze up at you—nose, mouth and chin slathered with the remnants of your game—but his pupils were blown wide with arousal, his teeth bared in a grin that told you he wanted to taste more of you.

“Jesus, baby, you’re gonna ruin me,” he uttered gruffly, breathlessly, and then without waiting for your input, he dipped into the yearning warmth nestled in the nook of your thighs, where his nose struck your clit with all the right force.

Like a starved and thirsty man deprived of everything essential to life, his tongue swept through your folds with the intent to garner every last inch of you. You let out a loud moan at that, hip collapsing slightly into the support of the counter, but Dean’s hands—anchored at your hips—tightened to remind you of his reliability, pulling you back onto the support of his mouth. There, his grip lowered to your thighs, squeezing lightly before they tightened mercilessly with the intent to grind himself deeper into your warmth.

Tears began to well at your eyes as the stimulation consumed you, head snapping back and eyes screwing shut to get lost in the abyss of Dean’s making. You felt, and heard, every flick and swirl of his tongue around your clit—the sound obscenely audible as wet fluttering—and it was enough to deduce you to a stew of mindless praises.

“Fuck, Dean, fuck,” you breathed—whimpered, tightening your hold within his hair until you were tugging meanly at his scalp. But he didn’t mind it—if anything, it elicited his own grunts of pleasure, which reverberated into your folds and added to the tension you felt building within your core.

He drew your swollen clit into a whirlpool, spinning it round and round his exploitative tongue with a moan of enjoyment. You could have listened to him utter that sound a hundred times over, and it jabbed at your core to know that Dean would never fail to find joy in pleasuring you.

“Fuck, baby, so wet, ‘nd so fuckin’ good,” he murmured against you, the words slurred by his discontent to disrupt the contact—and pace. He made a dive toward your dripping entrance, gathering the amalgamation of saliva and arousal attempting to slip away unnoticed, before he briefly slipped into your entrance.

You let out a broken gasp at that foul move, hips stuttering further into his jaw, but he steadied you upright with an accomplished chuckle to rattle you from within. His tongue retreated to drag back up your folds, re-establishing its rightful place running laps around your clit.

“S’alright, baby, I got you,” he murmured into you, adding fuel to the fire you felt about to erupt within you.

“I’m gonna come,” you muttered breathlessly, thighs clamping around his hold.

Dean gave a hum of approval at that, but kept up his slow and steady pace, only intensifying the stimulation with the pressure of his tongue.

The bundle within you began to grow and grow at your centre, tightening into an inexplicable mass that you craved to let go of. “Fuck,” you spat, eyes clamping shut as you chased your high. “Dean—don’t stop,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

“Ain’t ever stoppin’, baby,” he mumbled, hands squeezing your thigh pointedly.

“Can you. . . go faster,” you stuttered out, eyes faltering open and chin dipping to glance at him. “Please, I need it,” you whined softly.

Dean didn’t stray from his work to glance at you, and his pace didn’t budge, either. “Can’t,” he declined. “Gotta eat slower, remember?” There was a teasing flick across your clit, and you couldn’t help but let out a disbelieved laugh, eyes falling shut once more as you melted into his controlled pace.

“Asshole.”

“Fun-ass.”

──────────────────────

a/n ─ happy birthday to pookie!!! and this is a birthday gift bc dean’s a simple man—he’s a munch. fuck birthday presents & fuck birthday cake, this fucker just wants to devour you. best birthday song? the filth outta your mouth when his tongue’s surfing your clit. said who? me. dean told me. in my wet dreams last night. as a bonus for shits & giggles

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @titsout4jackles @ultravi0lence14 @angelicjackles @starzify @honeyryewhiskey @deansbeer @figthoughts @floralscented @walkslikesummeractslikerain @deansbbyx @whisperingdaze @maddie0101 @lieutenantchaos @spn-reader @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @misatxox

want to become part of the taglist for any future dean winchester works?

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

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daryltwdixon · 2 months ago

Note

Hii I was wondering if you could please write a one shot about Daryl x Grimes!Reader (Rick’s daughter) I was thinking younger Daryl, they gotta keep their relationship secret (Rick thinks his sweet angel is too pure for redneck Daryl). It could be fluff, smut, or both!

Daryl Dixon x Reader || smut MDNI 18+, semi public sex, pinv, secret relationship, rick'sdaughter!reader, farm!daryl, idk im sure there's more tags but im tired. this is a fantasy world where creampies don't equal babies || a/n: anon requested this awhile back and just reminded me of it during my prompt giveaway! I'm sorry this took so long my love!

The wood panels at your back groan again as Daryl drives into you, the tempo of his thrusts like sweet euphoria, each one sending little shocks of pleasure rippling through your spine.

“Fuck—” he grunts into the side of your neck, “If your—” he slams up again, his hands firm under your ass, holding you off the ground with your legs tight around his waist, “If your dad catches us—”

“He won’t,” you breathe, whimpering as his grip tightens. “Just… please, Daryl. Don’t fucking stop.”

“Been waitin’ for this,” he mutters, kissing down your throat, lips dragging over flushed skin. “For so long.”

“I know, baby,” you moan, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging at the short strands at his nape. “You feel so good. So, so good—”

He groans as he sinks into you, your walls fluttering around him, stretched wide by his cock. He's so thick, so deep, and hitting places you didn’t know could ache like this. Your whole body clenches around him when he hikes one leg higher, angling deeper, and the moan that leaves your mouth is ragged, sharp, completely involuntary.

And then—

“Y/N?”

You both freeze.

Rick Grimes. Your dad, your ever present, over-bearing father. His voice is unmistakable drifting from the front of the house.

Your breath catches, eyes going wide. Daryl’s head jerks up like a deer caught in headlights. His body stills inside you, every muscle tense and almost trembling.

The voice sounds far enough away—he’s gotta be in the house, maybe the porch. He hasn’t come around back yet. You’re hidden, mostly. Behind the trees, behind the house. You doubt he'd even see you, hidden behind Daryl's body. At least at first glance. Hopefully.

Daryl starts to pull out, but you catch his face, hands sliding from his sweaty neck to cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. Your lips press into his, warm and open and desperate. He exhales into your mouth, trying to stay quiet as he kisses you back, swallowing the sound of both your sighs.

You pull away just enough to murmur, “Please. Keep—”

“Y/N?” Rick calls again, closer this time.

“Shh,” you whisper, darting a quick glance over Daryl’s shoulder toward the oak trees. “Sh sh sh—just listen—”

Daryl’s jaw clenches, his brow furrowed. “We should stop. Now.”

“Please, Dare,” you whimper, hips rocking gently against him. Your voice is quiet, pleading. “He’s far away. Please, please just fuck me. I need it. I need you.”

His eyes find yours, and suddenly, his mouth crashes into yours again, tongue sweeping in as he starts to move. Slow and shallow at first, he's trying to stay quiet even though every part of him is shaking. The quiet thump of his hips against yours, the creak of the siding, the faint wet sound of him sliding in and out—it’s all too loud in the open Georgia afternoon.

“Christ,” he breathes against your mouth, “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

He groans, forehead pressed to yours as he fucks you deeper now, picking up speed. Every thrust drives a breath from your lungs, your legs tightening around his hips. You’re so close—so fucking close—and the fact that your dad is somewhere nearby, calling your name, just makes it worse. Better. Hotter.

“Dare, I-I'm so close—” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Please, Daryl—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” he pants, breath warm against your cheek, “Yeah, I got you, sweet girl. Come on my cock. Feels so good, don't it? Fillin' you up? Splittin' you open, huh?”

He shifts, angling just right as his filthy words tumble into your ear, hitting that spot that makes your whole body jolt. Your head slams lightly against the siding, eyes rolling back as heat coils low and tight in your belly. Your thighs tremble around his waist.

Daryl groans low in his throat, the sound strained and messy. “So fuckin’ tight, girl, holy shit—don’t stop squeezin’ me like that—”

You bring your head up to bite his shoulder just to keep from crying out, your orgasm hitting hard and fast, your body pulsing around him as you fall apart in his arms. He holds you tighter, fucking you through it, chasing his own end now, his rhythm going sloppy.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his head falling against your chest, “Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You clutch at him, nails scraping down his back, pulling him as deep as he’ll go. “Do it,” you whisper, still breathless, still pulsing around him. “Come inside me, Daryl, come on—”

He groans into your neck, loud and broken, and you feel the twitch and heat of him spilling inside you as his hips stutter, buried deep. He holds you there, both of you trembling, breathless and flushed and wrecked in the golden light.

Your limbs go loose around him, boneless with satisfaction, and you laugh softly into his shoulder.

Daryl’s still holding you up, still inside you, his face buried against your collarbone. When he lifts his head, there’s a dazed kind of awe in his eyes. He smiles—soft and real, like he can’t believe he actually got to have you.

You giggle, light and breathy. “Told you he wouldn’t—”

The words die in your throat.

The sound of boots crunching in dry grass cuts through the quiet. You hear the swish of tall grass, the steady tread of someone rounding the side of the house.

Both of you freeze—tangled, sweaty, completely exposed.

And then Rick Grimes steps into the sunlight.

You, pinned against the back of the farmhouse, skirt bunched around your hips, legs locked around Daryl’s waist. Daryl’s pants are half-down, his hand still gripping your ass, his cock still buried inside you. Sweat clings to both of you, and your mouth is open, chest rising and falling.

Daryl doesn’t breathe.

Rick doesn’t blink.

“Oh, God,” you whisper.

Your dad's voice is low, furious, deadly:

“What the fuck—”

#ask daryltwdixon #requests #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon fanfic #the walking dead #twd daryl #the walking dead daryl #daryl #daryl x reader #daryl twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl one shot #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon fanfiction

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mugglebornmarvelite · 4 months ago

Text

Teddy Bear Bucky

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: For once, the usually tense and stoic soldier is completely at ease, making for an amusing sight when someone finds you asleep on Bucky's chest.

Word Count: Roughly 1.3k

Warnings: Fluff, death threats (playful), roughhousing, chaos, chasing, and brief mentioning of Bucky's past if you squint.

Part 1: Sunshine in His Shadows

P.S. It can be read as a stand-alone, but if you want to know how it led up to this point, part 1 is above :)

Navigation

Divider by: @strangergraphics

The morning sun poured through the compound windows, its warm rays spilling across the living room, casting a soft glow in the room. You were nestled soundly on top of Bucky, curled into him like he was your personal, oversized teddy bear. His head rested against the back of the couch, one arm protectively wrapped around you. For once, he wasn’t tense or scowling; he was completely relaxed, a rare sight for someone so used to being on edge for years.

And if you squinted, there was a faint smile on his face.

Steve walked past the living room but came to an abrupt halt at the sight. His eyes widened, and he rubbed them as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, a grin spread across his face. A shit-eating grin at that.

"Oh, this is gold," he whispered to himself, eyes lighting up with the realization of what he had to do. With a quiet chuckle, he darted off, eager to recruit to show others.

A few minutes later, Steve returned, followed by Natasha and Sam. Natasha glanced at the scene, then raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk curling at the corners of her mouth. Sam, however, wasn’t wasting any time. He pulled out his phone with a wicked grin, his camera aimed at the precious moment unfolding in front of him.

“This is too good to pass up,” Sam murmured, crouching low to get the perfect angle. “Grumpy Barnes being used as a human pillow? For his sunshine no less? This is legendary.”

Natasha sipped her coffee with a knowing smirk. “He’s totally going to kill you for this, right?”

“Yeah, well,” Sam grinned, swiping through his phone. “I’ll send out the picture before he forces me to delete it. The old man doesn’t understand technology.” His fingers tapped out a message to Wanda, who’d probably get a good laugh out of it.

The sound of a camera shutter clicked softly, but just as Sam thought he was in the clear, Bucky stirred beneath you. His brow furrowed slightly, and for a split second, everything seemed still. Then, the faint creak of a floorboard sent Bucky’s instincts into overdrive. His eyes shot open, scanning the room like a hawk, before landing on the source of his irritation: Sam, his phone raised triumphantly, with Steve and Natasha struggling to hold back laughter in the background.

Before Bucky could fully react, you shifted against him with a groggy groan. You blinked your eyes open, still half-asleep, and found yourself looking up at him in confusion.

“Bucky? What-?”

It only took a moment for the embarrassing realization to hit. You had somehow fallen asleep on top of him, completely unaware. Your face flushed as your eyes widened, and you started to apologize, but before you could even say a word, Bucky gently but swiftly lifted you off him, placing you back on the couch.

He stood, as though trying to shake off any evidence of what had just happened, then grabbed a blanket nearby and tucked it around your shoulders, making sure you were comfortable and warm.

“Stay warm, sunshine,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough but strangely tender.

Sam, unable to contain himself, burst out laughing. “Oh, man, I’m framing this one. You look like a giant grizzly bear trying to babysit a kitten.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened with a glare so intense, it could’ve burned a hole through Sam. His voice was low and dangerous. “Delete it. Now.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I didn’t do anything! Steve told me!” Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was impossible to hide.

Bucky’s focus shifted to Steve, who was pretending to be innocent. “Hey, don’t blame me! I had to tell someone what I saw. Kill him, not me.”

“See you, sucker!” Sam snickered, bolting for the door, phone clutched in his hand tightly.

“Hey, wait!” Steve scrambled after him, grinning as he caught up with Sam.

Bucky didn’t waste a second. With a growl, he chased after them, his heavy footsteps pounding like thunder in the compound. Steve was laughing as he ran, shouting, “Don’t let him catch me!”

“I’m gonna make you both regret that,” Bucky roared, his voice deep and fierce as he quickened his pace.

Still nestled in the blanket, you rubbed your eyes, trying to shake the sleep from your system. The chaos unfolding in front of you was enough to make you frown sleepily.

“What...what is happening?” you mumbled, looking up at Natasha, who was still watching the scene unfold, an amused look on her face.

She leaned down to gently smooth your hair, offering you a warm cup of coffee. “Just another day in paradise. You fell asleep on Bucky, and now he’s off hunting down Sam for taking pictures. Steve opened his mouth and pretty much condemned himself. Typical.”

You buried your face in the blanket, your cheeks burning crimson. “I fell asleep on Bucky?”

Natasha smirked knowingly. “Oh, yeah. And he didn’t even complain. He stayed perfectly still for you. It was actually kind of adorable.”

The flush on your face deepened, and you peeked out from the blanket. “I can’t believe this.”

Natasha sipped her coffee, smirking at you one last time. “I’m going to see if Wanda got the picture.” With that, she made her way out of the room, leaving you alone to process the madness.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Sam and Steve were running for their lives. Sam glanced over his shoulder, still laughing, though his breath came in short bursts. “You can’t kill us both, Barnes!”

“Try me,” Bucky growled, a wicked grin playing at the corners of his mouth as he closed in on them.

Steve, managing to duck into a nearby room, slammed the door behind him. Sam, realizing he was alone and defenseless, let out a panicked yell. “Traitor!”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Sam by the back of his shirt with a single motion, yanking him to a stop. “Gotcha, birdbrain.”

“Wait! Wait!” Sam held up his phone, waving it frantically. “I’ll delete it! I swear!”

Bucky snatched the phone from Sam’s hand, eyes narrowed with irritation. He quickly checked the screen, making sure the photo was gone. Satisfied, he shoved the phone back into Sam’s chest with a low growl. “If I see that picture anywhere, you’re dead.”

Sam held up his hands, clearly not wanting to push it any further. “Message received, Sergeant Teddy Bear.” He backed away with a half-grin, hands still raised in surrender.

Bucky shot him one last glare before walking back toward the living room, shaking his head at the chaos. By the time he returned, you had sat up on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, your face a mix of sleepiness and embarrassment.

“Did you really stay still all night just so I wouldn’t wake up?” you asked softly, your shy smile tugging at his heart.

Bucky’s expression softened just the slightest. He shrugged, trying to hide the warmth he felt spreading through him. “Didn’t want to ruin your sleep, sunshine.”

A small, genuine smile spread across your face as you stood up and wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you, Bucky.”

He froze for a split second, caught off guard by the sudden affection. Then, slowly, his arms came around you, pulling you into a hug of his own. His voice was gruff as he mumbled, “Yeah, yeah.”

For a moment, everything was still. The harshness that usually clung to him was nowhere to be found, replaced by something softer, warmer, and something he wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge yet.

For now, he’d take all of the teasing, even if it meant chasing down Sam and Steve every day. Because if it meant getting to see that sunshine smile of yours, it was all worth it.

Every single time.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @sapphirebarnes @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @arcadia-smith @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

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agreeewrites · 4 months ago

Text

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart | S.R.

feat. Steve Rogers x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You and Steve broke up, but life as an assassin for SHIELD goes on, no matter how grueling. little did you know, Steve was suffering too, and reality is far from how it appears.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, breakups, protective!Steve, assassin work, mentions of blood and death, Steve is a bit of a munch (but he still tops you), happy ending

AN: inspired by "I Can Do It With A Broken Heart" by Taylor Swift from her album The Tortured Poets Department.

divider by @saradika-graphics

Steve left you on a random Tuesday afternoon. No fanfare, no warning, no discussion. He barely even looked at you when he shattered your heart.

In the two years you'd known him, and the six months you loved him, you'd never seen him so callous. He'd looked at motorcycles with more affection than he looked at you in that moment.

You didn't understand, couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Your relationship was over, and your life felt like a held breath ever since.

He said he'd love you all his life, but for a man that's been alive for a century, six months was barely a blip. You were barely a blip.

But you couldn't dwell, couldn't break down like you wanted to, because you were one of the top assassin's at SHIELD, and missions didn't care about your feelings.

So you were sent out into the field, day after day, week after week, with a smile on your face and your shoulders thrown back, never ever missing your mark. And still, SHIELD demanded more of you.

Fortunately, you could do it with a broken heart.

“Agent L/N, report to Fury’s office for assignment,” the earpiece in your ear crackled to life, jarring you from the workout you were pretending to do.

“Another one? Seriously?” Nat said, looking up from the squat rack, sweat glistening along her hairline.

You shrugged. “The fun never stops,” you said with a half-hearted smile, and she rolled her eyes, returning to her reps.

As quick as you could, you pulled an oversized hoodie over your sports bra and retied your ponytail, which has fallen into sweaty disarray during your workout.

Normally, you'd change into your suit, but when Fury called, he didn't like to be kept waiting.

You take the elevator direct to his office, and when the doors roll open, you're greeted by Nick Fury, Sergeant Barnes, and, of course, the back of Steves head.

His hair has grown a little longer since you were together, and your fingers itched to run through it, to scratch his scalp in the way that makes his dark lashes flutter, to tug on his roots in the way that makes him groan low in his throat…

You shook yourself and slapped on a smile. “Good morning, Nick,” you chirped, sauntering into the room.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, offering as close to a smile as he could manage. “Have a seat.”

You perched on the edge of Bucky’s table, and he gave you a stiff nod in greeting . Steve didn't look up from the open file in front of him, but you could tell by the angle of his shoulders that he wasn't happy.

Nausea twisted in your stomach, your heart splintering a bit further, but you kept your expression pleasant.

“Would it kill you two to be a little more cheerful?” Fury quipped, and Bucky snorted. “Could all use a little more sunshine around here.” Fury winked at you, and you winked back.

Steve’s fingers tightened on the file, but you chalked it up to its contents.

“Little Miss Stabs-a-lot seems to be managing just fine for all of us,” Bucky said, his voice dry even though his eyes were smiling.

That's you, managing just fine.

Fury chuckled and passed you a similar file to Steves. “Your target is Lugoff Isaacson, HYDRA weapons director.”

You flipped through the file, finding a laundry-list of diabolical misdeeds, as well as a number of altercations with the two men beside you.

“Dinosaur’s couldn't hack it?” You teased, but only Nick laughed.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Isaacson lives like a hermit, and the only people allowed in his company are fellow HYDRA agents—” Nick paused, bracing his hands on the desk. “And pretty women.”

You heard Steve's teeth grind together, and Bucky glanced over at him, but you kept your eyes on your boss. “When do I leave?” You asked, already rising.

“Nick, she can't go in there with Isaacson alone,” Steve snapped, pushing the file away from him. His voice was rough and low, menacing, and it sent a chill up your spine.

“She certainly can,” Nick rebuffed. “Unless you want to go with her?”

Steve glared at Nick, so sharp it was practically lethal, but didn't say another word.

You felt like he stomped your heart beneath his boot, and were seized by the urge to fall at his feet and beg for a reason why he would do this to you. But instead, you flipped through the file, finding your orders in the back. “Flights at 2:30. I need to pack and get a blowout. I'll update when I land.” You tucked the file under your arm, blew Nick a kiss, and flitted back to the elevator, not sparing Steve a second glance.

He certainly wouldn't look back at you.

“How many is that this month?” You heard Bucky ask as the doors started to roll closed.

“15,” Fury answered, pride clear in his voice. “She's our most productive assassin to date.”

Steve's POV

“Don't give me that look, Rogers,” Fury droned, avoiding Steve's eye.

“She's not some goddamn chess piece you can just play however you want,” he bit, barely contained anger simmering underneath the surface. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his mouth shut during that meeting, to not grab you around the middle and run for the fucking hills.

The thought of Isaacson, that slimy rat laying a hand on you—it made Steve's mind bleed red with rage. He knew you could handle him, knew you'd make quick, clean work of the kill, but the things you'd have to endure to get that perfect opportunity…

He couldn't bear it.

“Thats exactly what she is,” Fury said, snatching the file from in front of Steve. “It's what you all are.”

Bucky scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, and Steve rose from his chair, bracing his hands on the table to lean into Fury’s smug face.

“I'm done playing your fucking games. And if you think I won't take her and leave, then you don't know me very well,” he growled.

Bucky got to his feet, metallic arm flexing as tensions mounted.

“Oh, I know you, Cap. I know you'll do whatever you need to do, move wherever the fuck I want you to move, so she stays on the damn board. Right?”

Steve grit his teeth. “And when we leave, whose going to come after us? Him?” He gestured to Bucky. “Nat? Thor? Quill? Whose it gonna be?”

Fury narrowed his eye.

“Because here's the thing you've never understood. Without us, there is no fucking SHIELD. You broke us up so she'd be free to your dirty work right? Without my interference?”

Fury scoffed and went to back away, but Bucky was standing directly behind him, blocking any escape route.

“She likes it—”

“It's killing her.” Steve cut him off. “When's the last time she had a day off? A vacation? A job that wasn't too hard for another agent, but too low profile to send us? Hm? Call her fucking sunshine while your burying her alive.”

“Steve,” Bucky warned, and the table cracked beneath Steve's hands.

“It ends now. Either SHIELD takes care of her, or I do.” Steve pushed off the desk and stormed out of the room, taking the stairs to get to the control room faster.

Nat was already there. “She just got to her apartment. Steve, she's—”

“I want eyes on her 24/7, and a team waiting to deploy within twenty miles of Isaacson bunker,” he ordered.

A chorus of ‘yessir’s’ answered him, and he sunk down in the vacant swivel chair, steepling his fingers as he watched the entrance to your apartment building, a SHIELD van idling just outside.

“Cap, listen.” Nat leaned against the control panel beside him. “This has to end, before she fucks up.”

“I know—”

“No, you don't. At this level of burnout, one misstep and that's it.”

“I know!” He barked, and the surveillance workers all jumped. “I'm fixing this. I just need a little more time.”

“She might not have time.” Nat pushed off the panel. “It might not be this mission, but it could be the next one, or the next. Stop being a fucking coward and fix it before it's too late.” She stormed off, leaving Steve staring at the monitors, his heart in his throat.

He was going to fix this. He had to fix this, before he lost you for good.

You hurried out of your apartment, dressed in slacks and blouse, wrapped up in a leather trenchcoat. The driver jumped out to greet you and took your bag, and you slipped into the backseat.

He flipped the camera to the car feed, a wonky fisheye from the dashboard, and saw you check your mascara in the mirror, faint smudges of black under your eyes, your nose kissed pink.

You'd been crying.

“I'm gonna fix it, baby,” he muttered to himself, wishing you could hear him somehow. “I promise.”

Reader's POV

You took out Isaacson without any issues, just smiled and tried to ignore the way he groped your thighs, ogled your tits. He made it too easy to slit his throat.

And as soon as you returned, there was another assignment, and another, and another, until you didn't even bother going home anymore. Which was well enough for you. You didn't care to sleep in the bed Steve held you in, or the couch you'd watched his favorite black and white movies on. Didn't care to eat in the kitchen where you taught him to make your mother's signature recipe, or shower in the stall he'd washed your hair in when you were sick. It was better to stay away from all the little reminders that you didn't imagine the whole thing.

You pretended to love being busy, treated every mission like a birthday gift, and pushed forward. Until, you were assigned to work at the Winter Gala.

SHIELD hosted the annual event as an excuse for the team to rub elbows with politicians, diplomats, and executives. You'd be masquerading as a guest, of course, but in reality you were on intel duty, eavesdropping on conversations and flirting trade secrets out of the most powerful people in the world.

One of the few perks of still being anonymous to the world.

You were dreading it. A night filled with romantic music, dancing, and drinks, watching Steve schmooze with women twice as wealthy and twice as powerful as you? You'd rather choke on your own dagger. But you were determined to look fabulous, a young woman in her glittering prime, and maybe you'd feel something besides emptiness.

Tony had a gorgeous ball gown sent to your apartment that probably cost more than your annual salary, and you spent three hours on your hair and makeup for the occasion, mainly because you kept crying it off. But at the last minute you steeled yourself and carpooled with Nat to Stark Tower.

She wolf whistled as you climbed into the car, looking downright stunning herself. “I know I'm not supposed to comment, but that fossil is going to lose his fucking mind.” She chuckled, tearing off down the street.

“Lose his mind?” You snorted inelegantly. “I can barely get a ‘hello’ out of him.”

Nat looked at you sidelong, the expression sharpened by her eyeliner. “And why do you think that is, babe?”

You didn't dare comment, didn't dare think about it. You'd never get through the night if you clung to a razor thin thread of hope.

The party was in full swing when you arrived, and you came in separately from Nat to forgo any suspicion. With a glass of champagne in hand, you circled the party, trying to tune out your own thoughts so you could absorb all the conversations going on around you.

But the noise completely stopped when your eyes met Steve's across the room.

He was dressed in an immaculately tailored Navy blue suit, with a crisp white shirt and brown leather loafers. His hair was styled back from his face, his beard freshly trimmed, and he was staring at you like hunter through a scope.

“Y/n, sweetheart, come with me for a moment,” Tony appeared to your left, startling you out of your reverie. “There's someone I want you to meet.” He winked, and you flashed a toothy smile, even though you felt like screaming.

“Lead the way, Mr. Stark,” you cooed, for the benefit of anyone in earshot.

Tony led you away, but you could feel Steve's eyes burning a hole in your back, tracking you through the crowd.

“Alex, this is Lydia, the daughter of a colleague of mine. You both attended Stanford!” Tony lied through his teeth to a handsome, dark haired gentleman, and you picked it up without delay.

“Oh, of course! It's such a pleasure to finally meet you!” You gushed, sliding onto the stool beside the stranger. “Tell me, what was your favorite time of year on campus?” You brushed your fingers along his forearm, noting the model of the Rolex on his wrist, the designer of his suit.

“Fall, of course. Can't beat those colors,” Alex grinned, and you fawned like it was the most ground breaking thing you'd ever heard.

Tony left you to it, and twenty minutes later you were tucked into a booth with Alex, his arm slung over your shoulders, and his phone face up and unlocked right in front of you. Oblivious to the way you scanned every message that came through.

Alex leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, and you had to swallow a shiver of revulsion. His hand came up to cup your cheek as you wracked you mind for a way out of this—

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Trevais, but I need to steal Lydia for a moment.” Nat appeared suddenly beside the table, looking smug, and Alex scowled.

“Right now? Really?” He argued.

“I'm afraid so.” Nat batted her lashes and Alex immediately caved.

“Fine, I'll see you later then?” He winked, alluding to the room key he slipped into your bag a few minutes prior.

“Perhaps.” You winked back, playing coy, and he grinned like a fool. “What's going on?” You hissed as Nat led you out of the party and down an dark, empty hall. "I was in the middle of something—"

“You'll see,” she whispered back, stopping at a door and doing a quick sweep before pulling it open and ushering you inside.

The door slammed shut behind you.

“Nat, what—”

The lights came on in the room, dim and golden to reveal the luxurious study you were standing in, all black leather and granite, shelves of books and expensive furniture.

But you barely registered any of that, because Steve Rogers was waiting for you by the window. Moonlight kissed his face, highlighting the flawless angles on his bone structure, and your mouth ran dry, your heart falling through the floor.

“Uh, is there a problem, Captain Rogers?” You asked, propping up the professional barrier despite the urge to launch yourself at him, the need to kiss him, or strangle him, pushing against the underside of your skin.

When he looked at up you, the air was sucked from the room. His eyes were stormy, fogged with sorrow, water collecting on his lower lashes.

“You really have turned espionage into an art form,” he chuckled, his voice thick with emotion. “Like you're having the time of your life.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded.

“But that's not true, is it? You're as miserable as I am.”

You shook your head. “I—I’m fine.”

He huffed a laugh, pushing off the window sill. “You put on a good act, honey. But I can tell when you're performing.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, indignation flaring in your gut. “What do you want, Steve? You haven't spoken to me in months.”

He grimaced, a look of genuine pain crossing his face. “Y/n, I—”

“You disappeared for two weeks after dumping me out of the blue. You refuse to take missions within a hundred miles of me. You won't even train at the same time." You were yelling, unable to stop once you started. You'd kept it all bottled up for so long, there was no forcing it back now. "You've barely looked at me, Steve! It's like we never happened, like I made it all up in my head!”

“Because it was killing me!” He shouted back, and you flinched, tears pricking behind your eyes. You could count on one hand the amount of times Steve Rogers raised his voice, and it was never at you.

“You left me!” You yelled, your voice cracking at the edges.

“Because I had no choice! They gave me no choice.”

Your stomach dropped. “W-what?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his composure. “Fury, SHIELD, they threatened to send you overseas if I didn't. To some desolate base in Russia.”

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. This couldn't be real. “Steve, that doesn't make sense—”

“You really think I would leave you like that? That I would just throw away what we had? I was trying—” his voice caught in his throat. “I thought I was protecting you. But they lied to me.”

You were shaking your head, backing away. You couldn’t take any more empty words, any more bullshit—

Steve rushed toward you, catching your face in his large hands before you could turn away. “Baby, listen to me,” he said, softening. “They wanted me out of the way so you would be more likely to do whatever they wanted. When we were together, we were working less, we were happier, we cared about something that wasn't SHIELD, and they couldn't stand it.”

“But Fury—”

“Is a manipulative fuck that took advantage of your broken heart.” You gasped at his language, usually reserved for sex or intense fighting. Steve lowered himself to his knees, his hands gripping the curve of your waist and shaking you. “I need you to believe me, honey. I'm begging you. I would never have done this if I knew the truth. I'm so sorry for hurting you, and I wish I could take it back. But I can't, all I can do is tell you the truth.”

“You didn't want to leave me?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course not.” He rested his forehead on your belly, drawing a shaky breath before looking up at you again, pleading with big, blue, watery eyes. “I-I love you. And I agreed because I was terrified to lose you completely but then I—I did anyways because I'm a fucking coward.”

You wiped a tear from his cheek with your thumb, the last of your trepidation falling away. “I love you too, Stevie,” you said, and he surged upwards, slamming his mouth to yours in a ruinous, bone-melting kiss.

He parted your lips with his tongue, possessing your mouth in a display of dominance you rarely saw from him. He licked along your teeth, groaning low in his throat as you dug your nails into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He tasted like black coffee and something sweet, like he'd hit the dessert table instead of the bar, and it made your heart flip.

God, you'd missed him.

Your lungs screamed for air, an affliction super soldiers didn't contend with, and you were forced to break the kiss to breathe.

“Cameras?” You panted, craning your head back as Steve planted wet, open-mouth kisses down your jugular.

“This is Fury's personal study. No cameras,” Steve mumbled against the peak of your shoulder, his hands all over you.

You scoffed. “Of course, because he can have priv—”

“Forget about him.” Steve captured your lips again, and you nipped at his lower lip for cutting you off. He backed you against the desk, breaking the kiss to toss you up onto it.

“Forgotten,” you replied, breathless as you looked into his eyes.

“I haven't told you how beautiful you look yet, have I?” He asked, leaning back a bit to take you in, your chest heaving against the deep plunge of your dress, lips kiss-stung and eyes bright.

You shook your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder with a smirk.

“I love this color on you,” he murmured, rubbing the hem of your dress between his thumb and index finger. And your makeup—”

“Steve.” You grabbed him by the lapel and tugged him closer, bringing his face down towards yours. A flare of arousal twinged between your legs, you loved when he let you manhandle him. “I know you're trying to be a gentleman and not fuck me without some proper flirting, but it's been months. I need you.”

Steve smiled, leaning forward to lay you back on the desk. “You don't need me, honey,” he hummed, kissing down your sternum while his hands moved your dress up your legs. He looked up at you when he settled between your thighs. “You've proven that you're a force all on your own. And that's okay, you don't have to need me, as long as you want me.”

You nibbled your lower lip, processing his words. He was right, you'd proven that you could live through heartbreak, that you didn't need him to carry on. And as much as it hurt, and as much as you missed him, there was something liberating in that knowledge.

“So, do you want me?” He asked, grazing his thumb over the gusset of your panties, maddeningly light.

“Yes, I want you,” you answered, threading your fingers through his blond hair and urging him forward.

He chuckled, smiling up at you, then pulled your panties to the side with his middle finger and flattened his tongue against your slit, licking a firm stripe up your pussy. Your head fell back onto the desk when he sucked your clit between his teeth, wasting no time in his pursuit of your pleasure.

Steve, for all his propriety and politeness, loved nothing more than feasting on your pussy. He was sloppy with it, rough and self-indulgent, as if making up for the decades he went without it. He often stayed until you were overstimulated and orgasmed-out, weakly trying to push his head from between your legs while he lapped up the mess you made for him.

“Missed you so damn much,” he mumbled against your pussy, eyes fluttering closed as he drove his tongue into your entrance.

“Missed you,” you whined, your hips bucking up into his mouth as he devoured you, lashing every one of your sweet spots with expert precision.

His hands tightened on your hips while he massaged your clit with his tongue, and even that fraction of his real strength was enough to leave a dull ache. The reminder of his true strength made your head spin, your mind empty. You may not need him, but there was something thrilling about being able let go while you were with him. Trusting that he would keep you safe and you could just be.

He licked one last stripe up your pussy before pulling back, kissing his way up your body. “Baby, I need you,” he mumbled, nosing into your neck. You could feel just how badly from the ridge beneath his trousers, his hips rocking slightly into yours. “Please, can I fuck you?” He asked, unlatching his belt with a flick of his wrist, and a shiver rolled up your spine at the desperation in his voice.

“You want to fuck me?” You repeated, toying with him. You reached between your bodies and pulled out his cock, thick and long and flushed, and pumped it once, twice, smearing precum down his shaft.

He moaned, hot and breathy against your skin. “I know I hurt you, and I still have to make up for that, but I just—fuck, I need to feel you. Please, please let me make you come on my cock.”

“Just start slow,” you cooed, petting his cheek when he lifted his head in excitement. “Been awhile since I took you.” You glided his cockhead through your folds, his breath hitching when you notched it at your drooling entrance.

Gently, he eased his hips forward, sliding in one inch, then another. "Shit, honey. Have a little mercy," he panted, his muscles bulging against the fabric of his shirt, tendons in his neck flexing.

You groaned, releasing his cock to grab hold of his shoulders, nails biting into his shirt at the stretch, bright and burning.

“Gotta relax, baby. Let me in.” He gently guided you thigh up and around his waist, squeezing the fat of your haunch in reassurance. He moved a little deeper, and you both gasped when your walls clenched around him. “So goddamn tight,” he rasped, drawing his hips back a bit, assuaging some of the discomfort before easing back inside, coaxing your muscles to loosen for him.

“Fuck, Steve,” you panted when he pushed a little deeper, your eyes rolling back in your head when he grazed your g-spot.

“Almost there, doll. You can do it,” he encouraged, reaching up to hold your face. He caught your gaze, smiling a little when your eyes struggled to stay focused, lashes fluttering. “Starting to feel good?”

You nodded, pleasure spilling through you as your body accepted him inch by inch, until finally, you felt his pelvis press against yours.

“There we go,” he purred, leaning down to kiss your forehead, your cheek, giving you a few more seconds to adjust. “Good girl, takin’ all that cock.”

He ground into you, stifling a fractured moan against your shoulder when your pussy made an obscene squelching sound, dripping wet for him. You were on another planet, tingling head to toe as waves of pleasure crested. Every beat of your heart had you clenching around him, full to splitting, and you wanted more.

“Please, baby, need more,” you whined, trying to rock your hips against his, but he was too heavy for you to do much.

He braced his hands on either side of your head, sweeping his eyes down your body as you squirmed beneath him. He chuckled, the sound low and almost malicious. “Need more?"

He drew his hips back and delivered a punishing thrust, two, three, five, until you were all but screaming, unable to do anything but lay there and take everything he gave you.

"How's that for more?" He asked, his cock brutalizing your cervix and stretching you beyond your limits, molding your pussy to the shape of his cock. Ruining you with a fervor that made your head spin.

Your peak was rapidly approaching, winding tighter and tighter with every thrust until you were half-mad with desperation, clawing at his forearms by your head and leaving pink, raised lines across his flesh.

“Gonna come for me, baby? God, I missed this little pussy—feels so good,” he grated, bringing one of his hands down to circle to your clit, firm and deliberate. Exactly what he knew you needed. “That's my good girl. C'mon, I’m right there with you—” Another thrust and he sent you both flying over the edge, sparks exploding behind your eyes as the orgasm ravaged your body, flaying you open.

You grabbed onto his arm, desperate for something to ground you as you soared, his hips still thrusting erratically as he pumped you full of his release.

Crack!

The desk suddenly tilted beneath you and Steve whisked you up into his arms, still buried inside you. You clung to him in shock as the desk collapsed to floor, sending all of Fury's belongings scattered across the carpet.

"Are you alright?" He asked, searching your face.

You nodded, easing your grip on him.

Steve adjusted you, lifting and lowering you onto his cock, and you gasped, still sensitive from the lingering orgasm, and mildly shocked by his lack of reaction to what you'd just done.

“Steve, we—”

“We did,” he hummed, kissing along your neck as he caught his breath, lazily working you over his length to wallow in the last dregs of pleasure. “And if he has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

“I think he's going to have a problem,” you snickered, and Steve smiled.

“And I'll deal with it.” He eased himself out of you and set you on your feet, straightening your panties and pressing a tender kiss to your lips. You felt like you were floating in a dream, in disbelief that you had your Steve back, that he never really was gone in the first place.

“How are you going to deal with it?” You asked after righting your dress and he had tucked himself back into his trousers.

Steve pulled you back into his arms, like even that moment of separation was more than he could bear. “Depends on how much of a problem he has,” he replied, smirking. “I told you, forget about him. I'll handle it for us.”

Us. Your knees went a little weak at the word. “Yes, Captain,” you replied rising on your toes to kiss his cheek.

Thank you so much for reading!

Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. My inbox is open for requests, check my pinned post for fandoms & characters!

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lunarcowgirl · 1 month ago

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don't leave me here without you | one

yeah yeah fuck me, jack abbot x f!doctor!reader

you can read part two here and part three here

dr abbot finds your resume and thinks you are leaving the pitt - absolute disgusting and pathetic behaviour ensues, its all very endearing.

~~~

from the office of the author: DOn't even LOOK at me, I'm embarrassed. the pitt consumes my every waking thought so I'm going to make that everyone else's problem :)

this is my very first fic!!! it is a work of fiction!!!!! i do not know anything about being a doctor!!!!!! inaccuracies are none of my damn business!!!!!!!!!!

i can’t help but love the emotional constipation of jack and robby in this show, and i was feeling inspired by jack, so this is my attempt at unpacking a bit of it. reader is indeed reader, but i have formed a bit of a character in my head, so pls forgive me she does get a last name late in the piece. hope you enjoy!!!!! maybe more soon!!!!! <3

warnings: cussing, jack being pathetic, snooping based behaviours, mentions of loss of bodily function/traumatic injuries, mentions of war, mentions of covid, a spider may or not be guilty of a crime, miscommunication i fear, bad grammar from yours truely, bit o' angst

word count: 2.1k

Dr. Jack Abbot thought he was doing a very fine job not staring at you all shift long, thank you very much. It had gotten harder since you’d changed the way you’d done your hair, letting the blonde grow out. When the lights hit the top of your two fastidiously tied french braids it set the crown of your head on fire, like the sun itself sat behind you in some kind of imitation of a halo. angel indeed. You’d pierced your left ear again, yet another little golden hoop in the soft shell of cartilage at the very top. Every now and then, he would see you reach for it, as if to scratch an itch, but catch yourself before you could touch the still healing wound. The smallest, prettiest crease would form between your eyebrows, and your hand would curl into a tight fist of frustration. You were going to be the absolute death of him.

The last trauma had been difficult; damage to the neck not only making finding an airway close to impossible, but suggested a grim future for the patients ability to move as he once did. Walking was now in question. Fucking e-scooters, they were starting to offer up more victims than motorbikes. It had been an excruciating emotional dance to explain to the teenager’s recently widowed mother, that her 15 year old’s life would now be dramatically different, that she was going to have to take on a new burden. The quiet, contained grief in her eyes, not breaking contact with his, was just about all he could take for this shift.

It was easy then, to justify a little bit of gratuitous selfishness in front of the board; the easiest place to catch a glimpse of you. This shift you’d remained calm and switched on, as you always were, but something was clearly scratching at your mind. Standing dutifully behind Jack as he spoke to the mother, gently answering her questions, offering sincere condolences, introducing her to Kiara had all been done with perfect form. but when it was done, you had all but fled back to the nurses’ station, logging onto one of the computers at break neck speed.

This is where you now sat, chin resting on your linked fingers, eyes in a predatory narrow. Without meaning to, without really realising it was happening, Jack let himself drift slowly around the desk. On his journey closer to you he let his hands fall into nonchalant, non-suspicious motion. Adjusting the cord of the landline, running his finger over some forms to see if they needed his signature, flicking on a tablet to consider the chart on it. He didn’t really have the time to think too hard about it, but some small voice in the back of his head told him he looked like a fucking idiot. Jesus Christ, he’d committed now.

To get a decent angle of your screen he would have to step back a little from the desk, making it pretty damn obvious he was snooping. If it was only a glance, just a few seconds, he should be in the clear. Mindful not to get to close (you seemed to have eyes in the back of your head when it came to him, probably since he was your attending), he took one last scan of the room to check no one was clocking every last shuffle he was taking.

Pursing his lips with arms crossed tightly across his chest, he stepped back swiftly, eyes flicking down your screen. The majority of it was taken up by a word document, your name is bold letters across the top. Underneath was a jumble of dot points, places and years and accolades and societies—a resume?

A resume…your resume. You were leaving?

His heart went somersaulting into his stomach, bouncing off his ribs on the way down.

When had you decided this? Where were you going? When were you going to tell him?

Jack felt anger and grief and confusion and jealousy all at once in his veins like some kind of poisonous cocktail. What was he, some kind of teenager? What had he ever done to deserve an explanation from you? You, who was so wonderful and so clever and so funny and so so beautiful. You who had only ever weathered his grumpiness and sour expressions and poorly timed criticism with grace and patience. You who’d never figured out how to be a pessimist, who never let the bad days win. The thought of your absence was more painful than he could have ever expected — it scared him goddamn shitless.

“Dr Abbot?”

Dr Ellis had materialised out of nothing on the other side of the desk, one eyebrow cocked. Jack nearly tripped over his own feet to get away from you and the scalding sensation of shame burning across his face, “Ya?”

“Uh, can I get your eyes on a case in South 15? We’ve got a 10 year old, lethargic, sweaty, confused. Her parents are insistent she hasn’t ingested anything.”

Your head snapped up, finally divorced from whatever hypnotic pull the resume had on you.

“Does she have control over her extremities, fingers?”

Ellis frowned, “She was moving them a lot, almost obsessively. I figured if might just be a reaction to the confusion and being in a strange place.”

You stood in one fluid motion, hands quick to grab a pair of gloves, feet quick to dance around the station to get to Ellis’ side.

“Mind if I join? I think we need to look for a spider bite. Funnel-weavers are usually—”

And with that the pair of you were gone, walking shoulder to shoulder into the fray like soldiers in arms, conversing in low, practised tones. Ready to tackle whatever the inside of that room held; the scariness of having to diagnose quickly, the stress of terrified parents breathing down your neck. It didn’t matter how bitter-of-heart Jack had become after all the years of carnage, there was still a part of him that sang at the sight of a well-oiled team. It was selfish, he considered, to believe your leaving would effect just him. Every last doctor, nurse, support worker, radiologist, technician, transport aide, frequent flyer and desk clerk would mourn your loss. Perhaps the endearing Mel King most of all. She had taken to your cheerful demeanour and calm teaching style like someone drowning does to oxygen. In the time Langdon had been a voluntary inpatient, you had been a much needed rock in the stormy wake of that revelation. Another loss could send her off kilter again, and the ER needed her…badly.

So where exactly were you planning to run off to? Surely you wouldn’t go overseas again, not after what had brought you home the last time...

Morality was telling him to just walk away, to busy himself in some problem that likely was currently yearning for his help.

They hadn’t reached out had they? Could they convince you to go back?

He wished Bridget would just call for him, that Shen would bustle in with all his careful questions. But wishing would not make it so. And he had fought so long, all his life. The older he became, the easier it was to just surrender. To drift. The computer was about to fall asleep, locking it to the world. One swift movement of the mouse sealed his fate. He was a shameless snoop, a betrayer of privacy - your privacy.

It couldn’t be denied, the resume was impressive. Very, very impressive. How many graduating honours could one 30 something year old have? And the places you’d been, you’d practised - how many names could you possibly stack next to each other? Some of them he hadn’t even seen with his eyes, even after all the time in the camouflage pants that chaffed like you wouldn’t believe. You’d seen the very worst Covid had served up in Mexico City and Rio, you had been at the very front in Ukraine, in Afghanistan, traipsed all the way across North Africa and South America and just about every island in Indonesia. Pittsburgh, even with its fair share of tragedy, felt so foreign on the page next to all the adventure and danger. It would be easy to think that you had simply become bored, and wished once again to go somewhere that you could stem the flow of blood. Jack thought the blue beret would match the new blonde hair quite nicely.

“Dr Abbot?”

He froze. That voice. How long had he been staring at the carefully typed words, wishing they would reveal an answer?

There was no way, no way at all that he could gracefully and silently retreat from this one. He was elbow deep in the cookie jar, no better than a child, spited at not being told the grown up’s secret. He looked behind himself with humiliating slowness, feeling infinitely small and ashamed. The small crease between your brows had deepened into a valley he could not dig himself out of.

“Dr James.” He said, his voice sounding all together too loud and too far away, “If you are walking away from a computer in any circumstance other than a complete emergency, you must log off, there is confidential information of patients that must be protected from wandering eyes.”

“Wandering eyes?” You let a laugh escape, entirely hollow.

And then, with more steel then he had ever heard, “Can I speak with you privately for a minute?”

“Fine.” He said, straightening with an angry click from his back. Too old for all this high school shit. You made a point to lean past him, and log off with a few aggressively passive aggressive snaps of the keys.

He trailed behind your long, mechanical strides, deeply unsettled by the stiff set of your shoulders. Maybe you’d developed the ability to be negative in the time to took to stomp from the nurses’ station to the family room door, which you promptly shoulder charged open. Once it was safely closed behind both doctors, you whirled on him.

“What the hell were you doing looking at that?”

“Like I said, you need to log off—”

“Bullshit, Jack!” You looked wild, eyes impossibly wide, “There was no reason for your face to be 2 inches from the screen to log me out. Or have your eyes completely given out since the start of shift?”

If there was no way to dodge the bullet, he may as well try swallowing it, “What exactly do you plan on doing with that document? You gonna flee the country again? Run from all us sorry fucks here in the Pitt?”

You recoiled, like the venom in his words had actually struck your skin. Jack watched them sink in, the sizzle of their marks.

You shook your head once, looking down at your sneakers, the 10-year-too-old linoleum floors.

“I can’t believe you. I cannot believe you.” The words were pulled straight from your chest at the end of meat hooks.

Jack opened his mouth to strike again, but your gaze shot upwards and locked onto his. The attacks died on his tongue.

“All I have done since I set foot in here was try and get close to you Jack Abbot. I have offered you my full attention, my utter respect and confidence and trust, all my effort, all my energy, everything I have.” You took an incredulous step backwards, unsteadied by your own words and the weight of them now sitting between you, “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I would ride right on back into all the shit and misery all over again if that is what you asked of me.”

Something that looked frighteningly like a tear slipped down your cheek and off your chin.

“And what do you offer in return? You push and push and push me away.” The words wobbled now, exhausted from the revelation.

“What right do you have,” You gasped, “to now act betrayed about this? To declare you’ve always cared? Like its me that’s hurting you?!”

Killshot.

Jack’s mouth pressed into a hard line, a terrible burning spreading through the back of his eyes, a horrible pressure on his chest. All that time he had been pretending not to look at you, you had been staring straight through him into his very soul. Seeing every ugly inch of his insides. He wanted to run, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness at your feet.

Bridget rapped sharply on the door of the window, her face grave, “Car pileup on the highway, multiple traumas, 4 minutes out.”

By the time he turned back to you, your face had been schooled back into cool neutrality, a deep breath filling your lungs. Before Jack could reach out and touch you, you were gone, like you were never even there.

~~~~~

um, so yeah I guess? more soon! x

| next

#the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot angst #the pitt angst #dr abbott #dr abbott x you #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x female reader #persiewrites

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soapcloth · 5 months ago

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Statue!Ghost x reader - pt 2

CW: 18+ MDNI, noncon/dubcon elements, size kink, horror aspects, scopophobia, temporary loss of movement, derealization(?), large insertion, reader gets fingered by a statue pt 1 - not edited - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

It’s been getting worse.

Ever since you became fearful of a giant marble statue prowling around your place of work, the duration of your shifts would stretch out- mangled and twisted by his presence. No one would pass through the warehouse, causing the towering labyrinth of stock to feel more like an ancient crypt than a museum's storage.

In light of the phrase 'Out of sight, out of mind.' you had employed the company of a radio that hadn't seen daylight since the nineties to chase away the dread laving across your spine. It helped at first, finally letting you plug away at work, but it was shortlived- only lasting a moment before all sounds started to slowly wither away, leaving only you, your thoughts, and the distant scraping echo.

You couldn't decide which you disliked more; when you’d look away only to find him contorted into a new position, or when you actually saw it happen. Things that big, things with no fibrous muscle or supporting bone to speak of should not be able to move.

The hulking figure was fond of defying nature.

He had begun to do something much worse than the previous two options, though. The first time you experienced it, there was a quiet rolling noise, distant and unfamiliar. Your base instincts screamed at you not to look, and yet.

He was in a new pose this time, playfully holding his skull-shaped death mask against his face. That itself would not have been too bad if not for the two gaping black pits where his unblinking gaze had resided Two eyes, wet as your own and boasting irritated veins peered at you from the hollow holes through blown, pitch black irises. Following you.

Slowly, accompanied by the low hum of moving stone, the mask lowered to reveal his usual carved visage. Nothing was stated out loud but you could tell that against your will, something had shifted.

He approached, agonizingly slowly, but directly and with thundering footfall. He knelt down before you, head swiveling as he got closer inorganically. You could hear laboured breath whistling through the notch in his still lips, examining it at this angle revealed a small hole that hadn't been there before. This alerted you to a fact that gave you pause- below thick stone skin there was a cavity with room to accommodate something you couldn’t possibly begin to fathom rattling around inside him. The thought sat at your eyes, too difficult to be transmitted through their receptors into your brain beyond a surface level acknowledgment.

Up close, you could see that his motions were not as smooth as you had initially assumed; every inch moved labourous, awkward, and accompanied by the incremental jerk.

He would get closer until his lips, though much larger, were level with your own.

The contact came contradictorily, both expected- welcomed, and unheralded, an ice water shock to your system.

Something in your mind that had rationalized him as a thing had told you he was of flesh like you, but the kiss was chilled and unmoving. Stone fingers digging into the cement floor told you he was expecting reciprocity, leaving you with no other options but to accomodate embarassingly and press warm lips to stone.

His marble head nudged to the side softly, leading you like a lamb to the notch. Your lips slowed as you were hit with the nausea that accompanied peering into a hollow otherside, too dark to see anything in there- and there was something in there.

All at once, you were accosted by visions of a man, a victor- every glimpse lasting only microseconds and each one incredibly overwhelming.

Dizzy.

You fell back with a crawling sense of paralysis taking over your body, and with a freezing touch, more gentle and reverent than you could have ever expected- he cradled you, dragging his big body back to his ornate podium to pet and nudge at you, head uncannily tilting with curiousity for each sound he managed to pull from you.

Pulseless fingers prodded at you as you looked up at him and for a passing moment, he was man, both of the earth and grounded as a large finger slipped under your shirt, soft grit tracing at your belly. For a passing moment, expressionless monochromatic eyes were those of man too, incredibly melancholic and lonely before the emotion vanished, gone all to soon.

Your monolith breathed as his finger curled downwards, dipping into your undergarments, playing with the hidden flesh, absorbing your warmth for himself.

His touch heated, and you could hear distant cheers of a battle hard won and a band- no, a single instrument, perhaps a lyre? It sounded far off and intimate, but it was there; it's dulcet tones swimming around your head.

A big, warm hand fussed with your pussy, pumping in and out with an unspoken worship.

Too focused on the feeling, you could only barely make out his deep voice murmuring as he talked you through his touches, the blurred looming silhouette of your giant somehow bigger made mortal than he ever seemed in his effigy.

With heavy lids you blinked, and then through your bleary gaze you caught sight of those crystal clear bloodshot eyes set over a black void on his undefined face. You gasped, pulling away as he examined you, invasive and unwelcome gaze the only thing you could make out of his vague form. Like you had been scorched by fire, suddenly all you could feel was the hot freeze of a stone finger dug inside your folds, pumping you full. he continued to nudge around inside you experimentally, stretching you out far beyond anything you were accustomed to. he kept the same deep and agonizingly deliberate pace as you writhed beneath his bulk, squinting as humid, laboured Shallow breath fanned your face, painting you in a wet sheen. You clenched around the solid intrusion; crying out as you came on the numbingly cold marble that met your skin.

You panted, sprawled across stone with swelling lungs as you gazed upwards at the silent image of a man. Coming to, you blinked as sunlight bled in through the raised skylights, soaking the back of his head in a white glow. He stared back through unmoving spheres as you gave a shaky, torturous heave, pulling yourself off him. Ache scorched your inner muscles as you staggered through the warehouse and to the stairwell doors. As with all things relating to him, the sting only got worse the more you acknowledged it. Pushing the pain to the back of your mind, you stumbled towards your waypoint, everything around you becoming more tangible as ambient sounds flooded and warmed your ears. You didn’t look back at the carved idol, but that was fine- watchful eyes would find you through troubled dreams.

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #x reader #ghost #cloth writes #tw dubcon #tw noncon

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