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mercvry-glow · 2 months ago

Text

Stubborn love

parings. jack abbot x reader

summary. you take your son to pitt-fest, expecting to have a day filled with love and quality time. little do you know the universe has other plans for you instead.

warnings. gun violence, mass shooting, pitt-fest, hospital setting, reader and her son get shot, reader and jack are parents of a twelve year old boy, implied age gap (jack late 40s, reader mid/late 30s), medical inaccuracies, established relationship, hurt/comfort, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I just keep outdoing myself guys, idk what to do with all this power I have. I'm trying a new thing out when it comes to scene switches so hopefully this isn't choppy and I hope you love this as much as I do! This was a request for the very special @pear-1206! as always I hope you enjoy and any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 7,200+

It was supposed to be a fun day for you and Owen—a little mother/son bonding time while Jack finally got some much-needed rest after a long string of night shifts. The plan was simple: spend the day at the festival, just you and your boy, then meet up with Jack later for a nice dinner.

You and Jack had talked it over, and now that Owen was twelve, you both agreed it was fine for him to go. Especially since you’d heard Robby and Jake would be there—it felt safe. Familiar.

“You brushed your teeth, right, baby?” you called from the kitchen, glancing toward the living room where Owen sat, controller in hand, eyes locked on the TV.

“Yeah, Mom!” he shouted back, not even turning around. He was clearly deep into whatever video game world he’d dropped into, and since he wasn’t in school today you allowed it.

You shook your head with a small smile, humming along to whatever song the Alexa was streaming. Duke, your rambunctious Boxer puppy—and one of Owen’s birthday gifts from last year—was currently attacking the already-worn kitchen rug like it had personally offended him. You nudged him with your foot as you rinsed a coffee mug.

“Leave it, bubba,” you muttered playfully. Duke gave a happy little bark and pounced again.

Just then, you heard the soft click of the front door, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots being kicked off and dropped in the entryway. You didn’t have to turn around to know it was Jack.

“Hey,” came his gravelly voice, low and tired, but warm. You turned to see him standing in the doorway, running a hand through his messy, silver curls, still in his black scrubs. His badge clipped to his pants and his stethoscope hung loose around his neck.

“And the graveyard king returns,” you said, drying your hands on a towel. “How bad?”

He groaned, stepping into the kitchen and leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. “Three codes. One stabbing… Had a vet come in,’” He said softly. “Didn’t make it.”

You sighed softly, wrapping your arms around his waist as he melted into you for just a moment. “I’m sorry baby, how about you go shower? We’ll be out of your hair soon, and you can get some much needed sleep.”

Jack leaned down again, this time kissing the side of your neck before pulling back. “You sure you don’t want to join me? I’m pretty sure the kid is glued to the TV.”

“Nope,” you said, gently pushing him toward the stairs. “You need sleep, and Owen has been dying to leave early and he definetly doesn’t get that from me.”

“Speaking of,” Jack called over his shoulder as he walked away, “Owen! Brush your teeth!”

“I did!” came the indignant reply, followed by the telltale sound of the controller hitting the floor as Owen finally got up.

Jack glanced back at you with a tired smirk. “Just making sure.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dishes, smiling to yourself as Jack stalked off to go see his son.

It was shaping up to be a good day.

You had no idea how fast everything would change.

When you had officially gotten to Pitt-Fest a few hours later the air was warm, with a gentle spring breeze brushing your skin as you and Owen made your way from the parked car toward the heart of the festival. The streets were already buzzing with music, food truck smells, and early crowds. You smiled to yourself—this was going to be a good day.

Owen was practically skipping beside you, eyes wide as he took everything in. “Mom, look! They’ve already got the funnel cake truck open! Please, please can we get one now?”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “Owen, it’s barely even lunchtime. Don’t you want to save that for later?”

He gave you that crooked, charming grin—so much like Jack’s—and you sighed with a smile. “Alright. One. And we’re splitting it.”

Within minutes, you were both sharing a messy, powdered sugar-coated funnel cake, your fingers sticky as you wandered past booths and rides. It felt good to unplug, to just be with your son. The chaos of life, Jack’s odd shifts, and your own never-ending schedule faded into the background.

“Hey—Jake!” Owen suddenly shouted, tugging your hand as he spotted someone up ahead. “C’mon, Mom!”

You glanced up, surprised to see Jake—The son of one of Robby’s exs, and a boy you had watched grow up—waving from a grassy patch near the basketball shoot-out game. For a moment, your eyes scanned the area, expecting to see Michael with him, like he said he’d be. Instead, you were greeted with the sight of someone else entirely: a nice looking young woman in a cropped denim jacket and oversized sunglasses, sipping something pink out of a mason jar.

Jake ran up to Owen, already mid-hug and mid-laugh, the two boys catching up like no time had passed.

“Hey Mrs. A!” Jake said brightly, a little too loud over the music. “Didn’t know you guys were coming!”

You blinked, confused, a light smile on your face as you gave the young man a hug. “I thought Robby was bringing you?”

“Oh—no,” he said, waving a hand. “He’s working today, I guess. We didn’t want the passes to go to waste, so he just said I could bring someone.”

“Jeez, he didn’t mention that when we talked yesterday.” you put a hand on your hip, thinking of all the ways you could scold the older man—maybe have Jack do it for you, he was “scarier” anyway.

Still, everyone looked happy. Owen clearly had his attention on the two older kids, laughing and as he tried to convince both Jake and Leah to come with him to the makeshift basketball court.

So you stayed chill.

“Well, I’m glad you guys are having fun,” you said, easing into a comfortable flow of watching Owen and chatting with Jake and Leah. “Well that’s too bad he couldn’t come, Owen was looking forward to seeing Mikey.”

“Totally, but you know how it is with him.” Jake said, glancing down at his phone before wandering off a few feet to take a picture of Owen and Leah playing.

You exhaled slowly, watching Owen light up when he made a shot, Jake clapping and ruffling his hair as his girlfriend cheered.

It wasn’t quite what you’d planned—but as long as Owen was smiling, you could roll with it. “Do you guys need any more money?”

Jake wandered over again, glancing up from his phone as he slipped it into his pocket. “Nah, we’re good. I’ve got some cash and Leah’s got that apple pay.” He grinned, nudging her playfully. “She’ll sell her soul for a blue slushie.”

Leah rolled her eyes but smiled. “Facts, but we’re all good for now, promise Mrs. A.”

You nodded, still watching Owen line up another shot with intense focus, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth like he always did when he was concentrating. You’d seen that same expression on Jack’s face a hundred times.

“He’s getting good,” Jake said with a little pride in his voice. “Kid’s got an arm.”

“He’s been practicing,” you said with a smile. “Jack set up one of those hoops in the driveway. He won’t admit it, but they have this little competition going.”

You laughed softly, relaxing just a little as the chatter and music of the festival surrounded you. The scent of popcorn and cotton candy floated on the breeze. For a moment, it felt simple again. Safe. Happy.

“I’m glad you guys came,” you added, genuine this time. “Owen would’ve been bummed if he hadn’t seen you guys.”

“Anytime,” Jake said. “Seriously. He’s like my little brother.”

Leah smiled, looping her arm through Jake’s. “He’s really the cutest.”

You watched as Owen ran off again, clutching a neon green basketball he’d just won, Jake breaking away from you and Leah to jog after him with mock dramatics.

“Dude, wait up! You're not even giving me a chance to shoot!”

Leah laughed and gave you a quick smile. “We talked about going over to bumper cars, would it be cool if we took Owen?”

You hesitated just a beat, glancing toward the vendor booths where more families were starting to trickle in. But Jake was a good kid. He always had been. And even if Leah was still new to you, she seemed to genuinely care about Owen’s safety.

You gave a small nod. “Just stay close, okay? And if you guys need anything at all—call me. I’ll be right here,”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said with a salute, already herding Owen and Jake in the other direction.

As soon as they disappeared into the crowd, you sank back down onto a nearby bench and pulled out your phone.

Two texts from Jack:

Tryin for another hour of sleep.

Love you.

And a photo from earlier that morning in the living room—Owen holding Duke and grinning like a maniac.

You smiled, heart tugging, and quickly switched out and tapped on Robby’s contact. It only rang twice before he picked up.

“What’s up,?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t you ‘what’s up’ me, Michael”

A pause. “Uh oh. What’d I do?”

“You bailed, Robby,” you said, but your voice was more amused than angry. “I told Owen you were coming. I told him he’d see his Unlce Mikey. You could’ve given me a heads up that Jake was showing up with his girlfriend instead.”

“Okay, first of all,” Robby said, unapologetic and teasingly, “I did mention I was thinking of coming in this week.”

“Yeah, but I assumed you wouldn’t, like you always do.”

He sighed. “I know, I know. I was gonna come for a few hours, but then the damn place turned into a warzone. Got six traumas in two hours and some poor intern—don’t even ask.”

You groaned, rubbing your temple. “Ugh, you men and your ER.”

“Right?” he said brightly. “Anyway, Jake really wanted to go, and he asked if he could bring Leah. I figured he’d be safer with you somewhere nearby.”

You narrowed your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you. “You pawned him off on me.”

“Nooo,” he said, clearly grinning. “I strategically aligned him with a responsible adult.”

“I’m not his mommy, Michael.”

“You might as well be his aunt, considering how much that kid loves you and Jack.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “You owe me.”

“Fine, fine,” he said with exaggerated suffering. “Family dinner’s on me next week, and I’ll buy Owen whatever overpriced plush nightmare he begs you for today. Deal?”

“Deal,” you said. “But I’m serious, next time give me a little warning before I walk into the teenage boyfriend-girlfriend babysitting arrangement.”

“Noted,” he said. “I gotta go—sounds like someone just puked on my staff, again.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

He hung up, and you slid your phone into your pocket, glancing off in the direction Owen, Jake and Leah had gone. You could hear laughing—real laughing and it felt good.

You stood, brushing your hands on your jeans deciding it was time to go find the kids. You followed the path toward the bumper cars, weaving through groups of kids in matching school T-shirts and moms balancing drinks and phones. The sun was climbing higher now, casting a golden glaze over the whole venue, and the noise level had kicked up—music from the small stage nearby, the low grind of ride mechanics, children shouting and laughing, a vendor calling out about fresh churros.

It should’ve felt cheerful. Safe.

But there was a pulse in your chest that hadn’t been there earlier. Not panic. Not dread. Just… something. Like when a summer sky shifts ever so slightly and you know a storm’s coming, even if no one else has noticed yet.

You shook it off.

The bumper cars were up ahead, and you spotted Owen immediately—slightly crooked in the seat, steering like a maniac, laughter spilling out of him. Jake was driving the opposite direction, aiming like he was on a mission, while Leah leaned over the edge of the railing with her phone, filming it all and giggling.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and waved when Owen spotted you.

“Mom! Did you see that one? I spun Jake out!”

You grinned and gave him a thumbs up. “I saw, Baby!”

Leah smiled and came over to stand beside you. “He’s really good behind the wheel.”

“Just like his dad,” you said with a soft laugh, eyes still locked on the ride.

But then something flickered at the edge of your awareness—a man a few yards back, pacing near the ticket booth. Alone. Hood up despite the warmer weather. Not totally weird, but it pinged something instinctual.

You looked away, telling yourself not to start imagining things.

You were in mom mode.

You were overthinking.

Still, your gaze kept drifting back. The guy had stopped pacing now and was just standing there, hands shoved deep in his sweatshirt pockets.

You reached for your phone again, just a quick glance. Nothing more from Jack.

Beside you, Leah nudged your arm. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, just… watching.”

“Totally get that. I get nervous watching people get on roller coasters. Like I know they’re strapped in, but what if—”

She cut herself off and shook her head. “Sorry. That probably didn’t help.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I just… like to keep an eye on things.”

The ride ended, and Owen came barreling out of the gate, freckled cheeks flushed. “Can we do the tilt-a-whirl next?”

“Let me guess,” you said, ruffling his hair. “Jake and Leah want to do it?”

“Uh-huh!” he laughed.

“Alrighty, but I’m gonna join you this time. I can’t let you three have all the fun, right?” You squeezed Owen’s shoulder gently.

You glanced back in that direction they had walked and spotted them about twenty feet ahead, Jake with his arm draped lazily over Leah’s shoulder, the two of them laughing about something on her phone.

As you took Owen’s hand in yours, you looked back toward the ticket booth.

The man was gone.

You scanned the area, telling yourself it was nothing. Maybe he left. Maybe he was just waiting for someone. Maybe he was never looking at anyone in particular.

But your skin was prickling now.

The crowd was growing thicker. The music seemed louder, a little too chaotic. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay grounded.

No sirens. No screams. No reason to panic.

But still—you reached into your bag and made sure your phone and wallet were exactly where you left them.

A bit later, You were leaned against the wooden railing near the edge of the food truck circle, letting the scent of fried dough and grilled sausage fill your nose while you scrolled through the pictures in your phone.

Owen’s smile was huge in every shot—hoisting the giant stuffed dinosaur he had choosen over his head, standing triumphantly on a painted podium outside a carnival game, laughing mid-spin in a blur of motion next to Jake and Leah.

Your heart squeezed, warmth blooming beneath your ribs. It hadn’t been the day you’d expected, but maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe this was even better.

You chose your favorite one—Jake had crouched behind Owen with a goofy flex, and Leah was pretending to kiss Owen’s cheek while he squirmed away, red-faced and thrilled—and attached it to a new message.

We’re having the best time. Gonna let them do one or two more rides, before we head to the restaurant ❤️

You hit send, then slid your phone back into your bag and looked up—just in time to see Owen dart off toward Jake and Leah, who were lining up for the swings just outside of the food trucks.

You followed slowly, keeping them in sight but giving them space. The wind picked up slightly, carrying voices, music, and the metallic squeak of carnival rides. You rubbed your arms—goosebumps, despite the warm day.

Something felt off again.

You couldn’t place it. Not yet.

It wasn’t a sound or a flash—just that shift in the air, like the pressure had changed, like someone had cracked a door you hadn’t noticed before.

Then came the first pop.

You paused.

One loud crack, sharp and clean, like someone popping a balloon too close to your ear. Heads turned. A few kids were startled.

Another pop. Then two more.

Your eyes narrowed. Not fireworks. Not part of the festival.

The music from the central stage screeched to a halt.

Then the screams started. One. Then several. People began moving—first walking quickly, then running.

Gunshots.

Your throat closed around your breath. You turned wildly—where were they? Where was Owen?

“Baby?!” you shouted, pushing forward, weaving between bodies, looking everywhere. “Owen!”

Then—blessedly—you saw him. Near the swings, crouched low behind a bench, Jake in front of him like a human shield, Leah’s arm around both of them.

You sprinted. Didn’t think. Just moved.

When Owen spotted you, his face crumpled. “Mom!”

You dropped to your knees, pulled him into you with a force that knocked the air out of both your lungs.

“Stay with me,” you whispered, kissing his temple. “Don’t let go of my hand.”

Jake’s voice was shaking. “We need to get out of here.”

You nodded fast. “This way!”

And as the shots rang out again—closer, louder—you ran.

You didn’t look back.

You clutched Owen to your side, your arm curled tight around his head, forcing him to duck as you moved. Jake was behind you, shouting something to Leah—but the noise was too loud. Screams. Sirens now, maybe? No—just more shots, ricocheting in the air like firecrackers set loose in hell.

People were stampeding. You could barely think, barely see. Your only goal was to get to the back of the lot—to the edge near the petting zoo where the fence dipped and the parking field beyond opened up.

You turned a sharp corner, skidding in the dirt. “Almost there,” you panted. “Just hold on—”

A deafening crack shattered the words in your throat. You didn’t have time to scream.

Leah gasped behind you—then collapsed, dropping like a ragdoll with cut strings. You barely saw her hit the pavement, but Jake screamed.

“Leah!”

You turned just in time to see blood—too much—pooling around her chest. Her hand twitched, trying to reach for Jake.

“No, no, no,” he was shouting, dropping to his knees, trying to cover the wound, but it was—It was her chest.

She was probably already gone.

You wanted to go to them. You tried. But then Owen let out a shriek—piercing and ragged—and your body jerked like you’d been electrocuted.

You looked down.

Blood. Owen’s blood.

“Baby—”

His leg gave out and he crumpled. You dropped with him, hands flying to his side where the crimson stain was already spreading through his little T-shirt. Not the leg. Higher. Too high.

“No, no, no—look at me, look at me,” you begged, pressing your hands to the wound. “Stay with me, I’ve got you, it’s okay—”

Another shot. You flinched violently, instinctively curling over him as a sharp, white-hot pain tore through your side. It took your breath. Took your words. You tried to move and screamed instead.

Jake’s voice broke through—panicked, breathless. “Go! Take him—GO! I’ve got Leah—he’s still shooting—GO!”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. But you pulled Owen’s body into your arms anyway, teeth gritted against the blinding pain, and ran.

You didn’t see where Jake went. You didn’t know where the gunman was. You only knew you had to move.

People ran in every direction—ducking, diving, falling. You stumbled into someone, nearly lost your grip on Owen, then shoved forward again. The access road was ahead. So close.

Owen was crying weakly, clutching your shirt.

“Stay with me,” you rasped, your vision blurring. “We’re almost there. I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

And then—

A fence. An open gap. You fell through it. Literally fell—knees buckling, your body slamming into the grass, but you kept him with you.

Dirt. Blood. Sirens now, real ones, screaming somewhere far too far away.

Owen wasn’t screaming anymore.

He was too quiet.

And Jack still didn’t know.

And you couldn’t feel your legs. Couldn’t feel much of anything but the sticky warmth of Owen’s blood on your hands, your shirt, your arms.

Your side throbbed violently, each breath more shallow than the last, but you didn’t let go of him—not even for a second. You cradled his face, kept pressing your trembling fingers to the side of his neck, checking—still there. Weak. Faint. But there.

“Owen, baby,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Come on. Open your eyes for me.”

His lashes fluttered. A faint sound, maybe a whimper, left his lips.

You dragged yourself upright, blinking through sweat and tears. The access road stretched out behind the fence, gravel and dust dancing in the air from the chaos erupting just beyond it. You could still hear screams. Distant shouts. Faint sirens that weren’t close enough.

Not fast enough.

“Stay awake,” you begged, your forehead pressing to his. “You can’t go to sleep, okay? You keep your eyes on me. Dad’s waiting for us. You’re gonna tell him about the dinosaur, remember?”

Owen whimpered again, a soft, slurred, “It hurts.”

“I know, baby. I know. But we’re gonna fix it. I promise—just—just keep talking to me, okay? Tell me your favorite ride. The best one today.”

His lips moved, barely audible. “The swings.”

You nodded, choking out a broken laugh. “Yeah? You were so cool. I saw you.”

A car engine revved.

You blinked.

A dark SUV skidded into view down the gravel path, braking hard just a few feet from you. The passenger door flew open.

Two strangers—one man, one woman—rushed out, eyes wide at the sight of you on the ground, covered in blood.

“Oh my god, Travis—” the woman gasped. “He’s a kid—he’s just a kid!”

“Help us,” you rasped, trying to lift Owen toward them. “Please—we need help..”

“We got you—we got you, hang on,” the man, Travis, said, already crouching to help lift Owen gently from your arms while the woman scrambled for the first aid kit in the back seat.

“No ambulances are getting through,” she muttered, already pressing gauze to Owen’s wound. “Too many people. We’ll get there faster.”

You tried to push yourself up, but your body screamed. Your side. Your leg. It was all catching up to you now.

“I can’t—” you whispered, dizzy. “I have to go with him—I can’t let him go alone—please.”

The woman looked up, eyes soft and certain. “You’re coming. I promise.”

Together, they got you both into the back of the SUV—Owen laid gently across your lap, your hand never leaving his.

The car peeled out, gravel flying behind it.

You looked down at your son. His hazel eyes were barely open, face paling. “Hey,” you whispered. “Stay with me. Almost there. You’re so brave, baby”

The gauze soaked through. Blood was on your arms, your stomach, your thighs—his blood—and the sticky warmth of it made you tremble.

His breath hitched. Too shallow. Too fast.

"You're okay, baby," you murmured, voice thick, trying to stay calm as your own side throbbed with a pain so sharp you could hardly breathe. “You're gonna be okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Owen whimpered faintly, the sound barely there. You ran your fingers through his curls, kissed his forehead, even though your vision was dimming at the edges.

“You're doing so good,” you whispered, your forehead resting against his. “You’re the bravest kid I know. Just stay with me a little longer, okay?”

The woman in the front passenger seat turned back to check on you. Her hands were still red from pressing on Owen's wound before the drive. “We’re almost there,”

“PTMC?” you croaked, not even caring how broken your voice sounded.

She nodded. "Yeah. That’s where we’re going."

You exhaled, one tiny shred of relief carving through the pain. Jack has to be there. Robby’s there.

If anyone could save him—it was them.

You gripped Owen tighter, your injured side screaming in protest. You didn’t care. You’d hold him together if you had to.

“I’m sorry,” the woman, who you still didn’t know the name of, said quietly, her eyes flicking to yours. “About the girl—your friend. The one who got hit before you ran. We saw her.”

You swallowed hard. Leah’s face flashed in your mind. Jake’s scream. The sound of her body hitting the ground.

“She was only seventeen,” you rasped, barely above a whisper.

No one said anything for a moment. The only sound was the roar of the engine and the panicked rise of sirens all around the city.

You felt the car lurch forward again as the driver turned onto the highway. You leaned back just a little, blinking up at the ceiling as your arms trembled beneath Owen’s weight.

"You're almost there," you whispered again, not sure who you were saying it for—Owen, or yourself.

And just like that—over the next rise—the skyline broke open.

PTMC loomed in the distance, lit up like a beacon. Like hope.

You closed your eyes for half a second, just to breathe, and then nothing.

The SUV barreled into the PTMC ambulance bay, tires screeching against the pavement. Dr. John Shen was already there, clipboard abandoned, gloves snapped on ready to assess the new victims. The back door of the SUV flew open before the car had even stopped moving.

A man leapt out, shouting, “Two gunshot victims—one kid, one adult!”

Shen was moving before the words finished. He ducked his head in, already scanning.

A boy—maybe eleven or twelve—was sprawled across a woman’s lap, his small frame slick with blood. His face was gray, eyes barely open, breath shallow. The woman underneath him was slumped, her arm still draped protectively around him. Blood covered her side and leg, a wound visible just below her ribs.

“Red tag!” Shen barked, pointing to the boy. “GSW to the abdomen—fading fast. Let’s move!”

Nurses swooped in. One of them reached to lift the boy, but Shen stopped them.

“Neck check first—don’t move him if there’s spine trauma!”

“Clear,” another nurse confirmed. “He’s bleeding bad—BP’s crashing.”

“Start a line in the bay. Tell everyone we’re coming in hot!”

Shen leaned in as the boy was gently transferred to a gurney. The boy groaned, a high, weak sound—and Shen breathed a sigh of relief. Still responsive. Barely.

Then he turned to you.

You were unconscious now, skin dull and damp. Pulse fluttered beneath his fingers—weak but steady. He checked your airway. No sign of obstruction, but there was clearly pain before you went under. Shen noticed the streaks of red down your arms—defensive wounds.

Clearly you protected him.

“Pink tag,” Shen said quickly. “Delayed but stable for now. Get her to Zone C—secondary triage. Start fluids and monitor LOC.”

One of the ER nurses glanced, “She doesn’t have an ID yet—came in under civilian transport.”

Shen nodded. “She’s the kid’s mother. Keep them in proximity—she’ll want eyes on him as soon as she’s conscious.”

He turned back to the gurney now flying down the hallway.

“Who’s taking him?” he asked.

A voice answered just ahead: “Me.”

Robby was already pulling on gloves as he met the team halfway to the trauma bay. His face went sharp the second he saw the boy, expression turning from clinical to personal in a flash.

“That’s Owen,” he said, voice low. “That’s Jack’s kid, is his mom with him?”

Shen’s eyes didn’t widen, but something about him froze for half a beat.“We’re rolling her in next, you’d better work fast,” he said, already moving to the next case rolling in.

Robby swallowed hard, glancing toward the second gurney now being wheeled away. His stomach twisted.

Robby shoved the bay doors open with his shoulder just as the gurney was wheeled in. Owen was barely conscious, his head lolled to the side, skin pallid and clammy. The heart monitor was already hooked up and showed a weak but present rhythm.

"Vitals?" Robby asked sharply, already snapping on a gown and grabbing the ultrasound probe.

"BP is 78 over 44 and falling. He's tachy—160s. Resps shallow, sat's at 90 on non-rebreather. GSW to lower left quadrant, exit wound in the back. Looks like bowel involvement, maybe nicked the iliac."

Robby exhaled tightly.

Stay focused.

Just stay focused.

"Owen?" he called gently, kneeling beside the bed as they worked. "Hey, bud. It’s Mikey. I’m right here with you, okay?"

Owen’s eyelids fluttered. His lips moved like he wanted to speak, but only a soft noise came out. Robby gripped his hand.

"You don't have to talk. Just stay awake for me. You’re doing so good."

"Two large bores in," one of the nurses confirmed. “Hanging fluids now.”

“Get type and cross, send for four units of O-neg and get trauma surgery on standby,” Robby ordered. “I want FAST up now—we’re wasting time.”

Robby moved quickly, scanning the belly.

“Free fluid,” he muttered. “Left side. That’s blood. We’ve got internal bleeding—he’s not waiting.”

“He needs the OR now,” one of the trauma residents said.

“No,” Robby snapped. “Not until he’s stable enough to make it there. Get Jack. Tell him—tell him it’s Owen.”

Everyone paused for just half a second.

“Do not stop working,” Robby barked, pushing the urgency into motion again.

He leaned over Owen, brushing damp curls away from his forehead. "You're strong, kiddo. You got that from both your parents. You're gonna pull through this, but you gotta stay with me, okay? Just a little longer."

Another nurse leaned in with a pressure dressing. Robby applied it himself, firm and fast. The bleeding had slowed a little, but it was coming from deeper in the gut. He knew what this looked like. And he knew it could turn fast.

The OR doors were already being prepped upstairs for him.

Robby’s hands didn’t shake—but his jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. He couldn’t let his mind drift, to what he saw when they pulled Owen out of that SUV. He didn’t know how bad your injuries were. He didn’t know if you were even awake yet.

But right now?

He had one job.

And that was to keep Owen alive.

The ER was fucking chaos. Codes left and right, everything in a constant movement, and the relentless hum of machines from all over. Jack was no stranger to this—he was in the pink zone, handling the more critical victims of the shooting. But despite his calm, practiced demeanor, his mind was anything but at ease.

He had been pulled in for the shooting response, already working through the wreckage, when he heard the news. You and Owen had been caught in the crossfire, though hopefully safe.

His stomach dropped at the thought.

Keep it together. They’ll be fine, he told himself.

But nothing about today felt fine.

His gloves were soaked in blood as he continued to check vitals, giving orders, and directing the chaos around him. His pulse was still high, but it wasn’t just from the workload—it was the fear gnawing at the back of his mind.

Where were you?

"Dr. Abbot, you’ve got a new Jane Doe over here," a nurse called out, snapping him from his thoughts.

He turned quickly, heart skipping in his chest. “What’s her status?”

"She’s stable, for now. GSW to the abdomen. Blood loss is moderate, went clean through. Civillians brought her in from the scene."

Without waiting, Jack followed the nurse toward the trauma bay. His mind raced, jumping to every conclusion.

Could it be you?

When they arrived at the bed he saw you —his wife, unconscious, blood staining your clothes and skin. Quiet and umoving, but the machines around you were steady.

His breath hitched.

“Get a line in, start fluids,” Jack barked, moving swiftly into action. His hands trembled as he checked your vitals, his mind moving a mile a minute.

Breathing was shallow, but there was still a pulse. The blood was too much. Too much to be a coincidence.

A nurse rushed past, checking on the other patients in the area, but Jack couldn’t tear his eyes from your figure. He reached out, brushing his fingers gently over your arm. It was warm, but the color drained from his face as he saw the blood pooling on the sheets.

“Vitals?” Jack demanded.

“Stable for now. She’s unconscious, but her body’s holding up,” the nurse answered quickly.

“Stay with her,” Jack ordered, his voice low and tight with barely-contained panic. “I need to know the moment her condition changes.”

He pulled back, trying to get his bearings, but the weight of the situation was suffocating. He couldn’t focus on anything else but you and he still had a job to do.

As he moved to step away, another nurse caught his attention, speaking in quick bursts. “Dr. Abbot, we’ve got another one going up to surgery—this one’s a kid, Dr. Robby said he came in with this Jane Doe.”

The word kid stopped Jack in his tracks.

His heart leaped in his chest, and his pulse roared in his ears. He took off without thinking, his legs moving as fast as they could.

Owen.

He rounded the corner to another trauma bay, hoping, praying it wasn’t too late. The sight of the gurney brought him to a halt.

They were already wheeling Owen inside, the boy unconscious, his body pale and covered in blood. A small part of Jack’s mind screamed to reach out, to grab him, but the doctors and nurses were already in motion, preparing to take him up to surgery.

He stepped forward, but Robby was already there, directing the team.

“Owen’s been hit pretty bad,” Robby said, his voice tight with concern. “We’ve got him stable for now, but it’s touch and go and we need to get him upstairs, Brother.”

Jack didn’t even get a chance to ask more. He could only stand there for a moment, his mind spinning, before he was called back to the pink zone.

His wife—his wife was still lying unconscious just down the hall. Owen was going into surgery, fighting for his life. And he was supposed to be the one in control. But right now, he was helpless, and he had to keep working. “Fuck this…”

“I know- I know this is horrible timing, but we still have people to help… They’re in good hands, you know that.” Robby placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, hoping it gave him some sembelence of comfort.

“If something happens to either of them…”

“I know…”

The world felt hazy, like you were waking from a dream—or maybe a nightmare. Your body ached, and your head throbbed with the sharp sting of exhaustion. You blinked your eyes open slowly, the sterile white lights above you blinding at first. The beeping of a nearby monitor and the faint scent of antiseptic filled your senses, grounding you back into reality.

You tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy, as if they didn’t belong to you. Then you remembered—the shooting. The panic surged back in waves. The flashes of gunfire, Owen, Jake, Leah…

“Owen..?” Your voice cracked, barely a whisper as you turned your head toward the sound of the soft shuffle of footsteps.

Jack was sitting next to you, his hand wrapped around yours. His face was drawn, hazel eyes dark with exhaustion but filled with an intense, unwavering focus. He hadn’t left your side.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, leaning forward. His voice was rough, as if he’d been speaking to you in his sleep. “Hey, you’re awake. Thank God.”

You blinked, trying to focus, trying to piece everything together. “Owen... where is he?” Your voice shook, panic still clawing at your chest.

“He’s upstairs,” Jack said, brushing your hair back from your face gently. “He’s in recovery, he’s going to be okay.”

You exhaled shakily, trying to absorb his words.

Owen’s okay.

He was alive.

You felt a strange weight lift from your chest at the thought, but it didn’t stop the rush of emotions from flooding through you.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “How... how bad was it?”

Jack hesitated for a moment, the corner of his lip pulling into a tight, controlled line. “You’re both lucky,” he said, squeezing your hand, his voice quiet. “You both took a bullet, but it’s not as bad as it could’ve been. Just some stitches, a lot of blood loss. You’re going to be fine. You’re tough.”

You closed your eyes, relief and exhaustion mixing together. Your body felt weak, but hearing Jack’s voice, feeling his presence, calmed the swirling storm in your chest.

“I don’t remember... I don’t remember much after we uh- we got in the car.” you said, frowning. The last clear memory you had was trying to get Owen to safety.

Then... everything blurred together.

“Hey,” Jack’s voice softened as he leaned closer, his thumb brushing over your knuckles gently. “You did everything you could. You kept him awake. You got him here.” He paused, his voice breaking just slightly. “You saved him.”

You blinked, the words sinking in. You had kept him conscious. You had gotten him to PTMC. It was all coming back in pieces. You wanted to apologize for not being able to do more, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you closed your eyes and tried to focus on your breathing.

“Are Leah and Jake okay?” you asked after a moment, though you already feared the answer.

Jack’s expression darkened, and his grip on your hand tightened slightly. “Leah didn’t make it,” he said quietly, the weight of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “Jake is with his mom now though,”

You felt your heart ache at the thought. Leah had been so full of life, so young. And now, she was gone.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. You couldn’t help it.

Jack was quiet for a moment, rubbing gently over your hand in comforting circles, offering his own type of peace. “I know. I know, baby,” he said softly. “But we’re here. We’re here, and we’re gonna make it through.”

The words didn’t erase the grief, but they gave you a small thread of hope to cling to.

You turned your head, your eyes searching for Jack’s, and found them filled with that same unwavering strength that had always been there. The strength you needed.

“How’s he doing?” you asked softly, still wanting to know about Owen, even as your body begged for rest.

“He’s alright” Jack repeated, nodding slowly. “They’re keeping an eye on him, but the doctors are sure he’s going to pull through. Kids are strong, and he’s just like his mom.”

You smiled weakly, your heart swelling with love for your son and husband. For a moment, the exhaustion and the fear melted away, and all you could focus on was the fact that you had made it—together.

“You need to rest,” Jack said gently, his voice low as he leaned in to kiss your forehead. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll see if we can move you up to his room too…”

You nodded, your eyelids heavy. You let the warmth of Jack’s presence settle over you, a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been craving so desperately.

“Love you,” you murmured, barely conscious as sleep began to pull you under.

“I love you, too,” Jack whispered back, his voice soft but steady.

And with that, you finally let yourself drift off, knowing Owen was safe and that they would be there when you woke up again.

Sometime later the hum of monitors and soft beeping were steady and low, like the pulse of the room itself. You sat upright in the wheelchair Jack had brought you in, a hospital blanket draped over your lap, your fingers laced with his. Just sitting here beside Owen was enough to crack you wide open inside—every breath a small miracle.

Owen was awake.

Groggy and a little pale, his eyelids fluttered half-shut as he blinked up at the ceiling, shifting weakly against his pillow. His little hand rested beside him, wrapped in a peds-sized blood pressure cuff, wires trailing from his chest to the monitor, a nasal cannula nestled beneath his nose.

Your heart squeezed at the sight of him. He looked so small. So young. But he was awake—and alive.

“Hey, baby,” you whispered, brushing your fingers gently over the back of his hand.

His eyes fluttered open a bit more at your voice, and he turned his head slowly toward you. “Mom?”

You choked on the word before it could leave your throat. You smiled instead, nodding quickly, leaning as close as your body would allow. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m here.”

Owen blinked slowly, his eyes finding Jack beside you. “Dad’s here, too?”

Jack stood from where he’d been crouched at your side, wiping at his eyes quickly as he walked over to the other side of the bed. “Hey, buddy,” he said, voice rough as he leaned down and kissed the top of Owen’s head. “Of course I’m here,”

Owen gave the smallest smile, tired and lopsided. “You came.”

Jack huffed a short, shaky breath and laughed gently through it. “Of course I came, I work here, dork.”

You looked between the two of them, your eyes misting over again. You reached out and touched Owen’s arm gently, your hand trembling with relief. “You scared me,” you said quietly. “You really scared me.”

“Scared me too,” Owen mumbled, his voice raspy. “But… I think I’m okay.”

“You are,” Jack said, looking at you. “The surgery went well. Robby’s keeping a close eye on you too.”

You nodded, your body still aching, your side wrapped and sore, but none of that mattered now.

Owen blinked slowly, brows furrowing as memories tried to catch up with him. “Where’s Jake? And Leah?”

You and Jack exchanged a glance—one of those heavy, silent ones you’d both learned to read over the years.

“Jake’s okay,” Jack said gently, sitting back down beside the bed, resting his hand on Owen’s foot through the blanket. “He’s gonna be just fine.”

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat. “Leah…” You paused, blinking hard. “Leah didn’t make it, sweetheart.”

Owen stared at you, his lip trembling just slightly before he turned his face toward the ceiling again, eyes glistening. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you.

You reached for his hand again, and he held onto you tighter this time.

Jack stayed sitting next to you while on the bed, his hands settling on your shoulders as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You closed your eyes and let it settle in—the three of you in this small space, this quiet moment of stillness after the storm.

“We’re okay,” Jack murmured against your skin. “We’re okay now.”

You nodded, eyes fixed on your son, who was already starting to drift off again under the pain meds. The road ahead would be long—grief, recovery, healing—but right here, right now, you had each other.

mercvry-glow 2025

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bokunoheros · 8 months ago

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TAGS/WARNINGS: reader is gender neutral but afab (keigo does talk ab making you a mommy tho, and you refer to yourself as his girlfriend once), reader is a civilian, this is pre-war, reader and keigo are dating, no lube no protection (all night all day), baby trapping lowk????, idk he nonconsensually cums in you and then proposes (you accept tho), creampies, cockwarming, kinda lazy ending?? idgaf GENRE: smut SUMMARY: it’s the start of mating season and keigo had just saved a mother and her child at work today, so it’s only natural for him to come home with the overwhelming need to knock you up. WORD COUNT: 2.6K 🦊’s A/N: keigo they could Never make me hate you…. anyway hope yall enjoy this fr

not only was today the first day of his rut, meaning his last day of hero work until the spring was over, but he had also gone out of his way to save a mother and her crying child while off-duty. he’d been heading home after an eventful and tiring patrol when he ran into them being threatened by a petty mugger—nothing he couldn’t handle, especially after the day he’d had, but he can imagine having a gun pointed to your face must be scary to an untrained civilian. now, he was brimming over with emotions, barely keeping his cool as he walks through the threshold of your shared home, slamming the door loudly behind him, wings all puffed up and ruffled.

“keigo? honey, what’s wron—” you’re suddenly cut off by a small flurry of his feathers sweeping you off your feet and carrying you from the kitchen towards where he stood in the living room, in the process of stepping out of his boots and shrugging his jacket off. you’re immediately taken aback by his serious demeanor and you open your mouth to say something, except that no words come out. what should you say?

“how was your day..?” you ask tentatively after a brief moment of silence.

rather than verbally answering you, he lets out a long, drawn out sigh and shakes his head — a response you’re unfamiliar with. usually, he isn’t afraid to yap for at least fifteen minutes about how his day went, what happened, and sometimes even the people or fellow pros he talked to! so for him to remain silent…. well, it’s safe to say you’re starting to get worried.

had you done something wrong? was today exceptionally challenging? your heart rate increases as your anxious thoughts swirl around in your foggy mind, and you don’t know where to go from here.

keigo knew what to do, though; he knew exactly how to relieve this stress.

taking a step in your direction, he narrows his eyes, intense, predatory gaze locked onto yours, and suddenly, he’s leaning in for a kiss as he backs you up against the nearest wall.

the way he kisses you is controlled and barely put together, and you can tell he’s on edge, like he’s about to snap, so you say what you think he needs to hear.

“you can rough me up a bit, kei, i promise i won’t break.”

his eyes fly open at your words before narrowing as he nods before leaning back in with much more passion and any restraint right out the window. but he himself has said it before, he’s awful—he has no self-control; something that rang especially true when it came to you.

he’s spent whole evenings with his head buried between your thighs, eating you out until you’re crying and begging him to stop, saying it hurts, it hurts!, to which he always asks you for just one more. “one more” never meant one more, of course—keigo was greedy in this sense. he could never seem to get enough of you, always wanting more, more, more. if he could, he’d devour you whole, make you his entirely, and—that’s exactly what he was going to do tonight. he had been planning to propose for a while now, anyway. he had a ring and everything! he’d.. just been working up the courage to ask. so, then what better way than by deciding to knock you up on a whim.

well, …was it really a whim if he had fantasized about it before? the two of you had been dating since the summer of last year, meaning you haven’t seen him during his ruts yet, and, while he’s mentioned it briefly in the past, he didn’t actually expect to last this long with you so he never divulged the details of it—not because he wasn’t in love with you, but because he gave up on the dating scene because he’s always the one being dumped for being so. so. !!!! outwardly nonchalant about most things! or being married to his work, whatever they meant by that; he only worked so hard so he could have a future to relax in! no one ever seemed to understand that…. until he met you.

something just clicked between the two of you upon your first meeting—you were probably the most interesting person hawks had ever saved, be it your quirk, your personality and mannerisms, or even something as simple as a remark you had made in the five something minutes it took to save you; he found himself unable to get you out of his head for days afterwards, eventually causing him to seek you out to ask a bewildered you on a date—just one, he had originally said.

you said yes immediately for a multitude of reasons—he was fine as fuck, he’d literally saved your life the other day, not to mention he was witty, and spoke his mind, too—something keigo hadn’t been expecting. he knew all of the above things, and yet, found himself somewhat nervous as he handed you a bouquet of pale red carnations, red camellias, and baby’s breath. he’d stayed up all night researching flower language and symbolism, deciding on the perfect ones to give to you, as he knew it was rude to show up to somebody’s house empty-handed, and, also, because… he’d never really felt this way about anyone before. there was something so magnetic between the two of you….

but that’s enough reminiscing—he needs to be in the present moment, needs to focus on fucking you so good you go braindead on his dick, focus on cumming so deep in you, there’s no way you couldn’t not be pregnant with his child. keigo understood that having children as the number two pro hero would be no easy feat, but he thinks with you by his side, he can do anything.

sliding his tongue over the seam of your lips, one gloved hand comes up to squish your cheeks enough to force your lips to part for him and he easily slips the wet muscle into your mouth, taking his time sliding it along the insides of your cheeks, the grooves of your teeth, and the roof of your mouth, carefully exploring every inch and committing it to memory (as if he hadn’t already).

meanwhile, his other hand settles on your hip, massaging it lightly for a moment before his grip quickly tightens and he’s coaxing your tongue out of your mouth and into his as he begins to suck on it.

“mmh,” you hum pleasantly, starting to drool as you let keigo decide how to use you in order to relieve his stress.

“missed ya t’day, dove,” he murmurs against your lips before nipping at your tongue and you feel your heart flutter. what had gotten into him? you weren’t necessarily complaining, but you still felt a little worried about him if you were being totally honest.

keigo, sensing your unease, slowly pulls away from the kiss to ask if something was wrong, just for you to deflect the question back onto him.

“‘m fine, it was just a long day is all,” he tells you in earnest, leaving out the part about the beginning of his rut. “need’a feel you s’bad, though,” he breathes out, moving to kiss you again; tilting his head, he slots his lips back over yours, and it feels like he’s going to eat you alive. and, truthfully, he just might.

before you even realize what he’s doing, he’s picking you up, wrapping your legs around his narrow waist, and carrying you into the bedroom where he’s pinning you to the mattress, wings spread wide for you to admire as you look up at him. you’re sure his words held a bit of truth to them, but he was behaving a little oddly for reasons you couldn’t put together yet.

him being a horny little shit wasn’t the unusual bit, but rather, his upbeat demeanor was nowhere to be found—even if it was an act almost all the time, it still felt weird to see him so serious looking.

“kei…”

“shh, stop worrying, sweets,” he shushes you, leaning in for another hungry kiss. you oblige him of course, parting your lips and poking your tongue out to meet his as you close your eyes

his large wings create an almost dome around the two of you, shutting out the world, only leaving room for the two of you, and not another soul.

perhaps it would be best to sit back, relax, and let your boyfriend play with you… so that’s exactly what you do, settling fully onto the soft bed and wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in closer—something that had him smirking against your soft lips.

it’s not long before you’re both naked, having grown too hot for the unnecessary layers separating your bare bodies, and soon, you suddenly have a pillow tucked under your hips, keeping them at an angle—something that confuses you.

“keigo?”

“just relax, dove.”

he leans in closer, bringing his lips to yours as his one hand grasps at your hip, blunt nails (that he has to trim daily, mind you, lest they grow into talons) digging into the tender flesh there while his other grabs at his leaky cock, tapping it against your clit a couple times before lining it up with your slit and slowly pushing in, doing his best to show restraint and not bottom out in one fluid motion. you both groan at the feeling, the stretch so deep you almost feel nauseous.

bringing two fingers down to your pulsing clit, he rubs semi-rough circles against the little bud, trying his hardest not to overwhelm you, but needing to hurry up and get you off so he can stuff you full of his cum.

“mmmh,” you moan quietly as he focuses on working you up to your first orgasm out of many for the long night he had planned for you.

it’s not long before you’re cumming with a cry and suddenly, keigo’s got his dick lined up with your slick little hole, easing himself in as he bites his bottom lip, trying not to whimper.

“fuuuck, you’re so tight, sweets,” he groans, rocking his hips into your, unkempt pubes brushing against your neatly trimmed ones.

your hands come up to wrap around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer, before you’re tugging at his wings, and you feel his dick twitch inside you.

“don’t,” is all he’s able to get out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, where he begins sucking and biting at the skin there.

“why not?” you grin like an idiot, already knowing the answer. you knew damn well just how sensitive keigo’s wings were—already having had this discussion when you first started having sex and you went to grab at them for the first time.

“don’t ask stupid questions when you know the answer, dove,” he warns.

you, ever the brat, decide to start stroking on his wings, and you feel his hips stutter and teeth sink into the column of your throat.

“nngh–!” you whine, tugging on the bright red feathers. keigo moans loudly at this, and quickly grabs the backs of your thighs to fold you in half and start fuckin’ pounding into you—his thrusts are fast and sloppy, and the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin turns you on even more, pussy drooling around his dick.

it doesn’t take long before keigo’s cumming deep inside you without warning, something that has your eyes flying open.

“k–keigo–! y– you just— you..!” the words aren’t there as panic begins to settle in. something you had both agreed on before you started fucking was that even if you did it raw, he had to pull out—kids were a big no for the both of you.

but here was your boyfriend, fucking you throughout his orgasm and working his way up to a second as he looks down at you with a gaze so intense, you feel small beneath him.

tugging at his wings again, you cry out his name as he fucks his cum into you, just for him to ignore your pathetic mewls and pleas.

“k– kei—!”

“gonna knock y’up so good—g’nna— fuck— g’nna make you a mommy—”

your face flushes deeply at his words—is this what had gotten into him? the urge to breed you? knock you up?

“f–fuck!” you pull at his wings, rolling your hips upwards as best you can as he desperately ruts into you. this triggers keigo’s second orgasm, his pelvis pressing flush against yours as he cums hard.

“nngh—! hnnmg—fuck,” keigo moans as his hips still while he spills another load deep within you. “shit— y’feel so fuckin’ good, baby—”

this continues for what seems like ever, but in reality is maybe fifteen minutes of your boyfriend fucking into you until he physically can’t cum anymore, until tears are running down his cheeks from how overstimulated he is, and he’s collapsing on top of you with a tired sigh.

“k–keigo— we— we can’t—” can’t what? “‘m gonna get pregnant— y’gotta let me get up,” you try to say, shoving at his chest; but it was no use, he was dead weight.

“good,” he says breathlessly, nuzzling his face into your neck.

“n–no! not good! i— we’re only dating! what would the media think if they found out the number two pro hero went and knocked his girlfriend up?!” your concern is genuine, but also stems from selfish reasons. you’re sure the reporters would hound you the moment they caught a whiff of something fishy, and—

“then marry me.” his words are so serious sounding that they immediately break you out of your own mind and your eyes go wide with shock and awe. had he seriously just. proposed?! while still being balls deep in you!?

“huh!?” you sound just as caught off guard as you look, and keigo cranes his neck up to look at you, expression the most serious you’d ever seen it. …okay, so he obviously wasn’t joking around, but, but–!

“you heard me. …i’d been meaning to get you a ring for a little while now, but couldn’t find one i thought you might like, so…..” his cheeks are flushed and face sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead as he gazes at you so tenderly, your heart can’t help but feel full.

“i— keigo, i…” he waits patiently as you fumble with your words. “yes,” finally falls from your lips, a grin tugging at the corners of them.

unable to say anything else, you cup his cheeks with both hands and press kisses all over his handsome face before you slot your lips over his and lean in slowly, almost teasingly.

keigo, ever impatient, leans in to close the gap, one large hand coming to cradle the back of your head as his hips twitch and he pushes further into you, causing the disgusting amount of cum stuffed in your cunt to form a creamy ring around the base of his cock, and drip down to your puckered asshole. after that, it doesn’t take much longer for keigo to fuck you both to sleep.

and that’s how you found yourself in the exact same position one year later, having put your first child to bed no less than an hour ago, with your now husband pinning you to your shared mattress, talking about how he wants a second kid—how beautiful you looked pregnant the first time, and how he’d love to see you like that again. so, he makes it happen. and then one more time after that.

return to KINKTOBER | PRO HERO M.LIST

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valeisaslut · 2 days ago

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riding country!ellie with your hands tied behind your back. that’s all i have to say baby ☺️💗

blessed are the ones who sin .♱ ݁˖

♱ word count: 2.8k 𖥔 ݁ ˖-

♱ content warnings: country!ellie x preacher’s daughter!reader, dom!reader x light sub!ellie, semi-public barn sex, religious guilt/blasphemy kink, bondage (wrists tied), spit kink, overstimulation, ass slapping, strap-on sex, mutual filth, southern accents, reader in control, ellie gets ruined, overstimmed & begging, both unholy and holy. MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

late summer air hangs thick with the smell of hay and something sweeter— like sin and sweat, like the hot ache of wanting something you ain’t supposed to. the crickets scream from the fields just outside, but inside it’s so quiet you can hear the sound of her chewing gum and the faint creak of the wooden beam you’re tied to.

your wrists are bound behind your back with her bandana. the red one. the one she always ties around her forehead when she’s fixing up her truck or working the stables. it smells like leather and salt and a her. something wild and unruly, something that’s never knelt for god in her life.

you’re kneeling in front of her. back straight. chin high. sweat rolling down your neck.

and ellie’s sitting in the hayloft ladder like it’s a damn throne, legs spread wide in those old jeans and boots caked in dirt, thumb hooked in her belt loop like she’s got all the time in the world.

“you always this mouthy for jesus, baby?” she drawls, slow and thick like molasses.

you raise your brow, smiling through the tension. “only on sundays.”

she laughs — low, rough, half-wicked. not the first time you’ve said something blasphemous in front of her, and it sure as hell won’t be the last.

there’s a rhythm to the way you sin with her. steady, worn into the floorboards. you’ve been sneaking around since spring, maybe longer, depending on how you measure guilt. maybe it started the moment she saw you barefoot on the porch, twirling a popsicle in your mouth with your sunday dress hitched up too high, your smile too slow. maybe it started when she smiled back.

your family doesn’t know.

god help them if they ever did.

they don’t ask where you go in the evenings. don’t ask why you’ve started skipping bible study or why your sheets smell like smoke. they just keep making plans, setting your place at someone else’s table. they say austin’s got a strong back and a clean conscience. that his daddy runs the feed store and his mama’s been praying for a girl just like you. they say you’ll grow to love him, that it’s god’s will, that you were made to serve— soft hands, closed legs, a white dress that won’t wrinkle.

they say purity like it’s a scripture you forgot how to recite.

because your body’s already spoken, louder than any psalm. it remembers the first time ellie touched you — fingers calloused from leather and sun, but gentle when they slipped beneath the cotton hem of your skirt in the back of her truck. it remembers the kiss behind the grain silo, your breath stuttering in her mouth, the way her hands gripped your hips like she was holding back a prayer she didn’t know how to say.

it remembers that sunday service, all tight smiles and tighter throats, when her hand brushed yours beneath the pew and your knees nearly buckled. you said amen with her fingerprints still blooming across your thighs, half a hymn tangled in your teeth.

ellie’s a cowboy. not the kind in songs, the real kind. boots worn through, flannel rolled to the elbows, jaw shadowed, shoulders broad. she rides horses, fixes fences, spits sunflower seeds out the side of her truck.

she’s got the kind of swagger your daddy would call a sickness. the kind of mouth your mama would pray out of you.

and she's kind of girl you couldn’t stop looking at since the day she rode into town with nothing but a duffel bag and a chip on her shoulder.

she doesn’t ask you to be quiet, doesn’t beg you to repent. she lays you down like a secret, one she knows the world will never be good enough to keep.

and you want her.

not just the rough edges, not just the danger.

you want the whole damn thing.

every inch of her, every breath. every long, aching night when she climbs through your window and fucks you so slow you forget how to say god’s name.

“reckon you got no shame,” she murmurs, her southern drawl curling around each word like smoke, eyes dragging over you slow. “kneelin’ for me in your daddy’s barn like a damn altar.”

you smile, all sugar. “ain’t shameful if he ain’t watchin’.”

ellie hums, low in her throat, and shifts forward on the wooden step. she’s flushed already, cheeks rosy, freckles darker in the barnlight. her hat’s tipped back off her head, hair tucked behind her ears. there’s a glint of sweat on her neck.

the strap’s already buckled on her hips —she always comes prepared, cocky little shit— but she hasn’t moved to use it. not yet.

“you been thinkin’ 'bout me?” she asks.

“every night.”

“and what exactly you think about?”

you tilt your head, testing her. “ridin’ you till you cry.”

her eyes flare. that sharp little twist of want crosses her face. the one that makes her jaw flex, her tongue swipe over her lip like she’s trying not to show how bad she wants it.

“you talk real big for someone with her hands tied,” she says, voice slipping a notch lower.

you lean forward, still on your knees, bare from the waist down, tank top damp with sweat and sticking to your back.

“you ain’t never had me ride you proper,” you murmur. “scared you’ll like it too much?”

ellie’s breath catches.

and it doesn’t take much to get her on her back.

ellie can act big and bad all she wants, but there’s something in the way she looks at you, like you’re the only one who ever unraveled her, that makes her pliant under your hands.

or in this case, under your hips.

you straddle her slowly, wrists still bound behind your back, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and ache. it’s awkward at first —not being able to steady yourself— but ellie helps. her hands find your waist, strong and sure, roughened by rope and reins. she holds you like she’s done it a hundred times, like your body was made to fit the mold of her grip.

her strap’s thick, veined, rubber catching light in the humid barn air. when you start to sink onto it, your whole body clenches. it’s wider than you remember, heavier. it doesn’t ease in; it claims space. stretches you open inch by inch until you can feel the pressure bloom behind your ribs, until your cunt swallows the whole length in a slow, trembling glide.

your breath stutters, your thighs shake. it’s not pain, it’s more than that— a full-bodied, spine-deep throb that makes your eyes roll back.

“oh, fuck,” you breathe, voice cracking.

ellie groans, low and drawn out, green irises dark and blown as she watches you sink down onto her cock. her head tips back, resting against the old hay bale, hips twitching up into your heat.

you can feel everything— the drag of the strap against your walls, the way it nudges deeper with every tiny shift. your slick is making it shine where it disappears into you, every breath you take rolls down your spine and settles between your legs. the fullness is obscene, glorious, a weight that makes you feel stuffed and ruined before you've even moved.

“god damn,” she pants, eyes stuck on the place where her cock disappears into you. “look at you.”

ellie’s hands are gripping your ass now, fingertips digging in, not guiding anymore. grounding. bracing. her thighs are tense under yours, trembling with restraint.

she wants to move, to buck up and fuck into you until you forget your name.

but she’s holding back, letting you take your time. letting you own it.

and you bounce— once, then twice, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the hayloft’s hush. it knocks the breath out of both of you.

then you stop.

“ellie.”

she looks up at you.

“spit in my mouth.”

her pupils dilate. something primal cuts across her face— a ripple of heat, a helpless twitch of her hips.

“jesus,” she whispers. then obeys.

you tilt your head back, tongue out, jaw slack. her spit lands hot and thick on your tongue, and your whole body jolts. the heat of it, the weight of her watching you take it.

you swallow it without blinking.

“good fuckin' girl,” she murmurs. voice gone hoarse, reverent, ruined.

“you like that?” you rasp, “like seein’ me all tied up and fuckin’ filthy?”

her answer is a sound you feel more than hear, a moan that starts in her chest and ends in yours.

she pulls the hat off her head.

her auburn locks are damp with sweat, stuck to her forehead. she looks fucked-out already. she twirls the hat once on her finger, then leans forward and settles it right on your head, tilting it low over your brow with a crooked grin.

“there,” she rasps. “now ride me, baby. you know how the sayin’ goes.”

your jaw slackens. your cunt clenches.

and then, you start to really ride her. slow, then faster, letting the friction drag against your clit each time you sink down. it’s messy as it can be. your hands useless behind your back so you can’t hold her, can’t even touch yourself.

all you can do is ride and burn and take it.

and ellie, ellie’s gone. her mouth’s open, eyes half-lidded, jaw slack as she watches you move. she’s panting now, chest heaving beneath her tank. one hand goes to grip your thigh, the other still sitting heavy on your ass.

“god, you look so good like this,” she mumbles. “like a damn dream.”

you roll your hips with a slow grind that makes both of you cry out.

“feel good?” you whisper.

“fuck—yeah. you ridin’ me so good, baby.”

you lean in closer, breath hot against her ear. “you want me to keep goin’?”

she nods, desperate, pupils blown.

“beg.”

you feel her shiver.

“please. please, baby — keep goin’. don’t stop, feels so fuckin’ good—”

you kiss her, hard and messy, even though you can’t hold her, even though it’s more teeth than grace. she whimpers into your mouth, arms wrapping around your back, pressing you flush against her chest.

and still, you ride. up and down, forward and back, each motion deliberate, unrelenting. the cock fucks into you with a rhythm that blurs into need, into instinct. your thighs tremble, your cunt flutters around the length, soaked and stretched, chasing the high that builds with every ruthless grind.

“ellie—”

“i got you,” she whispers. “come for me, baby. c’mon. make a mess all over me, i don’t care— fuck—”

and you do.

it slams into you like a storm. a white-hot burst of heat that shoots down your spine, curls your toes, makes you sob out her name. you collapse against her, writhing, gasping, clenching around nothing but rubber and the heat of her body beneath yours.

ellie holds you, whispers into your neck.

“that’s it. that’s it, pretty girl.”

when you finally stop shaking, breath still catching in your throat, you feel her shift beneath you— just a subtle twitch of her hips, but desperate. like her body’s chasing a high that isn’t hers yet, grinding up into you like it’s her cock inside you, like she can feel every pulse of your cunt in the aftermath.

you pull back just enough to see her face, flushed and slack, her freckles dusted pink, mouth parted. all bravado gone.

“you wanna come too?” you ask, voice soft. shaky.

she nods, fast. eyes wide, red in the cheeks, almost embarrassed.

“then do it."

and just like that, her hands clamp down on your hips, tight, possessive. she starts to thrust up into you with real rhythm— hard, measured, punishing. it’s not just desperate now, it’s practiced, deep. each stroke hits something sharp inside you, something raw and overused, and your whole body jolts with the contact.

the hat on your head tips forward from the force, nearly sliding off. ellie pushes it back with one hand —her eyes still locked on your face— then brings that same palm down on your ass in one sharp slap that makes you gasp, your cunt clenching around the strap with a wet squeeze.

“ride it,” she growls. “come on, baby — fuckin’ ride it.”

you’re already grinding back down to meet her thrusts, overstimulated, every nerve flaring. the strap’s deep inside you, dragging against every swollen edge, and now it’s unbearable— too much, too good, too slick. your body doesn’t know whether to fight it or surrender.

you choose the latter.

you ride her again, even as your thighs shake, even as tears prick the corners of your eyes and the most unholy whimpers and high-pitched moans can't stop falling from your lips. the overstimulation starts as heat, sharp and mean, but then melts into something hotter, filthier. a second orgasm building beneath the wreckage of the first.

ellie’s losing it. thrusting up like she’s fucking for survival, moaning into the space between your bodies, forehead damp, chest slick.

“tell me who you belong to,” she rasps, voice breaking.

“you—fuck—you, baby. always you. always.”

her hips stutter. her fingers bruise your skin.

and you feel it hit her — sudden, unstoppable — the way her thighs snap tight beneath you, her breath punches out in a broken and impossibly slutty cry, her muscles seizing around the thrusts she can’t finish.

you kiss her through it, mouths open, gasping into each other’s lungs, her rhythm still brutal beneath you. riding both orgasms out like a storm.

because just as she comes, so do you. your whole body folding over hers like a wave collapsing. you’re shaking, wrung out and wide open, dripping wet all over her.

it’s filthy. frantic. soaking.

there’s a mess between you now—your slick coating her lower stomach, smeared across her pelvis where your bodies kept grinding together. the base of the strap is soaked, and ellie’s clit is twitching beneath the harness, swollen and aching, nerves sparking with the contact, overstimulated and raw. her jeans sitting wrinkled on her knees. she’s breathless. her beautiful face slack and shining, mouth parted in awe.

you’re both still moving, barely— tiny, involuntary pulses that make your bodies tremble against each other, chasing the last shreds of the high. your thighs are trembling. her chest rises and falls like she’s been sprinting.

and when it’s finally over —when you both go limp in the hay, still pressed together, still shaking— she pulls the hat off your head and drops it beside you with a grin.

“jesus christ, baby” she pants.

you laugh, wrecked and breathless.

“he ain't here.”

“no,” she mutters, nosing at your cheek, lips brushing yours. “but you are.”

the silence after is holy. or—unholy, if we’re speaking in strict biblical terms. but it settles over both of you like grace, thick and reverent. a hush that feels sacred, even if it was born of sin.

the kind of silence that follows after church service, when the air is thick with incense and everyone’s misdeeds still hang like ghosts in the rafters.

you sit on her lap, breath still short, wrists still tied. your forehead pressed against hers. her hands trace lazy circles on your thighs.

“think i just saw the lord,” she mutters, voice hoarse.

you laugh, soft. “he didn’t smite us, that’s somethin’.”

ellie chuckles and presses a kiss to your temple.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with the way we love, baby.”

you shift in her lap, arms aching now.

“you gonna untie me?”

she smirks. “eventually.”

“ellie.”

“i like you like this.”

“ellie.”

she grins, wide and beautiful and ruined.

“alright, alright,” she says, finally reaching behind you to undo the knot. her fingers are gentle now, like she’s undoing a bow on the prettiest present she’s ever gotten.

you roll your shoulders when you're free, and she presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“still thinkin’ about ridin’ me till i cry?” she asks, lazy, smug.

you hum. “next time.”

and she groans, tilting her head back like she’s already praying for mercy.

you laugh. you kiss her. you taste spit and sweat and salvation.

somewhere in the distance, the church bell rings.

and neither of you answer it.

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ DAYYUUUMMMMMMMM I ADDED SOME LORE TO MAKE IT MORE INTERESTING BUT GAWD DAMN IM WET W MY OWN WRITING. huge HUGE HUGE love and tysm to MIA THE LOVE OF MY LIFE you live in my brain rent free and you've been here since THE first day. words can't even start to describe how much i love you. my baby. my wife. my real one. will forever love you like the moon loves the sun. okay poetic. but seriously i love you endlessly.

images from pinterest - edited by me

perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andiemiaswife @mayfldss @sewithinsouls @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater

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toxicanonymity · 8 months ago

Text

THE LEAK

PAIR: billy loomis x f!reader WC: 2200 filthy words SUMMARY/NOTES: AU where billy lives and is acquitted of the murders. he's your sleazy landlord, and he's obsessed with you. big ty to @clawdee for a thot that did a lot. love this moodboard by @aurorawritestoescape for the vibes. WARNINGS may not have full detail. 18+ adult content. stalking and other perv behavior, detailed fantasies of each other (in yours, he's forceful and can lift you), jerking off, dark use of cum, light degradation, (explicit) reference to billy x stu. sex toy, what the ask says, oh and idk, what if he sucked it?

PART 2 HERE

You haven’t saved his number, but you’re starting to recognize it. His text says, you’ve got a leak. gotta come inside sry. Great, so this psycho is slinking around when you’re not there. And what’s worse: you won’t be back for days. He must have seen you packing your car. While you’re trying to remember if you put all your toys away at home, another whoosh from your phone startles you. He’s sent an image. Not of the leak, no… This image makes you hot with the primitive urge to be bred.

The pic is from Billy’s point of view, looking down. It shows the bottom half of his sweat-stained white tank, a peek at his happy trail, and, god help you--a massive bulge in his light-wash jeans. His big, tan fist is holding a wrench. And finally, framed by his poorly-tied work boots, his toolbox sits on your kitchen floor. It’s definitely not the focal point.

You quickly close the picture, but less than a minute later, it’s open again, and you’re zooming in. Your primate brain is saying sit on it sit on it sit on it sit on it sit on it sit on it, and a heartbeat throbs between your legs. Ugggghhhghghgh. Does he have to look like that? Does he have to be so big? Does he have to hold a wrench? Does his belt have to be tilting like something might escape from his jeans? A stiff, veiny vision springs into your mind, and you try to push it away. Your panties are already at slip-and-slide status.

Meanwhile, Billy is making himself at home at your (his) place. He takes his time stalking around your space with the eyes of a predator. It feels like it used to when he wore the mask. There’s something about you that stirs his darkness awake. He’d never stab you, although he doesn’t mind the vision of a knife at your throat.

He walks past your dresser, bypassing your underwear drawer. He’s more interested in the dirty laundry. He pokes through your unwashed clothes and finds something to his liking: a red thong with a white-streaked gusset. He shoves it in his back pocket, but not all the way. The glimpse of red fabric is a nice touch, like a pocket square for his ass. Too bad you’re not there to see it when he squats to look under your bed. Maybe one day you’ll get smart and buy a security camera–one that you control.

Oh, and you didn’t put the toys away, you little vixen. At least not the big dong anchored to the edge of your bathtub by a suction cup, standing proudly with a slight curve. He can't help but smile as he bends over and braces one hand on the tub. He wraps his hand around the shaft and pulls. Strong suction cup.

/// He imagines you straddling the side of the tub and sinking onto the dick. A little “uh!” when it bottoms out. You gently rock on it, then fuck yourself thinking of him, unaware that his is thicker. ///

He palms the growing lump in his pants, then unbuckles his belt. He sighs through his nose and gently grabs his crotch, relieved to have more room for growth.

He squats down, panties hanging out of his back pocket. He sniffs the dildo–smells like silicone. Lame. But he opens his nostrils and inhales deeper as he runs his nose down the shaft and could swear he gets a little whiff of you. He kitten-licks it with curiosity and detects the slightest hint of something tart. Then he licks up the shaft and gives the tip an open-mouth kiss. Billy’s never approached a cock this way before.

/// Normally it’s his meat between someone else’s lips. Always in control. It’s not every day he has a dick in his face, but if he does, it’s usually in sixty-nine. And he’s probably jerking it with his hand, choking it like it might kill him first, letting it slap his open lips with each stroke before catching it in his mouth and straight gobbling it, greedily consuming it, commanding it with his tongue, dead set on flooding his mouth before he shoots his own load down Stu’s throat. ///

He lets one knee down onto the discolored vinyl floor, then takes the head fully in his mouth, hand wrapped around the base. As he lowers his head on the shaft, it becomes apparent this is not just a dong. It’s not going to curve down his throat. It has a rigid core. He inspects the dick and finds buttons near the silicone balls, but when he presses them, nothing happens. It’s dead. Maybe he’ll charge it for you while you’re gone. He’s a nice guy like that.

He returns his mouth to the tip and takes just a few inches. In a few days, you’ll be riding a toy that has traces of his saliva all over it. He sucks hard, harder, then tastes something. It's heady and chemical. He lets most of the shaft out and sucks just the head. He tastes it again. He takes his mouth off the dildo and there’s a little drop of cloudy liquid beading at the dickhole he hadn’t noticed. Holy shit.

He looks around the tub, picking things up, putting them down–how many bottles of shampoo do you need? Some of these feel almost empty, begging to be re-homed to his bathroom. He gets up and searches your cluttered counter, rummaging around, looking for the juice. He checks himself out in the mirror, and his little smirk widens. He looks hot: Biceps swole from working out. Cock straining his unbuttoned jeans.

He snaps a pic before resuming his search. When he looks under the sink, jackpot. A bottle of synthetic “kum.” He unscrews the lid and you sure have used a lot of it. He sees the bottle half-full, ha ha. Until he pours out just little. He'll replace it.

Billy's phone dings with a text from you. Thought this day might never come. Your text reads, all good? Hah. Of course there’s no real leak, aside from his cockhead.

You’re stopped at a gas station. At the moment, you care more about what's in his pants than your complete loss of privacy, so you’re playing along. The urge to text him had been too strong, and now your heart is racing, awaiting his response. When he hasn’t replied in five minutes, you feel like an idiot. . And then you’re just mad. Of course he hasn’t responded. He must be feeling so smug right now. You get back in your car. If you weren’t two hours away, you’d speed home to confront him.

/// As that plays out in your mind, it devolves into a filthy fantasy. When you bust in the door demanding to see the alleged leak, he gets a wild look in his eyes. I'll show you the leak. He charges at you and you don't move. He manhandles you up against the wall, pinning you there while he smells your hair. Oh, he’s strong, really strong, and he’s rock hard pressing himself up against you. You’re dyin’ for this cock, he growls in your ear. Oh, how you wish he was wrong. He’s there to lay pipe, and you want it. ///

Back in real life, you’re staring into space until a van driver's stare snaps you out of it. You find your hand between your legs, heel of your palm pressed against your throbbing front….still parked right there at the gas pump. The man quickly looks away, and your face catches fire. You can’t drive like this. Soaking wet, you get out of your car again. You know the gas station chain has clean bathrooms. Clean enough.

You lock the bathroom door behind you and are confronted with your face in the mirror--wrecked with horny desperation. You wash your hands with that pink scented soap, dry them, then unbutton your shorts. Leaning with your back against the wall, you plunge your hand into your shorts. What a mess-no panties, soaked through. You rub your puffy cunt, then gather some slick and slide it up to your sweet spot for a quickie.

Closing your eyes, you pick up the scene right where you left off, this time grinding your bare, dripping pussy against your hand.

/// You imagine he’s got you up against the wall. He cups your crotch over your obscenely short daisy dukes, then easily slips his middle finger under the inseam for a dip. Found the leak, he taunts as his thick finger pushes into your needy hole. Already got your panites off for me? He tilts his head, making a strand of hair fall in his face. You're dyin' for it.

Don’t - fucking - move, he warns with a glare, then takes his arm off your chest to unbutton his pants, freeing his cock in a hurry. Once his bare cock is grazing your midsection, both his hands end up between your legs. He rips the pathetic, dripping inseam of your “shorts.” Then he forcefully grabs both your thighs and lifts you against the wall.

And just as he’s shoving his stiff cock into you, just when his girth is stuffing you full, the tension snaps in real life. ///

You shudder and your thighs quake and your mouth opens wide with a nearly silent moan. Slowly rutting against your hand with each bursts of pleasure, you hear yourself whisper, billy as your hips slow to a stop.

He knows you want it bad. Of course you want it. He’s him–He was pre-trial detention for a week before he started getting fan mail. Now he’s far from Woodsboro, out of Cali, out in the sticks of a town that’s not even on the map. He’s a nobody with a trailer park. He likes it that way, and he’s still got it. You’re playing hard to get, and that really gets him hard.

Getting a text from you at all feels like a runway traffic controller is waving him in for the kill...so to speak. He doesn't reply right away, but it's not because he's playing it cool. He's just mulling how far to go with his reply. He tucks his erection into his waistband and takes another POV shot with his legs framed by open doors of your under-sink cabinet. The smushed head of his cock barely visible against his abdomen.

Too far? Maybe. He’ll save that one for later. Right now he has something to take care of anyway.

. . .

Ten minutes later, he’s reclining on your bed, edging himself with the kum as lube, open bottle on the nightstand. He doesn’t use your panties, or the pics he’s secretly taken, or the audio he’s recorded from outside the thin walls of your trailer. He doesn’t need anything but his mind, and the fact that when you get off in private, you stuff yourself with imaginary cum. You’re that much of a cumslut. He’s never been so stiff and swollen.

/// It’s so clear in his mind. You ride that cock with one hand braced on the tub, one on your breast. Your eyes are closed and you're moaning. You mutter billy under your breath, fuck, billy, gushing at the thought of him fucking you raw. Your thighs tremble, desperate for his load. Fill me up, billy. When you’re just about to press that button on the dildo, in real life he sits up and grabs the bottle of kum. He brings the open bottle to the tip of his cock.

Then, you press the button and moan please, please. As you begin to fill yourself with his cum, panting yes, more— his whole body shakes. He moans out loud in your room. His thick ropes join the fake cum as he thinks of you blasting more than one load up your cunt. He just knows you don’t stop at one. You don’t stop until you’re spent, and a big mess of his jizz is leaking out of your used, over-stuffed cunt. ///

He loses count of how many ropes he shoots into that bottle. The last of his load dribbles out. He sets the bottle down on the nightstand, take off his sweaty shirt, and collapses on his back, just breathing for a minute, looking at your ceiling.

When he’s recovered enough, he tucks his cock back into his boxer briefs, sits up, and looks in the bottle. His cum is visibly different from the synthetic stuff. He screws the lid closed, holds the bottle near his unzipped jeans, and shakes it in a jack-off motion. He opens the bottle again. “Yeahhh,” he says to the mixture. He’s gonna have to do that again. While you're out of town, he'll be adding a lot more to that bottle.

His phone lights up on the nightstand, reminding him of your text. He slings his dirty shirt over his shoulder on his way back to your bathroom. He puts the bottle back where it was.

Then he takes a mirror selfie, disheveled and flushed, with a visible farmer’s tan. His bare skin glistens, and his belt is left unbuckled.

He sends you the pic and a text: yea just finished

---------

masterlist

More landlord billy loomis HERE

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fic notifications: I rb on @toxicfics after at least one person has enjoyed the fic bc it calms my nerves lol

Thank you for reading and tysm for interacting with my stories!! I've been going through it recently, as you may can tell from my lack of fics. Your enjoyment and encouragement makes a difference on a personal level, not just as a writer - I'm grateful for you all ♥️

#billy loomis smut #billy loomis x reader #sleazy!billy loomis #landlord!billy loomis #stuilly #billy loomis x you #scream fanfic #billy loomis #scream 1996 #darkfic #dark fic #tw noncon fantasy #toxicanonymity ☠️#ghostface smut #scream smut #dilf!billy loomis

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reiding-writing · 4 months ago

Note

who needs a valentine when we have cold!reader and Spencer kissing on the 14th

𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

spencer thinks you’re too reckless sometimes. too impulsive. you don’t exactly prove him wrong.

s9!spencer x cold!reader ❅ 3.4k ❅ cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

A/N | and thus, the romance arc begins. the amount of requests for this is so funny 😭

The air is thick with tension as the team moves through the abandoned office, the only sounds the distant creak of shifting metal and the quiet shuffle of boots against concrete.

Flashlight beams slice through the dim light, illuminating dust swirling in the air. The unsub is here. You know it like you know the feeling of a storm coming—an electric charge beneath your skin, a pull in your gut.

Your grip on your gun is steady, but your pulse thrums with anticipation. You keep your breathing measured, sharp eyes scanning the shadowed corners of the room.

The others are moving carefully, methodically, sticking to protocol. Spencer had warned you earlier, voice low but insistent: “Please don’t take unnecessary risks. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

He worries too much. It’s something you’ve come to expect from him, but it gnaws at you differently than when others do it. With Spencer, it’s not condescending or dismissive—it’s genuine. He cares, and that unsettles you more than it should.

Which is exactly why you ignored him.

Movement flickers at the edge of your vision. A shadow slipping through a half-open door at the far end of the office space. Your instincts scream at you to move. To act. The others are too far behind; if you wait, the unsub could disappear.

You don’t hesitate.

“Going left,” you mutter into your comms, but you don’t stop to explain further. You slip through the doorway, gun raised, ignoring the sharp crackle of your earpiece as Spencer’s voice comes through.

"Wait— Don’t go in alone—”

But you’re already inside.

The room is colder than the rest of the building, the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and something else—something sharper. It’s nearly pitch dark, the only light filtering in through a broken window near the ceiling. Your heartbeat is steady, controlled, but your muscles coil tight, ready to spring.

A shift. A whisper of movement.

Then—

Pain.

A white-hot sting tears through your side before you fully register what’s happened. Your breath hitches as you stumble back, your free hand instinctively pressing to your ribs. It comes away slick with blood.

Shit.

Your body reacts before your brain catches up. You fire—once, twice—and the gunshots are deafening in the enclosed space. The figure in front of you jerks and collapses, the dull thud of their body hitting the ground barely registering through the rush of blood in your ears.

The room tilts slightly. The pain sharpens. Your legs feel unsteady beneath you, but you grit your teeth and straighten, forcing yourself to stay upright.

Then—footsteps. Fast, urgent.

A second later, Spencer bursts into the room.

“Oh my god— We need a medic in here!”

His voice is tight, breathless, as he skids to a stop in front of you. His eyes, wide with panic, dart from your face to the growing stain on your shirt. And then he’s moving, closing the distance in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you before you can so much as protest.

His hands replace yours, pressing down on the wound, and you hiss at the sharp pressure.

“Jesus, Reid,” you bite out, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t budge.

“It’s fine,” you grit through clenched teeth, but even you can hear the slight tremor in your voice.

“Fine?” His voice cracks, his breath coming fast, like he’s been running. “You’re bleeding, and you—God, why would you go after him alone?”

You try to roll your eyes, but the action is weaker than you intend. “He’s down, isn’t he?”

Spencer lets out a sharp breath, and you catch the way his jaw clenches, the flicker of something dark and unreadable in his eyes. His fingers press harder against your side, grounding you, keeping you here.

“You could have died—” His voice is lower now, rougher, and it makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

You try to scoff, to deflect. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s not funny.”

You freeze.

His voice is raw. Unsteady. And when you meet his eyes, you see something there that you don’t want to see—something that makes the air between you feel too heavy, too charged.

You’ve seen Spencer worried before, but this is different. This is something deeper. Something dangerous.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

His hands are warm, firm but careful. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the slight tremor in his fingers despite the pressure he’s applying to your wound.

He’s afraid.

Not in the way most people would be. Not in the way someone fears losing a teammate.

It’s different with him.

And that realisation sends something cold through your chest.

You should push him away. Should tell him to back off, that you don’t need him fussing over you like this. But your head is light, and the pain is making you sluggish, and his hands are keeping you steady in a way that you don’t want to think too hard about.

So, for once, you don’t fight it.

Just for a moment.

Then, the rest of the team rushes in, and the fragile thing between you shatters.

—

The hotel room feels too small. Too bright. Too loud.

You shouldn’t be here—you should still be in the hospital, technically—but the second the doctor said you were stable enough for discharge, you signed the damn papers and got out of there.

You don’t do hospitals. They make you feel trapped, restless, like you’re waiting for something to go wrong. So you took the out, ignored the side-eye from the nurse, and made your way back to the hotel with nothing but a few high-grade painkillers and a warning to take it easy.

Right. Like that was going to happen.

Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, stiff and exhausted, you’re starting to regret it. Not because of the pain—you’ve had worse. Not because of the exhaustion—you can push through it.

But because Spencer won’t stop hovering.

He’s been like this since you walked through the door, tracking your every move with sharp, restless eyes. He won’t sit down, won’t even lean against the desk or the wall—he just stands there, pacing slightly, rubbing his fingers together in that nervous habit of his.

And worst of all? He hasn’t stopped talking.

"You can’t keep doing this,” he says again, voice tight. “One day, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

You sigh, forcing yourself to keep your expression blank. Here we go.

“I’m fine,” you say, each word clipped and deliberate. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the point.”

There’s something sharp in his voice now, an edge you don’t hear often. Spencer doesn’t yell—not really—but this is worse. His frustration is controlled, simmering just under the surface, and it makes your skin prickle in a way you don’t like.

“The point,” he continues, stepping closer, hands moving in short, tense gestures, “is that you ran into a room alone, without backup, without knowing what you were up against—”

“I knew enough,” you cut in, irritation flaring.

Spencer lets out a short, incredulous laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Enough? Enough that you got stabbed?”

His voice rises slightly at the end, and you swear there’s something like desperation in it.

You exhale through your nose, gripping the edge of the bed. Breathe. Keep your cool. You don’t want to fight with him.

Except, maybe you do.

Maybe it would be easier to push him away, to make him angry enough to stop looking at you like that—like you matter too much. Like you scared him.

“I got nicked.” you say, your voice flat. “That’s part of the job, Reid. We all take risks.”

“This wasn’t just a risk,” he snaps, eyes flashing with something dangerously close to anger. “It was reckless.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re not my minder, Reid.”

His jaw tightens. His whole body goes tense, like he’s holding something back.

“Then stop making me feel like I have to be—”

The words hit you harder than the knife had.

You inhale sharply, but he doesn’t give you a chance to recover.

“Do you even realise how bad it could have been?” he presses, voice lower now, but no less intense. “How bad it was?”

You clench your jaw.

“I know exactly how bad it was,” you say, quieter now, your voice cold. “I was there.”

But he won’t let it go.

He keeps talking, keeps pushing, listing every single thing that could have gone wrong, every possible outcome that ends with you bleeding out on the floor, and it’s too much.

You can’t breathe past the weight of it.

It’s overwhelming—the concern, the intensity, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile. Like you’re something he can’t lose.

Like you matter.

You don’t want to hear it.

You just want him to stop.

But he just keeps talking.

His voice is insistent, sharp with frustration but frayed at the edges with something softer, something worse. He’s listing probabilities now, rattling off numbers and percentages like they’re supposed to mean something to you.

Like hearing that there was a 42.7% chance of you bleeding out before medics arrived is going to make you rethink everything.

But it’s not the numbers that get to you.

It’s him.

It’s the way his voice wavers, just slightly, like he’s fighting to keep it steady. The way his hands won’t stay still, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. The way his eyes are burning into you, dark and unreadable, except for one thing:

He’s scared.

And you don’t know how to handle that.

The worry in his expression is like a weight on your chest, pressing down hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. It’s too much—his voice, his eyes, the intensity of it all. He won’t stop talking, won’t stop pushing, won’t stop caring—

And you can’t take another second of it.

So you do the one thing that will shut him up.

You kiss him.

It happens so fast, you don’t have time to process it. One second, he’s standing in front of you, mid-sentence, his mouth forming words you don’t want to hear, and then your hands are gripping his face, and your lips are on his, and—

Everything stops.

Spencer goes completely still. Not just still—frozen. His breath catches, his entire body tensing like he’s just been short-circuited.

For the first time since this whole damn argument started, there’s silence.

No words. No numbers. No probabilities.

Just you. And him. And the space where your lips meet.

For a fleeting, desperate second, you think it might actually work. That maybe this is enough to make it stop.

Then, the weight of what you just did slams into you.

Your breath stutters as reality crashes down around you, as you realise that the heat of his skin is real, that his hands have curled slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

You pull back abruptly, your fingers slipping from his jaw as you take a step back, your heart hammering against your ribs.

But Spencer doesn’t move.

He just—stares.

Wide-eyed. Breath uneven. Lips parted like he’s trying to form words but can’t quite find them.

Like he doesn’t quite believe it happened.

And the worst part?

You don’t know what the hell to do next.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, too loud in your ears, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to retreat, to put the walls back up and pretend nothing happened. Pretend it was just some mistake, some impulsive thing you did in the heat of the moment.

It was just a kiss, right?

That’s what you’ll tell yourself. That’s what you have to tell yourself.

Your fingers tremble as you step back, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You can already feel the walls sliding back into place, the emotional armour rising to shield you from whatever this is. From the mess you just created.

You weren’t supposed to care this much about Spencer. You weren’t supposed to let yourself get wrapped up in him—not when your instincts always screamed at you to push people away, to keep things simple, to keep yourself safe. But now, standing here in the wake of your impulsive decision, you feel anything but safe.

And that terrifies you.

But before you can finish shoving the walls back up, before you can even start to deflect or pretend it didn’t mean anything—he moves.

It’s almost too fast, a blur of motion that catches you off guard. One second, you’re standing there, heart still hammering, and the next, Spencer is right there in front of you, his hands gently cupping your face, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that pins you to the spot.

You barely have time to think before he closes the distance again and kisses you—again.

But this time, it’s different.

This kiss is slow, deliberate. It’s not impulsive, not reactionary, not a desperate attempt to silence the chaos between you.

This time, it’s a choice. His choice.

His lips move against yours with purpose, as though he’s trying to tell you something with every brush of his mouth, something he couldn’t say before. Something you’re too scared to hear.

And for a second, you want to pull away. You want to tell him this was a mistake, that you don’t have time for this, for the complication, for the mess that’s swirling between you both. But your body won’t listen to your mind. It won’t let you run this time.

Instead, you lean into it.

You let your hands reach for him, sliding up his chest to rest against his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens, and you realise with a sinking feeling that you’re not pulling away because you don’t want this—you’re pulling away because you do.

Because you knew. You knew this was inevitable.

This moment, this connection, this tension between you both that’s been building for so long, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in every glance, in every touch that lingered a second too long.

You’ve both ignored it, buried it under layers of professional distance, under the constant chatter and the mission-driven focus that keeps you moving forward.

But it doesn’t work anymore.

You can’t ignore it anymore.

And as his lips press against yours, as you finally, fully allow yourself to feel what’s been there all along, you realise that there’s no going back from this.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath as you separate, suspended in the space between you both. Neither of you speaks for a long, heavy moment.

There’s a tension now, a thick, unspoken understanding that pulses between you, a thread that has always been there, but now it’s too palpable to ignore. You can’t pretend like it’s not there anymore.

His hands are still on you, a soft warmth, but not quite enough to distract from the fire that lingers in the air. His fingertips hover at your waist, just shy of touching, as though he’s afraid if he holds you too tightly, something will break—something more than the fragile tension that’s just been shattered.

You’re still so close. So close to something you’re not sure you can name.

You pull away slowly, reluctantly, when your body reminds you of the injury. It’s a sharp, jarring pain—nothing too severe, but enough to make your muscles protest, enough to make you wince and break the moment.

You’re trying to hide it, but the slight catch in your breath gives you away. Spencer’s gaze sharpens immediately, eyes flicking down to your side, where the bandage is just barely visible under your shirt.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice quieter now, as if he’s finally realising the full weight of the situation. His hand moves to your elbow, guiding you carefully down to the bed, but not without a lingering touch. His fingers brush against your skin just a little too long, a quiet caress that makes your pulse spike again.

You sit down with a soft sigh, the sharp throb in your side a welcome distraction from the mess of feelings still swirling inside you. You try to focus on your breathing, but Spencer is still standing there, just a few inches away, looking at you like you’ve just cracked the universe wide open.

Your eyes meet, and his expression is a mix of something you can’t quite place—concern, sure, but there’s something else there. Something that burns hotter, deeper, just beneath the surface.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to do something. Maybe waiting for you to tell him this was a mistake, or to push him away again, or to tell him it didn’t mean anything.

But you don’t say anything. Neither of you do.

And then, as if testing the weight of the silence between you, he speaks your name—just your name, soft and careful, like he’s unsure of how to even say it after everything that’s happened.

It’s barely a whisper, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he says it too loudly. Or maybe he’s just unsure of what to do with the name now that it’s hanging in the air, heavy with the implications of everything you’ve just shared.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself. The walls you’d worked so hard to put up feel like they’ve crumbled, but you’re too proud—or too scared—to admit it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, as though trying to gauge how much of you is still the same, how much has shifted.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you look at him, at the softness in his expression, the way he’s waiting for you to tell him what happens next. And in that moment, it’s impossible to pretend this didn’t happen, that things are just fine, that the walls you’ve so carefully built around yourself are still in place.

Because they’re not.

This—whatever this is—is real. And it’s not going away.

So you exhale, steadying yourself, and look back at him, finally allowing yourself to face what’s there between you. “Yeah,” you say, voice quiet, but steady. “I’m okay, I’m fine—”

But whatever happens next, there’s one thing you know for sure:

You can’t pretend this didn’t happen.

Not when everything between you has shifted so suddenly, so irrevocably. Not when you’re feeling more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life, and the weight of Spencer’s gaze is both comforting and terrifying.

“I think I need to lie down,”

“Yeah—” Spencer nods a little too quickly, hesitating before helping you under the sheets. “Yeah of course, I’ll uh— come and check on you in a few hours,”

You press your lips together, the phantom sensation of his still present. “Thanks,”

#cold!reader ᝰ.ᐟ #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff

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wearysparrows · 7 months ago

Text

Give an Inch, Take a Mile

ao3/masterlist

Summary: Sylus shows up at the door of your motel room after finding out you're investigating protocore energy fluctuations in the middle of nowhere. He claims he has business in the area and needs to stay the night -- but there's only one bed.

CW (18+): only one bed trope, grinding, vaginal fingering, AFAB mc (no usage of pronouns, no use of Y/N), reader is MC, a brief mention of birth control, Sylus comes in his pants, you both have a good time, etc. 6.4k

This situation had turned out to be less than ideal.

The Hunter’s Association had sent you on a mission that had seemed simple enough on paper: investigate the suspicious protocore energy fluctuations that were occurring in a fairly rural area, just outside of Linkon city. However, they had conveniently failed to mention the nature of your accommodations. It wasn’t that you weren’t used to staying in less than ideal conditions – you just weren’t prepared for this situation in particular. You pulled up to the motel on your bike, your belongings in a bag on your back. This was the only accommodation for miles around, and unless you wanted to sleep on the ground again, this was as good as it was going to get.

You weren’t sure how much more of sleeping on the ground your body could take.

There was nothing outwardly alarming about the motel on the outside – it was unassuming, two stories lined with austere gray doors. It was quiet. No one came in or out, despite the full lot. Somehow, this made you feel more uneasy than if there had been people milling about. Attempting to push these worries from your mind, you approached the check in window. A young boy’s face – no older than ten or so – peered at you with wide eyes from behind the glass that divided you. You were momentarily stunned into silence when he asked if you were checking in. You quickly showed him your Hunter’s ID, and he checked you in, giving you the key card to your room. You hurried towards it, now feeling eager to get settled away from the strangeness that was beginning to fall on the goings on around you.

You pressed the key card against the lock, and it opened with a soft click. You opened it just a crack, checking inside before fully going in. All was quiet. You opened the door fully, stepping inside and closing it behind you. The room was unassuming enough – a box spring mattress, a coffee table, a couch that had seen better days, and a strangely large mirror hanging over a countertop in the back corner of the room. You checked the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for a rather tastelessly colored plaid blue shower curtain. You felt your body involuntarily relax. You returned to the main room, and set your bag on the coffee table that sat next to the couch. You sat down on the bed, which creaked loudly underneath you. It was a strange sort of creak, one that clicked loudly with each minor movement you made. A sigh escaped you as you unlaced your boots. It was only until you found the source of the strange fluctuations, you reminded yourself.

Just as you had finished kicking off your boots, your phone rang in your pocket. You checked it, eyeballing the contact on the screen.

It was Sylus. Rather, his contact said ‘Sy,’ as you had recently updated it to reflect the nickname you gave him in your head.

What could he possibly want right now?

To your own irritation, you felt your heart rate increase exponentially as you looked at his contact. You hadn’t heard his voice in a few days. You missed it, and him. You answered, intentionally letting it ring a few times so you didn’t seem too eager.

“Hello?” You kept your tone level.

“Where are you right now?”

Sylus sounded somewhat out of breath on the other end of the line, like he had been exerting himself. You found yourself wondering what he had been up to, but there were much more important matters – like why the hell he had called you and requested your location so rudely.

“Most people say ‘hello’ back before asking questions, at least. Why are you asking?”

Sylus tutted into the microphone, as if you were asking him something obvious.

“Well, I’m not most people, sweetheart. I’m asking because it seems like you’re stationary in the middle of nowhere. Is this the work of your oh-so-wealthy association?”

You didn’t even bother to ask how Sylus knew where you were. You had unwittingly grown used to his constant keeping of tabs on you. You had long assumed he had put some kind of tracker in your phone (though you could find no such thing after checking), or using Mephisto to keep an eye on you (you hadn’t seen him at all today, either). At the very least, you weren’t expendable to Sylus, though why he went through such great lengths to keep tabs remained unclear. Sylus’s natural purr of a voice calmed your anxious senses, despite his critical words. You leaned back on the creaky bed before you answered. It was so loud that you wondered if Sylus heard it through the speaker on his end.

“Don’t blame the Association. These are the only accommodations in the area, short of sleeping outside again. Besides, it’s not like it’s the worst place I’ve ever stayed. I only wish I’d come more prepared.”

You chewed at the inside of your cheek after you spoke, unsure why you’d offered that last admission of information. Though you were certain Sylus was aware of your personal flaws, being unprepared usually wasn’t one of them. You didn’t like to tarnish your own image – you had your pride, after all. Sylus hummed thoughtfully.

“I see that the bar couldn’t possibly be any lower, as usual. Alright, I’m on my way. There’s something I need to do in the area. Don’t be surprised when I knock.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Sylus had already hung up on you. You stared dumbly down at your phone. It reflected your stunned face silently. You flipped it over, not wanting to see your own expression.

Something he needed to do in the area?

You couldn’t possibly imagine what Sylus needed to do in the butt-fuck middle of nowhere. Or why he was coming to stay with you. Or if he was planning to stay the night, and where. Or how he would know what room you were in. You felt your face flush at the image of Sylus laying in the shitty motel bed with you. Based on past experiences, you were almost certain he slept naked.

Couldn’t he just get his own damn room?

You shook your head, attempting to free your mind from these circling predatory thoughts. You changed into more comfortable clothes, careful not to let your bare feet touch the paneling of the floor. You showered in the little bathroom, trying to ignore the state of the towels there. After, you busied yourself looking over the mission files in bed, finally losing yourself in the information before you.

A sharp rapraprap on the door broke you from your absorption. It made you jump, your eyes flicking instinctively to your Hunter’s issue gun on the nightstand next to you. The sound came again twice more. All at once, you remembered Sylus had said he was coming, though you had half expected him not to show. You quickly checked your Hunter’s watch. It was nearly dusk, already. You hurried towards the door, feeling irritated and excited all at once at the prospect of seeing the enigmatic leader of Onychinus. Of being in the tiny room with him. You steeled yourself emotionally before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door.

Sylus stood before you in his usual leather getup that he wore when using his bike. He looked no less handsome than usual – his moon-white hair was tousled by the wind, and his eyes shone deeply in the light of the setting sun. He had a suspiciously large duffel bag thrown casually over his shoulder. He regarded you coolly, an easy smile on his lips. You found yourself struck by him despite yourself, and struggled for words for a moment. Sylus found them for you.

“May I come in, my little hunter?”

You scowled at him, but found yourself stepping aside anyway. He slipped in the room, his steps strangely silent for a man of his size. He set his bag on the table next to yours. You deadbolted the door behind him, and put one hand on your hip. The other pointed at him accusingly.

“Aren’t there other rooms? Why could you possibly need to stay at this motel in particular? Surely this is a hovel compared to where you’d normally stay. And what’s with the bag? It looks like it’s about to burst.”

Sylus had busied himself removing his leather outerwear and shoes, putting them away neatly. He turned towards you with arms crossed. You thought he made the small room look even smaller with his height.

“The other rooms were all full. You’re right about the hovel, though. That’s putting it kindly.” Sylus scanned the room critically as he spoke. He was pointedly ignoring your question about the bag. You eyed it suspiciously.

“Besides, you stay at my base all the time when you’re on missions. Can’t you return the favor just this once?” Sylus’s tone was playful, and he regarded you with his usual air of confidence.

He did have you there, and he knew it, too. You more than frequently took advantage of the hospitality and resources he freely offered for your usage. He rarely made comments about it, and now it was coming back to bite you in the form of the man you were doing your very best to hide budding romantic feelings from. You adjusted your sleep shorts, suddenly feeling more cold and exposed under his crimson gaze. You had forgotten you had already changed into sleepwear. You crossed your arms around your upper body.

“Nothing in life is free,” you muttered.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.”

You sat back down on the bed, attempting to make a return to your files. You knew it would be impossible to focus with Sylus’s overwhelming presence in the small room. But you could pretend, for now.

“Such a cynical creature, aren’t you?”

You looked up from your paperwork. Sylus’s words were teasing, but his tone and gaze were incredibly warm. You hurriedly looked away again, hoping to hide the redness of your face.

Why did he say that like it was a compliment?

You heard more than saw him unzipping his bag and rifling through it. His socked feet appeared in your periphery at the side of the bed, and you felt something plush drape around your shoulders. You looked up in surprise. Your previously bare arms were now covered with the warmth of a periwinkle fleece blanket. You hadn’t even realized how much of a chill had crept into you until the blanket was around your body. You opened your mouth to say something – anything – to Sylus, but he had already turned back around, and was producing another item from the bag. He wordlessly placed a pair of slippers neatly on the floor next to your side of the bed. You watched all of this occur with a degree of shock before finding the ability to speak again.

“What’s all this? Why go through all the trouble?” You tugged the blanket closer around yourself, grateful for its warmth despite your suspicions. Sylus shrugged.

“You said you were underprepared. So I came prepared for you.”

You stared at him in stunned silence.

For you?

Before you could respond to his previous statement, Sylus spoke again.

“I’m going to shower. There’s more in the bag. Feel free to take a look.” He made his way to the bathroom, toiletry bag in hand, without sparing you a further glance. You opened and closed your mouth silently. He was hardly letting you get a word in. The last thing you had expected the bag to be full of was items for you.

You padded over to it quietly, having slipped on the slippers Sylus had brought. They were annoyingly comfortable, and just the right size. You ignored the little butterflies emerging from their cocoons in your stomach. You peeked inside the bag. It carried the lightest hint of Sylus’s scent.

The contents consisted of various wants and necessities – clothing of Sylus’s (you pointedly ignored the pairs of boxers, though your wicked eyes were drawn to them), extra towels, a small pillow, some food items, and a bag of toiletries. You unzipped it curiously. It was all travel sizes of the same kinds you used at home. You felt yourself blush so furiously that you swore it colored your fingertips, as hot as they suddenly felt. You put the toiletries back in the bag hurriedly, running a hand through your hair in a self soothing motion. The idea of Sylus keeping note of every single self care item you liked should have been alarming, but it only endeared him to you further. Any other man keeping such close tabs on you would have sent you running for the proverbial hills. You decided, distantly, that spending so much time with him had only deepened whatever burgeoning mental issues you were already saddled with. You threw yourself back into bed, and found yourself listening to the comforting sounds of Sylus showering. You could hear the water fall in waves as he moved underneath it.

You found much of your earlier anxieties had melted away for his presence at the motel. Despite your protests, it was nice to have another soul staying with you. You could take care of yourself, but Sylus’s energy was nothing if not reassuring, and you were grateful for it – even if he was only here on some mysterious business that he refused to disclose.

Not that you could ever tell him that. It would certainly go straight to his pretty head.

As if summoned by your thoughts of him, Sylus appeared from the bathroom, fresh from the shower. He had nothing but a towel around his waist, and was rubbing another smaller one on his wet hair. It wasn’t the first time you had seen him like this, and your mind was immediately drawn back to the brooch fiasco. You swallowed. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t manage it. Steam was still rolling off of his taut muscles, which rippled under his skin as he moved. Your eyes raked over his form, lingering where his obliques disappeared underneath the towel. Your mind kept trying to fill in what he’d look like without it. He really was unfairly beautiful. He looked even more ridiculously out of place in the room while half naked. He belonged in another world entirely. An evocative, tormenting vision of hell.

You felt his gaze on you, then. Your eyes snapped to his face. He was smirking. He gestured to his form nonchalantly.

“You’re pretty bold, aren’t you?”

You scoffed at him, trying to cover the fact that you had been staring. Nearly an impossible feat. You tore your eyes from the sight, insteading focusing desperately hard at your phone. Having no notifications, you opened the weather app instead.

“I wasn’t exactly planning to have a naked man in my room at night. Especially not you.” You grumbled. You didn’t mention all the times you had imagined a naked Sylus in your room, just like this. You kept your eyes glued to the weather. It was getting pretty cold outside. You were glad for the blanket.

Sylus’s face appeared in your vision. He was bent over at the waist next to where you sat on the bed. He was significantly more dressed than before, wearing a black tee and corresponding sweats. Definitely not how he usually slept, you noted.

“Is there another man you'd have preferred to have naked here tonight?” His voice was low, teasing – but there was something darker underneath it. You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You rolled your eyes at him, trying to cover the way you felt. His gaze was burning into you, intent on your answer.

Why the hell was he even asking?

“Sy, are you jealous of just the idea of someone else being here with me?”

Your nickname for him inadvertently slipped out. At some point (which you would hardly admit to yourself), you had started shortening his name to a diminutive form. You pressed your lips together, and hoped he had either missed it, or would simply choose not to acknowledge it.

Sylus’s eyes flashed at the use of the nickname. No such luck. A little chuckle reverberated out of him, and he removed himself from your personal space, standing upright.

“I don’t think I have anything to worry about, actually.” He had returned to his usual tone. His back and forth always gave you emotional whiplash. You attempted to control your expression.

“I’ll take the couch.”

He jabbed a thumb towards the offending piece of furniture, and your eyes followed the motion. It was a sad excuse for a couch, and had a suspicious sunken-in shape in the middle. It was much too small for a man of Sylus’s size – even for someone your size. You shook your head immediately.

“No way. You’re way too big. I’ll take it.” You made to stand up and head towards it, but Sylus was in front of you just as quick, blocking your way. You poked him in the chest with a finger.

“You’re in the way.”

Sylus had hold of your index finger, now. It was dwarfed in the grip of his large hand.

“So you won’t even pull back this duvet to sleep on the sheets,” he nodded towards the bed, “but you’ll sleep on that couch?”

Sylus was right. Considering the state the towels had been in (and the sudden appearance of a new blanket), you had elected to sleep on top of the duvet with just the blanket Sylus had brought. You didn’t trust the state of the sheets. The couch may have been even worse off. You had hoped he wouldn’t notice – but he was as perceptive as ever. Sylus released his grip on your finger, and your hand fell limply by your side. He continued.

“It won’t kill you to share in the name of comfort. Besides,” he went around to the side of the bed you hadn’t been resting on, and sat down.

“It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed, right?”

Sylus’s words brought back memories of the times he was referring to. Not only had you shared a bed before in similar circumstances, there were times you had slept in his bed. You rubbed a hand over your face. Why did it always feel like he was catching you in a trap with his words? You really didn’t want to touch that couch. You also knew you wouldn’t be getting a lick of sleep with Sylus next to you in bed. Your pulse was already thundering at just the sight of him adjusting himself into a more comfortable position on the mattress, as if he already knew what your answer was.

You resigned yourself to your fate, sitting back on the bed, leaning on the pillows that had been propping you up to do your work. Sylus looked at you, his expression somewhere between smug and pleased.

“Perhaps being in bed together more often will make our resonance stronger.” He said offhandedly.

You shot him a look.

“Aren’t you normally only active at night? Why are you suddenly going to bed at the same time as me?” You pulled the blanket over yourself, chasing away the chill of the night air in the room. You ignored the siren’s song of the heat radiating off of Sylus’s body. Why did he only bring one blanket to share?

“I always adjust my schedule to accommodate yours, kitten. Especially since you’ve so kindly agreed to let me impose on your space.” He turned away from you to do something on his phone. He made no effort to hide its screen from your eyes. You turned your head ever so slightly towards it, so as not to alert him to your prying. Sylus turned his phone to a vantage point at which you could see better.

“You’re welcome to watch, but it’s not very interesting. It might put you to sleep. Actually, in that case, maybe you should watch.”

You felt like you should be embarrassed at having been caught, but something about Sylus’s devil-may-care attitude kept you from feeling too ashamed. You scooted a modicum closer to see the screen better. Sylus leaned towards you. Your shoulders were practically touching. You focused on the screen instead of his proximity.

“Are these businesses?”

Sylus hummed in affirmation.

“These are just what’s for sale at the moment. So far nothing is standing out, though.”

You watched as Sylus scrolled through the listings. The sound of the gentle tap of his thumb against the screen somehow made you feel more at peace. The pricings next to the listings suddenly reminded you that this was the leader of Onychinus who was staying with you in this seedy motel, looking at buying listings that were likely worth this business ten times over. The thought made you puff out a little laugh. Sylus tilted his head towards you, questioning.

“What?” He sounded amused just to hear you amused.

“It’s just funny that you’re here. Probably the most wanted man in the world – the leader of Onychinus. Relentless Conqueror. Endless assets at your disposal, and you’re at a shitty motel in bed with a Hunter. Shopping online.”

Sylus laughed too, then, and the smile lingered on his face. He set his phone down, and put his hands behind his head, relaxing. The movement was decidedly masculine, and found yourself even more attracted to him in that moment.

“Here – with you – I’m just Sylus. The ‘where’ doesn’t really matter.” He was looking up at the ceiling as he spoke, sounding sort of far away. His words made your stomach twist and flip upon itself, like a prey animal that chose to freeze rather than run from danger. You propped yourself up on an elbow to look at him, turning on your side.

“Are you saying you can be yourself around me?” You were half teasing, half actually asking. You tried not to wait for his answer with baited breath. He turned his face towards you, the back of his head still in his hands. He had a soft smile on his lips.

“Is there anyone else who I devote so much of ‘myself’ to?”

You were taken aback by his question, though not surprised he answered one question with another.

Devote?

His wording made it sound like this side of himself – this sense of self – was dependent on his devotion to you. Words had power, and devotion was a particularly strong choice. You felt like you and Sylus were always dancing around each other, just on the edge of the truth. He was always trying to say something without actually saying it – without inciting you to run away. You struggled to maintain eye contact with him, but managed to hold your ground.

“What are you trying to say, Sy?”

Sylus was quiet for a moment. He shook his head.

“Nothing. You don’t want to listen to me wax poetic about meaning all night. You have an early morning, right?”

His words prompted you to check your Hunter’s watch. It was way later than you thought. You nodded, though you wanted to press him again for answers – you knew he would offer none.

You found yourself laying on your back in bed, sharing a blanket with Sylus. His breaths were coming deep and slow. He had fallen asleep rather quickly, and you realized he must have been exhausted. You wondered what he had been doing before he made the decision to come stay at the motel – and whether it was really true that he had some business to attend to out here. Eventually, the serene sound of his breaths lulled you into a dreamless sleep.

You woke, eyes creaking open in the pitch blackness of the room. You really didn’t want to get up, but your bladder had other ideas. You slunk out of bed and to the bathroom in the darkness, careful to not wake Sylus. The bathroom light was bright, and it cast a menacing orange beam on the room before you could shut the door and finish. You cursed it mentally.

You washed your hands in the darkness, as the sink was outside of the restroom. You fumbled around for the hand soap, and found it, turning on the water to just a drip. You didn’t think about why you were going to such lengths not to wake Sylus. You just did it. You dried your hands, and tiptoed back to bed, sliding in under the covers.

Just as you thought you had accomplished your stealth mission successfully, Sylus had turned towards you, and wrapped you in a too-warm embrace. He had you crushed up against his chest as he lay on his side, your head now resting on his bicep.

“Sylus?” You asked, your whisper intense. Your heart was beating so fast you thought it might make an exit through your throat. You could feel every part of his body against yours – the hard lines of his muscles were pressed flush to you. Your hands had been pushed up against his hips. You kept them very, very still. Sylus didn’t respond.

He was still asleep – or so you thought. The arm that was thrown around you came up to rub circles in the back of your scalp. His thumb brushed the shell of your ear a few times – intentionally or not, you couldn’t be sure. Your hands fisted the material of his shirt near his waist, and your knuckles were touching his lower abdomen. His scent completely enveloped you. You knew you should have pulled away, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to. You weren’t even sure you would have been able to, with how strong Sylus was. You could feel your own arousal curling in your belly despite your best efforts to curtail it.

His voice, rough from sleep, came from above you. It shot tingles up and down your spine.

“When did you get so close?”

He made no move to remove you from his embrace. His hand had migrated from your scalp to in between your shoulder blades, pressing between them like he was trying to make space for you to sprout wings. The touch caused the smallest arch of your back in surprise, and the movement pressed your flesh harder against him. You heard him let out a quiet gasp, nearly imperceptible.

“You pulled me close in your sleep, dummy. You’re like a vice.” You tried to keep your voice level, but you thought you heard some of the heat you felt slip into it. You could feel his growing erection pressing hard against your stomach. You steeled yourself mentally, willing yourself not to acknowledge it. You weren’t in any better of a state, being so close to him.

You tried to push him away, but only succeeded in putting pressure on his lower abdomen with your knuckles. You felt his hardness twitch against you at the touch. His bare skin was hot under your fingers, a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. He held you a little tighter, hand finding your lower back now. Pressing. Massaging. You couldn’t help but relax some into the touch, but your mind still raced. It was like some invisible force was testing the level of your self restraint, tugging at the needs of your flesh, inciting them to rear their ugly heads.

“You’re so soft.” He murmured. His fingers were trailing lazily up and down your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You weren’t sure if he meant your skin, your body, or your mind – or that it really mattered.

“Sy?” You questioned, not even really sure what you were asking.

Why haven’t I pushed you away yet? Why haven’t you pushed me away yet?

Sylus rolled on top of you suddenly, legs on either side of you, holding himself up by his palms. Even in the darkness of the room, you could see the heat of his carmine eyes. He was so close that his hair was brushing your face.

“I like it when you call me that.”

“Yeah?” You squeaked out. Everything around you was Sylus – the sound of his voice, the heat of his body, the scent of him – it was overwhelming, all encompassing. Your body was pleasantly too hot, lulled into submission underneath Sylus’s dominating aura on top of you. You swallowed dryly.

“Yeah.” You could feel his breath against your lips.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was heady with need.

The question barely registered in your brain. He was on top of you, pinning you to the bed, and he was asking you for permission to kiss you. How many times had you thought about him kissing you? You managed a nod, beginning to wonder if this wasn’t just some elaborate fabrication of your desires haunting your restless dreams.

Sylus’s lips on yours were very real. The kiss was languid and warm, but insistent and desperate all at once. His tongue pried your mouth open, and he pressed it against your own. The inside of his mouth was even more unbearably warm than the rest of him. Your hands, which had found their way to his chest, were sliding down his abdomen now, lost in the heat of the moment. Sylus was sucking on your tongue, which made you pause your ministrations. The sensation had done much to increase the wetness pooling in between your legs. He pulled away, laughing breathlessly. Your chest heaved, having finally been given back access to air.

“I’ve been wanting to do that. You have a cute tongue.”

Sylus pressed his forehead against yours. You struggled to form words.

“How can a tongue be cute?”

Your hands resumed their downward journey, emboldened by his compliments on the muscle in your mouth. You found what you were looking for – Sylus was rock hard underneath your touch, straining against the thin material of his sweatpants. He hissed as your hands made contact with him, instead of coming up with an answer to your question. You wrapped a hand around him as best you could through the fabric, feeling momentarily brought out of your reverie by the sheer size of him. You palmed him up and down, trying to gauge his size.

“You’re so big.” You blurted out. Like he didn’t already know. You felt him twitch once, twice, under your touch at your words. He pressed another kiss to your lips. One of his hands was making its way underneath your shirt. He cupped your bare breast with his warm hand, squeezing. His fingertip circled your nipple, and it hardened under his touch. You shivered.

“Yeah. You feel how hard you make me?” His hand enveloped yours that was touching him, pressing down. He ground into your palm, and you could feel the wetness of his precum through his sweats. This only lasted for a moment. He released your hand, instead sliding his fingers inside your sleep shorts. Everywhere he touched left a buzz under your skin in his absence. He slipped two fingers against your cunt over your panties. You arched into his touch, fully knowing he could feel the wetness there. There was no way your attraction was a secret, now. It felt so good to finally have his hands on you. That you were mutually aroused.

Sylus was kneeling in between your legs now, fingers sliding up and down your pussy, refusing to give you what you wanted. His free hand alternated fondling your breasts and pinching your nipples in between his fingertips. You were caught between enjoying the pleasure, the ache for him that was reaching through you, and telling him to put it in you already.

This thought caused something else to occur to you.

“Sy – ah – do you have…a condom?”

Sylus paused his movements. His fingers hovered above you. He cursed quietly under his breath.

You couldn’t help the exasperated laugh that escaped you. You hadn’t been on birth control for a while – not since you had stopped seeing other men because of your feelings for Sylus. You hadn’t expected this to happen, ever.

Sylus pressed a kiss to your temple.

��I don’t. I didn’t think…” He cleared his throat.

“I came here in a bit of a rush.”

You filed that comment away in the things to ask Sylus about later drawer in your mind.

“Fuck.” You exhaled. You didn’t want to come away from the momentary bliss and back into reality. Before you could take the thought any further, however, a pair of strong arms had wrapped around you, carrying you in front of the large mirror in the room. Sylus set you gingerly in front of it, and you instinctively put your hands on the counter to steady yourself. Even in the darkness, you could see how Sylus’s form dwarfed your own in the reflection. He was pressing up against you from behind. Not just pressing, but grinding his arousal against your ass. He wrapped a hand around to your front, and began rubbing little circles on your clit through your panties. His voice was low in your ear.

“Let’s do this instead, then.”

Sylus set a pace, rutting against you. You were so wet that one of his fingers slid inside you easily, and you ground down on his palm, attempting to find friction there against your clit. You could tell Sylus was losing as much of his composure as you were, because he was pressing you hard into the counter, and kept sucking hickies into your neck that you knew would bruise later. You couldn’t find it in you to care. The sensation of him marking you was exhilarating. He had two fingers inside, now, the lewd wetness of the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet motel room.

“Sy,” you panted out, “want you inside me so bad.”

You felt yourself clench around his fingers, which only seemed to encourage him to add a third. You were close now, over stimulated by Sylus in every way possible. He was grinding on you at a stutteringly erratic pace.

“Fuck. ” he growled.

“I wanna be inside you, baby. Fill you up. Stretch you out.”

His fingers forced your mouth open, and he stroked your tongue with them. You sucked them eagerly. The thumb of his other had found your clit again, pressing against the hard button of your own arousal with increasing desperation. His words were enough to bring you over the edge. You clenched around the fingers inside you, your orgasm finding you white and hot, making your knees buckle underneath you. The sound of your own moans was foreign to your ears. Sylus held you up by the waist, the force of his movements practically lifting you off your feet as he ground on you.

“Shit,” he breathed. “Baby, fuck.” His hips stuttered against you without further warning, and you felt his cock pulse against your ass as he rode out his orgasm onto you. He groaned through it in a way that made you want to cum all over again. Through your blissed out state, you distantly realized he had cum in his pants. Not that you were any better off. Your panties were completely soaked.

Sylus peeled himself off of you gently, still supporting your weight. He hoisted you up instead, and held you in a princess carry. Your head lolled against his chest, and you were hit by what had just occurred. Sylus had worked you to orgasm with just his fingers, and he had cum from grinding on your ass. You looked up at him through your lashes. He was carrying you back to the bed as he spoke.

“Was that alright?” He was looking down at you. You thought you could see concern on his face in the dark. He set you gently down into the bed, sitting next to you. You stared at the stain on his pants. It almost would have been funny if it wasn’t so hot that you had worked him up so much – so easily.

“It felt really good for me. Did it feel good for you?”

The words felt a bit awkward on your tongue, but they were the truth. You liked him too much to be crass – you couldn’t believe he had just fingerfucked you to orgasm in a run down motel and cum in his pants from grinding on you. You felt like you were floating outside of your body, still not fully accepting that you had very nearly had sex with Sylus. Your face flushed hot all over again at the thought. Now he knew without a doubt that you wanted him inside you.

“Very good.” He gestured to the spot on his pants. “If you couldn’t already tell.”

The two of you had cleaned yourself up separately that night, settling for changing into clean clothes. Showering would have to come in the morning – you were both too exhausted. As you lay back down to sleep, Sylus had pulled you close again, and you didn’t try to protest. You fell asleep against his chest to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

The blaring of your alarm awoke you with a frightened start in the early morning. You sat straight up, cutting it off quickly. The events of the night before came crashing back into your mind. Sylus’s fingers inside of you, his body pressing you against the counter – you felt yourself flush all the way up to your scalp.

Now how were you supposed to act?

Sylus sat up next to you, pushing his hair out of his face. He was squinting in the morning light. You felt a pang of regret that you hadn’t been able to see the way his face looked while in the throes of pleasure last night. He turned to you, blinking. A large hand squeezed your thigh.

“If you’re going to investigate the fluctuations in the area, let me come with you.” His voice had the same sleep roughness to it that made your stomach hot. You cocked your head at him.

“I thought you had business in the area?”

“You are my business.” He deadpanned.

You groaned, and reached out to smack him half heartedly on the shoulder. He caught your hand, and pressed a chaste kiss to your knuckles instead. You couldn’t deny it – he really had come all the way out here just to see you. The thought made you giddy rather than annoyed, now. The mighty leader of Onychinus really went the extra mile when you gave him an inch.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads sylus #lads x reader #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #lads x mc #sylus #sylus x mc #idk how to tag anything

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 8 months ago

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A Primal Need

AMAB!Natsha Romanoff x fem!reader

Word count: 987

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, breeding kink, possessiveness, physical dominace, markings, age gap (N=39, R=25)

Authors notes: Breeding is like top 5 best kinks and I won't be taking any feedback unless you agree

It felt hard to breathe with how tick the air was with tension as you sat on the couch of the Avengers compound, pretending to focus on the book in your lap. But your eyes kept flicking to Natasha, who stood across the room, a silent force of nature. Her strong presence filled the space, making it hard for you to concentrate on anything else.

Natasha, with her auburn hair tied back neatly in a braid, moved through the room with a natural grace, her suit jacket discarded over the back of a chair, leaving her in just her black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. She was busy looking over some papers, occasionally glancing your way, her lips twitching in that familiar smirk whenever she caught you staring.

“You’re distracted,” Natasha said without looking up, her deep voice sending shivers down your spine. You swallowed hard, feeling a warmth pool in your belly.

“I’m just—” you trailed off, knowing she saw right through you. There was no hiding the tension simmering between the two of you. It had been building for days, maybe even weeks. Little touches here and there, the way her eyes lingered on you, her possessiveness when you hung out with Wanda. You knew what she wanted, and the realization made your heart race.

Natasha finally looked up from her papers, her Spring green eyes locking onto yours. Slowly, she crossed the room, her boots tapping softly against the hardwood floor until she was standing in front of you. She tilted your chin up with a finger, her gaze intense.

“Tell me what you need, detka,” she murmured, her voice low and commanding. The way she said it made heat flood your body, and you clenched your thighs together in a vain attempt to stave off the ache that had been growing all day.

“I want you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. Natasha’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

“Oh, I know you do,” she purred, running her fingers through your hair. “But what do you really want?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. Natasha’s eyes darkened as she leaned down, her breath hot against your ear. “You can tell me, malyshka,” she coaxed, her voice dripping with promise. “Tell me, and I’ll give you everything.”

You shivered under her touch, your body responding to her in ways you couldn’t control. “I want you to—” you paused, your face heating up as you felt the weight of the words. But Natasha’s grip on your chin tightened just a fraction, urging you on.

“I um I want to be bred…by…by you,” you finally confessed, your voice trembling. Natasha inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing with something dark and primal.

“Good girl,” she growled, leaning down to claim your lips in a bruising kiss. You moaned into her mouth, your hands gripping her shirt as she pushed you back onto the couch, her body pressing against yours in a way that made your pulse race.

Natasha wasted no time, her hands roaming your body, tugging at your clothes until you were bare beneath her. Neither of you cared that you were in the common area, everyone was away on missions. Even if they came home neither of you cared right now.

She kissed down your neck, her teeth grazing your skin, leaving marks that you knew would linger for days. It wasn’t just desire; it was ownership, a need to claim you in the most primal way possible.

Her fingers slid between your legs, and you gasped at the contact, your hips bucking up involuntarily. But Natasha was in control, her touch teasing, drawing out your need until you were writhing beneath her.

“Look at you,” she murmured, her voice thick with lust. “So desperate for me. I bet you’ve been thinking about this for days, haven’t you?”

You nodded, unable to form words as she pushed two fingers inside you, her thumb circling your clit in a way that had you seeing stars. Natasha’s lips were at your ear again, her voice a low growl. “I’m going to fill you up, detka, over and over until you’re carrying my child.”

Her words sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you cried out, your body arching into hers as she drove you closer to the edge. But she didn’t let you fall over just yet. No, Natasha always took her time, savoring every moment of control she had over you.

When she finally shed her clothes, your eyes widened at the sight of her, strong and commanding, her cock standing at attention making your breath hitch. She smirked, catching your reaction as she positioned herself between your legs. “Ready for me, baby?” she asked, and you could only nod, your body trembling with anticipation.

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, and you gasped, your hands clutching at her shoulders. Natasha growled in approval, setting a steady pace, her hips rolling against yours in a way that had your breath catching in your throat.

Every movement, every thrust, was filled with purpose. This wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about claiming, about marking you as hers in the most intimate way possible. The feeling of her inside you, filling you so completely, had your mind going blank, all your senses focused on her and the way she made you feel.

“I’m going to fill you up so good, detka,” she rasped, her voice rough with need. “You’re going to look so beautiful carrying my child.”

Her words sent you spiraling, and you came undone with a cry, your body trembling as pleasure washed over you in waves. But Natasha didn’t stop. She kept going, her pace relentless as she chased her own release, her eyes locked on yours.

“Natasha—” you gasped, your hands gripping her arms as she thrust into you harder, deeper. The sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room, the tension that had been building for so long finally exploding into something all-consuming.

When she finally came, it was with a deep groan, her body shuddering against yours as she filled you, her promise becoming reality. You could feel it, the warmth of her, the weight of her words settling over you like a brand.

And as you lay there, breathless and spent, Natasha leaned down to kiss you softly, her possessive gaze meeting yours.

“You’re mine, detka,” she whispered, her voice full of satisfaction. “And soon, everyone will know it.”

#ley writes #ley writes one shots #leys kinktober writing #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #fem reader #fem!reader #GP!natasha romanoff

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ahsoka-in-a-hood · 1 year ago

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I'm going to indulge in a little PSA

It's bee swarming season! So this is my friendly reminder to, if you find yourself with a swarm, please do not call an exterminator. Bees are not pests. There's bound to be some sort of beekeeping association in your area, and there will almost certainly be a beekeeper with room for more bees who will come and scoop up your swarm for free and give them a little bee house. Where I live the fire station keeps a list of beekeepers for this exact situation so people call them.

Also a general background on swarming: swarming is a normal part of bee reproduction. In spring the population of a healthy colony will expand rapidly, and they soon run out of space in their nest. So they will raise new queens and the colony will split, with half of them accompanying the old queen to a new location some distance away. Scouts will spend a day or two looking for a good place to nest while the swarm balls up somewhere waiting for a decision. Swarming bees are surprisingly unaggressive and can basically be scooped into a box.

(Beekeepers do generally try to have some control over this reproductive process. Loose swarms don't have great survival rates, and also that's half your colony gone with the wind. If they want the colony to split, they tend to pre-empt them and just move the half of the colony with the old queen into a new hive while they're still raising the new ones. They can also sell half a colony to another beekeeper. If they'd rather they did not split, they'll keep giving them more space in the hive to expand into. A beekeeper can lose control of the situation though- imagine you had weeks of late rain/cold, preventing you from opening the hive to do any of that, and then the weather breaks and your bees, who have been going stir-crazy that whole time, are gone before you got your boots on. It can happen. There are some beekeepers who do clip the queen's wings so she can't swarm, which sounds very tricky to do tbh and not common practice for amateurs.)

Anyway: if you see a swarm, don't call an exterminator, find a beekeeper!

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mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

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(5) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time in university is a downward spiraling disaster temporarily put on hold whenever you get to visit home and resume attempts to reconcile with your beloved seal, who seems like he'll never forgive you for leaving. A band being pulled from both ends is bound to snap eventually.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 12k | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: i apologize for the wait (again)!! i hope the word count makes up for it !!!!! im a lying liar who lies though. human raf next chapter . sorgy </3 and if any of you is a museum major, remember this is a fantasy land where seals can turn into humans and im allowed to make mistakes even tho i researched. thank you!

You come home for spring break with your sketchbook spine cracked from overuse and your first-year, first-semester syllabus crushed beneath half-finished elevation diagrams, smudged object labels, and two drafts of a museum display plan you still don’t understand. Your tote still smells faintly of plaster from the failed mount-building demo in your Material Culture and Object Handling class, fingers bearing charcoal from rushed object sketches and dry glue from a labeling prototype you smudged the night before critique.

There's also a bent metro card. A crumpled worksheet on humidity control from Fundamentals of Conservation. A balled-up napkin scribbled with a reminder to fix the syntax on your object description draft for Writing for Cultural Institutions.

It’s the quiet clutter of someone trying too hard to catch up in a world where everyone else seems to have already memorized the map.

You tell Mom you’re helping with the harbor cleanup, though the truth is you couldn’t spend another minute under fluorescent lights or in a dorm shared with three girls who somehow all seem impossibly ahead.

One’s a biology major who’s always lugging around a lab manual and her phone alarm goes off three times a night to remind her to check some ongoing culture assignment. Another is in photography and just got a feature on the campus arts blog, she spent the break taking foggy morning shots around the reservoir and somehow made them look like a film set. The third is majoring in media studies and recently joined the university’s documentary club, she’s been recording mock voiceovers at 2 a.m., softly narrating into her phone with the lights off like the room’s a sound booth.

You’re still figuring out how not to smudge your object labels or second-guess how to pronounce vitrines.

She doesn’t question you. Just hands you an old jacket and tells you to wear a scarf because she knows your next stop. The air bites harder this time of year, and you look like you’ve been hollowed out by deadlines and dorm-room junk food.

You take the ridge path out of habit. The same winding switchbacks carved into the cliffs, softened by briny grass and your own childhood footsteps. Your boots skid a little like you've already forgotten how to walk on this terrain. It’s stupid, probably. You haven’t been here since August. But your feet carry you to the cove where he used to wait for you — where he could still be. Maybe. You wouldn’t know.

The tide’s out. The sand is coarse and wind-swept, strewn with driftwood and slick stones that catch the light like wet coins. You sit on the rock you always claimed, smoothed by time and salt, and let the cold climb up through your jeans until it settles into your spine like a held breath. You hunch forward, listening to the water breathe in and out, over and over, like it’s trying to tell you something you’ve forgotten how to hear.

He doesn’t come.

You don’t whistle. Not this time. The sound is still tucked behind your teeth, tight in your throat, where it aches like something half-swallowed. It’s your call, your note, and it would rise easy if you let it. But right now, it would feel too much like an apology.

Instead, you press your hands to the earth, grounding yourself in its silence. Near your boot lies a broken fish spine, arched and pale, a tiny crescent of something once alive. You pick it up without thinking and tell yourself it’s just habit. Just instinct.

Back in the city, it ends up pinned beneath mylar in a shadowbox for your Introduction to Museum Studies course. Labeled neatly in pencil: "Unidentified specimen, coastal origin." You write it with disgruntled detachment, trying to echo the tone your professor used when reviewing everyone’s labeling drafts the week before. Your classmates brought in bits of pottery, manufactured junk, bones bleached too clean by city air. Yours smells faintly of brine.

You imagine Raf, briefly, nosing it toward shore like a gift.

You come home again in April, skipping a mandatory field visit at the Maritime Conservation Annex. You were supposed to be cataloguing replica ship parts, jotting down environmental exposure notes, and identifying surface decay patterns. Instead, you take the overnight ferry with a knot behind your eyes and a sketchbook full of crossed-out exhibit themes and poorly shaded elevation diagrams. You haven’t slept. You haven’t called ahead.

You tell Mom you missed her, the fact that you’re already burnt out hidden under your tongue, affecting your speech with its sheer size. You say that you miss the foghorn’s groan in the morning and the smell of the tide seeping through the floorboards. She doesn’t argue. She just hugs you with arms that smell like rosemary and old soap, tells you the storm passed last night, and lets you sleep until noon, doesn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, and leaves a thermos of tea waiting for you on the windowsill.

The beach is wider than you remember. Stretched out and wind-swept, as though the tide’s been dragging its fingers farther inland in your absence. Or maybe you’re just weaker now, after months of stairs and static and deadlines. You walk anyway. Your body remembers how.

The cove is empty. But not untouched.

Shells form a crescent near the waterline. But that’s only what you notice first. Look closer, there’s more.

A pocketknife you lost in tenth grade, rusted but unmistakable.

The twist of ribbon from your old field journal, weighed down with a pebble. Even a museum flyer — sun-bleached, soggy at the corners, but somehow intact — folded into a crude triangle with teeth marks on it and pinned beneath a polished clam shell.

Your pink hair tie from last summer, faded and stretched, looped carefully around a shard of sea glass.

A cracked keychain from the ferry gift shop that had once jingled off your backpack.

A dried daisy chain from that sun-glutted afternoon you spent lying face-down in the dunes, your voice hoarse from reading funny tweets aloud and laughing when he splashed too close.

A bottle of cheap, glittery nail polish you swore you’d use for toe-dipping pictures but never did.

A torn polaroid, the edges warped with salt, showing a particularly flattering picture of you taken by your cousin just this summer.

Even your library card, still laminated, still bent at the corner, with a picture of a 15 year old you.

Not scattered — placed. Tucked into the sand with intention, like offerings. Like memory made physical.

You crouch, brushing your fingertips over the nearest shell. Damp. Fresh. A trail. A message. A stubborn, silent kind of loyalty.

You sit down on the cold, salted stone, the one you always claimed, and pull your knees to your chest, fingers digging into the familiar grooves along the edge. Your hand brushes the lining of your pocket and closes around something small — your enamel ferry pin, the one from your very first shift, belonging to the family business. The metal’s dulled and the backing is loose, but the weight of it feels like everything you’ve been holding in.

You hesitate only a moment before you set it down between two stones, nestling it beside the knife and the ribbon like you're adding to an altar you hadn’t realized he’d built.

Then, using your index finger, you drag a line through the sand beside the offerings. It starts as an oval circle, round and oversized, and then you give it flippers, a belly, and an exaggerated frown that hooks comically toward its chin. Two tiny dots for eyes, drawn close together with a tight squiggle between them, a makeshift furrow where no brows exist, and curly whiskers of course. A giant, miserable seal stares back at you from the sand, all pout and slump and silent accusation. You snort despite yourself. It’s terrible. It’s perfect.

You whistle. A low, rising note that used to send ripples across the water, used to make him appear like something conjured. It hangs there in the salty air, stretching out toward the horizon, unanswered.

The wind pulls at your hair. The sea keeps its secrets.

You wait longer than you should. Long enough for the cold to settle under your fingernails, for your hope to thin out into something quieter.

And then, finally, you stand. Brush the sand from your palms. Turn back toward the path and go back home.

The departure for summer break isn’t the relief of the finish line everyone else made it out to be. Your roommates had been buzzing about it for weeks — finishing final submissions, stealing extra dining hall muffins, swapping playlists for their train rides home, romanticizing porch naps and home-cooked meals and feeling proud of a year well survived. They spoke about it like the reward phase of some coming-of-age movie, like they had earned the softness waiting at home.

For you, it’s the world’s slowest walk of shame.

There’s no big exhale. No victory lap. Just the sun biting at the back of your neck and a guilt-shaped stone lodged somewhere under your breastbone. Your suitcase is heavier than the time you left with it, not with books or clothes, but with the silence of multiple failed classes, and a transcript that feels like a wound folded up in your back pocket.

You’ve already told your parents you needed the summer to "reset." They nodded. Didn’t ask. You think that’s worse. Like they’re afraid pressing would crack you open.

You don’t tell them about the grades. About the meetings. About the email with the subject line: "Academic Standing Review." You don’t tell them about the week you spent avoiding the registrar’s office or how you couldn’t sleep without hearing the chime of overdue assignment reminders in your head. Or the way you started flinching at the sound of email notifications altogether. Like the ping alone could pierce skin.

You don’t tell them how you cried in the library bathroom for an hour after your group presentation fell apart. Or how you walked out of your conservation final halfway through because you couldn’t remember the relative humidity range for organic textiles and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Instead, you clean your room. Fold your sketchbook closed without looking at the last page. You pretend. Harder than you’ve ever pretended before. Smile through dinner. Nod when spoken to. Sleep like it’s your only job. You spend a week pretending to be fine.

And then you go to the cove when you feel like you've earned the right to breathe.

You spot him just offshore the first day you return — a sleek dark head bobbing between the waves like a buoy with an agenda. Your heart skips, already caught halfway between hope and apology. But then, as if summoned solely to deny you, he dips back under before you can even part your lips.

You whistle anyway. The tune, meant to be light and teasing, comes out brittle. It cracks at the end.

He doesn’t come.

The next morning, you wake up early and rinse out a chipped enamel bowl, the one he always used to nudge with his nose like a dinner bell. You fill it with sardines and leave it by the tide line like an offering. By evening, they’re gone — but so is he. Again.

Day three, you escalate: you bring the ridiculous honking pink rubber duck he used to steal from your basket when you were in your horse desensitizing era and treat like sacred treasure. You place it in the sand and turn your back with forced indifference, sitting cross-legged and reading an old paperback you aren’t really following.

An hour later, he appears at the edge of your vision. He doesn’t approach — just watches. Stares. Then, without warning, he lunges forward, snatches the duck, and flings himself backward into the surf with an almost theatrical flip of his tail.

Day four, you whistle three times. He surfaces once.

Day five, you wade knee-deep into the water and shout his name. He appears a good thirty feet out and just... floats. Watching. Blinking. Drifting.

Day six, you bring the duck again. He doesn’t come. Later, you find the duck dragged halfway down the beach, left deliberately nose-down in a pile of seaweed.

Day seven, he waits until you’re packing up to surface. You turn around with the folded towel in your arms and catch him mid-dive, as if he’d timed it for maximum annoyance.

It’s become a battle of wills. He’s there, always. Just far enough to be unreachable. Just long enough to remind you he’s choosing this distance.

You whistle. He disappears. You sit. He surfaces. You move closer. He vanishes like smoke. Like he’s punishing you. Or teaching you a lesson. Or just enjoying the torment.

He hadn’t even made you work this hard the first time you met him, when you were fifteen and barefoot and slightly sunburned and he’d come right up to you like the sea itself had sent him.

But now? Now it’s like you have to earn him back.

You don't mind, you keep bouncing back. It’s like all the bad luck in the whole world has found their way to you once you left this creature’s side.

Nothing else is working to remedy this. Not the sleep, not the food, not the long walks with your phone turned off. You’ve done everything the counselors suggested. Advice from Reddit threads bookmarked at 2 a.m., typed by people who’d never met you but somehow still sounded kinder than you could stand. You tried all of it. Traced your breathing. Made gratitude lists. Journaled until the pages bled. Some of it helped for a few seconds, like aspirin against a broken bone. But you’re still unraveling.

You spend your mornings rewriting assignments that no longer count for practice to get better at academic writing. Afternoons rereading course emails with dates burned into your brain like scars. You’ve taken to organizing your notes by color-coded failure — red tabs for zeros, blue for extensions, yellow for all the things you said you’d redo but never did.

Even now, in the refuge of summer, you’re still chasing a version of yourself that keeps vanishing into the surf just like him.

You’re a string pulled tighter and tighter. A rubber band about to snap. Keep waiting for a release that doesn’t come. Even your dreams are full of waiting, missing trains, late exams, searching for classrooms that don’t exist. You wake up breathless, mouth dry. Every day feels like trying to outrun something just out of sight.

And the one place you thought you’d feel safe again won’t let you in.

It’s on the tenth day that you snap.

You come down to the beach after dinner, barefoot, your hoodie damp from where you dropped it in the sink. The sky is lavender and low. Your breath won’t even out, throat raw from holding back everything you can’t name.

He’s there. Lounging on his rock like a king. Indifferent to you.

It's the final straw.

You just crumple. One moment you’re standing there with the whistle still echoing out of your lungs, and the next you’re on your knees in the sand like the weight finally caught up to you mid-step. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s just broken. Pathetic. You curl up tight in the same spot you used to nap in when you were younger, half-shielded by dune grass and shadow, and dig your phone out of your hoodie pocket with hands that won’t stop shaking.

You open the group chat with Tara, Macie, and Simone. Hit record.

"Okay," you whisper, then immediately press the heel of your palm to your eye. "I — fuck, I’m sorry, I know this is so abrupt. I don’t know how to say this. I’m — I feel like I’m gonna fall out of my body or — I don’t know. I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t tell anyone. I failed. Three classes. Not just badly — like, failed-failed. Like I have meetings and I’m on probation and I can’t — I can’t keep up and I thought if I worked harder it would get better and it didn’t, it just — it just got worse."

You’re crying too hard to sniff. Your breath is hitching like something’s wrong with your lungs. You keep recording.

"I can’t tell my parents. Not — not after I screamed about needing this. How I had to leave, how I was suffocating here and — and now what? I come back with nothing but a GPA circling the drain and I can’t—"

You make a sound like a laugh but it cracks halfway through.

You swallow this part down, but your brain cites it like tacks being rattled around in your skull. And Raf — he won’t even look at me. He won’t come near me. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m gone. I thought maybe — maybe it’s like, object permanence? Like babies? You leave too long and they forget you exist? Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe I left too long and now I’m just—

You cut off with a sob you try to swallow, but it just rattles out of you louder.

"I don't know. I don't know, it's so fucking stupid. I feel so stupid. I thought I was gonna be — fine. Like, I thought I could handle it, just keep my head down and get through it, and now I’m on probation and I don’t even know what that means, not really, like how close am I to getting kicked out? How bad is bad? What happens if I can’t fix it next year, what if I can’t fix anything, what if I already ruined it — ? And I keep telling myself I’m gonna catch up but it just keeps slipping, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what any of this was for—"

You choke. Cough. Curl tighter.

Somewhere behind you, the sand explodes in a flurry of movement — snorting, huffing, frantic slapping. A full-body rustle and a high, unmistakable blubbering honk. It’s been happening for a while now, just filtering into your ears after the ringing in them starts fading away the more you let the poison drain by finally talking it out.

You pause the recording. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then you hear it: a wet, frantic percussion — flippers slapping against the sand in a staggered staccato, speeding up like something big and heavy hurtling downhill. It's fast. Too fast. Just chaos and wobble and blind, blubbery urgency. Like someone dropped a weighted water balloon and it decided to sprint.

You barely have time to turn your head before it happens.

He rounds the dune like a meteor with a mission, sand flying in every direction, his eyes wide with purpose and panic. Raf barrels into view like a runaway suitcase filled with guilt and righteous offense. His body jiggles so violently with momentum that every bounce forward looks like he might detonate.

And he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.

He slams into your side with the force of someone who’s never learned the meaning of caution, knocking you flat onto your hip with a surprised grunt that bursts out of you like a punched balloon. It’s not gentle. It’s not coordinated. It’s not even particularly graceful.

But it is immediate. And it is him.

The shock of it jolts something loose in your chest. Your panic attack hiccups. Stalls. You suck in a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.

He shoves his nose under your arm with a whimper and settles his full, ridiculous weight against your ribs.

You let the sobs come in full this time, but they’re softer now. Messy. Grateful. Raf makes a warbling, almost defeated sound, then promptly rolls onto his back like he’s surrendering to fate itself. One flipper flops out like he’s fainting. The other tucks to his chest. His stomach rises like a little hill of warmth and resignation.

You blink at him, chest still heaving, nose running, and before you can think twice, you collapse onto him like he’s a novelty beanbag chair you’ve been emotionally blackmailed into needing, it's a travel pillow made of grief and blubber and the kind that will most likely scurry away once you’re okay again.

By your second year, the returns aren’t marked by breakdowns or urgent flights from failure. They creep in like late rain. Unannounced. Not unwelcome, but damp with something you can’t quite shake off.

The travel is tiring in the dullest way — long waits, bad vending machine coffee, a stiffness in your back from sitting still for too long while your mind keeps moving, always spinning on what you should’ve done differently. There’s nothing glorious about it. You arrive with skin that smells like someone else’s laundry soap and a mind still half-occupied by half-finished drafts.

You’ve started disciplining yourself not to go back home often. Not every setback is a reason to run. Not every bad grade should end at the cove. You tell yourself this like it’s a rule, a boundary, a growing pain. The windows to return feel narrower now, less like open arms, more like checkpoints you have to earn your way through.

You think, if you treat it like medicine, measured and sparing, it’ll mean more. That it’ll hurt less to stay away if you’ve decided to do it on purpose. It’s an experiment in self-control. In learning to stand on your own two feet. You even write it down in your planner like a mantra: "Earn your quiet. Don’t escape to it."

But the restraint frays at the edges the longer it holds when it comes to the kind of silence that grows between living things when time stretches too far. Not quite a grudge. Not affection either. Just distance that’s had too much time to settle in its shape. That’s what you and Raf become. A shape that no longer fits the way it used to.

You think about the story your parents used to tell when they wanted to scare you and your siblings off your recurring "I want a pet" phases — the one about the cat they had to rehome when Mom got pregnant with your oldest brother. It used to sleep above Mom’s head every night, curled like a question mark on her pillow, purring against her scalp. They’d had her for years. She was part of the household. Then, overnight, she wasn’t.

Your parents didn’t sugarcoat it. The cat never forgave them. The neighbor said she’d hiss if she so much as smelled Mom’s perfume. She’d turn her back whenever Dad entered the room. Once, she growled loud enough to make Mom cry.

That story used to make you cry. Now it just makes sense.

You wonder if Raf has the same mechanism wired deep inside him — not quite revenge, not memory in the way people understand it, but something animal and old that withholds affection not out of cruelty, but out of instinct. A quiet kind of rejection. A closing off. Something cold-blooded in the way he recognizes you, but doesn’t rise to meet you. That primitive, wordless ability to turn away and mean it.

You try to explain it to yourself the way a naturalist might: that bonds can decay in the wild when time goes unaccounted for. That animals forget scent, forget the way something felt when it was constant. Even social species will let go of their own after too long apart. In flocks. In herds. Maybe this is just that — an adaptation. A recalibration. Nothing personal.

But it feels personal.

You tell yourself you haven’t cried over it. That you’re grown now. You know what he is. But every time he stays in the water, every time he looks at you and doesn’t move, it stings. Not like punishment. Like being erased from something you thought was permanent. Like being forgotten by someone who used to run toward you with open arms — or flippers.

He’s adjusted to the long gaps. You can tell. He doesn’t pace the shore or look toward the house. He’s not waiting. But he knows when you come back. He always knows.

When you come back in the autumn — briefly, for the week the university grants between midterms and burn-out — he doesn’t rush to the shoreline. He’s out in the water when you arrive, bobbing just past the drop-off like he’s part of the sea itself. You whistle once. He doesn’t respond with the same matching melodied chirps. Just snorts in response, slow and unbothered. You sit on the sand anyway, shivering through your hoodie, and talk about how you’re passing now. Barely. But still.

The sky darkens. He doesn’t come closer.

When you stand to leave, he’s gone.

You tell yourself it’s okay. You’d already decided not to need him the way you used to and start relying on the companionship of human beings like your roommates. But even then, you still find yourself slipping little things into the beach when he’s not looking — offerings without ceremony. A piece of your sandwich. A bandana that smells like you. Once, a silly pebble shaped like a heart that you almost pocketed but didn’t. You leave them near where you sit and pretend not to watch.

Sometimes, they vanish. Sometimes, they don’t. But the next time you return, there's something different. Arranged driftwood in a crooked ring. A crab shell turned upright like a bowl. That pebble in the middle of that bowl.

You try not to read into it, but the pattern starts to form. You leave something. He answers. Never directly. But clearly.

So it becomes a back-and-forth. You bring objects. He rearranges the shore. Maybe leaves something in return like a weird trading conversation. It's not forgiveness. It's not closeness. But it's something. Like playing a slow-motion game across weeks and waves. Like he's reminding you that while he might not come close, he hasn’t forgotten how to speak to you.

You start playing back. You bring him things that are more intentional now — not random. A pink shell shaped like a comma. A bottle cap with a fish on it. You leave them in a particular corner of the cove, beside a rock he used to sun himself on.

When you return, they’re stacked differently, like he's shifted them with his nose. Once, you find the bottle cap perched carefully atop a stone like a crown.

It becomes a game with no score. You never talk about it, of course. You never even look at him when you do it. But he knows. And he answers.

Winter comes. You don’t make it home. Snowed in by assignments. Stranded by train delays and emails that stack up like debt. You keep a seal keychain clipped to your backpack. Talk to it sometimes when the dining hall’s too loud. It smells faintly like sunscreen and stress.

Spring break, you visit again. He meets you halfway down the beach this time. Doesn’t wait on his rock. Doesn’t flinch when you sit. You watch him nap for a full hour just as how things used to be like it’s a sacred ritual, your fingers itching to pet him, but feeling like you're probably not allowed to do that anymore.

Later, as you’re brushing the sand from your jeans and readying to leave, you notice something at your feet. A shell you didn’t bring. Pale and ridged, curved like a crescent moon. Nestled into the print your heel left behind.

And so it goes.

The summer before your fourth year arrives with more noise than usual. There’s luggage on the porch that doesn’t belong to you. Voices in the hallway. Bright sandals left by the door. The smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom and the clatter of your name being called from the kitchen in someone else’s cadence.

You brought them here — Theo, and the girls.

It still feels strange to say it in your head that way. Theo, and the girls. As if he’s earned his own category. As if he belongs to the orbit that’s always just been yours. Like naming him among them makes it more permanent, more real than you’re used to admitting.

Theo... Your first ever boyfriend, is a law major with immaculate notes and a resting face so unreadable it makes you want to fluster him on purpose. You only met because of an elective you got roped into by the girls — something general and discussion-heavy that promised easy credit and turned out to be anything but. The kind of course where you had to talk more than listen. Where participation was part of your grade, and no one let you disappear into your own thoughts.

You sat across from him, expecting nothing. But Theo asked questions like he wanted the long answer, like he was collecting your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak. You remember the way he used to furrow his brow when you talked about maritime heritage and museum archiving in that offhanded way you did — like your interest wasn’t worth noting, so you just cut your ideas short so the next person could start talking. He disagreed. Kindly. Plainly. Made you feel your voice belonged in the room.

Perhaps it was the constant turn of his head to your direction that pulled you in. Recognition and acknowledgment after being deprived of it.

It started small. Shared readings. Group projects. Walks back from lectures when the hallway buzz had quieted. Jokes over cafeteria food that weren’t really jokes. You noticed how he took up space without pressing against yours, how he listened without waiting to speak. He had this way of holding silence after you said something, like he was letting the weight of it settle before he answered. Until one day he showed up outside your studio with a coffee you didn’t know he knew you liked.

And slowly, it became a thing. Not a crush. Not fireworks. Just a closeness you didn’t pull away from. You didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It wasn’t even a spark. It was more like a slow tide pulling up to your ankles — gradual and persistent. Letting yourself be comfortable. Letting someone stay.

So, your answer was an automatic "Yes," when he asked if you wanted to go out with him.

There was a safety in it. Someone to text when your class let out early, someone to split snacks with at the library, someone to carry your bag when you were too tired to ask. Someone to go eat out with when you’d otherwise stay inside because the act of being perceived felt too sharp that day. Someone who sat next to you on the train and didn't feel the need to fill the silence. You didn’t feel the burn of longing around him, and that felt... sustainable. Manageable. It felt like something you could keep without breaking it.

So when summer came, and the suggestion floated — "What if we went somewhere quiet?" — you offered.

You talked it up the way someone talks about a childhood pet they’re not sure is still alive, all warmth and vague descriptions. “It’s peaceful,” you said. “You’ll like it.”

They were curious. Of course they were. Macie wanted to swim. Simone asked about your favorite tidepool spots. Tara just smiled and told you it’d be good for you to breathe island air again. Theo didn’t push to know more about your life back at home. He just held your hand under the table when you brought it up to them, like the decision had already been made the moment you opened your mouth.

When they asked about Raf, you lied without blinking. Told them he didn’t always stick around this time of year — something about seasonal wandering, maybe mating behaviors. You said it like you’d read it in an article, even though you hadn’t. Even though you knew exactly where he would be if he were around.

Not because you were hiding him. Not really. Your girls already knew about your seal friend because you wouldn’t shut up about him. Your wallpaper and lockscreen were both of him, after all. Not to mention the album on your phone titled simply: “Cutie.” You’d shown them old videos. Clips of him flopping through the surf, close enough to touch. Of him screaming and making funny noises.

But still. Still. Your friendship with Raf felt too private to be shared with anyone else. Like opening a box you hadn’t touched in too long, afraid the air would ruin what was inside. You were gatekeeping him before you realized there might not even be that much of a friendship left to show off. But that didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to introduce him to them.

Not even your parents had seen you with him. Not really. Not the way he used to follow you through the shallows like a shadow, not the way you used to press your face into his side like a warm, living stone and let the tide rise around you both. He was special and he was yours. You were proud of this connection you had carved out for yourself. Something wild and tender and unsupervised.

So, you don’t take them to the cove.

You pick another beach, one of the broader ones farther down the island — the kind people use for engagement shoots, family barbecues, the kind of place that shows up in someone else’s scrapbook, not your memory. It’s less intimate, less burdened by history. And that’s the whole point.

You tell them it was the easiest to reach. That the sand is fine, the tide pools were especially photogenic in the afternoon light. But deep down, you didn’t pick it for them. You picked it for your own comfort — because you know he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like crowds or people at all.

The sand here is pale and packed tight, the color of sifted flour. Flat rocks sit like little stages along the shore, and the tide pools glint with mica and tiny darting fish. Children shriek in the distance. Someone’s playing a bluetooth speaker nearby, something tinny and sun-soaked. The wind doesn’t bite here, it flutters its lashes. Everything about this place feels engineered for memory-making. Safe, palatable, curated. A beach designed to be preserved in pixels.

Theo lifts the cooler with one arm. Simone has the umbrella slung over her shoulder like a rifle. Tara trails behind, her flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed sand, laughing like the sun’s already sunk into her bloodstream. Macie’s filming everything — seagulls, a crab fight, the uneven hem of the horizon — and providing a running commentary in that absurd, exaggerated British documentary narrator voice that always makes the rest of you laugh.

You lag behind a few paces, pretending to dig through your tote bag for chapstick. Mostly, you’re watching their silhouettes bob forward, listening for how much of yourself is still tethered to them. You smile when they glance back.

They lay out the towels and start divvying drinks. Theo opens the cooler and gestures for you to pick first. You choose a juice box, half out of nostalgia, half because it’s easy. He leans into your shoulder with a quiet sort of ownership, chin pressing lightly against the curve where your neck meets your collarbone, his hand warm as it slides over your thigh.

The others break off like strands of sea foam — Simone crouching by the tide pools, pointing out green anemones and prodding gently at barnacles with the end of a sunglasses arm, Macie dancing backward to film a reel, Tara announcing she’s going to find “a rock with the most powerful energy.” You sink into the blanket, drink in hand, and pretend the sun is doing its job. The condensation slicks your palm; Theo’s elbow keeps knocking into yours each time he shifts, rummaging in the cooler for his drink.

Someone starts talking about sea glass. Macie thinks the little green shards come from old soda bottles. Simone insists some of it’s from shipwrecks. Tara finds a piece shaped like a heart and says she’s keeping it forever. Theo listens to them like it’s a podcast he’s only half-invested in, but he smiles whenever you laugh.

It feels ordinary. In that stretched, sugar-glazed way summer days do when you don’t look at the clock. You’re halfway through your juice when Macie’s voice cuts the day in two.

“Seal!” she cries, delighted.

You pause mid-sip.

Not startled — more like… struck. That word slices through the ambient noise like a tuning fork. Your body reacts faster than your brain. Somewhere in your chest, a thread pulls taut.

The others are already rushing toward the shore, sneakers kicking up sand. Simone’s got her phone out again. Tara gasps. “It's a chonker!”

“Are they common around here?” Theo’s voice is light as he squints toward the water. “I read something about conservation efforts in the northern colonies — tagging for tracking migratory habits.”

“They haul out sometimes,” you say. Your voice sounds far away. “Usually early in the season.”

You don't notice Tara staring, as if she's trying to ask you why Theo seems to be confused about the seal when it's common knowledge that you haul from a place with a seal population.

“Get a load of this unit,” Simone says, laughing. “That’s not a seal, that’s a sentient ottoman.”

“I’m naming him Barnaby,” Macie announces. "Bernadette if female."

You rise without thinking.

The voices of your friends flatten into background static. Theo’s muttering about population markers again, something about dorsal notches and flipper scarring. Someone suggests a group selfie with the seal in the distance. You’re already stepping past them.

You move toward the shoreline like someone being pulled forward by the collar. The closer you get, the more the light shifts — the kind of shimmer that makes everything blur at the edges, like film that’s been left in the sun too long.

From a distance, it could be any seal. Big, lazy, glinting like riverstone in the tide. But your eyes track instantly to the shape bobbing just beyond the last rock.

You pass Macie, who’s still narrating. “Seriously, look at the spot pattern. He’s like a limited-edition beanbag.”

You stop just at the lip of the water, salt wind catching in your hair. The waves break around your feet like hands brushing past. The light fractures. You squint.

Then he shifts. Just slightly.

A tilt of the head. A flash of familiar scarring on the shoulder area. The slope of the skull. The unruly whiskers. The uneven patch where fur never quite grew back right.

That’s Raf, alright. No question.

What the hell?

It isn’t just that he’s here — it’s that he’s somewhere he never should be.

Raf doesn’t come to beaches like this. You know by heart now that he sticks to his own territory, avoiding crowded places the way skittish animals avoid noise, the way anything too aware of its own edges avoids spectacle. He has always preferred the cove, quiet and thick with sea mist, where nothing moves unless it belongs. Even during summer’s peak, when the whole island feels like a postcard come to life, he stays tucked away, content in his own paradise. You’d have to wait until sunset, until the last paddleboarder left, before he’d even dare surface. Sometimes not even then.

So seeing him now, in daylight, under the loudness of other people’s joy, within reach of clumsy sandals and cell phone lenses…

If you had to explain it, you might say this: that all those things you try to swallow — the loss, the homesickness, the worry — well, it all congeals into the same ache deep beneath your sternum. It manifests physically as if there was a physical place inside your chest cavity where emotion collected like sediment or rust or bruised fruit. It comes out in flickers, in ways you can't control. Things set it off: memories, sounds, smells, sensations you'd grown up being conditioned to associate with nostalgia and happiness in your subconscious, regardless of whether those things actually did make you happy anymore or not — just the trigger stimuli alone would bring about the longing that'd cause tears to prick at your ducts immediately, if only for a second.

Seeing him suddenly brings your feelings surging up in the same abrupt way they do when you're alone in your dorm room, trying to survive finals week. Now that he's there on the other side of the sea when you're over here with new friends surrounding you when it used to be just you two, a familiar tightening sensation unfurls inside, like something getting caught and torn in the cogs of your ribcage. It aches worse than you expected.

"Wait, though. Do we know if that's your seal buddy?" Macie asks, grinning widely. "Do you think I can pet him?"

"It is Raf, and no," you tell her firmly. "Just leave him be."

She gives you a surprised look. "You sure? They don't bite, do they? Or slap?"

"They won't but still..." You gesture vaguely towards the rest of them with a helpless shrug as you attempt to maintain control over your emotions, willing the lump forming at the base of your throat to dissipate.

"Seal buddy?" Theo asks. He's come up to your side without you noticing and has placed a comforting hand on your waist.

"You haven't told him about Raf?" Simone arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "The familiar to your sea witch?"

"C'mon..." you whine, not noticing the look you're being given by your boyfriend.

"Huh," he confirms after studying you intently for several long seconds.

A beat of silence passes between your group, a few questioning glances exchanged, before Theo speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "We were dating for almost five months and you've never mentioned being friends with a seal?"

You couldn't just say that it naturally didn't come up when you in fact did not stop yapping about Raf to your roommates. It felt... childish. Self-centered, like bragging. Theo had a certain level of maturity beyond what you possessed, so it seemed fitting to keep quiet about how special and close you were with your adorable animal companion rather than risking exposing yourself as someone who talks about seals more someone with a marine biology major. You weren't exactly trying to hide it per se, either, more so keeping the information regarding the subject matter private and away from any potential prying or mocking... or perhaps the feeling itself.

Despite having already shared it with your friends.

…

Yeah, honestly, you don't know why you didn't tell him earlier, now that you think about it. It makes for a particularly awkward silence, as well.

One that gets interrupted by Tara's, "Oh my god, is he coming over here? Look!"

You whip around and indeed see Raf paddling his way onto shallow waters before picking up speed as he closes in on your location.

"That settles it. We gotta film this. Do you think it'd go viral?" Macie says excitedly, pushing play on her camera app while taking aim at you and Raf approaching.

"Viral," you mutter drily under your breath as you slowly start walking deeper into the water with the intent of greeting your friend properly for the first time since arriving at home.

Theo watches from the shoreline silently as everyone else bursts into applause and cheering once Raf arrives and immediately hops closer to you instead of anyone else present despite them attempting to coax him over with promises of food and various petting session offers, something they complain loudly about behind you.

"Hey, you little fucker," you grouse once within earshot, crouching down like a gangster stationed by a random corner on the pavement, elbows on knees. The words hold absolutely zero heat to them. "You've been giving me attitude bigger than your body mass ever since I left and now you decide to hobble on over when I'm with company? Really? You're like my mom trying to keep up appearances when guests come over. Who the heck do you think you are?"

Raf croons and chatters in response, nuzzling your bare legs affectionately before flopping heavily on your feet. He proceeds to roll around in the wet sand, looking every bit of pleased with himself for drawing a laugh from you when he looks up expectantly with wide, adoring dark eyes blinking innocently up at you.

Ha, look at this guy acting cute.

As if you weren't literally deprived of his presence for nearly the entire time you were away because he was too pissed to see your face, you realize with a sharp twang of bitterness, shaking your head in mock annoyance at the unfairness of the situation. What bullshit timing. He has to be doing this on purpose at this point. The big brat.

"Wow," your friends remark in awe simultaneously at the display occurring before their very astonished selves.

"So tame,” Theo remarks.

He pays them no mind whatsoever. Instead, his sole focus remains on you as he rolls upright so he may rear onto hind paws and balance against your bent knee. His whiskers tickle your skin, hot snorts stirring loose strands of hair fallen over your face, dampness from his breath transferring to your forehead. It's like he's giving you a vibe-check, sniffing you all over with little to no care towards the peanut gallery currently filming everything happening.

"This is fascinating," Theo comments from somewhere nearby, likely observing your interactions closely together with Tara and the rest. He comes to crouch beside you for a closer look. "I honestly thought they wouldn't engage humans unless approached first. Then again, I guess you've managed to build enough trust with that one to encourage friendly interaction..."

It's almost in slow motion that Raf turns his head towards your boyfriend, and to your absolute shock, curls his back in a way you've never see him do before, baring his teeth at Theo in the most hostile display you've ever seen from a creature known to have such a placid temperament.

It's when the unfamiliar purring-rumble starts rising from his throat that you come back to reality and tilt your body away from a jaw-dropped Theo, effectively making a barrier between the two. "Oh my god, no, Theo, I'm so sorry! Please back off, okay? Just take a couple steps back, please, and I'll handle this—"

The rumble becomes louder, sharper. To the surprise of everyone present, Raf crawls over your leg and hip possessively like a large lapdog might climb into a couch and lie on their owner for warmth, deliberately placing himself in between you and a wide-eyed Theo, staring pointedly at your boyfriend until he backs away completely to rejoin the girls watching with horrified fascination on the beach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing he did not bite nor hit anyone in his frenzy.

It takes you pulling back to sit flat on your butt that he relents finally and allows you to maneuver him onto your lap so you may bury fingers deep into the thick, dense fur around his neck area and massage him into calm submission. "What is with you today," you reprimand softly as the aggressive sounds gradually subside into gentle yips. "I thought you forgot me or something, and now look at you. Like no time passed at all."

Raf doesn't seem apologetic in the least, if the way he snuggles even closer in your arms and throws in a lick across your cheekbone indicates anything. With his chin hooked securely over your shoulder, tail thumping loudly against the water splashing quietly against your entangled legs, it seems pretty evident he has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.

"I know I shouldn’t be surprised after seeing everything on your phone, but are seals really supposed to behave like this?" Macie asks aloud uncertainly, putting her camera down.

You shrug, absently continuing to knead downwards along Raf's side. He shifts under your hands, the smooth, slippery texture of his skin bunching under your fingertips pleasantly as he leans further into you with increasing insistence.

"He's just domesticated," Simone offers, coming closer to better assess the situation. "Look, he's not food motivated."

"An expert family friend of mine told me I could have formed a small pod with him without knowing it. Like, a unit of a colony."

"Like a bonded pair?" Tara joins in.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is just bonded. He could have imprinted on her. Like a duck," Theo adds helpfully, gesturing to where you've now begun rubbing down your sulky seal friend's tummy while he rolls over unashamedly on his back for easier access. He's got his phone on his hand, gesturing to some article he found in no time. "This says young pups follow people they initially attach to for several minutes after birth sometimes and perceive them to be their mother. When exposed to higher levels of maternal influence after development, the bond grows stronger than it would have otherwise been possible to sustain by nature alone."

Raf grumbles soft under his breath, seeming disgruntled. What the fuck does he have to sigh about like that as if he's a single mom who works two jobs? He's not even an arctic seal who has to deal with diabolical orcas gunning after him 24/7.

But you're more concerned with this scene unfolding right now when you barely had any interaction with Raf over the past couple of years. He's being clingy when it was so obvious he was being distant and cold like a normal person would've behaved after a falling out...

And yes, it does sting quite badly for having the reunion be made to witness and scrutinized over by near-total strangers while your friends are having a conversation about seal behavior and looking things up on the internet in the background.

It really hurts even more since you expected a much earlier reception given your efforts at reconciliation... and then here comes Raf randomly deciding he's now okay on a random day for seemingly no reason whatsoever. Talk about emotional whiplash. What happened to the sulking and stubborn refusal to interact? Where did that go?

Well. Better late than never?

Hours pass. Eventually, the beach is emptying out.

The laughter is gone, or far enough to feel like it. Distant chatter rides the salt wind, but it doesn’t reach you, not really. The sky has bruised into mauve, sea lavender and charcoal layered thin across the horizon, all color is being dragged out like a damp cloth wrung slow.

Macie was the first to suggest heading back when the sour mood of Theo didn’t get any better, already talking about post-beach showers and cooking for your parents who’ve yet to return from the ferry for having them over. Simone followed with a promise to upload the best photos. Tara stayed behind just a little longer, watching you in that gentle, perceptive way of hers, before slipping away to give the two of you a space. Your towel is still damp beneath you, your bag a mess of half-unpacked things. And Raf hasn't budged from your side, pressed warm and firm into your hip as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

Theo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, half-turned toward the sea. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You can feel it brewing though, like pressure in your ears before a storm.

When he finally does speak, he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a moderated accusation to it that makes your stomach tighten. “So... were you ever planning to tell me about him?”

You keep your eyes on your towel, fingers worrying at a loose thread that’s already frayed beyond saving. “It's not like I was keeping it from you, it must have just slipped my mind to mention it or something.”

He shifts, crossing and uncrossing his arms, feet grinding into the sand with impatient little pivots. “That’s not the part I’m stuck on,” he says, voice level. “It’s that everyone else knew. It didn't slip your mind with them.”

You lift your gaze briefly, catching his silhouette framed in the bleeding dusk. “I really wasn’t trying to hide him or something. I don’t talk about a lot of things.”

Theo’s shoulders fall with a tired breath. He’s not angry. Just tired. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

The air between you feels suddenly thinner.

You turn toward him fully. He’s wearing the expression you’ve come to recognize when he’s calculating every word before he says it. It’s hard to tell if it’s a personality trait or something his law professors taught him.

“I didn’t tell you about Raf because I didn’t know how,” you admit, the words small, almost fragile. “He was my best friend for years. And then... he wasn’t. I haven't properly spent time with him for three years now, the best I do is just seal watching from afar, and that's whenever I get home, which is. Sparse.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw flexed.

“And then today, out of nowhere, he’s back. Like nothing happened. It's like my first proper interaction with him in forever.”

“I’m not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know why you couldn’t share that part of your life with me. You're changing the subject.”

“I don't know,” you mutter, rubbing your palm against your leg. “It didn't occur to me I could. And I liked... I liked how clean things were with you.”

His brow knits. “Clean?”

“Like I didn’t have to unpack the past every time we talked. I could just be in the moment. Maybe that's why it didn't cross my mind at all.”

Theo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair with restless fingers. “And what moment are we even in now?”

You blink at him, the question hanging too heavily to dodge.

“Because I’ve been your boyfriend for five months—"

The seal in your lap jerks so suddenly as if shaken up from deep sleep to do a double-take between you and Theo with a distinct sputter and a sneeze, and you momentarily miss some of what's being said to you from watching the weird flailing in front of you.

"—sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting to become one. You sit beside me. You let me hold your hand. You even sleep next to me. But half the time, I feel like I’m dating someone who’s barely in the room.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? You’re nice to me. You show up. You laugh. You don’t want to hurt me, I know that. But it’s like I’m an accessory in your day, not a person you’re choosing.”

Your gaze drops. Raf is staring off into the distance like a shell-shocked war veteran for some reason and you swear his eyes are about to look in different directions.

Theo watches your fingers curl into the seal’s coat.

“Do you even like me?”

Your head snaps up. “Of course I do.”

His next words are quieter. “I mean... do you like me? Not just the idea of being with someone. Not just what I represent, or how I don’t ask too much. Do you like me?”

You part your lips, the response on the tip of your tongue — except it isn’t. The panic hits before the words come, tightening your chest, making the air feel wrong in your lungs.

Theo closes his eyes like he already has the answer.

“I think I’ve been trying really hard not to admit how one-sided this feels,” he says. “But I can’t do that forever.”

You reach toward him — instinctively, helplessly. Your hand hovers mid-air.

“Listen, Theo, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. His face twists for a fraction of a second. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing. You’re not cruel. You just... keep your distance. You never come to me for anything. Not once. I know you’re struggling with your classes. You get weird when someone mentions midterms. You disappear for days when grades drop, and when I ask how you’re doing, you say ‘fine’ like a robot. You don’t talk to me about any of these things.”

“I don’t need to dump that stuff on you.”

“It’s not dumping if I’m your boyfriend,” Theo says, caught between ache and frustration. “You don’t lean on me. You don’t share anything with me. I’m just... here. Being reminded I’m that insignificant and held at arm’s length every. Single. Day.”

Raf shifts again. There is a slowness to his breathing, a cadence like the tide. If he is listening, you cannot tell.

Your throat feels too tight. Theo sees it before you manage an answer.

He sighs. It sounds weary, like someone reaching the bottom stair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Everything in you wants to refute it, deny him. But you know it wouldn't matter, because he isn't asking questions anymore; he's stating facts. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

You pick anxiously at the dead skin at your thumb's cuticles until the urge to apologize overwhelms everything else.

"I'm so—"

Theo raises his hand abruptly, stopping you short. "Don't. I don't need an apology."

A beat passes in uncomfortable silence. Raf grumbles, unhappy.

"Then what do you need?" You mumble under your breath.

"For you to see me as your person," Theo responds bluntly, staring intently down at your stunned features. "Or maybe just as someone who matters more than the stupid seal on your lap you're petting like a dog while having an important discussion."

You wince as if scalded, retracting your hands. "I don’t, I—!"

"Then look me in the fucking face when you speak to me," he barks harshly, scowl growing increasingly prominent. You've only seen Theo mad once or twice before, but he doesn't explode or break things. His anger is contained and icy cold instead. Raf doesn't like the way he's raising his voice at you, his huffing is getting more frequent now. "Or maybe stop sitting there like the victim and give me the courtesy of standing up and talking to me with actual intention rather than treat our relationship like some hobby you take on between finishing whatever homework is due? How would you feel if I treated you like a second choice friend whenever we meet up together? Think carefully."

There's something final about the way he ends the sentence, like shutting a door. Or snapping shut a notebook. Like wrapping up a case and moving on. For someone so impossibly empathic, so effortlessly considerate, you wonder if he finally reached the end of his rope. If you had worn him down, after all.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself saying anyway, hoping he would be kind enough to accept the olive branch.

But Theo only shakes his head slowly with lips thinned in repressed irritation. "Don't do that," he cuts you off curtly. "I told you I don't want apologies."

Something tenses in your gut. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe shame. It sours too quickly for you to sort it out.

Raf has been statue-rigid for a while now, his body coiled tight underneath your palm resting just over his ribcage — sensing the discordance, no doubt, alerted by the spike in tensions among the two of you.

"I think we need to rethink this whole thing," Theo says, looking directly at you with solemn, resolute conviction gleaming in his eyes. You understand what it means immediately. It isn't anger so much as sadness that draws itself around him, making his shoulders round, his mouth stern. He rubs a knuckle absently against his temple. "I seriously need some space. I can't keep putting in effort on my end while getting practically nothing back on yours. Frankly, it's been taxing and frustrating beyond belief."

"We could—" you pause, realizing there's absolutely nothing you can offer that would be viable. You don't have the same qualifications to make things work out as he did, nor can you convince him otherwise knowing this much of what you put him through. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. So all that's left for you to say is: "Is there anything I can do to fix this? Do you want me to..."

There is nothing more pathetic to finish your sentences with besides crying, begging and offering ultimatums — and none of those are appealing options.

"Look," Theo says, visibly restraining himself from pacing the way you've seen him do whenever frustrated with a difficult case to crack, and you feel horrible knowing full well that most of your interactions will likely leave him feeling this way. "I appreciate what we had over these past few months... It was good to spend time with you. But honestly, it'd just be healthier for us both if we put it on hold right now until you figure out what it is that you really want, and then I'll reopen negotiations."

Silence follows for a brief moment. Raf lets out a long whine, which causes you to snap out of the funk of despondency you momentarily sunk into, remembering he's still very much present, listening to everything, perhaps like a child overhearing his parents arguing.

"Okay," you croak, suddenly feeling unworthy of your boyfriend's presence. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

You don't even get the last part of your sentence out, which was thanking him for being patient with you before he's talking again.

"I'm gonna try to catch the last ferry," he tells you calmly despite the heartbreaking disappointment written all over his features. You nod along mechanically without meeting his searching stare, looking downwards in avoidance. There's a twinge of resentment at yourself for treating someone as wonderful as him this way, regardless of whether your actions were consciously intentional or not. "It's been nice here but the space thing, you know... Give my apologies to your parents and tell them it was a family emergency. I’ll talk to the others.”

All you can do is bob your head woodenly as an acknowledgment while keeping your line of sight trained elsewhere lest he notice the tears beginning to build up inside your lower eyelids. Everything feels wrong in this exact moment, like nothing you could've done or said will rectify anything.

His footsteps retreat away after a short silence, the distinct sound of the plastic handle on the cooler creaking softly under its increasing pressure, sand rustling audibly underneath.

Then you're alone — truly alone — for the first time in hours. The breeze kicks up, salty and cool off the water. You wait till the crunching pauses; until Theo reaches the place where footpath meets pavement, out of earshot. Until the world contracts around you. You let out a shaky sob, one fist digging into Raf's coat. A series of pitiful squeaks respond.

"I got dumped over a seal," you wheeze out shakily, fingers clenching deeper into damp fur.

You realize it's more than that, but the shock numbs everything else. You not mentioning Raf to Theo somehow snowballing into being perceived as emotionally distant and disengaged is such a surreal thought to contemplate that it takes awhile for your brain to catch up.

Your stomach knots so tight that you bend double, forehead dropping against your knuckles. Raf brings his nose to rest at your temple. Wet heat slides along your cheekbone, snuffles once, then again, the edge of his whiskers twitching against your temple like he’s thinking hard. He lets out a chuff, a ridiculous, gravelly little exhale that vibrates against your skin. You don’t know if he’s annoyed, apologizing, or just reacting to the taste of your tears.

You sniff. Wipe your face with the back of your wrist. “You’re really a homewrecker.”

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

“Don’t sass me,” you whisper.

But the way he edges in closer, until your whole side is engulfed in damp fur and quiet warmth, makes your throat seize. You shut your eyes. Let your fingers dig into the pelt at his shoulder, where his scar discolors the fur. Your grip trembles.

“But I really didn’t think he’d leave,” you say, barely audible.

Raf’s head nudges under your chin, blunt and persistent, until you have no choice but to raise your face again. He’s looking up at you with that same familiar gravity behind his eyes that always made you feel seen. Not observed. Seen.

And it unnerves you a little.

“I didn’t think you’d come back either,” you admit, voice cracking. “So I guess it’s somewhat of a law of equivalence.”

He presses his forehead to yours, gently, like something instinctive and unceremonious. You feel he’s not trying to comfort you so much as just… be there. And for a second, it really does feel like time folded back in on itself, and you’re seventeen again with sand in your socks and unburdened giddiness in your chest, laughing into his neck after some awful day at school like he was the only part of your world that made sense.

“I missed you a lot though, buddy,” you whisper. You’re not sure whether it’s a confession or an accusation. Maybe both. Underlying with the strange emptiness of what this separation means to you. The fact that you’re here with Raf right now means a lot more than Theo leaving you. And you’re not sure how to feel about that other than the fact that you must be a grade A douche.

Usually it’s a man that exhibits this behavior. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Raf noses your collarbone, then burrows closer with a dramatic grunt. Like he never left. Like this spot — your side, your lap, your shoulder — is still his, and he’s reclaiming it without apology.

You laugh, but it cracks open into something hoarse. Something wet. An egg dropping an embryo to the pan instead of yolk. You bury your face in his neck like it’s the only place left you can do that safely. He smells like salt and sand and the faintest undertone of seaweed, but his warmth remains unchanged.

You don’t know if you should be angry with him or grateful. He might’ve cost you your relationship. Or maybe he served you a lesson about one that was always a little too one-sided. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except that he’s here now, curled into your ribs like a message in a bottle finally finding its destination.

You sigh into him, your voice small. “You really couldn’t have picked yesterday to be emotionally available, huh?”

Raf whines softly. Rolls to his back and kicks his flippers like he’s throwing a tantrum. His belly’s damp and ridiculous and offered to you like a truce.

You let out a snort and swipe at your eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

You flop onto your back beside him as the tide kisses at your ankles again, more gentle now. As if the sea itself is easing back. Raf’s breathing slows, matching yours.

And in the quiet between waves, you think, not for the first time, not for the last, that maybe he came back because he knew this moment was coming. That maybe he knew you’d need him, right here, right now.

Some part of you says, Nah, he’s a homewrecker.

You graduate, and eventually end up right back on where you started with your shoulders braced like someone expecting to be hit.

You don’t join the cap throwing ceremony, or any other party with the excuse you unfortunately don’t have time for any of that. You get your diploma like it’s a shady deal in an alleyway and go your own way.

The thought of maybe — maybe — coming back home for the last time would feel like slipping into warm water is at the back of your mind — strange at first, but comforting once your body adjusts.

It doesn’t.

The sea greets you the same way it always has — without ceremony, without apology. Not like a mother welcoming her child, but like an old employer who never removed your name from the roster. You step off the boat with all your belongings, and the wind claps you on the back, and the salt is in your mouth before you even say “I’m home,” as if to tell you to get back to work.

That’s all there is to it. Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it.

The sea still smells the same — wet iron, salt, the distant sweetness of fish — but it doesn’t comfort you. It clings like dead weight you have to carry on your back, stains your clothes, settles in your hair, crusts behind your ears like it’s trying to remind you: you belong here. Like it never really let you go. Like you’re Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill as always, except you drag it around like a pet rock now, one that is visible to everyone. One everyone recognizes.

You’re the girl who left. The one who came back with nothing.

You wanted to leave, though. God, you had wanted out so badly.

So you picked something clean. Something quiet and shiny that didn’t come with fish guts and engine grease. Museum studies. Archival work. Something that would let you tell stories about the sea without having to live inside its salt-stung grip. Something you could point to and say: See? I made it out. I became someone else.

You imagined glass cases and curated lighting. Climate control and respectability. People in linen suits asking for your opinion on preservation techniques. You imagined being good at it. Sharp. Polished. Like you were a cultured socialite and your hands had never once smelled of fish and that white-collars didn’t look down at you as though you were a second-class citizen for it. You clung to that dream like it was a life raft. Like it would keep you from becoming Dad, Mom, your whole line of weary sea-anchored ghosts.

University didn’t spit you out so much as it starved you slowly.

You told yourself it would be delicate — artifacts and silk gloves, white walls and whispered, distinguished voices of explanation and storytelling. But you weren’t ready for how different it would feel to be constantly behind. Always catching up. You watched people glide through it all — the lectures, the essays, the study abroad placements — like they were born into it. You weren’t.

You didn’t speak the language. You wrote too plainly, too tangibly. You didn’t know how to dress your thoughts up in academic language or play the intellectual performance they all seemed to have memorized. You didn’t know how to use a theory as a shield or a weapon, didn’t know how to say absolutely nothing in five polished pages. Your sentences were called “too literal.” Your ideas “lacked depth.” You began second-guessing everything you wrote. Every time you turned in a paper, you waited for it to come back bleeding red, like a wound reopening.

You sat in the back and took notes while others quoted theorists by name, confident and smooth and laughing with professors after class like they were friends while you could curl into a shrimp trying to show respect to their profession. That’s what you were taught. You didn’t know you had to ‘befriend’ those professors to get to places. Didn’t even know it was an option in the first place.

You stayed up until your eyes burned. Took out loans that made your stomach twist. Lived on discount noodles and cold coffee while kids in pressed coats talked about internships their relatives arranged for them in cities lacquered with prestige — all colonnades, opera houses, and museums with wings named after patrons whose names you’d only ever seen etched in gold above arched doorways. They breezed into networking events while you stood near the drinks table, gripping your plastic cup and trying not to sweat through your only decent shirt.

You couldn’t afford the unpaid internship your program said was "essential." You tried. God, you tried. Sent emails. Wrote cover letters. Offered to do anything, even just data entry. But you weren’t the kind of student they wanted — no fancy last name, no family connections, no recommendations from tenured faculty who actually remembered your face. You weren’t someone they saw potential in. You were just... competent. Just fine.

You spent a whole semester trying to figure out your thesis — circling topics like a vulture over carrion. And per usual, everyone else seemed to already know what they were writing about, already had advisors clapping them on the back, already had titles that sounded like published books. You kept second-guessing yourself. Too narrow, too vague, too personal. Everything you proposed sounded childish out loud, stripped of the wonder you felt privately.

Eventually, you landed on something about regional maritime artifacts and their cultural displacement — a fancy way of saying: the things that reminded you of home, stolen and pinned to museum walls. You thought it might be enough.

It wasn't.

Your advisor called it "charming but unfocused." You rewrote it four times. Each time it became less yours. By the end, you barely recognized what you were arguing. It passed, technically. You walked the stage. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like crawling across the finish line on bloodied knees.

You went to info sessions and forced yourself to shake hands. You printed business cards and smiled until your jaw ached. You went to office hours and tried to form a rapport with professors who always seemed to be glancing past you. You sat in lobbies for interviews you never heard back from. You applied for conference scholarships and didn’t get them, starting to realize there were doors you simply weren’t meant to walk through.

Your professors were polite. Detached. "Consider a gap year," one of them suggested, when your final project fell short. Another one smiled and told you that museum work was competitive — very competitive — and that maybe you should consider broadening your horizons. Maybe try the local heritage angle. Maybe lean into your background.

You knew what that meant.

Not giving up that easily, you toured gallery basements and museum backrooms during student field trips — rooms lined with crates and relics you weren’t allowed to touch. You watched a conservator handle a centuries-old scroll with hands steadier than yours would ever be. Every inch of the job looked holy from the outside, like something sacred you might be allowed to enter if you studied hard enough. But behind the velvet ropes and institutional polish, you started to see the cracks.

There were whispered complaints about underfunding. Stories of interns made to catalog entire collections alone. Older curators who treated provenance like personal territory. You volunteered once at a small regional museum just to get experience and ended up cleaning display glass and scrubbing exhibit floors. You told yourself it still counted.

And then there were the interviews, where they asked if you'd be comfortable lifting crates, running fundraisers, handling social media, and managing guest tours — all for minimum wage. Positions with beautiful titles and nothing behind them. It started to feel like the job was less about protecting history and more about convincing donors to keep the lights on. The past, you learned, only matters if it’s profitable.

You applied anyway — less out of hope, more like inertia. You tweaked your resume. You Googled synonyms for "passionate" until the word meant nothing. One of them called you in for an interview. You didn’t get it. Another place called you back for a position that paid less than the ferry ever did. You didn’t get it either.

And then Dad fell. Blew out his knee. Couldn’t walk the dock anymore.

You came back because you were broke and tired and humiliated and out of reasons not to. You packed in the middle of the night. Left behind a box of books on your old desk. Deleted the job alerts from your inbox. Told yourself it would just be temporary.

Now you’re here, back in the same boots, walking the same boards, answering the same questions from the same kind of tourists. You’re twenty-something with a degree that means nothing here. A diploma that doesn’t fit in your coat pocket when you’re loading cargo. A piece of paper that couldn't save you. A history of unpaid internships you never got. Professors who’ll forget you in a semester.

The archipelago hadn’t changed. Same bleached dock planks. Same rust-ringed ladders. Same old ferry with its bucking engine and stubborn throttle. And you were the same, too. Worse, maybe. Just older. More tired. A degree heavier. A dream deader.

You don’t know what comes next. There is no next, not really. Just water and wind and the hollow thump of your boots on damp wood. You’re stuck.

And worse — you’re starting to wonder if maybe this is all you’ll ever be.

Not a tragedy. Just another quiet failure folded back into the landscape. The girl who once swore she’d vanish past the horizon, only to wash up years later just like one more piece of flotsam the sea decided to keep.

Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it. Fade to black.

(Except, well. As far as Raf’s concerned, the main titles had only just begun.)

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insidekatmind · 5 months ago

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The Sudden Encounter- Hwan Jun Ho

You sat on the cold, metal bunk bed, the creak of springs barely audible over the hum of fluorescent lights above. The air was thick with the tension of the other contestants, some whispering conspiratorially, others keeping to themselves. In your hands, you fidgeted with your iridescent butterfly knife a small comfort in this nightmare of a place. The shifting colors of the blade caught the sterile light, creating fleeting rainbows that danced across your fingers.

You weren’t sure why you brought the knife; maybe it was a symbol of control in a world where you had none. You flipped it open and closed, the rhythmic click soothing in a way nothing else could be.

Then you felt it the weight of a gaze. You looked up and froze. There, standing in the middle of the room, was one of the guards, his red jumpsuit and black mask marking him as one of your captors. But something was different. His posture was too casual, his stance too human. When his eyes locked onto yours, you knew.

Jun-ho.

He was here. The cop who had infiltrated this nightmare to find his missing brother. For weeks, rumors had circulated about a guard behaving oddly, but seeing him here, standing mere feet away, was a shock.

Jun-ho started walking toward you, his boots echoing ominously on the concrete floor. The other contestants glanced his way, then quickly looked away, uninterested in drawing attention.

When he stopped in front of you, he leaned down, close enough that you could see your reflection in the glossy surface of his mask.

"What are you doing with that knife? It's dangerous to play with one." His voice was low, calm but edged with authority. His tone was enough to make your grip falter. You snapped the knife shut, slipping it into your pocket.

"Why do you care?" you replied, trying to mask your nervousness. "It’s not like you guards are concerned about our safety."

Jun-ho didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, until he finally spoke again. "I'm not like the others."

Your heart skipped. He wasn’t denying his identity, but his words carried layers of meaning. Was he warning you? Offering you something? Testing you?

"Then why are you here?" you whispered, careful to keep your voice low.

Jun-ho straightened, his hand brushing the baton at his side as if to remind you of his power or to remind himself. "Because I have my reasons. And if you want to survive, you'll keep that knife hidden. Understand?"

You nodded, unsure whether to trust him but feeling the gravity of his words. Before you could say anything else, Jun-ho turned and walked away, his figure blending back into the sea of red uniforms.

The room seemed to exhale collectively as he disappeared, but your mind was spinning. What was Jun-ho's plan? And what role, if any, were you meant to play in it?

For now, the knife remained in your pocket, a small reminder of the thin line between survival and failure in this twisted game.

#hwang jun ho x you #hwang jun ho x reader #hwang jun ho #hwang jun ho smut #squid game imagines #squid game x y/n #squid game x oc #squid game #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game smut #squid game imagine

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lamaisongaga · 2 months ago

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FASHION CREDITS: LADY GAGA AT COACHELLA WEEKEND I

Eight years after she first made history at Coachella, Lady Gaga reclaimed her throne in 2025 with a headlining performance that was nothing short of operatic chaos.

Choreography by Parris Goebel, styling by HARDSTYLE, hair by Frederic Aspiras and glam by Sarah Tanno-Stewart.

Her dark pop spectacle opened with a haunting visual interlude titled “The Manifesto of Mayhem”—a cinematic overture that reintroduced the world to Mistress Mayhem, Gaga’s latest alter ego.

Bathed in crimson light and surrounded by shadows, Gaga emerged on the screens in a rare archival piece: a bondage-inspired black leather straitjacket from Dolce & Gabbana’s Spring/Summer 2003 collection. The jacket, adorned with a grid of heavy buckles and silver hardware, set the tone for the night—iconoclastic, provocative, and entirely in control.

The incredible black mesh boater hat with rubber barbed wire around was created for our girl by milliner Lara Jensen who‘s been working with Gaga for over a decade!

Her angelic counterpart donned the Garden Fairy mesh corset top made from recycled vintage fabrics ($925 - sold out) from Central Saint Martins graduate Gyouree Kim‘s Spring/Summer 2025 "Cherubim" collection.

If the "Manifesto of Mayhem" set the tone, then what followed was pure operatic excess. Gaga made her true entrance atop a towering crimson structure draped in velvet folds—her silhouette like a deity descending upon her disciples.

The look? A custom creation by avant-garde visionaries Samuel Lewis, Athena Lawton and William Ramseur—a pleated, studded spiked masterwork of red velvet drama. Drawing inspiration from Edwardian silhouettes and Mugler’s villainous couture—particularly his take on "Lady Macbeth"—the jacket was armored in silver pyramidal studs, its spine and shoulders flaring like a queen prepared for battle.

Beneath the sweeping opera curtain–inspired skirt—engineered by the theatrical masterminds at Jet Sets —hid an elaborate cage several feet tall, housing Gaga’s dancers like a twisted chorus of shadows. The garment was both fortress and stage, its hem draping downward like blood-soaked drapery from an abandoned palace.

Topped with bone-like protrusions with crystal embellishments at the collar and sleeves, Gaga became something between a saint and a specter. Her performance from this fortress-skirted throne was a visual aria: high camp meets high art, rooted in madness, resurrection, and pure spectacle.

The opera singers beside her were dressed in huge wavy constructed yellow and black skirts with beaded velvet tops, custom-made by Candice Cuoco.

In one swift motion, she shed the heavy opera curtain—only to unveil a sensual, custom-made Samuel Lewis and Seth Pratt creation beneath. The ruby-red satin dress featured a sharp bodice with architectural puff shoulders and a plunging open front that gave way to the black lining. A crystal-embellished sash draped diagonally across her chest.

For the most intimate and arresting act of her set, Gaga appeared in a teddy—part lingerie fantasy, part gothic confessional, custom-made by the same duo. Crafted in rich black satin, the piece featured a sculpted bustier, delicate lace trim, and a shimmering crystal-embellished cross that ran from neckline to hem, catching the light like a whispered scandal.

Gaga strutted across the stage in the surprisingly affordable Leza over-the-knee boots by Steve Madden—retailing for just $89.99. Yes, you read that right.

"OFF WITH HER HEAD!"

Three of the characters are wearing these impeccable black veiled headpieces and dresses which were created by Nasir Mazhar in 2021, originally for balletLORENT.

Gaga's string orchestra wore draped black taffeta gowns made by AGRO STUDIO with custom headpieces all created by Lara Jensen.

As the lights dimmed and the stage transformed into a sepia-toned wasteland, re-emerged not as a pop powerhouse, but as a ghostly relic of beauty undone. Lying among skeletal remains and grains of dust, she conjured a scene straight from a tragic gothic fable.

For this act, titled “And She Fell Into A Gothic Dream,” Gaga wore a custom Dilara Findikoglu corset mini dress—a distressed, doll-like creation that whispered of innocence lost and romance decomposed. The off-white, almost bone-colored garment featured delicately frayed edges, an asymmetric hem, and panels of antique lace that seemed stitched together by time itself. Every rip and raw edge told a story of longing, survival, and sorrow.

The dancers wore skeleton masks made specially by Sarah Sitkin!

Gaga stepped back into one of her most iconic songs—"Paparazzi"—but this time, she didn’t just revisit it. She rearmed it.

As the familiar opening notes rang through the desert sky, Gaga reappeared in a custom Manuel Albarran armor bolero and matching helmet—a direct visual homage to the Mugler look she wore in the original "Paparazzi" music video.

For the high-octane performance featuring Gesaffelstein, Gaga slipped into a custom Marni catsuit, based on the house’s Fall/Winter 2025 collection. The original red suit—featuring beaded embroidery of a black wolf—was reimagined for Gaga as a skin-tight, asymmetrical bodysuit, fused with nude illusion mesh and stitched with jet-black sequins that glinted like sharpened claws.

To elevate the glam rock look even further, Gaga threw on a custom coat made entirely of hand-cut blue and black paper feathers, inspired by the brand’s Spring/Summer 2025 collection.

A true blast from the past are her Savannah vinyl corset boots from Penthouse.

Her female background dances all wore custom costumes by Courtney McWilliams paired with the Miista Imogen black lace-up sneaker boots!

As the opening of "Zombieboy" echoed, Gaga returned to the stage, wearing a striking custom look designed by Samuel Lewis and William Ramseur: a military-inspired royal blue satin bustle coat, tailored to perfection and cut with razor-sharp precision. The garment featured exaggerated puffed shoulders, a nipped waist, and a flared skirt with an almost theatrical silhouette, marrying 18th-century regency with gothic fantasy. The pièce de résistance? The coat’s intricate gold embroidery, stitched by the artisans of Altesa Embroidery, which shimmered like bone filigree under the stage lights—mirroring a skeletal ribcage and spine that gave the look both regality and decay.

But Gaga didn’t stop there. To crown the ensemble, she donned a custom Marni paper feather helmet, styled like a twisted jester’s crown with raven-black plumage erupting from her temples.

The studded harness belt, she wore during "Zombieboy", was custom-made by Jonathan Burdine in collaboration with Iggy Soliven.

For "Shadow of a Man", Gaga emerged cloaked in mystery and command, donning a custom Louis Verdad x Samuel Lewis creation that was equal parts military regalia and avant-garde sculpture.

The charcoal grey structured jacket, tailored to her frame like armor, featured razor-sharp lines and a high, asymmetrical collar that framed her silhouette like a shadow in motion. Bold black patent leather straps slashed across her shoulders and waist, adding a sense of futuristic restraint to the otherwise regal tailoring.

Underneath, she wore black stretch vinyl shorts by Los Angeles Apparel.

For the final look of the night, Gaga delivered a breathtaking visual transformation in a total couture creation by Matières Fécales (formerly known as Fecal Matter), a brand famed for its futuristic, grotesque, and avant-garde sensibilities.

The custom ensemble was a full conceptual look, comprised of a satin-stitched bodysuit featuring a haunting red anatomical cross motif—meant to evoke the feeling of surgical stitches, resurrection, and rebirth (and a nod to the "Abracadabra" music video!). The bodysuit alone was a spectacle, but Gaga layered it with even more drama: a translucent organza coat (cropped specifically for her performance), and an exaggerated feathered bustle skirt constructed from delicate white plumes that moved with every beat, adding an ethereal weightlessness to the performance.

The silhouette was further intensified with a sculptural feather collar piece—a headpiece of long, otherworldly white feathers shooting upward like wings, perfectly framing her head and extending the theatrical effect, created by Paul Battenberg-Cartwright.

On her hands, Gaga wore elongated gauze gloves created by artist Yaz XL, designed to resemble haunting, claw-like monster hands. The exaggerated fingers extended dramatically into crystal-embellished tips, catching the stage lights with every movement and adding an eerie elegance to her already ethereal silhouette.

To complete the look, she grounded the ensemble with custom white lace-up ankle boots by Chrome Hearts.

The dancers were all dressed in custom Luis de Javier white lace looks and Balenciaga Cagole white boots! The nurses, that wheeled Gaga in, wore custom ILONA red gowns and hats.

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8lyme · 10 months ago

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"Why do I have to lose you?" pt.2

Part 1 <-

Logan Howlett x Reader (afab pronouns used a few times)

Warnings: very sad, a little graphic, mentions of blood/gore, grown man brought to tears, TW didn't get to describe how sexy logan is sorry

a/n: ate my cheerios locked in to gossip girl and then wrote the saddest shit i could. also idk how to do a taglist but to my one fan heres ur shoutout xoxo @corvusmorte 🫶🏼

You tugged at the clips of your harness, trying not to hyperventilate. Sporadically swiping the heels of your hands across your eyes between each tug made your hands slick with tears. After a little bit, you couldn't even grip the buckles anymore.

Damn Logan's stupid metal bones, locking you into the chair.

You reached behind you to try and release the spring of the chair. If you could just pop it up, you would slide over to the console and could turn off the autopilot.

You hoped Logan survived the fall from the jet as you painfully leaned over the arm of the seat.

"Please, please, pleaseplease, please!" you whispered to yourself. The chair dug into your ribcage too much, and you couldn't reach the clip. You straightened up and let out a few panicked cries before trying to reach behind the chair from the other side.

You strained your neck to peak around the chair, shoulder straps tight to your chest. There has to be an emergency unlock or eject button on the chair for this harness, you thought before panickedly feeling all over the sides of the chair with your hands.

After running your hands over the metal to no avail, you resulted to sticking you legs out to try and reach the console. You groaned as you stretched your leg as far toward the controls as possible. When that didn't work, you tried to swing your legs behind the base of the seat. The straps and the curve of the seat prevented your foot from going very far, causing you to straighten with a frustrated cry.

You yanked again at the straps, somehow managing to get your heels onto the seat lip. You gripped the chair arms and pushed up in an attempt to snap the strap between your thighs. It was stuck fast.

You angrily swung your arms in an attempt to hit something. The straps under your shoulder shifted, and you immediately began to wiggle yourself out. Painstakingly, your right shoulder was freed.

You ripped your other arm out of the harness and again extended your hand to the clip behind the chair. Through the reflection of the windshield, your hand looked just close enough to the clip, but you couldn't feel it.

Readjusting, you took a deep breath. The cabin was nearly dark, and the loud sputtering of the engine made it hard to think. You couldn't turn the chair around and there was nothing in reach to grab.

Far from giving up, you tucked your ankles back to the chair lip and reached behind you again, still just barely too far away.

"Oh, yes!" you said, realizing your boots were high enough for you to take off and reach behind you with.

Boot one was undone and in your hands in seconds, dangling by the clip. You smack once, twice, and then three times before hitting the clip. The chair unlocked and started to slide forward, but a loud clang followed by the screech of tearing metal tipped the jet and locked you back in place. Your boot flew out of your hand to the back of the cabin.

Wind instantly roared behind you, and you turned to the hanger door falling open. Whatever hit you did damage. Realistically, this jet didn't have much more flying time left in it. You had half a heart to let the autopilot land.

However, you caught a glimpse of the army beginning to bunch itself up. If you could unclip the chair and turn off the autopilot, you could swing the jet around, steer towards towards the grouping troops, and ideally eject yourself out of the hangar before the jet exploded into the ground and took out the trucks and soldiers.

"Okay, okay" you reassured yourself, untying your other boot. You reached behind the seat. Before you could even think to hesitate, a glimpse of the school caught your attention.

The grounds were in flames and a large chunk of one corner had been blown off. You instantly smacked your shoe down, unclipping the chair's safety lock.

In an instant you shot forward to the controls. You smacked the autopilot switch and gripped the handles, jet dipping before you regained control. You angled the handles down and pushed the jet into a nose-dive. The ground came rushing at you fast and you felt your ears pop with the pressure change. Your vision blurred while you flailed for the eject button.

Logan hit the ground with a sickening crack. He blinked awake after a minute of regenerating, the familiar buzz of his limbs waking up starting to fade.

He unsheathed his claws before glancing up at the sky to watch the jet you were in begin to fly away. Relief was quickly replaced with urgency as the boom of a tank went off near him.

He stood just in time to watch a corner of the school crumble to dust. Rage bubbled up inside him, and he sprinted toward the source of the explosion.

Before he managed to get halfway to the clumping group of tanks and soldiers, the roar of the jet shoots over him. He skids to a halt as the jet barrels into the center of army.

The ricochet from impact knocks Logan onto his back. He groans while lifting himself off the grass, short circuiting at the sight of thick black smoke coiling from the crash.

He scours the sky for a sign of you, panic and anguish settling into him when he sees nothing. He clambors up and sprints to the smoldering jet.

Logan tries to shut his mind off as he rips away at the metal of the jet. The bay door is jammed shut awkwardly, and he can only slash through it so much.

He's able to get a grip of an opening, brute strength bending the metal away. He climbs through, sliding down the angled floor and into the crushed cockpit.

There's no sign of you inside. Logan has shredded through the controls and interior walls in panic. He doesn't want to hear himself say it, but he knows anything that happens to you is his fault.

"Logan!" He hears, and through the hole he ripped open in the jet is Scott.

"We found her."

When Hank had found you, you were gasping for air. You'd shot out of the back of the jet at the last second, flying through the smoke. The straps that clung to you may as well have saved your life, the metal of the chair breaking most of your impact.

Not all, however, as your landing caused you to roll harshly against the ground. You narrowly dodged a rock smacking you clear in the head, but the bounce of the seat slammed your leg into something very hard, and you felt it break.

The feeling of hands roused you from your daze, and you managed to blink your eyes open.

"Can you hear me?" You hear. "Hey, open your eyes. Can you hear me?"

You could blurrily make out Hank's face against the contrast of the trees. The warmth of his hand reaches your face, and you try to offer him a pained smile.

"Hey," you manage, not noticing the drop in Hank's expression when blood pools out of your mouth.

"Keep listening to me," He says to you, pulling on the straps of your harness. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"

" 'Kay," you whisper, head lolling to the side when Hank lets go to rip the straps out from the back of the seat.

He slides his hand under your shoulders, pulling you up and tilting your head down against his chest.

"You still hear me, right?" He slides his other arm under your knees. "Still with me?"

"Uh-huh," you answer. Hank pulls up on you and begins to stand, but you cry out in pain. Your leg is on fire as it hangs loose in the air.

"What happened? Where are you hurt?" He panics, setting you flat onto the ground, arm still around your back.

"My leg," you gasp out, arms shaking violently as you bend to grip your calf. "Broken."

"Fuck," Hank says. "Hold on."

You hear a loud snap and feel pressure on both sides of your shin. He's taken two branches and braced your leg, using the broken straps of your harness to makeshift a splint.

"Best I can do," He says, moving to scoop you up again. "Ready?"

You nod, still trembling from the pain. He stands, and the pain in your leg makes you lightheaded. Hank is still talking to you, asking you questions that you can only answer with single syllables.

You're lucky you can't see his face. He isn't wearing his concern well. Blood outlined your teeth and cracked into your lips. The color had been drained from your face and your breaths were shallow. He wasn't sure if you were aware of your shredded uniform sleeves or the blood seeping from them staining his shirt.

Your breaths turned into wheezes, and Hank picked up his pace. The courtyard of the damaged school coming closer into view.

"Hey, keep talking to me. We're almost at the school, ok?" He shifts you gently, hoping the movement rouses you more.

"Huh," you wheeze, the whistling in your voice making Hank more nervous. Your ribs were definitely bruised if not broken. Your uncontrollable shakes alluded to a severe head injury - one he prayed wasn't worse than a bad concussion.

The two of you broke through the tree line. Surrounding sounds started to fade out of your hearing, but you tried hard to focus on Hank's voice.

He shouted out to someone, but you stopped making sense of voices.

"Hey, open your eyes," Hank says, careful not to jostle you too much as he scraps for your attention.

You tilt your head up slowly, trying desperately to keep your lidded eyes open.

"Can't," you mutter out. You feel sick and hot, each breath accompanied by an increase and then decrease of the dull pain in your chest. Everything hurt so much it almost began to cancel itself out. The effort you made trying to stay cognisant suckng the energy out of your body.

You don't hear him try to rouse you again, or the panic in his voice when he realizes you aren't responding.

You don't hear Ororo screaming across the grass at Scott to get Logan. You don't feel her hands against your neck as she checks your pulse.

You don't hear Jean shouting at Hank to take you to the lab. You don't hear Scott calling out to Logan. And you don't hear Logan calling out for you in a broken roar.

Logan stares at the floor outside of the lab. A dark cloud of fear and anguish settles over him. He has a way of thickening the air with negativity in these moments.

He can't look Hank in the eye knowing your blood is soaked through his shirt. Knowing he trapped you in that harness.

He counts himself lucky that he didn't find you crushed to the console of the jet, but that doesn't mean he isn't fighting off how very real that could have been.

Scott and Kurt had to hold him away from the doors when he raced after you. They later had to hold him up when he collapsed to his knees in despair.

He didn't look up when the hiss of the glass doors sounded or when Jean called Hank in to swap with her. They'd been at this for hours. Hank was terrified of you sustaining a significant brain injury, Jean more concerned about the hairline fractures in the ribs of your chest, caused by the harnesses Logan crushed to your body.

Jean sank in the seat next to him, letting out a shaky breath.

"Logan," She tried gently, knowing he wasn't capable of a response. "I know how you're feeling right now-"

"You don't," he cuts her off. The shake in his voice cuts through the air and he rubs at his eyes, hoping Jean can't tell that he's trying to rid the sensation of stinging behind his eyes.

"Logan, we know you crushed the buckles of her harness," she says gently. The breath he lets out is shaky and filled with a somber acknowledgement. He feels so guilty he might be sick.

"If you hadn't done that, she most likely would have died," Jean tells him, knowing this won't change anything besides offering him an ounce of peace of mind. "If she'd unclasped herself at any point, she would've flown out of the jet when the hangar was hit open. The clasps are designed to unhook on impact after ejection, and since her chute didn't activate she would've hit the ground much harder. I know you feel at fault here, but she's only bruised."

"If'd I'd just let her land the damn thing," he choked out, looking up to blink back the wetness in his eyes.

The door slid open again, Hank moving through slowly.

"Her eyes are open," he says, relief not present in his tone. "She might respond to you."

Logan meets Hank's eyes. He looks tired and defeated.

He looks away as he slowly pushes up from his chair, slowly and shakily passing Hank through the doors. Logan feels Hank's eyes burning into the back of his head. He gains no solace from knowing whatever Hank is thinking about him, Logan is thinking much worse.

He's afraid to step closer when he sees you. Your leg has been casted properly, resting over two white pillows. Your tattered uniform has been replaced with a grey t-shirt and shorts, a thin blanket laying over your one fully-exposed leg. He can see wires from EKG electrodes poking out from the bottom hem and collar of your shirt. An IV of saline is attached to the vein of your arm. Both have gause peaking out from your shirt sleeves, and Logan didn't have to see the blood soaking through them - he could smell it. A nasal cannula rested above your upper lip, blood still crusted between the cracks of your lips. You had two unbandaged scrapes on your face, one on your jaw and the other on your forehead.

You blinked and just barely turned your head to him. Immediately, he rushed over, gingerly touching your fingertips.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered to you, terrified to place his hands anywhere on your body. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

He covered his eyes with his hand, breathing in a sniffle as he turned his head away from you. His thumb stroked over one of your fingers.

He felt you move and quickly faced you, eyes rimmed with redness. He watched you blink slowly, opening your mouth to try and speak.

You said his name in a raspy whisper. Logan clenched his jaw and hung his head, slipping his palm under yours. He felt the gentle squeeze of your hand and sunk to his knees in pain, head resting against the side of the bed. Guilt was corroding away at his insides. He felt the crushing weight of his actions in his neck and shoulders. The inside of his body felt weak and his stomach churned.

You turned your hand and stretched your fingers back, gently stroking at his forehead. He squeezed your hand and stood back up, bringing his other hand to the side of your face.

"I don't know how to protect you," he whispered, voice breaking.

"That's okay," you say back, eyes beginning to close again. You pull his hand to your stomach and thread your fingers together, his pinkie resting between your middle and ring finger.

Logan gently threads his fingertips through your hair, wanting so desperately to hold you in his arms.

"Don't go," you mutter, eyes closed. Your breath evens as you fall back asleep. Logan's breath remains shaky, the stinging returning to his eyes.

"I won't," he says softly, voice raw. He slides the chair from the end of your bed over to himself, sitting down. He rests his head between his arms, looking up at the rise and fall of your chest.

He won't leave, not anytime soon. If you wake up and want him gone, then he'll disappear. For now, he'll allow himself to relish in the fact that you're still alive.

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