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verstappenverse · 3 days ago

Note

Hi! How are you? Could i ask for a Max one shot where reader has some complications in the pregnancy like angst but with happy ending? Idk if you dont want to do topics like this sorry if Its bothers you. Love your stories. Thank you

In Every Beat

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After sudden pregnancy complications threatens everything you and Max cling to each other through the fear.

TW: Pregnancy Complications, Hurt/Comfort

2.6k words / Masterlist

It happens suddenly.

One minute you’re laughing on the sofa with Max, his hand gently resting over your rounded stomach, and the next a sharp pain slices through you so violently you can’t even breathe.

Your fingers dig into his arm, nails clutching like you’re drowning. “Max...” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He looks down and sees the terror on your face at the same moment you feel something warm and wet between your legs.

His eyes go wide. “Liebling…? What—”

You shift slightly, and that’s when he sees it. Blood.

A lot of it.

“Shit.” He’s on his feet in an instant, phone to his ear as he wraps you in his arms. “Stay with me, okay? Don’t move.”

You want to answer but everything feels blurry like your body has detached from your brain. The pain is sharp, constant, and fear claws its way up your spine with every second that passes. You think you say something, maybe his name, but it comes out wrong, slurred, or maybe not at all. Then everything tilts, the lights blur, and you’re gone for a moment.

You black out.

When you come to, the hospital is blindingly white, sterile, cold, and humming with fluorescent light that feels like it’s slicing through your skull. Everything smells like antiseptic and fear. It’s too bright, too quiet and too loud all at once.

Max hasn’t let go of your hand since the moment you arrived. Not even for a second. His grip is firm like he’s trying to anchor you both to something solid when everything around you is slipping out of control. You can feel the tension in his palm, the way his thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles as if that alone might be enough to keep you calm, or maybe to keep himself from unraveling.

When the doctor speaks calm and professional, the words don’t quite land. “There’s a risk of early labour, and we need to monitor for placental abruption.”

You hear it, you register it, but it doesn’t feel real. You’re not focused on the terminology, you’re focused on Max, on the way his jaw tightens, how he swallows hard but he hasn't said anything yet, how he keeps nodding like he’s absorbing every syllable even though his eyes are wide with panic. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, to be strong for you, but you know him too well. He’s terrified.

“Will… will the baby be okay?” you manage, your voice fragile and barely audible, as if speaking it aloud might shatter what little calm remains in the room.

The doctor gives you a look that you recognise instantly the kind trained professionals offer when they don’t have certainties to give. It’s a smile, but not the reassuring kind.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Just like that the floor drops out from under you, there’s no ground, no gravity. Just a rush of fear so thick it settles in your throat making it hard to breathe.

You’re admitted immediately for monitoring, hooked up to machines, an IV in your arm, a fetal heart monitor strapped tight around your belly, the steady rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat echoing in the background like a ticking clock. Nurses come and go, adjusting wires and taking notes, but it all blurs together. You’re not really here. Not fully.

Max is. Max never leaves.

He cancels everything he can, media obligations, team meetings, his phone buzzes on the table, ignored, nothing matters but you. He sits by your bedside, fingers laced with yours, brushing your hair off your forehead, murmuring soft words in Dutch you’re too tired to try and translate. He looks exhausted, you think maybe more than yourself, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment the bleeding started and hasn’t exhaled since.

At one point a nurse speaks quietly to him. “You need to rest too Mr. Verstappen.”

He doesn’t even glance away from you. “I will,” he says, his voice low and resolute. “When she’s safe.”

And he means it. Every word.

The bleeding has stopped, the contractions have eased, and the monitors blink with steady rhythms that seem to reassure everyone else, but not Max. You’re both still tethered to the fear, unable to shake the quiet, gnawing panic that something could still go wrong. That the worst hasn’t passed, only paused, and underneath the fear lies something heavier.

The guilt.

It festers in the silence between check-ins and the slow hours of the night when the beeping of machines is the only sound in the room. It clings to you more tightly than the hospital blanket.

“I shouldn’t have done that stupid workout” you whisper on the third day, eyes fixed on the blank ceiling like it might offer some kind of answer, some kind of absolution. “I knew I was feeling off. I should’ve listened to my body.”

Your voice cracks with shame, so soft it’s almost a confession.

Max looks up from the chair he’s practically lived in for days, the bags under his eyes dark and heavy, his pupils dull with exhaustion. He blinks slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of what you just said. “Don’t do that.”

You keep going anyway, unable to stop yourself. “I should’ve been more careful.”

“Don’t,” he says again, firmer now, but his voice wavers. It splinters on the word, barely holding itself together.

He rises and crosses the small space between you, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed as if afraid even that might hurt you. Then he leans in, reaching for your face, his touch gentle despite the tremble in his fingers.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, locking eyes with you, like he needs you to hear it, really hear it. “This isn’t your fault.”

You try to believe him, but the tears are already slipping past your lashes, spilling silently down your cheeks. You hate this part, the crying, the breaking open in front of him. It makes you feel vulnerable in a way you can’t control, a way you resent, but Max doesn’t waver he just hold you, steady, warm, present.

“Don’t ever blame yourself schatje,” he whispers, thumb brushing away the tears as fast as they fall. “You’ve done everything right. You’ve been protecting our baby since the moment we found out.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours and for a moment the world narrows to just the two of you breath to breath, skin to skin. “If anything, I should’ve noticed something was off sooner,” he adds. “I should’ve seen it. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect you while you look after our baby.”

You shake your head weakly against his. “Max…”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve been so brave through all of this. And I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared, but we’re gonna get through this. You and me. Together.”

His voice trembles, and the words settle into your chest like a weight, heavy and warm, and full of promise.

You nod, though your heart still aches with doubt. You nod because he needs you to, because you want to believe him, because maybe if he keeps saying it you’ll start to believe it too.

The days drag.

Time becomes something elastic stretched out, slow and unbearable. The constant hum of machines, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the sterile brightness that never dims it all becomes background noise to your new reality.

Every beep of the monitor sends a jolt of fear down your spine. Every subtle dip or spike in the baby’s heart rate turns your stomach, your mind racing toward the worst-case scenario before the nurses even glance up. You live from scan to scan, heartbeat to heartbeat, afraid to blink in case something changes when you're not looking.

At night, when visiting hours technically end, Max refuses to leave. He argues with the staff until they give up, and even then he waits until the room is quiet before climbing into your narrow hospital bed. He wedges himself beside you, his arm curled protectively around your waist, careful not to disturb the wires and monitors, his breath warm against your neck as he whispers soft promises in the dark.

“I think I’ll drive slower,” he tells you one night, his voice half-muffled by your hair.

You let out a weak laugh, more air than sound. “You’d be miserable.”

“Not if I have you,” he murmurs. “Not if I have our baby. That’s all I need.”

It’s a comforting sentiment, even if you know the speed is part of him, something written into his DNA, impossible to quiet even for love. You squeeze his hand tighter, and for a moment, the fear eases, not completely, but enough to breathe.

Eventually the monitors calm, the baby's heart stays steady, the danger hasn’t fully passed, not yet, but the worst seems to be over. The doctors release you days later with a list of strict instructions and a warning to rest, completely and absolutely. No exertion. No stress. Minimal walking unless absolutely necessary.

Max transforms.

At home he becomes a man possessed, driven by a single mission: keeping you safe. He sets alarms on his phone to bring you liquids every hour, marks medication times in three separate apps, and writes your daily meals on the kitchen whiteboard. He checks your temperature, fluffs your pillows, adjusts your blanket, and panics every time you so much as shift in bed.

The first time you try to get up without calling for him, just to stretch your legs, he nearly loses his mind.

“Max, I’m pregnant not dying,” you say, exasperated, as you sit back on the bed with a wince.

He freezes at the edge of the room, shoulders tense, lips pressed into a hard line. “You almost did die,” he snaps louder than intended, and the silence that follows is immediate and sharp. You look up, surprised by the intensity in his voice, and that’s when you see it.

The fear is still there. Raw and unhealed. Flashing across his face before he can hide it again.

“Sorry I— sorry…I didn’t mean to snap… I thought I was going to lose both of you,” he says, quieter now, eyes glistening. “When you passed out, you didn’t see how much blood there was. You didn’t hear how quiet it got when the doctor walked in. I—” His voice breaks, and he looks away like he’s ashamed of it.

You reach for him instantly, holding your arms out until he gives in and crosses the room. You pull him down beside you, wrapping him in your embrace, guiding his head to your chest. His hands cling to your sides, his breathing shallow against your collarbone.

“You didn’t lose us,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair. “We’re still here, I’m here, our baby’s here.”

He nods into your skin, as if trying to make himself believe it.

“I love you,” he says, voice rough and fierce, muffled against your neck. “You and our baby, so fucking much it terrifies me.”

You hold him tighter, one hand settling over your stomach where the tiniest kick flutters beneath your palm a reminder, soft and sure, that you're still fighting.

All three of you.

When labor comes, it’s early, but not dangerously so. Thirty-five weeks. Still close enough to full term that the doctors speak calmly, reassuringly, though the tension in Max’s shoulders suggests otherwise. The last few weeks have been a delicate balance between fear and hope, and now that the moment is finally here it crashes over you both like a wave you weren’t fully ready to face.

The contractions come fast and hard, no gentle build-up, just sudden pain that knocks the air from your lungs. You just make it to the hospital before the nurses are wheeling you into a delivery room, Max’s hand clutching yours.

There’s panic in his voice, just under the surface, but he swallows it down like he knows you can’t afford to see it. Not when you’re already shaking, teeth clenched through each blinding wave of pain.

You cry through a contraction and your nails dig into Max’s hand, hard enough to leave marks. “I can’t—Max, I can’t—” The words fall from your lips in a sob, your whole body trembling.

“Yes you can,” he says quickly, voice tight, forehead damp with sweat. He looks like he’s running his own marathon beside you, eyes locked on your face like he’s willing you to stay with him. “You already survived worse, you’re stronger than this pain. You can do it, I know you can.”

Somehow, that’s enough.

Somehow through the tears and the fear and the raw, unbearable pain, you dig deep. You push. You cry.

And then…

A sound. Soft. Small. Startling.

Your baby lets out their first cry, and the room stills for just a second, as if time itself pauses to make space for that single, perfect moment.

Max breaks.

Completely and without warning.

Tears spill down his cheeks in heavy silence as he leans over you, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, again and again, like he can’t get close enough, like he’s trying to memorise every part of you all over again. “You did it,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “You did it schatje. You’re incredible.”

You can barely keep your eyes open. “I’m so tired,” you whisper, voice slurred, overwhelmed with exhaustion and relief.

He cradles your face in his palms like you’re the most fragile thing in the world, and then gently helps the nurse place your baby in your arms. They’re small so, so small, but warm and alive and squirming against your chest. You stare down at them in disbelief, your heart swelling, your body trembling with awe.

The baby’s face is scrunched, nose a little smushed, mouth puckering with every tiny breath.

“We made this,” you breathe, eyes wide, voice cracking.

Max is already beside you, arms wrapping around the two of you, his lips pressed to the crown of your head. “Yeah,” he says softly, reverently. “We really did.”

A week later, you’re finally home.

There are still hospital visits, follow-up appointments, moments of panic in the middle of the night when the baby cries too long or not at all. Your body is still healing, and the sleepless nights have taken their toll. You cry sometimes without knowing why. Max has learned to just hold you and ride out the wave with you.

One night Max finds you sitting on the living room couch dressed in an oversized hoodie, the baby curled up on your chest like they’ve always belonged there. You’re humming something soft and tuneless, your eyes half-closed, one hand rhythmically rubbing slow circles across your baby’s back.

He doesn’t speak right away just watches from the doorway, chest tightening with something that feels too big for words.

Then he crosses the room, crouching in front of you with a smile so full of love it aches.

He brushes a kiss to your temple. “You look like magic,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret.

You huff a tired laugh, resting your cheek softly against the baby’s head. “I feel like a zombie.”

“A very beautiful zombie,” he counters without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, he leans in and kisses you gently, grateful, and when he pulls back he rests a hand on your knee, his thumb moving in lazy circles.

“I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens again, but this time the tears that rise are happy ones. You close your eyes and whisper I love you because you do, because there’s no other word for what you feel, no other way to express the enormity of what you’ve built, what you’ve survived, what you’ve become together.

As the baby sighs against your chest, as Max rests his head beside yours, you sit there wrapped in warmth and the soft weight of this new life, because in every heartbeat, yours, his, your baby’s there’s the same love.

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sleepylaing · 3 days ago

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could you fuck off? thanks. at least you have ears.

furin boys (suo, sakura, kaji) x harsh!reader

***

suo literally freezes in place for a moment when he hears you for the first time. he, sakura and nirei were just approaching the pothos because they heard some commotion.

“are you stupid or do you have a lack of brain cells? i think it's both. she already told you to fuck off. do you think you're worthy of her telling you twice?”

he couldn't see you because you were blocked by the wide backs of some guys, but could hear your voice very well. firm and confident. not loud enough to be mistaken for a shout, but not quiet either.

they immediately rush to you without the second thought.

tachibana, with bags in her hands and her lips pressed together in irritation, stood behind you while you covered her from some thugs twice your size.

now suo sees your face — confident, without a drop of fear. your eyebrows are furrowed and your palms are clenched tightly into fists.

“what, has the cat got your tongues? great. don't ever open your fucking mouths again and the world will be a better place.”

your voice doesn't waver. the guys' faces stretch out in confusion. a couple seconds later, the boldest of them says something and reaches out to punch you.

you didn't flinch. just moved closer to kotoha and clenched your jaw as tightly as you could. the determination in your eyes never wavered.

his fist never reached your face.

it bumps into the palm of suo's hand, and he deftly redirects the blow. in that very moment, sakura smashes his fist into the guy's face.

less than two minutes later, these guys are lying on the pavement, moaning in pain.

a concerned nirei runs up to you and asks, “are you hurt?”

suo hurries to turn around and walk over to you as well. sakura follows behind him, scratching his neck lazily.

“it's fine,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “we could've handled this ourselves, but you were really cool! thanks!”

you smile softly. your face brightens.

suo feels as if the sun itself has come down, shining its rays on them. strangely, it doesn't hurt him at all — the light doesn't burn like it did a few minutes ago.

the three boys freeze when they see you smile and nod gratefully. just a moment ago you looked like you were ready to roast those guys alive, but now... now it's completely different.

haruka lets out a strange half-sigh and blushes thickly.

“th-the-they... they were just standing there and blocking our way, that's all!”

“it would be a huge shame if such a beautiful face got hurt,” suo replies with his usual smile, and you look a little surprised at first. then your eyes squint interestedly.

“ugly people get punched in the face. i like it.”

you walk away soon, leaving behind the scent of your perfume and the warmth that graces hayato's chest. his attentive gaze follows your back until you disappear around the corner.

again. he wants to hear from you again.

something in him explodes with pleasure as he replays in his head how ruthless you were to those guys yet how sweetly you smiled at him.

***

sakura couldn't get your words out of his head. how could you not be afraid? you looked so small and fragile, and, not that he was looking at you or anything, you were a bit, just a bit pretty. your smile turned his insides upside down, shook it as hard as it could, and brought everything back to normal as if nothing ever happened.

before you left, you swept your gaze over him, and he frantically caught it, not understanding why it was so hard for him to stop looking.

all day after that, he tries to convince himself that he's not thinking about you. that he doesn't remember the sparkle in your eyes, or how beautiful you seemed as you bravely covered tachibana.

a week later, sakura has the chance to see you again. he's walking home from school, tired and looking down at his feet. but something makes him look up as he passes you.

you weren't alone, but apparently not by choice. in one hand, you held your small purse; in the other, you held an unfinished ice cream cone.

“i already said it once. even dogs understand the word 'no' the first time. when did men get so far down the evolutionary ladder?”

the guy in front of you opens his mouth and immediately slams it shut. you stare down at him, despite being shorter.

haruka's breathless. you seem so... so... unattainable. perfect. strong.

untouchable.

he stops, but his tongue won't obey him enough to call out to you.

“i just asked for your number. since when did girls become bitches like you?”

sakura realized from the start that if someone give you an inch, you will take a mile.

but he still can't be anything but astonished when he becomes the witness of how you slap a guy across the cheek with your bag and throw your ice cream cone in his face without blinking an eye. then you elegantly flip your hair behind your back and walk away without looking around.

his eyes widen in surprise, and he unconsciously recoils — it's unclear whether from fear, awe, or admiration.

all he can hear is the sound of your heels and your disappointed muttering.

“that was my favorite flavor... well, it almost melted while i was talking to him anyway.”

haruka convinces himself that if his cheeks are blushing, it's...

it's because it's hot today.

and if his knees are a little, just a little bit weak...

it's just because, uh.

uh...

whatever.

***

it's not surprising, but ren kaji is the one who doesn't blow up immediately after you reply in your rude manner.

you've been arguing a lot for no reason at all. it just started out as him sullenly saying something without thinking, and you're not the shy type, responding even more sharply.

your disputes never went very far. most often, his friends would shove a lollipop in his mouth and forcibly plug in his headphones, smiling apologetically at you.

kaji wouldn't admit it to any living soul — in fact, he couldn't even admit it to himself — but he enjoyed arguing with you. he liked that you could hold your own in an argument. he liked that you weren't afraid. you always acted like you had nine more lives besides this one, but you weren't foolish. that was attractive.

he liked the way your cheeks flamed when you answered him fiercely, he liked the way your hair fell beautifully over your face, he liked the way you grabbed his arm or his shoulders when you were trying to prove something.

he never fought back or pulled away when you got too close without noticing it, even though he could.

he liked the way you licked your lips before speaking. he liked the way you bit your lower lip while thinking about your answer.

maybe he was charmed by you. captivated.

just in a very, very small way.

it's not like he thinks about kissing you every time he sees you. absolutely not.

“you've been hanging out with the first-years a lot.”

“what? miss me?”

the lollipop crunches in his mouth as he clenches his jaws.

“dream on. my life is easier without you around.”

“i thought you liked making your life harder on yourself.”

“i do,” he thinks, barely keeping from saying it.

you look at him like you already know everything. like you can see right through him.

your gaze freezes under his skin. he rolls his eyes.

sometimes you're so impossible.

#wind breaker x reader #hayato suo x reader #suo hayato x reader #windbreaker #wbk x reader #wind breaker #sakura haruka x reader #haruka sakura x reader #ren kaji x reader #kaji ren x reader #ren kaji #suo hayato #sakura haruka #iwroteitinsteadofstudyingagain

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crowliphale · 1 day ago

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I think coalecroux should be an endless tail-chase of "who fell first"

Gideon fell first, of course. It's hard not to find yourself attracted to someone so intelligent and lithe, snarky and smooth in all the right places. Gideon's crush formed first.

But Kremy really fell first. Kremy started aching for all those little quiet moments, started living for the times when he could kick his feet up and have someone else light his cigarettes for him. That muscled body is just a bonus, a fun little addition to a calming bonfire with a heart of gold and a mind of steel.

In this way, Gideon fell last. It took him longer than he'll ever admit to really sit and think about his feelings. It took him weeks, months, years to define the thumping in his chest, the electricity in his veins and the honey in his brain.

But, oh no, Kremy's too stubborn for that. Kremy fell last, because it took him far too long to really see Gideon. He's spent so long focusing on the details, the man eating his food, the man keeping him safe, the man building his scams beyond anything they were before, that he failed to connect them. As much as Gideon's been following him around for ages, Kremy's been just as equally whipped, following the genasi with his eyes and heart and soul.

It's hard to say. Maybe when one fell, they dragged the other down with them. Just like they always do.

#coalecroux #ouaw #once upon a witchlight #gideon coal #kremy lecroux #ouaw kremy #ouaw gideon #drabble #// crow yaps

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revelboo · 1 day ago

Note

hello! Do you plan to continue that mer!megatron fic?

Sure! I got a bit distracted, but then I’m very easily distracted. By everything. All the time

Seek and Destroy Pt 2

Mer!Megatron x Reader

Playing the flashlight back and forth in front of you as you walk in the dark, the sand is shockingly cold and damp under your feet even though it had been almost too hot during the day. Watching the ghostly, pale shapes of tiny crabs dart spider-quick with the hush of the tide flirting higher and higher, it’s peaceful. Bending to pick up a little shell the late afternoon storms had tossed up on the beach, you turn it over and slip it into the bag at your hip.

And move on. Hunting bigger shells to sell to the tourists that stop by to watch you paint. Sometimes they only buy a shell, but sometimes they’ll buy one of your paintings and you need the money. Shivering as the wind shifts and sea spray mists your skin, there’s something freeing about standing here in the dark, no people, it almost feels like an alien world. Just the hush of the night and the sound of the waves. Going down on a knee when you find a hold some kid dug, you gasp in pain and hear a sound out in the dark, a deep, growling thrum that steals your breath. You think of whale song even though, honestly, it’s nothing like that. Nothing like anything you’ve ever heard. Standing up as your ankle throbs, you play your flashlight over the sand and there’s something there. A massive shape, bigger than you lying on the sand. A beached dolphin or shark? Do they make noises like that? You’re almost positive they don’t as you head further up the beach, moving parallel to the mystery animal. There’s a tail, fins. But they’re not quite right. What are you looking at? Flesh or interlapping metal?

And you nearly drop the flashlight when you see the arm, wickedly clawed fingers with thin webbing between them dug into the sand. Everything about this thing is wrong. Monstrous. Skin crawling, you play the light higher trying to figure out what you’re looking at and its eyes reflect the light like an animal’s eye-shine when they open. Right before it flings itself at you, sharp teeth snapping and you fall again with a cry. Heart racing, you shove yourself further up the beach, flashlight on the thing as it thrashes, big tail lifting and thumping in the ocean. Like it’s trying to throw itself back into the water, and it can’t, and the light catches on a pattern. It takes your brain a minute to understand what you’re seeing. That this nightmare thing is tangled in a fishing net. That it’s bleeding and hurt. Maybe dying.

Hissing a warning as the two legged monster, blinds him, making his eyes burn, he tries to shove himself closer to the sea. The fight had cost him, he’d made them bleed. But so had he and he’d been too hurt to fight the currents, the ocean itself betraying him. Dragging and tossing him when a storm had roared through above. Had been driven into one of the nets the land monsters use to hunt, clawing and fighting to get free had only made it worse. Managing to tear the net free and pulling it along with him, bleeding and too weak. Becoming prey instead of predator.

Clawing at the sand, trying to shove himself back into the ocean, he’s too weak. Knows he’s going to die here when the sun comes up and wonders if you’ll watch. It’s almost funny, one of the soft skinned monsters holding vigil over him. He’s laughing, a rasping, miserable coughing as you linger. Why is your face so eerily like one of his own? Always wondered about that. Hears you make your funny, chirping sounds, looking around. Nothing about you hinting that you’re a deadly predator, too soft and weak. His claws could sink deep and split you open if you came close enough. And to his surprise you do.

Reaching into the bag at your hip and pulling out something that you flip open and he bares his fangs in threat when he sees the blade. Just because he’s soon dead, doesn’t mean he’ll let you cut him up for trophies. Tail thumping in the surf, he snarls and growls threats as you ease down, your strange legs folding unsettlingly. A little hand up chirping as you reach for the netting and he snaps at you, not even coming close, but you yank that tiny hand back, eyes wide. Shakily warbling at him you gesture and reach again. Are you that stupid?

Rumbling as you hook a finger in the netting, whole body tense, you watch him. Still chirping at him, tone soothing even though he can taste the acrid stink of your fear, and your soft, alien noises are coaxing. And you quickly hook the tip of the knife in the netting and yank, sawing. Cutting him loose? Stunned, he goes still watching you saw at the net. Trying so hard to not touch him. Terrified and determined. Trying to help?

You’ve lost your mind. You must have as you frantically hack at the netting, trying not to touch this monster’s strangely luminous blood and those reflective red eyes stare at you with predatory interest. Don’t even know why you’re freeing this thing. It really is a monster, humanoid torso, piscine lower body. A nightmare fuel mermaid with horrifying teeth. A nervous laugh bubbles out of you as you keep cutting and the thing moves. Lunges.

Back hitting the sand as its weight drives the air from your lungs, those sharp teeth inches away from your face. “Don’t, please,” You’re babbling incoherently, pleading as its breath fans your cheek and neck. Hear it making a low, chuffing thrum that’s more felt than heard as its teeth graze your neck. Expecting pain, bracing for it. Strong fingers wrap around your wrist and squeeze until you feel the bones shift, until you gasp in pain and drop the knife. And he’s pulling your hand to him as you fight, breath coming in frightened rasps, feeling his warm tongue slide against your palm to make you realize you cut yourself when he knocked you down. Those red eyes staring you down as your heart races and he makes that low, tonal rumble of noise, lip curling slightly. Before shoving away from you, clawing inelegantly for the ocean and throwing himself in as you tremble and stare while he disappears. Because no one’s going to believe you.

#transformers x reader #megatron x reader #megatron #merformers

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dakusan · 3 days ago

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Soft Things Belong Together

Lee Know x Reader | fluff, domesticity, mischief, slow love

🧺synopsis: It starts with a cat on his chest and ends with your head on his shoulder. In between? A sock war. Three judgmental cats. One too-big hoodie. And a hundred tiny ways to say I love you without saying it. This isn’t a grand love story. It’s a Sunday. And it’s enough.

💌a/n: welcome back to tender tuesdays where love is quiet, minho folds laundry like it’s life or death, and you fold socks like a raccoon on a Red Bull bender. this fic was inspired by god knows what because my brain is soup, the weather is grey depression, and i’m fighting for my life against the wind outside ☔️. no plot, just vibes and folding techniques. if you smiled even once, i win. p.s. reblog or the cats will stage a coup and fold your laundry wrong on purpose p.p.s. do you fold socks like minho or like a drunk raccoon. don’t lie. p.p.p.s. i wrote with only one braincell standing

📍credits: @cafekitsune , @roseraris for the dividers.

🎧 » Polaroid Love — ENHYPEN « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The first thing you hear is a faint purring vibration against your ribcage. The second is Minho’s voice, low and rough with sleep: “…I think he’s trying to suffocate me.”

You crack open one eye. The sunlight has already slipped through the blinds, painting lines across the bed, your bare legs tangled in sheets. Soonie is fully sprawled across Minho’s chest, smug and immovable, his purrs growing louder with every passing second. Dori is curled at your feet, twitching in his sleep, and Doongie is perched on the nightstand like a gargoyle—staring you down like you’ve personally ruined his morning.

Minho doesn’t move. His arm is heavy around your waist, palm splayed across the soft cotton of the shirt you stole from him last night. His voice is gravel and sleep when he speaks again.

“If I die, avenge me.”

You snort into the pillow. “You’re fine. He loves you.”

“He’s kneading my sternum.”

You open both eyes now, shifting slightly just to see him. Minho’s hair is an absolute disaster — sticking up in multiple directions, pressed flat on one side from your shoulder. His eyes are barely slits, one brow twitching in mock despair. Soonie flexes his paws into Minho’s chest, tail flicking with satisfaction.

You reach over lazily, giving Soonie’s head a soft pat. “He’s your child. Suffer.”

Minho exhales dramatically but doesn’t move Soonie. His hand instead shifts along your side, fingers curling over the dip of your waist like he needs to remind himself you’re real. Still here. Still warm. A breath passes, shared between you in the early hush.

Doongie lets out a loud, pointed meow.

Minho groans. “And the hunger games begin.”

You both lie there for another few seconds, clinging to the last stretch of blanket-wrapped quiet. Then Minho slowly, dramatically, shifts — rolling onto his back and sending Soonie off his chest with a startled grunt.

“You’re a traitor,” Minho mutters at him, rubbing his own ribs.

Soonie stretches luxuriously, absolutely unfazed.

Minho turns his face toward you again. His expression is softer now, unguarded in the light. “Stay in bed. I’ll feed the gremlins.”

You make a sleepy sound of protest, but Minho is already slipping out from under the blankets. The stolen shirt on your body slides up slightly as you stretch—he catches it, eyes flicking down briefly before smirking to himself and padding off toward the kitchen.

You listen to him move: the creak of the floorboards, the clink of dishes, the cats trailing behind like a noisy parade. His voice, quiet but warm, as he talks to them like they understand every word. (You’re not convinced they don’t.)

Eventually, you swing your legs out of bed. The floor’s cold, but the shirt you’re wearing is warm and smells like him—lemons, laundry, and a hint of cologne. You shuffle into the kitchen to find Minho already making coffee, cats devouring breakfast at their bowls.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says without looking, then turns just in time to flick a crumb off your cheek. “You drooled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You’re a swamp creature. But you’re cute, so I guess I’ll let it slide.”

He passes you a mug. You take it just to spite him.

You lean against the counter, sipping slowly, while Minho flips pancakes with expert ease. He’s still shirtless, still rumpled, hair a fluffy mess. And he’s humming — softly, off-key, content. Something domestic and safe wraps around you in that moment like an invisible thread. It’s not just the sun or the warm mug or the smell of pancakes.

It’s him. It’s this.

“Hey,” he says casually, sliding a plate in front of you.

“Yeah?”

“I like Sundays.”

You glance up, smiling around the edge of your mug. “Yeah?”

He shrugs. “You’re here. The cats are happy. Everyone is happy."

You laugh. He smiles. And so, the day begins with the first load of laundry barely hitting the living room floor and Minho declaring himself Minister of Folding.

You arch an eyebrow from across the room. “I didn’t vote for you.”

“I’m not elected. I’m ordained,” he says, solemnly unfolding a towel like it’s a sacred scroll.

The two of you are surrounded—cornered, really—by overflowing baskets, half-dry socks, and at least three hoodies you’ve lowkey adopted as your own. The cats are already in the thick of it. Doongie’s worming his way into the warm pile of sweatpants. Dori is headfirst inside an empty laundry basket, tail twitching wildly. Soonie has chosen a freshly folded blanket to nap on, which Minho immediately frowns at like it’s a personal betrayal.

“I just folded that,” he mutters. “He didn’t even wait five minutes.”

“He knows who he is,” you say, grinning. “A menace. Like his dad.”

“Rude.”

“You’re not denying it.”

Minho scoffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he picks up a pair of socks, folds them into that neat ball formation you always screw up, and tosses it perfectly into the basket like a basketball shot. “See that? Precision. Art.”

You mimic him, trying to copy his exact technique. You miss by a full meter.

“Tragic,” he says. “Do you try to fold things like a chaotic raccoon?”

“Yes,” you reply sweetly. “It’s how I stay grounded.”

The playlist hums in the background, soft and upbeat. The kind of songs you dance to barefoot in kitchens. Light spills through the windows, warming the wooden floor, painting lazy sun patches that the cats immediately seek out like heat-seeking missiles.

Minho grabs a hoodie—your favourite, oversized, worn-in and frayed slightly at the cuffs. “You’ve stretched this out.”

You look up from your towel folding. “That’s mine now.”

“It literally has my name embroidered on the sleeve.”

You shrug. “You gifted it to me when you left it here for five weeks.”

“That’s called forgetting, not gifting.”

You toss him a freshly folded shirt in response. It hits his shoulder and flops to the ground. Minho just looks at it, then at you. Then, with the unbothered calm of a man about to cause problems on purpose, he picks up a sock and gently flings it at your face. It bounces off your cheek with a pitiful pfft.

You blink.

“…Did you just—?”

Another sock follows. This one lands in your lap.

You narrow your eyes. “You have chosen war.”

Minho grins. Full teeth, mischief and love all wrapped into one sharp look. “I accept your terms.”

The next few minutes are absolute chaos.

Socks fly. Towels are used as shields. Doongie bolts out of the hoodie pile like he’s in a war zone. Dori, drunk on excitement, starts sprinting in circles. Soonie yells once, offended by the noise, but refuses to abandon his blanket. You’re breathless from laughing, your arms full of half-folded laundry, and Minho looks at you like it’s the happiest he’s been in weeks.

He’s flushed with warmth—not just from play, but from looking at you. T-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, eyes bright, grinning like you’re everything good he ever stumbled into. You feel it in the air: this invisible tether between you. This softness that keeps pulling you back.

He clears his throat, straightens a hoodie with excessive seriousness. “Back to work. Laundry doesn’t fold itself.”

“Tell that to your little soldiers,” you tease, gesturing at the cats.

Dori immediately steals a sock and runs off with it like a trophy.

Minho sighs, but he’s smiling. “Why do I even try.”

You scoot a little closer to him on the floor. “Because you like folding things while I ruin them.”

His eyes flick to yours—glinting, amused. “Because I like you, even when you ruin everything.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Flattery won’t get you out of towel duty.”

“I’ll fold all the towels in the world,” he says, voice dipping, “as long as you keep stealing my hoodies and smiling like that.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The playlist fades into a softer track. Dori flops dramatically onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie sneezes. You’re both still on the floor, laundry half-done, surrounded by your shared life.

Eventually, the storm dies down.

Dori.... still flopped onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie has returned to the hoodie pile with an air of disdain. Soonie, ever above it all, stretches out luxuriously atop the freshly folded towel stack like he’s earned it. And Minho?

Minho flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arm flung over his face like he’s just fought a great war. His shirt has ridden up slightly at the hem, revealing a sliver of pale skin just above his waistband. His chest rises and falls in lazy rhythm, hair a chaotic mess from the skirmish, one sock still in his hand like he forgot to let it go.

You stare at him from your perch beside the laundry basket, knees tucked to your chest. “I think we broke the truce,” you say after a beat.

Minho lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. His lashes catch the late afternoon light. “It was a tactical surrender.”

“Oh?”

“I had to,” he adds, “you were starting to fold socks like weapons.”

You smile, slow and full, resting your chin on your knee. “I learned from the best.”

For a long moment, there’s no sound but the soft fade of the playlist and the occasional jingle of a cat collar. You shift, crawling toward him on hands and knees, ignoring the sock minefield. He doesn’t flinch when you sit beside him, doesn’t move when you gently nudge his side with your elbow. Instead, he turns his head, rests his cheek against your thigh like it’s the most obvious place to be.

His voice is quieter now. “I missed this.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, brushing it off his forehead. “Laundry?”

He snorts. “You. Us. The calm.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re so good at pretending you don’t care about soft things,” you murmur.

“I care,” he says simply. “I just don’t want the cats to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Too late.”

Minho hums and lets his eyes flutter shut. You keep petting his hair, slow and absentminded, like you’re tuning into his heartbeat through your fingertips. The sun has dropped lower now, casting golden light across the room. It touches his skin, catches in his lashes, makes him look softer than any photo could capture. There’s a rare stillness to him when he’s like this — the calm after his sharpness has settled. He only shows it to you. You wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

Then, in the silence: “I like you messy,” he says, not opening his eyes. “Like this. Laughing. On the floor. Touching my hair like it’s nothing.”

Your hand stills slightly, caught off guard.

“I like you when you ruin my system,” he continues, voice gentle. “When you toss socks at me. When you wear my clothes. When the cats listen to you more than me. When you steal my morning silence and make it louder.”

You blink.

“And I like when you shut me up with your smile,” he finishes, cracking one eye open, “so maybe do that right now.”

You lean down, kiss his forehead. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “But loveable.”

By the time you finish folding the last shirt, the sky outside has slipped into that deep navy blue that almost looks like velvet. The playlist is down to faint instrumentals. The cats are scattered across the room like crime scene chalk outlines—every one of them knocked out cold from their own brand of chaos.

Dori is curled inside the now-empty laundry basket like he pays rent there. Soonie has claimed the folded towels again and dares anyone to challenge him. Doongie is half under the coffee table, snoring.

The rest of the apartment has settled. Lights are warm. The air smells like fabric softener and the remnants of cocoa. Your knees are sore from sitting on the floor too long.

Minho stretches beside you, spine cracking as he raises his arms overhead. “Well,” he says. “If nothing else, we’ve achieved peak adulthood.”

You raise a brow. “You mean folding laundry with tactical precision while covered in cat hair?”

He glances down at his shirt, where Soonie’s legacy lives in soft beige smudges. He shrugs. “Exactly.”

You both ease back against the couch now, finally sitting upright after being on the floor for what feels like hours. The baskets are stacked neatly. Everything smells clean. You feel… settled. Not because the work is done—but because you did it together. Because the room feels lived-in, not just cleaned.

Minho shifts, drapes a blanket across your legs without asking. Then he leans back again and lets out a quiet breath. His fingers, idle, find yours under the edge of the blanket. No squeezing. No dramatic gesture. Just the press of knuckles—his way of saying I’m here.

“You really do fold like a raccoon,” he says, eyes half-lidded now.

“Maybe I am one.”

“You steal my hoodies. You bite sometimes. You make nests.”

You scoff. “You’re literally describing yourself.”

He hums. Doesn’t deny it.

The apartment hums with low, easy sounds—distant traffic, the fridge buzzing, a cat twitching in his sleep.

You don’t speak for a while.

Eventually, Minho’s hand leaves yours. He stretches again and grabs the folded hoodie sitting closest—one of his old ones, a little too big for you, frayed at the collar.

He tosses it to you lazily. “Here,” he says. “You always steal this one anyway.”

You catch it. “Is this you surrendering?”

“This is me streamlining the theft process.”

You smile faintly, pressing the hoodie to your chest before slipping it on. It smells like his shampoo and something warm beneath it—like worn-in comfort and skin and quiet mornings.

When you look at him again, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t say anything poetic. He just lifts one shoulder and says, “Soft things belong together.”

And that’s it.

Not a confession. Not a dramatic line.

Just Minho, telling you exactly how he feels the way he always does—direct, simple, no frills. You nod once, then lean into his side. His arm lifts instinctively to pull you in. The two of you sit like that on the couch, warm and wordless, cats all around, baskets finally empty.

It’s peaceful. Not loud. Just a space you and Minho fit into—naturally. The cats, too.

And somehow, it feels perfect.

#stray kids #skz #stray kids fluff #lee know x reader #minho x reader #lee know fluff

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daemonbrain · 3 days ago

Text

Part 1 | Part 2

cw: murder, simon's a perv, reader's husband is a piece of work, smut, can be read as a standalone. a/n: This was rushed lol

I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. I wasn’t thinking straight.

Simon Riley could remember the first time he had heard those excuses. In a rundown burrow of Manchester, fiddling with the telly until a show he was much too young to watch blinked on to the cracked screen.

He’d sit there with beady eyes, attention locked on to the program while his mum did fuck knows what. It was distinctly American with muscle cars, high speed chases, guns, and most morbidly fascinating to an already tainted young mind, death.

Censorship and all, the show never did the gory details of killing someone justice. They never elaborated on the high of having a man stare down the barrel of your gun. It was never described how good it felt to have someone piss themselves in fear of you. The power a person can have when they know they could beat the life out of somebody.

They made excuses for those feelings.

It was always a righteous fuckin’ accident. Good guys versus bad guys, black and white.

A slight breeze whistled through the dim alleyway. Both idle chatter and music from inside the bar behind him wove together in a pacifying hum. It rang in the Brit’s ear as his chest heaved with the satisfaction of a job well done.

The blood had splattered over his pale skin, still warm droplets sliding past his wrists down his forearms. His knuckles split and bloomed into a haze of purple and red from the force of his hits. None of it was some mishap, it wasn’t a lapse in judgement.

On the contrary, Simon hadn’t felt more alert in months. Not since being in the field.

He glanced at the body crumpled at his feet with both disdain and the closest thing to giddy he was able to feel. This pathetic fuckin’ tosser looked just as miserable as he had any other day. Broken and disfigured with his bodily fluids still bubbling up through the splits in his skin and bone.

Your idiot husband who dragged you into the depths of his abhorrent ways, brain-dead and awful like a stain that needed to be removed.

He crouched down and loomed over the guy as he would terrorists and people who threatened the very world's security: Menacing and threatening. The difference in offenses mattered little to him. Sure the latter bombed, maimed, and endangered whole countries of people for their own warped means to an end.

But this guy? He wanted to ruin the only decent thing Simon had encountered in a long time. Uniquely different in a vast sea of bad, you steadfastly remained joyous despite having to put up with someone like this.

Your husband's pulse still throbbed, weak as it was. Simon leaned in close and followed the way his breaths puffed out feebly. It was quiet and perhaps if he wasn’t trained to spot the difference between a dead man and one teetering on the edge of their demise, he might’ve missed it.

Unfortunately for your husband that wasn’t the case.

“Please…” He rasped, a ghost of the words really.

Big hands grabbed the collar of his soiled white shirt. It had been crisp and showy for the woman he had been drinking with. The same woman whose thighs he was reaching for, the curve of her waist he’d held. The same woman Simon surmised he had been leaving you lonely for, his dinner and your kind heart growing colder while he got his little prick wet when he was supposed to be working.

He was cheating on you.

It was the flashes of your little yoga sets which came to Simon’s mind when he first connected the dots of what was happening. You who came into that butchers shop every Friday after your session for a cut of meat to make this poor excuse of a man a meal. All smiles and good like a slice of heaven that felt wrong for someone such as him to witness.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.” Was all Simon replied before he moved his grip to the fool's throat.

His fingers squeezed around the adams apple, effectively cutting off any air being wasted on the near-dead man.

He snarled up close and personal, though your husband was rendered relatively incapable of seeing much. Simon had gotten good hits on his eyes, one of them bloodshot and unfocused, the other already blackened, puffy, and too far gone.

“She’s not gonna remember a bloody thing about ya’.” Simon spat, more to himself than anyone, before the ex-soldier piled his crushing weight on the windpipe.

It was only a moment before the frail thrashing ceased.

The rainy weather had finally begun to wane and the pollen which once scattered the air, tinted windshields, and led to bright flowers had finally receded. The sun rested high in the sky for longer and its rays beat down harsher than it had in the past few months.

Spring and all the hardships it brought had come to pass and summer was now upon the city.

Simon’s hand rested on the cool metal of the door handle. The flimsy barrier between yourself and him. Hell, he could kick it in with minimal effort if need be. To get to you, he’d rip it off the squeaky old hinges which held it to the frame. Luckily for your entrance, that wasn’t necessary.

Not anymore at least.

Poor, sad you had taken to him like a moth to flame. In your grief it wasn’t drinking or drugs or any other vices you had used as a balm to soothe your weary soul, but Simon.

The jingle of the keys sounded out before he nudged them in. He twisted and unlocked the door before he opened it.

You had stopped coming to the butchers shop, no one to make meals for anymore, no reason to waste time in that place. It had certainly impeded his ability to accidentally run into you, but he supposed that was bound to happen. You needed time to mourn that prick you married. You were too sweet, too free with who you gave your affections to and this was the downside to that.

The concern had started as a result of Simon’s frequent… observations. No matter how long he would watch your apartment, you wouldn’t step a foot outside. Gone were your freshly manicured hands, well-maintained hair, and skin-tight yoga sets. Instead, you opted to wallow and waste away in your own anguish.

He pushed through the threshold and closed the door behind him, a soft thud accompanied the motion. He peered around for only a moment. It was still in the common areas of your home. Too quiet for his liking.

Without invitation, he started down the hall towards your room. His heavy boots thudded against wooden floors, bits of dirt coming off them as he went.

You had been all too accommodating when he had finally had enough and came to the source to see what was really happening. Had even invited him in for a cup of tea. To see you in the flesh had been enough to quell the invasive anxieties which had begun to settle in his chest. You certainly didn’t look the same, but strangely enough, you seemed more at ease with yourself than he had ever witnessed.

If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought you seemed more confused than upset.

As he neared your door, his skin prickled as his ears picked up on the faint weeping behind the polished lumber.

You had easily come into the habit of letting the Brit into your personal space whenever he stopped by. Maybe you became too comfortable with a man you had known less than a year, but to his benefit, it was easy to get you to fork over a spare set of keys.

Privacy be damned (and Simon’s emotional range of a turnip aside), he couldn’t stop the surge conviction he had to be near you.

It was only a second before he barged into your room, met with a sight he definitely hadn’t expected.

“Simon… what the hell!” You squealed as you scrambled for your covers. You threw them over your heaving body as if that would erase what he had gotten an eyeful of.

Maybe the universe was kind to him. Perhaps it had finally thrown him a damn bone after years of trying to kill him. It could’ve only been divine intervention which guided him to you at this very moment, to have you so distracted you hadn’t heard him come through the front door.

“Well don’t just stand there-” You started in shock, body gathering itself from its horizontal position upwards.

That was the wrong thing to say to a man who just saw your bare tits pushed up in frustration, cunt glistening with a scant amount of slick as you carelessly shoved your fingers into the hole. Baby hairs stuck to your sweat beaded forehead, tears gathered at your lash line as yet another manifestation of your stress laden body.

He ambled towards you and in that moment there was nothing short of a tank that could stop him.

“Wait. Hey. What are you doing?!” You sniffled, a weak caution as your hands dipped into the sheets of your mattress.

To his relief, you didn’t shrink as his shadow enveloped your quaking form. Your breath stuttered and Simon could only stare in something similar to awe. There was a beautiful defiance he didn’t often see from you as you refused to cower before him.

“What’s going on?” You asked, wide eyed and somewhat gentle tongued.

Even now you couldn’t bring yourself to yell at him, to say something in fiery rage that he’d interrupted your private time.

“I can help.” Was all he mumbled before he descended to his knees in a slowed manner. “Jus’ give me… give me the bloody word and I can.”

As if showing he meant no harm, he braced himself beside the bed. He hoped the act placated you with the knowledge that you could kick him straight in his crooked, already broken one too many times nose if you really wanted to.

“Are you crazy?” You whispered in response.

You hadn’t slapped him in denial yet, as good of sign as any.

He saw the way your legs twitched under the thin sheets. You bit your lip in what he only hoped was contemplation. Another moment passed in silence as his eyes met yours in earnest yearning and absolute want.

The want to brush the tears from your eyes, or to create new ones as he speared you on his cock and bludgeoned into you like a fucking battering ram.

He had waited patiently for months. Had fucked his fist harsh and unforgiveing to the thought of pounding into you until both of you knew nothing but the other’s body. His fantasies of your pleasure addled-mind being anchored by nothing except him stretching you out beyond comprehension. Your cunt would clench over him as the head of him nudged into you with dull pressure that bordered on too much, insistently reminding you of his encroachment inside of you.

“I… I can’t do it myself. It’s like no matter what I try I just can’t.” You choked out embarrassed and sudden.

His blood began to pump hotter the moment you began to inch from beneath the sheets and it was moments before was upon you.

Simon’s usual precision was far from present as the two of you wrestled in a tangle of limbs and positions, but eventually the both of you settled. He knelt before you, your ankles resting on his shoulders, and his hands holding your hips in place (though, it was more an anchor for himself).

He sucked in a sharp breath before his mouth latched onto you. Simon was never one to mince words, nor his actions. When he wanted something, when he wanted someone to feel something, they did.

Your nails dug into the sheets as you threw your head back. He could see the frustration ebb away with each flick of his tongue. He prodded some and then some more, circled and suckled at your clit.

A cut whimper was what caught his attention. Through pale lashes, he peered up at you. The scratch of the sheets, heavy breathing, yet not a peep. He could see the way your lip wobbled, only encouraging him to close his eyes and go in with another lick, harder this time.

Your teeth held on to your bottom lip as if your life depended on it, little moans starting to surface regardless of your intentions.

“Let go.” Was all he murmured before going back in. “Nothin’ t’feel bad about.”

Small groans left him, leaving vibrations in the most pleasurable of ways. Nothing mattered more to Simon than drowning himself in you, your slick coated his mouth, his nose nudged between your folds, knocking into your more sensitive parts like a bull in a china shop.

“Fuck, please!” You begged as your hand blindly reached for any piece of him, taking purchase on his buzzed hair as you curled forward awkwardly.

His hands dug into your hips as his tongue poked in and out of your cunt. It squeezed the muscle everytime it invasively half-entered, either your body’s way of coaxing him deeper, or an attempt to push away the unfamiliar, he did not know.

When was the last time someone went down on such a pretty thing? The last time you were worshipped like this? Fucks sake, when was the last time you came? Not a little bump of pleasure, or a fast reaction, but properly came?

Your body began to tremble and that’s when Simon decided to hook a finger inside of you. He thrusted it slowly as you whined and shifted. One finger in and out until eventually he joined it with another, much to your cunnys resistance.

“Ah! Just… ugh,” You groaned, continuing to push into his scalp. “Fuck I need more… Simon please.”

More was chanted through his mind like a fucking mantra. His cock twitched again, as hard as a metal rod by this point. He wanted nothing more than to give you what you wanted. Simon Riley was a weak man when it came to a pretty bird.

He wasn’t one to withstand the pleading look on your face, he realized. He knew for sure as his hands went to undo the belt of his pants. He knew when he practically ripped his shirt off.

Your soft hands touched the planes of his chest, the hardened muscles of his abdomen wrapped beneath a layer of fat, and whatever else you could reach as he mounted you. It was gentle as you gazed upon him in a dazed manner. He tried his best to keep his weight off of you, not keen on crushing you beneath him.

It was sudden the way you took his face between your palms, lips parted slightly as you pressed them to his. Still covered in your slick, it took Simon a moment to respond, allowing you to tilt into the kiss a bit more before he firmly kissed you back.

He pulled away reluctantly, and fixed you with the hardest of looks, only to be met with rounded and ready eyes.

“Fuck me.”

Wordlessly, he guided himself to your entrance. He rubbed himself up and then down your slit, head catching on to your hole once while he wondered just how far he’d be able to stretch you before you broke.

You gasped when he pushed in, hands clutched onto his bicep as he fed you his cock slow and restrained. He’d sink until the tip was fully enveloped by your warmth, and then begin to pull back his hips ever so slightly before thrusting in a bit more.

“Doin’ good, yeah. Pretty thing like you can take it f’me, right?” He bumbled on, almost in as much shock as you were from his ministrations.

Your walls constricted tight against the intrusion, but to Simon it felt as if he were the one being invaded. You flooded him with slick and pressure and the safety of being almost fully sheathed in something so sweet. Better than a hug could ever be, to be surrounded by your very essence.

You nodded along and babbled your yes’s and please’s just as he had imagined you would. It took a few more moments before he had forced himself to the base.

He almost felt bad when he saw the ways which you winced with every thrust forward. But everytime he considered slowing his pace, the notion was shut down as you stroked his face so tenderly.

“I need this.” You whispered through tears.

You touched his sweat beaded hairline, his dark under eyes so dearly. As if he were something made of glass. As if he wasn’t a killer and you weren’t the brightest light he had ever been guided to.

He didn’t deserve this.

But you did. You deserved to be fucked hard and deep and taken care of. Put over everything else like you so clearly deserved.

“You do. And ‘m gonna give it to ya.” He replied, curt and confident in his choice.

He began to fuck you in earnest, grunts escaping him as he did. He was quick to go from slow and shallow to a pace more vigorous. Your creaky wooden bed frame shook and squealed as his pace began to pick up, your head jostling and grazing the lumber everytime he pushed forward.

Your feet wrapped around his waist and dug into the divots of his back as if spurring him even farther into you, as if trying to trap him inside you forever. Not that he needed any encouragement to do so.

“Closer please. I…ah! I… I want..” You tried to say between each push in as his cock plunged into the deepest crevices it could find, kissing your womb and stealing the breath from your lungs.

Simon could tell what you wanted as you attempted to pull him closer with desperate effort.

“I’m already- bloody hell,” he grunted. “‘M fuckin’ inside o’ you. How much closer can I get?”

Nonetheless, he obliged and tipped his head forwards as your arms looped around his thick neck, clutching onto him like a lifeline.

“Closer.” was what you managed to say. You reached for his arm and put it to your waist and good god Simon felt and chip in that impenetrable armor of his. He held you firm to him and rutted into you like it was the last time he’d ever feel a cunt wrap so snug around him.

It was soft even as he bombarded it with all he had. Comforting, like a pillar of pliable to his unshakeable and unchangeable nature.

Simon felt his peak build and he watched as your face warped into something that could only be compared to a kettle that was about to whistle from the built up pressure within.

“Fuckin’ cum. Cum with me, cum on my cock.” He said with urgency.

His balls slapped against you and he felt them distinctively tighten up.

He felt you clamp down on to him like a fuckin’ vice as you nodded up and down like a mad woman against his skin. He could feel the gentle prick of your teeth as you simply held yourself against him.

Simon could have sworn his vision turned white as you wrung him out for all he was worth. He felt his cum flood your insides until they turned soaked and sticky and warm. He couldn’t stop the instinct which rose in him to fuck his cum deeper to have it seep into places your limp dicked late-husband could never. Your body yielding and pliant as he pierced into you, riding the remnants of his high within you.

You felt weightless as Simon slowed within you. You really had no clue what was happening, the heavy feeling of being stuffed past your limits was the only prominent thing on your mind.

No one had ever fucked you like that. Not boyfriends or hookups of the past, and certainly not your late-husband.

But you supposed that was the difference between Simon and those other men.

He took care of you.

He always had. Since the beginning he had. Sharing meals with you when you had no one, talking to you when you had been left alone. You might’ve felt bad for taking another man to the very bed you laid next to your deceased spouse once upon a time.

But was it really so bad to desire someone who put you first?

All those years of sitting quiet, of being isolated, of being the perfect wife and getting little in return. It wasn’t grief which came over you when you were told of your husband’s grizzly murder, it was guilt that you felt more lost than anything. Lost that you were no longer bound to the life that man gave to you, lost as to where to go next.

And there was Simon who showed you the way in his own strange, round-about method.

…

Simon who you suspected would do anything for you.

#call of duty #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #ghost mw2 #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley

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pinkpurplesunrises · 2 days ago

Text

I was just trying to breathe (and then you knocked)

+/- 7500 words - the long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - Maybe this will heal the loneliness - Angst and Fluff - Mentions of loneliness and grief - Please read with care.

I was feeling a bit lonely, that's when my creative brain hit and got this out of my system. I loved the process of writing this one. Felt kind of reassuring and relieving. I tried my best spanish. I hope that you like this. Please leave some feedback if you want to. Enjoy reading!

The coffee’s bitter. You ordered it with sugar but the woman behind the counter must’ve forgotten. Or maybe you didn’t speak loud enough. It doesn’t matter. You drink it anyway.

The little cafe is nearly empty, which suits you fine. There’s a kind of comfort in being alone among strangers. Like being a ghost no one realizes is haunting the room.

You’ve been coming here almost every day since moving out. Not because it’s good. It isn’t, really. But because it’s somewhere. Somewhere to sit. Somewhere to feel like life is happening around you, even if you’re not quite part of it.

It’s early spring but the wind outside still bites. You’ve got your coat wrapped around you too tight and your scarf smells like the box you pulled it out of. You tell yourself you’re just tired. Not lonely. Just tired.

You scroll your phone with the sort of dead-eyed hope that maybe, this time, there’ll be something different. A message. A job interview. A friend remembering you exist. But all you get is the usual silence.

You’re halfway through your lukewarm toast when the door opens. You don’t look up at first. Too used to people coming and going. But something makes you glance up. Maybe it’s the shift in the room. The way cold air rushes in behind her, carrying the kind of gravity that some people just have without meaning to.

She’s tall. Not just in height, but in presence. Blonde hair tied back. Headphones around her neck. Suitcase at her feet. She’s got this look in her eyes that’s both determined and completely elsewhere.

You watch her order, half-listening. Her voice is low. Raspy like she hasn’t used it much lately. Her accent marks her as Catalan. She says 'gràcies' like it’s a muscle she’s trying to keep from forgetting how to move.

She picks a seat by the window. Not too far from you. Just two tables down. Close enough that you can hear the quiet zip of her backpack opening. The creak of her leather jacket when she sits.

You try not to stare, but you do.

Because there’s something about her that feels familiar. Not in a 'have we met before?' kind of way. But in that deeper, unspoken language of grief. The way she keeps her eyes down. The way she sits like she’s been carved out from the inside. Like she’s trying to take up less space than she actually does.

She’s young. Your age, maybe. Eighteen, give or take. But she looks older in the way people do when something big has happened. Something that cracked them open and left the wound just under the skin.

You wonder what she’s running from. Or maybe what she's running to. The suitcase hints at movement. Transition. Maybe she’s leaving someone. Maybe she’s lost someone.

You don’t mean to, but your eyes catch hers for half a second. She doesn’t flinch but she doesn’t smile either. Just looks. Like she’s trying to decide whether or not you’re real.

You glance away. The toast tastes like cardboard now.

There’s a strange electricity in the air. Not romantic, not yet. Just present. A kind of awareness. Two people orbiting just close enough to feel the pull.

She sets her coffee down with a little too much force. Like maybe her hands are heavier than they should be. She stares out the window like it’s easier than looking at the world.

And you... you do what you always do. You say nothing.

But something in you shifts.

You think: maybe she’s just as lost as I am.

You think: maybe we’re both just pretending not to fall apart.

You don’t know her name yet.

You don’t know that she just buried her father two months ago and hasn’t really spoken to her sister since. She tries with her mother. It's all a lot.

You don’t know that the suitcase beside her holds more than clothes. That it holds a thousand moments she hasn’t let herself cry about. Jerseys that still smell like the old house. Letters she never sent. A football tucked into the corner like a relic from a life that feels like someone else’s now.

You don’t know that she got a call from Barcelona and said yes without knowing why. That she’s scared, too. That she sat in the buss for an hour too long before deciding she wasn’t ready to arrive yet.

But you will.

You’ll learn all of it, eventually. In glances. In silence. In the way she finally says your name one night like it’s an answer to a question she didn’t know she’d been asking.

But for now... it’s just you and her.

Two strangers. Two cups of bitter coffee.

And the slow, quiet beginning of something that neither of you has words for yet.

You don’t expect to see her again.

People like that, they pass through. Like train station echoes or songs heard in a shop you never find again. Beautiful in the moment. Gone before you realize you were holding your breath.

But life... as it turns out... has a strange sense of timing.

It’s three days later. The hallway in your apartment smells like paint and dust, and the landlord is still pretending that 'we’re fixing the boiler next week' means anything. You’re halfway up the stairs with two bags of groceries cutting into your fingers when you hear it. The soft thud of footsteps. A door clicking shut.

You glance up.

And there she is.

Same suitcase. Same leather jacket. A different hoodie. This one a deep navy blue. Sleeves stretched over her hands. She’s staring at the apartment across from yours like it’s a puzzle she doesn’t know how to solve.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

She turns when she hears you. Slow. Careful. Like maybe she was hoping she’d be alone. Her eyes widen a fraction when she recognizes you. But still, no smile. Just that same guarded curiosity. Like she’s waiting for you to speak first.

You do.

“…Hey.”

She nods. “Hi.”

Your voice sounds stupid in your ears. Too sharp. Too awkward. You shift your weight, adjusting the bags in your hands as if that might distract from the heat climbing up your neck.

“I guess we’re neighbors now?”

A pause. She nods again, then glances at the door. “Yeah. I think so.”

You catch the edge of her accent again. Soft and clipped. Heavy with something unspoken. She fumbles for the key like her hands don’t quite trust themselves. When she finally gets the door open, it sticks. Of course it does. Everything in this building is a little broken.

You speak before you think.

“Want help?”

She hesitates.

And then... barely... she steps back. “Sure.”

You wedge your foot against the doorframe. Lean your shoulder into it and it groans open with a reluctant creak. The air inside is cold and stale. Like no one’s been in there for a while. The lights are off.

You step back, letting her enter first.

“Thanks,” she says, quiet. She doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“No problem.”

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to leave now. She’s halfway through dragging the suitcase over the threshold when she glances back.

“I’m Alexia.”

She says it like it’s a warning, not a name.

You tell her yours. You don’t add the way your heart skips a beat when she says hers. You don’t ask why it sounds so familiar. You’ll figure it out later. The small articles. The youth matches. The 'future of Spanish football' label she’s already tired of hearing.

For now, she’s just Alexia.

She nods again, as if sealing some silent contract between you.

And then she disappears inside, door closing with a soft finality.

You don’t see her again for two more days.

You think about her, though. Not obsessively, just… often. In the way your brain keeps replaying the way she stood. Shoulders too tense, like she was trying not to shake. You wonder if she’s eating. If she’s sleeping. If the apartment next door is just as cold and empty as it looked.

Then, one night, you hear it.

It’s late. Past 1 a.m. You’re sitting on your floor. Curled under a blanket. Eating cereal and watching a dumb movie on your laptop with the volume low. And then, through the thin wall, you hear it:

Crying.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… quiet. The kind of crying people do when they’re trying not to be heard. Choked and slow. Like something being wrung out of her.

It punches a hole in your chest.

You don’t know what to do.

You press your ear closer to the wall. Not to spy. Just to know. To be sure you’re not imagining it. But it’s real. Raw and muffled and awful.

You want to knock on her door. You want to bring her tea. You want to do something. Anything. To ease the weight in her voice.

But you don’t.

Because what do you say to someone you barely know. Who carries grief like a second skin?

So you sit there, still, listening to the sound of heartbreak leaking through plaster.

And somehow... in the stillness of that night, something in you softens.

You’re not alone in your loneliness anymore.

And neither is she.

You’re not a morning person.

Not in the cute, relatable, oops-I-snoozed-again kind of way. More like a slow-moving existential ghost who regrets all life choices before 10 a.m. You’ve made peace with that. Sort of.

You're wrapped in an old hoodie. You're staring blankly at the kettle as it rattles its way toward boiling, when there’s a knock at your door.

Not a loud knock. Just a hesitant, single rap. Like whoever’s on the other side isn’t even sure they want to be there.

You don’t expect it to be her.

But when you open the door... there she is.

Alexia.

She looks like she hasn’t slept. Her hoodie’s creased at the elbows, and her ponytail is slightly lopsided in a way that makes you feel like maybe she didn’t look in a mirror this morning. There’s something raw in her expression. Not emotional, exactly, but stripped back. Honest.

“…Sorry,” she says, voice raspy. “Do you, uh...”

She clears her throat. Looks down at her feet like they might have the courage she’s missing.

“Do you have any food?”

You blink. “Food?”

“I haven’t gone shopping yet.”

You process this slowly. You think of the crying through the wall. You think of the dark, empty apartment. The way she looked at her suitcase like it had teeth.

“Um. Yeah. I mean. Kind of.”

You open the door wider.

She hesitates for a second, then steps inside like she’s doing something illegal. her eyes flick around your small kitchen-living-room situation. The cluttered counter. The single dying plant on the windowsill. The cereal box you forgot to put away.

“This is fine?” she asks.

“It's all I've got,” you mutter. “I’m not exactly… a breakfast person.”

She doesn't answer. She just sits at your tiny table. Silent. You pour two bowls of cereal. Slightly embarrassed by how unimpressive your hospitality is, and push one toward her.

She digs in like it’s the first real meal she’s had in days.

You try not to stare. But it’s hard not to notice how fast she eats. Not messily. Just… focused. Like the bowl is a battlefield she’s determined to win.

You clear your throat. Unsure if you should fill the silence or let her have it.

“So… you just moved in yesterday?”

She nods. Swallows. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again after the café.”

She offers a faint shrug. “Didn’t think I’d end up across the hall.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches just a second too long. You sip your coffee. She pours herself a second bowl without asking. And you respect that, actually.

“You got plans today?” you ask. Mostly just to hear something other than the scrape of her spoon.

Her expression shifts. Just slightly. A flash of something. Nerves? Determination?

“Yeah,” she says. “First day. At Barça.”

You pause mid-sip. “Barça like… Barcelona? Football Barça?”

She nods, casual. Like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just casually drop a bomb.

You try to play it cool. Fail miserably.

“Wait. You’re a footballer?”

Another shrug. “Trying to be.”

“Oh.” You pause. “Cool.”

It’s the least cool thing you’ve ever said.

She gives a small, almost-smile. Barely there. But enough to knock the wind out of you for a second. It softens her face. Rounds the hard edges you didn’t know you were watching for.

She finishes the second bowl. Looks up.

“Thanks,” she says, quietly. “For this.”

“No problem.”

You’re not sure if she means the food, or the silence you gave her while she ate it. Maybe both.

When she leaves, the room feels heavier. Not in a bad way. Just… quieter. Like something’s changed. Like you let someone in, even just for a moment, and now the air can’t go back to how it was.

You rinse out the bowls and wonder how long she hadn’t eaten.

You wonder why you care.

You wonder if she’ll knock again.

And then you sit back at your table. Staring at the empty seat across from you. Trying to ignore the very stupid. Very real ache blooming in your chest.

It’s just cereal.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

But somehow, it already does.

You’re at your second class when your mind starts drifting.

It’s not that the lecture is boring... not really. It’s just that your thoughts keep sneaking away. Folding back into the apartment building. To the quiet next door.

You wonder how Alexia’s first day went.

Did the team impress her? Did they laugh with her or at her? Did she feel like she belonged. Or like she was still trying to find the rhythm in a song she barely knew?

You catch yourself hoping she’s okay.

You don’t know why.

You shove your phone into your bag, trying to focus. But even when you’re scribbling notes... your brain loops back to that breakfast, to the way she ate like she hadn’t eaten in days and the way her eyes flickered with something unreadable when she said 'Barça.'

The afternoon passes in a blur.

By the time you get back to your apartment, the sky’s bruised purple and the building smells like rain.

You unlock your door and slip inside. Kicking off your shoes. The walls here are thin. Thinner than you thought, and as you settle onto your couch... you hear it again.

That sound.

A soft, choked breath.

Then a voice. Quiet, but cracked with emotion.

You freeze.

It’s Spanish.

A voice you recognize now. Alexia’s.

You lean closer to the wall. Heart hammering.

“Mamá...” she whispers, voice barely more than a tremble.

You catch the ragged edge. The ache beneath her words.

“No sé qué hacer...” she says, voice breaking. “Siento que... que mi hermana me odia. Que... no puedo arreglarlo.”

You imagine her curled on the floor. Knees pulled close. Phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.

“Es como si todo lo que perdí...” she breathes. Voice thick with grief. “...se juntara y no pudiera respirar. No puedo ser fuerte ahora, mamá. No sé cómo.”

You don’t move.

You just listen.

The kind of pain that lives in silences. The kind that feels too big for words.

“Quiero que me entiendas,” she says. “Pero no sé si pueda perdonarme a mí misma. Por dejar todo atrás, por no ser perfecta...”

The line goes quiet for a moment.

Then, soft and broken:

“Te quiero...”

You don’t know what else she says after that.

But you feel it. The raw, fragile hope tangled up in her voice.

She’s not okay.

But she’s still fighting.

And you... you want to be part of that fight.

Even if you don’t know how.

For the first time since you moved in, the loneliness feels… less like a wall and more like a bridge.

You pull your knees close. Heart aching in the best and worst way.

Because sometimes, the loudest words are the ones whispered between walls.

You don’t cook often.

Not because you hate it. Though some days you’re convinced that’s true. But because you’re better at eating food than making it. Your usual approach is to keep things simple: cereal, toast, instant noodles. You’re not the 'let’s make a three-course meal' type. More like the 'please don’t set the kitchen on fire' type.

But today… today you do it on purpose.

Or at least. You try.

You spend an hour fumbling around your tiny kitchen. Trying to follow a recipe for something that looks way more impressive than it turns out. Smoke alarm? Yep. Flour everywhere? Definitely. Pasta boiled dry? Absolutely.

The dish looks… let’s just say it’s not going to win any awards. But it smells good enough to convince you that your effort matters more than perfection.

You wrap it carefully in foil. Slip it into a plastic container and take a deep breath before knocking on Alexia’s door.

Your heart pounds like you’re about to confess a terrible secret.

She opens the door. Eyes widening at the sight of the steaming container in your hands.

“What’s this?”

You shrug, cheeks burning.

“I, uh… I made too much. Thought you might want some.”

She studies you for a moment. Like trying to figure out if you’re serious or joking.

Then, with the smallest smile, she steps aside.

“Come in.”

Her apartment smells different from yours. Cleaner. But colder.

You sit at the edge of her couch. The silence thick but not uncomfortable.

Alexia unwraps the foil carefully. Then takes a tentative bite.

Her eyes flicker.

“It’s… good,” she says softly.

You laugh, relief flooding you.

“Good for someone who almost burned the kitchen down.”

She laughs too. Low and real, the kind that reaches her eyes.

For the first time, the walls between you don’t feel so tall.

And maybe, just maybe, this is how it starts.

You sit cross-legged on her couch. The remnants of your overcooked pasta sitting forgotten between you.

Alexia picks up the empty container. Turning it in her hands.

“Thanks,” she says again. Quieter this time. Like it means something more than just food.

You notice something else. Her water glass is empty and there’s no sign of any other drinks.

“Do you have anything to drink?” you ask. Trying not to sound like you’re prying.

She shakes her head.

“Didn’t get groceries yet.”

You nod, understanding. It’s hard. Easier to let days pass without the effort.

Without thinking much, you say, “Hey… I’m going out to get some stuff. Want to come with me?”

Her eyes flick up. Surprised.

“I mean, if you want,” you add quickly, feeling awkward.

She hesitates.

Then, slowly, a small smile.

“Okay.”

The two of you step out into the warm afternoon. The city humming softly around you.

Walking side by side feels strange at first. A new rhythm you’re both still finding.

At the store, you grab a basket and start picking up essentials: bread, juice, fresh fruit.

She lingers at the shelves. Eyes scanning, then reaching for the yogurt.

You watch her. Noticing the careful way she selects things. Like she’s learning, or maybe relearning, how to take care of herself.

In the checkout line, you talk about little things: the weather, music, the tiny plant in your kitchen that’s somehow still alive.

She laughs. A full unguarded laugh when you admit you once bought instant noodles thinking they were healthy.

It feels easy. It feels good.

And for the first time, the silence between you isn’t heavy. It’s comfortable.

You walk back together. Bags in hand. The city folding around you like a promise.

Maybe this is how healing starts.

One small step.

One shared moment.

One grocery trip at a time.

You’ve made it a thing now. The dinners.

Not formal, not planned far ahead, just a rhythm slowly settling between you. You cook; she eats. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you sit in comfortable silence.

Tonight, you notice she’s quieter than usual.

You watch her as she picks at her plate. Eyes distant.

You don’t push.

Not yet.

Instead, you refill both your glasses and sit back. Letting the space between you fill with the sound of your quiet breathing and the city humming outside.

After a while, she looks up.

“Did you… want to hear something?”

You nod, heart thudding.

She breathes in, slow and steady.

“My dad died… about a month before Barça called me.”

Her voice is soft, but steady.

“That call... it was everything I ever wanted. The dream.”

She swallows hard, eyes flickering.

“My mom told me to go. Said I had to go. That he’d want me to.”

You reach out, but she shakes her head. Almost smiling sadly.

“But my sister… she saw it differently.”

Her fingers curl around the fork. Tightening.

“She said I was running away. That I didn’t care about him or her.”

Her voice breaks just a little.

“I think… maybe she hates me for leaving.”

You don’t say anything, because what could you say?

Instead, you reach across the table and gently touch her hand.

She doesn’t pull away.

And maybe... for the first time, she lets some of the loneliness out.

You squeeze her hand softly. Hoping she knows you’re there.

No words needed.

Just presence.

You still can’t cook without a minor disaster, but the ritual has grown on you.

Thursday night. You get home before Alexia. Open windows to let the apartment breathe and start something simple that smells like effort. Garlic sizzling, tomatoes stewing, a loaf of bread warming in the oven. She’ll arrive from training hungry and tired. You like the idea that warmth meets her at the door.

It’s almost seven when the knock comes. Earlier than usual. You wipe your hands on a dish towel. Already smiling. But when you open the door it isn’t Alexia.

The woman on the landing is small. Brisk silver strands threaded through chestnut hair. Same hazel eyes. Softer around the corners. She holds a cloth tote and an umbrella still speckled with rain.

“Perdona,” she begins. Accent rich and familiar. “Alexia no está?”

You blink, switch mental gears. “She’s… still at training. I think. Did you want to come in and wait?”

She sighs. Half-laughs at herself. “Ay, claro. Se me olvidó su horario.”

Her disappointment is gentle. Practiced. You feel it brush past you like a draft.

“I’m her...” You falter. Neighbor? Friend? Almost lover? Keeper of Thursday night dinners? None of the words fit neatly. “I live across the hall.”

“Eres la vecina,” she nods with a soft smile. “Me llamo Eli. Soy la madre de Ale.”

She offers her hand. It’s warm, calloused. The kind of hand that’s done a lot of caretaking.

You step back automatically. “Would you like to wait inside? She should be back soon.”

She hesitates. Politeness warring with concern. Then steps inside. The umbrella drips quietly by the door.

Your apartment smells of tomato and oregano. Eli inhales, visibly surprised. “¿Estás cocinando?”

“Trying to,” you murmur, cheeks warming. “It’s… kind of our Thursday thing.”

Her brows lift. Equal parts amused and touched. But she just nods and takes a seat at the table. Resting her tote gently down.

You hover for a moment. Uncertain what to do with someone’s mother in your kitchen. So you fall into your fallback plan. Feed the silence. You stir the sauce again. Slice more bread than necessary, and try not to stare when she scans the room. Your books left open. Your clumsy knife technique.

“Has estado cuidando de ella?” she asks softly.

You shrug, slicing another piece. “We’ve been… keeping each other company.”

She nods, eyes softening. “Eso ayuda. Comer juntas cura más de lo que parece.”

You don’t reply. But your hands move more gently after that. Somehow, the small comment quiets you in a good way.

A key scrapes the hallway lock. You gave your spare one to her. You had forgotten already. Quick footsteps. A gear bag thunked against the wall. Then her voice: “Mamá?”

You meet Alexia in the doorway before she can panic. She’s fresh from training. Skin damp. Cheeks flushed. Her shirt clinging at the collar. When she sees her mother seated at your kitchen table. Her face crumbles for a second. Caught off guard.

“Pensaba que llegarías más tarde,” she says. Stepping in quickly.

“Me equivoqué,” Eli says with a small smile.

Alexia looks at you then, almost apologetic. “We can skip dinner if it’s too much...”

But she trails off when she sees the table. Three plates. A pot still steaming. Bread folded in a towel.

You shrug. “It’s tradition now, right?”

Her expression softens. Tired, grateful. “No rompamos la tradición.”

While Alexia showers, you and Eli ferry the dishes to Alexia's apartment. She insists on it, mumbling something about her place finally needing to smell like food.

The apartment’s still not quite lived-in. Boxes, a rug still rolled up in a corner but the photo on the shelf catches your eye. Two girls, arms tight around each other. A beach in the background. The hair shorter. The smiles wider.

Dinner starts a little stiff. Elisabet asks about training. Alexia responds in short bursts. Distracted by her water glass. You offer small talk about your classes. About the weather. About the neighbor upstairs who seems to always be vacuuming at night. Anything to ease the edges.

But eventually, things soften. Alexia tells a story about a teammate’s terrible playlist in the locker room. You laugh. Eli laughs, too, hand over her mouth. And for a while, it’s easy.

Then Eli glances at the photo on the shelf, and you watch Alexia’s spine straighten almost imperceptibly.

“Cómo está Alba?” she asks, quieter now.

“Está… todavía enojada,” Eli replies gently. “Necesita tiempo.”

Alexia’s jaw tightens. She looks down at her plate. “¿Y si nunca…?”

She doesn’t finish the thought. You don’t push her to.

You tear a piece of bread in two and place half on her plate. She glances up. Meets your eyes just long enough for something unspoken to settle between you.

Eli reaches across the table, hand covering Alexia’s.

“Lo arreglarán,” she says. “Tu padre estaría orgulloso de ti, Ale.”

Alexia doesn’t cry. But you can feel her holding it back like it’s breaking against the walls inside her.

You don’t say anything. You just pour more water. Give her space to breathe.

Eventually, dinner ends. Eli yawns behind her hand, and Alexia insists on walking her to the taxi. At the door, she turns to you.

“Gracias por todo,” Eli says, and hugs you with surprising strength. You hug her back. Quietly floored.

You wait on the couch until the door clicks again. Alexia walks in, still damp from the night air. Eyes a little red.

“Sorry if that was weird,” she says. Rubbing her hands over her face.

“It wasn’t weird,” you reply gently. “It was dinner.”

She gives a soft laugh. “Thanks… for keeping it going.”

You smile. “Tradition.”

She stands there a second, watching you with something unreadable behind her tired expression.

“You make things less hard,” she murmurs. Almost like it slips out before she can filter it.

Your heart stumbles, caught off guard. But you nod, soft. “You do, too.”

She walks you to the door. Neither of you says it, but you both feel it. That something is shifting. Not in a rush. But slowly. Trust making its way through the cracks.

“Next week,” she says, almost teasing now, “I’m cooking.”

You laugh as you step into the hall. “God help us both.”

The door clicks behind you. You stand still a moment, breathing. Then lean back against your side of the wall, wondering if she’s doing the same just a few feet away.

The ritual holds.

Thursday dinners continue.

And beneath it, something steady is growing. Not fast. Not flashy. But real.

At first, you tell yourself she’s just tired. First weeks on a new team. Endless drills. Media obligations. You stir your pasta with one hand. Phone face-up beside the cutting board. Waiting for her name to flash. But it doesn’t.

The days after her mother’s visit stretch out strange and quiet.

You don’t see her in the hallway. No knocks. No text.

No Thursday dinner.

You think about checking in, more than once. But you don’t want to crowd her. And still... when you lie down at night, the quiet through the shared wall feels different. Heavier. Not just absence but something heavier beneath it.

Until Saturday night.

It’s late. You’re curled on the couch with a book you’ve been pretending to read for an hour. The streetlamp casting long shadows across your floor.

Then you hear it.

Muffled. Familiar now in the worst way. Crying.

At first you freeze. It’s not loud. Not the gasping kind but it’s raw. Choked. Like someone trying not to break and failing anyway. You sit up slowly. Heart already crawling up your throat.

You wait... ten seconds, maybe thirty. But it doesn’t stop.

And then you’re on your feet.

There’s no answer, but you hear movement inside. Bare feet on tile, the low creak of a door opening.

You cross the hallway barefoot, knock once. Soft, unsure. Nothing.

Then again, firmer.

When it finally swings open, Alexia’s eyes are red. She doesn’t try to hide it. Doesn’t apologize. She just looks at you like she isn’t sure if she should speak or collapse.

“I’m sorry,” she says and it comes out broken.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. I just... I heard you.”

A pause. Then she steps back, opens the door wider. “Come in.”

The apartment is dim. Lit only by the glow from the kitchen window. There’s a half-folded hoodie on the floor. A photo frame face-down on the table. Her voice catches as she tries to explain.

“I just… I didn’t want you to see me like...”

You close the door behind you gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

She falls into you.

And then, without thinking, you do something stupid and brave.

You reach out. You think she might pull away. That she’ll shrug it off or pretend it’s nothing. But instead...

No warning. No sound. Just collapses forward. Arms around your waist. Face buried into your shoulder. The sob that rips out of her is the kind that’s been waiting days. You hold her tighter.

She doesn’t let go.

You don’t either.

You feel her whole body tremble. Hands gripping the back of your shirt. Hair damp at your neck. It goes on for minutes. Maybe hours. Time suspends when grief is involved.

And all the while, you whisper nothing. Just hold her. Anchor her. Let her know she isn’t alone in this echo.

When her crying finally slows. Throat raw, breath uneven. She pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I have my first match tomorrow,” she whispers.

You nod. “Barça?”

She nods once, then looks away. Her voice drops to something so small it barely exists. “Él no estará.”

Your chest tightens.

“My dad,” she adds, like she needs to clarify, though she doesn’t. “He’d been waiting for it since I was twelve. Said the day I wore that jersey for real, he’d… he’d cry right in the stands.”

She laughs once, bitter and quiet. “Now I’m the only one crying.”

You brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Careful like touching glass. “He’d be proud. You know that, right?”

She shrugs. “It’s not the same.”

You want to say something. Anything. But some pain doesn’t have words. So you settle for the truth. Quiet but full.

“I’ll be there.”

She looks at you. Startled.

“I promised myself,” you say. More to her than to you now. “The first time you wear that jersey… someone who gives a damn should be watching.”

Her lip trembles. You think she might cry again. But instead, she nods.

“Okay.”

She walks you to the door slowly. As if time has started again but neither of you are ready for it.

“Get some sleep,” you say softly.

She nods again. Then... just before the door closes... she reaches for your hand. Squeezes once. Not needing to say thank you because the squeeze says it all.

You walk back across the hall with your heart full and aching.

Tomorrow, she will wear the colors she’s dreamed of.

Tomorrow, her father won’t be there.

But you will.

And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough. For now.

You don’t even like football.

That’s what you tell yourself. Walking toward the stadium early. hands deep in your jacket pockets and heart pulsing like it’s tied to something bigger than nerves.

You’re not sure what you expected. Myaybe an echo chamber of people, maybe it would make you feel like you were intruding on something too sacred. But instead it feels oddly… tender.

The kind of day where the sky holds a little too much light Like it hasn’t decided whether to be spring or grief. You walk with the slow trickle of fans entering early and you sit low in the stands. Close enough to see expressions. To feel the weight of the anthem when it rolls across the pitch like a held breath.

You don’t know which number is hers. But then she steps out.And you know. Of course you know.

She doesn’t look at the crowd. Not right away. She walks with her head high and her shoulders back, but there’s something in her arms. Her gait. The tension in her mouth that says: I’m holding something in.

Her teammates greet her. A few smiles. One ruffle of her hair. And the anthem begins.

Then she turns. Looks up toward the stands. Scanning.

And for one brief second... your heart in your throat... her eyes land on you.

She doesn't wave. Doesn't smile. But she sees you. And it’s enough.

You don't cheer like everyone else. You just press your hands into your thighs and let the music rise through your ribs like something that belongs to someone else. And all the while, you keep watching her.

She's good. Of course she is. Fluid, fast, intentional. You don’t understand half the movements but you understand the look on her face. The focus. The weight. The ache she carries with her every step.

You glance a few seats to your left and recognize her mother instantly. Eli small and straight-backed in her seat. And next to her, someone else: younger, sharper-edged. Her sister?

She has Alexia’s eyes.

They both sit still through most of the game. Hands tense. They don't cheer wildly. They just watch. Like it costs them something.

The game ends 2-1. Alexia doesn’t score but she assists the second goal. A perfect pass that splits the defense like glass. The stadium erupts.

But she doesn’t smile.

Not even after the whistle. Just stands still. Breathing hard. Chest rising under the crest of the shirt she always wanted. She turns toward the stands again.

You watch it happen like a private moment made public. Something cracks. And then she walks... jogs... across the field. Past her coach. Past her teammates. Straight toward the edge of the barrier.

And her face changes when she sees them. Her mother.

Her sister.

Her sister is already on her feet.

You think you see her hesitate. Just for a second.

Then Alba leans down. Arms open.

And Alexia folds into her like she was always meant to.

Her shoulders shake. Her hands cling to her sister’s back. And the sob she lets out. Raw and shaking. Makes you forget there’s anyone else in the stadium at all.

You see Alba pull her closer. You can't hear them. But you imagine it.

Lo siento. Lo siento. Estoy aquí.

Her mother presses a hand to her mouth. Wipes her cheek. Doesn't interrupt.

You don’t move. You don’t look away.

Because this... this moment... is everything.

It’s not the dream she planned. Her father isn’t there to cry in the stands. But her sister is. Her mother is. You are.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe grief is something that never stops echoing. but on some days, it finds harmony.

When she finally steps back, her face blotched and red and so alive, she lifts her head again. Scans.

Finds you.

And this time, she nods.

Not a wave. Not a smile. Just that.

A single, quiet, thank you. Shared across a stadium full of noise.

You stay seated even as people start to leave. Your chest hurts in the way that means something changed.

You showed up.

And so did she.

And though you don’t say it aloud, you know in your gut.

This is only the beginning.

You hear the knock late.

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment again. Bowl of microwaved leftovers abandoned beside you. TV remote untouched. You didn’t even change after coming back from the stadiu. Just tossed your jacket off. Kicked your shoes halfway across the room and sat down like the match had left too much in you to do anything else.

So when she knocks. Soft. Hesitant. Your body knows it’s her before your brain does.

You open the door.

She’s still in her training gear. The Barça crest still pressed to her chest. Her cheeks are pink like she never let the adrenaline fade. Her hair’s tied back and messy. She looks...

Tired.

And something else, too.

You don’t say anything. Just step aside.

She walks in slow. Doesn’t sit. Just stands in the middle of the room like she’s not sure if she came here for food or air or something heavier.

Finally, she speaks.

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

You nod, gently. “You’re not.”

She turns, slowly. Looks at you in that way she’s done a few times now. Eyes raw. Guarded. Vulnerable and unreadable at the same time. “My mom and Alba went back already. I didn’t ask them to stay. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t have to know why,” you say.

She exhales like it’s a surrender.

Then sits, slowly, on the edge of your couch. Silent.

You follow. Curl up opposite her. Not touching. Not crowding. Just near.

“It meant everything,” she says. Eyes not quite meeting yours, “that you were there.”

You nod. “I told you I would be.”

Alexia looks at her hands. Turns her wrist over like there’s something she needs to read there. “I thought I would feel proud today.”

“You didn’t?”

She hesitates. “I did. But I also...” Her voice catches. “I just kept thinking. He missed it. He missed me. And I... I think maybe I’ve been angry at him for that.”

Silence. You let it exist.

Then...

“I think that’s okay,” you say, careful. “To be angry.”

She swallows. “And with Alba too. She needed me to grieve with her and I... left. I left to chase a dream. And I don’t even know if I did the right thing.”

“You did the brave thing,” you say. “You didn’t run from it. You carried it with you.”

She blinks hard. Doesn’t cry this time. But there’s something else in her face. Like the edge of a decision she’s been circling around for weeks.

Then she leans forward. Eyes suddenly locked on yours. “I don’t want to feel this alone anymore.”

Her voice breaks open on the word alone. And suddenly, everything you’ve been pretending to ignore for weeks rushes forward like a breath held too long.

You don’t think. You don’t plan. You just shift closer. Knees brushing. Palms against the couch cushion between you. You wait.

“I’ve been so afraid,” she whispers.

You nod. “Me too.”

And then she leans in.

Not rushed. Not dramatic. Not a crash. But a slow, trembling choice. Her eyes flutter closed just before her lips find yours. Soft, careful, questioning.

You kiss her back.

Not because you’d planned to.

But because you couldn’t not.

Her hand brushes your jaw. Your fingers find the side of her leg. It’s slow. Like you’re both afraid to wake something fragile.

When you pull back, her forehead rests against yours. You both stay like that for a breath. Two.

Then she says, “I don’t know what this is.”

You smile... small and full. “It doesn’t have to be anything yet.”

She leans back. Eyes still on you. “But I want it to be something.”

You let that settle in the space between you. Like a promise. Like an answer to a question you’d never asked out loud.

Outside, the world is quiet. Barcelona holds its breath.

Inside, she leans into you again. This time not for a kiss, but to rest her head on your shoulder. A small surrender. A bigger beginning.

You reach for her hand... and this time... she doesn’t let go.

The walls here are thick. Solid.

They don’t echo voices. Or carry the sounds of late-night crying through plaster. They don’t creak when someone shifts their weight on the other side. They don’t hum with loneliness.

And you both notice.

You joked about it once. Early on. Standing in the empty living room with a cheap pizza box on the floor and keys in your hand. Alexia had walked from room to room like a kid in a museum. Barefoot and wide-eyed. Until she leaned in behind you and whispered, “Now we can finally discover each other without paper-thin walls, eh?”

She had kissed your neck afterward. And then the joke was less funny and more true.

It’s been two years since that first knock on your door.

Since cereal and grief and quiet Thursday dinners that turned into lifelines. Since that first Barça match where she found you in the crowd before she found her family in the front row. Since the night she whispered, “I don’t want to feel this alone anymore,” and your world split open.

Now?

Now, you have your own mugs lined up in the kitchen cabinet. One has the Barça crest on it. The other is chipped and plain but always ends up in her hand anyway. There’s a bike leaning against the hallway wall she keeps saying she’ll fix. A laundry basket overflowing in your bedroom and two passports tucked into a drawer with the little ticket stub from your first trip to Ibiza.

Alexia is thriving.

She walks through the door most nights with grass still clinging to her socks and a smile that tells you how training went before she even speaks. Her English is sharper now, more confident but she still mumbles through early mornings and sometimes mixes up your shampoo with hers.

You finished your studies a few months ago. Your degree hangs beside the kitchen calendar. Crooked because neither of you are handy but perfect anyway. You work full-time now. Something stable. Something good. And most evenings when you both get home, you drop your bags in the same corner and say the same thing:

“Hey. You okay?”

And the answer, more often than not, is yes.

Some days are still heavy. Grief doesn’t leave completely. It lingers, soft-edged and familiar. But Alexia talks to her sister now. They’ve built something new. Not the same as before but strong in its own way. Her mother visits more, too. She still brings flan and always kisses your cheek twice like she’s known you longer than she has.

You think about how far you’ve both come, sometimes. Especially on nights like this.

She’s curled up on the couch. Your legs tangled with hers. A match replay humming low on the TV in the background. You’re half-watching her more than the game. The way her brow still furrows when she watches herself play. The way her fingers drum against your ankle like she can’t not touch you, even unconsciously.

You lean into her shoulder.

She turns, soft-eyed, and murmurs, “Sabes qué?”

You smile, lazy. “¿Qué?”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just brushes her thumb across your knee, gaze lingering.

Then, quietly:

“Gracias por quedarte.”

You close your eyes, just for a second, breathing it in. Her voice. Her presence. This place that is now yours.

“I never wanted to be anywhere else,” you say.

And you mean it. In every room of this home. In every part of this life you’ve built slow and true. You mean it.

Outside, the city moves on. The world spins.

But here... with thick walls, warm skin, and all the time in the world... you stay.

Together.

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #my long story #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader

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naptimepng · 2 days ago

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ghost who sets his eyes on a pretty florist on one of riley’s walks and makes it his mission to adopt another pet.

bloodhound

ghost x f!reader | 1.3k

warnings/tags: mini fic, stalking, non consensual touching, harassment, flower language, simon is mean, reader is horny but also conflicted but also horny, vague stockholm syndrome?, lowercase, references to coercion/manipulation, ghost is so delusional but he’s motivated, light petplay, ghost takes a page out of price’s ‘im not mad im disappointed’ book on How to Manipulate Pretty Birds, handjob daydreams. a/n: uhhh i have no excuses i just think he’s so hot. typed up on my phone, will properly edit and update later. had some vague thoughts inspired by that one ghouljams drabble from ages ago idk. gentle reminder that i am blocking any minors/ageless blogs that interact! summary: ghost sets his eyes on a pretty florist on a walk with riley, and decides he could do with another pet.

he can see you through the windows, golden lettering stuck to the glass spelling out the name of the shop, and painted in pretty cursive underneath est. 2023.

business has been booming; it’s rare that the shop is nearly empty like it is today. he doesn’t pay it much mind, knows it's a product of the may bank holiday. he's only grateful that no one’ll be there to look down their noses at him when he corners you later.

he pretends to inspect a bouquet of dark purple-black flowers, fingering the waxy petals and turning over the small handwritten label to read your neat scrawl; black madonna lilies symbolise transformation, rebirth, and the hidden depths of the human psyche.

apt, he thinks.

he sniffs, glancing down at riley and shaking his wrist to loosen his grip on the leash. it’d look unintentional to onlookers, like an owner letting his skin breathe for a moment after the chafing fabric of the leash. the dog looks up at him, and ghost clicks his fingers quietly, gesturing with a jerk of his chin to the other side of the shop. target.

riley nudges at his hand and waits for another click. ghost cocks his head, waits for you to set the half-made bouquet in your hands down before he kisses his teeth, and the dog is off.

he barrels into you, tail wagging wildly, tongue wetting your fingers as you laugh, surprised but happy, and scratch under his chin, petting at his ears and neck.

“hello,” you coo, bending at the waist. “you’re very friendly, aren’t you?”

stupid girl, he thinks, scowling as he dips his chin to peek under your skirt. your dress is too short.

you straighten then, glancing quickly around you, looking for an owner. your dress falls back over your thighs, and he grits his teeth.

he is nothing if not persistent, though. years of sniper training had drilled that into him—so he waits. lets riley get one last pet, then tugs lightly on the leash when the dog looks back at him, awaiting further instructions. ghost clicks his tongue, muttering a low heel, riley. he comes obediently, returning to his side and sits quietly.

ghost steps around the corner then. staring you down from underneath the brim of a black ball cap, dark hoodie pulled over his head even in the heat.

he can see when your eyes land on him. the flex of your throat as you swallow, the small shift of your feet, angled towards the shop door, your expression tightening, and he knows your brain is screaming at you to run.

he’s not the prettiest, he knows that. months spent in underground cells soaked in his own blood and years of service had done that to him. the bridge of his nose is crooked from being broken one too many times and being set badly the last. the scar bisecting his lip stretches when he gives you a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. you catch a glint of silver on his lower canine, a flash of it as he runs his tongue over his teeth. he’s tall too, thick and built, even through the hoodie.

“mutt likes you,” he murmurs, hooking a finger into riley’s collar to tug him back a little.

“h-he’s very sweet,” you whisper, too scared to look away from the man should he lunge for you.

he shifts on his feet and you twitch, shoulders drawing up to your ears but he only sniffs and cocks his head.

“dress is awfully short,” he murmurs, unashamedly looking you up and down, his dark eyes lingering on the swell of your breasts beneath the sweetheart neckline of your dress. you try to excuse him—maybe it was accident, maybe he didn’t mean to look for that long—but when he glances up at your face and gives you a mean smile that reveals all his teeth you know deep down it wasn’t.

you swallow, belly hot with something you don’t want to examine too closely, and swallow to wet your throat.

“you can’t—th-that’s not appropriate of you to say, sir.”

“oh, isn’t it? just sayin’ a fact, aren’t i? on’y warnin’ ya, might attract the wrong type of man,” he grins, mean and predatory. he licks his lips, glancing down at your tits again, nostril flaring like he’s scenting you. “y’got a phone?”

“what?”

it comes out incredulous—surely he doesn’t expect to earn your phone number after the borderline harassment he opened with.

he repeats himself, voice gone low and dangerous. mouth downturned in a scowl like you’ve done something wrong. like you’ve disappointed him. he holds eye contact until you visibly swallow and look down at your hands.

“um, yeah.”

“give it ‘ere.”

you root in your bag, one of the straps thrown over your shoulder. he watches the tight flex of your fingers around it, holding the strap in place and feels his cock swell in his jeans. thinking about the hot slide of your hand around him, constricting like a cunt.

oh, and look at that. no ring on your finger either—good; one less job for him.

“you live around ‘ere?” he asks, already knowing your answer.

“ye—no. no. i, um—i… take the bus,” you say, face creasing in a brief grimace at your slip-up.

“hm.”

you hold your phone to him, gnawing anxiously on the tip of your finger.

(nasty habit, that. he’ll train you out of it soon enough.)

he clears his throat and stares at you, gaze heavy.

“drop it,” he orders, voice rolling like distant thunder. he raises his eyebrows expectantly when you don’t immediately deposit the phone in his palm, and has to hide a smirk when you finally give in, reaching to drop it obediently into his hand.

“good pup,” he mutters, big thumbs typing his number into your contacts, saving it under owner. you’ll panic about it later, he knows, flustered and indignant. unaware that he’ll have you under his thumb soon.

his number saved, he hooks a finger into the strap of your bag and tugs, pulling you forward a little. you stumble as you go, palms up to catch yourself on his chest with a panicked look on your face. realising that you’re suddenly too close to him and recoiling.

his grip on you is too strong though, rooting you to him despite your attempt to step back. he tucks your phone into your bag carefully, adjusts the strap and pats your cheek when he’s done.

“good girl.”

you blink up at him, not sure how to feel. anxiety flutters in your chest, wondering whether you could call this harassment or just… men being men. not sure whether you should be kicking up a fuss, calling him indecent and presumptuous for getting that close to you, or letting him toy with you like he is now. small smirk on his lips, clearly enjoying your indecision. he stares down at you with his head cocked like he’s examining you. he’s tall enough that he has to dip his head to look at you properly, towering over you until he steps back and lets you breathe.

“go on, pup. back to work with ya,” he says, jerking his chin in the direction of the bouquet you’d been working on. he folds his arms and tugs riley away, watching you gather yourself before turning back to your work station.

he thinks the red roses in your hands must be divine intervention with the shy glance you give him over your shoulder when he turns the corner.

he pats his back pocket, tracing the thin outline of your id that he’d slipped into his jeans while you’d been hyperventilating at his proximity. you’ll get used to him, he thinks. his good little girl. he’ll have you well trained in no time. he won’t tell you that he knows your name, or that he has already made a copy of your key from when you ‘lost’ it last week. or that he had released the dog on you to let him get used to your scent, considering that you’ll be moving in soon. and, he smiles to himself, it’ll be easier to track you now.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #my writing #deleted the original post and reposting this instead #may update later!!!#meow

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maxinehufflepuffprincess · 3 days ago

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If It Were Anyone Else

Go Hyun-tak x reader.

Okay, so this is a fic based on something that happened when I was in high school. I kinda wanna do a few stories based around things I did as a teen or things conversations I've had with friends. Because we did some wild things. I already did one with Niragi from Alice In Borderland.

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update.

Summary: Your boyfriend got in a fight. So you stepped in to stop him.

Hyun-tak was a quiet force. Sure, he could be loud. He could make a room pay attention to him with a simple smile. He was caring. He was protective of those he cared for the most. When someone disrespected anyone he held dear, it was like a storm had been awoken. He knew when to hold back and when to go full force. So seeing him in a fight wasn’t exactly uncommon for you.

You were used to cleaning him up, asking if he was okay, begging him not to do it again. Because you couldn’t stand to see him hurt. He never made a promise he couldn’t keep. But he always promised he’d come back to you.

The day had started fine. It had been a fun day, well as fun as you can get when it comes to school. It was Gotak and your friends who made your days good. The day had been filled with laughter. So when you saw a crowd had formed in your first class after lunch, you were shocked to see Gotak in the centre of it all.

There he was, trading punches with someone. It was someone you both knew, not a friend, perhaps, but still someone you had been friendly with. The two were punching each other, dodging and trading harsh words.

You didn’t really think. You just acted. All you knew was that Gotak looked angrier than you had ever seen him. You’d never seen that much hurt in his eyes before. So you moved. You didn’t want him to do something he’d regret. It was stupid, incredibly stupid for you to jump between the two. You stepped in front of a man who was only seeing red at this point. Baku had tried to reach out to stop you, but you had been too quick. Your bag sat at his feet.

His knuckle was inches from your nose. Gotak’s fist was frozen midair. Everyone froze. Your heart was racing before you had been so close to being punched by the person you cared about most in the world, and you knew it would have been your fault. But you also knew Gotak would have blamed himself. He always did when you got hurt.

The two of you locked eyes for a moment. A moment that felt like an eternity. You swallowed down your nerves and gently lifted your hand to carefully take hold of his fist. You lowered his hand and gently squeezed it. “Let’s go for a walk, Hyun.” Your voice was soft, slightly shaky, but grounding.

Hyun-tak nodded his head and walked through the crowd. You turned to the guy who had been a part of the fight. You then grabbed Hyun-tak’s bag and then yours. You and Baku shared a look.

“I’ll text you when he’s okay.” You told Baku before jogging off to Hyun-tak’s side. The two of you walked side by side, you made your way to the roof. No one would be up there. It could be just the two of you. You were right, when you had made it to the roof, it was silent. The quiet was welcomed. You set your bags down to lean against a wall before you opened your bag to get out your first aid kit. You watched Hyun-tak for a moment as he sat down.

You walked over to the male and sat down beside him. “Are you okay?” You asked him softly. You wanted to clean him up, but you had to wait. Just a little for him to get out of his head, for him to tell you that he was ready. Sometimes he just needs a moment. “I don’t need to know what he said or did. Not until you’re ready. But are you okay?”

“I only stopped because it was you.” He told you honestly, like your question didn’t even register in his brain. “If it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have stopped.” Your heart fluttered at his words. It was honest. It was raw. You could hear the tremble in his voice, his eyes watered, and tears threatened to spill. “I almost hurt you.” He placed his right hand in yours. A silent way of telling you that you could take care of him.

“But you stopped yourself. I was the one you stood between the two of you. If I had gotten hurt, that would have been on me. Not you.” You explained to him as you began to clean his knuckles.

“I saw red, I couldn’t even think and then.. There you were. Right in front of me, and I could breathe again. I could stop. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have stopped. I don’t think I would have been able to.” You were thankful that he was opening up like this. It showed he trusted you to be vulnerable with you. You appreciated that.

“Even Baku?” You asked him curiously.

“Even Baku.” He confirmed as he nodded his head, a small but dopey smile on his face.

“But he’s your best friend. I’m sure he would have brought you back.” You told him as you began to bandage his knuckles.

“But you’re everything.” He told you with a small smile on his face. You felt your face heat up as you smiled bashfully at him.

“When you say things like that, it almost sounds like you like.” You told him teasingly. A bright yet cheeky smile on your face. It was Hyun-tak’s favourite smile of yours.

“Hm, I’ll try harder to make them sound like I love you.” He gently pulled you closer to his body. He pulled you onto his lap and hugged you close. His head on your chest as you ran your fingers through his hair.

“Are you okay, my love?” You asked quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.

You felt your top starting to become wet, and his body shook. “I am now, you’re here.”

With a kiss to the crown of his head, the two of you stayed like that, on the roof, safe in each other’s arms. No one would bother you. It was quiet. Comfortable and all knowing. Hyun-tak would tell you why the fight happened, and he would tell you when he was ready. But for now, you were content with stroking his hair as you held each other, as he cried, letting out all his emotions.

-------------------------

Everything Taglist: Thank you for supporting me.

@thecheshireprincess @potato-vagina @spanish-delulu-23 @deliciousmagazinequeen @myblovedjyh

Gotak Taglist: Thank you for supporting me.

@cassidyysblog

#weak hero #weak hero class #weak hero x reader #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class two #weak hero class 2 #go hyuntak #gotak #gotak x reader #go hyuntak x reader

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moesthoughts · 10 hours ago

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GUESS

you want to guess the color of my underwear

natalie scatorccio is confident she can guess what color underwear you’re wearing. (thank you for 400!!)

warnings ➥ semi public sex, smut with plot, orgasm denial, lowkey pervert nat, fwb, pre crash, reader is on the team

Practice has been rough, after playing for what feels like hours you are finally benched. You crash onto the seat and sink into the metal. You’re hot, annoyed, and tired. Coach Scott has been relentless with practicing since going to nationals relies on winning your next game. You happen to be a good player on the team, but you won’t be able to play well if you’re constantly overworked. You throw your head back and take a deep breath, trying to regain the oxygen you lost from running that much.

Another whistle comes, a soft groan escapes from your lips, and you expect to be thrown right back on the field. A wave of relief washes over you when he waves the other group of girls over instead, and you return to your state of rest. You adjust yourself when someone plops down next to you, rather close. You know it’s your best friend, Nat. No one else nuzzles right up to you when benched, you look over to her, your eyebrows knitted together since you are exhausted. Of course, she notices your discomfort straight away.

“Who pissed in your cereal?”

She questions you, nudging you with her shoulder. You can tell she’s worried, she also knows how much you’re overworked on the field since you complain about it so much. You think about not answering and taking the time that you have to rest and regain your stamina. You can’t just ignore Nat though, especially since she’s expressing her concern.

“I’m just so fucking tired, I want to leave so bad.”

You reply, returning to your original position. Nat hums in response. She notices how much you’re put on the field, more than Taissa who’s a beast at soccer, that’s very impressive to her. She understands that she’d be upset too if she was playing that much.

“So.. Why not leave for a bit? Have some fun for once in your fucking life.”

You look at her in disbelief, Coach will absolutely kill you if you left in the middle of practice, no matter how exhausted you are. Still, Nat seems so sure about bailing on practice. So many thoughts ran through your head, of course your brain tells you not to, but the aching your body is going through tells you to go for it. You sit up and let out a sigh, a little fun wouldn’t hurt.

“Screw it.”

Nat instantly smiles and stands up, she drags you to your feet. You can’t believe you’re actually doing this, feeding into your friend’s bad choices. Though, adrenaline runs through your veins as you hear Nat tell Laura Lee that you’re about to throw up, just “incase coach is worried”. You bite back a smile as you fold over, pretending to gag.

As soon as you get to the locker room you straighten your poster, laughter spilling out of your mouth. For the first time in a month you actually feel alive, even if it’s due to skipping practice. You’re having fun, that’s all that matters. Nat eyes you, a sly smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She comes closer to you, so close that you have to press yourself against a locker so that you have space. Her hands rest on your shoulders. You understand what she meant by “fun” back at the bench, the look she was giving you even back there. Yes, you’re tired. But you can’t ignore the flame being ignited in your core.

“Nat..”

You whisper out, your hands instinctively reaching for hips. Nat gives you a look that turns you into putty, the confidence she has making you even more nervous than you were before.

“What? I thought you wanted to have fun, pretty girl.”

“…Here?”

Nat rolls her eyes and presses her lips against yours, her hands changing to press you against the lockers instead of just resting on your shoulders. She whines into the kiss, already needy. You’ve been needing an escape all day, all worked up from school and now soccer practice. Nat read you like a book, she knows what you want, and she’s very willing to give it you. Your hands travel up to her hair, your fingers entangling in her brunette roots, she softly moans, pressing onto you more. Her lips leave yours, leaving you both panting. For once, you thought you get a break. You’re wrong. She’s already hooking her fingers under your pants, tugging on them gently.

“I bet I can guess what color underwear you’re wearing.”

She barely speaks above a whisper, her tone more confident than ever. She obviously knows what she’s doing to you, she wants you flustered, shy. She relishes the sight of your face turning bright red, and how your eyes are looking everywhere but at her. She grabs your chin with a smirk plastered on her face, you bite your lip nervously.

“..Oh yeah?”

You’re a stuttering mess, folding completely at how well she’s with her words. Usually there’s playful banter, but you’re completely vulnerable. Nat has you in the palm of her hand. She leans forward, her lips brushing against your ear.

“Well, I already know. Those lacey white panties we got at the mall, right? the ones with the little bow. I saw it when you leaned over.”

A shiver goes up your spine, listening to her words, her tone thick as honey. Before you can even open your mouth to answer her, Nat drops down onto her knees, tugging down your clothes with her. She licks up your slit, kissing your clit. You arch into her mouth so she could have more access to you. You’re already a whimpering mess, gasping at her tongue swirling around your clit. She loves how you taste, and how willing you are to let her eat you out. Her mouth latches onto your clit, softly sucking on your bud. You groan, grinding into her mouth.

“Fuck, Nat..”

You mutter, your fingers entangling in her hair once again. She licks up your wetness, tasting everything she can. Her tongue slips inside of you going at a steady pace, her hand holds your hip in place, wanting you to stay still for her. She drinks in every moan that comes from you. Nat’s so turned on, from how pretty you’re being, the thought of someone walking in at any moment, she wants to escape to your room so badly, makeout with you until you both pass out, taste you even more, grind against you. Right before you can reach an orgasm she pulls away, you whine loudly, tears pricking at your eyes. She stands back up and latches onto your neck, sucking and biting, definitely leaving marks in her wake. She replaces her mouth with her fingers, pumping in and out of you so fast you can’t keep up with her pace.

Finally, you cum around her fingers. She groans into your neck, riding out your orgasm. Nat pulls out, licking your juices from her fingers. You both gasp as you hear the door to the locker room open, Nat quickly pulls up your pants and forces you to sit down. You lean over, trying your best to seem like you just threw up. Her hands rubs your back, mock comforting you. As the footsteps approach, Jackie appears from behind the lockers, seeming displeased with you both.

“Where have you— Is she okay??”

Jackie instantly becomes worried, taking a seat next to you. Her hand rests on your shoulder, rubbing circles with her thumb. You feel absolutely horrible tricking her like this, just so you both can get away with having sex in the locker room. Thankfully you look like a hot mess from the previous events, making it look like you’re sick.

“Yeah, she puked. I think I should take her home, or something.”

Nat babbles, making up a cover story on the spot. You nod, hugging you stomach while slowly rocking. Jackie sighs, before encouraging you both to go home. Nat gives her a satisfied smile before helping you up, her arm wrapping around your shoulder. She guides you towards the exit of the room, wearing a proud look on her face.

“We’ll continue when we get to your house.”

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR 400 FOLLOWERS I AM BEYOND GRATEFUL!! You all have been so sweet and I’m so lucky to have each and every one of you. 🤍 I hope you enjoy this little fic I wrote as a treat, I LIVE YOU GUYS!!!

req me!

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#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets smut #natalie scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets imagines #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets imagine #natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x you #natalie scatorccio imagines #moesthoughts #moeswriting

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13tinysocks · 2 days ago

Text

My Dead Girlfriend

Alliances are built while minds crumble. An unexpected guest appears. The end draws near.

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

[Part one] [Ao3] [17]

18 * Mirage [11.5k]

"Got a job got money got a place to be, Run though the desert trying to find me, me, me."

White on white - FIDLAR

Markus was used to making split second decisions. He could rush to hide you, but then Mohawk, who had the same speedy perception as him, would see. Get pissed, know he was trying to hide you. Or he could let Mohawk see you, risk letting the unpredictable freak inside the building where you'd clearly just got done fucking Tracksuit. Both seemed like bad ideas.

Markus turned but didn't move from the doorway. Body blocking your frame.

"Hey." Mohawk didn't seem to notice how strange Markus's positioning is. His dark eyes were wild and unfocused. He'd gone weeks without water, surviving off blood which only shriveled his brain. "You hear any of that," he pointed to the dull colored sky, "up there."

Markus's eyes flicked to Gray who was also weighing the options of quickly hiding you versus hoping Mohawk just didn't spot you.

"No." He'd been too busy scolding you and Tracksuit. Both standing behind him now. Listening. Wild cards he couldn't control. You weren't sure what you wanted to do, what this was about. They told you Mohawk had been in contact with them, but unreliable, unpredictable and insistent on staying alone.

Mohawk huffed out his nose. "Where's the others? Don't wanna relay this shit a billion times."

Tracksuit didn't look at you as he put his mask back on, moving out the other busted window, lounging on it to block his view of you. "Right here, guy."

"What about the gay one?"

"I can hear you." Maskless floated over from the tent. Relieved to hear something that wasn't moaning or bickering.

Mohawk nodded to himself, "Okay, okay, good, awesome, yeah." He didn't notice how weird it was three of the Marks blocked his view into the building. Too distracted by his pounding headache, the heat, and the gnawing fear. "We gotta move or like form defensive maneuvers or something or-" He swayed on his feet, holding his aching head a moment before continuing, "Assholes gonna come for you. Kill ya, take one of ya hostage and replace that pussy loser." His head lolled against his shoulder, hair drooping sad against his head. Suit ripped, exposing his arms just past the shoulders, shoving off slivers of his thighs. So tired. So worn. He just wanted to lay down and rest but there was never anywhere cool, safe, with water or with the thing he craved the most- you.

You knew who the 'assholes' were, you needed to know about the other, your stomach twisting as you spoke without thinking, "Pussy loser?"

Mohawk snapped upright. Unsure what he'd just heard. He'd been hearing a lot of things in the quiet desert lately. Mainly your voice or his fathers whispering over his shoulder or in his blank dreams.

Sand shifted softly inside the building. The Marks in the windows tensed but stayed silent. Hoping you'd just stay inside, let Mohawk believe it was a heat mirage, but you needed to know. You pushed at Seb's back, "Move." He did. Unsure if that was the best idea but feeling like he owed you some pliancy.

Mohawk had to be hallucinating. There was no way a human like you could still be alive out here. But there you were despite him rubbing his eyes. The sun reflected gold on your sweat-slicked skin, shoulders unburdened with stress in the sweet afterglow of sex. He didn't feel himself step forward, couldn't stop his arms from reaching out for your skin to make sure it was real, you were real. "(Y/n)?"

Gray floated into his path, "You can speak to her after we've-" Mohawk grabbed him by the arm and flung him away with shocking force. He rushed forward, half-expecting his arms to go straight through you but his hug lands home, wrapping around your body. He nuzzled his stubbly jaw into your (hair/scalp) inhaling deep. You smelled terrible but unmistakably like yourself. You groaned in his grip, ribs on the verge of bruising. He chuckled an apology, holding back tears as he looked into your face. Thumbs coming to your cheeks, poking and stretching, making double sure.

Squished lips part, "You can quit it now." You grunted, not knowing how much your voice was a melody to him.

He didn't think about the others, the repercussions, he just kissed you. Pressing his lips hurriedly to your forehead, your cheeks and finally your mouth. Teeth meeting your forcibly puckered lips. Worming his tongue past your surprised defenses, tasting you, tasting meat, tasting...

Markus tore him off, "You're hurting her."

You stumbled back against the concrete building. Mohawk's eyes wide, set on you, not even acknowledging Markus' hand on his shoulder. "Who the fuck was that?"

You violently rubbed at your mouth now infected with the taste of stale blood, "What?"

All preconceived notions were out the window. He wasn't thinking right. Relieved. Scared. Pissed. Dehydrated. "Who the fuck were you just kissing?"

Behind Mohawk, Markus fixed you with a look. One that made you want to rebel against daddy but you knew he knew better. Don't tell him. Don't rub anything in his face right now. He's dangerous.

You'd play along. Bitch out Markus later. "I'm not your girlfriend, dude. I'm not gonna taste the same."

"If you look and sound the same, you're not gonna taste different. Who?" His gaze slid to Seb. "Was it you?" His hiss was venomous, completely murderous.

Seb held up his hands, "Haven't seen you in forever but I still believe in bro code, man."

Mohawk nodded to himself like it wasn't the most obvious lie ever. He turned to Markus.

"Must've been you." Partly true but he didn't need to know that. "Did you make her call you Daddy or something? Huh? You sick f-"

Gray was a flash. "Enough." Suddenly they were both yards away. He had him on the ground before you could even process, Gray's boot pressed to Mohawk's neck. "This is unimportant to the issue at hand. Where are they now? Are we in immediate danger?"

"I don't have a fuckin' GPS on them you," Mohawk grabbed him by the ankle, tried shoving him off with an, "idiot." This time Gray was expecting the attack, budged but not far, foot pinning him back into the sand. Mohawk choked, sinking into the soft ground. "I'm not the one you should be worried about. Like I told you, they're coming to-" Mohawk shifted, tried to dislodge Gray with a kick to the side but Gray was unmoved, sustained by food and water where Mohawk was not. "-kill you!"

Gray didn't let up. For one, it was a good idea to keep crazy in check. For two, Mohawk had forced himself on you so openly, then had to audacity to be angrier than he was at the situation. What a silly, stupid man he was. Gray could not wait to be rid of him.

"Let him up."

Gray's foot didn't release. Your control bounced off him like a rubber bullet. You tried, "Please?" Not expecting it to work.

He barely lifted his foot, lost his focus to look at you, but it was enough for Mohawk to slip away on his back. Huffing and shaking off sand as he hovered above the ground.

Mohawk eyed him darkly, "Was it you?"

A nasty human part of him was tempted to tell Mohawk you'd sucked his dick, to upset him. The Viltrumite half of him overruled- but only barely. "As I said it's inconsequential."

That seemed good enough for Mohawk. So dazed he couldn't detect double-speak. He made no move to choke you out in another hug so Gray made no move to pin him down. Annoyed as he was that you didn't want Mohawk on the ground where Gray felt he belonged.

You pointed at Mohawk, "By pussy bitch you mean Phantom, right?" Mohawk nodded stupidly, just happy to hear your voice now, to have your attention. "He's alive?" Another nod.

"Those shitheads have been eatin' 'im alive." Mohawk doesn't tell you he's been eating him too. Though you already had a pretty good idea of the situation based on the taste lingering on your tongue.

Markus can see the idea before it's even a twinkle in your eye. "Don't make him take you on a suicide mission. He's weak. You'll both die."

"I'm not weak." Mohawk snarled as if he wasn't about to wilt in the sun.

"Then we all go!" You snapped. "There's two of them, six of us! They have no chance."

The truth of that rolled through the group like the hot wind on the dunes. It wouldn't be a hard fight. It'd be over fast. There'd be at least two bodies worth of Mark jerky to eat. Except none of them trusted each other and they all knew it. Had felt it when you were gone, there was nothing holding them together without you. There was no guarantee everyone would survive the fight, especially you in your fragile human body. A worse alternative, if you didn't go, somebody could be on the verge of death and cry out, 'Stop, I'll tell you where (Y/n) is if you don't kill me!' No Mark Grayson took defeat gracefully.

They had no synergy in battle, hadn't trained since landing here. When the fight was done, one of them could be hurt, easy to kill, and the others just might converge in for extra meat and another Mark off the competition roster. Markus and Seb shouldn't exactly be on a battlefield together at the moment.

None of them say it. All of them hope the others aren't thinking it, but they are. Nobody trusts the others enough. Cocky in their strength but worried the others would dog pile when they were down.

"I have a better plan." Gray said.

Mohawk watched the sky, eyes erratic. "Can we maybe talk about it somewhere less out in the open, shithead?"

***

The cave was lit by a sunbeam, traveling miles upon miles down, a reminder you weren't trapped anymore. You stood on the spotlight's edge, it was far as you'd go into the cave. They needed to relocate, had to gather supplies for a journey, it was the only good option for the moment, and Gray insisted on going to collect food. You thought he meant any lingering bugs, maybe the fungal garden he'd talked about digging up. But you were mostly dwelling on the fact you felt no sense of closure being here again. When they said you had to come with them, you didn't fight. Wanted to see this place one last time and say goodbye to it on your terms.

Most of the cave had filled with sand, the Queen's pool was polluted with the stuff. Mohawk dove into the water without a second thought, drinking until he almost threw it all up, but all you could think about was Mark kissing you in the clear water, the sound of chittering bugs surrounding you. You could no longer hear them, the Queen's body and the thousands of dead decomposing eggs filled the cavern with the scent of rot. The Marks moved efficiently around you like the bugs used to. Somehow with your kingdom crumbled, you still rule.

Seb fashioned pieces of the Queen's shell into vases to hold as much water as possible. Maskless stayed above ground, keeping constant vigilant guard for the alleged incoming threat. Markus stood behind you, offering, "I can take you up if it's too much."

Your eyes scanned the sand for Mark's body but found nothing. Maskless had told you he was buried. Good, he deserved that much. But you still felt sick seeing the cave and not him. Not knowing what he did to himself, what you did to him.

"I'm still pissed at you." You said. He didn't argue because he didn't agree with your frustration, wasn't sorry for getting upset. You did something stupid, childish and now you were trying to act like you hadn't made a mistake. Like you weren't shaking, feeling the heavy guilt deep in your gut for fucking Seb then coming back to Mark's grave. It'd do your marriage no good to rub your nose in it, so Markus let you feel what he'd been trying to protect you from.

He knew you were crying though your back was to him. Could tell by the set of your shoulders and stuttered breaths. He watched you while you stared at the sand pile, trying not to dive into it. Neither of you watching the other two in the smoke filled hamster hut.

Gray didn't apologize for attacking and Mohawk didn't attack. The truce was glass-brittle, but they worked together silently. Gray was using the sheet of your worn cot as a sack to store the smoked meats inside while Mohawk tore off pieces of a Mark ribeye with his teeth. Occasionally moving a piece into the sack for Gray.

He'd relay the plan to the others later but for now he wanted to hammer home it's importance with Mohawk, who was clearly a loose cannon.

He spoke as he pulled long stripes of dried thigh off the makeshift wrack. "You must understand why we don't want her around them."

"I'm not stupid," Mohawk said with a mouthful of meat.

Gray didn't agree, but kept talking. "(Y/n) thinks she wants to fight, but what she really wants is Phantom dead."

Mohawk remembered the fight. The suspicion of Phantom. The confirmation of Scars and Lensless questioning him everyday and you not being with them, dead or alive. He knew the freak was involved but not the extent. The memory made him angry nonetheless, "Knew I should've killed that emo fuck."

Gray shook his head. Mohawk had reported his condition while you all flew over. You seemed partly enthused, partly annoyed by the news. Wished you could've done it yourself.

Gray said, "It'd be best for us to remove Phantom from the equation quietly, but (Y/n) wouldn't like that. She's smart for a human, she'd find a way to make us confess." He knew most of the others wouldn't be able to withstand your mental control- those who could would fall prey to your more manipulative tactics. He wasn't sure he could hide anything if you touched him again. "We have to bring him to us, let her kill him herself. That way, she won't have any reason to walk into immediate danger and those two will wear themselves down without food or entertainment."

Mohawk quirked a brow, mind returning to him more with every chew and swallow. "We can't trust him you know."

"We won't keep him alive long. Just enough for him to tell us more about the others condition and talk to (Y/n). I'm eighty percent sure she will want answers for what transpired here." Gray tested lifting the sack. Heavy and straining, but it could take a few more pounds.

"What'd he do?"

"(Y/n) hasn't fully divulged." As if Gray would tell him if he knew.

Mohawk grunted into another bite. "And what if I wanna kill those assholes myself?"

Gray leveled him with a stare. Eyes near black unlike Mohawk's chocolaty rich hue. "They'll kill each other for us, they're unstable as is. No risk on our part." Mohawk opened his mouth to argue, but Gray doubled down, "You want to live to be with (Y/n), correct?" His mouth shut. Gray didn't like the idea of keeping Mohawk around, but knew there was strength in numbers. Despite how things hashed out when you went missing, he wouldn't let it happen again. "Then we are agreed."

***

Seb dragged the impromptu pots over. One in each hand. Huge and sloshing.

"There's some left," Seb reported, "But I don't wanna risk spilling so we can come back for the rest later."

Markus nodded but made no move to help. He thought Seb would do well to struggle and think about what he'd done, and more importantly Markus was planning to carry you to safety, across the new threshold wherever they decided to hunker down. He looked to the sky above the cave, found Maskless floating still. No signs of danger yet but still the others should, "Hurry up."

Just then Mohawk and Gray exited the hamster hut. A rugged sack slung over Gray's shoulder, hanging heavy with smoked meat. The smell penetrated through the rot and punched you in the gut. You knew all at once what was in that bag. You wanted to hurt Gray for holding it. Wanted to force them all to tell you who'd done the processing, but all of them had probably helped- all of them kept this from you. Except for one.

There was no time to lash out. Not with the impending threat.

You turned to Mohawk, trailing behind Gray, gait much steadier than it'd been before but nowhere as healthy as his companion. "Wherever we're going, you're flying me." You didn't need powers to make him do it.

A wry smile slid across his cracked lips. "Was jus' gon ask, baby." He trotted to your side, took you into his arms like you belonged there. He was much gentler this time, even asked, "This good?" You nodded and he beamed. Tired, sunburned, feeling butterflies.

"(Y/n)-" Markus started.

"Don't talk to me."

***

The rock was cool. Retaining the heat from the day but not baking you alive. Gray spotted the slab of stone after an hour of flying low and slow. After scouting the area and deeming it Lensless and Scars free, construction began. Construction being Gray spinning like a drill and hollowing the thing out. Only leaving a narrow hidden hole at the bottom to get in and out of. You refused to go inside until there were more exits. Tiny punched holes in the roof for slits of light so you could remember- you weren't back in the cave.

He obliged with curt nods. Never once talking to you. Not under control but respecting your wishes. You'd need time to process and he was okay with that. He was just happy you hadn't yelled at him like you had Markus on the flight over. While he worked, the others gathered scraps from the wastes. Always with an eye on the sky. Wondering if they were going to spot Scars and Lensless. Wondering if the momentary peace was going to shatter. You stayed outside while the work was done, trying to make yourself a bed.

"Piece of shit." You hissed as the garbage disintegrated in your hands. You'd been trying to make a place to sleep for the past half-hour with what little you had to zero success. Just a birds nest of useless crap.

As it turned out, Mohawk was right. Scars and Lensless were on the prowl. When Maskless and Seb went back to the camp to grab supplies after convincing Gray they'd be careful. They got dangerously close to camp before spotting Scars' torn cape. They hid behind a dune, watching, calculating if this was a fight they could win, two on two. Seb thought yes, Maskless thought no. When Seb shifted to fight, Maskless held him back shaking his head.

They watched as the duo raided camp. Tore the tent apart. Turned the concrete ruins into rubble, calling out, "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

They didn't move. Waited until they got bored and left, heading in the opposite direction of the new camp to their relief. They took what they could from camp, but it wasn't much. The cots were shredded and Lensless stole Seb's beloved hammock for himself. Asshole.

They returned in a sweaty panic. Explaining everything as Gray swept the remnants of the rock dust outside. Gray insisted scouting end for the day, that everyone come inside at once. Nobody argued. Even you, whose body prickled from being in an enclosed space again. So soon after returning to that cave and the memories it brought back. You had to remind yourself over and over of the hidden exits. The light filtering through the roof in tiny dots.

The boys talked shop. The threat level, how safe it was here, how they were going to parse out food, when and if they should attack first. On the other hand, you stayed alone in a corner. Given up on the cot. Idly sticking a sharp piece of metal through scraps of cloth to make... you don't even know. You just needed something to do with your hands.

Night fell. The first in this new palace of stone. You pushed off Markus's quiet offer of cuddling. Refused Gray's offer of a patchwork blanket he'd made in a matter of minutes. You curled alone by the fire, shoved into the corner away from the exits. Ceiling holes patched for the night with cloth so no fire light escaped. The floor was freezing even so close to the fire. Nothing was comfortable. The smoke smell reminds you of Mark's meat sat across the base, hidden behind a stack of rocks. As if you not seeing it would hide the truth of what they'd done.

Bugs crawled between your fingers. The last handful alive had found you hours after leaving the queen's chamber. Came chattering along, carapaces milky with age. They'd all die soon. You could go back to the cave, pick through the rubble and eat the dead, but you were sure they were decomposed by now. There was only one option left and you knew it. Hated it, but had trouble admitting to yourself- it was probably the right move. Still, you turned around when Gray looked at you. Ignored Markus when he tried to talk to you. Shoved off Seb's jokes. Maskless didn't acknowledge you and for that, you were thankful. He had always been the most understanding when it came to your time in the cave.

"Wanna share body heat?" Mohawk stood over you, watching you shiver.

The last time you saw him, he rifled through your phone and pissed you off so bad Mark thought it'd be a great idea to take you into the caves he killed himself in. You fixed him with a glare. "We're not friends."

He bit back the urge to say, 'We're more.' He was worn, but not emotionally stunted.

He sat heavily by your feet, voice soft, "Heard you went through hell."

"I don't want to talk to you." Ouch but at least you were speaking to him. At least you hated those other guys right now, not him.

He laid himself behind you. All too aware of the others watching him. "Don't gotta talk to be warm." He held his arm over your waist, waiting for approval to bring it down.

"I have the fire." You grunted.

That wasn't a no. His arm draped over your waist, pulled your back flush to his warm front. The floor was still freezing but Mohawk was like a furnace. You didn't relax into him but you let it happen, took the comfort you desperately needed. Markus's discomfort, palpable from across the room, was a plus.

***

You counted the days as they passed. One, two, seven, nine. The first few were wrought with tension. Everyone but Mohawk, who had no idea, was pissed at Seb. You both were annoyed by Markus though you didn't share this with Seb. He'd kept the jerky from you too so right now you weren't feeling very buddy-buddy.

You ate the last of the bugs as they died of old ages skittering in your palms. There'd been a few close calls where Scars and Lensless flew overhead. The worst happened one morning when they landed on the bases roof. Everyone went still. Prayed to God they wouldn't hear the surge of heartbeats through the rock and fabric covered holes.

They only touched down a second. Lensless heaving and telling Scars to, "Slow down."

"No." Scars snapped. "This is survival, we can't just slow down."

"We should still conserve energy." Lensless huffed. "Dunno when we'll run into those weaselly assholes."

Scars made a noncommittal noise before his boots left the roof. "Come on."

Lensless sighed. Debris rained as they took off.

Nobody moved for minutes until Mohawk snapped, "Are we all just a bunch'a pussies? They were right there!"

"Keep your voice down," Maskless said.

"You didn't make a move either." Markus said.

Mohawk reeled on him, "Because I know you pussies wouldn't back me up."

None of them object. You do, "I would. We can still go."

Mohawk was a strange case. He was obnoxious, always ready to bite someone's head off, but he didn't turn your boyfriend into jerky. He backed you up on arguments with Markus he had nothing to do with. He kept you warm at night. He told Gray to stop fucking you with his eyes so much.

You weren't quite friends like you and Seb were, even closer post-fuck with lots of time to talk about nothing (when you momentarily forgot you were mad at him and got lonely) but you didn't exactly hate Mohawk either. You wouldn't die for him, but you were more than okay with the idea of helping him kill those fuckers.

"No, you're not," Markus said like he was judge, jury, and executioner. Intent on protecting you though you'd been snappish and cold toward him for days.

"You can't stop me." You said knowing he could. Knowing despite your fully healed leg you couldn't control Markus. You thought you had in Japan when you first met but you saw it now- he was just placating his wife. You added, "I can make the others stop you from keeping me here."

His eyes darkened. "You can barley control those two at the same time."

Seb barked out a, "Hey!"

Maskless rolled his eyes. Hating that he was your personal training dummy. "We're not having this conversation again. Nobody's letting (Y/n) leave because you idiots won't admit she's a valuable asset who could make sure those freaks don't move while we lop their heads off. This wouldn't be a hard decision if you weren't all selfish assholes."

Mohawk narrowed his eyes on Maskless. "Why do you care all of a sudden?" Nobody had fessed up to whose spit was on your breath days ago. For all Mohawk knew, Maskless switched teams.

Maskless looked exasperated. "I don't. I just know if I was alone in the desert, you would've killed me already. The only reason you haven't is because I'm the one who found her." It was a truth they'd all been dancing around. Maskless wasn't part of the wider universal play involving you, he'd fallen to the wayside. No one but Seb would care if he died. Once the jerky dried up, he was next.

"Why would we do that?" Markus snapped though they all knew why. A Mark alone was a sitting duck waiting to be eaten by the duo. The only reason Mohawk hadn't been was he was fast. Avoidant.

You vaguely recalled Maskless pulling you out of the cave. The hours after him splinting your leg. You should've said it days ago, "Thanks for that by the way, even if you just did it to keep yourself alive."

He rolled his eyes but said nothing. He felt a bit guilty about you knowing, but it was the truth.

Markus didn't like where this was going. "She's not a survival totem."

Maskless threw up his arms, "She literally is! The only reason we have food and water is because of her." The bugs and the Mark meat. "Those two want her, she could be bait and we could sneak up on them or something. Anything's better than just sitting here doing nothing."

Mohawk bobbed his head along. "Gay one's got a point."

Maskless's lips thinned. Gray's expression gave no tells. "It's too dangerous to use her at bait." A few weeks ago he'd think differently but now all he saw when he looked at you was pleasure unclaimed. Too rare to give up.

Maskless didn't care. He just needed the quiet part they'd all been avoiding to be said, "She already is bait to you people. The only reason you assholes haven't killed each other yet is you don't want to die in the fight and not be the last guy standing who gets to fuck her till you both die." He turned to you, "I'm sure you're great and all but this macho bullshit is insane. Can't we just take care of the problem now so it's not one later?"

"No." Markus wasn't listening to the greater point, just digging in his heels like he always did.

This could go on forever. You stood, "I'm going to bed."

You went to warmest corner you could and curled into a shivering ball. Peace and almost quiet, until Seb came over. Gray and Markus watched him as they bickered on.

"You look like you need this more than me." He said as you uncurled.

You cringed at the fabric. It used to be white, but it'd since gone gray with sweat and sand stains. His tank top, the only thing worthwhile him and Maskless recovered from camp. He hadn't worn it for a long while. The sight of it made you remember it's absence during your encounter. His bare chest. A dull heat lit in your stomach.

"Didn't think we were at the sharing clothes stage." You mumbled as you took it, slipped it over your head and let it come around you like a terrible smelling blanket.

He huffed out his nose, flopping down beside you. Mask pushed back into his hair. He'd worn it a lot less since then too. Only worn under the sun to protect his face going tomato red and peely. The others saw his face, so what was the point in hiding what they all knew was there anyway?

He gave you a look like you didn't make him cum twice. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, his shirt pressing in, thin and barely retaining your heat. "Never did that with any of mine." You keep the words vague, watching Mohawk's back. Thinking of the first Mark who broke your heart. Accidentally wearing his sweaty socks the morning after, his boxers too loose under your pants. You hadn't done that with anyone else.

"I mean, me neither but-" He paused when Markus turned to him a mildly murderous look. "Yeesh." Seb threw out his voice for the whole room to hear, "Don't mind us being normal and well adjusted over here."

Heads turn, faces are made. It's Maskless who speaks, "Cool, yeah, just step outside the conversation about our survival, guys."

Seb rose a middle finger with a lazy smile. Maskless chuffed but said nothing else. Turning back to the others to bitch them out. "See that?" Seb said.

"What?"

"Asshole didn't attack me cuz we're cool." They had to be, trapped in the desert alone together for to weeks. Maskless knew Seb cared, knew Seb was just as stressed and was better than him- able to step away for a breather. "We're like, totally buddies now."

"No, we're not." Maskless said mid-argument with Markus before getting right back to it.

"He doesn't mean that." Seb whispered.

"Yes I do."

"He doesn't."

Maskless dropped it. Seb grinned, lighting a new feeling in your stomach, jealousy. They had a bond you didn't have with anyone. It'd been a week out in the new hideout but you'd been dismissive and avoidant of anything longer than a five minute conversation. If you wanted that, you'd have to engage. Come out of the mental cave Mark trapped you in. You were going to die out here, you'd accepted that in the cave. Why not make more friends? Why not try to be happy? You had nothing but time with them, no rent, no quota to reach for Machine Head, you were more free than you had ever been. It wasn't like you'd had to try very hard for them to care about you and plus, if they did care about you- they just might take you to Phantom. With him gone you could put Mark to rest.

You closed your eyes and focused on the crackling fire.

The argument went in hotel-revolving-door circles while you slept.

That daddy-loving freak never gave. He said you should always be protected, always be safe, but how could you be with the assholes prowling the desert? Mohawk argued until he couldn't hold it in, he needed to hit something but daddy-wannabe dearest would whine about the attention it'd draw. So he left, flying into the atmosphere hoping the thinning air would help him think.

Of course he didn't want those freaks to kill you, but he wanted to see you murder those freaks at the same time. He wanted to see you get revenge- God the idea of you pissed and bloody got him going. But he couldn't relish the moment if he was busy holding off Scars and Lensless if only-

He almost didn't hear the flap of fabric. Mohawk spun, fist reeled back, ready to bash Scars head in.

Gray hovered in the black night. Arms tucked behind his back. "You watched them for a time, yes?"

Mohawk paused but didn't unwind. High above the camp, where no one could see or hear them fighting- perfect grounds for an ambush killing. "Yeah."

"Where are they usually at this time of night?"

"Sleeping or eating parts of that other guy."

Gray nodded. "And how long do they usually do that for?"

***

Mohawk looked over the dunes. Camp a spot in the distance. Early day sun beating on his skin. "You really think they won't hear?"

"They will." Gray said evenly, "They'll most likely come to investigate as well. We'll tell them if they do."

Mohawk blinked at the other man. The two of them hovered feet over the sand. Well, three of them technically, but Phantom wasn't floating, he was laying on Mohawk's back. Seeping blood and drool into his torn suit.

"I thought you said we wouldnt tell any-"

Gray didn't wait for him to finish. He dove into the rock they'd found jutting out of the ground. Impact a firework crack in the dawn. Surely picked up by everyone at camp, considering they were only a mile away. Gray was back at his side, dust and rocks already spun off his nearly pristine uniform before Mohawk could curse him out. "I said we wouldn't tell (Y/n) for some time."

Mohawk's nostrils flared but he lowered into the freshly dug cavern. Entrance hidden under a small rocky ledge. "So you just conveniently left out the part where everyone else finds out and is pissed at us- mostly me because your slimy ass is gonna lie and say you weren't involved."

"Lying is not productive." Gray followed him inside. Watched as Mohawk threw Phantom down. He landed in a slumped seat, unreacting and pale. Obtaining Phantom wasn't the hard part, it was making sure Scars and Lensless were far enough away to get in and out. Gray was sure they were weak- human flesh and blood dehydrated the body, clouded the mind. But they seemed surprisingly lucid, leaving their camp lightning quick just as the sun was rising. As though eating Phantom's limbs raw had made them better. Maybe it had. They'd waited for hours, scooped Phantom up and flew fast and hard until they were sure they hadn't been seen.

"What's your plan then?" Mohawk appreciated Gray's attitude, but was wary. Gray's eyes seemed to glaze over him- like he'd already decided he was an afterthought just like dad had. Mohawk proved dad wrong, dead wrong. Was itching to do the same thing to Gray if need be.

Gray lowered to his haunches, pulling a vial from his waistband. "(Y/n) wants revenge. She'll get it but-" he paused to unwrap Phantom's gauze, exposing hot, throbbing wounds, reeking with infection, "-she'll have to wait."

Mohawk watched him work the liquid into the red stumps. "Why not just let him hurt?"

Gray didn't stop. "He's hours from death and (Y/n) isn't ready to see him. She'll kill him on sight and live to regret not getting answers. He has to be lucid. If it makes you feel better, its a healing accelerant not a pain killer."

Markus couldn't have come at a better time. Leaving the other two to watch (Y/n) while he investigated that sudden noise outside. He didn't need to ask any questions to know what was going on. The secret hideout, the wound-healing-accelerator on Phantom's stumps, everything he overheard. He'd thought of it too, bringing the revenge to (Y/n) but he wasn't sure- Gray was. He could admire that.

He could feel Mohawk's apprehension, waiting for the scolding he associated with Markus.

"How long until he's stable?" Markus asked.

"Few days." Gray said. "A week at most, the infection is in his blood."

Mohawk hovered by the exit. Anxious to see (Y/n), ring burning in his pocket. "Stable but not able to hurt her right?"

"Theoretically he could still kill her in this state." Gray finished, hands bloodied. He made a note to bring rags and a small basin of water. "But he won't."

"You can see the future now or what?" Mohawk said.

"I spoke with Maskless." Gray said holding back a smile. He liked the little nicknamed you'd given them all very much. They were helpful and personal and made him happy. "He claimed Phantom talked about working extensively with the human government-"

Mohawk clicked his tongue, "Yeah, so did I, doesn't mean anything."

"I did as well." Markus said, and knew working alongside the GDA did not mean you were a good person.

Gray didn't know why he was surprised by this. They just seemed so... sure of themselves, like they didn't need someone in there ear telling them what to do- like Gray had all his life.

"Ah." He rose, moving his hands so fast the blood flung off of them and painted the walls. He could make a hideout for Phantom but never promised a good one, he didn't deserve it. "Maskless also reported his (Y/n) was killed by his father, not by him." It was said without emotion, yet Markus and Mohawk felt like they'd been hit with a bowling ball. Phantom was pathetic, desperate, but in one singular way, better than them both.

Mohawk prowled forward, fists balled. "Don't act like you're better than me-"

Gray watched him come, saying evenly, "I mean nothing by it. I killed her of my own volition."

That gave Mohawk pause, "Well, I didn't." He spat, almost feeling like the bigger man. Knowing he wasn't. He could've controlled himself better. He thought part of him gutted her on purpose. Sometimes he wondered if she survived if he would've killed her anyway.

"She is dead." Gray said matter-of-factly before nodding his head in the direction of camp, "She is not. You came for a second chance, so did he. We must trust he won't ruin it." He moved around Mohawk and flew quietly back to camp.

***

Lensless's back hit the wall, which shattered around them. They struggled against one another until they fell heavy down into the sand. Scars atop him, hands fisted in his collar. "Where is he!?"

Lensless who had just gotten home from a day of fruitless scouting, blinked up stupidly at Scars- before the fist came cracking up under his chin.

He was reeling but laughed as he said, "What are you talking about, dude?"

Thinking this was some game, some kind of roleplay scenario Scars made to fight. Fine by Lensless. He hadn't been able to properly flex his muscles in weeks. He missed fighting, missed killing more.

"He's gone!" Scars lunged.

Lensless narrowly dodged, feeling a gust of wind slap across his face. "No way. He has one leg and can't talk. There's no way he got away."

Scars pivoted midair. "That's what I thought until I realized- the only person would could've taken him was you." He was coming again. Faster than Lensless could dodge. Fist pushing up into his solar plexus, sending him shooting into the air, blood spewing from his dry lips.

"I didn't!" Lensless whined as he put on the brakes. Launching himself toward Scars rather than waiting.

"You knew we'd run out of him eventually. You hid him from me to have all the meat to yourself!"

They met. Fist to hand, holding each other off with straining muscles and scowls. "Is it so hard to believe someone could've rescued him?" Lensless half-snarled, half-grinned.

"We haven't seen anyone else in weeks!" Scars knee came up and kissed Lensless's crotch. He doubled over, opening his back for Scars elbow to come down.

Lensless landed in the hot uncaring sand. A cloud formed around him, sucking particles into his lungs with every breath. Scars landed hard, one foot on Lensless's chest ready to push down, break it open, pierce his heart on a rib. Lensless grabbed his ankle bruisingly hard, bearing teeth as he said, "We haven't seen bones either, bro."

***

Mohawk's hair brushed against the cave roof. "Come on, babe, you gotta try harder than that if you want it back."

You had been trying for the better part of five minutes to get him to come down. At first you were able to make him float down, nearly land, but soon as your single stolen boot was in reach, the control would wane and he'd snap back to the ceiling. Taunting you again.

Day fourteen with these assholes in the new base. Things weren't bad. You'd been trying to loosen up which was hard when you'd been so tightly wound these last few years. Not holding grudges was something you were unaccustomed to. Often you had to look to Seb for inspiration on how to be easy going. Conversation flowed from him in spigots despite how angry everyone was at him two weeks ago. He didn't seem to care, always sharing a story that related to something. Always funny or fucked up but relatable, endearing.

Markus made a point to never laugh at his jokes, but you swore you saw him half smile whenever you did. He hovered around you an annoying amount. After a few days you stopped batting him away as hard. You hadn't forgiven him, but it was better to not stay bitter- a habit that was difficult to grow out of. He never held anything against you, even when you were shitty. It made the idea of talking to him, messing with him a little more appealing- fun. Your affections cast like bait he always bit at and the more time went on, the more you liked the bite. Markus liked to act tough, but when you talked to him, were sweeter on him than you had been in weeks, he melted like wax. Relaxed those broad shoulders and chiding tone.

Then there was Gray. With stories of his own that were mildly terrifying with how dystopian they were. He hovered, nowhere nearly often as Markus, always off somewhere doing something for hours on end. You thought he was scavenging so you never thought to ask. He helped you build beds and a terrible storage bin that collapsed in on itself every two days, but you always came together to rebuild it. Hoping it'd hold but it never did. You swore Gray sabotaged it on purpose.

Maskless watched the romcom bullshit from the sidelines. Most often found with Seb talking about nothing. Hands always busy breaking down kindling or sewing Seb a hammock or air boxing. The idea of sparring had been thrown around too many times to count but Markus always shot it down, seconded by Gray everytime. It'd attract attention.

Meanwhile, you trained here and there. Working with your latest, very willing test subject, Mohawk. Who you kept trying to goad into taking you to kill Phantom. He'd just smile and say, "When you don't suck," and steal something of yours in hopes you could control him into giving it back.

At first, you could make him give it back. But after days of no food only water, your strength was starting to wane. The others had busted out the Mark meat not long ago. You always left when they did, sitting on the other end of the cave. His smell stuck inside your nose as you tried not to imagine how his flesh would melt in your mouth. The more days went by, the less you vividly you could remember him. It'd only been thirteen days after all. You spent more time with this group than him by now. And you wondered why you were still holding on. You felt silly for it. But you still hadn't eaten. It showed in how Mohawk barely moved when you said, "Get your ass down here."

Hands on his narrow hips he hummed, "I don't think I will!"

His cocky grin made your guts flip. It reminded you of Mark. The before Mark. The pre cave crazy Mark. It wasn't fair he was hot. Fine, two could play at that game. "I'll hold your hand."

He cackled, "You think I'm gonna go easy on you to hold your hand?"

"For a whole minute. Won't move away or nothin'," you waved at him, "this baby is all yours." It was a push and pull game, the flirting. Once you started you couldn't stop, finding that leaning into affection felt better than leaning away. It helped you forget. Replace the bad memories, shitty as it made you feel.

Heels hit the ground so hard they cracked rock. Mohawk snatched your hand from the air, held one between two, staring at it like a precious diamond. You actually didn't think it'd work. Didn't think holding your hand would mean that much to anybody. Thought at least, you'd have to barter to a kiss on the cheek or something more intimate- or that he wouldn't take the deal at all. Training was a good idea but you hit a wall without eating anything. You wouldn't eat Mark. Not yet.

Markus didn't look up from the water he was boiling. "That's not training."

"I think making the ruler of a powerful empire do what I say is something but you do you."

Mohawk batted his lashes at you, squeezing your hand between his, "You think my empire is powerful?"

"No shit, it's an empire."

He grinned and interlaced your fingers. Without a timer and without a care, the touch lingered longer than a minute.

***

They stood in the remains. Broken down in their fight that lasted too long. Energy wasted on bickering when they should've been looking for Phantom. They sifted through the rubble, looking for dried brown trails, sniffing for blood so hard they were lightheaded. Except they'd been lightheaded for weeks. Surviving on blood had crossed some wires, fried the others, left them perpetually achy and brain fogged.

Which was probably why it took them so long to realize they weren't betraying each other.

Lensless chucked another piece of rubble that looked just like the rest. "He's definitely not in here."

"No shit." Scars said.

Lensless kicked another piece. "Definitely not anywhere. Just gone. Disappeared like the rest of them."

Scars was quiet a moment, trying to envision that day you'd gone missing, to see the other versions of him. "How many of us were there when we first came?"

Lensless thought hard, pressing on his eyes. "I don't remember."

***

"Just eat it." Easy enough for Seb to say, chewing a piece down to the juices in his cheek. "Tastes way better than the bugs."

You swallowed. Looked down at the piece of red-brown meat in your palms. A handful of ounces had never felt so heavy. Day sixteen in the new base, almost a week of no food. You'd boiled the shells of the bugs, tried to convince yourself it tasted like broth, but your powers had gone completely. You needed to eat.

Gray watched you, leaning forward on his knees, trying to catch your eyes, "If you want revenge-"

He'd said this already.

"I have to eat, I know." You finished for him. "I just-" You looked up, locking eyes with him. Swallowing, throat dry despite recently sipping boiled cave water. You'd been letting details of your time with Mark slip out of you in a slow drip.

Another drip escapes you now. Partly because of the crack that'd formed inside you as the hunger consumed you, partly because you hoped a sob story would make them give in to what you wanted. "He told me about his dad throwing him in prison." The words make Gray go stiff, the idea so out there for him he didn't know what to say. "It ruined him, he was so different from all of you because of that one thing his dad did. I keep thinking about what I'd do if I met his dad, but I literally have. I had dinner with Mister Grayson a few times before everything went to piss. He scared the shit out of me just as some suburban dad and I think- what could I do against that? Could I have even changed what happened to him?"

"Nothing." Gray said. "Father is one of the most promising solders in the empire."

You frowned at the meat. Why were you frowning? Had he said the wrong thing? That's why you were starting the conversation, correct? That his father, that Viltrum was impossible to resist? God, he didn't understand humans at all.

Mohawk cackled over the fire crackle. "Are you kidding? I murdered the fuck outta dad when I was like sixteen."

Now that got your mind off of things, a possibility no Mark had ever told you about, "Seriously?"

Mohawk's back straightened at your attention. In his world, he was showered with praise and attention at all times, but the only thing that mattered through all the politics and conquering was beginning and ending his day with you. Out here, you attention was always split between different versions of himself. He was subject to watch as you grew closer to shittier versions of himself. He could share, really, he wasn't as immature as he acted, but not in these wastes. Not when he was so starved of things to think about. He wanted you all the time, none of the other distractions.

Whatever. He could think about murder and double crossing later. Right now, he had your attention. "Yeah, it wasn't even that hard."

***

Mohawk's head was partly split open. Oozing brains over his brow and hairline. Hurt like a motherfucker but that was fine. Everything was hunky-dorey-okey-dokey-artichoke-y because dad was finally dead. Beat brainless into the side of Mount Fuji.

"Should've," huff, "told," huff, "me," huff, "earlier," huff, "dipshit."

Dad's broken jaw doesn't twitch. No more lectures. No more holier than thou bullshit.

A fat shadow encompassed the mountain. Mohawk looked up and saw his ride. His future stretched ahead of him, deceptively straight forward.

***

"So yeah, babe, with me around you ain't gotta worry about no dad." Mohawk said.

"She was literally talking about the prisoner's Nolan." Maskless nibbled one of the dryer sticks of meat.

You looked down at your own stick of meat. Wishing it was Mark's dad, it would've made things so much easier. You felt sick now. Knowing in another life Mark could've defended himself, killed Nolan. Your Mark lived, didn't go to prison but he threw you in it. This shit wasn't fair.

"Nolan was the most powerful man on Earth, he worked with powerful people. He had resources. How did he never look into me? I wasn't very good at hiding what I was doing when I first started working with Machine Head. We talked on unsecure lines. He didn't have anyone watching his son's girlfriend? Did he just not care? No cameras, no tails, no nothing?"

Seb tapped at your side with his shoe. "Where are you going with this?"

"I never worried about him, but the more you guys talk about him the more I think I should have. I saw on the news after. He was there when I fought Mark." Machine Head's office was fucked, of course there were people recording the high rise. And who did they catch hovering hundreds of feet above the building? Omni Man. "I didn't know Invincible was Omni-Man's son, I didn't even know Mark was Invincible. He hid it from me. I wonder if Nolan was surprised to see me in there or just thought yeah, that makes sense."

Seb poked you again. "You gonna eat that or just keep babbling?"

Markus gave him a look but spoke to you, "Knowing my father, he knew and he didn't care."

Seb snorted, "Knowing mine, he didn't even know Mark had a girlfriend."

"They were close in my world. I wonder what he said after Mark broke up with me." You wanted to slap a hand over your mouth soon as you said it. Cat's out the bag. Mohawk already hit the nail on the head but saying it outright was something else. Weight both off and on your shoulders. You test it, saying, "I tried to stop him. It didn't work."

Blood shot out of your nose. Headache like a hammer to your temple. You on the ground. Machine Head's hired grunts unconscious around you. Mark's eyes were wild on you, "Did you- Did you just-!?"

You had tried to make him forget while he ranted and raved about what you'd done. Instead you found the ceiling of your powers. The way he looked at you like shit on his shoe made your heart ache. You felt sick, you had no fight left.

"Yeah." You breathed, "Yeah I did."

"You can't just control me like that! Have you done that before?!"

"No." You wiped the blood rolling from your nose. "I'd never do it unless I had to Mark- I love you. I don't want to lose you!"

He laughed. Actually laughed. Mean and angry. You heard that sound every night in your dreams for the next few years as your life circled the drain. "You don't love me."

Mohawk doesn't laugh this time. Today he's not bitter. Today is he soft and malleable and maybe if you gave enough of yourself away, he'd take you to Phantom and let you kill him.

"Fuck him." Mohawk sounded genuinely angry. "Fuck him, like actually. That's the most romantic shit I've ever heard done by someone who isn't me."

Seb rose a brow at him. "What'd you do Romeo?"

"What didn't I do." Mohawk looked and sounded far away before his eyes re-focused on you. "He didn't deserve you, fucking asshole."

"I know." You half smile before getting back to your train of thought, "I tried to stop Mark too." Because you don't think they get it, you add, "In the caves. He was freaking out and I tried to calm him down and he just-" Your hands burned. You realized you were gripping the meat hard, so hard your knuckles were pale. At least you weren't crying.

"He killed himself." Gray watched your hands but didn't move, willing them to open, willing the pain to leave your face.

"I know." You grit out.

"You misunderstand me. He did that to himself of his own volition."

Your hands opened, you could see the outline of where the meat was pressing into your palm. "His own volition." You echoed, "My powers are based in interpretation. Whatever you think they mean, you do. He thought stop meant kill himself so he did it- because of me. He didn't want to do anything, he thought I wanted him dead."

"Oh, come the fuck on!" Mohawk threw his hands up, "So what? He was weak and stupid! You've said you want us all dead! Who cares! Do you know how many of us would've loved to be trapped in a cave alone with you? I wouldn't have gone apeshit, that's for sure. Apeshit on that-"

"You're not helping." Markus said.

"He knew what he was getting into." Gray said. For once, actually saying the right thing.

He did know. He gave you a grand tour. Knew Phantom was in on it. Let it all happen knowing he wouldn't be able to handle it. For taking you down there to love you, to die, you start to hate him.

Still you hesitate to bring the meat to your lips. Mohawk said with too much confidence, "If he was as pussy-whipped as you make him out to be, he'd want you to eat him. I know I would."

You bring the meat closer. Stomach churning. Lips opening. "I wouldn't want any of you to eat me."

You're about to bite down when Mohawk nudges his head into your arm. Nuzzling. "I know babe, you want all of us dead. Which totally isn't happening but if I do die before you, take a cut out my shlong, yeah? That thing's gonna one juicy sausage. Mama mia."

"That's not funny." You're laughing and cringing as you bite down.

***

Scars dragged his head above the water that dripped near black grime off his face. It'd been a stroke of luck that him and Lensless had found this place. The both of them gone crazy from months without any water when they were so used to having it a short flight away. They'd tried to soothe their throats with blood, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd dranken Phantom's blood. He should've savored it- but that didn't matter now. He had water again.

The cave hadn't been there before. They shoved dried bug carcasses into their mouths. Guzzling water from the queen's throne whenever they were slightly thirsty, which was all the time. They wandered the cave, finding cave ins that smelled of meat and smoke and most importantly- you.

For all they knew, this was the only water source left on the plant. For all they knew, someone would come for it and the abandoned shelter. For all they knew, there was no one left at all.

Days pass.

The smell dissipates. The remaining bugs, corpses and living, are eaten. Hunger they were unused to gnaws at their psyche. They drool over the queen's pool thinking of raw flesh. They watch the hole to the ceiling from dark corners, waiting to ambush. Day turns to night to day. Nobody comes. They search and find no caves or bodies or people wandering the waste.

They begin to wonder if any of it was real at all.

***

Day seventeen in the new hideout.

Laughter is more common. Jaws are looser. Friendship is an open current passing between you all. Even Maskless who swears up and down he hates you all, has waning venom in his tone. Despite the summer camp attitude, the threat looming in the wastes was still real. Last night Scars and Lensless roamed nearby dunes, screaming into the night.

"Is anybody there?"

"Helllllooooooooo?"

You thought they were trying to lure you out. Trying to find a replacement for Phantom because he was near death or dead. You tried to convince any of them to let you outside. To make them and their fried brains to take you to Phantom. To kill the whole lot of them easy peasy.

You opened your mouth to command someone, anyone to remove Markus from blocking the fucking exit when he said it.

"I'll take you soon." Gray is behind you. So close he nearly boxes you into Markus's waiting chest. "You have to be patient."

"When is soon?"

"Soon."

That night Gray stayed the night in the tiny hovel. Monitoring Phantom's progress. Willing him to wake, to speak. Gray was a patient man but it was wearing thin. He needed your praise for a job well done. Desired it. Had wet dreams about it.

Again, Phantom didn't wake in the night.

***

Another day of training. This time your mentee was Gray. Seb had excused himself not long after Gray returned. Said he was going to look for supplies. They'd been doing that an awful lot the past few days. Searching in shifts. You thought little of it. You assumed it was better if only one person left at a time to minimize risk of being spotted by the crazies.

You sat on stools of cool rock facing each other. You hurled commands at Gray. Fed and watered, expecting easy compliance. You get a battle.

"Stand up."

He stayed seated.

"Get up."

He did not.

"Move!"

Nothing.

"Tell me why you're so hard to control."

"The Mark of your world never joined the Empire, correct?" His voice is like a godsend. Finally you got him to do something. Eagerly, you nod. "Was there anyone sent from the Empire to coerce him into doing so?" You wrack your brain but simply don't know. Mark faught so many aliens on the news all the time, you tried to avoid the stories entirely. Gray hums, "You wouldn't know him then- my mentor."

You lean forward. High on control. "Who was that?"

"Conquest." He said.

You blink. "Like the concept or?"

"Be advised you are not controlling me and I'm giving up this information of my own volition." The words are like a slap to each each cheek. You never felt the connection, never felt his mind in your grasp, you'd just been too excited to notice. Motherfucker. "He's the best of us. My mother was worried he'd kill me in training but I survived."

You dropped the training ball, curious now. "How's hitting shit make you resistant to me?"

His brows rose. "Mental fortitude is important in battle."

That... Made a lot of sense. Markus seemed plenty mentally steely and you couldn't get him to raise a finger.

"Hm." Learn something new everyday but you didn't quite like the taste of defeat. You go for the jugular, which always seemed so exposed with these men when it came to you, "Kiss me."

Heads turn right as Gray practically lunged out of his seat. Hands still tucked behind his back while his lips met yours. Kiss so hard, your lips were pressed to your teeth. As soon as it was happened, he was pulling himself away pink cheeked.

"Hey!" Mohawk was across the cave at ready to punch his throat, "What the fuck!?"

"Congratulations." Gray slid back into his chair. "You controlled me."

Mohawk's fist paused. "Wait- hey- why'd you tell him to do that?"

You shrug, "Thought it'd be worth a shot and it was. I win." Except you knew Gray was lying and had lying in wait hoping you'd pull a desperate move. Clever.

"Your control didn't last long." Gray said, eyes intense. He was practically begging you to ask him again. His slowly growing erection was also begging. He shifted, hiding it under the fabric.

You know what his shifting legs means, had seen it plenty since your encounter. You smirked, knowing a distracted target was an easy one. "Spin around."

Gray hovered and did a stiff about face. Throwing off the control after a spin and a half but looking mildly perturbed. "You-"

"That's two for two." You remind him of the lie you were mutually spinning.

He swallowed, wiping the surprise off his face quick as it appeared. "You're getting better but we must pursue training to ensure you can hold onto a target longer than a second." He sat again, crossing his legs.

"Me next." Mohawk insisted. "Me!"

You give him a look that isn't withering, "You'd do that anyways."

He ignored Gray, ignored the lesson at hand to lean into your personal space. Smelling of sweat, breath spray, and cologne he hastily applied once he thought you were open to make out. Sure, he was jealous but Gray could be dealt with later. What mattered more now was you. "That such a bad thing?"

You hum pretending to consider. "What'll you give me in return?"

"Best orgasm of your life." His voice was teasing but his face was serious.

Heat suddenly sparked in your core. You swallowed down the fluttering in your chest, "I can DIY that one, thanks." Though honestly? You were tempted. You hadn't been able to get your rocks off in weeks, not since Seb, who seemed content not pursuing things again if it meant no one was mad at him. You knew you'd have to find a replacement sooner or later. Like Mohawk who was offering, even if he was a dick. "What else you got?"

Seb rushed into the room then, wide eyed, mouth open. Words die on his tongue when he sees you. "Uhm- uh- the thing is- yeah."

They spoke cryptically for a few moments, as you watched. Gray said he had something to show you. Mohawk said not to freak out. They took you outside. Flew over the dunes a half second before taking you inside a boulder.

Your mouth was agape, nose burning with the smell of days old blood. The heat prickled at your skin despite the shade.

It was hard not to when the reason for Mark dying was right there. Leaning sweaty and pathetic against the wall. Hair shaven from his scalp. Five o'clock shadow gone into a full midnight, the stubbly beard longer than the hair on his head. His suit was torn and abused, exposing peeling skin. Most disconcerting was the glaringly obvious lack of limbs on one side of his body. Stumps pink with newly grown skin and blisters.

Despite the hell he'd been through, his glassy blue eyes were looking at you like you were an angel sent from above to bring him salvation. You were anything but.

***

Across universes, across dimensions, Angstrom Levy was nearly finished paying off his debts to the Technitions. Daydreaming constantly about the revenge he'd enact on one Mark Grayson.

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eliasoir · 2 days ago

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𝖣𝖴𝖬𝖡 𝖫𝖨𝖳𝖳𝖫𝖤 𝖳𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖦

𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋.

┈─★ when your boyfriend comes back home for tour, he doesn’t want to waste a single second.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝖬𝖣𝖭𝖨 ⠀⠀⠀───⠀⠀⠀ dumbification, overstim, praise & dirty talk, messy unprotected sex (don’t do this), creampie, slight spit play, crying from pleasure, pet names (baby, girl girl, pretty thing / dumb thing, sweetheart) 𝘄𝗰 1.1k

elia’s notes: first post ! i hope you enjoy

wonbin walked through the front door all flushed and grinning, his bags dropping next to his feet. he outstretches his arms to you like he couldn’t wait a second longer to feel you. you barely had time to close the door behind him before he was pulling you into his lips were hot and desperate against yours, hands sliding under your t-shirt and roaming like he’d forgotten what your skin felt like.

“missed you,” he murmured, again and again between his kisses. all the while his hurried footsteps led you backwards into the bedroom. “thought about this every single fucking night.”

you tried to talk first. tried to ask him how the last show went, if he’d eaten yet, even if he was tired. instead, every word dissolved in your mouth apart the second his fingers slid into your shorts. he was trembling against you a little from need.

you looked up at him. you could see how his shirt was scrunched at the neck like he was pulling at it, his hair messy and damp with light sweat, eyes locked on you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“i’m finally here,” he breathed, fingers curling into your waist over your shirt.

“been so long,” he whispered again, forehead pressed to yours. “too long.”

and then he was kissing you again. even deeper, slower, filthier—and it only took a few more seconds for you to fall back onto the freshly washed sheets. his body was heavy over yours, mouth everywhere, hands shaking with the restraint of not just taking you right then and there.

within the next hour, he’s already got you stuffed full of him, one leg hooked over his shoulder, your body pressed deep into the mattress. you were sure he was trying to deeply bury himself inside you.

“missed this pussy so fucking much,” wonbin groans into your neck, voice all hoarse from the last string of orgasms,“you feel how good you squeeze me, baby? it’s like your body missed me too.”

your nails grip and scratch down his back, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. you were already wrecked but wonbin’s not done. not even close. tears brimmed the corners of your eyes from the sheer volume of pleasure you felt.

“so pretty when you cry,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to see the way your expression twisted, lips glossy with spit and slick. “look at you…dumb little thing. can’t even talk to me, huh?”

you whimper when he slows the pace of his hips, not stopping, but now just dragging his cock painfully slow against every swollen, overstimmed inch of you. he’d already made you come twice. he hadn’t even let you down from the second one before pushing back in, and pushing you to where you were now.

“wonnie— too much, i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he cuts in, soft but still firm. he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb, ever so gently before he grabs your jaw with a tight grip. “you can take it. you’re doing so good, sweetheart. just take me, yeah?”

you nod weakly, or try to at least. your head’s spinning. your body twitches every time his hips roll inside you deep and heavy. he was rocking into you slow enough to make your brain melt but strong enough to have you squirming all the same.

wonbin leans down to your face, licking his way into your mouth like he owns it. then you feel him spit on your tongue and kiss you deeply right after. he groans when you moan into it like you’re already too far gone.

“you don’t need to think, baby,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose against yours. “i got you. just let go. let me fuck you dumb.”

your legs shake even more when he hits that spot again—the one spot that makes your back arch entirely, eyes roll, body tremble, and lips part yet not being able to form any words.

his hands trail down your sides, hips locking you in place when you try to squirm away.

“nuh uh,” he hums, “you said you missed me too. so take it. let me fill you up again. wanna watch it drip out of you after.”

your mouth opens again like you’re gonna protest, but all that comes out this time is a broken whine. your brain’s gone too hazy, the heat pooling in your gut all over again even though you swore you couldn’t come again.

wonbin’s eyes are wild, but soft when he looks down at you. “mmh, that’s it,” he praises, thumb slipping between your lips again. “my pretty little thing. all mine.”

and then he gives it to you harder and faster, no breaks, no room to breathe properly. skin slapping, the slick sound of your pussy making obscene noises each time he thrusts back in, your voice barely even there anymore.

“c’mon, baby. one more,” he growls, leaning down to grab your other leg, swinging it over his shoulder as well, so your thighs fold in tighter. his cock hitting so deep now, you see stars. “make a mess for me. let me ruin you a little more.”

you cry out loudly when your orgasm hits. it was messy, strong, causing tears to freely run down your cheeks, your body twitching like you’re being shocked. and he doesn’t stop. not when your cunt clenches around him, when you sob out his name over and over, and not even when your voice is fades, just a choked out hiccup of sound.

“fuck, you’re so good,” he hisses, grabbing your hips now, holding you down. “pussy’s so fucking good—gonna make me come. gonna fill you up so full, baby, shit—”

he slams into you one last time and groans, low and wrecked, as he spills inside you. hot and thick strings of him, cock still twitching, and you’re trembling under him. your thighs even more slick and soaked and sticky with all of it.

for a second, neither of you move. then wonbin lets himself fall forwards, caging you in with his arms, kissing your pink cheeks as you continue to whimper under him.

“you okay?” he murmurs, all breathless and low. “you still here with me, pretty girl?”

you nod weakly. barely. if he wasn’t watching and staring at you so intently, he wouldn’t have caught it.

he laughs a little, sounding so soft, so sweet after everything. “good. you were so perfect for me, baby...” and he kisses you again like he’s still starving. like he’ll never get enough, even with you utterly ruined beneath him.

“gonna keep you like this all night,” he whispers, still inside you. “messy and warm and full of me.”

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husbandjoel · 1 day ago

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first burn | tlou jesse pt. 3

pt. 1 pt. 2 ft don’t be tardy

summary: reunited with dina and ellie, you proceed in seattle to find joel’s killers

pairing: tlou!jesse x fem!reader

word count: 3.6k

content: awkward tension between reader and dina (not hateful), mentions of pregnancy, vomiting, the usual tlou gore, a lot of dialogue which I’ve cut, blood, reader cannot catch a break and gets a bit fucked up, and the cold shoulder from a certain somebody

a/n: how do we all feel after the finale? i would say i’m still in stage denial over jesse 🙂‍↕️ again: inaccuracies etc etc i have a lot of brain fog, try do my research to stay true to the storyline but yeesh sometimes i just do my own thing. i rushed the end cause omg get to the point

taglist: @beelee-cotton @lostbee20 @pupupwa @ilovetoomanymen @derangeddementor3 @keseqna @blackravena @cxcilla @hsangel64 - tysm for reading! also @tillywasneverhere surprise ITS TODAY

You had learnt the names of the tight-knit group that enforced the torture on Joel Miller and pinned down Ellie Williams to make her watch her father figure in his final moments. Ellie had spent the last of her energy explaining each one from both her and Dina's memory, even when warped in a high stress situation.

You had listened intently, splitting a bag of dried fruit as if it were dessert with Ellie — Dina politely declined with the colour drained from her face. In all honesty, you felt a little helpless at sea, you were being kept afloat just by the skin of your teeth but you were starting to think you were beyond out of your own depth. Ellie had been clearly cherrypicking her details and it struck that perhaps you had entered something you didn't fully comprehend.

The next morning, it weighed on your chest whilst you readied your bag, Ellie taking the time to inspect the building amenities in daylight. Dina had been sat fiddling with the radio, enough static to make your head split, as she mapped out potential W.L.F. locations through triangulations; a talent that was beyond your assistance.

Beaded with sweat, Dina looked as if she were keeping vomit at bay whilst you sat a few feet away against a pillar, mindlessly rolling your head back and forth. If you hadn't had stumbled into their conversation, Dina was the shining example of a human intentionally hiding an infected bite from the rest of her team members.

You dusted off your trousers when you stood and decided to not punish her further, mumbling that you would be tending to Zombie if he hadn't eaten through the interior of the building to escape — the muffled wretch from Dina not going amiss when you left the room.

Astounded that Zombie remained in the same spot you had left him, grazing on the hay you had packed whilst he laid on the hard floor to relax. His movements halted, ear flicked backward to listen to the sudden movement before he stood to the grand height of himself.

"It's just me." Even after Jesse and you had spent overtime to tame the Appaloosa, there were fleeting moments of dread that he would drag you by the ankle with his teeth. Taking a step closer, Zombie let out a disgruntled huff, "Yeah—I know. We're getting out of here soon. I thought Shimmer would've been here to keep you company, I'm sorry."

Hard pat to his stomach, you began to stare absentmindedly. Jesse's words at the forefront of your mind, when he explained that the revenge Ellie sought out for Joel's killers wouldn't bring the peace she thought it would. There was no sudden change of heart, it was a complex situation, however, you were starting to think Jesse had something of an intellectual thought there.

Silent moments were beginning to be filled with repentance. You carried the guilt in your ribs. A pain that struck the softness between your ribcage when you inhaled to pin a reminder that you betrayed Jesse to salvage your own inner demons painted in your own failure that led you to believe that you had ultimately caused Joel Miller's death.

But, that wasn't correct. Ellie had slipped up on that.

They wanted Joel dead. That was the catch you had missed when you packed up your life in Jackson, Wyoming and abandoned Jesse in the sheets of your shared bed. The outcome still remained the same. The meat of the information about what the W.L.F. had against Joel Miller, had been cut out by Ellie, but you still wanted to pick them of; they took a community member from your ranks.

"Hey." Ellie called from behind you, the niggling thought of taking Zombie back to Jackson diminished. Ellie added, "Dina has found our chance. . . Zombie stays here.”

Located down a stretch of buildings swarmed with W.L.F soldiers, the night sky had been your only blanket of discreetness as the three of you minimised yourselves the best you could under the rotating searchlight that brandished an obnoxious ray of white light across the landscape.

Ellie and Dina weaved through the terrain with the skills picked up on whilst drafted on Patrol. You — on the other hand — were a bit clunky, feet tripped over untied laces, chin scraped against the wet concrete and your mouth forming a string of apologies as Ellie yanked you up with a couple of insults clipping you round the ear.

It was hard to concentrate. You hadn't been on many patrol routes where imminent threat was prominent. Part of you harboured the knowledge that as he was in a leadership role, Jesse had organised your patrol routes to be the mundane, simpler ones because he knew you weren't as skilled of a fighter amongst the rest of the patrolmen. Without experience, you were rendering to be a deadweight on Ellie and Dina's limbs.

You would try your best. For Joel.

With a little help, all three of you managed to enter the desired building from Dina's triangulations without being picked up from the soldiers patrolling the area. You dropped to your backside, the palm of your hand pressed against the graze on your chin as your eyes squeezed shut to suppress the throb.

Dina bent at the waist and brought up stomach acid, the yellow bile hitting the edge of your boots.

"You should eat." You managed a whisper.

A wipe to her mouth, Dina swallowed, "I'm not hungry."

Your baby is. Is what you wanted to say out of irritancy and retaliation. Although, only knowing snippets of information, you'd like to think yourself more mature than stooping to a level of pettiness.

Hand rummaged through the contents of your bag, you plucked a ginger biscuit that you had salvaged from a building whilst Dina and Ellie tracked through the worn streets of Seattle ahead of you. From what you had scoured in a pregnancy book one night out of pure curiosity, you had recalled seeing that ginger biscuits helped with sickness levels throughout pregnancy, and more importantly the first trimester — if your calculations were right.

You extended your hand to Dina who looked ominously at the biscuit pinched between your fingers.

"It helps with sickness." You noted, not missing the shot of panic in Dina's face. You gestured for her to take it before settling back against the wall. A softened smile on your face when Dina headed your advice and nibbled at the biscuit.

Ellie came into view, her gaze locked onto the biscuit in Dina’s hand, “Where’d you get that?”

“No sign of infected then?” Dina retaliated and stuffed the biscuit into her jacket pocket.

Ellie shrugged, “Haunted, but empty.” She crouched and pulled at her earlobe as Dina followed it up with a lighthearted joke, “Look, I’m not saying there won’t be infected somewhere in there. In fact, there’s no fucking way this entire place is empty.”

“But, not a horde. Right?” You needed reassurance before you entered the belly of the building.

“We’re not underground, and the Wolves are right next door with their vehicles and lights. A horde isn’t going to ignore that shit.” You felt the drop in your shoulders in relief from the tension they were holding. Zoned out as Dina went into the probability of a few stragglers that could be easily swept out with their experience. Her serious tone caught your attention back, “Hey. If it gets bad, and we have to make a choice between shooting and running. We run.”

“Last resort. Got it.” Ellie agreed, not missing the way Dina’s stare lingered on her, “Oh. So you think no matter what happens, I’m just going to start firing?”

You nodded as Dina verbalised her confirmation of the same.

It was a little awkward. Palpable tension between the two women and you were stuck in the middle. Choosing not to listen into their conversation, you fiddled with your gun and blocked out their voices — something that came easy to you when you didn’t think you should hear it.

“Here we go.” You all stood after a moment more, minimal weaponry as you crept through the door in single file.

You fleshed out in the room, Dina and Ellie close by but a few metres apart from where you were crouched. Ellie shone her torch to the hollow room, all eyes peered from above the pallets as the shape of a human form twitched beneath the shadows and out of sight. The sound of more than a few stragglers piqued your worry that you were outnumbered.

Back against a pallet, your ears rang when you dropped back down from catching a glimpse under torchlight of an infected member, proven to be agile as it dipped from the exposure of Ellie's light. Dread began to pull at your feet, your chest constricted when you watched Dina and Ellie talk quietly amongst themselves adjacent to where you were.

Fingers grappled at the knife unsheathed in your hand, the palm of your hand ached from how hard you grasped the weapon. Whilst the attack on Jackson had left its prominent scars, something felt entirely off centre in the warehouse and you hadn't been prepared for the possibility of coming into contact with alternate infected to the ones you had encountered before.

Dina caught you with a vigorous wave, the pair of them gesticulate to explain the plan with little survival rate. You shook your head and Ellie nodded out of frustration, dismissive to your panic.

You didn't have time to sit and stew.

Ellie made that crystal clear by the grit of her teeth.

Death chapped at your door, Ellie and Dina braced for a quick kiss before their plan unfolded. Grappled by your bicep, Dina hauled you from your position and you almost lost your footing from the sheer force of her pull. Gunshots pierced your ear and you flinched, head ducked and one eye squeezed shut as you felt a hand snatch your ankle and the rug was pulled from underneath you.

Immediately winded, you heaved out a hoarse breath. The bridge of your nose split wide open, hot blood poured into the crevices of your teeth whilst your fingernails clawed at the smooth surface. The infected had you, intelligent in it’s movements, it had basked in the — ironically — lateness of your motion against Ellie’s who was fighting off a pack of them solo. Divided from the group that sought after Ellie, you were uncomplicated to attack.

A scream of your name ripped from Dina’s mouth, the silence swarmed in gunshots and merciful yells. You had managed to link your arms around a column that held the warehouse up, your boot coming into contact with the infected’s jaw but not enough to keep it at bay.

Your flight or fight mode had activated and it was a little blurred between the lines. Death wasn’t an option for you, there was a point to prove to the community of Jackson and more importantly, Jesse — if you ever saw him again. You refused to be reduced to a headstone, name carved into it with shame. There was little experience, but you would fight blindly if it meant you could return to Jackson by the skin of your teeth.

On the other hand, as you flipped from belly to back, the infected that had cleverly picked you out, clambered back on top of you and the closeness made you almost wish for a quick and painless ending. Your mouth pinned shut as you fought against it’s desperation, fingertips brushed the knife you had prematurely slotted back into it’s place against your thigh when Dina had dragged you up. The world was muffled, Ellie had taken a handful of infected down alone, her rage seeping from every orifice of her body, she refused to die before Abby Anderson met her fate.

Channeling the energy that Ellie had, you yanked at your knife, the tip plunged into the infected’s head and it squealed like a pig. You took advantage of the recoil in it’s grasp, flipping yourself over to straddle it before plunging your knife into every exposed, rotten flesh you could find. Vision black, the body beneath you slumped and you had little time to recover before another one caught you in its sights.

A fraction of a hair away, head turned to see the close proximity of the second infected before it hit the column next to you from the force of a bullet lodging into its temple. You got whiplash from how quick you snapped your head round from where the gunshot grazed your ear.

Jesse — your Jesse — came into the remainder of your vision, gun held close, he pulled the trigger with ease and picked off the final stretch of infected that swarmed Ellie like moths to a flame. She laid under a heap, her head upright when Jesse’s silhouette came close and you wondered if he would shoot her there and then. There was no plausible way that Ellie Williams had survived a no bite situation.

His hand stretched out to pull her up and Dina slid onto her knees next to you, hands to your shoulders as she checked you over. The brunette was a distant memory, eyes locked onto Jesse’s frame as he spoke concisely to Ellie about the potential of being bitten.

Waterline brimmed with tears, Jesse becoming nothing but an outline of a person, you shamelessly began to shake, lips pulled into a frown when Dina hugged you tightly.

“I want to go home.” You sobbed.

“I know.” Dina was soft in her tone, a thumb brushed against your shoulder. She spent a moment longer embracing you before she stood up to Ellie’s defence, “She didn’t get bit. She’s OK, they didn’t bite her—Jesse. I swear.”

Hesitant to believe in the impossible, Jesse turned his attention to your crumpled frame on the concrete. Your ankle torn, chest heaving to gather a breath whilst your nose clogged from the blood that had begun to dry up. You looked anything but someone who had confidently packed up in the night to fight alongside Ellie in Seattle.

He was knelt next to you in an instant. His thumb and forefinger pressed at your chin to angle your face upward to inspect the damage on your nose. His touch felt like a bruise, a sore reminder that bloomed in bluish tones that you left him on a lie.

His face close, but you could feel the miles between you. The pinch of his brow gave you an ounce of hope that he still cared deep down as you knew Jesse wasn’t bounding over to you to give you a welcoming kiss. Your mouth eliciting a hiss as he pressed his hand close to your shredded ankle.

“Can you stand?”

You joked. You shouldn’t have. A reference to your easy love.

“I think you might have to drag me.”

Jesse recoiled. His closeness retracted and you felt yourself drown under the cold water he had just thrown over you in his response. You were wrong for the reference, an intimate moment that you had no privilege to speak on anymore. Deserving in the reaction he gifted you, but you weren’t made of stone; your heart struck in a pain you hadn’t felt before.

“We’ve got to go.” Jesse informed as Ellie pulled you from your spot on the ground — not missing his subtle glance from his peripheral to you.

No questions asked, the three of you — shaken but able to heed order — followed Jesse to the exit of the building. Ankle burned with the pressure you were forcing on it, you tried your best to maintain the same pace as the rest of the group as the sound of other people echoed through the area.

There was no time to wallow in self-pity over Jesse’s rejection. Your entitlement was flawed but you pushed it down and kept focussed on the movement of your feet; doing everything and more to not roll over your bad ankle and become a liability in the escape.

Lights shone onto your bodies, alerting the soldiers nearby. Two men came into view, guns held at the ready — a shrill yell coming from your throat — before Jesse managed to hit them both accurately so their bodies dropped into the mud. His hand subconsciously came to your back as he ushered you through the gates behind Ellie and Dina.

“I’ve got you.” He spoke out when you fumbled, his large hand quick to grab your waist to keep you afloat. He repeated, “I’ve got you, c’mon.” He called to the front, “The park, we can lose them in there!”

The darkness of the park would be an advantage. The thick brush a camouflage met with the lack of light that seeped through the planted area. The W.L.F. soldiers were hot on your tail but as soon as the Jackson group passed the threshold into the park, their tracks stopped with quick yells to their team members that they don’t step foot in that territory.

Jesse had already left your side, his gun propped up to wage a war against a handful of soldiers but soon, lowered his weapon in confusion at their reluctance.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ellie whispered.

“Great. More infected.” Dina added.

You were exhausted. The idea of an influx of additional infected wasn’t on the cards for you.

Jesse responded, “Maybe. We can’t go back that way—” He looked through you, “Come on.”

Jesse scoped the foliage with his gun raised, Ellie and Dina followed directly behind and you just a little further back. He hadn't looked your way once, putting that down to the high alert you were all on from being chased down into the wooded area by the W.L.F.

Ellie was speaking incoherently to him, but you knew she was pleading her case of the original trio managing to handle the situation albeit a sticky one. As a matter of fact, if Jesse hadn't shown, you were sure Ellie would have succumb to a gruesome death, or turned. You had been astounded she had narrowly missed being bitten from the group of Infected.

"Does it look like I wanna fuckin' talk to you right now?" Jesse's voice snapped you into reality. His venom aimed at Ellie whilst his eyes locked onto you.

Please forgive me. You wavered in your step, mouth pulled into a pitiful frown at how your boyfriend was looking at you. He seemed to be seething from inside out, forehead slick with sweat, you swore you could see the prominent vein in his neck pulse from the adrenaline and pure unadulterated anger.

It would have to suffice for now. There were no amendments to be made in the middle of a Seattle park. The W.L.F. had surrounded the outskirts presumably, and your focus had to maintain on the survival rate of all four of you now. It was a little odd that they hadn't followed you in and taken you for the capture, outnumbered by a handful and enough weapons to pick off what Infected resided within the thick verdure.

As you continued forward with Ellie scolded from the reprimand Jesse had inflicted, you too were scoping the area for signs of Infected, and or, a safe exit concealed from the W.L.F.

"No, no, no!" Another voice made all four of you jump with immediate fright. The contrast of the silence compared to the shrill pleading made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. He continued to plead and you soon calculated that he wasn't fighting a horde of Infected. Nobody pleaded their life from the dead.

The leaves of the bushes nearby glowed amber, all four breaths held from the sight of a gang holding burning wood, eyes all to the man they had tied up, a noose dropped around his neck and tightened.

“I know what Isaac is planning. I can help you.” He pleaded.

Your hand instinctively found Jesse's as you watched the Wolf yanked to where his bare feet couldn't touch the grounds beneath him. A bucket was kicked underneath him for balance, your heart in your mouth, a foreboding scene playing out in front of you. Jesse, too, alarmed by the scene, allowed himself to put his hurt aside, quick to comfort you with a soft squeeze.

His lips went to the curve of your ear, "Don't watch." Even he didn't know what was about to unfold, but he refused to allow you to suffer the nightmares to follow.

Eyes squeezed shut, your nose throbbed from the pressure, blood seeped from your nostril whilst you attempted to block out the outside noise. The muffled begging filtered through into your ears that you had stuffed with your index fingers to reduce the noise tenfold. Unable to resist, you peered an eye open to see the entrails dangling from the Wolf’s stomach to the tips of his feet. Mouth flung open, you looked to Jesse as a whistle cracked through the silence.

The sound of flesh being hit made all four of you look to where the noise landed.

An arrow embedded into Dina’s knee, the blood seeped from her jeans as panic laced through her shuddered breaths. You went to say her name, Jesse quick to clamp a hand round your mouth as he and Ellie began to talk on strategical escapes with minimal casualties within the group.

Ellie was immediate as she pounced into action to deter the group away from your spot, Jesse bundling Dina up into his arms as she threw her head back in agony. Hands met the wet dirt beneath you, you pushed off of it to race after Jesse and Dina. The sight of the deceased male hung in the trees etched into your vision, projectile vomit poured from your throat as you ran.

You wanted nothing more than to go back to Jackson.

#🔖 koolie writes #tlou jesse x reader #jesse x reader #tlou jesse x fem!reader #jesse x fem!reader #tlou fic #the last of us #tlou #tlou spoilers #tlou2 #tlou jesse #ellie williams #tlou dina #dina x ellie

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mapsthewanderer · 3 days ago

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𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

Details: 2500 words of unhinged venom-sucking debauchery. Heavily inspired by Heaven Official’s Blessing/Tian Guan Ci Fu, with a generous dose of creative liberties and one absolutely guttered brain. This is pure, feral filth. Turn back now if you value your innocence. For my fellow freaky weirdos—you know who you are. Aka 18+ stuff.

Features: fem!reader blood, venom, delirium, biting, dirty talk and two horni freaks who don’t even manage to undress (yeah—you know exactly what that means).

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

Bite | Caleb smut

The forest breathes around you—lush and wide and endless. Sun breaks through the canopy in molten streaks that dance across the mossy floor. Every leaf gleams green with life, dew still clinging to their undersides like glass beads. Somewhere above, a bird calls—a long, fluting note—and another answers it deeper in the trees.

Your boots crunch soft bark underfoot. The trail behind you disappeared a while ago, but you’re still moving, still following.

Still following Caleb.

He’s a few steps ahead, stepping over a fallen log, shoving aside branches with the back of his arm. His shirt’s dark with sweat between his shoulder blades, and his curls are sticking to the nape of his neck. He’s grinning—smug, focused, determined to find something.

“You said it was a ‘short detour,’” you call ahead. “We crossed a stream, Caleb. That’s not a detour. That’s a side quest.”

He glances over his shoulder, not slowing. “Detour. Side quest. Spiritual journey. All the same.”

You roll your eyes—but your smile lingers.

The stream wasn’t deep, but it was icy, mountain-fed and fast-moving. Caleb had taken off his boots to cross, held your hand the whole way like he didn’t trust the rocks under your feet. When you slipped anyway, he caught you—chest to chest in the spray, laughing—and then insisted you sit on a log while he found your bandaid tin and made you let him patch a scrape on your shin, even though he was the one who took a branch to the forearm pulling back the brambles for you minutes before.

“You gonna clean that?” you’d asked, pointing to the scratch blooming red along his forearm.

A shrug, careless. A bandaid slapped over it with the grace of a feral cat. “Nature’s kiss,” he’d said, smirking. “You, however, need medical attention.”

You rolled your eyes, but let him do it anyway.

Now, birds flit tree to tree—blue-feathered flashes vanishing between limbs. A deer watched you earlier, still and narrow-legged, half-hidden in the undergrowth. Everything smells like sun-warmed leaves, damp bark, and green.

And Caleb?

Still pushing deeper into the trees.

“You better not be lost,” you call, brushing a branch aside. “Or I swear to god I’m gonna leave you out here and let the moss reclaim your smug body.”

He grins without turning. “You wouldn’t. You’d miss me.”

“I’d sleep great.”

“You’d get halfway back to the trailhead and sob into your hydration tube like a tragic little camel.”

You’re already laughing, lifting a hand to swat him—when suddenly he slows, turns, and presses a kiss to your cheek.

Quick. Warm. Casual in a way that’s not casual at all.

You blink—mid-laugh, flustered, about to say something—

But then—

It happens too fast to understand.

A flash.

A snap.

A sting.

Just above the ankle—burning. White-hot. Sharp.

Everything shifts. The light. The forest. The rhythm of breath and birdsong stops.

“Hey—what? What’s wrong?” Caleb’s voice cuts in—tight, already laced with fear.

He’s there instantly, catching your fall, arms sliding around your waist as the moss rises to meet you. His hands tremble. Panic rides just beneath the calm.

“I’m— I think I—” you try to speak, try to point—but he’s already seen it.

His gaze drops.

Two small puncture marks bloom just above your bootline, purpling fast. Blood wells slow and dark.

Just beyond your heel, something rustles. A glistening tail vanishes into underbrush—thin, silent, coiled death retreating into shadow.

Jaw tight, face gone pale, Caleb tracks it with his eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “It got you.” Then, sharper: “Don’t move. One breath too fast and it spreads.”

No teasing. No hesitation.

He moves—fast. Pack dropped. Knees in the dirt. Hands already on your leg—one braced under the calf, lifting it into his lap, the other securing your knee, grip firm and shaking.

“Caleb—?” The trees spin. Light fractures like stained glass above.

“Stay with me.” His voice—low, raw. “You’re gonna feel it. But don’t flinch. I need you here.”

He pulls his multitool from a side pocket. The blade flicks out with one swift motion—his teeth catching the hinge, hand already lowering toward your skin.

“Shit—sorry,” he mutters, breath hitching. “But I’m not losing you to some backwoods godless reptile.”

A sting. The blade kisses skin. Just below the bite.

And then—

His mouth seals over the wound.

Hot. Immediate. Real.

You gasp—less from pain than from sensation. Lips drag against your skin, suction deep and brutal. Every pull, every slow grind of his jaw echoes down your spine.

He spits. Red. Dark and vivid against the ferns.

Then goes in again.

Wet sounds. Obscene and necessary. One hand keeps you grounded, palm firm against your thigh. His breath is unsteady. Warm air fans across your leg between pulls.

Fingers curl into moss. A twitch runs through you.

He pulls back, flushed and bloodstained.

“Stay still,” Caleb growls.

Your breath falters. Heat’s building now. A pulse—not pain but potential. A hum that coils beneath your skin.

Another spit—quick, ragged. Then another dive. Slower this time. Lips dragging. Tongue brushing.

You shiver. His thumb flexes against your thigh. Breath sharpens.

And on the final pull, when he lifts his head, he doesn’t reach for water.

He leans in again.

And licks.

From the base of the cut up. Slow. Velvet-soft.

Air catches in your throat. It shouldn’t feel like that. But it does.

An exhale slips past his lips. And then—too quiet, not meant for you: “Back by the stream... You let me touch your leg and I—” A swallow. Tension breaking through the heat. ”Wanted to taste you even then.”

Heartbeat stutters. Pupils blown. Cheeks flushed. That same hand still curved around your leg—like it never left. Something’s changing. Inside you. Between you.

Every sense pulls taut.

And Caleb? He’s still staring. Lips stained. Breath broken. Looking like he could do it all again.

And again.

The venom’s in him, too. Visible in the dilation of his gaze. The tremble in his shoulders. That rasp in his voice—lower now. Rougher. “You good?” His hand doesn’t leave your skin. But then, softer—regret slipping in: “…Sorry.”

It’s not about the wound.

Not the knife.

It’s for what he said.

You nod. A lie.

Because the warmth flooding through you isn’t good. It’s thick. Tingling. Crawling from ankle to hips to somewhere deeper.

Wrong. Or too right.

He reaches for his backpack. Fingers fumble on the zipper. The bandage roll tears under uneven hands. He wraps your leg—slow. Careful. Too careful. Hands shake—once, twice. Mouth still wet. Lips flushed. Parted.

And he won’t meet your eyes.

Not until halfway through. Then—just a flick upward. And he lingers. Long enough for heat to bloom in your chest.

Gaze drops. But his palm stays where it is. Curved. Warm. Thumb just a little too gentle.

The forest hums. Distant. Watching. Like it knows something is coming. And Caleb breathes through it. Barely.

He’s trying.

But you’re still in his hands.

Those hands hover—never straying, never quite still. Not gripping. Just present. Like if he lets go, everything breaks loose.

His gaze trails higher. Eyes—wrong. Still violet. But darker.

You see it—the restraint. The fear. The want. “…your eyes,” he mutters. Voice hoarse. “Could be the venom. Pupils are—wow. Okay.”

Your head tilts slowly. “Yours are, too,” you murmur. “Huge.”

He doesn’t answer. Just pats your head—gentle, apologetic—as if that will settle everything he doesn’t know how to say.

Then, steadying your weight with one hand, he moves fast. Guides your back against a wide tree trunk. Moss cool beneath you. Bark rough behind.

The forest holds its breath.

Caleb crouches again. Knees wide, elbows on thighs, scanning everything. Bark. Soil. Shadows. Silence.

“Okay. Think,” he breathes. “Slim neck. Glassy scales. Southern… Veritas viper. Maybe.”

But you’re not listening.

You’re watching him.

Lust slams into you like a wave—sudden and impossible to reason with. He looks too good like this. Wild hair pushed back. Sweat at his collar. Blood drying on his lips. That jaw clenched in focus. The memory of his mouth on your leg, hot and desperate, flashes through your mind and your core clenches hard.

He flips through his field journal—pages shaking in his fingers. “You can rest it out,” he says, not quite meeting your gaze. “A couple hours. It’ll pass.”

Your voice is wrecked.

“I don’t want to rest it out.”

That breaks something.

Eyes snap to yours. He stops breathing. Fingers find his shirt, fisting fabric. Another hand at his neck.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist.

And you don’t wait. You climb into his lap. Straddle him there in the moss. Legs open. Hips heavy. A sharp pulse runs through your ankle—your body warns you, but the ache blooming lower drowns it out.

You sink down, grind once—and he gasps. Thighs tense under you. Rigid muscle shifting. The hard line of his cock presses directly where you need it, thick and already damp with pre-release. Fabric to fabric. Heat to heat.

Your hips roll again—slow this time.

And Caleb’s whole body shudders.

“Please—” he exhales, lips barely brushing yours. It’s not a command. It’s not even coherent. It’s a prayer—hoarse and cracked. His eyes flick down to your leg, still bandaged, still pulsing. “Please, you’re hurt,” he whispers, like saying it aloud might stop what’s already happening

You lean in, tongue dragging across his lower lip—blood, sweat, venom still lingering in the taste. He groans—jaw clenched, trying to hold back like it costs him everything.

“God,” he pants. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

A tremor runs through his thigh. One hand fists into the moss. The other grips your leg again, thumb pressing into your skin like it’ll hold him down.

“If it’s a veritas…” he mutters, voice breaking against your mouth, “…it heightens everything. Skin. Heat. Pressure… Venom’s messing with your nerves.”

You grind down—harder.

His head drops. Forehead finds your shoulder. Breath hits your collar in ragged bursts.

“So if you’re feeling it—”

“Then you are too,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.

Another roll of your hips.

And he breaks.

“I’m—fuck—I’m trying to fight it.”

You kiss him. Soft. Filthy. Hot. Tongues brushing, breath catching.

“Don’t.”

And then it starts.

The rhythm.

Slick fabric. Your soaked shorts dragging just right over your clit. His cock thick beneath his clothes, already leaking, already twitching. The friction’s so wet you feel it in your belly—heat spiking with every grind. His hand slips beneath your shirt—broad, grounding. Fingers splay across your ribs, not groping, just holding like you’ll fly apart without him.

“I’m trying to be good,” he whispers. “Trying not to destroy you.”

You arch against him. “You’re not hurting me.”

“Nn… You keep rubbing,” he groans, hips jerking up into yours. “I can feel you. Dripping. Right through me.”

The drag of your shorts against his cock is torture. And he feels every goddamn inch.

“I could come like this,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Could fuck you through our clothes and lose my mind.”

You whimper into his mouth. He swallows it.

You keep moving.

And he snaps.

“You had your warning—fine.”

You’re lifted—suddenly, entirely—back thudding against the tree as he rises with you in his arms. Bark scrapes your spine, moss forgotten beneath your feet. He cages you there, holding you up like it costs him nothing. One hand braces the tree above your head, the other locks your thigh open, his grip firm and shaking.

“Stay still,” he growls.

You grind anyway.

“I said—shit—stop moving.”

His hips slam forward.

“Trying to be good—trying not to ruin you.”

But his cock is so hard. You feel it pulse through the layers. Every roll makes your clit jump. Every grind smears another wet streak into your already-soaked panties.

And you’re losing it.

He thrusts—not inside, but with everything he’s got. Grinding into you like he needs it to live. Panting. Cursing. Falling apart against your throat.

“This,” he grits out, rutting into you again, “—this is what you want instead of calling for help?”

Another thrust—slower. Cruel.

“You want me to fuck the venom out of you?”

His lips graze your jaw. Your ear. His breath is scalding.

“You think you can take what this does to me?”

You can’t even speak.

“You look like you’d beg,” he rasps, “but you don’t have to. I already want to give you everything.”

His hips drag. Wet. Hard. Rhythmic. You’re gasping now. Whimpering.

He doesn’t stop.

“I’m gonna come,” he growls. “Right through these clothes if you don’t stop clenching like that.”

“I can’t—” you choke. “I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” he grits. “Do it. I wanna feel it.”

And then—

It hits.

Your whole body locks. Breaks. Burns.

You come—shaking, pulsing around nothing and everything. Back arches, shoulder blades scraping bark, the rough grooves biting into your skin like nature itself is holding you there. You cry out, gasping his name, as your thighs seize around his waist.

He bares his teeth—and sinks them into your neck.

Not enough to break skin—but it’s brutal. It sends you spiraling through the crash as he holds you pinned against the tree.

And the groan he lets out isn’t a word.

It’s a sound—deep, wrecked, something primal torn from his chest. Dragged up from the base of his spine like it was never meant to be heard. Not even human. Just need.

Thrusts don’t stop—they stutter. Grind. Sloppy and frantic as he breaks apart against you. His forehead slams into yours. His whole body shakes. Saliva spills from the corner of his mouth, breath coming in shredded gasps as he moans your name like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say.

He comes hard. Soaking the fabric between you. Every roll of his hips floods more into the mess already smeared between your legs. And behind you—the wood digs deeper. Like the forest itself refuses to let you fall.

Every nerve lit. Every inch claimed.

But the venom?

The venom’s not done.

You’re still wet. Still clenching.

And so is he.

Still thick. Still leaking.

And still hard.

Caleb exhales, shaky and wrecked, then lifts his head slowly, eyes glowing. His hands still hold you in place. His breath hits your lips.

“…It’s not done with us,” he whispers.

You bite your lip.

“Good,” you say.

And he smiles—flushed and far from finished. His gaze flicks past you, toward the trees beyond. Still panting, still pressed against you, he lets out a breathless laugh. “There’s a stream,” he murmurs, voice thick and dark. “Just a short walk that way.”

You blink at him, dazed. “Why?”

He leans in again, lips brushing your ear. “Because we should probably clean up the mess you made.”

A beat.

He presses a slow, filthy grind into you—just enough to remind you exactly where that mess is. “Starting,” he adds, wickedly, “with the cum currently soaking through my shorts.”

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

You've got diamonds for teeth, my love

So take a bite of me just once

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

Writer’s note: Nobody asked for this, and yet—it has been unleashed upon the universe. I’m sorry. I’m weird. But I finally got to write something vaguely The Offering-coded, and it hit me: Caleb is kinda snake-coded? Apple, Eden, bite bite biiite. Cute snek, though. Love him. Love writing him as a freak. Also, he’s definitely the most likely (of all the LIs) to be totally unfazed by blood, bodily fluids, and sucking venom out of you. (Affectionately). And yes, this entire thing exists because the Heaven Official’s Blessing venom scene rewired my brain. I saw it, blacked out, wrote this and ordered the novels just so I could read it for myself. Zero regrets. Fun fact: I made the snake up. But there are real snakes that can give you a kind of high (and/or make you puke). Less fun fact: venom sucking does not work. Please don’t do it. Call emergency services. Let professionals handle your forest crises. Okay? Okay. I trust you. Thank you for reading 🫶🏻

#this is utter freak filth stay away #this is just for weirdos who resonate with the tags oke #dont cancel me ples #CAN SOMEONE DRAW THIS PLES okey i’ll shut up #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads caleb #you x caleb #non mc x caleb #Tian Guan Ci Fu x caleb #heaven official’s blessing x caleb #love and deepspace smut #caleb smut

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