#lost my edge... (ooc)

[quietingblade]

Hraesvelgr joins the battle!

Welcome to my darling! I've been without a bird muse for so long that my name doesn't hold much weight anymore, so I'm happy to be gifted a new one from FEH. A few quick portrayal notes:

Hraesvelgr is, of course, from the latest book of the Heroes story. As such, she will be updated as time goes on, and as we get more information. I'm hoping regardless of what happens, her angle remains similar enough.

Her blog and portrayal will, therefore, contain spoilers for the FEH story. These will be tagged accordingly.

Hraesvelgr is a town resident, so she has been spending the last few ic months hovering around the academy, acting as a surgeon. This means your muse might recognize her, but more in the way they'd recognize a particular monastery guard than one of their fellow knights. She's recently been invited to join the knights properly, but hasn't accepted yet.

A large part of Hraesvelgr's demeanor is based around her fear of completing her mission, and having to end her own life. If this is not something you want to hear about, for any reason, I'm happy to not mention it in any thread of ours. Just let me know!

I'll be throwing up a plotting call later today. Excited to write her!

[ovaryacted]

PLAYTHING

─ Charlie Reid x fem! reader || WC: 1.7k

SYNOPSIS: You push Charlie’s limits, so he teaches you a lesson.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Age gap implied [Charlie is 50, reader is 25+]. Established relationship. Daddy kink. Sir/Authority kink. Boot riding/leg humping. Dom/sub elements. Mean Daddy Dom! Charlie Reid. Teasing. Edging. Orgasm denial (if you blink). Praise kink. Degradation. Hair pulling. Mentions of past sex (unprotected p in v). Mentions of past oral sex & fingering (f! receiving). Masturbation (both Charlie & reader at different instances). Descriptions of taking nudes & sending them to Charlie. Possible manipulation vibes. Lowkey obsessed Charlie. Mentions of Charlie being a cop. Charlie is a bad bad man, but he's sexy. They match each other's freak real bad. Everything is consensual! I haven't watched Chicago PD so I apologize if this might be ooc.

A/N: I have no words to explain this besides oops & I'm sorry. I blacked out when typing this out and just went with the first thing that popped in my head and finished it in an hour. This might be crazy, might be impulsive, but we love that! This is for the Hatosy Hive & remember guys, ACAB. Proofread by moi. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated. <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

Charlie sits on the couch, knees bent and legs spread, eyes skimming over the pamphlet in his hand, glasses sitting on the tip of his nose. The words on the page blur together the more he reads, the ice cubes in his cup of whiskey off to the side melt together with a clink as seconds turn into minutes. He glances over at the clock hanging high on the wall in front of him; it reads 10:18 pm, a light huff escaping through his nostrils at the adjustment of the late night.

Taking his eyes off of the file, his neck turns to glance down towards the ground, his hungry sight landing on you.

Finally acknowledging your existence, you were too busy pressing yourself against one of his thick legs, arms wrapping around the back of his denim-clad shin. Your bare thighs were on either side of his foot, still covered in the hard leather of the boots he wore primarily for patrols around Chicago, your knees rasping over the hardwood floor below you. The baggy t-shirt shielding your figure left nothing to the imagination, not when he already knew you were warm and wanting underneath the dark material that draped over your bare breasts and lace-covered cunt.

He watches you like he’s done so many times before, black engulfing his irises until nothing but a twisted darkness remains. You try your hardest to be discreet in the way your hips shift over the tip of his boot, strengthening your grip on his leg, nails digging into his calf and suppressing the whimper that almost slipped out when you found the right angle for friction. You pretend like he doesn’t know what you’re doing, how you’re feeling. You make yourself believe that he’s oblivious to how badly he’s corrupted you to the core, so rotten it mirrors the rest of him.

He keeps watching. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to, nor does he plan on it.

You’d forgotten how long it’s been since he paid you some attention, always so busy running around the city doing god knows what. Walking in through the front door, he didn’t stop to kiss your lips like he usually did when he saw you; a simple smooch on your forehead and a squeeze of your hip was all you got before he made a bee-line to the kitchen for some hard liquor.

Running down the list of possible agitators, you settled on the day being long; the lead he’s been chasing turned out to be less fruitful than he wanted, a loose end abruptly caught off and lost with the remaining tangled mess he was already dealing with. It couldn’t be because he was upset with you. No, it couldn’t be. He’d tell you, right? He’d be the voice of reason when common sense was replaced with the needy headspace of neglect you adopted that latched onto him like glue.

A lost puppy craving recognition and belonging—that’s all you were to him, for him. At times, you couldn’t stand it; you considered now being one of those times.

“Charlie…” you mumbled pitifully against his knee, your chin nuzzling into the harsh material of his jeans. He looks at you sharply, the corner of his mouth twitches in the faintest curve.

So sweet. So pathetic. He only hums, squinting his eyes at you in curiosity, raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

“Please.”

It’s all you needed to say, you think that would be sufficient to convince Charlie to do something, anything. But the sickness in him trickles higher up, sticks between his ribs, and embeds itself deep into his bone marrow, stitching itself alongside every nerve and sinew threaded into his very being.

With Charlie, it was never enough with you. He always wanted more—to drink you in and choke on his own greed, to suffocate from his fixation on you.

“Please what?” He asked calmly, a condescending edge along the end of his question, waiting for what he wanted to hear.

“Touch me.” It was bratty, stubborn, and entitled. All the things Charlie gravitated towards when he first met you, and the very things that made him lose his patience. Blinking slowly in your direction, he exhales, quirking his head to the side to scrutinize you.

“And you think you deserve it?”

It was a rhetorical question, at least to you it was. Did you? Did you deserve it? Did you deserve him? Good old reliable, dependable, cool, and collected Charlie?

“I’ve been good.” Lie. “I’ll be good daddy, I promise.” Another lie, but maybe throwing the title he adored so much would help you win your case.

You thought wrong.

A large hand creeps down to the back of your head, tugging your face to meet his piercing gaze. The mewl you release rolls out of your mouth with ease, neck craning to look at him as he bends the slightest bit forward, teasingly close enough for you to smell the whiskey lingering on his breath.

“Don’t fucking lie to me. Not when you sent me those pictures earlier. You think I’ll just let that slide, sweetheart? I don’t think so.”

Oh, that? It may have been a moment of weakness after waking up to the other side of the bed being empty and disheveled, still warm from the ghost of Charlie’s presence when he left for work earlier this morning. Flipping over on your back, your mind drifted to last night—to when you clutched at his head as he unhinged his jaw to lavish his tongue over your clenching hole like you asked, stuffing his thick fingers into your dripping pussy until you cried, until you couldn’t take any more.

That wasn’t until he turned you around and plunged into your waiting entrance, pinning your head to the mattress and pounding into you from behind as you soaked his cock. Your thighs shook so much you couldn’t hold yourself up, sending you to lay flat into the covers to take everything Charlie gave you.

You could still feel the imprint of him inside you when you woke up, his release warm and tucked deep in your body, right where he wanted it to be. The pictures were harmless in nature, a few of you wearing the police academy shirt you stole from him, others with the stretched cotton brought over your chest, a hand cupping the heft of your breast with your fingers teasing over your stiff nipples. The remaining few pictures varied, clusters of you spreading your legs to capture the mess he left behind from the night before, spreading your puffy lips and turning the flash on so he could see the slick already staining your fingers.

You sent the images without a care in the world, didn’t bother to use the invisible ink feature either, letting him see everything all at once. It was a reminder that you were thinking of him, that you were his, that you were infatuated with him the way he trained you to be. He didn’t reply to you after you sent those pictures despite leaving you on read. You knew he saw them at least, going about your day with no additional message or phone call, your phone silent until he sent you a quick text letting you know he was on his way home.

Charlie didn’t tell you that he had to jerk off in his car in the middle of patrol, thanking the high heavens for the tinted windows he installed as he parked in a desolate street to relieve himself of the hard-on he’s been hiding since 9:30 this morning. He flicked his wrist over his aching cock with one hand and held his phone with the other, shamelessly zooming in on the picture of you stuffing yourself with your smaller digits. He came hard with a growl, spilling over his fist and breathing hard through his nose, cleaning up his mess with some tissues in his glove box. He spent the remainder of his day thinking of how he would reprimand you once he got home, how he would rectify this injustice you’ve so rudely committed against him.

You pushed it today, you know you did, but in the end you got what you wanted—his attention. Even through punishment, the distorted parts of you that he nurtured found enjoyment in his torment, his control, in the force he used to order you to keep him entertained.

This was where you belonged, where you were meant to be—underneath him, ready to fulfill every one of his demands no matter how perversive they may seem.

“I’m sorry, daddy.” You mumbled, your heart racing when the grip cupping the back of your skull tightened. “I just missed you.”

A dry chuckle sneaks out of him, unamused by your confession. Of course you missed him, you couldn’t get enough of him. He’d consider it a consequence of molding you into the ideal plaything for him to have, not that you had any qualms about it, but it was much more enjoyable to play the part.

“I know you do, but you can’t send me pictures of your pussy when I’m at work and anybody can see it. Or maybe that’s what you want, huh? More eyes on you as if I don’t spoil you enough.” You shook your head at that, ignoring the rush of belittling warmth that streamed between your thighs at the insult.

“You want to make it up to me?” Charlie fights the urge to laugh at the way you eagerly bobbed your head in his hand, angling his foot harder into you, loving the way you moan at the forced contact.

“You’re gonna keep humping my boot until I say you’re done. Maybe after, I’ll think about giving you my mouth and fucking you properly before we go to bed. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.” A simple declaration—an oath of your dedication to give him a reason to stay, to want you. Both ends of his mouth curl upwards in a smile at your helpless reply, genuine and sinister. He was temptation wrapped in a red bow and dressed in rose-tinted glasses; you’d want nothing more than to be smothered by it.

“Good girl.”

Returning to his place on the couch, Charlie leans into the cushion, resuming his faux reading of the file he grabbed before stepping out of the office. Sipping on his whiskey, he listened to your suppressed keens as you bucked your hips into his foot, the hard leather of his boot grinding perfectly into your aching clit, your arousal seeping through your underwear just like he anticipated.

Whatever Charlie Reid says, goes.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

Tagging some mooties I know are interested in this man: @superhoeva @stellamarielu @flofaiiry @abbotjack @ozarkthedog @syd-djarin @letsgobarbs @yxtkiwiyxt @clubsoft @erwinsvow @melancholyy-hill

[aleksatia]

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

Cut Scene (NSFW): 🍎 Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

[hhoneylemon]

𝙄𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨

mark grayson x gn!reader

summary: mark realizes he’s selfish; he just wants to be held by you. he’s kinda ooc sorry :( 1k words

he’s all ghost kisses and gentle touches.

a bag of candy lies on the bed, discarded the second he had reached you. he’d gone out of his way to go to the fancy candy place at the mall an hour away.

now, he’s curled in your arms and nuzzling against your shoulder, taking in the scent of your body wash and your laundry detergent. his lips ghost over the skin that’s exposed around the collar of your shirt, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt around your waist. they dip underneath, soothingly rubbing circles on your skin.

he’s barely paying attention to what you’ve been saying, lost at the feel and smell of you. he shifts oh so slightly, legs tangling and bending in oddly comfortable manners.

when you look at him, his breath catches in his throat. he’s lost in your eyes, barely noticing your mouth is moving. a tap on his arm brings him to, causing him to blink and huff softly.

“hmm?”

“did you hear what i said?”

his face squashes back into your shoulder, a soft sigh escaping him. his nose lightly nuzzles you, his hand rising to splay across your chest.

“no,” he murmurs, fingers spreading as far as they can go. he enjoyed seeing just how much room there was down there, what would fit…

his cheeks flush a soft pink and he shudders as you run a hand down his spine. he’s convinced you know what he was thinking and now want to torture him. he raises his head to glare at you. you can’t help but to laugh at the sight, gently poking his cheek and rubbing the small of his back.

“well, i was telling you my plans for the weekend. guess you don’t care, though, hmm?”

mark squints at you as though you’ve offended him. he shakes his head and lightly scoffs.

“i do care. i was just… thinking about other things.”

“like what?”

he makes a whiny noise, trying to weakly pull away. you roll your eyes, letting him sit up. he looks down at you as his back hits the headboard, betrayal written on his features.

“important things! like the ice cream we got last week in france. like the cookies we baked with my mom a few days ago. like when we went hiking yesterday.”

mark watches as you sit up beside him, hands automatically reaching for you. you sigh, wrapping your hands in and around his, watching him smile at you in turn. giving a small squeeze, you purse your lips.

“yeah, right. i was gonna help my friend look for furniture for his new apartment. then probably just hang out with you.”

he quietly cheers, leaning his head on your shoulder. he throws one leg over yours, forcing the both of you to shift to get more comfortable.

“perfect. i’ll be waiting on the edge of my chair.”

“you’re too corny.” you roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile at the ridiculousness. you turn your head to kiss his temple, resulting in a small hitch of mark’s breath.

you lightly push his head off your shoulder so you can look him in the eyes. with gentle hands, you cup his face. your thumb traces his bottom lip, back and forth.

“really pretty, though.” you murmur, leaning in and kissing him. his hands move in the air for a moment before landing on your biceps, gently squeezing.

you pull away and let your eyes flit across his face. they land on the scars that cut across his nose, the scar that runs across his top lip. the scars that try to mar his pretty face and yet fail.

you lean in and press your lips gently against his. you watch as his eyes flutter closed, his long eyelashes casting small shadows on his under eyes. you break away from his lips to press a small kiss to the bridge of his nose, right over the large scar from chicago.

from there, your lips find his right cheek. then his left. then his chin. then his forehead. another soft kiss to his top lip, right where the scar is. his cheeks are pink and his eyes are vulnerable once you finish. a small choked sound escapes him as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close.

his face finds your neck, hiding in the soft skin. his hands lightly tremble at your hips, trying to pull you impossibly closer. butterflies flutter around his stomach, his heart pounding in his ears.

“so good to me.” he murmurs against your neck, fingers sliding underneath the hem of your shirt. you gently laugh against his hair.

“i try to be. you deserve the best, don’t you?”

mark doesn’t enjoy being selfish. he tries to help people and have other people come before him. he’s come to learn that he’s a person too, and he can indulge in things that he enjoys. he can put himself first.

“yeah. specially when i flew to get you candy from a mall that’s an hour away.”

“probably took you ten minutes to get there.”

you scoff, squeezing him against you. he grins, pulling away to look you in the eyes again.

“true.”

he seems giddy, pulling you against him once again. he only uses his powers a tiny bit to lower the both of you onto the mattress in a lying position. his face presses into your hair, his arm wrapping around your waist. he only smiles with half of the suns power when the weight of your head settles on his chest, your hand finding his hip.

settling his free hand under his head, he decides this is where he should always be. where he truly belongs is in your arms, your weight and warmth grounding him to the soft firmness of his mattress.

he wonders, later that night, if he could pretend the world didn’t need him. that if cecil called, he wouldn’t have to answer. if danger occurred in the city, he could let other heroes handle it. the thought was too selfish, he decided. but when you sigh in your sleep and shift so that your foot nudges his, he decides that maybe he could skip a night every now and then.

masterlist

[lovelymindescape]

can i request a thanos x virgin reader smut

Softened Edges (Choi Su-bong x Virgin!Fem!Reader)

pairing — choi su-bong x virgin!fem!reader

Summary - In the games you and Thanos were getting closer than friends. You have a special bond. Maybe that's because you told him in the games because you thought you're gonna die that you are still a virgin and that you want someone (him) that you trust to take it

warnings -most likely ooc Thanos. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v. implied cumming inside. Dirty talk. Virgin!Reader. Mild Roughness (Thanos's personality).Emotional Vulnerability. later established relationship. MDNI!

author’s note — not my first time writing smut but my first time Posting my smut writing , ignore typos , English is not my first language

The dim glow of the neon signs out on the street flickered through the window, casting hazy red lines across your shared bed. Thanos sat at the edge, rolling a cigarette between his fingers, the rough pads of his thumb pressing against the paper as if lost in thought.

“You sure about this?” His voice was deep, rasping with the weight of someone who had seen too much. He didn’t look at you right away, his dark eyes scanning the floor instead, as if giving you space to change your mind. You swallowed, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you. “Yeah. I am.”

That made him pause. Thanos wasn’t a man who hesitated often, but something about this—about you—made him move slower, more deliberate. He finally turned, setting the unlit cigarette aside before reaching out. His hand cupped your cheek, rough callouses dragging lightly against your skin. “I ain’t the kind of guy who does this ‘sweetly.’ His thumb brushed over your lower lip, gaze flickering with something unreadable. “But I can be careful.”

A shiver ran through you, nerves mixing with anticipation. “I trust you.” That was all it took. Su-bong let out a low sigh, as if shaking off whatever restraint was left in him. He pulled you closer, his warmth grounding you even as your heart raced. There was nothing rushed, nothing careless. For once, the man known as Thanos wasn’t taking—he was giving. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to let yourself fall.

He let's his hand wander, his fingers softly tilting your chin up. The kiss starts slow—gentle, coaxing—before deepening, his tongue teasing against yours. His hands slide down your arms, tracing over your wrists before pulling you against him.

You shiver as his hands find the hem of your shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. "Lift your arms," he whispers. You obey, and the fabric is gone in seconds. His gaze lingers on your newly exposed skin, hunger flickering in his eyes , as he starts to plant little kisses all over. His fingers trail over your stomach, down to your hips, before slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Thanos pauses, searching your face for hesitation. "Still with me?"

You nod, breathless.

With one swift movement he also removes your pants off you , Thanos takes a step back and admires what he just discovered. "I don't say this with a real meaning often , but you're beautiful , very beautiful to be honest".

He eases you back onto the bed, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path down your chest. With skilled fingers, he unclasps your bra, sliding it off with practiced ease. His mouth latches onto your breast, lips warm and wet, tongue circling your nipple in lazy, teasing strokes. Each flick sends a spark straight between your thighs. He doesn’t stop there. His kisses travel lower, grazing over your ribs, dipping to your stomach. With every press of his lips, he leaves his mark—soft nips, lingering heat—claiming every inch of you.

His lips travel lower, grazing over your ribs and dipping to your stomach, each kiss lingering just long enough to make you squirm beneath him. His fingers skim along the edge of your panties, teasing, not yet giving you what you need."

"You're already trembling," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "I’ve barely even touched you." Your breath catches as he hooks his fingers into the fabric, sliding it down slowly. He watches your expression, drinking in every flicker of anticipation.

The way you press your thighs together doesn’t go unnoticed. "Open up for me, sweetheart,"he coaxes, softly but his voice is low and commanding, with an edge of tenderness. "Let me see all of you."

Your heart begins to race in your chest. You part your thighs hesitantly, feeling exposed under his dark, heated gaze. "Good girl," he praises, running his hands over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His fingers trail upward, barely brushing over your core, enough to send a shiver through you—but not enough to satisfy.

You let out a quiet whimper, hips shifting slightly. He chuckles, clearly pleased by your sudden reaction. "So desperate already?" He dips a single finger between your folds, just teasing, gathering the slickness there before withdrawing again.

You bite your lip, frustration mixing with anticipation. "P-please..." His smirk deepens, but there’s warmth in his eyes. "Patience, sweetheart. I want to feel you come undone first." He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss just above where you need him most, his breath hot against your skin. Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowers his mouth.

His breath is warm against your most sensitive spot, the anticipation making every nerve in your body stand on edge. You barely have time to process the feeling before his tongue flicks out—just once, barely a touch—before pulling away again. The gasp that leaves your lips is embarrassingly needy.

"Mmm," he hums, satisfied. "You’re so sensitive. I wonder… how much more can you take?" Your fingers clutch at the sheets as his tongue moves again, this time with more purpose. He starts slow, dragging the wet heat of his mouth over you in slow, torturous strokes. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you open for him, completely at his mercy. "You taste so sweet, sweetheart," he murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with desire.

"I could stay here all night." Your mind feels hazy, lost in the unfamiliar but intoxicating sensations. You’ve never felt anything like this before—each stroke of his tongue sends a pulse of pleasure straight through you, leaving you breathless and trembling. Your hips buck slightly, chasing the feeling, but he immediately presses them back down with firm hands. "Ah, ah," he chides, amusement lacing his tone.

"Look at you, already so eager. But I’m in charge here, remember?" You bite your lip, embarrassed but unable to stop the soft whimper that escapes you when he flattens his tongue against you, applying more pressure. A tightness starts to build deep in your stomach, unfamiliar but overwhelming, and it only grows stronger as he adds a single finger, pressing inside you with slow, deliberate care.

"You’re so tight," he groans, his voice strained with restraint. "Relax for me, sweetheart. Let me in." His finger moves slowly at first, curling just right, coaxing pleasure from you with every stroke. His mouth never stops—lapping, teasing, driving you higher until the tension inside you coils impossibly tight. "That’s it," he breathes against you, feeling the way you tighten around him.

"Let go, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart." The pressure snaps. A cry leaves your lips as pleasure crashes over you, wave after wave rolling through your body. Your thighs tremble, fingers tangled in the sheets as you struggle to process the intensity of it all. He doesn't stop—not yet. He works you through it, tongue and fingers moving just enough to prolong your high, until the pleasure turns into oversensitivity and you're forced to whimper his name.

Only then does he finally pull away, lips glistening as he looks up at you with dark, heated eyes. "So beautiful," he murmurs, crawling back up your body to capture your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, but you’re too dazed to feel shy about it. "You’re not done yet, sweetheart," he whispers against your lips.

Your whole body trembles as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you, leaving you breathless and weak beneath him. Every nerve feels alight, oversensitive, but your mind is hazy, floating in the warmth of his touch.

He watches you, drinking in the sight of your blissed-out expression—your chest rising and falling, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath.

A smirk tugs at his lips, but there’s something else in his gaze, something darker. "Still with me, sweetheart?" he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. You nod weakly, but before you can fully recover, his hands slide up your body, covering you with his warmth as he moves to hover over you again. He kisses you—slow and deep, his tongue teasing against yours, letting you taste the remnants of your release on his lips.

Your body is still tingling, sensitive, but when he shifts between your legs, his hips pressing against yours, a different kind of heat starts to build. Your breath hitches as you feel him, heavy and hard, pressing against your entrance. "Mmm, you’re still shaking," he muses, brushing his lips along your jaw. His fingers glide down your side, soothing, grounding. "That felt good, didn’t it?"

You manage a nod, but the moment his tip nudges against you—just barely there—a soft gasp escapes you. He groans at the sound, rolling his hips just enough to tease. "So sensitive," he murmurs, voice thick with desire. "But you’re still so warm… so wet for me. You want more, don’t you?" Heat flares in your cheeks, but the way your body reacts—the way your thighs instinctively part for him—betrays you.

"That’s my girl," he praises, dragging his fingers along your hip before gripping it firmly. "I’ll go slow, sweetheart. I want you to feel everything." One hand finds yours, fingers lacing together as he slowly and carefully starts to push inside.

A soft whimper escapes you as he pushes deeper, stretching you inch by inch. The fullness is overwhelming, teetering between discomfort and something unfamiliar—something almost too much. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and he stills immediately, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Easy, sweetheart," he soothes, voice strained, as if it’s taking every ounce of control to hold himself back. "You’re taking me so well."

His hands caress your thighs, his thumbs drawing slow, grounding circles into your skin. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss—distracting, comforting, easing you through the adjustment. "Breathe," he murmurs against your lips.

You do. A deep inhale. A shaky exhale.

As your body relaxes around him, the discomfort begins to fade, replaced by a warmth that spreads deep inside you.

A new kind of pressure lingers there, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. You shift slightly beneath him, testing, and a soft moan slips from your lips at the sensation. His breath hitches. "Fuck," he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice is rough, his control fraying at the edges. "You feel so tight, sweetheart. So perfect around me."

The praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you, and he notices—of course he notices. A smirk tugs at his lips, teasing, but there’s something deeper in his gaze. "Does it feel good?" he asks, his voice low, coaxing. You swallow hard, nodding shyly. "Words, sweetheart." His hips roll forward, just barely, sending a shiver through your body. "Tell me how it feels." "I—I like it," you admit breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk deepens, but there’s warmth in his expression, something almost reverent. "That’s my good girl." Slowly, carefully, he pulls back before pressing in again, a slow, deliberate glide that has your nails digging into his skin. The stretch still lingers, but this time, pleasure begins to unfurl beneath it, curling low in your stomach. "That’s it," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp. "You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Just let go for me."

His movements start slow—measured, gentle, letting you feel every inch of him as he fills you completely. He watches your expression intently, catching every flutter of your lashes, every gasp that spills from your lips. His hands never stop moving—one grips your thigh, keeping you open for him, while the other strokes soothing patterns against your skin. The teasing edge remains, but it’s softer now—less playful, more intimate. He leans down, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one deep and slow, matching the rhythm of his movements.

"You're mine now," he whispers against your lips, voice dripping with possessive affection. "Every little inch of you." A shiver runs through you, and something shifts. The pleasure starts to build, the sensitivity from before making every movement feel sharper, deeper. Your hips move instinctively, chasing the feeling, and he groans at the way you tighten around him.

"So eager now," he teases, but his voice is strained, as if he’s barely holding himself together. His pace picks up slightly, not rough, but more insistent—each thrust pressing deeper, sending waves of heat through your body. Your mind feels hazy, lost in the pleasure, the overwhelming fullness, the way he makes you feel completely his.

"I want to hear you," he breathes, his lips brushing against your ear. "Don’t hold back, sweetheart. Let me hear those pretty sounds." A soft moan escapes you, and he rewards you with a deep thrust, dragging another breathless whimper from your lips. His grip tightens on your hips, his control slipping as your body molds to his, meeting him perfectly. "That’s my girl," he praises, voice thick with need.

The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling, building, rising higher and higher. He feels it—feels the way your body clenches around him, the way your breaths turn shallow. "You're close, aren’t you , sweetheart?"* he murmurs, a smirk in his voice. "Let go for me, sweetheart. Come around me." His fingers slip between your bodies, finding your clit , drawing circles with his thumb , pressing just right—and the world shatters.

A cry escapes your lips as pleasure crashes over you, your body tensing, pulsing, unraveling beneath him. He groans, his pace faltering for a moment as your walls tighten around him, dragging him deeper into the sensation. "Fuck—" his breath stutters, his control snapping as he buries himself to the hilt, his own release hitting him hard.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your uneven breaths, the faint hum of your racing heartbeat in your ears. He stays inside you, warm and solid, his body pressed firmly against yours as he presses soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your forehead. "You were perfect," he murmurs, voice softer now, his teasing replaced with something warmer, something deeply affectionate.

He shifts slightly, careful not to move too fast, his hands soothing over your skin. Taking care of you. "Are you okay?" he asks, voice gentle, lips brushing your temple. You nod, your body still tingling, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and warmth. A contented sigh escapes you as he pulls you against his chest, wrapping you securely in his arms.

He smirks, but there’s nothing smug about it this time—just satisfaction, love, and a hint of possessiveness. "Get some rest, sweetheart," he murmurs. The warmth of his body surrounds you, his arms wrapped securely around your waist as he pulls you against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, a soothing rhythm beneath your ear, grounding you in the soft haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure.

"Are you really okay, sweetheart?" His voice is softer now, husky from exertion but laced with something deeper—concern, affection. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles on your back, his touch tender in contrast to the dominance he held before. You hum a sleepy, contented sound, nuzzling closer.

His scent is everywhere , a mix of heat and musk, but beneath it lingers something undeniably him —comforting, familiar. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "That good, huh?" Your cheeks warm, and you make a small, embarrassed noise in response. He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

His eyes—so intense before—now hold a different kind of fire, something softer, more possessive in an entirely different way. "You were perfect," he murmurs, brushing his lips against your forehead. A sigh escapes you as his hands continue their slow, soothing strokes along your skin.

He shifts slightly, sitting up just enough to pull the blankets over both of you before tucking you firmly against him again. "Do you feel okay?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern now. "Not too sore?" You shake your head, though there’s an ache settling deep in your muscles—a reminder of just how thoroughly he had you.

He seems to sense it because his hands drift lower, massaging your hips gently, easing any tension. "I’ll run us a bath soon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "But for now, just rest, sweetheart." You bask in the comfort of his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

The room is quiet except for the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the sound of your intertwined breaths. Then—his fingers pause their gentle strokes against your back. A beat of silence lingers between you before he exhales, almost as if gathering his thoughts.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more serious. You blink up at him sleepily, confusion flickering across your face. "About what?" His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing over the flushed skin there. His gaze searches yours , something unspoken lingering behind his teasing smirk.

"That you’re mine," he says simply. Your breath catches. "But I don’t just mean for tonight," he continues, his voice lower now, more intimate. "I don’t want this to be just once, sweetheart." He leans in, his lips ghosting over yours , his breath warm and full of unspoken promises. "I want you."

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, as if grounding himself in the moment. "All of you. Not just in my bed—but in my life." Your chest tightens, a different kind of warmth flooding through you now—not desire, but something deeper, something almost overwhelming.

"Be mine," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "For real."

There’s no teasing in his voice this time—just genuine affection, quiet possessiveness, and a rare kind of vulnerability. The words hang between you, weighty and full of meaning. And as you look up into his waiting gaze, you already know your answer.

A/N : So , this is my first real story posted on here and it is pretty long from what I have before , also like I said this the first time Posting smut , so Feedback is appreciated !💜

Tag: @onecojg

[m0chaminx]

Coriolanus Snow | Roses Grow Thorns

*•.¸♡Request: Pls pls pls do a part 2 too the snow x reader fix it was so amazing and I want more of them 🙏🙏🙏🙏‼️‼️🩷

*•.¸♡Prompts: none

*•.¸♡Warnings: Coriolanus, Cori isn't insane (ish), Snow is slight ooc, jealousy, hurt comfort, fluff ending

*•.¸♡Paring: Coriolanus Snow x F!reader

*•.¸♡Summary: Coriolanus learns his favourite flower grows thorns

Or

You confront Coriolanus about his relationship with Lucy Gray

*•.¸♡Words: 2k

Part 1

People danced, swaying with their partners in a circle as you stood on stage, strumming your guitar and singing to the crowd. Lucy had just finished the first half of her set, so you took the stage to fill the silence. Coriolanus sat with Sejanus at a table across the room, large glasses of some sort of liquor. Coriolanus looked up at you and smiled.

If you like your coffee hot

Let me be your coffee pot

You call the shots, babe

I just wanna be yours

Your voice trailed off slightly as Lucy raced to Coriolanus and Sejanus, throwing her arm around his shoulder and leaning between them. You shook your head and continued to play, trying to ignore Lucy Gray practically hanging from Coriolanus’s arm.

Jealousy, an unwelcome guest, clawed at the edges of your heart, leaving an ache in your chest. No words had been exchanged, and no actions had passed between you two. It overtook the corners of your mind, urging you to believe that Lucy Gray should sense the unspoken connection threading its way between you and Coriolanus.

Each shared trip to the lake, every stolen moment when Coriolanus chose to spend his fleeting free hours with you — these fragments of time saved in your mind like photos in an old book. Yet, as you observed Lucy Gray standing there, a vision of radiant smiles and hushed confidences exchanged with Coriolanus, a wave of emotion surged. It was as if the world momentarily lost its colour, and the whispers of uncertainty left an indelible mark on your heart.

You clenched your hand, trying to ease the shaking in your hands.

Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours

Every night for the past week following that evening, Coriolanus Snow would tap gently on the glass of your window. You would turn your head and he would smile, the same bright smile that made your stomach flip and fill with butterflies. You crept across the wood floors and opened the window, looking down at the blue-eyed boy. “Are you busy?”

You would simply laugh at him. You grabbed your coat and slipped out the window, Coriolanus gripping your waist to help you down properly. He would smile, slip a scarf under the window to close it without locking it and you would slip away unnoticed, descending into the velvety embrace of the night.

In those quiet moments, Coriolanus would slip your hand in his own, his warm hand covering yours as he laced your fingers together. He guided you through the dense labyrinth of woods, you knew these woods better than he did but through the nights as he led you to the lake, you questioned if you ever knew them at all. 

The Mokingjays sang into the night as if calling to the small fireflies to light the way. “I brought matches,” Cori said, looking back at you. He tugged on your hand bringing you closer and you couldn't help but think about Lucy Gray running her hand along his shoulders. “We can light a fire. Maybe catch some fish.” You nodded and Coriolanus smiled.

You reached the lake and Coriolanus set his bag down, quickly gathering everything to start a fire. You walked to the edge of the water, your mind running faster than you could even start to comprehend. “Think we’ll catch anything?” He asked, stopping to look up at you.

You looked back over the water, looking at the fish no bigger than your palm swimming just above the sea floor. You shook your head, keeping your eyes on the moonlight dancing on the waves of the water. “Nothing big enough to eat,” You said. Coriolanus nodded and turned back to the fire.

Once the fire was made you sat on the ground beside him, leaving enough space so your shoulders didn’t touch. You both sat in silence, Coriolanus’s knee bouncing softly. 

The flames danced and flickered, the golden glow flickering in Coriolanus’s blue eyes, you settled onto the ground beside him. You shifted slightly, making sure your shoulders didn't touch. The silence stretched between you, Coriolanus's fingers drumming against a stick he held in nervousness.

Coriolanus's knee bounced softly, mirroring the unsteady rhythm of both your hearts. The mere inches that separated you felt like an unbridgeable chasm, as long and confusing as his thoughts. “Did I do something?” His voice cut through the silence like a knife and you turned towards him, your eyebrows furrowed. “You seem distracted. You’re not talking like you usually do. You’re sitting far away.” You bit your lip and shrugged softly. “What’s wrong?”

“What did I sing tonight?” You turned to face Coriolanus. “Tonight. I sang, I wore the red dress so everyone could see the white rose you gave me. But what did I sing?” Coriolanus stammered. “You don’t spare a second glance at me during our shows, you talk to Sejanus when I do perform and you let Lucy Gray hang off your arm like she was yours.”

He spoke your name softly, trying to shuffle closer but you stood quickly. “Don’t do that Cori,” You pleaded. “I’m gonna go home, I’ll see you later.” You turned on your heel. Making your way back through the woods.

Coriolanus sighed, dropping his head into his hands as you walked from his view.

The next morning you stared at the ceiling, stretched out on your small bed. You twisted a small rose between your fingers, the thrones pricking your skin occasionally. The knock at the window made you jump. You turned your head to look at Coriolanus standing on the other side, smiling ever so slightly. You sighed and set the rose aside before walking to the window and pulling it open. “Corio-”

“Don’t talk,” he said quickly. “Don’t say anything, just follow me.” 

“Cori-”

“What did I just say?”

A frustrated huff escaped you as you forcefully closed the window, shutting out the annoying sounds of crickets. Pulling the blinds closed with a swift motion covering Coriolanus’s face, but you caught his smile dropping. You donned your jacket and stepped out the front door, stopping in front of Coriolanus just as you turned the corner. He extended his hand, a warm smile playing on his lips. Suppressing the annoyance that still simmered beneath the surface, you offered a muted response, "Just lead the way," your words carrying a hint of resignation.

Coriolanus nodded and started to lead you through the woods, the sun still yet to rise properly. “You sang I Wanna Be Yours,” Coriolanus muttered. “No, I didn't ask Lucy Gray. You wrote it after you met your old girlfriend but you haven't sung it since. That’s why it was so important to you. And why you wanted me to remember it.”

You hummed and tried to hide your smile. “So you were paying attention.”

Coriolanus spoke, low and earnest, his gaze fixed on you. "I always pay attention," he assured, a sincerity etched into his words. The weight of his gaze, coupled with the firmness in his tone, sought to reassure you. "And nothing is happening between Lucy Gray and me. She was helping me with something," he explained, his words carrying the weight of truth and an unspoken plea for understanding.

“Which is?”

Coryo smiled, “Keep following me.”

You followed Coriolanus, walking in silence until the sun rose completely. He stopped at a rock wall, a small dirt trail winding around it. He reached out, slipping his hand into yours and leading you down the track. “Roses don’t grow in 12, the ground is too hard,” Coriolanus started. “Lucy Gray told me just beyond the rock wall there is ground soft enough to grow flowers. Sejanus used his father's money to get some seed and…” Coriolanus stepped aside as you reached the bottom of the track.

You smiled, Coriolanus’s hand slipping from yours as you stepped further into the growing rose field. Dozens of rose bushes had started to grow, small red and white flowers sporting. Small raindrops covered the flowers, the sun reflecting off of them like diamonds. You crouched, smiling as you ran your hand along the rose petals. 

A soft smile played on your lips, and Coriolanus's hand tenderly released yours as you ventured deeper into the growing rose field. Rows of rose bushes, adorned with tiny red and white blossoms, unfold before you, blossoming like a garden from the Capitol. Small raindrops adorned the delicate petals, capturing the sunlight in a dance that shined like diamonds. Your heart swelled. You glanced back at Coriolanus who shared the same smile.

You carefully crouched down, your smile growing as you traced the velvet texture of the rose petals with your fingertips, each delicate touch slow and careful as if the rose would fall apart. Coriolanus smiled as he watched you, his stomach filling with butterflies as he waited for you to speak. 

"Wait..." The urgency in your voice sliced through the air as you stood, swiftly pivoting to face Coriolanus. His smile disappeared, replaced by a stark seriousness mirrored in your eyes. Your heart fell to your stomach as your voice shook, "You said Sejanus got the seeds from his father. If the Peacemakers find out, they'll take you away." The gravity of your words hung heavily in the charged atmosphere. “Cori, they’ll take you to the hanging tree-”

“They won’t,” Coriolanus said quickly. He stepped forward holding your face in his hands, his thumb tracing the lines of your cheekbones. “No one is going to take me away. No one is taking you. Or Sejanus, or Lucy Gray.” You raised your hand, settling it on top of his. “This place is ours, yours and mine. No one is going to take that.”

Yours and mine.

You smiled, laughing softly as you looked up at Coriolanus, his blue eyes meeting yours. “You got me roses?” You asked.

“You said you liked the Capitol flowers more,” Coriolanus remembered. “I can’t exactly take you to the Capitol, so I thought I’d bring the best part of the Capitol here.”

“Besides yourself.”

A warm smile graced his features as he leaned in, closing the distance until his forehead gently met yours. "Do people in the Capitol kiss differently than the districts?" His inquiry, spoken in a hushed tone, carried a hint of curiosity and a touch of playfulness.

“I think…” you leaned up slightly, bumping your nose against his, “you should find out.”

The brush of his fingertips against your jawline, tracing a delicate path along your skin, igniting a shiver that danced down your spine. As he cradled your face, your breath hitched in anticipation, your eyes staring at his chapped pink lips. Drawing you closer, the final shared breath seemed to linger, suspended in the charged atmosphere, before he sealed the connection with a kiss that felt like a spark that lit a fire. Your heart echoed the rhythm of the thousands of times you had dreamed of this moment and your hands instinctively wound around the back of his neck, the embrace pulling him closer.

Your stomach twirled, filling with butterflies as one of Coryo’s hands moved to wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer. He pulled away, his breath coming out in small pants, your breath in sync with his. You opened your eyes, looking up at his half-closed eyes tracing over every part of your face. “I love you, Coriolanus Snow.”

He whispered it back.

ﾟ°☆Page navigation

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

PIERROT, THE SAD CLOWN.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Richard 'Dick' Grayson x Villain! Fem! Reader.

¿Request? Yes!

This is a Headcanon!

sinopsis ⸺ From the moment he first saw her, Dick Grayson knew he loved her. However, she could only perceive the sadness and darkness surrounding her. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t make her see the light he wanted to offer.

He firmly believed he could be her happiness.

warnings ⸺ Angst, ¿OOC Dick? Idk, Dark Themes, Dead, murdering, Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Sexual Content, Noncon, Mental Illness, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Paranoia, Manipulation.

A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish is— This, to be honest, is a headcanon I came up with about three minutes ago after I was left unsatisfied with the results of two headcanons I made about Jason. Since I didn't like them, I started writing a story that I had pending about Dick Grayson.

On another note, I want to thank you for the 500 followers ♡ I will keep posting more things and such.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... had never felt such a deep void until he saw you for the first time, a blurred shadow among the rubble of Blüdhaven. You, the villain who neither screamed nor laughed, only existed in a perpetual sadness, became his obsession. Pierrot, his very own Joker, trapped in a prison of melancholy, without the frenetic spark of the crazies he used to face. That sadness you emanated was his own reflection, a crack he wanted to mend with his love, a love that bordered on madness.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... from the rooftops, watched you wander the streets, always with that lost look, as if you didn't belong to this world. Every time they fought, he felt something breaking more inside you, something he could fix if only you let him get close. The nights were long, filled with endless watchings, as he silently followed you, keeping a prudent distance, until he could no longer bear it. He knew he was losing you. How was it possible that you couldn't see how much he loved you, how much he needed you? You were trapped in your own sadness, and he, in his obsession to save you.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... one day, while watching you from the shadows, found you on top of a rooftop, and thought you were going to jump. But no. You were crying, again. It was always the same. You approached the edge, and terror engulfed him. He thought you would leap, and for the first time felt something beyond duty: he felt he couldn't lose you. So, he researched everything he could about you. Your past revealed itself to him as a dull echo of emotional deprivation, a devastated childhood, and that dark philosophy about life, death, and chaos that you admired in the Joker. You had lost yourself in that labyrinth of despair, and he swore he would bring you back.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... when he finally caught you, instead of taking you to justice as he had done before, he took you to Arkham, believing you would be safe there, under his constant watch. He visited you, he watched over you. But it wasn't long before you escaped, thanks to the Joker. Time and again, you faced him, and time and again, Dick brought you back to that exhausting cycle. However, something in him broke the last time he caught you.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... when conventional methods failed, began to seek more extreme solutions. He took you to Wayne Manor the second time you escaped from Arkham. He locked you in a room from which you couldn't escape. It wasn't a cell, it was a luxury prison, but a prison nonetheless. He watched you day and night, ensuring that nothing and no one would ever hurt you again. The need to protect you had turned into something sick. He kept you safe, locked away. It wasn't a cold cell, but the walls suffocated you, and Dick's constant presence, ever-watchful, made you feel that freedom was just an illusion. Your protests became muted whispers drowned by his excessive devotion. He didn't understand why you couldn't see what he was doing for you, why you resisted. He believed that if he could control you enough, if he could protect you from yourself, you would eventually realize that you loved him.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... looked at Bruce and the others in the Wayne family with a mix of resentment and pity. They spent millions on therapies, on psychiatrists trying to "cure you," on initiatives to "reform you." How could they be so blind? He was the only one who understood what you truly needed. The Batfamily treated you like a project, while Dick saw you as the love of his life. Didn't they realize that only he could save you? But while the others saw your despair as an illness, Dick saw in your sadness a kind of beauty that no one else understood. To them, you were just a villain; to him, you were his everything.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... every time he found you on the edge of the abyss, when your empty eyes stared into nothingness, when everything around you seemed to break apart, he was there. He hugged you tightly, his hands gripping you as though they could tie you to the world. "I love you," he whispered in your ear, as if those words could heal the pain you carried inside. He felt your resistance, your hopelessness, but that only fueled his desire further. He was convinced he could tear you from the grips of your own sadness, even if he had to break you to rebuild you.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... when you escaped from Wayne Manor, he searched for you with frantic intensity. Every time he found you, he only saw one more opportunity to prove to you that he was the only one who could save you. He surrounded you with his body, protecting you from the world, but also imprisoning you. Bruce confronted him one night, warning him that his obsession was consuming him, but Dick merely replied that love was like that, devouring and total.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... faced Harley when she tried to pull you from the abyss, believing that the chaos of the Joker would be your only salvation. But Harley didn't know what Dick knew. He could give you peace, love, not the unrestrained madness she offered. When he confronted her, the fight was not just physical. Harley mocked him, telling him he could never save you, that you would always be a tragedy, like her. And when Harley's blood stained the ground, Dick knew he had crossed a line. It wasn't a heroic battle, but a desperate act. He did it for you, to protect you from those who wanted to send you back to hell.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... the days became blurred as he kept you in the Manor, away from the world that hurt you so much. He wanted you to understand that everything he did, every confinement, every possessive caress, was for your own good. Meanwhile, Alfred and Bruce tried to convince him that what he was doing was not love, but control. But for Dick, words were useless. He believed that true love required sacrifice, and if he had to sacrifice your freedom to save you, then he would do it without hesitation.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... decided that you could no longer be in the hands of others. No one else understood what you needed. He took you to his apartment, to a place where the windows were closed and the doors always locked. You were no longer free, but you were not alone either. Dick cared for you, spoke to you of a future where you would be together and happy. Every time you tried to escape, he stopped you, not with anger, but with a disturbing calm. "It's for your own good," he told you, as he held you tighter than seemed necessary. His caresses were gentle, but behind them, there was always something darker, a desperation that grew with each attempt to flee.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... the first time he possessed you was, for him, an unforgettable moment. Your body trembled, amidst tears, as he whispered how much he loved you each time his pelvis met your backside. In his mind, you loved how he took you, how he made your intimacy cry for more of him, and how he filled you with his seed at the end of the night. Each of your sobs only reinforced his conviction that you were his forever, as he enveloped you in a mix of devotion and obsession from which you didn't know how to escape.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... followed you even into the darkest corners of your mind, where others dared not tread. When the Joker attempted to drag you back into chaos, Dick confronted him one night. The confrontation was brutal, swift, and when Dick was done, the ground was stained red. You, trembling and broken, watched as Dick tore apart the Joker's henchmen with a brutality you had never witnessed in him. That night, he took you back, covered in cuts and with a twisted smile, convinced he had saved you once more.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... dreamed of the day when you would come to your senses, when you both could walk hand in hand, form a family. In his dreams, you smiled, forgetting the pain, redeemed by his love. But those dreams never became reality, and with each passing day, you moved further away from that vision.

Yandere! Dick Grayson who... made you his in the only way he knew how. Without consent, without a voice to defend you, he took you before a judge and secretly married you. The marriage was not a celebration but an act of possession. The ceremony was silent, intimate in its darkness. Dick looked at you with that mix of devotion and madness as he bound you to him forever. In his distorted mind, it was the happy ending he had always imagined. You were no longer Pierrot, the tragic villain. You were his, completely. And in that possession, he believed he had found peace. Now you were Dick Grayson's wife, trapped in a bond you never asked for, but which he believed was your only salvation. He saw it as the perfect conclusion, the ending he had always desired. Because if you couldn't love the world, at least you could love him.

A/N ─── I hope you enjoyed this. Don't forget to leave a comment and a little heart.

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

[quietingblade]

testing

healing hands at a sleepover: omg let's cause a war between askr and embla it'll be so fun

askr: who keeps attacking us

embla: not us???

rat: mmmmmm idk guys

healing hands:

shut up rat

go feed them false info

1

(why are numbers big lmao?)

rat:

healing hands: btw if we win we have to die

rat:

[sfznyxio]

-ˋˏ WILDEST FANTASIES ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. you are irresistible and a source of temptation, especially in his imagination.

CHARACTERS. oikawa tooru, hanamaki takahiro, matsukawa issei, iwaizumi hajime

CONTENT. f!reader. canon-compliant, post-timeskip (2021). smut. 1.8k wc. rewrite of wildest fantasies at my old nsfw blue lock group blog @/bllk-after-dark, moved to haikyuu for an age-appropriate cast. reader is in a relationship with all except makki. seijoh 4 imagine how they would fuck reader. other warnings vary for each section and will be listed there instead because uh, it’s a lot.

VERA. sorry, the power of horny took over. i never read the manga, so i went with the seijoh 4 as the scenarios suit them the most. i struggled with makki and mattsun, so they may seem ooc. i guess I'm celebrating kinktober with this fic lol.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. OIKAWA TOORU

breeding kink, creampie, edging, fingering, jealousy (toward a teammate and kageyama), marking

mine is written on your skin with invisible ink. oikawa fumes at a player from his team talking to you, seemingly enjoying his company when he sees you laughing. he doesn’t experience rage often, but it can get worse when the infamous “king of the court” from the opponent team strikes up a conversation with you.

“what’s with the silent treatment, tooru?” the drive to the hotel is tense, and he treats you like a ghost. he also feels similar, for different reasons. when the two of you arrive at your room, he pins you down on the door with arms above your head and cunt on his knee. lust clouds his eyes as his tongue battles against yours and teeth nips at your throat, leaving a trail of bruises in its wake. 

“craving attention from him, out of all people when i’m here? i’m hurt.” you gasp at the friction of his knee on your cunt. his fingers slip inside, pumping them agonizingly slow as punishment. “think he can fuck you like this? hah, want everyone and that brat to know you’re mine.”

to prolong this type of behavior, you decide to instill delicious images in his head. “oh, how are you gonna show me off then? you’ve already done the hickeys. but what about a ring on my finger? or your cum out of me? or perhaps, a baby in me?”

oikawa pulls his fingers out when you’re nearing an orgasm. the impulse to buy a ring with his salary and propose you live, fuck you in the locker rooms to mark you with his cum, and knock you up so that guy can mind his damn business. he spends the entire night ramming his cock in you to make sure it takes.

“there you are! i had to ask one of your teammates where you were, but he’s so nice that i lost track.” oikawa is back at the court, dazed from his daydreaming. you didn’t notice him blanking out as you’re busy geeking out about his plays. “watching a match live was so exciting! i finally got to see your sets up close. one of the guys from the other team was your underclassman, right? i think he’s good too!”

he shuts you up with a kiss, and the audience reacts in a domino effect. the cameras pan to the two of you; his fans freak out that he is actually taken, and his teammates — as well as him — are in pure disbelief. you wonder why he did that. he looks proud of himself so you say nothing. “there. now the whole world knows.”

𝄞༉‧₊˚. HANAMAKI TAKAHIRO

begging, mutual masturbation, nipple play, phone sex, thoughts of oral sex (f!receiving), toxic relationships (with reader’s ex)

relief washes over him hearing that you broke up with ex over the phone. hanamaki never liked them to begin with, nor does he understand what you see in them. being the good friend he is, he remains civil, painfully. though it’s not as painful as suppressing his sinful thoughts about you squirming under touch, however.

“hey, makki. can you do me a favor?” he loves your voice. you saying his name is his greatest weakness. though it’ll be better to have you moan it in his ears when he rails you into a begging mess. now he feels guilty for harboring these feelings as he promised to only play as the ‘good friend’. but promises break eventually. “can you make me forget about them?”

the lines of friendship blur into indescribable tension. you express your frustration over lack of spice in your sex life, rambling about how badly you want to be fucked on someone’s mouth. the cries of your breasts and clit aching to be touched makes his cock to strain in his pants. sex isn’t a topic you confide in with your friends, but it does not matter now. you called him to forget after all.

“to tell you the truth, you’re driving me crazy,” he sighs with his head on the board while he pumps his length. labored breaths and whimpers are heard on your end. “what if i tell you i’m jerking off to you now, wishing i was inside that pretty pussy of yours? and what about you, wishing my mouth is there too and on your pretty tits to claim what has been mine in the first place?”

“i’m yours, always yours!” your whines turn into squeals, which has him cum on his hand. his body slumps over the edge of his bed, catching his breath alongside you. if you’re here, he would leave more proof that you are forever his with your ex nonexistent in your world. yet it’s all white noise. the entire time he has been spacing out, so you were waiting for an eternity for him to say something.

“hello? earth to makki?” hanamaki realizes the dried stickiness on his hand from his cum. he has been mindlessly jacking off to your voice. “i asked if you could do me a favor but i’d rather stop by your place to cool off. is it okay if i come over?”

“yeah. see you.” you thank him before hanging up. hanamaki tosses his phone away, contemplating what he has done. never, ever will he do this again and vows to not speak on it. all he can do is to maintain his role to comfort you through your breakup. he will do whatever it takes to prove he is indeed the better choice. there will be the day where you’re his for the taking.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. MATSUKAWA ISSEI

body worship, lap dance, lingerie, riding, sex toys (vibrator), strip tease, voyeurism

speechless is his reaction to you clad in lace lingerie. matsukawa develops a strong urge to impale you on his cock that is strained in his pants, just like how his arms are at the sides of his seat. for now he can only ogle at your body, a temptation for him to give into his desires, along with your alluring expressions.

the lingerie surprise tips him over the edge. he follows your fingers trail from your breasts to your clit, agonized by the drag of one of them along the lips back and forth. he grips his seat so hard he could feel the bones of his hands break. oh how he wants you so badly, but being the menace you are, you insist to stay patient until the end of your performance.

“not yet. keep your eyes on me.” you lift his chain to face you, with your mouth ghosting over his. how can he also enjoy the sight when you are torturing him with the sway of your hips, the flex of your thighs, and the bra straps hanging off your shoulders? and when you grind on his bulge with a vibrator in you which is your source of pleasure instead?

he finds himself matching your rhythm with an arm around your waist and the other cradling your head, kissing you as if his life depends on it. as clothes fly left and right, he yanks out your vibrator coated with your slick and finally plunges you onto him, having you seated for his show. how the tables have turned. now you’re the one being tortured, pounded with quick upward thrusts from him.

“now for the grand finale.” despite your protests to slow down, he wants to relish your body which is contorting in pleasure through the mirrors. a multitude of thrusts later, he reaches his climax and feels you clench, making sure you didn’t miss a single drop. it’s a shame that time goes by fast, because he sure wants to see your body arch for him over and over again.

“you know, it’s rude to stare without saying anything.” loud noises flood his ears. matsukawa is at the mall with you to help you buy new clothes to spice up your wardrobe. though when you mean by ‘spice up’, he does not expect to see you in lace lingerie at the fitting rooms. “so, uh… what do you think?”

matsukawa thinks that you may have a hidden agenda to seduce him, or just trying out the lingerie for fun. he marvels at how it suits your body, making you nervous. an idea pops into his head and whispers into the shell of your ear. “hm, not sure. why don’t you buy and put it on tonight for me so i can see it better?”

𝄞༉‧₊˚. IWAIZUMI HAJIME

aftercare, consent, insecurities, loss of virginity, missionary, petnames (baby), praise

sorry is your automatic reply when iwaizumi hints at wanting sex. you’re a virgin, so thoughts of being unable to satisfy someone experienced are rooted into your head. on the contrary, it’s a massive turn on. since it is your first time, he wants to make it extra special. he’s more excited than he should be so he tries to tone it down to not scare you.

you stare at him like a lost puppy as your partner reaches for your face. he smirks at how entranced you are when his fingers glide to your chin and then over your lips. he kisses you hard that you’re out of breath and pushes you to the bed. you begin to breathe normally again as he takes off his shirt, making his heart flutter, knowing that his body is for your eyes only.

“you can keep going,” you tell him when he checks up on you. with the slight encouragement of his hand drawing circles on your skin, you take off your shirt as well so he can explore more of your body. the two of you eventually strip yourselves bare while devouring each other with tongue and spit.

“squeeze if you want to stop.” your hand is intertwined with his, getting ready to signal for the sake of your safety. he penetrates you slowly, cock buried to the hilt inside, blabbering about how you’re taking him so well and swearing he’ll cum sooner than expected. the pitch of your moans is rising higher and higher. you hate how your sounds it seems by crashing your lips on his, but it tells him that he has done his job right.

“shit, baby. you’re absolutely perfect for me. how is this possible— agh,” iwaizumi hisses as he spills inside you. you’re now exhausted, sensitive from the caresses on your curves and kisses on your hands. this is what he would like to happen, however the next time he blinks, you’re lying beside him fully clothed.

“haji? you’re not saying anything.” you avert your gaze from his. you’re ashamed of literally pushing him away, believing that he’ll take offense judging from his silence. “i didn’t mean to do that. it happened so fast that i freaked out. can we start over and… start a little bit slower?”

“sure. let’s take things a little bit slower.” iwaizumi kisses your forehead to reassure you that you haven’t done anything wrong. somehow you’ve become bold, initiating the kiss and sneaking your hands under his shirt unconsciously. you retract from the sudden move, but he gestures to you to keep going. he’s so weak for you; he’ll do anything to make you happy.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

DANNYMAY DAY 10: Family

Day 09 • Day 11

⟢ Did I know what to do with this prompt? Absolutely not. Thankfully, some amazing friends helped spark the idea—so huge thanks to them for the rescue! This was also the very first time I’ve ever drawn Maddie—so… that was a whole experience on its own, geeeez—(more under the cut)

Genre: Angst / Drama • TW/CW: Graphic Content — Violence — PTSD — Emotional Distress • Maddie’s POV • A moment after Scarred For Half A Life (my phic) • AU — OOC

The house was quiet again.

Too quiet.

No Jazz stomping up the stairs with textbooks cradled to her chest. No Danny thudding through the door with muddy sneakers and excuses. No laughter. No shouting. No heartbeat.

Just the whispers of a silent home that used to be full of life.

Jazz was away at college—pursuing her own future, a future Maddie once envisioned proudly for both of her children. And Danny… Danny was gone. Not gone as in missing. No. She knew where he was—out there, somewhere. Wandering. Existing. A ghost of the boy she once held in her arms.

The boy she cradled. The boy she once watched the stars with, his tiny hand wrapped in hers. The boy she whispered a future to—soft dreams beneath blanket forts and starlit ceilings. A life full of promise. Of hope. The boy she tried so desperately to save.

But it was no use.

She hadn’t saved him.

Now all that remained was silence. And the echo of everything she’d lost.

Maddie sat on the edge of the couch, back straight, hands folded politely in her lap. In her palms, she held the photograph frame that always sat on the coffee table. It was old now—edges chipped, the silver rim dulled. But the image was still crystal clear.

Her boy. Her Danny.

She studied his face, her gloved thumb brushing over the glass in a delicate motion. A mother’s caress—sterile, careful, as if even through the photo, he might vanish at her touch.

How had it come to this?

How had the sweet, smiling child in the frame become the thing that stood in front of her in the lab that day—wild-eyed, screaming, burning with ectoplasmic rage?

How had Phantom infected him so deeply? So thoroughly that Danny couldn’t see the truth anymore?

No… that wasn’t fair. She knew the truth. Knew what had to be done. All her research, all her testing, the sleepless nights… they were for him. Only for him. For his safety. For humanity’s safety.

That’s what she‘d told herself. But buried under all the logic and justifications was something far less noble.

She just wanted her little boy back.

Her Danny. Her son. Hers.

Not some half-dead, ectoplasm-saturated anomaly with Phantom’s reverberating vocal frequency and those irradiated, bio-luminescent green eyes—unnaturally aged beyond the developmental stage of an eighteen-year-old.

Maddie exhaled sharply, the breath rattling through clenched teeth. Her hand trembled as it traced the curve of her little Danny’s cheek in the photo—just for a moment—but she forced it still. Composure was key. Logic was essential. Emotions clouded judgment. Still… the memory came unbidden.

That last conversation—if it could be called that. A confrontation. A breakdown. A rupture.

“Everything I’ve ever done for you! Every time I was there for you—it was all for nothing!” she’d screamed. She remembered the pitch of her own voice cracking.

And its reply—so calculated, so… cold, laced with a dangerously elevated cortisol spike in its tone. It wasn’t the neural cadence of her son. It was something else entirely. Something Phantom.

“You’re a fucking sick, narcissistic psycho! I wish you were dead! DEAD!” it had screamed, its voice reverberating with raw ectoplasmic resonance, each word slamming into her like a shockwave. Phantom—pinning her down, overpowering on the cold lab’s floor. There was no way out. No escape. Just its fury—heavy, suffocating and absolute.

The ghostly, green ectoplasmic blade had materialized before her cortex could fully register his words—a volatile construct forged from grief, rage, and betrayal. Ectoplasm manipulated at a molecular level, shaped not for defense, but as a precise instrument of hatred.

“I tried… to be your son. I tried… to be what you wanted. I tried to be enough for you,” it said—its voice trembling, brittle with long-suppressed emotion. She watched its hands shake, still gripping the ectoplasmic blade suspended above her body. The energy shimmered, unstable, reacting to his elevated stress levels and unstable core.

Ghosts don’t feel emotions. Ghosts don’t feel pain.

She repeated it like a mantra—over and over and over again, forcing the belief into every corner of her mind until it sounded like truth. Until it had to be the truth.

But… was it?

All those years of study. All those sleepless nights in the lab, dissecting ectoplasmic signatures, charting neural echoes, cataloging behaviors and anomalies. Mapping the so-called biology of something that shouldn’t exist. She’d convinced herself—convinced the world—that ghosts were nothing more than sentient patterns. Echoes. Constructs obsessed with an idea, not real people. No real emotion. No true pain. Just manipulation coded into their being. Just psychopathic mimicry—strategic, rehearsed. They didn’t feel, they performed. They adapted to get what they wanted.

And yet…

That voice. That blade. Those dispicable eyes.

That boy.

Was it all just Phantom’s performance?

Or… had she miscalculated the truth all along?

She should’ve felt fear. But all she could process in that moment was the devastating truth—

It—he still wanted to be loved. And she had failed him. She’d failed herself. Not as a scientist. Not as protector of humanity. But as a mother. She’d failed her son. And in doing so—she had failed herself. Completely. Irrevocably.

Before her neurons could even fire in response, before cognition caught up with reality—the blade dropped, piercing straight through her sternum. A precise, calculated strike. Not reckless. Not wild. Just deliberate. Cold. Controlled. As if it—he had been holding it in for years.

She could still feel it sometimes—phantom pain in the space just beside her heart.

“And it was… it was never enough. So fine. If I’m nothing to you, then you’re nothing to me,” it—he had said—his voice flat, final. Not shouted. Not screamed. Just spoken like a verdict.

The blade stayed lodged between her ribs, pulsing faintly with unstable ectoplasmic energy. Her lungs stuttered against the pressure—sharp, shallow gasps cathing in her throat. The tissue around her sturnum burned, the spreading cold, the biological confusion as her nervous system began to misfire. Each inhale felt tighter, narrower—like the air itself was rejecting her.

She was suffocating.

Everything blurred. And for a moment, she couldn’t tell if she was looking at her son… or the thing… she’d created.

His hand had trembled when he twisted the blade—but not from regret. From fury.

“You’re not even worth killing,” he whispered—spat through clenched teeth, each word dripping with contempt.

The blade was drawn from her chest in one clean pull. Not with hesitation. Not with mercy. With disdain.

The withdrawal burned worse than the strike.

Before she could fully register the movement, his hand hovered inches above her chest—right over the open wound. A chilling cold bloomed from his palm, not the comforting kind—but the clinical, detached kind. Ice spread over her sternum, seeping into the torn tissue. The wound began to close—not fully, no. Just enough to stop the bleeding. Enough to keep her alive.

“You’re worth it to fucking suffer,” he finished, his voice low, final, echoing in the sterile silence like a death sentence.

It wasn’t kindness. It was all about control.

Maddie’s hands trembled around the photo frame now. Not from fear. No—never fear.

This piece is—a kind of aftermath of what is going to happen in my phic. I don’t even know if people are reading it lol.

Just… the aftershocks of loss. The lingering tremors of something she refused to name.

She set the frame down carefully, like it was a specimen too fragile to fracture—too sacred to break. Her expression remained composed, perfectly arranged, every muscle calculated into stillness.

But inside?

Inside was a mother’s graveyard. Unmarked. Silent. And filled with everything she’d buried just to survive.

⟢ I’ll be honest—I’ve developed a real hate for headcanon Maddie. Not just because of all the existing phics out there where she vivisects Phantom—her own son—whether she realizes it or not. But because of my own phic. I created that version of her, and now I can’t look at her without cringing. Drawing her was… uncomfortable, to say the least. And yeah, I know—it sounds weird. But it is what it is, and there’s no undoing it now.

⟢ I don’t enjoy writing Danny as a villain either. But sometimes, to really understand a story, you have to look at it through someone else’s eyes. Right?

⟢ This piece is a kind of aftermath of what’s coming in my phic. Honestly? I’m not even sure if anyone’s reading it, lol.

[suntoru]

❝ I'VE LOVED YOU BEFORE, I'M SURE OF IT!❞

— SYNOPSIS: eons ago, the king of curses lost his lover. you're gone, you have been for years, so why is it that you're standing right before him?

— WARNINGS: reincarnation, death of servant, your death mentioned, blood, swearing, angst, fluff, ooc sukuna?, he's downbad, 3k words

— AUTHOR’S NOTE: HELP MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR SUKUNA IF U LIKE IT PLS LMK AND REBLOG!!

a face so familiar that in a sea of people, he'd recognize it instantly. he could paint a perfect picture from memory alone; how could he ever forget you? the only person he's ever grown accustomed to loving with every fiber of his being. the only person who's ever made the very king of curses feel weak. so then, why... why are you here once more?

impossible. it couldn't, shouldn't be you. he watched you slip away, felt your last breath against his skin, cradled you in his arms as your life ebbed away, the haunting reminder of the day he lost you. so why, against all reason, are you standing before him?

he can't deny the reality that it's truly you standing there, amidst the blossoms, with those delicate features that outshine even the brightest stars in the sky. the very essence of innocence radiates from your being, reflected in the purity of your gaze as you remain unaware of his presence, lost in the simple joy of picking dainty flowers from his meticulously tended garden. it's a scene so achingly familiar, yet impossibly surreal, as if plucked from a distant memory and brought vividly to life before his eyes.

his naive little lamb, blissfully unaware of the danger that lurks just beyond the edges of his meticulously guarded property. anyone could sneak up on you at this very moment, and you'd remain oblivious, lost in the gentle warmth of the sunlight as you hum a soft melody to yourself. do you not realize the trespass you commit with every step, the audacity of encroaching upon his domain?

for if you were anyone else, the ground beneath your feet would surely be stained crimson, a stark reminder of the consequences of such brazen intrusion. he scrutinizes your every movement, his gaze lingering on each delicate gesture as if committing them to memory. it's the first time in what feels like an eternity that he's experienced a semblance of peace.

sukuna, the embodiment of strength and power, finds himself perplexed by the profound comfort your presence brings him. he detests his own vulnerability, despises the notion of being beholden to anyone or anything. and yet, in the quiet moments spent observing you, he can't help but entertain the fleeting desire to hold you once more like the days he once treasured with you.

the fleeting moment of vulnerability dissipates in an instant as one of his ignorant servants, a mere fool in sukuna's eyes, rudely intrudes upon his garden sanctuary. with careless disregard, they trample over the delicate cecilias, the very flowers you were delicately picking.

"m-my lord, my humblest apologies," they stammer, their voice trembling with fear. "i don't know how an intruder got in, but i promise to dispose-" before they can finish their sentence, their head is swiftly separated from their body, the soft thud of impact echoing in the garden as it rolls to the ground. red oozes out, staining the grass crimson red as he stares at the body indifferently. tch. incompetence is met with swift and merciless retribution. how weak, how utterly weak. not only had that feeble intruder disrupted his tranquility, but they had also brought undue attention to his secluded sanctuary.

his gaze sharply turns towards you, contemplating whether you had noticed the disturbance, only to find your eyes innocently peering back at him. a surge of something unfamiliar courses through him as he meets your gaze. there you stand, so delicate and unassuming, clutching those flowers, studying him with a curiosity that unsettles and intrigues him in equal measure.

would you scream? run for the hills? yet, there's an underlying fearlessness about you, a quality he's always admired. part of him yearns for the recognition in your eyes, the acknowledgment of his presence, a desire for you to step closer, to nestle into his embrace and play with his hair, as if it were an annoyance he secretly craved, so long as it was from you.

"…would you like a flower?" you beam up at him, your smile radiant enough to rival the sun itself. holding it out to him, your eyes sparkle with genuine delight as you offer the delicate blossom. "it matches your hair. pretty." for a moment, he hesitates, towering over you with his imposing figure. yet, you show no fear, not of his unusual features nor his intimidating presence, not in this life and not in your past one either. with tentative movements, his rough, calloused hands brush against yours, accepting your gift.

he observes with a quiet fascination as your smile widens even further, a sight that warms a part of him he thought long dormant. almost instinctively, he restrains the urge to brush back a stray strand of your hair, watching instead as you take care of it yourself, a soft frown forming on your face as it catches in your lip gloss.

"it's funny," you begin, a playful lilt to your voice as you gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "everything here seems so familiar. tell me, have we ever met before? i feel like i know you from somewhere," you muse, studying his features with a curious intensity. there's a certainty in your tone, a sense of recognition that stirs something deep within him.

"no. that's stupid," he gruffly replies, brushing off your inquiry with a dismissive tone, though he can't ignore the flicker of amusement in your eyes. "ah, you're right. that would be impossible, wouldn't it? perhaps it was just déjà vu," you concede, your smile widening ever so slightly, there's a sincerity in your gaze that leaves him unsettled. he hates the way his heart stirs each time you do that, that... that thing with your face, he's seen it a thousand times before, that stupid smug smile. it's been a millennium since he's last seen it, and he finds himself silently admitting that he's missed it more than he cares to admit.

the one who shattered his harem, the one he believed he had lost forever. over the years of your absence, he had convinced himself that it was foolish to love a mortal. loving you was a mistake, he told himself. there was no void in his heart because of you; it was there to satiate his hunger for bloodlust.

yet, the mere sight of you right now, skin kissed by the sunlight shattered those self-imposed barriers, your voice carrying on about the flowers you held. peonies, daisies, lilies, roses—all growing in a small, vibrant garden. they were your favorites, adorning the white fence so beautifully. although he'd rather be caught dead then admit it out loud, it was dedicated to you, a silent tribute that reminded him of your presence.

in moments of turmoil, he found solace here, secretly seeking refuge amidst the blossoms, gazing up at the stars as if searching for your familiar constellations. what were they again? he had almost forgotten, and somehow, that notion was more unsettling than any sorcerer he had ever faced.

"oh, i almost forgot to ask, what was your name?" you giggle, looking up at him with an air of innocence. do you really talk to random strangers like that? you still are such an airhead. it seems you have no survival skills, but perhaps that's why he's always been so protective of you. "i am the king of curses, sukuna," he states, glaring down at you. it irks him, slightly, that even his name has been wiped from your memory. you really, don't remember, do you?

"sukuna... i'm calling you 'kuna from now on, 'kay?" you beam, and he lets out a weary sigh. how unoriginal. you used to call him that too, but anything else sounds quite strange coming from your lips.

"why are you here?" he grumbles, the question weighing heavy on his mind, not just in this moment, but echoing through the centuries. he wants to know why you've returned, why you've chosen now to reappear in his life after so many years have passed by. are you taunting his only weakness? how infuriating. you remember his old nickname, the flowers you once adorned his head with, but not him. is this some sort of game to you?

"i don't know," you answer simply, adjusting the crinkles in your dress. as the sun begins its slow descent, casting a warm, golden hue over the valley, you find yourself standing there, amidst the beauty of the landscape. "i just happened to stumble upon here," you murmur softly, your gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sky meets the earth in a breathtaking display of colors. the grass sways gently in the breeze, whispering secrets of days gone by, while memories of laughter and joy linger in the air like a bittersweet melody. his nose crinkles. what do you mean you don't know?

"what are you doing?" he hears your voice, sweet and soft like a distant echo from the past, a time when things were simpler, when you were by his side, filling his days with light and laughter. it's been hard without you, he realizes, a pang of longing tugging at his heart as he watches you standing there, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.

he wants to reach out to you, to tell you how much he's missed you, how much he's longed for your presence all these years. but instead, he remains silent, a silent observer of the moment, as the memories of days gone by wash over him like gentle waves, leaving behind an ache in his heart.

"you're trespassing," he grumbles, his voice carrying a weight that extends far beyond the boundaries of his garden. it's a warning, a silent one for you to stay away, to spare him the agony of reliving the memories that threaten to consume him. but even as he speaks the words, he knows deep down that it's not just his garden you're trespassing into— it's his heart, too.

sukuna does not wish to love you, loving you hurts, it makes him what he hates the most, it makes him weak. once, long ago, he was foolish to love you. he never uttered those words aloud, but the way his gaze softened in your presence spoke volumes. you were the only one who managed to carve a place for yourself in his heart, a place he thought was forever closed off to the world.

he doesn't want to care about you. to him, you should be nothing more than a passing nuisance, easily disposed of if it serves his purpose. yet, as he gazes upon your innocent face, memories long buried begin to resurface, tugging at the frayed edges of his carefully constructed facade.

sukuna despises what you evoke within him, a vulnerability he thought he'd long since buried beneath layers of ruthlessness. as the sun caresses your features with its gentle warmth, he can't help but feel a pang of longing deep within his chest. it's a sensation he's tried to suppress, to bury beneath the weight of his power and dominance. after all, he's the feared king of curses, not some lovesick fool. but even he can't deny the allure of your presence, the way you effortlessly weave your way into the recesses of his darkened heart.

in the depths of his being, sukuna knows he shouldn't miss you. he shouldn't yearn for the days when your laughter echoed through the corridors of his mind. yet, despite his best efforts to cast you aside, a part of him remains tethered to you, unable to sever the invisible threads that bind him to your memory.

your love, once radiant as the sun, pierced through the darkness shrouding his heart, illuminating corners he never knew existed. it was pure, untainted, a beacon of hope in his desolate existence. even in his darkest moments, he couldn't bear to extinguish your light, for fear of losing himself entirely. but then, like a flickering flame snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind, you were gone.

the memory of holding you close as you slipped away, your warmth fading into cold nothingness, still haunts him to this day. yet amidst the pain, there was a promise— a whispered vow that one day, you'd find each other again. and somehow, against all odds, you did. but fate had robbed you of the memories that once bound you together.

he watches you now, your smile as bright as ever, oblivious to the love you once shared. it's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that you'll never remember the depth of your connection, the intensity of the love that once burned between you. forgotten memories of your presence flood his mind, stirring emotions he thought long buried.

he should be able to snuff out your existence without a second thought, should revel in the sight of your blood staining the verdant valley, your cries piercing the tranquil air. but as you stand before him, oblivious to the darkness lurking within him, he finds himself paralyzed by indecision.

his soul screams at him to act, to rid himself of this weakness once and for all. but his heart, that traitorous organ, refuses to comply. how can you, with your pure heart and untainted spirit, still evoke such conflicting emotions within him?

sukuna prides himself on his selfishness, on his willingness to betray and manipulate to achieve his desires. and yet, in your presence, he finds himself questioning whether his desire to hold you close once more is too selfish, whether his darkness would tarnish your purity.

and a part of him wonders if you'd fall in love with him again, wonders how you did the first time. would your hands feel the same, tracing the contours of his face with that delicate touch? would your lips still taste as sweet, brushing against his with that familiar tenderness?

"'kuna?" you murmur softly, looking up at him to see if he's paying attention. and for a fleeting moment, he's transported back to a memory he holds dear, etched into the deepest recesses of his heart.

"'kuna?" you had called out one day, perched elegantly on his lap, nestled against him as if you belonged there. his hand, protective yet tender, rested on the small of your back, ensuring you remained secure in his embrace. your legs were tucked into his, absentmindedly toying with some strands of his hair. "hm?" he responded, his gaze half-heartedly softening as he met your doe-like eyes, a hint of amusement dancing within their depths.

"do you think in every universe, we're together?" you inquire, your voice tinged with a hopeful innocence that tugs at his heartstrings. he let out a scoff, a familiar gesture masking the warmth that blooms within him, his fingers instinctively threading through your hair as you playfully swat them away. you're so naive and innocent, believing in such stupid things.

"that's absurd," he retorted, though the corner of his lips quirked upward in a ghost of a smile, unable to deny the affection that lingers between you. love, he once believed, was a fleeting illusion, a mirage in the desert of existence. he scoffed at the notion of eternal love, dismissing it as a fanciful delusion born of naive optimism. how could love endure when humanity was plagued by sin, disloyalty, and obstinance? it seemed absurd to place faith in something so fragile, so easily shattered by the harsh realities of life.

"hey..." you pouted, your bottom lip jutting out in a playful display of mock indignation, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "well, i believe we are," you declare, a stubborn determination coloring your words as you stick out your tongue in defiance.

"such a meanie," you'd muttered under your breath, though your protest is laced with affection as he pulled you closer, enveloping you in the warmth of his embrace. and he's snapped out of his thoughts once more when he hears your voice cut through his memories.

"ah, i'm sorry," the present you sheepishly mumbles, catching yourself mid-ramble and rubbing the back of your head with an embarrassed smile. "i'm boring you, aren't i? it's getting late; i should be going."

with a resigned sigh, you glance up at sukuna, feeling a flush of embarrassment color your cheeks. you hadn't meant to prattle on to a stranger, especially one who felt so oddly familiar and comforting, like a warm, fluffy blanket on a chilly evening. as you start to move away, ready to bid your unexpected companion farewell, one of sukuna's arms shoots out, gripping your wrist firmly and halting your departure.

despite everything, you're still here, standing before him, a familiar presence that refuses to fade into oblivion, and he finds himself unwilling to sever the crimson thread of fate that you once fervently believed bound you together. he's unsettled of the idea of allowing himself to love you again, yet, at this moment, his greatest fear is not in loving you, but rather in the prospect of forgetting you altogether.

confusion flickers across your features as you look up at him, but he refuses to meet your gaze, his expression unreadable. the soft hues of the pink sunset cast a gentle glow over you both, and in that moment, you could swear you see a faint flush tingeing sukuna's cheeks.

he still considers you foolish for believing in an everlasting love. and yet, as he looks into your eyes, he doesn't believe an eternity with you would be too bad. in fact, he wouldn't mind it at all. he mutters gruffly, though his voice betrays a hint of annoyance, and yet, inexplicably, your heart leaps at the invitation.

"speak."

and with that stupidly charming grin on your face, you do.

© SUNTORU 2024. do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works on any platform.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it

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

TW: cussing, angry early seasons Daryl, angst, nationwide destruction, descriptions of walkers (Zombies) , firearms, Shane is creepy (and maybe slightly ooc ?), mentions of past abuse.

Part 5

Dead Weight - Part 6

The forest floor was a mosaic of decay and rebirth, leaves crunching beneath Daryl's boots as he tracked what might be nothing more than a fading hope.

Three weeks Sophia had been missing. Three weeks in these woods teeming with walkers. Logic said the girl was dead, but Daryl Dixon had never much cared for logic.

The ravine appeared suddenly, a steep drop hidden by overgrown brush. Daryl paused at its edge, squinting down into the murky water below. Something caught his eye—a flash of fabric against the muddy bank.

The search for Carol's daughter had become his personal mission. Rick had the group, Shane had his guns, and Daryl—Daryl had this.

He made his careful way down, crossbow held ready. Years of hunting had taught him to move silent as a ghost through these woods, each step calculated.

The object became clearer as he approached—a doll, half-buried in mud. Sophia's doll.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, crouching to retrieve it.

She'd been here.

Maybe passed through recently.

He tucked the filthy doll into his belt and scanned the area for more signs, finding partial footprints heading east.

The climb back up was treacherous, loose soil giving way under his boots. Halfway up, a root he'd grabbed for support snapped, sending him tumbling backward.

The world spun in violent flashes—sky, earth, trees—until a white-hot pain exploded through his side.

Daryl gasped, the impact stealing his breath. He lay stunned at the bottom of the ravine, the crossbow beside him, one of his own arrows protruding from his side.

Blood bloomed around the shaft, soaking his shirt.

"Son of a bitch," he wheezed.

For several minutes, Daryl lay still, fighting to remain conscious as waves of agony radiated from his side. Blood soaked his shirt, warm and sticky against his skin. With trembling fingers, he explored the wound, cursing again when he felt the shaft of the bolt protruding from his flesh.

Darkness edged his vision. He fought against it, forcing himself to tear strips from his shirtsleeve to secure the wound.

His fingers felt clumsy, too large for the task.

"Look at you," a familiar voice drawled. "Bleedin' out in the dirt like some wounded animal."

Daryl's head snapped up, vision swimming. There, perched on a fallen log, was Merle—looking exactly as he had the last time Daryl had seen him, before they'd left him handcuffed to an Atlanta rooftop.

"Yer not real," Daryl grunted, turning back to his wound.

"Real enough to see what a sorry sight my baby brother's become," Merle laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet forest.

"Out here playin' hero for a bunch of people who don't give two shits about you."

"You forgot about good ol' Merle,"

"They left me there to die, and you just fell right in line with 'em." Merle snarled, his face twisting with contempt.

"Tried real hard to find you bro" Daryl muttered vision blurring.

"Tracked you through half of Atlanta."

"They ain't never gonna see you as one of them," Merle continued, leaning forward. "Rick, Shane, all them others—they're just usin' you. First chance they get, they'll leave you behind, scrape you off there heels like you was dog shit."

Daryl tried to stand, legs wobbly beneath him. The ravine wall loomed impossibly high now.

"Look at you," Merle sneered. "Can't even get yerself up a little hill. What happened to you, Darylina? You used to be tough."

"Shut the hell up," Daryl growled.

"What you doin' out here anyway?" Merle circled around him, boots leaving no imprint on the forest floor. "Searchin' for some little lost girl? Got a thung for little girls now ?"

Daryl ignored him, focusing instead on reaching the doll. He crawled the few feet to where it lay, snatching it up with a triumphant grunt. "Found somethin'," he muttered to himself.

"Oh, a dolly!" Merle's voice dripped with mockery. "That'll make everythin' better. Maybe that mousy little mother will give you a gold star. Or maybe you hopin' for somethin' else? A little kiss on the cheek?"

"Ain't like that," Daryl growled, tucking the doll into his belt.

"Sure it ain't." Merle squatted down beside him, face inches from Daryl's.

"You always was soft. Daddy saw it. I saw it. Now you runnin' around playin' hero for folks who wouldn't piss on you if you was on fire."

"Shut up," Daryl muttered, gritting his teeth as he managed to get to his knees. Fresh blood pulsed from the wound with the movement.

The arrow snapped with a crack that sent fresh pain spiraling through Daryl's body. He doubled over, forehead pressed to the cool earth as he fought to remain conscious.

"Know what I think?" Merle continued, unaffected by Daryl's suffering.

"I think you gettin' sweet on that foreign girl."

Daryl's head shot up, eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"Hit a nerve, did I?" Merle's grin widened.

"Baby brother gone and got himself a crush. How cute. She know you piss yourself when it thunders? know about them scars on y'back? About how you cried like a little bitch when Daddy took his belt to you?"

"Shut up," Daryl snarled, louder this time.

"She's outta your league, Darylina. Woman like that wouldn't look twice at trash like you. Not unless she desperate. And even with the world gone to shit, she ain't that desperate."

Daryl grabbed a nearby stick, using it to lever himself up to standing. Pain tore through him, but rage provided its own kind of anesthetic. "Don't know nothin' about her."

"I know she's educated. Got that fancy accent. Probably never had to hunt her own dinner or sleep in a car 'cause Daddy was on a bender and locked her out." Merle circled him again, predatory.

"What you think's gonna happen? She gonna fall for your charm? Your sparklin' conversation?"

Daryl began the arduous task of climbing back up the ravine, each movement sending fresh agony through his wounded side. He refused to look at Merle, refused to engage.

But Merle wasn't done. "I seen how you watch her. All puppy-dog eyes when you think nobody's lookin'. It's embarrassin'. A Dixon man pinin' after some woman who thinks she's better than him."

"Ain't like that," Daryl grunted, fingers digging into the earth as he pulled himself up another foot.

"Oh no? Then why ain't you made a move? 'Cause you know, deep down, that she'd laugh in your face." Merle appeared above him on the slope, looking down with contempt. "Or worse, she'd look at you with pity. Poor damaged Darylina."

The climb was excruciating. Twice Daryl nearly lost his grip, sending small avalanches of dirt and stones cascading down the ravine.

Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the grime and blood. But he kept going, one painful inch at a time.

"Y'know what's real pathetic?" Merle continued, always just a few feet ahead. "You lettin' yourself get sweet on a girl who's got her eye on that cop. Big fella, looks like he could snap you in half."

"She hates Shane," Daryl spat before he could stop himself.

Merle's laughter echoed through the trees. "Oh ho! Listen to you, defendin' her honor! She tell you that, did she? Sharin' her secrets with dirty ol' Daryl? Or maybe you just seein' what you wanna see."

Daryl reached the top of the ravine at last, collapsing onto his back, chest heaving as he stared up at the patches of sky visible through the canopy. The bolt in his side sent fresh waves of agony with each breath.

Merle's face appeared above him, blocking the light. "You know what's gonna happen, don't you? Even if you find that little girl. Even if they throw you a damn parade. She still ain't gonna want nothin' to do with you. 'Cause girls like that don't end up with folks like us."

"She ain't like that," Daryl repeated, but the conviction in his voice had wavered.

"She's probably back at that farm right now, battin' her eyes at Officer Friendly or his partner. Hell, maybe even that damned Asian kid."

"His name's Glen," Daryl muttered.

"Oh, excuse me! Glen." Merle's voice was acid.

Daryl forced himself to sit up, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. "You're wrong. 'bout 'em."

"Am I?" Merle crouched down, eyes boring into Daryl's. "Then why you out here alone, little brother? Where's your new family when you bleedin' out in the dirt?"

The question hit harder than Daryl wanted to admit. He looked away, focusing instead on tearing a strip from his shirt to secure around his middle, staunching the worst of the bleeding.

"Face it," Merle continued, relentless. "She looks at you and all she sees is some dumb redneck who's good for huntin' and not much else. You think she'd be interested if she knew the truth? If she saw how weak you really are?"

"Don't matter what she thinks," Daryl mumbled, but the words felt hollow.

"Sure don't. 'Cause you too scared." Merle's voice softened to a dangerous purr. "You ain't never gonna have her, little brother. Best you accept that now."

Daryl turned his head, but Merle was gone—if he'd ever been there at all. In his place was only empty forest, the wind rustling through leaves. He touched the doll still tucked in his belt, a reminder of why he'd come out here.

But Daryl pushed on, trying to outpace not just the physical pain, but the deeper wound Merle's words had inflicted.

Because the worst part—the part that made his chest ache worse than the arrow in his side—was that broken piece of him that said his brother might be right.

About who he was.

About what he deserved.

The sun hangs high above Hershel’s farmhouse, warm but not yet oppressive. The fields are quiet, a breeze tugging at the grass in lazy waves. A few birds sing—rare music these days.

Most of the group is out tracking through the woods. Rick. Shane. Daryl.

You stayed behind.

Carl sits cross-legged in the dirt, a few pebbles and sticks scattered in front of him.

You kneel across from him, your hands dusted with dry earth, your sleeves rolled up.

“This one can be the fort,” you say, tapping a flat rock with a smile. “And this one’s the lookout tower.”

Carl’s face lights up—not with wild joy, but with something close.

You see the boy he was before.

It’s in the way he leans forward, as he moves one of the sticks like it’s a soldier.

“And that’s where the walkers come in,” he grins, dragging a pebble along a line in the dirt like it’s sneaking up on a camp.

You gasp, playing along. “Oh no, not again! Not the lookout tower!”

The two of you burst into quiet laughter—soft and low, like you’re both pretending the world outside your little circle doesn't exist.

Behind you, from the porch, Carol folds laundry, watching with something like longing in her eyes. Dale sits beside her in a sagging lawn chair, hat low over his brow.

“That girl,” Dale murmurs, “she’s a soft touch. Would spoil that kid if he asked.”

Carol lays another shirt in the basket. Her lips purse.

“She’s good with him,” she murmurs softly to Dale, not taking her eyes off you.

“She’s good with all of us.”

There’s a pause. Then Dale hums.

“Even Daryl?” Dale asks, half-serious.

Carol folds another towel, her voice a whisper. “Especially Daryl ... He just doesn’t know it yet.”

The Greene family farm had become a temporary haven, though you knew better than to mistake it for safety. Nothing was safe anymore. Especially not today.

Andrea was on watch duty atop Dale's RV, rifle in hand. Voices raised in panic. Someone shouting about a walker approaching from the woods.

"I got it!" Andrea called, taking aim despite Dale's protests below her.

The shot rang out, clean and sharp in the afternoon air.

Then Rick's panicked voice "No! NO!"

Your blood turned to ice as they carried him in. Daryl - unconscious, blood-soaked, with a makeshift bandage hastily wrapped around his head.

A string of walker ears that he'd been wearing as a grotesque necklace now hung limp and gory from his belt. His crossbow was being carried by Glen, one of the bolts stained crimson.

"What happened?" you asked quietly.

Rick's face was grim. "He fell on his own arrow searching for Sophia. Then Andrea shot him."

"Is he-"

"Just grazed his temple," Hershel said, already examining the wound. "But the arrow wound in his side is concerning."

The next few hours passed in a blur. You lingered outside the bedroom door where Hershel worked, ignoring Shane's attempts to draw you away.

"Nothin' you can do for him right now," Shane said, his hand settling uncomfortably on your shoulder.

"Why don't you come help me check the perimeter?"

You shrugged off his touch. "I-I'm alright here"

Later, when Daryl was finally stable and resting, you slipped into his room. He was propped up against the pillows, shirtless except for the bandages wrapped around his torso. The bloody string of walker ears had been removed.

You settled into the chair beside him, pulling out the torn shirt you'd been meaning to repair. The repetitive motion of needle and thread had always calmed you, even before the world ended.

"Ain't ya got better things to do than watch me sleep?" His voice was rough with pain, those blue eyes narrowed at you.

"Probably," you replied, not looking up from your stitching. "But Glen and Maggie are making eyes at each other, Shane's being Shane, and Lori's giving me a headache."

A grunt was his only response, but you noticed the slight relaxation in his shoulders.

Daryl lay still on the bed, eyes closed but not sleeping. You could tell by the rhythm of his breathing, the occasional twitch of his fingers against the sheets.

He'd been lucky—twice.

The arrow had missed any vital organs when he'd fallen on it during his search for Sophia, and Andrea's bullet had only grazed his temple.

"Ya don't gotta do that," Daryl mumbled without opening his eyes, referring to your mending.

"I know," you replied simply, continuing your stitching. "But shirts are in short supply."

He grunted in response, shifting slightly and then wincing. The movement revealed the edge of older scars across his back— long-healed remnants of pain that had nothing to do with the apocalypse.

A soft knock at the door interrupted the silence. Carol peeked in, carrying a tray with a sandwich and a glass of water.

"I brought you something to eat," she said softly, her eyes full of maternal concern as she approached the bed.

Daryl's body tensed almost imperceptibly. "Ain't hungry."

"You need to keep your strength up," Carol insisted, setting the tray on the bedside table. "It was brave what you did out there, looking for Sophia."

"S'what anyone woulda done," he muttered, uncomfortable with the praise.

You continued sewing, your eyes focused on your work but your attention keenly tuned to the interaction unfolding beside you.

Carol's devotion to Daryl had grown steadily since he'd taken up the search for her daughter with such dedication.

Before Daryl could protest, she leaned down swiftly and moved to place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

His reaction was so subtle most would have missed it—a sharp intake of breath, a minute flinch away from the contact, a reflexive curling of his shoulders.

But you caught it.

A small flinch, a learned response.

Carol either didn't notice or chose to ignore it, although you suspected she noticed more then she let on.

"Get some rest," she said before quietly leaving the room.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. You continued your methodical stitching for several more minutes, giving Daryl time to settle again.

His breathing had quickened during Carol's visit but was gradually returning to its normal rhythm.

When you finally spoke, your voice was casual.

"Parent or partner?"

Daryl's eyes snapped open. "The hell you talkin' about?"

Your hands still worked the needle through fabric, you didn't dare look up.

"That flinch."

A beat.

"Parent or partner?"

His face darkened instantly, shutters coming down behind his eyes. "Ain't none of yer damn business," he growled, pushing himself up on his elbows despite the pain it clearly caused him.

"Ya think you know somethin' about me 'cause we both survived the end of the world? We ain't friends. We ain't nothin'." His Southern drawl thickened with his anger.

"Just 'cause you lost yer country don't mean you get to go diggin' around in my past."

You didn't rise to the bait.

"Old boyfriend. Had a thing for backhanding me when he'd had too many beers."

Daryl snorted, but there was no humor in it. "Shoulda picked better then."

The barb stung, but you kept your face impassive. "Probably. But you don't always see the monsters until you're trapped with them."

"Ain't trapped now, are ya?" he sneered, plucking at his fingernail with agitation.

"Got plenty of options round here lookin' to warm yer bed. Shane's been eyein' ya like a damn steak. Why don't ya go see what he's got to offer?"

Daryl's mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. "In fact maybe ya should go tell yer sad stories to Officer Friendly. Shane seems real interested in whatever you're sellin'."

The barb was meant to wound, and it did. You knew he'd seen Shane's persistent attempts to get close to you—the unwanted touches, the suggestive comments that made your skin crawl.

"That's low," you said quietly.

Something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe—but it was quickly buried beneath the familiar wall of hostility.

"Why don't ya just go?" He mumbled

You paused at the door, looking back at him. The evening light cast half his face in shadow, highlighting the fresh wound at his temple. Scowl in place, every part of him designed to keep people at a distance.

Daryl stared at the closed door long after you'd gone, the silence in the room now oppressive. He absently rubbed at the bandage on his head, fingers tracing down to the still-tender wound in his side where his own arrow had pierced him.

""Damn idiot," he muttered to the empty room.

He hadn't meant to lash out like that. Hadn't meant to bring up Shane, knowing how the man's aggressive advances made you uncomfortable. But the moment you'd asked that question—"Parent or partner?"—his walls had slammed up hard and fast.

No one was supposed to see through him like that.

The air is still, quiet in the way only rural places can be just before dark. Crickets have started to chirp, and the barn creaks faintly in the distance.

You step out of the farmhouse, arms folded tightly around your middle, your expression quiet but a little tired.

Your tent’s just a few paces away, your little sanctuary after another long day. But as you reach the steps, Shane calls out behind you.

“Hey, wait up.”

You stop, instinctively polite, offering him a small smile.

“Hey, I was just gonna—”

“I know,” he interrupts, swaggering forward. “Just thought maybe you didn’t wanna turn in alone tonight.”

You chuckle not from flirtation but from nerves.

“I’m okay, really. Thanks though.”

But Shane doesn’t stop.

He’s too close now. Close enough that you can smell the beer on his breath, the sweat from the heat of the day.

“C’mon, girl. Don’t act like you don’t know what’s going on here. You’re sweet, yeah, but your not dumb.”

He reaches for you—playfully at first—but it lingers. His fingers wrap tighter than necessary.

Your smile fades. “Shane, stop. I said I’m okay.”

He chuckles, low and cocky. “Just messin’. You’re too soft for your own good.”

He brushes his hand against your hip, too casual to be innocent. You flinch, try to step back, but he follows.

“Don’t,” you say again, firmer this time, your voice shaking slightly.

He laughs, head dipping and hands grasping.

A hard, clean sound that echoes in the quiet air like a firecracker.

You slapped him before you even realized you'd moved.

Shane freezes. His hand twitches at his side. And you look up at him—eyes wide, breath trembling.

You don’t realize that Daryl’s window is directly behind you, wide open to the porch.

Daryl had been, bristling with restlessness aince you'd left. His arm’s draped across his ribs, and his temple’s throbbing, but he’s alert. Watching. Always watching.

He’d heard the screen door creak.

Then voices.

Then your voice.

Too polite. Too damn gentle.

Then your tone changed. Firmer. More afraid.

When he heard the slap, he moved. He was at the window. One hand pressed to the sill, eyes narrowed to slits.

He saw you standing your ground, trembling but defiant.

And Shane—cocky, looming Shane—just standing there, jaw tight.

Daryl’s jaw flexes, nostrils flaring.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, half to himself, but the edge in his voice is pure venom.

He doesn’t even register the pain in his side as he grabs his shirt and heads for the door.

Shane sneers. "Uptight little bitc—" moving towards you with purpose.

You’re still blinking, when you hear the screen door slam open behind you.

Boots hit the steps with force.

“What the hell you think you’re doin’?” Daryl’s voice is a low snarl.

Shane stops mid-stride and turns, raising his hands. “Relax, Dixon. It was a joke.”

“Don't look funny.”

Daryl’s moving now, slow and deliberate, that wounded swagger still dangerous. He gets between you and Shane with one hard stare and a stiff shoulder.

Daryl doesn’t turn to look at you.

Not yet.

He stares Shane down until the other man shrugs and walks off, muttering to himself.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Silence stretches between you.

But then—so quiet it’s barely audible—

“Saw 'im put hands on you.”

[sundaycentric]

⌢  ⌢ yandere choso x gn reader

␥ content — yandere, sfw, headcanons, stalking, choso is weird idk, dependency?, mentions of babytrapping, mahito jumps u btw, mahito warning, general obsessive and possessive behavior, possibly ooc?? idk i wrote this for my own pleasure ... 1.3k words

— Choso has only cared about 3 people in his life. His late brothers, and his alive half-one. Not even his "colleagues" that he has to work closely with on their schemes. Outside of his family, nobody else mattered. At least, that's how it was. Choso doesn't consider you family, so why is it that he seems to care so much about you? It angers him. Has he lost loyalty to his brothers?

Choso tended to avoid you at first, paying you no mind like the rest that surrounded him. The most attention he'd allow himself to give you is subtle glances or the occasional hand when you needed help. Nothing more, as you were nothing to him. Except you were.

Choso realized his feelings, despite not being able to tell exactly what they were, pretty quickly. The weird beating of his heart when you were around, how his hands got shaky, and how he could feel the sweat trickle down his neck as he spoke to you, nervous that you wouldn't approve of him somehow. He became a bit more conscious around you. He wanted you to like him.

Choso thought these weird, firstly platonic feelings towards you were because you were family. Perhaps Itadori wasn't his only half-sibling. However, thinking about it like that made Choso feel awfully weird. You weren't his family, as it made his stomach churn to think of you as such. So, what were you then?

.

.

.

— Choso didn't care what happened to the people of Shibuya during that incident. When planning it out with the other curses, he felt no sympathy or worry for the people who would be present. Yet, upon hearing that you could possibly be in Shibuya on the day on the attack, Choso almost completely forgot about everything else.

Choso had separated from the others to look for Itadori, to try and get his revenge. While walking around Shibuya, he passed many of the trapped people within the veil. They spoke in hushed, worried whispers which Choso paid no attention to. Their conversations did not matter to him, who was focused on something else already.

Choso then heard your name fall from someone's lips. The voice sounded familiar. He turned around to verify, and it was one of your friends. Choso had taken a liking to 'watching' you as you went about your day, so it was no trouble recognizing this person you frequently saw and spoke with. Suddenly, he started paying a bit more attention to the conversation.

Choso listened as the person spoke. He knew he was wasting his time he could be using to search for Itadori, but he couldn't bring himself to move. From what he heard, you might be in Shibuya right now, specifically in a location near the veil. Without a second thought, Choso set off in another direction.

— Choso felt pure rage like this only once before in his life: when he found out that his brothers were dead. He had made it to the edge of the veil to see Mahito toying with you. It made Choso sick to even see you crying for a split second. Without thinking, he stepped in and used his curse technique to force Mahito to step back.

Choso looked furious. His eyes furrowed, brows pulled down in a sharp V. His fists shakily clenched onto your clothes, pulling you up into his grasp. All the while, his shrunken pupils glared at the curse in front of him. A few drops of blood fell onto you from the mark on his nose. Choso made no effort to clean it.

Choso frowned even deeper as Mahito laughed, questioning his behavior. He gritted his teeth together, the grinding sound rough. He wasted no time in telling Mahito off, claiming that you were his and that Mahito needed to go somewhere else. Mahito only looked confused since Choso seemed so occupied with you, what about hunting Itadori down?

Choso breathed a deep sigh of relief as Mahito left, deciding that this wasn't worth his time. After all, he needed to find his natural enemy before Jogo did. Choso watched as Mahito skipped away before looking back at you. How shaken you were, some stray tears still dripping down your cheeks. You looked so fragile, like a doll. Choso, after seeing you almost get into serious trouble, decided then that you were too weak to be out on your own. He'd protect you now, and he wouldn't fail loosing you as well.

— Choso lovingly ran his hands through your hair, the fingers playing with your locks. He had you resting in his lap, consoling you and making sure to wipe every tear that formed at your waterline. He might not know exactly what he feels, but he knows that protecting you is just as important as protecting his brothers.

Choso wouldn't allow you out of his grasp, let alone his sight. However, you are a bit confused because this man is a stranger, but he did save your life. You could tell he was strong, so it was best to stay with him. He tried to be soothing and gentle as well, but it was a bit difficult for him: Choso knew humans were more fragile than curses, and he didn't want to get too happy to finally be in contact with you.

Choso noticed that you began to calm down as he petted your hair, but you were still shaken. He couldn't blame you: Mahito was terrifyingly sadistic. However, he was glad he was able to intervene before things spiraled. He gently pushed your head against his chest, cradling you as he would do to a young child.

Choso began to speak, trying to calm your nerves even more. He apologized for Mahito, reassured you were safe, and even made some subtle comments about some things you liked. You didn't pay much attention to the fact that he shouldn't know those things since you had bigger issues to worry about. Like your friend, who Choso overhead and you knew was in Shibuya.

— Choso blankly stared at you when you inquired about your friend's whereabouts. He shook his head before shushing you. Your friend was in the main building, there was little likelihood of their survival. But why did that matter to you? They weren't your family. Choso's chest felt weird. You shouldn't care about your late friend. You are here with Choso right now. Why are you worrying about another?

Choso felt jealous. Light jealousy, but still jealousy. That's when it finally clicked for him. No, you weren't family. But you were his. When he said you were his to Mahito, he hadn't even realized what he said. However, now he finally realized what he said, and what it meant. He loved you.

Love was such a strange concept. He stared down at you, his hand playing with your hair without thinking. He was in love, with you. His grip on you got slightly more tight as his thoughts wandered. He had saved your life. Did you love him back for that?

If you didn't, that'd be okay. Choso prefers if you love him back, but you'd learn to either way. He needed you. You and his family were what he loved. But what if you and him had a family too? He knew his mind was going too far too soon, but he couldn't shake the idea of having kids with you. Maybe that'd be another way to get you to stay. That sounded like a good idea.

— You gazed up to Choso, who had gone unresponsive while thinking. You frowned slightly, a bit worried. Gently, you tapped him, and he seemed to wake back up. He stared at you silently for a few more moments before fully hugging you. His mouth was close to your ear, hot breath tickling you, "You'll be perfect."

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, mentions of death, poor writing, ooc writing,

Part 16: a shared web

🔹🔹🔹

The towers cold tonight, a cold New York breeze blows in through the open panels as you watch the streets far below, either FRIDAY doesn't wanna bother with you or starks slacking on paying the electric now. You wouldn't put either past the man.

The mission went bad today, the informant had bad Intel and what was supposed to be a simple bug plant turned into a fire fight. One that spread and went south when civilians got caught in the middle of things. Four casualties, nine more injured, all because you were incompetent.

A horn honks somewhere on the street below, you watch mutely as two people get into an arguement from their cars, screaming in an unidentifiable cacophony of road rage that honestly sounds inhuman from where you’re sitting. you don’t even turn your head when your door slides open behind you, you know she’s there.

“brooding isn't a good look on you.” she murmurs softly as she pads up behind you, the carpet crunching softly under her as she stands at your side, just behind you watching you stare stubbornly out the open window.

you can’t bring yourself to look back at her, you know she knows too. “…. How are they reacting down there.”

you’re straight to the point, arms crossing over your chest as if to close yourself off from her. Or maybe it's a comfort thing.

she turns her head slowly, heavy lidded green eyes studying your every expression, every twitch, every breath. “…they’re tired, no ones talking right now.”

“so they’re still pissed.”

“they’re tired. things were harder than expected, obviously everyone’s going to take some r&r.”

“i was there nat, no one could even look at me on the way back.” you're annoyed at the bitterness slipping into your voice.

she falls silent, when you look at her she’s staring right at you with that same calm look in her eyes that you’re frustratingly used to at this point, the silence is heavy, she’s waiting.

“It's…I failed, Natalia. I screwed up and now everyone's paying penance.” your eyes dart away again, if you closed your eyes right now you could almost pretend the cold breeze blowing in your window is the same as the cold mountain air from your childhood, the heaviness in your chest is already exactly the same as it was in that academy.

a hand drops on your shoulder roughly “You didn't fail, you didn't. we can't account for human error-” your head turns quickly and meets her stare with a frustrated expression. “I was to get inside and get out unnoticed. Those lives lost are on me.”

anxiety and frustration curls your lip, why doesn’t she get it?

��(name). Enough. This isn't worth it-” her voice is almost stern, something between a plead and a command while her hand squeezes your shoulder tighter. but you’re not having it right now. “isn't it though? How much blood will i get to spill before your friends decide I'm a liability, before they throw me in that floating Tartarus and wash their hands of me?”

you push her hand off as you turn away from her, she’s got barton, the captain, fury, hell she’s even got james. people that extend their trust to her, see the humanity in natalia. and you?….you’ve got her.

“…. Exactly as much as when they cut me off as well, and not a moment before that. You and I are a team now, a joint unit. We're stuck doing this together, (name). Fuck ups and all…” her voice softens again as she follows you across the room to the edge of your bed, when you sit she does too, her hand again finding your shoulder.

her expression is stubborn, when you look at her. but even the scowl on her lips and narrowed eyes can’t hide the hurt in her body language, again you feel guilt curling in your gut, squeezing around your lungs so much so that you crumble a little. you’re far too good at hurting people.

“…. I'm sorry, i feel useless here. I was shaped to kill, not…. All this. i don’t feel like a hero.” you slip into your mother tongue naturally, it feels more…private, that way. you shake your head as you look away from her morose expression, resting your elbows on your knees so you can curl away from her in shame, you’re the one who failed, and now you’re lashing out at nat?

the room falls silent, save for the sounds of the street below drifting through the open window. you barely even hear her breathing beside you as she squeezes your shoulder one last time, then lets her hand fall into her lap.

“….. Neither do I.”

her words are spoken thoughtfully, neither looking at the other as you both marinate on what happened earlier, what can you even say to her? tell her she shouldn’t feel that way? that she’s the one who deserves to feel like a hero after all she’s done to earn the title? remind her she was the best of the widows? you know her, she’d just turn your words on you and tell you the same, say you were trying and that’s what counts or something like that. you know her.

“….maybe someday we’ll get there, until then the two of us almost make a whole hero. better stick together until that day, yeah?”

you nudge her with your elbow, trying to make yourself sound lighter than you feel in the moment. when she looks up at you and smiles you know things are okay between you two, only a widow could understand another widow.

🔹🔹🔹

your heads pounding when you wake up, your skin sticky with sweat and you’re out of breath and shaking like you’re cold, even sitting up causes you pain not too dissimilar to when you first woke up in that hospital weeks ago…

god you need to get a grip, you wriggle out of the sweaty sheets and sit on the edge of the bed while your visions swimming, a shaking hand rubs at your eyes and you’re shocked when you realize you’re crying. you miss her so much….

your heart clenches painfully behind your ribs as you think about the dream, you died and left natalia alone. or rather now you’re alone. it was for the best of course, you couldn’t have went on if she’d jumped like she wanted, too many people needed her alive. they didn’t need you the same way, you should be happy you fulfilled a purpose in the end, you weren’t useless. but you must have hurt her.

you flop back in the bed with a big sigh, it’s what, four? five? there’s no way you’re falling back asleep after that. you should train or something…the ache behind your eyes and nausea welling up in your throat disagrees.

you also have zero desire to get up and leave the room and risk running into someone in your vulnerable state, so you roll over and paw around for your phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking it off in your blind search. you nearly throw up when the scorchingly bright light hits your eyes and makes your headache worse.

this so isn’t worth it….yet you power through it and pull up your current work in progress, your file on the terrorists and the possible affiliates you're compiling. You don't have anything new to add or go through though and you've read and reread your little folder multiple times now.

with nothing else to do you switch to the GCPD scanners for a little ambient environment enrichment, their online filing system isn’t great, but it’s a visual distraction while you listen to idle radio chatter. Reading through case notes and what little evidence they file on their database about random cold cases. They've got a lot in Gotham it seems.

you perk up when the scanners pop off, rushed chatter crackles through the room with multiple officers talking over each other at once. you pop an earbud in to silence the room and listen intently. words like ‘breakout’ ‘escape’ ‘organized’ stands out with all the chaos. sounds like the pyromaniacs are now bold enough to hit up the police station to free their comrades in holding.

Interesting, that's a little too organized for your liking….

something itches in the back of your mind and you glance at the door of your room, your intuition going wild.

your sock-covered feet pad near silent down the halls as you stalk through the dark manor, you know the cameras must be in use yet you don’t care at the moment. something uncomfortable pounds in the back of your head and it’s not just the migraine.

the first room you stop at is empty, the ballet flats hang off the edge of the vanity chair and the beds perfectly made and tucked, no sign of Cass anywhere. Your eyes narrow when you see her duffel bag still peeking out from under the edge of the bedframe, so much for ballet practice. You close the door and move on to the next room.

The one with the computers next, again there's no one inside and judging by the empty energy drinks littering the desk you don't think Tim's concerned about getting enough sleep for his job.

Damian’s room is the one that concerns you, despite your attempts to not get caught up with the kids. Where would a thirteen year old go at night? You hesitate in the doorway for a moment, what's that on the wall?…you start to step into the room.

“what are you doing?”

Alfred's coming closer, looking tired and noticeably disgruntled when he sees you standing in Damian's open doorway.

Damn him for always skulking around.

“I was looking for someone….I had a question about something.”

You turn towards him and step out of the room, forcing yourself to ignore the two swords hanging up that you hadn't noticed before. You silently note that he came from the opposite direction of his quarters, the man spends too much time in that library.

“And just what could be so important at this hour that you wanted to bother all the children?” His eyes narrow as he crosses his arms over his chest, he's tenser than you've ever seen him before and you don't like how he's looking at you like you're downright hostile. This is a man reacting to a threat.

All the children huh, so he was watching you. “I had….a dream.” You meet his eyes as you speak, forcing yourself to look as embarrassed as possible. “I…. Thought maybe it was…. Maybe a memory? I…wanted to ask someone if the details….I thought i was getting something back.”

You look away briefly, and when you look back his expression is softening considerably, you took a gamble on your excuse and it seems to have paid off. He slowly uncrosses his arms and gestures for you to follow him. You know you've got him distracted now.

“That's…. Why don't you tell me about it over a cup of tea, I'm sure I could help you sort this all out. Master Wayne….”

The kitchens quiet between the two of you, doubt still flickers across his face but he seems to relax even more as you go into detail about remembering Cass and Damian being with you when you were attacked. Maybe you should pay more mind to those strange dreams because he seems to actually let some of his guard down for once.

“That is indeed how it went, this is…. Very good news my dear. Very good…I think something in you is healing.” He smiles genuinely at you and leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, twirling his cup idly as he seems to get lost in thought.

You didn't get the answers you wanted, and now you've got more questions, Alfred must be monitoring you if he knows you went through multiple rooms, but why is he always up? Maybe you should start looking for where those cameras are being checked soon.

🔹🔹🔹

“Give me permission to go out.”

You're caught off guard by the sudden demand as soon as you walk into one of the living rooms, Damian approaches you with crossed arms and a serious expression on his young face, Titus follows after him and sniffs your thigh disinterestedly before turning away from you.

“I'm…excuse me?” your face must betray your confusion because he sighs and straightens up before replying.

“Father has forbidden me from going out without an adult right now and he's healing, Alfred is running errands or I would ask him to take me. I just need you to give me permission.”

You're still very much confused after that explanation, what's so important and when did Bruce establish this rule? Was it because of your talk with Alfred? “…what're you going out for? It's almost dark out.”

He looks away, shoulders lifting as he shifts, is he upset?

“…Drake trashed my school project and I'm... Feeling a bit fratricidal at the moment. I'm forbidden from retaliating so I'd like to get out of the manor before I commit a murder.”

“You could push him in front of a car, seems to be a family trait right now.”

He ducks his head but you don't miss the small twisting of his lips at your joke, at least he didn't look disturbed at the dark humor, you'll take the small win.

“I'm not sure I'd get away with it, but I'll consider your suggestion. I'll let you know if I need an alibi.” He looks up at you again as he speaks, he's so serious about it that for a moment you're unsure if he's actually joking or not.

“sounds like you've got a plan kiddo, let me know when you're hiding the body, I've got some airtight ideas.”

You snort at your own joke as you stroll past the kid, when he trails after you you're a bit surprised. When did you agree to babysit?

“You still didn't give me an answer, I need a parents permission to go out.”

The kids persistent about leaving at this hour, the dog trots after him as you both step out of the room into one of the big halls.

“I'm not sure I count as your authority figure right now, Damian. And I doubt you're allowed to just run off even if I were, are you just gonna walk up and down the road or something?”

You're not sure what the kid wants from you, does he think Bruce still sees you as an appropriate authority who can make decisions for underage people? You doubt it, the kid probably thinks he can take advantage of your confusion to get what he wants.

“No, I'd drive into the city.” he says seriously as he walks faster to keep up with your stride, eyes locked on you when he suddenly reaches up and grabs your arm to stop you in your tracks in the hall.

You purse your lips at the grab, kids his age want to be taken seriously right? You're not the best judge of normal childhood behaviors. “….. There's no way you have a license.”

He releases you once it's clear he's got your full attention, he again crosses his arms and tries to meet your eyes like he wants to be listened to.

“Richard has started teaching me, I'm perfectly capable of operating a vehicle.”

You don't believe that, he's too young right? Sure you were driving at that age but you were also leaning about killing people as an extracurricular activity.

“That doesn't equal a license, or even a learners permit. It's not legal Damian.” you give him an incredulous look as you cross your own arms over your chest, you both silently stare each other down for a while before the kid reluctantly gives up and looks away with an eye roll.

“nothing fun is legal here.”

He grumbles with pouting cheeks, looking much more his age than the scowling looks allow him to. You almost snort at the complaint and start to consider making your escape down the hall when the dog distracts him, but then…

“….. You could drive with me.” he again meets your eye as his tone shifts to something more hopeful, almost pleading, the kids good at manipulation you'll give him that.

Unfortunately for him you have too good of an excuse.

“I don't think I even have a license, amnesiac remember?” one eyebrow quirks up as you lean your shoulder against the wall, is he really that mad at Tim?

He rolls his eyes again like you said something dumb and continues to plead his case. “Obviously I don't mean literally, I am not a moron. you could come with and I'll teach you along the way.”

A long silence fills the hall as you stare at him incredulously, what's he playing at here?

“…you want to teach me how to drive while we what, go joy riding?” you don't even bother to hide the disbelief in your voice as you straighten up and step away from the wall, arms falling to rest your hands in your pockets.

“I wanted to get gelato actually.” he sounds perfectly serious as he matches your body language, eyes darting down the hall towards the front entrance before returning to you again.

You want to smack yourself in the head when you catch the look, already knowing it's an ‘I'll do this with or without you’ threat that he refuses to verbalize. The clever little-

“…. You know what? Sure. I wanna see more of Gotham.”

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

Taglist: @cxcilla @mercuryathens @dind1n @redsakura101 @ninihrtss @let-me-dance @ladykamos @one-piecelover @cuntiesweet @omnivirgo @shirp-collector-of-fixations @spidermanluvr444 @br33zy-blizzardz @lunarapple @findingjaxx

@4rachn3 can you let me know if the tag is working for you? I can't seem to find your blog 😓

[allthingsimagines]

State of Grace

“This is a state of grace. This is the worthwhile fight. Love is a ruthless game, unless you play it good and right” - State Of Grace by Taylor Swift

Rick Grimes x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: The group is wary of Aaron, until he reveals information that shocks the group to their core.

Takes place in season five at the start of the Alexandria arc!

Word Count: 5k+

Warnings: Swearing, childbirth, fluff, and ooc Rick

a/n: This has been sitting in my drafts for literal years. It’s not great, but I don’t care!! I hope you enjoy! Also, sorry for the formatting I’m on my phone!

—————————————————————————

The group all stood on high alert as they stared Aaron down as he sat tied to the pole. He was an outsider and knew far too much about them for any of them to be comfortable.

Rick was at the edge. He would either fall off and lose himself or pull himself back. The group was doing their best to keep him stable, but after Terminus, the death of Beth, and his own wife being lost after the Prison he was close to being too far gone. The only reason he hadn’t yet was for Carl and Judith. If he hadn’t had them he would’ve been long gone by now.

Aaron was another threat to the group’s safety.

Rick stalked around him as the group watched on. He seemed like a predator about to go in for the kill. Rick had always been an intimidating guy, but after the loss of his wife and the months on the road he wasn’t sure he’d ever fully return to who he had been when she was alive.

When the Prison fell everyone got scattered. Rick had been in the yard, Carl with Daryl, Judith with the kids, and Y/N had been in the sick wing helping Maggie evacuate people. When everyone got separated she’d just disappeared. No one had seen her since that day and there was no indication she was alive. Rick had lost hope a long time ago. She was tough, but it was difficult enough for them to survive as a big group. There was no way she would have made it months on her own.

Aaron gulped as the group discussed what to do, “My job is to convince you to follow me back home.”

Everyone looked around skeptically at his words. Aaron sighed, he knew it would take a lot of convincing, “I know, if I were you, I wouldn’t go either until I knew exactly what I was getting into.”

Aaron looked around at the big group and took a breath to steady himself. He’d been following them for two weeks and still didn’t know half as much as he would’ve liked to about them. He knew Rick was the leader and had two kids. He knew a few others like Maggie, Sasha, and Glenn, but the rest of them were strangers for now. Yet, he knew they’d keep them alive.

Alexandria needed people who knew how to survive and navigate the world they lived in now. The only people in the community who knew how to was himself, Eric, Deanna, Enid, and Y/N. She was the perfect person to teach them, but she wasn’t much help outside the walls since she was pregnant.

“Sasha, can you hand Rick my pack? Front pocket, there's an envelope,” Aaron asked and Sasha complied as she brought it to him.

“There's no way I could convince you to come with me just by talking about our community. That's why I brought those. I apologize in advance for the picture quality,” Aaron said as Rick pulled them out and looked through them.

“No one gives a shit,” Daryl grumbled out and Aaron nodded quickly.

A few others crowded around Rick to look at the pictures when the baby began crying. The teenager tried his best to calm her, but she just wailed. Rick pinched his brow and sighed, “Carl, will you get Judith the binky in my pack.”

The boy quickly complied as he tried to soothe his sister. Aaron’s eyes widened and he felt his heart jump at his words. He quickly leaned forward, pulling against his binds, “Your son is Carl and your daughter is Judith?��

The group all shared confused looks as Aaron looked like he’d had a world ending revelation. Rick passed the pictures to Glenn as he moved closer to Aaron, “What’s it matter to you?”

He kneeled down in front of Aaron and glared down at him, “Why do you need to know?”

Aaron swallowed, trying to compose himself, before looking up at Rick, “Did you have a wife named Y/N?”

Rick physically recoiled at the question and everyone tensed. How would he know her? Carl stepped closer to them, Judith held firmly at his hip as she was quiet now, “How do you know my mom?”

Aaron looked sympathetically at Carl and Judith before looking back to Rick. He looked as if Aaron had flipped his whole world, “How do you know that name?”

“She’s alive. She’s been living in our community with my husband and I for the past few months. She’s talked about your family endlessly- I just didn’t put it together,” Aaron breathed out and he saw the whole group react to his words.

Rick stumbled back and stood deathly still as he paled. Carl moved forward, his eyes full of hope, “How can we trust you? Where’s my mom!”

Aaron nodded towards his bag, “There’s a picture of her in the inside zipper of my bag.”

Glenn quickly unzipped the pocket before pulling out the picture and passing it to Rick. Rick couldn’t believe his eyes as he stared at it. It was her. She was leaning her head on a man’s shoulder, who he assumed was Aaron’s husband, with a bright smile on her face.

She was alive and happy.

Rick let out a choked sob as Carl tore the picture from his hands and broke down as well as he clutched his sister to him. The whole group was visibly affected by his words as they all had bright looks on their faces. Rick pulled Carl into his side and pressed a kiss to his head, “She’s alive. We’re gonna have your mom back.”

Glenn cut Aaron free and he stood up and rubbed his wrists. Rick released Carl, but when he turned to Aaron to say something he noticed the odd look on his face. Rick moved closer to Aaron and felt his stomach drop, “What’s wrong?”

Aaron looked up at Rick and scratched his neck, “I don’t know how to say it.”

Rick pushed down his fear as he stepped closer to him, “Aaron what’s wrong with my wife?”

Aaron met Rick’s piercing eyes and breathed out, “She’s pregnant.”

Rick swore he’d died. There was no way that she’d lived, but now she was pregnant? She couldn’t be.

Rick grabbed Aaron’s shoulder as leverage as he almost fell over, “What?”

Aaron grabbed Rick’s arm, “My husband and I picked her up on the road five months ago and brought her back. We’ve been taking care of her. The baby is doing great and so is she. She helps our leader, Deanna, out as her advisor so she doesn’t have to leave the walls.”

Rick tried to take in deep breaths, but he could hardly comprehend that his wife was alive and now she was pregnant? Rick grabbed onto Aaron as he fell to his knees. He tried to breathe as everything became too much for him.

His wife was pregnant and she’d been alive this whole time. They were going to have another kid.

Aaron squeezed Rick’s arm and sighed, “Rick, she’s full term now and when I left she was having consistent Braxton Hicks.”

Rick almost fell over from how quickly he shot to his feet. Lori had those during both pregnancies and she’d given birth soon after. He needed to be there for her. Especially considering what had happened to Lori.

“What’s that mean?” Carl asked, quickly wiping any remnants of tears from his face.

“They’re false contractions, but they’re meant to prep your body for labor,” Maggie answered, coming up behind Carl and squeezing his shoulders supportively.

“Take me to her. Please,” Rick pleaded with Aaron and he was quick to nod.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll radio my husband to come get us in our RV. We can all fit, but it’ll be tight,” Aaron said, looking around for approval.

Everyone quickly moved to ready their gear and Aaron took that as his sign to radio Eric. He quickly moved towards his radio that had been tossed out of his bag and picked it up, “Eric, we need you to get us at the barn we scouted. They know Y/N. Her husband and kids are with them.”

“Oh my god. Okay, I’ll be there soon. Be safe,” Eric quickly responded.

Rick held Judith tightly to him as he moved over to Aaron and clapped his hand on his shoulder. Aaron quickly turned to him only to find his demeanor much more relaxed, more like the man Y/N had described. Rick let out a shaky breath and nodded, “Thank you.”

Aaron nodded and sighed, “She’s family to me too now. I’d do anything for her.”

Rick nodded as his nerves began to eat at him. The group packed up quickly and they all anxiously waited in the barn to leave. Twenty minutes passed before Eric pulled up and they all quickly filed in. He seemed stunned by the road hardened people that passed by him to get into the RV. The RV was big, but they had a large group now and they were all crammed in.

They all sat packed into the RV, each having their own quiet conversations for a while until Aaron’s radio went off. The whole group turned to look at him as he quickly fished it out.

“Hey, Aaron, you there?” A female voice said.

“Hey, Denise. What’s up?” Aaron responded.

“Just wanted to check in and give you an update. When are you heading back?” She asked.

Aaron looked around at the group and scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, actually now. I’m bringing back that group I scouted for Deanna. Tell her that we’ll be back in less than an hour and they’ll need to get check ups asap just in case.”

“I’ll let her know, but the doctors office is kinda busy today,” Denise said sounding hesitant.

“What? Did something happen?” Aaron quickly asked, sharing a nervous look with Eric.

“No! No, nothing bad, but we’re about to have a new baby around here soon. She wanted me to let you guys know,” Denise said, with a cheery tone to her voice.

The whole group froze as Aaron looked at Rick in slight horror. Rick kissed Judith’s head and squeezed Carl’s shoulder as he tried to be strong for them. The last time, Carl had to kill Lori after she needed a C-Section. Rick knew Carl wouldn’t survive losing his other mom the same way.

Aaron’s eyes softened as he noticed their family dynamic. He remembered what Y/N had told him about Carl’s mom and he could tell it was causing trauma to resurface for them.

“How is she? Everything going okay?” Aaron asked, nervous himself for his friend.

The radio was silent for a few moments until it crackled again and a new voice came over the radio, “She can speak for herself. I’m in active labor, not dead.”

The whole group shared a look of shock. It was her. Rick quickly moved to the front of the RV to stand next to Aaron, his blue eyes wide and unsure of what to do.

“And yes, I’m fine. I’m almost fully dilated, so not much to do but have terrible contractions till they come. Baby Grimes would like to make an appearance soon, so I’d appreciate if you hurried back. It’d be nice to have someone who I actually care about to hold my hand. You too Eric. How’d scouting that group go? They convinced yet?” She asked breathlessly as Rick and Aaron shared a look.

Baby Grimes. She hadn’t let go either. Rick had a child and wife waiting for him.

Aaron held the radio out to Rick and he looked at it nervously. What was he even supposed to say? Rick turned as Carl came up behind him and took Judith from his arms so he could hold her. Carl’s eyes were filled with a hope Rick hadn’t seen in years. Rick swallowed his fears and took the radio from Aaron’s hand.

“Darlin?” Rick said, his voice wobbling as he choked out the words.

The radio was silent for a moment before her shaky voice said, “Rick? Is that you?”

Rick fell to his knees at the sound of her voice. It was his wife. She was alive.

“Yeah, baby, it’s me. We’re okay. We’re all on our way,” He breathed out as a hand squeezed his shoulder and he looked behind him to see Daryl behind him.

A loud cry came over the radio and the whole group from the prison visibly reacted with relief of their own as they finally had a family member back.

“Oh my god, I swore I’d never hear your voice again. Is everyone there? Carl? Judith? Please, please, tell me they’re okay,” She sputtered out through sobs.

Carl snatched the radio from his dad’s hands and shakily said, “Mom, mom, it’s me. We’re okay. Judith and I are okay. We miss you.”

“Carl, baby, I-I-,” She started but broke down into tears and the radio went silent for a second.

The whole group went dead silent as the radio cut out, but quickly reacted as she cried out over the radio. Rick rushed to Carl’s side as he stared at the radio in horror.

The radio cut back in and Y/N’s groans could be heard in the background, “She’s okay! Just bad contractions. She’s gonna need to push soon, so hurry if you guys can. I’m sorry I’ve got to go to make sure everything goes okay, but Aaron knows where the delivery room is. Deanna knows and she’ll have Spencer open the gates as soon as you get there and let them through.”

The radio then shut off and Rick looked up at Aaron in abject horror. What if he missed his child’s birth? What if something happened to her? Aaron squeezed his shoulder and shook him a bit to bring him back, “We’ll be back soon. She’s gonna be okay. We have good doctors and medical supplies to make sure of it.”

Rick nodded, seeming like he was off in a different place. Aaron moved back to Eric’s side and helped direct him the quickest way to Alexandria. Rick sat against the door of the RV, his mind running over every worse case scenario.

Nothing ever went right for him.

Right now he could have his wife and a new son or daughter when he arrived to Alexandria. Or he could lose them both, and he was sure that he would never survive that loss again of someone he loved so desperately.

Eric pushed the RV as hard as he possibly could without blowing anything mechanical. A half hour passed before Aaron finally announced that they were there. They all rushed to their feet and looked out the window to find a fenced in town with guard towers at the gates.

The group had been in one place with high fences before, but this place looked untouched from the apocalypse. Aaron turned to the group as Eric slowed as they got closer, “When we get in the gates, you will all have to turn over your weapons. We don’t allow people to have them, unless they’re on patrol or cleared by our leader Deanna or Y/N. You will all be interviewed by Deanna and then get a check up by one of our Doctors.

Rick and Carl, you’ll come with me. The rest of you will wait until I come and get you or you’re showed to a house. This community is pretty sheltered, so please take it easy around them for now. Understood?”

They all shared nervous looks before nodding in agreement. The RV came to a stop and Aaron and Rick shared a look.

They needed to go.

Carl passed Judith off to Carol as Eric quickly turned the car off and opened the doors and Aaron, Rick, and Carl quickly moved out.

The group rushed towards the gate as it slid open for them. Rick and Carl hardly had time to admire the community before Aaron waved his hand at them, “Come on. Medical center is over here.”

They hurriedly followed after Aaron and Eric as they ran towards one of the closest buildings and people stared as they sprinted past. Rick couldn’t have given less of a shit as he just ran after them.

Aaron barreled towards a house and quickly threw the door open. Rick’s eyes widened at the sound of his wife crying out. Rick shoved past Aaron and rushed toward the room. The continuing cries became louder from the door at the end of the hallway.

Rick quickly grabbed the handle and threw the door open and there she was. His wife was laying up against a mountain of pillows with her legs propped up.

Dear god.

Her eyes pooled with tears at the sight of her husband alive and in front of her. She released the sheets from her clutched hands and reached out for Rick, “Rick- oh my god.”

Rick went to rush to her when a woman quickly moved in front of him, “Woah! Okay, I know you want to see her, but you’re gonna put her and the baby at risk if you don’t wash everything off of you.”

Rick hadn’t really considered that it’d been months since he’d showered properly. He looked at his hands and found they were covered with blood and walker remains. He hadn’t even thought about it.

“Denise he can- he can stand up by my head and he won’t touch the baby until he’s clean. Right Rick? I can’t do this without him,” She said squeezing her eyes shut and crying out in pain.

Rick nodded frantically, desperate to touch his wife himself after months apart.

Denise looked hesitant, but let out a frustrated sigh, “At least scrub your arms and hands with soap quickly and put on that surgical gown just in case.”

Rick didn’t say another word as he quickly rushed toward the other room where the woman pointed. He moved to the sink and scrubbed at his hands so hard they felt raw. The sink turned red as his hands were washed clean of all the remnants of the outside world. Carl quickly sprinted in, turned on the sink next to him, and did the same.

Once Rick felt like his hands and forearms were clean of blood and filth, he put the surgical gown on and rushed back into the room.

“You have to push! Come on deep breath and bear down,” Denise said as she stood between her legs.

She breathed heavily as she pushed for ten seconds, before she laid back and let out a groan of pain. Rick moved to her side and quickly took one of her hands in his own and pressed it to his lips. Rick tried to force back his tears and the emotions threatening to overcome him as he finally had his wife right in front of him.

She tiredly smiled up at him, her eyes shiny with unshed tears, “Hey Sheriff.”

Rick chuckled before he quickly captured her lips, “Hey darlin.”

Her smile was interrupted as she squeezed her eyes in pain and clutched onto his hand tightly.

“How’s she doin Doc?” Rick asked worriedly, Lori’s death at the front of his mind.

Denise tried to smile comfortingly and said, “She’s doing great, but you’ve got to keep pushing. Baby’s almost here.”

Rick looked down at his wife and squeezed her hand, “You can do it. I’m right here.”

“Me too,” Carl said as he rushed to her other side.

Her eyes brightened at the sight of her son at her side. She took Carl’s hand and nodded as she sat up, “Yeah, I’ve got you two now. I can do this.”

“Fuck yeah you can mom,” Carl said beaming at her.

Rick laughed at his words and she shook her head with a loving smile directed at him, “I missed you, but watch your language baby.”

Carl smirked and he and his dad shared a look as she got ready. Denise smiled at the family before clearing her throat, “Okay, after this next contraction you need to push again. Make it count you’re almost there.”

She nodded and shared a nervous look with Rick. Rick squeezed her hand and quickly kissed her forehead, “You can do this baby. We’re right here.”

She nodded before letting out a shaky breath and squeezing her eyes shut as Denise indicated for her to push. After the seconds of silence she cried out and fell back, but Rick quickly slid his arm around her waist to catch her, “You’re doing great darlin.”

She nodded against his shoulder as she mentally prepared herself to push again.

“I can see the head. One more good push and it’ll be done,” Denise said.

She nodded and she took another deep breath, “That better be a goddamn promise Denise.”

Denise smiled and shook her head, “If it’s not, I’ll give you my bottle of bourbon.”

She let out a shaky laugh and smiled at her, “You’ve got a deal.”

She looked at both of her boys and felt determination swell in her chest. She felt the contraction come on and she pushed with everything she had.

Rick brushed the hair out of her face as she cried out again. Then the room was filled with a sharp cry.

Rick felt his whole body tense as Denise beamed at them as she lifted the baby up, “It’s a girl. She’s beautiful.”

She immediately began to cry as Denise nodded at Rick, “Wanna cut the umbilical cord dad?”

Rick nodded and shared a look with Carl. Carl nodded and quickly moved his arm around his mom to support her sitting up as tears of joy streaked down his face. Rick took the scissors and cut the umbilical cord where she directed as she quickly cleaned his daughter.

Carl helped his mom get more comfortable on the pillows as they waited for Denise. Carl pressed a kiss to her cheek, “I love you mom.”

She smiled up at her oldest boy, “I love you too baby. I’m so glad you’re here. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Rick’s eyes were full of tears as he carefully looked over Denise’s shoulder as she checked over his daughter. He hadn’t really felt this way since Carl was born. He felt like he was teetering on an edge as he waited to see his youngest daughter.

Denise turned around and Rick moved to her side. Denise smiled softly as she carefully passed the small bundle to her outstretched arms, “She’s healthy and looks perfect. You did great Y/N.”

She let out a choked sob as she took her daughter into her arms, “Hey sweetheart.”

Rick finally let his tears fall as he looked down at his beautiful daughter. She leaned into Rick’s embrace and gently stroked her baby’s cheek, “You’re so so loved already.”

Carl sniffled as he leaned closer to his mom to get a better look at his youngest sister. She looked up at him and smiled brightly, “This is your big brother, Carl. He’s gonna be the best big brother ever and he’s always gonna be there for you .”

Carl nodded as she lifted her up closer to him so he could see her for a moment. Then she turned and her eyes met Rick’s that were filled with emotion. She moved her daughter now to Rick’s side so he could see his little girl.

“This is your daddy. He looks mean and grumpy, but he’s a softie I promise. He’ll always keep you safe,” She said with a gentle smile as he got to look at his daughter.

Rick brushed his finger over her small cheeks and choked out sob. He pressed a kiss to his wife’s head, “I love you more than anything. Thank you.”

She pulled away from him before she leaned up and kissed him. She pulled away breathlessly and smiled before moving her gaze to her daughter, “You can thank Hope for getting us here. I would have died a long time ago if I hadn’t been fighting for her.”

Rick raised an eyebrow and smiled, “Hope? That’s her name?”

She nodded resolutely and beamed, “Been calling her Hope since I found out I was pregnant. Hope Willow Grimes.”

Rick nodded and smiled down at his daughter, “Hope’s a great name for her.”

She nodded before turning to give her boys a tired look, “As much as I love you both, you reek of blood and sweat. Aaron can take you to one of the empty houses to get cleaned up. Then you can come back and hold her. Okay?”

Rick felt his whole being begging him to stay, but she was right. He pressed a kiss to her head and looked down at his daughter before stepping away, “Kay, but you send someone for us if you need anything.”

She nodded as Rick and Carl moved towards the door, “Got it Sheriff. Will you bring back Judith and the others?”

Rick nodded and smiled, “Promise. Trust me they’ll be begging to come see you as soon as we get there.”

“Well, tell ‘em I’ll give ‘em a pass for not getting a baby gift in time,” She joked as she rocked their daughter gently.

A knock came from the door and they all turned to find Aaron and Eric standing there. They both stepped into the room and Aaron smiled sheepishly, “Sorry, we didn’t wanna intrude, but I overheard you. I’ll take them to the house Deanna is setting them up in. She’s gonna set your group up in three houses. Some of the residents are moving your stuff into a separate house so you guys will be together.”

Y/N smiled and waved them into the room, “You’d never intrude. Come see her.”

Eric moved to her side and smiled down at the baby. Aaron held out his hand for Rick to shake, “Congratulations.”

Rick paused for a moment before pulling Aaron in for a tight hug. Aaron tensed for a moment before clapping Rick on the back. They pulled apart and Rick nodded in thanks, “This is all cause of you. Thank you.”

Aaron smiled at the sight of his husband and friend cooing over the baby, “Come on. I’ll take you guys to get cleaned up.”

The boys hesitantly followed after him and to the house. An hour passed and Y/N fed her daughter as she talked to Eric.

“When you mentioned your husband he wasn’t quite what I pictured,” Eric said as he rocked back in his chair.

She raised an eyebrow at him, “What’s so different?”

Eric rolled his eyes, “Y’know for being in an apocalypse where you don’t have many options you bagged one of the finest men I have ever seen.”

She burst out laughing as she grinned at him, “Oh, I know. Trust me I was fighting off women left and right when we lived at the prison. You better believe if I see Jessie anywhere near him or my kids I’ll throw her out like a farm cat.”

Eric snorted and beamed, “I believe it. I’d love to see you take her down. She’s had it coming for years.”

A soft knock came from the door and Y/N sat up and adjusted her little girl in her arms, “Come in.”

The door slowly opened and her husband came into view and her eyes lit up. Rick came in and walked over to her. Eric smiled at the pair and stood up, “I’m gonna go make sure you guys have everything set up.”

She smiled softly at him as he moved to the doorway, “Thank you.”

Eric nodded and shut the door behind him. Rick had changed into new clothes and cleaned up his beard now. He came and sat at her side on the bed, “You feelin okay darlin?”

She nodded and leaned against his shoulder, “About as good as you can be after pushing a baby out of you.”

Rick chuckled in response and she met his eyes. Rick cupped her face as her eyes lit up teasingly, “Lookin good Sherriff.”

Rick pulled her in and pressed a firm kiss against her lips. After a moment passed they pulled apart and she muttered, “I love you.”

Rick kissed her quickly again and moved back, “I love you too.”

“Wanna hold her?” She asked gently holding her out to Rick.

Rick swallowed nervously and held out his arms and she passed Hope into his arms. Rick let out a shaky laugh as he finally got to hold her. He shared a look of awe with Y/N as he gently rocked her.

She pressed a kiss to Rick’s jaw with a smile, “You’re a natural.”

Rick smiled, his eyes staying on his youngest, “Comes with practice.”

The pair were silent for awhile as they watched their daughter. Y/N let out a shaky breath and leaned her head on Rick’s shoulder, “Who isn’t here?”

The silence was palpable between them as she pressed a kiss to Rick’s shoulder, “I- I just need to know, please.”

Rick nodded, keeping his eyes on their youngest, “Beth. She escaped with Daryl, but she got kidnapped by a group in Atlanta. We almost got her back, but she got killed before we could leave.”

Y/N swallowed back her tears and pressed her head into his shoulder and squeezed his arm, “Y’know no one would ever blame you for that, right? You tried your best and that’s all you can do sometimes.”

Rick nodded silently before pressing a kiss to her head. Y/N reached out to brush her finger over Hope’s soft cheek. Rick leaned back and wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulders and held his daughter with the other, “Anything we need to know about here?”

Y/N sighed heavily, “They’re weak. These people never learned how to survive outside the walls, because they never had to. Deanna understands what the world is and usually lets me call the shots when it comes to anything outside the walls.”

“Any pushback?” Rick said as he gently rocked Hope.

Y/N scoffed at his words, “Yeah, just a bit.”

“Anyone I need to kill?” Rick joked dryly, his arm tightening around her.

“Not yet. Deanna’s son, Spencer, is a liability. He doesn’t appreciate that I completely changed their tactics for runs, even if it was getting people killed. Spencer and his friend Nicholas are pretty much all talk, but they’re not shy about opposing anything I say. Oh, and watch out for Jessie,” She said leaning further into Rick’s chest, annoyance filling her while thinking about the town home wrecker.

Rick narrowed his eyes at her change in demeanor. He gently lifted her chin so she would meet his gaze. Despite having just given birth to their child, she still felt a pang of insecurity claw at her heart. Rick held her chin gently in his hand as his intense blue eyes met hers, “I have killed people to protect you. I would kill anyone to keep this family safe. You are the only woman I will ever want. Tell me you know that.”

Y/N smiled somewhat bashfully at his words. Those words would have terrified her in the world before it fell, but now it was a declaration of the highest love. She nodded and pressed her lips to his. It was almost as if no time had ever passed as they fell back into a routine with one another.

She pulled away breathlessly and met Rick’s expectant gaze. She let out a breath, “I know.”

Rick nodded and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Hope cooed and stretched her arms out with a yawn. A knock sounded out and Rick moved the the door, his youngest cradled securely in his arms. He opened the door and then Carl stepped in with Judith on his hip. Y/N burst into tears at the sight of her daughter. Judith reached out her arms as she saw her, “Momma.”

Carl came over and sat next to his mom and Y/N was quick to take her into her arms. She pressed a kiss to Judith’s head, “Oh, babygirl I missed you so much.”

Judith clutched onto her shirt and snuggled into her mom. Y/N rubbed Judith’s back with one hand and reached over and pulled Carl into a tight hug. Carl sighed and leaned into his mom’s embrace. She pressed a kiss to the side of Carl’s head, “Thank you for keeping him alive.”

She and Carl shared a look of understanding as they pulled away. Rick came over, looking like a true dad with Hope in one arm and his other hand tucked in his jean pocket. Y/N wiped her tears and sat Judith on her lap as Rick came and sat next to her. She looked around at her family and smiled, “I don’t believe in god, but thank whoever the hell is in charge up there that brought y’all back to me.”

Rick smiled and kissed the side of her head, “Damn right.”

Then a knock came from the door and Maggie popped her head in. Maggie rushed over to Y/N as the rest of the group followed in. Y/N swore she’d cried all of her tears, but each hug she gave to the members of the group brought on a new onslaught.

After each member of the group had been properly introduced to their daughter Rick stood off in the corner. He looked around the room, Hope settled safely in the crook of his arm. This was the happiest he’d seen the group in years.

Carl had yet to move from Y/N’ side, as Judith happily sat on his lap playing with her mom’s hand. Rick was certain he had never seen Y/N look so beautiful. She was beaming as she talked to Glenn and Maggie, despite the fact that she’d given birth hours earlier.

“She’s just like Lil Ass Kicker.”

Rick chuckled as Daryl came to his side. He looked down at his daughter lovingly and sighed, “This is what we fight for. Everythin we do is for everyone in this room.”

Daryl made a noise in agreement, “We keep going for shit like this.”

Rick met his wife’s eyes and she was quick to shoot him a wink, before she turned and pulled Carl closer to her into a hug. He sighed, his heart feeling full for the first time in months. Herschel had told him years ago that every day was a choice.

He would choose to keep his family in the room safe everyday for the rest of his life. No matter what it cost.

[duskvsdawn]

hewoooo~ i enjoyed reading your writing and saw your open for prompt!! can i request no. 29 with kaelix or sonny (either is fineee) thank soo much

≫ A/N: Heyooo! I'll do this for both of them! Might be a tiny bit OOC for Sonny because I don't know him too well, I hope that's ok! Sorry it took me a bit to get to it, I am kinda losing my groove I suppose. I'm gonna try to finish the last bit in my inbox, and then I might give myself a break or something idk

CW: smut, female reader, dacryphilia 'cause you know that's the whole prompt heehee, reader does some lewd stuff with Sonny and Kaelix (separate), edging (Sonny), overstim (Kaelix), blowjob (Sonny), piv sex (Kaelix), mating press (Kaelix)

Art credits Kaelix. ❤ Art credits Sonny.

࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇

If you like my works, please like, comment and reblog! It is much appreciated ❤ And if you really enjoyed it, please follow me so you can be kept up to date on future uploads! Please do not re-upload, translate, or use for AI training.

You look so beautiful when you cry

Sonny

You had a plan for tonight, but you weren't going to tell your boyfriend just yet. The two of you were chilling on the couch, watching some tv, when your hand landed on his thigh and you started to caress it. Your boyfriend looked at you with question marks all over his face, but when your hand moved between his thighs, the gears in his head were starting to turn, and he was picking up on what you were planning. You knelt in front of him, and your hands landed on his belt.

"Well, well, well... Now what do we have here?" your boyfriend said as he gently lifted your face up with his thumb and index finger. There was a devious smirk on your face as you took his dick out of his pants to stroke him to full hardness. Sonny's hand landed in your hair, giving it some gentle tugs. After you deemed him ready, you started giving some licks to the tip of his cock, tasting the bitter precum that was slowly starting to ooze out. You took the tip into your mouth as your hand worked the base, and Sonny let out some soft moans as you did so. "Fuck, that's good, baby. Can you take more for me?" your boyfriend asked, and you nodded as a reply since your mouth was kind of occupied right now. You started taking his cock deeper, bobbing your hand up and down. Occasionally you would take his balls into your mouth as your hand stayed busy stroking his cock or playing with the slit.

Your boyfriend was starting to let out louder noises, biting his bottom lip to try and keep quiet. He knew you loved for him to be vocal, but he would always get embarrassed about the kind of sounds he would make when he was so lost in pleasure. One hand went up towards his mouth to pull his lip out from between his teeth, halting your movements for just a few seconds to say, "Let me hear you, please. I need to hear you. I want to know if I'm doing well or not." You knew full well that you were doing well, but you were hoping this could convince your boyfriend to be a little louder with you, and he decided to let you hear it.

You started sucking again, and his grip on your hair tightened, and he was letting out some delicious mewls. You could tell he was slowly getting closer, but you wouldn't let him cum just yet. He didn't know it yet, but he was in for a long, long edging session. "Fuck, I'm close, babe..." Sonny said as his breathing was becoming uneven and the pressure in his lower stomach was slowly starting to build. When you knew his orgasm was so close, you stopped what you were doing and pulled off of him.

Sonny, obviously confused but still trying to catch his breath, looked at you with pleading eyes. "I'm not letting you cum anytime soon, baby. We both know it will only make the orgasm more intense when I eventually do let you," you said as you started moving your hand up and down his dick again when you deemed his orgasm far away enough. "No... No... I'm not sure how much of this I can take today..." your boyfriend pleaded with you. He had such a busy day behind him, and he just wanted to cum so badly, but he knew that once you made up your mind, you were going to do whatever you wanted.

So you edged him. Again, and again, and again, and then some more. Sonny was starting to turn into a whimpering and crying mess. He was crying so much at this point that he thought he was going insane. That delicious edge was coming so close every time, but you would also deny him every time. He was whimpering, pleading for you to please let him cum. "I'm not sure I can at this point. You look so beautiful when you cry," you said with a devious smirk on your face. All Sonny could reply with was more begging. Begging you to please let him cum. That it would feel so good and that he needed it so much. You knew that you had completely broken him with pleasure at this point, so you decided to give him what he wanted.

"I can't... I can't take this anymore. Please let me cum... Please... I am so close... Pleasepleasepleaseplease-" your boyfriend whimpered and squeaked, and in this moment he just looked so delicious to you. You stopped just long enough to say, "Alright then, cum. Now what do we say when we get something we want?" you said and immediately went back to it, keeping the tip in your mouth and working the base with your hand. "I'm gonna- FUCK. FUCK. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Sonny was pretty much screaming at this point as he released into your mouth, and your hand squeezed tighter to milk him dry of all the cum he had to give you.

All the muscles in Sonny's body relaxed as he fell back onto the couch, his breath so heavy he thought he was going to pass out. You chuckled and moved to sit on his lap, gently taking his head into your hands and running your tongue over his cheeks to lick the tears from them. "Absolutely beautiful," you whispered into his ear, and then you nuzzled your face into his neck. Sonny thought he had died and gone to heaven. The relief that washed over him was so intense. He held you close as he tried to steady his breathing.

Kaelix

Your boyfriend had been following you around the house all day, leaving some heated kisses anywhere he could. He kept whispering in your ears how badly he wanted night to come already so he could shower you in love. It would leave you blushing every time, wondering if he had something special planned for tonight. He kinda did, but he wasn't going to let you in on this little secret yet.

About a week ago, he actually made you cry after he had edged you for like 10 million times. Tears were streaming down your face, so lost to pleasure, but that orgasm being ripped away from you each time made you so frustrated and that much more sensitive. It had looked so absolutely beautiful to him, and it amplified his own pleasure as well, so he was desperate to see you fall apart like this once more.

Night came, and after the two of you had gotten ready for bed, he was quick to push you onto your back and pull you into a needy French kiss. You moaned into his mouth, wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer. "Fuck, baby. I need you so bad. And I want to make you cum so many times you'll lose count. I need to see you cry again," your boyfriend admitted, and finally, it clicked into your mind why your boyfriend had been so needy for you all day. "Now all you've been doing today makes sense. I'm not complaining in the slightest, though," you replied with a giggle as you pulled him in for another kiss.

The two of you got undressed, and your boyfriend put you into a mating press, knowing full well that that was one of your favourite positions ever. He wasted no time getting inside of you, noticing you were impatient and you just wanted to get to it already. When he pushed in in one swift motion, both of you moaned in unison. Your boyfriend started moving his hips, going faster and deeper over time. You held him close, holding on for dear life as he was dicking you down like only he could do. He knew your body so well, and he knew exactly which spots to hit to get you to let out such erotic moans that he savoured every time he heard them.

You wanted to cum so bad, and luckily for you, your boyfriend would love to do nothing more than to see you apart, and he knows just how to do it. He angles his hips downwards, making his dick rub against your clit to get you closer and closer. As you bite his shoulder, you cum hard. But your boyfriend is not done with you. He keeps moving, overstimulating you to hell and back while he attempts to give you another orgasm. Kaelix kisses you in between grunts because, dear god, he wants to cum so bad too. But he was going to hold himself back for now, until he would get you to orgasm #2.

You could feel said orgasm approaching you like a freight train, and your boyfriend could tell with how hard your pussy was sucking him in, never wanting to let go of his cock. He angled his hips downwards once more and got busy leaving a hickey on your neck. After he let go of your neck and gave you such a seductive smirk, you came once more, the bouncer following soon after. You could feel his warm and sticky seed paint your walls white, and you were on cloud nine, trying to come down from your high.

But nope, you weren't allowed to. Your boyfriend, still being firm inside of you, set his own overstimulation aside to give you another mind-blowing orgasm. So that's what he did. Over and over again until you were weeping and whimpering in overstimulation, absolutely lost in pleasure. You wanted it to stop, but at the same time, you didn't. It felt so good, and you were so delirious that you didn't know up from down. All that you knew was him, and only him.

"God, look at you crying for me, baby. You look so incredibly pretty right now, fuck-" your boyfriend said as he leaned forward to lick away your tears, which just kept spilling from your eyes. "Kaelix... I can't do it anymore... I can't... I'm... So exhausted..." you sobbed in between his harsh thrusts. You felt like you were kind of zoning out at this point, the pleasure so overwhelming that you were at the same time getting kind of desensitised to it.

"C'mon, you can give me one more, can't you? Let go just one more time. I need to feel you clamp down on my cock one more time." your boyfriend whined, him being close to tears himself from overstimulation but he would never admit it. But you could tell, you knew him too well after all. A single tear left his eye, and collecting your final strength, one hand reached up to wipe that tear away and lick it from your finger. And this was so incredibly hot to your boyfriend that he released inside of you, close to screaming your name. Feeling him fill you up sent you over the edge as well, letting out such a loud moan that sounded way whinier than you ever wanted it to.

Your boyfriend collapsed next to you and put his head onto your boobs, trying to catch his breath for a solid minute as you did the same. You were both so incredibly spent. You couldn't move a muscle. So, you were just stuck there, swimming in a pool of cum and your own release. You thought it was gross, but you had no strength left to take care of it now. Oh well, there is always tomorrow. Your boyfriend had already fallen asleep, and you followed soon after.