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pitlanepeach · 3 days ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Four

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — So, for reference, this fic is going to be "split-up" into sections of about 10 chapters per "era" of Oscar and Harper's lives. This is the Boarding School era. (YAY CONGRATS ON THE WIN OSCAR)

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They sat cross-legged on the floor of Oscar's bedroom, backs pressed to the bed frame, the pregnancy test box torn open between them like the evidence of a crime. It felt different this time. Heavier. Too real. The plastic wrapper crackled in Harper's shaking hands, slick with sweat.

Oscar kept looking at her, barely blinking. His knees touched hers. His thumb made nervous little circles on his jeans, over and over like if he stopped, something bad might happen. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows — the arms she'd seen tense when he hauled his kart frame or when he wrapped them around her in the middle of the night, after nightmares.

"You sure you wanna do this right now?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"We have to," she said. Her throat was tight. "We need to know how pregnant I am, right?"

He shrugged a bit and then nodded.

She got up and disappeared into the en suite, the test clutched like a weapon. The door clicked shut.

Oscar sat perfectly still.

One minute.

Two.

She came out without looking at him and sat back down slowly. Placed the test between them.

A blinking hourglass stared back.

The room went dead quiet. No words, no breathing, just the faint hum of Oscar’s laptop still open behind them, some paused video of a race breakdown he didn’t care about anymore. They didn’t look at it.

They stared at the test like it was a bomb.

The blinking stopped.

The screen cleared.

Then the words appeared.

Pregnant | 3+ weeks

Harper made a noise — something between a gasp and a laugh and a sob — and sucked in a breath like she’d been drowning.

Oscar just stared. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. That little crease between his brows deepened and didn’t go away.

She spoke first, barely audible. “That’s... okay. So that’s more than a month. Before Christmas.”

He nodded slowly, numb. "Before it snowed, probably. I think that's how it works but...”

She turned her head toward him, her face pale, mouth trembling. “What the hell do we do now? I mean, we — we used protection. Every time. We were so careful.”

But she already knew.

Oscar looked like he’d been punched. He picked up the test with shaking fingers, held it too close, like maybe it would say something different. “Not… shit. No. Not every time.” He swallowed. “That one time. In the woods. When — when it was raining.”

She made a strangled sound and curled in on herself, pulling her knees up and hiding her face. “Oh my god. Oh my god. We’re so stupid. We’re so fucking stupid.”

He set the test down like it might burn him.

And then they just… sat there. Hearts pounding in the quiet. Sam was still down in the common room, watching the football, thankfully. They weren’t gonna be interrupted. Not yet.

Harper finally whispered, so soft he barely heard her. “What do we do now?”

Oscar wiped his palms on his thighs, blinking fast. “I think— I think we have to tell someone. My dad. My mum. Or— I don’t know. Mark? Someone older. Someone who knows what to do. Because I don’t. I have no clue what the hell we’re supposed to do.”

She nodded slowly, but her head kept bobbing like she couldn’t make it stop.

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t either.”

She slumped against him, and he caught her, arms stiff at first like he was scared to touch her. Then he pulled her tighter, and she let herself melt into him, like if she stayed still enough, she could disappear.

“My mum’s going to kill me,” she whispered into his chest. “The only reason she even let me come back to Haileybury was because the school in Switzerland didn’t appreciate my disastrous STEM grades. But now... now she’s definitely going to send me away. Some girls’ home or something. She won’t even look at me. And you—” her voice cracked, “you won’t even see me again.”

Oscar froze — then let out this breathy, shaky half-laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “No. No, she won’t.”

“She might,” she said, voice cracking. “She would. You don’t know her.”

“I won’t let her.” His voice was firm this time. Small but certain. “You’re not gonna be alone in this, okay? I swear.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull away.

And for now, that was enough.

—

They hadn’t planned to tell him first — Mark.

But something about the little meeting room — the scribbled race calendars on the whiteboard, the faint stink of oil and track mud on Oscar’s boots — made it feel like the moment was already happening.

Like they were mid-crash and couldn’t steer out of it.

Mark was talking logistics — camp dates, tuning sessions, Belgium travel — when he paused. His eyes flicked toward Harper, quiet in the corner.

She was usually mouthy. Annoying. Always poking at him with weird questions about tire compounds just to watch him groan.

Now she was silent. Her hands twitched on her pleated school skirt. Her face was way too pale.

Mark’s brow furrowed. “Everything alright, kid?”

Oscar hesitated.

Then Harper said, in this too-small voice, “We need to tell you something.”

Mark blinked.

Oscar turned to face him properly, his spine going straight like that would help, like he could fake being older than fifteen and three-quarters. “Harper’s pregnant.”

The silence hit like a gut punch. Not shock — Mark didn’t do shock — but something worse. Like the air got sucked out of the room and nothing had been put back yet.

Mark leaned back, slowly, eyes jumping between the two of them. “Right.” He rubbed his face, then let his hand fall. “How far along?”

"Three-plus weeks," Harper answered, quoting the test. She still didn't know exactly what that meant. Why couldn't the test just tell her exactly how pregnant she was? It was weird. "We took the test last week. I missed my period over Christmas. And, uh — I guess." She glanced at Oscar. "We don't know what to do." She admitted.

Mark nodded. He didn't yell. He didn't flinch. He just looked... gutted for them.

"Are you alright?" He asked Harper, his tone more serious than either of them had ever heard. "Have you talked to a doctor yet?"

She bit her lip and looked down at her lap with a shrug.

Oscar answered for her. “No. We haven’t talked to a doctor yet. That’s what we do next then, yeah?”

Mark nodded slower this time. “Alright. I won’t sugarcoat it. You’ve both fucked up. Big time. This is a huge deal.”

Harper looked down fast, blinking too hard, eyes glassy.

“I’ll help however I can.” He said, but there was something tense on his face.

Oscar’s voice was small. “We know we've messed up, okay? We know.”

“You’ve got to tell your parents. Both of you. You especially, Oscar. Do you have any idea how pissed they'll be if they find out I've kept this from them?”

Oscar winced.

“We will,” Harper whispered. “Just not today. Not yet. I’m... I’m really scared of telling my mum.”

Mark leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “Okay. Shit. I guess I'm glad that you at-least told me, then.”

Oscar exhaled.

Harper’s leg bounced like it had a motor of its own.

—

Harper ducked into the bathroom, saying something about needing a second.

The office door swung behind her.

Oscar fidgeted with the edge of a packet of race notes, fingers trembling.

Mark hadn’t moved. The silence had turned tight. Awkward.

Then Mark stood. Crossed the room. Closed the door fully with a soft click. When he turned back, his arms were folded and his face was hard.

“Oscar,” he said. Quiet. Sharp. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Oscar looked up slowly. “I obviously wasn’t.”

“No. You weren’t,” Mark said, voice still low but like it had claws now. “You’re fifteen. You’ve got the most important season of your life ahead of you. And meanwhile, you’re—”

“I know—”

“No, you don’t know,” Mark snapped. “You think this won’t affect your career? You think that this is just going to be all fun and dandy? This isn’t a movie, Oscar. This changes everything.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “It doesn’t change the fact that I can win races. That I want to be a world champion.”

“It changes how people see you,” Mark shot back, stepping in. “Sponsors. Teams. The press. You think the Red Bulljunior team is going to like this? You think Ferrari will look at you and not just see a teen dad?”

Oscar’s fists curled in his lap. “So what — I’m supposed to pretend it’s not happening? Tell her to— to get rid of it? Abandon her? Is that what you’re saying?”

Mark’s voice cut through him like a blade. “No. Don’t twist my words. I didn’t say walk away. I didn’t say abandon her. I’m saying wake the hell up. Because you’re not just going to be able to be a kart driver anymore. You’re a fifteen-year-old kid who’s about to be a dad.”

Oscar stared at the floor. His chest felt like it was full of wet concrete.

“I’m not leaving her to deal with this alone,” he said eventually. “I promised her that I'd stick by her, yeah?”

Mark paused, then sighed through his nose. “I know you’re not the kind of kid who'd do that. You’ve got a spine. But having a spine isn’t the same as knowing what you’re about to walk into.”

Oscar’s throat burned. “I love her.”

“I know,” Mark said, softer now. “And that’s why I’m so scared for you.”

Silence fell again.

“I’ll do both,” Oscar said. Quiet but solid. “If she keeps the baby. I’ll be present. And I’ll race. I’ll win.”

Mark just looked at him for a long time, eyes tired. “Then you’d better grow up fast, mate,” he said at last. “Because the second that test turned positive, you stopped being a kid.”

—

They sat on the floor again. Same spot as before — backs against Oscar’s bed frame, knees almost touching — but the silence was heavier now. Denser. Like the space between them was filled with invisible debris.

Outside, the sky was grey and close, clouds sagging low over the school grounds. It felt like the world was holding its breath — pressing down, waiting for them to crack.

Harper had one of Oscar’s karting hoodies on, her fingers buried deep in the sleeves. She stared at the wall like it might give her an answer if she waited long enough.

“So we have to tell one of our parents,” she murmured eventually.

Oscar looked over at her, then nodded. Slow, like the movement itself required effort. “Yeah.”

She didn’t look up. Just pulled her knees tighter to her chest and pressed her forehead to them. “I can’t tell my mum. Not yet.”

He didn’t push. He knew exactly what that meant — not just because of who her mother was, but because of what Harper became around her. Smaller. Quieter. Like she was always bracing for something that hadn’t happened yet. Like she lived half-flinched.

“I don’t even know what I want to do yet,” she whispered. “How can I tell her when I don’t even know what’s happening in my own head?”

Oscar’s voice was soft. “Okay. Fine. We don’t tell her.”

Her head lifted, eyes flicking to his in surprise. “Yeah?”

“I mean, you’ll have to eventually,” he added, a bit cautiously. “But I get it. I know why you don’t want to.”

She blinked slowly. “Right.”

He shrugged, staring down at his hands like they might tell him something. “So... I was thinking maybe I should tell my dad.”

Harper’s brows rose. “Really?”

Oscar nodded. “He’s solid. He won’t freak out. I think he already knows something’s off — I haven’t been calling as much.”

“Are you scared?”

There was a pause. A beat too long.

“Yeah,” he said. Quiet and real.

She reached out and squeezed his hand. Her fingers were cold. “I love you.”

“I know.”

Harper leaned into him, cheek resting against his shoulder. She didn’t say anything else for a moment, just breathed and listened to his heartbeat where her ear met his chest.

“We don’t have to do everything today,” she said eventually. “We only told Mark earlier.”

“No,” Oscar agreed. “I know. But I want to. I think I should.” He paused, then added with more urgency, “We have no idea what we’re doing, Harper. What if something’s wrong and we don’t know it? I don’t even know what kind of — like — appointments we need to make. Or what questions to ask. I tried Google, but it’s all medical and scary and confusing.”

Harper shut her eyes. “You’re right,” she admitted, her voice thread-thin. “You’re right. Okay. Call him. Tell him.”

—

Oscar paced the length of the empty common room, his phone clutched tight in one hand, thumb hovering over the contact that just read Dad.

Harper sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow like it was a shield. She was trying not to watch him too hard, but her eyes kept tracking him. Every step. Every pause.

“I hope he doesn’t get mad,” she said softly. “Just... be honest with him.”

Oscar nodded, jaw tight.

Then he hit call.

It rang twice.

Then — “Hey, mate.”

Oscar froze for half a second. Swallowed. “Hey, Dad. You busy?”

Chris’ voice came through the speaker, a little fuzzy with bad signal. “Bit of admin, nothing urgent. You alright?”

Oscar moved to the window, staring out across the rain-dark courtyard. “Um. Yeah. Kind of.”

A beat.

“You don’t sound alright.”

Oscar let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it cracked on the way out. “No, I’m... I need to tell you something. It’s — it’s a lot.”

There was silence on the line. Not confused. Just quiet. Just waiting.

Oscar inhaled, then forced the words out. “Harper’s pregnant.”

They hung there. Exposed. Like he’d cut something open.

He stared at the window so long that the reflection blurred.

The line stayed quiet.

One second. Two. Three.

Then Chris said, calmly, “I’m assuming the baby is yours?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said.

“Okay.”

Oscar blinked. “That’s it?”

“No. But that’s what I’ve got for now.”

Oscar turned from the window. Harper was sitting up straighter now, the pillow hugged tighter to her chest, chewing the inside of her lip.

Chris spoke again. “Is she alright?”

“She’s... scared. We both are.”

“You sure you’re alright, mate?”

“I think so.” It came out thin. Not very convincing.

There was another pause. Then Chris’ voice came firmer. “Right, then. I’m coming to England.”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll book a flight tonight. Be there in a few days.”

A breath.

“This isn’t something you two need to be sorting out alone. You’re just kids. Bloody teenagers — and this is a hell of a thing for you to be dealing with on your own.”

Oscar closed his eyes. His chest stuttered. “Dad, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” Chris said. “Because I’m your dad. And you’re my son. And because this, Osc, this difficult, rotten-part? This is when it's my job to show up, okay?”

Oscar pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Alright.” His voice broke. “Okay.”

“You make sure you’re looking after that girl, yeah?” Chris added, voice softer now. “I'll tell your mum; try my best to keep her calm, but expect a phone call, alright?”

Oscar turned to look at Harper.

She met his eyes, wide and searching.

“Okay. Thanks, Dad,” Oscar said, voice barely audible.

“I’ll call you when I land.”

The call ended.

Oscar let the phone drop to his side. He stood still, breath uneven.

Harper rose slowly and walked across the room to him.

“Well?” She asked, lip bitten red with anxiety.

“He’s coming,” Oscar said.

She exhaled — and then, for the first time all day, she smiled. Small. Tired. But real.

“Thank god,” she whispered, eyes wet and hands trembling slightly. “Was he mad?”

Oscar pulled her into a hug. “No,” he said into her hair. “Not mad. Just... disappointed.”

She winced. “That’s worse sometimes.”

“I know.”

He tightened his arms around her.

—

Jane lay sprawled on her back across Harper’s bed, legs dangling off the side, face still half-covered by yesterday’s makeup. Somewhere beneath the duvet, her phone buzzed—ignored.

Harper sat curled in her desk chair, knees tucked to her chest, chewing the inside of her cheek.

She’d been quiet too long.

Jane cracked one eye open.

“Okay,” she said slowly, sitting up. “What’s going on? You’ve been suspiciously unfun for the past few days.”

Harper exhaled like her lungs were collapsing. “Promise you won’t freak out?”

Jane narrowed her eyes. “That depends. Is this about a secret sibling? Did someone die? Are you getting expelled?”

Harper stayed silent.

Jane’s face shifted. “Wait. Is this about Oscar?”

A nod.

“Is he okay?”

Another nod.

“You okay?”

A smaller, less convincing nod.

Then Harper looked at her. Eyes too bright. Lips pressed tight.

“You remember the other day? When I freaked out about my period?”

Jane nodded, slowly.

Harper gave a wry smile. “Yeah. Well — I’m pregnant.”

Jane stared. Blinked once. Twice.

Then she said, “No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jane blurted, “What the actual fuck, Harper!”

And just like that, Harper laughed — wet, shaky, half-hysterical — and started crying at the same time.

Jane flew off the bed and dropped to her knees in front of her. “No, no, don’t cry—I didn’t mean it like that, I just—you?! I always thought if someone here got knocked up, it’d be someone named ‘Isobelle’ or ‘Jazmyne’ with a ‘y’.”

Harper choked on another laugh.

Jane grabbed her hands. “You’re like… the good one.”

“I was trying to be.”

Jane groaned, dramatically thudding her forehead against Harper’s knee. “You are literally the boarding school teen pregnancy stereotype. I feel like I’m in a Netflix original series.”

“Shut up,” Harper muttered, smiling through tears.

“I’m serious. You. The broody Aussie boy sneaking into the girls’ dorm. The secret makeout sessions on the astroturf. It was all leading here.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” Jane corrected, standing and wrapping her arms around her from behind. “And I love you. And we’re going to get through this. Even if I have to punch your mum in the face. Because I just know she’s going to be a cunt about it.”

Harper leaned back into her best friend and finally let herself breathe.

“Oscar’s dad—Chris—he knows. He was... I don't know. Calm. He’s flying to England tonight.”

Jane nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

“I don’t want to tell my mum.” She whispered.

Jane kissed the top of her head. “Yeah. We’ll save that one for when we’ve got riot shields and a legal team.”

They stood in the quiet, Harper’s hands finally still.

And even though nothing was fixed, she still had Jane.

—

The next morning, Oscar was waiting outside the girls’ dorm before breakfast. Hands in his blazer pockets, hair still damp like he’d barely slept.

Harper blinked at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m here.”

She didn’t argue. Just fell into step beside him, shoulder brushing his.

—

He walked her to every class.

Even the ones they didn’t share. Even the ones on the far side of campus, through ankle-deep slush and biting wind. He waited outside Chemistry like a silent sentinel, tie askew, eyes down.

“You didn’t have to wait,” she said quietly as they left.

“I wanted to.”

—

At lunch, they sat side by side instead of across from each other. Oscar barely touched his food, but his hand rested on Harper’s knee under the table—steady, warm.

Jane raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Sam joked, “Why are you so clingy today, man?”

Oscar shrugged. “Dunno.”

—

In English, they shared earbuds while working on essays. Some soft indie track played low enough not to distract—just enough to fill the spaces between thoughts.

Harper rested her fingers on his wrist. He let her trace the rope bracelet on his arm without question.

—

Between classes, they didn’t say much.

Oscar carried both their books.

Harper tugged at his blazer sleeve while they waited for the bell.

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t hold hands.

But every part of them seemed magnetised; shoulders brushing, pinkies bumping.

—

After last period, she looked at him and said, “You really don’t have to keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. Following me around.”

He gave a small, crooked smile. “I don’t really know what else I’m supposed to do.”

And that was the truth—neither of them did.

But for now, being near her was the only thing that made sense.

So he walked her to the girls dorms.

Waited until she stepped inside.

And only then did he let himself walk away.

—

Dinner was loud—trays clattering, voices echoing, and the sharp, mysterious scent of the school’s chicken surprise wafting from the kitchens.

Harper sat between Jane and Oscar at their usual spot at the end of the table. Across from them: Matt, Sam, and Alfie, already halfway through their meals, locked in an argument about whether a pigeon could realistically steal a car.

“You guys are morons,” Jane muttered.

“I’m just saying,” Sam insisted, “pigeons in London are jacked. They’ve got gangs. Wing muscles.”

Oscar grinned. “If I see a pigeon with biceps, I’ll give you a heads up to lock your car, yeah?”

Harper smiled faintly. Not fully tuned in, but grateful for the noise. For the normal.

She picked at her food. Not much appetite—just toast earlier, a few crackers at lunch—but now, surrounded by banter and noise, it was easier to eat a little.

Matt was telling a dramatic story about nearly being run over by a golf cart when Alfie leaned across the table and stage-whispered, “Harpy-girl. You’re unusually quiet. Finally realised you're dating the wrong guy?” He wiggled his dark eyebrows at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes and gave him a mighty kick under the table. “Shut up, Alfie.”

Harper played along, if only to wind-up her usual steady-headed boyfriend. “Yeah. You know...it’s been a lot to work through.”

The table cracked up.

“Babe,” Oscar said, frowning at her.

“Well,” she continued, “your hair when you first got here was a choice.”

Jane leaned in. “The mullet was honestly the most traumatic part of the year.”

“It was a phase,” Oscar muttered, grinning.

Harper let herself laugh.

Oscar glanced at her sideways, smile quiet.

Later, after trays were cleared and the boys snuck off to raid the staff kitchen, Harper lingered at the table.

Oscar stayed too, their knees touching under the bench.

She looked at him. “Thanks for today.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I’m always going to show up for you. I swear.”

Her eyes shimmered. But she nodded.

And he didn’t press.

Because sometimes, just sitting in the noise with your person was enough to keep the hard parts quiet.

For now.

—

They were leaving French when they saw him.

At first, Harper didn’t recognise him; tall, neat jacket, hands in his pockets, standing under the old oak near the science block like he didn’t quite belong.

But Oscar stopped cold beside her.

And Harper looked again.

Chris.

Her stomach flipped.

Oscar said nothing. Just started walking toward him, slow and sure, Harper tight beside him.

Chris looked up. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not cold. Just… quiet. His eyes moved between them.

“Hi, Dad,” Oscar said.

Chris gave a small smile. “Hey, mate.”

Harper shifted. Arms folded across her chest. Chris looked at her properly now, and something in his face softened.

She managed a tight, polite, “Hi, Mr. Piastri.”

Chris nodded. Looked at them both again.

Then said, “Right,” and pulled them into a hug.

Oscar was taller now, but Chris still held him like he was eight years old. Harper stood stiff for a moment, stunned—until Chris gently tugged her in too.

And then it was warm. Solid. Real. Arms around both of them. Tight, but not crushing.

No words. Just the kind of silence that grounded you.

Harper’s shoulders dropped. She hadn’t even realised how high they’d been. Her cheek pressed to Chris’s shoulder, and behind his back, she felt Oscar’s fingers brush hers.

Chris finally stepped back.

“You two must be scared shitless."

Oscar gave a crooked, breathy laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Chris nodded once, his eyes crinkling. “Right. Let me call your mum, tell her you're okay and that I'm here. Then we'll find somewhere to talk." He told them, and then wandered a few steps away.

For a second, they stood under the oak, wind tugging at Harper’s hair, the cold nipping at Oscar’s ears.

He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together without looking down. “You okay?” He asked softly.

Harper swallowed. “Not really.”

Oscar nodded like he understood completely. “Me neither.” A beat. Then, still not looking at her, he said, “But we’re going to be okay.”

She glanced sideways. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I think... if we stick together, and we let my dad handle the hard parts...”

Harper let out a breath. Not a laugh, not quite a sigh—something quieter, heavier.

He turned toward her then, gently squeezing her hand. “I don’t know what's supposed to happen now. But I’m not, like, going anywhere. Yeah? I promise.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, and for a second, she looked like she might cry again—but she didn’t. She just nodded.

Then, from a few metres away, Chris called out, “Alright, you two—come on. Let’s get somewhere warm before I freeze my arse off.”

Oscar gave her hand one more squeeze before they let go.

They started walking together across the frost-hardened grass.

NEXT CHAPTER

464 notes · View notes

grotesquevi · 13 hours ago

Note

misc. smut prompt #24 with ellie😝😘

cw # 18+ mdni, academic rivals, fingering, dirty talk, loser sub!ellie, choking. as usual, this comes with a music rec. this is an special celebration as i just reached 1k followers! feel free to look at the prompt list i'll be working with to get some drabbles out and send a max of 2 numbers + a character to my ask if you want to join! wc: 1.8k they will be smaller than this also. i got heavily carried away. what the hell.

“can you stop being a damn pervert for five seconds of your life?” oh man. ellie shouldn't be enjoying this so much. shouldn't be so entertained by the scrunch your nose gives when talking to her, standing tall and ready to punch her in the nose if necessary "i can see you staring at my tits. quit being annoying."

"we are sharing a cig of peace, psycho" she dares to lie for a moment, turning away to light up the stick between her lips for a second, the smoke filling the air as she exhales — "i'm not staring at your tits."

"why did you drag me here anyway?" you inquire already losing your patience "i can barely hear the music and i'm sure jesse wont like the fact we're smoking in his room."

ellie cant help it anyway, when she's blowing the smoke to your face and you sigh pissed. of course you're acting like a prick: she took the #1 spot in most of your classes, become the favorite of the teachers taking away your spot even when you actually sacrifice a lot to have the attention you have only for her to be what? barely moving a finger to say something incredibly intelligent? fucking cunt.

"jesus. i brought you here to offer a deal, one that could benefit you if you listen for once" ellie swears she can see the tension, rigid muscles even when she's giving you the cigarette and you doubt for a second to accept it: is she capable of poison it? yes. but she's far from doing that to you—. "i was thinking of letting you be the first of the class again."

"you what?"

"yeah" to be sincere. ellie williams doesn't give two shits about being the best of the class, it's a title she's not that interested in carrying, and while you smoke, she also knows about the fact she's biased cause you're so pretty it hurts to see the hate on your face every time you look down her way. how you're able to be so actively avoiding her like she has done something awful, something more than just academic reasons. "i don't care about having the best grades. i can be mistaken in a couple of answers on the next tests and you'll be back in the game."

"and what do you want in return?"

"nothing."

"nothing? you can't be serious."

"yes," she thinks about it for a second before her impulses take over, ellie will regret this later after three more beers. "i won't make you sleep with me if that's what you're wondering."

"and why not?"

her breathing hitches on the back of her throat for a second, and she can't tell if you're being serious or if you're just messing with her — "are you asking me why i'm not blackmailing you with sex?"

"no, i'm asking if you want to sleep with me" you rephrase again hitting the jackpot, and as the silence settles in like a heavy blanket, it makes your rival stay silent for a minute or two before you're adding impatient as ever: "answer me. c'mon, i know you're quick to catch up."

"i just want you to stop giving me that look."

"which look?"

"you know. that look you give me every day in uni. when you're avoiding me at all costs. like there's no one you could hate more."

you try to think about an answer that's good enough to fight her accusations, but its impossible as you shut up and instead, smoke from the cigarette she gave you. the organic tobacco she rolled in an small paper in dead silence minutes before.

"i do hate you," you reply sincerely, "you're more intelligent than me. funnier. hotter. every one i've ever talked to fucking loves you, and it makes me hate you even more."

"i'm sorry."

"no i don't think you're sorry, ellie" now you're the one staring at her tits, at the half buttoned-tucked shirt, the necklace that gets lost inside right between a bra-less chest. she's using this black sleek pants and ellie can swear she can feel the holes your eyes make when taking in every part of her body, swallowing her slowly. "all of this outfit- is because you had an important test today?"

she doesn't realize you're that close at first, too late to say anything as she gulps down and nods—. "you mean for the suit? yes. needed a beer after all the stress."

"how did it go?” you’re so quick to reply, to keep the conversation going the way you want to. should be considered a damn talent cause it helps her brain take some time out when ellie’s feeling your hand in her legs, squeezing the flesh ever so slightly that she has to try so hard not to look at the contact there, burning. “bet you got an A since you’re a smart ass.”

"well, if i'm right, then i should be getting an A- while you can have the A+ next friday when it's your turn."

"you really thought about this a lot huh?"

"i did- sorry, are you trying to seduce me?" you seemed to forgot about the cigarette now consuming on the empty glass of water close to jesse's bed, makes ellie think about how she’s not blushing, why she sounds so confident even when you blatantly laugh at her face.

"you know what i hate even more about you?" your-so-long rival is currently lost in the color of your eyes, this damn t-shirt you're wearing that gives her such a nice view of your cleavage when she's fighting hard to keep her eyes focused on your face instead of your chest, have some decency for once — "how you got me all curious about you, without even noticing."

ellie's heart beats loudly in her ear, the sound making everything else fall into silence: you are flirting with her. and she let it happen cause she's amazed when your fingers tightens around her leg, squeezing the skin with a much more noticeable force and making her unsure for a second if thats you making a move, cause she's so into letting you have all of her.

of course it's a fucking move.

your lips are soft against hers, almost unsure if you should be more demanding until ellie's pushing you closer, parting her legs mid-way through the unexpected kiss as a silent invitation, as a way of almost saying she needs you taking more, over direct skin and not the layer of her jeans.

"yeah i am seducing you. i think its working just fine" you finally accepted, looking at her through those eyes she knows already from memory, that smile you always do when things go your way—. "would you finish opening up your legs f'me so i can finger you better?"

what amazes ellie even more than your question, is the blatant way she listens to you and actually do what you ask. when she's parting her legs wide open and her weight rests over the palm of her left hand when leaning backwards, and you seemed pleased as you're unzipping her pants, taking your shirt off cause you're kind enough to give her a nice view, something to ground her and bring the astronaut back to earth.

"is this okay?" she's erratic when nodding, as your hand toys with the waistband of her underwear — "you gonna tell me if it's too much, ells?"

"god, it's more than okay- i'll do anything you want me to," she cant help but choke when saying it, you're making her sweat in her cute suit. "anything at all. you just have to name it."

"good," you reply leaving soft kisses in the crook of her neck, not near enough to be marks, but yes to leave saliva glistening in the skin that slowly burned even hotter. "you just stay where you are and don't move. got you where i want you."

so your fingers graze against her underwear, soaked already it clings into her cunt, molding to your fingers. even from over a barrier of cotton, ellie swears she can feel the warmth of your fingertips go down her folds, pushing the underwear with a couple of digits until she can actually feel the roughness of it rubbing against the sensitive flesh, torturing her, driving her to a madness she craves to feel like a fever.

"oh fuck," ellie moans, her lips part unafraid of making some noises when the music's outside too loud to care, when she already locked the door from when she invited you to smoke a cigarette under the premise of having to talk. her hips rub on slow circles and suddenly she moving against your fingers, staining her black pants with her own arousal, "is this your way of making it up f'me? for making you number one again?"

"mhm," you're too concentrated to use your words when you're making her underwear to the side, cursing under your breath about how her cute outfit does nothing but get in the way, it makes ellie chuckle at your lack of patience even when she's already overwhelmed by your intoxicating touch as she holds you by the arm afraid you'll slip away.

"you've always been the number one" she manages to say when you're rubbing on her clit, when you're touching her as a reward she deserves more than ever — "you know that. you've always been the best."

she's feeding on your ego and it's so damn rewarding, so damn good. makes your skin shiver when ellie's riding your fingers, when the chain on around her neck catches your attention and you're using the jewelry to choke her, have total control and just enough force to wrap the silver around your fist there in your free hand and pull sufficient to make her gasp.

"what else?" you ask, drunk on her words "what else you've been keeping from me? you were salivating for me like this all semester?"

her cheeks finally acquire the most intense shade of red you've ever seen, spreading against her freckles, going down her neck, and you'd like to tease her about her reaction, make fun of her when she's so lame about you, so given to whatever you ask.

and ellie's puzzled at this point cause when she cums all over your hand? you've barely fucked her with a couple of fingers, stretching her cunt patiently as she does nothing more than whine until you came across that nice spot she loves, the very same that makes her body shake in not nearly enough minutes.

is she blushing at the lack of oxygen when you're choking her with the necklace she loves? or is it thanks to the force of the orgasm that got her all flustered and shy?

"did you just cum?" you ask almost not believing it, brows furrowed, still hungry for more "hell williams. get up. we're going again i'm not really done with you."

damn right you're number one, was there ever any doubt?

#𐂯 ₊˚⊹ riv's special 1k .ᐟ #⋮ ⌗ ┆ grotesquevi ᵎᵎ ✮#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie tlou smut #ellie tlou x reader #ellie smut #ellie williams tlou #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie williams fanfic #loser!ellie #sub!ellie #ellie x you

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itneverendshere · 19 hours ago

Note

i love bitchy!pouge!reader x rafe soooo much! idk how to explain it but the way you write them brings me comfort. i was wondering if you could write what their first fight was about after exchanging i love yous? 🥺

fight so dirty, but you love so sweet - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe warnings: 70% angst

Feelings—especially yours—came barbed, similar to the way you’d grown up.

A girl with no patience for sugarcoated anything and Rafe Cameron with all his kooky contradictions had somehow slithered under your skin. Which made it worse, because you remember who he used to be.

You’re sitting on your porch, feet up on the railing, a melting popsicle between your fingers and your phone in the other hand, scrolling with vague boredom until your thumb freezes.

It’s a picture.

Rafe, at that stupid-ass annual Kook charity event he swore he hated but always went to.

The one he invited you to, told you you should come, even though he knew you'd rather set your hair on fire than mingle with sweater-vested trust fund kids drinking out of champagne flutes like it’s water. You had rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather get hit by a golf cart.”

And he’d laughed—understood. No pressure.

But now the photo…Your stomach drops.

It’s Brielle fucking Simmons, all pearls and perfect hair and fake everything. Rafe’s ex, standing close, hand on his arm, claiming him.

Both smiling, harmless fun, right? Wrong. You’re already texting him before you know what you’re saying.

You: lol tell Brielle she looked cute latched to your arm tonight. You two looked like a literal J. Crew ad. So wholesome. ❤️

It takes three minutes for the dots to start typing. Then stop, start again, and then he calls.

You let it ring out.

He calls again.

“Babe—”

“What the fuck was that?”

“What do you mean?”

“The pictures. Your little date.”

“She’s not my date,” He scoffs, “It was a photo. She walked up, I didn’t—what are you doing right now?”

“Wondering how fast I’d get kicked out if I slapped that fake-ass smile off her face.”

“She’s not important.”

“Oh, but she looks pretty important. All over you, dressed like she just walked out of a Lilly Pulitzer wet dream.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being—” You stand up, pacing now. “Wow. Okay. Let’s unpack that, Rafe.”

Rafe exhales hard. “It was a photo. She came up to me—”

“You sure as fuck didn’t stop her.” You’re pacing now, bare feet hitting the porch. “You look real comfortable. Like old times, huh? Bet she knows exactly where to put her hand.”

He groans.

“Can you relax for a second—I wanted you here. You didn’t wanna be here, and I respected that. What was I supposed to do? Push you to come somewhere you’d hate to avoid a two-second interaction with my ex?”

“You could’ve told her to back off. You could’ve told the photographer to fuck off.”

“She means nothing. You know that.”

Your tongue kisses your teeth.

“That’s what every man says right before he ends up dicking someone in a monogrammed bathroom.”

“Are you fucking serious right now? She wasn’t even—fuck.” He sighs harshly. “You’re jealous over nothing.”

You stop dead. “Did you just call me jealous?”

“What do you want me to say? That I should’ve shoved her off me at a charity event, my dad’s hosting in front of thirty people and a news crew to protect your ego?”

Wow, okay, that one hurt.

“My ego? My ego?”

“You’re not trusting me,” he snaps. “I love you, and one picture sends you spiraling like I’m cheating on you in broad daylight.”

There it is.

He realizes it too late.

You inhale sharply, eyes stinging. “Right. Got it.”

“Wait—no, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t do halfway. If you want me, you want me. You don’t let your ex drape herself over you while you're fucking grinning for a photo-op and I’m at home baking stupid brownies for you.”

“You know I want you. I’m not gonna argue with you over one photo,” he grits out.

“Then don’t,” you say flatly.

Click.

You hang up.

You sit back down, popsicle dripping onto your jeans, and feel that sick, familiar feeling settle into your chest. You knew it was only a matter of time before the Kook fantasy ended.

You were just the wrong shape for him.

You toss your phone onto the steps beside you and stare out at the darkness, but all you can see is her. Her glossy hair, her effortless way of fitting into a world you never had a place in.

And he looked like that old Rafe again, the one who looked at you like you were a problem. You feel your chest rip apart, blooming beneath your ribs. You knew this would happen. You fucking knew it. You chew your thumbnail and tell yourself you’re fine.

You told him when things started to get real—when he began looking at you like you were worth more than a secret thrill—that this wasn’t something you knew how to do; you’d never been the girlfriend.

Guys never wanted you like that, not for long. They fucked you, they laughed with you, and they left, never picking you. You’re the girl who wears ripped shorts and tells people to fuck off before they finish their sentence, who drinks out of bottles and picks fights when she’s scared. You’re not polished. You’re not soft.

You’re not someone a guy keeps.

You know the things they used to say about you. Easy. Fun. Drama. A good time, not a long time. You’d hit, but don’t date her. Too much.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that Rafe said I love you, part of you thinks this was borrowed time.

The stars are out, but you’re not looking at them.

You’re still sitting on that rickety porch with your knees hugged to your chest, hoodie swallowed around your fists, and your phone screen dimmed black beside you.

It’s been thirty minutes since you hung up. It feels like years.

Now the anger’s gone. You know what you did, throwing a grenade and watching it blow—on purpose. It’s easier to burn it down yourself than wait for him to walk away. You chew at your thumbnail, heart beating slow and sick in your chest, that ugly lump still pressing up against your throat.

You knew you were being mean, pushing him in the other direction by accusing him of shit he didn’t do.

Better he hates you than pities you.

You drag your hands down your face and groan into the empty air, not knowing how to fix this. You’re not the girl who apologizes first, you don’t know how to come back after you say things you can’t take back.

You’re just starting to get up—arms sore, heart heavier than it was when you sat down—when you hear tires skidding on gravel.

You freeze on the porch step.

Headlights blast through the trees, and then—

SLAM.

Rafe doesn’t try to park right. The truck is half sideways in the grass, one tire up on the edge of the road, he barely remembered to throw it in park before yanking the keys out.

He’s already out.

You don’t say anything while he storms up the path, chest rising and falling, his shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled, and hair messy—he likes to drive with the windows down.

When he gets close enough to see your face—the red eyes, the guilt and fear still holding your expression hostage—he softens.

“You’re not answering me.”

You glance away, shame washing over you.

“Didn’t think there was anything left to say.”

Old habits die hard.

Rafe steps up onto the porch, right into your space. You can smell his cologne, expensive and warm and unmistakably his.

You give him your best sneer. “How very on-brand.”

“Are you serious right now? You blew up my phone, accused me of God knows what, and then ignored me for thirty minutes. I thought maybe something happened—”

“Yeah. Something did.” You stand up, jabbing a finger toward him. “I realized I’m the biggest fucking idiot alive for thinking this was ever gonna work.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You laugh bitterly, trying to fold your arms over your chest, but it’s flimsy armor.

His eyes flick over your face—reading you like a fucking map he already knows by heart.

“Don’t run your mouth and act like none of this means shit.”

“It doesn’t.”

His eyes narrow. “Liar.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Say that shit again.”

You’ve always been good at mean. It’s your mother tongue.

He scoffs, disbelieving.

“God, you’re so fucking nasty when you’re scared.”

Your first instinct isn’t offense or surprise. You could pretend to be wounded. Bat your lashes, gasp like a princess in a soap opera, but that’s not you, you’re not built from satin and sentiment.

You’re made of spunk and fight.

Now it’s your turn: “Say that again.”

He exhales through his nose. “You heard me.”

“Yeah, I did. Wanted to make sure you meant it, Country Club.”

“Stop calling me that. I’m in it with you. Whether you believe it or not. Whether you make it as hard as possible or not. Stop acting like you don’t care when I know you do.”

You scoff, tearing your gaze away.

“Looked real nice standing there with her. She had her hand on your arm, and you let her. You smiled.”

“She walked up,” He throws his hands up, “She put her hand there for two seconds, and the second I stepped away, the fucking photographer was already flashing. I didn’t invite her to drape herself over me like a fucking accessory, alright?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You used to want her to.”

“I used to do a lot of shit that made me want to crawl out of my skin.”

You shake your head, stepping down a stair, praying the distance will dull the hurting. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You know what?” Rafe snaps, stepping after you. “You know what didn’t feel nice? That text. You sent it knowing it would fuck with me.”

“I was being funny.”

“No, you were trying to hurt me first.” His voice sharpens. “Because you saw something that scared you, and instead of calling me, you picked a fight, convinced yourself I’m gonna leave.”

Your silence is confirmation, and he laughs once, exasperated.

“You think I’m gonna run because some Kook Barbie pressed her fucking nails into my arm? Did I look happy?”

You glare at the porch floor, too humiliated to meet his eyes but too stubborn to admit you’re wrong.

“She looked perfect next to you,” You mutter. “And I-I’ve never looked like that.”

Rafe’s whole chest expands on a rough inhale. “Bullshit.”

Your lip twitches. “You don’t have to lie just ‘cause I’m about to cry.”

“I’m not lying.” He steps closer, and now there’s no space between you, “I want you. I’m with you. I love you.”

You remember how his mouth used to curl when you walked into a room. You glance up—and you see none of that. His jaw is flexed, brows drawn, but his eyes are nothing but heartbreak, and it’s you he’s looking at like that. As if you have already been forgiven.

You hate how fast your voice cracks. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

The words hurt him more than the fight did. He moves, hands coming up to frame your face gently, catching your cheeks even as you try to turn away.

His thumbs swipe at the tear tracks, physically hurting him to see them. “I hate that you don’t see it,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do, barely.

His forehead drops to yours, breathing you in, whispering against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m not.”

You swallow. “I don’t believe you.”

“Tough shit, baby.”

Your throat works around a sob that doesn’t quite come. His hands are holding your face like you’re made of glass, but his grip says you’re not going anywhere, even if you try to fight him on it.

So you do. “You’re annoying as fuck.”

He almost smiles. “I know.”

You snort wetly, and it shatters something between you. He’s still close, touching, and you hate how fast you want to fold into it.

You try one last time. “She probably smelled better than me too.”

“I love how you smell.” His eyes roam your face—eyes red, nose pink, hoodie collar pulled up to your chin. “Sunscreen and salt and that stupid coconut lotion.”

Rafe’s smile comes then, unstrained as he kisses you. You gasp into it, and he uses it as an excuse to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, one hand curling around the back of your neck and the other grabbing your hip, pulling you into him.

He pulls back for air, ducking his head to your height one more time, his voice dropping to a rasp.

“I wake up and want you. I get through shit days and want you. I think about my future, and—you’re there. It’s you.”

A single tear slips down your cheek before you can catch it. You hate how fast he’s wiping it away.

“You’re gonna get tired of me.”

“I’m tired without you.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, and Rafe smiles like it’s a fucking miracle.

“You’re gonna leave.”

“I’m here.”

“And if you change your mind?”

“I already made it up.” He kisses your temple, your cheek. “Stop trying to scare me of.”

You sag into him, pressing your lips together, “I’m sorry I was mean.”

He exhales through his nose; you wait for the reminder that you were cruel, but all he does is press another kiss to your shoulder.

“Baby,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Your throat tightens instantly. “Even when I say shit I don’t mean?”

He nods once, serious. “Even then.”

“That’s fucked.” You bite your lip, breath catching. “I didn’t mean it.”

Rafe cuts in, hands cradling your jaw. “I know.”

You bury your face in his chest, fingers fisting in his shirt, hoping it will stop your heart from beating so hard. His hands rub slow circles up and down your back.

“Country Club,” you say, and it’s usually a nickname you usually spit with venom. This time it sounds sweet.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” he says. “We won’t. “

Then, without looking up, you mutter, “I was gonna call you a privileged little trust fund reject with a savior complex and no taste in women.”

He laughs, loud this time, bursting out of him. “There she is.”

The porch is dark and quiet and way too far from anyone who would interrupt, and that might be the only reason you let yourself tip your head back and look at him like that—eyes blown wide.

Rafe mouths at your lips, doing what he’d been waiting all fucking night to earn back, groaning into your mouth, hand sliding up the back of your hoodie, palm pressing against the skin at your spine.

His tongue licks into you again, and your knees damn near buckle. He catches you with one hand wrapped around your thigh, dragging your leg up to hook around his. He pins you back against the porch post with his body, hard already, and not shy about it.

“You always run your mouth,” He makes that annoyed teeth-sucking sound against your neck, breath hot. “Always talking shit.”

You can feel Rafe smirk against your skin when you whimper. His teeth graze that spot beneath your jaw, the one he figured out three nights into fucking you, and he doesn’t let up—kisses, bites, and sucks until you’re pressing your hips forward, forgetting what pride is.

“And now?” He rasps. “Still got something to say?”

You tug at his shirt, breathless.

“Get your hand under my hoodie and maybe I will.”

He laughs and obliges, fingers sliding up over your ribs, under the hem of your bra. He cups one breast in his hand, his thumb brushing your nipple until you’re mewing into his mouth again.

He swallows every sound. Your hands are under his dress shirt now, scratching at the small of his back, hips grinding slowly against his.

“Rafe,” you whisper, need soaked into the syllables.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, his mouth dragging over your jaw, lips warm and wet. "I know."

You tug at his belt, and he doesn’t stop you, only continues to palm your ass and groans when your hand brushes his zipper.

Rafe’s breathing is ragged against your mouth, hands still halfway under your hoodie. You roll your hips against him again.

He groans, head tipping back, needing divine intervention.

Your smirk is pure sin. “Problem, Country Club?”

His fingers dig into your waist. “Yeah, you. You’re the fucking problem.”

You giggle, nipping at his bottom lip just enough to make him twitch. “Oh no. Is the trust fund prince gonna lose his self-control on a porch swing?”

He growls this time and presses his hips forward, cock hard against you and very, very aware of the fact that your leg’s still wrapped around him.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“You already look tempted.”

“I’m serious.” His mouth is on your neck again, trailing hot, open kisses down to your collarbone, voice muffled against your skin. “We’re not fucking on your porch. Your neighbors already hate me.”

“That’s because you park like a psychopath.”

“They’ll hate me more when they see me bending you over the railing.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and his hands grip tighter, feeling that noise down.

“Baby,” he warns, teeth grazing your throat. “We can’t do it out here.”

Your hand slides between you, palming him through his jeans shamelessly. His breath stutters so hard he chokes.

“Oh, my God,” he hisses, grabbing your wrist, eyes wild.

You shrug, all innocence, “You sure you don’t want the neighbors to know how well you fuck me?”

“I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you inside if you don’t stop.”

You flash him a grin. “Promise?”

“Fuck. Fine. Inside. Now.”

You don’t try to hide the smug little giggle as he drags you inside by the hand, he’s a man being marched to war—hard, panting, and completely ruined by you.

If fighting gets him this desperate and needy maybe you'll keep doing it.

You love being his problem.

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trainer-from-unova · 2 days ago

Text

giving birth, giving up

english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ 𝄞

ship: the void x afab!reader (x robert reynolds)

summary: after giving birth to your daughter you are no longer you, but neither is bob. you feel empty, and he is the void.

au: (i wanted this to be ambiguous but) bob and void are a system

c/w: post-partum depression, established relationship, crying, sad, not very graphic smut, implied unsafe vaginal sex, free use, dacryphilia, breeding kink, implied cheating?, soft void, possessive void, void doing void things, third person pov, implied post-canon

a/n: i wanted this one to be more contemplative than anything, also yeah I'm horrible at thinking titles and english isn't my first language (and fun fact: giving birth in spanish is literally "give to light" [dar a luz] which I think it's funny in the context of this drabble)

word count: 649

She was always aware of how her life was going to change after giving birth and how difficult it was going to be to get used to it, but she never imagined it would be so much. Ever since the baby was born she felt empty.

She was no longer her, and therefore Bob was no longer Bob. But with him she didn't have to hide to cry or try to hold back her tears, with him she didn't have to pretend to be interested or make an effort at anything, with him she didn't have to force a smile and relax her irascible tone because they didn't even have to talk if they really didn't have to, and with him she could lie in bed all day.

She was expelling what little liquid she had drunk in days through her eyes, crying as if she was being tortured and not really knowing why. She looked disgusting according to her, but she wasn't in his eyes — eyes that glowed in the dark and watched her cry, curled up with him in bed. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her close to him, suffocating her but comforting her at the same time.

He was so patient with her... He had been for weeks. And now she was finally where he wanted her. Slowly he saw her changing, until she was as dark as he and the room they were in at that moment.

He laid her down and got on top of her. He brought his hands to her cheeks, brushing the back of her neck with his fingers and wanting to feel her tears on his skin. Then he kissed the trails they left behind — he kissed the corners of her eyes, her cheeks and even her chin and then down her neck.

She knew what he intended, and she really didn't care. As long as she didn't have to do anything he could do whatever he wanted with her. Deep down she knew it was wrong, but she tried to console herself thinking that it wasn't technically infidelity. At least he made her feel something, and he also made her feel understood. Besides, she wanted to feel full again.

He helped her undress slowly, as she felt invalid even for that. Her body was heavy, even her soul was heavy. Just lying in bed exhausted her too much, it took too much energy.

He kissed her naked body all the way down to the big, ugly caesarean scar on her lower belly, then wrapped his arms around her like a predator around freshly hunted prey. But this one wasn't going anywhere, she was living dead. He made her feel his weight on her, pinning her down with it too even though she didn't intend to move in the slightest, and against his chest he could feel hers and how slowly her heart was beating.

He was so sweet and gentle with her... even while he was filling the void inside her. So gentle that you couldn't even hear the sound of the bed creaking or banging against the wall, just a sob from her every now and then that made him pick up the pace, even more excited and comforting her in his own way, telling her in her ear how cute her sobs were and how beautiful she looked whenever she cried.

"Just a little longer, it'll end soon..." He whispered in her ear as she clung tightly to him, shaking with each thrust. "You're taking me so well."

Hearing her cry more and more unleashed the beast inside him. And the thought of getting her pregnant again, this time him, and still seeing her depressed like that thanks to hormones and depression during and after the birth excited him too much. That way he could proclaim her as his, completely his once and for all.

a/n (iykyk):

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 3 days ago

Text

"You surely don't believe...you can beat me?"

Bio: Since everyone liked the first one, I made another based on this post.

Lili Rochefort!reader x yandere batfam

The next Iron Fist tournament was being held in Gotham, and you were bouncing up and down with excitement, giggling like a schoolgirl. Of course, you signed up, writing your name on the dotted line with a pink pen. Little did you know your family would be attending, so when it was your turn to fight, you saw them in their fancy suits and dresses. But you wouldn't let them ruin your fun. You strutted down to the ring, flipping your blonde hair to the side and gently wiping it away from your face. Your pink, little, open-finger boxing gloves and stylish pink dress, along with heels—yes, not fighting-proof, but who cares?—were quite a sight. You saw a dude wearing a tiger head, but when they spotted you taking a fighting stance, let's just say they were having a full-on heart attack. I mean, you dressed like a princess, acted like a princess, and enjoyed sweet peppermint tea with cookies. You do not fight!

Bruce is absolutely confused. Why are you in the tournament? He thought you were doing this for attention or were just an announcer, but when you roundhouse kicked a man cold onto the mat, he was in pure shock. His daughter, who used to play with dolls and have tea parties with a teddy bear, is not fighting grown men in a tournament ring. He's sitting at the edge of his chair, watching you dodge every punch and every hit, hoping they don't touch your sweet face. He's terrified but also very impressed. How did you learn to move like that? Is that one of your ballet moves he watched you do when you played the Swan Princess? He's so confused and scared. If you wanted a good fight, the two of you could have brawled, but he would be gentle, of course your still his little girl.

Dick just came back with the drinks and snacks, only to see your last fight on the big screen. Your finishing move—a flip into a kick—was amazing! How did you make gymnastics look so elegant, and ballet look so violent? You're so good, and you're doing all this in heels! He literally dropped his popcorn on Jason, who was sitting in the second row, making him look up at the big screen to see what Dick was gawking at. And that spoiled Bart is a fighter, and a good one at that. You're taking out guys twice your size and beating literal assassins. He did watch you leave the family gym all tired; he thought it was just gym and ballet, not fighting. But he feels some pride seeing you fight. If those losers touch a hair on your head, they're dead.

Tim is analyzing your fighting style and how you're able to put all your weight into one kick. He is intrigued and completely engrossed in the fight, but as he watched you, all you care about is the fight. You don't care for the trophy, award money, or the Mishima company; you just want to fight. He sees it in your crazed smile that you try to hide behind a girlish giggle and little taunts, how you flip your hair after every [action] to hide how giddy you are—a little devil in angel clothes. He is studying you like never before, plus you like the attention.

Duke and Steph are cheering; their names are the only ones in the family actively yelling at the tournament. Their eyes never leave you—each kick, each punch, each dodge. It's like you're a butterfly, so sweet and graceful, but your kicks are as bruising as a bee's. You can't help but blush as you hear them yell your name from the stands. Why do you care now, all of a sudden? You let it slide, but when the big screen switches to them shouting your name, you hide your face behind your blond locks. They're killing your vibe. Cassandra is in pure awe of the way you fight; it's making her wish she were in the ring against you. She never paid you any mind, thinking you were just weaker prey, something she had to protect and take care of from afar. But when she sees you go all out, you're not some pretty house cat; you're a lioness stalking her prey. She must fight you; the two of you must go toe-to-toe as sisters of course, and no one else can be your opponent, obviously.

Damian, don't get me started. His face is full of scowl; sure, he likes the fights, but you should not be there. Remember, you're a Wayne. For God's sake, you're ruining your reputation by being a fighter in some stupid tournament. If you wanted a good fight, he would be a great option, or he could get some of his assassins from Ra's estate to fight you. It's some cry for attention because it's clearly working, but when someone lands a hit on you, giving you a small bloody nose, security has to hold him back while a small dagger is in his hands. No one puts their hand on you, and I repeat, no one!!!

298 notes · View notes

cigarettesuga · 2 days ago

Text

— too good at pretending. (myg)

pairing: idol!fwb!yoongi x producer!fem!reader

genre: smut, slow-burn tension, hidden feelings, late-night studio rendezvous, slice of chaotic intimacy, mutual pining masked as indifference

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), fingering, teasing, rough sex, oral tension, light dom!yoongi, semi-public sex, dirty talk, marking, overstimulation, slightly possessive behavior, soft aftercare if you squint, mutual denial of romantic feelings, mention of work-stress/mental fatigue, they’re both bad at feelings but good at sex

word count: 4,5 k | 13 pages

lu's note: hey there i just wanted to pop up and say that requests are open, i'm on a writing spree and hopefully i'll update more regularly now that i'm almost done with the semester. i'd like to know if you want to see something abt any of the guys... just send a whisper ;)

summary: it’s after midnight in a nearly-empty hybe building, and she’s still buried in deadlines and demos, jaw clenched and hands in her hair — until the only person who knows her chaos in silence shows up, just as worn out and just as emotionally unavailable. but when yoongi finds her in studio 3A, looking like she hasn't slept and biting down on her own frustration, the air shifts. and when he pulls her into his lap and tells her to be quiet if she doesn’t want the whole floor hearing — neither of them is thinking about feelings. only about relief. except everyone knows — even if they don’t say it out loud — they’re already each other's. just too damn stubborn to admit it.

m.list | latest

the building's nearly dead.

just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of someone vacuuming in another hallway. most people had cleared out hours ago — normal people, anyway. the ones with boundaries. sleep schedules. lives.

but not them.

yoongi stretches his neck as he turns the last corner, a paper cup of half-warm coffee in his hand, and there she is.

exactly where he figured she’d be.

her back’s to him, shoulders tense, hands tangled in her hair like she’s trying to physically pull inspiration from her skull. he watches her for a second before saying anything — mostly because it’s kind of fascinating, the way her frustration makes him want to smile. not in a cruel way. more like... fuck, of course it's her. of course she's making herself crazy over something that probably already sounds better than half the shit on the charts right now.

he leans against the doorframe. takes a sip.

“you know you’re not getting paid overtime for this, right?”

she doesn’t jump. just groans without turning around. “don’t start, yoongi. not tonight.”

he chuckles, low and quiet. walks in.

“been trying to reach you.”

his voice is softer now, casual, like this isn’t the third time he’s walked past her empty studio earlier, pretending he wasn’t checking in. “thought maybe you finally ran off to join that noise-pop cult you keep threatening me with.”

“almost did,” she mutters, fingers flying over her keyboard. “but then this demo started sounding like a crime against humanity and i couldn’t leave it like that.”

he settles into the chair beside hers — not close enough to touch, but close enough to be there.

his usual spot.

“play it.”

she hesitates, chewing her lip, and for a second he thinks she’ll argue. but she presses spacebar and leans back, arms crossed.

the track fills the room — unpolished, raw, still bleeding at the edges. but there’s something real in it, something aching and sharp.

and he knows her well enough to hear the exhaustion between the beats.

the trying too hard.

it ends. silence settles.

he nods once. slow.

“doesn’t suck.”

she scoffs. “great. can’t wait to put that on the album review.”

his smirk twitches. “i mean. it doesn’t suck as much as i expected, considering you’re trying to mix in what sounds like a dying printer.”

her mouth drops open in fake offense, and he can’t help it — the corner of his lip lifts again, amused.

this. this is why he came. not because he needed to hear the track. not because he didn’t trust she’d get it done.

but because she looks like a goddamn hurricane when she’s like this, all untamed and brilliant and so deep in her head that it scares him a little.

and he knows the world doesn’t always get the calmer version of her. the one that leans into the quiet. the one that lets herself just be.

but she gives him that version. even when she’s falling apart. especially then.

“take a break,” he says gently, pushing the coffee toward her. “you’re spiraling.”

she looks at the cup, then at him.

and for just a second — just one — her eyes soften.

but then she rolls them. “you’re annoying.”

“you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

he doesn’t say anything to that. just sits there beside her, letting the silence stretch, letting her know she’s not alone — that even when she forgets how to breathe, he remembers. for both of them.

the moment’s quiet.

too quiet for how fast his pulse is moving.

he watches the way her shoulders rise and fall — clipped, uneven — like she’s trying not to fall apart, like holding herself still is the only thing keeping her from unraveling right there in the middle of waveforms and midi tracks. and that shouldn’t do anything to him. he tells himself that every single time.

but fuck, there’s something about seeing her like this — worn down, raw around the edges, still fighting anyway — that guts him more than he’ll ever admit out loud.

he takes a step closer.

then another.

and when he’s close enough to feel the heat of her back through her hoodie, he bends a little, eyes on the crown of her head.

presses his lips there — soft, brief. a barely-there kiss that shouldn’t mean anything but always does.

her hand twitches on the mouse.

he pretends not to notice.

instead, he lets his hands find her arms, slow and easy, fingers tracing lightly from her elbows to her shoulders and back again. not squeezing, not rushing — just being there. reminding her she’s not in this alone, not tonight. maybe not ever, even if neither of them will dare say it.

his mouth finds her hair again, this time to whisper, low and amused, “you keep this up and you’re not getting anywhere with the song.”

her breath stutters — a soft exhale.

and she leans back the tiniest bit, like her body knows something her pride won’t admit.

“maybe,” she says, voice quieter now, “i just need to relax…”

he hums, and it comes out more like a growl than a laugh.

his thumbs drag slow circles into her arms now, a little firmer.

not suggestive — not yet — just intentional.

“yeah?” he murmurs, mouth still ghosting against her hair. “you want help with that?”

there’s a pause. one of those heavy ones, where a whole universe of unsaid things pass between two people who keep pretending they don’t care.

she doesn't say yes.

she doesn't have to.

her body shifts back into him, barely-there contact that might as well be a plea. her eyes stay on the screen, like she’s still pretending this is about the music — like the way her thighs press together slightly isn’t an answer in itself.

he leans closer, lips a whisper away from her ear.

“say the word.”

his voice is lower now. soft, rough, dangerous.

and god, if she says it?

he’ll make her forget what stress even feels like.

her hands on his hips feel deceptively casual — light, teasing — but he feels the tremor beneath her fingertips. the tension riding up her spine even though her voice comes out cool, steady.

"you know i’ll say yes, right?"

he looks down at her, lips quirking into that crooked half-smile — the one that always makes her roll her eyes like she’s not secretly addicted to it.

"yeah," he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the top of her arm. "but consent is sexy. and i’m nothing if not respectful."

her laugh is soft, almost a sigh, but her eyes never leave the screen, like it’s some kind of anchor. or maybe a shield.

he knows how much she hates vulnerability.

knows how much she hides behind work.

but when she leans into him like that — trusting him, choosing him — it undoes something in his chest every single time.

"c’mon," she says, still in that whisper, glancing toward the studio door. "we can’t take too long… we don’t know who’s still on this floor."

and he wants to say, let them fucking hear,

but instead, he lets her guide him — lets her take control the way she always does when she needs to feel like she’s not drowning.

her hand slips into his, fingers cold from hours on the mouse, and he follows as she leads him toward the tiny couch in the corner of the room, worn down from too many late-night naps and occasional power plays like this.

he sits down first, legs open, arms resting on the back of the couch like he’s not already burning for her.

she stands in front of him, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, pupils dark and pulled — and it takes everything in him not to reach for her right away.

but he doesn’t have to.

because she climbs onto his lap with no hesitation, knees bracketing his thighs, arms sliding around his neck like she’s done it a hundred times — like it’s muscle memory now.

and maybe it is.

he exhales, hands settling low on her waist as she leans in, their foreheads brushing for a moment. a charged pause.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely there.

her mouth tilts into a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes — not yet — and then she kisses him.

it starts slow, all lips and warmth and quiet desperation. not rushed. not rough.

like they’re trying to remind each other that even in chaos, this is the one place they always come back to.

his fingers press into her back, her hips roll into his without even meaning to, and the tension between them unravels thread by thread.

her hands are in his hair now, tugging, anchoring herself as their mouths move together in sync — and he swears she tastes like frustration and espresso and whatever scent drives him fucking insane every time she walks past him in a hallway.

somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears the vacuum whir down the hall again. a reminder of where they are. who they aren’t supposed to be.

but it doesn’t matter right now.

not when she’s sighing into his mouth like this.

not when she’s melting into his chest like maybe she’s tired of holding the whole world up by herself.

he kisses her deeper — just once — before pulling back just enough to whisper against her lips,

“five minutes.”

she breathes a laugh, breathy and wrecked.

“we’re gonna need at least ten.”

his fingers curl into the waistband of her sweatpants, slow and deliberate — a quiet warning and a promise all in one. the fabric bunches beneath his grip, and he tugs just enough for her to feel it, to know what’s coming next.

but then —

the vacuum hums closer, louder, just outside the door.

they both freeze.

he leans in, lips brushing her ear now, voice low enough to blend with the rumble in the hall.

“you’ll have to be real quiet if you don’t wanna get caught, pretty girl.”

his voice does that thing to her — that husky drop, the weight of intention threading through every syllable. she shifts against him, hips tilting just slightly like her body’s answering before she can think, and that’s all he needs.

he helps her out of the sweatpants — slow and careful, keeping her steady as she steps out of them one leg at a time. it’s practiced, familiar, intimate in a way that makes the air in the room shift.

and then she’s back in his lap, straddling him again, bare thighs brushing denim, skin against skin with only a whisper of lace in between.

her hoodie’s still on. her converse are still on — something about that is stupidly hot, chaotic and casual like everything about her.

his hands trail up her thighs, thumbs skating along the edge of her underwear, a slow tease that makes her bite her bottom lip.

he leans back just enough to take her in — flushed cheeks, messy hair, mouth slightly parted, and that signature don’t fall for me look in her eyes that he knows is all smoke and mirrors.

“lace, huh?” he murmurs, fingertips brushing just under the hem of her panties. “you really didn’t plan on finishing that demo tonight.”

her nails dig into his shoulders in response — not enough to hurt, just enough to say shut up and keep going.

he grins, letting one hand slip up her hoodie, dragging his palm along warm skin, the curve of her waist.

“we’re on a clock, baby,” he whispers, thumb circling higher now, just barely grazing. “think you can stay quiet for me?”

and yeah, he says it like a challenge.

like he already knows she’s not gonna make it easy.

her breath catches — barely audible but unmistakable — as his thumb draws slow, lazy circles over lace. there’s nothing rushed about him, no urgency in the way he touches her. just quiet control. patience that only makes it worse.

or better.

depending on how you look at it.

she shivers under his hand, biting her lip so hard it might leave a mark, trying to keep it together even though her thighs are already trembling around his.

he smirks against the crook of her jaw, amused and maddeningly calm, as if they aren’t one thin wall away from getting caught, as if she isn’t already this undone and he’s barely even touched her.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers, breath hot against her skin. “and i haven’t even done anything yet.”

then his fingers slip under the lace — slow, deliberate — and she gasps, soft and sharp, her hands grabbing at his shoulders like they’re the only solid thing in the room.

he grins, lips brushing her cheek.

“uh-uh,” he murmurs, nudging his nose along her jaw. “remember what i said.”

she nods, swallowing hard, eyes glassy and unfocused.

and that’s when he guides her hand.

takes her wrist gently and brings it down, pressing her palm over his own hand, over the fingers teasing slow, torturous circles just where she needs them most.

“use my fingers,” he whispers, low and rough. “you know what you like.”

and she does.

her hand trembles as she starts to move — guiding him, hips rocking in quiet desperation. it’s messy, it's intimate, and so fucking real.

he lets her take control, but never lets go — his other hand pressing firm at the base of her spine, grounding her, holding her there, reminding her that she’s safe, she’s seen, she’s his — even if they’ll never say it.

every breath she exhales into his neck sounds like a confession.

every roll of her hips says i need you louder than words ever could.

and yoongi, voice barely audible, lips pressed to the shell of her ear, breathes out the one thing he knows will wreck her:

“that’s it, pretty girl. just like that.”

his breath is hot against her skin — ragged now, catching with every sound she makes, every tiny gasp she tries to swallow back like it’s not unraveling him completely.

his fingers move slower, deeper. stretching her gently, curling just enough to make her spine arch into him. he knows her body by now — every twitch, every soft curse under her breath, every time she presses her mouth to his shoulder to keep from moaning too loud.

she’s trying to be good. to be quiet.

and he’s not making it easy.

“so fuckin’ wet for me already,” he murmurs into her ear, voice low and dark and laced with a smile she can feel. “this what you needed, huh? not a break. just my fingers inside you while the whole building’s still awake.”

his lips trail down her neck, open-mouthed kisses that go from soft to claiming real quick — he sucks just under her jaw, enough pressure to leave a mark that won’t fade by morning. something she’ll complain about later with a smirk, trying to act like she’s mad, like she doesn’t love it.

she whimpers — the sound small and stifled, but there — and his teeth graze her skin right after.

“shh…” he soothes, lips brushing the red bloom he just left behind. “you’re doing so good, baby. so fuckin’ pretty like this, falling apart on my lap, hoodie on, shoes still on — god, you’re such a mess for me.”

his fingers stretch deeper now, his rhythm steady but ruthless — working her open while his free hand tightens on her hip, pulling her flush against him, letting her feel just how hard he is under her.

“you feel that?” he breathes out, grinding her down a little. “feel what you do to me?”

she nods, desperate, mouth parted and gasping — but he doesn’t stop.

he can’t.

not when she’s trembling like this, thighs twitching, hands clawing at his shoulders, his name falling off her lips in broken whispers she probably doesn’t even realize she’s saying.

not when she’s losing herself and still trying to hold it together, still trying to not moan loud enough to echo down the hall.

he kisses her collarbone, trailing down with slow reverence before whispering against her skin — filth laced in affection:

“come for me, pretty girl. be quiet if you can… but fuck, don’t hold back on my account.”

she’s trembling in his lap now — her entire body shivering with the aftermath of it, hips stuttering as she rides it out against his hand, making a mess all over his fingers, on his jeans, like she’s got nothing left to give.

but the way she’s gasping his name, barely even trying to be quiet anymore, the way her hands are still gripping his shirt like she’s starving — that’s when he knows.

she’s not done.

not even close.

"yoongi," she breathes, voice wrecked, pleading, pulling at his shirt now like she’ll unravel if he doesn’t do something now.

he kisses her jaw, quick, and helps her up without a word, hands strong and steady under her thighs as she finds her footing again, legs shaky, lips kiss-bitten and slightly parted.

“c’mon,” he says, voice low, firm, laced with need so thick it’s almost a growl. he turns her gently, guides her to lean over the back of the couch, her knees sinking into the worn cushions — and fuck, the sight of her like that?

it nearly undoes him.

she pulls off the hoodie in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind her, hair falling wild and messy down her back. the black lace underwear’s still clinging to her thighs, barely pushed down, an afterthought now — and something about it makes his brain short-circuit.

he stands behind her, hands trailing down her spine, over the soft slope of her hips.

he could tease. he wants to tease.

but not now.

not when she’s already shaking for him, not when she’s arching her back just right, looking over her shoulder with that desperate, wrecked little expression that makes his cock twitch against his zipper.

he leans in, one hand sliding up her back, pressing down between her shoulder blades.

“you want it like this?” he whispers against her ear, hot and low.

she nods, frantic.

he barely tugs the underwear any further, just enough to expose her, to have her. he likes the way it looks bunched on her thighs, messy and rushed, like they never really had the patience to undress properly.

like they never do.

then he undoes his belt, the quiet clink loud in the stillness of the studio.

and just before he sinks into her, he leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of her spine, and mutters — low and reverent — like she’s the only thing he believes in,

“let me take care of you.”

his hands are rough now, no more of that slow build-up — it’s fast, all heat and urgency, all of it fueled by the risk, by how easy it would be for someone to walk by and hear the unmistakable sounds slipping out from under the door.

his fingers dig into the swell of her ass, spreading her open, thumbs pressing into skin like he owns it. he squeezes, slaps once — quick and sharp — just to watch her jolt forward on instinct, breath catching as she reaches for something to bite down on.

she grabs the old throw blanket folded lazily on the armrest — some gifted merch no one ever uses — and she sinks her teeth into it, moaning into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping her from getting caught.

yoongi’s head falls back for a second at the sight of her like this — needy and wrecked and his, half-naked with her shoes still on, knees digging into a couch they’ve both crashed on too many times.

and he’s fast now. fucking into her like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, low groans escaping his throat every time she clenches around him, every time her hips grind back like she’s just as desperate.

“look at you,” he pants, leaning in close, chest to her back. his hand tangles in her hair, not too hard, just enough to pull her head back so he can get to her ear, mouth brushing the shell of it. “biting that blanket like you don’t want the whole damn building to know how good i’m fucking you.”

she moans louder at that — muffled but loud — like the filth in his voice is winding her tighter.

“so fuckin’ needy,” he whispers, hips snapping into her, rhythm relentless. “you were practically begging for it, weren’t you? making a mess all over my hand, whining in my lap like a pretty little slut…”

he kisses the corner of her jaw, slow and messy.

"you think they’d still respect you if they saw you like this? bent over, drooling into a blanket while i fuck you stupid?"

her whole body shudders at that — hips twitching, back arching — and he grins, breathless.

“didn’t think so,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke. “now be good, baby. stay quiet, take it all — and don’t you dare cum until i say so.”

yoongi swears under his breath, voice low and ragged, eyes locked on the slick, messy glide of her body swallowing him whole — over and over again. the mess she’s making of him, of herself, of the damn couch cushions. it’s obscene. it’s art.

he can’t look away.

the way her thighs tremble.

the slick sounds echoing in the tiny studio.

the blanket still caught between her teeth, now damp with spit and moans she’s too scared to let out.

it’s almost too much — almost.

he slows suddenly, pulls out with a slow drag that makes her gasp and arch back instinctively, trying to chase the friction.

but he’s already palming himself, thick and flushed and dripping — dragging the head of his cock right against her swollen clit.

“yoongi—” she breathes, voice high and strung out, hips bucking back, needing more — needing anything.

he grins, lazily, running himself along her, smearing her wetness in tight little circles. messy, filthy pressure, just enough to make her legs shake.

“fuck, look at this,” he groans, thumbing her open again just to see the way she twitches. “you’re so wet for me, pretty girl. making a goddamn mess all over my cock, and i haven’t even finished with you yet.”

he pushes in just the tip — enough to make her cry out into the blanket — and pulls back again to rub slow circles against her clit, dragging the head across her like he’s trying to brand her with it.

“you like that?” he murmurs, watching her hips try to press back into him. “like how it feels when i tease you like this? you want more?”

she nods desperately, a muffled please slipping out around the fabric in her mouth, and it’s so sweet, so fucking perfect, it makes his grip on her hair tighten just a little.

“you’re gonna lose your mind if i don’t give it to you, huh?” he growls, circling her clit again, wet and hot and just enough to make her shake. “but i like watching you fall apart like this. so messy, so loud without even saying a word.”

he leans in close again, lips ghosting over her ear, voice lower than before — dangerous.

“keep that blanket right there, baby. ‘cause when i finally fuck you again… you’re gonna need something to scream into.”

he can feel it building — low in his spine, thick in his blood, the kind of tension that’s impossible to slow down once it starts burning through his veins. she’s soaked, her thighs trembling against his, back arching every time he drags himself over that perfect spot, and he’s dangerously close to losing it.

he pulls her up gently, not because he wants to be sweet — though he is, in his own way — but because he needs a better angle. needs to see her face, her wrecked little expressions. needs to feel her falling apart with him.

“come here,” he mutters, helping her shift, guiding her down onto her side, her legs curling slightly as he lays behind her. he hooks one arm under her knee, holding it up to keep her open, the other snaking around her waist to pull her flush against him.

and then he’s back inside her — deeper like this, slower for a second, but heavier, more intense.

“fuck, baby,” he grits, mouth pressed to the back of her neck, teeth grazing skin. “you’re so tight like this… you were made for this.”

she lets out a breathy, muffled moan — lips parted, eyes fluttering — and it’s so much, the intimacy, the sweat, the quiet gasps between them. the danger of getting caught still sharp in the background, echoing with every thrust.

he’s close — too close — and when she reaches behind her, fingers barely brushing his hip like she’s trying to pull him even deeper, that’s what does it.

“shit—” he groans, deep and rough, burying his face in her shoulder as he pulls out quickly, hand wrapping around himself.

in just a few rough strokes, he’s coming hard — hot and messy, thick spurts landing right across the black lace of her underwear still tangled around her thighs. he pants against her, forehead pressed to her back, hand steadying himself against her hip as the tremors run through him.

“fuck,” he whispers, breathless. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

they’re still tangled like that — her on her side, flushed and slick, his cum cooling on her thighs and lace — when a knock slices through the air.

sharp.

loud.

too real.

they both freeze.

she shoots him a wide-eyed look over her shoulder, and yoongi curses under his breath as he scrambles for her hoodie, tossing it over her bare chest while trying to zip himself up with one hand.

“(y/n)-ssi?” a voice calls politely from the hallway. a young male staffer, probably an intern. “i was told to remind you about the morning meeting. they asked if you could check your email before you leave.”

yoongi presses a finger to his lips, mouthing don’t laugh when she lets out a wheeze and nearly chokes on it, face buried in the blanket again.

“thanks!” she croaks out after a second, voice not nearly as steady as she wants it to be. “i’ll check in a bit!”

silence. footsteps retreat. door remains mercifully shut.

yoongi leans down, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, voice smug and low and just as wrecked as she is.

“you owe me a new pair of jeans,” he murmurs.

“and maybe a warning next time you decide to look that fuckable in sweatpants.”

-quietly always, cigarettesuga.

199 notes · View notes

alotofpockets · 2 days ago

Text

What friends are for | Kyra Cooney-Cross x Reader

5k celebration prompt: "That's what friends are for, right?" - "Right, because you're definitely not more than friends."

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.2k

-----

When Kyra joined Arsenal, the two of you instantly became friends. While she had found comfort with her fellow Aussies, she gravitated towards you. Her second week at the club? You already labelled yourselves as best friends.

Steph and Caitlin were happy to see Kyra make a new friend. They loved her of course, but she could be a little pest, and they were grateful that her energy would be divided between more people than just the two of them.

It didn’t take long before they started questioning if the two of you weren’t more than friends though. The two of you seemed to be glued to each other’s sides. From pitch walk partners, to always linking up for drills, to being over at each other’s places all the time. Yet whenever they asked, Kyra always told them you’re just friends.

Movie nights had become your favourite thing to do with Kyra. It had become a tradition for the two of you to have at least one movie night a week. Movie nights always included a sleepover, so today’s one did as well.

Kyra opened her door and smiled when she saw you standing on her doorstep, your kit bag slung over your shoulder. “Come on! I am so excited about this movie.” She said as she pulled you into her apartment. You put down your kit bag next to the door and kick your shoes off. “You picked without me?”

She looks at you dead serious, “Yes, you picked without me last time, so now it’s my turn.” You knew picking last time was going to come back to bite you in the ass, but it was movie night, so you’d have fun no matter what. “Alright Kyky, what movie did you pick?”

“Home Alone!” She yells from the kitchen, where the microwave had just dinged to let her know the popcorn was done. “Home Alone? It’s May, why are we watching a Christmas movie?”

Kyra walked back into the living room, “I love Home Alone, and so do you, so no complaining.” You playfully rolled your eyes and sat down on the sofa. Kyra sat down beside you and handed you the popcorn, “See, I knew you would give in.”

You shove her lightly, before cuddling into her side. It was by your own definition the most comfortable way to watch a movie. Together you watched, laughed, and ate your popcorn. And once the movie was over, you made your way over to Kyra’s bedroom. She had a one bedroom apartment, as did you, so you had always shared the bed.

The next morning, you woke up cuddled into Kyra's side. It wasn't unusual, this is how you woke up most sleepovers with Kyra. You got up to get a headstart on breakfast while you let Kyra sleep a little longer.

“You're too good for me.” Kyra states as she follows the smell of her favourite pre-training breakfast. You smile at her groggy morning voice, “I try.”

Kyra drove the both of you to training. Once she parked the car you jumped out, since you had a session with the physio in five minutes that you had almost forgotten about. In your haste you quickly run past Steph, who had just gotten out of her car. She watches you with an amused smile on her face, and then turns to Kyra.

“Finally got the missus to move in, and now you’ve scared her off?” Kyra rolls her eyes. “I think she actually enjoyed herself quite well. She even made me breakfast.” Steph looked at her with eyes of disbelief, how could she not see it. “What? That’s what friends are for, right?” She asked when she noticed the look Steph gave her. “Right, because you’re definitely not more than friends.” The older Aussie told her while rolling her eyes, before walking off, leaving Kyra to trail behind her.

You had made it just in time for your physio appointment, and with some tape applied to your knee, you were free to join the rest of the girls for training. The day started with some warm-up exercises before working on the rest of the planned training session.

To finish the session off, you were playing a little 5v5. Everyone on the team always got super competitive while playing 5v5, even if it was just to be named winners of today’s session.

Apparently you and Katie got a little too competitive, because when you were jumping up to head the ball, Katie’s head collided with yours. The two of you fell to the ground, each clutching your heads.

The medical team was quickly by your sides, but Kyra was quicker. She hadn’t even been on either of the teams, she was just sitting on the sidelines, yet she had gotten up and sprinted across the field to get to you as fast as she could. She crouched down by your side, quickly getting some of the grass off your face. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” The medical team pushed her to the side. “Kyra, you need to give us some space.”

She stood to the side watching them do checks on you, but then to her side she saw Katie already standing up, fully cleared by the medics that were checking out, and something within her snapped.

“Look what you did!” She snapped, lunging towards Katie. Luckily Caitlin caught on to Kyra quicker than she could do anything and stepped in between her and Katie. Before either Caitlin or Katie can say something, you speak up. “Kyky, don’t.” It was all you had to say for Kyra to fully stop, making it so that Caitlin didn’t have to hold her back anymore.

Katie chuckled at how easily you were able to stop her from her anger. “Ha, your wife said you're not allowed to hit me.” Caitlin quickly stepped forwards again and sent her girlfriend a disappointed look. Katie held up her hands in surrender. “It’s not my fault she’s whipped.” She said under her breath as she stepped back.

Kyra kept her eyes on Katie, the girl who hurt you. Her eyes were filled with anger. “She’s up.” Caitlin said to Kyra, and she quickly focussed back on you instead. “Are you alright?” You nod, “Yeah I’ll be fine. Maybe a bit of a black eye.” You could see Kyra’s eyes turn angry again, so you put your hand on her arm. “Breathe, Kyky, I’m okay. Katie did nothing wrong.”

She let her eyes focus back on you, to double check if you were really okay. Then she nodded slowly. “Can you maybe get me an icepack?” Kyra smiled, “Yes, of course. One icepack, coming right up.” She didn’t have to run, but she did.

While she is occupied doing that, you head over to Katie. “Sorry about her. Are you alright?” Katie’s smirk grows, “Even speaking for her like you’re married I see.” You roll your eyes. “Grow up.” You say jokingly. “Fine fine, I’m good. Seems like you got the worst of it, you’ll be okay?” You nod, “Yeah, I should be good. I think I’ll have myself a nurse 24/7 for a bit though.” You say as you watch Kyra sprint back with an icepack. “Lucky you.” Katie says as she pats your back as she watches your eyes shine just a little brighter as you watch Kyra nearing.

-----

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#pockets 5k celebration #kyra cooney cross #kyra cooney cross x reader #kyra cooney cross imagine #matildas x reader #arsenal wfc x reader #arsenal women x reader #awfc x reader #auswnt x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #arsenal wfc #arsenal women #awfc #matildas #auswnt #woso

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pearynice · 12 hours ago

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Art by @firefly-party

It's not that Steve doesn't want to be here.

He does.

After everything, after the mindflayer and Vecna and then Vecna again, Steve has learned how to be grateful. He's learned to love what remains. He's learned to be thankful for air that doesn't smell like ash and a sun that shines bright and warm over their heads. He's learned to never take for granted the ability to see the people he loves.

And he does love them. He loves them enough that he was willing to die for them. He loves them enough that he still would.

It just hurts to be around them sometimes.

Dustin still walks with a limp. His gait is crooked when he runs and despite assurances that he thinks it's metal, Steve knows it bothers him. That whatever athleticism Dustin had previously possessed has only been dampened by the injury to his leg, and the guilt of that has buried itself like an insect in Steve's chest.

That insect wriggles when Robin takes his hand, the deep scar on her palm brushing against him. It beats its wings when Max reaches for her cane or when she blinks at him through her thick glasses. It digs its legs into his ribs when Nancy or Jon or the kids wince or flinch at their lingering pain or their scars that pull or their joints that pop and creak. It chews straight into the center of him, though, when none of that comes at all.

Because the worst is the gap that's left at Steve's side. The worst is the silence that now rests where dimpled smiles and bright laughs and loving words used to fill, a piece of himself lost that he doesn't think he'll ever get back; a part of himself given away that Steve hopes Eddie's still able to hold close, wherever he is, whatever happens after you die. It would make this pain worth it: knowing that piece of himself isn't missing, that Eddie's still just holding onto it. The way Steve wants him to.

The gap is so much wider when he knows he's somewhere Eddie would've loved to be. Because he would've loved to be here now. He would've loved to put on a record that Max's mom would've begged him to turn down. He would've loved to show Lucas the right way to shuffle cards, so it makes that fluttering noise when they all fall together. He would've loved to show them how to play euchre and poker and rummy. He would've loved to play it so he and Steve held the same hand, he would've told them that he and Steve are on the same team, he would've played it as an excuse to dip into Steve's space, to lean in so their fingers could brush, and it would've taken all of Steve not to kiss him for it.

It's not fair that it was them. It's not fair that it was them and now and the only thing they got from it was NDAs and a grave with no body underneath. It's not fair that Steve is here and whole while Eddie isn't.

He tries not to think about it like that, though. Robin gets mad at him when he does.

Steve trails after them, Dustin running funny all the way to his passenger side door, no match for Robin's hip check when she meets him there, sending him stumbling.

Dustin barks something at her, and Steve's gaze lingers, as it always does, on the trailer across the street.

In the year since it split and burned no one's come to clear it away. There's still tattered, yellow caution tape fluttering in the weak breeze and Steve has to swallow the lump in his throat as he walks down Max's front steps.

And then something moves.

It's subtle. He wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't already looking, but Steve sees the movement of the weeds and hears the rustling of the high grass and he stops dead with his keys still in his hands.

It's a cat. Or a raccoon. An opossum, maybe, but that alarm system in the back of his mind is ringing, and he ignores Robin's question of his name as he takes another several steps forward.

More rustling, and it's so hard to see in the dark but it's bigger than a cat. A dog, maybe, but even as the thought comes to him he dismisses it. It doesn't move like a dog. It moves like--like--

It leaps.

With a speed Steve isn't expecting black claws cut through the air, closing the distance between them and just barely missing his chest. Steve stumbles as it swipes, displaced air whooshing across his front as he regains his footing, the dark mass of the thing already retreating.

"Steve!"

"Stay back!" He orders, his arms spread wide like that would do anything to deter Dustin from charging forward.

The figure retreats further, its movements slower, like the swipe had cost it. It stays crouched within the faint glow of Max's front light, and as Steve blinks him into focus, he freezes in disbelief.

Golden, glowing eyes sparkle back at him. Long dark hair hangs in matted clumps around his face, the peaks of two inhuman ears just visible through the tangle of it. Blood, a crimson so dark it barely catches the light runs down the side of his achingly familiar face.

Steve's heart pounds. His head feels fuzzy as his breath goes wonky, and he barely manages to breathe out Eddie's name through lungs that can't quite expand right.

He has the same face, despite the eyes. The same nose. The same strong jaw and arched eyebrows and Steve's whole chest feels like it's not getting enough air as Eddie's eyes flick down to Steve's hands and back up.

"Steve," Robin murmurs, behind him, closer now, "that's not Eddie."

"Eddie?!" Dustin's voice, loud for the quiet of the night, cracks the stillness.

Eddie winces, his ear twitching, and Steve realizes with a wave of concern: that's where the blood is coming from. The tattered flesh of his ear twitches again, sending droplets of scarlet flying through the air.

"Quiet!" Steve hisses, as loud as he dares as he inches forward, blood now flowing more freely down Eddie's face.

"Steve," Robin begs, but even as she does she doesn't move to grab him, and Steve falls forward, onto his knees, desperation taking hold.

"Eddie?" He asks again, his voice cracking. Tears are pricking at his eyes and his nose is starting to burn because this is Eddie--

Behind him, the radio crackles. "Code red!" Dustin hisses, his whisper somehow just as loud, "we need manpower--"

But at the first crackle of the radio--Eddie convulses.

His eyes, golden and bottomless, roll until the white of his flesh appears, dark red veins stretching across the bottoms of his eyes, his back arching as he collapses backwards, his arms and legs spasming as his left ear, torn and bloodied, writhes.

"Eddie?!"

Steve can't help himself. His fear has his voice rising, pitchy and desperate, and he scrambles on his hands and knees so he's by Eddie's side, so he can hold Eddie's face in his hands and try to ease what he can't see.

There's a deep scar on Eddie's cheek. It's jagged and red like it never got the attention it deserved and his mouth is open in a silent scream that bares his unnaturally long canines. They glint in the weak light of the porch, red-tinted with blood. Eddie's hair is a matted mass, thick with gunk and debris, but, most worryingly of all, he's burning up.

Infection. Sepsis. Steve's been spending too much time with Robin because that's all that runs through his head as Eddie's blood coats his hands. Eddie needs antibiotics. He needs stitches and bandages and a hospital and panic claws at Steve's throat as he realizes that's the last place he can take him.

Because Eddie Munson is dead. Because Eddie Munson is a murderer and this Eddie Munson, in front of him, alive, is--

"--over," Dustin finishes.

Eddie collapses. His chest heaves as he goes limp in Steve's hands, his breath coming in horrible wet gasps, uneven and rattling.

Those golden eyes blink slowly up at him, Eddie's torn and bloodied ear giving one last twitch.

"Eddie," Steve repeats, low and pleading. He runs his thumbs over Eddie's cheekbones, curls his fingers into his tangled mess of hair.

But there's no hint of recognition in Eddie's gaze. He bares his teeth, fresh rivulets of blood now caked into the cracks between them, but his arms stay limp at his sides. He hisses, but it's weak, and foamy blood pools at the corners of his mouth.

The radio, behind them, crackles, and Eddie seizes.

Steve doesn't know what else to call it. His jaw clenches under Steve's palms as his back arches off the ground, his claw-like nails piercing into the grass below as blood flows from his shredded ear.

"Turn it off!" Steve tears his gaze from Eddie, to Dustin and Robin behind him, to Dustin speaking into the walkie talkie, to his thumb on the transmitter. Eddie spasms in his hands and Steve feels it against his palms as warm blood begins to trickle from his mouth.

"Dustin!" He pleads, "turn it off!"

Finally, Dustin does, and Eddie, mercifully, goes limp again.

Steve curls over him, cupping his pale face as Eddie's head lolls, his jaw slack like he's about to pass out.

Steve doesn't realize he's crying until the first tear lands on Eddie's cheek. It makes the line of blood there bloom, and Steve pulls Eddie closer, so his head pillowed on Steve's lap.

"Eddie," he pleads, "Eddie, baby--"

But Eddie's eyes are already rolling back, his consciousness slipping as Steve holds him.

"Robin!" He doesn't recognize his own voice, high and cracking and desperate. "Robin, help me!" But even as he pleads Eddie's head falls, the color drained from his pale cheeks.

Steve holds him tighter. He cradles Eddie's face in his hand and supports him with the other, blood staining his shirt.

Steve doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything because Eddie is here. He's alive. He's different and bloodied but even as Robin lands next to him, even as she tells him this looks really bad, Steve, Steve breathes his first full breath since 1986.

Eddie

Static rings, shredding, agonizing.

He can no longer see the boy. Cannot hear the man. Cannot feel the earth below him.

The static fills his blood. Rives through his chest. Contorts his lungs.

Breath escapes him. He tries to move. To cover his ears.

But he cannot feel anything. There is nothing beneath him. Nothing above.

He tries to scream. He can't feel his tongue.

It lasts for hours. Days. Seconds.

Until it evaporates.

He gasps.

His lungs stretch. His heart pounds.

He's lying on the ground.

In the new silence, his ears ring. His eyes water. Spots dot his vision. Blackness creeps along the edges.

The man is above him. He holds him in his lap, his hand on his face.

He tries to bare his teeth, to get away, but his legs are numb. His arms have lost feeling.

He wants home.

Prologue and Chapter 1 are now on AO3 here.

Once again, all of the art credit goes to @firefly-party, who is endlessly talented and consistently amazing. My only contribution is the words 🥰

All of my thanks to @hbyrde36 for her beta work 💗💗💗

Divider credit to @hitlikehammers

Folks who requested to be tagged: @sidekick-hero @thedragonsaunt @estrellami-1 @tinytalkingtina @queenie-ofthe-void

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #leigh writes #stranger things #established steddie #kas!eddie #steve x eddie #fruitbat!eddie

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cameronsbabydoll · 3 days ago

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hear me out.. pope x creepy!reader..? not like weird psychopath behavior but reader who just has creepy looking features that runs everyone the wrong way ☹️ creepy!reader who just doesn't understand why everyone but Pope is terrified to be near her cause she's literally a sweetheart?? creepy!reader whos confused when JJ pushes her head away when she looks at him for like 5 seconds 🫩 (she has a staring problem and has been staring for 3 minutes alr..

creepy!reader with pope heyward ft: jj maybank

warnings: unsettling behavior, mentions of death / dead animals, light horror imagery

a/n: hopefully this is somewhat good!

creepy!reader who moves too quietly, always just… there. like someone turns around and she’s standing two feet behind them with wide, unblinking eyes and a soft little “hi.”

creepy!reader who loves little creatures—like worms and dead bees and frogs—and keeps dried flowers and bones in jars, but not in a serial killer way. in a whimsical, overly-attached-to-dead-things way.

she’s not trying to freak anyone out, but her vibe is so offbeat that people assume she’s trying to curse them.

jj: “she’s literally hexing me, pope. she hasn’t blinked in 4 minutes.”

creepy!reader, blinking slowly: “you have pretty eyes.”

jj: screaming internally.

she definitely has a staring problem. not because she’s a menace, just because she forgets it’s weird. she’s not even thinking anything threatening. her brain is all soft thoughts like i wonder if jj’s hair is that soft in real life or if it’s just the sunlight and pope’s hands look like they’d feel nice if i held them.

except she says it exactly like that. with zero awareness that it sounds deranged.

everyone: visibly unsettled

pope: confused why no one else sees how kind she is

and he starts to notice things. like how she always gives people her extra snacks even though they avoid her, or how she hums when she’s nervous and tries to fix her posture when people seem scared. she doesn’t want to be creepy. she just doesn’t know how to be not weird.

creepy!reader: quietly holding a pigeon skull she found on the beach “do you want this?”

pope: smiles “yeah. thanks.”

creepy!reader: blinks “you’re the only one who ever says yes.”

and you know she’d be insanely loyal. pope helps her one time, and now she’s following him around like a haunted little duckling. doesn’t speak much, but if anyone messes with him she’s there. glaring. like some kind of unsettling shadow.

pope gets used to it. gets fond of it, even.

the others are still like “bro why is she watching us sleep” and pope’s like “she’s making sure the demons don’t get us.”

and honestly? she probably is.

#anons ♡⸝⸝#creepy!reader #pope heyward #pope heyward x y/n #pope heyward x you #pope heyward fluff #pope heyward angst #pope heyward smut #pope heyward fic #jj maybank

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othernaut · 21 hours ago

Text

The threat is fatigue, as it always is. There's a detachment to fatigue, one that's dangerous at the national or even planetary level, but if you're a street-level hero? Devastating in a subtle and insidious way.

I never get the High Evolutionary, down here. I get Crashout. Crashout is an inertia-modifying villain who, crucially, does not have the education necessary to know how to wield his spot modification of local physics to the most effective degree. He goes fast, he stops suddenly, he delivers thunderous force, and he wants money. He's a bank robber, a hostage taker, an addict, and self-medicating for ADHD. The latter two I keep trying to get him to open up about; the former two are the problem.

He's killed people. Couple of times. Always an accident. But honestly? This isn't about him. It's about the decision I have to make every time something gets out of hand. It's that detachment, that remove. It's applying it to people instead of an abstract, global scale.

It's Mama Pina, who goes out to the park on the hottest days and distributes freezies, who has a son, who lost her right leg to diabetes and who, now, is going to be dead in someone's universe. She had a fatal seizure when Crashout fell six stories and dispersed the force in an indiscriminate wave. Something in the way her cerebrospinal fluid jiggled. Old enough that it could conceivably be her time.

But there's a funeral and, next universe over, there didn't need to be one. I have to watch her son, her sisters, mourn forever. That's the world I have to live in. But in the next one - the one I don't have to look at - she's fine. I could nip over. I could acclimate her to this situation here with a five-minute speech; I've practiced. It's indistinguishable. That's the only difference. In one place a son has a mother, and in another he doesn't.

Every single time, I have to make this choice. Why don't we deserve to live somewhere nice? Somewhere where these sorts of things don't happen to people. To people. There's guilt no matter what I do, and I'm so tired of feeling guilty. I'm so tired.

We deserve better.

It’s shit being a superhero when you know that the multiverse exists. You spend all day saving people, you’re tired, you want to go to bed, and right before you fall asleep someone says “The High Evolutionary is going to turn everyone on earth into a werewolf!” and every bone in your body says “Fucking. Maybe we can be the werewolf dimension. The Universe Where Everyone Is A Werewolf. There are infinite dimensions where everyone isn’t a werewolf. It could be fine. It could be good even.”

And you fight the High Evolutionary and you win and your world isn’t the Werewolf Dimension. But the thought was there. God the thought was there

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demie90s · 10 hours ago

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If you would like, can you please do one where reader brings her goddaughter to practice and the team and geno just melt at how soft she is with kids? Btw I love love loveddd how protective she is of KK

(Loveeeeee thisss!!! Ima make the read have a rough day so they can really see how soft she is.)

ᴜᴄᴏɴɴ ᴡʙʙ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Something to Come Home To

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:You never let the team see you break, no matter how heavy the day feels. But when your goddaughter shows up mid-practice, the whole gym watches you melt. Geno’s yelling stops. The girls go soft. And for once, you don’t hide how much you needed that hug.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:comfort, slice of life, soft!reader, team bonding, found family

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: emotional exhaustion, implied stress/burnout, crying (happy tears), soft Geno, teammate teasing (affectionate)

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.7k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: stoic leader breaks for a baby girl, sneakers squeaking as she runs to her, the team realizing how deep her love runs, Geno’s heart growing three sizes that day

You were already behind when your alarm didn’t go off. It buzzed—once—then died, your phone screen completely black, battery long gone. You cursed, grabbed your bag, and sprinted across campus with dry lips and no charger, still trying to finish the last paragraph of your English paper in your head.

First class: missed. Second: made it—but barely. You threw your paper down on the desk just as your professor raised his eyebrow.

“You’re late. Again.”

You forced a smile. “I know, I’m sorry—”

“This paper better be perfect, then.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just like he didn’t look when your elbow knocked your coffee over five minutes later and it bled straight across your assignment, soaking it through.

No backup copy. No time to fix it. You just stared at the mess, blinking, trying to will the tears not to come up through your throat.

You held it together.

After class, you tried to find your phone. Nowhere. Not in your bag. Not in your locker. Nowhere. Just silence and a dead battery and the weight of no way to call your ride or even check the time. You ran to the student center—closed for an event. No charger. No answers.

Lunch? Didn’t happen. You didn’t even notice until your stomach growled on the way to practice. And even then, all you could do was sip half a bottle of warm water from your bag and pray your body held on long enough to survive drills.

You walked into practice with your hoodie on and your jaw locked. And if Geno was in a mood, you didn’t care. Everyone’s allowed one bad day.

Except you.

“Let’s go, L/n!” Geno barked halfway through warmups. “Wake up! You look like you’re sleepwalking.”

You nodded, didn’t talk back. Just nodded and ran harder. Bit your tongue. Took it. You’d earned worse. This was nothing.

But every drill? He called your name. Every missed pass? Your fault. Every time your feet weren’t where he wanted them? He let you know.

“You think you’re above fundamentals now? You runnin’ on autopilot? Is that what we’re doing?”

“No, Coach.”

“Then focus. You’re better than this.”

You nodded again. Just like you did when you twisted your ankle slightly on the sidestep screen. It stung. But you kept moving.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You didn’t throw the ball. You just kept your voice even and stayed in line, and everyone else thought that meant you were fine.

Until that door opened.

Until she ran in—your goddaughter, barely five, wearing a pink tutu over her hoodie, sparkly light-up Crocs flashing with every bounce. Her curls were wild from the wind, and her little voice rang out across the gym:

“TeeTee!”

It wasn’t loud. But it hit like thunder.

You broke formation mid-drill. Your teammates paused, blinking, confused. You didn’t even say anything. You just ran.

Straight across the court. Shoes pounding the hardwood. Past the free-throw line, past the startled assistant coach, arms already out before you even dropped to your knees.

She launched into you and you caught her, like nothing else in the world mattered. And for a second—it didn’t.

You buried your face in her shoulder, arms tight around her tiny frame. Your whole body shook. Your breath hitched. And then?

You cried.

Not loud. Not sobbing. But the kind of silent crying that shakes your spine. That forces its way out when you’ve held too much in for too long.

The gym was dead quiet.

KK whispered, “Yo… she okay?”

Paige’s lips parted. “She’s never cried in front of us.”

Aaliyah crossed her arms, voice low. “That’s her godbaby. That’s why.”

Geno didn’t yell.

He just stood there, stunned, watching the player who never folded fold for a kid who clearly meant more than anyone realized.

You didn’t care who was watching.

“Mommy said you were having a bad day,” your goddaughter mumbled into your neck. “Are you okay now?”

You nodded into her curls. “I am now, baby.”

The rest of practice? It went on, sort of. You didn’t do much. Geno told you to stretch, sit if you needed. The girls handled the scrimmage. You sat with her in your lap, braiding the ends of her hair and letting her feed you fruit snacks out of her little unicorn bag.

After practice, the team gathered around—quiet at first, then playful.

“Wait,” KK grinned, crouching next to her. “This the infamous goddaughter?”

“Infamous?” Ice raised a brow. “She’s royalty now. Did you see the way she healed our starter with one hug?”

“She look like she ready to fight Geno if he raises his voice again,” Paige added, smirking.

“She’s my bodyguard,” you murmured, voice still hoarse.

Geno finally walked over, crouching with a rare softness in his tone. “What’s her name again?”

You wiped your face, cheeks pink. “Zaria.”

He nodded at her, tipping his head. “Thanks for saving my player, Zaria.”

She smiled wide, all baby teeth and dimple. “You’re welcome, Santa Claus.”

The whole team lost it.

You laughed for the first time all day. A real one.

#wbb imagine #wnba x reader #wbb x reader #wbb x oc #wnba x oc #wnba imagine #gxg #wbb #uconn wbb #wnba fanfic #kk arnold x reader #paige x reader #paige bueckers x reader #nika muhl x reader #azzi fudd x reader #uconn x reader

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lazysoulwriter · 1 day ago

Text

period!comfort with pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: period care, fluff, cuddles, comfort, silly nicknames, soft domestic chaos

---

🩸 pedro knows the signs. the mood shifts. the craving switch. the way you curl into a blanket burrito and glare at him like he personally offended your uterus.

🩸 “babe… are we in the phase where i shut up and fetch snacks?” “yes.” “got it.”

🩸 he literally runs to the store. comes back with pads, tampons, chocolate, heating pads, gummy worms, a weird lil plushie he saw at the checkout line and thought looked like you, and... pickles. “why the pickles?” “i panicked!”

🩸 the first time he called you “my little ketchup packet,” it was because you made a pain face and groaned “i’m bleeding to death” and he was like: “nooooo my tiny little ketchup packet don’t die on me” you: “pedro.” him, hugging you dramatically: “shhh. just let me mourn.”

🩸 now it’s canon. he’ll pat your head and go “you good, ketchup?” you’ll flip him off and he’ll kiss your middle finger and go “love you too.”

🩸 he rubs your back in slow circles when the cramps hit, slides his hand under your shirt to rest it on your belly with just the right amount of pressure. whispers stuff like: “you’re so strong, baby.” “if i could fight your uterus i would. square up, bitch.” “should i build you a throne of pillows and carry you to it?” (he does this one. it’s wobbly. you fall. he apologizes with a foot massage.)

🩸 cuddles? mandatory. you’re half-dead on the couch, and he’s spooning you like you’re made of glass. pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck, murmuring sweet nothings like: “i’ll make you soup.” “i’ll kill whoever invented periods.” “you still smell good, even when you’re leaking.”

🩸 yes, he absolutely offered to sync up in solidarity. “i can like… pretend to cramp with you?” “pedro, no.” “okay but like emotionally i’m bleeding too.”

🩸 sometimes you just cry out of nowhere, and he doesn't even question it. just wraps you up in his arms and sways like you’re slow dancing in the kitchen. lets you sob into his shirt. then you sniffle and go, “i want fries.” and he’s like “say less.”

🩸 he brags to his friends (read: sarah paulson) that he’s “the period whisperer.” “she called me her heating pad with a mustache. that’s love.”

🩸 and when it’s finally over, and you’re feeling a little more alive, he wraps you in a blanket burrito again, kisses your face all over, and says, “see? you survived. ketchup packet strong.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

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13tinysocks · 1 day ago

Text

My Dead Girlfriend

Old men like to tell Mark what to do, in some timelines he listened, in some he didn't. Either way, someone always gets hurt.

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

I don't believe that man's ever been to medical school.

[Part one] [Ao3] [19]

20 * Gutted [7.2k]

"So if you know someone who works for the FBI,

You should stab them in their sleep,

With a kitchen knife!"

Quran Quran - Go Hang

Gray hit the ground. He tumbled along the floor failing to stop himself, his pure white suit now dusty as he dug his hands into the floor to stop the momentum. He scowled, scrambled to get onto his feet, but a boot kicked him back down, pinning him by the middle. Harsh light haloed his attacker's head. He made out slivers of a scowl as the man leaned forward, foul breath wafting over his face.

"Sloppy work there, boy." Weight pressed harder into his gut, pushing the flat of his back hard into the ground. "Gotta lotta work cut out for me if I don't end up killin' ya right now."

Gray openly sneered as he clawed at Conquest's ankle. He hadn't learned to steel his expressions yet. Conquest crookedly grinned, pressing his boot down still harder.

"You look like you wanna kill me. Better get to it." But Gray couldn't get up. Squirming under his foot like a stuck turtle.

"Nolan, he's gonna kill him," Debbie whispered into her hands, tears on her lids. Nolan had told her she wouldn't want to see this, but she insisted that she wanted to better understand Viltrum culture. To see what kind of training their son would go through if he passed the test.

"He'll be fine." Nolan said, not quite believing it himself. The human-infected parental instincts in him roared to break Conquest over his knee, but he stayed put. It was hard enough to get the other Viltrumites to take him seriously these days. Going that much further would ruin his standing under Thragg- who barely tolerated his wife's existence as is. Mark had to be strong for all of them.

Mark's boots squeaked over the pristine tile. Conquest watched him the way a cat watches a mouse, boot pressing deeper into his soft tweenage belly. Harder than he had the last kid, but Mark didn't cry or yell, only grit his teeth. Despite all Nolan's training and the little missions he'd gone on in the years he developed his powers, he was still just a bug to Conquest.

Debbie opened her mouth to scream, unable to take this anymore.

Conquest leaned forward, elbow over knee, coming in so close Mark could see all his crooked yellowing teeth.

"You still with me, boy?" A fist came up to knock those teeth out. Conquest caught it easily. "Huh. An' some fight left in ya too?" He leaned back, lifting his foot and Mark up by the arm all at once. "Not bad." He let go of Mark's hand and he dropped down onto both feet, tempted to hunch forward with his pulsing ribs but he stayed ramrod straight. Conquest liked that he ignored the pain, refused to listen to his body. Plus, he'd passed the test- not dying or passing out under Conquest's boot. Most of his trainees weren't so lucky. He wasn't going easy either. After the last kid he killed fifty years ago, Thragg let him have it and he'd planned to let the next one pass regardless of their actual strength. But that fire in Mark's eyes was so bright he wanted to put it out. Yet the little fucker persisted. Still standing by his side despite his obvious bloodlust and didn't run to his mommy.

"Got some potential, boy. Let's find out what we can do with that."

***

One, two, one, two.

Fighting was a rhythm, one to which he was attuned. Conquest made sure of that, the ruthless bastard. His solo conquering career had just begun to take off when he met Angstrom Levy. His training with Conquest had started to slow as they both were tied up with missions across the galaxy. Still, he checked in when he could. Kept his skills sharp and continued to push, but it was never enough to beat Conquest. Always just out of reach. He said Gray wasn't bad 'for a guy ten-thousand years younger than him'.

He should've been expecting an ambush. Shouldn't have let himself be so lax, so open to attack, but he had been distracted by you and Mohawk. His skills had also dulled in the desert with nothing to sharpen them on. He blunted Scars blows, but not as fast or efficient as he'd like. Moved out of the way of kick after kick and was surprised Scars was fast enough to keep up. Him being alive was a feat, but not one Gray would allow to go on any longer.

Gray knew he'd gone properly rusty when a punch drilled into his spine from behind. He was launched forward with surprising force, stopping himself before he barreled into the wall. He turned in time to see two animals with his face lunging for him. He moved out of the way- but not fast enough. Lensless caught him by the ankle, was ready to slam him to the ground.

"Let go of him!"

Lensless went so rigid he almost fell out of the air. Hand flying open like a reverse bear trap. The command was done, the control over. But instead of continuing the fight, Lensless whipped his head around, ignoring the man about to punch his lights out. In the moments before Gray's fist kissed his chin- he saw you. Standing in the warm light, looking just like the mirages he'd seen so many times. Except you weren't wobbly at the edges. Your voice wasn't an echo in his mind. You were very, very real.

He stared at you wide eyed even as he was violently shot back. Gray turned to deal with Scars as he pounced. Lensless forgot the fight entirely as he smashed through the cave walls.

Scars, on the other hand, didn't. He had heard you, seen you and wanted you like a predator wanted raw meat, but he couldn't have a taste without your little friends getting in the way. Your presence strengthened his cause, his anger.

Where was Mohawk in all this? Unmoved, unharmed. He'd talked a big game about killing the two, but that was when they weren't around. He wasn't afraid for himself, but for you. He knew he could get too self-involved in battles. Knew it'd leave you open for attack, knew he'd do anything to save you and wind up getting himself fucked. He did the smart thing- grabbing you and flying out of the cave like a coward. He'd come back and kill them, but wouldn't fight with you here. Not if he could help it. Gray could stand his ground, at least he hoped so.

You had other plans, realizing what he was doing as you shot into the wastes. Panic, anger, and fear tight in your chest, more blinding than the desert sun, you wanted to kill them.

"Go back!" Power threaded through his brain, zapped all the right neurons to make him listen. Mohawk tried to fight it, to tell his brain that go back meant go back to camp but it'd already processed and his body reacted, he unwillingly shot back into the cave. At the same time Lensless was zipping after you both. Grinning at his luck, at your silly human altruism as he grabbed for you.

Mohawk wasn't fast enough, muscles molasses slowed by your lingering control- he should've never let you train on him. Should've let you stay weak. Lensless had you and he didn't.

Gray had just finished kicking Scars into the floor when he heard your shriek. He turned to find you thrashing in Lensless's arms, his hand over your mouth, while you scratched viciously at him. Lensless was laughing as he easily dodged Mohawk's increasingly desperate attacks. Too desperate. If any one of them connected, he'd hurt you- kill you with the aftershocks at the very least. Gray left Scars, rushed toward you, intending the do something, though he didn't know what- he wasn't used to panicking in battle- wasn't used to preserving life instead of taking it.

Mohawk's fist reeled back, aimed straight for Lensless's head, intending to smash it to dust. Lensless grinned impishly, watching the desperation in Mohawk's eyes as his fist came closer, ears perked at the crack of air behind him. He'd always been faster than the others, not stronger. He'd been faster than Dad. That was how he beat him after all. Pulled a move a little like this-

He moved away at the last second, just as Mohawk's fist was about to connect with his nose. Knuckles flew through empty air a nano second before it was filled with Gray's incoming body. The protest on his lips dying when the blue-black glove pierced his belly all the way through, just above the hip.

Guts clung around Mohawk's knuckles. Gray's mouth opened, closed, opened, closed. Conquest didn't go easy on him, he'd been hurt before but never like this. He was perpetually in the med bay as a teenager but he'd always been careful, strong. He could fight through pain, with blood pouring out of him. Had to tell himself this was no different. His eyes met his variant's, panic reflected back at him before he heard you. Your panicked heartbeat going into overdrive, a muffled cry accompanying it. His eyes moved to find you struggling in Lensless's arms. He watched as you tried to claw blindly at his eye, him grabbing your wrists in one hand and yanking them down, his smile made Gray bristle. All self-preservation flew out the window.

Gray yanked Mohawk's fist out his belly with a command, "Go!"

He felt something slap his thighs, ignoring how the cool cave air on his organs caused a radiating pricking pain. He shot up, Mohawk following, the both of them reaching for you. Gray was somehow faster, fueled by adrenaline, uncaring as he unspooled, as the pain spread through his body.

But he wasn't faster than Scars who shot out of the him-shaped hole in the floor, yanking Gray by the trailing pink of his insides. Scars reveled in the sound he made, an unconscious whimper that made him grin. He wanted more. He pulled, spinning Gray round and round, as both of them gripped at his guts in a tug of war. Gray fought to keep them in his body, fingers slipping in the viscera. He was losing, Scars yanking like the guts were a chew toy. Pink slipped inch by inch out of Gray's unwilling hands before Scars flung him away. This time, he didn't catch himself before ramming into the wall, rock crumbling down around him.

Mohawk was so intent on grabbing you, he didn't notice Lensless's knee coming for his chin. Crack! Blood filled his mouth, teeth coming down around the tip of his tongue. Mohawk steadied himself, snarling at Lensless, eyes set on you while yours were set on Scars- rising up behind Mohawk. You screamed into Lensless's palm, trying to warn him.

He growled, blood misting out his mouth, "That all you g-"

Crack!

One fist slammed to each of his ears. Blowing out his equilibrium, sending him hurdling to the ground, half-conscious. Scars didn't let him land. He snapped down, grabbed Mohawk by the hair and zipped out of the cave into the sky where he threw Mohawk as hard as he could into the cold depths of space. He was back before your next bout of muffled screaming started. Stopping in front of you and Lensless, hovering in the wreckage of the cave. The roof groaned a warning of imminent collapse.

You were alone with them once again. Mohawk lost in space. Gray gutted in the wall.

Scars reached out, hands slick with Gray's blood. "Let me touch her."

He looked worse than shit. Beard spiky with grease, speckled through with muck. Hair long and peaking out the top of his torn mask. Cheeks sunk to the bone. Skin red and peeling off in slips, exposing new, already burnt skin beneath. Everything about him was slighter, shakier, less there- especially the glassy eye exposed under the busted lens. You supposed that's what raw cannibalism did to a guy.

You kicked at his legs as Lensless floated you both closer, hand still over your mouth the other holding your arms down. A toy to share.

Scars hands shook as he brought them closer to your body. Going tentatively to your arms, first poking, then squeezing so hard your flesh pressed to bone.

"She's really there, right?" Scar's touch explored up your arms, your shoulders, holding your neck to feel the thrum of your pulse under his thumb.

"I mean, unless we're both having the same full body tactile hallucination, yeah." Lensless's nose was pressed to the back of your skull. Sniffing. Your teeth ground on the small bit of flesh you caught from his palm. He hummed at the feeling. "I've been thinking about that time you bit me a whole lot lately. It was so hot and then we had so much fun after that, remember?" How could you forget them beating up Mark, dropping you and making you use your powers for their own personal entertainment? "Why'd you have to leave, huh? Why'd you have to go and make me all sad?" You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Wouldn't if you could, because if you could talk you'd be telling him and the boner pressing into your back to go die. Lensless went on. "Did you leave cuz you were scared? It's okay if you were scared of me, I don't mind."

Scars hands had been all over you while Lensless babbled, he wasn’t listening to anything but your frantic breathing and pounding heart, "I need to hold her."

Lensless didn't budge. "Finders keepers."

Their alliance had been straining these last few weeks. Especially after Scars assumed Lensless took Phantom. Now it was starting to rip at the seams with you back in play.

"Please." Spat like a slur.

Lensless tilted his head, unsure if he heard that. "Did you just-"

"I won't say it again." Scars was afraid he’d kill you. Him ripping you out of Lensless's iron grip in pieces, shredded to ribbons in his fingers. The hand off needed to be willing.

"Fine." Lensless tutted, "Just cuz it's weird you asked nicely." The alliance held firm-ish.

The switch off of their hands gagging your mouth was so quick, you couldn't get a word out. Scars crushed you to his chest, pressing your face to his ribs, your arms pinned uselessly between your bodies. He ignored your struggles, sniffing in your scent, feeling your flesh under his fingers, listening to your bunny-hopping heart.

"You're real." He said into your scalp. "You're real."

He'd seen so many mirages of you in these last weeks. Saw the shape of you in the shadows of camp. Saw you in Phantom's blood splatter. Remembered your own pool of blood as you bled out under him, his gloves getting slipperier and slipperier as he tried to stop the flow. He thought you were a mirage when he tackled Gray- hadn't considered you were real until he heard your voice. Saw Lensless stop.

"You're real." He sighed into your neck. His nose slipped in your sweat slicked neck, smelling the salt and the hot metallic blood pumping just beneath the surface.

His hold loosened and your lungs sang in relief. Your hands flexed against his chest, pushed at him. Your brain caught up to your actions, your hands were free, you could make them do something. If he just faced you towards Lensless this could work you could-

Teeth sank into your shoulder, slipping past fat and muscle faster than your brain could register the pain. Incisors ground against your clavicle. Your pain receptors finally began to scream. You could feel his tongue moving along the wound, soaking up the blood as it bubbled out. Your screams vibrated the flesh, the bone against his teeth. He didn't mind. Didn't mind one bit, just tightened his hold on your mouth.

"Hey." Lensless whined. "I found her first." He floated closer, reached out but was viciously growled at by Scars, still buried in your shoulder. "Jeez, okay, I'll wait."

He'd missed you very much but didn't mind watching awhile. He circled around Scars back just to get a better look at your face contorted in pain.

Your vision blurred with tears as Scars ground his jaw against your flesh, opening the wound wider. Needing more fresh, hot blood. Needing it from you, the only thing that could satisfy the never-ending gnawing hunger you’d left him with. You caught Lensless floating around into view and you tried to focus on him, tried to think of anything but the pain.

Lensless looked no better than Scars. Suit so shredded he was practically in daisy dukes, boots, and a string. Hair sprouted unevenly from his jaw. Near full-body sunburn pulsing with pus-filled blisters where he’d picked at them. Worst of all to you- his eye wound wasn't infected. The skin was discolored and warped around the socket, but it'd healed. His eyelid had regrown to sag sadly over nothing. His other eye was bright and alert unlike the glassiness you saw in Scars. He didn't look haunted like his counterpart.

This was a good thing in your mind, because he just might edge out over Scars in terms of strength. Your hands came up shakey from the adrenaline and pain, but slow as not to set off the animal snarling into your bloody neck. Sucking on you like a vampire.

Lensless watched, entranced, dick-standing happy that you were looking at him and not Scars as you cried. You pointed at Scars with one hand while the other traced your outstretched thumb over the side of your neck not occupied by a fucking freak.

Control clicked into place.

Lensless yanked Scars back by the cape. Tearing his teeth from you and ripping you from his grip, sending you careening to the sand feet below with a piece missing, trapped behind the bloody red bars of Scars' teeth. You watched as Lensless spun him around by the cape. You hit the soft sand and slid down the artificial dune as Scars was flung into the wall.

You wasted no time watching them brawl. You shot up, hand on your pulsing shoulder and ran for the white slip of uniform sticking out of the rubble. Ignoring Scars angry shouts as you scrambled up the little incline that used to house your hamster hut, blown away in the fight, upside down at the other end of the cave. Still, the floor that housed the fire pit where your and Mark's increasingly infrequent fires was stained black with ash.

But you couldn't reminisce now. You threw yourself down, throwing what rocks you could off, "Gray! Hey! Gray!?" While keeping Lensless tight in your mental grip, feeling him thrash but you were stronger than him. Not starved or deeply crazy, practicing your skills on stronger versions of him.

You moved the last rock you could off him, revealing the full picture. Gray covered in dust, making a soupy brown mixture with his blood that surrounded him like a lake. Guts tangled and twisted outside his chest, pierced by small rocks. Still he had the energy to smile when he saw you.

"Oh, thank God you're alive." The relief in your tone was a shot of morphine he desperately needed. Your hands scrambled blindly at his side, “Where's the agent fourteen?"

His hand unpinned itself beneath rock and slipped a vial from the hip you'd yet to search. He opened his mouth but you said, "Shut up, don't talk," as you grabbed the vial, pouring the whole thing into your hands. You didn't bother looking back. You were going to fix things but... "God- What the fuck am I supposed to do here?" Would touching his guts make it worse? Would he heal with rocks inside him? What the fuck were you doing? You should've hid or screamed for help instead of wasting your fucking time on someone who clearly couldn't fight. But something inside you, something you thought Machine Head had beat out of you, wouldn't let you do that.

"I've never been gutted before." Gray says airily. "I'm not entirely sure."

His eyes were getting glassy. He was going to pass out on you. Fall asleep. Stay asleep.

"Don't you know first aid?" Something crumbled behind you. Lensless was thrashing harder in your grip now.

"I do." He blinks slow, stupid, fading. "I think... Conquest told me a time he'd been before, he..." His eyes stay shut a second too long.

You panicked, “Tell me!"

"He said he pushed them back in. He was fine in a few... in a..." He stopped abruptly, eyes opening as the pain flared. He blinked, eyes watering as he watched you shove his guts back into his belly, rocks and all. Agent fourteen smeared everywhere you could.

"You're gonna be fine." Whenever you breathed, you could taste the metal in the air. "I've got you. You're fine."

"I don't think he is," Lensless said. You'd always been bad at controlling two Marks at once.

You whipped around. They were nearly on top of you, casting long shadows over you and Gray. No. No. No. "Kill your-"

A bloody hand clamped over your mouth. "None of that." Scars said, looking worse than the last time you saw him, blood dripping down his dark hair, but still alive.

"You're getting better at that." Lensless lisped through his freshly split lip. Despite that and the new bruises blooming on his chest, he was still hard as a starved man could be.

You didn't care. Just wanted them dead. Your hands came up, this time pointing Scars attention to Lensless. Your thumb came to your throat but was stopped by Lensless who captured your wrists, holding them together above your head.

"Almost forgot you could do that." He was breathless, redder in the face than before, remembering what you did to Isotope and your boss. Desperate for you to use your powers again but knowing if he let you and Scars caught him- he'd be dead.

Scars was slower to the draw. Taking a moment to realize, "That’s how you got me earlier, huh?" He smiled, scar stretching, exposing blood streaked gums. The piece of you he'd bitten off swallowed during the fight. Your shoulder pulsed at the sight. He leaned forward as you tried to move away, nuzzling his nose into yours. "I missed you, you nasty bitch."

Gray shifted, immediately regretting it as the pain doubled. Guts slipping out of the hasty pile you'd made his belly. He hissed, using his skirt to cover the hole and catch the wormy lengths of slippery intestine.

Lensless moved your hands down, "Hold these real quick." Scars took them without looking. "Come'ere, pretty boy."

You thrashed in Scars grip, trying to go limp and scurry out of his grasp but it was useless. Gray watched you struggle, a fly stuck in a glue trap. You tried talking around his hand, getting it out of your mouth to no avail. The more you twisted your arms to get your hands, the harder he held your wrists together.

Your ears strained to hear what was happening behind you. Rocks shifting as Lensless grew closer, as Gray tried to right himself and prepare to fight only for his body to fail him, to shakily sit his ass back down. He should've been better prepared. Should've gone on more missions, should've trained for this but he just wasn't good enough.

He only had one card left to play as Lensless raised his heel. "Kill me." He said, "Save the others the choice of who to eat next."

That gave Lensless pause. "Wait. It's not just you and that other guy?"

Scars lifted his face away from yours, "How many of the others are left?"

"Enough that I won't last a month," Gray said.

Scars stiffened. "And where are they now?"

"Close enough. They know we're here."

On one hand, they were batshit insane. On the other, they were only two people. They craved bloodshed and they'd have it, but not now, not when they just got you back. The thought passed through them almost telepathically. They had to leave, now.

Lensless lunged. Gray stiffened, holding his hands out to defend himself but he didn't need to. Lensless only tore off his skirt, let his guts flop down.

"Shit." Lensless hissed as he rushed over to you, tearing the cloth into two. "Shit, do'ya think they heard any'a that?" He tied your hands together at the wrist. Tight enough, you could feel your fingers prickling from the lack of blood flow.

"Could've." Scars grabbed the other cloth while your hands were secured. Faster than you could bark, the bloodied fabric was shoved into and over your mouth. Muzzling you the same way Mark had in this very cave.

You were hauled over Scars shoulder like a flour sack. He hovered up while Lensless lingered, thinking of the fastest but still painful way to kill Gray.

"Leave him." Scars said as a piece of wall fell from the ceiling, shattering feet away. "He'll die anyway."

You caught Gray's eye as Scars started towards the exit. You reached for him with useless hands. He smiled. He had been too weak for you this time around.

"Lame." Lensless sighed but took off, keeping up with Scars as they blasted out of the cave.

You watched the hole get smaller and smaller, watched the sand shifting above ground as the cavern walls started to give. Tied wrists beat at Scars back as his cape billowed behind him. Lensless dragged behind purposefully to watch your face as the ground shuddered. Dust clouds kicked up as you and Mark's so-called home fully caved in. The muffled scream you let out was music to his ears.

The sunken divot in the ground was soon obscured by sand. You kept hoping Gray would shoot up from the cloud but he never did. Kept hoping Mohawk would fly down from space, but he never did. Kept hoping someone would rush over after hearing the collapse but you never saw, too far away now to see anything but the yellow-tinged atmosphere.

Once they were high above the wastes, they moved fast, too fast. You could feel your skin burning off in layers in the hot wind. Breathing was near impossible, air rushed by so fast your body couldn't inhale. Tears ran down your face and you were sure if it was just from the speed.

Lensless liked the look. Came up real close behind Scars to caress your cheek. Through the panic, you knew you had to be smart. You pressed your burning cheek to his bloodied palm. Nuzzled into it, batted your wet lashes, jerked up your hands and hit at your gag as sign you couldn't breathe, that you wanted to talk to him- say something pants-creamingly sweet.

His face melted with your affections. He cooed, "Awww, you poor baby. Those are so tight, aren't they?"

You nodded. Scars slowed a fraction to hear over the wind in his ears.

Lensless's fingers brushed against the cloth. You leaned into the touch, waiting for Gray's skirt to fall away. Lensless smiled softly. "I'm not stupid, sweetpea. I know you'll try to kill me, and I want you to try, but not right now, okay? We're a little busy, but I love the enthusiasm."

You batted at him with tied wrists, tried to force his gentle hand away. You didn't want him to touch you if he wasn't untying you. He got the message but didn't stop. Thumb rubbing circles on your cheek as Scars slowed even more.

"Someone's alone down there," Scars said.

You looked down thinking it a mirage of a madman, but sure enough, miles below was a single moving dot. A person flying low in the atmosphere. Maybe Maskless had finally had enough. He hated you but still, you screamed into the gag. Hoping he'd heard. Hoping he'd help or go get help or do anything to stop this bullshit.

Scars smiled hearing you scream. Misinterpreting, "That one of your little boyfriends, huh?" He paused for a beat as if you could answer in anything but screams and thrashes. "I know you've been fuckin' around. Can fuckin' feel it. How many times you let him cum in you?"

Zero. You tried screaming into the rag as you shook your head. Zero. You'd say it even if you had.

Lensless understood but didn't feel like translating. "I think she said eight."

Scars clicked his tongue. "You slut."

He said it so casually as he grabbed you by the ankle, whipping you off his shoulder. Holding you out at arms length, dangling over the dunes head-first. "Here's what's gonna happen. I'm going to drop you. Kill your boyfriend and break your fall with his mushy dead body." That did not sound plausible but Scars wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be making plausible plans. You shook your head. He nodded in response, grinning manically, "Then we're gonna go way past eight. You and me, yeah?"

"And me!" Lensless added.

"Sure, fuck, why not? She's open enough to fuck, what's one more? How's that sound, honey?"

You tried swinging forward to grab his legs. Needing any leverage other the the grip on your ankle. Scars let you, swing, reach, swing, reach, getting within an inch of clasping his boot before he let you go. Flying down faster than you could fall, sending you backward in the violent burst of air. You watched as he reached the ground. Watched as you got closer to the ground, doomed to splatter in the sand.

Except you never did. Lensless flew up next to you, caught you by the waist and pulled your body closer as he slowed your descent.

"Don't worry." He adjusted you in his arms like you were a princess and he was your knight in shining armor. "I've got you." You were very, very unsure of that. "Figured he'd got so carried away murdering that guy he'd forget to catch you and that'd be no fun at all."

You tried again with the battling eyelashes and chest nuzzling but it only amused him. He teasingly touched along the restraints, only to never take them off. Saying, "They'll come off once you relax a little."

Scars was fighting Maskless below you, Lensless chose then to speed up. Pressing you to his side with one arm, holding his fist out with the other.

"Wanna blast through this guy together, babe?" You screamed and shook your head. "That's a yes, right?" He sped up and you couldn't breathe.

The man was no longer a dot but an afterimage as he fended off Scars attacks. Suit a blue yellow blur, untorn by petty fights. Despite the wind in your eyes you registered that classic, stupid Invincible mask instead of the resting bitch face you'd come to associate with Maskless. You'd also never taken Maskless as a passive fighter, but you watched as he blocked sloppy attacks instead of going in for the kill. He didn't see you to notice you and Lensless, close enough now to hear Scars taunting.

You tensed, pressed yourself into Lensless to his delight, ready for bloody impact.

Sand exploded around you. Blinding you as Lensless put on the breaks and turned. His prey was faster than he had expected. "Hey, you're not too bad, dude." He huffed as the sand started to settle. Scars now floated above, watching you. Lensless blinked, narrowing his one eye. "Do you remember this guy?"

"Don't care!" Scars shouted as he rushed forward again. All he needed was his next meal after he had you. They probably should've taken Gray, but he didn't mind finding fresher meat. He definitely didn't mind killing a man he assumed fucked you. He thought Gray was too repressed, too pussy.

"Okay rude." Lensless moved for the silhouette as well, you still pressed to his side. "Be ready for real this time (Y/n). Prommy I won't miss."

The man dodged Scars just barely, shouting, "What- Hey- Stop!"

"Not until," Scars spun and lunged again, "you're dead!"

He missed and Lensless used the opportunity to fly into the man, jamming his fist into his stomach. Finding more resistance than he was expecting. He pouted as you all flew forward, "How come you're not dead yet?"

The man grabbed Lensless by the wrist, slowing you down, digging his feet into the sand.

He scowled, lenses flaring under the sun, "Because I'm-"

You got a good look at him then, in the moment of near stillness. Screaming muffled into the gag- Mark!?

He was going to punch Lensless's lights out but then he heard you. Saw you ragged and tied up and terrified despite the fact you'd been assumed dead for months.

Mark's mouth twisted into the word, "(Y/n)?" Before a fist slammed into his chin.

***

Some time ago.

Once polished shoes kicked rubble down the hallway. Bodies and pieces of the ceiling everywhere. The mess didn't matter now. All his available heroes and staff were off on the planet wide rescue mission. Pulling families out from wreckage, putting out fires, tagging bodies, providing medical aid to the barely living. And where was their premier planet defender?

Cecil grunted as he pushed the sliding door open. The motion detectors were down as well as most of the lights. The hospital room was lit only by the machines keeping Eve Wilkins alive. Mark didn't move as Cecil came inside. He said, "I'm not-"

"Save it." Cecil snapped, "It's over."

That made Mark turn, actually consider anything he was saying. "What?" Cecil couldn't help but scowl.

"Angstrom Levy's goons are gone. All of 'em zapped to another dimension, team's guessing. (Y/n)'s gone." Cecil waited for a reaction but got none. "Levy's on the move, we're trying to track him down but he was never really the threat. Planet's saved, no thanks to you."

Mark stiffened. "You didn't need me then."

Cecil's eye twitched. "Whole planet needed you, but you decided to stay here while your ex-girlfriend did the job for you. Impressive what someone like her can do with no official training. Makes me wonder how much better things would've gone if you stepped in."

Mark's face twisted. So soft with youth and a lack of scars that further proved his inexperience. Cecil could almost relate to his rash morality, almost- but Cecil was never this much of a fuck up. "I needed to make sure Eve was safe."

Cecil rose a brow, "And not your mother?"

"Oliver called me. He said she's fine."

"You really gonna take a kid's word for it?" It was shitty, but so was Mark. Mark didn't dignify that with a response. Cecil went on, "You pissed off Levy in the first place. When we find him, you're dealing with him. We're out of superpowered exes to throw at your problems."

"I know." Mark watched Eve's heart monitor. Steady, good. She was all that mattered. Not you. Not the gnawing guilt that Cecil was insisting he feel.

Mark's response wasn't good enough. Nothing he could do was good enough to un-piss Cecil off. "I know we're not working together these days, kid, but you need to get your priorities in check."

Mark's fingers gripped the side of Eve's hospital bed, bending the metal. "I do have my priorities in check."

"Then why did you let a low level criminal- practically a civilian- save the day for you? You're the strongest man on the planet- you need to start acting like it."

"Just tell me when you find Angstrom."

"Jesus, Mark, do you really not give a shit?" Cecil didn't particularly care either, but he was supposed to not care. Mark was. The more he showed this uncaring, alien, half of himself, the more uneasy he made Cecil feel.

"No." Mark said. "I don't even know her anymore. I'm glad she stopped them but none of that was my problem."

Cecil narrowed his eyes. "Seemed like everything was your problem until Eve got hurt."

The bedside metal groaned as Mark's grip tightened. "(Y/n) was a bad guy. Eve's not."

"She was your girlfriend, Mark." Eve said, voice like sandpaper. He'd told her about you not long after they became friends. Hours long talks while him and Amber were still dating. The reality of how far you'd gone to go to college with him had fucked him up. Fucked him up more when he chose to drop out of college. He wondered what you'd do then to follow along. Eve always got annoyingly mad on your behalf, said you'd probably have stayed in school, that you weren't that obsessed with him, just misguided and scared to lose him. He stopped talking about you after that. Tried to stop thinking about you, especially since he heard through the grapevine that you still worked with Machine Head. He told himself it wasn't his fault. He told himself if he tried to set you on the right path you'd still make bad decisions. He told himself he'd regret intervening because somehow he always fucked everything up.

"Eve!" Mark's hands were on her face, caressing her soft cheeks. "You're a-"

Eve didn't smile back at him. "Would you ever let that happen to me?"

"No, no, Eve. No I'd-"

"Help me, right?" She'd thought about finding you before. Flashing money into existence and shoving it into your hands. Hooking you up with good people to get you away from Machine Head. Except she'd never got to meet you. Had no idea what you looked like and Mark wouldn't tell. Wiped all the photos of you from his phone. William told her a few times but his description of 'yay high, hair that looks like you know, and a face like uhh I dunno, it's a face?' wasn't very helpful.

"Well, yeah but-"

"There's no 'but' Mark. She's a person." At Cecil's frown, she corrected, "Was a person."

Eve had Mark on the proverbial ladder, Cecil came in hot with the proverbial chair. "Definitely was. None of those guys were good news, and Mark here refused to leave your side ever since you got hurt."

Eve's face went red as her hair. "What!?" She shot up too quick, wincing.

Mark pushed her coaxingly back down into the bed. "Don't hurt yourself."

"You didn't help!? How long have I even been out?" When Mark didn't answer immediately, she looked to Cecil.

"I had to stay here and protect you." Mark said, "You heard that one. He hated you! He's me, he'd know where to find you! I didn't know if they'd come and kill you to get to me!"

A pink wall of air pushed his hands off her. "I can't believe you." She hissed.

"Eve." He plead.

"If you were hurt and the world needed me, where would you want me to be?"

"I-" Mark didn't know. Didn't have the brain power for a relationship trolley problem when life was just one shitty thing after another. "Can we not do this right now?"

"Oh-ho-ho," she was laughing, that was a bad thing, "We are. How many people died because you stayed here, Mark?"

"I don't know." It was hard to keep the whine out of his voice. He'd spent days at her bedside waiting tensely for her to wake up only for it to dissolve into a fight.

"Six thousand deaths confirmed in D.C alone. The count worldwide is expected to be in the hundreds of thousands by the end of the day." Cecil said.

Mark spun, spit flying off his teeth, "Do you really need to be here right now!?"

Cecil was unfazed by his anger. Had faced worse from Mark before. Felt his hand around his throat more times than he cared to count. "I do," Cecil said evenly, "because you took out your earpiece and someone's got to tell you we've got a pin on Angstrom Levy."

Mark left as soon as he heard the location, leaving Cecil with an irate Eve. He was going to make things right this time.

***

Angstrom Levy survived again. Dragged himself to the Technician's feet only for them to nearly turn their backs and leave him to die. He worked, helped them build their personal utopia so they'd let him live. Paid off his debts until he could finally go home and get his revenge. It took time. Planning. Mark was off planet doing God knows what. So he watched. Waited. Kept an eye on his sweetheart. Bided his time until the fool returned to Earth like he always did. When he did, Angstrom was ready with a portal and a chain of bombs around Eve's neck.

There was nothing more satisfying than sending him away- desperately reaching out for Eve. Missing. Sending him to that same desert he nearly killed Angstrom in. Where Angstrom assumed your sun-bleached bones would taunt him until he succumbed to madness.

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