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mikaylathenerd5 · 2 months ago

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Shades of Loyalty | Roman Reigns

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Pairing: Roman Reigns x Nyomi Westbrook (Black OC)

Content Warning: This story contains explicit sexual content, including rough physical interactions, BDSM elements (light bondage, spanking, choking), and strong language. It also explores themes of betrayal, anger, and intense emotional dynamics. Reader discretion is advised, and this is intended for mature audiences (18+).

Summary: In the wreckage of a Chicago suite, Roman Reigns reels from a brutal betrayal that shakes his empire to its core. With WrestleMania 41 looming and enemies circling, he’s a king without a crown—until Nyomi, his fiercest ally, steps into the chaos. Their trust ignites a fire that burns through pain, sparking a night of raw, unyielding passion. In a world of shattered loyalties, they forge something unbreakable, but will it be enough to face the battles ahead?

Word Count: 4k

The United Center in Chicago buzzed after SmackDown, crowd noise seeping through the walls like a faint pulse. In a private suite, Roman Reigns stood alone, seething, gutted by betrayal. A shattered decanter left glass strewn across the hardwood, catching the chandelier’s dim glow. Bloodline banners, once his mark of dominance, lay torn and discarded, mirroring the chaos in his mind. His black wrestling gear clung to his sweat-soaked skin, muscles taut, hair loose, eyes dark with pain. The room reeked of bourbon and his musk, sharp, tying him to the night’s fight.

Paul Heyman, his strategist, the mind behind The Bloodline, had jumped to CM Punk. On live TV, Punk strutted out, smirking like a snake, and cashed in a favor from Survivor Series: WarGames—something Heyman couldn’t dodge. “Paul’s in my corner at WrestleMania,” Punk declared, hitting Roman like a cheap shot, broadcast to millions. Heyman’s weak plea—“I owe him, my Tribal Chief!”—cut deeper, his voice thick with guilt. Seth Rollins’ cackle from the ramp, relishing Roman’s fall, twisted the knife. Then Punk’s GTS smashed Roman’s jaw, dropping him cold as Chicago erupted. The bruise on his cheek pulsed, shouting he wasn’t invincible.

Roman’s fist slammed the wall, rattling a WrestleMania poster, cracking the glass. “Paul,” he growled, voice raw, laced with disbelief. “You were my blood.” His chest tightened, years of wounds reopening—Rollins’ 2014 Shield betrayal, Punk claiming he defined it, and now Heyman bailing for WrestleMania 41’s triple threat, April 19, 2025, a fight for legacy, not gold. The Head of the Table was crumbling, and Roman felt it tearing him apart, every memory of Paul’s late-night plans and loyalty now ash.

He paced, boots grinding glass, steps heavy. Mirrors showed a man unraveling—sweat rolling, jaw locked, eyes feral. The crowd’s chants mocked his reign, rocked by Punk’s schemes and Rollins’ chaos. Hands tore through his hair, yanking, trying to claw out the anger. “I built this,” he muttered, voice breaking, scanning the wreckage—Bloodline logos, busted phone, crumpled photo of him and Paul. “And they’re torching it.”

The suite’s door creaked, and Nyomi Westbrook stepped in, steady, fierce, slicing through his storm. Her curly hair was in a loose bun, strands framing her face, brown eyes tough yet warm. She had a slender waist, full hips, toned thighs, rocking a black Bloodline hoodie and tight jeans that showed her strength. Nyomi, tied to the Anoa’i family since Pensacola summers, had been Roman’s anchor through The Bloodline’s rise and ruin—Sami’s exit, The Usos’ revolt, Solo’s power grab. She matched his fire, her empathy easing his hurt, her trust unshakable, forged from years of standing by him, from street brawls to arena wars. Tonight, she saw a man on the brink, his empire in shards.

“Joe,” she said, calm, using his real name—a right earned over decades. “You gotta let this out before it buries you.” Her voice was clear, pulling him back. She shut the door, click sharp, boots soft on the floor, moving closer, unafraid of his rage.

Roman spun, eyes blazing, air thick. “Let it out?” he roared, stepping up, his bulk swallowing the space, dimming the light. “My guy’s with Punk, Nyomi! Paul, who swore he’d never turn, called me Chief! He stood there, groveling, and chose him!” His voice cracked, pain spilling, pointing at her. “And you—where were you when he was cutting deals? You’re family—why didn’t you see it?”

Nyomi’s jaw clenched, but she held her ground, eyes locked, unyielding. “Don’t even try that,” she snapped, low, cutting. “I’ve been here, Joe, through every damn knife—Sami, Jimmy, Solo. I’ve fought for this family, kept it together when you were slipping. Don’t pin Paul’s mess on me.” Her words landed hard, her strength mirroring his, her trust a flame no betrayal could snuff. She stepped closer, breath quick, eyes digging for the man beneath the fury.

The room pulsed, heavy with their past—midnight talks after losses, her hand on his at cookouts, quiet vows grounding him. Roman’s fists tightened, sweat gleaming, jaw rigid. Nyomi’s defiance, her refusal to break, lit a spark—a need to seize what Punk and Rollins couldn’t touch, to grip the one who stayed, whose fire and heart were salvation. His breath slowed, eyes tracing her, trust fueling a raw hunger for something solid in the chaos.

Roman’s voice dropped, rough. “You think you can just walk in and make this right?” He closed the gap, towering, intense, his sweat and cologne hitting her like a wave, raw, dizzying. “I’m the Tribal Chief, Nyomi. I don’t need saving.” He sounded fierce, but his eyes betrayed him, a flicker of hurt only she caught, a crack in his armor.

Nyomi didn’t flinch, staring back, her frame radiating power, meeting his fire. “Ain’t here to save you,” she shot back, sharp, deliberate. “Here to stop you from fucking up everything ‘cause Paul screwed you. I’m here, Joe—always been, holding it when shit hit the fan.” Her hand grazed his arm, heavy with years—kids running wild, promises after rough nights, hospital silences. Her fingers were warm, steady, a tether, callused from battles beside him.

Her touch cracked him open. His eyes shifted, anger tangling with need, anchoring in her strength. “He was my voice,” he rasped, shoulders sagging, fury draining. “Family, Nyomi. Stayed when Rollins gutted me, when Punk tried to steal my story. Now he’s theirs, Rollins laughing like he’s king. I’m losing it all.” His voice broke, Chief gone, just Joe, crushed by years.

“You’re not losing me,” she said, fierce, soft, stepping close, bodies brushing, her strength a wall against his collapse. Her hand hit his jaw, thumb on his beard, grounding him, its scratch sparking heat in her core. “You’re still the man, Joe. Punk, Rollins—they don’t own you. Paul’s lost, not you.” Her eyes held his, unyielding, a beacon in his storm, words ironclad.

The room hummed, the mess—glass, banners, crowd noise—fading, their bond the only truth. Roman’s gaze hit her lips, snapped to her eyes, betrayal, trust, hunger colliding. Nyomi’s loyalty, her fire, her trust, was a lifeline, and he grabbed it, desperate. His hand seized her neck, firm, possessive, thumb on her pulse, racing like his. “You’re all I got,” he growled, low, raw, a confession, a claim. “Only one I trust.”

Her breath caught, want slipping through, eyes fierce, leaning in, tied to him by years unspoken. Her trust held firm, forged through every fight—title losses, family rifts, the weight of his reign. “Then trust me now,” she whispered, a dare, lips close, breath hot, calling him to cross the line.

He froze, breath ragged, searching for doubt, finding only heat, certainty. The world—feuds, betrayals, Mania—dissolved, leaving them, bound by history and need. “Nyomi,” he growled, low, testing, thumb on her jaw, soft despite his edge. “You sure about this?”

“Know what I want,” she said, steady, hand to his chest, his heart hammering, keeping them real. “Want you, Joe—all of you. Let me take it.” Her fingers pressed in, nails biting, a jolt, eyes blazing, ready to hold him through anything.

It snapped like a spark to gasoline. Roman surged, shoving Nyomi against the desk, its edge biting her hips, a sharp jolt that woke her nerves, screaming desire. His hands clamped her wrists, pinning them to the wood, grip iron, her pulse hammering, his calloused fingers scraping, locking her down. He loomed—massive, hot, raw—chest pressed tight, sweaty gear sticking, heat radiating. His scent hit like a drug: musk, cologne, pure Joe, dizzying her. His breath grazed her ear, beard prickling, sending a charge to her core, soaking her. “Look at you, babygirl, already begging for me,” he growled, voice deep, gritty, lips brushing her ear, starved. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

Her heart raced, skin flushed, a surge between her legs, thighs clenching, wet, desperate. Her voice was steel, thick with want. “Don’t want soft,” she snapped, eyes locked, lips parted, breath quick, his smell choking her. “Want you, Joe—every damn piece. I can take it.” Her wrists strained, nails clawing his skin, sparking, hips grinding into his chest, heat flaring, breasts crushed, nipples taut, friction slicing her, gasping, feral.

His lips crashed hers, brutal, relentless, stealing air, her mouth yielding, hungry. His tongue claimed her, tasting blood from his split lip—Punk’s GTS—tying their pain, her chest tight, body alive. Nyomi matched him, fire for fire, teeth sinking into his lip, pulling, his growl vibrating, her core clenching, moans blending, desperate. Her hands, freed, raked his arms, nails carving muscle, leaving red streaks, his grunt driving her harder.

His hands hit her hips, fingers bruising, yanking her onto the desk, wood creaking, shit flying—bottle smashing, pen skittering, Bloodline photo tearing, noise lost in their heat. Her thighs parted, wrapping his waist, pulling him till his dick pressed her core, thick, hard, a shock, gasping, hips bucking, craving him. Her jeans and his gear scraped her skin, amplifying need, every touch a blade, whimpering, wild. “Open those legs wider, babygirl,” he growled, stepping back, eyes devouring—flushed face, swollen lips, fierce eyes, hoodie bunched, sweat gleaming. “Let me see what’s mine.”

She moaned, thighs spreading, core pulsing, his words striking deep, making her tremble. His hands moved, one sliding under her hoodie, rough fingers grazing her spine, sending chills, snagging her bra, teasing, torturing, nipples aching, pressing into him. His other hand gripped her thigh, opening her, thumb brushing close, making her jolt, hips jerking, a cry escaping, his low growl swallowing it.

His lips hit her jaw, beard scraping, her head tilting, baring her neck. His teeth bit down, sucking hard, marking her, her moan ragged, hands clutching his shoulders, nails biting, anchoring, core dripping, aching. Her hands slid under his gear, raking his abs, taut, sweat-slick, searing, grounding her. “Joe,” she gasped, voice unsteady, ripping his shirt, needing skin, hands frantic.

He yanked his gear off, tossing it, baring his chest—broad, scarred, sweat shining, her breath hitching, heart pounding, hunger spiking. “Yeah, babygirl, you like this, don’t you?” he growled, smirking, grabbing her wrist, pressing it to his pecs, letting her feel his heartbeat, her fingers tracing scars, lingering on an old mark, claiming him, craving more.

His hands tore her hoodie, shredding it, revealing her black lace bra, raw, delicate, her skin flushed, breath fast, his eyes darkening. He leaned in, lips on her collarbone, beard stinging, teeth grazing, her gasp sharp, tongue soothing, driving her wild, hands gripping his arms, nails carving, leaving marks. “So fucking perfect, huh? Built to make me lose it,” he growled, fingers snagging her bra, teasing, nails scraping, nipples screaming, her back arching, gasping, desperate.

His hand hit her hip, then her thigh, popping her jeans open, yanking them down, rough, exposing her lace panties, pausing to stare, jaw tight, breath heavy. “Look at that, so wet you’re begging,” he growled, fingers grazing her panties, feather-light, making her flinch, hips surging, a cry loud in the wrecked suite—glass glinting, mirrors catching them, crowd noise swelling briefly, a distant roar tying them to WWE. He tore her panties, tossing them, leaving her bare, cool air shocking, core throbbing, moaning, raw.

His fingers plunged in, deep, steady, her yell sharp, head thrown back, curls spilling, gasping, thighs trembling, pleasure raw. He moved with purpose, hitting her spot, building heat, toes curling, moans desperate, echoing. Her nails tore his arms, leaving crescents, his hiss sharp, panting, body coiling, every touch overwhelming, his beard, his fingers, relentless. “Joe, fuck, please,” she gasped, voice breaking, hips rocking, needing more, core clenching, moans loud.

He paused, forehead pressed to hers, breath heavy, eyes locked, intense. “You want this dick, babygirl?” he growled, fingers still, thumb on her lips, checking, needing her yes, breath hot, eyes fierce. Her hands gripped his face, nails scratching, eyes certain, trusting. “I’m yours, Joe,” she rasped, kissing him hard, tongue clashing, body surging, hips grinding, confirming, shattering his restraint.

He growled, fingers driving harder, pulling moans, core pulsing, room thick with their heat. His hand crushed her hip, bruising, her body rocking, his dick pressing, groaning, scorching. His lips hit her collarbone, biting, leaving marks, vowing, stinging, her core tight, alive. He ripped her bra off, tossing it, baring her, air cold, gasping, core begging, dripping, moaning.

His fingers spread her, rough, possessive, staring—flushed, needy, slick, breath ragged, moaning soft, craving him. He leaned back, hand on her thigh, opening her wider. “Gonna fuck you till you forget everything, baby,” he growled, biting her neck, nails scratching, hips pushing, gasping, urgent.

Her hands hit his gear, yanking, palming him, hard, hot, pulling a groan, body tense, breath quick. “Now, Joe,” she growled, hips grinding, needing him, tugging, eyes locked, daring. He stopped, forehead on hers, breath rough, checking, fingers teasing, keeping her close, wet, ready.

Her smile was fierce, hand gripping him, feeling him pulse, bold, pushing him. “Don’t fucking hold back,” she hissed, kissing hard, hips surging, giving it all, trusting. He growled, ripping his gear down, freeing himself, pressing her thigh, searing, gasping, core aching, moaning, thighs unsteady.

His fingers dove back, deeper, stretching, rough but careful, eyes on her, catching every gasp, his dick taut, jaw clenched, groaning, breath fast. He lifted her thigh, spreading her, his dick brushing her, electric, moaning, nails in his shoulders, gripping, needing him. “You’re taking every inch, babygirl, you ready?” he growled, lips grazing hers, breath hot, needing her word, thumb on her lip, soft, eyes dark.

“I need you, Joe,” she gasped, fierce, pulling him, hips rocking, trusting, breaking him. He thrust in, slow, deliberate, stretching, filling, intense—a mix of pleasure and a bite of pain, her cry sharp, head tilting back, gasping, core gripping him, adjusting, grounding her, raw, alive. He groaned, primal, hands bruising her hips, holding her, pausing to feel her warmth, her pulse around him, muscles flexing, breath hot, beard scraping her cheek, watching every flicker in her eyes.

The desk groaned, mirrors reflecting—her thighs locked around him, bodies joined, his chest slick, her bare skin flushed, real. Everything hit: his musk, cologne, blood, calloused hands, beard, wet sounds, moans, shadows, crowd noise spiking, a chant swelling outside, tying them to WWE. He stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust, his thumb stroking her hip, grounding, eyes locked. “Feel that, babygirl?” he murmured, voice low, thick. “You’re so fucking tight for me.” Her moan was soft, needy, hips shifting, urging him deeper, her nails digging into his shoulders, sparking heat.

He moved, slow at first, each thrust measured, deep, savoring her gasps, the way her core clenched, pulling him in. Her breath hitched, thighs tightening, pleasure building, every slide deliberate, stretching the moment. “You like it when I take my time, huh?” he growled, lips brushing her ear, breath searing, one hand sliding up her spine, fingers tangling in her curls, tugging lightly, arching her closer. “Feeling every inch of me?” Her moan was louder, raw, head nodding, eyes half-lidded, lost in the rhythm, hips meeting his, chasing more.

He paused mid-thrust, holding deep, making her whimper, her core throbbing, desperate for movement. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her swollen lips, eyes searching hers, teasing. “Look at you, so needy you’d let me do anything,” he growled, voice a low rumble, pulling out slowly, then easing back in, torturing her with the drag, her cry sharp, nails raking his back, leaving trails. He smirked, savoring her frustration, then thrust harder, deeper, desk creaking, her body jolting, pleasure spiking, gasping, loud.

Her hands gripped his hair, yanking, intensifying it, core clenching, unraveling, eyes fierce. “Joe, don’t fucking stop,” she gasped, voice raw, hips rocking, overwhelmed, alive. He growled, shifting her legs higher, opening her wider, thrusting steady, deep, each one a claim, his hand sliding to her lower back, pulling her into him, hitting that spot, her moans turning to cries, echoing in the trashed suite.

He slowed again, teasing, pulling out almost fully, tip barely inside, making her squirm, whimpering, core aching. “Not yet, babygirl,” he growled, lips grazing her neck, biting softly, leaving a mark. “You come when I say.” His hand slid between them, thumb circling her clit, slow, deliberate, sparking pleasure, her body jerking, gasping, fighting to hold on, nails carving his arms, leaving red lines.

She whimpered, pleasure pushing, every touch sharp—his beard, his hands, his dick filling her, relentless. His lips claimed hers, deep, consuming, tongue slow, swallowing her moans, body trembling, teetering. He thrust harder, steady, building again, desk shaking, mirrors catching their rhythm—her curls bouncing, his muscles flexing, raw, real. “Come on, baby, you’re such a good little slut for me, aren’t you?” he growled, voice rough, thrusts deepening, sparking her release, her cry loud, desperate, the crowd outside roaring, a sudden surge syncing with her peak.

She came hard, screaming, arching, core pulsing, vision blurring, grabbing him, nails cutting, moans echoing. He groaned, slowing, holding her through it, lips on her forehead, grounding, his dick still hard, holding back, her pleasure washing over him. He eased her down, gentle, her body sensitive, every touch sharp, whimpering, raw. Lips softened, kissing her jaw, beard grazing, hands steady on her thighs, keeping them close.

Her hands grazed his chest, feeling scars, bold, stirring him, groaning, ready for more. “More, Joe,” she rasped, eyes fierce, pushing him, craving it. He growled, easing out slowly, her moan soft, core still pulsing, then flipped her, bending her over the desk, hands slamming the wood, her ass up, gasping, core slick, ready. “This ass, babygirl, fucking made for me,” he growled, smacking it hard, stinging, her yell sharp, core tightening, pleasure spiking, moaning, wild.

He gripped himself, hand stroking slow, deliberate, his dick slick from her, sliding over her clit, teasing, making her whimper, hips pushing back, begging. “So fucking needy,” he growled, hand clamping her hip, other tangling in her hair, tugging, arching her. Her moans grew frantic, the wet friction sparking pleasure, her core throbbing, desperate, nails clawing the desk, leaving scratches. He kept stroking, eyes locked on hers in the mirror, her trust burning through, his dick grazing her clit, slow, torturous, each pass pulling a cry, her body jerking, pleading. “Only you, Joe,” she gasped, voice breaking, their gaze holding, his growl soft, savoring her surrender, a crowd roar spiking outside, matching his thrust. “You want it bad, don’t you, babygirl?” he growled, voice low, thumb brushing her hip, teasing, prolonging her need, her gasps loud, raw.

He leaned over, beard scraping her shoulder, lips at her ear, still stroking himself, dick sliding against her, relentless. “Gonna make you scream before I’m done,” he growled, smacking her ass again, sharp, her cry ragged, core clenching, pleasure surging. He thrust in, slow, deep, stretching, her moan guttural, core gripping, adjusting, pleasure raw. He moved deliberately, each thrust heavy, desk creaking, letting her feel every inch, pausing to grind, pulling a cry, her hands clawing wood, leaving marks.

His chest pressed to her back, hand sliding to her neck, firm, feeling her pulse, thrusting steady, deep, her moans loud, raw. “You feel that, baby? Every fucking thrust’s mine,” he growled, biting her shoulder, leaving a mark, thrusts slow, possessive, desk shuddering, her body jolting, pleasure building. He pulled her up, spinning her, lifting her, her hand squeezing his tight, a silent vow, then pressing her against the wall, breath knocked out, gasping, core dripping. “You’d let me fuck you anywhere, wouldn’t you?” he growled, biting her ear, thrusting slow, deliberate, wall shuddering, mirrors reflecting, pleasure raw.

He smacked her ass again, sharp, her yell loud, core tightening, pleasure surging, moaning, feral. His hand stayed on her neck, eyes locked, trusting, moaning, wild. He carried her to the mirror, pausing, his hand brushing her cheek, grounding their heat, then pressing her against it, glass cold, gasping, core slick, needing him. “Look at us, babygirl, taking me so fucking good,” he growled, thrusting deep, slow, glass fogging, breath mixing, slick, real, her reflection showing wild eyes, parted lips, his muscles flexing, claiming her.

He paused, holding deep, making her gasp, core throbbing, desperate. His hand grazed her cheek, slapping lightly, stinging, her moan sharp, core clenching, pleasure spiking, trusting him. “Taking it like my good slut, huh?” he growled, biting her neck, leaving a mark, thrusting slow, deliberate, glass trembling, pleasure building, her moans loud, raw.

She clawed his back, nails digging, scratching deep, bleeding, pushing him, moaning, core tight, pleasure overwhelming. “Joe, fuck, I can’t—” she gasped, hips rocking, chasing it, eyes locked, trusting. “You fucking will,” he growled, lips grazing, thrusting deep, slow, building, loud, real. He shifted, easing her to the floor, glass crunching, her back on the hardwood, legs spread, hands pinning her wrists, bruising, thrusting steady, beard scraping, biting her chest, sharp, core tight, moaning, loud.

He slowed, grinding deep, making her whimper, core pulsing, every thrust drawn out, deliberate. “Say you’re mine, babygirl,” he growled, biting her lip, stinging, moving slow, bruising, floor creaking, mirrors reflecting their chaos. “Yours, Joe,” she yelled, rocking, core tight, trusting, breaking. He thrust deep, floor shuddering, glass biting, pleasure raw, slick, messy.

He pulled her up, back to the desk, bending her over, hands tied behind with his belt, bruising, thrusting slow, deep, beard scraping, biting her back, sharp, core tight, moaning, loud. “Feel every inch, baby, you’re mine,” he growled, hand grazing her hip, thrusting steady, pleasure building, her moans raw, trusting.

She came again, screaming, convulsing, squirting, vision gone, core pulsing, nails scraping wood, yelling, echoing, flushed, raw, dripping, messy, the crowd outside roaring, a wave crashing with her peak. Pleasure hit like a tidal wave, trusting, surrendering, bound forever, loud, slick. He growled, her climax hitting him, thrusting slow, grounding, losing it, core tight, ready.

He eased her through, gentle, sensitive, every touch sharp, whimpering, raw. Kissing soft, beard grazing, core pulsing, breath rough. Her hands, freed, hit his chest, feeling him, stirring him, groaning, ready. “Keep going, Joe,” she gasped, eyes fierce, pushing him, craving more.

He growled, lifting her, legs around him, pressing her against the mirror, glass cold, gasping, core dripping, needing him. “Still so fucking needy, huh?” he growled, thrusting slow, deep, glass fogging, breath mixing, slick, real. He moved deliberately, hand on her neck, firm, gasping, core clenching, moaning, trusting. “All mine, babygirl, scream it,” he growled, biting her lip, stinging, thrusting steady, bruising, glass trembling, pleasure building, loud, raw.

“Yours, Joe,” she yelled, rocking, core tight, trusting, breaking. He thrust deep, glass shuddering, mirrors reflecting, pleasure raw, slick, messy. He unraveled, eyes locked, pleasure crashing, grounding them. “Nyomi,” he roared, thrusting slow, deep, scorching, echoing. He came, yelling, pulsing, head on her shoulder, breath ragged, raw, trusting, mirrors showing them, real, dripping, messy.

Their heat consumed the pain—Heyman’s betrayal, Punk’s deal, Rollins’ taunts—forging something solid, anchoring them. Trust, hunger, loyalty bound them, cutting through the hurt, raw, in the wreckage.

The fire cooled, his hands softening, cradling her cheek, thumb brushing, keeping them close. They slumped, foreheads pressed, breaths syncing, sweaty, hearts pounding. The suite was a warzone—glass, gear, banners, air thick, proof of their blaze.

He spoke low, rough, grateful. “You’re all I got,” heavy, searching her eyes, finding calm, steadying him.

She smiled, brushing his hair back, firm. “You got more,” her hand on his chest, feeling his heart, grounding them. “You’re still the man, Joe. Punk, Rollins—they don’t take that. Paul’s lost, but he’ll see.”

They sank to the floor, her head on his shoulder, curls loose, warm. Her hand clasped his, promising, unwavering. “Mania’s coming,” he said, steadier, eyes forward. “Gonna show them. No Paul, no Bloodline—just me.”

“Me,” she said, grip tight, fueling him, solid. “Not alone.”

He smirked, soft, a glimpse of old Joe. “Stubborn,” he teased, thumb grazing her knuckles, tender, their bond ironclad.

They plotted—countering Punk, outsmarting Rollins, claiming his legacy, The Shield’s true story. Their trust, passion, loyalty sharpened him, a weapon for the fight.

They stood, he pulled her close, kissing soft, promising—Mania, battles, them together. Mirrors reflected warriors, eyes locked, hands clasped, a vow. The road was brutal, but with her, he was unstoppable, his empire reborn.

🏷️@pittieprincess22 @trippinsorrows @zoeroxiie @beccalynns-world @duhitzkay380

@keyera-jackson @li-da-savage @sharmelasworld @jaded-human @lov3rla03

@justazzi @fearlesschimera @tribalqueen20 @skyesthebomb @chrissyxcxox

@reginawhorge01 @sheaabuttaababyy @purplementalitybluebird @trentybenty @isabella-2025

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earlgreylatte · 5 months ago

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These characters are the same, if you like one, you will undoubtedly like them all, it’s insane. Like this is an actual character category! Someone make a triple venn diagram because the similarities are??

Nickname is ‘Johnny’ (Ted called Booster ‘Johnny Boy’ when he was reviving him in JLI!)

Objectively hot!!

Been married and divorced (bit more complex with Torch…)

Known attention whores

CARS (Boostermobile and both Johnnys’ love for expensive cars!!)

Their little canon action figures are very cute

In love with their best friend/bromance

Commonly seen as superficial but they really do care about the people in their lives and have put their lives on the line to protect people

And Boostle and Spideytorch are literally the same ship, I’m actually crying. Dumbass but actually smart, pretty boy blond man with their brunette, tech genius, buggy best friend?? Period where one was dead and/or presumed dead and haunts both the narrative and character?? Roommates at one point?? Literally only exists in comics and no media outside of it (expect TTG and that one BBATB episode for the former)?? Literally so many panels of them having actual bf/pining behaviour, sometimes more than the canon couples??

In other words, they are my type.

(Edit: Also both Peter and Ted have a thing for redheads, parallel each other with their deaths and successors, and were created by Dikto, like these two characters are variants of each other lol!)

(Edit 2: Because I keep thinking of more similarities: have somehow been both broke and ceos at one point, an uncle that changed the directory of their lives, and the death of someone they loved and respected directly pushing them into the hero world. I remember this podcast clip on tiktok, and they were saying they couldn’t think of who the dc equivalent of spiderman is, and they offered up green lantern, like bro😭)

#booster gold #michael jon carter #johnny storm #johnny cage #michael jon carter x reader #booster gold x reader #johnny storm x reader #human torch x reader #johnny cage x reader #boostle #spideytorch #dc x reader #marvel x reader #the only pic of torch with a thumbs up is of chris evans lol #fantastic four #mortal kombat

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after-witch · 1 year ago

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Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2 [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Cream and Sugar [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: A fateful meeting at a bookstore between you and Ren Hana, years upon years after your escape from Strade, turns into a coffee shop date. You're not supposed to accept drinks from strangers, but Ren's not a stranger--so it's fine, right?

Word count: 5,322

notes: yandere, descriptions of violence/death/wounds, drugging

AO3 LINK

How did one get over something like Strade? Get over that house and that basement? How do you move on with your life when you’ve seen someone’s guts spill out of their body while they’re still alive, and you’ve been instructed to pick them up and play with them for the delight of sick fucks watching it all on a paid stream?

The pretty answer, the one everyone recites when asked, because that’s what you do: with therapy and time and forgiveness for yourself. You take it one day at a time. You treat yourself.

The real answer: You didn’t. You don’t. You can’t.

Not fully. Because “getting over” something like that means it will eventually no longer affect you, no longer being a part of you.

And sure. You will, eventually, go about something that feels like an ordinary life.

You will walk into a grocery store with a tidy little list, you will roll your eyes at the rising cost of laundry detergent, you will smile at a cashier who says they like your outfit. You will date and drink coffee and sway to your favorite song while making dinner.

But inside, inside of you , you are still there--still hovering at the last step of the basement stairs, listening to someone’s guttural shrieks as their skin is blow-torch melted down. Still clinging to Ren in the middle of the night, flinching when his hands wander over a recent gouge, a hastily stitched cut--an accident, he whispers, and you’re never sure if you believe him.

And that is what happened to you.

It took years, of course, to even get close to that semblance of normalcy. A few years were spent in feverish hiding, running from place to place with no paper trails that might lead some gorehound that subscribed to Strade’s torture porn sniffing at your door, hungry for more.

But you settled down, in time. Slowly. Bit by bit, piece by piece, inch by inch.

That took years, too--the settling.

It started with staying in an apartment for more than three months at a time. It started with going to the grocery store wearing only sunglasses, instead of sunglasses, a wig, and the most nondescript clothing you could fish out of a bargain bin. It started with applying for real jobs, not just seedy work that paid cash, quick.

It ended here, in this quaint little home that you shared with your husband for the past five years, though you’d lived together for longer. It ended here, with a modest marketing career that you’d built up after going back to college. It ended here, with a life you built for yourself; frail and a bit unorthodox, but a life nonetheless.

You wouldn’t have been able to survive, if you hadn’t adapted. There is only so much terror the human man can manage before breaking entirely, and so--adaptation.

It was a gift that your husband didn’t mind your… differences. The heavy insistence on home security, the desire for privacy, the slow way you gave trust to strangers--if you gave it at all.

Some things did bother him. He grumbled about your lack of social media presence, and you’d once had an awful fight when his sister put a photo of you on Facebook that you’d demanded, in furious tears, be taken down.

But, deep down, it wasn’t like you could blame your husband for bucking against your near tantrum-like reaction. For the way he sometimes sighed as you locked the front door with triple locks, and an electric sensor. For the way his jaw sometimes set, when you did something that wasn’t normal to anyone who hadn’t been the extended torture victim of a serial killer that doubled as a snuff porn producer.

Because you knew--deeper down--that you were still haunted by the ghosts in that basement. Strade and the torture victims and Ren and yourself, shaking like a leaf, bleeding onto concrete. You knew, even if the man you slept beside in a bed every night had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the way you were before.

But.

And there’s always a but, isn’t there?

But… that was okay. It was okay that you could never go back; it was okay that you were someone new; it was okay that you weren’t okay, and you’d never be okay in the fullest sense of the word.

Your life was a life you created out of shaking fingers, something clawed out with dirty fingernails. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

What more could you ask for, after Strade?

What more could you ask for, after anything ?

Books are a vice. More than smoking, more than sex. You could give up sex, you could swear you’ll never buy another pack of smokes, but you could never give up books.

Okay, okay. You’re being over dramatic and theatrical. But how can you think of books as anything other than a sinful pleasure when you’re surrounded by these shelves and stacks, imagining that one day you can afford an extension on your home and dedicate an entire room (or two--why not, in a daydream?) solely to books?

You’re not even supposed to be here today. It was your day off, and your calendar was packed to the brim with mundane errands. Today’s schedule certainly didn’t leave room for indulgently browsing at a bookstore, but sometimes you just have to live a little, don’t you?

Although if you come home with yet another bag of books, your husband is bound to shove his face into the nearest couch cushion and scream. But c’mon. It wasn’t your fault that you’d long since run out of shelf space and were prone to stuffing the books into boxes that cluttered the closests.

Your fingers wander over the spines of the books crammed onto the shelves, catching the uneven mismatched spaces between with every dip. The spines are often worn and weathered, some of them even peeling a little.

This was why you preferred secondhand bookstores. No neat lines of fresh new books set up to catch the eye and make a sale here. No, instead there were countless books shoved together with no care for size or color or sometimes (depending on who was stocking that day) even genre.

For instance, today you find a battered paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King right next to a suspiciously pristine How to Keep Your House from Drowning that probably still has an uncracked spine. That poor soul, with a messy house. Maybe they should have read the book.

You’re about to keep moving when, on second thought: Your partner might get a kick out of finding that book on his nightstand. Or he’ll chuck it at your head (lovingly) for bringing it into the house. It’s a 50/50 gamble that you’re willing to take.

And so you go to pull it out, a private little grin on your face, just as another hand reaches across for Carrie.

Fingers and elbows bump together and you feel that slight flush of awkward embarrassment rush to your cheeks as you sputter out, “Sorry!” Your voice even goes up an octave, an annoying habit that you’ve been trying to train out of yourself.

The stranger pulls away and mutters their own low apology. They sound just as awkward as you, which makes you feel a little better, at least, so you turn to look at them and offer an embarrassed smile and you think, briefly, maybe you’ll grab Carrie for them or cheekily ask if they were going for the cleaning book--

But when you turn to look at them, all thoughts and cheek are snuffed out.

Not because the man in front of you is wearing a nicely tailored business suit and matching fedora hat; a dark gray complimented by a muted burgundy tie. Like he’s off to a meeting or comes from a big city where such outfits are often found in shops and cafes during lunch hours.

Not because the man in front of you is attractive, with red hair with a bit of ever so slightly silver sticking out from underneath his hat; his cologne, soft but spicy, tickles your nose.

But because the man in front of you is Ren.

Older, yes. His hair and face peppered with signs of time, just like yours. There are scars on his face that you remember--some etched onto his flesh right in front of you, and some from that gray area of before, when Strade had yet to take you--and some you don’t.

Your body is lead, your throat is closed up. Speech and movement are now foreign, unknowable things, because Ren is standing right in front of you.

It takes you a moment to shake it off; no, two moments. No, three.

And then you can finally speak, although the word comes out hoarse and whispered, like every ounce of spit in your mouth vanished the instant you saw him. Perhaps it did.

“ Ren ?”

He blinks. His eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing. For a terrible moment, you find yourself thrown back down the basement steps, when knowing the difference between Strade’s brows furrowing in annoyance or amusement could mean the difference between the degree of your upcoming burns.

And then his expression opens, widens, just enough for you to recognize that he knows who you are now and you’re here, in a bookshop, decades on; not there, not in the basement, where you left Strade’s corpse to rot.

Ren--for he is Ren, and you know it--lifts his hat, his lips turning up in a smile that makes your heart twist painfully, and shows just the bottom edges of his ears in greeting.

He says your name and your ears ring, high and tinny. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a cashier standing at the till rearranging trinkets while clearly spying on whatever bit of vaguely interesting gossip this might turn into during their lunch break.

You had, in truth, imagined this moment before. Countless times. Usually at night, though you weren’t terribly picky; a long trip on a bus, head pressed against the window glass, was also a great time for such thoughts.

You’d imagined finding Ren some day, in many different ways.

In some fantasies, you look him up in the phonebook (a stupid idea fit only for a fantasy, because Ren would never put himself out there like that, just as you hadn’t) and give him a call and meet up at a park and you apologize until your lungs stop working. In another, you run into him somewhere else, a store or park; a coincidence just like this one. In still others, he finds you, offering to meet in a public space because he knows you’d be scared and he wants you to be comfortable and Ren would definitely think of things like that, considering your shared experiences.

In your daydreams, you had a speech prepared. It was always moving, of course. It culminated in a soft, unbearably sweet hug where the two of you squeezed out the pain from the preceding decades and parted in mutual understanding. Maybe with each other’s phone numbers on slips of paper.

But those were daydreams. This is real life.

In real life, your throat feels closed up; your eyes burn with hot tears that want to spill out, and everything from your chest to your cheeks feels hot and swollen. In real life, it is not the daydreams but your nightmares that worm their way into your brain: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still--even this far down the line) where he hates you, where he tells you that you left him there like he’s nothing, where he throws back all your whispered conversations in the dark back in your face.

In real life, you can only stammer out, expecting the nightmarish worst: “Ren. I’m s…sorry. I’m sorry . I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have --”

Ren raises his hand; his brows furrow again. He says your name, once, twice. Softer. Gentler.

“It’s okay,” he says, low. You don’t know if he means that it’s okay that you left him (it isn’t, is it?) or that it’s going to be okay or that he’s okay or--

Ren must sense your upcoming lack of steady breathing, because he places one steady hand on your shoulder. The way he used to do, when you started thinking about the fact that you were going to die in that house, and it would be an awful death, and the thought of it made you want to tear into your own skin.

It brings you back down to the ground, which only makes you want to cry for a different reason.

Ren’s face has a touch of sticky pity on it when he smiles at you.

“Why don’t we go somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

You are sitting in a coffee shop across the way from a fox man who used to be tortured with you in the basement of a serial killer's home that doubled as a snuff film studio. There are people around you, but they might as well be invisible, be nothing at all.

Because every nerve in your body is focused squarely on Ren, sitting in front of you with a muted awkward expression as the pair of you wait silently for the barista to call up your order.

Neither of you have spoken since you sat down.

Sweat is beginning to stick to your neck, but you don’t want to move without warning--don’t want to startle Ren. If you do, maybe he’ll run off, and… no. He wouldn’t run off now. You can tell. He’s not like he used to be, and neither are you.

There are decades between you, and yet--and yet that thread is still there, isn’t it? You could never fully cut it. Maybe it pulled, instead. Pulled and pulled and eventually lost all of its slack on this unassuming afternoon, when the two of you met again in a bookstore. Reaching for books with cracked and weathered spines, lines creasing over the paper like scars on the skin.

Your scars. His scars.

How many times have you traced over the marks on your skin? How many times has he? Maybe he didn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was in a much better space than you, and that’s why he looks so awkward and you feel like your heart is about to pound right out of its chest. Because he’s moved on and you, stupid thing, just woke up in the basement in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

His shoulders straighten; you imagine, under his hat, that his ears have perked. For a moment,, a familiar sensation washes through you. Danger. He’s coming down the stairs and it’s going to hurt.

But Strade is dead. And you are alive, and Ren is alive, and his attention only raised because the barista set both of your coffees down on the counter. Nothing more than that.

Slowly, the world seems like it regains its normal gravity. The sweat clinging to your neck feels silly and not ominous. You can breathe, and the world of the coffee shop seems to settle around you like it would have on any other day.

“I’ll get them,” Ren says, quietly, eyeing you with wariness–like he’s the one worried about you bolting. Fuck. He’s probably right to think that; a moment ago, you might have been the one to run.

Ren pauses after he stands up, and there’s something soft and sad in his eyes when he looks at you. Part of you thinks he’s about to say that he’s going to leave, that this was a mistake. But instead, his lips curl and the softest of smiles, and he asks:

“You still like cream and sugar?”

Oh.

“Yes,” you say, automatically. But you don’t. Not anymore. Tastebuds change and you drink it black with no cream, when you do bother to drink it. It’s not worth correcting, and you don’t. You just watch as he grabs both cups and heads over to the counter on the far side of the coffee shop, where there’s oodles of sugars (and sugar substitutes); creamers; and little tins of milk to add to your drink.

Then your phone vibrates, and the “fuck!” that comes out of your mouth is involuntary. It was about the time that you should have been heading home, bookstore stop notwithstanding. What were you going to say to him? That you’d run into someone from your past that used to get tortured with you? That you remember what Ren looks like when his flesh is sliced into and pulled apart?

You heading home? Took ground beef out for dinner. Tacos?

Your thumb hovers over the phone screen. You’re going to lie. You already know that. Even if you were ready to tell him about your past, it would not be like this. Even you, not particularly attuned to mobile etiquette, knew it was better to confess something like this in person. Although the temptation to confess it all and add silly emojis to punctuate the gritty details was very strong.

Ran into an old friend , you type, finally. They want to hang out a bit. Tacos are fine, don’t wait up! Xoxoxo.

It feels so normal. And that’s okay, isn’t it? That you’re being normal right now. It’s a sign that you’ve come so far, if anything. And you’ll take any of those signs that you can manage to get, so when the text comes in–

Can’t wait to hear about it!

I don’t guarantee there will be tacos left.

Kidding.

… Maybe.

–you let that normalcy wash over you, and it helps you settle as Ren returns, coffee mugs in hand.

His expression is lighter, too. He probably notices the weight off your shoulders, the way you’re trying to look interested and perhaps even excited to see him, rather than looking like you’re about to throw up on a half-empty stomach.

He slides your mug across the table and you can tell at a glance that it’s going to be sweet. A hesitant sip, your tongue curling back from the warmth and inevitable sugar, confirms it. Milky and creamy, just like you used to take it.

“Do you live around here?” Ren asks, taking a sip from his own mug.

Such an average question. It’s almost enough to make you snort. Really, you should be asking him when he got out of that basement and whether or not he ever thought about cutting you open and if he still had dreams, like you did.

Instead, he’s asking something you might ask an old high school friend that you haven’t seen in twenty years.

Fuck. What a world you live in.

Maybe he senses your thoughts. Maybe the two of you really are in tune from what you went through together. Because he cracks a smile, the edge of a sharp tooth showing. And then the smile spreads and turns into a little chuckle. It’s not the giggling snort he would sometimes fall into at the house. It’s something older and more reserved, but that shouldn’t surprise you. You’re the same way.

You take another sip of the coffee. It really is too sweet. That’s how you took it at the house, though. It was better to drown your sorrows in creamer and packets of sugar–pilfered from diners that Strade went to, sometimes to scope for victims–than mope about them all the time.

“I really am curious,” he says, voice light. “If you’re okay with telling me.” Something different in his tone. Offense, maybe? God, it’s strange, being on the lookout for what someone’s tone really means again.

But it’s just Ren. You shouldn’t be so worried about it.

“It’s fine,” you say, just as light. “Yeah, maybe about half an hour away? I have a little house…”

Ren’s eyebrows raise. Not in surprise, exactly. But in interest. It relieves you, just a little, that he didn’t let out some sarcastic remark about having your own place away from him.

“Do you have a garden?” He asks. “You always did talk about getting one.”

A twinge in your heart. Bittersweet and old. Sometimes at night, when the two of you were allowed to curl up together, you would talk about a fantasy world. A world where you never came here; where you’d be and what you’d do. Sometimes, you’d be in a pretty little cottage with a pretty little garden in a pretty little town.

Well. Your garden is pretty, even if your house isn’t an adorable cottage and you live at the edge of sprawling suburbs where you have to drive 20 minutes to get to anything useful. Close enough?

You tell him about it. The house and the garden. You even tell him about your partner, and maybe his smile does quirk down a little, then. But you could be imagining it.

“Do you have kids?” Ren asks, next. If he were anyone else, it would be a mundane question--the kind you ask every couple who's been together a while. In Ren, it feels different. Serious. Sincere. He tilts his head a little, taking another sip of his coffee, which prompts you to do the same.

Kids. Hah. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed your mind. But it didn’t happen. For a lot of reasons, it didn’t happen. Mind and body and the basement worked against you, and maybe there was a part of you that was afraid to bring anything into the world, because you knew it could be taken away. Taken to someone’s basement and hurt and hurt and hurt –

Ren says your name.

Ren’s hand is on yours.

You glance down at his hand–see a familiar scar, see that your hand underneath his is curled up and tense–and then look up at his face.

Oh, the passing of time.

“Me neither,” he says, softly. Like he knows why you didn’t and couldn’t, and maybe he was the same way.

It hurts too much to think about. So you clear your throat and slowly pull your hand away, letting it rest on the now cooling mug of coffee. You take another swig, despite it not being to your taste anymore. Ren really did put in a lot of creamer.

“What about you?”

His head tilts, almost slow, almost curious.

“Me?”

He blinks.

You blink back.

“Do you live around here?”

A smile–an Ahhh sort of smile.

“No,” he says, simply. He shakes his head. “I travel a lot.” He nods his head. “For business.”

“Oh,” you say. “What sort of business?”

A flicker in his gaze. Something sharp and familiar. It’s gone too soon to matter.

“This and that,” is all he says.

And there’s a strange sort of realization in your head. A fuzziness that seems to spread right to your scalp. This is all too casual, too normal. It’s not at all what it was supposed to be, when you met. Asking about homes and gardens and kids and what you do for work; fuck, you two had been tortured together. Had watched people die. Had helped other people die.

This should have been about more than banal pleasantries. This should have been about reconnecting. About that thread between the two of you that couldn’t be cut, even now.

Maybe it’s that fuzziness in your scalp and maybe it’s the lurching of your heart, but you reach out your hand again towards Ren; your hand and your heart reaching and aching –

“Why did you run that day?” Soft and to the point. All the years have led to this question.

The question drops your hand straight to the table. The thud feels harder than it sounds. What ease your heart had mellowed to earlier melts away entirely, and you can feel adrenaline beginning to pump, your heart pounding and racing. Your ears hurt.

Why did you run? It’s the question you wanted him to ask, isn’t it? The question that would lead to your big sappy explanation and apology and the sentimental hug before you two parted ways, perhaps with phone numbers in your pockets?

But now that Ren is real again; now that he’s here, lines around his eyes and a touch of silver in his hair, you don’t know how to answer.

You ran because you were scared. Scared of people from Strade’s fucked up streams finding you in that house. Scared of Strade’s corpse rotting in the basement. Scared, too, of Ren. Of being chained to him, or by him, and you could never be sure which was more likely.

You ran because you weren’t strong enough to face whatever was left behind for you in that fucking house.

Thickness lodges in your throat but you swallow against it. This is not a daydream. This is real life. And you have to own up to what you did now.

“Ren, I–”

The words don’t come, because the world suddenly spins. The fuzziness prickling on your scalp, your ears ringing, your heart going too fast–this has all been too much for you, you should have known that. There are brief thoughts–heart attack, stroke, fuck, fuck, FUCK–and then Ren’s hand is gripping your upper arm so you don’t fall out of the chair.

“Are you okay?” Your vision is clear enough to see the concern in his face. His brows furrow together and he looks around, telling someone– ”Yes, I'm going to get her home” --and you’re about to tell him not to take you to the hospital because your insurance has a high deductible for the emergency room when another dizzy spell hits you, and you’d rather be in debt than dead.

“Should I call an ambulance?” He asks, voice low, calming. Your mind latches onto it. You’re not alone, it’s going to be okay. Someone is here to take care of you, and if you have to go to the emergency room, well, it couldn't have happened at a better time.

Ambulances cost too much money, though, and Ren

“Could you drive me?” Even as you talk, you know something’s wrong. The words come out too slow, a little slurry. Almost like you’re drunk.

Ren starts to shake his head and your dizzy self makes a pitiful sound.

You swear you can see Ren’s ears twitching underneath his hat. You don’t have the presence of mind to think about why–where and when he’s heard that pitiful whimper before–so you just cling to him as he gently pulls you out of your chair.

He grabs your purse and carefully leads you out of the shop. Someone holds the door open, and he tells them that you’re going to the emergency room, thank you for the concern. Your head swims and you might mumble thank you to them, too, but you’re not entirely sure. Are you dying? Is it a stroke? Will the last thing you texted the love of your life be about dinner? It’s funny in that awful, delirious sort of way.

“Ren?” You ask, helpless. You’re holding onto him as tightly as you can, but your fingers feel fuzzy. Your whole body feels fuzzy, actually. Heavy and strange. Drunk and leaden.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you into my car, all right?”

You don’t have the presence of mind to wonder why his car is already out on the curb, running, with a driver in the front seat. You aren’t coherent enough to think about things like that; but then, even before you drank the coffee cup laced with a sedative, you didn’t notice the black car following the pair of you down the road to the coffee shop.

You didn’t notice it follow you to the bookstore, either, nor did you give it a second glance when it pulled out of the lot after you stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few miscellaneous items.

You really had lost your touch after all these years.

Ren grips you carefully while he opens the back door to the car. It’s roomy, expensive. Clean black leather seats that probably don’t show stains. Up front, a driver sits, wearing a hat and sunglasses and a uniform.

There’s a brief thought–Jesus, what does Ren do for a living to afford this?--before Ren is helping you crawl into the backseat.

The movement only makes you dizzier, and you’re telling the person in the front seat, whoever they are, that you need to get to the nearest hospital please.

They don’t even turn to look at you. It’s strange. But then Ren is there in the backseat with you, and you’re mumbling the same thing to him. Rattling off your symptoms–dizzy, fuzzy, confused, tingling hands. You try to remember the test for a stroke but can’t.

Ren smiles at you.

Why is he smiling? That thought comes through loud and clear, but it doesn’t stick for very long.

“Ren,” you say, slurring. “The hospital, the nearest one is… I think it’s… you have to…”

And those words, difficult as they are to get out, slowly drop away. Because while your mind is not capable of many things right now, it is capable of registering something unusual.

Ren.

He doesn’t look worried anymore. No more concern furrowing his brow, no more softness.

Instead, he looks pleased. There’s a smug smile on his face, and you’ve seen it before, but it’s older now. Wiser. Less impulsive and more assured.

A cat–a fox–that caught the canary. And you, what little remains of your logical mind tells you, are one dumb bird.

And he knows that you know. Because he jerks his chin at the driver in the front, who must press some kind of button; the doors lock. Loud. Hard. Your numb hands fumble for the door handle but no matter how much you try to shove the door open, it doesn’t budge.

You're locked in.

“Back to the hotel for now,” Ren says. Not to you. To the driver. Who–to your horror–begins to pull away from the curb.

“Oh, no–” You try to scream. It’s not quite loud enough. Not quite sharp enough. but maybe someone can see you, even through the tinted windows. Or they’ll hear you and tell someone, who will maybe tell someone else, who might call the cops. If you’re lucky.

Ren’s hand cups your mouth firmly.

“Don’t waste your energy, you’ll need it soon.” The hand moves from your lips to your cheek, resting there. The look in Ren’s eyes is blurry–whatever he drugged you with is making it hard to focus–but you recognize bits of it, because you felt the same damn thing.

The awful mixture of nostalgia, regret and ache.

Maybe if you explain everything. Tell him why you ran. Apologize like hell. You won’t be hugging after this, but you won't be drugged up (what did he give you?) in the back of his car, either.

“Ren– the hous e–I ran–I–let me explain, it–”

Ren’s hand trails back to your mouth. The sharp edges of his nails graze against your nose.

“Hush. We’ll talk about all that later.”

Later?

Oh, fuck –

There’s an awful, stabbing pain in your thigh–you look down and see Ren pulling away a syringe with a bright silver needle.

Ren–you try to say his name, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Your lips gape and close and words no longer form.

Your head is swimming now, all highs and lows, dipping and rising over waves that never seem to end. It’s like you're falling asleep in the worst way, hard and rocky.

Like you’re falling backwards down the basement stairs.

Ren’s voice is the last thing you hear before you black out.

“Sweet dreams.”

#the price of flesh #boyfriend to death #ren hana #ren hana x reader #tpof x reader #afterwitch writes #thank you voice to text you saved my marriage. i mean my fic. same thing.#i feel like I'm aiming for... 4 chapters? Maybe 5. Definitely 4 though.

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mxtantrights · 4 months ago

Text

Beggin' on my knees, baby won't you please

paring: Johnny Storm x fem!reader a/n: okayyyy so like I watched the trailer like everyone else and remembered how much of a crush I had on the human torch. and I would say that while writing this I could envision both the new and old castings so you can read it as who you want! I might come back to this with another piece or two. (I write with a black reader in mind but this piece doesn't specify race, only gender)

Johnny Storm has stopped at almost nothing to get you to go on a date with him. He's persistent, he's flirty, and most dangerously he's not too far off from his goal.

You had been Sue's intern since you took her class a couple of years ago at the university. She had seen in you what she knew she had in herself when she was a student. The grit, the knowledge and the courage to ask why.

She took you under her wing fairly quickly. You found her to be more of a friend than a boss. She always listened to your ideas, though she never played favorites. And she valued your input on important things.

Such as the specs for the flight she, Reed, Ben, and Johnny would be on in the coming months.

You don't really have time to be going on dates with anyone, let alone with Johnny, when you were going to be sending him along with the others into space. It kept you up at night sometimes. If your calculations were triple checked. If you had tested every hypothetical.

That is why for the past week you've been avoiding Johnny. If you see him in the caf, you go the other way and get lunch from outside. If you see him hanging around your lab you wait him out. You're quick to leave with the other workers so he won't offer you a ride.

It's been going well.

Up until now.

You manage to take another peek into the lab. The glass window that appears across from your desk. And there he is. He's sitting in your rolling chair, waiting for you. He's playing with some sort of pen. rolling it between his fingers.

If you avoided him now, he would know for sure. And you have to get to work on a quick fix on confirming the materials needed for the rocket's fins.

With about as much confidence as a cactus in a ballon party. You roll your shoulders back and tug down the white coat that shrouds you. Then you walk over to the door.

As if he's got a heightened sense, he looks up at you as you step through the threshold. You duck your head down and walk over to him. On his face is a growing smirk.

He leans back in the chair, leaning a bit, meaning he totally un-stabilized it. You'll have to re-stabilize it once he's gone.

"Where've you been?" he asks.

You huff a bit at that. As you make it over to your desk you see that's he's rearranged some stuff. You make to move past him but he just rolls with you.

"Johnny, I've been around." you answer finally.

"I know, but just not around me. Which is a same." he pouts.

You chortle, "Oh my god. You can't be serious with that one."

"About as serious as you avoiding me, Specs." he says.

You rolls your eyes. There goes that nickname. To this day you still don't understand why he calls you that. You don't wear your glasses all the time. So what gives?

"I'm just trying to get everything right, Johnny. You are going to space in a few months." you explain.

Johnny opens his legs wider and rolls the chair closer to you. At this angle he's looking right up at you. It's warm and fucking dizzying and you have to remind yourself that even though it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the lab, there are other people here. Your coworkers. His coworkers.

Sue's coworkers.

"I know, but I miss seeing my favorite girl." he admits.

And it shouldn't like it does when he says it. Like he's sharing a secret with you in the middle of the night. Like he's telling you something that is treasured and safe. If only you could tell your stomach that.

"I want you to get to and from space safety, Johnny. If I hang out with you I'll worry myself about it." you confess.

Johnny nods his head, "Okay give me a day then."

"A day for what?" you ask.

"A day where that stress is less. A day where you don't itch to be sitting at this desk and working out things in that beautiful mind of yours." he continues.

The truth is there is no day that is less stressful for you. At several points in each day since this project was announced and your name was attached, you've felt the stress of it. While cooking dinner at home. While doing laundry. While trying to get sleep so that you could get to work.

It's always there.

It's going to be there until the crew comes home from space.

You can't let Johnny know that. He has his own things to worry about. You would hate to add to his plate.

"Sunday." you answer simply.

He nods his head again. And with a smile he gets up from his seat in your chair. It's slow and agonizing how he seems to go from looking up at you to being eye level with you. His gaze never leaving yours as he does.

"I'll see you Sunday." he adds.

#marvel x reader #Johnny storm x reader #Johnny storm imagine #Johnny storm #f4 #fantastic four #marvel imagine #marvel

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vcreatures · 1 year ago

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The Cranial Hacksaw Drake is small but formidable and arguably just as fearsome as any goliath of the skies.

While it’s name is fearsome in it’s own right the act by which it gets it’s name is far worst. Alone, this 4inch dragon isn’t much to fear, however in it’s large familial flocks it is an apex predator. These little drakes are capable of taking down prey that are triple it’s own size. With a powerful bite it will latch onto it’s pray. The serrated barbs that run down its body become lodged, the deeper it bites, making them nearly impossible to remove. With familial swarms that can number in the double digits these little drakes can feed their entire swarm off of one kill. They are a particular menace for farmers as they have a liking for bovines and swine and while not known to feed on humans there has been documented cases of human casualties. Family units typically roost in caves which are typically torched on site if discovered.

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astro-can · 1 month ago

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random canon facts about Percy Jackson that I want the fandom to be more aware of/emphasize more on when making fanfiction and fanart (and I just think that these are funny and need to be more widely known):

Percy pisses his pants. Like a lot. He's got a low tolerance for keeping his bladder in check when he faces scary things.

Percy is fit and athletic, but he doesn't have as many muscles as you probably think he does. (grover was not impressed when he saw Percy shirtless in the wrath of the triple goddess). To quote Percy, "I'm a swimmer, not a bodybuilder."

Percy gets emotional and a teary-eyed a lot. He's cried several times in the series (as much as he denies it). He cried when he found out that his mom was pregnant. He cried when he found poor little Nope injured and dirty. Etc, etc. And honestly they were all very justified reasons to cry.

Percy is very, very bad at singing. Annabeth is also very, very bad at singing.

Percy has less stamina/endurance than Annabeth. Annabeth held up the sky for much longer than Percy, and she was also able to use Hecate's torches for a longer time than Percy, who conked out pretty quickly after using the torches. He also gets drained pretty quick after using his demigod abilities unless he's near water. Nevertheless, he's got more endurance than your average mortal/demigod (he made it through Tartarus after all)

Percy is genuinely a good person. "But astro, everyone knows that!!" yeah, but it's one of his biggest personality traits that rarely gets acknowledged (from what i've seen). Percy's character gets dumbed down to "sassy, sarcastic guy who looks scary and attractive and loves Annabeth" or "really really scary guy who scares even the gods and only Annabeth is able to talk to him without getting killed (which is false)" etc etc when his empathy and kindness is arguably one of the biggest factors that makes up his character. He empathized with Geras (god of old age) and literally gave him a hug even though he was about to die. He empathized with Hecuba's loss and Gale's tragic life and was able to connect with them after learning about their story and earn their trust by helping them. He also did a risky favor for Eudora by appealing to Hecate about reopening the magic school. He's helped a lot of demigods, like Hazel, Frank, Leo, Annabeth, Nico, etc etc. Yeah, he made some mistakes when he was younger, but he was a kid with a huge responsibility on his shoulders and he tried his best. He matured a lot in those years, though. He's good at making people feel better. He's just a good guy in general. Even Artemis says so. Maybe it's because a lot of fanfics are romance centered that I don't see a lot of kind and helpful Percy (only sarcastic and mildly annoying Percy) in the fandom.

PERCY IS SMART!!! PERCY IS SMART!!!

Percy is good at chopping vegetables and he can quote Shakespeare (Sparknotes, to be exact, but shhh)

There's probably more but i'm blanking at the moment so that's it for now bye guys

#percy jackson #pjo #annabeth chase #hoo #nico di angelo #sally jackson #grover underwood #the wrath of the triple goddess #chalice of the gods

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 1 year ago

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Lana Del Rey - High by the Beach 2015

"High by the Beach" is a song recorded by American singer Lana Del Rey and the first single from her fourth studio album, Honeymoon. Lyrically, "High by the Beach" is a self-assured kiss-off torch song containing several lyrical themes, including self-deprecation, nihilism, independence, and indolence. A representation of the challenges of staying in love, it specifically details Del Rey being worn down by life and love, and in turn seeking sweet escape near the ocean to enjoy recreational drug use.

The song debuted at number 51 on the Billboard Hot 100 a week after its release, spending three weeks on the chart altogether. It also ranked at number 89 in Triple J's Hottest 100 songs of 2015 in Australia. Rolling Stone ranked "High By the Beach" at number 18 on its year-end list of the 50 best songs of 2015. Pitchfork ranked the song at number 75 on its year-end list of the 100 best songs of 2015.

"High by the Beach" received 54,5% yes votes.

youtube

#finished #10s #lana del rey #english #o4 #o24

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badbtssmut · 1 year ago

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Cult 0T7 fic.

What happens when one’s sin is too big for the highest deity to forgive? Seven individuals who have committed the most hideous crimes, show up at your town; paying the holy leader of the cult heaps of money to have you cleanse them of their sins. Whatever happens in a cult, stays in a cult.

Contains: cult themes, public sex, rough sex, members fighting over who can fuck y/n first, members are driven crazy by lust, double penetration in pussy, triple penetration ass and pussy, double blowjob, attempt at trice blowjob but fails, riding, idk what else

Admin note: I deliberately kept any details and references to any religion as vague as possible.

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It was the last full moon of the month, a time for celebrating the harvest and honoring the God that you and the people you cherished worshipped religiously, night to day, day to night. A special night, as it was only on this night where mortals were granted forgiveness for sins that wouldn’t be excused by human beings; sins that were too vile for any mortal to overlook, but a sin that a God could forgive, so long as you repented.

So long as you repented…

…and had sexual intercourse on the last full moon of the month, a practice that all of you were willing to participate in. Word got around quick and sex tourists desperately tried to participate, but your town shouldn’t be seen as some sort of sex theme park. No, this was a sacred ritual that you and the other people in the town participated in, to the point where you all saw it as an act of tradition without batting an eye at the freakiness of it all.

The head of the cult would never steer you wrong, he knew what was best for the town.

“Seven individuals have come to partake in our tradition tonight.” The wise man spoke, a smile plastered on his face. “We know that seven is a sacred number, don’t we? This cannot be a coincidence! It is the will of the Gods that this will be done. Our town will prosper, I assure you all of this.” He spoke to the crowd, his eyes gleaming in the light of the candle and fire.

He looked back at you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Are you ready, my child?” He led you to the hot springs. “The Gods will surely be pleased with this outcome, as will we all be once the harvest is bountiful in our town.”

You were more than ready to go through with this, the Gods would bless the town.

You left the man behind as you were welcomed by the two elder sisters who prepared you for the tradition; scrubbing your body, soaping it, and then softening your skin with a blend of almond and coconut oil. Your hair was dried before they wrapped the silk robe around you, a hug and a kiss on the cheek given by one of the two, before you walked off and made your way to where the tradition would take place.

There was an open space in the far back of the town; far enough to scare off tourists but near enough for interested townspeople to come and have a look. It was surrounded by torches and candles, an altar placed at the center of the open area, decorated with roses, lilies, and daisies. A swing hung from a tree, a bed of soft furs and blankets a few feet from the swing, and water flowing nearby.

Seven wooden chairs were lined up in front of the altar, each seat occupied by seven strangers, before you could have a closer look, the leader of the cult spoke up.

“Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Jung Hoseok, Min Yoongi, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, and Jeon Jungkook, you are all welcome here.” The man glanced over to the crowd before looking back at the men. “May the Gods be gracious to us all, for we are all pure-hearted, and our intentions are true and good, we come together for one goal and one goal only: the will of the Gods!” The audience clapped, some of the older ones praying under their breath.

You sat on the furs, the silk robe still on, and you watched the seven men walk down the path that the people created for them. It wasn’t something you’d normally think about, but you couldn’t help but notice how handsome each of them were, every man holding a unique feature that made you stare.

You laid back on the furs, a pillow under your head, and waited, watching as they undressed themselves and like a pack of wild animals, they pounced on you. Hands roamed all over your body, fingers pinching and twisting your nipples, fingers rubbed your clit, lips sucked at your neck, hands caressed your thighs, tips were pushed at your entrance before you were forcibly pulled back by another member who was eager to fuck you first.

They argued, they bickered, they fought, they shoved each other, your body bounced back and forth as they wrestled and tried to pull you into their arms, Yoongi grabbed hold of you and dragged you across the furs and blankets, before the rest of the men piled on top of you, two cocks pushed into your mouth while another cock rubbed against your face.

You looked up to see that the three cocks belonged to Taehyung, Jungkook and Jimin. In your left hand, you held Namjoon’s cock, while your right hand held Hoseok’s cock. There were so many cocks that you were starting to lose count.

You felt Yoongi’s tip push in before it was abruptly pushed away by Seokjin’s tip, their cocks pushing and rubbing against each other before both slid into your pussy. You let out a gasp, mouth wide open, cocks slipping out, before they were hastily pushed back into your mouth. The two men inside of you fucked you in tandem, their cocks brushing against each other.

You took shaky breaths through your nose, focusing on sucking their cocks, while also focusing on rubbing the cocks that you held in your hands. Seokjin held onto your hips while Yoongi’s fingers dug into your ass, them both pushing you back and forth on their cocks, bouncing you back and forth. Taehyung who was rubbing his cock against your face, felt himself grow impatient, and pushed himself into your mouth, but when he realized it wouldn’t fit, he pulled back out.

The citizens watched, some bursting into tears, others clapping, a few cheering, the majority chanting and praying, but they were all proud of the ritual being carried out so far. They’d make sure to praise you after you’re done, bring you gifts and your favorite treats as a reward for your outstanding work.

You felt Seokjin’s pace turn sloppy and frantic, his moans louder than before, and not even a second later, he came. He filled you up first, panting, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. He stayed inside of you for a while longer, until he finally pulled out.

Yoongi didn’t allow anyone to take Jin’s place, he continued fucking you, his pace fast and hard. You couldn’t help the lewd noises that slipped past your lips, and you didn’t care how loud you were. The only thing on your mind was the cock slamming into your pussy.

Jimin switched places with Taehyung, now his cock in your mouth while Jimin stepped back and enjoyed the show. Jungkook tilted his head back as he pushed his hips further towards your face, digging his cock deeper into your mouth.

Soon after, Yoongi’s seed spilled inside of you, and you clenched around his cock. He groaned, biting down on his lip, pulling out of you. Your pussy was only left alone for a few seconds before Hoseok eagerly took the spot. He sat down next to you before he pulled you onto his lap, earning some annoyed groans and glares from the men as their cocks slipped out of your mouth and hands.

Hoseok lifted you up and down, bouncing you on his cock, and he held a smile on his face at how soaking wet and warm your pussy was. Namjoon took the opportunity to ram his cock into your needy pussy, both him and Hoseok fucking you in tandem, and the pleasure was too much. You screamed and moaned, the cocks stuffed inside of you were making you feel lightheaded. You could feel Hoseok’s tongue drag over your neck as Namjoon kneaded your chest, your breasts filling his large hands.

Your ears rang, your mind went blank, and everything felt blurry, but the men continued to fuck you. Your head tilted back as Namjoon and Hoseok changed the rhythm, Namjoon pounding into your pussy while Hoseok slowly fucked into you. The three of you continued to go on like this, the cocks stuffing you to the brim, until Hoseok and Namjoon both came, their seed filling you up.

One of the sisters on standby, stepped in to offer you a cup of water, before she bowed and stepped back, not wanting to stand in the way of you finishing. You took a minute to breathe and catch your breath, before the three youngest were left.

You were taken away from the blankets and brought to one of the chairs, where Taehyung sat down and pulled you onto his lap. He held you into place as he pushed his errection into your ass, stretching your hole and earning a squeak from you. As he fucked your ass, Jungkook and Jimin stepped over. Jungkook went straight for pushing his cock into your pussy, while Jimin decided to make you suck his cock for a few minutes before he also pushed in his cock into your pussy.

The chair creaked and shifted under the weight and force of the three men fucking you relentlessly, but you couldn’t even hear it, your hearing fuzzy and your sight blurry.

“Oh! Oh!” You gasped, eyes wide and mouth agape, unable to do anything but allow the three men to use your holes however they pleased. It was too much— too much pleasure at the same time, but it was so good, too good. Drool dripped down your chin, your hair a mess, your robe abandoned somewhere on the ground. First Taehyung would thrust, before pulling out, which was when Jimin pushed in, along with Jungkook, before they’d switch their pace and start alternating again.

Taehyung was the first to come, his seed spilling inside of you, and as soon as he pulled out, it was when Jimin and Jungkook came as well, filling you up with their seed.

You were left panting, drool dripping from your mouth and tears in your eyes. The sisters stood by your side and wrapped a warm towel around you. Your legs were shaking, and you felt wobbly so you sat back down, shit, you needed a break after that.

“Now I declare, that all of you have been cleared of your sins…

Jungkook, Battery

Jimin, Extortion

Taehyung, Kidnapping

Seokjin, Murder

Namjoon, Burglary

Yoongi, Cybercrime

Hoseok, Arson…”

#bts smut #bts requests #bts x reader #bts smut requests #bts fanfic #bts smut fanfic #taehyung smut #jungkook smut #jimin smut #namjoon smut #seokjin smut #yoongi smut #hoseok smut #bts ot7 smut #bts x female reader

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