#all the close calls have been harrowing. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

poetskings · 10 days

Text

@jegulus-microfic | April 18: sock | 1.6k

James is sexiled and decides to spend time with Regulus.

There’s a sock on the door knob.

It’s been a long day and James is tired and there’s a fucking sock on the door knob and if he listens close enough he can hear soft grunts.

He’s happy for Sirius and Remus, really, he is, he just wishes that they’d fuck at Remus’ every now and then, and at least keep it to the bedroom.

Sirius and James share a college flat with Peter, Marlene and Lily, so there aren’t many options when they’re all out. Today, James knows that Peter and Lily have chess club, and Marlene’s training for the women’s boat race, so it’s only him who’d be around.

He sighs and turns around, sending Regulus a text as he goes.

Been sexiled – your dorm free?

He’s walking before he’s received a response – he’s almost positive that the answer will be ‘yes’, and he hasn’t seen Regulus in a week, so they’re long overdue a catch up.

Their friendship was one of the more unexpected things to come out of Regulus bucking centuries of Black tradition and instead following in his brother’s footsteps, choosing Cambridge over Oxford. He settled in nicely to Corpus Christi, flying through his first few years as a history undergraduate while Sirius and James chose Trinity instead.

It took a while but slowly and tentatively Sirius and Regulus attempted to heal their relationship, strained by Regulus’ years at Harrow after Sirius packed up and left when he was sixteen, dropping out and enrolling at a local state school instead. They’re much better now; their barbs at each other aren’t quite as jagged. There’s love there, now, rather than just animosity.

As Regulus and Sirius attempted to mend their relationship, James and Remus had been called in early on to mediate, or sometimes it was Regulus’ friends, Evan and Barty, or even Pandora. From those early tentative meetings in neutral territory, new and interesting friendships bloomed, most of all between Regulus and James.

From early study sessions, it evolved into coffee dates and library outings, and when Remus and Sirius sorted their shit out it became even more frequent – the pair never make James feel like a third wheel, but nonetheless they deserve time to themselves, even if James would prefer for them not to fuck on every and any available surface in their dorm.

Regulus is a comforting presence for James; he doesn’t demand anything of him. James is naturally an extrovert; always the centre of a room, but sometimes he needs to recharge, and Regulus lets him do that. He reminds James of calm waters on a spring day, and whenever James needs to quiet his mind, he finds the youngest Black. He only hopes he offers Regulus some of the same comfort in return.

That, and maybe something more. Maybe he hopes that one day there’s a sock on his door knob, and that the reason is Regulus..

James is drawn out of his thoughts as his phone dings.

Sure – text me when you’re here, will come meet you

It’s a five-minute walk but James makes it there in two, calling Regulus to get him to buzz him in. He’s a familiar figure amongst the second years at Corpus, and he’s pretty sure a few of them will have also texted the youngest Black to alert him to James’ presence.

The college door opens and Regulus emerges, dressed in sweatpants and a Trinity rowing sweatshirt that James left last time he was over. He’s so lovely, James thinks, an impulse he doesn’t know how to control; isn’t sure he wants to control it.

“Sexiled, huh?” Regulus holds the door open as James steps through, falling into step with each other and walking up a flight of stairs to reach Regulus’ dorm. It’s empty, although that isn’t uncommon for Regulus. Barty and Evan hold unsociable hours, and Regulus, Pandora and Dorcas have a frankly insane amount of extracurriculars to attend, so they’re rarely together.

“There was a sock on the front door and I’m pretty sure I could hear noises so I didn’t want to risk it,” James says, settling himself in the kitchen, finding Regulus’ mug and a new one with a deer in glasses; a ‘congratulations’ for James’ performance in the inter-college boat races that’s become a permanent fixture in Regulus’ dorm.

He locates the teabags; Yorkshire for James, organic for Regulus, before turning back to the mugs.

“I don’t blame you – those two seem to spend more time fucking than not – it’s a minor miracle they get any work done,” Regulus chuckles, gently bumping James’ hip to get to the fridge, taking out his oat milk and James’ rice milk.

They settle into the routine like it’s second nature; they’re familiar with each other in a way that’s almost intimate. They stand together waiting for the kettle to boil, perhaps a bit too close for it to be entirely platonic, but James isn’t going to move away if Regulus doesn’t.

He always feels like they’re teetering on the edge of something more than what they are, something better, but for all of James’ bravery, he isn’t sure how to make the next move, and he doesn’t want to wreck this peace that Regulus and his brother have been working so hard on.

“So, how was your day?” Regulus asks, tilting his head to better look at James. He looks unbelievably soft in James’ jumper and James thinks that if he just moves his pinkie he can link it with Regulus’.

“Exhausting. I had rowing first thing and a few readings to do for my supervision that I’d completely missed,” James sighs. He loves his degree but he’s never been as organised as Regulus, who seems to have work done almost before it’s set. “Also, I spent a solid ten minutes looking for that jumper.”

A light blush creeps up Regulus’ cheeks at that. “Sorry, you left it here after practice last week so I washed it but completely forgot to text you.”

A smile falls across James’ face. “You’re fine, Reg, and besides, it suits you. I guess I should get myself a Corpus one to match, huh?” He smirks as the red of Regulus’ cheeks becomes more pronounced.

The kettle whistles and Regulus turns away from James to fill their cups. “James Potter, behave yourself.” He hip checks James again, this time with a bit more force. Except he doesn’t move back. He stays there, leaning against James, and James feels like his entire body’s a livewire.

The tightrope they’re walking is getting more taut, and James finds himself eager for the fall.

“But Regulus, dearest, where’s the fun in that?” He leans forward, entirely too close for it to be platonic, and Regulus is turning, turning-

“Ow! Fuck!” James forgot about the fact that Regulus was holding a kettle of boiling water, and he’s paying for that now. Water splashes over the counter as Regulus rushes to put the kettle down, taking James’ hand and leading him over to the tap.

He turns the cold water tap on, letting it flow over their entwined hands. He is too still, too silent, and James wants to go back to where they were. He wants the tightrope back. He wants to fall.

He can be brave, he thinks, if it means he gets to have something with Regulus.

Regulus is staring intently at their entwined hands, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the universe, and James breaks the silence.

“Reg-”

“What are we doing, James? We’ve been tiptoeing around each other for weeks and it’s driving me insane and I want to be around you all the time and I think I’m already half in love with you so I’d love if you can clear up what this is,” he states, false bravado injected into his tone, but James can hear the tremors. He’s so nervous, but so brave. Regulus Black, the Lion Heart.

It takes a while for the words to register in James’ head.

Oh.

James removes his hand from the running water, ignoring the slight sting and the inevitable burn that will be left. He cups Regulus’ cheek, forcing the younger boy to look at him. Regulus is terrified, but so hopeful.

“Reg, I- I want-” James runs his hand through his hair in frustration. He can’t get his words out.

“Jamie?” Regulus’ voice is so soft, as though he’s worried he’ll scare James off, and the only thing James can do is kiss him.

Regulus’ lips are rough, a bit chapped from where he nibbles on them when he’s nervous. He tastes of tea and cinnamon and James wants to devour him. There is nothing soft about it. James’ tongue darts out, soothing Regulus’ lips, and the younger boy lets out a moan that’s pure filth and ecstasy and James is falling, falling, fallen.

He wants to do this forever.

His hands find their way to Regulus’ waist, tracing the skin underneath the Trinity sweater that’s been driving James insane since he first saw Regulus wearing it. It’s his, it’s him.

They break apart to breathe and James attaches his lips to Regulus’ neck, marking, claiming. He can’t think beyond this moment, beyond the boy in front of him.

“Jamie, we should- we need to-” he cuts himself off, broken sighs escaping his lips as he tangles his hands in James’ hair.

James reluctantly removes himself from Regulus’ neck, taking the boy’s face in his hands. “Do you want this, Reg? Do you want me?”

Regulus’ eyes trace James’ face, and whatever he sees softens him.

“Always, Jamie.” And James is lost.

They’ll talk about it later, as the sunlight paints the walls of Regulus’ room, but this is enough for now. For ever.

And if Barty finds a sock on the door knob when he comes back from the library, well, that’s between him and Regulus.

#jegulus #regulus black #James potter #starchaser #marauders #marauders era #sunseeker #jegulus microfic #dead gay wizards #si writes #will I ever figure out how to write a microfic that's actually micro? doubtful.

1K notes · View notes

koqabear · 7 months

Note

hiiii hope ur doing well !! this is for the "the magic is yours" portion of the 2k event: ot5 with an oral fixation that's so bad giving pleasure turns them on more than receiving pleasure.

[2K Masterlist]

ot5 x fem!reader // wc: 2.7K ; around 500 per member //genre: established relationship, smut, MDNI.

warnings: service top! txt // yj: dom!yj, sub!mc, oral (f. rec and allusions to m. rec), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, car sex, semi-public sex // sb: no established dom/sub dynamics, marking, insinuated free use and somnophilia (consensual), oral, (f. rec) breast play // bg: switch!gyu, switch!mc, oral (f rec), manhandling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dry humping, hair pulling, (m. rec) pet names, (baby, puppy) name calling, (bitch) unprotected sex, creampie // th: dom!tyun, sub!mc, oral, (f. rec), praise kink, face sitting // hk: no established dom/sub dynamics, oral, (f. & m. rec) breast play, biting, cum eating, creampie, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dacryphilia, aftercare

notes: yes i know i said i was in a disastrous tyun mood and i still am, i always am, (hence the header) but then i remembered this ask and couldn’t stop thinking about txt who can’t survive a day without tasting you. Service tops will forever have my heart, thank you for this anon… you know me too well <3 (barely edited haha...)

[Yeonjun]

Yeonjun isn’t really sure when this happened— when he realized that he’d rather spend his time in between your legs rather than the other way around; he was always more inclined to receive than give in his past relationships, claiming to be addicted to the sight of his partners struggling to take him in, teary eyes and drooly face determined to make him feel good— and yeah, that’s nice and all, but Yeonjun knew he was a goner the moment he first went down on you.

Sweet whimpers, thighs that shake around his head and threaten to close in on him, your restless body that writhes and arches against the sheets— fuck, he swore he almost came untouched the first time you had sex, eyes widening at the feeling of your shaky fingers threading into his hair and pulling him closer to your sopping cunt, grinding against him with breathless whines of his name— and he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from you, even when you were shaking and crying from the overstimulation, cooing softly that he’s just trying to prep you, that you can handle one more— but that’s a lie and he knew that, much too obsessed with seeing you fall apart on his tongue again to care if you believed him.

And after months of begging to go down on you practically every hour of every day, Yeonjun finally decided to accept the harrowing truth; he’d much rather give you pleasure than receive it at all, and he’d spend eternity in between your thighs if he could— and you, well you’re not complaining at all. If anything, you took your chance to give him a taste of his own medicine and tease him relentlessly, your wardrobe piling with cute dresses and skirts that you were ready to unleash the moment summer came around.

And when the season finally came… oh, Yeonjun was a goner. Almost popping a boner the moment he saw you come out of your home for the picnic the two of you planned out, donned in a pretty sundress that hugged and exposed your body perfectly— he almost crashed the car when he glanced over at you and noticed the way the skirt hiked up to expose the soft, smooth skin of your thighs to him.

You expected this outcome, really; unable to make it out of the car as he pulled you to the backseat of his car, spending a good thirty minutes laying on his seats and left to his mercy before you finally emerged with shaky legs, hand placed daintily on his shoulder as he guided you up the hill, one hand placed on the small of your back and the basket in the other, talking your head off about who-knows-what while you tried to pretend you hadn’t just been given some of the best head of your life.

Yeonjun tops it easily the moment you’re settling down— he doesn’t even bother to eat before his head finds itself under your dress, licking at your clothed cunt because of how desperate he is to finish what he started— by the time he’s finally satiated, you’re entirely spent, face flushed at the way he tells you to take a nap, patting your head fondly as he shakes his head at your offers to return the favor.

You think you’ll wear sundresses more often.

[Soobin]

Soobin is someone who is simply unashamed of the fact that he needs to have something in his mouth 24/7. It was a cute habit that endeared you when you first met him, always spotting a lollipop in his mouth every time you saw him, whether that be on his walk to class or while he was studying— he kept a bag of it in his book bag, he told you, ears tinged with embarrassment as you laughed and cooed about how cute he was.

Inevitably, that habit transferred seamlessly into your relationship; you didn’t think much of it, at first— to you, he was simply overly affectionate, unfazed of the way he constantly begged you for kisses, sweet tongue slipping into your mouth and messily making out with you for hours— lazily cuddling on the couch, a big hand on the swell of your ass as he kept you still, swollen and sensitive lips still pressing messy pecks against yours as you whined that you had to go to the bathroom, or you had an assignment that you needed to work on— you could never get out of his arms without hearing his incessant whines telling you not to go.

But as your relationship progressed and you slowly began to get touchier, that habit of his became more of an inconvenience to you— leaving splotchy marks on your neck without you noticing, nights where you would fall asleep with his head tucked into the crook of your neck ending with you shifting in the odd hours of the night, feeling Soobin’s pouty lips sucking and kissing at the canvas of your neck absentmindedly— and you’d have to spend a good chunk of your mornings attempting to conceal the mess he left on you, your apologetic and sleepy boyfriend clinging to you in the bathroom as he whined and whined about how sorry he was— but you really doubted it.

So was it really much of a surprise when Soobin finally confessed his oral fixation to you with a red, flustered face? It truly wasn’t, but seeing him confide in you about it allowed him to find himself in what he liked to call his personal paradise— in other words, the interesting little arrangement the two of you conjured up.

One pouty look from your boyfriend was enough to have you rolling your eyes fondly and tugging your shorts off— scrolling on your phone while Soobin’s hair brushed against your inner thighs, soft lips sucking and pulling your swollen clit into his mouth as he ran his tongue along it, moaning into your cunt that only clenched around nothing pathetically— waking up in the mornings to see your boyfriend had already begun to make himself busy, legs thrown over his broad shoulders and button nose pressing against your clit as he fucked you with his tongue and slurped at your arousal desperately. Movie nights where you were innocently cuddled on the couch turning into you trying your best to focus on the movie while Soobin bit and suckled at your breasts, trying to hold back tears at the way he left them bruised and sensitive afterwards— and if you shed a few stray ones and scolded Soobin to give you a break, he didn’t really mind— he was more than happy to move onto your lips or cunt instead.

[Beomgyu]

Beomgyu, who moans like crazy whenever he eats you out, messy and desperate and nasty that you’re unable to keep up with him, helpless against his hold as he merely throws your legs over his shoulders, practically pressing your thighs against your stomach from the way his hands remain on the underside to caress your skin, all in a feeble attempt to get closer to you— and it wasn’t as though it made much of a difference, his face already pressed firmly against your pussy and his hips rutting into the mattress as he brought you to countless orgasms, always telling you “one more, just one more baby,” but lying like the little sadist he is, holding you down and not letting you squirm away as he brought you to tears practically every night.

“What? I just think you look hot when I go down on you,” is what he tells you when you try to question why he just can’t stop asking you if he can eat you out, giving you an innocent and puppy eyed look— but you know it’s more than that, always used to your previous partners treating eating you out like a chore— and you weren’t exactly oblivious to the times where he’s been so lost in your cunt he could only hump into the mattress pathetically, moaning breathily into your cunt and setting a pace that matched the way he was fucking desperately into the sheets— and if Beomgyu thought you didn’t pick up on the many times he was able to cum from that alone, whining against your pussy and soiling his boxers completely, he was sorely mistaken.

This front of his was quickly beginning to irritate you; exasperatedly shaking your head whenever you’d have to tell Beomgyu no, you can’t eat me out under the table right now. Finish your food, and having to deal with his predictable pouts and whines pleading you to just give in.

So when you inevitably find Beomgyu between your thighs once more, you decide to test something out— watching with lidded eyes as he takes his time running his tongue along your slit, circling your clit and licking at it softly, eyes closed with bliss— and your hand is sneaking down to tangle in his long hair the moment you notice his hips beginning to grind, getting a good grip and tugging harshly; the broken moan Beomgyu lets out at the pain tells you all you need to know.

“Fuck, desperate puppy just can’t get enough, hmm?” you coo out, his glassy eyes looking up at you and nodding, face twisted in a wince as you tug again— and he whines, hands rubbing your thighs sweetly as he pleads for you to let him keep going, to let you feel good.

“Y’want it that bad?” you ask indifferently, throwing your leg leisurely over his shoulder and watching his face heat up, eventually giving you a small nod, “Fine. But I don’t want to see you humping the bed like a pathetic bitch.” and you’re shoving him back into your dripping cunt, feeling him move feverishly against you with every tug of his hair— and while he follows your orders nicely, the night ends with him almost crying the moment you tell him to fuck you; so immersed in making you feel good over and over that he neglected his throbbing and leaking cock, cumming pathetically the moment he sinks into you— and his lips latch onto your neck with every broken sob of his, leaving you to wonder if your cunt is really the only thing he likes to have his mouth on.

[Taehyun]

This man thinks he’s slick. Is in absolute denial that he has an oral fixation of any sort, just believes that it’s just because you’re really hot and he simply wants to make you feel good. He’s never experienced this with any of his other partners, so why should he care? It must stem from the dynamic the two of you have— his need to pleasure you like crazy, that is. There’s just something about you that raised his sex drive beyond comprehensible limits, and he just found it even hotter that you willingly took anything he gave you; multiple rounds? Sure, you can handle it. Being rough with you? You’re into that, you’ll take whatever he tries on you. Whatever he springs up on you, you take it like it’s nothing, rewarding him with your sweet sounds and pretty faces he ingrains into his mind.

So the first time Taehyun eats you out, he’s hooked— your taste is so addicting and you sound so pretty, round eyes looking up between your legs to catch the way your face flushes and your mouth falls open, legs jumping and closing in on his head, threatening to suffocate him. Your hips buck up and your clit bumps against his nose when you cum, making you keen in a way that almost has Taehyun spilling in his sweatpants then and there; your nimble fingers run through his hair absentmindedly, spilling praises and sighs of his name that drive him mad.

Fuck—! So— s-so good, so good to me tyunnie– ah! Hah, ughhh fuck, just– just like that, god, Taehyun—!

Was it really unreasonable for him to want to eat you out every second of the day if you sounded like that? Taehyun doesn’t think so.

Thus begins the absolute agony that is Taehyun asking if he can just please, please give you head, trying to disguise it under reasons that at some point, stop making sense.

You look really good in that skirt— can he give you head? Oh, you’re studying, you should take a break. Can he give you head? You’re restless, unable to sleep, tossing and turning and sighing desperately— and he turns to you, startling you because what the fuck I thought you were asleep, pushing past your surprise to tell you that sex can help tire you out and sleep. Can I give you head?

Practically jumps with joy on the days you actually agree, going down on you then and there, no matter the circumstance— dropping to his knees in the kitchen, throwing your legs over his shoulders on the couch, laying on the bed and telling you to sit on his face with bright, sparkling eyes— and he enjoys it just as much as he did the first time, letting you fuck yourself on his tongue and sucking on your clit with his swollen lips, staring at you with eyes of adoration and need each time; he doesn’t even care if he gets to fuck you at the end of it, (though that’s always a plus) all he wants to do is watch his favorite girl cum on his face.

[Hueningkai]

This man. Can— and does— spend hours at a time between your legs; he just loves to have his mouth on you, loves to lay down on the bed, on his stomach as he lazily licks at your clit, wanting to take things slow as you run your fingers through his hair and sigh about how good it feels. Will be in bliss as he eats your pussy, eyes shut and pretty nose bumping against your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, large hands placed on your tummy and rubbing it fondly because he just can’t get enough of you— he’s infatuated with you, with your soft skin and the way you moan out his name, not even searching for his own pleasure as he solely focuses on yours.

It’s become routine for you two at this point; running to you when he’s had a bad day, wanting nothing more than to kiss you and use you as his cute little destresser. Starting it off with slow kisses, feeling the way he moves along your jawline and down your neck, lifting your shirt up to expose your breasts— and he spends quite a while there too, watching your nipples grow stiff and sensitive from the attention he give them, biting teasingly and listening to the way you squeal at the feeling— and of course, it all ends with his head between your legs, peppering kisses along your inner thighs and on your clit, leaving open-mouthed kisses on it as he watches you squirm and whine for him not to tease.

Kai, who gets drunk off your pussy and doesn’t even expect you to return the favor, genuinely surprised whenever you ask him if you can suck his dick or if he can please, please please just fuck you already. And he says yes, bending to your will and giving in to your puppy eyes that are glassy with desire; he’ll be mesmerized at the way you allow him to cum in your mouth, releasing so much that you can’t help but let it bead at the corners of your lips— and Kai is quick to bring you up for a kiss, messy tongues tangling together as he groans at the taste of his lingering cum on your mouth— or pulling out immediately on the nights where he’s fucked you to the point of exhaustion, looking down to see your cunt that drips with the multiple releases of his cum, unable to even protest the moment you see him spreading your folds gently and swooping down to clean you up; warm tongue running along your slit, curling inside you before he’s circling your clit, flicking gently as he listens to the way you mewl and cry at the overstimulation.

Kai, who’s not just obsessed with your cunt, but is also obsessed with you, never failing to pamper and coddle you endlessly, telling you how good you were for him with a fond smile, kissing your cheeks and tasting the salty tears that cling to your skin.

#txt fanfic #txt fanfiction #txt imagines #txt oneshots #txt ff #txt x reader #txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #soobin smut #yeonjun smut #beomgyu smut #taehyun smut #hueningkai smut #[2k event!]#[nsfw]#[the mic is yours]

1K notes · View notes

princessbrunette · 1 month

Note

toxicex!rafe telling all boys that your off limits and you finally confront him but he just acts confused and oblivious 😑

｡˚.𖧧 🐩🥛🤍 𖧧.˚｡

trying to flirt with the guy you usually flirt with but he’s acting all different, barely looking you in the eye and awkwardly shuffling away.

“why are you acting like that?” you pout, all rejected and downtrodden.

“look, sweetheart. just don’t wanna get my ass beat. you didn’t hear this from me but that ex boyfriend of yours is fucking insane. showed up to my place waving a gun around and everything. you’re cute but it ain’t worth my life. sorry.”

you’re mortified, coming to the harrowing realisation of why seemingly every guy on this side of the island had been avoiding you. you spot rafe at the country club bar the next night, harnessing a drink in a short glass and you march over — all dramatic with your bracelets jangling and shoes clacking.

“you’re scaring everyone off, rafe? that’s what we’re doing now?” you command, staring up at him with that frown he thinks is just adorable.

“hello to you too.” he drawls with a smirk, bringing his glass to his lips.

“its not funny, rafe. you can’t do that!”

“i have no idea what you’re talkin’ about, alright? go run along n’find your girlfriends. no need to make a scene like you always do.”

“me? make a scene? you’re the one waving a gun around. you don’t own me anymore rafe you can’t —”

“hey.” he barks suddenly before pressing his lips together in irritation, drawing in a few ragged breaths as he looks around, leaning down to your level. “you watch that mouth, yeah? you’re mine. okay? all of this?” he gestures to your body, stepping closer. “mine. this? this fuckin’ thing right here?” he closes in more, a large hand cupping under your skirt to grab a hold of your pussy. as much as you clench, and yearn for his touch in that very spot — the anger at the audacity wins and you shove him off, pushing at his firm chest which barely moves him, yet he backs off anyway with a boyish laugh.

“dont touch me.” you huff, prissy and pouty as you adjust your bag on your shoulder and stick your chin in the air determinedly. he huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head as he raises his glass to take another sip.

“yeah well, good luck gettin’ any other sucker to touch you. told everyone you’re off limits.” he takes his sip, licking over his moistened lips afterwards which he obviously notices you drop your eyes to. god, he’s smug. “mm. you’ll be back m’sure, when you want some dick.”

you’ve had enough, feeling all hot and bothered because not only is he pissing you off but he’s turning you on and the whole thing is just too much. you storm off and he follows you with his eyes, arrogant smirk on his face as he tongues at his cheek, watching your ass in that little skirt. “nice to see you, sweetheart.” he calls after you, and you ignore him.

｡˚.𖧧 🐩🥛🤍 𖧧.˚｡

#anon #rafe cameron prompt #toxicex!rafe

643 notes · View notes

yandere-wishes · 11 months

Text

Spider Bite Love

Synopsis: Miguel loves you, this you know. But neither the story nor the hero ever stops long enough to wonder if you love him too.

Warnings: Choking, Biting, Reader is from Miles' universe, Miguel is kinda a perfectionist. Yandere themes.

Author's note: Forgive the Spanish it's mostly found on Google. I took like four months of Spanish back in 7th grade and have retained exactly 0.1% of that knowledge.

💙🕷💙🕷💙🕷💙🕷💙🕷💙🕷💙🕷💙🕷💙

The future is porcelain, all marble white and reflective crystal. Flying cars and a horizon that echoes soft tamed pastels. Nueva York can almost be described as beautiful. Almost.

If not for the technicalities and lies and the loss of total freedom.

If not for a fate that's been prewritten. Repeated across centuries and dimensions. So uncontrollable that it practically cultivates inferiority within your heart. An age-old tradition found in every child's tale about dashing heroes and harrowing villains.

If not for the looming uncomfortable, presence known as Miguel O'Hara who refuses to leave you alone.

Your lover.

Your hero.

Your Spider-man

Although he's not your Spider-Man. Not really. And you're not the love of his life. Not really. You're both just Look-alikes, cheap replicas from a corner dimension.

It's difficult to comprehend, pondering it encompasses you with an unruly headache. Galling and overpowering, not unlike your so-called "Lover".

To put it simply or rather to oversimplify. You are not meant to be here. You are from Earth-1610, at least you think you are. It's hard to tell since apparently from what you've gathered there was another (y/n). One who looked just like you, acted just like you, and was essentially you in every microscopic aspect. At least that's what Miguel says, and you've come to learn that he's not awfully good at telling the full truth.

She died or was killed. As is customary with every hero's first crush. Thus leaving Miguel without a lover or a prisoner. Depending on which iteration of the story you fancy.

Then Miles came along disrupting the canon and causing a dimension's wide spider hunt, with Miguel leading the charge. Somewhere along the lines, between chasing down Miles and barking orders at the other Superheroes his secret society was made of. He passes by your window. Caught a rogue glimpse and froze. He'd found you again, after all these years of believing that you were dead. Technically you were dead, his (y/n) was dead. But there was one here, another one, just as radiant and beautiful as his original lover had been. Miguel knew he had to have you. To take you back to his dimension. To complete his Canon.

Your dimension was doomed anyway.

So he wasn't really doing any harm.

You shuffle uncomfortably on the couch, attempting to readjust your position as to better gaze out the window at the porcelain city.

It's almost homogeneous to Miguel himself.

A perfect city with no room for cracks or mistakes.

A perfect hero who flawlessly preserves the multiverse.

They're both perfect you think as you steal your gaze from the skyline. Although sometimes perfect and pristine aren't always reflective of a person's inner workings. Miguel isn't exactly corrupted but he's far from innocent either. You - and the motley amount of fang marks spread across your body- are living proof of that.

His apartment is clean, spotless, all ceramic tiles and snowy furniture.

No room for faults or fallacy. His whole life is meant to be errorless. Just like the delicate spider-verse, he's all so keen on protecting.

The door chimes, a light buzz and a thud. It's hard to remember that this is technically the future. That trivial things such as keys and locks have long since been eradicated.

Miguel steps in, a bouquet of red and yellow roses grasped within his hand. He walks in as the door buzzes closed behind him. There's a docile look in his eyes as he spots you sitting on the couch. A repeated memory you realize and you wonder if his (y/n) use to wait for him to get back from Spider HQ, all patient and passive like a pretty doll awaiting her master.

"Para vos, mi querida" he mumbles, somehow apathetic and bashful all at the same time.

You reach for the flowers a practiced smile bearly tugging at your lips, your fingers curling around the bouquet, then you freeze eyes going wide.

There's blood on his claws again, pristine rudy red that drips to an invisible tempo. You wonder who he's killed this time. A canon divergent Spider-Man or Spider-Women. A villain running amuck across the city.

Or some regular civilian he was supposed to protect. A regular civilian who had some interaction with you on one of the rare times Miguel actually agreed to take you out. You wonder but you don't date ask.

His suit is unscratched -as it always is- His face is bruise-less, so it makes you think that your final hypothesis may just be the accurate one. Miguel's eyes narrow when notices your frozen hand.

"What's wrong," he asks a gruff edge in his voice, a warning.

One your mind begs you to obey.

"Who did you kill?" You ask eyes concentrated on the sharp blue razors that make him look more monster than superhero. Your fingers abandon the bouquet's base and return to your side. You try to force your eyes into a glare despite the unruly beating of your fearful heart.

One look from Miguel snuffs all that resistance out. One dark glare from eyes that can't choose if they wish to be red or blue. Human or hero. Human or monster. And you're back to cowering into the couch cushions.

"It doesn't matter" he all but barks, a supernatural chill encompasses the room. As he throws the bouquet down onto the ceramic floor. His lips pull back in a snarl, showcasing milky white fangs that gleam in the low lights.

"It does matter Miguel!" Your voice is raising, itching to scream to yell. To make him understand a fraction of your hatred

"You're supposed to be a hero, a savior, but all you ever do is act like a villain. You stole me from my home, you killed my universe's Spider-man, you destroyed my dimension! You're nothing more than a villain wearing a hero's mask."

There's a punchline to this, you're almost sure of it. Some storybook explanation as to why you decided to lash out at the most terrifying creature you've ever met. Maybe in the heat of the frigid moment, you forgot that he's no mere spider. He's a tarantula, bloodthirsty and savage, ready to attack when someone goes poking at him with a stick.

Miguel's fingers tighten around your throat, sharp claws digging into soft skin and delicate muscles. Pushing you further into the couch. Miguel's ears ring with the symphony of your gagging as he tightens his grasp. He thinks you're choking, suffocating, asphyxiating.

Good. With any luck, you'll be dead soon.

"Mocosa ingrata"

He's not sure if your death will be significant in any way. You're honestly too trivial to have any impact on things. If you hold a place in the canon of his timeline or yours, he's yet to find it.

Miguel hates oddities, things that disrupt the canon, selfish missteps that destroy entire dimensions. You're not quite an oddity per se, although everything in your timeline is broken. Dangling from a loose threat at the edge of a cliff. All because Miles Morales decided to be selfish and greedy and "change" what's been canon for longer than any "Spider-man" has been alive. Miles is a mistake. that whole universe is a mistake. It's bound to collapse on itself at any moment. So for the life of him, Miguel can't understand why you're so ungrateful. So desperate to reprimand him and belittle him when all he's doing is trying to save everyone.

He's failed once,

He's failed twice,

He refuses to fail for a third time.

It doesn't matter that you're some helpless civilian who was stuck in the wrong universe at the wrong time. All that matters is that you're (y/n), his (y/n). Every other Spiderman has their Gwen or their MJ. A dutiful lover, to return to when the night ends, when the fighting ends. When the ignorant sun finally decides to reawaken and cast the city in a temporary ray of peacefulness. Someone to love and cherish, to take their minds off of the dread and misery that runs amuck across their lives.

Peter Parker has his Mary Jane.

Miles Morales had his Gwen Stacy.

So why can't Miguel O'Hara have his (Y/n) (L/n)?

When Miguel looks back down at you, he notices your dark eyes. How the life is slowly fading from your body. He relents, pulling you forward and slamming you into the couch one last time before retracting his hand. He sits down next to your coughing body.

"I hate you" you manage to blurt out between desperate heaves. Trying to fill your lungs with as much oxygen as possible. You don't bother looking at him, you know he's mad. He's always mad when you refuse to act like his (y/n). When you poke holes at the perfect illusion he's created.

There's a brief pause. A second of tranquility. Before Miguel grabs your arm and pulls you onto his lap. His mouth parts. Fangs releasing and hovering above your jugular. His fangs pierce your vain, releasing his poison into your bloodstream. It's not lethal, at least not yet. Miguel prefers to think of it as a sedative for when you start to act up.

It soothes you, calms you into remembering your place. Your head lulls to the side, falling on his shoulder as your groggy eyes look up at him with a stare that he can almost trick himself into believing is loving, or some variant of the same emotion.

You're his, he knows that. You have to be. It's all he can tell himself as to stay sane. You'll understand someday. Realize you love him too.

After all every hero needs a lover.

3K notes · View notes

tarjapearce · 8 months

Note

An Angst/ Fluff Miguel O’Hara fic. The reader is giving birth and runs into a bit of complications that he freaks out a bit and gets taken out of the hospital room, so Miguel has to choose between his wife or baby. By a miracle they both live, but the reader is kinda in coma state for the meantime. Miguel meets their baby and he tells their baby the wonderful things they can do at the same time begs the reader to wake up because their baby wants to see their mommy. She later wakes up and they cry in each other’s arms of happiness.

Angst undercut ~ Sorry for the feeeels and the delay :<

Your hand squeezed his with so much force you thought that you'd break it, but he was unbothered by it. Miguel was there, his voice whispering the sweetest things as you pushed and pushed.

The excruciating pain spreaded through you body as dread bit your skin.

"I can't... Miguel..."

"You can do it hermosa, one more push, ok?" He kissed your paling knuckles as you stared at him, teary eyed and exhausted

"I feel so tired" You'd mumble between pants, strength slowly leaving you. Sweat etched to your skin.

"C'mon mamma, one more push!" The nurses massaged your thighs soothingly. Miguel cradled your head and kissed your forehead.

"Tu puedes, hermosa." (You can do it)

But truth was, you weren't sure. You felt dizzy, overwhelmed, but you had to see it through. Your baby was nearly out. Even with the doctor's help it was proving to be a tricky delivering.

You pushed. And it felt wrong.

Even Miguel frowned at the sudden cry you gave.

The baby didn't cry.

"M-Miguel?"

His chest thumped hard with every passing beat, you were paling faster than the doctors wanted to admit. All he could see was bright, crimson red on their hands.

His head snapped to the baby, the nurses were rubbing tiny shoulders frantically, giving firm pats on the back, introducing little suction devices through the baby's nose, as the doctor and another nurse focused on you.

Hemorrhage.

Your hand was limp and cold on his.

"M-Mi amor?"

He wasn't one for stuttering, but seeing life itself escaping your body, tugged his chest painfully.

"So cold, Mig..." You struggled to speak. Your eyes struggled to keep themselves open.

Against all protest, and a close call to security, Miguel was dragged out the room. A room where chaos was ensured.

All he could do was to watch as nurses paraded in an out your room. Some carrying blood stained cloths, as other brought in more. It seemed endless. And every time he approached anyone he'd receive the same response.

"We're trying our best"

Trying wasn't enough. Best wasn't enough. He needed answers.

He was about to barge in the room when the loud cry of a baby echoed in the other side.

His muscles went rigid, before he exhaled, a bit more relieved. He'd never want to choose between your life or the baby. And he never would because he knew all to well, that a choice like that would be too harrowing and heartbreaking for him to make.

And still, the balance of life seemed to favor his child.

----

Much to his comfort he was allowed to hold his baby. A little girl. She was quiet, deep in sleep, comfortable. Alive.

You on the other hand were drained out of color, an oxygen mask hooked on your face. Tiny, little breaths, almost imperceptible, flew through the mask. The constant beeping of the monitor was the only thing that indicated you were still in this world.

He should've have listened to you. You told him that you couldn't do it. Yet, he pressured and pressured until you could no more.

Your fault

His mind had been berating itself for the past couple of hours as he held your unconscious hand. You had barely made it.

And still, your body refused to awake.

-----

Three days. Three days without your voice, without sleep, without you in his arms. Without your warmth. Without you.

The nurses were kind enough to handle the baby when she'd get too fussy, to at least try and give him a bit of sleep. His body ached, his lids begged for at least some minutes of sleep.

But what if in those minutes of sleep you'd be gone? No. He couldn't risk it. He refused.

He fetched the baby, and sat before you.

A tiny bundle on his arms.

"You want Mama back too?" His eyes glossed. Desperate tears disguised as exhaustion.

The baby stirred in his arms, he rocked her as he got close to your bed.

"Mama would be crying if she saw you, princesita." His voice broke despite him trying to keep himself together.

"So so beautiful."

He'd spend hours talking about the future plans he had for the three of you.

----

Four days, of him silently waiting. You had given a blood transfusion, vitamins pumped through your system, earning a bit more of color in your cheeks. You had hope.

But fear was consuming him. Doctor had to sedate him to get some sleep, only to be contained by the doctor. His words filling his chest just a little more with hope.

"She's stable."

But again, it wasn't enough. He didn't need you stable. He needed you awake, in his arms, cradling your child, feeding her as he'd bask you in affection.

Your body had gone through a severe Post-partum Haemorrhage, since your uterus had gone through trauma. The screaming you had done still echoed in his mind.

His head pounded, yet he had asked for the baby. He'd never resent his child for your current state, no. He could never.

A little groan.

His eyes snapped at your form.

His little girl cried, panic rose through his chest as your fingers spasmed.

"Hermosa?" Miguel cupped your cheeks softly. The baby cried harder, as if begging for you.

His breath hitched as your eyes, fluttered although weakly, open.

"Hey" The knot on his throat only tightened. Shaky hands cradled you so tenderly he'd though you'd disappear again.

You were alive and awake.

His fingers wiped his eyes to then bring your little girl closer to you.

"She's beautiful isn't she?"

You nodded and smiled softly. Genuine, but exhausted. Your body was waking up from the numbness that had settled on your bones. He kissed you, your forehead, your face, pampering you in affection.

"No vuelvas a asustarme así, por favor." ( Don't scare me like that again, please)

"I'm sorry" You'd whisper but he just shook his head.

"Though I'd lost you for good"

Your hand caressed the baby, that instantly quieted down.

He'd just stay there, happy, silently thanking whoever above that you were finally awake and that his family was complete again.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Angst #miguel x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara angst #t writes✨

1K notes · View notes

catcze · 5 months

Note

I just did my skincare routine, as one does, and I had an idea: spa night with Wriothesley! He’s reluctant to try it out at first, but now it’s his favorite way to relax and spend time with his beloved :,))

This !! Is !! So !! Cute !!

It wasn't a regular thing— not at first.

Wriothesley wasn't the type of person to put too much care into their skin before. You still remember the horror you felt when you learned he did little more than washing his face with tap water in the morning or evening. He'd been blessed by whichever archon was in charge of clear skin, you swore up and down for the longest time.

But all it took was him coming back early one evening, just in time to catch you in the middle of your skincare routine and a hesitantly asked, "...What's this?" as he held one of the many, many bottles in your stash aloft in his palm, and the rest is history.

Now, you've got him on his back, head rested in your lap and his eyes shut in relaxation. One of your cotton headbands keeps his spiky hair from brushing his forehead— the pastel colors are an adorable contrast to the dark strands.

"So then when I got to the store, there was this bitch who tried to fight me for the last box of pancake mix, even though I got my hands on it first. That motherfucker told me to go get my own pancake mix, and i told her, 'I just fucking did'," you say to him, recounting the harrows and drama of your day. Your hands are on Wriothesley's cheeks, gently massaging a moisturizing toner into his skin while he lays there and listens to you.

"Uh-huh, you go, sweetheart." There's the slightest of proud smirks growing on his lips, even as he keeps his eyes closed.

You nod vigorously, appreciating his support. As you turn back to the basket of goodies beside you, you debate on what to put on his face next.

"Hey love," you call him, and one of Wriothesley's icy blue eyes opens. You raise two bottles where he can see them, shaking each. "What are you feeling tonight? The squalane or the niacinamide?"

He hums in the back of his throat, thinking. Then shuts his eyes. "The niacinamide."

You have to fight back a grin, gently tucking the glass bottle for your squalane serum back into your basket. Before you can drop some of Wriothesley's chosen serum on your palms though, he quickly takes hold of one of your hands, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he mumbles, voice little more than a content rumble, lips ticklish against the back of your hand.

Before you can respond, he gives your hand back to you, and the quirk of his lips is back in place.

"Well?" He asks, leaning his weight even more into your lap. Not unlike a puppy, luxuriating in your hold. Hazily, his eyes meet yours even as he blinks drowsily. Soft and fond as they train on you. "I don't believe you were done telling me about that box of pancake mix."

[ #Taglist registration here !! ]

#astronetwrk #「 🐈‍⬛ 」 catcze.desserts #wriothesley x reader #genshin impact x reader #cw gn reader #genshin impact #wriothesley

457 notes · View notes

kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year

Text

Anhedonia 2/2

Word count: 5,5 k (part 1) and 4,4 k (part 2)

Pairing: Ghost x F!Reader Tags: SMUT 🔞🔞🔞 Literally just unadulterated, deranged filth, plot is there for decoration. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Mutual pining, sexual tension (duh), blood & injury, p in v sex, oral sex (m receiving), mutual masturbation, cum all over the place, light humiliation, dirty talk, some praise, swearing, mask stays on, fluffy/reconciliatory ending. Summary: Reader is a Task Force 141 operator and a terrible brat (and suffers the consequences of it later). Enemies to lovers/toxic relationship that takes a healthy turn in the end. Read PART 1 here

"Wha' a good girl you are now…"

His first words hit you like a moan-inducing massage, but you stay silent and steady in your resolve.

"Good soldier, too. We just need to get you to follow orders so that you don't get hurt," he speaks gently.

There it is, finally – a good girl and a good soldier. You have to mentally bind your hands behind your back and place an imaginary gag in your mouth not to chirp and bounce up from joy. It's pathetic, but it's also harrowing: Ghost never meant to fuck with your head; he only wanted to keep you safe. But then he causes another riot in your brain with the next thing he says.

"Such a beautiful sight… You'd make a fine pet."

- - - - - - - - -

You go to offer your apology the next day after sleeping on it.

You feel like you're the most horrible person in the world. And yet, when you knock on his door and call yourself in when only a silence answers, the scalding gaze that locks into you like the sights of a gun remind you why you said what you said.

It's like the man has struck a knife in you, and twists it just to see you squirm. And you do: it's a telltale sign that you've been claimed when you kneel in the middle of his office while he sits behind the same desk he rutted you on less than 20 hours ago.

He says nothing. You wait, equally as quiet, like you're waiting for a pardon from Caesar.

The atmosphere is mellow: his shutters are closed but one window is creaked open, allowing birdsong and summer wind on trees to pass through to his otherwise stale office. It stirs the softest, small smile on your lips as you look at him, adamant and all locked up.

Your knees hurt, but he eventually breaks first: something you hadn't even calculated might happen. The brimstone of his eyes steal a breather to the side, then come back to you with a tinge of confusion in them.

Then he lifts his chin, lifts a hand, a command for you to approach.

Your smile only softens as you go around his desk, and he pushes the chair away with one foot, turns to meet you as you fall on your knees again, then on all fours before starting a slow crawl to him.

His eyes go wide, his head draws back as if you approaching him like a housecat is the most threatening situation he has ever been in.

You have planned this through, and he has the instincts, the sixth sense of a seasoned hunter as he opens his legs wide to make space for you.

He certainly doesn't stop you as you free his erection from the sturdy cargo pants and offer your apology by taking him in your mouth.

He knows what's coming but still gasps and grabs the arms of his chair with white knuckles. You're on your knees, seemingly domesticated, but he's the one begging for mercy before you have even begun. He's heavy in your mouth, but you welcome the weight with greed and a hot tongue.

His thighs travel wide and far, just like yours did last night. The first moan is divine. He eases into the chair while the muscles on his stomach and thighs twitch and shudder.

A pair of boots echo in the hallway behind the door, the sound soon disappearing into the distance. Anyone could walk in at any given moment, and the notion makes your head feel dizzy.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't disclose in any way that he is considering forgiveness.

But eventually, he starts to melt upon your tongue like a snow-covered mountain ridge basking in the sun. Something in the way with which you work him slowly and with gusto makes him send a hand on your head. It strokes your hair softly.

"Wha' a good girl you are now…"

His first words hit you like a moan-inducing massage, but you stay silent and steady in your resolve.

"Good soldier, too. We just need to get you to follow orders so that you don't get hurt," he speaks gently.

"Such a beautiful sight… You'd make a fine pet."

You give him some teeth for that. Just the lightest scrape as you arrive near the base of his cock. He hisses, then laughs.

"Careful, love."

It's the first time ever you've heard him properly laugh. The sound implements itself into your core, your spine, your DNA. It's genuine and hearty, and the summer brushes past the open window to your face in a reviving breeze. Combined with the dark musk of his laughter, it makes your heart flip, and a small, tickling giggle bubbles inside you too. It arrives muted against his cock, but it's a magnificent moment – you two laughing together, even if for a second, even if yours is just a huff of an exhale against his pelvis.

"You don't like the idea?" He asks you a question as if you didn't have your mouth full of him.

His offer is alluring – of course you'd like him to take you as his pet. You could get good food and caresses, get to curl next to him when he goes to sleep. He could show you off like a domesticated animal if he wanted to. He could parade you down the street on a leash, and you would only purr as you go.

But while the proposition is enticing, you leave him with no answer, knowing it will only intrigue him if you don't say yes.

"I would be good to you," he starts to slip, and you up the pace a little. Open your jaw as far as it can go to accommodate him as much as you can, the soft hood of his cock meeting the back of your throat.

"So good– nh..." You can almost hear how his head rolls back, and you catch yourself worrying if he might hurt his neck because the chair has no headrest.

You do it again, and again, almost choking while trying to show him how good you are, how well you can take him and what your tongue can do too. You nearly stumble while you're at it, so lost in him, and you have to reach for support to prevent yourself from falling.

Your hand finds his leg, clutches the khaki that hugs a broad thigh. You flinch when a hard, heavy palm descends on top of yours. It brushes a thumb over the back of your hand as his sighs travel through the stagnant air, rampant and unchallenged through the fabric of his mask.

"Be my pet, sweetheart," he prays, growing weaker by the second. It's like a charm that transforms you into a priestess, a Babalon whore, a scarlet woman who adores men before sending them off to war.

His hips buck, he starts to clutch your hand like you're a rope that's going to save him from drowning. The other hand is more gentle in grip, but mercenary in demand as he grabs a fistful of hair to guide you along his length. Your gag reflex almost shoots him out of your mouth, but he is relentless.

He knows you can take it.

"That's it–that's it, luv," he rasps, and every other noise gets shut out of your brain as you go deaf to the sonic world. You can feel his thighs bunch and tremble around your head, the earthquake under your fingers pressed against hard, lifeless textile when they should be scraping his skin instead. He opens like a woman, massive legs spread hungry and wide as he shoots a load in your mouth. Ample, abundant, even if he just filled you to the brim not too long ago.

You drink him dutifully, greedy for the praise of a job well done, but such a thing never comes. He just breathes heavy over you, sounding happy, the happiest man on earth. You lick him clean, although there's really nothing to clean except your own saliva. The cock glistens, jolts happily one last time after you're done.

"I can make you scream on that desk," he offers while his hands release their death grip on you. Your hair gets tucked behind your ear, he even squeezes your hand briefly like you're his most trusted companion. His cock is flaccid, so you assume he's offering his fingers, perhaps even his mouth to you.

You'd like nothing more than to know if he has a stubble under that balaclava. To see if he would kneel on the floor too to shove his face between your legs while you're splayed over that desk. If he would forget about the door too, making it possible for anyone to catch him with his nose up your cunt. For Soap or Gaz or even Price to see how the broody commanding officer is just a thirsty hound dog on a bowl.

But then again, you just worked yourself up to a shattering orgasm. Two times, actually – deliberately, before you came here. The taste of his cum on your tongue will have to suffice; hell, it's almost better than him finally fucking or licking you into a deranged bliss.

You sense another opening, can't just help yourself…

"Thank you, sir. But that won't be necessary."

- - - - - - - - -

You begin to fear that you're the narcissist here. The way you make him twist and turn like a corkscrew, the way it makes you feel to see how he spirals deeper into madness. Even your eyes are too much for Ghost, who avoids your stare on missions but hunts you down at the base.

"What does it take?"

He ruts you whenever and wherever he can, in the toilets if need be, too busy to haul you into his room after a mission. You just so happened to pass him by, and it was the nearest space with a lock on the door.

"What the fuck does it take?"

The static hum of the bright, unyielding light and the smell of chlorite oozing out of tile seams is everything but a romantic setting as he drives into you from behind and watches you through the mirror on top of a small sink – watches how you give him nothing.

You're trying to take support from the white porcelain even though he's holding you firm against his chest with that inked arm wrapped around your middle. You want to spread your legs for him but can't, since he barely had time to rip your pants down before getting himself out as well to fuck you, so you settle for admiring how vulnerable he looks while he tries his all to please you.

"Do I have to take the mask off? That it?" He's far from a calm and collected lieutenant as he sweats black paint and despair. "Ya want my mouth? Just say it. Promise I'll make you cry."

You laugh at him through the mirror. It's an involuntary, spontaneous action, and you can't really help it. The man is absolutely adorable… And here you have been, fearing him for weeks without realizing he's just another lonely soul.

He doesn't know your strategy. He doesn't know that it's just you and your hand that are his worst enemy.

"What're ya laughin' at?"

You bite your lip, allow him to see mischief and a quivering smile, wet, adoring eyes paired with simple silence. He could force and command and bully you, but he doesn't do it.

Who's the pet now?

"Obviously, you like my cock," he grunts. "Always wet 'n' ready to go, like a fuckin'–"

It ends in a huff before a potential slur comes out.

Truly a gentleman…

"You let everyone 'ere have a go at you?"

He ticks like a time bomb inside you.

"I'm the last to get to fuck you? Huh? I get the fuckin' scraps, is that it?"

He doesn't need slurs to tear you down, but on the other hand, Ghost only reveals more of himself with the insults and assumptions he hurls at you.

He's desperate, crying for it, longing to be the one who makes you cry and scream and purr. Be your one and only.

"No," you hum. "I'm all yours, Lt."

He blinks a few times, exhausted lids fall to cover most of his eyes, and the stare tells you he has entered a dreamworld.

"I'm–," he groans with a broken voice. "I'm… Fuck–"

You shiver with ecstasy – his orgasm is a better reward than anything else he could ever give you. He collapses again, even more humiliated than the day before, or the day before that. He doesn't seem to care anymore. His hips press you against the cold sink, and you fear the porcelain is going to break under your combined weight. He doesn't slip out. Instead, Ghost tucks his mask on top of his nose to catch breath.

He has a shadow of a stubble, a stern jaw, and the notion makes your walls pulse. Thin lips part to gasp for air, his blazing chest heaves behind your back, threatens to topple you all over the sink and against the mirror already misty from your mingled heat.

And the mask was lifted for a whole other reason than to catch some precious air.

He presses his lips against your bare neck, breathes you in with mouth slightly open. Pants, like a tormented beast.

"You almost got killed," he whispers on your skin. Your heart leaps, and he still doesn't slip out…

"Took that blast and those bullets f' me."

Your heart flutters; it competes in rapidness with the blinks of your lashes. He's gentleman enough not to raise his head as you swallow some panic.

"Why did you do that?"

You can't tell him it wasn't even that heroic. That the ultimate reason was just to get his attention. To get him to proudly acknowledge what a good, talented little soldier you are. His girl.

The thick, softening heat inside you is too much. It shouldn't be this close, he shouldn't be this close. Tears are not allowed; they would be the end of you. The end of the fucking world. Your doom.

Claustrophobia makes it a shaky business to tiptoe him out of you, to slither and struggle out of his embrace and yank your pants up, fight your way through the cramped space and out of the door.

- - - - - - - - -

He suspects something.

And of course he does: the man is not a clandestine operations expert for nothing.

You usually do this in the morning, knowing you won't get another chance before he steals a moment with you. But this morning, you slept in and know that you're in the biggest danger ever. If he catches you before you're satisfied and immune, you're dead.

Everything's been fucked up ever since you met him. He's like a sickness, and you've fallen ill. You're practically bedridden because of him.

You have to use a toy because your hand is not enough anymore, and you fear that one of these days you will climax while he's inside you.

The funny thing is, you forgot to lock the door.

Maybe it's a subconscious wish – to end this sickness and receive some healing.

And the perfect healer walks in like he owns the place. Owns you.

Your heart shoots up your throat at the sound of a door opening to your most sacred space while you're most relaxed, spread naked on the bed, nipples perked up and pointing to the sky.

You forgot to lock the door…

The chant arises right before he emerges like a dark mountain after opening that weak, thin piece of plywood that separates you from civility and prudence.

You forgot to lock the door you forgot to lock the door–

He freezes the exact moment his eyes hit on you. He's a northern slope that never catches sunlight while you're at your weakest, most vulnerable, leaking around a toy made out of plastic, trembling naked and full of goosebumps from the sudden cold he emits.

"You fuckin' little…"

His chest rises and falls, then he slams the door shut, locks it without ever taking his eyes off you.

He understands the mystery to the full. It unravels before him clear-cut like the steps of a mission he knows by heart before even entering the field. You can't move, can't speak, but you clench around the lifeless substitute of him, far smaller and a thousand times more tame than what he has on offer for you. The throb is simply a reaction to how he looks at you while he realizes the entirety of the childish trick you've managed to pull, a game – some stupid little antics of a stubborn, lovesick girl and nothing more.

"Alright then. Let's hear it."

"Mhm-"

He takes a step, chest puffed up and shoulders wide, eyes burning under the chalked white skull.

"Go on then. Get on wit' it."

You obey like never before. He watches how you push the lavender-colored toy fully inside, up to the hilt, and let out a shy, sad whimper. The first of many cries to come.

Ten soldiers in one man approach your bed, stand tall all around you as you gaze up at him like he's a god. He's panting by the time he gets himself out of his jeans. His eyes scourge you as he takes his cock in hand and starts to pump in sync with you.

He makes more noise than you do at first. You make him falter by changing the speed from slow and languid to shallow and quick. He tries to keep up with you like it's a race, eyes darting from your quivering mouth and wet stare to your soaked pussy.

You sigh and moan, fuck yourself sloppy, dirty, and he looks like he's about to lose his mind and burst.

"Good girl," he says with a charred voice, a soft rasp that hits you with a delicious heat. "Such a good fuckin' girl."

You swallow tears and love, give him moans and sighs, even a high-pitched mewl or two.

Somewhere along the way, you notice you're following his cue and rhythm instead of your own, and the way the angry bulge of his tip disappears into and reappears from his fist dries your mouth right up, makes your eyelids heavy. You're breathless and incoherent, far too close to the mountaintop — already were before the actual mountain even walked through that door.

You have to slow down to brace yourself for the pleasure that swells.

"Oh– oh my god…"

Your sigh is a final admission: how he is a literal god to you. His hand claps against his balls as he pleasures himself, angry as fuck and as relieved as anyone could be when they find out that their heartthrob is just a delightful little minx instead of a cruel, heartless woman.

Everything shakes and quakes and shifts, your insides shudder, your walls grip lavender when they want to grip a man. The skull tilts, the man who compels you is like an avatar of death, but his eyes are hazel longing.

The scream is celestial, wreathed in needy pain, and his shoulders sigh and shake as he watches you come for him.

"Yeah… That's it, fuck that's sweet." He doesn't slow down, quite the opposite: he beats his flesh like a maniac as you slowly but surely come down, squirm on the bed, still clutching the toy as your pussy throbs around it. If it was his cock, you fear the grip would never release him.

"Here comes," he gives an announcement, weak and breathless, rough and mean. Ropes of cum hit your breasts, neck and face, and his eyes are those of a fallen angel. Your chest rises and falls in shock and adoration as he works himself to the last of it, drips of heat dropping on the sheets, the last spurts not powerful enough to reach you from where he is standing.

When he's done, he raises his hand, like the strings of hot lust are some sort of an art piece you're supposed to gawk at.

"There ya go luv," he wipes his hand clean with you, on you. The sticky semen coats you from face to navel, and you half expect him to smear it all over you.

But he doesn't.

He forces the heavy, teary cock back inside the confine of his pants like he's mad at himself and not you.

Then he drops down like a shadow, making you quail again – one hand sinks with a fist on the pillow next to your head, the other sweeps all gentle across your belly and down over your mound. He takes hold of your hand, uses it to ease the toy slowly out while leaning over you, keeping you as a prisoner with his hawklike stare. He pulls more than just the small, harmless toy out of you: a moan or two, a final confession, but he's not pleased. You two are far from even, and he knows it, and he's fucking done. You can see it in his eyes that he's ready to quit.

He leaves you empty and barren, with just a toy to keep you company, heads for the door like a storm cloud.

"Simon…"

He walks away, much slower, but still. Leaves a memory of your shared hate and love on the doorknob as he turns it, as you start to panic.

"Don't leave," you wheeze.

Don't leave me.

Tears prick and burn your eyes as the room turns into a dismal, empty space at the very thought of living without him from this day forward.

"Please."

He opens the door a crack. Probably to let the ghosts out, because after opening it and hearing your heart-wrenching, helpless sob, he closes it.

By the time he turns and walks back to the bed, you're crying like a baby. Finally crying for him, utterly exposed. It's not the way either of you had meant for things to go, it's not the sobbing and wailing he wants.

Still, you expect him to feast on your tears as well, watch with glee how you curl into a fetal position while covered in his cum. You don't want to see it, so you close your eyes before he rapes you with his stare.

"Sweetheart."

But his voice shatters a heart. So tender that it washes over you in waves as you repeat it inside your head like a lullaby.

"Sweetest…" he trails off into somewhere, some obsidian space that stretches out before you, between you, until you cross that space with no effort at all. Meet him in the middle.

"Yes, love..?" Your own shaky voice is a mirror of his compassion as you pledge yourself to him. A warm hand brushes your cheek not seconds after, dries a tear away, adds to the heat that pangs on your face.

You open your eyes to dare a peek up. He has the same wet look in his eyes as he did when he found you in the rubble, bleeding for him.

"You did well today," he says, voice laced with love. You don't know if he means you did well at work or on this bed just now. What makes the praise scary is that it's authentic, the way he adores you with both word and touch. It breaks you into smaller pieces still, and your voice comes out as a needy whimper.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

You hope he would take you in his arms, just the way he did weeks ago. You still remember how it felt to succumb to his warmth and the soft tang of gun oil and smoke that always surrounds him. Now you're only shrouded by the scent of tears and salt.

"Must be due to a good leader," you whisper.

He cocks his head, the hand halts, hovers over you, a last suspicion.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Your hands are crossed over your chest, palms on opposite shoulders, shielding you from him. But you open them as he lays down and settles beside you, takes you in his arms, and presses your head to rest on his heart, underneath his chin. The massive palm covers half of your head, but the predatorial weight is gone. He only feels like home.

"Look at you, ya silly little thing… Always gettin' yourself into trouble." He brushes your beef off with a few words and an imply that you're just a blameless, stubborn little thing who he can't be mad at even if he wanted to. And it feels like the sickness finally starts to pass, that it was just an odd inflammation, a passing fever that made you so delirious. You anchor in, slither an arm under his to take support of the bedrock of his back.

He caresses you, makes you sob in his shirt from the sudden overdose of gentleness. His cum dries somewhere between your skin and his clothes as he swallows, then asks you about the mission that went wrong.

"Why did you do it?"

He's not an idiot. Surely he knows why by now. He only wants to hear it because he's stubborn like you, but also in desperate need of love and affection.

"I think you know why." You're exhausted, only able to breathe through your mouth, but the bitterness from your tone is gone. Lost, somewhere in his shirt that smells of ferrous solitude. You wonder what your combined scent, your togetherness, will smell like. It must be something sweet. Promising, like a refreshing summer rain.

"Yeah."

He caresses you slowly now, until his hand comes to rest on top of your head, making sure you won't escape his sanctuary.

"Never do it again," he commands, so soft, voice only a smoked whisper. "Love. I need you to promise me."

"Mh."

"Promise me."

You're feeling sleepy and spent, and he's to blame for it – he simply feels too good. You decide that your first kiss can wait just a little while longer. It's only wonderful; to have something lovely and pure to wait for.

"I promise…"

You drift off to sleep, cradled by the safe slopes of his mountain.

#ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #ghost x female reader #simon riley x female reader

1K notes · View notes

sayafics · 25 days

Text

No More Chances

Rick Grimes x reader

Oneshot

It's probably the dirtiest thing I've ever written, but I have no clue if it's actually good😭 but it is my first actual xreader fic, so hopefully, i did okay.

Warnings: smut, spanking, daddy kink, slight dub-con

Masterlist

Abraham had spotted you first - a small and timid little thing hidden in the darkness of the container at Terminus. You had whimpered and shied away from them as he called to you, asked you your name, and how you had gotten here.

The truth was you didn't know. Not really.

All you had known were the four walls they had kept you confined in, and even then you hadn't known how long it had been.

Days. Weeks. Months?

It all felt like a blur, drifting in and out of sleep, terrified they would come and take you to the place they had taken countless other poor souls who had never returned.

It seemed it didn't matter how long you had been there or how scared you were, Abraham wasn't someone who gave up so easily. He poked and prodded and questioned until you opened up hesitantly, introducing yourself with a dry and cracking voice, strained from disuse.

There was something familiar in your quietness, in the way you spoke softly and asked questions with such bold curiosity, the way you settled in so easily despite just meeting him and the people he travelled with. It reminded him of a life long gone, children long passed, and it was then he decided he would take you in and care for you as his own.

When they had escaped from Terminus, Abraham had been the one to drag you along with a tight grip on your forearm, never letting go and repeating the same three-worded instructions at every step - "stay close, kid."

If the others had noticed his peculiar behaviour, they hadn't said much. Nor did they think to look twice.

You had been trapped with them, suffered perhaps more than they had at the hands of Terminus, and lost more than they could imagine. It bound you to them in a way they couldn't deny.

Well, all but one man.

Rick Grimes.

Stubborn and angry and feral. A wolf disguised as a man, a predator prowling around your form like he was waiting for a moment of weakness before he striked.

But you never gave him the chance.

You barely spoke to the man, sticking to Abraham, who you slowly saw an older brother in, and Rosita, a dear friend.

You picked up where you had left off with ease, holding your weapons with comfort as though they had never left your grip and swinging them in raw instinct, taking out everything that stood in your path.

You could hold your own, a fact Abraham praised you for. Still, it didn't stop Rick from treating you like a child - not letting you join Daryl on hunts despite him promising to keep an eye on you, denying your requests to walk ahead of the group in case they ran into walkers or trail behind in case someone snuck up on them. It was as though he saw you as a child, and the thought grated upon you.

It continued, for all the long days and cold nights you spent on the road to the harrowing days you spent adjusting to Alexandria.

Even when Rick had taken charge of the community, a fierce and powerful leader, he made sure to use his voice to do nothing but deny you your freedom.

It frustrated you to no end.

Perhaps that's why you were doing something as stupid as this.

Rick had said you couldn't join them on the run, said if you stepped a toe out of line and disobeyed him as you had many times before he would teach you a lesson so you never did so again.

He always made threats like this, it was simply another empty threat.

Or at least you had hoped it was.

You walked through the woods near Alexandria - if Rick wouldn't let you scavenge with him and Daryl, then you would have your own little adventure.

All had been going well until you burst through some shrubbery to be met with the groans of dozens of walkers.

A hoarde.

It wasn't as big as the ones you had seen before, but it was too large to handle alone.

You could do nothing but stumble away, running in the direction you prayed was back to Alexandria. But it seemed fate was not on your side, as everywhere you turned, there was nothing but more walkers.

Your breath caught in your throat, heart sinking with dread as your eyes burned. This couldn't be how you went out.

No.

You wouldn't let it be.

You looked around you, searching with eager eyes for a tall and strong tree. You sprinted towards it, grateful for being a natural climber as you clambered your way as high as you could get.

You would wait them out, hope they disappeared and left you be.

And they did.

But it had taken hours. Night had fallen, and your eyes had slipped shut as you leaned back against the tree trunk, knowing you would regret choosing to sleep here when you woke in the morning.

When you had woken the next morning, it had taken you the space of a breath to realise the walkers had finally let you be. And it took the space of a heartbeat to realise you had been missing the entire night, and though Rick may not have noticed your absence at first, Abraham and Rosita would have.

Shit.

You chambered down the trees hastily, almost losing your footing multiple times before jumping down the rest of the distance. Small scratches littered your arms, and you were lucky your cargos protected the soft flesh of your calves and thighs.

It was fine, you told yourself.

Rick had never followed through on his threats before. It would have to be a cold day in Hell before he started today.

If anything, the man did everything in his power to avoid you. This would simply be another one of those times.

If she was lucky, it would only have to be Abaraham's admonishing she'd have to endure - perhaps Rosita, too. But Rick? He would give her that stare he always did, like he was disappointed at her rebellion. Frustrated at her disobedience.

Something else darker always laid beneath his gaze, something she had never been able to make out.

When she drew closer towards the gates of Alexandria, she debated sneaking over the gates and pretending as though she had never left.

But it seemed fate had beat her to it once more.

Carol stood on the watchtower, fixing her with an exasperated stare as she turned back slightly to yell - "found her!"

There was a quiet commotion as bodies clambered up the platform, and up rose the figures of a disappointed Abraham. And a furious Rick grimes.

Huh.

Well, double shit.

Rick was heaving with anger, nearly jumping down the platform as he ordered the gates to be opened.

Abraham stayed standing next to Carol, and her heart sank with guilt as she found herself unable to meet his gaze.

She sped up towards the gate, hoping to ask for his forgiveness and pretend none of this had ever happened. It wasn't as though she had gotten hurt.

She was safe. Perfectly fine without a scratch.

Rick's voice boomed, echoing violently in the space between them as he blocked her hurried path to Abraham.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Her lips parted in shock as he made his way forward, his hand took a hold of her face, his fingers pressing into her cheeks forcing her lips out in a pout as his brows furrowed in concern, despite the bubbling anger in his gaze.

"'m fine. Just in the woods, no big deal."

You wouldn't be.

Your words were whispered, like you were terrified to set him off.

He clenched his jaw at your words, but you could see how his shoulders relaxed minutely.

"The hell were you doing outside the gates, sweetheart?"

His voice was tinged with anger, and still, he used that stupid petname he could never put away.

You were sure he hated you. He confirmed it with every glare, with every denial to your requests. But he wouldn't stop calling you that.

You didn't reply, cheeks flushing with embarassment as you pulled your face away from his grip and looked over his shoulder to see your friends armed to the teeth, very likely having gotten ready to search for you as they presumed you were in danger.

You met his eyes, taken aback by the rage that was pouring from them. You couldn't help the way your eyes burned as you shifted on your feet, "'m sorry, Rick. Didn't mean to stay-"

"No. No apologies this time. What on earth were you thinking? Leaving Alexandria without telling anyone? We thought something happened to you!"

You swallowed roughly, unsure of what you could say to make it all better.

It seemed you didn't have to.

"I've had it with giving you warnings only for you to ignore it like the little brat you are," his words were strained and hushed as he tried to hold back from raising his voice and alerting others of his intentions.

"I promised you you'd get punished if you didn't listen to me and stay inside of Alexandria. Not only did you leave the gates, you stayed out the whole night!"

"I didn't mean to! I swe-"

He didn't give you time to finish, hand wrapping tight around your wrist as he began dragging you into Alexandria.

He paused next to Daryl. You gave him a pleading stare, but he only shook his head minutely.

You had messed up this time. Bad.

It was one thing to leave the gates. Another to be missing the whole night and not tell anyone where you had gone.

"Keep everyone out."

Your stomach rolled with anxiety at Rick's words, and Daryl only nodded in ascent. You tried to look back for Abaraham, ready to cry out to him so he could spare you of Rick's wrath.

Rick only tugged you after him once more, "sorry, sweetheart, but Abaraham can't help you this time."

She knew it had been Abaraham who had stopped him from disciplining her all those other times. It seems this time had been too much for him to accept as well.

She couldn't help the tears that pooled in her eyes at the realisation she truly disappointed Abraham. Rick only scoffed as he dragged her to his house, empty aside from his seething form and her worried one.

He closed the door behind them, walking past her as he paced up and down the small living room space. She could only watch him anxiously, shifting on her feet as she watched his shoulders tense and his lips twitch into a familiar snarl. He was so angry.

"I knew you were wreckless," he started, his voice pitched with incredulity, "but you have to be a whole 'nother crazy to go and spend the night in the woods. What if something happened, huh? Did you even think before you left? 'Course you didn't, brat like you thinks of no one but herself."

You ground your teeth at his words, anger fizzling up and replacing the guilt you previously felt.

"Oh, please. You would've loved it if I never came back. Hell, it's your fault I was out there in the first place!"

He stood still from his pacing, his back to her as he looked over his shoulder with narrowed eyes - "my fault?"

"Yes! You never let me do anything. You act as though I'm stupid and incompetent."

"Well, clearly, I was right."

"Oh, fuck you, you son of a bitch. You're always so arrogant," you couldn't help the words that spiilled past your lips, as though months of frustration had finally found an opportunity to make itself known and unburden your conscious.

"You always tell me what to do, like I can't think for myself," your voice gradually grew louder as you drew closer to him, "but I can! I'm so much more than what you think of me. You're not my dad, Rick. So stop acting like it."

He had turned to you fully by the end of your rant, head twisted with a dark smirk upon his face that promised exactly what he had been threatening you with the moment you had joined the group - discipline.

"You done with the speech, sweetheart? The things I tell you to do are for your own good, I'm protecting you."

"Then why does everyone else get to do stuff? You take Rosita and Tara on runs with you, but you make me stay in these stupid walls. Hell, even Enid's left Alexandria more than me!"

"I told you. I'm protecting you."

"That's so dumb, and if you think I'm going to stand here and accept that, you are too."

He clenched his jaw, running a hand over his face before a scoff left him, "wanna know why I don't let you out?"

She didn't say anything, just watched as his eyes grew so dark she could no longer make out the blue hues of them.

"Because you're nothing but a stupid little girl who doesn't know when something is too much for her. 'nd I ain't going to watch you get yourself killed."

Stupid little girl?

Your hands trembled in anger as your eyes darted to the nearest thing. You reached for the throw pillows on the couch, throwing it at Rick's head as he stepped back to avoid everything you threw his way.

"Fuck you, Rick. Fuck you and your stupid saviour complex!"

When you ran out of things to throw, you drew closer to him with fury burning in your eyes. "I have more than proved myself in this group."

You poked at his chest, meeting his eyes with vicious challenge - "I deserve to be here," you pushed at his chest as rage ate you up, "and I don't need you protecting me. You're not my father. You're not anything to me. You're just some lowlife sheriff from a small, forgettable town that gets off on controlling people."

You paused, your face falling at your words.

No.

No, you hadn't meant that. Not really.

You wanted to hurt him, but not like this.

Rick was tough, yes. And so stubborn. But he was a loyal man who would do anything to protect his people, and you knew that included you.

Shit.

You were scared to look him in the eyes, worried you would see nothing but disappoint in his eyes. A more selfish part of you worried that he would walk away, let you be without talking to you again. As much as you hated the way he controlled your every move, a small and guilty piece of your soul craved his overprotectiveness, playing into the fantasy that he only acted like this because he cares.

"Get upstairs."

His voice was devoid of emotions, more of a barking order than anything else.

You finally looked up at him, confusion flooding your face as you took in the fire that burned in his eyes - "what?"

"Upstairs. Second door on the right."

You scoffed, "I'm not some dog for y-"

His hand clamped over your throat, tugging you closer until your noses brushed together and his warm breath fanned over your lips. You could feel yourself grow warm under his intense stare.

"Go upstairs, now. I'll give you thirty seconds before I drag you up there myself, understood?"

When you didn't answer, he squeezed your throat lightly in warning, and you couldn't help but hold back a whimper.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

If you wanted to disobey him, mock him and ridicule him then he would do what he had to, to show you your place. You would learn by the end of today, he'd make sure.

"Yes, sir?"

Your voice trailed off as a question, one that Rick replied to with an amused hum - "we'll work on that."

He took his hand off your throat, stepping back to cross his arms over his chest. You tried to ignore how broad they made his shoulders seem, how large and intimidating he was when he stood over you.

You swallowed harshly before he nodded his head towards the steps and you couldn't help but run up into the room he told you to meet him in.

You didn't have the nerve to look around and see how the man lived. No, your heart was racing with fear as you wondered what exactly he planned to do.

Downstairs Rick locked all the doors, his way of making sure no one could get in. He wouldn't want anyone disturbing the both of you.

You could hear his footsteps growing closer, like a ticking time-bomb. You didn't know what to do with yourself. You stumbled backwards until you reached the window and a glance outside showed how everyone went back to their daily lives now that you'd come back safe and sound.

You tried to look for Abraham, but before you could spot the red-headed man, Rick made his way through the door.

He shut it behind him, hand reaching back to click the lock shut before placing his hands on his hips and scanning for form.

His gaze paused on your arms, tutting slightly at the light scratches left from your frantic climbing of the tree - "arms hurt?"

His voice was quieter, much more passive than it had been downstairs. Still, it did nothing to calm your trembling heart.

You shook her head minutely, to which he narrowed his eyes, "use your big girl words."

You bit your lip in an attempt to hold back any retort but still couldn't stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you spoke, "no, sir."

He shook his head, disappointed in your attitude - "gotta teach you a lesson. That kind of attitude isn't gonna work with me."

You couldn't help but snort light, wondering what exactly he planned to do, "what? You planning on grounding me?"

He didn't say anything, only drew closer to the bed before his hands went to his duty belt. Your heart began to sink in your chest as you watched him throw the duty belt onto the bed, quickly reaching for his actual belt and slipping it out from the loops of his jeans. He folded it in half, slapping it lightly against the palm of his hand.

He pointed towards his dresser with it, the top of it bare, but there was a mirror placed at such an angle that the whole room was reflected in it.

"Bend over on the dresser, trousers down."

You swallowed harshly, eyes widening with incredulity.

"You can't be serious?"

He clenched his teeth, "does it look like I'm joking, sweetheart? Dresser. Now."

"No."

He took a few steps closer to you, "either you willing walk to that dresser and take your punishment like the big girl you say you are, or I'm gonna throw you over my lap and not stop until your ass is too sore for you to even walk straight."

You could tell he wasn't joking, could tell from the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped the belt.

You couldn't help the way your voice quietened as you twisted your hands and shifted on your feet, "how many?"

"Why? Are you scared?"

You couldn't help it when your eyes narrowed in defence, huffing your way to the dresser, kicking off your shoes and not stopping in a show of bravery. It wasn't until you actually stood in front of it that you slowed down, hands trembling as you fiddled with the button of your cargos.

Your trembling hands were noticeable and only worsened when two hands creeped around your waist, and Rick spoke into your ear, his voice almost soft.

He unbuttoned your cargos, your breath catching in your throat as he slipped his hands into the waistband to help push it down your legs and reveal soft, baby-pink panties, "just twenty, yeah? Think that'll teach you your lesson?"

Twenty?

God, you wanted to high-tail it and run.

But he had locked the door. And even if you did manage to leave, you knew Rick would find another way to punish you.

Maybe this was the easiest option. He just needed to calm down, to get over his ego and think he taught you a lesson. He didn't need to know you thought you were right.

You leaned over the dressor, leaning on your elbows as a shaky breath escaped you, "yes, sir."

"Good girl."

You couldn't help the shiver that ran down your spine at his praise.

"Need you to count after every one, hm? You miss a number and I start again."

"What? That's not fair."

"Then you better not miss a number."

You tried to push yourself up straight, not believing he actually meant what he said, "this is so stu-"

Thwack.

A gasp escaped your throat, and you were sure the belt had left its mark on you.

"Get back down and start counting."

You did as he said reluctantly, unwilling to test him when he striked you once already.

"One."

You couldn't help but whimper as he struck the belt again, this time two in a quick succession on the soft underside of your cheeks.

"Two- three."

"Look at you, counting like a big girl. What was it you said to me?"

Rick ended his question with a lash directly on your plump cheeks, relishing how the skin turned red and raised under his strength.

You wanted to retort, but you didn't think you could do more than count without your voice breaking. Your eyes stung with tears, but you held them back, hands clenched into tight fists as you tried to stop yourself from reaching back to cover your abused bottom.

Fuck Rick and fuck his rules.

You wouldn't let him win.

"Four."

You would take every lash and count without breaking.

You could do this.

Right?

"Ah, yeah. That I meant nothing to you, right?"

Three were thrown in quick succession, tears pooling in your eyes as your voice finally broke whilst you counted to seven.

"That I ain't your father?"

Thwack.

This one had been over your upper thigh, the pain radiating towards your pussy and you couldn't help the whine that escaped you as you counted eight, praying he couldn't see how your traiterous cunt twitched and moistened at the strike.

"I'll be the best damn daddy you ever had, sweetheart."

Another three strikes over the same senstive area across your cheeks, the skin already turning a mottled red as you moaned slightly as the sound of him calling himself your daddy.

Fuck.

Another strike hit your cheeks, this one softer as he tutted into your ear.

"My poor baby," your eyes met his through the mirror as you held back a whimper at his words. Tears were falling down your face as you held back a cry. "Looks like my little girl forgot to keep counting."

Your eyes widened as you realised it meant he would start all over again.

Rick couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, a dark cadence that had you shivering as you shook your head at him in the reflection.

He came closer to you, pressing up against your tender backside, the harsh material of his jeans rubbing against your bruised bottom to make a horrible, aching burn. Through the haziness of your tears and hesitant arousal, you could feel something press against your cunt, something big and hard and you knew exactly what it was.

Your hands moved to tighten on the edge of the dressing table, trying so hard not to rub back against him.

"Seems like I'm going to have to start again, huh?"

You couldn't help but break into a sob, "no, no, no. Please, I'm sorry. I don't want more."

He petted your hair, using it to start pulling you to him so your back was flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you in place.

You whimpered as his jeans rubbed harshly against your sore bottom, Rick placed his chin in the crook of your neck, cooing at you through the reflection, "maybe if you ask me really nicely, I'll listen."

You held onto his forearms, your fingers gripping his arm with trembling strength as you whimpered and cried, "please, I'm so sorry. Please don't start again."

"Please don't start again, who?"

"Please don't spank me again, sir."

"Hm, don't think I like that one, sweetheart."

You just stared at him through the reflection, confusion painting your face until-

Oh.

"Daddy," your voice shook as you whined the word, unable to stop yourself from rocking back on him in instinct, "daddy, please. Don't want n'more," your voice broke as you cried softly, "hurts s' bad."

One of his hands drifted to splay over your lower abdomen, using the pressure to push you back against his cock, hissing quietly in your ear.

"See, daddy would believe you baby. But I think you're lying."

Your fingers come to pull at his as they drift lower and lower, knowing he would find your panties damp, "no 'm not. Please-"

You would whine and beg and cry if it meant he wouldn't spank you with the belt.

He clicked his tongue, dropping his hands to stand back and run his eyes over you. He reached forward to drop the belt on the dresser, "I have a better idea, hm?"

He moved away from you, making his way to the bed to sit comfortably on top. He leaned back on his hand, his pupils still blown with anger, but now there was something more.

You watched as he jerked his head at his lap in the reflection, "c'mon baby. Come lie down on daddy's lap and take your punishment like a big girl."

Turning to him, you couldn't help the petulant whine depsite knowing you would get nowhere, "don't wanna."

He scoffed, leaning forward to rest on his elbows, "either you come yourself or I'll bend you back over that dresser and give you fifty."

You fisted the sheets in your hands, burying your face in your arms as he ghosted his fingers over the curve of your back, drifting down slowly over the bruising flesh.

You knew you could barely endure another twenty, so his threat was enough to make you stumble to him, your bottom already much too sore from the incomplete lashings he gave. You stood close to him, and he barely gave you a second to breathe before manoeuvring you over his lap.

There was something different about it this time. Something that felt more intimate, more gentle as he pet your head and murmured for you to count.

The first slap came too quickly - a sharp intake of breath of the pain burned on top of your sensitive skin.

"O-one."

You whimpered into the sheets. These felt worse than the belt, and some part of you wished he would grab it again so it could be less painful.

He slapped another three in a quick succession, all in the same place making you whine and push into him, barely able to hold back a gasp as the rough seam of his jeans brushed over your clothed clit.

Your hand reached back over your sore bottom, but he only tutted as he shifted his legs and used his spare hand to pull your hands away - "try that again, baby and I'm gonna start all over again. Now count."

"Two, three, f-four."

You could hear the sobs you held back as they weighed heavy in your throat.

"Told y' so many times this would happen," there was a quiet fury in his voice, "but did y'ever listen? No."

He slapped you twice, once over each of your upper thighs and despite the way you pushed away from him you couldn't help but slip your legs open a little wider, trying to feel the drag of his jeans against your cunt as something foreign burned low in your gut.

You shouldn't be feeling like this.

What was wrong with you?

You were sure there was a damp patch forming on your panties, and it wouldn't be long until Rick could see it. Still, his voice, the pain, the feeling of his muscled thigh under your twitching cunt. You couldn't help it.

A large smack sounded against your bottom, a cry escaping you.

"Even now, y' ain't paying attention. Do you even realise how dangerous it was that you left? That you never told anyone? What you did was stupid!"

He continued to throw slaps across your bottom, each one bringing you into a fit of sobs and cries as you hid your face in your arms whilst counting. Still, the burn began to grow into something more, and you couldn't help but push down against his lap to try and find some relief.

You had finally reached twenty, and it was as though the final slap across your tender flesh had broken a dam.

You sobbed and cried into your arms, apologies spilling from your lips as a flood of arousal and guilt and anger came over you once more. Anger at yourself. For leaving Alexandria after Rick told you not to. For shouting at him and telling him he meant nothing to you.

For liking the punishment.

Rick pulled up your body, pulling you into his chest. You whimpered as your tender bottom ached when you placed pressure on it. You wouldn't be able to sit down for days. Maybe weeks.

He held you against his chest, hushing you and murmuring praises into your ear as you hiccuped against him -"such a good girl. Took your punishment so good, didn't you? Did so good, baby."

You couldn't look him in the eye, unsure of what you would find. You sniffled quietly, tears calming at his petting and praises.

"You know what good girls like you deserve?"

The cadence of his voice lowered, but there was no hesitation in his words. The hand that brushed your hair drifted to your bare thighs, pushing apart your knees to rub circles into the soft flesh. His other arm tightened around your waist, reluctant to let you go.

"Rick..."

Your voice was shaky, unsure. You had a feeling you knew where this was going, but was it right? You hadn't even known Rick could have felt this way for you, but then again - sex was sex. And this must have riled him up as much as it did you.

He just wanted to burn off energy, and you were here - pliant and submissive to his wills.

His fingers traced their way closer to your panties, slipping under the waistband to stretch it out before letting it slap back against your skin.

"From the look of your panties, I'd say you enjoyed that a little too much," there was a hint of amusement in his voice, "but I think my girl deserves a reward for taking her punishment so well."

My girl.

His girl.

He doesn't give you a chance to reply, fingers slipping into your underwear to trace around the lips of your cunt, dipping in to carefully trace around the hole Rick had been dreaming of from the moment he saw you in that Terminus container - you looked like a quiet and timid girl, but he could see the wildfire that blazed through your eyes. The one that shone through whenever you were too close to death.

He had come to enjoy it and fear it. Afraid to see it because it meant you had brushed death once more, but the sight of it overtaking you burned him in a way he couldn't help but crave.

Your hands came to wrap tightly against his wrist as his fingers finally met your clit, quiet whimpers escaping you. They intensified into reluctant moans as he moved his fingers despite your hold, your hips rocking back into his lap as you whined at the ache of your bruised bottom.

He shushed you, bucking his hips up against the sore flesh as he held you tighter and sped up his fingers. He circled your clit, fingers dipping down to your hole and back up as he leaned down to press his lips against your ear.

"Does that feel good, baby? You like how daddy's touching you?"

You couldn't help but let your head fall against his shoulder, tears burning your eyes as you edged closer and closer.

How long had it been since you had been touched like this?

The only hands that had ever touched you had been your own, and you were sure they never made you feel like this.

Keeping his hands in your panties, he used his other arm to twist you so your back was against his chest. You could feel the subtle movements of his hips as he pushed up against you, and with the pain of your sore bottom, the pleasure of his hand between your thighs and the pleasurable groans of the handsome man behind you, you couldn't help but cant up your hips, encouraging him to move faster.

"Need more, please."

"Please, who?"

"Daddy," you couldn't help it when you moaned out the name, couldn't help when your hands reached back to twist in the strands of his hair and tug him forward as you twisted your neck to place pretty kisses against his jaw. Your head fell back against his shoulders as one of your hands slipped down to join his. He only tutted, biting your ear playfully before pulling his fingers out.

You couldn't help the tears that spilt as you whined for him to not stop.

He didn't listen to a word you said, standing up to throw you higher upon the bed. You watched as he grew frenzied, chest moving frantically with every breath as he clambered upon the bed. His lips reached for your neck, sucking and biting the flesh and leaving deep marks on your skin that you were sure everyone would see tomorrow. Still, you couldn't help but whimper and whine, hips tilting up in search of his heat to press against your own.

He littered kisses down your neck, the fingers that had just been inside of you tracing your soft lips before pushing inside to press against your tongue. You couldn't help but roll your eyes back as you tasted yourself on his fingers, whining as you sucked him clean.

His hand left your mouth, trailing down your throat to leave a wet streak as both his hands reached for your top, only to tear it in half so your breasts could spill from the material. He licked them, laving at them and sucking heavy marks.

His hands went to his pants, undoing the button and zipper to pull out his stiffened cock. You were barely able to take a glance before he filled your vision - him and his blue eyes, so dark and full of lust as he whispered against your lips.

"Gonna fill you so good baby, you want that, huh? Yes, you do. Gonna make you feel so good."

Before you could even whimper in reply, he pressed his tip against your hole. His breath caught in his throat, and your hands came to sit on his shoulders, only just realising he remained dressed whilst you were bare beneath him.

He shushed you, lips coming to press fluttering kisses against the dip of your throat as he pushed in further.

"So tight, baby. Doin' so good- almost there."

Almost felt like forever, your back arching as you ached to pull more of him in with a broken moan. His nose came to brush against yours as he gave shallow thrusts, pushing in deeper with every one. His tongue came to lick the plump flesh of your lips, and you couldn't help the broken whimper that escaped you as your lips parted and your tongue escaped to meet his own.

You moaned when he bit you tongue, feeling the way his lips twisted into a smirk as he pushed himself closer to press his lips against yours.

The kiss grew heated, a clash of teeth and a tangle of tongues and spit and moans as Rick's movements grew uncontrolled. He rocked deeper and further into your pretty cunt until he bottomed out, groaning against your lips as he enjoyed the feeling of your tight cunt wrapped around him. You couldn't help but tilt your hips down, grinding against him as you searched for friction against your clit.

Rick hiked one of your legs over his hip, lifting the other over his shoulder as he dragged you even closer.

He pulled back from your lips, a string of saliva attaching his reddened lips to your pouting ones as you looked up, seeking his gaze - his pupils were blown, drowning in lust as he pulled back his hips before thrusting back in. The motion jolted your body up the bed, a long whine escaping at the feel of his cock dragging in and out of your cunt with a delicious burn.

Fuck, was this what you had been missing out on for so long?

You suddenly wished Rick has spanked you sooner, especially if it was always going to end like this.

His thrusts were slow, each drag hot and delicious as he pulled back slowly only to thrust in with barley retrained lust. Your hands went to the base of his neck, twisting in his curls, and you tugged his closer to press your lips against his once more. He muttered praises against your lips, slipping his tongue in to meld against your own.

Your hands dipped lower, fingers brushing against the base of his cock causing his to jolt at the sensation, your head tipping back as the tip of his cock brushed against something that had you seeing stars.

Your hands slipped under his shirt, holding back a moan at the feeling of his skin against your palms - wanting to feel more, needing more.

"Rick- please."

His began trailing kisses down your jaw, biting the skin teasingly as he whispered against your flushed skin - "what do you need, baby? Hm? Tell me what you want."

"Fuck- need to feel you. Wanna touch you, Rick."

His thrusts slowed down to a stop, causing your eyes to burn with tears at the lack of stimulation as you reached for his shoulders when he pulled back. He tutted when you whined at him, pushing roughly into your hips, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

He pulled off his shirt, throwing it over his head as he readjusted your legs around his waist and gripped your hips tight. His hands went behind your back, pulling you up so you sat seated upon his lap with your chest pressed against his own.

He started slow once again, hips softly pushing into your own as the shallow thrusts causing your hardened nipples to brush against his chest, already sensitive from his abuse.

Your bottom burned at the new position, but you couldn't help the way it curled into a pleasurable heat as you rested your weight on your knees and took it upon yourself to fuck yourself on his heavy cock.

You pressed yourself further against Rick, panting in the crook of his neck as you hid your flushed face, a hand sneaking between your heated bodies to touch your aching clit.

"Shit. You makin' yourself feel good, sweetheart? Touchin' yourself like that."

"Feels s'good."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes back, pushing down harsher on his lap, desperate for his thick cock to hit that perfect spot again.

Rick bit your ear, a hand coming to wrap softly around your throat - "well, we can't have that now. Can we? That's my job, princess - makin' you cum."

His voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper, squeezing your throat in warning as you grew more desperate against him. His hand dropped to your hip, tightening against the flesh as he pulled you off his cock and positioned you onto all four's.

"Just can't let me have m' fun, can you? Gotta take care of y'rself, like I can't do it for you. Fuckin' brat, you are."

You placed your head in your arms, back arching as you pushed back in search of friction, voice laden with tears are you apologised.

"Sorry, Rick. Please, need you so bad."

"Oh, now you need me, baby?"

His hands came to rest on your bottom, squeezing the sore flesh of your cheeks as you groaned into your arms. He saw how your hole clenched at the sensation, holding back a groan of his own at the sight.

He leaned forward, pressing his hard cock against your cunt and grinding against it softly, ignoring the way you pushed back against him in a silent plea.

"What do you want, little girl?"

"You. Please, need you so bad."

"Need me to do what, hm? C'mon, use your words for daddy."

"Fuck- need you to fuck me, daddy. Wanna feel you inside me, wanna feel good. Plea-"

You couldn't finish your words, voice breaking out into a cry as he thrusted into you in one swoop. A long moan, broken and whining, echoed throughout the room, and you flushed at the idea your desperate voice could be heard from outside the window.

You held onto his wirst as his fingers finally met your clit, leaning back into his embrace as he traced vigorous circles onto your throbbing pussy.

Rick's hand twisted into your hair, tugging you back against him so he could grope your breasts with one hand and touch your desperate, wet cunt with the other. His fingers ghosted over your cunt, his head tilting back with a groan as he rammed into you relentlessly, endless whines escaping you as he brushed over that special place again and again and again.

Fuck.

"Atta girl, this what you wanted?"

You could only nod as you ground your hips against his hand, head tilting back to rest against his shoulder as you placed a hand on top of each of his own, pushing him to touch you harder. To leave his mark. To make it so that even when he had let you go, all you could feel was his touch.

"Yeah, didn't even need a spanking, did you? Just daddy's fat cock in your desperate little cunt, right?"

"Yes-yes, yes. Fuck, yes. Just needed you, Rick. Just daddy, please."

"What is it, baby? You close?"

You could tell from the way his voice wobbled, the way his muscles tensed behind you, the way his arms pulled you closer and his thrusts grew sloppy that he was too.

"Need to cum so bad-"

"Not until I say so, baby. I'm gonna cum so deep inside of you, gonna feel me for days. You want that?"

You couldn't help the tears that escaped you now, using every muscle in your body to try and stave off your orgasm as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. His words only turned you on further, breaths shuddered as you twisted your face to hide in the crook of his neck with tears leaking.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Look at me, yeah?"

You met his gaze, only to have him press his lips against yours. You moaned desperately against him, hissing as he bit your lip before running his lip over it to soothe it.

He twisted you around on his cock so your tender breasts were pressed against his chest once more, moving to press you against the bed as his hands held onto your hips for dear life. He leaned over your body, lips hovering over your own as your nails scratched along his back, so deep you were sure they'd leave marks.

Good, you thought. You were sure your own body would experience a similar fate.

He leaned down to your ear, just as your pretty hole fluttered desperately around his fat cock - "cum."

He had whispered it, but you heard it for what it was. An order your body was aching to give into.

You broke out into a delectable whine, body seizing as your cunt clenched around him and milked him for all he was worth. He groaned against your ear, fingers pressing so deep into your flesh that you were sure his handprints would be bruised and buried into your skin.

You found you didn't mind.

He rocked gently into your hips as you overcame your collective high, sighing softly into the space between your lips as his tongue dipped in searching for your own.

You pressed your lips against his with a quiet sigh as your tongue brushed against his tentatively, and Rick couldn't help but twitch inside your warm and sopping cunt.

Shit, maybe he should've spanked you sooner. Especially if it meant he'd end up with his cock in that warm place between your thighs.

And it was also safe to say Rick didn't leave you on your own again. No, instead you were attached to his hip - and his cock. And it didn't take long until the others had caught on, with one too many of them catching an eyeful of the sinful acts.

It was safe to say that you never really did ignore the man's orders again. Not unless you were feeling particularly desperate for his attention.

Rick couldn't help it, though. With your bratty attitude and pretty cunt he couldn't get enough. And you had to admit, there was something addictive about that dominating power he held being placed upon you with his undivided attention. Who wouldn't crave such a thing?

#rick grimes x oc #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes #rick grimes x you #rick grimes fic #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes smut

230 notes · View notes

diejager · 1 year

Note

Ooo I just love how you write platonic yanderess

Can you write a platonic yandere Ghost with his little sister😗

Of course. Of course.

Pairing : Big brother Simon "Ghost" Riley & little sister reader

Cw: canon violence, death, Ghost background, death, murder, dark, platonic yandere, protective Ghost, murder, mental breakdown, depression, trauma.

Wc: 1.3k

The last thing he wanted people to know - even his team - was about his civilian life, the secrets he held under lock and key near his heart, and a hard appearance. He protected what little was left of his old life fiercely, he wasn't Simon Riley anymore, he was "Ghost" now and that's all people knew. All the pain and torture he went through, from digging himself out of his grave to finding his family murdered, dead in the home they thought safe.

He remembered going home, exhausted and ecstatic to see his family, he celebrated Christmas with his family, drinking and eating at Tommy's house, you sitting next to him - your older brother. He was lucky that everyone was free that night, you both had unpredictable schedules, him being a red beret and you a field medic. Although he never had the chance to work with you, you were always skilled with your hands, bandaging and nursing his wounds.

You fixed him up when your dad got too drunk, Simon used to wrap himself around your body and receive every hit and berate of degrading insults your dad liked to spew. Simon protected you and you played his nurse until it became too real, you left for military service a few years after him, wishing to help the one who protected you so often.

He left to drink with friends on the eve, military buddies, you promise to come back once you got something from your flat near the edge of Downtown Manchester (it was a bit far, but always noisy, it helped quell the nightmares that silence brought).

He rushed home when he finished with whatever Sparks had done, ending him and his accomplice. They knew where he was before, it put his family at risk, then the call he got only solidified his fears when he stepped into Tommy's house, door open and lights off.

He found you sobbing, kneeling over Tommy and Joseph's bodies, cradling them. The dread and devastation he felt were overpowering, his life in the military had cost him his happy family. He was served revenge on a silver platter, a few scrapes here and there, but you two had disappeared in the dead of Christmas.

Everything from public relationships to your face was a risk, and somehow, he managed to keep you by his side wherever he served. You were the medic and him the lieutenant; (Name) and Simon Riley were dead, simply Doc and Ghost. That's how the world knew you and how Task Force 141 called you. Doc and Ghost, stuck by the hips, wearing similar masks and worked spectacularly together.

You were the last of his family, of the life he had before the murder - his dreamy heaven - so he kept you close, he protected you like he did when you were younger. If they got too close, he'd dispose of them immediately. Your safety was his top priority, whatever he did was for you, and the purpose he built himself was to ensure that you'd live.

He wanted you to stay, the agonizing pain of feeling lost and alone was harrowing, and he couldn't risk the chance of losing you too. They haunted him in his sleep, the memory of their deaths and his regrets, it all loomed over him like a reminder of his mistakes - his failures. The 'what if's lingered in his mind, the 'should have' and 'could have' becoming a mainstream of his thoughts when he looked at himself in the mirror; what if he never joined the army; what if he was there that night; he should have been there with them, instead of drinking at a bar; he could have saved you the grief and pain he felt, the one you shared like an open wound.

It should have been him.

He told himself that so many times, to you and himself, always mumbling about it at night, pointing the finger at himself for the loss. You stayed by his side, smaller arms wrapped around him like a blanket of comfort, warm and reassuring with words that pushed back his demons. He loved you so much, for being here and for always sticking to him.

You don't blame him for it, he doesn't understand how you don't, he saw it as his fault for bringing the enemy home.

"'S not your fault, Si," you whispered to him, his mental state too fragile for loud noises. His ears were ringing, almost so loudly that he thought his mind would implode on itself. You knew he felt everything much stronger, being the eldest of the trio he felt more responsible. "You're not to blame, Si. None of it, ya understand?"

He liked how your hands held his, gripping him tightly to bring him back to earth, far away from his violent mind. You supported him when he crashed and he held you when you broke, their deaths never left you, it simply brought you closer together than you'd think possible.

You closed yourself from others and built a wall of brick and cement, yet you smiled and socialized freely, you spoke enough for you both - or so Ghost insisted. He grew colder, callous, and brash with others, reserving his sweeter and softer side for you.

He stood near you, practically looming over you with his height of 6'4, broad shoulders, dark fatigues; a giant wall of muscle, you'd tease him, though you knew he was only protecting you. He's grown wary of everything that tried to approach you, he would stand before any approaching figure and glare them down.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, you were told from the file Price sent you, walked to meet you, smiling broadly and eyes squinting from the bright sun that bared down on the base. Besides him was Gaz, Kyle Garrick, olive-skinned and leaner than both males - blockheaded blokes, you called Simon and Soap.

His newly formed habit stood out the moment Ghost moved to block you from their sights, standing high and sneering when they stood feet away from you. You saw them flinch, hesitation seen through their eyes before they closed in, greeting Ghost who stared at their hand.

"Doc, pleasure meeting you, Soap, Gaz," you moved around Ghost, tapping his forearm reassuringly, his tense form slumping slightly. "He's Ghost, sorry 'bout him, he's not much of a people's person." Ghost huffed as you shook their hands, peering between them to the other duo approaching: Captain John Price and Gary "Roach" Sanderson.

Ghost acted once more, moving to guard you even though he knew Price prior to the formation of Task Force 141, you both knew him. You shook his hand, bowing your head lightly out of respect for the experience and battle-hardened man.

Other than guarding you, he hoarded your attention like a dragon hoarding his gold, keeping you by his side wherever he went as much as he stuck to yours. Per your conditions, you and Ghost would always be assigned together, and Price sympathetically complied. You bunked together and ate on the same table, he warded away unsavory glances and you lashed out at those that glowered at Ghost.

Although you'd burn the world for Ghost, he took it a step further, he took it upon himself to take care of whatever plagued you. Be it harassment from a fellow soldier, he'd disappear the next day; be it an unintentional threat to your safety, properly disposed of; be it someone who's trying to get close to you, too close to you, would find themselves jumping into an oncoming train.

He did as he should to keep you from harm, any kind that would mean losing you. A desperate man takes desperate measures, and Simon "Ghost" Riley is the most desperate elder brother in the world.

2K notes · View notes

nunalastor · 1 month

Note

The official hoof art and the beach art you reblogged has me daydreaming about a beach episode.

Not sure if the Pride Ring has an ocean, but Lucifer has canonically made a wildly popular theme park called Lu Lu World, so maybe he's made some water parks or (artificial) beach resorts too. So maybe after the construction of the new hotel's completed and Alastor's returned to the group, he decides to take his daughter and her new family to one of his water parks for some fun and relaxation after a really harrowing experience.

They get there and everyone's prepared to have fun, Charlie and Vaggie are cooing over how pretty/cute the other looks in their swimsuits, Angel definitely chose something racy and he's playfully flirting with Husk, and Husk carrying the cooler full of beers and rolling his eyes at Angel but has a knowing smile. Cherri Bomb joined in as well and is hyped to go surfing for the first time since she died and offers to teach Niffty who giggling like an embarrassed schoolgirl by the amount of skin on display. Lucifer's excited to show off his waterpark to Charlie and her friends and he closes it to the public for the day so that they can have it all to themselves. They get there and everyone is eager to jump into the water. Everyone except Alastor, who takes a seat in the shade and decides to read while everyone else is playing. He doesn't even take off his Hawaiian shirt.

Angel Dust teases Alastor for being a stick in the mud which just gets him grabbed by an underwater tentacle. Alastor has a laugh at Angel's terrified screams, but doesn't do anything more than scare him. Angel Dust decides he's gonna mess with Alastor in turn, so he gets everyone together and proposes a game; try to get Alastor's shirt off.

No it's not just 'cause he wants to see Alastor shirtless, shut up Husk.

It takes some cajoling, but eventually Angel's able to get everyone on board with the game. Mostly everyone. What follows is a series of Looney Toons style antics involving badly faked accidental tripping, booby traps, and at one point a giant fan. But whether through bad luck or Alastor's preternatural senses, he manages to dodge each and every attempt. Up until the very last moment when Niffty actually does trip for real and covers his shirt in fruit punch. Alastor's annoyed but he doesn't get mad at Niffty. He just goes to the changing room to clean up away from the prying eyes of the weirdos he's found himself in the unfortunate company of.

Lucifer feels kind of bad, realizing they may have crossed a line or three. So after Alastor's been gone a while, he grabs a towel and his spare shirt and follows Alastor to the changing room to offer him a hand.

But when he walks in he's stunned to find Alastor shirtless, running his shirt under the faucet. Nearly every inch of Alastor's torso is covered in horrible, rough looking scars. The moment Alastor notices Lucifer staring at him in the mirror he goes full demon, antlers elongating, bones popping out of place, and roars at Lucifer to get out. Lucifer isn't scared of Alastor exactly, but his heart is pounding nonetheless as he runs out of the changing room.

(No idea if Alastor's scars are still canon - or if they ever were canon - but god I hope they are.)

When Alastor eventually steps out of the changing room, back to his normal form, dressed, slightly damp, Lucifer is waiting outside for him. Lucifer starts to stammer out an awkward apology for barging in when he knew Alastor was changing, but Alastor cuts him off. With a perfectly pleasant smile that is at odds with the icy look in his eyes, he simply says, 'let's keep this bit of unpleasantness to ourselves, shall we?' and leaves to rejoin the group.

Since Alastor's determined to act like nothing happened, Lucifer goes along with it. Still, he can't quite shake the image out of his head.

(I don't think the scars are canon but who gaf about canon tbh.)

#hazbin hotel #huskerdust #radioapple #chaggie #alastor #lucifer #nunalastor asks #appleradio #radio apple #apple radio #niffty #angel dust #cherri bomb #charlie #vaggie #husk

178 notes · View notes

katakaluptastrophy · 3 months

Text

So we all know how Ianthe became a Lyctor for “ultimate power—and posters of [her] face.”

And I'm sure someone made a nice icon.

But you know who would have definitely gotten a poster of their face? Coronabeth.

Think about it: every House but the Ninth has lost a scion. In a culture that thrives on melodrama and the conspicuous consumption of death, there is a wave of hysterical funerary fervour to mourn their lost leaders. And the Third - the House of glitz, trendsetting, and political intrigue - has lost its beloved Crown Princess.

We don't know a huge amount about funerals in the Nine Houses, but we do know a bit about Third House funerals:

The front coffin is distinguished from its fellows by its gorgeous arrangement of flowers and wreaths. The flowers are all in hues of gold or violet, and are fake. The coffin is hinged open at the front, with its contents hidden from view by the flowers. A tray of meat is rested on the closed bottom half of the coffin. A queue of gaudily masked mourners process past the coffin, slowly, each one taking a strip of meat, then stopping by the head to lean within—kissing or feeding; we can’t be sure. - TUG

Apparently, a Third House funeral - unsurprisingly for flesh magicians - focuses on the physical. The reverence of/fear of/(lust for?) the body. A wake on steroids. But they received no body for Coronabeth. So I can only imagine larger than life posters of Corona decked with flowers, the weeping crowds surging through the streets of Ida, etc etc... Poor Ianthe, second place once again to a 'corpse'.

Moving past Ianthe to House funerary customs in general, and to the awful aftermath of the Lyctor trials in particular, it seems especially unfair that neither of the flesh magic Houses got a body back to mourn. Obviously Corona wasn't actually dead, but for those who believed her to be, the lack of a body for such visceral funerary rights must have been traumatic.

We don't have as many details of Seventh funerals, but the House famous for it's "beguiling corpses" likely also focuses much of its post-mortem ritual around the body. Dulcie suggests that the deceased might even leave specific instructions in their will about the appearance of their corpse:

That drawing looked nothing like me. I loved it. You don’t know this so it doesn’t help, but I included it in my will and put down that I wanted to look like that after I died. I thought maybe it would give you a laugh at the funeral, you know? - TUG

Meanwhile, the Fourth, Fifth, and Eighth receive their perfect pairs of "statuesque and incorruptible" bodies, preserved beyond the wildest dreams of the Seventh. These Houses are all spirit magicians. The Fourth, for whom thanergetically detonating oneself on a battlefield far from the rays of Dominicus isn't unheard of, almost certainly have funerary rites that don't presuppose a body. And the Fifth, whose necromantic practice is far more concerned with the spirit than the body, likely centre their most significant funerary rites around the ghost.

Y'know, the bit they don't have? Just as the flesh magicians of the Third and Seventh would have been unable to mourn their lost scions with rites around the body, the Fifth would have been unable to call their ghosts, trapped in Harrow's River bubble.

So amidst all the grief and awfulness, and the Emperor refusing to answer any questions about what happened (why are they all dead? Why are so many bodies missing? Where are the ghosts? Why are the bodies so creepily perfect?), half the Houses can't even mourn their dead in the way they normally would.

#the locked tomb #tlt meta #harrow the ninth #Tamsyn I am begging you for more details about the political fallout of the Lyctor trials in ATN

202 notes · View notes

sprout-fics · 10 months

Text

Rotes Mädchen: Chapter 3

(Werewolf! König x Red Riding Hood! Reader)

(Art by the lovely @zwienzixes)

(Masterlist)

Word count: 4.1k Rating: PG-13 Tags: Werewolf! König, Fairytale AU, Monster Hunters TF141, Traditional German Fairytale setting, Price x Reader, F! Reader, Injury, Blood/Injury, Fluff Warnings: Mentioned gore

BANG BANG BANG!

You startle awake at the sound of a fist hammering onto your front door, briefly flailing in your bed as you try to reconcile yourself with the hazy world around you. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, heart rising up to your throat at the thundering noise. The cool, damp light of sunrise spills through the curtains, illuminating your cottage in a dove-grey dimness that seems gentle compared to the sudden shock of the clamor on your front step.

BANG BANG BANG!

"Red?" A voice calls out, and you blink, trying to place the unfamiliar gruffness that permeates your thoughts still clouded by dreams.

Price.

You sway to your feet, fatigued and cold from the frosty chill of dawn. Muscles protesting the frigid interior of your cabin, you shiver and rub your arms for a semblance of warmth. You take a single step forward, floorboards creaking, when you spot scarlet at your feet.

Bloody rags.

A startled gasp threatens up your throat. Choked, tasting of frost. You manage to swallow it, thoughts racing as you try to remember. The world feels clouded in mystery, your dreams haunted by lurking shadows and the full, full moon, of dripping fangs and a lonely, harrowing howl to the ink dark heavens.

The woods, the scarlet smear against tree bark, a wavering voice calling out from the lichen shadows, bright eyes so afraid. Hands stained red, a desperate plea, a whispered name.

König.

Your gaze widens, and at once you look up to the loft above you, heart pounding in your chest. There, hidden amongst the hay and spare blankets, a hooded face peeks down at you, a pale fist clutching a white-knuckle grip around his bedding. You can see the whites of König’s eyes, can practically hear the terror of his heartbeat thrum alongside your own.

BANG BANG BANG!

You both jump at the sound, and you have to slam a hand over your mouth to contain the gasp of surprise the shudder of the door wrecks through you.

"Red, are you in there?!" Price calls out again, and there's a strange franticness to his voice that feels unlike the strong, resilient, resolute captain who had escorted you to your door in the darkness, had reassured you of his own strength against a monstrous enemy.

"J-just a moment!" You yelp at last, hands shaking as you duck down to gather the bloody bandages, toss them and hide them under your blanket, dump a bowl with its ruddy water into the smoldering fireplace. Quickly, you try to erase the appearance of anyone except yourself in your cottage, knowing of the danger König faces should he be noticed. Persecution, accusation, injury, maybe death.

If Price hears any commotion inside, he doesn't say. If anything, it worries you more, considering his silence as contemplation to your sudden panic.

You cast a fearful glance to the hayloft, where König’s eyes dart from the door to you, eyes under his hood pleading and voice silent lest he be discovered.

"Hide." You mouth to him desperately, terror pulsing breathily between your ribs.

Fortunately, König seems to understand your silent command, because he rolls backwards, further into the loft, trying his best to drape the threadbare blanket across his massive form to obscure himself. It isn't perfect, and a close inspection wouldn't pass muster, which is all the more reason for you to be convincing towards the Witcher at your door.

You snatch a shawl from a chair, drape it over your shoulders for a semblance of decency before padding over to the door and unlatching it, peering through the crack.

Price, who had been waiting with his arms crossed, spins to face you. There's a grimness to the wrinkle of his brow that melts at the sight of you, his gaze clouding with relief.

"Thank the Gods." He mutters under his breath, arms dropping to his side.

You blink at that, at the profound worry in his voice, somehow tender despite the gruff and sharp edges of him.

"Good...morning?" You offer sheepishly, ignoring the way your hand trembles on the inside of the latch where he can't see it.

Price huffs, and once more his expression shifts under your gaze, mouth puckering in something resembling frustration.

"A good morning now that I know you're alive, yes." He tells you sharply, and you nearly flinch at that, at the sudden bite of his words. "Where were you yesterday? We spent all bloody day trying to find you, we-" Price draws a breath, lets it exhale through his nose as he tries to steady himself, scowling. Yet the trace of worry isn't quite gone from his gaze as he speaks next, words gentler.

"We thought the worst when we couldn't find you." He confesses after a few moments pause, voice solemn, concerned.

You can feel the shock pass over your face as you gaze up at him, into the blue of his frustrated gaze tempered by a fleeting glimmer of distress. It occurs to you then that you failed to consider Laswell and the others in this plan of yours, in bringing König back under the cover of darkness to hide him from prying eyes. You'd been gone all day, hadn't even returned by sunset. If Price had somehow come to check on you during the day and found you absent, it made sense he'd assume the worst. Especially with a monstrous foe stalking the midnight woods.

"I'm-" You try, voice catching in your throat with shame at having worried your new friends so. It makes it even harder to summon the lie on your lips, the one needed to both reassure Price and keep the injured man in your loft safe.

"I'm sorry." You breathe at last. "I didn't mean to worry you. I went out to pick herbs in the woods at sunrise. I thought maybe- maybe one of you might end up injured so..." Your trail off a little uselessly, biting your lip and trying to will the captain before you to relent.

It seems to work, because the tension unwinds from Price's shoulders all of an inch. He exhales long and hard through his nose, closing his eyes as he once more tries to measure himself.

"You went back into the woods after we were nearly attacked?" He asks, and you stiffen at the coldness in his voice, reeking of an ire second only concern. "When I told you to stay put?"

You frown at that, hand curling into a fist as it braces on the frame of your front door.

"You told me to wait until dawn." You correct him, voice harder now, eyes glinting with retribution. "You never told me not to leave my home."

Price has the decency to look taken aback, thick eyebrows arching at the sudden steel in your tone. He pauses then, and you see his hand palm the pommel of his sword at his side in contemplation, realizing his mistake.

"You're right." He offers at last with a nod, admitting to his fault. "Apologies. I didn't mean to raise my voice."

You don't answer, feeling a righteous pulse of justification that feels muted by the reminder of the man at your mercy still hiding in your home. You aren't entirely sure Price would hurt König, but between the bite on his leg and the ominous hood covering his face, you can imagine a monster hunter such as Price quickly jumping to conclusions and drawing his sword. You want to imagine the captain would be understanding of your guest, but if anything, the bite of the captain's words, the underlying suggestion of protection makes you want to close the door another inch, try and shield König’s stilled form from his view.

"You worried us, love." Price confesses softly, arms crossed but posture still tender at the seams of him. His head tilts down to regard you, the brim of his cap not fully shielding the familiarity in his gaze. "When we couldn't find you Laswell pitched a fit. In all my years I've barely seen her that furious."

He pauses, lets the weight of his concern rest on your gaze. "You mean a lot to her, I hope you know that. She'd never forgive me if I let something happen to you."

The undercurrent of Price's words is not lost on you, with his head tilted down towards you, eyes soft with something teetering dangerously close to fondness. It should soften your heart, should make you want to go lax into his arms, offer not apologies but a request for comfort from a man you respect, and harbor emotions you dare not yet name. You can't find the strength to do so, not with your secret listening to this entire conversation silently above you.

"I know." You whisper, breath fogging into the cool morning that seeps past the openness of your door, with you still in your nightgown, huddled under your shawl. You avert your eyes from Price's gaze, grimacing when you notice the miniscule stiffness that runs through him at your hesitancy. "I'll...be more careful. I promise."

Price nods, a little absent, his eyes a little distant. He's ready to say something else, breathing in a slow inhale-

When he freezes.

"Is that blood?" He asks, sniffing once more, eyes growing dark.

Your heart drops through the floor.

Gazing down at your feet, Price can't see the terror that flickers across your gaze, lips parting in horrid realization.

The bandages. The bowl. The water in the fireplace. The man hidden above you.

Blood.

Your cottage smells like blood.

"Red." Price rumbles, guarded, on edge as he echoes your nickname. He senses danger, can smell it in the air, his senses seek it like noise on the wind. Now, that alertness has him re-examining you, looking past your shoulder to the interior of your home, eyes tracing up the ladder to the loft-

Your eyes shoot up to him, lips fumbling for an explanation, feeling something resembling both terror and treachery reside in your heart.

"R-red...fox?" You manage, a little stifled, voice strained. Yet it's enough to make Price pause, look at you in confusion, expression somewhat startled. You swallow, force down the sudden tightness in your throat and do your best to relax your expression into neutrality once more.

"I found a red fox in the woods." You tell him, voice even. "It had already died- a hunter must have lost it. I decided to bring it back and u-use the fur for my cape, since winter is nearly here."

You have no idea where this newfound bravery comes from, the way you're able to smoothly spin a lie from nothing like silvery spider threads, smile and flutter your eyes at the captain as if you know he'll accept it.

Price seems...taken aback, for a moment, with your face turned up to him and offering him a timid smile. The hand that has tightened on the grip of his sword goes lax, eyes blinking a few times as his eyes lock with yours. You watch him nod once, a few times as he weighs your words.

"Explains why you were back late then." He tells you, and if there's a remainder of caution, of disbelief in his tone you refuse to acknowledge it, maintaining the grace in which you've spoken. The smile on your lips doesn't waver, doesn't budge even as Price stares down at you unblinking, searching for dishonesty in your gaze.

When he doesn't find it he sighs, raises a hand to rub at his brow.

"It would be better if you came and stayed at Laswell's for a bit." He suggests, though it sounds less like a suggestion and more like a declaration- one you refuse to bend to. "It would ease her mind knowing you're safe with us."

If he had asked you yesterday, before you had ventured into the woods, you would have readily accepted, would have had your things packed the moment he asked. Now, however, there's a secret, a responsibility that weighs heavy on your shoulders, gazes at you from the silence of the story above.

"Thank you, but I'll be alright." You offer gently, declining him. "I don't want to be underfoot, and I'd be more comfortable wandering around in my nightgown here than around four armed men."

It seems, up until this moment, Price has forgotten you are standing in your undergarments. There's a thin layer of linen that separates your bare flesh to the misty fog of early morning, your figure barely obscured by the drape of the garment against the curves of you, almost sheer in the area where it has been worn down. The chill of the morning ripples across your skin, and for a moment you're grateful for your shawl that obscures the swell of your breasts with your nipples pebbled against the cold.

You see Price quickly avert his eyes from you, looking over your head and clearing his throat in a sudden bout of bashfulness that seems strangely boyish for his grim demeanor.

"Right." He offers after a moment, more to himself than to you. "I'll...send the boys to check on you later, escort you if you need to travel into the forest."

He shoots you a look, brows raised, as if to seek your approval, and you nod. You see his eyes dart down for just a moment before he remembers himself as a gentleman, turning from your doorstep and towards the sleek mare that stands nearby. You watch him turn, see the glint of his dulled armor in the scant morning light, overcast by a sheen of clouds in the chalky grey sky above.

You're ready to close the door, breathe a sigh of relief, when his voice catches you once more.

"Red."

You blink, turn to him, with one hand still clutching at your shawl. Price fixes you with that grimness you remember from your first meeting, the resolve you saw when he escorted you safely home under the cover of darkness.

"We managed to injure it." He tells you, and it takes you a moment to realize what he means.

The wolf.

You shift uneasily, a shudder trembling through you at the memory of the huge, lurking thing in the woods, backlit by the waning Autumn moon.

"That's...good then, yes?" You offer timidly, but Price only shakes his head.

"An animal is most dangerous when it's injured and cornered." He declares gravely, voice heavy with warning. "Monsters are no exception."

He holds your gaze, and even without the grim spark of determination in his eyes, his warning is clear.

Be safe.

There's little else said before Price hoists himself into the saddle, gathering the reins and pausing just long enough to tip his hat to you in farewell. With a kick and a whinny, he's off down the main road of the village, back into the forest where the creature that paces your nightmares lurks, waiting. Watching.

You wait until the mist has settled before you close the door, the iron latch clanking shut as you lean against it with a relieved exhale. You can still feel your hands trembling, heart trying once more to resume into steadiness in the absence of the Witcher.

"Is he gone?"

You open your eyes, looking up to the top of the ladder that leads to the loft. A pair of eyes gazes down at you from beneath a hood, and you can see the bright glint of concern there as König grasps onto the ladder, head tilted owlishly at you.

You nod up at him quietly, swallowing another deep breath before your chin droops to your collarbone, where the laces of your nightgown rest delicately against your skin.

Ah-

König must see your eyes widen, because he makes a choked, startled little noise and draws back further into the loft so he can't see you in your state of undress. It's strangely endearing, considering his mammoth size and terrifying stature, and if you weren't so abashed at being so exposed you'd giggle.

"G-give me a moment to dress." You offer instead, moving back towards the partition that separates your bed from the rest of the cottage. "Then I can check your bandages."

König makes a muffled noise of agreement, still not revealing himself so as to allow you a modicum of privacy.

You dress quickly, pulling on your chemise, blouse, bodice and skirt. You're in the process of rolling up your stockings when you call out to him, voice gentle so as to not startle the gentle giant.

"You can come down now, if you want." You tell him. "I'll start the fire."

There's a little bit of a rustle from above, the floorboards creaking as König angles himself so his eyes peek over the edge and down towards you.

"A fire sounds nice." He supplies shyly after a moment. Then he hesitates, blinks a few times and avoids your gaze before adding: "...Maybe some food?"

"Of course." You reply gently, a soft smile across your face. König’s shoulders sink visibly in relief, and he begins to slow, aching process of descending the ladder on his injured calf.

It takes you a few minutes to restart the flickering flames in the hearth and set water to boil so you can try and clean the bloody bandages from the night before. König hesitates at the edge of the kitchen before you nod to a seat, where he perches uncertainly, eyes watching you with interest as you gather food and supplies.

"Here." You offer, sitting across from him and patting your thigh in a gesture for him to prop his leg on yours. When he does, the weight of it weighs down across your thighs, preventing you from moving even if you lifted with all your strength.

"Danke." You supply, and König makes another little noise of agreement, as if he can't truly summon the words to say much more.

There's a comfortable silence that descends over you both as you brace König’s leg on your lap wordlessly, gently unwinding the stained bandages to examine the wound below. König watches you as you do, remains absolutely rigid under your touch, as if the thought alone of someone laying their hands on him has something inside his chest squirm uncomfortably. You offer him a look of reassurance, only to find the wanderer averting his eyes from you.

If you look closely, you think you can see a dusting of pink under his hood. Then again, perhaps you imagine it.

The warmth of the hearth glows at your back as you inspect the bite mark on König’s flesh. Yet your brow scrunches, head dipping lower as you realize the wound is somehow much better than you thought it was- not bleeding, mostly scabbed over, the bruising already fading to yellow. It's already quite healed, and the shock of it bypasses something inside you that distantly tries to say that it isn't right.

"How is it?" König offers suddenly, and despite the low volume of his voice it's still enough to make you jump a little in your chair, the weight of his leg keeping you in place.

"You'll live." You supply with dry humor as you force yourself to relax. It seems to bleed into König. who's shoulders fall an inch, a sigh fluttering the fabric of his hood as he lifts his eyes to you.

"Thank you." He tells you honestly, earnestly. It's a tone you haven't heard from him yet, something that goes beyond gentleness and instead imbues you with a profound gratitude at his words. "You...saved my life."

You look down to your hands a little shyly, unable to keep a smile off your face. You begin the delicate process of cleaning his brawny calf before at last replying.

"I couldn't just...leave you out there." You tell him softly. "Not with the werewolf, not when you're injured. It would be wrong."

Your mouth twists as the memory of the monster is once more summoned into your thoughts. A massive dark shadow that wavers in the darkness between the gaps of gnarled trees, a low vibrating growl that shudders through you. König shifts uneasily under your hands, as if somehow he can sense the vision that haunts you, likely having seen the same thing.

"Besides." You continue, smiling. "It's nice to not be alone."

König pauses, blinking at you before he tilts his head in question. "Even if it's a stranger you rescued from the woods?" He asks, voice betraying a hint of his amused disbelief.

You grin at him, a little cheeky, eyes twinkling.

"Especially strangers from the woods."

He huffs at that, as if he doesn't really believe you but finds humor in your answer anyways.

"Honestly." You go on, tucking away the wet cloth stained red with the remainder of blood. "I'm...not exactly popular in the village. My neighbors think I'm rather strange. They leave me alone because they respect Laswell, but if it weren't for her...I don't know if they'd be as civil to me as they are."

"They don't like you?" König asks incredulously, brow knotting under his hood. "But...you're so kind."

You feel your face warm a little at that, and you distract yourself from it with a little huff, reaching for fresh bandages. Yet you pause, look up at him with a bit of a sorrowful gaze, feeling a familiar ache of solitude washed away in his gaze.

"Thank you." You tell him softly. "But kindness doesn't mean much to people who have lived their lives being afraid of things they don't understand."

Blinking, you grimace in realization when König averts his eyes away from you. The hood still rests over his face, obscuring the apparent deformities under it, and you realize that the words you've said remain all too familiar to him. Had they not, perhaps you wouldn't have found him lingering outside the village, too afraid to come closer for fear of the treatment he would receive.

"I suppose we're similar that way then." You muse, resuming your motions. Despite the frigid chill of the cottage still being warmed by the fire, König’s skin feels warm under your palm. You lay it flat on his knee to steady him when he shifts, and the resulting shudder of sensation from him nearly makes you pull away.

"Good company, then." He offers, almost too quiet to be heard, and it startles a chuckle from you- not expecting his response and delighted all the same.

"Good company indeed." You shoot back, unwinding the bandages and wrapping them once around the wound before securing the base of them. "Now hold still."

The grumble that König gives you is begrudging, yet endearing all the same, complying as he tries to not move while you delicately re-dress the bite mark on his leg. Yet it seems he has yet to exhaust his words, because he draws a breath as if to reply once, twice, thrice before he speaks.

"The captain-" He begins at last, voice a little strained. "Are you and him...?"

You splutter.

"N-no. He's...ah, he's just a friend." You answer haltingly, face warming under the sudden intensity of your guest's stare. "I mean, I only met him the other day. I rode with him to Laswell's and back, we-" You trail off, suddenly feeling the urge to shyly press your face into your hands.

"So, you do like him." König continues, and you look up sharply to him to see amusement dancing brightly in his gaze. You pinch the soft skin below his knee and the giant jolts under you even as you press down on his leg to keep him in place. Still, he breathes a huff of laughter even as you roll your eyes.

"Of course." You drawl, winding his bandages a little tighter for effect. "Yes, the poor maiden who lives alone in the woods gets her fabled ending by being whisked away by the handsome Witcher atop his dark horse. I think I read that one."

König hums a little noise in his throat, tilting his head so you can see the way his eyes crinkle with a little smile.

"That, or maybe a handsome werewolf." He ventures, and that startles a bark of laughter out of you, bright and colorful in your chest as you tie off the bandages and look at him once more.

You weigh his gaze against your own, see the smile in his stare reflected back into you. The fire crackles warmly at your back, catching orange and hazy against his hood, glinting against his pupils. The cottage feels warm now, not with the smell of woodsmoke, but with the small bit of happiness shared between you two, composed of laughter and the blooming fullness of contentment.

"Good company." You declare again, not yet looking away from him, and the brightness of his gaze only seems to grow as he agrees.

"Good company."

Taglist: (If you'd like to be tagged in future updates please REBLOG this post)

@writeforfandoms @zwiiicnziiix @soapskneebrace @tealikestoread @mikrou @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @kiroshang @adorephina @equalstrashflavoredtrash @dog55teeth @seraphimcollections @pettyprocrastination @borderlinecatboybehavior @warenai @moskaisley @nachtcirce @feelingnotmyself @lovenotcomputed @rk1v35 @kikisstrawberrie @emrzennn @montenegroisr @frazie99 @graybraids @ohgraywardens @tangerines-mustache @poohkie90 @arbesa-mind @glitterypirateduck

If you are on this taglist and would like not to be, please reblog or DM me ❤️

#konig x reader #konig x you #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #my writing #my fic #fic: rotes madchen

550 notes · View notes

holy-puckslibrary · 3 months

Text

━ 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — bull-rider!MATTHEW TKACHUK x barrel racer!hughes!reader (can be read as an unnamed oc) wc — 1.8k synopsis — wear the hat, ride the cowboy—even if it might get you disowned.

note — there's one line referring to the reader as jack's twin, but no physical description is given. also, this one-shot is a "party favor" from our feb slumber party

specific content warnings under the cut.

cw — quinn being a dramatic, misogynistic douche-canoe 3000 for the entirety (ratty matty has his moments, too), no actual smut but it's heavily implied they do the dirty on the reg, a disgustingly intimate situationship — ick, off-color comment(s) relating to first times and the concept of virginity, lots and lots of familial angst (jack is a snake), oh! and more than a few loose ends... but you know the drill by now, i'm incapable of keeping a story contained

“Go on, Palomino Princess. Ride me like one of your ponies.”

Condescension drips from the lazy taunt. Matthew earns a palm to the chest for it; her ire lands with a faint thud, but he doesn’t mind. He gets off on riling her up, and after two years of backseat meetings and hushed phone calls, he’s damn good at it too. That, and she might be the most reactive person he’s ever met—and that’s saying something.

Matthew’s been going head-to-head with all three of her brothers for over a decade, and he’s known their family for even longer. Having a short fuse must be genetic.

“Y’won’t break me if that’s the hold-up. S’gonna take a hell of a lot more than a dry humpin’ buckle bunny to put me outta commission, sweetheart.”

He knows damn well she ain’t anywhere close to the derogatory term, but he likes what the complete disregard for her accomplishments does to her deceptively cherubic face.

It may look less harrowing than every other event on the card, but barrel racing ain’t for the faint-hearted. The event is a death wish personified, and it feels about as good as someone taking a metal pipe to both shins. It takes balls—metaphorically, in her case—to charge into an arena on an American Quarter horse with the intention of guiding it through a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels while sprinting at top speed, but it takes dedication and skill to succeed the way she has. The winner is determined by just thousandths of a second.

The woman perched on his tailgate is unmatched—undefeated.

Flames of pride lap at his loins, the fire of desire stoked by the wicked roll of her hips.

“Ohh—shit!” Matthew hisses, his head lolling back as his hips buck into her heat.

She smirks, apparently vindictive as ever. “How’s that, cowboy? Everything you dreamed?”

“And more,” he growls as he grabs a fistful of her backside.

His grip is tighter than it needs to be as he switches positions. Not nearly as rough as she would prefer it; beggars can’t be choosers.

Matthew steps between her knees, and, despite herself, she shivers with anticipation. Chuckling, amusement twinkles in his baby blues. “Now give me a kiss, sweetheart. My lips are feelin’ a little lonely tonight, and you happen to be wearin’ my hat, Little Miss.”

He flicks the brim of his hat. She catches it before it hits the ground before plopping it back on the rightful owner, the damage already done.

“You just love that antiquated rule,” she shakes her head while most definitely laughing at his expense. “Y’wouldn’t see any action without it, now would you?”

Matthew grins. Trading insults is his favorite form of foreplay. “Neither would you. Isn’t that your signature move, outlaw?”

“I should kick you to the back of the line with that attitude. Hell, I’d probably be better off keeping you at a distance anyway.”

“Keep mouthin’ off and see how far it gets ya. Definitely nowhere near that McMansion castle you call home, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout me, sugar. I’ve got plenty of options if I need a ride home.”

“I’ll bet, show pony. Sexiest can chaser east of the Mississippi; who wouldn’t be chomping at the bit to carry Cinderella home to her Daddy?”

Men have a habit of gawking at her; Matthew has a habit of relieving them of their teeth.

He leans in to taunt her ear with greedy lips and barbed arrogance. “Best of luck finding one that’ll fuck you better than me.”

“Do you think about other guys fucking me often?” she fires without missing a beat.

More than he would like, actually.

With a heavy, drawn-out sigh, he runs a hand over his face. His patience is running thin, and his jeans are starting to chafe. Exasperated, he tries coaxing her to reason, “Sweetheart, c’mon. We both know you want this—want me. Stop makin’ this so damn hard.”

“Why? Because you already are?”

Matthew makes an exaggerated show of play-biting her scrunched-up nose.

“Woman, you drive me insane.”

“It’s why you’re so obses—“

Her teasing is thwarted by the sound of her own name. Spat out of her older brother’s mouth like a heirloom gone sour, it's no great surprise Quinn looks at her like he can’t recognize her. Like a stranger—like a traitor.

Guilt, thin and fleeting, pieces the tenderness between her ribs.

She squirms, attempting to put some distance between them as if that could erase the discovery—and her culpability—from his mind. Matthew and his shit-eating grin keep her from getting too far but don’t be fooled. This is no chivalrous encouragement to stand her ground. It’s got nothing to do with her and everything to do with her brother.

Quinn rages outside the hauler housing Matthew’s precious 3500 Laramie. Walking by, seeing the main trailer hitched Brady’s F-350 made his stomach churn. It didn’t sit right, and now he knew why.

“You can’t be serious! Nuh-uh, no—no fucking way. Get out here before I drag you out myself.”

At his tone, what little remorse she felt dissipates. They were both far too old for his tired, overbearing song-and-dance.

“Who died and made you king?”

Quinn, blinded by overripe anger, sweeps over the irritation, twisting her tongue and the disbelief arching her brow. “I thought I made myself clear last time. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Oh, crystal, Quinny.” Matthew snorts at the juvenile nickname but is swiftly cajoled into silence with a pinch to the side. “Message received.”

“Then quit screwin’ around and get your ass back to the truck before Dad blows a gasket. He’s been lookin’ all over for you. So, you best be thanking your lucky stars I got here first. That its me catchin’ you red-handed colluding with the enemy.”

He’s so serious, nearly shaking with rage, it’s difficult not to laugh. She can count on one hand the instances wherein her brother became visibly angry—all of them involving the man standing between her dangling feet. She fares better than him, but that’s to be expected. Unlike her accomplice, for her, there’s real risk involved.

“Just ‘cause I heard you don’t mean I have to listen.”

Lips pressed to her temple, Matthew clicks his tongue in approval. ‘Bout damn time she started giving back what Quinn so readily dishes out.

“Look, y’can spread your legs for anyone with big dreams and a buckle some other night. Parade around the circuit acting like a slut, see if I give a shit. But not tonight. And not with him.”

The knowing glint in Quinn’s blackened eyes is telling, but it isn’t as menacing as he thinks it is. The Hughes heir apparent couldn’t be judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t have a lick of proof. Just suspicion and a personal vendetta the size of Texas.

A safety net swaying below, Matthew decides to have a little fun. “Whoa, settle down, Trust Fund. Y’can’t talk to a lady like that, ‘specially not your sister.”

He’s no white knight, but he can pretend.

And isn’t that what you’re all doing? Pretending to be people you aren’t. Acting out your roles, putting on a show. After all, a performance will always be more entertaining than the truth.

“—and here I thought etiquette classes were a Rodeo Royalty rite of passage. Glad t’know she ain’t the only roughneck hellion in your family tree, Huggy.”

Quinn’s jaw tightens. His tongue threatens to put a hole through his cheek. Hands on his hips, the eldest sibling only nods. He ignores Matthew entirely.

“Real winner y’got there. A class act. You really know how to pick ‘em—cream of the goddamn crop. Say, what’re you gonna do when he inevitably gets bored of you? When he gets his hands on a fresh doe-eyed virgin to tarnish?”

After she finishes with Matthew, she’s kicking Jack’s sorry ass.

Those anxieties—and that majorly personal tidbit of information—were shared in confidence. Because unlike her older brother, she trusted her twin. Well, she used to, at least. Luke’ll be over the moon at the chance to be her favorite.

She bares her teeth like a scorned lapdog. “We’re not kids anymore, Q. You can’t push me around whenever you want or tell me what to do like you’re my father. And you sure as shit can’t bully me into submission, either. Give it up, or get lost.”

“Whatever,” Quinn barks as he backs away from the trailer. “Your fuckin’ funeral.”

Listening to the fading sound of her brother’s Ariats pounding through the dirt, she buries her face in the warm, familiar crook of Matthew’s neck; she needs a moment alone. He seems to understand this, his mouth zipped shut as he runs calloused hands up and down her sides. She’s breathing heavily, but he does her the simple mercy of leaving it be.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was growing on you,” Matthew hums, a low-maintenance attempt to lighten the mood.

They don’t do the touchy-feely BS. It’s one of the things that reeled him in—and kept him coming back.

“But you do.” She pulls away to look up at him, chin resting on his sternum. He hates that her melancholic eyes are red-rimmed. “—and stop thinking, it doesn’t suit you.”

“And what does, princess? I’m dyin’ for your insight.”

“Shut the door and I’ll show you.”

He blinks, taken aback. Who is this brazen tart, and when did she take your place? Matthew wonders to himself. Maybe he is the bad influence everyone paints him as… He hasn’t really thought about it until now, and it's troubling the way it makes his chest tighten.

Matthew clears his throat—and, from his mind, the distressing notion that he’s ruined someone good with his carelessness—as he leans over.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pulls the hauler’s heavy metal door shut with clamorous finality.

Matthew Tkachuk might be the most self-serving swindler on dirt, but Quinn Hughes is just another name on his list. A box to tick and then forget. He wouldn’t lose sleep, it wasn’t like their friendship meant a damn thing. Not anymore. A friend turned foe, reduced to another obstacle in his way, a hurdle to jump.

Tonight, his sister’s fealty; tomorrow, his title.

Retribution is at his fingertips, so close he can taste it. Yet, it would seem that Matthew merely traded one hornet’s nest for another.

At least this one’s easy on the eyes.

⤑ to my inbox💌

⬸ back to the catalog (writing masterlist)

⬸ back to the main blog

All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2024 holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted, or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

201 notes · View notes

yandere-wishes · 11 months

Text

ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕔 𝔹𝕠𝕠𝕜 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖

Synopsis: You finally realize that you and Miguel are stuck inside a comic book romance.

Warnings: Yandere themes, angst, the reader has Stockholm syndrome but can we really blame her?

There's something about a sleepless night that's lethal. A loaded gun aimed point blank at your head and your heart and your eyes that are too weary to recall the difference between fact and fiction. Right and wrong.

Miguel should be home soon you think as you stare at the Daily Bugle's nightly broadcast. The headlines are the same as last week's villain attack and the week before that, and the week before that.

'SPIDERMAN REPORTED DEAD AFTER TANGLE WITH NUEVA YORK'S NEWEST VILLAIN!'

You think this is the 18th time he's died this month. A hologram dances in front of you, some withering reporter adamant in his claim that this time. This time for sure Spiderman is dead. A Harrowing claim, one you know to be false. Your lover isn't so easy to kill, you should know on account of how many times you had tried. Back when you'd painted Miguel O'Hara as the villain in your story, back when you were so obstinate to return to a wholly ignorant life of so-called freedom.

Miguel can't die, you refuse to believe that a man like that is subject to such a mortal thing.

You use to try to imagine a Miguel that had grown old. You couldn't back then and still can't today. Because heroes are eternal, or so you've come to believe. They die a hundred deaths and reawaken younger than before. Heroes aren't immortal -that's the part that makes your heart skip a beat- yet death has never had the chance to lay claim to them. Miguel is fine you're sure of it.

There's a noise, a disturbance in the wind, the sound of thousands of coiled webs being used to sling across the air.

A sign that Spiderman has arrived.

He's here.

You can't help but smile.

"What's the old man saying this time?"

You turn to see Miguel, land at the edge of the rooftop. Legs limb as he staggers towards you. With a defeated moan he sits down. Close enough for you to inspect the galaxy of bruises that dance across his stunning face.

When did you fall in love with him, again?

"You're supposed to be dead," you say, a bitter laugh following, the peculiar words.

"I think that's the 14th time the Bugals had a spread on me dying" He chuckles, dry and humorless.

You bite your tongue to avoid correcting him.

"Who was it this time? Venom or Flipside?" you ask, trying to guess which of the two had been able to give the Miguel O'Hara a run for his money.

"Just some kid, from another dimension. Mocoso already screwed up the canon once, and he's damn well trying to do it again. He used Spider Bite to send himself home, so I didn't get the chance to..." He doesn't bother finishing that sentence. Doesn't have to, you've seen worlds collapse upon themselves because a tiny imperfection had distraught the canon. You know why he does this. You know why he must do this. No one is exempt from the canon. No matter how young and naive they may be.

How peculiar the life of superhumans are. For all the guts and glory every hero's world is only bounded by thin silk strings. Perpetually on the verge of collapse should the chosen one refuse to follow destiny's orders.

Heroes aren't pretty, they neither sparkle nor shine. Instead, they burn with a self-lit fire that grows out of control, burning until only ashes remain. Heroes are tragedies swung across every dimension. War-torn children with blood under their fingernails and chipped teeth from one too many close calls. Heroes aren't pretty, nor beautiful, nor divine. They're mangled creatures who come alive at night, staggering across half-lit streets doing what they believe is right.

You've tried to commit this to memory. Tried to memorize it so you wouldn't make the same mistakes as every lovesick idiot who's fallen in love with a superhero.

But sometimes it's so hard to remember, especially when Miguel has been your only companion for months now. The only person you have to talk to. The only person who is there in the early hours of the morning when even sleep abandons you. And he's always there again at night to tuck you in before he departs to fight whoever has broken the few simple rules that the canon calls for. You've almost come to appreciate his paranoia and insistence that you stayed locked inside the penthouse. Although he's grown a bit bolder as of late. Permitting you free range of the terrace and rooftop. A sign of good faith, he'd called. Whilst you'd presume that he's come to enjoy you waiting outside to greet him when he returns from the miseries of being a golden boy.

"I try to save everyone, I try to make sure the universe is held upright. So why the hell does everyone always treat me like I'm the villain?" His voice is raising, fangs glowing in loose rays of starlight. His hands are crossed in annoyance. You rest your hand on his arm as you snuggle closer.

Heroes and villains, what's the difference?

That's a question the two of you have been pondering for too long now.

Even though you doubt Miguel truly knows who he is. It's hard to fall into the orderly boxes of 'good' and 'bad' when the fate of every universe lies on your already brittle shoulders.

He's a hero who acts like a villain. That's what you use to call him. Back when he'd first plucked you away from your ordinary mundane life.Deeming the world too dangerous for a defenseless little civilian such as yourself. He had promised to love you, to cherish you. Back when you'd been so resistant to play the role of the hero's lover. But seeing as how no matter what nightmares he went through as Spiderman, he had still kept those two promises. You had slowly started to grow fond of him

Time and time again Miguel has made you feel like a butterfly caught in a spider's web. Wings clipped and waiting for the inevitable. He's overbearing to the point where his sheer presence feels like a boulder placed on your chest. Or maybe his strings have finally found their way to your heart, coiling around the organ controlling its every beat and pulse. Yet somehow, somehow, you started to desire more and more of him.

You're in love with the hero who plays the villain.

You're in love with the villain who bares a hero's mask.

"You should be more careful when dealing with the other spiders. I hear they're not all as precautious as you." Your fingers trace the purpling marks on his cheek. Sliding from one universe to another.

You know Miguel isn't a tiny spider he's a bloodthirsty tarantula. Yet you still worry. Fear that one day he may fail to return home.

"You shouldn't worry about me preciosa,"

"Someone has to, Miguel, you're not as indestructible as you may think."

"If I kiss you will you stop complaining?"

There's no room to answer, his lips rest on yours, forceful and sweet. Captivating, dominating, and as always overbearing. His fangs slowly sink into the back of your lips. That familiar iron taste invades your mouth once again.

Sometimes Miguel feels like a hero, shouldering the universe's burdens, and fighting for what's right. After all, with great power comes great responsibility. This is what he wanted, he always wanted to be the hero.

But sometimes when the spider's lair is abandoned and he returns home to you, he can't help but feel like the villain. He's protecting you he knows that. Justifying it is easy when you watch dimensions wither away in violent glitching and endless screams, daily. Yet he wonders if his predecessors were ever like this. If the heroes are supposed to keep their lovers locked away. Alone yet safe. A fair trade in his mind.

Miguel isn't quite human, half-everlasting and half-horror.

A dangerous combination

Or at least a confusing one.

The point is he's some sort of hero. But that also means he's some sort of villain. Even the old tales got things wrong, not every superhero is carved from porcelain and ivory. Not every villain is built from ash and rage.

Sometimes heroes are carved from gravestone granite and glazed with poison. Sometimes their powers are self-inflicted curses that chew away at flesh and bone. sometimes the hero's halo is made of barbed wire digging into his scalp and embittering his thoughts. Sometimes heroes kill themselves before any villain gets the chance. Spitling their body apart a million times a day because destiny decided to play a cruel joke on them. Picking the weakest of all mankind to become its guardian.

When he pulls away from the kiss, he lifts your hand to his mouth.

His fangs sink into your finger puncturing bone as he gnaws the stress away. Blood leaks down his chin, spilling over the rooftop. He pulls your body closer. An anchor in a never-ending storm.

You kiss his chin, looking into his eyes. Eyes that can never choose whether they wish to be human or monster. Your head instinctively finds his chest nestling into the cold metal of his suit.

Oh, how you wish you could crack his rib cage open and crawl inside.

Sometimes you think back to the original tales. The ones from your dimension, albeit it seems that -regardless of a few rare exceptions- the stories are consistent in every universe.

The story always goes the same. Peter Parker falls in love with MJ or Gwen, you've come to learn that in the long run, it doesn't really matter. Spiderman saves them again and again. Until the whole world knows that Mj or Gwen are somehow connected to the masked hero. But never once does she leave his side. Rebellious blond or dotting redhead, Spiderman's lover stays regardless of how desperate and vicious the villains become when they start to learn that the story always ends in the hero's favor.

It's every gal's dream to be the lover of a superhero. Awaiting their betrothed's triumphant return. Greeting them with amorous tidings and cherry red kisses.

You think you're Gwen or Mary Jane. Or whoever else decided to fall in love with the troubled boy who has radioactivity coursing through his veins. The boy who was deemed a hero and thus was destroyed because of it.

Of course, there's the other part. The underlying message of the story, that parents all so conveniently 'forget' to tell their children. The disease of the otherwise perfect tale. They forget to tell you that Gwen Stacy fell to her death and Mary Jane is left abandoned, once the hero realizes that his mere presence is a curse. Stories may end in the hero's favor but much like the villain the lover is also doomed by the narrative. That's normal for any hero's lover. They always burn out to cater to the hero's ever-fuming torch of justice.

you feel broken, as you're sure they did too. An unspoken rule of being with a hero is that eventually, you start to lose your sense of self without them. It doesn't make sense when you put it like that but along the way bits and piece of you broke off. Pieces that you forgot to patch up. You've been mending by using segments of Miguel to make yourself feel whole again. It's a small miracle that you still hold a fading memory of whom you used to be before he made you his. A miracle that sweeps through the cracks of your soul.

Heroes never need to fear death, just an eternity of pain. Losing everyone they love, over and over again. Maybe that's why Miguel's grip is so suffocatingly tight. He knows that eventually, not today and maybe not tomorrow but eventually he's going to lose you too.

You're a comic book Juliet and he's Romeo with superpowers. Everyone knows that comic book heroes are doomed from the start. Neither you nor Miguel are exceptions.

Maybe the two of you are doomed by the narrative.

But for tonight, as the moon slowly sinks behind the skyscrapers and the stars fade one by one. The two of you are safe in each other's arms.

2K notes · View notes

shadowbriar · 4 months

Text

Matt Murdock - Your Wedding Dress

Pairing : Matt Murdock x (she/her) Reader Word Count : 1.7k Warning : Angst. Get your tissues, I mean it. Synopsis : It was one thing to attend her wedding as a guest but to meet her before the ceremony? Would Matt have such strength in himself to face her? Notes : I listened to Phoebe Bridgers - Scott Street outro 1 hour on ytmusic while writing this. I suggest you do the same to get that maximum punch to the gut. If you like this story and would like to support me, please visit my kofi page and perhaps get me a coffee?☕

Matt’s grip on his white cane tightened as the smell of florals and champagne hit his nose. The soft sound of wedding symphonies was heard, and he could hear the bustling murmurs of the guests crowding the venue. This would surely be one of those days where he wished he didn’t have his heightened senses.

If only Fisk hit him a little bit harder on the head the other day. If only he’s gotten an important trial to attend to today. If only he’s got any other reason to pass up this harrowing day. If only.

Karen’s gentle squeeze on his arm is the only anchor Matt now has to not completely lose it. Foggy and Marci were a few steps behind them and though none of the four exchanged a word since they got out of the taxi earlier, Matt could tell from the beating of their hearts that they were worried too. For him or for her, he wasn’t sure. It would’ve been a pleasant mini reunion for them all if the circumstances weren't as unfortunate.

He knew that the grey cloud surrounding his head was contaminating such a pleasant morning. His sour expression was in contrast to all the gleeful smiles and happy faces the other guests have. He knew that he should, at the very least, pretend that he’s happy for her. Matt tried. He painfully has tried to be happy. To finally accept his final defeat in life and let her go, but it’s just such an impossible task to do.

Some people are bound to leave greater marks than others in your heart.

“Excuse me,” Someone called from behind the quartet “Is any of you by chance, uh, Mr. Murdock, Ms. Page, Mr. Nelson, or Ms. Stahl?”

“That is us all, actually,” Foggy answers, knowing that his best friend has no power in him to utter a word.

“Oh perfect! The bride has asked to see you all before the ceremony.”

The three friends glanced at Matt, waiting for his response. It was one thing to attend her wedding as a guest but to meet her before the ceremony? Would Matt have such strength in himself to face her?

Before any of them could say a word, the person who seemed to be one of the wedding organisers ushered them to a room. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating. It was the only thing Matt could sense with every step they took. Like a magic spell binding him to follow blindly wherever it may lead. Even if that final destination might be his death.

His heart was hammering inside his chest. Like a hummingbird trying its best to flee its cage. Yet when the door closes behind them, when they’re finally given the privacy to see her alone, when the noise of the havoc happening outside was muffled and all he could feel is the serenity of this bridal suite, Matt suddenly feels like he was afloat.

“You guys made it.”

Matt clenches his jaw. Her voice was as sweet as a melted butter, yet it did nothing but make all the muscles in his body tense. His body went uptight. She was everywhere now. Her scent, her voice, her heartbeat. All of her is filling and suffocating his senses.

The sound of her dress sweeping the floor as she comes closer to them makes his heart ache. He wonders just how beautiful she must look right now. He wonders if she’s wearing that one dress she once described as her dream wedding dress. The one with thousands of mini buttons and a long sleeve of beautiful lace that feels like feathers when you touch it. He wonders if her dress has that long train that he argued would be quite a problem when she needs to do her slow dance later.

The four of them shared their small talk with Matt still busying himself to be desensitised with the event unravelling before his eyes. It proved to be a challenging task to do with her presence around. Everything about her just pulls him whole like a blackhole he couldn’t escape.

“Guys, would you mind giving me and Matt a moment?” She says at last. Matt could feel her heartbeat quickening a little “I don’t really have much time left before the ceremony starts, so if we could just have a few minutes..”

“Of course, yeah! Sure,” Foggy says fast “We’ll be outside.”

Matt could hear the soft sound of the door closing behind him yet it serves as a loud gun to his ears. He’s finally alone with her now, for God knows why, for God knows how long. A part of him wanted to throw away his cane and run towards the closest window to flee himself, but a bigger part of him wanted to melt his feet to the ground and bask in this moment forever.

“You look handsome,” She compliments, slowly taking closer steps towards him. Matt’s breath hitches when he feels her hand around his neck, trying to fix his collar “You’re wearing the tie I gave you back in college.”

“It’s the only nice tie I have,” He says with a smile “I’m sure you look handsome too.”

“Yeah, right.” She scoffs, Matt could tell that she just rolled her eyes.

“What’s wrong? You don’t feel beautiful on your wedding day?”

“Oh, no, I do feel pretty, it's just..” She pauses, letting out a soft sigh “It’s just not what I imagined.”

Matt forces a smile, “Describe your dress for me.”

“Don’t you want to just touch it? I’m not the best at describing things, remember?”

“I'd rather hear you talk.” He says, he could almost feel the heartbreak mirrored in her heart beat “Please.”

“Well, uh, where do I start,” She says with an awkward laughter escaping her lips “It’s an off shoulder ball gown with some super tight corset. I’m supposed to wear a glove with it but I couldn’t be bothered. Oh, and the veil. The veil might be the cherry on top in this. I look like a ghost from the 1800s.”

Matt let out a genuine laughter, amused by the distraught she seems to be having, “So no mini buttons?””

She shakes her head, “No mini buttons.”

“No long sleeve with lace that feels like feathers?”

“No, no feather like lace.”

“And no long train?”

“No,” She says, this time with more shakiness in her tone “No long train.”

His tongue darts out of his lips, licking it as he tries to find a word to say, “That does sound like an awful dress.”

“It is,” She agrees in defeat “It’s the worst.”

Silence fell upon them. A familiar one that typically would be comfortable and soothing, yet for once it made them tick like a timebomb. Matt wishes that his abilities would extend into mind reading because God knows just how desperate he wanted to know what she’s thinking. He wanted to know the truth about her heart, what made it beat so loud whenever he laughed or smiled at her. He wanted to know what is making her eyes glossy right now.

“Rescue me, Matt,” She finally whispers “Get me out of here.”

Matt swallows the hard lump on his throat, “And where would we go?”

“Anywhere. We could go miles away from here or.. Or we could just go back to your apartment and drink some beer,” She begs, her sobs get louder as a tear escapes her eyes. She takes one of his hands that was clutching the white cane and places it on her cheek, trying her best to melt into his hold “Tell me that you don’t want me to go on with this. Tell me that this is a mistake, that us breaking up was a mistake. Tell me that you don’t want me to marry him and we’ll be free, Matt. We’ll be free.”

“You’ll never be free with me,” Matt argues, his own voice breaking “You’ll never be safe with me.”

And that’s when Matt feels it. His heart completely shatters as she breaks into tears. He could feel her trembling, feel the pain she’s going through with this marriage. He could feel the heartbreak and despair in her heart. He could feel the frustration and anger that she desperately wanted to vent yet had no outlet for. He could feel it all.

But this, as much as it destroys them both, this is what is best for her. She deserves to be with someone who could provide a stable life for her. Someone who doesn’t spend their nights haunting bad guys and going home on unGodly hours with blood and bruises littering their body. She deserves to be with someone who could protect her, not the one who would only draw danger towards her.

“I don’t love him, Matt. I never do,” She reasoned “I could never love anyone as much as I love you.”

Matt pulls her close for an embrace. He tries to eliminate all the space between them, pulling her impossibly close, yet it still doesn’t feel enough. It hurts him to know that for once their embrace couldn’t fix the problem at hand. He wanted her all for himself but even his greed isn’t as big as the love he holds for her. He couldn’t risk it. He just can’t.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers “I’m sorry you don’t get to have that dream wedding you wanted in this life.”

She remains quiet, her sobs are the only thing filling the room right now.

“Hey, look at me,” Matt says as he pulls away from the hug, cupping her face to make her see him “I’m sorry I caused us this mess, Baby. I never wanted to hurt you.”

She nods, forcing a smile, “I know.”

“I promise you, in every other universe, you’re wearing that wedding dress. You’re smiling and happy because I’ll be waiting at the altar, and I’ll cry. I’ll cry when I feel you walk down with orchids on your hand. And we’ll exchange our vows, and I’ll kiss you before the priest announces us man and wife because I just couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait.”

A laugh escapes her lips.

“And then we’ll make a fool of ourselves for our dance because what exactly can you expect from a blind man and a woman with an insanely long train of dress?”

“Oh, Matt,” She cries, pulling him for another hug “I love you so much.”

“I know, Baby,” He breathes “I love you even more.”

“Promise me this is the only universe where we don’t end up together.”

Matt pulls away. His thumb caresses her skin gently before pulling her for a kiss. The very last kiss they would share in this lifetime, “I promise.”

#matt murdock #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock scenario #matt murdock scenarios #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock imagines #matt murdock angst #matt murdock oneshot #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x oc

219 notes · View notes