#((She has an outer over her OTHER outer though!))

[soleilapproves]

Lucid Submission - chapter 4

(feudal lord!sukuna x reader)

synopsis:

The fearsome demon king, Sukuna Ryomen, is reborn as a human being as punishment for ruining the balance of good and evil in the divine realm. To lift his curse and return to his original form, he must complete the condition bestowed upon him by the deities.

But It requires him to have a child with the street thief who stole his coin pouch.

fanfic masterlist

Sukuna had never known what it was like to have a family. In the Divine Realm, there was no system of succession of the throne to the next of kin; instead, a more powerful demon would just come along, kill the current king, and begin their reign. The closest feeling to familial love was the support one would get from their loyal followers.

He didn’t even have a family in the mortal realm. All he remembered when he arrived was waking up in a human man’s body with no parents or siblings in sight and only his demon subordinates in their human forms surrounding him with questions of their own.

After being in the mortal realm for so long, he knew that despite having no blood ties with the four followers, they were the only people who cared about him unconditionally. They were the only ones from his realm who refused to be under the rule of a new king.

But now, he was expected to create life with another human being who wanted nothing to do with him.

A family. Father, mother, child.

He did not have many examples to follow from. Most he saw were parents and children selling their wares at the street market or fathers bringing their children to his estate to evoke some sense of humanity for the sake of borrowing large sums of money.

It never occurred to him why he always gave away more than what they needed when he saw their young flesh and blood look confused over why their father was sobbing while bowing down with his forehead pressed against the dusty ground.

His head was muddled in contemplation during the entire journey back to his estate.

Much to his surprise, the estate was calm, except for the distant clanging of metals from Yuuji and Megumi’s training after their shifts at the local school. He expected to see you trashing the rooms, maybe collecting some of the jewels he had collected over the years in a small sack, but you were simply sitting on the veranda with your head leaning against a wooden column. Eyes empty and cheeks sunken.

Your gaze followed every movement Megumi made, his blade gracefully dancing with Yuuji’s, even though both had contrasting fighting styles. Megumi pushed forward, often charging into Yuuji’s weak points, while the other boy focused more on defending and deflecting.

Sukuna beckoned Uraume with his hand and dropped his outer robes into his arms. “I thought she would’ve been asleep by now,” he murmured. You were so distracted by the fight that you hadn’t noticed Sukuna’s dominant presence, dark waves of fabric standing out from the white snow.

“My Lord, she…does not know how to read or write. She began to cry until she grew tired. She hasn’t moved from that spot since this morning.”

Shame washed over his senses. He should not have expected you to know something only the privileged had access to. It did not quickly occur to him that he had forced you into a new lifestyle overnight.

“Has she eaten anything since this morning?”

Uraume rarely showed any facial expressions, mostly just conveying his distaste through bold snaps, but he grimaced before answering the feudal lord. “Nobara brought her breakfast after you left but she refused to eat as usual, saying that she would rather eat dirty snow over the food we provided.”

“I have something I want to talk about with you, but first, get dinner ready. I will get her to eat,” Sukuna says as he begins to walk towards you, a deep sense of purpose welling up with each step

“My Lord, I am afraid she will run into the snow and stuff her face full of it. Your efforts will be futile,” Uraume huffs as he is hot on the feudal lord’s feet, barely catching up because of his short stature.

‘Not when I’m holding her down,’ Sukuna thinks.

You only sigh when your husband stands before you with his hands on his hips, blocking the engaging fight between his bodyguards. “Do you mind? I am just beginning to find entertainment in this bleak place,” you say, despite not making any effort to peer at the young men behind Sukuna.

Sukuna wanted to chuckle out loud at how quick you were with your tongue, almost like you were always ready to respond to every situation. “Thank you for the warm welcome, wife. I am happy to see you, too.” He couldn’t help but tease you–there was just something so very satisfying about seeing your lips stick out in a pout.

“I wish to be accompanied while eating dinner. Come.” He extends his large, calloused hand out to you. Your eyes don’t so as much to glance at the hand in front of you and choose to stare at the pillar you were leaning on instead.

Sukuna never expected you to submit to him, but he wished that for once, you’d just listen to him with little to no objection from your conscience. “Fine, I shall compel you to join me then,” he complains under his breath.

Before you can counter his remark, you are swept off your feet and slung on his shoulder. “Put me down, you heathen!” you yelped as he entered the dining area. Megumi and Yuuji stopped fighting when they noticed the scene, rushing to your and Sukuna’s side out of concern. “She is fine, just very hungry for food, and her husb–”

“Do not complete that sentence!” you reprimanded Sukuna. You felt horrified and did not want to traumatize the two boys. Though you couldn’t see anything from where you were (your legs and buttocks faced the world while your head hung low as your nose dug into your husband’s firm back), you could tell both Megumi and Yuuji felt uneasy.

“I’m sure Uraume has dinner ready for you both. I will be fine,” you called out. Yuuji knelt down to your head. “Are you sure, Lady Sukuna?”

“Yes, go on now.”

As soon as the boys walked away, Sukuna put you down on the ground, and just like in the morning, you tried to scramble away. Your husband had, yet again, caught onto your ankle with his quick hands and hands dragged you into his lap. You were secured and immovable with his steel band-like arm wrapped around you.

You kept your sanity at bay by trying not to mentally fuss over how a single arm had enough strength to hold a person down.

“Look at you, already acting like a lord’s wife.” You don’t appreciate his little joke and simply turn away, practicing your habit of staring at things that don’t infuriate you as much as your new husband’s face. You can tell he doesn’t take kindly to it because he simply grabs your face and forces you to face him.

“I do not appreciate being treated like a toy or a carcass that you can just toss over your shoulder.”

“I am aware,” he muses with a heady glint in his eye. “But it is just so entertaining to see you kick and scream when you are helpless. I cannot help but irk you when I get the chance.”

He plays with you a predator with his prey, weakening your mind, then your body, and then ultimately embedding his claws into your flesh

Your first curls, fingernails digging half-moon-shaped indents into your palm as you brace yourself to punch the man holding you, but Uraume and Nobara quickly walk in with dinner, placing them on the table before you.

By seeing the orange-haired girl, you are reminded of her quick reflexes. She only held you down when you had first tried to escape. Who’s to say what she would do if she saw you hit her employer? That, too, a man she blindly devoted all her loyalty to.

“Steamed fish and rice for dinner. Would you like some sake as well?” Uraume asks with a bow.

“Yes, maybe it will help my stubborn wife warm up to me.”

You still don’t find his humor appealing.

Uraume hides his ornery expression well, but you don’t miss a slight twitch in his brows. Nobara only shakes her head as she resumes guarding the dining room from outside.

There’s a hollowing feeling in your stomach from not eating since the day before. Usually, the gaps between your meals wouldn’t last as long after you became quick at foraging and stealing, often going unnoticed by fruit vendors.

The sight of the plump, white fish steaming in the porcelain bowl was starting to make your mouth water. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten meat. It was only back when the rich men donated money at the brothel.

However, it is best not to think about the past when the present is surprisingly enticing.

Drool dares to drip out your mouth when Sukuna pushes his chopsticks to it, the fishy soup broth smearing your bottom lip. Your pride stops you from licking it up and scarfing the soft white meat in one quick bite.

“Eat,” he commanded.

“No.” Hunger bubbled to the surface like sizzling fat on grilled lean meat. You kept your eyes trained on his to forget about the fish, but it only posed a more considerable annoyance because of his lustful, half-lidded gaze.

Your days at the brothel taught you that a warm body was the only thing men wanted from women. Unsurprisingly. Though he was awfully patient with you. Letting your blade-like tongue constantly nick him with rude and careless words.

Still, it was only a matter of time till you were nothing but a limp pile of bones, flesh, and sweat under him, writhing in unwarranted pain and pleasure. You just had to find a way to escape before it could happen.

“There is nothing that will stop me from consummating this marriage. But I will reconsider my ideas if you eat dinner tonight.”

After cowering from men for so long, you had promised yourself that you would not let them get in the way of your autonomy. But this was unjust; he was using vexing methods to mold you into doing his bidding.

Like a good little wife.

“I will remove this piece of fish if you do not answer me within three seconds.”

Your teeth slam so hard against the chopsticks that you are almost afraid you’ll break them in two. The fish is soft and nearly melts every time you masticate it. The dish is rejuvenating with the refreshing taste of the winter sea coating your tongue: fatty meat warming you up and kelp softening your rough tongue after hours of starving yourself.

“From now on, we will have every meal together. I will make sure you do not miss any of them. The minute you do so will be when I take you,” Sukuna stated as he brought his bowl of rice by your mouth and gathered the thick, sticky grains on his chopsticks to feed you again.

“You are a liar. All men lie. You will eventually take whatever you want from me and are choosing to fool me so that I will let my guard down,” you speak with a mouth full of rice. You dared to look fierce even with your cheeks full like a squirrel foraging for winter.

“First, do not speak with your mouth full; you are a lord’s wife. Second of all, I have not lied to you since the moment we met. I have been nothing but honest. And last but not least, I am not a mere man. I am a demon.”

Again, with the demon charade. You were starting to believe that he must have hit his head while playing pretend as a child and now has permanent cognitive damage because it is something he still wholeheartedly believes in well into his adulthood.

When you don’t answer, he pensively stares at you and wipes off the stray grains of rice sticking to the corners of your mouth.

“You behave so vacuously. I will have to turn you into a woman truly fitting your status. Had you not been the vessel for my marble, I would not have glanced twice your way,” he chides.

“I would not have glanced even once if you were passing me by,” you retorted sharply.

“So uncivilized,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yet you are feeding me like a personal servant.”

“Watch your tongue, wife.”

“I will watch whatever I like, failed demon.”

Your heart thrummed in your chest. You always had a knack for going too far with words, often finding yourself in trouble more often than not. Your grandmother used to warn you to catch yourself, but you were too young to give genuine regard to her advice.

“You seem to have eaten enough. It is time for bed.” And without giving you a moment to respond, the man picks you up like a doll, one arm wrapped around your upper body so you cannot use your hands to scratch his pensive face off and one arm wrapped just below your rump.

“You wretched man! At least let me sleep in my personal chambers with Nobara nearby,” lament as the four estate’s attendants’ heads follow both your figures to his quarters.

“You misbehave too much for luxuries like that. You can go wherever you'd like once you stop trying to slip out of my embrace.”

That night, you dream of a silhouette of a large man with four arms and barking laughter that sounds eerily similar to your husband’s voice. You felt disappointed in yourself because his constant reminder was beginning to manipulate your unconscious mind.

As promised, Sukuna had created an itinerary for you to reach your true upper-class potential. You snorted when he told you about the whole ordeal during breakfast (where you were trusted enough to receive your own bowl of rice and cutlery. You had refused to drink tea because it reminded you too much of your wedding day.)

He took a moment to send you a glare and then told you that every high society woman was expected to know how to do basic reading and writing, weaving, stitching, and other crafts. He also said he would take you to the town’s market to buy supplies.

None of the crafts had ever interested you. You chose to appreciate its beauty rather than taint it with your maladroit and inexperienced hands.

After forcing you to dress up in beautiful clothes for the day, he insisted that you carry the fan he was forced to take for free from the old woman at the market. “You will learn to take accountability for your actions,” he said.

Everything was being forced upon you against your will.

The townspeople at the market stared at you with awe and confusion. Most of the whispers were about how he had changed a ragged thief into a refined woman over the course of two days. Some young women stared at you in envy, while most men only questioned the feudal lord’s tastes. Seion is a small town, so you were not surprised that word had spread quickly.

Of course, there were also some leery gazes, but society was never created for women to revolt and rise against such behavior. It is only to shut them down and minimize them to dust under men's feet.

Sometimes people forget that life begins in a mother’s womb and not an emperor’s cock.

Sukuna stopped in front of an old lady’s shop and pushed you forward, introducing you as his wife and apologizing to her on your behalf in the same breath. “I am trying to give her a new chance at life.” You felt cloy at his tone–it made you want to whip out a dagger and stab him in the leg for it.

The old lady simply patted your head with a warm maternal gaze and refused to accept the fan. “Consider it a wedding present. I have a feeling you both will be together for a long time. Take my craftsmanship as a humble representation of this beautiful union.”

If only she knew that you were being threatened to eat your meals if you did not want to be taken every night.

The woman ultimately sent you and your new husband (and his two bodyguards) on your way to the next place–the writing utensils shop.

The shop owner immediately pulls away from his current customer and gives a proper bow to Sukuna. “My Lord, being graced in your presence is so lovely. It is an honor to meet your new wife as well.”

Sukuna does not address the man’s heavy respect and gets straight to the point. “I hope you are working to return the money soon, Naoya. I can only wait so long until my men begin to starve,” his voice is quiet yet demanding. It chills you to think this is more terrifying than being yelled at.

Naoya gulps as he glances at Yuuji and Megumi standing guard behind you and Sukuna, backs straight and swords on their sides. Even though they were quite young, both boys had the builds of formidable fighters.

“Yes, yes, I am working on it. How about I show you what I have in stock today? There are some lovely brushes that my brother sent in yesterday,” Naoya says as he rushes to bring samples. “This one is sheep hair, and this one is horse hair.”

“We will get the sheep hair brush,” Sukuna answers without missing a beat, already getting his coin pouch (this time handed over to him by Megumi.)

“Excellent choice, my lord! I will pack this up for you right away. The horse hair one was much more expensive anyway.” Never mind, you were initially wrong about Sukuna’s tone with the old lady. Naoya was a true example of saccharine nausea.

“I cannot believe you are already cheapening out on your new wife,” you sarcastically griped. But instead of the usual banter you expected, you were met with silence from all the men around you. Yuuji and Megumi only looked to their sides, pretending to be on the lookout for any suspicious people. Sukuna quit counting his coins, and Naoya glared at you with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth agape.

“Sir, if I had a wife like that, I would have whipped her to a pulp to teach her some manners. I can understand your pain, and these women have been turning into wenches lately. The other day, when I was at a brothel–”

A loud crack echoes through the busy street, turning everyone’s attention to the five of you. Your heart clenches as you see angry red swelling on Naoya’s cheek. The man looks dumbfounded, calligraphy brush now abandoned with a clunk on the ground. The brush rolls on the ground till it rests by your feet. You don’t dare look down.

“Naoya, you, of all people, are wildly unfit to give me unprompted advice about disciplining my wife. It is best you stick to plucking hair from livestock and binding them together. I will have the horse hair brushes instead.” Sukuna only brushes dust off his palm–a more subtle signal for those around Naoya to know their place.

The little spectacle removes all the comfort you were finally beginning to harbor with your husband. You all immediately head home after that. You cannot imagine if Naoya will be able to show face the next day.

The estate is eerily quiet. Megumi and Yuuji have gone to teach at the local school, Uraume is busy cooking lunch, and Nobara is meditating and keeping guard right outside Sukuna’s office. Which only leaves you–still shaken by the incident.

Sukuna seems most unphased, though it is evident in his heavy stomping that he is a little more on edge than usual.

You find him unbelievably crass for his social standing and his behavior with you an enigma.

“I will teach you a few letters, and you will practice those today,” he instructs. He pulls out a long paper sheet and splays it across the table, sitting beside you. He grabs your hand, but you flinch.

“Do not say you will take me if I don’t write. I am simply afraid to be touched by you,” you embarrassingly admit, trying to appeal to his humanity so you won’t sooner or later have to be another victim of his heavy hand.

But he doesn’t listen; he pushes past your limits anyway and wraps a large arm around you, gathering your pliant hand in his, using it to grasp the brush he had brought for you. He dips it in the ink pot and braces you.

“I know there is fear in your heart–not just of me, but of many people. You have been wronged,” his tone is unexpectedly serene as he glides your hand across the paper, creating a long black stroke. “You have been wronged many times. I understand that, too. But know this–I do not wish you any harm. I simply want my marble.” It almost feels like he’s begging at the end, like a thirsty traveler seeking water wherever he can.

“I repeat: I do not have it,” you whisper.

He creates a few more strokes before he faces you; you are already staring at him. “I see it in your eyes. It is only a matter of time.”

He doesn’t tell you that the letters you are practicing spell out your name.

--

Sukuna peels his yogi off as he downs another shot of sake. The heat from the alcohol blankets him from the snow. “Master, you will get sick, and so will your wife. You have to sleep next to her after this,” Uraume says as he glances toward Sukuna’s quarters–where you were asleep with Nobara right by your side.

Both the men are sitting in the courtyard, which is, again, filled with heaps of snow (much to Uraume’s tireless sweeping.) Of all his subordinates, Sukuna has only found Uraume to be the best at keeping secrets.

So the former demon king told him about his encounter with Geto, the Tengu spirit, and the true way of finding the pearl.

“I do not care. How do you expect me to sleep in peace after knowing that I am to create a little brat of my own with her? I do not remember the last time I bedded a woman, let alone be liked by one,” he groaned into his hand. He usually refused to be so inebriated, but he needed liquid courage to cope with the news.

Sukuna does not say much when he notices that Uraume has that usual empty look in his eyes.

But he is surprised when he hears a sliver of a gasp from him. “What?”

“There is someone out there–another lord I met while scavenging for your pearl in one of the many brothels you asked me to go to.”

“You talk to people other than those at the estate?”

Uraume begins to pace around the courtyard, his sandals creating deeper indents in the fresh, crisp snow with every step. “When necessary. Back to the lord, he told me that he had bedded almost every woman with beautiful eyes. I asked him how he could charm so many of them with his irritating personality, and he told me that he knew some strange secret.”

Sukuna expectantly stared at his servant. “And? What is it?” he impatiently asked.

“He never told me. He said he could only help me if I desperately needed it. It also did not help that he thought I was a woman at first and tried to court me.”

Both were heavily disappointing news.

“What is that fool’s name?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

--

taglist: @sukubusss @lady-of-blossoms @gradmacoco @cheriiepies @brunnetteiwik @poopooindamouf @miakxn @emochosoluvr @sunasgf1 @albakugo @00frenchfries00 @kurtswld

[antihibikase-archive]

Pokemon Blight / Blur - Aspertia Trio Character Sheets

Nuvema gang here.

A peculiar troublemaking trio that specialize not only in seeking out ideals as youthful heroes, but with the weather as well; Nate utilizes rain, Hugh utilizes sandstorms, and Rosa utilizes hail!

Nate Blake - A new hero emerging from Aspertia City. Having obtained his own Pokemon and Pokedex, he leaves on a journey with his friends in his quest to become a hero- a hero that spreads smiles, unlike The Hero of Truth.

Hugh Obsidian - A young trainer who has been preparing for his journey ever since that fateful day when Team Plasma attacked, leaving him and his friends scarred, and his sister with her Pokemon stolen. Even with his recklessness, he still manages to be the most sensible and responsible of the trio.

Rosa Whitefield - An excitable starlet, and Unova's next sensation- or so she claims. Though she seeks the thrills of life and to have the spotlight on her, she's more keen than she lets on- her intuition is almost never wrong.

[itsrlymine]

There is No "In Spite Of". It’s Because Of. 

“I get what I want no matter what the 3d shows me.” “I have my man in spite of what I’m seeing. Omg, did he just lick her ti-” “I don’t care what my bank account says, I have 3 trillion in it anyways.” .......

Do you realize that instead of looking at the 3d and rationalizing what you are seeing, you can just decide it instead?? When I started this page, I didn’t say “oh well even though I have 5 followers, I actually have 1200.” NO! I said b*tch I have damn near 5k kiss my ass Tumblr notifications and look at that, I do. The 3d shows you what you say she does. Stop trying to be friends and put that b*tch her in the place tf!!!! If everything is what you say it is, then say what you need to say and know it’s true now. Stop being an attention seeking wh*re and continually asking the 3d to change bc she won’t listen to you! She’s gonna hear your miserable tears and give you more shit to cry about unless you decide you are crying about how you just got the most fire pipe/pus in the world! I’m so serious. Turn that inner frown upside down so you can turn your outer world around.  This is simple and if you want to argue it’s not, you can’t be shocked you experience that. Notice how you don’t need evidence of negative things to occur before you decide on whether or not they will happen. So why is it now the opposite for what you do want? You are the one providing evidence to yourself about whether or not something will occur, not the other way around. Who you say you are dictates what is around you. At this very moment,  you can say “I’m living my best life with my partner and I’m rich asf and I have a fatass house….” And the only thing that would make that not true is whether or not you choose to argue that. Yup. It’s that simple. Decide what you are seeing. Decide what the 3d is showing you because the 3d is you. Decide. Decide. Decide.  I’m not saying to ignore your feelings or emotions, though they don’t control the outcome. I’m saying that even if you are physically feeling something, change the meaning internally. It works every time.

You can literally sit and not drive a car for an entire month and a half and decide one day you are going to start driving again. Before you get in, are you questioning yourself on whether or not you can still do it??? If before the break you knew yourself to be an excellent driver, why would one month of not doing so shake your foundation? Some people never forget how to do things because they decide they can never forget. Everything is you. If everything is now, then you’ve already done it. You’re never “out of practice,” never “starting over,” because nothing was ever lost in the first place.  There is no time working against you. It’s just you vs. you. Your perception of everything and relation to it. If you’re thinking something outside of you is outside of you, how can you be shocked you can’t reach it? When you truly know something is done, you don’t stress about it or have to take deep breaths to “regulate” your nervous system. You just know. So before you opened your window to see the sun in the morning, even as you saw sun rays or the light from the sun but not the sun itself, did you have to meditate on the fact that “omg yes, let me breathe and just remind myself that I will see the sun bc it has to show up and I am gonna see it and it’s gonna be—“ NO YOU DIDN’T. YOU JUST KNEW AND OPENED THE DAMN WINDOW. JUST KNOW AND OPEN YOUR MIND’S EYE TO THAT WHICH YOU WANT TO EXPERIENCE DAMN. How is anybody still asking if things are possible when that’s the reason way they exist? Possibilities exist because you do. You give everything life. Feeding old stories about why this and why that happened just resurrects zombies of your “past” that you don’t want to deal with so stop doing that. Stop trying to justify the 3d or accept crumbs when you should just accept yourself and the story you are telling because that is the ultimate truth. What you see, say or think inwardly IS what projects outwardly so what the fuck is going on within you? 

[rafedarling]

𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

requested by @gracerose68

pairing: drew starkey x fem!reader

summary: five years after outer banks ended, drew and you are enjoying life together, despite your ten-year age gap. loved by the entire cast, you are considered part of the “obs fam.” during a group vacation to ibiza, you starts feeling off and realizes you might be pregnant. caught between your fears of drew’s reaction and the unwavering support of your “siblings,” you discovers that love, family, and unexpected surprises can lead to beautiful new beginnings.

warning(s): english is not my native language. unplanned pregnancy, emotional vulnerability, fluff, humor, mild swearing, supportive friendships.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated.

Your and the other actor of Outer Banks group chat was always filled with energy.

Chase: “Ibiza is happening! Flights booked. Who’s ready for sunburns and bad decisions?”

Rudy: “I call dibs on the best room. Drew, don’t fight me this time.”

JD: “This isn’t Outer Banks, Rudy. No treasure hunt to claim a room.”

Madelyn: “Can we focus? Who’s bringing sunscreen?”

Madison: “Y/N will bring it. She always has everything.”

You glanced up from your phone and smirked at Drew, who was scrolling through the same messages.

“They’re not wrong.”

“You’re like the group’s mom,” Drew teased, pulling you closer on the couch.

“Well, somebody has to keep you lot alive.” You poked his side, earning a soft laugh.

The trip to Ibiza had been a long time coming. Between work schedules and personal commitments, it had been years since the Outer Banks cast had been in the same place together. Despite not being a cast member, you were as much a part of the group as anyone else. Drew’s friends had embraced you with open arms, making you feel like family.

It wasn’t always easy being ten years younger than Drew. At 24, you were still navigating adulthood, while Drew, at 34, was more settled. But your love for each other made the age gap feel insignificant.

The first day in Ibiza was pure of laugh and every other things. About the villa, it was breathtaking, with whitewashed walls, infinity pools, and views of the sparkling Mediterranean. Everyone quickly settled into vacation mode, with plans for beach days, exploring the island, and late-night conversations by the firepit.

By the second day, though, you couldn’t shake the nagging exhaustion and nausea that had crept in. It wasn’t like you to feel so drained, especially when surrounded by people you loved.

As the group lounged on the beach, Drew noticed you sitting quietly under the shade of an umbrella.

“Hey,” he said softly, crouching beside you. “You okay? You’ve been quiet today.”

You forced a smile, brushing off his concern.

“Just tired. I think the travel caught up with me.”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t push.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Always.”

Later that afternoon, a small girl wandered toward the group, her tear-streaked face melting everyone’s hearts.

“Where’s your mommy?” you asked gently, kneeling in the sand to meet her gaze.

The little girl sniffled and pointed toward the other end of the beach. Without hesitation, you held her hand, reassuring her until her mother arrived.

“You’re an angel,” the mother said gratefully before walking away.

“You’d make such a great mom,” Madison said, nudging Drew with a grin.

“She really would,” Drew agreed, his eyes soft as they met yours.

Your stomach flipped, but not in the good way. His words felt like confirmation of what you’d been suspecting but were too scared to admit.

That night, while everyone gathered in the living room for a movie, you excused yourself and retreated to the bathroom. With shaking hands, you retrieved the pregnancy test you’d packed.

The seconds felt like hours as you stared at the test, unable to bring yourself to flip it over.

A knock on the door startled you.

“It’s Madelyn. Are you okay?”

You quickly hid the test and opened the door, forcing a smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Madelyn’s sharp eyes darted to the trash can, where the box sat in plain view.

“Y/N…” she began, her voice a mix of curiosity and concern. “Are you pregnant?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded.

“I think so. I haven’t looked yet.”

Without hesitation, Madelyn wrapped you in a hug.

“It’s going to be okay. I promise. Let’s look together.”

With trembling hands, you flipped the test over. Two pink lines. Positive.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, the weight of the realization crashing down.

Madelyn pulled you close as you started to cry.

“It’s okay. Drew loves you. He’s going to be so excited.”

“But what if he’s not?” you sobbed.

“We’ve never talked about kids. What if this ruins everything?”

Madelyn shook her head.

“Stop. Drew adores you. He’s not going anywhere.”

Madelyn helped you gather the girls for a “mandatory ladies’ meeting” in the bathroom.

“Are you dying?” Rudy called after you jokingly as the girls shuffled upstairs.

“Very funny,” Carlacia shot back before closing the door.

Once everyone was inside, you took a deep breath and shared your news. The girls gasped, their reactions quickly turning to excitement.

“You’re going to be such a good mom!” Kelsea squealed.

“If Drew so much as blinks wrong, we’ve got your back,” Madison added, earning a round of laughter.

The next day, the guys decided to go bungee jumping, leaving the girls at the villa.

“You’re seriously not going to tell him yet?” Madison asked as you lounged by the pool.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“You can’t keep this from him forever,” Carlacia said gently.

“I know. I’ll tell him tonight.”

When the guys returned, you greeted Drew with a tight hug. “I missed you.”

“I was gone for a few hours,” he laughed, kissing your forehead.

At dinner, panic set in again when the waiter asked what you’d like to drink. Thankfully, Madelyn saved you by whispering to the waiter to make your cocktail virgin.

After dinner, the group gathered by the firepit, and the girls urged you again to tell Drew.

“You’ll feel so much better once it’s out in the open,” Madison said.

With a deep breath, you pulled Drew aside, leading him down to the villa’s private pier.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his worry evident.

“I have something important to tell you,” you began, your voice shaking.

Drew’s brows furrowed. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m pregnant,” you blurted out, tears streaming down your face.

“I know we haven’t talked about this, and if you don’t want —” you continue.

“Wait,” Drew interrupted, his eyes wide. “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

Drew pulled you into his arms, his grip firm yet comforting.

“Y/N, this is amazing. I love you. I love us. We’re going to be fine. I mean much better than fine.”

His words brought a fresh wave of tears, but this time, they were tears of relief.

Back at the villa, Drew insisted on sharing the news with the group.

“We’re having a baby!” he announced, his grin infectious.

The group erupted in cheers, with the guys tackling Drew in a congratulatory hug while the girls swarmed you.

“You’re stuck with us forever now,” Chase joked.

“You’ve been family for a while,” Rudy added, “but this seals it.”

As the night wound down, Drew pulled you close, his hand resting protectively on your stomach.

“You’ve given me everything I didn’t know I wanted,” he said softly.

You smiled, your fears finally melting away. Surrounded by love, you knew this was the start of a beautiful new chapter.

[i-love-ptv]

Such A Sure Thing ‧*❆₊⋆

Pairing:Boyfriend Rafe Cameron x Girlfriend!Reader

It finally snowed in the Outer Banks, (who would’ve thought?) so what do you do? You spend the day with the Camerons.

Wc: 1,192

Pure fluff!! We got lots of snow the other day soooo ya.

An: This is a little rushed cause i wanted to get it out, so i hope there aren’t too many mistakes 😣 I’m gonna try n be more consistent dw guys! ALSO IM THINKING ABT MAKING A TAGLIST SO LMK IF YOU’RE INTERESTED!

Feedback is always appreciated and welcomed!

Rafe awoke to the sound of screams.

His disoriented state made him merely turn over in bed, in hopes of finding your heated body right next to him. Yet he was met with limp tangled sheets and a cool pillow. The high heat inside the house doing nothing to provide him comfort in his long sleeve shirt alongside his sweatpants—only making him acknowledge the slight sweat that covers him from his chest up.

This made him jump up, the sounds of yelling now starting to register in his mind. His sleepy haze doesn’t allow him to recognize that signature laugh of yours that rings throughout the front lawn.

Rafe’s stride to the bottom of the staircase and eventually to the front door doesn’t miss a beat.

His steps are quick, and filled with urgency as he quickly rips open the already cracked front door.

“Wheez! You’re supposed to be on my team!” Rose yelps with a giggle.

Rafe sees you, alongside Wheezie, Sarah, and Rose, all with rosy faces and snow covering your layered clothing. He looks over slightly and sees Ward standing a few feet away, no doubt trying to avoid being hit with the largely-sized snowballs that the four of you are throwing. ��Ward has a slight, yet noticeable quirk of a grin on his face.

Rafe rubs his eye with his gently-formed fist. He recognizes the coat that’s nearly swallowing your frame, it’s his. He assumes that once you noticed the snowflakes falling, you immediately grabbed whichever coat your pretty eyes landed on.

You’re crouching behind a well-constructed snow wall, creating multiple snowballs a minute, no doubt preparing for when Sarah comes running back for more ammunition for her onslaught. Rose is cowering behind her and Wheezie’s poorly created mound as the two youngest Cameron’s continue their attack.

Suddenly, Rose gathers a somewhat-large pile of snow in her arms and launches it at Sarah’s frame. She squeals as she sprints back to you, where she dives into the snow beside you.

“Don’t worry Sar, I’ll cover you!” You shout, before gathering several snowballs and then rushing towards Rose and Wheezie.

Rafe continues to watch on as the mere snowball fight turns into a playful brawl between you and his younger sister. Sarah and Rose join in as well, and Rafe looks at the scene fondly.

In all honesty, Rafe’s never really been for family; mainly preferring to be alone or rarely with his father. But something about seeing you with his family—fitting in perfectly as if you lived here, made his heart pound. He’s never been big for affection, both giving and receiving, at least he thought he wasn’t. Because right now, all he can think about is bundling up and joining you.

You’ve been this beacon of light for Rafe; he doesn’t really understand it, and trying to is harder than it seems. He’s spent so long trying to figure out how you’re different from all the rest; was it the fact that even though you didn’t take any shit from anybody, you’re still endlessly kind? Was it your beauty that couldn’t be matched? Or maybe it was the compassion that nobody has ever shown him—not even his own family—besides you.

He’s awestruck by you, he always is. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, everything leaves him breathless as he tries to calm his beating heart.

“Morning, Ray!” You shout, making him blink. “God—how are you not cold right now?!” You giggle as you try to regain your breath, while also sprinting towards him. Short puffs of air leave your mouth and flow through the wind. Your nose is slightly dark and rosy from the cold, as well as your upper wrist, which is exposed to the freezing snow that most likely rolled down your sleeves.

“Ew dude, nobody wants to see that,” Wheezie groans.

“Yeah, go put on some clothes, loser!” Sarah exclaims.

Rafe pays no mind to them, his main focus being on you peering up at him so beautifully, just like you always do.

Your icy gloves fingers gently push on his chest, “C’mon..Go change so we can make a snowman.” You speak softly.

“Uh-huh..” He mumbles dumbly, and all he can do is smile whilst going back to his room. He rummages through his closet, throwing clothes around haphazardly, desperately searching for at least a sweatshirt and shoes.

After quickly changing into whatever, somewhat warm clothing he could find, Rafe goes downstairs. He opens the front door yet again, but instead of seeing you farther down the lawn, you're waiting patiently directly on the porch.

You push your hands out towards him without a word, only beaming at him as his eyes trails down. In your cupped hands lies a heart-shaped snowball. Rafe can’t help but match your grin.

“Oh, thank you baby,” he nearly whispers, before gently taking the heart and putting it into his jacket pocket.

Rafe swipes the nearby wall-mounted lantern and gathers the snow in his black glove-covered hands. His large fingers attempt to form a heart.

It’s a little extremely disfigured, but you give him a toothy duchenne smile nonetheless.

You thank him before grabbing his arm and dragging him further into the front yard. The boots that you saved up and bought him for Christmas stomp in the snow behind you. He laughs at your eagerness.

Suddenly, you stop, muttering a “Shit! My boot,” before crouching down.

Rafe shifts his gaze down to your form with curiosity, which is very short lived when you toss a quickly formed snowball into his face.

Rafe sputters as you laugh, briefly watching you run away before sprinting after you.

“C’mon! You can't hit me then run away, babe!” Rafe yells, quickly gaining on you.

He tackles you into the snow, you both grunt simultaneously.

“That’s not fucking fair! You have lanky legs!” You squeal as he begins to dig and prod at your sides.

“Yeah yeah, it’s not my fault your stride isn’t up to par like mine.” Rafe smirks triumphantly.

You can’t help but cackle, “You sound so stupid right now!” Rafe then trails his tickling up your body, it’s erratic and uncalculated; all you can do is squirm in the mound of snow.

A shout comes from a few feet away, you recognize the voice—it’s Wheezie. “Hey, lovebirds! We’re going inside to get hot chocolate, you comin’?” She’s standing in front of the door with Sarah; you assume Rose and Ward have already gone inside.

“Nah, we’re good!” Rafe hollers, before continuing to torment mess with you.

“Ow! Fuck, my ribs!” Your tone is filled with anguish, and you jolt up in Rafe’s arms.

“What? What happened baby? Was I too rough?” Rafe’s checking your frame urgently, searching for any sign of an injury.

Abruptly, you use all your body weight to push Rafe onto his back. You straddle him, then grab some of the snow surrounding his head, smushing it into his face.

You stand on wobbly knees as Rafe tries to regain his composure, before taking off towards the backyard.

“Oh—I’m not letting you get away, sweetheart!” Rafe huffs before taking off after you yet again.

[proneterror204]

Vampire Cass!

Stupid Fruitloop and his stupid schemes! Right on Danny's class trip to Wayne Enterprises in Gotham, Vlad tested his Plasmius Maximus 2.0. Effectively taking away all of his Ghost powers for the whole day. In Gotham! He looks enough like a Wayne kid! He swears he already feels watched from the shadows.

Cass was restless. There was something in Gotham that was driving her instincts crazy. She already had her special smoothie from Alfred to curve her cravings, but there was something in town she needed to sink her teeth into. She needs to find it.

He's lost. Of course he's lost. just his luck he gets separated from his class and lost. Stupid Dash pushed him right into a dark alley! This is Gotham! He was literally almost mugged! Sam and Tucker weren't gonna answering his texts. Mr.Lancer had taken their phones because of Tuckers tech addiction being a distraction. "Not paying attention in Gotham could lead to disaster." How about being in trouble and needing to call for help? Great! now he's lost in an alley and... Someone was right behind him weren't they?

Cass was on the boy in an instant. He had good fighting instincts, but not good enough. She ducked under the punch he threw and grabbed his wrist. He used the other arm to block, she grabbed that wrist to and pinned both arms over his head and held them there with one arm. He then rammed his knee into her gut, but wasn't nearly strong enough to stop her. She grabbed the leg by the outer thigh and lifted it up moving closer into the boy. Putting her leg in-between his and leaning forward into his neck to drink.

Danny had no idea what was going on! He was standing on one leg, pinned against a wall, arms held above his head, and a woman was biting his neck. A sharp sting on his neck made him whine. He couldn't think straight and was starting to feel dizzy. The woman on him let out a sensual moan and he felt himself drift into unconsciousness. "whelp, second times the charm" Danny thought as he drifted away.

This boy tasted so good! He was like nothing she had ever tasted before! There was something foreign and exotic in his blood. When she had bitten him he gave out this little whine that was SO attractive, She had involuntarily moaned into him. She was enjoying every moment of this. The way he felt, tasted, smelled, the way he... He was unconscious! OH No! Too much! She needed to pull out now!

Danny woke up in his hotel room for the school trip. He still had his clothes on- Nope never mind! This was not his shirt! His favorite white shirt with the red oval was gone and now he was wearing a black shirt with one of the bat symbols on it. And his neck hurt!

"Cass where did you get that shirt?" Tim was sneaking into the kitchen, trying to get another cup of coffee. Where he found his sister in a obviously well-worn white and red shirt that he had never seen before. It clearly wasn't Cass's, though he knew she was a clothes thieve. She only gave him a smug look and said "mine".

Danny has no idea what happened in Gotham or how he got this mark on his neck. But he knows Vlad won't stop staring at it and won't come within 10 feet of him. He literally used it to case Vlad out of his house and down the street. It was hilarious! Maybe he should go back to Gotham and try to find out what happened.

[void-my-warranty]

Come Quietly (18+)

Pairing: König/Fem Reader Content Warnings: Intense situation (fear of SA), nonconsensual frisking, hand over mouth gag, blood/wound dressing, forced proximity, brief thoughts of suicide, dubious consent (under duress), stranger sex, vaginal fingering, PIV sex, she/her reader Word Count: 8.7k

This shouldn't be happening.

You curl tighter in on yourself in the darkness, flinching with every muffled rat-tat-tat coming from somewhere outside. 

This isn't some goddamned war zone, this is a normal fucking city, with a functional police force and Apple Watches and Chipotle. Armed militants don't just drop out of the sky and fight each other, that’s not how this works. 

The boom of an explosion outside has you mashing your forehead into your kneecaps, hugging your legs so tight that the tendons in your arms ache. With any luck, no one will notice your little hidey hole. It’s more or less tucked into the rafters, above the lights of this warehouse, and the average person would have to do a lot of looking up and squinting to even know it exists. 

But maybe mercenaries are used to looking up, for like… snipers, or drones or something. Maybe this is the worst place you could have gone, maybe you should have hidden more in plain sight, found a locker in the staff shower area or something.  

There’s a heavy shift of metal-on-metal when the solid, industrial outer door gets wrenched open somewhere below you. You ration your breaths, making sure you’re absolutely motionless as several heavy footsteps wander through the place. Male laughter trickles up to your ears, and you hate it. The innate cruelty of someone enjoying what’s happening right now, terrorizing people in the middle of the night, makes your blood boil. You hope they all trip and fall in this dim, off-hours lighting, and impale themselves on something sharp.

You’re very aware of who you are, what you are, in the face of those quiet laughs and the click and shuffle of guns and gear moving. You’re nobody to them. You’ve got no phone, no shoes, not even a fucking bra, because this all happened so quickly that there wasn’t time to do anything but stumble out of bed and run. 

The pounding of your pulse almost makes it difficult to concentrate on those retreating footsteps. You hope they’re gone for good, leaving you with your sore arm - you scratched it on something sharp while climbing up here - your racing thoughts, and your mouth that’s fucking parched from your scramble to safety. It’s useless to swallow but you do it anyway, as if the motion will somehow manufacture more spit, and keep your throat from going all cracked and itchy. Coughing is not an option. Coughing will get you killed.

The footsteps are definitely gone, but a different noise begins to make itself known to you. It’s a slow, steady, huff, huff. You narrow your focus to that sound, subconsciously scouring your memories for a possible match. It’s not quite fabric shifting, not quite panting. It’s getting closer, though, almost like it’s floating in the air towards y—

A bulky black shadow moves, rising up over the edge of your hiding place, right past where your feet lay. It huffs quietly, halting for a few seconds to catch its breath, before heaving itself up over the edge of your one safe place.

Your ears are ringing with how terrified you are. Even though you’re lying down, blood somehow manages to rush from your face, and all you have the presence of mind to do is silently tuck your feet in as tight as they’ll go, holding your breath and just praying this monster will fall to his death, or somehow not notice you, or—

The shadow’s knee finds purchase on the surface where you’re lying, and his arm is so long that when he reaches out to haul himself the rest of the way up, his hand makes contact with the front of your shin. 

How anyone can move that fast, you have no idea. One moment you’re barely suppressing your whimper of terror, and the next he’s got hold of your ankle, using your body weight to assist him to vault the rest of the way onto the platform, directly on top of you. 

Suddenly you can’t breathe. There’s something scratchy and heavy and sticky covering your mouth and nose, effectively preventing the scream that rises in your throat while this thing crouches on his knees above you. You’re so unprepared for your oxygen to be cut off like this that you freeze in panic, not even registering for a few seconds that this brute’s other hand is on your body. 

Squeezing, feeling, groping, the lumbering shadow doesn’t hesitate to violate you. You choke on that faint smell of blood and gunpowder in his suffocating glove while he runs his hand over you, under your arms, over your breasts, tucking his fingers into the band of your leggings and rushing them across to the other side of your hip. It’s not until he starts squeezing your thighs and running his hand down to your ankles that you actually realize what he’s doing. With a small wave of relief, you register that he’s not trying to cop a feel, he’s frisking you for weapons. 

 The hand over your mouth finally shifts low enough that you can force in some air through your nose. You do so greedily, not even caring that much that he’s palming your ass and lower back in a final inspection for objects. Apparently satisfied at your helplessness, the shadow’s searching hand slows, comes around to splay out across your stomach and keep you in place while he stays there straddling your hips.

Huff, huff. 

He’s thinking. 

This is the most dangerous moment of all, as he catches his breath and decides what to do with you. He’s found a helpless rabbit curled up in his chosen hiding spot, and the only question now is if he sees you as something inconvenient and disposable, or as something for eating. 

He’s covered in gear, you felt that much when he was pressed on top of you for a bit. He’s probably got all kinds of body armor and maybe a bullet proof helmet, but if you could get your hand on a pistol… He probably has one strapped somewhere to his leg, as a backup if his rifle gets jammed. Maybe you could find a way to pull it free, and slide it into an exposed portion of his neck. Or if that’s not an option, you could always shoot yourself. End it that way, before something worse can happen. 

The hand on your stomach vanishes, and there’s a rustling sound of fabric. You feel the flinch in his fingers on your mouth when the rip of velcro disturbs the quiet air. You want his hand gone, but you don’t dare move, not yet. Let him have no information about your capabilities. Save up your physical exertion for when you might need it most. Throwing yourself off this fucking platform wouldn’t be too difficult, if you took him by surprise. Maybe you could even take him down with you. 

The monster’s knee shifts against the wood below him, and then he grabs for your wrist. Your muscles are so locked up in terror that he has to force your arm to extend, has to put a good deal of effort into dragging your hand towards the darkness where his crotch is. Your eyes squeeze closed tightly, sobbing dry air through your nose as your hand makes contact with something warm and wet.

Wait, that’s his thigh. He presses your hand to it, hard, like he’s trying to make you understand. Pressure, he wants you to put pressure on his leg. His wet, bloody leg. 

It’s difficult to do from the position you’re in, but you’re so relieved that this is just a medical task, you do what he’s asking. His giant hand vanishes from the top of yours, and you put as much force on his wound as you can. You swear the oppressive weight of his glove over your mouth even softens a fraction, while he reaches for something else on his belt.

A wad of fabric gets forced into your palm, and again he wordlessly shows you to apply pressure. It feels like it could be blood clotting gauze, so you search for his wound with your fingers, and then use your thumb to fucking pack that sucker in. There’s a soft grunt of pain above you, but he doesn’t do anything to show that your knowledge of the field dressing is unwelcome. 

A thought flashes through your head, that maybe he’ll spare you from something inhuman if you’re extra useful. But your life experience quickly smashes that hope, because you know it might actually be the opposite.

Fawn, it’s got to be a fawn response that has you holding the gauze perfectly in place for this horrible stranger. You can feel him wrapping something around his leg, trying to tie it one handed, which is ridiculous because it’s way too short. You can tell that much when you reach a hand over to assist. His thigh is fucking massive, and there’s no way to properly secure whatever it is you’ve got the end of. 

He’s going to make you lay here for an hour, putting pressure on that damn gauze if you can’t think of something else. He’s going to bleed unnecessarily if you can’t come up with a solution. 

Despising yourself, you do the worst thing you can possibly imagine doing. You move his hand in place for pressure, and then peel off your own leggings to get his injury taken care of. 

The hateful thing stays there on his knees, breathing heavily with one hand on his leg and the other wrapped around the bottom of your face. You work your own goddamn clothing off, stripping yourself down to underwear, and wrap those stretchy leggings twice around his thigh before tying them as tight as you can. You set your teeth and yank the knot roughly into place, and you hope it hurts like a bitch. 

There. You’re officially suicidal, you fucking idiot. And those were your second favorite leggings. 

You drop your arms back to the floor and wait for the consequences of your stupid actions. You’re not relaxed, not by a long shot. There’s adrenaline racing through your veins, and you’re braced to shoulder him off the edge like a linebacker. Maybe if you can get your feet past his hips, you could just kangaroo this motherfucker into thin air. 

That sickening weight on your mouth finally drops away. The soldier hesitates with his fingertips on your cheek, waiting to see if you’ll scream. 

No? Okay, then.

He draws his hand back and fiddles with something near his hip. There’s a faint sound of sliding aluminum, and then he grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head forward. You instinctively fight that push, until you feel something cold and metal press against your mouth. The rim of a canteen. 

Greedily you grab hold of his wrist and take a few swallows of lukewarm water, uncaring that it has that slight chemical taste, like a plastic water bottle that’s been sitting in the sun. You’re so dehydrated that you don’t even comprehend the significance of the peace offering, until he’s dragging it away to ration the rest of the water for himself. 

You could down an entire fishbowl right now, but you suppose two drinks of water isn’t the worst thing he could have given you. It shows that he sees you as human, at least. Your leggings, in exchange for a little water. Fair. 

The soldier’s hand slips under your lower back, and to your absolute horror, he turns you towards himself as he settles down to the floor.

Dammit. Of course you ended up here. There’s not room for both of you side-by-side on this ledge, but he really does need to lie down with that injury. So now you get to play Titanic and get draped across this murderer’s chest on this little platform which probably only exists to access the electrical system. Full body contact. Great.

Theoretically he must know that your legs are bare, but maybe he forgot. Maybe he’s so tunnel-visioned in on the battle and getting shot, that those little details haven’t really clicked into place in his head. Maybe he didn’t notice you weren’t wearing a bra, when he squished your tits earlier. Maybe he’s lost too much blood, and you’ll be able to slip away to safety once he passes out. Maybe that should have been the goal from the start, and you shouldn’t have dressed his wound quite so well. 

A gloved hand unexpectedly makes contact with your forehead, and you immediately flinch away from it. There’s a soft, understanding kind of rumble that vibrates through the man for a second, and then a sound of Velcro, and fabric shifting. 

You’re prepared enough this time that you don’t react when bare, human fingers find your temple. You merely squeeze your eyes shut and wait for it to stop, wanting nothing to do with some horrible soldier’s hand on your face. You don’t dare wrench your head away, but you lock your muscles tight and hope that’s enough for him to change his mind.

Nope. Fingers brush over your skin, smoothing your hair off your forehead. He hesitates, then you feel the purposeful press of a rough palm against your chin, curving his hand around your jaw. 

Thanks to that drink of water, you’re able to work your tongue and prepare a decent glob of spit to launch at him if he even tries to kiss you. But his hand shifts again, running upwards. 

He’s mapping out your face, you think. A little stroke of his thumb over the middle of your cheek, running down the side of your nose. He pushes your hair back again before feeling the pads of his fingers over your eyebrow, and then down the curve of your cheekbone, delicately disturbing your lashes. 

He’s being gentle at least, slowly taking stock of your features in the darkness. To what end, you’re not sure. Maybe he’s so much of a prick that he has to decide if you’re pretty enough to assault. Maybe he’s racist, and he’s trying to figure out from your bone structure if you’re white enough. Maybe he’s some twisted serial killer who gets off on lulling his victims into a false sense of security before he tortures them to death. 

The tip of your nose gets an exploratory press between his fingers, and then his thumb drops down and carefully finds your mouth. You’re completely unprepared for that warm flood of tingles, starting in your lower lip and then washing out across your neck. You make a surprised inhale against the pad of his thumb, almost a gasp, at how sensitive your skin is there. 

As if you startled him, that searching touch instantly disappears. 

His thumb is gone, but for some reason your lips hold onto the lingering ghost of the sensation. It just stays there, nearly vibrating inside your skin, as if he accidentally discovered a vulnerable piece of your nervous system and somehow managed to touch it just right. It gives you that bizarre feeling of something being missing inside you, something being a little bit out of place all of a sudden, even though you’re quite whole and uninjured.

He doesn’t come back to your mouth, but his hand does find your skin again. He shifts it down to your neck, curling around your nape and letting his fingers trace up into your hair. He cups the back of your skull like that for a moment, exploring the feel of your head in his hand, and you subtly shift your fingers to explore any possible weapons on his vest. 

You’re not sure what you’re feeling for. A grenade and a spare magazine would probably feel about the same to you in the blackness like this. You’re about as likely to get yourself accidentally killed as you are to find a handgun, but you do it anyway, brushing your fingers across his gear as if you’re being flirty. You’re too concentrated on survival to let yourself feel sick about it. 

There’s a noise from somewhere below, and the solder goes taut beneath you, quickly muzzling you with his palm. His other hand wraps around the back of your head to keep you completely immobilized while those hateful footsteps walk through the place again. There are sirens going faintly outside, but there’s a worrisome lack of urgency in the movements of the pack of men in the warehouse. They’re far too comfortable being here. 

It’s impossible to tell what they’re saying to each other, so instead you focus on how your head is currently being held in the jaws of a predator. It’s unnervingly close to the position you see over and over on TV, right before someone gets their neck snapped. 

He could do it, you think. Any time he wants, he could wrench your head around and end your life without a single noise. You wonder if he’s thinking that, too, from the way his fingers shift and tighten on the back of your skull. Twist, snap, done. Problem solved for big dumb gorilla man. 

Heart pounding, you do the only thing you can for survival, and reach for the hand that’s over your mouth, finding the back of it with your fingers. It’s bare now, so you can feel the soft bits of hair scattered from his wrist, the width of his knuckles and the engaged tendons connecting them. You trace your fingers lightly down the backs of his, in what you hope is a soothing motion. 

You’re harmless, see? You’re relaxed and unarmed, and also quite pantsless at the moment. You’re just a soft thing who can’t do shit to him, and you don’t want those guys shooting at your hiding spot any more than he does. Killing you would be more trouble than it’s worth, surely.

He waits a while to release you, way past the time when the last of the footsteps are gone. You just keep petting his hand with your fingertips, and eventually, reluctantly, he peels it off your face. Again you congratulate yourself for surviving.

He lets you put your head back down on his shoulder, and his arm moves again to wrap around your waist and keep you in place. You can feel his gloved fingers shifting there, settling into a comfortable position on your bare skin, right where your shirt has ridden halfway up your back. You’re thankful for that glove, because maybe he won’t notice your glaring lack of clothes.

His gloveless hand had settled on your shoulder, but now it brushes across to your neck. You half expect him to slide his fingers into your hair again, but he doesn’t. He lets his thumb drift down the front of your throat, and though the logical part of your brain sees it as the threat it is, the sensitive skin of your neck wakes up. Like your lips, those nerves respond to his touch, feeding you a skittering sort of warmth which you loathe. 

Damn you for letting yourself get this touch starved. You should have fucked that guy from the bar last Saturday. What was his name? J-something. Maybe if you’d been a little more careless with your pussy, your skin wouldn’t be this hungry for a stranger’s rough hand. It’s not arousal lighting up your nerves, but it’s definitely interest. It’s an internal purr of longing, of enjoying this male hand on your vulnerable skin, despite the circumstances. 

He’s so large that the sweeping motion of that thumb encompasses the entire length of your throat, all the way down to the join of your collarbones. The careful way he’s touching you is dangerous, because it makes you feel noticed. It’s strangely humanizing, having his fingers curl gently around the back of your neck, the side of his thumb lingering for a moment on the steady beat of your pulse. 

He sees you as something human, and soft, and interesting. An anomaly in the midst of gunfire and death. It’s almost worshipful, the way he traces his bare fingertips across that little bit of skin behind your ear. It makes you draw some conclusions about the person he is, which are almost definitely untrue, and most likely the effect of Stockholm syndrome. 

In the dark like this, in a moment of madness, you imagine that he’s just some guy. That the gear and the weaponry don’t define him, that he’s got a mother or a sister somewhere, and now he’s hurt and focusing on your soft skin instead of the throbbing pain in his leg. Try as you might, you can’t picture him as a monster anymore. He’s just as human as you are, finding the same hiding spot as if the self preservation instinct in both of your brains destined it to happen. 

You shudder against him when his fingers find their way to your ear. A cascade of pleasure follows that gentle touch, this time with a definite undertone of arousal. Your pussy likes the way he strokes the shell of your ear, runs your earlobe through his fingertips. It’s confusing in the way that it’s not an inherently sexual action. It’s just fingers and an ear, brushing a slow path up and down, but it sends lazy heat through your belly. 

You stay relaxed and let it happen, angling your chin up just a fraction so he doesn’t have to reach as far. It’s just fucking nice, the way his attention is narrowed on you. In your delusional state, you feel strangely safe in it. Those slow traces of his fingertips feel like a little bit of control in an otherwise lawless circumstance. 

Two fingers find your lips again, soft as a feather, and this time you let yourself like it. You accept that tingling flood of sensation, and close your eyes to focus on it. The stranger painstakingly studies the outer edge of your lips, pausing every time you swallow or move at all. And then he finds the inner part, caressing across your soft bottom lip in a way that sends blood rushing between your legs. 

Patient, this guy is so fucking patient. It makes your imagination go to embarrassing places, thinking about how his fingers might feel elsewhere. There’s just something inherently sexy about this slow perusal, and your pussy recognizes it. It knows instinctively how it would feel to receive this kind of unhurried attention. How nice it would be to have those long fingers lazily circling your clit, touching you for his sensory pleasure, just like this. 

This kind of curious touch could get you to do humiliating things, keep you wet and desperate and wipe your brain of anything but the need to please him. You’d chase his approval even to the point of not getting your own satisfaction, if he did anything like this to the rest of your body. 

Belatedly you realize how dangerous it is to follow this train of thought. Why the fuck are you fantasizing right now? Why are you allowing yourself to feel this way, while getting fondled by some dirty soldier in a warehouse? Who cares if he’s patient, he’s probably just extra dumb or something. 

The man subtly tilts his face, and his lungs fill with a quiet inhale against your hair. He likes the way you smell, you can tell by the curl of his fingers against your lower back. His chin nudges forward a little, almost like a kiss, and his hand returns to your ear.

Your belly dips so hard that your abs tighten automatically, and you shudder against him again. It’s like mind control, those neglected erogenous zones he’s finding. It’s turning you needy and willing, partly for the physical stimulation and partly just because you’re attracted to the kind of person who would even know to do this. Someone who would take the time to turn you on in this indirect way, allowing you to retain your dignity, but giving you a taste of how nice and gentle his fingers are. 

The next exhale that leaves you is almost verbal. Your voice faintly pokes through, with your self control crumbling the way it is. It makes him pause, pulling his hand away from you. Surely he doesn’t think he hurt you. The noise you made was all pleasure, the little slut on his chest unable to keep herself quiet for this intimate touching session. 

The man’s shoulder twitches, like an aborted movement that he thought better of. And then his hand comes back to your face, squishing both of your cheeks together while he forces your head up and down in a nodding motion. Then without pausing, he moves it a few times in a back and forth shake. 

The meaning is obvious to you — yes or no, do you want this?

Dammit. 

You know exactly what “this” is. You were kind of hoping you wouldn’t have to ask for it directly, that he’d just decide you were compliant enough to be consenting. But now apparently you’re going to have to beg.

His hand is still on your face, so he feels you move your head in a nod. Yes, you’re a slut. Yes, this stranger can fuck you. You’re on the pill, so yes, you’ll go ahead and have unprotected sex on the dirty floor, because apparently your self worth is low enough for that. 

He wraps his hands around your hips to turn you, rolling you onto your back with your head resting on the upper part of his chest. You keep your knees elevated because with the change of perspective, you can’t remember which of his legs is injured, and you don’t want to put your foot down on it. Right leg before, which means… No, left leg before, so—

Fuck, whatever. You can’t spare the brainpower to figure it out, so you choose the slutty option instead, spreading your legs and letting your feet drop to the floor on either side of his thighs. It’s not like you’re fooling anyone at this point. Your heart is pounding and your pussy feels a little wet, so you might as well just keep your knees open for whatever he decides to do. 

One of his hands collects the bottom hem of your shirt, but he pauses halfway through dragging it up your stomach. He wraps his gloved hand around your face again, waiting.

You close your eyes and nod pathetically, unable to bear the time it takes before he gets his hands on you again. 

It doesn’t take long. Your shirt gets tucked up around your chin, and then that large hand cups your exposed breast, and the slight brush on your nipple makes you nearly moan. 

He doesn’t like that. His gloved hand tightens on your face, reaching from ear to ear to muffle you with his palm. 

There. Now you’re ready to be touched properly. 

Your eyes roll back a little with that first, soft fingering of your nipple, finding it impossibly sensitive and hungry for him. You must have some kind of bondage kink, because hearing your own pitiful breathing huffed against the tactical leather of his glove turns you on. You like that you’re already so aroused, he has to keep you quiet. You like that he’s so willing to put his hands on you, making sure you’re being good while he exploits your responsive body. 

How you could have possibly thought he was dumb earlier, you can’t fathom. The way he’s touching you right now screams experience. It’s methodical and possessive, inhaling the scent of your shampoo again while he brushes his fingertips in a teasing circle over the point of your breast. 

Your pussy gets jealous so quickly, it’s humiliating. You can only be grateful that he’s ignoring those little lifts of your hips, taking his time thumbing your nipples and sampling the feel of your breasts in his hand. Suddenly the gag of his glove is quite necessary, with all the moans and whimpers that want to escape. You’re addicted to the way they sound, coming out in stuttered breaths through your nose. Soft, pathetic begging noises which you’re really not trying too hard to suppress. 

Bad. He cranks your chin up a little to get your attention, then brings his mouth to your ear and breathes a firm, “Shh.”

The way that one word simultaneously shuts you up and makes your clit throb tells you a lot about why you’re in this position in the first place. 

You’ll be good for him now. You’ll try really hard not to make noises, just keep yourself relaxed like this with your knees open, and let him touch your pussy when he’s ready. Shame on you, really, for trying to speed up the process. He knows what’s good for you. If he decides that what you need is to get riled up like this without ever finding out what his fingers feel like on your clit, then maybe that’s all you deserve. 

You close your eyes and turn your cheek into his vest, focusing on being quiet like he asked. Your thighs are still flexing and your pussy is still clenching, but he hasn’t asked you to stop being aroused. He can hardly expect that of you, when he’s being like this. 

Finally his hand wanders down your stomach, finding the edge of your underwear. Apparently convinced of your desperation, he pushes it down without even asking. You bring your legs together, lift your feet into the air so he can drag your panties all the way off, because you need to earn his approval again.

Good girl, his thumb says, stroking down the side of your cheek. What a helpful little thing you are, spreading your knees again so he doesn’t have anything in the way as he brings his fingers down the inside of your thigh to touch you. 

Oh, you’re screwed. The first contact of his finger on your clit tells you everything you need to know about how hard he’s going to make you cum. That teasing brush has your pussy spasming a few times around nothing, even as you keep your legs spread open and your noises carefully locked down.

That’s your job, to be quiet and still while he touches you. Maybe you should be thinking more about survival, or concentrating on what’s happening outside the warehouse, but you don’t. All you care about is the path of that finger gathering up your wetness and softly spreading it around your clit, because you’re a good girl. He’s getting you acclimated to how his fingers feel on your most sensitive part, because he’s decided that you’ve earned it. 

There’s nothing better than this. The stranger presses what you think might be a kiss to your temple, but you don’t feel lips against your skin, you feel fabric. His thumb moves in another caress against your cheek, and he painstakingly strokes your clit for you, making sure it’s wet and soft and torturously delicious. 

Hazy with arousal, you lift your hand to his face behind you, your fingers indeed meeting cloth. There’s something draped over his face, but you can still feel the firm line of his jaw through it. When your fingertips wander over the center where his mouth should be, you swear his chin tips up to press a kiss to them through the material. 

Oh, he’s a sweet one. You smile against his glove, which turns into a shudder when he finds a motion that’s really, really good. A little rumble happens in his chest when you melt back against him, relaxing your knees wide and cuddling your cheek against his vest. 

Your pussy is doing these intermittent pulses, trying to catch up to how quickly you’re getting turned on, and practicing the orgasm he’s going to give you. He’s coaxing it out of you instead of forcing it, keeping his touches on the edge of teasing, and paced just fast enough to have you getting wetter and wetter. 

He’s making your pussy open up and offer itself to his hand, and you’re in the perfect mental state to appreciate the withholding. You accept it as a natural part of this encounter, because it’s not your job to decide what kind of orgasm you get. You just get to take what he’s giving you, and cum in whatever way he thinks is best. 

You’re just settling into that blissful realization when his fingers stop moving. They slide downwards a fraction, tracing the slick outline of your entrance and hesitating there. 

Maybe you should give him a nod, but something compels you to bring your hand down to show him what you want, instead. You settle your fingers over the tops of his, appreciating those warm, hard knuckles, and help press his two middle fingers into your pussy. It’s not difficult. He makes no move to fight your direction, sinking them in deep, and curling them against your g-spot even after you release him. 

Oh, he’s so nice. His fingers are strong and able to get wonderfully far inside you, sliding against all those sensitive nerves with deliberate rolls of his wrist. He’s done teasing you, apparently. His hand tightens on your face, and he fucks you on his fingers, hard and generous. Your thighs automatically twitch while you take it, flexing your head back a little and beginning to pant through your nose. This is what you fucking needed. He knew it, even if you didn’t. 

Those invisible waves of heat begin to drift through your thighs, all the way down to your toes. It’s your body promising something you shouldn’t want right now, but you do. You do want to cum on your stranger’s fingers. You do want him to feel those pulses, and know for sure how much you’ve enjoyed your time with him. You want him to experience the way you can’t help but orgasm when he touches you. 

When it happens, you’re ready. You’re impossibly wet for how dehydrated you are, and every nerve in your body is alert with arousal. You lock your jaw shut and groan into his hand while you cum, your hips flexing up in an unconscious effort to keep that lightning coursing through your veins. 

A few words get muttered against your ear while you tremble through it, a soft, encouraging, "Sehr brav," that your mind registers as praise. Your stranger presses his palm to your clit while he rocks his fingers into you, making white flash through your vision with a fresh wave of pleasure. 

He’s pleased, you can tell. He’s breathing hard, letting you control the last dregs of it with lifts of your hips. He likes what you just did. He likes you.

Almost regretfully, you relax your legs again and let him slide his fingers out of your pussy. You don’t want it to be over. He may have got his fill of you, but you still don’t know shit about him. You want to map out his face, want to feel his hidden anatomy finding completion in your hands. 

Surely he’s going to fuck you. Surely he wants to. 

That gloved hand leaves your face, now damp with your own humid breathing. He helps you turn back onto your belly, and wraps his arm once again around your waist to keep you secure. 

Maybe he lost too much blood, and he can’t get an erection. Maybe he’s afraid of getting you pregnant, or thinks he’s too sweaty and gross for a blowjob. You have to know, so you subtly shift your knee over his crotch. 

Oh, he’s hard. He’s bricked as fuck in his pants, and you’re going to do something about it. 

He flinches slightly when you reach up to cup his masked cheek. Not gonna hurt you, your thumb tells him, stroking softly while your other hand drops to palm his erection. 

He goes stiff beneath you, hardly even breathing for a moment. When he doesn’t seem to understand what you want, you grab his chin and do a quick nod motion and then a shake. 

You smile to yourself when his face does a frantic nod under your hand. That’s a ‘hell yes’ if you ever felt one. He doesn’t even wait for you to figure out his belt, just shoves your hand out of the way and does it himself, pushing his pants down just enough to expose everything.

The clink of metal and rustle of fabric sounds louder than it is, now that most of the explosions outside have stopped. Surely he’ll have someone looking for him, some kind of extraction he needs to get to. You should probably speed this up, just to be sure. 

You have a conveniently bare and drippy pussy, which he assists you to line up to where he needs it, by way of two big hands on your hips. His cock is hot against your inner thigh, and hopefully not quite as big as it feels like he is. 

Nope, he’s definitely a giant. You wince a little when you lower yourself past the first few inches, putting your hands on his chest for support. Oh god, this is dire. This is bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and even though you’re a pretty stubborn person, you’re still pausing halfway down, trying to find the will to continue breaking yourself on it. 

One of his hands finds the top of yours, and all of a sudden you remember who he is. He’s someone gentle and considerate, running his fingertips over the back of your hand in a soothing motion. 

You suck in a steadying breath and drag your pussy back up him, trying not to cherish too much the relief of getting away from his cock. Down again, and you’re only able to get about as far as last time before an overwhelmed whimper leaves your throat. You want to do this, but you can’t. You can’t do this, it’s too much. 

His hand leaves yours, and there’s a recognizable sound of hollow aluminum again. He cups your chin, makes you stop moving to bring his canteen up to your mouth. You sit halfway down that soldier’s cock and obediently keep your head tipped back, swallowing down the last of his water. It’s your treat for being a good girl, you suppose. A little bit of hydration so your pussy can be wet and comfortable while you fuck him. 

The rim of metal disappears, and once you’ve finished swallowing, something else gets pressed to your lips. It’s fabric, and it doesn’t smell too bad, but you’re still confused for a second until he pries your jaw open and shoves it past your teeth. 

You let out a complainy breath around the gag, sacrificing a hand that you have braced on his chest to feel it with your fingers for a second, and then you realize what it is. It’s your own fucking panties that he just utilized to shut you up. 

God, you’re gonna fall in love at this rate. 

At least you know where all your remaining clothes are. One is rucked up above your bare breasts, one wrapped around this guy’s leg, and one muffling your little gasps while you work to take the rest of him into your body. 

It takes some time, but you manage to do it. A tremble runs down your legs while you kneel there with your ass flush to his hips, trying to adjust to the foreign sensation that you have a cock shoved up in your lungs. Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but it feels like that, and you’re not used to it.

His hands settle on you, one on your hip, and the gloveless one cupping your breast. A little connection, a little reassurance. Everything is fine, you’re not in pain, and you’re doing a good job. Now it’s time to be a good girl and give him his treat.

The soldier’s next breath is almost a groan, when you start to drag your pussy up and down him. You adore the way he drops his hand to your thigh, like he’s having to hold on for dear life. That’s exactly the way you want him right now, and it wakes up the impish part of your brain that wants to make him suffer through the same arousal that you did. 

You can be patient, see? You can bounce nice and slow on his cock, letting him feel every inch of drag, every sticky drop of your hips. Isn’t this nice, sir? Do you like the way this feels? Does it help you not think about your leg quite so much?

If you’re being honest, you like it, too. Now that you’re comfortably stretched, you can appreciate the way he effortlessly presses against all your internal sweet spots. Every movement is good in some way, and even the fingers tightening on your thigh feel like pleasure. They feel delicious and strong, reminding you that he’s allowing this to happen. You’re on top, but he could change that if he wanted. He wants you where you are right now, his little hidey hole girl giving him what you know he needs. 

His hands suddenly clamp onto your hips, keeping you down and unable to move. You almost make a confused sound around your gag, until you hear the footsteps again, the male voices. Fuck off, you miserable bastards. 

Wait. Are they actively looking for him? 

You breathe as quietly as you can through your nose, considering for the first time that this might not be some random foot soldier you’re in the middle of fucking. Oh, shit. You fucked up, didn’t you?

Your man’s hands move, one caressing your stomach, encouraging you to stay quiet and still, and the other one reaches down to your pussy to find your clit. 

Your next breath is stuttered, taking that spike of arousal because there’s no other option for you. You have to stay here motionless, full of cock, and let him play with your clit while you wait out the mercenaries below. And the pathetic thing is, you love it.

It’s fucking hot that this guy enjoys your body this much, that he keeps finding ways to ground you and keep you mentally connected with him. He circles his thumb over your slick clit, and you close your eyes and shudder through it, working your tongue around the dry fabric in your mouth. 

Good girl, he gloved hand says, smoothing up and down your waist. Just like that, stay quiet and let yourself feel good.

Yeah, okay. At least you know he trusts you a little bit, because he’s letting you make the choice to keep the gag in your mouth, even with soldiers so close by. Maybe you’ve earned his trust a little, somehow. The rubs on your clit feel nice, and assurance does, too. 

Those idiots linger so long, you’re afraid you’re going to cum. You actually have to reach down and pull his hand away from your pussy just to make sure you don’t. He keeps your hand in his, intwines your fingers and squeezes comfortingly. Surely he can feel the way your pussy keeps clamping down on him, desperate for what you’ve just denied yourself. It fucking sucks. 

He lets you know when you can move again, once the coast is clear. He puts both hands on your waist and effortlessly lifts you up a few inches, seeming just as desperate as you are to keep going. 

With a thoughtless whimper, you drag his hand back around to show him that you want to cum now. You’re a little afraid that he’ll get offended at the pushiness, but he doesn’t. He rubs your clit for you while you ride him, and it takes no time at all before you’re cumming again. 

Deep, wet spasms wrap around him, and despite your best efforts, you gasp around your panties. The sweetest orgasm you’ve ever had crashes over you, stealing your breath with wave after wave of gooey pleasure. It cascades across your scalp, down your spine. It diffuses through your limbs and has you desperately grinding your hips against him, because you can’t keep up the motion of fucking any longer. 

You’re vaguely aware of that warning flex inside you, and then all of a sudden his fingers tighten on your waist, and he drags you completely off his cock. Shocked, still stuck in the tail end of your pleasure, you don’t really comprehend the reason for his boot shifting against the floor, the muffled, restrained grunt from his throat while he jerks himself off the rest of the way. 

You hover there, catching your breath while the wet sound of his hand begins to slow below your hips. His breathing turns long and heavy, his body slowly relaxing and coming down from the orgasm. 

He pulled out for you, you think. He could have just cum inside you, but he didn’t. 

You like him. Officially, you have a hard crush. 

His gloved hand gives your thigh an affectionate pat, and then he works to pull his pants back into place and close his belt up. 

There are more sirens outside now, and you can hear the low buzz of a few radios as well. No gunshots is a good thing, right? You survived, you both did. 

You don’t even have time to pull your underwear out of your mouth before the metal door opens again, and quick, deliberate footsteps shuffle through. 

That gets your man’s attention. He sits up instantly, shifting you to the corner of the hiding place so he can kneel at the edge and peer over. 

He shouts something down at them that you think might be German, and then there’s a cheerful roar of several male voices answering back. Apparently they’re his people, happy to see him alive. You pull your panties out of your mouth and wonder if you should try to go with him.

Your soldier hesitates for just a second, reaches back to squeeze your arm. He says something to you that sounds like just one word, and you have no fucking clue what it is, but the intention is clear: you need to stay here. 

You hold your damp underwear in your fingers and watch him leave the way he came, gingerly climbing down the scaffolding to meet his party. There’s a strange sense of sadness in your chest, which you try not to think about. He doesn’t owe you anything. It was your own stupid fantasies that imagined he was anything but cordial. It’s your own fault that you’re clinging to the idea of an anonymous hookup, you fucking idiot. 

It takes a long time later, before you feel safe enough to come down from your hiding place. A policeman finds you, and gets you some water. You refuse to go to the hospital, because you aren’t hurt. You’re just sad. 

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

His name is Konig. 

You know this, because there’s only one massive dude in the hospital with a wounded thigh. 

You also know this, because in your initial investigations, you happened to see a recognizable piece of black clothing, folded neatly and resting on his side table.

Yeah. He kept your second favorite pair of leggings like some fucking sex souvenir, and it pisses you off. 

Days after the fact, you’re here for a far more embarrassing reason than a gun wound. That arm you scratched while climbing to safety? Yeah, that got infected. You kept waiting for it to get better on its own, but by the time your boss made you get it checked out, you had to be hospitalized and get a fun little IV. 

For the third time today, you take your two second window of walking by Konig’s bed in order to observe your anonymous hookup in your peripheral vision. 

You wouldn’t exactly call him cute. He’s somewhat plain, somewhat rough around the edges. It’s really those eyes that do it for you. The first time you passed him in the hall, while he was limping by on crutches, you made eye contact. It was just for a split second before his gaze flicked away, but you felt a little breathless by how sharply those blue eyes pierced yours. 

Your only comfort is that he’s even taller than you expected, and your errant stares and shifty eyes aren’t all that uncommon around him. It must be hell to be perceived so continuously like that. To have everyone’s gaze automatically latch onto you, before they remember pleasantries enough to quickly look away. Your hyper awareness of everything he does is easily hidden among the others, so you begin to make a plan. 

You have roughly three hours left before you get discharged. It’s almost dinner time, and he’s been somewhat active, so surely he’ll go to the cafeteria for food at some point. The trick is to be at the right location at the right time, and catch him when he’s gone, without making yourself suspicious with surveillance. 

You wait until a typical dinner time, and then do a casual walk-by. To your delight, your leggings are sitting there completely unguarded. Unfortunately there’s a few hospital staff lingering in the area, and you have to kill five precious minutes waiting for your opportunity.

You take it when it comes. Quickly you push aside the curtain and scoop up your leggings, holding them to your chest as you get out as fast as you can manage, without being suspicious. There, now everything is right in the world again. He got some wartime pussy, and you got all of your clothes back. Fair.

Except when you turn the next corner, a familiar shape with dark hair and crutches becomes visible, heading in your direction from the other end of the hallway. 

Be cool, be cool. He doesn’t know who you are. He hasn’t been looking at you the same way you’ve been studying him, so he’s uninterested and suspects nothing. All you have to do is hide your leggings discreetly behind your back, and casually make your way back to the safety of your room. Easy. 

It’s not until you’re within sight of your door that you let out a relieved breath, glancing down at the prize in your hands. Take that, super soldier. Outsmarted by an idiot girl, how do you like them apples? You’re smiling to yourself as you grab the handle of your door and begin to turn it, pulling it open.

Except a massive hand suddenly plants itself on the door right in front of your face, shoving it closed again and wrenching the handle out of your grasp. 

You squeak in fright, whipping your head around to meet those dark blue eyes being leveled down at you. 

Both of your gazes drop to the object clutched in your fingers, and then he looks back up at your face. Fuck. That wasn’t a sex souvenir, that was bait.

“I knew it was you,” he says with a thick accent.

You scowl up at him. “No, you didn't.”

A warm smile crawls across his face. “You are right, I did not.” He inclines his head towards your bandaged arm. “I did this to you?”

“What?” You lift your arm, staring at it stupidly. “Oh, no. It was a nail or something.”

He nods, looking you over speculatively. He shifts on his crutch, leaning on it to offer out his hand. “I’m Konig.”

You slide your palm into that fucking paw of a hand, and give him a smile while you squeeze it. “I know.” 

Part 2 Drabble

Dividers by @themaskedgifer

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

I GET YOU

rafe cameron x fem!reader

( moodboard does NOT depict readers appearance !! )

WARNINGS: none? i can’t really think of anything, just pure fluff! soft!rafe :’) maybe the slightest mention of worrying about what others think/fear of being judged? lmk if i missed anything !!

SUMMARY: rafe and weird!reader are one of the strangest couples in the obx. nobody has any clue how the cunning and cruel rafe cameron is dating the epitome of sunshine. but rafe just gets her, and she just gets him🫶

based on this ask !! i hope you enjoy 🍮🍒 anon, and i hope it was what you asked for, and i added in that the reader makes jewellery and collects sonny’s angels :) and sorry for the late post !! <3

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

THIRD PERSON +

The Outer Banks sun was blazing overhead as Y/N wandered down the streets of Kildare Island. The vibrant clinking of her many bracelets echoed softly in the quiet cul-de-sac as she adjusted her brightly colored tote bag over her shoulder. It was filled to the brim with craft supplies—beads of every color, rolls of thread, and the newest addition to her collection: two tiny Sonny’s Angels figurines she’d found at a small thrift shop on the mainland.

She was a walking burst of color. Her patchwork denim jeans were covered in hand-sewn floral patterns, her lime-green tank top layered over a long-sleeved baby tee, and her hair was adorned with barrette clips in the shape of stars and hearts. The contrast between her aesthetic and the neutral, coastal tones of the OBX locals was stark. She stuck out like a sore thumb—and she didn’t care.

And Rafe Cameron loved her for it.

From his perch on the porch steps of Tannyhill, Rafe’s blue eyes tracked her approach, his lips quirking into a soft, almost amused smile. He watched as she practically skipped up the gravel driveway, clutching her tote bag like it held treasure.

“Rafey!” she called out, her voice a melodic lilt that never failed to make his chest ache in the best way. “Guess what I found!”

He chuckled, standing up and brushing off his khaki shorts. “What, another one of those creepy little baby dolls?”

She gasped in mock outrage, clutching her heart. “They’re not creepy! They’re little angels, and they’re adorable. Look!” She yanked the two figurines from her bag and held them up like prized possessions. One was dressed as a strawberry, the other as a little chef.

Rafe leaned down, squinting at the tiny figures in her hands. “Yeah, adorable is one way to put it,” he teased, but his grin betrayed his words.

“Don’t be mean,” she said, poking his chest lightly. Her rings sparkled in the sunlight as she did so. “You just don’t understand their charm.”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a shrug, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his chest. “But I understand you, and that’s enough for me.”

Her cheeks flushed at his words, and she buried her face in his chest. “You’re such a sap sometimes.”

“Only for you.”

The two of them stood like that for a moment, swaying slightly in the breeze. The Cameron estate was quiet; Ward and Rose were off on one of their trips, and Sarah was, well, doing whatever Sarah did these days. It left Rafe and Y/N in a little bubble of their own, untouched by the world’s judgments.

“You wanna help me make something?” Y/N asked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.

“Make what?”

“A bracelet!” She stepped out of his arms, already rummaging through her bag. “I got these new beads, and I think they’d look great with your eyes.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “You wanna make me a bracelet?”

“Why not?” she said, grinning. “It’s not like you’re gonna wear it in public or anything. Unless…” Her grin turned mischievous.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, though his tone was light.

She giggled, plopping down on the porch steps and spreading her supplies out like an artist preparing her canvas. Rafe followed, sitting beside her and watching as her nimble fingers worked to thread beads onto a piece of elastic.

“Why do you do this?” he asked after a while, his voice soft.

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestured to her array of beads, figurines, and tiny tools. “All of it. The bright clothes, the crafts… you’re not exactly like anyone else around here.”

She paused, looking up at him with a small smile. “Because it makes me happy,” she said simply. “I like colours. I like making things. It’s who I am.”

Rafe nodded, taking her answer in stride. He’d always admired her confidence in being herself, even when people whispered about her behind her back or shot her strange looks in town. It was a level of self-assuredness he wasn’t sure he’d ever reach.

“You know,” she said after a moment, stringing a star-shaped bead onto the bracelet, “a lot of people think it’s weird that we’re together.”

“They’re idiots.”

She laughed, a light, airy sound that made his heart swell. “I know that. But still… you’re Rafe Cameron. People expect you to date, like, the cheerleader type. Not someone who spends their weekends thrifting for doll clothes.”

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against the plastic barrette clipped in her hair. “Let them think what they want,” he said firmly. “You make me happy. That’s all that matters.”

Her smile widened, and she leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re too good to me, Rafe Cameron.”

“Damn right I am,” he said with a smirk, though the teasing edge in his voice was softened by the way he gazed at her like she hung the stars in the sky.

She finished the bracelet a few minutes later, tying it off and holding it up for inspection. It was a mix of blue and white beads, with a single star charm in the center. “What do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” he said, letting her slide it onto his wrist. The contrast between the delicate bracelet and his rugged, calloused hands was almost laughable, but he wore it with pride.

“You look so cute,” she cooed, taking his hand in hers to admire her handiwork.

“Don’t push it,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, her eyes drifting to the horizon where the sun was beginning to set. “You know, I used to think no one would ever get me,” she admitted quietly. “Like, really get me.”

Rafe turned his head to look at her, his expression softening. “I get you,” he said simply.

She smiled, tilting her head up to kiss him softly. “Yeah,” she whispered against his lips. “You do.”

The world around them seemed to fade away as they sat together on the porch steps, wrapped in their own little universe. It didn’t matter what the rest of the Outer Banks thought of them. They had each other, and that was more than enough.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron felt like he could be himself. And for Y/N, that was the greatest gift of all.

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was so so cute and so much fun to write !! i LOVE weird girl!reader soooo much and this was just the CUTEST🥹 i really hope this was what you wanted 🍮🍒 anon and i hope i got the aesthetics correct :) as always, please like and reblog as it means the WORLD to me <333

[simpforrooster]

did you tell him not yet.

rafe cameron x f!reader

summary: reader is secretly dating rafe, but he rouses some suspicion on surf day.

a/n: my first time writing for outer banks. i hope all my top gun fans love it. i’m back in my outer banks era and need to fill my rafe bucket. i def think i could fix him.

t/w: cursing, mentions of violence, allusions to smut, rafe and the pouges being rafe and the pouges.

"suuuurf day!" jj and john b run through the house, banging on all the doors. sarah and kei follow behind their boyfriends, chuckling at their behavior. pope and cleo exit their room, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"breakfast first!" you call from the kitchen, standing over the pan of eggs fresh from pougelandia's chickens. the pouges crowd around you, grabbing plates and stacking food on them.

jj kisses your cheek. "we'd never eat if it wasn't for you." rolling your eyes, you join your friends at the makeshift dining table.

"so after we eat, we head out to the beach and make a day of it," john b tells the group, sounding like a kid at christmas. once the plan is made and breakfast cleaned up, everyone piles in the twinkie.

your phone pings with a message. checking over your shoulder, you open it.

I miss you, babygirl.

your cheeks heat up at the thought of your boyfriend--well secret boyfriend.

rafe cameron.

sarah's psychotic, drug-addicted, low key killer of a brother. you couldn't explain it, and you never make excuses for his behavior, but you're in love with him. it's so cliche to say, but he's different around you.

the two of you got close after el dorado. it wasn't just one cataclysmic event. the two of you started running into each other around the island. no matter where you were, rafe seemed to be there. the more the two of you talked, the closer you grew. one thing led to another and he was kissing you in the alleyway of the general store.

of course, you couldn’t tell the pouges. they wouldn’t understand. not that you’d blame them. hell, you hardly understood it yourself.

rafe’s put your friends through it, to put it mildly.

shooting rafe a quick reply, you help the pouges set up on the beach.

~

after an uneventful morning of surfing and relaxing, the sound of a truck pulls you from the serenity.

"oh god, no. don't stop here," jj murmurs into kie's shoulder. the two of them were wrapped around one another, as if they couldn't stand to not be touching.

kooks.

the truck behind topper is the one that gains your attention.

rafe.

"Sarah, what's your damn brother and his friends doing here?" pope asks.

"fuck if I know, pope!" she shoots back.

naturally, the kooks park their vehicles a little ways down from y'all. topper and ruthie fall out their vehicle first, topper giving a sarcastic wave.

rafe climbs from his truck looking devastaing in his ray bans and striped shirt. he glances your way, and though you can't see his eyes beneath his sunglasses, he raises his brow slightly, acknowledging you.

goosebumps flood your body and all you want to do is run to him.

"I'll go say something," jj says, untangling himself from kie. she tries to talk him out of it, pulling him back down to her.

"listen to kie, jj. I'll go," you tell them, loving the excuse to go talk to your boyfriend.

as you cross the sand toward the kooks, rafe fixes you with a terrifying grin. one that confirms to everyone else, he has nothing but disdain for you, but you know better.

rafe moves toward you, meeting you between where everyone is set up.

“what’s up, pouge?” he nods.

“kook.”

rafe pulls his shades down his down his nose, giving you a free show of his eyes you love so much.

“look, just keep your friends on that side of the beach and we’ll stay on ours,” you reason, feeling your friends a few steps behind you.

“you know,” rafe starts, completely ignoring your suggestion, “you’re pretty sexy for a pouge. why don’t you and i get out of here.”

he makes a show of dragging his eyes up and down your body. a light brow flicks up in approval. as much as you love a good bikini, you’ve been dying to test drive your new black one piece.

“what the fuck, rafe?! don’t talk to her like that!” sarah says, coming up beside you.

“baby sis, hey,” he gives her one of his signature dead inside looks. “i’ll talk to her however i want. she doesn’t seem to mind, hmm?” he winks at you over his raybans.

“bite me, rafe.” you cross your arms over your chest.

“gladly,” he grins.

“tell your buddies to leave us alone, dick,” sarah tells rafe, grabbing your hand to pull you back to your friends.

rafe wiggles his fingers at you in a condescending wave. “let me know when you’re tired of jacking around with those lowlifes.”

~

for the most part, the kooks left everyone alone, keeping to themselves. of course, there was a scuffle or two when it came to the waves.

as the sun falls below the horizon, john b and pope built a small bonfire. jj passes beers and a joint around the group.

“ugh, what is rafe doing?” sarah says, passing the joint to you.

“you know, that’s not good for you,” rafe tells you as you place the blunt between your lips.

“fuck off, rafe,” you say, blowing the smoke out.

“yeah, i’d rather fuck you.” the confession catches you off guard, causing you to choke on some smoke.

john b stands to his feet, shoving rafe back in one swift motion. jj and pope scramble to their feet, ready to back up john b. rafe fixes them with a menacing stare.

“don’t put your hands on me again, pouge.”

“don’t talk to her like that again, asshole.”

“or what?” rafe challenges. his fists clench at his side. you know he hates that the pouges are willing to fight him over you. he’s the one who should be protecting your honor.

john b and rafe stare at one another, daring each other to make the first move. an impending fight and the crisp beach air has you shivering in the sand.

rafe immediately takes notice, having become hyper aware of everything there is to know about you. he reaches behind his neck, pulling the sweater from his body. dropping it in your lap, he turns without another word heading back to the kooks. you pray the flush on your cheeks isn’t noticeable in the firelight.

kie and sarah exchange a look, before turning that look toward you. the sweater in your lap smells just like the cologne rafe knows you love.

“well, i’m not gonna waste a perfectly good brooks brothers,” you shrug, letting the fabric warm you.

~

“that was so weird with rafe, wasn’t it?” sarah says when everyone is piled back in the twinkie. john b points the bus toward pougelandia.

“you mean when he showed that sheer amount of human decency?” you reply, praying your voice doesn’t betray you.

“or the way he was so blatantly hitting on you,” sarah says.

“or how you just let him,” kie points out.

“i don’t know what yall are talking about,” you say into the sweater sleeves, breathing in the smell of rafe.

“come on, y/n. tell us the truth. you fuckin’ rafe?” jj asks. john b slams on the breaks once he computes jj’s question. everyone is jostled around at the sudden stop.

“damnit, john b!” pope scolds.

john b turns and looks at you. “pouges don’t lie to each other.” you can see the hurt in john b’s eyes, just at the thought of you being with rafe.

“no, i’m not ‘fuckin’ rafe,” you tell them. it wasn’t a lie. the two of you hadn’t gotten that far in this secret relationship. john b held your gaze. seemingly okay with your answer, he hit the gas. the ride was silent the rest of the way home.

once everyone settled in their respective rooms with their respective partners, a sound came from your window.

followed by another.

then another.

investigating, you find rafe poised with another pebble, ready to throw.

throwing open the window, you scold him. “what the fuck, rafe?!”

rafe hoists himself through your window and into your room.

“you’re not supposed to be here. it’s too risky.”

rafe’s arms circle your waist. he pulls you to him, and positions his mouth at your ear. “no, what’s risky was parading around in that fucking bathing suit all afternoon knowing i couldn’t do anything about it.”

“oh you did plenty,” you said into his collarbone. he shivers under your touch, just as you do with his. “what was all that? jj asked if we were sleeping together.”

his lips move along your jaw in sweet, intoxicating kisses. “did you tell him not yet?”

your breath catches in your throat at the mention of ‘yet.’ “of course not,” you breathe.

his mouth twists into a smirk against your neck. he sucks the area where your neck meets your shoulder, leaving a mark. “your friends can’t handle the idea of their sweet little friend with someone like me?” the words travel across your body.

“it’s not that, rafe. do i need to list the ways you’ve wronged them in the past?”

rafe breathes out a chuckle. “i am well aware of my actions when it comes to those freaks.”

“those ‘freaks’ are my friends,” you caution.

he walks the two of you backwards, your knees hitting the bed. when he gently pushes you back, the box spring creaks beneath you.

“hmm, that’s no good,” rafe remarks at the noisy mattress. “you’ve got to let me replace this with something better.”

attacking your neck with kisses, you suddenly forget what the two of you were talking about. rafe engulfs you between himself and the bed. “you’re still wearing my sweater,” he notices.

“of course i am,” you murmur.

his hand travels up your leg fluttering against your lacey underwear, a moan escaping his mouth. “perfect,” he breathes.

“don’t flatter me, cameron,” you say, pulling his mouth against yours. he works his expert lips against yours. you squirm beneath him, feeling his erection against you.

he chuckles against your lips. “baby, you know i don’t do flattery.”

every move the two of you makes is met by the squeak of the mattress. an aggravated groan falls from his lips. “this isn’t happening tonight, is it?”

you shake your head against his chest, hiding a grin. “not on this mattress”

“i’m not opposed to the floor. or my bike. there’s the beach. or y’all’s rickety bait shop. what about jj’s boat?” rafe rattles off every idea.

“rafe, our first time cannot be at any of those places. i want it to be perfect,” you tell him, kissing his cheek. rafe’s head falls into your shoulder. “and jj’s boat is 100% out of the question.”

“okay, baby,” he concedes, pulling himself from you.

“where are you going?” you whine, gripping his shirt to bring him back to you.

“tannyhill?” it comes out as a question.

“stay with me,” you whisper. “just be gone before everyone wakes up.”

“anything for you.” rafe strips down to his boxers and climbs under the blankets next to you. “i never want to see this sweater off of you. you look so fucking sexy in it. seeing it on you at the beach almost did me in. i want everyone to know you’re mine.”

“i’m yours, rafe,” you murmur, cuddling your body into his.

the two of you drift to sleep wrapped in one another’s arms.

~

“i fucking knew it!” jj’s voice comes from your door.

[perlelune]

Oblivion | Paul Atreides

There used to be beginnings and ends, nights and days, dream and reality, before the haze took over, swallowing every thought, every memory, every whisper of free will.

Warnings: NON-CON, Fremen Reader, Kynes!Reader, Mind Control, Memory Manipulation, Padishah Emperor Paul, Loss of Identity, Brainwashing, Mentions of war and religious fanaticism

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Muad’Dib leads the way. 

It is what the prophecy dictates. That he is the voice from the Outer World. The one who will lead your people to paradise. The one who will turn Dune’s arid desert lands into bountiful, endless green fields. 

But as your eyes rest on him, you do not see the chosen one. You do not see the Lisan Al-Ghaib. You see your friend Paul, broken, lost, his heart shattered into a million pieces due to your cousin’s absence. 

He sits at the head of his bed, shadows fluttering across his delicate features from the glowglobes’ dull orange light. Wide black rings surround his sunken blue eyes, the result of his daily consumption of spice melange. Lank, greasy brown curls hang around his handsome face. A pang twists your chest. He hasn’t slept in days, has barely gotten a full night of replenishing sleep since she left on a maker’s back.

You cannot blame your cousin. Paul’s ascendency to the Golden Lion throne came at a cost. A hefty one. Promises were broken. Trust was destroyed. Only time will repair the damage that was done. Though you carry faith the two of them will find their way back to each other. 

You stir the spice-coffee in the pot, straining the shimmering dark powder before pouring some in a cup. A spicy cinnamon smell coats the cool night air. 

You rise and bring the cup to him.

“For you, Usul.”

A soft smile blooms on his lips as he takes a slow, weary sip.

“You make it so well,” he praises.

You glow at the compliment, returning his smile. Your grandmother used to show you and Chani how to blend coffee beans with spice and herbs. The knowledge never left you. Now, every time you feel troubled or upset, you make a fresh kettleful. A single sip of the familiar brew is enough to alleviate your frazzled nerves. Especially here, so far away from Sietch Tabr, between the strange stone walls of the Arrakeen Keep, you have craved little reminders of home more than ever before.

Fremen belong in the desert, not in peculiar tents made of marble and stone.

Paul’s brows crumple as he studies you. 

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he says.

“I can get another Fremen-”

His fingers latch around your wrist, desperation sizzling under his touch. 

“I prefer it to be you.” He sighs. A bone deep fatigue radiates from the sound. You halt in your tracks. You suppose you could stay a while longer. “Please, stay, your presence soothes me.”

You nod. “I’ll stay, Muad’Dib.”

Relief falls over his features. 

The doors suddenly open, the guards stepping aside to let Stilgar in. He bows to Paul.

“Lisan Al-Ghaib…”

Your friend’s mouth flattens into a thin line. 

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

Stilgar acquiesces. He will never stop addressing Paul with reverence and admiration. None of his followers believes in him more. At times, it scares you a little. While you share the same faith, the fervor with which every Fedaykin is willing to lay their swords in his name can be frightening. Sometimes you wonder if Chani was right. How much will it take to liberate your world? How much blood will require spilling? You’re not completely naive. No war was ever won without a few casualties. Still, part of you hopes the war will end soon and peaceful times will come.

“No sign of her?” Paul asks. 

A contrite expression tugs the older man’s face.

“Apologies, my liege. We scouted the Southern regions this time. We couldn’t find her. She knows the desert well. It is home to us Fremen. She will not be found…”

“...Unless she wants to be found,” you finish, grabbing the empty cup from Paul’s hands and placing it back on the table.

The faint embers of hope in Paul’s cobalt gaze flicker out. Your heart sinks, for both you and him. Though you do not wish to burden him, you miss your cousin too. Her practicality and common sense. Her strength. Without her, a piece of you is missing. A crucial one. Your mother died in childbirth and your father in battle, so both of you grew up together, close enough in age to share secrets and play together for most of your childhood. 

It was Chani who taught you how to summon a worm and ride upon its back for the first time. She is the sister tragic circumstances blessed you with.

Stilgar apologizes profusely once more before taking his leave.

As soon as he’s gone, Paul’s shoulders slump.

“She hates me.” 

You crouch beside him.

“She doesn’t hate you. She never could. She is your quiet in the storm, and you are hers. She will return when she is ready.”

A wry laugh escapes his lips. 

“I have Irulan, my beloved wife, who is likely plotting my demise as we speak. Qizarate missionaries pressing me to take action and purge the non-believers on Aldinor. I am surrounded by foes, everywhere I look.” That distant expression he gets whenever his visions haunt him touches his face. “Blades pointed at my neck at all times, waiting for a sign of weakness to strike.”

You grab his hand, reassuring him, “You also have friends, Usul, who believe in your cause.”

“Fanatics,” he corrects bitterly. 

Your chest swells with worry. You don’t like it when he questions himself as such. His cause is right. He freed Arrakis from the Harkonnen’s iron-fisted rule. He will bring peace to every world in the universe. It is written. It’s the only path forward.

“You are not alone.” His fingers squeeze around yours. Warmth rushes to your face, the realization that you’re awfully close to the Emperor striking you. You adjust the nezhoni scarf covering your hair and rise. “I shall let you rest, my Lord.”

“Stay, please.”

His tone is beseeching. Your gaze swings to the window. There, moon beams pierce through the colorful glass, scattering rainbow splashes of light across the floor. Vibrant stars pepper the dark sky, pearls lost in a sea of ink. It’s pitch black outside. You should be in your own room. Not his.

“Muad’Dib, it’s late…”

His grip on your hand tightens. When he speaks again, his tone is different. Disembodied. Powerful. Its tantalizing echo drips inside your head like honey. 

“Stay,” he mumbles. You plop down on the bed, your body moving on its own, driven by the strange, irresistible thrall of Paul’s voice.

“Usul…” 

He cups your cheeks. 

“Sleep beside me tonight.”

“I’m not her.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

“She should be with me and she isn’t. But you are.” His inflection becomes soft and inviting as he drinks you in. As if he were lumbering through the desert, parched and desperate, and you were a well overflowing with fresh water. “You are beautiful. I never noticed before.” He pauses, tracing your bottom lip. “Perhaps I should have.”

You blink, dazed. When did Paul’s face get so close to yours? You can outline each of his long lashes, the speckles of green lingering in his blue eyes. 

“Paul-”

His mouth grazes yours, his thumb stroking your cheeks. It only lasts a few seconds. The warm plushness of his lips on yours yanks you back to reality. You gasp and flinch back. When you recoil, his silky tone fills your ears once more.

“Don’t fight it. You love me, remember?”

A confused whisper slips through your lips. Two parts of your mind wrestle with Paul’s words. 

“I do?”

His eyes dive into yours.

“Of course, you do.”

“Of course I do,” you repeat, his tone nudging aside the doubts lurking inside your mind. 

A bright smile unfurls on his lips, his lids sagging to half-mast.

“It’s like you said before. You are my quiet in the storm and I am yours.”

Right. You uttered those very same words. How could you forget?

You are Paul’s quiet in the storm. He is yours.

His mouth covers yours. It moves slowly against your own. He explores your mouth as he cradles your face. His long lashes fall over his cheekbones as he loses himself in your taste. He hums against your lips, gentle fingers touching your face. You don’t move, eyes half-open as you let it happen. It’s foreign, the sensation of Paul’s lips on yours. Foreign and strange yet you can’t help but numbly accept it. 

Once he frees your lips, he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Come into my arms, my love,” he says.

You don’t resist as he pulls you into his embrace, nudging you onto the bed. Soft strands of Paul’s brown mane brush against your cheek as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your spice-coated scent. 

His arms circle your waist. Your back melds against his chest, the warmth of your bodies mingling through the thin layers of your clothes. 

“You smell so good,” he mutters. Your scarf shifts when he rubs his face against it. “Don’t ever leave me.”

When you don’t reply, his tone gets firmer. “Promise it.”

The words roll off your tongue easily.

“I won’t ever leave you, Paul.”

Tension leaks out of his tightly coiled muscles. 

“Good,” he says, drifting off to sleep quickly with you nestled in his snug embrace. 

You fall asleep too, no thoughts in your head, Paul’s soft snores lulling you into peaceful slumber. 

You awake with a start, the stark unfamiliarity of the palatial chambers you find yourself in causing your pulse to soar. Your eyes dart about the room. Recognition hits you. These are the Emperor’s apartments.

Your eyes grow wide. You’re not supposed to be here. Panic sets in.

“W-What am I doing here?”

Paul’s quiet voice flows across your back.

“Calm down.”

“No. I shouldn’t be here…”

You start crawling off the bed but Paul’s fingers around your wrist impede your departure. 

He holds your face, vibrant blue eyes locking with yours. You find yourself incapable of looking away, ensnared by his unflinching focus.

“I said, Calm down.”

The alarms ringing inside your head fall quiet. You lean into Paul’s touch. What were you doing? What were you thinking? Every thought you attempt to grasp at evaporates in the heat of Muad’Dib’s stare. 

“There. Much better,” he coos, satisfaction hovering on his handsome face. His voice sinks into a sensual whisper. “Why don’t you kneel for me?”

You do as he instructs. Then all fades to black as quicksands of confusion engulf your thoughts. 

When you return to yourself, you aren’t on the bed anymore, but on your knees on the carpeted floor. 

Paul is looming over you, grunting, his throat bobbing. One of his hands is curled around your nape while the other is under your jaw. 

You note the saltiness coating your tongue, the drool on your chin, the soreness in the back of your throat. 

You choke on his length, air wavering inside your lungs. 

Paul’s cock is in your mouth. 

The sick, awful realization tumbles over you like a bag of stones. 

Muffled moans leave you as you lift pleading eyes towards him.

You place your hands on his thighs, shoving with all your strength. 

Paul doesn’t let you move. He cradles your face and thrusts inside your mouth until his balls are pressed into your chin. 

Clouds of lust obscure his gaze as it falls upon you. 

He caresses your face, dragging his cock out before pushing it inside your mouth again. Gurgled sounds leave your throat. Tears skip down your cheeks and you wonder when you’ve started crying. 

Fremen do not cry. Ever. Even for the dead. It is a rare, sacred act.

Paul wipes them off your face with his thumbs. 

“You love me. It is what lovers do,” he says matter-of-factly.

Your body relaxes. 

Right. Of course. You love him. It is what lovers do. 

You hollow your cheeks and suck him off. He unleashes a throaty sigh of delight as you pleasure him with your mouth. 

When his seed drips down your tongue, he coaxes you not to waste a single drop. You swallow all of it, showing no resistance when he nudges a stray drop between your wet lips. 

Several days in a row, you awake in the emperor’s chambers. At first, you experience great confusion. However, Paul’s soothing words always quell your rising panic. It becomes all you know. The Emperor’s mesmerizing voice. His large, soft bed. His ceaseless, ravenous touch. 

Sweaty, tangled limbs melting in lewd harmony.

You stop questioning it. Even the strange lapses of time when you are in one room and mysteriously wind up in another. It isn’t rare for you to wake up with the Emperor’s head bobbing between your thighs, greedily lapping at your folds, or with your hips grinding into his as he impales you on his cock. 

It is where you belong. And you believe him when he says that, mumbling loving promises into your ear in the dead of night.

“If we do not strike fast and hard, they will not accept your rule,” Stilgar says. 

“They worship a false god. We are doing them a favor,” another man sitting at the table interjects. 

A shaky exhale flows from your tongue. You look around, dismay filling you when you realize you’re in Paul’s war room amidst a council meeting. Your head throbs. How did you get here?

You rise from your chair. Bemused gazes land on you. 

Princess Irulan snickers from her seat.

“Husband, your concubine is acting strange,” she sneers.

Concubine? You step away from the table.

You blink several times as you stumble outside. You grip your temples, your forehead scrunching. That cannot be right. Is it? 

You are no one’s concubine. 

You are…

You are…

Adrenaline pumps through your blood as your head buzzes. 

The answer will not come, your mind keeping it under firm lock and key.

Frustration mounts within you. You blindly waddle around.

You end up in a room that bears vague familiarity. You lean against a basin full of water. Water…just lying around. That seems strange.

Your eyes land on a mirror on the opposite wall. The reflection in the glass has your heart rate spiking. Who is this?

You bolt to your feet, the water in the basin splashing around your feet. 

Your tremulous fingers rise to your face, horror filling you when the woman in the mirror mimicks your exact motions. 

Your gaze travels across the wide, open space. Quick breaths rush from your throat. The Emperor’s room. Why did you think it was your room? 

You stagger backwards. You gasp as you bump into a solid form.

You whirl, eyes widening.

“Paul.”

He gauges you, slight concern etched in his blue eyes. Relief fills you as you soak in his boyish, slender features, much more familiar than those of the stranger in the mirror. 

You know Paul. Muad’Dib. Paul is familiar, safe. You trust him. He will tell you who you are.

“Yes, my love?”

“Paul, who am I?”

A displeased frown settles on his brow. He approaches you and grabs your face. His expression hardens.

“You are mine. Nothing else matters.”

“But Paul-”

Your protests are stifled by the feverish press of his lips on yours. A fog surrounds your thoughts as his kiss grows more passionate, his hands sweeping over your curves. You place your hand on his chest, pushing feebly.  

“Forget it. Forget it all, beloved,” he mumbles against your lips. You sag against him. You drown in Paul’s blue eyes, time stretching beyond eternity. 

When you gain a semblance of awareness, your naked form is writhing above Paul’s. Your palms are spread over his lithe muscles, your hips moving as he slams his cock into your cunt repetitively. Paul bites his lip, his gaze glued to the sight of his length disappearing between your wet folds. 

When did you get on the bed? When did you shed your clothes?

Every inquiry melts in the heat swirling across your damp flesh. 

Your lashes flutter as you unleash a broken whimper, Paul’s hard length touching you in places that send electricity rippling through your spine.

You tighten around him and he purrs. 

“Remember nothing but my name,” he rasps, clutching your hips possessively. He impales you on his length, thrusting faster. You choke on your breath, his quickening pace driving you wild.

You brace yourself on his chest and lose yourself in the pleasure, your breath hitching each time he pounds into you.

The filthy sounds of your coupling fill the room, bouncing off the stone walls. Paul’s deep, animalistic moans. Your soft, desperate whimpers. The blunt, wet sounds your cunt makes as he buries himself inside you. The bed rattling and squeaking under your writhing forms.

“Paul, Paul…” you pant as you bounce on his cock. An intensity ignites his eyes as his name falls from your tongue like a prayer. You toss your head back, voice dying in your throat as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your toes flex. You tremble, your body jolting as your slick walls flutter around his length. A husky moan leaves him. He twitches inside you. His back lifts from the sheets, his body tensing as he hits his peak too. Slick warmth spills from his tip, glazing your walls. 

An errant sliver of panic lurks inside your brain. Your eyes bulge as you glance down at where your body and Paul’s are conjoined. Rapid breaths burst from your chest.

Seeming to sense your distress, he shoves your hips back down when you try to squirm away.

His authoritative voice booms across the room, unnatural, multiplied. Everywhere at once. 

“Do not move, beloved. Let me fill you up. Make you mine in every way.”

Your breaths settle down. Your worries disappear. You look into Paul’s loving gaze. A smile unfans on his lips as you ride him with abandon again.

“What are you doing?”

You pivot at the abrupt sound of Paul’s voice. You pause above the bag you’re packing. You peer at him, mulling over an appropriate answer to his question. You do not find one. You only know that you stirred awake that morning, feeling strange, sore…Lost. The urge to collect your meager belongings and leave the Arrakeen Keep seared inside you since then. A hollow, distant voice rings inside your head.

Return to Sietch Tabr.

“I have to go. Something…Something isn’t feeling right.”

The muscles of Paul’s jaw flare, his tone as ice as he states, “You want to leave me.”

Discarding your bag, you rush to him. You take his hands in yours.

“No. I made you a promise. I just need time to think…I can’t think anymore, Paul.”

It’s true. Every day feels like trudging through a Coriolis storm, your thoughts scattering as dust in the wind the minute they form.

Everything that was solid before is now sand slipping through your fingers.

Paul’s gaze corrals yours.

“You don’t need to,” he says, gripping your face. His tone dips to a soft lilt that penetrates your senses. “Who are you?”

You search his eyes. A breeze blows away every single doubt you had.

The answer to every inquiry you had is right there. In Paul’s fond stare.

The persistent little voice in your head, that pesky plea begging to be heard suddenly falls quiet. The truth echoes in your head, Paul’s powerful voice filling your mind.

You are right where you belong. 

“I’m yours,” you utter with certainty.

His face softens. “That is correct, my love,” he says, stroking your cheek.

“Now, why don’t you settle down, beloved?” You let him escort you to the bed, coaxing you to take a seat on the sheets. “Agitating yourself as such isn’t good for you.”

He sinks to the floor and drops a gentle kiss over your round belly.

“And it’s not good for the baby either.”

[rafecameronssl4t]

Tennis || Tennis Player!Rafe Cameron x oc!reader

Summary: the beginning of my tennis player x oc!reader au maybe??

Warnings: none

Word count: 836

A/n: as a tennis girly, this will be fun to write ;) face claim for this oc is Paige Lorenze just bc she is my absolute favourite and her vlogs bring me sm comfort 🥹

MASTERLIST

divider by @yoonitos

mood board

It came as no surprise to anyone in the Outer Banks that Rafe Cameron had made it big in the tennis world. Even though everyone expected him to follow the usual kook path and play golf, Rafe decided to give tennis a shot, and it turned out he was a natural. From the moment he picked up a racket, it was clear he had a natural talent for the sport.

In no time, he racked up five Grand Slam titles and climbed to 4th in the world rankings. Growing up in an environment where he was groomed to play golf from the time he could walk, his switch to tennis had caught everyone off guard.

His rapid rise to the top shocked the tennis community, especially those who had dedicated their entire lives to mastering the sport, only to be surpassed by someone who had recently taken it up. It was almost laughable, but here you were, watching from the VIP box as Rafe stood just one point away from securing another Grand Slam at Wimbledon.

“Quite a talented young man he is,” your dad remarked, his eyes fixed on the big screen with a small smile playing on his lips. You turned to look at him, noticing the rare glint of admiration in his gaze. The entire stadium was patiently waiting for their break to be over.

Your dad, Steve Owen, was an ex-tennis player, a legend in his prime who had dominated the courts with unmatched skill. Compliments from him were few and far between, reserved only for those who truly earned his respect. Watching him now, you could tell he was genuinely impressed by Rafe’s talent.

“You feeling alright, Dad?” you teased, feigning concern as you leaned over and playfully pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He chuckled softly, swatting your hand away with a grin as you giggled, settling back in your seat. “No, seriously,” he replied, his tone shifting to one of genuine admiration.

“It’s quite remarkable how quickly he rose up in the world rankings.” His voice softened as the two of you watched intently, the screen zooming in on Rafe’s concentrated face, capturing the intensity of the moment as he prepared to serve.Everyone held their breath as they watched the ball fly from one end to the other before the crowd erupted in cheers.

“Rafe Cameron has done it once again! Only been in this sport for two years, he now has won 5 grand slams! Unbelievable!” The commentator’s voice seemed to drown out as applause filled the VIP box. You were among the first to stand up, joining in the almost deafening applause. You watch with a smile as Rafe drops to the ground, hands covering his face as the stadium chanted his name.

Standing up, you were captivated, hands clasped under your chin, as Rafe was interviewed. His fingers tousled through his sweat-dampened hair, adjusting his cap with a boyish charm. “Congratulations on winning your fifth Grand Slam! That’s incredible for someone who’s only been in this sport for two years. I mean, that’s insane!” The interviewer’s excitement filled the air.

Rafe chuckled warmly, his smile genuine and infectious. “Thank you. I owe it all to the incredible support I’ve received. I wouldn’t be here without them,” he replied graciously, his eyes reflecting sincerity as he spoke of his supporters.

“Speaking of supportive people, did you happen to notice two special guests up there in the stands watching you?” The interviewer gestured across, and the camera zoomed in on you and your dad. Your cheeks warmed as the spotlight unexpectedly turned to you.

Rafe glanced up at the screen, his smile widening at the sight of your shy smile. “Uh, I did hear some whispers earlier that Steve and y/n might be in the crowd today,” he admitted, his gaze lingering warmly on you and your dad as he waved with genuine warmth. You waved back, feeling a surge of amusement ripple through the crowd.

Admiring Rafe wasn’t just an understatement; he was undeniably attractive. Your dad caught your eye, sharing a knowing glance as you couldn’t help but giggle. “What? You’ve practically given him your approval,” you teased, playfully winking at your dad. He chuckled heartily, clearly enjoying the playful banter.

With your dad’s esteemed reputation in tennis came certain privileges, like standing on court beside Rafe Cameron to award him his trophy.

“Congratulations, Rafe,” you said with a warm smile as he shook your hand, his eyes locking onto yours. “Thank you, y/n,” Rafe replied, his hand lingering on yours a moment longer than necessary, until you heard your dad clear his throat beside you. Rafe quickly released your hand to shake your dad’s, and you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle.

“Really well done, young man. Hope you know my team will be in contact with yours very soon,” your dad said with a smile that carried weight, momentarily stunning Rafe at the idea of some sort of partnership. “Thank you, sir. Means a lot coming from you,” Rafe nodded respectfully, acknowledging the significance of your dad’s words before joining him for the group photo.

As the camera clicked, capturing the celebratory moment, you felt your dad’s gentle tug, positioning you next to Rafe. You glanced at your dad, who smiled knowingly for the camera before Rafe’s hand lightly rested on your lower back. The touch sent a wave of warmth through you, causing your cheeks to flush as you focused on smiling for the photo.

y/n_owen

Liked by rafecameronofficial, wimbledon, paulabadosa, tennistv, cartier and 6,937,255 others

hi @wimbledon 🍓

view more comments

rafecameronofficial: oh hey.

↘️ y/n_owen: hii

↘️ user01: What’s this? 🤨

↘️ user02: THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER IN THAT INTERVIEW

user03: Rafe Cameron x Y/n Owen would be THE it couple

↘️ user04: frl frl

user05: whatever is going on with Rafe and y/n, I ship it so bad

[favefandomimagines]

The Alchemy (j.m)

Request: @mrslestappen “May I request ( shy!Kook!Reader x JJ Maybank ) pleaseeeeee, where she has been friends with the boys just like Kie, (Kie, her and Sarah were the trio of friends) and after they reconciled she is super happy because she has her two best friends back. And let's just say JJ has a soft spot for her, even though she's a kook he's always taken care of her. And they have matching necklaces (the shark tooth one, let's just say that when he got his he also created hers and they have always had matching necklaces) + kind of obsessed with her (in a nice way) and let's say because she's always been with the guys she's never really been in a relationship so imagine the reaction JJ would have if she tells him she wants him to be her first kiss (first kiss is soft, second one is hot/possesive poor JJ will devour her, because only he knows how long he waited) and the rest I'll leave it up to you. (In my head this sounded better sorry)”

Summary: she always was going to pick him, he just needed to show her.

JJ Maybank didn't think he'd ever like a Kook. Hell, he didn’t think he’d ever even tolerate one. The Kooks were the people who had everything he and the other Pogues didn’t.

They were the rich kids on the other side of the island, the ones with trust funds, yachts, and pristine lives. JJ had seen enough of their type to last a lifetime, and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

Except for her.

Her name was Y/N Y/L/N, and she was the only Kook JJ had ever been able to stomach. In fact, he more than just "stomached" her — he adored her.

He couldn't remember when it started, but he was pretty sure it was around the time he realized girls were more than just annoying distractions during surf sessions.

Somewhere between scraped knees on the beach as kids and sharing late-night bonfire confessions, Y/N had become more than just his friend.

She wasn’t like the rest of the Kooks. Y/N might have lived in one of the fanciest houses on Figure Eight, but she didn’t act like it. She hung out with JJ, John B, and Pope since they were kids, running wild through the marshes and crashing parties on the Cut.

Her mom used to be close with John B’s mom before she left, which meant Y/N spent almost as much time in the Chateau as John B himself. She was their bridge between worlds, best friends with Kie and, surprisingly, even got along with Sarah Cameron after their recent reconciliation.

JJ had given her a shark tooth necklace that matched his own back when they were kids, and she had worn it ever since. The necklace was a symbol, a quiet testament to their shared adventures and secrets.

It rested just below her collarbone, a constant reminder that she belonged with the Pogues, even if she didn’t entirely fit into their world.

For the most part, JJ was content just having her around. But sometimes, like right now, with the sun setting over the water and Y/N laughing at something John B had said, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his chest that he wanted more. More than just her friendship, more than just stolen glances and the occasional accidental brush of hands.

||

It was one of those hot, sticky Outer Banks afternoons when Y/N came to find him. JJ was at the dock, cleaning up the HMS Pogue, when he saw her walking toward him. She looked like sunshine personified, with her long hair catching the light and her eyes sparkling as if she held the secrets of the universe.

“Hey, JJ,” she greeted, her voice light and carefree, but there was something nervous in the way she bit her lip.

“What’s up, Princess?” he asked, straightening up and wiping his hands on his jeans.

She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, her fingers toying with the shark tooth necklace he had given her. “I, uh, need to talk to you about something.”

JJ’s heart sank a little, the teasing grin on his face faltering. Usually, that phrase meant bad news. “What did you do this time? Burn down another country club?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but laughed. “No, JJ, not this time. It’s… it’s about a guy.”

JJ froze. “A guy?” he echoed, feeling like the ground had just shifted beneath him.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice softening. “I… I got asked out on a date.”

JJ’s stomach dropped, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He’d always known this day would come eventually, but he wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt. “Who?” he managed to ask, trying to keep his voice steady.

“His name’s Trevor. He’s new in town, just moved here from Wilmington,” she explained, her eyes flicking to JJ’s face to gauge his reaction.

He knew the guy — tall, dark hair, probably some rich Kook kid whose family had money to burn. JJ felt the jealousy bubble up, hot and fierce. “And when’s this date supposed to happen?”

“Tomorrow night,” Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The girl he’d been in love with for years was going on a date with some random guy who had just waltzed into town. “Do you even like this dude?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted, looking genuinely conflicted. “But… what if he tries to kiss me?”

JJ’s jaw clenched. “Then tell him to back off,” he snapped, his temper flaring.

Y/N sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It’s not that simple, JJ. I’ve never… I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

The admission hung in the air between them, and JJ felt his heart stutter. Y/N, the girl who could light up a room with just her smile, had never had her first kiss. It was almost unfathomable. He swallowed hard, trying to tamp down the tidal wave of emotions crashing over him.

“Y/N…” he began, not sure what to say.

“I know it’s dumb,” she said quickly, looking down at her feet. “But I don’t want to mess it up. What if I’m terrible at it?”

He wanted to laugh because there was no way in hell she’d be bad at anything. “Are you seriously asking me for kissing advice?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and earnest. “Actually… I was hoping you could… you know… be my first kiss.”

JJ’s mind went blank. Of all the things he expected to hear, that wasn’t one of them. He stared at her, trying to wrap his head around the idea that the girl he’d been crazy about for years was asking him to be her first kiss. But not because she wanted him in that way — no, it was just so she wouldn’t screw up with some other guy.

“Y/N, are you serious?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.

She nodded, her cheeks turning pink. “I trust you, JJ. I know you won’t make it weird.”

Too late for that, he thought bitterly. But he couldn’t say no to her, not when she was looking at him like that. “Alright,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But if I’m gonna be your first kiss, I’m not gonna half-ass it.”

Her eyes sparkled with gratitude, and she took a step closer to him.

They stood on the dock, the sun casting golden light over the water. JJ’s heart was pounding in his chest as Y/N moved even closer, so close he could feel her breath on his skin. He could see the nervous flutter of her eyelashes, the way her lips parted just slightly.

“Just… close your eyes, okay?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotions he couldn’t quite name.

Y/N nodded, her eyes fluttering shut, her lips trembling ever so slightly. JJ took a deep breath, his hand moving up to gently cup her cheek. His thumb brushed against her skin, and he could feel her shiver under his touch.

Then, with a tenderness he didn’t even know he was capable of, JJ leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft, gentle, the kind of kiss that could be over in the blink of an eye if you weren’t careful. But for JJ, it felt like the world had stopped. Her lips were warm and soft against his, and he could feel the way her fingers clutched at his shirt, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping her grounded.

When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard, their eyes locked.

“How was that?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Y/N was staring at him, her eyes wide and dazed. “That was… perfect,” she whispered. But then, as if realizing herself, she shook her head. “But maybe… one more time? Just to make sure I’ve got it?”

JJ’s breath hitched. This time, he didn’t hold back. He kissed her again, harder, more desperate, like he was trying to pour every unsaid word and unspoken feeling into that kiss. His hands cupped her face, Y/N melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair, and he was lost. He was completely and utterly lost in her.

When they finally broke apart, they were both gasping for air. JJ rested his forehead against hers, his hands still cradling her face. “Don’t go on that date, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion.

Y/N looked at him, her eyes searching his. And then she smiled, that beautiful, sunlit smile that he loved so much. “Yeah… I think I need to cancel that date,” she said softly.

||

It wasn’t long before the rest of the Pogues found out. Kie was ecstatic, practically tackling Y/N in a hug when she found out, while John B just grinned knowingly. Pope was the most surprised, but even he seemed happy for them.

“Finally!” Kie exclaimed, throwing her arms around JJ and Y/N “I was wondering how long it would take you two to figure it out.”

JJ just grinned, pulling Y/N close to his side. “Better late than never, right?”

The group celebrated their newfound relationship with a bonfire at the beach, laughter and music filling the night air. JJ couldn’t keep his hands off Y/N, whether it was holding her hand or wrapping an arm around her waist. He’d spent so long wanting this, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

As the night drew to a close, JJ pulled Y/N aside, away from the others. “I’m glad you picked me,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

Y/N smiled up at him, her eyes shining. “I always would have picked you, JJ. I just needed you to show me first.”

He kissed her again, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that felt like coming home. And for the first time in his life, JJ Maybank felt like he had everything he ever wanted.

The waves crashed around them, the world fading away until it was just the two of them, lost in each other. The Pogues cheered in the background, but JJ didn’t hear any of it.

All he could focus on was the girl in his arms, the girl who had always been more than just a Kook, more than just a friend. She was everything.

And she was his.

[shrimpybbq]

the thought of drew and obx actress!reader sweeping award season with their crime drama😍 maybe it’s about 2/3 seasons too to really get their characters yearning…

Hehe they’re on the red carpet at the Emmy’s with the rest of the cast but they’ve split off together to do interviews. The reporters are ecstatic at getting the main actor and actress of the hottest tv show this year in front of them. Ever the gentleman, Drew has his hand resting on her lower back as he guides them through the interview line ups.

“So Drew! Y/N! How are we feeling? Your show is predicted to sweep the awards tonight - what’s that feeling like?”

Drew looks over and obx actress!reader before smirking cheekily. “I mean… I’m honoured,” he drawled, laughing as he received a playful swat to his chest at the now-famous remark. “No, but really, it’s really rewarding to know that people are liking and appreciating our work. Just a big thank you to everyone who has watched our little show. For letting us put two seasons out as well - it’s amazing to see people have faith in us.”

When the reporter turned to obx!actress reader, she spoke too, “Pretty much just echoing Drew, but it’s been quite intense! You know, you always have hope that your project is going to do well, but seeing the way this has blown up and the love from the fans for us and these characters has been incredible!”

Drew nodded alongside her. The cameras caught the way the pair had subtly begun to lean into each other, though it was clear neither was aware of it.

“And guys, coming from Outer Banks to this kind of show, it must be crazy! You two played an on-off couple before, but now for your characters, the stakes are a lot higher. What would you say has been the most important thing to help you portray this different kind of relationship, especially balancing the really challenging scenes you’re filming?”

Drew reached for the mic first, looking towards obx actress!reader momentarily for approval before speaking. “Yeah, I think knowing each other for so long beforehand was probably the most important thing. We would always debrief after scenes and check in to make sure we were both good, just keeping ourselves in good condition.”

He passed the mic to the shorter woman by his side, turning his attention to her.

“When you’re filming scenes that put you on edge and really push you out of your comfort zone, having people you feel safe with is just so invaluable. Pedro was great with that too, and all the cast on the show really recognised the nature of what we were portraying. Drew and I had a routine that each evening after filming, we would go and get ice cream from this place near the set and just chill. It was really great to just sit silently and eat for a while, you know?”

The interviewer nodded, incredibly pleased with the answers she’d managed to get from the pair so far.

“Ok! So my last question before you go is this - who is the best dancer on the set? Drew, I know you love to show off your dance moves, but there are quite a few great dancers in the cast!”

The pair both thought silently for a moment, before obx actress!reader leaned into the mic, “it has to be Pedro! He loves a quick dance party in between takes.”

“I’m also gonna go with Pedro,” Drew chimed in.

The interviewer grinned widely, thanking them quickly as their publicist began to shuffle the actors over to the next interview stand. The camera caught the pair waving goodbye as they moved over, not failing to capture the way Drew’s hand still rested on obx actress!reader’s back. This time though, her hand was resting on his bicep as she turned to talk to him, their bodies pressed closely together. The interviewer thanked her lucky stars that the pair were so touchy because her editor was going to love this.

[00valentina-writes00]

Ambessa with a reader who like sunk out or something and then when she finds out like spanking or something 🤩

✞⛧ A Lesson in Obedience ✞⛧

An: I hope- I hope this is what you wanted-

Warnings: spanking, humiliation, ambessa is kinda mean tbh, forced marriage (love this trope tbh)

The Medarda estate loomed behind you, its towering walls and gilded halls nothing more than a prison in your eyes. The marriage had never been your choice—it had been a transaction, a political move to secure alliances, to strengthen power. You were just another piece on Ambessa Medarda’s board, another conquest she had claimed without breaking a sweat.

But you were no soldier, no willing subordinate to her iron will. You wouldn’t spend another night suffocating under her gaze, her control.

The moon was high as you slipped through the estate’s gardens, your heart pounding in your chest. You had planned this for weeks, watching the guards’ rotations, memorizing the pathways. It had been easy to charm one of the younger attendants into loosening the locks on a lesser-used gate. Almost too easy.

And then a gloved hand wrapped around your wrist.

The grip was like iron, unyielding and utterly certain. A slow, amused chuckle sent shivers down your spine.

“Did you really think you could escape me, little wife?”

Ambessa’s voice was like velvet lined with steel, smooth yet carrying a weight that made your stomach drop. You wrenched against her hold, but it was laughable, really. She barely had to exert any effort to pull you back against her. The scent of leather and steel surrounded you, and you knew then that there was no running from her.

“Let me go,” you hissed, but it came out weaker than you intended.

Ambessa exhaled a slow sigh, as if you had disappointed her. “You embarrass yourself, trying something so foolish. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t anticipate this?”

Her fingers tightened around your wrist, and you winced. She wasn’t hurting you, not really—just reminding you of the difference in strength between you.

“You will come back inside. Now.”

You knew better than to fight, though it burned at your pride. Ambessa guided—no, dragged—you through the corridors, her pace unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world to deal with your little rebellion. The guards averted their eyes as you passed, either too well-trained or too fearful to acknowledge your disgrace.

By the time you reached your shared chambers, your pulse was a frantic thing in your throat. The doors shut behind you with a finality that sent a shiver through you.

Ambessa turned to face you, dark eyes sweeping over you with a mix of amusement and disappointment. “Strip.”

Your breath hitched. “Excuse me?”

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You disobeyed me. You tried to abandon your duty, your place. You will be punished for it.”

You took a step back, but she was already reaching for you, undoing the clasps of your outer garments with swift efficiency. When you made a feeble attempt to stop her, she caught both of your wrists in one hand.

“Do not make this more difficult than it has to be.”

Your skin burned with humiliation as she guided you toward the chair by the hearth. You struggled—of course you did—but it was pointless. Ambessa sat, and in one smooth motion, she pulled you over her lap, your body draped over her thighs like a child.

Heat flooded your cheeks. You had expected her to be angry, to yell, to berate you for your foolishness. But this? This was something else entirely.

Her palm rested against your lower back, steadying you as her other hand ghosted over the curve of your ass. “You act like a child,” she murmured, voice dark with promise. “Perhaps I should treat you like one.”

The first slap landed with a sharp crack, the force of it making you jolt forward. A startled gasp tore from your lips before you could stop it.

Then another. And another.

Your skin stung, a slow, smoldering heat spreading outward with each strike. Ambessa’s hand was unrelenting, her strength making it impossible to ignore the growing ache.

“You thought you could simply leave?” she mused, her voice infuriatingly calm. Another sharp slap made you bite back a whimper. “You thought I would allow that?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing the humiliating noises bubbling in your throat.

But Ambessa was nothing if not patient. She continued, methodical in her punishment, ensuring that you felt every ounce of her displeasure.

By the time she stopped, your body was trembling, your breath uneven. Your pride was in tatters, your ass red hot and sensitive.

Ambessa traced a slow path over your marked flesh, a quiet hum vibrating in her chest. “There.” A soft chuckle. “Now, perhaps, you will think twice before trying something so foolish again.”

She lifted you effortlessly, settling you back on her lap your legs straddling her hips. You hissed at the contact, the burn of your punishment a constant reminder. Ambessa’s fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze.

“Look at me,” she commanded, and despite yourself, you obeyed.

Her expression was unreadable, but there was something else there—something deeper than just discipline.

“You are mine,” she murmured, her thumb brushing against your lower lip. “And I do not let what is mine slip away so easily.”

A shudder ran through you, though whether it was from fear or something else entirely, you couldn’t say.

Ambessa leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. “Next time, little wife, if you want to run… you best be prepared to suffer the consequences.”

[fictionalmenxyn]

•✧𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰✧•

Pairing: Drew x singer/actress!reader

(The parts that are Itallic are what you would see in the video rather than in person)

Warnings: language, slightly emotional reader (for good reason)

Face claim: Billie Eilish (what a cutie 😊)

•✧•✧•

Once again, your time has come. Your yearly interview.

This time, Drew was sat behind the camera. You sat in the directors chair. You smiled at the camera and spoke “Hi, I’m Y/n Y/l/n.. it’s currently October eighteenth, twenty-twenty-four” you smile.

Other versions of you repeat those words, only difference is the year… oh! And also your appearance, obviously.

Drew was sat on a chair opposite you and behind the camera. A big smile on his face. He loved these interviews of you.

First question ‘biggest thing that happened in your career?’ You smiled and scrunched your nose. You then lean forward in your chair and whispered the camera “I got two oscars.” You balled your fists in excitement and scrunched your face. “Two! Not one, but two… still feels like a dream”

You watch your year-younger self, “I got six Grammys! Ah!” You chuckle at your past self. You looked to the camera “two oscars and six Grammys… damn..” you and Drew laugh.

‘What’s the most important things to you right now?’ You smiled at the question. You tilt your head to look around the camera and to Drew. You answered “my love, my everything… Drew mother fucking Starkey…” he chuckled. You wave him over “c’mere, babe…” he got the green light from the director and walked over to you.

You opened your arms, he leaned down and hugged you as you sat in the chair. As he pulls away slightly, he kissed your forehead. You smiled “this is whats important to me… my Drew…” you both knew the fans were gonna make edits and comments about this. You were honestly excited to see the edits. You loved how cute your fans were when it came to you and Drew.

You and Drew watched your younger self “uh probably my boyfriend… he’s the best-” younger you looked to the camera “I love ya, Drew!” You both laughed.

Drew kissed your forehead once more, then went back behind the camera; sitting in his chair once again.

‘Craziest fan moment?’ You answered “it was at New York, my latest tour. I noticed a girl in the crowd. She looked like she had something in her hand. So when we did our usual ten minute break. I walked over to her, cause she didn’t leave her spot. She held a box, saying it was a gift for me and she couldn’t get vip tickets to meet backstage. So I opened it, and i literally broke down crying, happy tears of course. What was in the box, was a handmade painting of Drew and I. In a frame, it was our photo I said was my favourite of us. On the set of outer banks, still dressed in our characters clothes. On our characters dirt bikes, our heads against each others. She said it took her eighteen hours. It’s not a crazy moment, but definitely sentimental…”

You watched younger you, ‘dude, everyone kept throwing T-shirts with Drew’s face on stage!” You laughed. Still having them shirts. You never got rid of them. Never crossed you mind to get rid of them.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ You smiled and shook your head “no I don’t…” your grin grew bigger as you lifted your left hand up “I got a fiancé!!” Drew’s smile only grew bigger. God you were so cute in his mind. Always have, always will.

You look at last year’s clip “yes I do, Drew, my childhood bestie, and lover, love his soul… miss my baby, haven’t saw him in a few hours… gonna see him later though excited.” You laughed at your younger you.

‘Describe your style in three words’ you smiled and tilted your head “open to opportunity.”

Your 2023 self said “live laugh Drew” you bursted out laughing and replied “I said that?!” You laughed.

‘Favourite movie?’ You smiled “ooo probably Beetlejuice… the original, although the new one is really good.. you know I love a good Tim Burton movie…”

You answered “Batman The Dark Knight, Cillian and Heath are soooo good in that movie, so was Christian Bale… but Cillian and Heath…” you playfully roll your eyes at younger you. You remarked “god I was practically drooling over that movie” you laugh.

‘What are you working on currently?’ You smiled “well, as you recently found out, I’m working on an album… which is half done… and I’m starring in the newest Outer Banks season, once again…”

2023 you spoke “a movie and Outer Banks… oh! And a single…”

‘One thing you’d like to do with your career this year?’ You smiled “as usual, to star in a Tim Burton movie…” you wink at the camera.

Younger you answered “obviously star in a Tim Burton movie, pretty sure I said that since like the third year, right??” You chuckle.

You look to the camera, “thanks for checking in on me, Vanity Fair… once again a great yearly catch up! I love you guys!” You waved Drew to come back over. Which he did. He leaned down to get into frame. You both smile, you spoke “we love you all! See you soon!”

•✧•✧•

[satinestales]

❝self destructive tendencies❞ | qimir x fem!reader

pairing: qimir x fem!reader

● this is a 3rd pov, if you want to read 2nd pov, here●

summary: A week has passed since the battle on Khofar and the startling reveal of her former friend. Qimir, the man behind the mask and the murderer of her comrades took her to a remote island, far away from the Republic's surveillance, after she sustained severe injuries. She's been keeping her distance from him, trying to ignore her hidden feelings. Yet, when his thoughts merge with hers, the vow she made to herself becomes almost impossible to keep.

warnings: english is not my first language, sexual tension, lots of sexual tension, corruption, sexual themes/dreams, E Y E C O N T A C T, qimir, mentions of blood and injuries

author's note: I could not be a jedi I'd turn into aquaman if he asked me to join him

now playing, love in the sky by the weeknd

*:..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡౨ৎ 🍓｡˚🍰♡ ˚..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡ ︎

The moon hung low over the horizon, casting an eerie glow on the waves that lapped against the shores of the ghostly island. Qimir’s silhouette stood out against the backdrop of the night sky, his presence a constant reminder of the blood and carnage he left on Khofar. As she lay on the rough sand, the pain from her injuries pulsed faintly, and she could not shake the mixture of fear and thirst that his proximity stirred within her. The island was a planet unknown to her, and as much as she tried to examine the surface, its location remained elusive. She supposed it might have been somewhere in the Outer Rim or beyond. Somewhere where the Republic would have a difficult way of finding her. World away from the Republic’s watchful eyes, and here, with only Qimir for company, she felt both vulnerable and strangely contented.

She decided to relax on the beach, further away from Qimir’s constant presence that melted her thoughts. However, luck wasn't on her side; minutes after settling in, he walked past her to his favorite bathing spot, smirk on his face as he acknowledged her presence. It was late at night, her legs and arms sore from the repetitive training she put herself through. The island offered few diversions. Waiting for Qimir’s next move or for Sol to find her wasn’t her idea of a perfect day. The injuries covering her body were difficult to ignore, and she refused to let Qimir get close enough to her to heal them. She told herself she would rather bleed out than feel his touch on her skin. Deep down, though, she knew the real reason for keeping him at bay.

So, she lay there, absentmindedly playing with a rock she found, irritated by his presence but too weary to consider moving again. She had to admit her fault; she had set up camp right in front of his favorite spot. Over the past week, she had seen him bare many times. First unbothered but lately it had gotten under her skin. She had been friends with Qimir for some time before discovering his true identity behind the mask and his responsibility for her friends' murders. Their deaths pained her, but the betrayal and realization of his deception cut deeper. After many years, she thought she found herself a friend outside the temple. One that she could share her interests and secrets with, without the fear of being judged by the Jedi. She told him about her fears and likes. Her doubts in the order and her wish to help people as much as she could. About her hate and desire. The Sith emotions. Now he’s using them to lure her in and trap her on the other side.

She wasn’t the most perceptive, but his intentions were clear. He knew her feelings, her likes, and dislikes; she had shared them with him when she believed he was her friend and a supplier. Even a blind person could see his thoughts, and her strength in the Force allowed her to delve into his mind, revealing more than she wished to know.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away as he slowly shed his clothes to enter the water, a routine he seemed to relish. Despite her experiences in battles and missions, witnessing the horrible conditions and lack of hygiene, even her comrades didn’t bathe as frequently as Qimir did before her. She considered herself fortunate; at least he smelled good, even if the scent of sandalwood mixed with citrus fruit drove her mad. She smelled it when she woke up, during meals and training, and before sleep. She felt him everywhere. She wasn’t sure for how much longer she could endure it.

She studied the muscles of his back as he swam slowly, admiring them from her vantage point. He was undeniably strong, scars marring his skin a testament to the pain he had endured. She observed how his dark hair moved with his motions, how he ran his long thick fingers through it while washing it gently. His biceps tensed as he splashed water around his neck, and she noticed the way he caressed his chest, attempting to cleanse away the day’s dirt.

It was only when she accidentally crushed the rock in half that she realized the intensity of her stare. Clearing her throat, she sat up and leaned against the mossy bank behind her, feeling shame wash over her. She was convinced his own dreams had started to corrupt her.

One of the curses of being a Jedi was the ability to read minds, and Qimir was no exception. She saw his thoughts vividly, filled with bright colors that sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. She wondered if he wanted her to delve into his mind, to make her believe he desired her, or if he simply didn’t care. She feared he could read her thoughts too, despite her lifelong ability to block out others with ease.

She lied to herself, convincing herself that she was immune to his ideas, desires, and magnetic charm. But every time he looked at her, towered over her, or she smelled him in the air, her knees buckled, her stomach tightened, and she fought against the need to press her legs together. She felt sick, and his mind brushing against hers didn’t help.

She felt it every time he drew near. He visualized her hands in his mind, how they caressed his scars and shoulders. She saw his hair falling down as he towered over her, gently pushing her against the cold floor of his cave. She felt his breath against her neck, his fingers pulling her hair, his skin pressed against hers. In his dreams, she never resisted. He was corrupting her in his dreams, and she never once objected in them. She was embarrassed he got her mannerisms right.

She was so lost in their shared thoughts that she didn’t notice Qimir making his way out of the water, his eyes fixated on her with dangerous intensity. He carefully leaned down to grab a towel, amusement playing on his lips. He didn’t want to wake her from her thoughts, whatever they may have been.

As he gently dried himself with the soft cloth, not taking his eyes off her, he tried to read her mind, even if he failed millions of times before. He never had difficulty reading someone; one look at them and he could see their whole past. But with her, he had no idea what she was thinking or planning, or what images played in her head. She was strong, stronger than the ones he had met before, and he admired that. He praised her strength in the Force and her ability to protect herself from her nemesis. Like him.

But he could read body language. He noticed how she tensed around him when he walked past her. How her chest started rising faster whenever he stared her down. Her goosebumps when they brushed against each other. How she pressed her legs together when he towered over her. And how she was now crushing the rock in her hand, gazing in his direction.

“You can always join me, you know that.” He breathed out, letting the cloth fall to the ground, replacing it with his long blouse. She almost wanted to take the top from him just so she could continue her view, but when she finally recollected her thoughts, she wanted to slap herself. “It would help with your wounds when you don’t let me heal them.” He uttered, dressing himself, not breaking eye contact with her. He liked her stare. He liked how she fought with her emotions and how they reflected in her eyes. It pleased him.

“I’m okay,” she faked a smile, swallowing the ridiculous amount of saliva in her mouth. She forced herself to look somewhere other than his strong forearms or how he dragged the pants up his muscular legs. She found a cute shell, admiring it from afar.

She didn’t catch the grin on his face as her face turned pink and she clenched her fists. He was amused with her reactions, but her ripped bandage and the blood revealing itself underneath caught his full attention. His face froze, along with his movements while buttoning up his shirt. He would never touch her unless she wanted him to, but her leg was nowhere near being healed and with the lack of medical supplies on this island, she’d lose it long before she’d be able to leave the island.

“Let me help you.” It wasn’t a question, more of a subtle order. She didn’t miss it. A week ago, on Khofar, Qimir had stopped himself before fatally hurting her, but he still landed a strike on her leg that had trouble healing. She was stubborn enough to push him away when he offered his help, and now she started to slowly regret it.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she hissed at him, catching a glimpse of his unbuttoned blouse.

“You’re a powerful Jedi, and I don’t doubt you’d be still as fierce as you are now without your leg,” he murmured, making his way towards her, leaving his bag and shoes near the water. “If you want to risk it.” She watched him tilt his head as he slowly approached her. She could only see the images in his mind, his plans and ideas. But underneath it all, he didn’t mean it in a bad way. He wanted to help her. In his own way. He was her friend; he knew her weaknesses and strengths. He knew what she wanted, and he was willing to give it to her. But she couldn’t erase the lying and murder of her friends. She wanted her friend back. Maybe something else this time, but her trust in him had faded. Now it was just Qimir, confusing her thoughts and making her rethink her morals. She felt as disgusted with him as she felt with herself. But she understood him. Or at least tried to.

So, she didn’t oppose, letting him kneel in front of her, his hands carefully reaching out to her ripped bandage above her knee. He was so close she could smell him again. His hair fell into his face, covering his eyes that were focusing only on her wound. His fingers worked fast but tenderly as he lifted her thigh to unwrap the bandage. She swallowed hard, feeling his veiny hand below her leg. She was scared he could feel her burning skin, hoping he would mistake it as a result of the injury.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you on Khofar,” she heard him whisper, gripping the sand below her as he threw away the bandage, the cold air kissing her open wound. She almost heard pity in his voice. She was certain she imagined it.

She begged herself to look away, but her eyes betrayed her as they glared down at his hand that was almost as big as her thigh. He covered the wound, not touching it fully, concentrating on restoring her cells.

She was fascinated by how quickly the wound closed up, leaving only a small scar across her thigh. She had wanted to learn how to force heal ever since she lost her friend to a fatal injury as a kid, but the Jedi never taught her. No matter how hard she pleaded. Whenever she asked, they gave the same answer: only dark side users possess this power. She always felt it was ridiculous.

“How do you do it?” she managed to ask, ignoring Qimir’s confused stare as he picked up his head and drew his hand away from her. But he didn’t move position and kept kneeling between her feet. “How do you force heal?” she felt embarrassed asking, but he was one of her only chances to learn.

A soft smile crept to his lips as he moved his eyes from her face to her hands. She suddenly became aware of her vulnerable position.

“In order to heal someone,” he started, softness in his voice, no signs of mockery. “You need to focus on your own energy, imagine it and visualize it. Imagine its color, like you do with the Force.” He continued, his hands moving in motion with his words.

She could feel the warmth radiating off him as he sat centimeters away, his wet hair framing his sharp features. His eyes were dark, only the light of the moon reflecting in them. His lips were full, stretched as he shared his knowledge with her. She didn’t move a muscle and returned his stare. It was only the two of them.

“The Jedi teach only one way. Physical way. Taking your physical energy and giving it to someone who needs it,” he whispered, leaning his head to the side, giving her a view of his sharp jaw. His neck was thick, his collarbones defined. “But there is another way.” He stopped to look at her, examining her expression. She was listening intently, breathing fast, and her eyes bored so deeply into him he was certain she could read everything he was thinking. He let her.

“Below the surface of consciousness are powerful emotions. Anger. Fear. Loss.” He started listing, his eyes twitching between her eyes and her lips. “Desire.”

Her leg muscles twitched, her core burning up. She wanted to bury herself.

“Only Sith feel those emotions,” she whispered back, denying herself. She saw a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth before he lowered his gaze.

“You can draw energy from them, direct them in any way you want,” he purred, looking back at her, letting her feel his emotions. “However, whenever you want.” He lowered his voice as he stretched the last words, reading her face.

He knew she read his mind. He knew she saw the images that kept him awake and his wishes. He had had them since he met her months ago, and when he sensed her attraction toward him, they only intensified. He wanted her and was simply waiting for her to admit the same to herself, no matter how long it would take.