#Delirium Mask | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rottenfyre · 18 days ago

Text

⸻ ᴊ ᴀ ʏ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴅ ⸻

“ The Broken Mask: A Name to Remember ”

Pairing: Dark Jason Todd x Fem Reader Part 3

Summary: After waking up, you found yourself in a dark and dirty room. Tied up without a way out. And there's him who kidnapped you...

Warnings: Physical violence, Child abuse, Psychological trauma.

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

The stench of blood and decay filled the air, suffocating her. It clung to her skin, her hair, and every breath she took. She woke with a sharp gasp, her body screaming in pain, every muscle twisted and strained. She couldn’t move her hands or legs—tied down, the coarse ropes cutting into her skin. Her wrists burned as she tried to twist them free, but the bindings only dug deeper. The metallic taste of blood lingered in her mouth.

Her vision swam, the room around her blurry at first, but as her eyes adjusted, she took in the nightmare she was trapped in. The room was small, the walls stained with streaks of dried blood and rust. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of death, and the dim light above flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows across the walls. Her heart raced as the reality of her situation sank in.

Where am I? What happened?

Memories flashed back—rain, green eyes, a sharp pain. She’d been in her house. And then...

The door creaked open, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence. She flinched, her breath catching in her throat. A figure stepped into the room, and her stomach turned. He was tall, his frame imposing, clad in a leather jacket that seemed worn from years of use. His face was hidden beneath a red helmet, the visor reflecting the dim light, making him look more monster than man.

In his hand, he casually twisted a knife, the blade catching the light as it spun.

It’s just a dream, she told herself. It has to be. It can’t be real. It’s just a nightmare.

Her eyes squeezed shut tightly, as if that could force the nightmare to end, as if closing them would make it all disappear. She needed to wake up.

Please… please just wake up.

But then, she heard it. A voice—too familiar, too close—cut through the fog of her delirium.

“Jaybird…”

Her heart stopped.

“Jaybird, Jaybird, Jaybird,”

It couldn’t be. No. No, there’s no way. There’s no way it’s him. He’s dead. He has to be. He can��t be here.

She shook her head violently, trying to shake the word out of her mind. It was a hallucination. It had to be. She hadn’t taken her pills. Her therapist had warned her about this. The voices, the dreams, the confusion—it’s just the pills.

Jason's dead. He’s dead.

"Well, look who’s awake," he said, his voice low and mocking. He leaned against the wall, tilting his head as if observing her. "Sleeping beauty finally graces us with her presence."

She squeezed her eyes shut harder, trying to shut out the world, trying to shut out him.

"Oh, don’t be shy," he continued, pushing off the wall and taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. His boots echoed with each step. "What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?" He crouched in front of her, tilting his head like a predator sizing up its prey.

She didn’t respond, keeping her head down. Her breath was shallow, her pulse hammering in her ears. She bit her lip hard, her breath hitching. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t think.

It’s just a dream. It’s just a nightmare.

“C’mon. Say something... Anything.” he said, dragging out the words.

“Why don’t you look at me, sweetheart?” He was taunting her now. A sickening, twisted laugh bubbled up from his throat, sharp like broken glass. “I know you want to princess.”

Her blood ran cold. Her chest tightened, suffocating her, every inch of her body screaming in terror.

No, no, no. She couldn’t be hearing this. It couldn’t be real. She wasn’t strong enough to face him—him.

Jason was dead. He was gone.

But… this voice? It was his. His voice… twisted, broken, yet unmistakable. It was Jason. But it couldn’t be. Not like this.

He straightened suddenly, his tone shifting to one of mock enthusiasm. "How about we get to know each other better, huh? What do you say?"

Her head remained bowed, her tears threatening to spill.

He crouched again, his voice darker now, more menacing. "Look at me princess."

When she didn’t move, his tone snapped like a whip. "I said, fucking look at me."

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She kept her face down, eyes squeezed shut.

It’s not real. It’s not real. He’s dead. He’s gone. This is just my mind playing tricks on me. This is my fault. I forgot to take my pills. That’s it. That’s all it is. I’m crazy. I’m going insane.

“Fine.” His tone shifted, sharp and biting. “Let’s play it your way.”

He straightened, the knife twirling in his hand again. “Who are you? Tell me your name,” he asked, the question laced with venom.

She didn’t respond.

“I said—” His voice boomed as he slammed the chair’s armrest with the butt of the knife, making her flinch. “Who the fuck are you?”

Still, she said nothing.

The slap came hard and fast, the force whipping her head to the side. Her cheek burned, and she tasted copper as her lip split against her teeth.

“Say it!” he barked, his voice a dangerous snarl.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He stepped back, clapping his hands slowly, mockingly. “There it is. Good girl.”

“Now,” he said, crouching again, his tone shifting into something almost playful. “Do you know who I am?”

Her heart pounded in her chest, the blood rushing in her ears. She nodded slowly, her throat closing up as she whispered, “No.”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. And then—

Stab.

The pain was blinding.

She gasped, her whole body convulsing as the knife dug into her hand. She screamed, her back arching against the chair as the metal sliced through her flesh. Her eyes watered, tears streaming down her face as she cried out in agony.

“Wrong answer.” His voice was dripping with venom as he twisted the knife, pushing it deeper into her skin. The world around her spun in dizzying circles. “You don’t get to lie to me.”

The tears poured down her face, each sob racking her body as the knife tore through her palm. The burning pain was too much. She was going to pass out. She was sure of it.

But the pain wouldn’t stop.

He yanked her hair back, his fingers tangled in her hair as he pulled her face up to meet his. “Now, tell me again, what's my name?”

“J–Jason...” The word was barely a whisper, escaping her lips without her consent.

“Who?” He mocked, his voice a sickening blend of sweetness and malice. “Say it louder, sweetheart.”

Her mind was unraveling. No, no, no, no. She could barely breathe through the tears, through the overwhelming agony, but somehow, her voice broke through the fog.

“Jason!” she cried, her voice hoarse, desperate.

“Good girl.” His smile was audible, twisted and cruel, as if he reveled in her pain.

She trembled, her hand still bleeding, the pain a constant, raw fire in her veins. She could feel the warmth of the blood pooling beneath her, slick and hot against her skin.

“Oh, but look at you,” he said, his tone light, almost playful. “Look at that hand. We can’t just leave that, can we?”

No, no, please, no more.

The room spun around her as he moved, as he crouched in front of her with a sickening gleam in his eyes. She looked down at her hand, still bleeding, the crimson liquid dripping onto the floor.

What is he going to do?

He stood suddenly, his movements jerky and manic as he raised his hand to his chin, pretending to think. “I don’t think I have any bandages. What should we do, princess? Hm?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block him out. The world was closing in on her.

Then, his voice dropped, as if struck by an idea.

“I’ve got it!” He laughed, a wild, unhinged sound that made her skin crawl. “We’ll just have to burn it shut! That should work, right? That’ll stop the bleeding. I learn that from him.”

“No… no, please!” Her body jerked violently as she tried to back away, to get away from him, but the ropes held her fast. “No! No, please, Jason, no!”

He smiled, his eyes lighting up with sick joy as he pulled something from his belt—a lighter. She didn’t have time to scream before he pressed the heat to her hand.

The pain was unbearable.

It was like her hand was being set on fire, the flesh searing as she screamed. Her body spasmed in agony, the heat radiating through her entire arm. Her vision swam, her body trembling as she pulled against the ropes, trying to escape, trying to pull away from the suffocating burn.

“No! NO! NO! NO!” She couldn’t stop screaming. “JASON, PLEASE!”

He held the flame there, the fire licking at her skin, and she felt herself slipping, her mind fracturing.

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. It’s just a dream. It’s just a nightmare. He’s dead. He’s dead.

“Shhh,” he whispered, his voice soft and sickeningly sweet. “It’s okay. You’re doing great. Just a little more, and we’ll be done.”

But the fire burned through her mind, through her heart, and the last thing she could think of before the pain swallowed her whole was the sick, twisted laugh that echoed in her ears.

She hated the smell of him, the acrid stench of liquor mixed with sweat, burning through the walls of their small, suffocating apartment. His voice, thick with slurred words, called to her from the darkened hallway.

“Y/N… Y/N, get in here, you useless girl.”

She froze, her small body trembling as her heart hammered in her chest. She didn’t want to go to him. She didn’t want to face him—never again, never ever again. But she knew better. If she didn’t obey, it would only get worse. The bruises would last longer. The sharp, angry look in his eyes would linger until he got what he wanted.

She shuffled toward the kitchen, her bare feet cold against the cracked tiles. The apartment was always cold, like a morgue. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows as she stepped into the small, dim room where her father sat slouched over the kitchen table. His face was flushed, eyes dull and red from too many drinks. The half-empty bottle of whiskey sat next to him, the amber liquid swirling like poison in the dim light.

He didn’t look at her at first. He just muttered something under his breath, too drunk to focus. Then, without a word, he reached over to the table, his hand shaking slightly as he grabbed the cigarette pack. He lit one, the ember glowing briefly before the thick smoke filled the air.

“Push your sleeve up,” he rasped, not looking at her. His voice had a hollow, empty ring to it, like he was talking to a ghost. A sickening feeling twisted in her stomach. She didn’t want to do it. She never wanted to do it. But she knew if she didn’t, he’d hurt her worse.

“But it hurts daddy...”

“That's the point you dumb girl.”

She shook, her tiny fingers fumbling with the sleeve of her worn shirt. She hated him. She hated the way he made her feel small, insignificant, as if she was nothing but an object to be used, abused. But she pushed her sleeve up, the cool air against her skin sending a shiver through her body.

He flicked the cigarette, and the red-hot ember hovered close to her skin. She felt the sharp, searing heat before she even saw it. The first press made her gasp, her arm jerking involuntarily as the pain seared through her like fire. He didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He pressed harder, digging the burning tip into her skin, his laugh low and raspy as she cried out in pain.

She hated him. She hated him more than anything in the world. And she cried—quietly, trying to hide it from him—but she cried because it was the only thing her body knew how to do. She wanted to scream, wanted to yell at him, to say all the horrible things she felt deep down, but she knew better. It would make him worse. It would make him hurt her more.

I hate you. I hate you. I wish you would die…

The room was quiet, save for the crackling neon sign outside the grimy window, its light flickering red against the concrete walls. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was suffocating, a prelude to something worse.

Her breath uneven as she stared at him. Jason loomed over her like a shadow, his presence thick with menace. His helmet sat discarded on a nearby table, revealing a face hardened by trauma and vengeance.

“You’re new to all of this,” he said, his voice low and measured. There was something mocking in his tone, something almost tender, if tenderness could be laced with poison. “So, we’ll start simple.”

Her eyes widened as he crouched down in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his cheek, something like a name.

Her name...

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife, the blade catching the dim light in a way that made her stomach churn.

Her lips trembled. “No… please, no… don't kill me please...”

Jason’s head tilted, his expression almost curious. “What? You think I’m going to kill you?” He laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the small room. “If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you’d already be in the ground.”

Relief flickered in her chest, but it was short-lived.

“No, I’m not that cruel,” he continued, his tone almost gentle. “I’m not like him. I’m not the Joker. I don’t take without asking. See, I’m giving you a choice.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’ll mark you,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “But I’ll let you decide. Should I use the knife? Or maybe…” He pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicking it open. The small flame danced in his hand, casting flickering shadows on his face. “…I could burn it in your pretty little face. My name. Right here.” He pointed to her cheek, just under her eye.

The way he said it—so casual, so matter-of-fact—made her stomach twist into knots.

Her head shook violently, tears streaming down her face. “Please, don’t… don’t do this… please…”

His lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Oh, come on. I’m being nice. Joker didn’t ask me what I wanted, now, did he?"

She shook her head again, her sobs growing louder as she begged, "Please, Jason, just let me go! I-I’ll do anything!"

His eyes darkened, irritation flashing across his features. “You’re not answering.”

“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please just let me go…”

His jaw tightened, and his patience snapped like a brittle thread. He lunged forward, gripping her chin with bruising force, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"You’re wasting my time," he growled, slapping her hard across the face when she tried to turn away. Pain blossomed on her cheek, sharp and searing, and she cried out.

"Fine. I’ll choose for you."

Her cry echoed in the room, but it didn’t stop him. His fingers gripped her chin, forcing her face upward. “Hold still,” he hissed, his voice cold. “If you don’t, I’ll mess it up. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

She thrashed weakly, but his grip was unyielding. The blade hovered near her skin, its cold edge biting into her cheek as he positioned it just below her eye. Her sobs turned into desperate, panicked pleas, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear.

“Shut up,” he growled, his tone sharp enough to cut. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

Her heart pounded, terror screaming through her veins like wildfire. She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling uncontrollably.

And then the blade bit into her skin.

At first, it was a sharp, stinging pain, but it quickly bloomed into something far worse—searing, unbearable agony that made her throat raw from screaming.

Her vision blurred with tears, and she clawed weakly at his wrist, her nails scraping against the leather of his glove.

"Stop! Please, Jason! Stop!" she sobbed, her voice breaking with desperation.

He didn’t.

The knife carved deeper, deliberate and precise, dragging slowly across her flesh. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, and she felt it trickling down her cheek, warm and sticky.

Her mind fractured under the weight of the pain. Memories flashed—happier times, the moments where he had promised he will always protect her. They felt like cruel jokes now, mocking her. But was it really his fault? Could she blame him?

The first cut was shallow, almost teasing, just a warning, a whisper of the agony to come. But the second came deeper, harsher, as his name was carved into her flesh. The pressure was excruciating. The sting of the blade tore through her skin like fire, but the worst part was the coldness of it. The way the letters were etched slowly, deliberately, carving through her soul as much as her skin.

It hurts... it hurts...

Her breath hitched, ragged and shallow, each jagged line of pain sending tremors through her body.

Stop... stop... please...

Her eyes squeezed shut, but the pain wouldn’t let her escape. Every stroke of the blade felt like an eternity. Her vision blurred, and her throat constricted as she fought to stay conscious.

I hate it... I hate it...

When he finally pulled the blade away, his name was etched into her skin, the wound raw and angry. Blood trickled down her face, staining her shirt, but all she could focus on was the pain, the overwhelming agony of what he’d done.

Jason leaned back, admiring his handiwork with a strange sense of satisfaction. His thumb brushed against the edge of the wound, making her flinch.

"Perfect," Jason whispered, his voice disturbingly soft. "I told you I’d be kind. You should thank me."

She sobbed, her tears mingling with the blood on her face.

Jason’s hand cupped her cheek—almost tenderly this time—and he forced her to meet his gaze. “Don’t cry,” he murmured, his tone deceptively gentle. “You should be grateful. After all, I’m not him. He never gave me a choice. But I gave you one.”

Next: Part 1. Part 2. Part 4.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛ��ɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

579 notes · View notes

juneofdoom · 10 months ago

Text

What up, whump fam?!

June of Doom 2024 Prompts!

We've brought back some old favorites/ popular prompts from last year with a healthy dash of new!

Please feel free to participate with original or fan works of any kind (writing, photos, gifs, mood boards, videos, songs, whatever creative medium your heart desires!). You can do one or all of the prompts on any given day, and if none are to your liking, check out the alternate prompts!

Two rules this year!

As with last year, tag your stuff with appropriate warnings, plzkthnx.

AI-created content is highly discouraged and frowned upon. I have no way of "checking", but I respect the time and effort people put into their crafts and encourage everyone to do the same. This isn't a contest for best written or prettiest art — it's a challenge, so challenge yourself.

[AO3 Collection] - "JUNEOFDOOM2024"

Text list below the cut for easier crossings-off. And don't forget to tag @juneofdoom so I can reblog your awesome here! Have fun!

“Help me.” | Failed Escape | On the Run | Fetal Position |

“It didn’t have to be this way.” | Scream | Double Cross | Made to Watch |

“Well, well, well…” | Hiding | Ambushed | Stalking |

“Does that hurt?” | Impalement | Fracture | Punishment |

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” | Bite | Swelling | Disfiguration |

“They don’t care about you.” | Flinch | Broken Promise | Abandoned |

“What happened?” | Nightmare | Isolation | Stumbling |

“This is your last chance.” | Drowning | Chair | Prisoner Trade |

“I made a mistake.” | Accident | Acceptance | Blame |

“Can you hear me?” | Fear | Smoke | Phone Call |

“We’re out of time.” | Bleeding Out | Collapse | Flatline |

“I can’t stand seeing you like this.” | Dehydration | Grief | Coma |

“Wait!” | Sacrifice | Adrenaline | Cornered |

“What were you thinking?” | Surrender | Human Shield | Outmatched |

“Get me out of here!” | Rescue | Chainsaw | Presumed Dead |

“At least it can’t get any worse.” | Secret | Stranded | Setback |

“You don’t want to do that.” | Struggle | Blackmail | Desperate Measures |

“I’m fine.” | Self-defense | Allergies | Headache |

“This can’t be happening!” | Sobbing | Straitjacket | Dissociation |

“I can handle it.” | Scrape | Panic Attack | Neglect |

“Let’s play a game. “ | Stairs | Pressure Points | Trap Door |

“What’s the bad news?” | Poison | Bedridden | Cauterization |

“You’re doing great.” | Trembling | Gaslighting | Rules |

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” | Blankets | Stitches | Bandages |

“I should have listened to you.” | Guilt | Backseat | Failure |

“Don’t lie to me.” | Rage | Choke | Paranoia |

“Or what?” | Defiance | Display | Last Resort |

“Say something.” | Numb | Cold Shoulder | Gag |

“I’m so cold.” | Delirium | Fever | Exposure |

“Breathe, damn you!” | Shock | Asphyxiation | Emergency Room |

ALTERNATE PROMPTS

“Who did this to you?”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not okay.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“You poor thing.”

Attending Your Own Funeral

Broken Glass

Mask

Whip

Obedience

#june of doom 2024 #june of doom #juneofdoom #masterlist #whump writing #whump stuff #summer of whump #whump things #whump prompts #writing prompts #whump #masterpost #writing challenge #events #whump event #whump community #whumblr

1K notes · View notes

tacticalprincess · 8 months ago

Text

ghostface duo!ghönig and bimbo!reader… of course, you seen the news about the two masked killers in your town, but the it could be you aspect of it all never registered for you. especially under the haze and delirium of alcohol, you think it’s just harmless roleplay; the way they corner you when you’re all alone in the garage of the halloween party after wandering off to get more beer. a little insensitive, but harmless.

something about their large, burly frames towering over you menacingly makes heat pool in your stomach, and you brush off the feeling of danger tinging your spine. let them talk to you through some kind of voice altering speaker, teasing you about your skimpy costume, how it’s unsafe to be alone at a time like this. you giggle as you make them chase you up a few flights of stairs, heart thumping rapidly against your sternum as you dizzily dash through the house. to everyone passing by, it looks like fun when they scoop you up and carry you by your arms and legs into an empty bedroom, but your heart drops when something too sharp and hard to be a prop presses against your back, tucked away in one of their pockets.

768 notes · View notes

yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 5 months ago

Text

Okay so.

Baby daddy!Miguel in my series is just a normal civilian, with a normal job and a normal ish family situation. No crime fighting, no fangs or red eyes or talon, none of that.

But….Imagine if he was. (Part 2 here)

It happened one day at his internship at Alchemax after his college class, and he was too afraid to tell you in fear of losing you.

And he did a really good job at hiding it, he got brown contacts and he’d make sure to not leave them around the bathroom. He’d keep his suit in the back of his truck (because he’s just starting out) even got a gym membership as a way to explain the sudden amount of muscle he gained. All was well in good.

Then he got you pregnant and you had Gabriella. And you began to notice things.

Like when she began teething but still has to be breastfed, her teeth would hurt despite not biting down due to now sharp they were. And her fingernails would grow back faster then you would think. And you would go to the doctors and they’d just wave you off because they didn’t see any problems with it.

Blah blah blah, she gets older, you and Miguel split up. Blah blah blah.

Once day, after going back to the apartment that was now voided of you and his daughter, he decides to go on a swing to clear his head. He finds a nice rooftop to ponder on when his phone rings, your name flashing on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Miguel… I’m gonna sound crazy…”

His brow rose at the pure delirium in your tone.

“What’s wrong?”

“Um…I-I don’t know how else to explain this… um remember when I said Gabi started crawling?”

“Yeaaah…”

“Um… she crawled onto the wall?”

Miguel’s eyes widened upon the news.

“She-she what?”

“I’m not crazy I swear!”

He left out a huff, pulling his mask back over his face as he stood up.

“I’ve got something to tell you…”

472 notes · View notes

konigsblog · 1 year ago

Text

my thots on this post.

guns ‘n blowjobs...

simon riley who holds a gun on the back of your head while you're sucking him off.

his grunts are guttural and quiet as he gazes down at you, watching as you frantically suck him off sloppily, with drool and spit dripping from your chin. simon chuckles lowly, a cruel and taunting grin plastered on his face. “lower, baby. keep suckin’ me off... already got m‘finger on the trigger, don’t wanna see you’r guts.”

your eyes glisten with tears as you gag, forcing your head further down his shaft as he teases you, letting out soft cooes at the sight of you desperately trying to please him. “there’s m‘girl... there she is.” your lips become puffy, wrapped tightly around the base of his thick and veiny cock, mascara and tears covering your cheeks as you babble and mumble, crying gently through fear of not doing good enough for him.

the muzzle pressed against the back of your head is enough to send you spiralling, desperately trying to prove yourself as a good girl, that you can suck him off nicely. you gag loudly, forcing your lips fully down to his base, your nose pressed against his pubes. you cry weakly, shuddering and trembling as he presses the muzzle of the gun firmly against the back of your head.

“look so pretty on you’r knees, all f’me, yeah?” he cocks his head to the side, one large hand pushing your head down further, feeling the way he bulges out your throat. “cryin’ ‘nd slobberin’ all over you’rself...” he smacks the gun against your head, listening to your soft sniffles and weeps as he continues to grind his dick down your throat.

you bop your head slowly, holding his length by the base while you look up into his eyes obediently, seeing his dark eyes harden and narrow in on you behind the mask. he looks down at you with disgust, and some sort of sick and twisted desire; a used cumsleeve.

throwing his head back, his breathing becomes heavy and hot behind the skull balaclava, his orgasm rushing through him as he shoots ropes of his arousal all down your throat. he bucks his broad hips against your face, keeping your mouth down at the base, taking every drop of his pearly, milky, butter load.

he watches you pant heavily, eyes glistening and cheeks tearstained and glossy. his dick hangs low, balls heavy and still full. he presses the gun between your eyes, pushing you down onto your back and slowly dragging the muzzle of the gun down to your lips, forcing it into your mouth. your lips wrap around the muzzle of the gun, his finger nearing the trigger as he begins to rub his bulbous, hot shaft between your slit and clit, easing inside slowly while you cry and moan around the gun. your pleasured sounds become muffled, your eyes filled with delirium and ecsasty as he begins to fuck you restlessly.

one leg over his shoulder, allowing him to fuck deep into your slick and wet cunt. you rub your clit, your other hand gripping his gloved wrist, arousal dripping from your pussy as he continues to pound into you. each thrust has you moaning, with your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your cunny latching onto his thick, meaty cock. you look into his eyes; already cockdrunk, stupid off of his big dick. you're barely unable to mutter a coherent sentence out, moaning through pleasure at the feeling of his balls smacking against your ass.

your gummy, tight walls pulse around his shaft as he thrusts into you, driving his thick hips into yours. simon's wet, slick dick twitches and throbs deep inside your hole, your clit sensitive as you stimulate it with your fingers, desperately chasing that desired release that keeps you on edge. you become dizzy, arching your back as you suckle on the metal material, your drool dripping from the weapon as he teases you for getting off to this.

“such a filthy thing’, gettin’ off to this... huh? such a dumb slag, can’t even speak -- jus’ a moanin’, dumb mess.” each thrust has your body twitching and squirming, the sensation of your orgasm rupturing through you, causing you to squirt against his muscular, hairy abdomen, your juices coating his scarred skin. you pant, breathless as he doesn't stop for a second, still chasing his own release.

it doesn't take long for simon to be stuffing your swollen, puffy cunt full with his white, hot cum, droplets and fat globs of his load dripping out from your hole. your legs shake and tremble, lips puffy and cunt drooling, your body used and raw as simon takes a deep breath, admiring the mess he'd made of you.

#orla speaks #this is literally driving me crazy and im not sorry 🤞😵‍💫#rough dom simon riley is a whole brainrot in itself PLEASE #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost headcanon

1K notes · View notes

metranart · 8 months ago

Text

Acting like a bird in heat, Hawks ends up fulfilling his mating cycles with you… but now that his mind isn’t a pool of hormones… why does he keep looking for you?

Hawks x Student! Reader (Part 1)

Warning tag: obsessed! Hawks, possessive! Hawks, naive! student reader, violation of trust, dubious consent, mating cycles, rut response, obsessive behavior, uncontrollable thirst for reader, manipulation, forced, thigh riding, hormonal minds out of control, sexual content, first time, cock riding, teenage fuck, Dabi's toxically interested in you, Bakugo bestie yet secretly inlove wit you, love confessions, cock-drunk, Hawks trying to be good but failing miserably, gaslighting, HEAVY plot, lots of smut.

The last time you saw him, your fingers dripped in his milky and creamy essence, his cheeks were bright red, and foggy as the feather adorning his back, and his voice held an elusive pant as if trying to catch his breath, along with his actions. Self-consciousness, the new mask for him to wear as he disentangled your hand from his now flaccid cock, almost caringly, half-lidded golden orbs shinning in its post-delirium bliss yet hiding a regretful truth. How the fuck did this happened? And why the hell did he allowed it? What was that new confusing feeling inside his chest?Takami Keigo knew what it was, but had never had such a close encounter with it in his whole life.

Shame.

No man, no citizen, no hero... –shall call himself trustworthy, after what he did. After the kind of thoughts that now circled his brain...agh! and he called himself the Number two hero. What a farse.

A steady hand passed through his golden locks, disheveled strands restricting the smooth motion, as he heavily sighed.

I need a bath, thought mildly annoyed. Maybe that would serve him to clear his mind and untangle the treacherous feeling threatening to drive him insane, a cold shower would serve the purpose of cooling the deep mortification, he was experiencing. Fresh summer wind ruffled the papers scattered on top of his desk and at the same time, refreshed his blushing skin. The memory of his recent untactful sin, raving his brain like a horde of savages attacking a peaceful village. Damn his luck. Damn his choice of actions and must of all, damned the day, he saved you. Hawks could still remember so many details, little yet so endearing details about you. When arrived at the scene never thought for a minute, would become involved in such colorful acts.

Everything went peachy during the rescue; Endeavor handled the Villain with upmost care while incinerating his head right away from his body. Tactful, the winged hero recalled to think quite amused, it would have been a scarring scene, if not were for the villain being a Nomus. Yet, he couldn’t avoid but to think, there still were so many more options to reach the same end. His job in this particular scene was easy, to say the least. Save the hostage. A sweet, scared and highly ordinary young girl who found herself trapped in the crossed fire. UA uniform hugging your figure, as the Nomus paraded itself around you like a bee setting his sting to hurt. There was little time to act, and the moment the flames exploded from the Number one hero, Hawks saw his window open to save the deceptive young girl. Flying through hell fire landed with a soft thud in front of you, displaying his wings to envelop you in a cocoon of feathers, the red flames licking his crimson wings while shielding you from harm.

His gloved hands went straight to your waist in a studied motion, at the same time his gaze fixed in yours asking for permission to touch you, you almost threw yourself at him like a trembling leaf who seek shelter from the chaotic winds. The winged hero was quick enough to pull you into his welcome arms and fly up, taking you both from the ground just in time. The scorching heat caressed his flying form before both were out of reach. The crowd around the sinister cheered the incineration of the villain, and a swift smirk kidnapped the blonde’s lips in a sassy gest.

He knew he have it in him, Endeavor just needed a few notches in the right direction. All those musings were curtly interrupted as his eyes focused on the civilian resting in his arms, your round eyes caught him off guard, nevertheless, was quick to smile and reassure your questioning stare. You seemed in shock, probable still were. These nasty things never left a sweet taste behind. Flying you to the safety of the ground, landed near the scene, but far away to gift you with some privacy to compose. Hawks gently unwrapped you from his chest and placed a comforting hand over your hunched shoulders, reassuring smile always present in his welcome expression. "It´s ok, you are safe now." His palm gently squeezed your shoulder, thumb doing comforting circle motions over the fabric of the uniform. "Breath, in and out, you'll see how you feel better in matter of seconds–" You managed to quirk the edge of your lip up, and your frame stopped shaking, the tremors slowly disappearing the more oxygen you gulped. "Atta girl" The hero cheered, lowly. "In and out, you’re almost a pro." His good-hearted joke reaped the fruits as a melodic giggle escaped out of you, and your tense frame seemed to relax. "T-thank you, Hawks" you timidly stammered, eyes glued to your fidgeting fingers interlacing each other, nervously.

Looking up from your hands met his gleeful stare, and your cheeks gained a dust of pink. Your lips opened and closed as if wanted to say something but didn’t dare to. Hawks pretended no to notice, to save you the embarrassment.

He was used to have this effect over the female population, every woman in town was one smirk away from his warm bed, but the young hero had grown tired of those kinds of relationships. When you can have all, you can eat, eventually the buffet seemed less attractive, almost boring.

He liked sex, holly shit, he fucking did! as much as the next guy would. But he needed a challenge – actually wasn’t sure what he needed, but something inside him was unsatisfied and restless, continuingly poking at the back of his mind.

“Don’t mention it, cutie.” The hero said simply and looking around, realized that your home shouldn't be far away.

“If you want, I can take you to your house" he suggested, in a carefree and friendly tone, "flying everything is closer." Cheerfully, added.

Taking a moment to think, nibble your lower lip a bit but you ended up accepting. His amber glasses shone under the rays of the sun and without preamble, he offered you his arms which you nervously climb for him to leave the safety of the ground and surf the sky, again.

"Are you comfortable?” Keigo asked, feeling your body a little tense among his arms, being carried bride style across the sky would definitely woo any girl, nevertheless, you seem more uncomfortable than anything else.

“M´Ok.” you said, curtly, and hawks, merely nodded. “By the way, are we heading in the right direction?"

A blush swept across your cheeks at the realization of what he just stated, and timidly squeezing his arm to feel more secure, you glanced down and before you could tell him exactly where your house was, you noticed something coating your fingers.

“You are hurt!” You half-yelled worried, looking at your blood covered hand, and then, at his wounds. You had not noticed it because he had not said anything, nor had he complained, but his arm was burned and one of his wings was semi-scorched. To which the young hero, just shrugged his shoulders, not giving it much importance.

"Comes with the territory." He openly joked, but your eyebrows continued to frown. "It's not serious, a few of Endevour´s flames got me... nothing that won't heal in a few days." He encouraged you, but you weren't able to shake the feeling of guilt.

You had been training hard to become a hero, and just when it was time to prove yourself, you froze.

It was so, so embarrassing that Todoroki's father had to save you, that you refused to go back to the dormitory you shared with your class A classmates. Surely, they would be worried, not to mention, you had already ghosted, a few text messages from Professor Aizawa asking if you were okay. But you just kept feeling like you let everyone down. That was why you preferred to go home and cry your eyes out in the solitude of your bedroom, or among your mom’s arms.

Now, you felt even worse, since Hawks, the number two hero, was injured because of you. Maybe he didn't show it since he was too professional, but that wound was serious and would take more than a few days to heal, not to mention it could get infected.

Ugh! you had to help him, was the least you could do… It was what a true hero would do.

Setting your mind, you decided to use your quirk on him, despite Recovery Girl several warnings. Without a doubt, you could heal him... now the only setback was, not losing control while doing it.

An idea suddenly lights your brain, and catching a glimpse of a well-known hidden alleyway, near your house, you signaled to him that you had arrived.

Hawks landed softly, and let you down, looking around the place. "I'll take you to the door, which one is yours?" The young hero, offered.

“...Is the one on the other side of the alley.” You indicated, signaling a house, close by.

“Oh, fine.” Keigo said, not really understanding why you choose to walk instead of fly straight to your house, but he let it pass. “Lead the way, then.”

Both entered the alley which was being embraced by thin shadows and before you reached the other side, you turned around and looking at Hawks with embarrassment, you fidgeted with your fingers for a moment. Surprise morphed Keigo´s features comically when out of all the requests in the world, you suddenly asked.

“May-may I give you a kiss?” You asked, timidly and noticing his bemused expression, corrected. “...As a way of thanking you.... for saving me....”

Your timid request took him by surprise momentarily, but soon his features regain his cool, and was quick to nod to then leant down. A kiss on the cheek, Keigo thought it to be innocent enough, not a usual request, nevertheless, a simple one. If this put you to rest, he'll humor you. Keigo was cocking his head for you to place your sweet lips.... it's now or never, you breathed deeply.... if you were going to use your quirk, now was the moment.

Two slender hands perched in each side of the Hero´s face and in a firm, straight movement, you cocked his face in your direction, surprise registered in his face, and his golden orbs popped open at the feeling of your lips locking with his.

COMING SOON PART 2....

⭕️ In my PATREON you will find NSFW art of this chapter and more spicy MHA NSFW art and exclusive smut fanfiction.... Plus 'Spicy Foreplay tier reward' like: voting poll privilege for the exclusively Patreon one-shot stories where you can choose the couple pairing and kinky mood for the story and NSFW art, along with some naughty animation like THIS ONE ....and my eternal and vast gratitude for your support!!!

840 notes · View notes

gothmusiclatinamerica · 6 months ago

Text

"Frecuencia y Pánico" by Santiago, Chile-based goth rock and dark punk act Delirium Mask off of their 2024 album Metrajes

#goth rock #dark punk #goth woman #gothcore #Delirium Mask #Frecuencia y Pánico #Metrajes #music #female singer #Chilean #South American #2024 #Bandcamp

6 notes · View notes

please-destroy · 13 days ago

Text

No Matter What

Pregnant!Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 3k

You hadn’t been given enough time. You lay flat to the ground as the explosions around you continued with an unrelenting pace.

You couldn’t move. The hot trickle of blood running down your calf told you enough. You’d been watching the thick white cloud of gas roll slowly towards you, and now it was here.

You could feel the cool moisture as it cloaked your bare ankles, beginning to envelope you.

You continued trying to inch your phone out of your pocket, twisting yourself awkwardly with the action.

The part of you that was still clinging to hope needed her desperately. All you wanted was to hear Wanda’s voice telling you it would be okay.

You couldn’t let yourself think about the baby. You didn’t think losing your future would hurt like this. You didn’t expect to feel such grief when you were the one dying.

It felt like fingernails raking along your throat when you choked on the realisation that you’d never see the baby. You’d never know if they really did have Wanda’s eyes. Your chest went tight with the hope that they did.

You brought your phone level to your face, wincing at the brightness.

One text, Wanda.

‘Stay safe, check in when you can, we miss you.’

You dropped the phone and closed your eyes. The clouded air smelled sweet, you could taste aniseed. You couldn’t call her, you were out of time.

You hoped the baby had Wanda’s smile too. Selfishly, now, you hoped that little pieces of you would be in there too. That people would still talk about you. You didn’t want to be another ghost, another unspeakable shadow that haunted the corner of Wanda’s eye.

You slipped into delirium a moment later and unconsciousness a minute after that.

You had plenty to live for, but when you heard your name being called you still didn’t want to wake up.

Your eyes shuttered open and you gasped out a breath like it was your first. You’d been moved, the gas was gone, the air seemed clean.

It took a moment to recognise the inside of the helicarrier. Even longer to understand it was Natasha who was underneath the industrial gas mask.

You lost control of your panic, hyperventilating at the shock of her appearance. The rattling sound of her gas mask filtering the air was unsettling. It also meant there was still danger. Your hand went to your throat in confusion. Why weren’t you wearing one too?

‘You’ve been infected.’ Natasha called, staying carefully away from you in the med bay. ‘We think it's hallucinogenic, your pupils are blown wide.’

As if Natasha's words were a premonition, the world around her started to tilt. The edges of her figure started to blur and merge with the background. You tried not to fall back on the stretcher as the dizziness hit.

‘Wanda.’ You huffed out, fighting against the heaviness dragging you back under. You tried to find Natasha’s eyes behind the dark tinted glass of the helmet. Tears pricked your eyes, you could feel yourself slipping away. You were out of time again.

You felt a hand grip your arm at the last moment.

‘No matter what.’ Natasha’s voice assured you. It was the promise she’d made you a long time ago, Wanda would always be kept safe.

The next time you woke up, you were in a small room. The walls were concrete, the floor was concrete, the door was metal.

You crawled to the corner, trying to remember if you’d been captured. Your mind felt heavy, thoughts blurring together.

Then, you heard her.

A high pitched scream slid through the crack under the door, you flew against the wall at the shock of the sudden noise.

You lurched forward as you recognised it, stumbling to your feet. Your hands found the door handle.

The scream came again, louder this time.

‘Wanda.’ You cried out, trying desperately at the door. It wouldn’t budge. Her screams sounded mangled now, choking off into sobs.

Where was she? What were they doing to her?

You remembered nothing else as you slammed your shoulder against the door, shouting out your wife’s name.

The screams got louder and consequent images flashed through your mind. They were torturing her. The worst thoughts filled your mind. You were sure you could smell blood. Wanda must be close. You shouted again, slamming yourself desperately into the door.

Then, Wanda screamed your name and something inside you stopped responding. A feral panic made you more animal than human.

You were going to have to get through concrete. Your fingernails scraped down the walls, the only thought driving you was that Wanda was on the other side. She wouldn’t stop screaming.

The disorientation was overwhelming, you lost yourself completely in the haze of her ceaseless screams.

Eventually you came to, seeing the bloody tracks already scraped into the wall. You knew it must have been you, but you couldn’t remember.

Natasha’s voice echoed suddenly into the room. Your head spun as you sought her out wildly. The room was still empty.

‘Wanda.’ You choked out, tears immediately flooding your cheeks in relief that someone could help. You couldn’t focus on what she was saying.

‘You need to get Wanda, please Nat, please. They’re hurting her.’

Wanda’s screams began again, echoing off the walls and ricocheting around your mind. Your nails scratched your scalp as you fell to your knees.

You heard Natasha’s voice again, muffled and distorted like she was somewhere underwater.

‘Why are you still here?’ You screamed at the door. ‘Why aren’t you helping her?’

You buried your head in your hands, muffling another scream that bubbled out of you.

Confusion turned to rage and you seethed at Natasha’s continued unmoving presence behind the door. You hated your own uselessness.

‘What about the baby?’ You shouted again, hearing the desperate edge plaguing your own voice. ‘Please Nat, please, she’s pregnant. They’re gonna kill her.’

You broke off into a cry at the words. You couldn’t hear anything but the neverending screams.

You curled yourself against the wall, shakes wracking your body. You wondered how you could ever have feared death for yourself.

Now Wanda was dying, she was being murdered. You’d never see your baby. The last piece of her was going to die along with her. You couldn’t fix it.

Your screams mixed with Wanda’s and you felt the emptiness slam into your own chest, like your baby was dying inside of you instead.

You wanted to die. You wanted it all to be over. There wasn’t anything else.

Wanda’s screams quietened and you sat, taut with the tension of waiting desperately to hear her and also dreading her voice.

Were they letting her rest, or was she finally dead?

Your heart beat stuttered erratically as you waited for some noise. Time dragged hellishly. Now, the silence was the worst of all.

You drew your knees up to your chest, burying your face against them. You started to sob, some animalistic moan building in your chest at the inexpressible pain.

No future. No baby. No Wanda.

Would there even be bodies to bury? You choked on the thought, and you heard your cries like they were someone else's.

Natasha’s voice echoed into the room once again. You froze at the sensation, looking around desperately for her figure. A grim hope flared in your chest once again. Natasha could still get you out, even if she wouldn’t help Wanda and the baby.

Once you were out of this room, you could get to them. You could still try.

‘(Y/N?)’ You recognised your name in Natasha’s voice, she sounded panicked.

You lifted your head fully to lean against the wall, waiting for her to tell you the news you didn’t know how to hear. You were too late.

‘Wanda’s okay. She’s okay. Remember? No matter what.’

Your eyes closed at Natasha’s words, somehow, inherently, you trusted them.

‘No matter what.’ You rasped out, throat wrecked from your own screams. You heard Natasha’s message. There was still hope, this was still part of the mission.

As if called upon by Natasha’s words, Wanda’s voice returned again.

Now, you heard the soft scared whimpers that you’d only heard before when you’d held her through the worst of nightmares.

‘Why is she still crying?’ You moaned out desperately, confusion clawing at you.

‘Your mind is playing tricks.’ Natasha told you again.

Wanda started begging. Begging for the baby, begging for you. You heard her desperate pleads and bile rose in your throat.

Natasha was lying. There was no way that your mind could invent this.

You lay against the cold concrete floor, wishing you had been killed in one of the explosions.

They were still hurting her. You could picture the sharp knife from the way she whimpered quietly. She’d always been scared of knives.

Tears rolled down your cheeks. You closed your eyes, desperate for unconsciousness.

You no longer had any concept of time. You only opened your eyes when you next registered a change in Wanda’s voice.

She was calling your name. It was soft like air. Your head flew up from its place on the floor and you turned disorientedly to find her. Before you could scramble to your feet, you registered her voice.

‘(Y/N) loves you.’ Wanda’s voice came softly into the room. You were sure the sound was sneaking in with the bright cracks of light surrounding the door. You inched closer, wanting to be near her more than anything in the world.

‘Even when I’m not here. (Y/N) is going to love you extra just for me.’

Your stomach rolled as you realised who Wanda was saying goodbye to. Misery pinned you to the floor. You stared upwards, unable to do anything but listen, as Wanda comforted the baby she knew she’d never see.

Tears flooded down your cheeks and numbness started to creep in.

Time dragged on. You stayed close to the crack of light by the door. Your hand trailed the concrete wall miserably, wishing you could touch her skin instead.

Wanda was crying to herself somewhere nearby. You didn’t want her to be alone. Why didn’t she know you were here and that you loved her? Screams choked and died in your throat, knowing they’d be as useless as the ones you’d made before.

The worst part of their torture was the monotony of it all. You didn’t know how many times they brought Wanda to the edge of death, until her screams were uncontrolled and her desperate cries for you filled up the awful tiny room. But, every time they stopped, the only real certainty was that they’d start again.

You thought you might have slept, but time moved differently now. Your dreams seemed like reality and the two felt increasingly indistinguishable. You only stopped crying as the thirst began to kick in.

Eventually, small pieces of reality started to trickle back in. Thick white gas and metal faces swam abstractly in your mind. You clung to these thoughts hoping there’d be some clue in them to lead you to Wanda.

It took forever until you remembered Natasha’s words on the helicarrier.

Knowing that you were hallucinating didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. You knew it wasn’t really Wanda now.

Still, the cries sounded real. Image after image of her lying dead just behind the metal door attacked your mind.

You couldn’t trust that she and the baby were safe.

You tried to block out her voice, begging again for you to be spared.

You’d have thrown up. But, you hadn’t eaten either. Thirst parched you and your stomach felt hollow. You kept staring at the ceiling.

You started hearing the desperate wails of an infant and you closed your eyes again. Waves of agony rolled through you at the sound and the urgent need to find your child.

Wanda’s baby was screaming and that meant she was gone.

You started to cry again.

The bolt of the door scraped open slowly and, at first, you were sure it was another hallucination. You could see Natasha’s face this time.

Her hand extended out with a water bottle in it. Her eyes stared deep into yours.

‘Wanda is okay.’ She said clearly. ‘Do you understand?’ You tried to nod as new sobs of relief flooded through you. You believed her. You started to rock yourself again.

Natasha crouched down next to you, one hand on your knee.

‘Quarantine is over.’ She told you succinctly, forcing the water bottle into your hand until you took it, obediently starting to drink. You emptied it in a few gulps, your thirst reminded you of the eternity you’d spent in here.

‘How long?’ You croaked out.

‘Two days. We told her the mission got extended.’ Natasha’s tone told you how little she’s enjoyed keeping your pact.

‘She doesn’t know?’ You checked.

‘She’s not here.’ Natasha told you, as if this was answer enough.

You tried to speak again, but your throat closed up.

‘You can see her now.’ Natasha said simply, taking your hand and pulling you to your very shaky feet. You used her hand as a crutch as you moved gingerly towards the door.

The corridor outside was unfamiliar, but you knew it was the Avengers Medical Wing from the logo on the wall. First you entered a small room, a fresh set of clothes lay folded. A bathroom stood off to the side. Natasha waited outside the door as you hurried through the tasks.

Soon, you shuffled through to a generic waiting room. Clint sat on one of the uncomfortable seats, head in his hands as he stared at the ground. He looked up as soon as he heard you coming.

‘Fuck. You look like shit.’ His eyes tracked your face worriedly. You didn’t have the energy for a comeback. You kept moving forward, turning your head only as you passed him.

‘Thank you.’ You told him. Clint glowered, knowing you meant keeping Wanda in the dark. He left quickly, kicking over a chair as he left the room. You understood why he couldn’t say ‘You’re welcome’.

Natasha’s arm moved tentatively around your shoulders but she didn’t make you slow your pace. You moved to the elevator, pressing the button for the floor you shared with Wanda.

You ached at how close she’s been the whole time.

‘And she’s fine?’ You checked again.

Wordlessly, Natasha handed you over your phone. The battery was nearly dead, but you saw the list of texts and calls. Wanda was safe, but she knew something was up. You swallowed nervously.

The doors opened onto your floor and you moved forward to the last door between you and Wanda.

Natasha stayed in the elevator.

‘Thank you.’ You remembered before the elevator doors closed. Natasha just nodded once, and her eyes filled with a rush of worry you’d never seen before.

‘No matter what.’ She muttered. And you nodded. She didn’t know yet, but she was going to be a godmother soon.

You turned back to let yourself into the apartment. Your hand was shaking as you gripped the door handle. That recurring image of Wanda lying bleeding on the floor flitted through your mind.

You opened the door, fearing your worst nightmare. You held your breath.

Your first and only thought when you saw her, was that she was safe.

Wanda was sleeping in a chair, somehow sitting half upright. It looked uncomfortable. If her eyes had been open she’d have seen you enter, obviously having fallen asleep facing the door.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

Your mind chanted the only thing you’d prayed for in the last two days.

You moved wordlessly into the room, only knowing you wanted to touch her. To feel her warm and pressed against you.

Your hand grazed her arm softly. Wanda’s eyes opened instantly at the touch. She gave a small gasp at the sight of you.

‘I’m back.’ You said unnecessarily, trying to remember how to smile.

Wanda’s hand flew to her mouth, muffling a sob. Her cries were horrifyingly familiar to you. You knelt in front of her, trying to block out the sound automatically. Your hands gripped her thighs and your lips touched her belly, pressing a kiss there.

You tried to remind yourself of reality.

Wanda’s hands gripped your shoulders, and you looked back up to her teary face.

‘Thank God.’ She mumbled, shifting forward in her seat. You rose to stand as she did the same, catching her in an embrace as she fell into your arms.

‘They wouldn’t tell me anything.’ She mumbled into your shirt.

‘Oh God, I thought they didn’t know how to tell me -.’ Wanda’s words trailed off into another round of sobs.

You focused on the feeling of having her in your arms.

‘It was just a mission that ran long.’ You soothed, feeling her hot damp tears soak through your shirt. Wanda’s fingers clung to your shirt.

‘You didn’t text me back.’ She whimpered. The aching familiarity of the sound reminded you all over again.

‘I wanted to.’ You promised, tears starting to run again down your own cheeks.

‘Are you okay?’ You had to ask, the fear of everything still eating you up inside. ‘And the baby?’

Wanda moved back in your hold, eyes searching yours.

‘We’re fine.’ She whispered to you softly and you saw the tear tracks staining her face. ‘All we needed was you.’

You nodded dumbly, swallowing the hot lump in your throat.

Wanda’s fingers slid into your hair and she pulled your face to hers.

Her lips were soft, tasting a little of salt after all the tears. Her warmth was familiar, her touch held you safe.

You were home.

‘I’ll always come back.’ You mumbled a moment later against her lips, knowing now how difficult that promise was.

‘No matter what.’

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff fic #scarlet witch x reader #angst #angst with a happy ending

393 notes · View notes

nothingbutsweetwords · 7 months ago

Text

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"...ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜰᴀʟʟ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ."

Word count: 3000.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of injury, medical procedures.

HOLDING — 6. Him.

The days had become an endless parade of maesters, and his company had been reduced to their constant presence and that of his mother. The few hours he managed to spend alone vanished into a pit of lethargy, lying on the cold bed, too drowsy to engage in any activity. Pain, a constant intruder, forced him to rely on the milk of the poppy for any relief, as small as it might be.

Several days passed since the grand maester, with a worried face, began to show signs of alarm at his condition. However, he was too weakened to interpret his look. His body, in a terrifying contrast, burned while his skin bristled with cold, and his left eye, swollen and red, struggled to heal despite the scar that crossed it progressing slowly.

“We need to remove the eye, your grace” the maester had informed his mother, in a grave and urgent tone. “The eye is becoming infected. We have tried everything to prevent it, but it is useless.”

He heard his mother’s sobs as she held his hand. He didn’t need to ask what had to be done; the answer was clear and painful.

“When will you do it?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“As soon as possible. It’s a risky procedure, and there is a chance that…” He shook his head. “But if we don’t do it, the infection will keep growing, and there will be no turning back.”

“Very well” Alicent said, nodding as she braced herself, though her eyes were still full of tears. “My son is strong, he can endure this.”

“Yes, your grace.”

He started to see things that weren’t there, his mind distorting reality in a feverish delirium. He moved restlessly on the uncomfortable stretcher in the Grand Maester’s room. The old man gave him more milk of the poppy, mixed with other herbs in a steaming tea. As he drank it, he slowly sank into a restless sleep, not deep enough to drown out the suffering.

The pain of the original wound paled in comparison to the agony of the procedure. He was sure his screams could be heard in the farthest alley of King’s Landing, but he was unable to contain them. His chest broke with each cry, and time stretched into an endless torture. The intervention, a macabre dance of pain and resistance, seemed to last for eternal hours, and his body couldn’t withstand it, collapsing before it was all over.

The room was in dim light as he began to regain awareness. A dull pain throbbed on the left side of his face. The bandage pressed tightly against his skin, covering the empty space where his eye once was, while a persistent dizziness kept him on the verge of unconsciousness. The air, filled with the scent of different remedies, did little to mask the underlying stench of blood and suffering.

His mother was there, as she had been every day since the attack, sitting by his side with eyes red from crying. Noticing him stir, she took his hand tenderly, her voice breaking in whispered words of encouragement. However, he could barely process her words, his mind shrouded in a dense fog of confusion.

“You’re safe now, my son. The maesters say the procedure was a success” she said, trying to hold back tears. “The Mother has heard my prayers.”

With a blend of incredulity and resignation, his mother mentioned that the princess had opted to accompany them back to King’s Landing. Skeptical that a young lady would forsake her family to be there, and she had warned him of the risk it entailed, urging caution; if a brother could act thus, why not she? He lacked the strength and resolve to let her know she was wrong.

His mother did not fully understand the reason, ignorant of what had driven her to be there, but he did. He knew, deep within his being, that she had come for him. His heart, which had been steeped in despair, began to beat with the intensity of that first real encounter in the library so many moons ago.

However, the endless days without news of her had plunged him into anguish, making him doubt his own sanity. The conversations with his mother, which once had been a source of comfort, turned into a constant torment. Where was she? And why hadn’t she come?

Every movement was torture. Lifting his head from the pillow caused intense dizziness, and every deep breath sent stabs of pain through his skull. And if before the operation he had felt overwhelmed by the presence of the maesters, in that moment he was completely suffocated.

They came and went, insisting on the need to monitor his progress. Each day, they carefully removed the bandage, exposing the sensitive flesh to the dim light of the room. They applied ointments that burned like liquid fire and cleaned the wound, the sharp pain of these treatments a cruel reminder of his new reality. The fever was a persistent enemy, alternating between chills that made him shiver uncontrollably and sweats that soaked his clothes and sheets.

The bitter substance remained his ally, dulling the pain just enough to allow him to rest, yet never fully erasing the suffering.

Only when the sun set completely did they leave him in peace, with a jug full of the familiar infusion, and the promise to return at dawn.

And like every night, he opened the rear door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face, waiting for her arrival, only to close it with the last ounce of his energy, enveloped in profound disappointment. Had it all been another cruel illusion, a fever-induced hallucination?

The following days were just like the ones before, a blend of pain and drowsiness. Sometimes, the pain became unbearable, and his cries filled the room, his strength sapped by the constant battle between torment and the sedatives that kept him in a fragile balance, barely afloat.

And although he deeply valued the newfound closeness with his mother—a relationship previously limited to meals and sermons—his heart desperately yearned for her. His mother's eyes, full of worry and love, were a great comfort, a light amidst the distress, but even that devotion did not ease her absence, one that could not be filled by anyone else.

Daily, as he shared moments with his mother, he hinted at his desire for visitors, without daring to name her directly. The response was always the same: if anyone wished to see him, she would let him know. But for now, he needed to conserve his strength and rest.

But that night, despite the pain that enveloped him like a blanket of thorns, a flash of happiness that had abandoned him in recent days—leaving him in his solitary room, steeped in deep melancholy—appeared out of nowhere, like a ray of sunshine piercing his dark reality. That night, against all odds, he saw her sweet face again, though marked by sadness and worry, she was there, present, tangible, an almost unreal vision in the somber castle.

In that moment, she was there, in his arms, whispering that she had tried to see him every day, that her desire to be by his side had never faltered. That confession was like a new anesthesia, a wave of immense calm that spread throughout his being. Helaena had heard his prayers, and his princess had responded to his call.

A silence full of meaning reigned in the room, his pain easing with each calm breath he heard from her. He didn't want to ruin the moment or exploit his weakened state and her compassion to obtain an easy forgiveness, but he needed to get it off his chest and ensure it wouldn’t be a stumbling block for them later.

"I'm sorry" he whispered, his voice trembling, slowly stopping his caresses in her soft hair.

"What are you sorry for, Aemond?" she asked softly, though her voice reflected the tension of someone who fears hearing the answer. He wondered for a moment if she was even aware, but he continued anyway.

"I said some things that... It was never my intention to insult you" he said, trying to find the right words to offer her a sincere apology. He felt her tense, almost imperceptibly. Her breath hitched for a few seconds at his confession, yet she did not move from his chest.

"It was a... mistake. And I do not blame you for it, you were just trying to defend yourself."

"I shouldn't have..." the remorse weighing down every word.

"I know it won't happen again" she said, interrupting him in a manner that brooked no argument. "Let's not talk about this anymore" her voice a bit firmer, though her sweetness remained. He could do nothing but accept, though he still felt guilty.

The room returned to silence, though somewhat more tense. He resumed his gentle caresses on her disheveled curls, each movement of his hand releasing more of her typical sweet scent of roses, easing his tension, and helped him relax. A few minutes passed before her breathing became slower and more regular, falling into a deep sleep, and dragging him along with her.

He briefly wondered why his mother had forbidden her visits, but soon dismissed any speculation. He knew she believed she was acting in his best interest, thinking he needed rest and peace, not knowing that a single glance at her face would alleviate his pain more effectively than a hundred doses of the best remedy ever could.

That night, with the princess nestled against his chest and her arms holding him with infinite tenderness, he felt hope blossom again in his heart. The darkness completely dissipated with each synchronized breath, replaced by the warm certainty that, no matter what, he would not be alone. And the sweet promise of a better dawn arose anew.

Over time, the sharp pain began to subside. A sensation of emptiness and pressure appeared in the place where his eye once was. The fever slowly abated, and the maesters seemed more optimistic in their assessments. The wound was healing, slowly but steadily, and his body started to regain some of its former strength.

His body, weakened by fever, rest, and interventions, required careful and constant rehabilitation, the maesters had said. Walking, something he once did without thinking, became a monumental challenge. At first, even getting out of bed was a test of endurance. His legs, once strong and agile, now seemed weak and shaky, as if they might fail under the weight of his own body. The maesters offered him a cane for support, which he proudly refused, and his mother was always nearby, ready to hold him if he faltered.

Every step was a struggle against dizziness and lack of balance. Without the vision in his left eye, his perception was distorted. He had to do recommended exercises, such as walking in a straight line and performing slow, controlled movements. These sessions, though exhausting, began to strengthen his muscles and restore some of his lost confidence.

However, physical recovery was only part of the battle. Days turned into weeks, and another kind of hurt gave him no respite.

The weight of loss continued to crush his spirit. Afternoons were the worst, as darkness began to fall, enveloping him, and the loneliness became unbearable. Everyone else was training, attending classes, fulfilling their duties, while he remained there, a prisoner. He would close his eye, wishing he could go back to being his old self, or at least imagine it, but the void remained, relentless and omnipresent, and every time he passed by his mirror, he avoided looking at his reflection, fearing to face the image of his own mutilated face.

Returning to combat training was an even greater challenge. The first time he held his sword, he felt a mix of relief and irritation. The familiar weight of the weapon in his hand was comforting, but every movement felt clumsy and unbalanced. Exercises that he once performed with grace were now arduous and erratic.

Criston Cole, the young guard with infinite patience, became his guide on this difficult journey. He taught him new training methods to compensate for the loss of his eye. Balance exercises were essential, standing on one foot, shifting weight from one foot to the other, and slow movements with the sword, all aimed at strengthening his stability.

They worked on improving his depth perception, something crucial for any swordsman. He was made to practice with fixed targets, the straw dummies. Cole would have him approach and retreat until he could better judge distances. At first, his strikes were imprecise, and his frustration grew with each failure. But slowly, with patience and determination, he began to improve.

The first sparring sessions were exhausting. Each bout was a bitter confrontation with his new reality, often ending with him on the ground, his pride as wounded as his body. However, she said that each fall was also a lesson, an opportunity to learn and adapt, and a victory on his path to recovery. He began to adjust his movements, relying more on his instinct and the feel of the sword moving through the air.

Despite everything, the constant presence of his mother, the nightly visits from his princess, and the tireless efforts of the maesters began to bear fruit. The scars, both visible and invisible, were now a part of him, hardening his spirit, and marking the beginning of a new stage in his life. A stage that, although painful and full of challenges, was also a testament to his resilience and ability to survive even the hardest trials.

He still remembered the night of the accident with unsettling clarity. The pain, the sudden darkness, and the fear that had wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud. Yet beyond the despair, he had found a new resolve. He would not be defined by it.

Over time, his body began to respond better to training. His balance improved, and although he would never regain full vision, his perception sharpened. He learned to use the field of vision he had left more effectively, moving with renewed caution and precision.

Although his movements still showed signs of his arduous journey, he had regained enough skill to face an opponent with confidence. Finally, the day came when he felt strong enough for a real practice duel. Aegon was his opponent, who seemed indifferent to the fact that he was still recovering. Everyone watched with expectant hearts.

The duel was intense, each strike resonating with the force of his determination. He lost, but he did not feel defeated. He had proven, especially to himself, that he could still fight, that he could still be the warrior he had promised to be. His loss, far from being a sign of weakness, had become a symbol of his strength and perseverance.

However, his life did not revolve solely around the sword. There was a constant, warm presence that filled all his nights and, slowly, his days as well.

They had resumed their visits to the library. She had encouraged him to take up reading again. When she noticed his eye beginning to tire, she would take his book into her hands, setting her own aside, and read aloud. He could not complain about that, as her sweet voice turned any book into a masterpiece full of colors and nuances.

He had also helped her immerse herself in the world of their mother tongue, High Valyrian. He was pleased to say that his princess was as intelligent as she was beautiful, learning with a speed he never had in his time.

But their encounters in the library were limited to that, as the shadow of his guard, by order of his mother, never left him except to sleep, and they couldn’t help but feel withdrawn, observed. Now, in the comfort of his room, in the solitude of the night and away from any prying eyes, they could open up. They were under the covers, each in their place, facing each other, whispering their confidences.

“Your nameday is coming up” she said, looking at his face, still covered by a bandage. The maesters had provided him with a patch, but he still couldn’t get used to the discomfort of the hard material, which was irritating against his scar and didn’t completely cover it. So, during the nights, he still required the soft linen bandage. The maesters had not dared to ask why he didn’t just sleep without anything.

At first, it had caused him some inhibition that she looked at his face so attentively, as if memorizing every feature. He used to lie on his back to try to spare her any glimpse of the left side of his face, and she never questioned him nor asked otherwise. It was he who, over time, realized that there was no safer place than there, with the princess who had set everything aside to be with him and accompany him, though he still wasn’t ready to reveal himself completely.

“Yes, it's true” he said, remembering. His mind had been too pained and preoccupied. He had come to think that he would never get better or that it was something he would never overcome, so any form of celebration hadn’t even crossed his mind. But now, with his princess in front of him, his physical wound healed, and his gait almost restored, the idea began to excite him.

“I’m sure your father will throw a grand feast in your honor, to celebrate you and your recovery.” He almost laughed at the thought, certainly far from reality.

“I do not believe so. The king has never hosted a feast for me” he replied softly, and though he still felt some sadness over the strained relationship with his father, he set it aside. “Besides, I’d prefer something more modest.”

“I promise I will make it special” she vowed, and he believed every word. What he couldn't bring himself to express was that each day with her presence beside him was special.

@callsignwidow @helaenaluvr @purplegardenwhispers @scarletbedlam @squidscottjeans @woodlandwrites @oh-you-mean-me @fics-i-love-and-recommend

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #angst

213 notes · View notes

diejager · 11 months ago

Text

First Cw: Smut, sex work, porn, cam girl, dildo, riding, dildo mount, self-hate, depressive thought?, whorshiping, tell me if I missed any.

Part 4

He watched your live, your body writhing in your sheets, back arched and head thrown back in pleasure. His body unmoving, body rigid underneath his armour, eyes unblinking and back straightening against the backrest, as he stared at his screen. He never touched himself when he watched you from afar, eyeing your hips rolling against the mount you strapped to a pillow, riding the dildo you suctioned to the plastic stand.

You rode it slowly, chest heaving while you ran your hands over your breasts in a sensual way, your finger running over your glossy lips, caressing your jaw and down the curve of your throat, your sweaty and shimmering skin. Your hands travelled down the valley of your tits, pinching your perky nipples with painted nails, a pretty red, powerful and vibrant —sexy in every manner. His eyes followed the hand that dipped down your stomach, over your slick mound and spreading your lips to show your viewers the silicone cock that stretched you out.

His hot breath sounded loudly behind his mask, it would've fogged up his glass if he wore any, his laboured breathing coming out in shoulder-moving puffs. His cruel eyes dilated, pupil rounder than usual as his eyes stuck obsessively at your cunt, his ears ringing with the loud, echoing squelch of your cunt and the eerie silence of his locked room, and body strained with self-restraint, fingers curled into a fist. He felt dazed, mind numbed to all but you and what you brought out of him: his slurred reaction, his oversensitive nerves and his increased heat.

You were like a drug to him —addiction, ascension, delirium. Your mewls breaching his broken mind and your bouncing body burning itself into his eyes, hearing and watching you gush around the toy, cunt fluttering wildly as you shuddered, hair sticking to your forehead and skin flushed. Despite his growing needs, the swelling that tightened his pants to an uncomfortable extent, he made no move to chase it, to soothe the pain and ache that filled his body, like a wave crashing against his scarred and disfigured body, and the wind blowing him away like the insignificant specks of sand that caked the earth.

He wouldn’t touch himself after the show, sending you money for the perfect show and drowning himself in a freezing shower to wash off the sin, his greatest mistake of loving something so precious and beautiful. He let his cock grow soft under the water, the occasional jump of his cock reacting to the arousal that still lingered in his bloodstream and the coolness of the water.

He couldn’t help himself, he promised, he fought, he glared, but nothing could stop a wandering mind, a needy and vulnerable shell of a broken man that wanted nothing but a fleeting moment of love, of affection —of utter devotion.

“Hello?” The voice was as sweet as the last time he heard it, the softness and affection that deepened his scars, “Nikto?”

“Милая,” his voice came out in a low rasp, throat dried and muscle dehydrated. He spent too much time hiding himself than caring for himself, “You did well.” [Sweetheart]

You laughed, your gentle and angelic chuckle at his compliment —fitting the stage name you used, Seraphim. He was reminded again why talking to you felt like a sin, blasphemy committed by him to his goddess. Perhaps he shouldn’t have called, daring to be so near a being much greater than him, pure and fragile. For all his self-restraint, he was a weak, weak man, always chasing for more when he’s already lost so much.

“Thank you,” you sighed. He heard sheets shuffle, your body rolling to your stomach, face propped up on your chin while he spoke to you on the phone, “When are you coming back?”

“Cкоро.” [Soon.]

Part 6

Taglist: @warenai @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @cutiecusp @ladyof-themoon @yourdaydreamerfan @blackhoodlea @daisychainsinknots @under-the-dirt @moansteur @iamnotfinedaddy @0alk0msan @katzarantos @danielle143 @bubbletae7 @artemeow @nes-kopi @notspiders @waves-against-a-cliff @brokenpieces-72 @princessboohaloo @petwifed @craxy-person @aldis-nuts @randominstake @yanderestory @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @redeveryflower @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @cummunistcat

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #mw2 smut #nikto x reader #call of duty nikto #cod nikto #nikto #mwii nikto #nikto smut #nikto x reader smut #Sex worker!reader #Cam girl!reader #female!reader #fem!reader #fem reader

424 notes · View notes

whoyacallinyellow · 9 months ago

Text

never again

John Marston x F! reader

Spoilers: RDR2 ch1 Content: 18+ mdni, NFSW, m/f smut, drunk sex, praise, pervert warning, canon typical events / violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes, grammar errors I couldn’t be bothered to fix. Type: second pov / (wc - 1442) / pc: me

Summary: a night of drinking never goes unpunished

You stirred awake to a shadow looming in the tent. The soft clanking of metal, and clicking of spurs from unsteady steps made your breath hitch. Now propped up on your elbows, your heavy eyes managed to follow the man fumbling in the darkness.

Through your delirium, incoherent murmurs must have escaped you which warranted a response.

“jus’ me, hush.”

John’s whisper, soft like butter, melted your body back onto the bedroll. It only took three words from the man to bring you the security he offered, in more ways than one.

“s’alright.”

John reassured through a strain, knowing he startled you all too often— whether it was a late night drinking, or a guard shift.

Your shared tent was tucked behind the medicine wagon, close enough for John to keep an eye on you, but far enough for some privacy the man so desperately requested.

Soon enough his body was united with yours, a welcoming embrace of tobacco and whiskey that never failed to blanket you with comfort during the night.

His chest vibrated against your back as he hummed, rejoicing in the mutual comfort that he brought you. John’s hand ran down your side, calloused palms snagging on the fabric as he worked against it. Your torso trembled, anticipating his every action as he was soon consumed by a different high. His lack of rationalization from the whiskey radiated off him with a feverish heat that pulsed over you.

“c’mon sweetheart.”

The vague and needy words dissipated as quickly as they formed. Your eyes met his, a certain sadness sunk within his dull blue wells, glossed and masked over with the liquid dopamine he poured every night.

Turning to his embrace, your hands weaved through his shirt, both unclasping the buttons and beckoning him. An offer John gladly took as you positioned yourself for his body on top of yours.

With one arm propping himself over you, and the other tussling at his waist. His rehearsed movements in the dark had to be second nature by now.

The wind rippled through the fabric of the tent, momentarily welcoming in the moonlight. Allowing you to catch a glimpse of the man over you, the blue beams kissing the raw scars on his cheek.

There was no doubt John got off easy,

The wolves could have taken much more from him, but managed to be more forgiving than any BlackWater lawman could have been.

You let out an impatient protest as his hands continued to fumble, temporarily appeasing you with his lips.

His stubble dragging across your collarbone made you shutter. John’s kisses were usually coated in whiskey, only to leave you with a different high than the one he chased earlier.

“you’ve been eyeballin’ me all day, missy.”

He remarked against your skin, a slight drawl presenting itself as he freed your torso from your shirt.

You felt your cheeks heat up, both from his words, and your naked state. Despite John knowing your body just damn well as his own, everytime managed to feel like the first.

John always caught your eyes on him. Sweat beading down his forehead as he worked an axe effortlessly, it was almost as if the man was beautifully built for manual labor. You were infatuated with the way his biceps would flex while his toned muscles peeked through the shirt that clung to him with every move. He would eventually meet your indiscreet gaze with amusement, knowing very well he would be all over you at night's arrival.

Your eyes would simply linger a moment longer, despite being caught red handed. He couldn't help but to admire your boldness, a confidence hidden within you not needing to be boasted about for validation.

“Someone’s gonna hear—“

You cooed, your worries being thrown away by the hungry lips and hands that carassessed your breasts.

John grumbled, not bothered to remove his attention from your neck. Throughout his buzzed state, his hands became coordinated, grasping at and invading every part of your bare skin available to him.

How sweet he thought you were, a blank canvas only for him cast upon. A small gasp escaped your lips as you felt a small nibble on your neck. His excitement demonstrated through the smile plastered against your skin, along with a hard spot pressing against your leg.

“keep those little lips quiet, now.”

John commanded with a whisper, his rough fingertips ghosting their way across your waist to free you from your restricting garments.

His drunken staggering alone was enough to wake the others, but the man always blamed you for being too noisy.

Perhaps it was his own pride, cocky words he could not help but to boast— he reckoned it ain’t his fault he’s so good in the sheets. Hell, he can’t help how he makes you feel.

“such a good girl for me, ain’t ya?”

John murmured through a soft moan, just the thought of you made him ache, his body begging for the release you so willingly gave him.

His pants were finally kicked down and bunching up just below his knees. Before words could be spoken they were interrupted by John’s fingertips that raised to his lips, a dollop of spit being dispersed onto them.

A brash groan left his lips and graced your rosy cheeks while his hand stroked up the shaft of his cock— either unneeded preparation, or a ritual of his, you couldn’t tell.

Your torso knotted and quivered against him, impatience consuming your every move. Quiet moans escaped you as the head of his cock met your slick entrance, always proving his preparation irrelevant.

“Jesus, woman— this worked up over me?”

The man beamed with a husky chuckle, not realizing the volume of his voice until your palm smacked his chest.

More of a tease at your dismay, John couldn’t help but to always comment on it. Your wetness was a mere reminder he always took pride in.

His smug smile eventually twisted into a bitten lip as he eased himself into you, the lack of self control overrunning any wit to him he had left.

“that’s it,”

John praised gently, his jaw going lax as his length slipped further in you. A rugged hand clasped over your mouth as his hips began to thrust. His half-lidded eyes eventually meeting yours.

Your eyes held so much trust for him, trust he was never sure how he earned in the first place. How he wished he could hear the moans of his name, but instead focused on the shared pleasure you gave him. With your walls contracting and fluctuating around him, he thought it was nearly too much to handle.

“Marston! It's your shift!”

A nasally demand rang from outside the tent.

Through your ecstasy, you had no recollection of any steps approaching, and neither did John— god only knows how long the pervert was loitering outside the thin canvas.

“Christ!”

The shriek of horror that left John’s lips, you could have sworn he saw a ghost. Springing up at your feet, his pants were yanked up and manhood tucked away while you scrambled for cover.

John stormed out with a stumble, so many feelings of wrong and right flooding through and past him like the wind.

“Goddamnit— Williamson—“

He sputtered in disbelief, arms gesturing violently towards the man’s mug.

“If I didn’ know any better, I reckon you’d like hearin’ my woman.”

John barked at the man, the shock in his tone long erased by bitterness.

You hid in your palms, the embarrassment burning through your cheeks, and the airborn tension that managed to leak into the tent.

The silence John created was painful, if it wasn’t obvious enough already, the entire camp was now aware of you two.

The pause was eventually broken with a nasty hawk and spit, along with curses that ran off of John’s tongue. His pleasant night with you was quickly turning into a sober guard shift.

John trudged back through the tent flaps in defeat, retrieving his discarded gun belt at your feet with a frown plastered on his face, gently illuminated by the lantern he now held.

“never again in camp.”

The man scowled to himself, the risk of waking the others was long gone— if he had to be miserable, so did everyone else trying to sleep.

With John’s attention circling back to you, another kiss, just as needy as before, was placed on your lips, lingering for a moment before meeting his impending doom.

His boots were haphazardly pulled on with a struggle. You repeated his words, a small grin crept upon you in his state of frustration.

“never again.”

#john marston x reader #John marston headcanons #John marston #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption fandom #rdr2 x reader #rdr smut #rdr2 smut #john marston smut

313 notes · View notes