#He's so desperate and mad and sad and angry | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zyafics · 15 hours ago

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— zya’s reviews 💌

it’s always a delight seeing ur fics come across my timeline, because i can tell the craft, effort, and time you put into your work. this one, i have to say, is one of my favorite fics of yours. as a writer, i fell in love with the flow of your writing style, the way you craft your sentences, the way your dialogues and internal monologues match so beautifully. as a reader, i love the depth of the scene between rafe and reader. her fears regarding being exposed, rafe comforting her in a way that feels so accurate. i actually read this twice over because i wanted to highlight my favorite paragraphs from a reader and writer perspective!

You sat on the floor, back against the wall, staring at your phone screen with your heart thudding so hard it echoed in your ears. A consuming panic washed over you when messages kept coming from him.

“all consuming panic washing over me” is the line for me

“Yo,” Rafe said casually. “Sarah said you were—“ Your head whipped up in panic at his voice, eyes growing wide, before you started desperately wiping at your face to hide the flow of your tears. But he froze when he saw you on the floor, looking so small and helpless.

his little “yo” is so nonchalant and innocent and then he stumbles upon THIS—also sarah sending him? i wanna explore that implication

“Who hurt you, hm? You can talk to me, I promise.” His voice was smooth and soft as never before. When he raised his hand to softly brush the side of your face, it was slow and cautious to not scare you even more. You open your mouth to lie, to say that it was just stress, or your parents, or your period, but your phone, lying face up on the tiles, lit up with another message, and your whole body went rigid.

he’s so sweeettttt

The silence that hung in the bathroom was suffocating, crushing, pulsing with the weight of everything that had just been revealed. Rafe stood there like a statue, gripping your phone so tightly his knuckles turned bone white, and his chest rose and fell with each sharp, shaky inhale, like he was barely containing an explosion. His jaw was clenched so hard you thought he might grind his teeth to dust. You could see the way his whole body was vibrating with fury, and when his eyes lifted from the phone to meet yours, they weren’t just angry. They were wild. Dark. Protective in a way that made your throat close up.

i just love this paragraph and description

For a long moment, Rafe didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there, chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths, phone still gripped in his hand like he was about to smash it against the wall. Then, slowly, he lowered it on the countertop, and something in him cracked. Your cries, how desperate and sad they sounded, made him lose his mind, made him want to destroy everything and everyone who hurt you.

again, incredible paragraph

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He said immediately, his voice breaking. He dropped to his knees in front of you, fingers twitching like he didn’t know how to touch you to not scare you even more. “I’m not mad at you. I swear I’m not. I’m just—I’m losing my fucking mind here, baby.” That word slipped out like it was natural for him, and your breath hitched. Rafe’s hands cupped your cheeks, his blue, wild eyes looking for yours, while he tried to wipe your tears.

BABY!!!

“That motherfucker is dead.” He hissed, voice rough with emotion. “I’m not even fucking joking. I will kill him. He touched you when you were barely conscious? He fucking recorded you? Sent that shit to you as a threat? Threatened to show me?”

kill him, rafe!!

“I do care.” He said, softer, lifting your face up again. “But not because you were naked. I care because it wasn’t your choice. That wasn’t you, baby. That was him taking advantage of you. And that makes me want to destroy every bone in his fucking body.”

YES LETS GO!! (bare minimum but im sensitive and love this reassurance)

Rafe leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His hands were on your thighs now, still shaking slightly. “You’re mine. Even if we’re not together yet. ” He said, barely above a whisper, like it was a truth he hadn’t even realized until that moment. “I wanted you for too long, let that scumbag treat you the way you didn’t deserve. But you’re fucking mine, and I swear to God, I’m not letting anyone hurt you like that again.” You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek.

oh oh oh in LOVE, SWOONING!

“Shh.” He whispered, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ve fucking got you.”

😙😙😙🪭🪭🪭

i've got you

part 2

masterlist

summary: after getting a terrifying message from you manipulative ex, you lock yourself in the Camerons’ guest bathroom, spiraling into panic as everything starts to fall apart. what you don't expect is Rafe walking in and completely losing it when he realizes what’s going on.

word count: 2k

warnings: SA (non-consensual recording and sex while being drunk), blackmailing, panic attack, protective Rafe

The guest bathroom in the Cameron’s house felt like the safest place at the moment, and the second you closed the door, you collapsed on the floor, constantly buzzing with your phone still in your hand.

It’s been like that for the last hour—endless messages from your ex, Ethan, who hasn’t wanted to leave you alone since you two broke up a few weeks ago. But when you were sitting with Sarah in the kitchen while she was cooking something on the stove and your phone lit up with a message, a video of you from him, your heart dropped to your stomach.

Your hands started shaking violently, tears blurred your vision, as you couldn’t believe what you saw. It was just a preview, just a few seconds, but it was enough to understand. It was you on the bed, the dress from a few months ago when you went out with Ethan and some friends was gathered around your waist. You remember being drunk, barely conscious when he took you home, and then the next morning with pain all over your body.

You didn’t remember having sex.

Sarah was oblivious to your breakdown, and you quickly managed to slip away from the kitchen, mumbling to her that you needed to use the restroom.

Ethan (1:08 PM):

You really think I won’t do it? You think I won’t show them what you let me record? And i have more

Ethan (1:09 PM):

You looked so sweet in that video. Moaning for me like a slut. I bet Sarah’s brother would LOVE to see it.

Your blood turned to ice.

You don’t remember agreeing to anything. You would never have let that happen. He must’ve taken the pictures and videos without you knowing. You’d trusted him, loved him, been so fucking stupid—

It must be a nightmare. It should be, right? Ethan was bothering you, trying to convince you to go back to him, but straight up blackmailing you? You curled into yourself tighter, digging your nails into your thighs, as hiccups and cries shook your whole body. You couldn’t catch your breath, couldn’t stop your mind from racing because there was nothing you could do. No one who could help. And if those images were released? If they were sent to Rafe? You would be done for.

The door cracked open before you could even register it, and the person whom you wanted to see the least in that state stood in the doorway.

“The fuck—“ He muttered, stepping inside slowly, cautiously. “Hey, what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing.” You croak, voice raspy. “I’m fine. Just— just leave, Rafe.”

“You’re crying. You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m—” You started to snap, but your voice cracked halfway through, and then you choked back a sob, curling in again.

“Fuck.” He muttered again under his breath, kneeling in front of you. “What happened?”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, as if it would make the situation not real. But you couldn’t hide the way your face scrunched as if you were in pain or hide the bubbling feeling of pure panic, and Rafe saw that. “It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked down, instantly seeing the name, then looked back at you with curiosity and a hint of defensiveness. He knew the story between you and your ex. He saw how he treated you, saw you struggling to keep it all together, and he was the first one to congratulate you when you finally announced your breakup.

So seeing you react like that told him everything he needed to know.

“Let me see.” It was not an order, but his words were firm as he took hold of your wrist. You shook your head violently, wanting to hide your phone and downplay everything.

“No— Rafe, don’t look!”

He snatched your phone away before you could even process it, fingers moving quickly to unlock it.

The heavy silence filled the room when his eyes scanned your screen, seeing the message you didn’t even read yourself. “What. The. Fuck.” He looked up at you, jaw clenched, eyes wide with barely contained rage. “Is this real?”

He suddenly stood up, his actions almost frantic and panicked, and you jump up from the floor right after him as if automatically. You wanted to rip your phone away, but there was no point anymore—he saw everything, and you were way too tired and exhausted to fight anyway.

“What the fuck is this?” He spat, low and dangerous, his voice barely more than a growl. “What the actual fuck am I looking at right now?”

You couldn’t answer. Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You weren’t even crying anymore, you were just frozen. Humiliated. All you could do was curl your arms around your body tighter as the shame flooded you, soaked into your skin, and made you want to disappear. Rafe’s eyes dropped back to the screen, and you followed his gaze as he was staring at the first image. It was you, lying on Ethan’s bed. Your head turned to the side, half-lidded eyes, a soft expression that you now recognized as tipsy, barely coherent. The straps of your tank top were pushed down around your upper arms. No bra. The thin sheet pulled across your body did nothing to hide your exposed chest. One of the other photos was taken from behind with you on your stomach, bare, the lower half of your body completely visible, the shape of your thighs and your ass captured without any shame.

“I didn’t know.” You whispered, your voice cracking and dry, and it felt like you couldn’t even breathe properly. “I swear to God, Rafe… I didn’t know he took them.” You didn’t look up, feeling shame and embarrassment washing over you. “H-he sent me a video.” You whispered so quietly you weren’t even sure if you said it aloud at first, your eyes zeroing on the floor as your whole doby went numb. But Rafe heard you. He tensed instantly, hands stiffening around your phone still in his hand.

“A video?” He repeated, slowly. Carefully. His voice was like the calm before a hurricane. “What video?”

You nodded, trembling. “Of us. Of me, mostly. I—I was drunk, and he filmed everything. I don’t even remember it, but h-he sent it to me today.”

You broke again then, sliding down on the floor, helpless, sobbing so hard your body curled in on itself, your hands covering your face, unable to bear the thought of Rafe picturing you like that—not just naked, but used. Taken advantage of.

His hands ran through his hair roughly as he looked away, trying to keep it together, despite fuming from the inside. But it wasn’t working. His entire body was tense, like a live wire ready to snap. He pounded his fist into the bathroom wall so hard that you heard a crack, and you jumped from the loud sound. The last thing you wanted was for him to hate you or to see you in a different light after those pictures.

“He knows what you mean to me. He wants you to see me that way so I wouldn’t have any choice but to go back to him.” You whisper. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I just—fuck, Rafe, I feel so ashamed. I feel disgusting. I didn’t want you to see this version of me, not through his eyes.”

“You think I give a single fuck about how you look in those videos or photos? About what you did with him?”

You looked down again, shaking, unable to meet his eyes.

You finally met his gaze again. His jaw was clenched so tight you could hear it grind, and his eyes were glistening with the kind of rage that came from caring too much.

“I’m gonna take care of this.” He muttered, so close you could feel his breath. “You don’t have to do a thing. You don’t even have to see that piece of shit again. I’m gonna make sure he never gets near you, never gets the chance to make you feel this way. Nobody will ever see that stuff, you hear me?”

“Rafe…” Your voice cracked again, barely holding together, tugging him closer by the shirt, seeking more comfort.

“Shh.” He whispered, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ve fucking got you.”

part 2

#zyarecs #zyarecs | rafe cameron #zyarecs | rafe cameron oneshot

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add1ctedt0you · 1 year ago

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Wei Wuxian, searching for Jiang Cheng after Lotus Pier's fall, Chapter 59-Poisons: Part 4

#mar reading mdzs #This moment is so *gesture while crying*#He's so desperate and mad and sad and angry #The fact that he left the food and then went back and picked it up again and ate it #'Go to Meishan alone without me?'#Gosh #He didn't left you. he saved you! I don't think anyway wwx would like the truth :-/

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suksatoru · 5 months ago

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sukuna and you got into a fight after you had a near death experience. when you're in need of comfort—he's hostile and enraged. you're hurt tenfold and overcome with sadness after his outburst. going to bed after fighting with sukuna is a war all in itself–but one day, you'll be able to see just how hard he works to be a good lover to you. pairing: sukunaxfem!reader ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

Sukuna is silent as he changes, save for the quiet grunts and sighs that leave his lips every now and then. The dim lamp lit on his side of the bed creates shards of gold that glisten and shine in his eyes, and he regards you quietly as he slips out of his formal robes and into a simple pair of pants.

He could be so mean sometimes. You were never one to take his insults to heart, they were always empty words he muttered out to mask his true feelings. You know Sukuna is bad at communication, you are all he's had and ever will have. There was no one before you, and there will be no one after you. So, Sukuna has to learn to go through all the hard stages that come packaged with a relationship alongside you.

Your back is turned to him as you lay in bed, your body tense and shoved so far towards the edge of the bed, he's sure you'll fall off if you shift even just the slightest bit. You're so desperate to stay away from him, and a small part of Sukuna's chest squeezes painfully at the sight.

He doesn't know how the argument started—you were always so level headed. He could come to you fuming, enraged from his duties and the stress he has to endure everyday—but your fingers raking through the pink tufts of his hair never failed to calm him.

Except today.

Because today—today he was mad at you.

You didn't mean to upset him, those were the words that tumbled from your lips as you weeped into his lap—begging for forgiveness. Your lashes clumped together with glistening tears, and all you wanted was to be comforted by him. But Sukuna scolded you instead, berating and belittling you with the cruelest of words that only made you cry harder by the end of the entire ordeal. He wasn't mad, he was fucking furious.

He told you to stay away from his estate's river whenever it's raining. But you ventured outside anyways, mindlessly and stupidly and almost died. He warned you how strong the currents were, told you how he'd lost so many idiot servants to the river's ruthlessness.

He thought you had died. It was the single, most terrifying moment of his entire life. Because when he pulled you out of the water, you were shaking like a leaf and your pulse was barely there. And when they took you to the medical wing, the doctors were brought to near tears as they tried to keep you alive. Because if you died, if they couldn't bring you back to consciousness safely—then Sukuna would probably kill everyone in a mile radius just from pure rage.

But you're here. Stubborn and alive, arms crossed over your chest as you curl up into a little ball. He slides under the blanket eventually, turning off the lamp as darkness finally envelops his room. The rain still goes on quietly outside, pitter pattering against his window softly.

He presses his lips onto your shoulder blades, pulling your back against his chest and frowning a little once he feels how stiff you are in his grasp. He doesn't want to speak the words—doesn't even want to acknowledge them, but he knows he has to. Or your tear stricken face was sure to haunt him and keep him awake the entire night

His lips are rough against your skin, and you let out a huff—before elbowing him, the King of Curses, in the gut.

He sucks in a hiss from between his teeth, before biting down on your shoulder in retaliation as you yelp

"You bast–"

You're turning around to tell him off, brows scrunched together and lips pulled back in a wobbly scowl, and he takes the opportunity to shut you up when his lips collide with yours

You would have expected the kiss to be rough—angry and hard and mean. But his lips brush yours gently as you pause, before his warm mouth presses softly onto yours

Sorry. He mumbles the word quietly against your lips as he wraps a single arm around your waist, turning you around and over him before securing you on top of his chest with a deep sigh. His irises are lined with a ring of ruby, and you watch him gaze at you through half lidded eyes.

The moonlight barely illuminates his face, but you can see the sheen in his gaze as he peers up at you

Thought I lost you. He murmurs when you suck in a cry, and he rubs your back whispering I know, I know.

Ryomen Sukuna wasn't gentle, no one would describe him as gentle. But the manner he's rubbing your back in has you sinking into his skin as you soak up all the comfort he offered—the one you so desperately craved.

"It was so scary. I-I was just—" And you hiccup on a sob as he coos quietly, curling his large palm around the back of your head as he presses your face into his chest, mumbling sweet nothings into your hair as his hand rubs up and down the slope of your spine

" 'm here now. Rest, you're safe with me. You know that, don't you?" He questions, and you nod, sniffling as your small hands wrap around his neck, legs locking around his waist as you breathe him in.

No, he wasn't the best at managing his emotions. He was quick to anger, and, simply put, the biggest asshole to walk the earth. But he feels. He loves and he hurts and he knows that there is only one person who can accept him and his broken heart as it is—you.

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suuuupernovaaa · 13 days ago

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what if

summary: joel lives and is HAPPY damnit

warnings: just watched ep2 (&3)and im so unbelievably sad and mad so im making a happy ending to cope - smut, 18+, FMC in her 30s, dirty joel, a hot gf who GETS THERE IN TIME

MASTERLIST

Hand on the doorknob, Ellie looks back to you, and you shake your head. Not yet, you want to tell her. Just listen. Just be quiet and assess what’s happening in the room.

You hear a shout inside, and you know it’s him. You know his voice as well as you know your own.

There’s multiple other voices, male and female, impossible to say how many are in there. Joel shouts again, and your body tenses up, your stomach churning.

While she turns the door knob, you press your back against the door, out of sight.

It’s a mess of action once she opens the door. Her gun fires, but it takes only moments before two men are on her, pinning her to the floor, though she does get a good swipe with her knife at one before she goes down.

You peer around the corner, just for a whisper, to take in the scene. Joel, with a bloody knee. A girl before him, hair braided, holding a golf club.

Two men holding Ellie down. At least two other women in the room, and Dina, on the floor. You don’t know from the doorway if she’s breathing or not.

They don’t know you’re there. They’re too stupid to have checked. So, you enter.

You fire a shot, straight through the neck of one of the men holding Ellie down, and the other falls away.

She’s up then, and fast, her gun back in her hand, or maybe it’s someone else’s gun. There’s screaming, so much screaming, but you can’t hear it. You can’t hear anything besides Joel yelling your names. His woman. His daughter.

Ellie’s shot two more, they’re on the floor, both men.

Two women in the room - one bald and one with curly hair - back away, their arms up, their weapons on the floor, Ellie aimed at them.

That leaves the golfer. You turn to her, weapon raised, and she steps closer to Joel.

“Not another fucking step,” you whisper, finger on the trigger. “I will blow your head off.”

She has the nerve to look angry instead of scared, but she’s smart enough to drop the golf club. You kick it away, never taking your eyes off her.

“Who are you? What the fuck are you doing?”

Her lips are pursed, her eyes red with tears and rage. She looks so normal, someone you wouldn’t recognize or remember.

“Joel?” you ask.

“I’m okay. I… killed her dad.”

“Salt Lake?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he replies.

You fire. One bullet, to her heart. She drops down, and you step over her to Joel.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The ground is thawed out enough for burials to take place now. They’re burying dozens of dead. The wall is secured again, but people stare at it warily now.

They’ve seen it come down. They wonder if it will happen again.

You wake up in the middle of the night, when the moon is still high, with a scream in your throat and a sheen of sweat covering your body.

“Baby, baby,” Joel is whispering next to you. You sit up, heart pounding. Joel reaches to his side of the bed for the water he keeps on his night stand, and hands it to you. You take a long drink, blinking the nightmare away.

“I’m here. I’m alive,” he reminds you.

The what if disturbs you sometimes. What if you and Ellie had been 5 minutes later. What if you had not come at all. What if, what if, what if Joel was dead.

He takes the empty water glass from your hands, and you’re on him when he turns back to you, kissing him with all the desperation you feel whenever you think of those what if’s.

What if the best thing you’d ever had was taken from you? What if Ellie’s dad had died before they could reconcile? What if, what if, what if.

“I’m right here, baby, I’m okay,” Joel mutters against your lips, and you’re pushing him down onto his back, climbing on top of him.

“I need to feel you, Joel,” you say desperately. “I need to feel that you’re here.”

His hands run up your back, under your tank top, his calloused hands on your hot skin, and you grind into him, making him moan.

“Whatever you need, sweetheart,” he says, and you reach down for him. He’s hard, always so hard for you, and you can feel you’re dripping wet, desperate to be filled by him.

It takes no time to remove your clothes, and you run your wet cunt up and down his hard length.

“God, Joel,” you moan, kissing his neck as he squeezes your ass.

“I’m here, baby,” he breathes, and slides into you.

It feels so full, so real, so fucking good. You place your hands on his chest, and look down at him as you begin to move, up and down. He never closes his eyes, always stares at you, always watches you when you ride him like this.

His fingers find your clit, moving over it expertly, and you cry out.

“Take what you need, baby,” he says, his voice dripping with need. “Take whatever you need.”

You just need him, to be sure he’s real and here with you. To feel him pulsing inside you, to bring you coffee in the morning, to be grumpy with you when he’s sore or tired. You just need Joel.

He brings you to an orgasm that makes you see stars, and finds his own release just seconds after, and you collapse on his chest.

He holds you then, tracing patterns on your bare back, both of you breathing so heavily with your eyes closed.

The what ifs always disappear in these moments when you are so connected to Joel. He’s here. He’s real. He’s not leaving you.

You won’t let anyone take him.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #pedro pascal #Joel miller smut #joel miller x reader

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soluversworld · 1 month ago

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Steam, off - REDACTED X G.N Reader (SMUT)

Genre: smut

Summary: — After a small argument where Redacted refuses to get mad at you, frustration builds between you both. Despite your attempts to stay distant, their gentle persistence and need for closeness slowly wear you down.

THEN YOU SMASH!!

( Reader is a g.n!)

EXTRA: This was a request, from discord, They're a good friend!!

Content/Trigger warnings

Explicit Sexual Content (NSFW)

Dom/Sub Dynamics (Teasing, control, and edging)

Praise Kink

Strong Emotional Intimacy

Light Roughness (Biting, marking, possessive touch)

Overstimulation

Did not proof read/Rushed.

Your lips press into a thin line. Again.

Again, [REDACTED] just takes it. Doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight back—just ducks their head, lets their shoulders sag, and mutters, "M’ sorry."

And fuck, that makes your teeth grind.

“Stop that,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

They blink, startled. “Stop… what?”

You gesture—at them, at their whole goddamn everything. “This. The—The whole apologizing thing. I’m mad at you, [YOU]. You can be mad back. You can fight me instead of just taking it like—like—”

“Like I deserve it?”

Your breath snags.

Soft. Quiet. Like they already know what you’re gonna say. Like they agree.

And that—that makes you want to throw something.

“No! No!” You grab their wrist—not to hurt, just to hold. To make them listen. “You don’t deserve it, and that’s the fucking problem! I can’t even be mad at you properly because you never��You never fight back! You never defend yourself! You just let me be angry, let me lash out, let me blame you, and then you say ‘m’ sorry’ like—like it’s all your fault!"

Their brows furrow, lips parting—like they want to argue. But they don’t.

And that’s when it really hits you.

They’re not ignoring you.

They just… don’t think they should fight back.

Your grip on their wrist loosens, fingers sliding down until they hook around theirs. “You can get mad at me,” you murmur. “You can tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m being unfair. I want to fight with you if it means we fix things. But I can’t—” You swallow hard. "I can't keep being the only one who raises my voice while you just—just take it and blame yourself."

A pause.

[REDACTED] stares at you—eyes wide, raw, something fragile flickering beneath the surface. Their mouth opens—then closes—then, finally, they speak.

“…I don’t wanna fight you,” they murmur. “I just—” They exhale sharply, shaking their head. “I don’t want to fight with you.."

And fuck—fuck—that’s what breaks you.

"You're already hurting me, dumbass," you whisper, voice cracking, fingers curling tighter around theirs. "Not because of a fight—because I feel like I’m hitting a fucking ghost whenever I argue with you." You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "I want the real you. All of you. Even the parts that get mad at me. Even the parts that fight back."

Something shifts in their expression. Something wounded.

"…The real me, huh?" Their voice is rough, like they’re chewing on the words. "And what if the real me ain't… what y’want?"

You don’t hesitate.

"I want you," you say, pressing their hand to your chest, right over your racing heart. "Only you. The real you." Your voice drops to a whisper, raw and desperate. "I love you, [REDACTED]."

Their breath hitches. Their fingers tremble against yours. And for the first time, you see it—the crack in their armor, the fear behind their eyes.

Well, You're still mad/j

You huff, sinking deeper into the couch, arms crossed tight as Attack on Giant blares from the screen. You’re not even watching—just pretending to, staring blankly at the fights while your thoughts rage louder than the explosions.

You hate this. You hate how you’re still mad, how he just lets you be, how he looks so fucking sad sitting across from you like a kicked puppy.

[REDACTED] isn’t saying anything. Just… sitting there. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together like he’s holding himself still. Not pushing, not begging—just waiting.

Like he always fucking does.

Like he always has.

It’s suffocating.

Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. You don’t even know anymore. The silence isn’t cold, not really—but it stretches long enough to wrap around your ribs, squeeze tight, ache.

And yet, he doesn’t complain.

Doesn’t demand.

Doesn’t even shift closer.

He just watches you, quiet and patient, like he’d wait forever if that’s what it took for you to stop being mad.

Like he’d wait another decade if it meant you’d finally reach for him again.

And fuck, that realization makes your throat burn.

Because it’s sad. It’s fucking sad at this point.

You grip the blanket tighter around yourself, teeth clenched. You don’t want to be mad anymore. You don’t want to give him the silent treatment. You don’t want him to just sit there, drowning in his own regret, waiting for a love he already fucking has.

You don’t want him to think you’re really pushing him away.

So you shift. Just barely. Uncurl your legs.

It’s subtle, but he notices instantly.

His shoulders tense—not in fear, but in hope.

Still, he doesn’t push.

He just waits.

You take a breath, exhaling slow, forcing yourself to relax.

And then—without looking at him—you grab his hand.

He freezes.

And when you finally glance at him—just a quick, fleeting look—you swear he’s shaking.

You’re stacking the dishes when two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against a firm, familiar chest. His warmth seeps into your skin, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he sighs—a low, content sound that makes your stomach flip.

"You really…" he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl, "...are a softie."

Your hands still. The dish towel crinkles in your grip.

You huff. "Hmph."

You act annoyed. You act like you hate it. Like this whole affection thing is just too much, too clingy, too Redacted.

But your hands betray you.

Because instead of pushing him off, you reach up—fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

And god, he melts.

His breath hitches, grip tightening as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You feel him smile against your skin, feel the way he relaxes, like this—you—is all he’s ever needed.

"...'S not fair," he mutters, muffled against you.

You arch a brow. "What’s not fair?"

"You act all mean," he murmurs, voice slow and sleepy, "'n' then you do this..."

You roll your eyes, still scratching lightly at his scalp. "I dunno what you’re talking about."

You cross your arms, leaning against the counter, glaring at him. "You’re not getting near me."

He stops mid-step, blinking at you like a confused puppy.

A pause. Then, hesitantly—softly—"…Still mad at me, huh?"

You huff, looking away. It’s stupid, honestly. The argument wasn’t even that big, just one of those things that built up over time—him never defending himself, never even trying to fight back, just letting you steamroll him with nothing in return but sad eyes and quiet apologies. It makes you feel awful. Like you’re the bad guy every single time.

"At least ask for something," you mutter, not looking at him. "I made you sad. You always just take it. If you can’t get mad at me, at least say that it hurts instead of going silent."

You feel him move before you see him.

Warmth presses against the side of your neck—a slow, lingering kiss right below your jaw. His breath is warm, his lips impossibly soft, and your heart does a fucking backflip.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your whole body stiffens.

"You always do this," you grumble, cheeks heating up.

A small chuckle against your skin. "What?"

He laughs, low and fond, arms winding around your waist again. "S’ not cheatin’, Y/n. Just know what works on ya."

You scoff, feeling your resolve start to crumble. Your body still buzzes from the way his lips lingered against your skin, from the warmth pressing up against your back.

Then, in that same casual, lazy drawl, he asks—

"Wanna make up?"

…Oh.

Your heart stops.

You blink, heat creeping up your neck. "…Eh?"

He leans down, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. "Y’heard me."

And fuck, your whole body burns. The way he says it—so blunt, so confident, so fucking casual—has your brain short-circuiting. Your fingers curl into fists, gripping at nothing, trying so hard to play it cool despite the way your pulse is pounding.

You swallow thickly. Cross your arms tighter. Try to keep your face neutral.

"…Sure," you say.

Expression blank.

Voice flat.

Trying desperately to ignore the way your ears are on fire.

He grins. He knows. He sees through you.

And before you can blink, you’re on the bed.

Pinned.

His lips crush against yours, his hands sliding up your sides, warm, slow, possessive. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing at yours, dragging you into something slow and dizzying and hot.

The kiss is rough, almost desperate—like he’s trying to prove something, trying to make you feel what they won’t say out loud. Their hands grip your waist as they push you back, guiding you until your legs hit the bed.

Then they shove you down.

Not forcefully, not like they’re trying to overpower you—just firm, controlled, the way they always are. Like they’re claiming you, like they’re saying you’re mine without needing to use the words.

Their weight follows, pressing you into the mattress, their breath warm against your lips as they hover just above you. They’re looking at you—God, they’re watching you—like they’re searching for something in your eyes, something they’re too much of a coward to ask for outright.

“You still mad at me, You?” they murmur, voice low, teasing—but there’s a flicker of something real underneath it.

You scoff, tilting your head away, acting like you don’t feel the way your body reacts to them. Damn them. “Maybe.”

They chuckle—soft, breathy—then press their lips to the curve of your jaw, trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin of your throat until you gasp.

“Y’sure?” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their hands say otherwise. They’re firm where they grip your hips, grounding you, holding you close—like they’re afraid you’ll slip through their fingers.

You’re still trying to be stubborn, still fighting the way your heart pounds when their lips graze your collarbone. “If you think I’m just gonna forgive you—”

“I know.”

The words are quiet, barely more than a whisper. And when they finally look at you, their eyes are dark—heated—but there’s something else there too. Something softer, something unspoken.

Then they kiss you.

And it’s deep this time—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, that melts into you like a promise. Their hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin, holding you like you’re precious.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

You grab at them—pulling them closer, wrapping your arms around their neck, threading your fingers through their hair. You’re kissing them back just as desperately, pouring every ounce of your frustration, your longing, your love into it.

You don’t even know when they settle fully between your legs, don’t even register the way their hips press against yours until they groan against your lips, grinding into you.

“Fuck,” they rasp, burying their face against your neck. “Y’don’t—You have no idea what y’do to me, You…”

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The argument still lingers in the air between you, unspoken and unresolved, but this—this—is how you make up. Not with words.

Their breath is warm, teasing against your skin before they dip lower—trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, lower still until their lips hover just above your chest.

Then—fuck.

They bite.

A sharp little nip against your nipple before their tongue soothes over the sting, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt straight down your spine. You gasp, arching into them, but they don’t stop—not yet. They flick their tongue over the sensitive bud, watching your reactions, listening to every little sound you make, before latching on properly, sucking just hard enough to make your head spin.

“Sensitive, huh?” Their voice is thick with amusement, teasing but hungry. One of their hands drags down your stomach, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your clothes, slipping just beneath—so close, so fucking close, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

You squirm beneath them, frustration bubbling up, but they only smirk against your skin. Their other hand comes up to your neglected nipple, rolling it between their fingers, pinching just enough to make you whimper.

“Mm. Y’really gonna stay mad at me?” Their voice is low, husky, vibrating through you as they switch sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, sucking and teasing, leaving you breathless.

Your hands fly to their hair, gripping tight—like you can force them to stop teasing. “Shut up,” you manage, but it’s weak, a little desperate, and they love it.

They chuckle, the sound rumbling against your skin.

“Guess I’ll have t’fuck the anger outta you, then.”

And with that, their hand finally slips lower.

Their fingers trace slow, feather-light circles over your clothed heat, barely pressing down, just teasing. It’s infuriating—your body is aching, burning, needing more, but they won’t give it to you. Not yet.

“Still mad at me, huh?” Their voice is mocking, low and amused, but there’s something else beneath it—something dark, something possessive. Their fingers dip lower, almost slipping under the fabric, but then they pull back, just enough to leave you frustrated.

You whine—actually whine—and the sound makes them smirk.

“Aw, poor thing.” Their lips graze your ear, warm and teasing. “Want somethin’?”

You try to grind against their hand, desperate for anything, but they pin you down, using their weight to keep you still. Their fingers barely press against you, just enough to make you twitch, make you gasp, make you ache for more.

“Y’gotta tell me, baby.” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their breath is ragged against your skin. They’re enjoying this just as much as you are—dragging it out, making you want it, making you need it.

You grit your teeth, refusing to beg. Refusing.

But when they pull away entirely, hands leaving you completely, you snap.

“Fuck—just touch me already!”

Their smirk widens, and fuck, they love hearing you like this—frustrated, desperate, barely holding on.

“That’s more like it.”

And then—finally, finally—their fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding against your heat, pressing deep, stretching you open, giving you exactly what you need.

Their fingers curl just right, pressing deep, slow, deliberate—just enough to make you feel it, but never enough to satisfy. It’s torture, this agonizing pace, this teasing, feather-light touch that only fuels the fire burning inside you. Your breath is ragged, your body trembling, every muscle tensed as you claw at the sheets beneath you.

"Redacted—!" Your voice is caught between a moan and a plea, frustration boiling over as they refuse to give you what you really want.

They chuckle—low, deep, full of amusement as they press an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, their lips trailing slow, lazy heat down your skin. "Mmm... somethin' wrong, Angel?" Their fingers withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, shallow and teasing. "Y'sound a lil' worked up."

You whimper—a sound you wouldn’t have let anyone else hear, but with them? They pull it from you so easily. Your hands fly to their wrist, gripping tight, trying to force them to move faster, deeper, more, but they don’t budge.

"Please," you breathe, half-growling, half-desperate. "Stop—teasing."

They click their tongue, shaking their head as if you’re being so unreasonable. "Steam’s gotta be let off first, Angel," they murmur, their voice a smooth, teasing drawl. "Ain't that right?"

You let out a frustrated whine, hips jerking as you try to meet their touch, but they tut softly, keeping you pinned, keeping control.

"Y'know I’ll never deny you, Angel…" Their lips brush against your ear, voice dark and sweet, and then—finally, finally—they snap.

Their fingers plunge deep, their pace turning from lazy and teasing to devastating, working you open without a shred of mercy. The pleasure slams into you, white-hot and overwhelming, and you cry out, head falling back as the heat coils tight in your core.

Their free hand grips your chin, tilting your face toward them, forcing you to meet their gaze—eyes dark, intense, locked onto yours like they own you.

"That’s it," they murmur, voice thick with hunger. "Let me hear you, Angel."

Their grip tightens—steady, unrelenting—keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall. Your body trembles beneath them, muscles twitching, every nerve alight with unbearable heat. It’s too much—too good—but they won’t let you go.

You choke out their name between ragged breaths, your hands clutching at their arms, their shoulders, anything to ground yourself, to plead for mercy. But all they do is smirk, dragging their fingers slowly out, only to press them back in at an achingly controlled pace.

"Aww, listen to you," they murmur, voice dripping with dark amusement. "So needy, Angel…" They lean in, lips brushing your ear as their free hand smooths over your stomach, your chest—trailing slow, teasing circles over your heated skin. "You sound so pretty when you beg, y’know that?"

A frustrated whimper escapes you, a shiver wracking your body as you fight against their hold, desperate to move, to chase what they keep just out of reach.

"P-please," you gasp, back arching, toes curling. "Please, I—I need—"

They hush you, their fingers plunging deeper, curling just right, sending an electric shock of pleasure straight to your core.

"Shhh, Angel… I know." Their voice is soft, almost mocking in its sweetness. "But y’gotta hold on for me, yeah? Y’can do that, right?"

You shake your head, gasping, voice breaking. "No! I—I can’t—"

They chuckle, their grip tightening, keeping you still as your body shudders beneath them.

"Sure y’can," they murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips, voice thick with affection. "Y’just don’t know it yet."

Before you could get another word out, they pushed in.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at their back, nails digging into heated skin as your body arched against them. Your head tipped back, a broken, helpless sound spilling from your lips, pleasure crashing through you in waves.

"Fuck—"

They groaned against your neck, their breath hot and ragged, their own body trembling as they sank into you, inch by inch. Your arms wrapped around them on instinct, pulling them impossibly closer, your chest pressed flush against theirs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

"Shit… Angel—" Their voice was low, strained, barely holding on, but the way they said your name—like they were praying—sent a shiver down your spine. They needed this just as much as you did.

You barely had time to breathe before they bit down—hard—right against the curve of your neck.

A high-pitched cry escaped you, your body jerking in response, heat coiling in your gut, winding tighter—too much, too fast. The sting of their teeth melted into a dull, throbbing pleasure, and when their tongue soothed over the mark, you whimpered, shivering as they left behind a deep, dark hickey.

Their hands slid down your sides, slow, possessive, fingers pressing into your skin as they pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, desperate, barely restrained.

"Gonna keep you right here," they murmured, voice thick with need. Their hips rolled forward, their hold tightening. "Gonna make sure you feel me—"

Another thrust. Deeper. More intense.

Your vision blurred, your breath catching, body twitching as pleasure surged through you like fire.

"Fuck— please—" You couldn’t even finish the sentence, couldn’t even think—just clutching at them, holding on as they fucked you through the dizzying, overwhelming sensation, keeping you right on the brink of explosion.

And then—

They kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

And you fucking broke.

Your whole body shattered beneath them.

A choked, shuddering gasp tore from your throat as the pleasure hit—blinding, overwhelming, knocking every last thought from your head. Your legs clenched around their waist, hands grasping at their shoulders, their hair—anything you could hold onto as wave after wave of white-hot bliss crashed through you.

They swallowed your cries, their lips moving against yours in a messy, desperate kiss, like they were trying to devour every sound you made, feel every tremor in your body as you unraveled beneath them. Their name spilled from your lips like a prayer, half-whimpered, half-moan, and fuck—

They loved it.

"That's it," they groaned, voice rough, breath hitching against your mouth. Their grip on your hips tightened, strong fingers digging into your skin as they thrust into you, chasing their own release, dragging you through the aftershocks. "God, Angel—feel so fucking good—"

Your mind was spinning, body still trembling in their arms, overstimulated and aching in the best way. But you still wanted more.

"More," you gasped, voice barely above a breath, hands tightening in their hair, pulling them closer. "Please—"

They swore under their breath, something low and guttural, before burying their face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping forward with a deep, needy groan.

"Fuck—fuck—"

And then—

They came, shuddering against you, their whole body tensing as they spilled inside, breath hitching, hips stuttering in the aftermath. A low, wrecked sound left their lips, barely held back, and you swore it was the sexiest thing you'd ever heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathing. Holding each other. Feeling the warmth between you, the way their body pressed against yours, how they fit against you so perfectly.

Then—

A slow, satisfied exhale, their lips ghosting over your temple before they nuzzled into your hair.

"S’good," they murmured, voice thick, lazy. "Too good, Angel… y’ damn near killed me."

You huffed out a breathless laugh, still reeling, but you felt the way their arms tightened around you—how they refused to let you go, even as exhaustion started to set in.

Their hips didn’t still for long.

Even as you were still trying to catch your breath, still reeling from the way they had just ruined you, they were already moving again—slow, teasing rolls of their hips against yours, letting you feel just how much they still wanted you.

"Tsk, look at you, Angel," they murmured against your ear, voice thick with amusement and something darker beneath it. Their lips brushed your jaw, your cheek, your neck—each kiss deliberate, possessive—before they nipped at the sensitive skin, making you gasp. "Still twitchin’ for me. So sensitive…"

Your breath hitched as they ground against you again—slow and lazy but purposeful, their length dragging through the mess between your thighs, rubbing against every oversensitive spot that had you whimpering into their shoulder.

"R-Redacted…" you gasped, fingers clutching at their back, nails digging in, desperate to ground yourself against the pleasure. "Too much… I—I just—"

They shushed you, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, their voice a low, affectionate drawl. "I know, Angel. S’alright… I got you."

But they didn’t stop.

Their hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips, holding you firm as they rocked into you, slow and deep—not enough to overwhelm, not yet, but enough to make you feel them, to keep you on edge.

"Gotta make up for makin’ you mad, don’t I?" they murmured, teeth grazing your ear, sending a full-body shudder down your spine. "Gotta show my Angel how much I love ‘em…"

Their fingers found your jaw, tilting your face toward them, their lips hovering just over yours—so close, so teasing.

"You still mad at me, Angel?"

You wanted to glare at them. Really, you did. But the way they were touching you, the way they were looking at you, their breath warm against your lips—fuck, you couldn’t think straight.

You swallowed hard, trying to muster even the smallest amount of defiance. "M-Maybe…"

A slow, knowing smirk curled at their lips.

"Maybe?" they echoed, tilting their head. "Guess I’ll have to keep goin’ ‘til you forgive me, then…"

And then—

They thrust.

Deep. Slow. Purposeful.

And you—

You cried out.

They shushed you through the cry, murmuring low and soothing against your lips, but their movements didn’t falter. If anything, their grip on your hips tightened, keeping you right where they wanted you as they rolled into you again—deep, slow, letting you feel every inch of them as they stretched you open all over again.

"There we go," they murmured, dragging their lips down your throat, feeling the way your pulse raced beneath their mouth. "Takin’ me so good, Angel. Y’always do…"

Your breath hitched, legs twitching where they were wrapped around their waist, toes curling with every slow, devastating movement. "R-Redacted—"

"Shh, I know…" Their voice was all honey and heat, melting into you. "I know, Angel. I got you…"

But they didn’t stop teasing.

Their hips moved at a pace that was infuriatingly slow, drawing out every sensation, forcing you to feel it—like they wanted to savor you, like they wanted to pull every last sound from your lips before they finally let you have what you wanted.

And you were—

You were so frustrated. So worked up and sensitive that it was too much and not enough all at once. You needed more, you needed faster, you needed—

"Damn it, Redacted, please—!"

They chuckled, low and warm against your skin, their lips curling against your shoulder. "Please what, Angel? Gotta be specific…"

Your face burned. They knew exactly what you wanted, they just wanted to hear you say it—to make you beg for it.

"P-Please, just—" You clenched around them, nails digging into their back, eyes squeezing shut as another slow thrust sent fire up your spine. "Just stop teasing and—"

"And what, Angel?" Their voice was syrupy sweet, mocking in the softest, most affectionate way. "Say it for me…"

Your pride was screaming at you to fight back, to bite back something smart, to refuse to give them the satisfaction—

But then they rolled their hips, slow and deep, and any resistance you had left shattered.

"J-Just fuck me already—!"

They groaned, deep and pleased, like that was exactly what they were waiting for.

"That’s my Angel…"

And then—

Then they snapped their hips forward.

Hard. Fast. Deep.

Their breath hitched, and then they growled—low, deep, vibrating through their chest and into you.

"More, huh?" Their fingers tightened on your hips, their weight pressing you into the mattress as they pinned you down completely. "Y'got no idea what you're askin' for, Angel…"

But they gave it to you.

They slammed into you, hard enough to send shockwaves through your body, hard enough to knock every breath from your lungs. The rhythm was relentless now—fast, deep, dragging you to the edge so quickly your head spun. Your body jolted with every thrust, fingers curling into the sheets, clawing at their back, at their shoulders, at anything you could hold onto—

"F-Fuck—!" You barely had breath to speak, barely had thoughts left beyond the heat, the overwhelming pleasure, the way they were stretching you, filling you, ruining you—

They buried their face against your neck, breath hot and ragged, groaning with every desperate snap of their hips. "S'good, Angel. So perfect—"

Their lips ghosted against your pulse, hot and open-mouthed, before sinking their teeth into your skin—hard.

You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, blinding, consuming, your body arching into them as you came with a cry, trembling beneath them as your vision whited out.

And they didn’t stop.

"C’mon, Angel—give me another," they rasped, voice thick with praise, with possession, with love. "Bet you can, can't you? Bet you can take one more for me—"

You shuddered, body trembling beneath them as waves of pleasure crashed through you, but they weren’t done—not yet.

"Again, Angel," they murmured against your skin, voice thick, almost pleading now. "Let me feel you—let me hear you."

You bit your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to keep your sounds from spilling out—

But then they thrust one last time, deep, grinding against you as they spilled inside, hot and thick, sending you spiraling into another sharp, helpless climax.

And that was it. That was the moment you broke.

A choked sob escaped your lips, your whole body tightening around them as pleasure wrecked you, as their name tore from your throat in a breathless, trembling moan—

"Fuck— that’s it, that’s it," they groaned, arms locking around you, holding you close as they rode out the last pulses of pleasure, as they filled you to the brim.

It was overwhelming—too much, too deep, too intimate.

And still, they didn’t pull away.

Instead, they held you, breath hot against your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin. Their hands traced soothing circles over your hips, grounding you, keeping you close, like they couldn’t let go.

"You okay, Angel?" their voice was softer now, gentle, laced with something raw, something vulnerable.

You barely had the strength to nod, still shaking in their arms, still feeling them inside you, still coming down from that high.

They pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, their fingers tightening around yours as they whispered, "S’good. So good. Mine."

And fuck.

Your heart ached.

They let out a soft chuckle, still breathless, still soaked in heat and the remnants of pleasure. Their arms curled around you, pulling you against their chest, their heartbeat pounding against your ear.

"Man," they murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something softer, sweeter. "That’s one way to let off steam."

You scoffed weakly, burying your face against their skin, trying to fight the warmth spreading through your chest.

"Shut up," you mumbled.

They just smirked, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Never."

The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the gentle hum of their fingers tracing up and down your back, soothing, steady—like they never wanted to let you go.

"Y’know," they muttered after a moment, "if I pissed you off on purpose, d’you think—"

You pinched their side before they could finish.

They yelped—then laughed, burying their face in your hair, still cradling you like you were something precious. Like they couldn’t believe they got to have you like this.

"Love you," they whispered against your temple, breath warm, tender.

And even though you were still pretending to be mad, still trying to act like you weren’t melting at their touch—

You whispered it back.

#14 days with you #14dwy ren #14dwy x reader #ren 14 days with you #14dwy #14 days with you ren #14dwy redacted x reader #14dwy ren x reader #14dwy redacted #14 days with you redacted #14 days with you x reader #14 days with you ren x reader

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sillyuin · 5 months ago

Text

Searching you

Genre: hurt/comfort, angts ??, very domestic fluff.

Pairing: Seungcheol x gn!reader.

Warnings: Reader is ill, couple arguments, crying, scoups being a walking green flag.

- Yuin’s note: At this point it is no longer necessary to say that every time I get sick, I write something that completely reflects how I feel.

Seungcheol knows how individual you are and respects that. He understands that you like to do things on your own, how difficult it is for you to ask for help, and even thought he is very proud of you, he will not hesitate to help when the opportunity arises.

However, that day he did not feel very proud. Seungcheol had returned from running some errands and when he entered the dining room, the first thing he saw was an unpleasant surprise. You were slumped over the table, your arms crossed as a pillow, with a thick blanket over your body.

He set the groceries down on the counter and approached, careful not to wake you up, but he barely got closer when you raised your head with clear agitation.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he said, almost in a whisper. “What are you doing here? You should be resting.”

“Waiting for you…” you replied in a broken tone, looking down at the table.

Seungcheol pressed his lips together with frustration, and when he tried to place his hand on your shoulder, you shook him off a bit roughly, turning your face away to avoid seeing him. But that didn’t stop him.

“y/n,” his voice sounded kind and firm at the same time, but it became steady when you shrugged your shoulders and ignored him. “I’m talking to you, look at me.”

You pushed the chair back with a heavy noise, standing up to face him as if confronting an enemy. Not even his concerned gaze made you tremble; in fact, it might have made you even angrier.

“Where the hell did you go?” you asked, raising your voice slightly.

“I went to buy medicine and something for you to eat,” he replied calmly, trying his best to not pay attention to your irritable behavior.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You took a step forward as if you wanted to intimidate him, but Seungcheol stood his ground.

“I wanted to, but you couldn’t sleep last night because of the fever,” Cheol took a step forward trying to reach out to you; however, you stepped back two paces, curling up a bit under the blankets. He swallowed hard. “You needed to rest.”

“That’s just an excuse,” the sad tone of your voice reached Cheol’s ears like a loud noise, and your tear-filled eyes made his hands tremble in a mix of panic and confusion. “I needed you, and you left me!”

A heavy silence filled the apartment. Seungcheol looked at you with a downcast gaze, unsure of what to do. He felt rejected. He was trying to respect your space, your feelings and your illness. The only thing that mattered to him was you to be okay, even if it meant swallowing his pride and pleasing you.

However, his heart skipped a beat when he felt a familiar weight on his shoulder, as you were wrapping your arms around his waist in a desperate attempt to hug him.

He embraced you gently, placing one arm over your shoulders and using the other to pull the blankets away, gripping your waist to draw you closer to him. Your body was trembling with fever, so weak that you couldn’t even cry; still, you clung to him like the world’s gonna end, resting your face against his shoulder as the tears started to flow by itself.

After a few minutes, you regained your breath and barely pulled back to look into Cheol’s eyes, letting him wipe your face with the sleeve of his sweater. He felt that if he broke the hug, you would too, and kept his hold on as the moment lingered.

“I had a nightmare,” you said, tightening your hands around his torso. “I woke up scared, shaking, and when I saw that you weren’t there, I got angry.”

“I'm sorry,” he replied, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

“No, I'm sorry,” you rested your face back on his shoulder, adjusting the hug a bit. He instinctively did the same. “I got mad, and you were just trying to help. You’re a sweetheart.”

Cheol smiled, leaving a little kiss on your shoulder. “I think the fever went up, your skin is burning and you’re saying weird things.”

A slight whine made him chuckle softly. “Why are you never serious?”

Seungcheol moved back a little, holding your face between his hands, giving you a big smile, and finally kissing you on the forehead.

“Don’t you like how I am?” He raised an eyebrow, making a face that made you laugh.

“No… I love you just the way you are.”

Cheol gave you another peck on the forehead before picking up the blanket from the floor and guiding you toward the bed. He went to the kitchen to fetch some medicine along with a glass of water, and as he returned to the room, you were sitting at the edge of the bed waiting for him.

“you're so stubborn” he said in a resigned tone and huffed, making you laugh. He was happy to see you in that state despite the sickness.

After taking your pills, you curled up in the blankets. Seungcheol sat on the floor, his arms crossed over the bed with his chin resting on them, wanting to stay by your side until he was sure you were asleep, no matter how long it took.

Your eyes slowly opened, and when you saw him, you couldn’t help the shy smile that spread across your face. You reached out your hand towards him and he took it, tenderly kissing your knuckles.

“Thanks for everything,” you closed your eyes again and squeezed his hand. “You really are a sweetheart.”

“You make me one” He smiled to himself as he pecked your knuckles once more. “I love you.”

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bernardsbendystraws · 4 months ago

Text

𝑪𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 . . . 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 . . . ANGST - resolved. Crying. Depressing shit. Matt being a good boyfriend even though you try to push yourself away from him. { Doll .ᐟ Reader x Matt Sturniolo }

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 . . . Dividers by me

“Why won’t you just let me take care of you?”

The genuine question falling from his lips is almost sour. It was like he wasn’t allowed to just coddle you, keep you safe and sound and do all the work for you - even just for one stupid minute. And he was desperate, practically grasping at straws at this point.

“I - I don’t need to be taken care of, okay?” You spit, running off and locking the door to your shared bedroom with him. It just made you so mad. He was so pushy - so…ugh.

Angry tears roll down your face profusely. The rage churns in your gut, a wave of emotions shifting it into something sadder - something bitter. Something that made you feel like you couldn’t relax in your own skin.

Matt sits on the floor, his head piled in his hands as his elbows rest on his knees. He stares at that door hopelessly. Everytime he gets close…you shove him right back out. You lock him out.

His ears perk at the sound of footsteps. The second that door knob buckles to signify it’s unlocked, he can feel the shift in your energy, anticipation gnawing at his bones as he waits for your eyes to stare down at him.

But they don’t.

The door only swings open, just the tiniest crack.

But - it’s enough.

Matt stands tall, taking soft, slow steps as he hesitantly pushes on the wooden barrier. The sight of your glossy eyes makes his lips fumble to a frown, his own eyelashes feeling heavier as warmth floods his face.

“I’m worried about you, sweetheart,” he whispers, bringing his hand up to cup your wet cheek. There’s some sort of crack in your facade. Maybe it’s the way your lips quiver, or maybe it’s the way you're looking up at him with bare emotions. Either way, it hurts. But, it hurts in the type of way you need.

Ripping-off the bandaid - the bandaid you had been peeling over so slowly that you felt it grasp onto every hair along the way.

You suck in a shaky breath. The nausea grows as you try to mutter weakly, “I’m…I’m scared you’ll leave me or - or, I don’t know,” you ramble, staring down at the floor as haunting memories brush through your mind - the same memories that made you feel this way in the first place, “-I’m just scared, Matt.”

Your voice is heavenly soft. Matt reaches his other hand to cup your other cheek, making you look up at him.

“Oh, Doll…” he says, leaning down to kiss your cheek softly. And it is soft - almost as if he’s scared any pressure would make you run. And maybe it would.

Silence. The air is damp, weighing down on your shoulders as you feel his hands slide down to yours, grasping lightly as he drags you over, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting his lap.

You sit. Your attempt at having your back against him doesn’t work - not when Matt decides to put a hand on the side of your thigh and drag you to have your shoulder pressed against his chest.

“I’m not leavin’ - ever. I…I’ve never loved someone like I love you and I…” it almost hurts to say it, like somehow the possibility of manifesting it would crush him completely, “-I couldn’t ever imagine losing you, I - I,” his voice is quieter as he hushes out the words, “-I can’t lose you.”

You curl further into him, his sad aura making the guilt and relief weigh down at the same time. He loves you. He loves you so much. But what if you can’t love him enough? What if there’s somebody out there that could love him better?

“I’m a mess, Matt. I…” the sigh that purses through your lips seems to tear at his heart, “-I don’t wanna drag you down or-”

“You don’t.”

His words are so quick that you barely even process them. Matt shifts his hands, moving one to grasp onto your waist and pull you into his chest. He leans his head on top of yours, cherishing your warmth.

“Trust me, you don’t.”

Trust him.

You want to trust him - you really, really do.

But, you just don’t trust yourself.

Maybe it’s time to learn.

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sugurusladyknightt · 2 months ago

Text

➺ husband!sukuna x reader (1/2)

"you're mad at me."

you huff through your nose, your reflection in the mirror is an angry one and rightfully so. eyes closed you take a moment to collect yourself, to loosen your clenched jaw, and just breathe.

"'you're mad at me', says the idiot man" you say, eyes intent on not leaving your reflection in the mirror, " 'of course i'm mad at you' replies the idiot man's spouse." matter of factly, mock sympathy clear in your voice, before it turns cold. "for last night i discovered my idiot man husband who was terribly hurt by i'm not even sure what, standing in the bathroom trying to tend to his wound with tools that are inadequate to tend to those sorts of wounds.'"

the comb in your hands now being held like it is something between an accusing finger and a weapon ready to attack. still your eyes do not leave their reflection in the mirror before you.

sukuna thinks not having you speak to him, not having you look at him since last night, is lethal weapon enough.

"and when idiot spouse sees this, she feels a surge of very very many emotions of worry and sadness and anger and confusion and concern and yet, idiot man plays her the fool. no explanation,- "

"baby, please"

you sound exasperated, frantic; and him desperate.

"nothing, nothing at all to ease her worries. like she is someone he simply owes nothing too. like she isn't the one he's married to. it is possible that idiot man thinks his wife will simply forget. and then what does idiot man do you ask? well idiot man does just as his name suggests and acts as if he has no idea what is going on, he acts like an idiot, and continues to state plainly, pathetically, uselessly, 'you're mad at me.'"

you turn to look at him and you look pained. and god does he feel that way too. it's hidden well by your hardened exterior, furrowed brows, cold voice, and angry expression, but sukuna has come far past the point of being fooled by the expression you wear on your face — your eyes tell. they always do.

he moves from where he stands to take to your side, his place, sat next to you. his movements stiff, not as smooth as usual but still his natural effortlessness somehow manages to shine through. his knees touching yours almost shyly, and his hands curled in his lap, clasped together tightly. he wants to hold yours. you can tell, though make no movement to realize that desire. that need. neither of you move. but you wait for him.

it's quite strange to see sukuna of all people like this; it doesn't happen very often. crimson eyes down cast and his lips seemingly unable to decide whether they want to part and speak to you or to press themselves into a thin line and say nothing at all.

moments and moments pass and he gives you nothing. you feel your chest as it fills with air and slowly deflates, deeep breathe.

you stand from your place and move to your bed, you need some sleep right now. you miss it with your back turned to him as you walk. his form falls further, longing for you so dearly when your so close.

his ego and pride aside; those things have no room in his mind, not when he is with you. he didn't need to be those things with you, he did not have to be endlessly strong. he did not have to be so guarded and he doesn't want to be. he doesn't want you to be that way around him either.

shit, he hadn't meant for this.

last night, sukuna had come home with a nasty gash through his his side. it was late and you were asleep, and he was tired. so tired. the last thing he needed was to have to wait in a hospital for hours to receive care when he could do it here, at home, by himself, close to you.

so there he is, lights on in the bathroom as he's standing there trying to stitch himself up with the little sewing kit you kept in the medicine cabinet and a pair of kitchen scissors. it was a bloody affair, jaw clenched through the pain. his head was thrown back, sharp exhales, and eyes shut so tight. bloodied toilet paper everywhere. and that's right when you just so happen to walk in.

(perfect timing as always.)

sukuna thinking it's between kinda funny, incredibly scary, and so impressive how you always manage to find him in the most unfortunate and compromising of situations.

he must've been louder than he'd thought. your sleepy form goes rigid as your eyes adjust to the light and you register the sight before you.

your husband, standing with his back against one of the walls of the small room, bloodied hands are positioned close to the wound in his side, one holding the needle and thread, dripping in his blood. the silver band he wears so proudly on his left hand is too.

your eyes frantically darting everywhere, finally landing on his wide crimson eyes staring right back at you. they match the color of the blood soaking his hands and smeared on his face and nearly everything else in the bathroom.

if the circumstances were different, if it wasn't for you he gaping hole in his side, you'd think it's quite a picturesque view. but right now, he looks like a man who was just caught doing a horrible job of trying to sew himself together at midnight by his wife, who by the way, also just had her sleep disturbed by him.

your eyes go from wide with shock and confusion to being filled with worry and concern to focused and determined. the transformation so quick, it'd be easy for anyone else to miss.

you take his hand in yours and lead him to sit on the lid of the toilet almost as quick. pulling the hand covering the gash away from it so you can examine it without disruption .

it's a few too many inches long for your liking, right down the side of his tattooed torso. well sure, he's been hurt before, purple and blue bruises on his face, bloody cracked knuckles, some scratches every so often. you know who you married, you've had to sew and patch him up before but really it was nothing major, nothing in comparison to this.

"don't move, i'll only be a moment."

you've left to grab the first aid box you have, it isn't ideal, but better than what he's been doing. it's all you have to work with for now, and so you'll just have to do with it.

once back, you settle between his thighs and start opening and removing the stitches he's sewn in so that you can clean it up, disinfect it, before sewing it up properly, and wrapping him up.

your work is diligent and quite. eyes hardly ever leaving their current subject of interest. he's quiet too, crimson eyes don't leave you. in the past, when you've found yourself in these situations, he'd be teasing or making those quick-witted remarks of his, but not tonight. he can't bring himself to.

you do your best, willing your hands not to tremble as you work; there's so much blood. you can see his hands clenched atop his thighs, knuckles going white. his muscles flinching at the burn and sting of the disinfectant and the cold of the needle repeatedly piercing his aching skin.

you know he's tired, you are too. but sleep is so far form your mind right now. you place a hand on his thighs and squeeze gently, hoping your grip is steadying to him. something to keep him grounded. something to convey the words you don't have the strength to announce at the moment but still, you want him to hear them.

once you're done, you let out a slow, shaky breathe. one of relief. quickly moving to the sink to wash your hands and dry your hands before wrapping him up in clean gauze. the first few layers bloody quick, but you continue until it is enough, looking up at him in question to ensure it isn't too tight before you secure it in place.

your hands gently drag up and down his sides before they settle of his tights to push yourself up, only then do you meet his eyes properly. he feels like it's his first time seeing you all over again. its not enough, eyes darting away far too quick. its far too fleeting a moment for him to properly telepathically convey his thoughts to you through the eye contact. girl wtf are you talking abt??

you pack up the first aid kid setting it on the counter, leaving to grab him a clean shirt from the closet setting it on the counter as well, and your off to bed. not another word to him, not another glance. you don't even know that you want to know what happen. he feels like a child how'd just been scolded. his body far too large for him in this moment.

sukuna slips the shirt over his head, and moves carefully when he's fitting the rest of it over his body. it was pretty bad, he can't even pretend that this isn't all that big of a deal. he knew, your actions were only coming from a place of concern for his wellbeing and that made this all that much worse. he feels likes he's been drinking hot sand instead of water.

he looks at himself in the mirror, bloodied sink under him. sighh. there's not much else he can do.

he peaks his head out the bathroom first, then the rest of him emerges from behind his fortified shield. he's met with the sight of you, well.. kinda. he's met with the sight of a lump under the blankets he knows is you.

your back facing his side of the bed, and he's sitting on the edge of it. there's an air of awkwardness, as he settles under the covers, his eyes trained on your back. sukuna wants so badly to shuffle close to you and lay his head on your pillow, to hold your hand in his and tangle your legs together under the covers, but he doesn't. he can bring himself to.

so he just stares at you longingly, he stares at you like you're hundreds of kilometres away. and all he can hope for is that tomorrow, when he wakes up with you, it'll be better.

that he'll be better.

better for you.

divider by @saradika-graphics

#deep sighhh #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #jjk sukuna #jjk au #sukuna au #sukuna imagine #husband sukuna #modern sukuna #i honestly have no idea how to treat such a wound #jjk angst #jjk fluff #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst #&. knightt writes ''─ .⟢

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irndad · 1 year ago

Note

Hi, I’m so sorry, I searched for request guidelines and must be missing them so if this isn’t something you write I apologize-

Flower prompt heliotrope with Spencer where reader sacrifices herself/or gets shot to save Maeve so Spencer can be happy, even though she’s hopelessly in love with him. 🥹

Little angst, little fluff. You can decide if reader fully sacrifices or just gets really badly hurt and how Spencer reacts.

my dear!! there are no rules yet- i have things i won't fill but thus far the onus has been on me to clarify. i had so much fun writing this- thank you for requesting it!!! requests r open :^) wc: 1.1k

“Is Maeve okay?”

It’s the first thing she says when she wakes up from her hospital bed. Spencer’s shaking, a little woozy too. It turns out that they have the same blood type, and she lost a whole fucking lot of it. He’d been happy to give it to her, although ‘happy’feels like the wrong word to use in this situation.

She had internal bleeding, and collapsed harshly from the gunshot, scuffing her forehead so badly she needed stitches. Comparatively, it’s the least of her worries, but still- Spencer can’t stop staring at it. She’s literally marred by the choice she made to protect him.

Maeve is okay. She’s in the same hospital, but Spencer’s spent about ten minutes with her- the rest of the last 12 hours of his life were spent oscillating between donating blood and praying to a deity he’s not sure exists.

She’d survived. They’d both survived. He should feel relieved- why doesn’t he feel relieved?

It’s a stupid question that he keeps asking himself. Two of the most important people in his life are alive, but still in the moment, her blood spilling over him- the gasp of her breath when the bullet hit her- He’s going to remember the sound of it forever, what it sounded like for her to almost die for someone else. He hates that she’s the type of person to do it. To jump in front of a loaded gun for a woman she’s never met before.

He’s mad at her. He has no right to be- he gets a chance with Maeve now, and that’s all due to the choice she made. And yet- he’s so, so angry at her. Because she could be dead right now. He could never, ever talk to her again. She made a choice that meant that he might have never been able to hear her voice, do a magic trick for her, ever, ever be near her again. How the fuck could she do that to him?

“Yes,” he replies, “she’s okay.”

She nods agreeably, before wincing at what appeared to be an intense ache at her temples.

“My head hurts,” she says, her voice low and endearing, and his heart roars with protectiveness. “Do you think I could have a juice box?”

She’s so sweet- he wants to laugh, in a sad desperate kind of way. This is his favorite person in the world, sitting up shakily and asking for juice, clearly groggy and so endearing. He almost lost her.

“You’re okay too,” he says, “If you’re wondering. You scared us. You had internal bleeding and a concussion. You lost a lot of blood.”

It’s only then she frowns.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she pouts, trying to sit up and speak to him. “But it all worked out, Spence. She’s okay.”

“It didn’t all work out!” Her eyes widen at his outburst, and he feels like scum. Yelling at her when she’s in a hospital bed, taking a bullet so he’d have a chance at romance.

“You said she’s okay,” she says back, slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“You lost blood. You almost died. That is not it working out. You have to tell me you understand that.” He doesn’t know why he’s being so harsh, but he also doesn’t know why he has to explain this to her.

“I know,” she sighs, “I know. But this is the job, and I didn’t have time to get a vest on!”

“Then you wait. You wait. You don’t just burst in-“

“And you would’ve lost the love of your life!”

“What makes you think she’s the love of my life?”

A nurse shuffles by the room and Spencer takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to be kicked out of her room, and on some level he knows how crazy it is to be yelling at a gunshot victim. He pinches his nose, eyes winced in frustration.

She’s been his favorite person by a wide margin for an incredibly long time. She joined the team as a consultant and he remembers the first time he did a card trick for her- the first time he’d fallen asleep on her shoulder. He was so grateful to know her. Still is. In this moment, knowing feels like time slipping out from an hourglass- like it was almost numbered. Their time was almost finished.

Maeve was lovely. Maeve listened and she was kind and Spencer really did like her. He’s glad she’s safe, now. But his best friend, his coworker and favorite person- Spencer thought everyone could tell that he’s been in love with the team consultant since the first week he knew her.

Everything he liked about Maeve reminded him of her.

And she’d jumped in front of a bullet for someone she thought he was in love with. And fuck, maybe he did love her in some way- but whatever ‘in love’ meant with Maeve, this sorrow, the pain of knowing she’d almost been someone he’d have to remember was far, far deeper.

“You’ve never mentioned anyone to me romantically. I’ve known you for years, Spencer. She’s important to you.”

Maeve is. She was. It’s all so confusing now. He has liked someone for years, though. He couldn’t tell her, though. Maeve was a welcome distraction from a love he thought was wholly impractical and impossible to love him back— a love that now he has to witness languish in a hospital bed.

Morgan knew. Morgan would tease him every time Spencer drew a smiley face in purple marker on her coffee cup. He would tell him to just ask her out, and it had always felt so improbable. She’d never go for someone as lanky and uncharismatic as him.

“You’re important to me.”

She has no idea how much.

Her eyes soften at that, and not for the first time, he wants to curl into her arms. He wants to lay next to her in the hospital bed, and feel her pulse beat against bare skin. Feel her pulse and with every beat know that she is alive.

“I know that, Spence,” she breathes out.

Even though it’s not kosher, not necessarily the right thing to do when your not-girlfriend/girl you went on one date with is in the same hospital, but when his best friend opens up her arms for a hug, he ends up doing exactly what he wanted.

The team finds her asleep in her hospital bed, with Spencer asleep in her arms. It feels voyeuristic to look at, but Spencer really, really couldn’t care.

He resolved to tell her that he loves her as soon as she’s healed. With the way Morgan side eyes him every time he ‘helps’ her walk across a room by holding her waist, he’s not sure he’ll last that long.

#spencer reid #spencer Reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfic

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emchant3d · 2 years ago

Text

It’s the fourth time this week Eddie’s been late without a phone call.

Sure, his job has him working weird hours - Steve gets it. But he also knows his schedule and he knows the days Eddie works at the bar til close and he knows the days he’s supposed to be home before dark, and he hasn’t had a closing shift once this week.

Yet he came home near ten tonight, and Steve had been worried and nervous and yes, sure, a little - a lot - insecure about it, and maybe he’d lashed out first, or maybe Eddie had, Steve doesn’t know, but he knows they’re standing in the living room shouting at one another and it’s all coming to a head and he can’t stop himself, can’t keep from getting loud and angry and–

"Do you even want to fucking be here?" he yells.

"Not when you're acting like this!" Eddie says, and Steve's throat goes tight like there's a fist wrapped around it.

Not when he's acting like this, he thinks. Not when he's being too needy. Too pushy. Too demanding.

Something in his brain feels like it rewires. Their relationship flips on its head, and suddenly fear is coiling in Steve's stomach, not anger.

He'll lose Eddie if he keeps pushing like this. If he demands too much of his time, pulls him away from what he'd rather be doing, makes himself too much work, he'll lose him. Eddie always said he wasn't going anywhere. That he loves Steve, wants to be with him, will never get tired of him. Steve was a fucking idiot to take that at face value.

He feels sick to his stomach. He wants to apologize, wants to tell Eddie to forget all about what he said, wants to show how sorry he is, but between one moment and the next he's feeling like a guest in his own home, and he's very familiar with how it feels to be unwelcome.

So instead he shakes his head. Eddie wants to be left alone, probably. Doesn't want to see Steve when he's mad at him. Doesn't want to deal with him. He'll make himself scarce.

"I'm staying in the guest room tonight," he says stiffly, and turns away, only faltering a little when Eddie mumbles 'what the fuck ever' behind him. He flinches when Eddie slams the front door and closes the spare room so quietly it barely even clicks.

– Eddie gets home late.

Like, late-late. Steve hears the front door open as he's staring at the clock on the bedside table, the bright red numbers burning into his vision. Why did they even put a fucking clock in here, he thinks. It's the guest room. Why did he insist on furnishing this room like someone might live in it? Like this was a home people would be in and out of, like their family would come and stay with them long enough to need an alarm clock on the bedside table?

Desperate, a voice in his head hisses at him, desperate and needy and full of wishful thinking that someone would want to stay around sad little Steve Harrington long enough to need anything--

Eddie's coming down the hallway. He's trying to be quiet, but he forgot to take his shoes off at the door and his Reeboks squeak a little against the hardwood. It's a familiar sound. Comforting, usually. It's how he knows his honey's made it home safe when he's out late, that tell-tale squeak and the little stumbles when he's tipsy and making his way through their home after a long gig.

There was no gig tonight, though, and Eddie's footsteps are steady and even despite the soft sound of rubber on wood. He isn't drunk, Steve doesn't think - and is that better or worse? That he left after a fight and didn't even go somewhere to drink it off. Where has he been, if not their usual bar to think about what they'd spat at one another, trying to think of solutions, of apologies?

And is Steve really owed an apology? He was overbearing. He was pushy. He was demanding and authoritative and too fucking much all over again, and Eddie lashed out in response, and does Steve deserve an apology after all that? He's been going around in circles with himself all evening about it, arguing in his own head, saying yes I deserve one because my feelings were hurt and no I don't deserve one because I lashed out first and how does he answer this for himself? He doesn't know.

He knows he'd do just about anything to make the empty feeling in his chest go away, though. Knows that he'd shove his hurt away and eat his words and apologize to Eddie and never, ever push again if it meant he knew where they stood. If it meant Eddie would forgive him and never storm out like that again, if it meant Steve knew he wouldn't be left alone like this to wonder if Eddie was coming back.

And he feels so dramatic - he can hear Robin's voice already, telling him it was just a fight, that there's no reason to get this worked up about it, but Steve can't help it. Slammed doors and loneliness are the soundtrack to his childhood and he can't help the panic he feels when someone he loves leaves.

"Do you want to be here?" he'd asked, like a fucking idiot, and Eddie hadn't said yes. Steve swallows around the lump that's taken up permanent residence in his throat. Reaches to swipe a hand over his face, rubbed raw, eyes burning with tears he won't let fall because what right does he have to cry? He brought this on himself. He always brings it on himself.

Eddie's feet are still squeaking their way slowly down the hallway, he's trying not to wake Steve - or is he just trying not to be noticed? Impossible, if Eddie Munson is in a room Steve is going to notice, how can he not? He's been yanked into that gravitational pull and there's no escape for him, not anymore, he's a moon circling around the solar system and Eddie is the sun, burning bright and pulling focus and what is Steve to do in the face of that?

He keeps his eyes fixed on the clock. Watches the display change when a minute's passed. Feels his heartbeat stutter when Eddie's shuffling, squeaking steps pause outside the guest room.

They keep a hall light on at night. It's on a dimmer, turned down way low, but neither of them do well with complete darkness. Too many nightmares, too many shadows haunting and hunting the both of them. Steve can see the muted glow of it from beneath the door.

He can also see when Eddie comes to a stop because his feet block that light. Two shadows in the doorframe, obscuring the soft haze of warm orange that creeps in a half-moon over the carpet, and Steve stops breathing. There's a soft shifting noise, fabric over wood, a gentle thunk when Eddie leans against the guest room door, and Steve almost calls out to him. Almost says I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, please don't leave again, please don't leave me, but the words stick in his throat. Ball's in Eddie's court, as it should be when Steve fucked up so bad, when he tried to ruin it all, when he made Eddie so mad that he left when he promised Steve he would never do that. Eddie's a good man. Keeps his word. Steve's the problem, Steve is always the goddamn problem, always will be, ruins and stains everything he fucking touches–

The shadow disappears. Steve squeezes his eyes shut so tight he sees lights popping behind his lids. Those shuffling squeaking steps continue their way down the hall. Steve feels like he's going to throw up but he didn't have dinner so there's nothing in his belly but bile and nothing comes up even though his throat is tight and his stomach is fucking rolling.

The bedroom door - their bedroom door - creaks on its hinges. Steve keeps meaning to put some WD-40 on it but he kind of likes that it makes a noise, that when he's asleep it's just loud enough to wake him halfway and tell him to anticipate the warm wash of tobacco and sandalwood that will cloud him when Eddie slips beneath the covers. Lets him know he's about to be grabbed and groped a little bit, sweet little kisses pressed to his shoulder and neck and jawline until he's got a face tucked into the curve of his throat, until he's giving a sleepy smile and winding his arms around a trim waist and dragging Eddie in close, sputtering and laughing tiredly as wild hair gets in his face and mouth before he falls asleep again, wrapped tight around the love of his life.

None of that tonight, apparently - and he doesn't blame him. No, he hears the bedroom door creak and it feels like a punishment that he deserves and his eyes burn and burn and burn and his face is wet now, he can't help it, and he wipes at it again angrily, takes the soft blanket to his face and why is it so soft why does Steve try so hard when he knows he won't get anything back why does he try to build a home when he's never had one and never will and is going to lose the one he's clawed onto so desperately and tried so hard to keep–

The door creaks again. Steve takes a stuttering breath. Eddie's steps are soft now as they come down the hallway, bare feet on the floor, almost silent as he creeps his way closer. Steve clenches his teeth so hard his jaw aches, anything to hold back the sounds he wants to make - he can't let Eddie hear him. He can't let Eddie know he's crying. That's manipulative, isn't it? Crying in front of the person he hurt? He won't do it, won't be that selfish, but that shadow appears at the base of the door again. Steve can't help the shaky inhale he takes, and it sounds so fucking loud in the quiet of the guest room, choked and echoing.

"Baby?" Eddie says, voice low and quiet, rapping so gently against the door with one knuckle. "You in there, Stevie?"

Just the sound of him is enough to send his heart crashing around in his ribcage, fluttering and jumping and making Steve tense. He wants to answer but he can’t get the words to form, his throat feels sealed shut, and he wonders if he should answer even if he were able because what could Eddie possibly have to say right now? It can’t be anything good and Steve doesn’t know if he can take it right now, in this room that makes him feel like a guest in his own home - but isn’t he always a guest? Isn’t that what he’s made to be, a temporary stop in everyone else’s story?

But he’s not ready for Eddie to move past him yet. Not tonight. Let it happen in the morning if it has to happen, let him put this off just a little longer. Just please, not tonight. Not yet.

But Eddie’s never been known for his patience, and the click of the latch has Steve slamming his eyes closed. Too late to roll over and hide his face, but he’s got enough time to duck down and tuck most of his features into a pillow. He tries to let his body relax, to let the tense lines of his muscles uncoil and his shoulders drop and his fists unclench, but he can’t tell if he’s managed it and the ache in his palms from his blunt nails tells him maybe he did, but it won’t help much.

Eddie makes his way across the carpet in silent steps, and the mattress dips with his weight as he sits on the edge of it. Steve’s fingers twitch to reach for him, but he just curls them into the sheets instead and hopes the motion looks absent enough to have happened in his sleep.

He smells sandalwood and tobacco and feels the warmth from Eddie being so near but it feels like there’s a wall between them, one he can’t cross even if he tries, one he’s barred from so much as touching.

He works hard to keep his breathing even but it’s hitching now and then despite his best efforts, shaky and too loud in the silent room, but he keeps up the charade even though the end of it all is perched right in front of him. And it’s Eddie who puts an end to it. It was always Eddie who was going to put an end to it.

“I know you’re awake,” he says, and Steve squeezes his eyes tighter like that’ll make it untrue, like he can just drift off in a second if he wills it hard enough. Eddie shifts on the mattress, and Steve curls tighter into himself. “Let’s just hash this out, huh? Get it over with.” Steve bites his tongue so hard he thinks he might taste blood. It’s that simple for Eddie - but it’s always simple, isn’t it? Cut and dry, plain as day, Steve is the only one who can never see it coming, it’s written on the goddamn walls for everyone else.

He risks peeking through his lashes but Eddie’s got his back to him so it doesn’t even matter, not really. Eddie isn’t looking at him and so Steve allows himself to look, takes in the hunch of Eddie’s shoulders, the curve of his spine beneath his thin pajama shirt - he’d changed, when he’d made his way through their creaky bedroom door, took off his clothes and put his pajamas on and kicked off those tennis shoes, they’re probably in a pile at the foot of the bed for Steve to trip over and he will miss tripping over them, he’ll miss it terribly.

He wonders if he’ll need to move. If he’ll have to find a new place and separate out all of their things into his things, if SteveAndEddie’sStuff will become Steve’s stuff and Eddie’s stuff. Or maybe he’ll just start staying in this guest room, maybe that’s why he furnished this room so completely, because somehow he knew he’d end up alone in it.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, and Steve inhales sharply.

“Don’t,” he says, and somehow he keeps his voice steady.

“So you are awake,” Eddie says, and he tries to sound teasing, sound playful, but it drops like a stone in this space between them. No room for levity in the dark cloud Steve’s filled this room with. He wishes he could be easygoing and let go gently, but it’s Eddie - in what world could he take losing him graciously?

“Yeah,” he says, and he stares at Eddie’s back as the other raises his head, but he still doesn’t turn to look at Steve, and he wishes he could at least look him in the face when he rips his heart out of his chest.

part 2

#steddie #steve/eddie #stevexeddie #eddie/steve #eddiexsteve #steddie fic #my fic #listen i was in the mood for steve whump and i won't apologize for it #don't worry there's plenty of eddie whump coming in part 2 i promise

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makis-eyebrows · 15 days ago

Text

Request: <33

Save The Last Dance

With Lando being so busy, he forgets one of the most important days of his daughter’s life.

It Was Supposed to Be Perfect.

Y/n had been planning her Sweet 16 with her dad, Lando Norris, for almost six months. Every little detail — the fairy lights, the playlist, even the chocolate fountain — they had picked out together.

But more importantly, they were supposed to do their thing.

Every year, since she turned five, they had a Daddy-Daughter Dance on her birthday. No matter where he was — Monaco, Miami, Melbourne — he would fly back just to spin her around under the stars.

Tonight was supposed to be no different.

Except it was.

Y/n sat at her table, her perfectly done-up hair beginning to wilt from the waiting, her soft pink dress crumpling beneath her as she curled into herself.

The party buzzed around her — friends laughing, balloons popping, cameras flashing — but all she could feel was the massive, aching emptiness.

Her mom, standing across the room, kept glancing at her phone, a tight, worried frown forming.

Another half-hour passed.

The DJ cued the special song she and her dad had picked. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

Still no Lando.

Something inside her cracked.

Face burning with betrayal, anger, and sadness all tangled up, Y/n grabbed her bag, slipped out the side door, and ordered an Uber. Her phone buzzed nonstop — friends, her mom, even the DJ — but she ignored them all.

She didn’t even say goodbye.

Back at Home

Y/n slammed the door behind her, tore off her heels, and sobbed into her pillow.

At the venue, her mom stood with her phone to her ear, furious.

She finally got through.

Call with Lando:

Mom: "Pick up your phone, Lando."

Lando (panicked): "What? What’s wrong?"

Mom: "You forgot her birthday. YOU FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY."

Lando: "WHAT? NO— wait, wait, what time is it?"

Mom: "It’s past 9 PM. She left her own party. Alone."

Silence.

Heavy, gut-wrenching silence.

Then the line went dead — Lando already moving.

Texts (Group Chat: F1 Idiots)

Lando:

I messed up. I missed Y/n’s Sweet 16. She’s heartbroken. What do I do.

Smooth Operator🌶:

Mate... you’re gonna have to move mountains.

Prince Of Monaco:

Big grand gesture. Flowers. Apology. Tears. Beg.

GOATed Hamilton:

Don't just say sorry. SHOW her you’re sorry. Make a memory she won’t forget.

Os🏎:

Build a time machine.

Lando:

NOT HELPING OSCAR.

Mr. Saterday:

Seriously. You need to make her feel like the most important person in the world right now.

Lando:

Ok. Ok. I’ve got an idea. Pray for me.

At Home – Late Night

Y/n sat on her bed, still in her dress, tear tracks marking her cheeks.

Then she heard it — music.

Soft, familiar, coming from outside.

Curious and still angry, she opened her window.

And there he was.

Lando Norris, standing in their backyard, fairy lights strung up everywhere, holding a giant speaker playing their song, and a hand-painted cardboard sign that read:

"I’m sorry I missed the first dance.

Can I have the last one?"

Her breath hitched.

She hesitated.

Her heart fought her mind.

But when she saw his eyes — red-rimmed, glassy, desperate — she couldn’t stay mad.

Slipping out the door, barefoot and trembling, Y/n padded across the grass.

Without a word, Lando opened his arms.

And she ran into them.

"I'm sorry, Y/n," he whispered into her hair, voice cracking. "I'm so, so sorry, bunny. You didn't deserve that. You deserve everything."

Tears spilled down her cheeks again — but this time, they were different. Softer. Healing.

"I thought you forgot about me," she mumbled.

"Never. Not even for a second." He pulled back, wiping her tears with the sleeve of his hoodie. "I messed up. But I'm going to spend every day making sure you know how much you mean to me."

He bowed dramatically, making her giggle despite herself. "May I have this dance?"

With a small, tearful laugh, Y/n nodded.

Under the fairy lights, barefoot in the grass, Lando and Y/n swayed slowly to their song — late, messy, imperfect — but maybe even more meaningful than if everything had gone to plan.

And as the night wrapped around them, it was clear:

They had saved the most important dance after all.

I tried my best chat. I enjoyed making it though. Hopefully you will enjoy it pookie.

Don't have much to say other than I was trustworthy enough to be mod in an F1 group that yall should totally join, eventually.

That's Gang Gang out!!!!♡

#f1 drivers as fathers #daughter!reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one #f1 fic #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris x daughter!reader #f1 dads

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emptywwwriting · 9 months ago

Text

Your Toxic Situationship with Joel Miller

Parings: Joel Miller x Reader

Warnings: Smut, toxic, age gap (not specified), angst?, reader cries during sex, NO Y/N, reader just wants to be loved (me too), rough p in v sex.

Summary: You and Joel have a situationship, you have feelings for Joel, but he doesn't feel the same

Inspired by a post i have reposted on my blog :)

WC: 1.2k (tiny ik)

A/N: I feel like this sucks... Anyways this is NOT edited and its that time of the night where im so tired my glasses don’t help my vision any sooo take this with a grain of salt. i'll edit it later!

There was something so painful about your relationship,, situationship... with Joel Miller.

Maybe it was the way he’d ignore you in town, even after spending days on end with you in secret. Or maybe it was the way he’d dismiss your insecurities when you would tell him about them nervously, late into the night. He’d shake his head or say.

“People would talk, no one can know about… whatever, this is.”

Whatever

It never felt like 'whatever’ to you. When he was buried inside of you so deeply brushing your cervix over and over and over again, murmurs of

“Fuck you feel so good, I love you. So fuckin’ tight sweet girl.” Would fall from his lips.

He would spill inside of you, and then the two of you wouldn’t discuss it again. It confused your desperate, sad, brain, yearning for love, to be loved. One night, during a particularly rough fucking from Joel, tears welled in your eyes as soon as you came. He stopped immediately, of course, and asked you what was wrong.

Sniffles interrupted your soft-spoken words.

“I want you to like me.” You hid your eyes from him, casting them down in shame.

“Aw, baby I do like you,” His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, wiping away a stray tear.

“Such a pretty little thing,” His hand trailed to your neck and you looked up at him.

“So tight and warm around me.” A devilish smirk overcame his previously soft look at you and you frowned. His look faltered, and he cocked his head at you.

“T’s not what I wanted to hear,” A sniffle. “I want you to like me…” You trail off trying to think of an example.

“More than just for this.” You gesture to the position the two of you are in, your naked and sweaty frame shoved against Joel’s headboard. His broad chest is hovering above you, hips flush with yours, warm and shoved deep inside of you.

He frowns at you and starts rubbing your red cheeks again.

“Baby we can’t be more than this, it’s…” He wanders off for a minute thinking of the right word.

“People wouldn’t like to see an old man like me with a young girl like you.” He gives you a sympathetic frown that you know is fake.

He shifts his weight slightly causing his heavy cock to brush that spongy spot inside of you, causing you to gasp softly.

“I-I don’t care, I want to be boyfriend and girlfriend… or something.” Hiccups interrupt you occasionally, and tears begin to form once more.

“Too young baby,” He’s shaking his head and it's breaking your heart.

“Not old enough for me, still just a kid compared to my old ass.” He chuckles trying to lighten the mood but it doesn't work, it just frustrates you more.

“I’m not a kid.” Your tone is snappy and your eyes are staring deep into his. He shifts his hips again but you muffle the reaction it causes you.

“Don't talk to me like im dumb.”

“No need to get short with me.” His smile has dropped and he looks as mad as you do now. You can’t mistake the shift in his hips this time as simply repositioning himself.

Your confidence falters.

“Why won’t you just love me?” You ask equally angry and sad.

He pulls his hips out barley a centimeter before pushing back in, slow. You gasp louder, body beginning to heat up again.

“I love this pussy baby, feels so good.” He’s grinning again pulling out even farther now before shoving himself back in. You're mad at him but the fullness his cock is giving you feels too good to ask for him to stop. You the feel tears coming again, but his hand on your clit, rubbing light soft circles sends your focus away from them.

“Needa stop thinkin’ baby, dumb little brain can’t handle all these emotions.” He’s talking to you like you're stupid and it makes your cheeks flush. He’s patronizing you, it’s infuriating, but just like before the feeling of his thrust growing longer and harder, short circuits your brain and all you can do is moan.

“Yeah I know baby, feels too good hmm?”

“Jus’ let me do all the work to make you feel good like I always do.” His thrusts pick up and a coil forms deep in your belly. Your legs are wrapping around his hips instinctively and you cling to his neck like if you let go he would disappear. Your whines are needy now, you're mad but you can’t talk, you can’t do anything but let yourself be filled by him over and over.

“I always take care of you right baby.” His breathing is labored and his eyes are black.

Staring up at him, with wide eyes and an open mouth all you can do is hum a broken.

Mhmm.

“Fill you up so nice, gonna cum in you n’ make you mine.” He’s growling, pace now erratic and mind-numbing. Your thoughts are gone and have been replaced by him. His smell, his looks, the way he feels, him him him him him.

All you can do is screw your eyes shut with a silent scream.

“All mine, fuck, you’re all mine right?” His sentence doesn’t sound like a question but you are so fucked out you don’t even hear it.

A quick but firm slap to your cheek causes your eyes to shoot open, and stare back at him saucer-eyed. It didn’t hurt, but it got your attention.

“Who’s are you?” He's angry, still pounding your swollen sensitive pussy mercilessly.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“Gonna get real mean you don’t answer me.”

You know he’s not bluffing.

“You! Fuck.” It comes out strangled and airy. All of your breath is gone, you are heaving trying to get oxygen to your brain again.

“All mine, you’re all mine. Just a silly,” He gives you a particularly rough thrust.

“Stupid-“ Another.

“Girl.”

It makes your heart sink but his thrust mixed with his finger working rapidly over your swollen bud, for some reason pushes you over the edge. You're clinging to him, nails deep inside his skin, riding out the most powerful orgasm you’ve ever had. The waves hit you hard, and they are relentless. Tears prick your eyes, and your body tenses rhythmically. Before you know it Joel is pumping his seed deep inside of you. Your name is a mantra on his lips.

“Mine, mine, mine, shit, mine.” pours from him as he loses himself within your walls. Everything is tight and warm and you feel like mush. His weight is crushing you but it feels like home.

Joel is home to you. You know deep down that he doesn't truly care for you, but something about his experienced touch ignites a fire within you. You can’t bring yourself to do anything but worship him. He pushes himself off of you and all you can do is drunkenly admire his beautiful tan skin, covering his broad muscles. The weight of your forbidden arrangement always hangs heavy in the air after you guys fuck.

He grudgingly pulls out of you with a defeated sigh. You whimper at the loss of contact. He brings you a towel, wiping your sensitive parts, ridding them of any trace of him.

You know that your love for him is built upon something not returned by him completely. You are just a naive girl yearning for his affection; Yet, you are aware that the excitement of your fleeting encounters and shared looks intoxicates you both. Neither of you will ever find the strength to separate from one another.

#joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #smut #tlou game #tlou smut #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut

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makeyoumine69 · 7 months ago

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Hii,

if it's not to much to ask could you maybe write period sex for a gn reader? Something sweet and comforting T-T

Thank you so much, and I hope you know your writing is amazing!

Shape of You

PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x gn!Reader

CW: Smut, hurt/comfort, fluff, period sex, masturbation (reader receiving), body worship, blood kink, sweet dirty talk, pet names, finger sucking, established relationship, needy Patrick.

SONG REC: Fame on Fire—Shape of You (Rock Cover)

WORDS: ~2.5k

LINKS: [Masterlist], [AO3], [Wattpad].

A/N: Hello nonnie! I hope you like this little piece of writing, I enjoyed every second of working on it!💞 For this fic, I used ax divider by @paintology-the-alien

Starting your period usually sucked, but starting your period at Bateman's apartment felt even worse because you didn't know how he would react if you told him there would be no sex tonight. Would he be angry or even sad? Probably all of that, but the worst part was that the two of you were supposed to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You had wanted to go there for a long time, but Patrick had never been able to find the time. And today, when he finally arranged this "weird date," as he called it, you started having your period and the cramps in your stomach made you curl up on his bed, helplessly clutching a pillow. You didn't even think about how long you'd been lying there, you didn't even have the energy to get up and take some painkillers, all you could think about was how mad and angry Bateman would be when he came home and saw you like this. It was pretty obvious that you wouldn't be able to go out today, not even a chance.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, it became quite dark in the bedroom, the dim light lulling you into a sweet nap that you had been craving all day, considering that in your dream you could finally get some rest from the nagging pain that was making you quite tired.

A soft, almost gentle touch on the top of your head woke you up almost immediately. Blinking in confusion, you looked up to see your lover's beautiful face, and you couldn't really stop yourself from pressing your palm against his cheek. Patrick smiled and let out a sound that was somewhere between a short chuckle and a purr.

"Mmh..." you giggled, watching his plush lips curl at your touch, and tried to pinch his chin, but he caught your hand with ease. "Patty..."

"What's the matter, my sleeping beauty?" He brought your small palm closer, only to leave a light peck on it. "Are you ready for our...little trip into the world of art?"

Rolling your eyes at his feeble attempt to needle you, you sat on your knees, still holding a pillow with your free hand. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can make it to the museum today."

Bateman stopped for a moment. "What? Why not? Did something happen in my absence?"

"No," you replied curtly, the way he instantly panicked and worried melted your heart. "I just..." you looked down, desperately trying to find the right words to describe your condition. But in the end, it was best to call a spade a spade. "I've started my period, and I've got cramps so fucking severe that I can't even get out of bed."

"Too bad." Was all he said before he leaned down to kiss your forehead, then your cheek and your nose. It was only when he had finished showering your face with little pecks that he finally found your lips and gently pulled you closer, placing your hands on his broad shoulders. The kiss was slow at first, but then evolved into something more demanding as you responded, letting your tongues slide along each other in a lustful dance. "Did you take some pills? Painkillers?"

You shook your head, causing Patrick to tsk in frustration.

"I'll bring you... something then," with that he strolled across the bedroom to disappear around the corner to the bathroom. The man returned in a minute, holding a jar of pills and a bottle of Eveian water. "This is ibuprofen, it'll help."

"Thank you doctor," you chirped and took a pill while Patrick opened a bottle for you, holding it all the way while you drank. "I'm sorry for ruining our plans...I hope you're not mad at me."

Grinning in delight, Patrick brushed the stray curls from your face. "No, I'm not mad at all. Besides, it was you who wanted to go to the museum so badly, so I think of the two of us, you should be the one who's sad that we're not going there."

"Right..."

Slowly, Bateman unbuttoned his jacket and carefully placed it on the bed, where he found your small sketchbook, which he almost immediately picked up with undisguised interest.

"So this is what you were doing while I was at work?" He asked, flipping through the pages and admiring your little sketches. "Mmm...nice anatomy...that looks really nice. Not bad at all."

Slightly embarrassed, you let out an awkward chuckle and turned away, for some reason you didn't want to see him looking through your sketchbook. "Well, thanks for the compliment...I guess?" You wanted to say something else, but instead you could only stifle a groan of pain as another nagging cramp shot through you. "Oh...fuck...I hate it so much."

Seeing you writhing in pain, Bateman closed the sketchbook and put it back on the bed, you didn't even understand what he was about to do, but as he picked you up and carried you bridal style, you hugged his neck and dared to ask a question.

"Where are we going?"

"To the bathroom," the man replied with radiant confidence, as if he had done it so many times before. But what exactly was he going to do? "A warm bath will help ease your pain, honey. Trust me."

Frowning, you couldn't help thinking that you probably weren't the first partner he'd had who suffered from a painful period, but when you finally entered the bathroom and he put you down on the floor, his hands already working on removing your top and shorts, you forgot about everything. Because the past should be in the past, right?

When Patrick finished undressing you, he quickly turned on the faucet of the bathtub and the water flowed down with a pleasant sound.

"God, you're so pretty," Bateman murmured suddenly, planting a loving kiss on your shoulder, then bending forward to burrow his nose into your hair; you were glad you'd showered several times already today, because you felt nervous and uncomfortable being intimate with him when your period started. "I think I know more ways to help you with your pain."

There was something playful in his voice, something that made your knees weak and if he did not hold you, you would probably end up splattered on the floor.

"Get in the bath, kitten," he whispered in your ear, his lips teasing the lobe almost imperceptibly. "Want to try some new soaps I got?" Patrick asked, pulling up the sleeves of his blue cotton shirt.

You obeyed and took your place in the warm tub, it felt heavenly. "Would you allow me to use them? I can't believe it."

"Today," the man sat on the edge of the tub and took a washcloth to soak it in water, then he grabbed the freshly purchased L'Occitane liquid soap. "I'll make an exception." The man poured a handful onto the washcloth and began scrubbing your back so gently you didn't even feel it. As his free hand slid down your chest, you gasped, feeling a building tension at your core. "Spread your legs."

Oh, shit.

You barely held back a curse, but did as he said anyway, feeling completely at his mercy, and of course he liked it, you knew it as the moment you parted your legs his large palm slid between them, pressing a washcloth and gently rubbing your sensitive spot in a circular motion.

"Mmmh," you closed your eyes and leaned against the marble rim of the tub. "That..."

"Feels good?"

"Absolutely," you replied, letting him have better access to your most sensitive places, his fingers busy touching your throbbing flesh as the washcloth was already forgotten. Shaking, you opened your eyes when he grabbed your neck, not roughly, but quite possessively. "You have very interesting ways...to ease the pain?"

Bateman didn't say anything, just smiled and turned you to look up at him. "I want you to look right at me while I work on this little sweet spot of yours," he wrapped your throat a little tighter, making you gasp, but his mouth silenced any sounds you tried to make. "You like it when I take care of you, darling?"

You nodded as desperately as you could as Patrick slid one of his long fingers inside you, curling it just the way you always liked it. "Ahhh…Pat-Patrick…mhmm!"

"Just look at me," he cooed, brushing his lips against yours, ready to drink in your every little moan, adding another finger, causing your inner muscles to cling to his digits like a vine. "Just like that, my little plaything...just like that."

The eye contact, the sweet dirty talk, the way his fingers moved inside of you—it all drove you crazy, you were afraid of splashing the water out of the tub or on his expensive clothes, but as the man pressed your wet body closer to him, you knew you had both already lost your minds, together.

Catching his hand between your thighs, you made him stop for a second, Patrick curled his eyebrows in a silent question, but you used your mouth as the most eloquent answer, kissing him hard on the lips, spurring him to grab your neck even tighter as he was burning from the inside, as if the blood was boiling in his veins. God, he wanted you so fucking bad.

"Come here," you uttered after tugging at his lower lip. "Please..."

Breathing heavily, Bateman released your neck and stood up quickly to remove his tie, shirt, belt, pants...

He did it so fast that you didn't even notice how he took a place behind you in the tub, it felt like he had been here from the beginning, his hard dick pressed against your ass, throbbing at the contact, but the man was focused on you, even when he noticed the tiny crimson pools of blood in the waster, he managed to fight his urge to fuck you here and now. After all, this was about you, not him.

Wrapping his strong arms around you again, he explored your body so agonizingly slowly that you were about to scream with need, each touch calculated to set every nerve end in your system on fire. With your heavy lidded eyes you looked back at him, embraced his neck and without saying a word you quickly got up to mount him, making his thick cock draw between your legs, the friction causing his jaw to clench from the tension in his balls.

With a sly grin, you ran a finger along his parted lips, and before you knew it, Bateman had it in his mouth, sucking on it as if his life depended on it, while his hips idly bucked in a most shamelessly suggestive manner.

"Look at you," you whispered, pushing his finger deeper. "I didn't know blood could turn you on like this."

Patrick moaned as you rubbed your crotch against his, you were as close to falling apart as he was, though you tried to regain some control, not really realizing that you were in the lead now only because HE allowed you to be.

With a graceful move, you took his engorged cock to give it a few strokes before aligning it with your entrance to slowly take it in as you lowered your hips onto his.

"A-awww, fuck," you clawed at his shoulders from how full he made you feel, his hands already holding your waist in a tight ring as you bobbed up and then slowly down, savoring every inch of his girth that stretched you so deliciously. "I love you...I love you so f-fucking much."

Throwing his head back, Patrick barely kept himself from exploding inside you, the warmth and tightness of your inner channel making it so fucking hard for him to hold out any longer, but he did his best for you.

"Ohhh, shit, you're... you're so tight-mmmh," Bateman groaned, his hands digging into the skin of your hips as you picked up the pace, literally bouncing on his dick. "I'm...I'm gonna fill you so...fucking...deep!"

Moan after loud moan, water spilling onto the floor from your feverish movements, the obscene sounds of your bodies colliding against each other drowning out all other sounds as for a moment you thought your heart would pop out of your chest. It was beating so fast that you could hear your pulse drumming in your ears.

"Fuck....I'm cumming...Goshhh," you snuggled into his brawny frame, your hands squeezing his buff biceps as you clenched around him, milking his dick so he would follow suit, erupting inside of you, pumping you with the tight ropes of cum. "Patrick..."

You rested your head on his shoulder, he was still shaking from the aftershocks of his orgasm, his muscles slowly relaxing under your touch. Patrick couldn't even say a word, his eyes closed and his face, chest and neck flushed red. You couldn't even find the right words to describe how much you loved seeing him like that, vulnerable as he was coming down from his high. The way he was always blushing during sex was your special kink.

After a while, the two of you were lying on the bed, wearing designer robes and discussing how you would visit the museum the next weekend. All the while, you were finishing your latest sketch when you suddenly remembered a fresh sketch you finished today. As you flipped through the pages, you landed on Bateman's chest and brushed his wet bangs.

"You know, if you kept leafing through my sketchbook, you would find this," you showed him the sketch of the tall, muscular man with a skipping rope, in which Patrick recognized himself almost immediately, but he remained silent. "What do you think?"

Humming, the man looked at you, then at the sketch, then back at you. "So you're stalking me while I'm working out?"

"What?" You jokingly punched him in the chest. "I... I don't stalk..."

"Well, I don't mind," he cut you off, grabbing the sketchbook out of your hands. "But I think I look a lot better in real life," Bateman pointed at the sketch as if he were an art critic. "You see, my body is much more ripped, and my chest muscles are much more... toned."

You shook your head, on the verge of laughing. "Of course, you are such a work of art yourself. No one can capture you as perfectly as you really are."

For a moment you thought your words might offend him as his face turned serious, his lips tightened into a thin line, but then you both burst out laughing. Ultimately, you didn't need to praise him all the time, because he was perfect just the way he was, and you knew that better than anyone else in the world.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

#american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x you #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale x reader #patrick bateman reader #christian bale #patrick bateman imagines #patrick bateman x male reader

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tommorowonlymaybe · 1 month ago

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Hi! I just found your account, and I love your work (^.^) I was wondering if we could get some headcanons or a scenario whereas the turtles are fighting the shredder with the reader, who was kind of forced into it, and ends up jumping in the way just as Shredder's about to impale one of the turtles and takes the hit for them!

I hope all is well, thank you!! (^.^)

Tmnt 2012 x Injured!Reader

Hi! Thanks for requesting. I didn't know which ending to do, so I made two - a happy one, where you survived, and a sad one, where you died. Enjoy!

Everything was happening too fast.

Blades clashed, sparks flew, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. The turtles had fought Shredder before, but tonight—tonight felt different.

And you were in the middle of it.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t even supposed to fight. But one thing led to another, and now you were standing in the crossfire of a battle you were never meant to take part in.

And then you saw it.

Shredder, towering and merciless, his claw raised, aimed directly at one of them. They didn’t see it.

But you did.

You moved.

Pain. White-hot, blinding pain.

The force knocked the air from your lungs. Something sharp tore through your side, impaling you. The world blurred as blood dripped from your lips.

The turtle—whoever it was—stared at you, horror-struck.

You tried to smile. Tried to make it okay.

And then, everything went black.

During the Fight:

Leonardo

The moment your body moves in front of him, everything slows down. One second he’s ready to counter, the next, he’s watching you take the full force of Shredder’s attack.

He’s trained to control his emotions, but all of that discipline shatters the second he sees your blood on the ground.

When you fall, he catches you before you hit the ground. His hands are trembling.

He doesn’t hesitate—he orders the others to get you to safety while he stays behind to finish the fight. And this time, he’s not holding back.

He blames himself. He was the leader—it was his job to protect you, and yet you nearly died saving him.

Raphael

He sees red. Pure, unfiltered rage.

The moment your body moves between him and Shredder, he screams. He tries to reach you, but it’s too late.

He sees the way your body jerks from the force of the attack, the way your blood stains the ground, and his vision goes red.

“No, dammit! What the hell were ya thinkin’ ?!” His voice is raw, desperate, shaking as he drops to his knees beside you.

He’s never felt this kind of helplessness before. He presses down on your wound, but his hands are shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

When he turns back to Shredder, he’s gone feral. There’s no restraint, no tactics—just raw, violent rage. And Shredder is about to pay. He fights like a man possessed, not stopping until the enemy is down.

After, he stays by your side but is angry at you. Not because he’s mad, but because he was terrified.

Donatello

The moment you move, he knows what’s about to happen, but his body won’t move fast enough to stop it.

The sound of your pained gasp is something he never wants to hear again. His heart stops, and for a terrifying moment, he forgets how to breathe.

He doesn’t care about the fight anymore—he has to get to you. The logical part of his brain shuts down. All he can focus on is keeping you alive.

“no… no, No, NO—this can’t—hold on, I can fix this, I have to fix this—” The next second he is already next to you. hands frantic as he works to stop the bleeding.

He’s muttering calculations under his breath, trying to figure out how much time you have, trying to ignore the crushing fear that he might not be fast enough.

In the lair, he works tirelessly to treat your wounds, barely resting until he knows you’re okay. He won’t sleep for days—he’ll stay by your side, making sure you don’t slip away. He can’t lose you. He won’t.

Michelangelo

“No—WAIT!” But it’s too late. You’re already moving, already taking the blow that was meant for him.

Panic. Pure, raw panic. One moment you were okay, the next you were bleeding out in front of him.

His stomach drops when he sees you collapse. He doesn’t think—he just runs to you, shaking as he kneels beside your broken body.

“No, nononono—this isn’t funny, dude, c’mon, open your eyes—” His voice cracks as he shakes you, desperate for any sign that you’re still with him.

He’s crying, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s in the middle of a battle, that Shredder is still there—none of it matters if you’re not okay.

And when he turns back to Shredder, there’s none of his usual cheer. No jokes. No laughter. Just cold, burning rage. (Oh yeah, when there’s serious Mickey, you know it’s over)

After the fight:

The moment the fight is over, all four of them are at your side. They don’t care about anything else—you come first.

Donnie is frantic, hands moving fast as he presses down on your wound. His voice is shaking as he tells you to stay awake. Does everything he can to save you. Literally doesn't sleep, constantly checking your stats. No one talks about it, but everyone sees how desperately he clings to hope.

Leo is silent, but his expression says everything. He looks calm on the outside, but his grip on his katana is tight enough to break. He doesn't talk. Like, at all. He just sits next to you, squeezing your fingers in his hand. He feels guilty for what happened. He should have protected you, but instead you protected him. He tries not to show his emotions to anyone, because he doesn't want to upset others even more. He is a leader, he must be strong… But at night he stands at the head of your bed, hoping for a miracle.

Raph is pissed. At Shredder, at himself, at you. Because you were reckless, because you almost died, because he was scared. But he doesn’t leave. He just sits there, gritting his teeth, fighting the urge to break something. Sometimes his rage turns to silence, and at that moment he looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Mikey is crying, but he won’t leave you alone. He keeps talking, trying to keep you awake—“Stay with us, okay? We’ll get pizza after this! My treat!” He hates silence. It scares him. He talks to you a lot, trying to pretend everything is okay.

“You’re strong, right? You’ll make it through, won’t you? Move your pinky if you will… pretty please?”

Sometimes he’s afraid to look at you, because then he’ll have to admit that everything is really bad.

Happy ending

When you wake up…

The first thing you see is the four of them asleep around your bed.

Donnie is knocked out cold at your bedside, clearly exhausted from taking care of you.

Mikey is literally hugging your arm in his sleep.

Leo is sitting upright but has definitely dozed off.

Raph is leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his face is softer than usual.

The second they realize you’re awake, Mikey tackles you into a hug. He literally jumps on you, forgetting that you are still wounded. (And Donnie yells at him because “THEY’RE STILL HEALING, YOU DUMBASS.”) After that, he does not leave your side for a single step. He is not going to give fate a second chance to take you away.

Leo exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. After the fight, he doesn’t leave your side. Even when you wake up, he’s unusually quiet.

Raph scoffs and mutters, “Next time, don’t be an idiot and throw yourself into a blade” but then he ruffles your hair. There's such weariness in his gaze, as if everything he's been holding in for so long has finally let go of him the moment you wake up

Donnie just rubs his face and sighs in relief. He almost falls over from fatigue, because he had hardly slept before. After that, he becomes even more careful with you. Now he is developing armor that can protect you in the future.

They don’t say it outright, but you can tell… they thought they’d lost you.

Bad ending

Silence.

The turtle’s lair was unrecognizable. No one spoke, no one tried to lighten the mood. Even the TV was off, for the first time in a long time.

Donatello sat next to you, holding your cold hand. No heartbeat. He checked everything. Five times. But the miracle did not happen.

When Donnie says you won't wake up, Leo doesn't react. He just looks at you.

"That's not true."

He becomes even more withdrawn after that. He blames himself. Sometimes he stands on the roof, staring into space, but if anyone came closer, he would simply leave. Now any little things that are left from you are carefully stored in his room, in the safest place. In future battles, when he wants to give up, it is these things that will give him determination.

Raphael became even more short-tempered. The smallest thing could set him off. When alone, he would go to the training area and beat the training dummies until his fists bled.

Donatello barely slept. He built, he designed, he studied. If only he had created better weapons… better armor… Maybe then, you would still be alive.

Michelangelo stopped joking. Stopped playing games. Stopped being himself. But still, after a while, when the mourning passes and turtles move on after your death, he still comes to his senses. Although, sometimes, when he was sure no one was listening, he would sit by the bed where you had spent your final days and talk to you.

“I miss you, Y/N…”

And silence was his only answer.

They don’t move for a long time. Not until Splinter arrives and gently tells them… “It’s time to let go.”… and they do. But still, something in the air is changed. Without you, It’s never will be the same.

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avocado-writing · 1 year ago

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pairing: 14th doctor x reader & 10th doctor x reader

rating: E

notes: no gender or age given for reader, just that you last saw the doctor fifteen years ago. thank you to @mcganns for being my beta!!

This too shall pass.

It was a sentiment that you had to cling onto when he left, because fuck knows it was the most painful thing you’d ever felt. And you’d run away from actual explosions before. Big ones, in space! Supernovas which could eat entire planets while you hung onto the side of a little blue box.

And yet none of it even begins to compare to when he fucking left you.

He said it wouldn’t be forever. Well, he shouted it at you as you fell out of the TARDIS. There was a time explosion, and you got rocketed back to your little flat in the middle of Hackney, on Earth only a few days from when he’d picked you up — but in your reality months of adventure had passed.

You’d not really settled back in, certain that he was going to come and rescue you. But then days turned into weeks into months and you finally accepted that the Doctor had abandoned you.

So you went back to it all. Your mundane little existence before a mad, brilliant man had whisked you away. Your boss was a bit miffed that you’d gone AWOL but you were their best employee so they couldn’t afford to let you go, all you got was a slap on the wrist and a command not to let it happen again. The people you loved didn’t really seem to notice your absence that much, which stung; you couldn’t blame them though. You’d probably not miss you much either.

The Doctor. He made you feel special in a way nobody had before. Like you were the centre of a whole, giant, fantastic universe, and he adored you for it.

Still.

No point mulling that over again, is there?

Fifteen years. Things did get better. You moved on eventually. But you still find your thoughts drifting back to him every once in a while, and that fragment of time you spent totally utterly in love with each other. When you think about the way he kissed you, without realising it you end up touching your lips.

No. No. Stop.

The singing of the kettle snaps you back into reality, and you pour yourself a hot cuppa. Ah, tea. The antidote to everything. You go to turn the radio on for some company as you shift into your morning routine when you hear a knock at the door.

Probably the postie. He’s a bit early today, you think, but make no more of it as you undo the latch and open the door.

Your heart stops.

Because there he is, of course.

Older. Weathered. Not the young man you once knew but a grownup version of him, as exhausted by life as you are.

You drop your mug. Quick as a flash the Doctor grabs it out of midair. The tea sloshes onto the floor but at least nothing gets shattered.

He goes to look up at you, but his attention is drawn back to his hand.

“I bought you this mug years ago,” he says, utterly amazed.

You shut the door in his face.

Well, you try to, anyway. But he sticks a foot in between the door and the frame, with one of those stupid Converse he always wears.

“I know you’re angry, I know. But please let me come in.”

It’s such an absurd statement you find yourself laughing, a high and desperate noise.

“Absolutely not!” Actually, no. That’s not enough. “How dare you. Why are you even here?!”

“Because I wanted— I needed to see you.”

You still want to slam the door on him, but there’s a desperation to his voice that gives you pause. And when he looks at you with those sad, puppy-dog eyes? Those eyes as lined with age as you are?

Fuck. You’re so weak.

So that’s how you find the Doctor sitting at your kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him. You lean against the counter, defences still up, eyeing him from over the top of your mug. He drums his fingers against the tablecloth.

“I like your house. Your calendar is nice, I enjoy the kitten motif.”

“Don’t,” you spit, slamming the mug down and sloshing tea onto the floor, “don’t you dare. You don’t get to waltz back here and start telling me ‘oh, I enjoy your furnishings, haven’t you made a nice little life for yourself since I abandoned you!’ I let you in to speak your piece, though god knows why. Say it and be done.”

The Doctor looks deflated. His shoulders sag, mouth falls. You take a moment to properly look at him. He seems… tired. Tired in a way you never knew him to be when you went on your adventures. Part of you wants to offer comfort, but the other part of you wants to withhold it maliciously. Anything to make him feel the way you felt.

“I looked for you,” is what he settles on, heavily. You didn’t expect that, and it knocks you.

“What?”

“I did. After the explosion, I tried searching all over the galaxy for you. I didn’t know where - when - you’d ended up. I scanned and scanned but something stopped you from appearing on the TARDIS’s sensors. I think… the amount of artron energy emitted during the blast somehow cloaked you.”

You say nothing, your silence an invitation for him to continue his explanation.

“It took years. Literal years, for me. Every spare moment I had, I dedicated to looking for you. Head buried in the circuitry of the TARDIS, trying to fix whatever was hiding you, gave myself a couple of nasty shocks too. And, when I finally tracked you down, I’d regenerated.”

You blink. Right. Yes. He’d explained that, but you’d never seen it with your own eyes. The same person, a different face.

“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me if I didn’t look like me. But I had to try anyway, didn’t I? So I came here. To your house. I got myself all ready for it, knocked on your door… and found that you were married.”

Your fingers grip the counter.

“Oh.”

“He seemed nice. Loved you a lot, as you deserved. And I couldn’t tell you I was back, could I? I saw you pottering around in the kitchen, making the tea - you were always the best at making tea - and you were happy. How could I ask you to leave that all, uproot the life you’d made for yourself, just to jump back in the TARDIS with me? How could I be so cruel? I couldn’t, could I. So I left again. Tried to move on. Like you did.”

You’re crying now. You can feel hot tears slide down your face and soak into your jumper.

“Oh, Doctor,” you manage. You want to tell him so much. It feels like it might burst out of you. But instead you settle on:

“Why now?”

He smiles thinly.

“Because somehow I got this face back, and I wanted to see you. I wanted to be selfish for once.”

You find yourself at the table, on the wonky chair opposite him, sliding your hand over to cover his. It’s rough and warm. Just like you remember. He says your name with reverence, but like it pains him.

“I never stopped loving you. Ever. Through it all, every adventure, I knew it wasn’t complete because you weren’t there. It just wasn’t the same without wonderful, brilliant you,” he admits. He sounds defeated. It breaks your heart — or, actually, it might just put it back together again.

A beat passes. His confession lingers in the air, heavy, thick and choking like smoke from an untameable fire.

“His name was Simon. He was a baker. He was lovely, actually… and we got divorced two years ago.”

The Doctor’s brow furrows.

“You… what… why?”

“Because he knew there was someone else I never really let go of. Someone else who, despite everything, I still loved.”

He looks you in the eyes, and you see something glimmer there that you long since gave up on.

Hope.

And then, suddenly, you’re kissing.

It’s like nothing has changed. His lips are still rough and searching on yours, a hint of tongue giving away into more the deeper you entangle. He sits you up on the table and steps into the space left by your spread legs, and between each kiss he says your name. It’s full of adoration but lined with desperation, too.

Like the kisses he gave you the first night you laid together, on a bed in his spaceship floating across the galaxy. When he buried himself inside you and you felt his two hearts beat in rhythm with your own.

“Doctor…” you manage.

Fuck. You need him. You didn’t realise how badly you needed him. You didn’t realise a piece of your soul has been missing this whole time, fucking torn out of you and leaving a jagged hole in its wake. And him, back, telling you he loves you and always has? You’re patched together like kintsugi.

Your Doctor is the molten gold you need.

“Please. I need to…” he’s so desperate he can barely get the words out, but you nod; he’s undoing the belt buckle of your jeans and pulling them off like they’re silk. When his thin waist meets yours you cross your ankles behind him and lock him into place, and his hands - a little fumbling, a little nervous to be mapping out the plain of you again - begin to trace your chest. You lean into his touch to let him know yes. This is okay. I want this. Make me whole again.

His warm, rough palms slide under the hem of your shirt and lift it easily over your head, the only break in a while you take from your kiss. You let yourself grab his tie to bring him closer. He’s fully dressed still and you’re almost naked; you remember how he used to like that, enjoy feeling a bit more put together than you. Cheeky blighter. Still though, as his suit scratches your skin, you can’t say you don’t agree.

However. In this instance he has far too many clothes.

You tug at his jacket and he knows what you need, letting it fall to the floor with his tie and waistcoat following it. He ruts against you as he unbuttons his shirt a bit, not the whole way, but just enough for you to feel the warmth of his chest. He’s so skinny. You’ve always been a bit worried that, on one of your rougher days, you might snap him in half. You still are now, actually.

Cupping his face in your hands you let your thumbs caress his cheekbones. Your Doctor. Older but the same. Just like you.

You can feel him more than half-hard against your leg. No more time wasting. You need him. You need him, you need him, you need him.

It doesn’t take long to undo his fly and have him in your hand. You’ll always be glad he chose this human anatomy. Though you’d love him no matter how he looks, there’s something wonderful about his cock as it is here. He lets his head fall forward onto your shoulder with a moan if your name.

“Oh… you’re…”

“Mmm hmm,” you agree, a genuine smile passing your face for the first time in god knows how long. He’s just the right length and on the thick side, and you know what a delicious stretch he is when he pushes inside of you. You can’t wait to feel it again. A couple of pumps and he’s ready, dripping precome and a ruddy red. Another time you’d bend down and taste him, remind yourself what a Time Lord’s cock is like. But now today. Well, not now.

You lay back, readjusting yourself so he can push your underwear to the side and find your entrance. A couple of fingers - those long, delicate, clever and cunning fingers - press inside you and test you out. You’re ready for him. He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat as he realises and you laugh, properly, throwing your head back.

“Come on, Doctor. Show me that you’ve missed me.”

He used to never shut up. And now he’s stunned into a desperate silence, lining up with you and pushing in as he does his best to make you feel what he’s been feeling too.

A loneliness is fixed. He slides home inside you and your hips meet, the both of you letting out a long and ragged breath. You sit there for a moment, locked in the most intimate embrace, and just feel each other. You fist your hands in his shirt. He’s here. He’s real. You feel him trace his palm up your back as if you assure himself of the same thing.

Slowly he begins to move. It is a long and lovely drag, his cock hitting all the points you missed being touched, and when he feels you gasp he goes harder. The Doctor nuzzles into the skin of your neck, nestling to the warmth of you there, and you hear him repeat a mantra both of your name and “I love you”.

Over and over. As if the two phrases are inextricably linked.

You’re so full. You’re so light. Everything feels perfect in this moment. And when he reaches between your bodies to touch your sex, push you to the edge, you know you’ll climax for him embarrassingly fast.

When you come you see stars light up behind your eyes. The sky, the unfiltered and untamed sky takes you over. The Doctor says your name one final fine and releases inside you, his hips riding it out as if to savour every second in the sweet grip of you.

He can’t look at your face when he asks you. He says it from the safety of your shoulder where his face is buried, because if you say no you know his heart will shatter.

“Come with me, in the TARDIS again. I know I shouldn’t ask you to leave your home but… you complete me, you know. Always have.”

“Leave my home?! Doctor, don’t be daft. This is just a house in bloody Hackney. You’re my home.”

You pull back to meet his gaze. He’s tired, but bright. His eyes twinkle. And there’s the Doctor you know.

“And of course,” you continue. And, as the smile engulfs his face and he lights up, “it’s not like I’m doing anything else, am I?”

This time, when you go AWOL from your job, you never come back.

#The doctor x reader #Doctor who x reader #the doctor x you #david tennant x reader #10th doctor x reader #tenth doctor x reader #14th doctor x reader #fourteenth doctor x reader #my writing #full disclosure only seen the star beast so far lol

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