#This ALWAYS happens when i start feeling better

[ceilidho]

fig. 3. heart in flames; baptism by fire | John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST · AO3

The universe hasn't seen fit to give Price a mate of his own. He'll have to take matters into his own hands.

or: the forced mating omegaverse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping, Heavy Noncon/Dubcon Elements

His appetite is an arsenal all on its own. 

It’s always been bigger than him, barrel-chested. All consuming. It’s the reason that John is where he is today, always chasing down something larger than himself. Greedy for what he can’t have. Ambitious to a fault. Promotions and titles and commendations and accolades; they’re all wrapped up in his psychology, into whatever it is about him that wants without end. Without satisfaction. 

It’s likely why he ends up being referred to an endocrinologist specializing in hormone disorders in alphas when an overproduction of androstenone turns his ruts violent. Over the years, they’ve been steadily getting worse, even with a partner to help see him through the worst of it, the overproduction of hormones making him a little too mindless, a little too frenzied. 

“It’s not especially common for men your age, if I can be frank,” the doctor tells him, flipping through his chart. “Not uncommon, but low enough that I want to send you for a couple tests just to be safe. You’re still unmated?”

John nods. “That’s right.”

It’s not that the option hasn’t ever presented itself, but the timing has never felt right. Even marriage hadn’t sweetened the deal, and maybe that’s why he’s just north of forty-five and already divorced. The fault lies with him alone; he’s man enough to admit that. Maybe if he’d been more attentive, less likely to disappear for months at a time; if he’d swallowed his reluctance and just bit his omega instead of dragging his feet through his marriage like a prisoner marching to his own doom—maybe things might be different. 

“Any plans to change that?”

“‘Fraid not.”

The truth of the matter is that, though he’s waited a lifetime for that special someone to cross his path, no one has ever come close to smelling right. Even his ex-wife had only come so close—good enough to turn his head, but not enough to keep him. Or maybe he hadn’t been enough to keep her. These days, it’s hard to say which feels more like the truth. 

Sometimes John thinks that it’s simply not in the cards for him. That for whatever reason, destiny or God or the universe or whatever force that decides the fate of all things, has deemed him unfit for the other half of his soul. 

It’s just that it’s been—

It’s been a long time without anyone to call his own.

The doctor scribbles something down in John’s chart. “Alright.”

With his rut coming up in just a few days, the timing couldn’t be better. It sizzles like a low grade fever under his skin. He works up a sweat more easily, even a couple flights of stairs leaving the pits of his shirt dark and damp. There’s a little extra padding around his midsection, a bit more bulk on his arms and thighs; his beard a little thicker than usual, forcing him to trim it twice a day to keep it from growing out of control. Even though it happens every year, it sneaks up on him, the added mass making him a bit lethargic in the weeks before his rut. 

“We won’t have the results in time for your next scheduled rut, but I’d recommend asking a trusted partner to help you out. And wear protection. We have extra mouth guards and other paraphernalia if you need anything.”

John holds up a hand when the doctor goes to open a drawer. “I’ve got plenty at home. Appreciate the advice though. Any medication I should be taking?”

“I don’t want to start you on anything this close to your rut, but maybe after. I’ll have the front desk set up a follow up appointment for you for two weeks from now.”

He nods, making a mental note. 

There are a couple girls he could call up on short notice, but the thought sits like a dull weight in his chest. The decades of casual heats and ruts have left him with little appetite for that sort of thing these days. What he wants—craves really, needs really—is something permanent, something meaningful. John’s been around the block enough to know that he’s looking for something more. 

He’s had good ruts and bad ruts. Ruts spent in the warm embrace of another, filling up a soft, wet hole again and again until his spend leaked down their thighs, lost in a daze of pheromones and heat-slick. Ruts spent entombed in his own frustrated lust, mindlessly rutting into a cum-filled fleshlight to slake a thirst that never ebbs, only flows and rushes over the guardrails, dragging him further under. 

This one might end up falling into the latter category.

“Right, well, thanks for stopping by, John. You have a good rest of your day, alright?”

“Same to you.”

His nostrils burn the second he walks back into the main corridor, which is teeming with activity, children climbing over their parents’ laps and people still waiting to see a doctor slumped over in their chairs. Two interns wheel a bed down the hall, forcing everyone to scoot to the side and cling to the wall to get out of the way. There’s always too many people in the hospital. Too many smells. 

This close to his rut, everything reeks. Congealed sweat and antiseptic; plastic chairs that smell simultaneously of sick and Lysol wipes, confusing his nose. Stale body odour from those in the waiting room on their sixth hour of waiting on loved ones or on an available doctor. It’s a bludgeon to the senses, particularly when they’re more sensitive than usual. 

An elevator takes him down to the first floor, which is even more chaotic than the one John was just on somehow. Patients and doctors spilling out of rooms, announcement after announcement blaring over the intercom, and always—always—the sharp scent of isopropyl, astringent against the inside of his nose. 

��I don’t understand—did she leave?” 

The voice catches him like a fish on a hook on his way towards the main entrance, beadhead soaring through the air and slipping under the surface of the water just as he’s angling to leave. 

When John turns around, you’re standing by the front desk with your chin tucked into your chest. You make a pitiful sight like that, with your lips pursed and your eyebrows pinched, and you hold yourself almost delicately, hands gripping the edge of the desk to stabilize yourself. 

He takes a deep inhale. Though admittedly he’s not close enough to get a good whiff, your scent is muted, likely dampened by the effects of several painkillers and the anesthetic still running through your system. The stench of pain is strong too, which accounts for the way you hold your body and move so gingerly, the brace on your arm a good indication. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. If she’s not here, she must have left. You could try calling her?” the nurse at the front desk says, almost apologetic. “We can’t let you leave without an escort to take you home.”

“Okay, um…” you whisper, and now your scent is pungent with panic, acerbic. “Let me call her and ask her to come back.”

The sound of your voice is stronger now that it’s had time to travel. Again he feels it pinch him like coming out of a dream.

It’s so unremarkable that John nearly carries on down the hall towards the entrance, nothing about the interaction sticking out. 

Something keeps him rooted in place though. Intuition or a sixth sense or finely honed instincts. So instead of leaving, he turns around and walks right back to the front desk, stopping when he’s within arm’s length of you, eyes soaking up the sight of your tensed shoulders.

He doesn’t know the words are going to come out of his mouth until they do. “Lost your way home?” 

When you turn your eyes up to look at him, he feels the breath get knocked out of him. Prettier than anything he’s ever seen, the lure at the end of a fishing line drawing him in. 

And yet, for as pleasant as you smell, it’s nothing dissimilar to the countless omegas John has come across before. It evokes nothing primal—no deep-seated urge to sink his canines into a plump gland and bind you to him. 

You simply smell nice.

It’s difficult to articulate the devastation that courses through him. He’d hoped against hope that it would happen, that someday he would turn a corner and his fated mate would be there, looking at him like what took you so long? But how long can a man be expected to wait? How many years of disappointment can he be expected to weather by himself, his hopes dashed repeatedly? 

In less than a second, he makes a decision. 

One too many times, he’s hoped for fate to intervene and reward him for his patience. It never has. That responsibility must fall on him. 

There’s nothing new about trying to immanentize the eschaton, but John has faith in himself. If fate won’t do what must be done, then he will instead. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. So polite. 

“Heard you talking to the nurse about your ride home; sounds like you’re in a bit of a fix.”

“Yeah, I…um…” You seem torn on whether or not to keep up the conversation, likely finding his attention a bit intrusive, but gentility prevails in the end. Good. He was just starting to like you. “My friend was supposed to drive me home after surgery, but it looks like she might’ve bailed. She’s not answering my texts, but someone else said they saw her leave.”

“Sorry to hear that. Not fair, putting you in a spot like that.”

“I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but…uh…” You laugh, a touch derisively. “This is kind of screwing me over. I’m trying to get another friend to come pick me up, but it’s short notice and most people can’t just call out of work at the drop of a hat.”

There’s a vulnerable note in your voice almost masked by the touch of annoyance in your laugh but still plain for anyone attentive enough to hear. John is nothing but attentive.

“Don’t let her screw you over and get away with it,” he says, positioning himself on your side. “Short of someone dying, there’s no reason she should’ve left you on your own after an operation.”

“You’re probably right,” you murmur, too tired to put up a fight. “It just sucks. I wish she hadn’t told me yes in the first place—I could’ve asked someone else and given them more notice.”

“If you’re looking for a way home, I’d be happy to give you a lift.” John shrugs a shoulder when your lips open, the polite refusal already bubbling up your throat rebuffed by his next words. “I’m headed out now anyway. Just came to get some bloodwork done, nothing serious. Wouldn’t be an imposition at all.”

Your eyebrows pull together, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. 

“I’m not sure if I should be accepting rides from strangers.”

There’s a teasing lilt there, but also an undercurrent that he’s become familiar with over the years. A tempered kind of caution. One that says the words with a smile but prepares to sprint the other way. 

He smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m John.” When you take it, he knows he’s got you. “Not strangers anymore, are we?”

You answer that with a coy shake of your head, giving your name just as readily.

“So, how about it? Can I take you home?” John asks, repeating the invitation. His blood simmers when you take too long to answer.

“Ma’am,” the nurse suddenly interjects from the front desk, taking your attention away from him. It’s surprising how much that displeases him. “Have you gotten in touch with your friend yet or do we have to put you on the list for the drop-off service?”

John can see you warring with the options in your mind, eyes flitting between him and the nurse. 

“Actually, I found a ride home. Can I sign out?”

“Mind if I ask what you were in for?”

The drive to your house is mostly uneventful. He plugs your address into the GPS and hits save when something outside the window catches your attention. 

“It was just a little procedure.” His ensuing silence must make you nervous because you volunteer the reason for your stay after just a few short seconds. “Carpal tunnel release. My job involves a lot of typing, so I couldn’t keep putting it off; can’t wait to go back to living normally.”

He clocked the splint and the bandage around your hand and wrist when he approached you at the hospital, but it’s good to put a label on it. John makes a mental note to look up the post-op protocol for carpal tunnel surgery when the two of you get home. It’ll help him to better understand and address your needs in the coming days and weeks, and what he’ll need to watch out for when his rut finally sets in. 

He’ll clue you in on all of that later when he’s had a chance to explain himself. 

“Shame that your friend didn’t stick around to get you home. Probably still in a bit of pain, aren’t you?”

“Not yet. The painkillers they’ve got me on are really good.”

“Hm. I bet.”

You’re not that loopy despite being on painkillers though. More tired than anything. 

“I probably could’ve planned this better. I didn’t even get groceries before leaving for surgery.”

“You want me to stop and pick you up a couple things?”

He can see you turn to look at him from the corner of his eye. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve got time. Do you know what you need?”

You rattle off the couple items that you need and John merges into the left lane while listening, heading towards the nearest grocery store. 

He makes you stay in the car while he goes in to pick up a couple things, his number plugged into your phone in case you need him to rush back. The few items you rattle off aren’t sufficient enough for what you’ll need over the coming weeks, so John takes the liberty of purchasing a few extra things. Cured meats, fruit, a box of pastries for breakfast, and a couple frozen microwaveable meals. Baby wipes, lotion, and a multivitamin. All the essentials for a rut. 

There are things back at his place that he’ll need for his rut, but he’ll ask Simon to pick those up whenever he has a chance. It’s why John gave him a spare key after all. 

When he wheels the cart out of the store, he comes around by the back of the car, popping the trunk before you have a chance to see the sheer amount of bags in his cart. There will be a time later to talk you through what’s going to happen. 

“Sorry if my list was complicated,” you apologize when he gets back into the front seat, the cart in the corral. It doesn’t change where things were already heading, but it makes him look at you a bit differently. There’s a sweetness to you, one he hadn’t noticed before. 

He likes it though.

“Wasn’t complicated in the least,” John says, brushing off the apology. “Just took me a while to find everything. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Your eyes crinkle when you smile. “I’m not in any hurry.”

John’s always liked docile things. Sweet, simpering things with nervous eyes and gentle demeanours. 

Moreover—

what isn’t already tamed is his to break. 

You’re a cagey thing as well though. At least, you get cagey when John gets out of the car and follows you up the front stairs on your porch instead of hovering a safe distance away. He keeps the subterfuge up by only carrying in the bags with the things you requested, leaving the rest in his car for now.

“I really appreciate all your help; I should be able to take it from here though,” you tell him at the door, the key still tucked in your hand. Your voice is infused with enough gratitude that a duller man might let it stroke their ego while you slipped inside and out of their grasp.

John smiles instead. “Wouldn’t be doing the right thing if I let you go without making sure you got to bed safe and sound. Open the door, sweetheart.”

He can see the hesitation on your face plain as day. Every instinct telling you not to let a man into your house, much less an alpha. 

But inevitably you let him in.

Good girl.

The house is saturated with your scent. He has to take a deep inhale right off the bat, committing your scent to memory. Without the overwhelming stench of antiseptic and sickness from the hospital, your scent is cleaner, richer. Preserved in amber. 

There’s something faint underlying your lived-in scent though. He can’t quite name it, but it sits on the tip of his tongue like a tune he’s heard before. 

“Mind if I put these away for you?” John asks, lifting the grocery bags in his hands. 

“Oh—yes, thank you. The kitchen’s that way.” You point towards the back of the house.

John carries the bags with just your groceries to the kitchen and unloads everything one by one into the fridge. The meager contents of your fridge speak to a frugal, solitary existence, and suddenly the faint smell permeating through your house has a name. Loneliness. 

A man hasn’t been in here in quite some time, if ever. Every single inch of the house has been scrubbed with your scent, not a trace of any former occupant remaining. No roommate or close friend or boyfriend. 

“Nice place you’ve got,” he comments when he walks back into the living room to find you fiddling around with the cushions on the couch, arranging them to make yourself a cozy spot to lie down.

You look up at the sound of his voice and smile, faintly flattered. “Thank you. I’ve only had it a year, but uh…I’ve been doing my best. Also—thanks again for driving me home. And stopping for groceries.” Your lips go round like you’ve remembered something. “I still have to pay you back by the way. Wait right here.”

“Let me go get the rest from the car first,” John says. 

“There’s more?” you ask, surprised. 

He nods. “I got you a couple extra things—on me. I hope that wasn’t too much of an overstep.”

You chew your lip but ultimately the uncertainty melts from your gaze the longer he stands there waiting for your approval. “…No, that’s…that’s fine. You didn’t have to, but thank you.”

His overstep is just a toe over the lip of the door, but it’s still a foot keeping the door from closing. 

On his way back out to the car, John happens to glance down while passing the table in the entryway and finds, much to his delight, your phone resting casually beside the vanity tray. It sits there like you purposefully left it for him to take. 

If not you, then fate. 

With deft fingers practiced at lifting, he pockets your phone, and then heads back to the car for the rest of the groceries, whistling the whole way there and back. 

You start to look at him a bit differently when he brings in the second round of groceries. The number of bags hanging from his forearms must strike you as odd, too many for what you asked him to pick up. John doesn’t bother making any excuses though. 

He can see your trust wavering, pulled out from the water and left belly up in the air, gasping for breath. It wouldn’t be hard to fix it. It wouldn’t be hard to go about this the right way—leave you with your groceries and pain meds, tuck you into bed before seeing himself out, and then waiting a couple days to ask you out for coffee. To leave now would mend your trust entirely. 

He considers it even, never one for turning down a potential strategy without considering its merit. But his alpha digs its heels in when he contemplates leaving, pushing every inch of its weight into rooting him in place. 

It doesn’t want him to leave; and truth be told, John can’t bear the thought either. 

The little trust you extended evaporates more and more as the minutes tick by and he shows no sign of leaving. You dance around it for a while, cautiously hopeful that he might be inadvertently overstaying his welcome, and John watches your descent into hopelessness from the corner of his eyes. 

It’s only when he helps himself to a snack from the fridge and turns the television on that you break, sweat beading on your upper lip. 

“John, I think maybe you s-should leave.”

The confidence you muster up to even just say that impresses him. It takes a lot out of you though, your body sagging when the words come out of your mouth, so much tension building up in your muscles that it literally weighs you down.

The hand with the remote drifts down to his side. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” John asks. 

“Well, I’ve—I’ve got it from here.” You switch to a more diplomatic tone, likely wary of worsening the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Aware that you’ve invited him into your house, that your safe space now has another resident. “I don’t need any more help.” 

Though not as close to his rut as he will be in the coming days, the sentiment still makes him bristle. You don’t need any more help. Rich considering you let a strange alpha take you home not half an hour ago. 

He places the remote down and advances on you briskly, all of a sudden, quick enough that you only notice when he’s right in front of you, surprise overriding your fight or flight response. 

John cups the back of your neck with a big hand and tilts your head up until he can see the puffy, virgin mating gland sitting in the crook of your neck. Thumbs it too, ignoring the way your eyes go wide and horrified, and the way you try to wriggle out of his grasp until he tightens his hand around the nape of your neck. 

“Of course you do, sweetheart. Can't have you wandering around like this—wrong person might try to take advantage.”

Fear makes your pupils dilate. It stinks too, the stench wafting off you. A bit of initial unpleasantness is expected though, and understandable. It’ll be a lot to help work you through the worst of it, but it’s nothing he hadn’t already internally committed to. 

“You’re—you’re not going to leave?”

John shakes his head and smiles. 

Smart girl that you are, you don’t jump to screaming and shouting. Not that the urge isn’t there building in your chest, but you know the odds are stacked against you. You’ve already let him in. 

Your breathing picks up though, and your lip trembles. An anxious swallow follows, then another, throat too dry for you to speak. 

“Why?”

“C’mere, sweetheart.” John takes you by the hand, careful to avoid the bandaged one, and pulls you to the couch, where he takes a seat. “We can only have a frank conversation about this if you promise to be polite and wait your turn to speak. Clear?”

Your lips twitch with displeasure but you nod. 

“My rut’s coming up in a week.” He catches you before you spring back up to your feet, yanking you back down by your arm. “No, don’t try to run; this is happening, love. My rut’s coming up and I’m staying here for it, okay?”

“I can stay someplace else,” you offer weakly, voice breaking. 

His smile verges on pitying. “No, sweetheart. You’re staying here with me for it.”

Your scent goes sour. Ammonium sulfide and allicin. His nose would wrinkle if he’d been expecting anything less than your reaction, but you conform, as always, beautifully to his expectations. 

“You can’t…make me go through a rut with you.” Your throat constricts around the word rut. 

“Yes, I can,” he says simply because that’s what it is. Simple.

In a world of people riddled with guilt complexes and victim mentalities, he stands alone. He has no qualms about taking what’s owed to him, or with shaping the world according to the version of it that lives in his head. That’s how history is made. 

He can’t judge others for their nature the same way he can’t fault himself for his. 

“I thought you said you were in the army.”

“I did.”

“Isn’t this…—this is against the law then, isn’t it?”

“You’re thinking of American law, sweetheart.” He doesn’t bring up any similar protection against forced billeting enshrined in English law. Best to not get lost in the weeds. 

There’s a tick in your eyes that betrays you. John readies himself for a chase when your eyes glance over his shoulders towards the door, but you discard that plan as quickly as it entered your brain. Weighing the odds and finding them not in your favour. 

“I have friends,” you blurt out. “Family. People check up on me.”

“That’s fine, love. When they do, you’re gonna tell them that you’re taking a week off to rest and you don’t want anyone coming by in the meantime.” When you don’t respond, clearly thinking something different, irritation flickers in his chest. “Wanna know why you’re going to do that?”

“…Why?”

“‘Cause you know this could go one of two ways. We could either have a nice time together and I’ll be on my way afterwards…or I could bite that little mating gland of yours now and we can take that option off the table.”

There’s no point in telling you that he’s already made up his mind about that part. The allure of hope is too tempting; he has to give you something to latch onto. 

“Do we understand each other?” he asks. 

Your initial hesitation tells him all he needs to know. This won’t be an easy conquest or a city handed over to spare its citizens pain—you won’t hesitate to put up a fight. 

“Okay.” 

John makes himself at home like a fox laying claim to a rabbit’s burrow. 

Siege warfare. A lifetime in the military has made him well versed in poliorcetics. He knows of how the Romans once conquered the city of Fidene by launching false attacks from four different directions at four different times before breaching the city through a long tunnel that passed under its walls, and how Alexander captured the city of Tyre by building a kilometer-long causeway and besieging it for seven months.

Your phone was the first thing to go, confiscated lest you got any funny ideas about calling someone to rescue you. Not that you need rescuing; in the end, you’ll see that this was in your best interests too. The next thing to do is your laptop, tucked away out of reach until you’ve proved yourself to be trustworthy. 

He cuts off all trade routes and replaces them with his own, Simon showing up at the door the following morning with supplies. When you spot a man at the door, you must think saviour before foe, because you pound on the window facing the porch. At least John had the foresight to lock you out of the foyer before he opened the front door.

Simon cocks an eyebrow. “Noisy mouse, ain’t she?”

He shrugs. “She’ll learn. You got everything I asked for?”

“Check ‘n tell me if I missed anything. I ‘aven’t got time to get anything else today, but I can come back tomorrow.”

“Good man, Simon. Give me a minute, alright, lad?”

John gives the bag a cursory check, but just as he thought, Simon didn’t miss anything. He never does. 

Simon helps him install an electronic lock on the front door from the inside before heading off to work and John spends the next ten minutes programming it while you stare through the foyer door helplessly. The back door gets the same treatment later on, effectively rendering you a prisoner in your own house.

Then he takes stock of the property. 

You’ve made yourself a perfectly respectable home. It has all the charm of a simple family home, nothing like his ancestral estate on the Welsh border; there’s something real here, something designed with comfort in mind. You’ll have to live with summering there and wintering here in the city, but he won’t ask you to abandon the life you’ve made for yourself here. The stove’s at least thirty years old—one of those old brands made to last, likely passed down from a family member or bought secondhand. 

But John takes stock of the layout of the house because the longer he’s there, the more his instincts tingle. 

As well-decorated and maintained as your house is, it doesn’t feel ready for a rut. Too many hard edges and wide open spaces. Before humans became accustomed to single domiciles, instinct would’ve made them search far and wide for a burrow or cave comfortable enough to ride out their cycle. 

Like nest building for omegas, den making is inherent to alphas. It’s programmed in his DNA. Even out in the wild, he’d know how to make one—know what materials to look for in the absence of soft pillows and sheets—and feel that same urge to make a space suitable for his mate. 

Everything in its right place.

He starts by pulling the mattress off the bed frame and dragging it to the corner of the room. It makes your room feel like more of a den, a place to hunker down in, and that’s only reinforced when John pulls out every blanket and pillow from your linen closet and drapes them over the mattress. You don’t have blackout curtains, but he solves that by pinning a few sheets up on your blinds until barely any light passes through. 

Preparing for a rut is a little like preparing for a storm. One has to batten down the hatches to ready themselves for the worst of it. He installs locks on the cutlery drawers and stows the knife block away in the highest cabinet, locking that as well. He thinks of the worst case scenarios and plans accordingly. 

You don’t seem to appreciate his efforts though.

“Why are you—” you start and then abruptly stop, swallowing. “Please stop rearranging the furniture.” 

John pauses, putting the couch down gently so as not to damage the floorboards or upset you with any sudden noise. 

“Well, love, I’m not about to let you do all the backbreaking work, now am I?”

That response doesn’t seem to satisfy you, expression still twisted into a scowl. “Neither of us has to do any work. Why are you moving things around in the first place?”

“You really don’t get how these things are done, do you?”

Embarrassment makes you snappy. “No, and I don’t have to because it’s my fucking house either way. Stop moving my furniture.”

His eyes go half-lidded. Anger courses through his veins like floating down a lazy river. John has never liked being told what to do—it’s a personality quirk that’s been both a hindrance and a help to his career, but in his love life, he’s never allowed that sort of thing to fly. The dissolution of his first marriage speaks for itself. 

He lumbers around the couch towards you and you flinch, walking backwards in the opposite direction. He’s quick despite his size though, hand reaching up and cupping the back of your neck before you hit the wall behind you, and all you can do is stare up at him towering over you nervously. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” John murmurs, holding you firmly enough by the back of your neck that you whimper, only one hand able to press against his chest in an effort to push him away. The other you cradle limply against your chest. “Keep running your mouth like that and I might need to find a better way to put it to use. Ever had your mouth knotted?”

Nothing headier than the idea of pushing to the back of his omega’s throat and letting his knot expand until it’s trapped behind your teeth, keeping you locked on his cock until it’s softened enough to pull out. 

He stores the idea away for later. It wouldn’t do to knot your mouth for the first time during his rut when he doesn’t have the wherewithal to take it slow and keep you centred, but it’s an idea he’ll have to return to at a later date. When he has time to sit you on his lap and comfort you after something so intense instead of thinking only of his own urges. 

Rut isn’t a completely mindless state of being. Even in the thrall of his rut, John will still have enough cognizance to make somewhat informed decisions. It would be dangerous if alphas were susceptible to any influence during such a vulnerable period. Anyone could take advantage of someone in that state. 

There are some things that he doesn’t have complete control over. The closer John gets to the onset of his rut, the stronger the urge to scent his territory gets. 

It starts off relatively innocuous. He touches things more. Grips the doorframe when he enters a room and brushes against the wall when he turns a corner. Anything to leave a trace of his scent behind. But as the days progress and the urge to mark what’s his grows to monstrous proportions, the manner in which he chooses to do so shifts in kind. 

“Did you piss in the shower?” you seethe, fists clenched when you storm into the living room where John is seated at the couch watching Casablanca in black and white. 

He grunts. Nods. 

“You could’ve turned the water on to rinse it out,” you hiss. “Or used the toilet.”

“Not the point,” John says. 

“There was a point to pissing in my shower?”

“Never spent a rut with anyone, have you?” That pleases the lazy beast inside of him, but he’s not in any mood to explain himself. That’s what books are for. He prefers to teach through example. 

“What does it matter? That still doesn’t mean you can piss in my shower.” 

He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand. “Then you won’t wanna go around the side of the house.”

The screech gets all tangled up at the back of your throat, only the memory from the last time you sassed him staying your tongue. John can only smile to himself as you storm out of the room.

For all your resistance, he knows you’re not entirely immune to his presence, same as how he can’t shake the gnawing need to bury himself in you as deep as he can get. He’s a prime specimen of alpha—all thick muscle and dark tufts of hair, belly spilling over the top of his jeans and new notch on his belt from the mass he’s tacked on the weeks leading up to his rut. He’s been around the block enough to know his appeal. 

It’s why John doesn’t worry when you hiss and spit. Views the fuss you put up akin to foreplay, a little rough-housing before the situation gets serious. 

There are tells after all. It’s the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. Furtive glances from the corners of your eyes. Shifting your hips in your chair when he sits across from you at meal times and spreads his legs wide, knocking his knees against yours. Eyes going hazy and lingering on the bulging muscles of his arms when you watch him move the furniture around in your house. 

He thinks sometimes about dragging you into bed early. Getting it out of the way now and getting you used to his touch before his rut sets in. It would be a kindness, in a way. 

But he relishes getting to see you squirm, the pseudo-heat sinking in day by day and making you more persuasive, less likely to bolt when your hand finally heals. Your instincts will do half the work for him. All he has to do is wait. 

Besides, the greater the effort, the sweeter the reward. 

Midway through the week, when his rut is close enough to be a thorn in his side but not close enough to have earned him the right to refuse to come in, Laswell has him come in for some inane reason. 

John still doesn’t trust you enough to leave you alone though, so he calls Simon and asks him to babysit you for a couple hours. Not a half hour later, the man’s on his doorstep, hands by his sides and expression deadpan. Even out of the service, he’s still a good soldier. 

It’s what makes Simon his favourite sometimes, though he’d never tell a soul. John knows it’s not right to play favourites with his men, but in the privacy of his own mind, he can face reality. 

“I won’t be gone long, sweetheart, but Simon’s gonna watch you while I’m out. You gonna be on your best behaviour for him?”

Your eyes cut to Simon and they look dangerous. Calculating. His lips almost twitch in amusement under his mustache. 

“Sure,” you say instead of arguing. It’s more of a red flag than if you had. 

The five hours he spends away from you are excruciating, and his temper suffers for it. These days, at his own insistence he’s been relegated to something of a desk job, but that still comes with its fair share of responsibility. There are certain strategic meetings that he can’t simply decline to attend, and though the hours pass by fast enough, he can still feel your presence like an itch at the back of his head that he can’t seem to scratch.

When he gets home, the itch finally dissipates.

“How was she?” John asks.

“Biter.” Simon holds up a forearm where your bite mark sits livid red against his pale skin. The imprint is deep, nearly piercing right through flesh near the canines. 

John whistles. “She did a number on you.”

Simon shrugs, unbothered. “Left the door unlocked and she tried to run. Fast on her feet.” Never did have his head on straight, that one. John feels no pity for the omega that’ll be his one day, but he has some sympathy.

He won’t discipline you just yet. That’ll be a project for another day—after you’re mated and hitched—and he can take his time training you. For now it’s enough that you’re still tucked away inside the den, not quick enough to outrun his lieutenant. 

Simon leaves with a few crisp bills folded in his back pocket and John claps his shoulder on the way out. 

The time is coming though. Every day pulls the sun thick off the horizon, the water dragging back from the shore. Soon, there will be a wave.

John knows his rut has started when he wakes up one morning as grumpy as a bear fresh out of hibernation. 

The first thing he hears is the sound of his stomach growling. Food. His first conscious thought. His stomach aches something fierce, like he hasn’t eaten in quite some time, even though John vaguely recalls eating supper the night before (though for the life of him he can’t remember what). 

His mind processes all of the information around him slowly and sluggishly, not in a hurry to make sense of anything. His vision still works perfectly fine, but his brain takes awhile to register what his eyes are seeing. Only base impulses make any sense. He sniffs the air to help guide him towards a food source. 

Something warm-smelling comes slinking out of the bathroom quietly. His head snaps in its direction and it freezes in its tracks. Prey. 

He sniffs again. No, not prey. Something different. 

Standing up feels strange, like he’s out of his body. It’s too big somehow. Heavier than he remembers it being. The thing trembling by the doorway doesn’t move as he lumbers over, smart enough to know not to run. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from chasing it down if it tried to get away, prey or not. 

It flinches when he drops his head, the bridge of his nose brushing against its temple. His scent’s all over this one. He must have come or pissed on it at one point, marking it as his own. His scent clings to its skin, buried deeper than the epidermis. 

It shifts to one foot.

“Don’t…move…” he growls, tensing up. It tenses up too, breathing out short, shaky breaths. 

“J-John?” it says, voice like a bell in his head. It knows his name.

“Hungry,” he says instead of asking how it knows who he is. 

“I…I can make you breakfast.”

He herds it away from the bathroom door instead of answering, staring it down as it walks backwards down the hall and into the room that smells strongest of food. 

The house smells of him only vaguely. It smells mainly of the thing he herds into the kitchen, warm and spicy like cinnamon or cloves. There’s a faint trace of his scent though, as if he’s been here for enough time that it isn’t wholly foreign. His hackles raise at the thought of not being in his own territory though. 

But this must also be his. If you’re his, then your den must, in turn, belong to him. 

You scurry around the kitchen gathering all of the ingredients for breakfast while he stares from his chair, eyes tracking your every move. Part of him waits for you to try and bolt, on edge when you open the fridge and the sound makes his ears twitch. His muscles sit bunched under his skin, ready to pounce and chase. 

When you put the plate down in front of him, you make as if to take a step back, clearly meaning to give him some space. That won’t do. A firm hand on your forearm rectifies that; he pulls you down onto his lap before you’ve had a chance to register what’s happening. 

“Whoa,” you gasp, all turned around. 

The first piece of bacon he tries to pick up slips from his fingers. The next one he manages to pick up goes straight to your lips. “Eat.”

“I’m not—”

“Eat.”

Your cheeks bulge around the mouthful of bacon and eggs when he lifts another bite to your mouth. You chew quickly, swallowing before it’s fully chewed, nervous that his loose hold on his temper might slip. Only after you’ve had a couple filling bites does John allow himself to eat as well.

Some of his sense of self comes back with time. The pieces start coming back together. Your name, where he is, what you’re doing here. It comes back as his belly fills. 

His nature doesn’t allow him to feel pity, but you should at least know what’s ahead of you.

“It’s starting today,” he tells you, breaking the silence. You go stiff in his arms and then swallow the mouthful of food you’d been chewing.

“Today?” you repeat, your voice slightly hoarse. 

“Rut.” 

The word hangs in the air between him and you. John can almost hear your heart start to double in rhythm. 

You nod and whisper, “Okay.” 

The thing behind his eyes stares you down. It watches you chew and swallow your food until there’s nothing left on the plate, until your lips are tacky with grease and you have to suck your teeth to dislodge the trapped bits. 

With his belly full, other needs take precedence. 

It starts with him pressing his nose to the crown of your head, gliding it down to your temple and sucking in lungfuls of your scent the whole way, imbibing your scent. Spicy and musky; still pungent with sweat from the night before since you haven’t had a chance to shower yet, nothing to distract from your true scent. It makes his cock throb against his thigh. 

He drags his nose down your temple to your cheek, nuzzling against the side of your head. Rumbling when you go still, turning your head away from him when he tries to go for your lips, denying him again.

It agitates him. 

“Kiss me,” John growls. Demanding, not asking. 

He pinches your cheeks with his grip and twists your head towards him. The little resistance you offer flickers briefly before being snuffed out when he slots his lips against yours. 

What starts soft turns feverish in a matter of moments. Lips gliding and tongues twisting; the bridge of his nose pressed uncomfortably against yours, the whole kiss a mess of ache and teeth and hungry, greedy need. Spittle drips down your chin and you whine into his mouth when his beard scratches at the sensitive skin around your mouth. 

Need prickles at the base of his spine. For days now, he’s kept his hunger contained when all it wanted was to run rampant. He’s been so good to you—given you days to ready yourself for what was inevitably to come. He never tried to conceal the reason behind his presence in your house.  

And now it’s all coming to a head.

John slides you off his lap and down onto the floor under the table, planting his feet on the ground and lifting his hips to pull his sweats down, letting his cock flop out against his belly, heavy with blood. 

“John, do I have to…?” you whimper, trailing off like even saying it out loud might jinx you. 

“Want your mouth on my knot,” he says bluntly. 

Your eyes are sparkly with tears when he looks down, big and wide and helpless and it somehow just makes him even harder. When you sniffle, a bead of precum dribbles down his shaft. 

“Get it nice and wet,” John grunts, pushing your face into his dick. “It’s going inside you soon enough.”

“Please—” you whisper.

“It can go in dry too,” he warns. 

Your tongue pokes out of your mouth reluctantly, face all scrunched up and petulant, but eventually you do as you’re told. Shy, kittenish licks around the base of his cock, right over his knot. Lazy pleasure ripples up his spine, each drag of your tongue over his soft knot making his vision go blurry and his breath get heavier. Practically panting by the time you kiss a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of his knot.

“My hand’s getting tired, sweetheart—mind taking over?” 

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, letting go of his cock so that it droops, batting your nose on the way down. The affronted look on your face nearly makes him snort. 

Your fingers curl around his cock, lifting it up. It looks brutish in your hand, ruddy and thick, precum leaking from the flushed head and dripping onto your head. If he were a decent man, he’d peel your hand off his cock and replace it with his own, get himself off with a rough, dirty tug instead of leaving that responsibility to you. Spoil you instead with gentle love making, all sweet talk and slow thrusts, decadent, languid kisses pulling your attention away from where it hurts.

But John isn’t a decent man. Not even a good man. 

He lets you lick and kiss it all over until his knot is wet with spit. Every so often your teeth graze his knot, forcing a violent shudder up his spine, and he snarls down at you, teeth bared to get the message across. Don’t push too far. 

He’s indulgent to a point. 

“Suck it too,” he rasps. The hand on the back of your head tightens, angling your face until your lips are stretched around his rapidly filling knot and you have no choice but to gently suck the puffed skin of his knot, your nose pressed against the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. 

His cock aches the longer you kneel there mouthing at his knot. It’d be nice to paint your face with cum—your tongue to start and then your cheeks and chin. A little on your forehead too just to mark you as his. He’s close enough to the edge that it wouldn’t take more than a few well-placed sucks, but his knot is already big enough. Any more and he won’t be able to fit it in you at all, at least not for another hour or so.  

He clamps his hand around the back of your neck and pulls you off, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his knot. “That’s enough.”

You frown, bottom lip jutting out. “You didn’t like it?”

That soothes the tension in his shoulders a little, makes his lips twitch under his mustache. 

“‘Course I liked it, sweetheart.” The weeping tip of his cock is enough evidence of that. 

“Why—why’d you stop me then?”

“I’m gonna come soon, honey, and I’d like the first time to be inside you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh.”

It’s a challenge getting you onto your hands and knees after that, divesting you of your clothes too. He very nearly has to wrestle you down to the ground, but exerting even the slightest amount of force makes you instantly acquiesce, likely realizing that you won’t stand a chance fighting him. He shushes you when you choke back a sob, kissing the back of your neck soothingly. 

At least, he hopes it soothes you. 

John runs a hand over your rump and between your legs, finding your center damp and hot to the touch. 

“Well, that’s a bit more inviting,” he says approvingly. “Been wet this whole time, sweetheart?”

You shake your head desperately, shoulders hitching with your quiet sobs. When he dips two fingers into your hole though, it’s soaked. Squelches when he pulls his fingers out and thrusts them back in. 

If he didn’t have more pressing concerns, he’d be tempted to turn over onto his back and tug you down onto his face. That thought lingers for a moment and then takes root. 

“Hold on, love—gotta do this first.”

The mattress springs back when he drops down onto his back. Your back arches when John grabs you by the hips and drags you over his mouth, your knees planted on either side of his head, one higher up than the other from being dragged down the bed. 

“Wait, you never said—” 

The crack across your ass interrupts you. He flexes his hand and then palms that same ass cheek, rubbing over the hurt. If you swear at him, it doesn’t register because his eyes are locked on the slice of heaven between your thighs, transfixed by your dew-slicked lips parting for his gaze.  

“That’s better,” John murmurs, then digs his fingers into your hips and pulls you down onto his face. 

The smell of your sex is drugging, mind-numbing. Musky and warm and fragrant. The hood of your clit is drawn back to expose the swollen bud and it calls to his tongue, a call which he answers in kind, gliding the flat of his tongue over it and smiling to himself when it twitches. 

It satisfies every carnal urge breathing fire and brimstone in the back of his mind. His tongue saws up the seam of your cunt, parting the soft, delicate petals before drawing one into his mouth, humming around the mouthful. The vibrations must feel good because your whole body jolts in his arms. 

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, you nearly wrench yourself right off his face, hands clawing at the bedsheets. Firm hands dig into the flesh of your backside and pull you back down though. 

“Mm…you gonna cum, sweetheart?” he rumbles into your pussy, his words muffled. 

“I—I’m gonna—oh…oh…—” 

Music to his ears. He can tell it’s right around the corner when your breathing goes staccato and your thighs squeeze around his head, forcing him to move one of his hands to keep your legs spread. He can feel your hole clench around his tongue, hips jerking sharply. 

He loves watching a pretty girl come. Loves feeling it on his tongue even more. It doesn’t take much to work you up to it either, likely on a hair trigger since he bolted the doors to your house shut and made himself at home. 

Your upper body collapses onto the bed when you come, hips undulating over his tongue subconsciously, like you can’t help but chase your release. And who is he to deny you when you’ve been such a sweet girl? 

John scoots down the bed to slide out from under you and sits up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing your juices from his mouth to his cheek, drops clinging to the bristles of his beard. Trapped there, he’ll smell it for days. 

Good. Better for him if he can. 

Taking his place behind you again, he reaches down between his legs and lines his cock up with one hand, the other holding your hip steady before pressing in one inch at a time, a smooth, slow glide to the halfway mark. You squeeze him like a vice, pussy all clenched up like a fist, too wound up and stressed to relax enough to take him to the root. Even coming has barely loosened you up. 

He topples over you until his chest is pressed to your back. The skin on your back is sticky with sweat, a tremor running through you and making you shake. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” John murmurs into the side of your head, planting a kiss there for good measure. The skin over your knuckles pulls tight when you fist the sheet beneath you. “Can you relax for me?”

“N-no?” It’s said like a question, like you’re looking to him for reassurance, like you need your alpha to help you relax, to loosen you up. 

It’s why he feels no guilt for the situation that you’re in. Trapped under your alpha, about to take his dick to the root. What would you have done if he hadn’t been around to take you home? Any matter of tragedy could have befallen you. 

“I’ve got you.” Talking both to you and himself. 

There’s nowhere for you to go but further up the bed when John forces the rest of his cock into you, gaining more ground with every thrust. That’s how soldiers make strides in new land, conquering new territory with every advance. Rigor and momentum. 

The flesh of your ass ripples with every thrust, hips clapping against your cheeks. He drives into you with a single minded intensity, grunting through each thrust. Reason falls to the wayside. All that matters is knotting and breeding the omega under him. 

Your cries echo through the bedroom in bright, clean bursts. 

He feels virile, potent; it’s his alpha running hot in his veins and his body thick with muscle and the way you all but disappear underneath him, just a sweet and soft omega for him to use and breed. Back arched just enough to let him sink in as deep as he can get. 

“John—” you wheeze. “T-too deep. It’s—unf, it’s, ah…it’s too deep.”

“Full, honey?” he grunts. 

“Y-yeah,” you respond, whimpering through the word. 

“I know, baby,” he says consolingly, contradicting his own sympathetic tone when his next stroke nudges against the seal of your womb. “Not very nice of me, is it?”

“Noooo,” you moan.

“Yeah, not very nice.” His laugh is breathless, mean. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Coherency is a luxury that slips from his fingers as quickly as it came. Like a shroud falling over him, it cuts him off from everything but what he touches. Even your mating gland is forgotten in his fervour, its siren song going mute against the backdrop of the blood pounding in his ears. 

His knot pops quick. Half a dozen more thrusts in and he feels it thicken and swell until he suddenly can’t pull out. It punches the breath out of him, making him bear down on you, trapping you both on his knot and under his weight. 

“Oh—oh—oh—” you gasp, overwhelmed. 

He hooks his chin over your shoulder and plants his hands on top of yours, twining your fingers together, an intimacy so staggering that he can feel it thrum through your body, your frame trembling underneath him. 

Knot thoroughly plugged inside of you, he can only grind his hips forward, nudging that same tender spot over and over until your pussy draws up nice and tight around him, dragged unwillingly to another orgasm. He sees stars when your channel squeezes around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth. 

Overwhelmed, your heart rate spikes and your scent intensifies, permeating the room and lodging itself into the deepest recesses of his being. Your hands claw up the mattress, ripping the sheet off the left corner, and you yelp when you realize that you can’t pull off his knot, truly trapped.

John’s hindbrain interprets your squirming as trying to get away and he reacts instinctively, forcing you down to the mattress until your arms collapse under you and pinning you there with his body. 

“Where d’ya think you’re going?” he growls, mouth pressed to your ear. 

You shudder, walls tensing up around his knot and making him spurt another wad of cum into you. 

“Oh god,” you whisper, grunting softly when he forces more of his weight onto you, the mattress depressing under your combined weight. 

Sticky, tacky skin. Laboured breaths. Dark. Tunnel vision. Everything narrows to a single point. In the crook of your neck, your mating gland pulses. He presses his tongue to your neck and drags it through a trail of salty sweat. 

The vice grip around his knot has him swimming in and out of consciousness, vicious instincts clawing up his throat. It thins the barrier between him and his alpha, one no longer distinct from the other. 

“Are you—are you going to bite me?” you ask through panted breaths. 

His alpha considers it. That’s what he is now, at least. Its consciousness has usurped his, or moulded with his, or risen to the ranks of human. It tilts its head through him though, two beasts sharing a body and an appetite. 

It runs its tongue over its lips. He does the same.

“Not yet.”

Voracious. 

No matter how many times he cums or makes you cum, it’s never enough. 

He still has to rest though. Much to his consternation, the body demands it, so he falls asleep with you resting against his chest or under the crook of his arm with your fist curled over his belly, and wakes to the damp clutch of your centre pressed against his thigh from when you rolled over in the middle of the night. Then wakes you up by grinding your hips down against the hard line of his thigh, sweet talking you through an orgasm that leaves you thick-tongued and cross-eyed.  

Days pass that way. Blunt fingers; rake of tongue. Skimming his mouth over the valley of your tits and down the channel between your legs, gorging himself on the slick dripping from your pulsing hole. Scraped a bit raw from his beard, so he’s careful now; spreads your folds with his fingers before thrusting his tongue all the way in. 

He comes back to himself every now and then, some memories easier to recall than others:

Your cheek smushed against the shower wall, hands clawing at the tile while he drives into you from behind, rivulets of water running down your body. 

The feeling of your throat flexing around his shaft, your eyes watering when your nose nearly grazes his pubes. Pulling you off his cock to let you breathe and leaning down to press his forehead to yours. 

Pinching your cheeks to open your mouth after cumming in order to watch it melt on your tongue. 

Indulging in kisses messier than sex itself, lips going swollen and numb, eyes so masted that they’re barely even open. Each glide of your lips liquid and svelte. 

Always wanting more and more and more. 

Heavy footsteps following you into the kitchen as you scurry around looking for something to eat, wary glances thrown over your shoulder to keep track of him. Always keeping him in your line of sight. Smart girl; clever enough to know not to turn your back to a predator. 

Occasionally, he loses track of you as a person again, thinking of you like an extension of himself instead. Your name disappears into the recesses of his mind, replaced by concepts like omega, mine, pup—

You cover his mouth with your hands to muffle his words and he bites your fingers one by one until you pull them away. 

And it keeps—

going and going and going and going

—thoughts shaking loose from his head, one by one; hours disappearing into thin air, nothing real except the omega on the end of his knot. When it whimpers, his chest puffs out and his breathing goes laboured, his only concrete thought to fill it with more of his cum, make sure that it takes. 

It will, if John gets his way. 

And he always does.

Another season over, this one different from the rest. 

You’re still in bed when he surfaces from his rut, low back cracking and popping when he sits up. His muscles will ache for days after this, the aftermath of any good rut lingering in the body longer than the rut itself. 

John scrubs a hand down his face and cracks his jaw open for a good yawn, stretching everything out. When he looks down by his side, he finds you curled into yourself, cheek resting against the back of your hand, sleeping soundly.

You’re so tuckered out that your toes don’t twitch even when he drags his finger down the line of your back, stopping at your sacrum. The slope of your ass underneath the bed sheet is tempting, inviting him to part your legs and settle himself between them again, but he’s put you through enough over the past few days. 

Later, he’ll want to check between your legs and see how much of his cum is still painted between your thighs. Either way, he’ll have to run you a bath with Epsom salt for you to soak in. 

That’ll have to wait until after breakfast though.

Right on cue though, his stomach growls. No amount of preparation for a rut is ever enough—not once has he ever come out of one feeling refreshed. It’s always aching joints and empty stomachs and bruises where bruises usually shouldn’t be. His age only makes it all the more noticeable. 

His future ruts won’t always be this way. Not when his hormones are tempered by his omega’s corresponding heat. In the future, proximity and cohabitation will align your heat and his rut cycles, making the whole ordeal far more pleasant. One to stabilize the other. You’ll put in for leave at the same time and slip into it quietly, like slipping into a gentle, welcoming stream. 

That’s a thought for another time though. For now, John pulls himself out of bed and saunters towards the bathroom, intent on running a quick shower before fixing himself something to eat. 

He takes a brisk shower under cold water, scrubbing his chest and letting the soap run down his legs for no longer than ten minutes before shutting off the water. It’s a shame that it washes your scent off of him, but he’ll rectify that later when you’re up.  

The smell of bacon frying in the pan permeates the kitchen, the sound of it as emblematic of morning time as birds singing in the trees or the soft sound of the radio on in another room. A cool breeze spills in through the cracked open window. 

It’s nearly time, but not quite. 

He waited because he wanted this to be deliberate. Intentional, as everything he does always is. 

It wouldn’t have been as meaningful in the throes of his rut. Easily chalked up to instinct or error, rather than seen as intended from the very beginning. 

An hour or so later, you start to stir. Though his instincts aren’t as sharp as they were in the midst of his rut, he can still hear the bed creak in the other room. 

The bedroom is bathed in light when he returns. In the center of the bed, you’ve turned over onto your back, the light cascading over you making you look almost angelic. His heart throbs in his chest. 

One day, he might even love you. 

“You awake?” John asks, resting his knee against the edge of the bed and slowly climbing over you. When you blink a couple times and nod, he leans down to draw you into a slow, drugging kiss. 

The taste of your mouth is familiar now; he’s tasted it so many times over the past few days that it’s etched into his memory now. 

“Hm? Yeah,” you sigh, then meet his eyes. You must register something there because you pause, squinting up at him. “Are you… Is it over?”

John nods. It’s easier to just say yes than qualify that the rut hormones haven’t fully left his system yet, still present though in much smaller quantities. He’ll still be quick to anger for the next few days, in no shape to return to work just yet, but eventually his system will flush those lingering traces of rut and he’ll be back to his normal self. 

You smile, relieved. “Okay…that's uh, that’s good. Do you…do you mind if I rest a bit longer before I leave?”

“‘Course, sweetheart.”

He palms the side of your face, brushing the wispy baby hairs out of the way. All his life and he’s never seen something prettier than you. 

“In fact,” John murmurs, canines aching when he runs his tongue over them. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”

You must catch the double meaning in his words because your eyes go sharp. “Huh?”

His eyes flicker down to your neck and it hits you like a battering ram. 

It’s too late though. He gathers your wrists in his palm when you try to bat at his face, immediately going into struggle mode, and pins them down over your head with ease. With his other hand, he holds you by the neck and turns your head to one side, exposing the delicate skin of your neck. 

“John—wait, no, no—waitwaitwait, please—you said—”

Legs kicking out, back nearly arching off the bed, you put every last bit of your fight into trying to throw him off, only for him to force you back down, barely a grunt passing his lips. Then he ducks his head into the crook of your neck.

“John—John, please!”

John bites down. 

Under his teeth, your gland splits. 

The moment of connection is just as divine as he imagined. When your gland breaks under his teeth and your blood oxidizes in his mouth, his world reconfigures itself around this new reality, one where you flow through his veins like blood and swim through his mind like thought. 

He sees now what he missed before. All this time, he’s assumed that fate has railed against him, intent on him remaining alone. 

What he understands now is that—

(you whimper under him and arch up into his body, saliva gurgling in your throat)

—fate has always been on his side. 

After Ragnarok, the earth will once again bob out of the saltwater, dregs of ancestral seafoam lapping at the sides.

(he gnaws at the Yggdrasil’s roots)

In this life, nothing has ever been handed to him because he has needed to fight for it. Of course fate would have taken that into consideration when creating his mate. Baptism by fire. He never would’ve been satisfied with simply being handed his intended mate. He needed to leave the imprint of himself like chiselling into stone. Maker of his own fate.  

When he pulls back, teeth unlatching from your shoulder and blood leaking from the wound, you stare up at him through misty, filmy eyes, tears scorching hot lines down your cheeks. 

He can appreciate the shock this must come as. You thought you’d get off scot-free after all—just a few days of being fucked and knotted and then sent on your way—not kept like bounty from a sacked city. You are a prize though. His hard earned prize. 

His moral compass doesn’t allow him to see this as a pillaging. Not when his actions are led by his heart.

You raise a shaky hand to cover the wound on your shoulder, wincing when your fingers brush the raw skin there, coming back saturated in blood. “You—you bit me.” 

John hums. “It’s alright, sweetheart; it’s over now. Nothing to worry about anymore.”

“You said—you promised you wouldn’t,” you bleat. 

He shakes his head, voice still soft when he responds. “Never said I wouldn’t, sweetheart.”

“You said you’d leave. You promised you’d leave.”

“Aw, honey, you wouldn’t do that to an old man, would you?” He lies down beside you, pulling on your heartstrings like a marionette. Plenty have called him a decent soldier, but no one has ever called him a good person. “Why make me leave when you could have someone in your corner instead?”

Tears like diamonds on your cheeks. You’re the most beautiful creature that John has ever laid eyes on; there’s no wonder why he had to make you his. Had he turned around in that hospital and walked out that door after hearing your voice, life would have been less complicated but it would have been dull, colourless. He would have woken up today with his mind at ease, but his heart would have been empty. 

Now though—

“We’ll be good for each other,” John says, moving his hand over your throat, loose fingers simply resting there. Just enough to feel the thrum of your pulse under his palm. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He feels you swallow beneath his palm. It is easy to see why you might doubt his words.

But in the back of his mind, his alpha purrs, satisfied for once in its life, and when he tightens his fingers around your throat, you go still, all of your trust gathering there in the palm of his hand. He can live with that.

So long as he has you, he can live with anything.

[hughes-your-daddy]

he can’t find out

pairing: macklin celebrini x will smith reader sibling

summary: sneaking around with macklin is proving harder than you thought.

warning: a little angst/ hurt and comfort

“your gonna get me in trouble,” macklin whispers, half on gear, pinning you against the cold concrete wall of the arena.

“hey, you invited me tonight, i had to lie to will saying i got a spare ticket from your media girl.” you whisper back, his lips coming down to graze yours.

“come back to mine tonight yeh, i want you to stay over tonight.” he says and you bit back your bottom lip.

you had moved out to san jose, once you started college, moving in with will since he just got his own apartment. one thing you didn’t think would happen would be ending up in a secret relationship with his best friend.

“i’ll try ok? i’ll see if my friend will cover for me or something.” you say before he breaks out into a smile, coming down to press a kiss to your lips.

“ill see you tonight baby,” he whispers before he’s slipping away back to the locker room. you quickly slip back into the suite upstairs with the rest of the friends and family who come to watch, keeping to yourself, waiting for the boys to come out to warmups.

you always wear wills jersey, as you couldn’t wear macklins, but hidden underneath you always have on the small gold chain with a heart on the end, an M engraved on the inside.

he gave it to you a couple of months ago, halfway through the season after you made it official being boyfriend and girlfriend, a gentle reminder that your his, even if you can’t wear his name on your back.

the team come out for warmups where you move over to sit with cat, the only person to know about your relationship after you and mack had an argument and you had no idea idea who to go to. you crying on her couch however only led to tyler finding out as well.

“told him yet?” she asks, keeping her voice low when turning to you.

“not yet, think he’d kill mack.” you say, cat letting out a small laugh.

“better sooner rather than later though.” she says as you agree, knowing you should tell will, you’re just too nervous.

the sharks end up winning, you quickly head down out of the stands but not before being knocked into a railing by many drunk men. you wince at the pain, feeling your back ache before pushing it to the back of your head. everyone is on a high as they each come out of the locker room, grins wide on their faces. you smile seeing will and mack come out together, will pulling you into a tight hug, wincing but not letting him notice.

“good job will.” you smile, as he pulls away gushing about the game, mack pulling you into a small side hug like usual after games.

will was driving you both home, mack getting a lift from him as well, so you quickly make your ways out to his car, getting in and heading home, deciding not to see any fans today since you were so tired.

“hey, i think im gonna stay at my friends tonight.” you say, and you see mack look up from the backseat through the car mirror.

“yeh, that’s fine,” will smiles before looking over at a red light, “you need a ride?” he asks and you shake your head no.

“nah, she’s coming to pick me up.” you say, mack’s eyes widening before looking back down before will can see.

he drops mack off at the thorntons before driving round to the apartment. your quick inside, going straight to your room, packing some clothes and toiletries in an overnight bag even though you have a few bits already at the guest house.

you move to change out of your jersey and jeans before realising it hurts too much to lift your arms up. you sigh before forgetting about changing and just decide to change your shoes to some sliders and tying your hair up before your phone pings.

mack

i’m outside now baby

you smile, before quickly grabbing your bag and heading out.

“i’ll be back tomorrow will,” you call out to the living room where he’s already in pyjamas movie on with some leftovers.

“message me if you need anything,” he replies before you’re leaving and heading down in the elevator. you leave the complex before spotting macklins car just around the corner from the entrance.

you open the back doors, placing your bag in before moving to the passengers side. you slide in, mack smiling, dressed in his own sweats and a hoodie before frowning at your tshirt.

“thought you would have gotten changed.” he says, as you laugh at how stroppy he gets when you wear wills jersey and not his.

“i lost track of time,” you lie but smile through pretending like you just ran out of time. he changed back to a smile landing over to press his lips to yours.

“mmh,” you hum as he pulls away, “the quicker we get to yours, the quicker i can be in your clothes,” you tease, knowing his favourite thing is seeing you swamped in his clothes.

“don’t need to tell me twice baby,” he whispers against your lips before pressing another kiss to them and pulling away, lacing your hands together.

the drive to his place is quick, letting the radio play softly in the silence of the night, a few cars passing as he makes his way to the thorntons.

he pulls into the driveway before hopping out and grabbing your bag, coming around to swing his arm over your shoulders.

you wince at the pain that runs down your spine at his action, but you manage to play it off before he notices. yous walk around the back through the gate to the guest house, mack unlocking the front door letting you inside.

you slide your shoes off, about to slide off your jacket when you feel macklins arms snake around your waist, his head nestling in your neck.

“i love you baby,” he mumbles against your skin pressing soft kisses up your neck. you tilt your head slightly to give him more access, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

“love you too mack,” you whisper before he’s spinning you around his mouth grazing yours, “god i’ve missed you.” he whispers letting his lips press to yours.

you giggle pulling away, your arms wrapping around his neck, “i saw you like 4 hours ago.” you smile before he’s attaching his lips to yours again.

he groans low in his throat, lifting you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, as he stumbles backward, dropping down onto the big sectional couch with you in his lap.

“pretty girl,” he whispers, hands running up your jersey, running over your waist.

you arch into him, gasping as his mouth finds yours again, harder this time. his hands shift, one gripping your thigh, the other slipping higher under your jersey, feeling the hunger in him, the way he wants you, real and burning and unstoppable.

“mack,” you moan out, feeling his hand move to squeeze your ass as his lips slip down your neck again.

you shift your hips, grinding down against him, mack by growling, deep and rough, one hand sliding up your back, as he flips you so your laying against the couch, him hovering over top.

that’s when you feel it, the sharp pain run up your spine, all across the middle of your back.

you gasp pulling away and freezing, eyes shut in pain.

he immediately pulls back, hand coming up to cup face

“baby?” his voice calls out, filled with worry, “what’s wrong? talk to me.” his eyes scanning your face for an answer.

“m-my back, shit,” you mumble, “my back hurts.” you get out, open n your eyes to see his face change into an instant state of panic.

“okay, okay, don’t move baby, just stay there.” he says quickly moving off of you, to kneel down beside your head, his hand cradling your cheeks turning your face to look at him.

“where? baby, tell em where it hurts, how bad?” he asks, hands almost hovering, like you are so fragile.

“like the middle of my back, goes up my spine,” you say, mack nodding as he pushes a few strands of hair back out your face, “mack it really hurts.” you whisper, tears springing to your eyes.

“i’m so sorry baby, i-i didn’t meant to hurt you,” he says, voice filled with panic, as his hand shakes gently against your cheeks turning, “ i-i didn’t mean to i just-“ he starts but uh cut him off, grabbing his hand with yours.

“mack, stop.” you say, his rambling coming to a harsh stop at your words, eyes finding yours in confusion, “i got knocked into a rail at the game, didn’t think it was much of an issue.” you mumble, seeing macklin’s jaw tense, not in anger but over how protective he is of you.

“baby, why didn’t you say anything? does will know?” he asks, hands not leaving yours, his thumb brushing ver your knuckles as you shake your head a few tears falling

“i didn’t think it was this bad.” you say, taking a shaky breath.

“ok you stay there, i’ll be back in a minute.” he says quickly, pressing a kiss to your forehead before disappearing.

he comes back with an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel, a bottle of water and some pills in his hand.

“ok baby, you think you can sit up at all?” he asks, setting them down on the small coffee table table.

you give him a small nod, as he gently helps you to sit up, one hand on your lower back the other on your arm to help.

“take these for me, should help the pain.” he says, handing over the two pills and water. you quickly take them before he’s sitting right where your head was.

he helps you lay back down, sideways, your he’s in his lap, as he gently lifts up your jersey to lay the ice on your back, immediately sighing in relief.

“that better baby?” he asks, one hand holding the ice against your back the other running through your hair, taking out your hair tie.

you nod, wiping your cheeks of the few tears before he’s pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“just relax baby, we’ll leave the ice there for like 20 mins,” he says, eyes still filled with worry, “wanna order some takeout maybe?” he asks and you nod as he fishes his phone his pocket, ordering your go to comfort food.

yous lay there, letting macklin talk about the game, distracting you before the food arrives, mack going out to get it. he helps you to sit up against the couch before going to grab the food. he’s quick, being back and sat next to you pulling out your food.

“hey, do you mind if i get changed first?” you ask, macklin nodding with a soft smile.

“need any help?” he asks and you think for a moment before nodding shyly. he presses a soft kiss to your temple before helping you stand, hands softly on your waist as you walk to his room.

he pulls out some of his sweats and hoodie, helping you out of your jeans and jersey before slipping the sweatpants on.

“want your bra off baby?” he asks as you nod, a small blush coming across your cheeks. he gives you a comforting smile before quickly unclasping your bra, seeing a large bruise starting to form across your back.

“if it gets worse in the morning we’ll have to go to the doctors i think baby, looks pretty bad.” he sighs, fingers grazing over the bruise.

“i think it’s just a bump, i should be fine.” you say, giving him a reassuring smile before he carefully slides on the hoodie.

“that better?” he asks, hands cradling your cheeks, and you nod.

“come on then, we’ll go eat.” he smiles, offering you a hand to help you up over to the couch. setting back against the cushions, you lift your feet up to lay across mack’s lap, one hand running up your legs as you both eat.

he plays some disney movie, a comfort thing for both of you, placing the empty dishes on the coffee table when his phone starts ringing.

wills name across the screen.

“don’t you dare.” you glare across the mack but not quick enough as he’s reaching across and answering the face time.

“hey will,” he says slightly nervous.

“hey, just wondering is y/n has contacted you? i just bumped into her friend when picking up some food, says she’s not staying with her? i’m getting worried, she’s not answering.” will says slightly panicked as mack’s eyes drift over to you.

you shake your head, sending him another glare before wills voice is coming out through the phone

“macklin? do you know something?” he asks, before mack mouths ‘in sorry,’ you sighing.

“she’s here will, perfectly safe.” macklin says, short and sweet before a moment of silence.

“why’s she with you? is she ok?” he asks rushed again, hearing shuffling on the other end.

“she’s fine, here.” he says, flipping the camera to show you.

you awkwardly wave after hearing another silence.

“is that your hoodie?” he asks, stopping moving as you look down seeing yourself wearing a sharks hoodie.

“uh yeh i think so,” macklin nervously laughs, turning the camera back to himself.

“i swear to god macklin, you better not be fucking my sister.” will says and your eye widen immediately knowing that tone, a one he uses very rarely.

“hey dude, it’s not like-“ macklin starts but wills quick to cut him off.

“no, don’t fucking dude me. what the fuck man? i said one rule, my sisters out of bounds. i’m on my way over.” he says, nearly shouting down the phone before handing up.

you immediately try to move standing up, wincing a little.

“i need to go, need to talk to will.” you say trying to move around but each step is building the pain.

“y/n, stop.” macklin says firmly, taking your shoulders in his hands, holding you in place, “we would have had to tell him at some point, now just seems like the time.” macklin says as you nod hesitantly.

you take a breath before moving to sit back on the couch, macklin trying to tidy things up a bit, as much as wills his best friend, right now he’s the brother of his girlfriend, needs to make a good impression.

you snap out of your day dream hearing angry knocks the door. you see mack take a breath, himself, before opening it, immediately being met with a smack across the face.

“what the fuck macklin.” will shouts, you immediately panicking.

“will stop please.” you plead from the couch, his eyes flickering to yours before back to macklin.

“do you know how wrong this is, you betrayed me macklin, i said, no messing with my sister and you just went and did it anyway?” he shouts, macklin coming back strong.

the arguing goes back and forwards between the two as you start to see a small red mark appear on his face. it just keeps intensifying, as you feel yourself tear up becoming too overwhelmed.

you quickly grab your phone and slip out, neither of them releasing, moving to sit on the curb, forgetting about the pain and shakily calling cat.

it only takes a few rings before she’s picking up, her voice coming through.

“y/n?” she asks, voice tired, probably just woke her up.

“cat?” you ask, your voice wavering and you hear her immediately sitting up, more attentive.

“y/n? what’s wrong?” she asks, as you hear tys voice in the back.

“it’s will and mack, he found out and they’re arguing, i-i just i need to get away.” you say, a few tears falling, hearing her move, grabbing some keys by the jingling noise.

“y/n im on my way, you at mack’s?” she asks as you let out a small ‘yeh’, before she’s hanging up the phone immediately driving over.

you curl up on the curb, letting the tears fall freely before a cars pulling up outside, cat and tyler immediately coming over.

“i don’t know what happened, will came in, hit back and they just started arguing.” you rush out, cat pulling you in for a tight hug, tyler immediately going out back to cool off the two boys.

“come on, you can stay at ours for the night.” cat smiles, wiping your cheeks before leading you to the car, letting you in the passenger seat before driving away, saying tyler will be a while.

she drives you back to their house, letting you inside before leading you up to the guest bedroom, both of you sitting on the bed.

“he’ll get over it trust me, probably just a bit of a shock.” cat says, offering a sympathetic smile, you shrugging.

“i’ve never seen him like that, neither of them, i thought he was actually gonna like really hurt him.” you say, voice getting small, at the thought.

her phone bings, a message from tyler.

“wills bringing him back home, you wanna speak to him?” she asks and you think for a second before nodding.

“yeh, but if it’s ok, i’ll still stay here tonight i think.” you say as she nods, before leaving, giving you some privacy.

it isnt long before there’s some soft knocks at the door, before opening it to show wills face peaking in. you see him hesitate to say something before moving inside, perching at the end of the bed.

he looks up and that’s when you can see the black eye forming on his face.

“i don’t like it when you yell.” you whisper, his face softening. he moved to be sat beside you against the headboard, letting his head fall back.

“if it cheers you up, i think he won.” he mumbles making you chuckle slightly.

you turn your body to face him better, wincing slightly at your back.

“you know i love him right?” you ask, his head falling sideways to look at you.

“yeh, think i got that, and i think i understand he loves you too, especially after this,” he says motioning his black eye, making you chuckle slightly, “but you also know i love you right?” he asks sitting up better.

“yeh, i know,” you smile resting your head on his shoulder.

“and i guess i could be cool with it, like you and mack,” he says, fighting a small smile on his face, “but if you hurts you, he’ll never forget it on the ice ok?” he says and you nod, just enjoying the peace for a second.

“he said you hurt your back, why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, you pulling your head back up to look at him.

“i didn’t think much of it to be honest, just got in the way of some drunk men.” you say seeing his jaw tense in a little bit of anger towards the men not you.

“how are you feeling now?” he asks, eyes searching your face for any lies.

“better, mack iced it but still hurts a bit.” you admit, will thinking for a second before nodding letting out a soft sigh.

“message me tomorrow yeh? if it’s still bad ill drive you to the doctors, i dont have morning skate so im free.” he says you smiling with a small nod.

“as you later baby sis.” he smiles, pressing a quick kiss to your head before turning to leave.

“wait, will?” you call out, him turning over his shoulder, “you didn’t hurt mack right?” you ask, concern laced through your voice.

he gives a soft chuckle before shaking his head, “nah, trust me i got it worse and im still walking, i got barely any punches in.” he says, as you try to hide a smile but seem to fail.

“wow, even my sister isn’t on my side.” he teases, a wide grin on his own face, “but maybe call him, or message? i think he’s a bit worried.” he says as you nod before he leaves.

you look over to your phone, having had it turned off all night, quickly entering your password to see missed calls and texts from both will and mack.

you hesitantly press the facetime button in mack’s contact, his face popping onto the screen straight away.

“oh my god baby, are you ok?” he panics, and you take in his appearance, only a small red mark that’s already fading from where will smacked him but his eyes red rimmed like he’d been crying.

“no mack, im ok please don’t worry,” you say but you can still see his face full of concern, “i just got a bit overwhelmed, i don’t like people arguing.” you mumble, resting you head on your hand.

“i’m sorry, i-“ he starts before taking a breath, “i really love you, and i wasn’t gonna let him come between us ok? your brother my best friend none of that would stop what we have ok?” he says and you nod a soft smile on your face.

“you love me so much that your willing to punch my brother in the eye?” you ask as he feeezes, eyes wide.

“so you’ve spoken to him?” he mumbles as you laugh.

“well, i’ve seen him and that was enough.” you say, macklin smiling himself.

“hey, i’d do anything for you baby.” he smiles, your heart fluttering a bit.

“i know macky.”

[rezwrites]

May I request Serial Killer! Agatha x innocent victim! Reader? Agatha falls in love with reader, her next victim. Agatha plans to secretly leave that side of her and start a new life with Reader, but when they both go to spend time together at Agatha's cabin, Reader discovers Agatha's torture room

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, TW: SH, graphic depictions of violence/gore/blood, kidnapping/held hostage, mentions of hunting animals, non sexual/sexual sadism, masochism, somnophilia, fem!bodied reader, strapon, cunilingus, handcuff

a/n: please take caution and do not read if you are uncomfortable with any topics listed.

Schadenfreude noun

Malicious enjoyment derived from observing someone else’s misfortune.

This textbook definition is deeply ingrained into Agatha’s Harkness’s mind. A word she feels that perfectly summarizes her being.

Growing up Agatha was under constant scrutiny and ridicule. Never feeling worthy; How could she when her mother always criticized her for things she did. Even things she hadn’t done. Incessantly, complaining and comparing Agatha to other young women her age, constantly having the highest of expectations. Agatha could be the best in her classes and her mother wouldn’t spare a glance at her, just spat that she could do better.

Agatha was her own person. She could never understand why her mother couldn’t see that and accept her for it.

It was a bitter struggle for Agatha to make or keep friends. Her mother always said that they will find better. Unfortunately, that saying twisted and imbedded itself into Agatha’s psyche, they will always find better.

However, when people close to her experienced some form of tragedy, Agatha would stand there with a deadpanned facial expression unable to curb the elation she felt internally.

She doesn’t try to justify it. She doesn’t think she can.

As the years passed she no longer wished to sit by passively watching bad things happen. She evolved into craving, needing to inflict pain on others to satisfy the burning ache that had been brewing within.

When she’s standing over her victims all those emotions she was denied in childhood had amplified and exploded. Releasing all her frustrations and anger as she works away.

Agatha likes when they beg. Enjoys it, really. When her victims are on their knees pleading for their lives with fat tears falling down their faces. She just stares knowing that’s she’s already locked in their fate, no amount of pleading can or will change that. Then, the next moment the euphoric feeling she gets when she watches the light drain from her victims eyes. Her sadistic, twisted smile the last thing they see. Pride, self appreciation rising as she watched the blood baths she’s created, admiring her artwork.

She enjoys watching the news broadcasts about her victims cases. Tuning in like it’s a daily reality show. In a sense she feels a sort of recognition.

This will sate her bloodlust for a good few months until that itch desperately comes crawling back.

—

Walking into the bank one day to open a new account and make some deposits, Agatha had spotted you. Plastering a smile on her face Agatha approached you, asking for help; you were so eager as did your utmost to assist her. Her eyes narrowed at the slight smile displayed on your face. A disposition Agatha yearns to have, envies it in others. She thought you were so easy, that she could charm you into her clutches. She bet you would scream so prettily for her when her knife sinks deep into your abdomen.

However, when you laughed at one of her jokes, a genuine laugh, one warranting you to cover your mouth to stifle it; it’s like a switch had unexpectedly gone off. She suddenly couldn’t find it in herself to hurt you, despite the incessant urge to hurt something.

Agatha even surprised herself when she didn’t follow you home that night. Of course, she camped out until you got off of work. Closely watching you walk to your car, driving away, but she made her way home in silence. Monotonously crawling into bed Agatha thought about actually getting to know you in a genuine form; a far cry from her usual stalking methods.

Stepping into the bank again for another deposit, a smile on appeared on Agatha face when she saw you. Annoyance flared up seeing that you were with someone else, but she shoved it down waiting on a nearby bench until you were finished.

When you called for the next person Agatha jumped up hastily, a bit of a lilt in her step as she approached the counter. Handing you her paperwork, she observed as you worked away. Your deft fingertips dancing across the keyboard, the minute twitches in your facial muscles as you focus on the screen in front of you.

Reaching out for the receipt Agatha fingers gently brushed over your hand. Pulling her hand away Agatha bit the bullet.

“Would you want to go on a date with me?” She blurted out.

The way your face dropped in shock made Agatha think she was wrong about you. She could see you were thinking of what to say, your eyes mixed with something she can’t place. Pity? Maybe you thought she was a some kind of freak. Agatha’s hands shook at her sides, while her face remained composed. She could feel her stomach drop, along with sweat starting to bead on the back of her neck as she anticipated your rejection.

Your eyes widened realizing you are taking too long to respond, “I’m sorry. That question was just so sudden.” Pulling out a slip of paper you wrote your number down sliding it to her, “I’d love to.”

Now, it was Agatha’s turn to be shocked. She was so used to being rejected, pushed away, discarded. You’re actually giving a her a shot.

—

Like a godsend, you’re her angel. Agatha can’t get enough and much to her delight, neither can you.

Early on in the relationship you noticed that Agatha had to keep her hands busy. Whether that’d be holding on to you anyway she could or dabbling in her little hobbies. Eventually, you convinced her to try painting, easing her worries. Unbeknownst to you that painting helped channel Agatha’s urges.

It always puzzled you why she heavily used various shades of red, but she’s happy when she paints and that’s all you could ask for. She shows you her work as if she was a child showing off a sketch to their parents. Agatha has such a talent you can’t help but to praise her and get the canvases framed.

You also saw how possessive Agatha is towards you. When you two are out together she’s always next to you, holding your hand a little too tightly. When your friends would ask you to hang out Agatha would put on her best puppy eyes to get you to stay with her. If she reluctantly let you go, she’d litter your neck in deep, bruising hickies.

Agatha is hot with a different feeling when you beg. Instead of empowerment, Agatha feels desire, lust. When you so sweetly bat your lashes at her, grasping at her arms, pleading for her. For her.

“Aggie, I need you,” Effortlessly falls from your lips and she’s on you not a second later. Clumsy and frantically kissing you anywhere she could reach. You just chuckled guiding her lips to yours. Agatha ground her cloth cunt down on your thigh, moaning into your mouth, setting her core alight. Holding on to her hips, you helped her rock herself to orgasm above you.

Agatha tries to curb her sadistic tendencies around you, but when you came to her one day asking her to paddle you, she swore her panties were immediately soaked. That night with you perched on her lap, instructing her to use the back of her hairbrush, that first swing resulting your pleased whines, she felt liberated. Each hit she made was harder than the last, her clit tingling with each smack that resounded. Your own wetness shimmering on your inner thighs.

She does get you to scream for her, eventually. Though instead of her knife, it’s her strap sinking into your greedy pussy as you pull her towards you. Excitement licking up Agatha’s spine as she tightened the straps of the newly purchased harness. Slowly thrusting her hips trying to find your sweet spot. Her face pressed into the crook of your neck taking in your scent. Listening to you melodically chant her name as if it’s a prayer, an anchor to keep you on earth as she works you through intense orgasm after orgasm. In the haze of the afterglow you cling to her as if she’ll disappear in a moments notice.

She admires your form as you sleep next to her. Softly kissing your forehead, quietly thanking you for coming into her life. A small smile on your face as you slept, lightly tracing her fingertips over your red, bruising butt cheeks, a little warmth still radiating. Agatha proceeded to climb between your legs, slotting them over her shoulders. Her tongue glides over your cunt licking up your juices. Sucking on your bud, she quickly brought you to the edge of another orgasm, your body convulsing in your slumber.

The next night you had offered to cook dinner for her, since Agatha has a tendency to periodically skip meals. Unfortunately, due to Agatha’s workplace being understaffed she had to stay late. Agatha entered her home near midnight, slow movements with slumped shoulders like she was forcibly dragging herself. Stumbling into her bedroom Agatha eyed you sitting up in her bed, barely fighting your sleep. Shedding her shoes and jewelry Agatha crawled on top of you, resting her face in the crook of your neck. Her hands played at your sides, a slight frown tugging at your lips at her actions.

You’ve come to realize that this is one of her ways of coping with her stress. Many times she came home just to spend the whole night tucked into your side tracing patterns on your skin, unwavering. Sometimes she’ll open up about her problems, and you’ll listen, supporting her but most of the time she’s silent, in her head.

“Do you want to talk it?” You gently inquired.

Agatha remained silent, just pulling you closer to her body. Reaching your arms around her you started running circles on her lower back; you could feel her shoulders instantly relax.

Agatha tensed, pulling away from you. Sitting up she turned around, gazing at the look of confusion on your face. She finally broke the silence, “Let’s go away for a week.”

—

The weather was rapidly plunging as the arranged week approached. What better way to spend it by cuddling with Agatha by the fire in her cabin outside the city.

Agatha had picked you up after work, taking the day off to pack for you both. The car ride was filled with plans of what movie franchises to binge or what to cook for dinner. It wasn’t long before Agatha turned on a solitary dirt road. You awed at the quaint, rustic styled cabin nestled in the middle of the clearing.

The interior emitted a cozy, warmth that immediately enveloped you. Hand knitted blankets lied on the back of the russet couch, along with crocheted pillow covers. Setting down your travel bags you kicked off your shoes, falling on top of the queen-sized bed that sat in the middle of the bedroom. The plush white duvet covered the cool satin sheets hidden underneath.

“Shit.” You heard Agatha grunt loudly. Before you could get up to investigate you heard her footsteps growing louder. Propping yourself up on your elbows, Agatha entered the doorway of the room, a disappointed look on her face, “I forgot something things at the store. There’s a small market not too far away, I’ll go there.”

“I won’t be long.” She called as she walked away from the room. Scampering after her you caught her at the door as she was picking up her keys from the hook. Placing your hands on her shoulders you kissed her cheek, bidding her a see you soon.

Watching her car pull out of the gravel driveway, you decided to surprise her with the fire already started. Padding over to the kitchen you searched the cabinets. The cool tile beneath your feet as you walked around until you found a utility lighter in the island drawer. Striding over to the fireplace, you kneeled pulling open the mesh screen. A frowned tugged at your lips upon seeing no firewood.

Glancing on the sides of the fireplace you saw nothing but a short, neat stack of newspaper beside the pokers. Agatha had told you she came up here to chop some before the trip, now it’s just the matter of finding where she put it.

You stood up, thinking of where she could’ve stored the wood. Across from the kitchen you spotted a door that was slightly ajar. Opening the door you noted that it was unusually heavy, and thicker than the others.

Flicking the light switch you descended the staircase into the basement, the smell of rusted iron invading your sense. The stench made your eyes tear up at the smallest inhale. Pulling up the collar of your shirt you used it to cover your nose to prevent the odor from making you retch. Reaching the bottom of the stairs you glanced along the walls, shoulders dropping from no sign of any firewood.

A wooden table was pushed against the back wall. Dark spots were splattered across the table top, various knives and carving tools hung above it. A small rack along the right wall was filled to the brim with multiple seasonings, gloves, and an assortment of cleaning agents at the bottom; a deep freezer right next to it. Eyeing the black streaks that ran down the metal legs of the table, you stumbled backwards.

“Come upstairs.” You gasped jumping back, grasping at your chest in an attempt to soothe your pounding heart. Turning your head you spotted Agatha at the top of the stairs, her hand gripping the doorknob tightly.

Slowly trodding up the steps and out the basement, Agatha closed the door behind you. “Agatha what is-”

“When I’m up here for a while, l’ll hunt the local wildlife. I didn’t have to time to do a thorough clean down there.” Agatha remained stiff, her voice coming off coarse. The muscles in her neck were twitching, her hands rigidly falling to her side, fingers flexing.

“I was just looking for the firewood. I thought maybe it would be down there. I didn’t mean to snoop,” you apologized.

Nodding, she acknowledged your statement pointing to the screened porch on the other side of the cabin.

Finally, retrieving the firewood you returned to the living room. In the kitchen Agatha was chopping vegetables, her jaw set as she focused. Setting up some logs on the grate you grabbed a newspaper, tearing off enough to make sufficient kindling.

Lighting the fire, you closed the screen. Walking back to the kitchen you cleared the island of the few grocery bags Agatha had left. The succulent aroma of the kitchen was much better than the basement.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” You rested your elbow on the island, cheek in your palm.

“Just sit down and look pretty for me,” Agatha threw a smile over her shoulder, motioning to the couch, “Dinner will be ready soon.”

—

The evening passed quietly. After dinner Agatha moved the coffee table out the way of the sofa, pulling the sofa closer to the fire. Picking a movie you lied back Agatha embracing you, holding you close.

As the movie progressed Agatha hands inched up underneath your shirt, coming up to cup your breast. Every now and then she giving you little pecks in the crook of your neck. Hearing Agatha’s breathing even out your gut twisted. Something felt off. Your mind went back to the basement, the black streaks running down the table. Shoving the feeling aside you tried to ignore them, only chalking it up to Agatha’s claim of hunting animals.

At some point you must have fell asleep. Waking up to the flat ceiling of the bedroom rather than the sloped one in the living room. Turning your head Agatha was sound asleep next to you. That pit in your stomach only got heavier as you laid there. Even if you were overthinking and everything was fine, that it was just blood from animals, you weren’t going back to sleep until you found out.

You took your time quietly climbing out of bed, to avoid waking Agatha. Guilt gnawed at you for invading her privacy, not trusting her, but curiosity got the better of you. Slipping down the hallway and across the living room you stood before the basement door once again.

Slinking down the stairs, the smells was not as pungent as before, luckily. Creeping closer to the blood stained table, sure enough there were scattered tufts of animal furs trapped between the splintered wood. Sighing, you started back towards the stairs, stopping in your tracks seeing a metal door on the far side of the room, below the staircase. That pit in your stomach returning again, sinking deeper, heavier as you inched closer to the door.

please just be a storage closet, you mentally chanted, repeatedly.

Opening the door, the sight that met you had your throat tightening in horror. There’s no way that Agatha, your Agatha, could have done this.

Dried, bloody sickles, scalpels, daggers and other weapons. Pictures of people that had gone missing in recent years before they were taken, matched with Polaroids of their decrepit, mangled bodies. Trophies like jewelry or licenses were hung next to the pictures.

A small pool of blood in the corner of the closet caused your stomach to knot. The back of your shirt was harshly yanked, the door closing in front of you with a loud slam. Your back slammed against the door, your eyes meet Agatha’s. A fire raging behind her azure orbs.

“Why the fuck are you down here, again!?” She roared, hitting the door next to your head.

Agatha had never raised her voice at you, it only elevated the situation more. Your heart was beating so fast it deafened your hearing.

Tears prickled your eyes as you pleaded, “Agatha. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

Her shoulders fell as backed away from you. Her eyes full of hurt, in disbelief that you would ever think that, “Baby, I- i would never.”

Sliding down to the floor you looked up at her. The terror evident in your eyes, your breathing heavy.

She tried approaching you like you were a wounded animal, but you only coward away. Towering over you her hands twitched at her side. Teary eyed Agatha swayed from one foot to the other before collapsing to her knees in front of you, face falling into her hands, ”I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out. I was trying to be good,” she gritted out like she was physically hurting, “I’m trying to be good. For you.”

Your eyes widened. Agatha looked like a mad woman, clawing at her shoulders tears flowing down her cheeks. In this moment you are afraid of her, not knowing what could set her off, if she saw you any more terrified it might make her tick. Taking a deep breath you did your best to compose yourself.

“Agatha, I can see you want to get better. I want to help you.” You swallowed reaching out to cup her face, her tears wetting your fingers as they slid down her face. Her features relaxed upon feeling your hands. Bringing her hands up to your wrists, she pressed herself into your chest. Shakily, you wrapped your arms around her, “Let’s go back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

You can not keep this to yourself. Knowing that the guilt by association and remorse will consume your entire being until you burst. The fact that you now know the very person that is culpable of all those crimes. That’s she’s ruined so many lives and families, still denying justice from them. You just needed to safely bide your time until you could get away.

Agatha pulled away from you, a hard look casted on her face. She stared at your eyes as if she was trying to pry into your thoughts.

“You can help me, you will. All I need is you by my side.” Agatha abruptly stood up, dragging you with her.

“Wh- ugh,” your world upside down as you were slung over Agatha shoulder. Her steps heavy and decisive as she climbed up the stairs and across the cabin. Landing on the mattress the whole room was spinning.

Before you could collect your bearings heard the clinking and registered you arm being raised above your head. Cool metal snuggly wrapped around your wrist you finger touching the brass of the bed frame. When your vision clarified Agatha was standing above you with her head tilted, observing you.

You lied there sobbing, chest heaving, fighting against the cold metal of the cuff. Agatha tucked herself into your side, hand splaying across your sternum. observing the tears streaming down your face.

“Other than this, I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me, right?” Agatha planted a languid kiss on your cheek, licking your salt tears from her lips, “It will all be okay.”

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Out of Frame

It’s not a flashy job, not in the way people outside of pro sports might think. But it matters. You handle content planning, player interviews, behind the scenes footage, postgame edits and those little viral moments that somehow make fans feel like they’re part of something bigger. You know when to post, how to frame a win, how to soften a loss. You’re always watching, always chasing that perfect 30 seconds that tells the story better than stats ever could.

You’re used to being needed. Not in the loud, dramatic sense, but in the way a team needs structure. Someone to tell the story right. Someone to catch the best moments as they happen and spin them into something fans can feel. You don’t need the spotlight…you just make sure it shines in the right direction.

Which is probably why you don’t notice the way Caitlin looks at you. Not really.

You see her, of course. You’re always seeing her. Behind your lens. In your peripheral. In the center of every thumbnail. But the way she sees you? That’s something different entirely.

To Caitlin, you’re not just a camera or a job title. You’re gravity.

She’s quiet about it, at first. Respectful. You’re staff. Professional. Probably out of reach. She tells herself it’s a harmless crush…something that will fade once the season gets hectic.

But it doesn’t.

It gets worse.

It starts in the gym. A week into the season, she catches sight of you perched on a stool near the wall, camera poised, headphones in. You’re laughing quietly at something Kelsey said…shoulders shaking, head tipped back…and the sound is muffled but real. You’re not looking at Caitlin. You’re not looking at anyone.

And she can’t look away.

Later, she can’t even remember if her shot went in. She only remembers the angle of your smile and the flutter of her stomach that followed.

You become a constant in her world. The season blurs…practice, travel, games, media obligations. She barely remembers what city she’s in most days. But then you walk into the room with your laptop and your clipboard and your hoodie sleeves baggy at your wrists, and suddenly she’s grounded again.

There’s a moment…three games in, when you adjust her mic for a postgame interview. Your fingers graze her collarbone. Barely a touch. She doesn’t breathe for five seconds.

She replays it in her head that night like it meant something. Like you felt it too.

She doesn’t sleep.

She finds excuses to talk to you. Always small. Always careful.

“Hey, that edit was sick, what song was that?”

“Mind if I tag you in this repost?”

“Do I look weird in that warmup shot, or is it just me?”

You always answer patiently, kindly, like you’re just doing your job. Which you are. But every time you speak to her…Caitlin feels like she’s winning something.

Every time you smile at her, it burns.

She starts to memorize things..your go to drink, the song you hum under your breath while editing, the way you chew the inside of your cheek when something’s not syncing right. She notices that you wear the same vintage Fever hoodie on road trips and that your phone screen is cracked in the corner and that your laugh gets softer when it’s late and you’re tired.

She knows it’s dangerous, how much she notices. How much she wants to notice.

How much she wants you.

One night in June, she walks past the media room at 11:42 PM. Lights off, but you’re still inside…just the glow of your laptop on your face, headphones around your neck. She shouldn’t knock. She should go to bed.

Instead, she lingers. Watching you work, jaw clenched in focus, hair pulled up in a way that drives her insane. She presses her fingers into the edge of the doorframe until they ache.

You look up.

She nearly turns around.

But then you smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice quiet in the dark.

She shrugs. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head. “Wanna sit?”

She does.

You don’t notice it, but she looks at you like she’s memorizing. Like she’s cataloguing every part of you for the nights she’ll be alone. She watches the way your fingers fly across the keyboard. The way your lips press together when you’re deep in concentration. The way your leg bounces softly under the table, probably to whatever beat you’re hearing in your headphones.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmurs after a while.

You glance at her. “At editing?”

“At… all of it. Telling stories. Capturing people. Making us look like more than stats.”

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thanks.”

She wants to say, You make it hard not to notice you.

She wants to say, I think about you when I should be thinking about basketball.

She wants to say, I’m falling for you and you don’t even see it, do you?

Instead, she says, “You ever film yourself?”

You blink, confused. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is low. Careful. “Just think it’s a shame. You’re always behind the scenes. Someone should show your side.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “I’m better off out of frame.”

She swallows. Doesn’t argue.

But the thought claws at her the rest of the night.

Because you don’t know it, but you’re the whole picture to her.

A week later, Caitlin gets fouled hard mid game. She hits the court. Slides. The arena gasps. You gasp.

She doesn’t get up right away.

She hears her name shouted, hears her teammates’ voices, but the first one she really hears is yours. From the baseline. Soft, strained. Desperate.

“Caitlin.”

You’re not supposed to be that close. Not supposed to sound that shaken.

Later, after the trainers clear her, after she’s checked and iced and fine, she catches you watching her. From behind your camera, lips pressed tight, brow furrowed.

She waves a small “I’m okay” toward you.

And you…you smile. It’s brief. But it means everything.

She clings to it like a lifeline.

She starts drafting texts she’ll never send.

“You made me feel seen today. I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.”

“I keep trying to be normal around you and failing spectacularly.”

“Tell me to stop and I will. But God, I hope you don’t.”

She deletes them all.

She can’t risk it. Not yet. You’re too important. Too good. Too… unreachable.

But the yearning? The wanting?

It’s constant.

It’s everything.

[ghstzzn]

uh... heejake x reader. they're high as fuck, giggling at everything, until they're not. suddenly, hands everywhere, grinding, messy kisses, and a lot of spit—like, everywhere. the car windows fogged up, and everything messy and really hot? :v

// wrote this off the edible lol sorry the urge to write 10k just for these 3 is wild warnings: not proofread, threesome, messy pathetic desperate, spit kind of, car sex, fingering, overstimulation, masturbation/handjob, double penetration, weed obv + sex while high

this happens more often than not. sneaking out of whatever function the three of you had gone to, to be alone in some empty parking lot.

the car is cramped with three bodies in the back, passing a joint around, hands lingering and subtle touches here and there. thats how it always starts.

no one shys away, nobody says anything.

just a lazy smile painted on heeseungs face as you fuck yourself on his fingers. it really doesn’t take much to get you sensitive and gasping out their names after a few hits.

both jake and heeseung are doing no better. heeseung pathetically bucks his hips upwards each time you let out a moan when his fingers curl just right inside of you.

“y’look so pretty…” jake sighs, palming himself over his jeans.

and heeseung, being the ever loving friend he is, takes one of your hands and guides it to jakes lap before planting wet, sloppy kisses against your neck.

your hand is pumping jakes cock, eliciting gasps and small whines from him as he thrusts upwards into your hand, chasing his own release.

heeseung continues to drive you to the edge, and as soon as you cum, he pulls his fingers out and lifts you off his lap.

it’s shocking to you how he suddenly manhandles you over jakes lap, who was now leaning against the car door with his legs spread, creating room for you.

but in this position, you’re face to face with him while heeseung kneels behind you.

you fall flat into jakes chest when heeseung enters you in one swift motion, rocking the car with each thrust.

“god… you feel so good,” he pants out before spitting directly onto his own cock, making it messy just the way he likes it. “so wet for me.”

you whine into jakes chest, tears lining your eyes because it just felt that good. jake lifts your head, hands squishing your cheeks. he wants something.

“touch me please, baby…”

spitting into your hand, you wrap it around his throbbing length once more. its sloppy the way you jerk him off, with your other hand digging into his neck to keep yourself stabilized while heeseung pound into you.

the windows are foggy, and the smoke from earlier only makes it more hazy. heeseung switches his pace, doing what feels best for him, from deep, slow thrusts to fast and brutal thrusts.

jake rolls his head back, hitting the car window. you grab his face and slam your lips onto his. your hand still pumping him, swallowing each and every moan he lets out.

you know he’s close when his stomach starts to tense, his thighs twitching and his hips start to buck upwards. you’re close too.

“ngh—i’m gonna cum,” you whimper loudly against jakes lips. “h-heeseung, i’m gonna-“

heeseung lets out a string of curses, quickening his pace even after your cunt flutters around him. your cries could be heard outside the car and the sounds only push jake over the edge with you, cum shooting from his cock, hitting your stomach and drenching your hand.

the male behind you suddenly pulls out, lifting your body once more. he’s eager, too horny to think. heeseung pushes you towards jake, and you know what he wants.

“c-can’t…” your voice cracks as you attempt to slide down jakes hardening cock.

“you can, babygirl, come on.” heeseung responds softly, hands on your hips as he guides you lower, ignoring jakes sharp gasps from the sensitivity. “ride him—i know you can do it.”

your thighs tremble with each roll of your hips. both you and jake are a whimpering mess, whispering out small praises to each other.

“s-so good—fuck!” jakes hips buck upwards, causing you to yelp out and he’s quick to take back control. “so warm… your pussy feels so good.”

you turn your head in attempt to look behind you, and you’re immediately greeted by a sweaty heeseung pumping his own cock, getting off by the scene in front of him.

“you look so p-pretty, baby, look at you.” he rambles, breathy groans leaving his lips. “riding him so good…”

you reach back and pull him by his shirt, crashing your lips against his, drool dripping from your mouths in a desperate attempt at dominance over each others tongues.

heeseung grinds into your back side, you can still feel his hand fisting his cock, ready to spill but he holds back. “wan’ you to cum again.” he mutters against you lips.

your mind is in a complete haze, clouded by sex and weed. you pathetically grab at heeseung and jake, wanting everything they can give you at once.

“heeseung,” you manage to squeak out, voice slurring with pleasure. “want you inside too.”

and he cums right there, hot ropes of cum coating your lower back as he milks his own cock with his hand. you clench around jake, tears rolling down your cheeks as your third orgasm hits you hard, falling into his chest.

but it doesn’t stop there. it never stops at that.

when you feel heeseung line his tip up with your already filled cunt, you gasp out, looking up at jake with such a pathetic expression and he kisses away your tears with a smile.

[melloeyed]

More Gaslight District X Mom!Reader

(Mostly Ken x Wife!Reader Headcanons)

Warning: There are spicy parts in here!🔞

Part One

(A/N: I’m actually glad you guys liked the previous post, so I guess I’ll make another one! Man, so many people liked it-🫀🫀)

• You and Ken’s relationship was the perfect example of unhinged and wholesome. Two proud parents of a big, happy psychotic family. You both have never been more happier in your lives.

• You were always the calm to Ken’s storm. Whenever the gears would shift in Ken’s head, you would always be there to calm him down during his random wrathful outbursts.

• You always thought losing his temper was cute, but work was too hasty for him to flip shit every 5 seconds. Ken would always feel ashamed whenever his wife would calm him down whenever he got too wrathful.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! I SWEAR I’LL-!”

“Shh, Ken! You’re yelling again. The kids are sleeping!”

“…oh…sorry, honey.”

• Of course, you’re always there for your husband whenever he needs a hand. Being a father and a don of a mafia is never easy, so you’re always willing to switch places with Ken if it means that your hubby gets the rest that he deserves.

• Marrying Ken was the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you. In all of your undead years of living in The Gaslight District, you’ve never thought you’d find someone to finally complete you. Ken has always felt the same way.

• Your wedding night with him was absolutely unforgettable, too. Instead of saying wedding vows at a chapel, you and Ken completed your vows by bombing the building of the rivaling gangs. You still remember how the remains of the victims rained down upon you and Ken while you two kissed, nearly staining your wedding dress.

• The honeymoon was even better. You two nearly spent the entire day gushing over one another and loudly bumping hips (much to Mud’s dismay). In bed, in the car, on the kitchen table, in the shower, even on the floor. Ken was always rough with you and you loved it.

• Ken knows how much of a hold he has on you and he loves it. To his deep and attractive voice, his handsome strongfat body, and his loving personality. This delicious man leaves you weak to the knees with the littlest effort.

• You also tend to do the same to him, only unintentionally. Wearing his favorite perfume makes him more clingy to you than ever, soothing him with your sweet voice leaves him all flustered, and bending over while at work can guarantee that he’ll leave a hard smack on your ass.

• Ken has a secret little hobby of flustering you out of nowhere. Watching you perk up and blush by his words really strokes his ego.

“You know, Ken. Considering how much beefy you were back in the day I’m not surprised you stretched your old clothes out!”

“Heh, that’s not the only thing I’ve stretched out, hon...”

“O-Oh, my…”

• The last thing you expected was starting a family with Ken. Sure, kids are great and parenting was a beautiful yet, difficult thing, but you never really saw yourself being a mother, considering how violent your life is.

• Although it has been hard for you to decide, you immediately changed your mind when you first saw Breadhead and then Mel as babies. Two beautiful bundles of joy that you would destroy the world for.

• When Breadhead was first born, you and Ken were all over him. Your firstborn son, fresh out the oven, joyfully being held in a bundle by his new tearful parents.

“Oh, Ken! He’s perfect! Look at his cute little bread head…”

“I know, look at him! Our son! Our little roll of joy…”

• After you and Ken became parents, you began to stay behind at the Butcher Shop to take care of baby Breadhead. Ken and Mud were bummed out that you couldn’t go with them, but someone has to babysit.

• Your favorite memory of Breadhead is when he first ate a Rotling in one bite when he was 3. You still have a picture of that moment.

• Watching Breadhead grow up was a wild but enjoyable experience. From his first steps, his first word, and his first kill, you were nothing but a sweet and loving parent to him. Hence, why he became such a mama’s boy.

• But when Mel came into the family, so much has changed in your life. You weren’t fully aware what kind of bad blood Ken had with the Virtues and he never really wanted to talk about it. You remembered how shocked you were when Ken arrived at the shop with the human baby in his arms.

• Like others, you were fearful of the legend of the human child that would end The Black Hand’s curse of immortality throughout The Gaslight District. You first had thoughts of getting rid of Mel out of panic, but you then stopped yourself after seeing her for the first time.

• You remembered how her small pale head poked out of the bundle she was wrapped in with her precious round red eyes looking up at you in wonder. This beautiful human baby girl gazed at you with no fear regardless of your deathly appearance and immediately your panic was replaced with love.

• Ken was unsure whether or not he could trust you with the secret that Mel is the human, but when you slowly walked up to him, with you’re eyes glued to baby Mel, relief was what he nearly expected.

“(Y/N), please just-“

“…She’s beautiful…”

“…I knew I could trust you.”

• Words couldn’t describe how relieved and overjoyed Ken was when you agreed to keep the secret with him without hesitation. You two both knew that he couldn’t carry that burden alone and you completely moved by the fact that he believed that he could trust you with such a thing. You and Ken became much closer while raising Mel.

• Unlike Breadhead, Mel would always want to spend more time with Ken, but unfortunately he would always go on missions with Mud and Breadhead so she was mostly stuck with you in the Butcher Shop.

• Mel barely admits it, but she thinks you’re way cooler than Ken. As much as a daddy’s girl she is she can’t get enough of you being badass. Especially the time where she watched you traumatize the hell out of a creep.

• Ken absolutely loves it when you and Mel have precious mother-daughter moments together. Nothing makes his heart burst more than seeing his two favorite girls having a great time together.

• Ken nearly cried tears of joy when he watched you two slaughter a gang of Rotlings trying to rob the store with absolute glee together. When the entire gang was practically mincemeat, you and Mel’s similar deranged laughs echoed through shop as Ken heart melted at the sight of his wife and daughter together.

• Like mother, like daughter, right?

“Ken, are you crying, mate?”

“With pride, Mud…with pride…”

• Even though your marriage is perfect, it’s not unheard of you two getting into fights. Usually it happens when it comes to regarding Mel’s safety from The Gaslight District. Of course, it would never get physical though.

• The outcome of these fights would never be pretty, but in the end, you and Ken would always make up and apologize for the conflict you two put each other through. Parenting is never easy, but you two always needed each other to keep things straight.

“Look, (Y/N)…about the things I’ve said before I-“

“No, no. It’s alright, Ken. I know you want what’s best for Mel. It’s just that…it’s really difficult…”

“I know. But, all I know is that we’re together in this and I know you have my back…”

• You and Ken would always love to go back on old memories together. You two would usually sit on the couch looking at old pictures of the family and talk about your favorite old times together.

• Mel, Breadhead, and Mud would often join in on these conversations. Mud really took time to remember each and every moment you, him and Ken spent together. Of course, he would always poke fun at you two being gushy over one another.

• And everyday, you and Ken always take the time out of your day’s to remind each other how much you love one another. You two would usually find romantic ways to pass up the time whenever you two were alone, either in a sweet or spicy way.

•You can’t imagine yourself being with another man other than Ken. Your life has changed so much for the better with your amazing husband. As for Ken, he feels the happiest man on earth whenever he sees you every day. Proposing to you was the best choice he’s ever made in his life.

• As the killer couple of The Smiling Dead, you two have made quite a reputation together. Every Rotling in the Gaslight District knew better than to oppose one of you two, knowing that you have each other’s back always. A mafia couple so strong that not even death could bring you two part.

[avaredava]

Safe word?

Master list's

⯌Sum

You said your safe word and boy does the jjk men freak out.

Satoru Gojo

That man was plunging into you, talking about his day not exactly paying attention to you. It wasn't bad or anything it was a bit weird though because the angrier he got the more rough.

"And this stupid fucking-" thrust "higher up keeps being a total-" thrust "bitches."

It was starting to hurt but seeing the annoyed look in Satorus eye just made you feel bad. So you stayed silent.

But the fact that he also wasn't really giving a shit, just talking about the people he hates and being kinda oblivious to what's happening makes your stomach and heart hurt and not in the good, orgasmic way.

Sex is supposed to be loveable, and sacred not something for fun. Yeah, people might not agree but that's how you and Satoru were.

You start to cry, again, scared of the beast that's plunging into like you're just a pocket pussy. And fuck he takes it the wrong way.

He started pounding faster.

"Stupid fucking slut, you always want more, nothing else. Whore."

The fact that's the only thing he's really said to you the whole time, and it was a mean thing, you just start to sob and a cracked up safe word comes out.

He pulls out instantly. He was checking your face and body, then something truely shook him to his core his the bit of blood on his cock.

"Fuck baby, I'm so, so sorry." And what really made him gasp was when you flinched away when he tried to touch you.

"Listen do you want anything? Maybe a hot bath and a massage or cuddles? If you don't want me here I understand, I would either so-"

You giggle at his rambling and a bit of pressure comes off his chest but he's still extremely stressed and worried. But it's for you this time.

"Maybe a bath and you in it for cuddles..."

You never seen that man run that fast. And just because he accidentally hurt you, you knew he's never gonna do something that ever again. The fear in his eyes? That made you know he loves you to the very deep of his heart.

After all, you're his girl.

Nanami Kento

Nanami Kento is never rough. That man is scared to break you with one touch. He treats you like a porcelain doll. Hence the nickname doll he has for you.

He treats you like an absolute princess, no queen. And the sex is even better, constantly checking in and out with you.

It's so intimate.

And you love every god damn second. He touches you in places you wouldn't know felt good.

You're ovulating right now and he has a long ass work trip. And you have bad ovulations and Nanami always takes care of you.

But since he was leaving soon you couldn't have him for a while. So you need him now, and make sure you're well taken care of and you won't need him frequently.

So he decided to have a long ass sex session, to the point where your crying of overstimulation. But in the best way possible. So that's what he did. Or tried.

Mid sex when his thick cock was rubbing against your g-spot and slowly going to your cervix, the deep lust, loving look in his eyes made your thighs shake and breath get shallow mere seconds from sharp breathing.

Your eyes were squeezed shut as his hands were moving up and down your body as he rubbed your nipples and massaged your hips.

God this was great.

Until a ring from his boss came through. He answers and his voice was formal as his hand was wrapped around your throat gently making sure you stay quiet.

His thrusts began to become more deep, he started to kinda zone out. But it felt too good and you started have breathy moans.

And they started to get louder.

And louder...

Until he was so in his call and he needed you to shut up he wrapped his hand around your throat too hard. You started to have breathing problems but you kinda kept moaning too.

He just thought it was just you being pleasured so he wrapped his arm around tighter. And now you couldn't talk. And you started to get fucking scared. Your arms are pinned down so you couldn't move.

You choked up your safe word. But he didn't hear, and you started to panic. You started to mildly scream, and he looked down and quickly hung up and let out.

You started to have a raspy cry. He quickly pulled out and threw his phone. He quickly realized the bruising on your neck. He kissed all over your neck and when you flinched he practically threw himself back.

He pulled you on his lap and bounced you on it. "You're on sex ban Nanami."

"Okay."

He held you so close, fuck he could live without sex but he couldn't live with out you. And he whispered that all night. Making sure you knew that. Also he did absolutely not go on that work trip. He stayed in bed with you.

He didn't give a shit about his stupid job. He gave so many stupid shits about you though.

Toji Fushiguro

Disrespect Toji? You're gonna get punished.

And you were a little shit sometimes, and you knew that. He usually just fucks you for hours. And you love it. But he realized it's not teaching you anything much so he has a new strategy.

He decided to slap that cute ass. He was repeatedly hitting just making you moan and squirm. He did some slaps as his fingers plunged his fingers in and out.

But once again you loved it. The little bit of pain and his muscular fingers massaging you g-spot over and over. So of course you were about to cum. So he edged you a bunch.

That wasn't too bad. And of course you liked it. So he took his fingers fully out and you whined. He started to slap again.

The room was dim with light and he was sitting on the edge of the bed with you're draped over his lap. And of course your ass is up.

He realized you're still moaning so he started slapping harder... And harder.

Until it was starting to sting and you began whinging. He started to slap harder because he thought you were enjoying.

You let out little ows with tears in your eyes. He laughed.

"You deserve it. Dumb bitch."

That just cracked your heart open so you let out a little broken safe work softly repeated over and over. And when he stopped you kept mumbling it.

He knew he fucked up.

When you barely reacted to him gently saying your name it took him a few seconds to look down from your face and it hit him that your ass is red and covered with deep purple bruises.

He pulled the cover over both of you. And he went under it. He was gently kissing the burning sensation covering your butt and it made you melt feeling the warmness of lips fluttering over your ass made you smile to sleep.

The next morning he was pretending like nothing happened. But you realized he also put massage oils on your ass and also massaged it, duh. It didn't hurt.

And he denied the fact that you felt small wet droplets falling on your ass when he was kissing it.

Suguru Geto

Suguru Geto was obsessed with eating you out.

So that is why he is eating you out with the fullest of the top notch pussy eating. Making out with it like he hasn't seen it in years, even though he was doing the same thing last night.

And it never gets worse. Somehow it gets better.

He's always just sucking and licking. He never goes beyond. And you don't want to go further either.

But tonight he was stressed and pissed off. And he needed something to cool down, you. Your sweet pussy, it just relaxes him.

And of course you allow it.

So now he has your knees pinned to your breasts being held down as his tongue quickly moves up and down your folds. Then in between. Basically everywhere.

That man couldn't get enough of your taste. But something weird was happening. It isn't that he's not enjoying it, but it wasn't as sensual as he usually is.

But it still feels good and he is stressed so you let it happen. But unfortunately he gets to rough.

He starts biting.

It was innocent nips and then harsh sucks on your clit, so it felt good. But then he started actually biting, especially right at your sensitive nub. You start whimpering and crying.

"Close?" He mumbles. But it made your insides cringe. You start pulling at his hair and he loves it so he starts biting rougher, until you say your safe word before it got too bad.

He pulled away and looked down, it was a light red dusted all over your folds. Your clit was all swollen. It wasn't too bad but he could tell it was gonna get worse. So he still felt bad.

He was mumbling about how immature he is and how he can't control himself, but he was so tired he fell asleep massaging your folds with his face squished in your boobs.

This man.

_

Sukuna's from a couple weeks ago

[mattrempeswife]

YOU, ME AND DREAM HIM

requested: yes | req: hi! i loved the macklin fic you posted... like i was full on giggling to his adorable jealousy, so i wondered if you'd write something similar for ws#2. but like instead, it's will stealing the reader away from dream!macklin because he's like our childhood friend and the first time reader met will, he thought reader and macklin were dating, before they told him they were not.

pair: will smith x f!reader

genre: fluff, humor, friends-to-lovers, jealousy.

warnings: mild language, dream jealousy, over-the-top possessiveness (in a sweet way), secondhand embarrassment.

summary: will is never subtle, especially when he’s jealous. so when he dreams that you kissed your childhood best friend celebrini, he storms out of the bedroom in a full-blown drama spiral. the kiss didn’t happen. not in real life. but will wants answers and maybe, he’s ready to admit something more than that.

fia’s notes: thank you to @/romxntica for making this gif! my goodness, he looks like an actual angel in it. also, just a little heads-up that fia (yes, me!) has been thinking about starting a small series featuring dad!will smith… or maybe even single dad!will smith. we’ll see where the vibes take us!

“Why did you kiss him?”

You looked up from your phone, blinking.

“What?”

“Him. Mack.”

Will stood in the doorway, shirtless and glaring like he’d just emerged from a war zone or more accurately, a bad dream. His hair was sticking up in nine directions, voice gravelly, and expression devastated.

“…What are you talking about?”

You asked, scooting back on the couch.

Will stalked closer, stopping directly in front of you.

“Why did you kiss Macklin Celebrini?”

You stared at him. “I… didn’t?”

“In my dream you did,” he huffed.

“Full-on, fireplace, snow falling, matching scarves, cinematic kiss.”

“…Matching scarves?”

“I know what I saw.”

You burst out laughing, and Will looked even more betrayed.

“Don’t laugh,”

He said, flopping onto the couch beside you, arms crossed, scowl deepening.

“It was so vivid. I watched you run into his arms like a damn Hallmark movie. You giggled, babe.”

“You’re mad at me over a dream kiss with dream Celebrini?” you teased, wide-eyed.

“I’m devastated,” he corrected.

“I had to wake up and remember that you betrayed me in a hypothetical timeline I didn’t sign off on.”

You reached for his arm, chuckling.

“Okay, back up. Start from the beginning.”

Will nodded solemnly.

“You kissed him. With feeling. He wore a red flannel. He gave you a scarf. There was snow. And Dream Me? I just stood there. Watching. Like some awkward extra in your romantic subplot.”

“I would never,” you laughed.

“You know I love you. Not Dream Mack.”

Will didn’t smile.

“Should I start chopping wood and wearing Canadian flannel now? Is that the vibe you’re secretly into?”

You snorted and fell into the cushions.

Will leaned back dramatically.

“I swear I heard Celine Dion.”

“That’s how you know it’s a true Canadian fantasy.”

He pointed at you. “Exactly!”

You wiped a tear from laughing.

“Baby, Dream Me might be confused, but Real Me only kisses you.”

Will let out a big sigh and finally, finally, cracked a grin.

“Still hurts though.”

“Want me to kiss it better?”

“…Maybe.”

You kissed him, and Will instantly relaxed, hands finding your waist like a magnet.

When you pulled away, you asked,

“What is this really about?”

He hesitated. “Can I tell you something kind of dumb?”

“Always, Willy”

“When I first met you, before we were together I thought you and Mack were dating.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“What? Why?”

“You showed up to that open skate together, you were wearing his hoodie, and he called you his ride or die. Then he glared at any guy that looked your way, including me. I thought I didn’t stand a chance.”

You softened. “I only wore his hoodie because I spilled coffee on mine. And Mack glares at everyone. It’s his resting face.”

Will chuckled. “Yeah, well. I was into you so bad, and I thought you were taken by the golden boy of British Columbia.”

You slid your hand into his.

“We’ve been friends since we were kids. He’s like a brother.”

Will looked at your joined hands.

“Took me forever to even ask for your number. I was terrified.”

“Terrified?” you repeated, amused.

“You check people into glass for a living.”

He smirked. “Yeah, well. You were scarier.”

You smiled. “You’ve got me now.”

His voice dropped, quieter, sincere.

“I know. But sometimes I still get a little… possessive. You’re my favorite thing in the world. Even Dream You.”

You leaned in and kissed him again, slow this time. When you pulled back, his lips chased yours like he wasn’t ready to stop.

“You’re mine,” he murmured.

“Always,” you promised.

Later, while brushing your teeth, you heard him mutter from bed.

“Still can’t believe the scarves.”

You spat into the sink, calling out, “What were they, plaid?”

“Red plaid. Peak Canadian,” he replied solemnly.

You laughed. “Did Dream Me say anything dramatic while kissing Mack?”

He groaned. “She said, ‘I’ve always loved you, even when you had braces.’”

“Braces?!”

“I don’t control Dream You, okay?!”

You climbed into bed, still wheezing.

“We should tell Mack. He deserves to know he starred in your rom-com nightmare.”

Will sat bolt upright. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll never let me live it down. He’ll post scarf photos. Tag me. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You grinned. “You’re right. I’ll do it.”

Will flopped back with a groan. “This is actual emotional terrorism.”

The next morning, the real nightmare hit.

You walked into the kitchen, sipping coffee, only to see Will sitting at the island, pale and dead-eyed.

“…What?”

He slowly turned his phone toward you.

It was an Instagram post from Macklin, him, at a cabin in Banff, wearing a red plaid flannel, snow falling around him, a stack of chopped wood in the background.

You gasped. “Oh my god.”

Will whispered, “It’s happening.”

You nearly dropped your mug laughing.

“How is this real?!”

“I’m haunted,” Will muttered.

“Do you think he’s dream-stalking me back?”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Maybe. Or maybe… we buy you a scarf.”

Will’s eyes narrowed.

“Only if it’s not plaid.”

[annaswrites00]

Not So Private

OP81 x gf!reader

(1.5k)

Summary - You and Oscar are hard launched.. and not happy about it… warning - none

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It was supposed to be a low-key weekend.

They hadn’t made a big deal about her being there—no paddock pictures, no holding hands in front of cameras. Oscar kept things quiet, like he always did. Like they both agreed was best. She stayed in the background, tucked under hats and sunglasses, watching the chaos of the paddock unfold from the safety of hospitality lounges and quiet trackside corners.

It wasn’t hiding. Not really. It was just… privacy.

And then Friday night happened.

They were back at the hotel by nine, curled up on the couch in his room. Room service trays were balanced on the coffee table, Oscar was flipping channels aimlessly. She was scrolling.

And then she froze.

He noticed first in her body—how still she’d gone, her phone suddenly tight in her grip. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Lips parted slightly, but no words came.

“What is it?” he asked gently, nudging her ankle with his foot.

She didn’t answer right away.

“Oscar…”

Her voice was quiet. Small. She turned the phone toward him.

There it was—plastered in pixels across a gossip account’s Instagram story: a blurry photo from earlier that day, taken from across the paddock fence. Him. Her. Laughing. His hand on her back. His face buried in her neck.

The caption read:

“Looks like Oscar Piastri isn’t so single after all…”

Spotted with a mystery girl in Monza—sources say she’s been staying with him all weekend. Let the games begin.

And then a carousel of close-up shots. Cropped, zoomed. Her side profile. His hand brushing hers. Her hands on his shoulders.

And underneath, the comments:

“She’s just another influencer type.”

“Oscar’s really dating her?”

“He could do better.”

“Honestly, she doesn’t suit him.”

“Mid.”

And then the tags started flooding in. Her phone buzzed again and again, notifications lighting up like a firework finale. People had found her account—even though it was private, even though she hadn’t posted anything in weeks.

The tagged photos weren’t kind. Screenshots, reposts of the gossip story, TikTok edits with her face blurred and circled. The captions were worse:

“Oscar Piastri’s mysterious girlfriend?”

“Who even is this?”

“He could pull anyone, and he chose her?”

She turned her phone off.

Oscar had gone quiet beside her. Not the panicked kind of quiet, not even angry—just still. His brows furrowed as he looked at the screen like he could burn the whole thing down with just his gaze.

She sank back into the couch cushion, hugging her knees to her chest.

“I knew it would happen eventually,” she whispered. “But it still sucks.”

Oscar placed the remote down, gently. Then reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. Still.”

She gave a shaky breath, trying to laugh it off. “They didn’t even pick a flattering photo. Like, if I’m gonna get dragged, at least let me look good.”

But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She looked tired. A little hurt. Maybe more than a little.

“I don’t want this to be a thing,” she murmured. “I liked it better when it was just… ours. Quiet. Safe.”

Oscar moved closer, his voice low. “It still is. What we have—that hasn’t changed.”

She nodded. “I know.”

But it felt different now. She could already feel it sinking into her bones—the fact that strangers had opinions now. That their relationship had become public property in the space of an hour. That people had dissected her like a stranger’s outfit on a red carpet, judged her face, her vibe, her worth… all based on a few stolen photos.

She swallowed hard. “It’s weird, you know? I didn’t think I’d care. I thought I was strong enough to handle it. But now it’s happening, and it’s just—heavy.”

Oscar reached for her again, this time pulling her into him so she was sitting between his legs, back pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around her, holding her steady like she might float off if he let go.

“They don’t know you,” he said into her hair. “Not the way I do.”

She closed her eyes. “Still feels personal.”

“I know. It always does.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The TV played some old Italian crime drama in the background, voices overlapping with subtitles neither of them bothered to read. The room felt quieter than it was.

“I hate this part,” he said quietly. “Not being with you. Just… the way people talk. The way it’s already gotten to you.”

She didn’t say anything, but her fingers tightened slightly in his.

��I never wanted this to hurt you,” he went on, his voice low but firm. “I never wanted you to feel less-than, or second-guess yourself because of me. Because of all of this. You’re not something to hide. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And if I ever make you feel like you’re not enough, or like you have to shrink around all this noise—I swear, that’s the opposite of what I want.”

“I want you here. Just as you are. Nothing about this means anything if you’re hurting in it.”

“I don’t want to hide either. I just want to feel safe—with you.”

Eventually, she spoke again. “Am I gonna mess this up for you?”

Oscar’s heart dropped. “What?”

“Just… people already saying stuff. About how I’m not right for you. Or that I’m ruining your image. I don’t want to be something people use against you.”

Oscar turned her gently, so she was facing him. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing just under her eyes.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“You will never be a liability to me. Ever.”

Her eyes welled up again, but she blinked it back.

He kissed her forehead, soft and slow. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to be liked. You just have to be you.”

“But what if that’s not enough?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “It’s more than enough. I wouldn’t want any of this—any of the travel, the chaos, the wins—if you weren’t in it with me.”

She let out a small breath. One of those fragile ones that comes right before you let your guard down again. She leaned into his touch, her head tucked beneath his chin.

He held her there.

“You wanna disappear for a bit?” he asked. “We could go somewhere quiet tomorrow after qualifying. Get away from the paddock. Just us.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

A faint smile curved her lips. “You always know what to offer.”

“Because I know you,” he said softly. “The real you. Not the one in their comments.”

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Thanks for reading!!!

🧸ྀི 🧸ྀི 🧸ྀི

[sirfrogsworth]

Understanding the Inverse Square Law

(Without Math)

When I was first getting deep into photography, I kept running into lessons about the inverse square law. They would always tell you the effects and the math but they never explained the cause. Why does the light do this?

It's like when the doctor gives you a pill to fix something. You swallow it, wait a bit, and eventually you feel better. But you rarely know what the pill is actually doing.

So when it comes to lighting, you have to decide if you want to be the doctor who understands the why or the patient who just swallows the pill and gets the desired effect.

Every tutorial will say if you double the distance of a light from a subject, the intensity will drop by 1/4. They will give you a formula so you can do exposure calculations.

Sometimes they will refer to somewhat helpful diagrams with clues on what is happening.

But most just teach the easy version.

If you move the light closer, you will get quicker falloff into shadow and the background will be darker.

If you move it farther back, everything will be more evenly lit, but the background will be lighter.

The teacher will shoot some examples and show you something like this.

By the end of this post, I want everyone who reads it to *truly* understand what is happening.

Because if you understand it on that level, it will change how you think about light and photography. It will have the added bonus of explaining magnets and WiFi and even the sound coming out of your speakers.

If I am an effective teacher, this is something you will think about in your everyday life, even if you don't care about photography.

In a previous post, I talked about how light was a bit like a shotgun blast. The closer you are, the more concentrated the pellets. If you are farther away, the shot disperses.

But this wasn't the analogy I wanted to use. It was just the easiest to find visual examples of.

My preferred analogy was spray paint. And I'm hoping with some janky home-made visuals, I can do a better job of explaining the concept.

Let's start by explaining the humble photon. It's the fundamental particle (or wave) of light. Think of them like individual tiny globs of paint in a spray can. A photon is emitted when something loses energy. And unmodified light sources typically shoot out photon globs in all directions.

A point light source is a theoretical concept where a single point in space shoots light evenly in every direction. For our purposes we're just going to imagine a basic light bulb as the point source.

But our eyes and cameras have a limited field of view, so from here on out we are going to think of the light emitting from the bulb as having a cone shape. We are just concerned with what a camera can actually see.

Well, well, well... what does that cone of light look like?

I'm sure we have all used spray paint before. So let's imagine we are spraying a white ball against a gray wall. We spray for 1 second and hold the can at different distances.

In each scenario we are spraying for the same length of time and the exact same number of photon paint globs are emitted from the nozzle.

Let's think about what each scenario would look like from the camera's point of view.

Here is our unpainted ball and wall.

Here is the spray can held at Distance 1.

Note how the red paint is very concentrated and appears bold and saturated.

Distance 2.

Now the same amount of paint is dispersed over a wider area. The bold red spot in the center is more muted. And some of the paint is spilling onto the background.

Distance 3.

Everything appears to have a light red tint. The background and the white ball appear to have similar intensities of red. The coverage is very even. The same number of photon paint globs are being asked to cover a larger area so they are spreading out and diluting the color.

Okay, now let's exchange tiny photon paint globs for real photons.

I'm bringing back my baseball and showing these same 3 distances.

The nice thing about eyeballs and cameras... they can compensate for different light intensities. Our eyes have night vision and cameras have long shutter speeds, large lens apertures, and ISO amplification.

And if we compensate for the dimming caused by the dispersed light...

Photography teachers will tell you that if you move the light farther away, the background will get brighter. In reality, everything is the same level of dim and the camera exposure is brightened.

What if we wanted to spray the same area from far away without losing as much of the red saturation? We could add a super nozzle to our spray can that emits a bunch more photon globs in the same span of time.

This would be like turning up the power of the light. You have to emit a bunch more photons in that same time scale to compensate. Then you don't have to adjust your camera settings when you move the light farther away.

Let's look at a practical example of when you might think about the inverse square law to help solve a problem.

You have two subjects in a scene, and you put the light just out of view of the camera. You might be thinking that a larger light source is softer, so you want it as close as possible.

Unfortunately only one person is lit in the scene. She is getting the concentrated photons before they can disperse.

So if we want both people to have similar lighting, we can move the light farther away. You will have to comprimise a little softness. And you will have to change your camera settings or increase the power of the light.

Note that the intensity of light in the area they are standing in is very similar now.

By using a large light modifier, the photographer was able to move the light back and keep its general softness, but also evenly light both subjects.

And now I need to talk about one aspect of my spray paint analogy that does not work with the inverse square law. And it has to do with the specular highlight on the baseball.

Spray paint does not reflect paint. It just sticks to things. And reflection throws a tiny wrench into my explanation. Because parallel light rays do not obey the inverse square law. When you light something, the most central photons from the subject's perspective are going to be traveling in parallel. They have a direct path from the light to the camera lens or your eyeball.

Now if the reflection material is perfectly matte, the light will disperse and act as the inverse square law suggests. But if the surface is even a little glossy, the most concentrated parallel rays are going to bounce directly into your eye as a bright white spot.

And if you study this diagram a little closer, you might figure out why specular highlights are usually white.

If you look at the specular highlight on the baseball, even though the rest of the image gets dimmer as the light gets farther away, that spot stays bright.

Though the spot seems to disappear at Distance 1. Curious, eh?

It's still there. It's still reflecting directly into your eyeball. But the light around it is so concentrated and bright, the specular highlight blends in.

Which means if you have some nasty highlights on your photo subject, moving your light closer might make them go away. If someone has a shiny forehead, this can equalize the overall exposure and hide the shiny.

This guy has a bright spot on his nose. It is there in both photos.

But his face is so much brighter in the left photo that the spot blends in. It's a bit of a mind bender because the camera exposure is adjusted so the finished photos appear the same amount of bright.

You have to remember if you only move the light farther away and don't increase its power or increase the camera's exposure level, the photos would look more like this.

So if you make the rest of the face as bright as the highlight, it blends in.

Neat!

So, was I successful?

Does the inverse square law make more sense?

This is why WiFi gets weaker at a distance. This is why magnets lose their attraction when you pull them apart. This is why speakers get quieter when you move away from them.

I can't tell you how much knowing the why has affected my thinking about lighting. I see so many video and photo people talking about lighting setups who are just following memorized placements.

"Put a light above the subject at a 45 degree angle to get Rembrandt lighting."

But the second they encounter light doing something unexpected, things fall apart. They resort to trial and error and brute force the solution.

Knowing how the pill works can prevent that frustrating process.

I no longer care about the math. I can just visualize the cone of influence and predict what will happen. Understanding the behavior of light and not just the end effects has made everything more intuitive. I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to understand this. But, hopefully, this post has shortened that journey for you.

[bonniesbluee]

okay so for part 2 of art x stripper reader you can do like a continuation of them at the house and once she sees the kind of lavish life he lives she gets comfy but also wants to get to know him more so they talk then she gives him a lap dance which leads to well you know....(just like in anora)

dilf!art x stripper!reader pt 2 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

the drive to his home is mostly quiet, only filled with soft "hmm" from you whenever he would start small talk. a friendly soft smile never leaving your face. mostly because that's what she always does with her costumers. but also because he's genuinely charming!

when you both get home, you're shocked at how...expensive the whole place is. it screams 'rich guy' but not in an obnoxious way. either way, its all so enticing.

"mi casa es tu casa," he botches up the spanish, which makes you laugh softly. you go through his door, hands clutching at your dress as you look around. "not too shabby," you say softly, and he gently drags you to the couch.

"of course. you want a drink? anything?" he says while placing your purse on the other couch, sitting next to you with an almost an needy look. "i dont drink while...y'know, working." you respond, hands laying ontop of thighs.

"right. work." he leans back, his forearms tensing as he rests them on the couch. "so, how much is the pay?" he says bluntly. way too bluntly. your smile falters slightly at the sudden question. "depends on the night. sometimes it can be about 2-3k. in other times its less than 500."

"hm." he sits up almost as if scanning you. "you're too pretty for that job, y'know?" he asks you, softly brushing a stray piece or hair off your face. "way too pretty. you deserve better." you stay quiet, simply glancing away.

"what about 1k a day. you get to live here, not in a trashy apartment," he states so casually you almost dont believe it. also 'trashy apartment'? why would he- "i assume you live in an apartment anyway." he places his hand on your thigh before tugging at it. "think about it," you move ontop of his lap, ass pressed against thighs and back pressed against his chest. "me, you. in this house all for ourselves. no more worrying about rent," his hands goes to your hips, gently grind them against him. "deadlines, debts. you'll get taken care of by me."

you loll your head back, forehead softly brushing against his jaw. "all in return of..?" "just company." it sounds pathetic. but he needs to sleep with someone at night, he needs a warm body, and you need stability. win win. not only that, but something about you makes him feel almost obsessively protective.

you continue grinding on him, biting your lip as you feel his hand gently caress your stomach. "ill think about it." you whimper, eyes fluttering as you feel his erection press against your ass cheeks.

"mm yeah?" he groans against your ear. his hips bucking as he tries to search for friction. "maybe you want me to convince you more?" he asks, yet doesn't wait for an answer before he's already pushing your face into the cushion of the couch. "arch your ass baby," she instructs, pinching your soft ass cheeks.

you obediently arch you ass, whimpering at the whine. "so wet already," he whispers to himself as he gazes at the wet spot in your pink panties. he smirks, cupping your thighs and spreading them open. "so sweet and wet.." he purrs, pulling your panties to the side, gently thumbing at your clit. "i wonder how you taste." she sits up, kissing the side of your head before cupping your ass harshly.

he nuzzles his nose into your core, eyes fluttering as your juices touch his face. "god," he breathes out before a switch in him happens. a raw, crude need to taste you. you let out a sharp cry, hands gripping the couch as you press your face into the couch. "a-art!" you whimper, chest heaving.

he stays quiet the whole 5 minutes. in the span of 5 minutes you come 2 times. its that bad. he's licking sucking and biting into your core. its harsh and raw, which just brings more goosebumps to your body. by the time he pulls away his face is soaked, your body is trembling, alot. and you're drooling. you are so dumb and he isnt even inside you yet.

the sight of u at his mercy makes his cock twitch inside his pants. "come on baby," he kisses your lips, mixing your saliva, his saliva and your juices. "we aint done yet."

"we're far from done."

[wwinterwitch]

friendly introductions – bucky barnes

summary: bucky unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, and he's brought a few people with him pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader (ft. the thunderbolts*) word count: 3.4k tags: thunderbolts* shenanigans, spoilers here and there obvs, slight miscommunication, big happy dysfunctional family in the making, google translator was used for the russian words (sorry), kissing, little bit of angst and little bit of fluff notes: i just saw the movie yesterday and as soon as i got back home i decided to write this, which is loosely connected to this fic i posted recently. i just loved the thunderbolts* so much they mean the entire world to me right now. perhaps more fics are coming in the future because i have lots of ideas!!! as always, i hope you enjoy

please reblog and/or comment if you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | part 1 (not strictly necessary to read this one tho)

“Sorry for such short notice,” Bucky mutters as soon as you open the door for him and the rest of the entire group. You could tell he’s been having a pretty rough time just by looking at him. Hair messy, frowning more than usual, dirty clothing and a cut on his left cheek. The rest of the people he’s with don’t look any better. It wouldn’t take an expert to figure out they’ve been in some kind of combat and, most likely, they didn’t come on top. 

“It’s okay,” you quickly reassure him, leaving the door open until every single one of them were inside your apartment, closing it behind them. “Can I ask what happened?”

“We…uh, got our ass kicked, basically,” he replies, sounding quite exhausted. 

You take a second to look at the group. Unfamiliar faces of people you could only assume are in the superhero/villain/whatever business. There’s a blonde woman who immediately leans against one of the walls of your living room, trying to get some sort of rest after the fight. The other woman stays by the entrance and you can’t help but admire how cool her suit is. There’s algo a guy in a red suit and he looks absolutely huge and terrifying, but the smile he sends your way with the silly little wave he makes as you make eye contact gives you the impression that he might not be as intimidating as you initially thought.

And then, your eyes focus on the other person in the room.

“You,” is all you say, your voice sounding anything but welcoming.

Everyone turns to look at Walker, who offers you an awkward smile. “Yeah, hi.”

“You two know each other?” the blonde one asks.

“Unfortunately,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the guy at all times. You know enough about John Walker to be stupid enough to let him out of your sight. “Listen, I don’t know what just happened to you guys, but in case Bucky hasn’t warned you already, you can’t trust this piece of shit.”

Noticing you’re starting to get a little heated by his presence, Bucky wraps an arm around your waist from behind, just in case you decide to go over him and confront him for everything that has happened in the past. “It’s okay. He’s here to help.”

You turn to look at him like he just said the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard in your life, but he simply stares back at you with a serious expression, nodding as if to emphasize on his previous statement, trying to let you know you can actually trust the guy. When you turn back to look at Walker, he raises both hands in the air as a sign to further prove that he’s harmless.

“I’ll be keeping an eye out,” you warn him, pointing your finger at him. 

“That’s fair,” he nods.

“Whoa, she’s feisty!” you hear the excited voice of the guy in the red suit as he lets out a short chuckle. “I like her already!”

You feel Bucky’s grip around your waist tightening. “We’re just here to get some cover and figure out our next move.”

Suddenly remembering the fact that all these strangers are standing in various spots in your living room, you get away from Bucky to walk over to your couch. “Oh, so sorry! What a terrible host,” you attempt to joke a little in hopes of lightening the mood, quickly removing your laptop and various papers scattered across your couch. “Please, take a seat!”

None of them move at first, but they eventually accept the invitation and walk towards your couch to sit down. All except Walker, who decides to stay in the same spot he’s been since he entered your apartment. Not like you care, so you just let him stand there on his own.

A few awkward introductions later and you already know everyone. Alexei, Ava and Yelena. One a total stranger and the others slightly familiar to you due to them being related to Natasha. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name out loud, though. If you struggle to think about her without bursting out crying, you can’t even imagine what it would be like for her dad and sister. Last thing you want is to cause them any discomfort.

“And how exactly do you know each other?” Yelena asks you and Bucky after you introduce yourself to them too.

“Former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Bucky replies before you can say anything, and you can’t help but turn to look at him with a slightly confused expression. “We’ve been friends for a very long time.”

Friends. Sure. Whatever. If that’s what he wants to call it…

After what happened last time you were in D.C., Bucky was constantly making trips to New York to visit you. You’re not officially dating, but it’s established that you’re exclusive. Long distance isn’t ideal, but you’ve made it work so far. Probably the happiest months of your life. But now…you hear him introducing you as his friend. It’s not really a big deal. Technically you are friends? It shouldn’t affect you as much as it does, but…you’re internally fuming right now.

Still, you decide not to say anything regarding that. He’s always been quite a reserved person, so perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable enough to share that information with them just yet. “Can I get you anything to drink?” you decide to ask, looking at everyone else.

“We’re not-”

“I’m sure a glass of water won’t kill anybody,” you say, immediately cutting Bucky off.

There’s a brief silence before Ava speaks. “I’ll have a glass of water. Thank you.”

You look at Yelena as she shortly nods before you focus on Alexei. “Do you perhaps have something else other than water?”

“Dad,” Yelena warns him.

You ignore that short interaction. “Something like what?”

“Like vodka,” he replies simply, like it’s a normal request. Perhaps the russian accent and the fact that he does look like a walking Soviet propaganda adds context to it.

“Dad!” Yelena repeats herself, this time in a louder voice, before hiding her face in her hands. The scene of her getting embarrassed by her dad’s behavior is actually hilarious.

“Two glasses of water and one glass of vodka, got it.” Then it was time to acknowledge Walker again. Even when you deeply hate the guy, you still want to be polite. “Do you want anything?”

“Uh…just water,” he mutters, still unsure on how to really talk to you. It’s ironic how quiet he is right now, considering he had a hard time shutting his mouth when you first met him. “Thank you.”

You offer the group a smile before excusing yourself to go to your kitchen, leaving them momentarily alone. Bucky was about to speak, wanting to initiate a debate on what their plan is going to be to fight against someone as powerful and seemingly invincible as Sentry, but Yelena speaks before he does.

“Now, would you mind telling us how you really know each other?”

Bucky looks immediately confused. “What do you mean?”

“You know I was trained to be a spy since I was very little.”

“Surely you don’t say it enough,” Walker mutters, earning an unamused look from her.

“That must really bother you, Mr. I-was-in-the-military,” Ava chimes in, rolling her eyes.

Ignoring both of them, Yelena decides to continue. “I’m very good at reading people, Bucky. She almost wanted to punch you in the face when you said you two were friends, which let’s me know the comment upset her,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Why is that?”

“Ah! That’s your lover!” Alexei comments with pleasant surprise.

“And you didn’t introduce her as your girlfriend?” Ava says shortly after, giving him a disapproving look. “No wonder she would want to punch you in the face.”

“Yeah, that’s not cool, man,” Walker agrees from his spot in the living room.

Alexei’s cheerfulness dries down, nodding. “I agree. It’s not very nice.”

Bucky scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest in a defensive manner. He couldn’t believe these people were judging him over something he thought was meaningless. It was just a way to keep his private life private. Why should they know he’s dating anybody? They’re not his friends to be sharing information like that with them. And it’s not like they’re ever going to see you again anyway. Why is this such a big deal?

“Whoever I date or don’t date it’s not your business,” he simply replies.

Ava scoffs this time. “Don’t bring us to your girlfriend’s flat then.”

“When did you guys became a thing?” Walker asks this time, looking like he's thinking back on it in hopes of remembering any indication that might've gave it away.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, getting more and more exasperated. “We barely got out of that fight against Valentina’s experiment and it’s a matter of time before we have to face him again. Why are we even talking about this?”

“Oh, Bucky,” Yelena shakes her head in a condescending manner. “You’re right, we do not care about your lovelife. Thinking about it makes me sick, actually. But she looked really hurt by what you said, so perhaps you should go talk to her and make things right.”

The other three agreed with Yelena almost immediately, and Bucky just stood there looking at them in disbelief because why are they giving him their input on his relationship? Why is Yelena giving him advice? Why are they getting involved in Bucky’s personal life?

But instead of arguing, he decides to listen to them and heads towards the kitchen. He walks in just in time to see you pouring Alexei an entire glass of vodka as he requested, the other three glasses of water already filled.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” you say nonchalantly, like what Yelena said about you wanting to punch him in the face was just something she misread in your body language. You surely don’t look like you're thinking about violence right now. “Could you help me with the drinks, please?”

Perhaps Yelena was wrong, but just in case she wasn’t, he decided to ask about it. “Are you okay?”

You let out a quick and confused chuckle as you store away the almost finished bottle of vodka. “Why would I not be okay? If you’re asking because you brought them here, I think they’re actually very nice…aside from Walker, of course.”

“No, I mean…the way I introduced you to them,” he says in a soft voice, walking closer to you. “I probably shouldn’t have said you were my friend.”

There’s a brief pause between you, until you’re eventually shrugging. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” he insists, standing right before you as he grabs your hands in his. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate a little before eventually giving in. “I mean, you can’t expect me to be thrilled to hear you introduce me to a bunch of people as just your friend.”

Bucky sighs. Yelena was right. “I’m so sorry,” he says almost immediately, giving your hands a light squeeze. “I just met these people and I highly doubt we’ll keep in touch after this. I didn’t want to share that information with them. We’re not exactly…close like that,” he explains himself, looking genuinely sorry for what he said. “I should’ve considered how that would make you feel, or at least tried to explain why I did it as soon as I could. I didn’t mean to hurt you or downplay what we have.”

You can tell he’s genuinely sorry, understanding his reasoning behind it. Perhaps you forgot to put into perspective the fact that they’re just super people Bucky has been forced to work with. Not necessarily friends. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Bucky nods, but he still looks absolutely defeated. “I feel terrible,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You let go of his hands, wrapping your arms around his neck instead. “It’s okay, babe,” you repeat, offering him a soft smile to let him know you forgive him. “I understand you didn’t feel comfortable sharing that with them.”

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

“You’re not obligated to disclose anything with anyone if you don’t feel like it,” you say, just to remind him to do whatever it feels right to him. “But I’m glad we had this conversation to hear each other’s perspective.”

He nods again, still uncertain. You lean in to give him a reassuring kiss before deciding to move away from him to get back to the living room with the rest. He hands the glasses of water to Walker and Yelena, while you hand the other glasses to Ava and Alexei.

The last one takes a big gulp of his glass, letting out a growl of approval. “Smirnoff! Not that Absolut der’mo!”

“I adore him,” you say to Bucky, letting out a quick chuckle as you watch the guy drink the entire glass of vodka in less than two seconds.

“It’ll pass, trust me,” he mutters back to you.

You gently hit his arm as a way of telling him to not be rude, immediately focusing on the cut on his cheek, dried blood around the wound. “I should clean that.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry, Bucky,” you insist, patting his shoulder before pointing to one of the two chairs at your small dinner table. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”

You excuse yourself to go find the first-aid kit to clean the wound on his face. By the time you get back, the group has already started discussing some sort of strategy regarding some ‘Sentry’ person you don’t know absolutely anything about. Perhaps you’ll ask Bucky to give you a proper update on what the hell this whole thing is all about next time you’re alone.

As obedient as ever, Bucky was already sitting on one of the chairs you previously pointed at before leaving, so you walked over to him to attend to his injury. Even if it was a small, almost insignificant little cut, you wanted to take care of him in any capacity you could.

You were gladly surprised when you feel one of his arms wrapping around you, keeping you close as you stand next to him cleaning the dry blood with a small cotton ball before disinfecting the area, finishing it off with a small bandage above the cut. 

The whole entire time you took care of Bucky’s wound, the group was talking about their strategy. Just listening to them was enough to figure out why Bucky didn’t think they’d stay in touch once it’s time to part ways. More than half of their interactions are more bickering than actual communication. They clash almost constantly and they don’t seem to agree on much. They’re quite honestly a complete mess. But still...even when it’s difficult to see how a group like this could work, they oddly do. There’s just something about them. Perhaps they’re the prime example of how opposites tend to work together perfectly. 

“Done,” you whisper to him, not warning to interrupt their conversation.

“Thanks, doll,” he whispers back, giving you a smile.

After a few more minutes of planning, it was finally time for them to get back out there in hopes to put an end to the threat that seems to loom over New York (and perhaps the entire world). You accompany them to the door, all of them saying their goodbyes to you.

“Thanks for letting us hide here,” Yelena says with a polite smile, offering her hand for a handshake as a way to further prove her gratitude. 

“Oh, it’s really nothing. I’m glad I was able to help out,” you reply, accepting her handshake. “And…you know, good luck. You probably don’t need it, obviously, but just in case…”

“You’re adorable,” Ava comments with a smirk, patting your shoulder as her way of saying goodbye.

Alexei doesn’t even say anything. He just straight up walks towards you and wraps his arms around you, lifting you off the ground as he gives you a tight hug. It certainly takes you by surprise, but you pat his back as a way of returning the hug, hearing how Yelena and Bucky are frantically telling him to put you down immediately.

The three of them are already outside your apartment and it’s time to face Walker. He just says a quick “thank you” before walking towards the others that wait for Bucky in the hallway, knowing you probably don’t even want to address him. For now, you decide not to say anything to him. If you do see each other again, perhaps then you’ll try to figure out if you can look past the awful things he has done.

Now Bucky is the one who stands before you and all you can do is hug him as tight as you possibly can, almost not wanting to let him go. You know he’ll be fine. You know he’ll come back to you. But still, you can’t ignore the knot forming at the pit of your stomach, anxiety and fear consuming you at the thought of something happening to him.

He senses how you feel, hugging you back just as tight. “Please be safe,” he whispers.

You break the hug, looking up at him. “I should be telling you that.”

The comment makes him smile softly because it sounds like you're reprimanding him for what he just said. Immediately after, he's placing a hand at the side of your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, still as anxious as you were before. The fact that you still don’t fully know what they’re up against makes your situation worse. If it’s anything remotely similar to an Avenger-like threat, you have plenty of reasons to be afraid. “Just…just take care, please.”

“I will,” he replies, giving you a kiss so sweet and gentle that it practically takes your breath away. He knows you’re worried like never before and he wants to make sure he’s able to give you as much reassurance as he possibly can.

After a few more seconds of him just looking back at you with a soft smile on his face, he moves back from you, knowing he has to leave already.

“Promise you’ll be back soon,” you blurt out as he’s leaving your apartment, still fighting the urge to just yank him back into the apartment to keep him from going back out there.

“I promise you I’ll be back, darling,” he says without any hesitation, knowing he’ll do anything he possibly can to keep his word.

Finally, he closes the door of your apartment, leaving you all alone in there as you try to calm yourself down until everything is back to normal again and he’s here with you. Until he’s back in the safety of the arms of the person he cares most about in this entire world.

You focus on the four empty glasses, the lingering presence of everyone, the trail of dirt their boots left on the floor, the chair Bucky was sitting on just seconds ago...you can only hope they stay safe. Meanwhile, you decide to clean up the living room as a way of distracting yourself.

On the other side of the door, Bucky is turning to look at the group, rolling his eyes when he sees all of them grinning and nodding their hands in approval after witnessing him being so lovey-dovey with you, discovering a sight of him they probably didn’t even know existed.

“Not a single word,” Bucky warns them, immediately walking in between them to get to the elevator.

“What? We can’t say you two looked disgustingly cute back there?” Yelena jokes as she follows after him.

"Who knew that was hiding beneath all that...grumpiness," Ava comments right after.

“I said not a single word,” he repeats, trying to act like he wasn’t feeling terribly embarrassed right now. Or like he didn't find the teasing slightly entertaining. Just slightly.

“I mean, you did look cute,” Walker agrees.

“So cute!” Yelena emphasizes.

Alexei wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, much to his discomfort. “That was adorable. You, my friend, had the eyes of love looking at your zhenshchina!”

“And you had to make it weird,” Ava mutters after Alexei’s comment, just as the elevator doors are closing. translations: der'mo (shit), zhenshchina (woman). again, i apologize if the translation is wrong, i don't speak russian

[liljizzy86]

pls i need an angst/fluff with quinn and how he’s been since the canucks have virtually fallen apart in post season.

Little ball of anxiety and worry

Quinn Hughes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Quinn is exhausted and his girl knows it better than anyone

Warnings: Angst, sad Quinn, like really sad Quinn

Author: Thank you for the request <3, I had fun writing this one. It was my first time writing angst, so I hope it wasn't so bad. And once again sorry for not posting for so long, but I really want to go back to write and do it more frequently. Love you all, stay safe.

––//—-

The season is officially over. 

In a way, Quinn feels alleviate, he can rest a bit now. 

But at the same time he feels more stressed than ever. He tried everything to make this season work, and as the captain all of the weight of not being able to get in the playoff ends in his back. 

He feels like he is the only one to blame for the decline of performance on the team. Even if his girl, that was waiting for him at home right now, tries to remind him that hockey is a team sport, it is no one's fault, and even less Quinn’s fault. 

He tries to keep that in mind, tries to calm himself down, but that is difficult when he is in front of all these journalists that as they do his job, they seem to remind him of his worries. 

It is his fault.

The Canucks are not in the playoffs and it is his fault. 

I only want to go home

When he is finally free from the media, he is working in automatic. 

No celebrating. 

He can’t even remember saying ‘goodbye’ to the team or the staff.

Quinn only knows that he changed his clothes, going to his car and driving home. Not because he remembers doing it, but because he can actively see it done, as he seats in the driver's seat of his car, breathing, practicing the slime he is gonna sport as soon as he opens the apartment door and sees his girlfriend. 

And that’s what he does. 

Exactly what he expects to happen, does. 

His efforts to fake a wellness that he doesn’t feel were as useless as he knew were gonna be. As soon as the girl on the couch saw his face, she immediately knew that something was wrong and what was wrong. 

She knew her boyfriend like the palm of her hand. 

As soon as the sound of the door was heard, she was off the couch and rushing to hug him. 

Of course she knew that he was sad, depressed even, but she never expected for it to be so…visible?

Since they started dating, 3 years ago, Quinn would always hide his emotions, not because he was afraid of seeming weak, but because he didn’t want to worry her excessively. This relationship was his first that the girl actually cared for his well being, of his mental wellness. This girl was the first that would cuddle with him and let him vent, and worry about it. 

But this was the first time in those 3 years that, even with a fake smile in his face, he looked exhausted. 

He couldn't hide his emotions, his tiredness. 

“Come here,baby” That was the first thing Quinn her as she approached. 

No ‘hi’, no ‘how are you’.

She didn’t need that, and neither did Quinn. 

All she wants right now is to cuddle and make him feel safe and at least a bit better. 

“I tried…” He whispered in her shoulder. 

He hunched over her and accepted her hug. 

She guided them to the couch, where she delicately pushed both down and laid with him on top. 

The boy's body immediately melted over her touch, still tense but just her as a whole, her touch, her smell, her presence, is enough for him to relax, even if just a little bit. 

For the first time in very long, Quinn let himself be vulnerable in front of anyone else. 

“I swear I tried to make it happen.” Still whispering, this time in her shoulder, he lets the tears free. “I know we have been out of the playoffs for a while now but…” a sigh. 

“It feels real now.” The girl finishes, feeling him nod slightly. 

He continues to mumble on her, crying, saying more disconnected words than proper sentences. But she doesn’t stop him, he needs to let it all out, it has been bottled up for so long. Any of her words of encouragement would have any effect, so she remains in silence, just comforting him, hearing his laments, just sliding a hand over his back going up and messing with hair. 

That went for about an hour, when his cries subsided. 

She looked down, trying to see if Quinn was awake or not. 

He was. Brownish eyes looking back at her. 

“Feeling a little better, love?” She asked, still scratching his scalp. 

“Yeah.” He says. “ I am just so exhausted. If the team fails, all the journalists blame it on me. If the team wins, suddenly it is a team effort. I’m just so tired of  being blamed for everything, even when I have absolutely no control. It gets to a point that I start to believe them, you know, that it is all my fault. It isn’t my fault that the team is shit.” He speaks this time in full sentences and with no strong sobs. “I know that we could’ve done better, I know it for a fact, and I blame myself for it everyday. Everytime i look at the stats, the only thing I can think of is ‘dammit, I could have led this team a whole different way, and maybe we would be at the playoffs’. But we’re not, and I can't change the past. If I could’ve done differently I would. But I can't. Of course I get the harsher of it all, I mean, I am the captain. But I don’t see the future and I can't change the past. And it is not like I am trying to sabotage the team, my own team, right? I don’t know, baby, I…I think I just need to sleep it off a bit. Maybe tomorrow I feel better.”

She doesn’t contradicts. She only agrees. 

The couple gets up from the couch and goes to their room, where they change into their pajamas and get ready for bed.

Once both of them cuddle under the sheets, legs tangled and arms intertwined. Quinn lays on his back, trying to look at the ceiling, in order to avoid the girl's gaze from his chest. 

“Quinny, love.” she tries to call his attention. “Look at me, love. Please. ” 

He doesn’t want to. He wants to avoid this conversation, at least now. But he can’t resist her pleadings. So he does. His eyes connect with hers. 

God, he loved those eyes. Always so shiny, and bright, full of life. 

“It is not your fault.” She directs him a small cute smile. One that he can’t resist but to retrieve. “You are not the one to blame for. Yes you are the captain but you cannot control a hundred percent of what all of your players or the other team’s do throughout the season. You do not control when you get injuries and even when you play through them, you can only do so much.” Her hand that was sprawled on his belly, now makes its way to his face, where she scratches his bearded cheek. “You are the best captain that the team could ask for. But baby, I know this is easier for me to ask than for you to do, and I do not blame you for it, you are a little ball of anxiety and worry, I know it, but please at least try, if you can try it for yourself, try it for me. But baby, I beg you, try to leave this behind your back now, for the summer. The season is over and now you are off season, let's look ahead. From August ahead you have a full new season to worry and to stress over. But now, you are in the off season. So please let's relax a bit, yeah?” 

He let’s a little laugh at her.

“Sure baby, I’ll try it for you and for our peaceful summer.” he kissed the top of her head and lets out a sigh, visibly more calm, less tense. “Now please, let’s sleep. I had a very long day and I am extremely tired.” 

She just nods and scutches closer to him, making sure her head is comfortably laid in his chest, ready for both of them to sleep. 

“Goodnight Quinny”

“Goodnight love.”

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

The desert is starting to get to you. Omni Mark is forced to reconcile with who you are. [Invincible Variants x reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3] [6]

7 * Killah [7.2k]

"You look just like a sheep,

For someone with such sharp teeth,

After all this time,

Your cover's finally blown."

No Offense - Slutever

        You don't know when it happened, just that it did. 

        You didn't think he'd do it. You'd never tried something like this, you'd said the command half-heartedly, half expecting him to shoot you instead. Now his brains were on the Italian tile and Machine Head was laughing. "Man, am I glad I bailed you out! That was amazing! Hey, meathead, bring in the other one." 

        You were here again. Fresh out of prison, playing executioner while looking over the New York skyline. Blood dripping down your chin. You felt like you were going to puke, you had just killed that man. You hadn't imagined your first day out of prison like this.

        Machine Head leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, feet on his polished desk like he'd never left. 

        "Make this one do something different," he waves his hand in a circle, looking for something obscene, "you know what? Surprise me."

        The guards bring him in. Converse dragging behind him, black hair stuck to his sweaty brow. You know it can't be Mark, Mark wouldn't work with Machine Head. Wouldn't be indebted enough to die. Machine Head would use him, not throw him away. 

        You don't remember what the man's face really looked like. Just that Mark's face was always superimposed atop it. Pleading with you not to do it.  

        Machine Head says, "Get on with it already, I want three more before lunch."

         Your head jerked up.

        "No!" 

        You're not eighteen in New York. Not angry enough yet at Mark to want him to die. Instead, you're baking in GDA issue armor, soaked in sweat underneath, ass gone numb from sleeping while sitting. 

        "Good morning." Your neck aches as you force it up. Lensless stands over you, shins at your back. Smiling at you despite the fact that you shot his eye out. The wound had started to scab. Remnants of the actual eye either fell or were picked away. His eyelid sagged around nothing but a pale pink background.

        He looked terrible, but you don't feel bad. Instead, you wished you were dreaming again so you could kill him in Machine Head's office. 

        You rolled up, scanning the scene. Still trapped in the desert. The fire from last night had long since went to ash and most of the Marks seemed to be gone. Just you and Boner Boy.

        No skin off your back, but still you asked, "Where are they?"

        Lensless shrugged, "Probably looking for a way out. I called bids on babysitting duty."

        A shadow passed overhead. You watch the Viltrumite (man, you needed a better name than that) pass overhead, holding thin rolls of material.  He lands by a structure that hadn't been yesterday, half of a shoddy tent frame that was meant to keep you all out of the heat. 

        "Dude says he's helped build homes on other planets or something." Lensless says behind you. "Which is sooo lame. Why be a Viltrum enforcer if you're not always killing people- like me. 'S the best part'a the gig!"

        You chose not to acknowledge that. Started walking toward the new structure as the Viltrumite took off for more material. Lensless keeps pace, "He said to tell you to like, not mess with it until he finished the supports. Something about sand being annoying."

        You don't nod or acknowledge him, but you change course. Headed for a heap that looked like it could fit one. You just needed to be a little cooler. Just a little bit of shade so you could think beyond the heat cooking you inside the armor. 

        Lensless walks backwards in front of you. Smiling dopeily despite his lost eye. "Sooo, are you gonna use your powers on me again?"

        You swallow. Feeling no power ready to go. Whatever Angstrom was, it took everything to control him for those few seconds. You don't reply, propping a knee inside the hollowed out mess of rebar and wire. 

        "Are you ignoring me?"

        It takes some wriggling but you get inside with enough room to turn around and face him. Not out of respect for the conversation but because this kid scared the shit out of you. You were about two degrees cooler but it's not enough. The sun is still rising, a red boil over the dunes. Your throat is stuck closed, lips chapped. You can't take much more of this place and it's only been a day. You thought about taking the helmet off but he shoves himself into the opening to pout at you and you decide not to. 

        "Can you not hear me or something?" He waves a hand in front of your face. "Helllooooo."

        You want him to shut up, so you say, "I'm tired."

        "Then go back to sleep, I can keep watch but-" he holds up a finger, dopey grin returning to his face, "only after you use your powers on me!" Maybe if you didn't move he'd think you'd gone back to sleep and- "Your breathing isn't that fast when you're sleeping. I know you're still awake, you can't ignore me." He's smiling but the good-naturedness had seeped from his tone.

        "And if I do?" You try, voice forced even.

        His eye sparkles with the challenge. "Oh! I see how it is! I'm gonna have to make you use them on me! I prefer it this way actually." 

        He grabs you by the ankle and rips you out of your metal cave. Your armor screeches as sharp edges scratch its back; he would have shredded your flesh if you had taken the armor off. You landed in the warming sand, belly up with Lensless already atop you. Sitting on your hips, not acknowledging the fists you threw to his hard chest or the thrashing dance you were doing under him. You couldn't get up. His thighs were squeezing you in place like a vice and you were on the verge of hyperventilating.

        He leans forward, one hand landing beside your head, sinking into the sand and bringing him closer, the other reeling back. Dark hair falling over his face. "Okay, you better use 'em now, cuz if you don't-" the fist comes forward a quick inch but you flinch- which makes him laugh. "You'll have to stop the next one!"

        You can't. He doesn't know you can't. You had to give up the most vulnerable secret you had to survive. "I-"

        The fist comes down before you can finish. Caught in a snap by a white-sleeved arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

        "Isn't it obvious?" He seemed to really believe it, what else could he possibly be doing?  

        No smile is cracked at the attempted joke. Lensless is yanked off of you and thrown into the atmosphere. 

        He holds a hand out to you, gray loincloth or whatever it was flapping in the breeze and whoop there it is- your name is Gray now, baby.         You don't take it, standing and letting sand slink off the armor.

        "I don't need your help." You say, though you clearly did and he knew it.

        Lensless lands a few feet away, kicking up dust. "That was rude, dude." Gray only looks to you, does a shallow nod and takes off to work on the tent. Lensless watched him, frowning, "He'll definitely kill me if I try that again."

        "Good." You start looking for more shade, preferably not covered in metal.  

        "I kinda wanna try that again." Of course. 

        ***

        You don't know how, but you convinced Lensless to not attempt assaulting you for funsies. Said you'd fight him eventually, on your terms to give you the best shot. You had zero intention of actually doing that, but he loved the idea of you trying your hardest on him- he shelved trying to punch your lights out to force your hand. You stood with your back pressed flat to a sheet of concrete, standing in the minuscule shade while he puttered around. 

        The other Marks returned in a slow trickle. Angry and dejected. Tracksuit was first, swearing he searched the planet top to bottom only to find jackshit. He shoved himself in the same hole you did and rested- you think anyways, you couldn't see his face. Emperor was next, complaining so loud it made your migraine from yesterday return. He usually had slaves to do meandering tasks like that for him and he made it very known.

       Baldie appeared. Landing near you and Lensless, dropping off a heap of planks, "For tonight's fire." You don't thank or acknowledge him but he lingers. "I'm going to help build that thing," he jerked his head toward the tent frame. Gray had sat himself beside it, tying loose fiber and wire together to make fabric, "want to lend a hand?"

        "I'm good at destroying stuff, not making it." Lensless says.

        "I wasn't talking to you."

        The whole day you'd passed being still as possible so none of them would talk to you. Here one was, talking, offering up your help. 

        You wanted to refuse but thought better of it. Sure, you didn't have super strength, but pitching in what little you could would look good. Made you seem complacent, likable, less likely to be thrown under the bus.

        You pushed off the wall. "Sure."

        Lensless scrambles to his feet, "Me too!"

        Baldie fixes him with a look. "Don't even think about coming near the shelter until it's done."

        "But-"

        Baldie holds up a scar-thick hand, "You've done your job for the day. Rest." Lensless settles, unhappily. You follow Baldie, taking note of the higher emotional intellect than the rest, maybe he wouldn't try to kill you at the flip of a hat. 

        Sitting beside the frame were organized piles of material Gray had gathered. Wood, scraps of wire mesh, dirty fabric slips, thin pipes. The frame fluttered in the breeze but holds. The sand was too fine to stake down but Gray had removed his kilt, dug a hole, piled it with sand, and used it as a weight to keep the anchor point in place. He'd done the same using larger fabric scraps along the line of the structure.

        All there was left to do was painstakingly weave tiny materials together to make walls. At least it was better than getting murdered by Lensless.

        You got to work, which was slow going even with Gray and Baldie's guidance. Super speed didn't help in cases of arm knitting dried out trash together. Gray doesn't speak, sat there on a corrugated metal sheet as not to ruin his white suit. Baldie does, giving pointers on how to keep your fabric from falling apart for the millionth time. He'd learned it after observing Gray do it a few times. "Arm under arm, like this, then pull through."

        "Like this?" You do as he did, your trash fabric loose and full of holes.

        "...Close enough."

        You work in silence until you can't take it anymore. You see Gray stealing glances because he couldn't tell when you weren't looking with the visor. You can't see Baldies eyes but you feel them on you. "How long is this thing even going to hold? I mean, this sand, it's almost like water." You ask because you can not deal with real questions right now like if you're all going to die out here if no one finds any food or water. 

        Baldie tightly shrugs, "I just know he should know what he's doing. Don'cha- solider?"  The word, benign, comes out like a slur.

        Gray knots an end. His fabric almost blanket sized while yours and Baldies were like dishtowels. "The way the tent is held down, should allow it to move with the dunes." Gray's voice is affirmed. He's done this before. "For now, we only need one side complete to keep the sun off you during the day." Yet he didn't stop you both from working on the other walls.

        "Off me?" Surprise is obvious, because of his phrasing and the fact that this was the most you'd ever heard him talk. So different from the Mark you knew. Inflection so flatly robotic. 

        "I'm pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say we can hold our breath in lava." Baldie says, "If your body gets two degrees over average, you'll start dying." 

        You don't reply, true but unfair. 

        Others return. Scars who is just as bitchy as Emperor. Threatening literally anybody who looked at him. Which Lensless gladly did with his one eye. Omni arrived just in time to stop them from murdering each other. He'd have liked to help build, but was so caught up in keeping the peace, he couldn't. 

        As the sky dulled gray Mohawk made an entrance. "Well, that was just a big fat waste of fuckin' time." 

        "I'm sure the last of us will come bearing good news," Omni says. 

        You listen, picking up as many planks as you could carry to bring them to the half-tent. Shoddily woven fabric leaned over where the sun would be tomorrow morning. Gray had the foresight to lay metal sheets down where the fire would go so it wouldn't shift in the sand and potentially cause your new home to go up in a cloud of smoke.

        "Bearing good news?" Mohawk spits, picking up the rest of the wood and following you, "What are you forty?" 

        "We are all the same age I believe."

        Mohawk rolled his eyes. "Can you fuckin' believe this guy, babe?"

        You climb up the dune the tent sat atop. Sliding back a little with every step, refusing Mohawk or Omni's help because you hated how they talked about you.

       Mohawk puts his planks down beside yours. Gray moves forward to optimize their positioning for maximum heat. "Aww, come on babe, don't ice me out." 

        "Trouble in paradise?" Tracksuit snickers, leaning back on the unused pile of scrap. His jacket halfway zipped down like the temperature wasn't about to dip into the negatives. A wifebeater covered most his skin, leaving the tops of his collarbones exposed. 

        You sit close to Baldie and Gray because you couldn't be warm and stay away from all of them. You had to choose so you did, the most normal of the bunch. Wasn't saying much.

         Mohawk settles as close to you as he can get with Baldie's brick wall of a body blocking him, "You could say that." 

        There is maybe a minute of peace and quiet. 

        "Are we all thinkin' what I'm thinking?" Mohawk asks.

        "That you need to shut up?" Emperor says.

        "That we're down two and they're not coming back."

        The realization settles in. Phantom and Maskless never returned. You are not upset in the slightest. Less work for you.

        Tracksuit fidgets with his jacket zipper, "Think they're lost?" 

        "Could be." Omni breaks off a plank piece to throw in the fire. "They also may have found something."

        "If they found something, they shouldn't keep us waiting." Emperor says.

        "Maybe they want to keep it to themselves." Scars gives you a significant look. You were glad for the visor hiding your emotions. Forgetting he can hear your breath catch. They all can.

        You weigh the options of possible comebacks. What would get you killed, what would get you verbally dressed down. Nothing seemed good when you had no way to defend yourself.        

        Omni takes the choice away, changing the subject, "We should consolidate everything we have."

        "Wha'dya mean?" Tracksuit says.

        "We should treat individual belongings as collective belongings," Omni says, "one of us may have something that can help us along."

        Nobody goes for their pockets, wherever they'd be on their stupid supersuits. 

        "I'll go first." Omni's fingers disappear into an invisible pocket alongside his upper thigh. Pulling out a laminated square of shiny paper. He looks at it before letting it drop on the ground for all to see. "It's all I brought along." 

        You lean forward, mouth going dryer than it already was after a day in the desert. You're looking at a photo of you, not really you, but it's the same face, same hair, same body. Grinning in white, holding a bouquet. Your wedding day. Mark beside you, looking fine in his tailored suit. 

        You look from him in the photo to the man standing by the fire. His hair had started to streak through with gray. You hadn't noticed till now, shining almost red in the firelight, hadn't the time to pay attention to his hair. How long had it been since that picture was taken? How long had you been dead for him?

        Looking back at yourself, you found an unexpected hot tear slipping down your cheek. Thankfully hidden in the visor. You looked so happy and in love- with Mark Grayson of all people. You got the life you wanted, then died only to be replaced by a worse version of yourself. Jesus, wasn't this all so fucked up? 

        Your existentialism was cut short by something being tossed atop the photo. A carton of alien cigarettes, nine spilling out the top, wrapped in blue paper.

        "I'm jus' showin' cuz he did, but none of you touch the things, got it?" Tracksuit leaned forward, ready to lunge for the cigarettes if need be. "They're mine." His passive growl rivaled that of Scars when it came to your personage. "Oh and," another thing was thrown out, a small pack of-

       "Are those fucking baby wipes?" Mohawk cracked a laugh.         

        "I don't got gloves like you, dipshit. Sometimes blood gets all sticky and gross and I just don't like the feeling, alright?" Tracksuit tensed, "Like yeah, love to murder people n' all but have you seen some of the shit that's out in the universe? You never ripped a Quinobian in half with nothing to wash it off? Fuckin' nasty."

        Laughs pitter round, but nobody else adds to the pile. Distrust too taught.

        "Broke outta prison to get here," Baldie fills the quiet, "I got nothing."

        "I've goooooot-" One thing then another comes out of assorted hidden pockets on Lensless's suit. Collectables like finger bones and half-rotted ears. 

        "Dude, that's disgusting." Tracksuit comments, but he keeps on going.

        A swath of cloth maybe a meter long from something old, a delicate necklace originally silver but gone brown with blood, human teeth, pocket lint. 

        Lensless tiptoes to the growing pile, holding up the necklace. Jewel glinting in the light. He holds it out to you, "Was gonna give this to you when I first saw you again, but you started shouting and I got too excited and everything happened so fast. So, here. I chopped off a really pretty lady's head to get it for you."

        He's smiling puppy dog-ishly. Murder wasn't something you were morally opposed to, but Jesus. Was it really necessary for her to die over a necklace? Something twists in your gut. The face of Mark Grayson, seemingly innocent with something wicked beneath, genuinely interested in you and your affection. It made you want to scream and puke. 

        Omni caught your discomfort like a scent. "Give it to her when we make it out of this desert. For now, it could be useful to hold something together."

        Lensless looked at him suspiciously. "Hold what together? You're not plannin' on stealing a gift I got for her, are you?"

        "I'd never," you believed him on that. "Let's just keep going. Save sentimentality for a different time."

        Lensless frowned. Dejected you didn't immediately, and graciously with sloppy kisses, accept. He rolled back on his heels, dropping the necklace in the pile and finding his seat with a frown. 

        The electronic cuff clicked as Gray took it off his wrist, adding it gently to the pile. "It automatically maps surroundings." He says. Off the side of his hip came a disk that when he pressed at its center became an oxygen mask. 

        "Good." Omni says, "We'll be able to search out further. What else?"

        Out of a mini hip satchel came vials. Thin and shining and filled with unlabeled substances. The other Marks seemed unimpressed, but you had no clue what they were and leaned forward to look.

        "For extreme wound care," he says to you and only you. Leaving the rest of the details for you to figure out.

        "Tch. Look at you walkin' around with medicine like some-" Mohawk couldn't find a good insult, so he just said, "dickhead. Check it." Out his pocket came a box of mints and a spray pen of some kind. He threw them in the pile before looking up at you, "Gotta taste good and smell fresh for my girl."

        His sleazy grin. The flipping in your gut. You can't help saying, "Ew."

        He chuckles, casually tossing out a single wrapped condom. "Just putting it out there by the way."

        "Ew," you repeat.

        Then comes out a ring, a plain metal band with a sun embossed on its outside. He looks at you but can't bring himself to explain. It was catching up to him now, drunkenly slow, weird this all was. He throws it on the pile without comment.

        Next came a fancy-looking pen from Emperor. "I was expecting to be making political moves." He says when Mohawk makes fun of him. 

        Last and definitely least, Scars. He pulls out a black metal ring, clicks its side to open it fully, revealing cuffs. Thick and strong. "I had plans for you, my dear." His words are like spiders crawling on your skin. "I like the fight but you never understood when it was time to stop." The last words held a bitter weight. Like he trying to hide his anger at you for killing yourself, despite the fact that you were very much alive. 

        Eyes fall to you. They expect a response. A retort. You have nothing to say and have to fight the urge to curl into a tighter ball.

       "Still have that shit you chugged?" Mohawk prods and you realize they're not looking for you to fight with Scars. Though Scars desperately wants you to fight him. They want you to empty your pockets.

        Your fingers feel thick and uncoordinated in your pockets. First came your apartment keys, still with the room number card tied on. Then there was a phone charger, bitten down to the wire in multiple places by Caligula. The first bottle of codeine, then the second. Your phone, at nearly full battery, thank God. When it was set down the lockscreen flashed and you swore all the Marks leaned forward a fraction to get a look. Caligula looked back at them all, sun on his blue eyes, belly exposed to the air. 

        "Hey, it's that cat you killed!" Lensless grins at Mohawk who scowled.

        "I didn't kill it."

        "Sure you didn't."

        "He didn't." You say watching your phone screen go dim then black. "Michelle found him. He-" Your eyes were burning, fuck, why were you about to cry? "He's with Cecil now." Your throat was starting to close. Panic sinking in. What if he died? Oh God, you were such an asshole to your cat and you left him with Cecil fucking Stedman.

        "Oh, he's totally gonna do batshit experiments on your cat!" Lensless twitches with excitement, tongue darting out of his mouth, like he was trying to taste your sorrow in the air like spun sugar.

        "Stop that." Omni's voice is hard but when he speaks to you, it goes soft, "Anything else?"

        You bite your lip to make the feelings stop. Unbuckling the belt, you set it down gently. "Buch'a GDA shit. No idea how good it all is." Then finally, your wallet. You toss it with no regard, letting it bounce once, twice, then its contents spill out over the sand. Sliding different affects to different feet.

        Mohawk is first to grab something. "Whoa, babe, is this your license?" Mohawk flips the card over in his fingers. Chin knocking back like he'd been suckerpunched. "Whoa-ho-ho! Who's Cheryl Swanson?" 

        "Not important. We may be able to melt the plastic down and use as glue or something." You say, regretting your disregard of your wallet.

        Tracksuit grabs a card, because as annoying as the drama surrounding you was- it was still entertaining. Best TV this side of the desert. "Gerald Polastri. That yer boyfriend?" Man, did he love stirring the pot.

        Mohawk snatches the drivers license out of his hand. "No way! He's fuckin' ancient! You don't like guys that old do ya, babe?!"

        Ignore them. Ignore them and they'll shut up eventually.

        "Who the hell is Danny Olsen?" The license bends and breaks in Scars grip. 

        "I've got a," Lensless holds the card to the light. Squinting his one and only good eye. "Kennith Green." He flipped the card over and over between his fingers. Making it a blur. An advanced version of that old pencil flipping trick he did back in school before dad pulled him out.

        Emperor gave into the childish temptation, swiping a card. The person looked unimportant and unfuckable. The idea of you with them made him sick. "Got a lot of notches on your belt, hm?"

        Baldie withheld comment and didn't reach for a card. Your life, your body- it didn't affect him, even if the idea of you with someone else hurt him as much as that Klaxus plant venom injected into his blood.

        Omni's pulse did not rise, nor his fist clench. He was perfectly level and even. Plastic had no effect on his mindset whatsoever.

        Gray felt no sorrow or angst. He immediately knew what the cards were, because he'd done the same sort of collecting over the years. Back in his Viltrum suite were pieces of armor, mounted skulls, and broken blades displayed on his walls. It was against Viltrum customs- taboo but not illegal. He and his father both had a soft spot for trophies.

        You didn't know of the solidarity you and Gray held. You felt your cheeks heat as you tried to find the words. Forced to remember all of those people dying. You telling them to die, them doing it without a second thought. Shame wasn't something you had the room to feel after so many years in the field. Still, death could sometimes be... unpleasant. Sometimes the people you killed stuck with you. 

        Much as you didn't want to talk, you'd rather they not speculate about your sex life. The truth was better for once.

        "Cheryl was a mole." You say. "Gerald didn't pay what he owed. Danny tried to leave. Kennith..."

        He looks straight ahead. Eyes glazed. Cheeks shining with tears he no longer shed. You don't remember why he had to die. Just that he was first in line. Dragged into Machine Head's office sobbing. Asking you, "Please don't do it. Please, please. My wife is dying. Please, I just need more time. I can pay. Please."        

        Machine Head waved his hand. "What is with people and the dying wife thing? Like, I get it, you're sad! Boo hoo. I don't fucking care and I checked your accounts, you've been squirreling my money away to run off with that dying wife of yours. Nice plan, jackass. (Y/n), if you'd get on to doing your job?"

        "Wait, what's the deal with the Kennith guy?" Lensless rocks back and forth. Excited by all the death and his imaginings of you murdering people. "Did you fuck him then kill him?"

        "No. I just killed him, nothing special about it." He was your first. The kind you remember.

        You nod toward Emperor, seeing the back of the license. "Jenna sold in our territory." To Baldie, "Roshanna killed one of us." To Gray, "Seth was a fucking freak." To Omni, who wasn't holding a card but looking disgustedly at the one that fell by his boots, "Alex, I dunno, I was sent to kill him so I did." Your eyes go over them one after another. Their anger fading, replacing with something else. "Satisfied?"

        You realize. Most of them didn't know you were a killer. A gang member. 

        Your hand goes to the visor, it'd press to your eyes if not for the covering. "Shit."

        Through the days of carnage, thinking you were dead a second time, you killing your ex in self-defense, then the fight with Angstrom- he hadn't fully grasped the situation. He hadn't looked back and thought about why Angstrom bit off half his tongue. In the heat of the moment, he brushed it off, thinking it some swipe of luck to be taken advantage of and forgotten.

        He hadn't seen something physically come out of you. So he hadn't thought powers. He wouldn't let himself. Because you couldn't have powers. You couldn't be a murderer. You couldn't. 

        He looked down and saw the photo of you on your wedding day. The same woman that took hours picking out a cake flavor, holding a fork to his lips with a smile. The same woman that begged him to relax, be with her more. The same woman that forced him to act on the worst day of his life. After all, you'd said, "I'd rather die than be with someone like you," when you'd found out the truth. 

        He wanted an identical re-do. But the license at his feet...

        "I was wondering why you were listening to that skinny robot guy." Mohawk interrupted his thoughts. Brought him back to the present. "So you're like an assassin or something? That's hot."

        You bristle but try to respond evenly, "I do what I have to." 

        The words are like an arrow to his heart. You are a killer and you sound like you don't even care. 

        "Do'ya like it?" Lensless is practically kicking his feet. A few more gory details and he'd be rocking a hard on. 

        "Dude, of course she does, she kept trophies in her wallet!" Mohawk flipped the card in his hand. "Got any pictures?"

        "Digital evidence gets people caught. If I were caught, I'd be more in debt than I already was."

        "Debt?"

        You'd said too much. Change the subject, now. You point to the codeine, not wanting to share but knowing you can't stop anyone from taking it. "If we don't find water soon, we can ration that out. It's not water but-"

        "Not water?" Tracksuit snorts, "That's straight up lean, dude. Do you seriously drink that shit no candy, no soda just fuckin' raw? Gross, man."

        Omni knew little of drug trade. Didn't bother with crimes he deemed petty, but now he wished he had. He wanted to bother very much. "That's a lot of... substance. Where did you get it?"

        "Wouldn't you like to know?" You say.

        "Yes, I would." 

        Lensless zips forward, trading a license for a bottle. "Since when's your name been Toby Rogers?" 

        "You stole it." Omni realizes aloud. Truth starting to sink in. Ache squeezing his heart. Were you dependent on the substance? Were you high right now? No, no he'd be able to tell if he listened to your heart and breathing hard enough. You were stone-cold sober. He hoped.

        "Yeah, so she could power the fuck up and murder Seventeen." Mohawk looks at you with pride as a ripple goes through the group. Those who weren't there were processing. "Ridiculously hot, by the way, babe."

        "Stop calling me babe."

        "Rather, I call you Dregs?" He waggled his brows like the name could mean something dirty, "What's that mean by the way? Like, how'd you get it?"

        "Don't call me that." You snap, hard, too hard because the shitheads of the group smelled blood in the water. A poker to prod at your pride with. An insult they didn't understand and didn't care about as long as it agitated you.

        Mohawk went to pry some more but Scars spoke over him, "You killed Seventeen?"

        Omni was just going to ask. That and the million other questions floated around his head; You did drugs? You killed? Why? How?

        "Made him snap 'is own neck." Lensless mimed the motion, ending up half lying down with his tongue lolling out his mouth, "Never seen anythin' like it!"

        Scars didn't quite believe it. To him, you were a coward who couldn't face the people after becoming his fuck pet. "How?"

        You were under no obligation to spill your guts to these assholes. However, making Scars believe you could and would kill him just might make him and the others back the fuck off. Even a little. 

        "Swimcap too."

        "Swimcap? Oh, number Twelve!" Lensless snapped, straightening. They didn't have nicknames for each other like you did but numbers. Suppose it's more efficient. 

        "I think you're forgetting I killed Twelve." Scars gestured to his chest. Yellow stripe gone brown with the dried blood from the same man. 

        "Why did he attack you?" You shoot back. He has no response, because he doesn't know. 

        Lensless tilted his head, "But we would've heard you talking?" 

        Anger sparks in Omni's chest. How did Seven, that childish and half-eyeless version of him, know more than he did about you?

        "Not telling." You say.

        Emperor snorts, "I saw you make that guy shoot himself. You just pointed Twelve to Sixteen, didn't you?" And there goes that hidden trick of the trade.

        Scars, Sixteen apparently, grins. Scar stretching, exposing more of his gums and teeth. "You really tried to kill me?"

        "That was the idea." 

        "Then what?" Emperor speaks over Scars before he can say something prison-worthy. "Were you just gonna lure us out one by one to kill us? As if that'd work. You're stupider than I imagined."

        Mohawk kicked at his heel, "Hey."

        Emperor kicked back, "Hey, yourself."

        While they went back and forth Scars zeroed in. "So Dregs, you do work the GDA in this timeline." Memories swirl round his head, going to his dick. "Interesting."

        "I had no idea who Cecil Stedman or what the GDA was until yesterday." 

        "Then why were you working with him, hm?" He's eerily still, watching you, and you find yourself preparing for a blow. 

        "Because my apartment was gone, boss was dead, and these guys," you look from Mohawk to Lensless to Emperor, "fucking murdered all my plan B's." 

        Scar's fingers twitch. You could sense he was going to be an asshole. Thankfully, Baldie cuts in, "Why were you-" he holds up the license, "doing this?"

        "Was your dimension's version of me not killing people and facilitating drug trade?" You spit out like the idea is ridiculous. As if the idea didn't make you insanely, bitterly jealous. 

        "No?" 

        You catch the twinge of hurt in his voice and hone in. Needing to unleash this anger on somebody you guessed wouldn't kill you over it. "What? Am I not what you were expecting? Did (Y/n) not pass off oxy to her prison guards for an extra pudding cup?" You'd never admit it but you sort of missed the jailhouse pudding. Nothing like it. 

        He perks at the mention of incarceration. "You went to prison?"

        Your laugh is a single, mean note. "Went to prison? Mark put me there, asshole."

        At the use of his name, their name, from your mouth used on this lesser version of themselves, their eyes collectively narrow. Lips collectively thin. Baldie's hands are out like he's pleading with you, "I didn't-"

        You laugh at the response, high and involuntary, "Of course, because that what your guy's fucking logic is, right? Cuz clearly you're the same guy who ruined my fucking life, I don't see a difference." Besides the obvious baldness and alien prison jumper. 

        Baldie frowned, folding in on himself at the insult. "I came to save you. Not to force you into anything. I just wanted to keep you safe."

        "From what? From yourself? Didn't you kill me in your own world?" 

        "This isn't a good time, you're upset-"

        "I'm upset because Mark isn't fucking dead and I'm here with you people!" Your hands are trembling fists. Usual coolheadedness evaporated off your sweat sticky skin. You've said too much, again. Stupid. God damn it, so stupid. But you were just so thirsty, so hungry. So cold even by the fire. So done with all of their prodding, followed by the soft gestures. 

        "What'd he do to you?" Omni asks what they're all thinking.

        "I don't care what he did to you. I'll fuckin' kill 'im." Mohawk snarls.

        It's stupid and funny. Mark saying he'll kill Mark. Too much to process. 

        "What'd he do? You all destroyed my planet and got me stuck on this empty desert planet!" You try to calm down, taking a shuddering breath to keep the contempt for any and all versions of Mark out of your voice. "What he did to me was mutual, I fucked him over and he got payback. That's all."

        It's a lie. Gray can sense it immediately. He's unsure if the others can.

        "Bullshit." Tracksuit points at you like you're some TV show character. To him you are. "Calling it now, you're so in love with him!"

        "I only love Caligula."

        "Is that the cat?" Baldie smiles a little, intrigued. You'd loved animals. Had so many rescues that you hid from your landlord.

        His innocent smile softens you the slightest amount. Curbing your anger. "Look, I'm not your dead girlfriend or wife or whatever, please stop treating me like I am." You say, quieter, more subdued, forcing your cool. All eyes on you. A mix of surprise, interest, and deep sorrow. 

        The fire snaps with finality. This conversation is over. You can finally rest. Reel at all you've revealed. Recoup yourself. Think of what it'd feel like when your powers come back and you could kill them all.

        "Well," Lensless breaks the quiet tension like it isn't there, "I don't care if you're not the original (Y/n), cuz you're still my (Y/n)."

        Your head lifts from where you'd hung it. "I told you to stop."        

        His brow lifts with a smile. "Why don't you make me? I know you can."

        Omni, Scars, Tracksuit, and Baldie seem to grow closer. Interested in seeing your acts of spoken violence firsthand.

        You make a point of looking at Gray, your earlier savior from Lensless. Who'd been watching the whole exchange silently. Making mental notes. 

        "No." You say.

        "Is it because you can't?" His words are a dare. "You used 'em pretty liberally before. Why not now?" He's got you figured out, little fucker was smarter than he acted. And he just exposed your weakness to the rest of them.

        "Because it's not productive right now." You dodge and weave through his jabs. Hoping you didn't look scared and defensive but knowing you do.

        Under his lenses, Tracksuit rolls his eyes. "Jesus, just use 'em so he shuts up."

        "I still don't believe you made Twelve attack me. Show us." Scars goads.

        "I think you should kill the guy," Mohawk says, gesturing to Scars with a grin.

        Emperor had rolled to lay on his side. "Everybody shut up. I want to sleep." Nobody listened. He lay, one eye and ear open for all the drama.

        Omni doesn't join in the jabs but he watches intensely. Needing to know if what he heard was real. 

        "Stop." You don't expect Baldie to say it, but he does. "(Y/n)'s right. This is stupid, we know what she can do, stop goading each other. Is there any other contraband?"

        Many of them had more they weren't showing. Little keepsakes of you they refused to give up.

        Nobody came forward. He went on, "Listen, one of us should take the oxygen mask and head out now. Sooner we find help, the sooner we don't have to deal with each other anymore."

        Attention slides off you and a debate begins on who to go. You are deeply grateful. Almost feeling a little bad for snapping at Baldie. Almost.

        Cases are made. Speed and stamina are boasted with winks shot your way. In the end, Omni is the one who takes the mask. He didn't verbally spar for it. Just took it and set it on his mouth. He could hold his breath in space for two weeks, they all could. But that was without getting hit or over exhaustion. He had no idea what he would be getting into. If there were hidden threats. Best to stay on the safe side.

        The others jab at him but don't jump at the bit. Nobody wanted space duty, to be away from (Y/n) that long. He needed time to process. To think. About his darling wife turned cold killer, drug trafficker, and souped-up criminal. Just looking at you in that bloody GDA armor hurt his soul.

        He started, hovering feet off the ground, "If any of you touch my wife while I'm gone, I'll-"

       "Hey."

        He looked down at you. Felt your burning gaze through the mask. "I'm not your wife."

        Your shared vows about love reaching across spacetime said otherwise. 

       "Seriously, I'm not." You almost sound humored, "And if I ever met a version of me stupid enough to marry you? I'd murder that numb cunt bitch with my bare hands." You're being inflammatory on purpose. You're hungry and dehydrated. He knows it, but still bristles at the insult. He was hoping to leave on a good note.

        "Language," he says it with a frown before shooting off into the icy depths of space, blasting powdered sand at all of you.

        Two thousand miles away, Phantom emerges from the sand. Pulling Maskless out, heaving and coughing up the stuff. "Please don't tell me the tunnel collapsed again." They flew feet above. Watching the silky sand sink down, filling the chasm for the fifth time. "Fuck's sake."

[yanderemommabean]

Yandere Dr. Lee scenario <3

“My love for you is seeping into my bones like cancer. I’m obsessed with your every waking breath. My chest heaves at the idea of you ever leaving me behind to rot like the corpse of an abandoned animal. But you would never. You’re perfect. You’re the balm that soothes my burns and the morphine for when my body breaks. I hope to one day heal your wounds as deeply as you’ve done mine. I’ll start with slitting open your enemies like I used to do frogs in biology.” What? Your head is fuzzy from reading the first paragraph, but you can’t stop yourself. If you never finish reading then it will haunt you, or even hurt you, if this was to be taken seriously. 

“I want you. I’ve wanted you for myself for years. I let you have your social circle because that’s just the little butterfly you are. I know you know how obsessed I can be with you. If not, then, now you know. I’ve been in love with you for years, and every single time you bat those pretty eyes at other men, I want to kill them. I’m not going to make this hurt. This isn’t truly a punishment. I just couldn’t hold myself back anymore. I’m going to make you feel good, over and over and over until you see that I love you, little butterfly.”

You read the letter over and over again. You feel the shaking taking over as the deranged letter trembles in your hands, and your breath feels stuck in your throat. Whatthe fuck was this? Some sick love confession? And from who?! What did it even mean by punishment? You can’t bring yourself to hold onto the paper anymore, tossing it aside as you grasp at your hair. What do you do? Cops are hardly ever helpful with shit like this. Making a report should help, at least a little but- There’s a creaking sound behind you. Your thoughts pause, and your hairs stand on end. It’s an eerie silence as you hold your breath and feel the foreboding feeling behind you. Do you acknowledge it? Do you turn your head and see what made the noise? Or do you simply run away, get in the car and go? What if it’s just nothing? You shake. Deep breaths only do so much, but they’re better than completely flying off the edge. 

It’s fine. You’re just extra paranoid. This is a fucked up prank at the very least, and a crime waiting to happen at worst. You just need to get your bearings, get something to calm down, and take care of it as soon as possible. 

Turning your head reveals nothing. The same old floor, same kitchen and living room. No menacing boogeyman, no scary burglar, just your home. (Is it truly yours if rent is always there? Well, whatever, you need a way to get comfort. Delusions such as owning a home help!) 

Double checking the house isn’t a bad idea. So, you go, checking the cupboards, the cabinets, the pantry, and of course anything that looked like a grown person could be hiding. There’s still that foreboding feeling, but once you finish checking under your bed, and your closet, there’s nothing left to check.  There’s the ruffling of your blanket as you collapse. Deep breath in, slow exhale, again and again, until you feel your nerves settling.

Maybe this will be over by the time you get up in the morning to make a report. Maybe it’s a fucked up prank. You can’t really bring yourself to think past anything other than that. You tiredly drag your hands down your face, sighing out as your thoughts try to become less jumbled.

Your eyes close, and your mind finally starts to go blank. Everythings going to be ok. You’ll be ok.

Then there’s the pinprick burning in your arm, and a gloved hand over your mouth.

“So sorry, dove. I know, I know. Shh shh shh. You did good! you did so so good. Hide and seek with you is adorable! But...You know, just because I wasn’t in one hiding spot the first time, it doesn’t mean I didn’t move! Ah, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

There’s a flicker of light as your eyes struggle to stay open, heavy and weighted as your nails try to dig into the arm holding onto you. It’s no use. Your fight is leaving you fast and so is your consciousness, and while your heart is hammering, it’s slowing down considerably as a few tears leave your drooping eyes.

“Wanted a picture to remember this by. Just relax, my butterfly. Just relax. I’ve given you many shots haven’t I? Never did like when my nurses went to do it. Think those count as flirting? I sure do-”

There’s a pouty, disappointed hum as the intruder watches you fade into unconsciousness. “Damn. Worked quicker than I had hoped. Oh well, I need to get you home quick anyway. If I leave too late, people may notice, and it’s not an easy trail to clean.”

(-Mommabean)

[rickywhen-i-catchyouricky]

Forever?

I don't know, I'm in my feelings right now so here's a short ranking of who among the brothers + the dateables would be the least to most likely be open to the concept of forever with you:) Lmk if you like the idea I kinda wanna write a longer fic about it mwahahhahahaha, also! If you disagree w my rankings, it's just my take, you're free to rank them however you see fit <3

The brothers + Dateables

c/w: gn! pronouns used, none

word count: like 70 words each lol

11. Belphegor

He loves you, deeply. But forever? He’s cautious, he knows what eternity feels like, and after everything with Lilith, he doesn't immediately jump to forever. If MC proves to be a constant comfort, someone he can dream beside without fear—he’ll come around. But he’s hesitant first.

“You’d want to be stuck with a sleepy cow demon like me forever? That’s a long time, you know...”

10. Solomon

Kinda unexpected from a person who's lived for centuries but it is for that exact reason that he'd be uncertain. He knows what forever feels like and it’s not always kind. He’s seen love fade, promises break. But MC makes him hope again. The skepticism isn't because he doesn’t want them, but rather he worries he’ll lose them to time. When he finally caves, it’s with trembling honesty.

“Eternity… hasn’t been kind to me. But if it’s with you? I think I could learn to love it again.”

9. Mammon

Mammon is ride-or-die. He wouldn’t say it first—but he’d mean it more than anyone. He’ll fight for their affection every day, terrified they'll find someone better. When they call him their favorite, his heart practically stops. That’s when he starts planning the rest of his life around them, without telling them outright. He wants forever badly, but it scares the hell out of him. He won’t ask for it until he’s absolutely sure they won’t leave.

“Ya really want me around forever? Seriously? Well, duh—who doesn't want to spend forever with The Great Mammon! You better not be joking ‘cause I ain’t ever leavin’, not in a thousand years.”

8. Leviathan

Surprisingly high. Once he loves, he loves hard. He doesn’t believe he deserves someone like MC, but if they choose him again and again? He’ll devote his whole eternity to them. He’s terrified, but he wants it. His "forever" just sounds like building Legos, watching anime, and holding her hand during boss fights.

“If you really- really meant it, I’d—yeah. I’d want to stay. Until the last save point.”

7. Simeon

Hear me out—he wants to love forever, but he’s scared of the pain it might bring. Still, he believes in love, deeply. With MC, it’s gentle warmth, shared stories, laughter over tea. If they asked him to stay, he’d fall to Earth, The Devildom, or anywhere, just to be near them.

“If eternity means hearing your laughter every day… then I would give up Heaven for it in a heartbeat.”

6. Satan

Satan is both romantic and pragmatic. He’s aware of the risks of forever, but he’s fascinated by the way MC makes the days feel different. Eternity is long, but if he can laugh with them, debate them, and read beside them for all of it? He’s in.

“I never thought I’d want to stay in one story forever. But you keep changing the plot.”

5. Asmodeus

I already know what some of you are thinking because most think he’s flighty, but after everything that happened—Asmo craves deep, everlasting connection. If MC shows they see more than just his beauty, and love him as he is? He’ll hold their hand through the centuries, making sure they always feels desired, adored, and treasured.

“You’ll still think I’m beautiful when we’ve watched the stars burn out, right? Good. Then I’m yours.”

4. Lucifer

He understands the weight of eternity. Lucifer will consider the practicalities of binding his fate to theirs, but once he lets his heart lead? He’s certain. He doesn’t love lightly, and if he chooses forever, he’ll mean it. But he might hide how badly he wants it at first.

“Do you understand what eternity means, MC? Perfect, then you understand why I’d still choose you.”

3. Barbatos

I always think of that one line from nightbringer. Time has never surprised him, until MC. They're unpredictable, joyful, and they make his centuries-old heart ache in a way he thought impossible. Barbatos would already have seen a future with them in it—but he’d choose it every time.

“I’ve seen many possible endings, but none compare to a future where you are by my side.”

2. Beelzebub

Beel would never say it first, but he’s the most steadfast. If MC loves him back, that’s it. He’s theirs. He doesn’t need flowery promises—he shows it in actions, in quiet meals, in always being their shield. Forever with them? It’s natural to him.

“I don’t know what forever looks like... But if you’re there, I’ll be happy. I promise.”

1. Diavolo

Forever is a promise he was born to make. He’s been alone too long, but MC's joy brings color back to his world. The second they smile at him like he’s home, it’s over. He’s ready to build a world with them. One they rule beside him—not behind him.

“Forever? MC, I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve already started dreaming of our centuries together."