#and if the only thing they could do is rip apart their own bones and muscles to transform and then just die from doing that well that

[ditzyrafe]

— squirting in front of bf!rafe for the first time

warnings — oral (fem!rec), squirting, lewd language

the late afternoon light slanted through the blinds, striping your bodies in gold and shadow. sweat slicked the space between your skin and rafe's expensive sheets, which were already twisted into a testament of the last hour. you were close, impossibly close, riding that sharp, sweet edge where pleasure blurred into frantic need. rafe knelt between your thighs, solely focused on pleasuring you. his fingers moved with ruthless precision inside of you, hitting that spot while his thumb worked relentless circles against your clit.

"that's it, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrated through your bones. he watched your face intently, eyes dark and hooded, tracking the flush spreading across your chest, the way your eyes were blown wide. he loved seeing you come apart for him, loved being the sole reason for the incoherent whimpers escaping your throat. "you can do it."

he shifted slightly, changing the angle of his fingers, adding a deeper pressure that sent a jolt straight through your system. you gasped, hips buckling off the mattress. this felt… different. the usual coiling tension was there, tightening unbearably low in your belly, but beneath it was a strange, building pressure, like an urgent need you couldn't identify. "rafe, i- oh god…"

"cum for me, baby. show me," he commanded softly, his thumb pressing down harder, faster.

the command, coupled with that impossible pressure, tipped you over. but it wasn't just the familiar, shattering waves of orgasm that ripped through you, making you cry out his name. it was accompanied by a sudden, shocking gush. a warm surge erupted from you, soaking the sheets beneath you, spattering onto his hand and wrist.

your eyes flew open in mortified confusion, the last shudders of pleasure mixing with sheer panic. you'd never done that before. "oh my god! rafe, i'm sorry-" you started, cheeks flaming, convinced you'd just humiliated yourself completely.

but rafe wasn't recoiling, wasn't looking at you in disgust. he'd frozen for a split second, feeling the unexpected warmth soak him, then he slowly lifted his slick fingers to his lips, tasting your sweetness on his tongue. a slow, predatory grin spread across his lips, transforming his features. his eyes weren't annoyed; they were blazing with a new, intense fire that burned only for you.

he looked back down at the evidence soaking the bed, then met your gaze again, his cock visibly pulsing with need at the sight of you. "don't you dare be sorry, baby," he murmured, reaching out to trace the edge of the wetness on the sheets with one finger. "you fucking soaked my bed for me." the possessiveness in his tone was sharper now, edged with something primal. "that was the hottest fucking thing i've ever seen."

before you could process his reaction, he surged forward, covering your mouth in a brusing kiss. his hands roughly gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as he aligned his cock near your sensitive folds that were practically still dripping in arousal for him. he drove himself inside of you, hips halting so you could properly adjust to his size. "did that feel good?" he whispered huskily against your ear, his voice thick with raw, predatory pleasure that sent shivers down your spine despite the lingering shock.

"yeah? let'see how much of’a mess you can make on my cock."

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @dreewsepj @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[multific]

In the Shadow of the Hunt

Yautja x Reader

Warning: Smut

Summary: Trained to outlast any Predator, you never expected to earn the respect and heart of one.

You were doing fine until something far worse than the Yautja entered the territory.

The creatures were not natural.

Mutations, maybe. Bloodthirsty beasts designed for something else's war.

You heard the Yautja before you saw him, you heard clicks low in the trees, that faint hum of cloaking tech.

At first, he was your death sentence.

Now he was your only chance.

It started with a standoff.

You had your knife drawn, back to the river, as he de-cloaked in a shimmer of light and metal.

Eight feet tall, heavy with muscle, body scarred and worn from a hundred battles. His mandibles clicked as he studied you with a curious expression.

You should have attacked.

Instead, you lowered the knife.

"Common enemy," you said slowly, keeping your voice low, hands spread open. "You can kill me later. But right now we both have bigger problems."

He tilted his head sharply, as if weighing your words. His wrist-blade retracted.

It was the beginning.

You learned to communicate through simple gestures at first.

Pointing. Nodding. Grunts of acknowledgement.

He didn’t speak human languages, but he understood survival, a universal tongue.

You nicknamed him R'thok in your mind, it sounded close to the snarling sound he made when introducing himself.

In turn, he began to call you a series of low clicks that almost sounded affectionate.

When you saved him, dragging his heavy body out of a pit trap, using your last medical kit to seal his bleeding side, everything changed.

He touched your wrist afterwards.

A careful touch. Not demanding and not threatening.

Grateful.

Respected.

At night, you camped near each other.

Not too close but close enough that you could hear his breathing.

He carved strange symbols into the dirt. You answered by sketching your own.

A new language bloomed between you, drawn in sand and mud.

Safe.

Danger.

Hunt.

Stay.

And sometimes he would leave you little offerings, cleaned bones from his kills, scavenged tech scraps, a strange fruit you had never seen before.

His way of caring.

You started smiling more around him.

He noticed.

His mandibles twitched into what you thought might be a grin.

The first time you touched him was after another ambush.

One of the mutated beasts had cornered you.

Its claws had ripped through your shoulder, blood hot down your arm.

R'thok tore it apart with a roar that shook the trees.

You stumbled. He caught you.

Huge clawed hands, shockingly gentle, cupped your body and kept you from falling.

You pressed your forehead against his chest without thinking, panting.

"You… you’re warm," you whispered weakly.

He made a rumbling sound, almost like a purr.

Without words, he hoisted you up, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and set you down in the shelter of a hollowed tree.

When you woke later, the wound was stitched neatly, and R'thok was there. Watching. Guarding.

Yours.

The final fight was brutal.

The leader of the beasts pinned R'thok first.

You had a split-second decision: save yourself, or save him.

You didn’t hesitate.

You drove your knife into the creature’s eye, grabbing a discarded plasma caster and blasting it at point-blank range.

The thing screeched and died.

You turned to R'thok, chest heaving.

He was staring at you in a way he had never before.

Not as prey.

Not as an equal.

As something more.

He leaned down, his clawed hand brushing your cheek. You shivered, not in fear, but at the intensity in his gaze.

When he pressed his forehead gently to yours, you understood: it was a vow.

Among his kind, that meant something deeper than any words.

A bond. A claiming.

Love.

You closed your eyes and pressed back.

Yes.

Months later, after the rescue teams came and went, after you chose to disappear from your old life, you lived among the stars.

In a hidden place where Yautja and humans met in secret.

Where no hunt ruled your days anymore.

Only him.

Your mate.

Your hunter.

Your heart.

The ship thrummed around you, metal walls glowing faintly blue with low light.

You sat on the narrow sleeping platform in R'thok's quarters — if they could even be called that. Everything was raw, functional: weapon racks, a table of trophies, pelts spread across the floor. The air smelled like steel, blood, and something warmer... him.

He stood before you, massive and still. His armour stripped away, leaving only thick, scarred skin that shimmered faintly in the low light.

His golden eyes softened as he looked at you.

You got up slowly, your pulse a wild drumbeat. You barely came up to his chest, but he bowed his head to you, patient, waiting.

Waiting for you to make the move.

You reached up, fingertips brushing the hard line of his jaw. His skin was warm, surprisingly soft over the brutal strength beneath. His mandibles twitched, a low, almost uncertain rumble rising from his chest.

"R'thok," you whispered.

You didn’t need to say more.

The bond between you crackled like a live wire.

With a low groan, he caught your hand and drew it to his mouth. His tusks brushed your knuckles as he breathed you in.

And then, so slowly it made your head spin, he pulled closer.

You felt the heat of him.

His massive hands slid down your sides, claws grazing lightly over your hips, your thighs, as if memorising every inch.

You reached for the woven cords across his chest and tugged.

He growled low, a sound of approval and need, and helped you, stripping the cords away.

He was all muscle and old scars.

A living weapon who had chosen you, knelt for you.

He bent, pressing his forehead against yours again, the sacred gesture of his people, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering as wildly as your own.

Your fingers traced the thick cords of muscle over his shoulders, his chest, sliding lower.

His body shuddered under your touch.

When your hands grazed the hard line of his abdomen, he snarled low, catching you at the waist and lifting you as easily as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped, but he was already carrying you to the furs on the floor, laying you down with impossible tenderness.

Hovering above you, he hesitated.

He brushed your cheek, your throat, your racing pulse.

Are you sure? - his eyes asked.

You answered by grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down.

The kiss was clumsy at first, Yautja mouths weren’t made for it, but he learned quickly.

Pressing his mandibles against your skin, nipping lightly, tasting you.

His scent wrapped around you, wild, electric, addictive.

Your clothes came off in pieces, discarded into the dark.

When you were finally bare under him, his gaze raked over you with a hunger that was almost reverent.

He touched you like a treasure, each brush of his massive hands making you ache.

He was careful as he explored you.

Mapping every sound you made, every shiver, every sharp intake of breath.

You gasped when his hand slid lower, between your thighs, and he paused, snarling softly in warning, in need. 

Telling you he would go slow.

You wrapped your arms around his thick neck, anchoring yourself to him, and whispered against his ear:

"I'm yours."

He froze.

Then he roared and surged against you.

The first push of his made you cry out, he was so big, you could feel every inch.

But he was gentle, trembling with the effort to hold back. Giving you time to adjust and grow used to him.

You clutched at his shoulders, at the ridges of his back, moaning into his skin.

He rocked into you slowly at first, every movement careful, deliberate. Worshipful.

But soon restraint gave way to need.

His pace quickened, driving deeper, and you met him eagerly, rising to meet each thrust.

It was overwhelming. Consuming.

You felt the bond between you ignite — something ancient, primal — not just physical, but something deeper.

As you shattered beneath him, you felt him follow, his body locking tight against yours with a desperate, broken snarl.

He didn't let go.

Not even after.

He curled himself around you, protective and fierce, his breath hot against your neck.

One massive hand covered your belly. His way of marking you.

You lay there, panting, stroking the side of his face with trembling fingers.

"Yours," you whispered again, kissing the corner of his mandible.

A deep, vibrating purr answered you, the sound of utter devotion.

You closed your eyes, safe for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

Not hunted.

Not alone.

Chosen.

Loved.

Forever.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[tokoyamisstuff]

I need some Mohawk mark head cannons I’m desperate for anything please😞😞😞

Sure thing, I love this unhinged little gremlin! Wrote a whole Oneshot as a special treat for you. 💅

Payback

x f! Reader (gender gets mentioned exactly twice)

Synopsis: In his timeline, Mohawk killed you for rejecting him - and now he seeks you out to do it again.

Warnings: mentions of murder and violence, sexual innuendos, unhealthy dynamics, swearing, not proofread

"Y/N? Im hurt...please, I need you! Y/N...? Ah, shit."

Mohawk was kicking the air in frustration, a little pout decorating his face as he scanned the small apartment for any hint of your whereabouts. He had thought you were home, since the window on the top floor stood wide open. Almost too easy.

Bummer. He was really looking forwards to killing you again...

...after all, last time he wasn't able to enjoy himself. Not really. It all happened so fast, the only thing he remembers is that in his lovesickness, he wanted to make you experience exactly how your rejection made him feel.

Before he even knew it, his fist had buried itself through your ribcage, holding your still beating heart in his own hand. The only way he'd ever get to have it - what tragic symbolism.

Not that he'd ever admit, but that betrayed expression of yours before he could literally feel your heart stop haunts him until this day.

The countless photos you had plastered all over one of the walls piqued his interest. Can't hurt to learn more about the version of you from this world, he thinks.

A particular one he rips off, nothing extraordinary but it bugs him how many they are. Plain selfies with you in various years and situations, together with that pathetic loser - the Mark from your timeline.

Seems like you're rather close, unlike him and his Y/N. And that fucker doesn't even realize how lucky he is.

Mohawk grits his teeth, a familiar jealous anger seething in the pit of his stomach once again.

It should've been him!

You on the other hand are blissfully unaware of the intruder in your house, let alone the catastrophy unfolding on the whole globe right this moment.

It was the day after your nightshift and you had just crawled out of bed, no intention of listening to the news as they only kill the vibe anyways. And in the middle of nowhere that you called your hometown, no one bothered giving an alarm or even evacuating, as it's most likely not going to be attacked.

After a nice, steaming hot shower you stroll out of the bathroom, humming a whimsy melody as you mentally prepare your day off...

...until you notice the stranger right in the middle of your living room.

Your shriek actually caughts him off guard and this moron joins right in, but after the initial shock you merely tilt your head in confusion. "...Invincible?"

Damn. Shit. Fuckfuckfuckfuckingfuck!

Mohawks brain currently had a short circuit apparently, staring at your almost naked form like a deer that had just been caught in the headlights.

Your hair was still damp, a towel - that was way too small for this purpose - wrapped around your curves. Shit. Seems like no matter which universe, you're drop-dead gorgeous. He mentally praises Art for having a groin cup sewn into this suit - or else he would've involuntarily presented something to you he's usually not so shy about.

"The one and only." He manages to regain his cool, smugly leaning against a counter...

...however his mind soon went blank once again when you rushed towards him, wrapping your arms around his torso with your barely covered body pressed against his.

Mohawk freezes, arms itching to return the embrace yet instead he lets them fall limp to the side, hands soon balling into tight fists as you stubbornly refuse to let go.

How dare you.

He should snap your neck like a twig- no, better, break every bone in your body for this insolence...

...but instead, he caughts himself resting his chin atop of your head.

"I missed you, ya know?" he mumbles against your hair, feeling the taunting way his heart flutters in his chest. It's drum is so loud in his head, he's certain you can hear it too. Fuck.

What the hell was he doing? He came here to give you a long, agonizing death, for fuck's sake!

"Well, you are the superpowered alien" you tease, softly poking his chest. "Maybe come around more often?"

Your friend was visibly uncomfortable with the whole exchange, but you didn't seem to notice. Whenever he failed to answer, you filled the gaps of silence with your own babbling instead. It's been way too long and you're simply excited to see him again.

"Is that the new suit you were talking about?" you wonder, still holding onto the sides of his shoulders. Feeling a blush form on his cheeks he quietly glances away, feeling oddly embarrassed under your scrutiny.

"It suits you! But what about that hair?" One of your hands runs through his mohawk and he has to physically fight the urge to purr like some needy stray cat. "...you don't like it?"

You shrug, raising your hands in a placating manner. "No, I mean yes, I mean...it looks super cool and all..." That statement made his chest swell with pride, and he could almost feel his confidence returning. "Doesn't really suit an innocent guy like you though, am I wrong?"

Innocent. Ugh. His variant is so fucking boooring, but he couldn't let his true colors show just yet. This was getting way too amusing.

Only now you noticed the huge gash on his left arm where the fabric of his suit was torn, the blood running down your fingers. Hardly a scratch for a superior Viltrumite like he called himself one.

Again Mohawk felt his chest narrowing at such great display of care, the way you worriedly examined his wound despite knowing how tough his kind was. "This is nothing, it'll be healed by-"

"Na-a-ah!" You scolded him and he wanted to sass right back, but all word of protest died on his tongue. "Come, sit down on the sofa. I'll patch you up."

He complies without second thought, following you like a lost puppy.

The heart wants what it wants.

"You finished whatever mission you were on, right? Because I'm almost done cooking as well" you tell him while working on the bandage, and he has a hard time concentrating on anything else when you're so close, touching him so gently, and your eyes shine so bright. "Be my guest?"

His eyes dart bewteen you any the bandage for a brief while, examining your handiwork before sheepishly accepting your offer. "If you insist...got nothing better to do."

Oh.

When he thought there was nothing to lose by staying for a while, he totally forgot about your absolutely horrid cooking. He remembers it from his Y/N, she used to make it all the time.

In his empire he is provided with the most sublime meals, prepared by the best chef's of across the galaxy...and yet, this homely, nostalgic feeling your food provided is something no one could replicate.

"You still eat this crap?" He picks at the food, plain mac and cheese from the box, but you always claimed you 'improve the flavor' somehow.

"Your fault for not calling beforehand. If I knew I'd be having a guest, I'd have cooked something properly." You scold him playfully, gesturing with the fork to add to your statement. "I mean I'm single and practically live at work, why put in the effort?"

You're single.

That damned boyfriend of yours isn't with you in this universe.

Not that it'd have been any hindrance if he was, but this made things so much more easier.

Back at his dimension, he always wondered what you saw in this guy. He was a nobody that could never even dream compare to his greatness - and yet you chose him over Mohawk anyways.

"You're so broody again today." Concerningly enough, that's basically his standard state of being ever since he became a superhero - and knowing him it meant no good. "Do you want to talk about it, or would you like some distraction?"

His screams had been music in his ears, though...

Mohawk puts the plate down, shuffling a little too close for your liking towards the other end of the sofa. His gaze was stern, softening ever so slightly when you put your hand on the small of his back.

"Say, do you..." he swallows hard around the lump forming in his throat, taking both of your hands into his as he stared at you utterly forlorn. "Did you ever think we could've been more than just friends?"

Huh?!?

That question caught you so off guard, for a second you thought about punching yourself in the face to see if you were dreaming.

It's not like you haven't thought about it before, to be perfectly honest.

Mark Grayson is a fairly attractive guy - inside and out - and you two always clicked well. If it wasn't for the huge distance separating you and him, you might've certainly catched feelings.

Your grandma lived next door with his family, so you befriended each other as kids and played whenever you visited her during the holidays. But life happens and people grow up, so even though his powers would easily allow him to visit you more often, his priorities simply lie elsewhere.

You barely text these days, and see each other maybe once or twice a month at max. Adult life gets busy, that's just the way it works.

Not to mention the most important fact: He currently has a girlfriend.

There was a long pause of silence between his question and your answer, and the more time passed the more anxiety - and violent anger - emerged in his brain.

"Be honest" he pushes at your lack of an answer, insistingly squeezing your hands.

"What, trouble in paradise already?" You cut him off with a judging, almost irritated glare and for a moment he is taken aback. "You told me like a week ago how happy you are with Eve, that she's the love of your life, blah blah blah..."

Samantha Eve Wilkins.

Sure, he had been with her before in his world as well, always trying to make you jealous. Claiming that you were insignificant, while he was with a literal goddess...

...and still, whenever they kissed, whenever she laid beneath him, hell, even whenever they just were around each other, all he could think of was how much he yearned for her to be you instead.

It wasn't enough, never enough to make those feelings go away. In the end he killed her simply for the crime of not being able to replace you.

"Sorry, but I'm not a homewrecker." You want to turn away, angry and disappointed that you seemed to have mistaken him for a good guy, but Mark takes ahold of your chin, letting his thumb run over your bottom lip as he forces you to keep looking.

He'd get that attitude out of you pretty easily.

"Y/N..." The name rolls of his lips like a lovesong, and he drags it out for as long as the air in his lungs allowed him to. "There's no more Eve in my life. And I don't want her, or anyone else but you!"

A boyish smile tugs on his lips when he realizes that despite playing coy, you're receptive to his touch. He feels your breathing hitch when he came forwards, his nose brushing against yours as he waited for your reaction.

There. Gotcha.

The slightest twitch was enough of a sign for him to close the gap between your lips, mouth crashing over yours in all forms of desire. He was passionate, desparate even in the way his tongue delved into your mouth, needing you quite literally more than oxygen. His hands roam across your body, stroking and squeezing and crushing you agaisnt him, not knowing where to settle.

Mark's eyes stay wide open during the kiss, savouring every detail as if to commit it to memory. This, the real deal, is so much better than all those others he used to try and fill the void your absence has left in his soul.

His heart is practically clawing against his ribcage by now, subconscious screaming at him to never let anyone take you away from him again.

Not even yourself.

"Breaking news!" the volume of your TV that always ran in the background suddenly spiked up, and for the fraction of a second Mark's grip on you bordered on painful.

However it wasn't enough to keep you preoccupied, partially breaking the kiss to glance over to the screen...

...and what you saw made cold dread creep up your spine.

"Multiple superhumans all resembling Invincible are wreaking havoc in cities all around the world, overwhelming local and government forces. The police is advising everyone that if you come across one of those invididuals, do not approach them. They are dangerous and unpredictable. Remain hidden and report to local authori-"

It's him.

"They never get my good site" Mohawk's neck cracks as he moves his head from left to right, trying to relieve some stress of having been so rudely interrupted. He's not acknowledging your distress at all, instead looking straight ahead towards the footage of himself making the London Bridge collapse. "But hey, do you like what I've done to the place?"

You didn't even fully register what the news broadcaster had been explaining, and frankly it wouldn't be helpful either way - because at this moment, one of those villains destroying everything in their path was sitting right next to you.

"Please-"

"Relax, would you" he cuts you off both harshly and encouraging, draping an arm over your shoulder and letting out a content sigh. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be. Okay, maybe that was the plan in the beginning" he chuckled gleeful, "but I changed my mind."

"Wha- how- who are you?" you whimmer only to be met with a smile so innocently, it bordered on pure madness.

"I'm Invicible, but..." he ponders, thoughtfully tapping his jaw. "...from an alternate universe, I guess? Never fully understood how this shit works."

You frown. "So what, you're just like some cheap, evil version of our Mark Grayson?"

"And- why are you at my house?" You have a distinct apprehension about his reasons.

"Oh, babydoll...so stubborn" he cockily corrects you, forcefully leading your hand to rest above his sternum. "I'm the upgrade."

"In my world we go way back, you know?" Mohawk holds your face with his free hand, pressing an absentminded kiss on your forehead. "The old story: Boy falls in love, girl breaks his heart, boy brutally murders girl..." he trails off, but the picture was clearly painted. "I came here to give you what you deserve."

"...and now?"

"Still do" he shrugs, a devilish glint in his eyes as he got an idea. "But I came to think that maybe you deserve something different..."

His words make you shiver, but he only laughs at your misery. "You're trembling. Cute. But I prefered you before. I like dominant women!"

When your eyes gloss in dread, Mohawk looked almost convincingly worried, hushing you while his lips erase the teardrops running down your cheeks. Delightful not only for him...

...because much to your horror, it was oddly comforting.

Out of a whim you get pulled onto his lap, unable to escape his suffocating proximity. You look at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity, which only spurs him to become bolder. He tugs on your towel so that it'd reveal what's beneath, shamelessly groaning at the sight.

"I wanted to hear you scream my name one last time..." he admitted, playfully wriggling his eyebrows. "But there's other ways to achieve that."

Mohawk leans in, the contrast of his hot breath against the chilling air rising goosebumps on your skin. You shiver, a strangled noise of approval vibrating in your throat when you feel his hands devote themselves to more sensitive parts of your body.

"Whaddaya say, sugar? I'll make it worth your while."

[theonottsbxtch]

MILLION DOLLAR WOMAN | OP81

an: i head to france tomorrow guys, today is my final day of freedom rip. this was so fun to write because imagine just finding out your partner is a millionaire fr, based off of this request

wc: 2.5k

Oscar could see her sitting at the dining table through the floor-to-ceiling windows as he parked his car. The quiet of their home in Monaco always took him by surprise—no revving engines, no buzz of the pit crew. Just her typing away on her laptop with her usual cup of tea. She looked up as he walked in, gave him a quick smile, and then returned to her screen. Always so relaxed, even as he walked in carrying the tension of a bad training session.

"Good day?" she asked, barely looking up. He nodded and mumbled something about a corner he'd taken too fast. She listened but didn’t pry. She never did. That's how she was. She was more interested in weekend hikes than race standings, in cooking simple meals than joining him at fancy team dinners. It was a refreshing kind of simplicity, though sometimes a little mystifying. She didn’t ask about the sport or his schedule, never got jealous over the fans, and didn’t seem to care about the lifestyle that came with dating an F1 driver.

In a way, it was...perfect. He didn’t have to worry about her growing tired of his schedule, or about her expectations getting out of hand. She worked her 9-to-5, met him after, and never asked for more. The fact that she paid for her own things when they went out had caught him off-guard at first, but she’d laughed and shrugged it off when he offered to take care of the bill. "I’m used to it," she’d said. And that had been that. No strings, no expectations.

Tonight, she must’ve been finishing something for work, because she was typing away with focus. He walked into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, glancing over his shoulder at her every now and then, content. The glow of her screen was the only light in the room; the apartment was quiet but comfortable, like this was all they’d ever need.

“How’s work?” He asked as he shut the fridge.

She briefly looked up, “Long” she sighed but smiled at him.

As he walked past her he placed a brief kiss on her forehead and slid onto the sofa, stretching out and letting the quietness of home sink into his bones. She was already back to her typing, nodding to herself as she worked through whatever was in front of her. It was one of those things he found himself both fascinated by and grateful for—she didn’t need him to fill the silence. She seemed just fine with her job, her laptop, her little rituals that didn’t have anything to do with him.

Oscar watched her for a moment before pulling out his phone, scrolling through emails and messages. A lot of them were about his upcoming sponsorship deal, a whirlwind of numbers and logistics. He thought about calling his manager to check the final figures but decided against it. Just thinking about it wore him out.

He read email after email as he heard the scrape of a chair, he looked up to see her stand up and take a call in their terrace, something he adored about this house.

Then his phone rang, Mark, he picked up automatically. “Yeah, hey,” he said, voice still soft from the calmness of the evening. As he talked through the details with him, he realised he needed to jot something down. With no pen or paper in reach, he glanced over to the dining table where she always kept a notepad beside her tea.

Oscar rose, walking over to her seat, quietly picking up her pen. But as he did, his eyes fell onto the screen of her laptop, where her banking app was open.

It was one glance, just a flicker of his eyes, but enough for him to catch sight of the balance there. He paused mid-sentence, his own words catching in his throat.

That number didn’t look right.

Surely it was missing a decimal.

Wrapping up the conversation with Mark, he wrote down what he needed, and looked at the screen once more. In that time, she’d walked back into the room, her feet padding on the cool granite of their dining room floor.

Oscar couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

"Hey," he said, voice a little strained, still trying to process what he was seeing. "Uh…how much money do you make?"

She blinked, the corner of her mouth lifting in that effortless way of hers. "Enough," she said with a little laugh. "Why?"

Oscar blinked, struggling to wrap his head around it. This was his girlfriend—quiet, low-key, not a trace of the usual high-gloss life he’d always associated with wealth. He’d seen people obsess over money, hover around him just because of it, make a whole lifestyle out of it. But her? She was the woman who insisted on bringing packed lunches to work, who chose thrift shops over boutiques, who still wore her decade-old watch without a second thought. She was content. Comfortable. But this…

"That’s…a lot of ‘enough,’" he said, pointing at the screen, unable to mask the amazement in his voice.

She just shrugged and closed her laptop, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I guess I don’t really talk about it, huh? Not exactly first-date conversation."

He leaned back against the table, watching her with a strange mix of awe and curiosity. "Not even, like, fourth-date conversation."

"To be fair, I didn’t ask what you make, either," she pointed out, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Money’s not really…our thing."

He felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. She was right, and yet, here he was, dumbfounded. She’d been living in his world all this time, never asking him for anything, never trying to claim any part of the lavish life he could provide. Now, he realised, maybe she didn’t need it at all.

"So…why not mention it?" he asked, still trying to understand. "I mean, I just assumed…" He trailed off, feeling a little sheepish.

"I know," she said, her smile turning gentle. "I guess I liked that you assumed. It made things easier. It let me be just…me. No expectations, no need to fit into any box."

Oscar nodded slowly, taking that in. It made sense, but it still felt surreal. Here was someone who, from the very beginning, hadn’t wanted anything from him other than his time, his company. She wasn’t here for his lifestyle or his status, things he’d been conditioned to believe were a part of every relationship he’d ever have.

He glanced at her laptop again, unable to stop himself from wondering. “So, wait—what exactly do you do? Something like…senior management?” he asked, half-joking, his tone teasing.

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head as the absurdity of it all settled in. He was still trying to wrap his head around the whole idea—his girlfriend, his laid-back, thrift-shop-loving girlfriend, was apparently not only financially secure but really well off.

She raised her eyebrows, a sly smile creeping across her face. “Something like that,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea.

He squinted at her, suspicious. “Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging. How high up are you, really?”

She glanced away, as if considering her words, and then said it, almost like a casual aside. “I’m the CEO.”

He blinked, the statement hanging in the air like a punchline he hadn’t quite caught. “Wait…CEO? As in, like, the CEO?”

She laughed, shrugging it off like it was nothing. “Just of a mid-sized company, Oscar. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Darling,” he said slowly, realising dawning. “What company?”

She paused, her eyes darting away, and he could see the hint of mischief there. “Ever heard of Catalyst?”

“Catalyst…wait, as in Catalyst Dynamics?” he asked, his voice growing louder with shock. “The same Catalyst Dynamics that sponsors my team?”

She pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile. “Do they?”

“Oh, you are kidding me!” he exclaimed, grinning in disbelief. “You’ve been secretly spoiling me this whole time!”

She shook her head, looking away as though he’d accused her of something scandalous. “Oscar, it’s a sponsorship, not a…spoiling thing. Besides, that’s business. I keep it separate from…this.” She gestured between the two of them, clearly trying to play it cool.

But Oscar wasn’t buying it, not for a second. “Oh, no you don’t.” Before she could say another word, he leaned down, scooping her up and carrying her toward the sofa.

“Oscar!” she yelped, laughing, half-protesting, but she didn’t resist.

He set her down on the cushions, pinning her playfully as he hovered above her, grinning with that spark of mischief that usually only showed up on race day. “You’ve been keeping this a secret, haven’t you? The big boss lady, looking out for me, pretending you’re just this regular 9-to-5 woman…”

“Oscar, I’m not spoiling—”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” He grinned wider, fingers finding her sides as he started tickling her, his hands relentless. She burst into laughter, twisting and squirming, but he didn’t let up.

“Okay, okay!” she managed between laughs, her breath coming in gasps as he kept up his assault. “I admit it, I admit it!”

“Admit what?” he asked, pausing, a playful gleam in his eyes as he waited for her to say it.

“Fine!” She was breathless, cheeks flushed from laughter. “Maybe I had a tiny bit of a hand in sponsoring your team, maybe. But it wasn’t to spoil you! It was just…good business.”

He chuckled, finally letting up, settling beside her on the sofa. “Good business, huh?”

She took a deep breath, still smiling as she nudged him. “I mean it. I didn’t want you to feel any pressure…or obligation. This—us—is different.”

Oscar looked at her, his heart feeling fuller than he’d expected. “Different is right.” He slipped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Guess I’m just lucky to be dating a CEO with a secret soft spot.”

She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder, content. “And I guess I’m lucky to be with someone who never needed me to be anything but…me.”

As they settled into a comfortable silence, Oscar’s mind was still spinning, pieces clicking into place one by one. He glanced around their beautiful apartment—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleek, minimalist design. The place had always felt like an oasis, calm and understated, like Anna herself. But something new was nagging at him now.

“Wait…” He looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. “That’s why you won’t let me pay rent, isn’t it? You said this place was your dad’s, but it’s not, is it?”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile, but the faintest hint of a smirk gave her away. “Well…okay, maybe it wasn’t technically my dad’s. He…may not have anything to do with it.”

“Sweetheart!” he said, laughing as he sat up, staring at her in mock betrayal. “So you’ve just been letting me think I’m staying at this family-owned place when all this time you’re the one paying for it?”

She shrugged, looking at him with playful innocence. “It’s already been paid for. Besides,” she added, her smile widening, “I like the idea of you feeling at home here without any pressure.”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m onto you now. You may be this relaxed, low-key CEO, but you’ve secretly been spoiling me this entire time. Admit it!”

She laughed, a bright, carefree sound. “Fine, I admit it—I may have bought this place. Technically. But it’s still your home, too.”

Oscar pulled her close again, marvelling at how effortlessly she balanced everything—her high-powered job, their quiet, easygoing life together, her uncanny ability to make him feel like the luckiest man in the world. “You know what?” he murmured, looking into her eyes. “I don’t care if you own half of Monaco. You’re still my love.”

She grinned, leaning her forehead against his. “Good,” she whispered. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

They stayed like that for a moment, her nestled into him, the quiet warmth of the room settling around them. But Oscar couldn’t resist one more question, the thought gnawing at him.

He tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, one last thing, Miss CEO.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “Is your net worth bigger than mine?”

She tried to stifle a laugh, her eyes darting away as if avoiding the answer itself. “Oscar…”

He gasped, leaning back in exaggerated shock. “Oh my god, it is, isn’t it? You’ve got me beat!”

“I’m not answering that,” she said, biting back a smile as she pressed her lips together stubbornly.

“You don’t need to,” he replied, grinning even wider. “The silence says it all. Here I thought I was the big shot, and my girlfriend’s out here just quietly sitting on an empire.”

She laughed, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Well, maybe I just like watching you think you’re the fancy one.”

He pulled her close again, laughing softly. “Alright, fine. But don’t think I won’t bring this up anytime you try to sneak the bill.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Deal.”

Oscar chuckled, still shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as if he’d just pieced together some incredible mystery. “You know, our kid is going to be spoiled,” he said, the words slipping out with a grin.

He felt her shift beside him, and when he looked down, her expression had softened, her eyes faraway, a little spark of excitement in them. “They won’t,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Humble start, just like we both had.”

“Oh, so you’ll be the strict parent, then?” he teased, arching an eyebrow. “The one laying down the law?”

She laughed, giving him a gentle shove. “So I’m the bad cop?”

“Absolutely. I’m not budging on this.” He grinned, taking her hands in his as he leaned in close. “You’ve been lying to me for four years about practically everything. I think that officially makes you the bad cop in this relationship.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was warm, even a little shy. “Fine, I’ll take ‘bad cop’… but only if you’re ready to be the softie who gives in.”

Oscar laughed, wrapping his arms around her, feeling that sense of joy settle in even deeper. “Deal, I was already planning on it” he whispered, his voice full of promise. And as he held her close, he realised he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Oscar pulled her even closer, his hands resting gently on her cheeks as he took in the warmth of her gaze, her face illuminated softly in the low light. The playful edge between them softened into something deeper, and the laughter faded into quiet, shared breath.

Slowly, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a soft, lingering kiss that held all the words they hadn’t said. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling there as she melted into him, and for a moment, everything—the teasing, the surprises, the whole world around them—faded away.

the end.

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

5: veil

tw: medical talk, morning sickness, light drugging, non-con

The only food your stomach allows you to keep down these days is buttered pasta—this child (this creature) allows nothing else. 

A large pot of penne boils in front of you, pasta dancing through the turbulent water, swirling as if enticing you to join for a bath. To stick your hand into the superheated liquid, to allow it to gnaw your skin off to the very bone. Instead, you stand and stare at it, arms crossed and eyes heavy as the timer on the stove slowly counts down. 

Morning sickness has been a mighty beast to overcome these last few weeks, though you’ve come to the painful realization that it does not plague you only in the morning like the name would suggest. It’s in the afternoon while you’re at the office when your co-worker walks by you, cologne thick and heavy on their skin, tainting your nose, forcing your stomach to clench and thrash. It’s in the evening when you crave a treat so fervently that your body decides the only good option is to overturn the lunch you hardly choked down in the first place. It’s in the middle of the night when you rouse yourself for a glass of water, only to choke on rancid, unforgiving bile.

You’re not gaining enough weight, your obstetrician says. Far behind the curve—she tells you to eat more. You need more protein, more fibre, more fats; more of everything. Choke it down. Keep it down. Everything you do now is for the baby. For this child. Never for yourself. Never your own health. An incubator, a carrier, a mother by proxy but not by desire. 

You want to tell her that she should live with something growing inside of her—something ripping her apart from the inside out—and see how she fares with such a monumental task. 

Once your pasta has made it to the halfway mark, you sigh and retrieve your kettle. The warped iron dully reflects your disappointed gaze as you fill it at the sink. You place it on the other burner to boil, ready to indulge in your sleepy time tea to knock yourself out after a long day of office bureaucracy and shrouded misogynistic insults. Everyone at work has put two and two together—you’re unwed, you do not speak of any man; simply, you are a sinner. A harlot. Something to scorn. Their whispers bleed through the walls louder than they know. 

A knock sounds at the door. 

Though you are not surprised to hear the blunt percussive melody, you realize you’re not used to it. The way it reverberates through the wood. How sharp it cracks through the air. Humming, you place your stirring soon on the counter before shuffling to the front door, not bothering to look to see who it is when you open it. 

Simon stands on the other side, and he’s just as tall and broad as you remember him being from yesterday. Your car park helper, who loaded your bags into your car and slipped his number into your hand before you could even comprehend the scribbling. His dark eyes flicker to your stomach as you give him a gauche smile, hand still resting on the knob like you’re considering slamming the door in his face and holing up inside your quaint burrow. 

“Hi,” you greet, spine stiffer than a board. “Erm… come on in. I’ve got your stuff here in the kitchen.” 

Head bowed low as if begging for forgiveness in anticipation, you lead Simon into your home as he wordlessly follows behind you. Simon’s items—that had peculiarly found themselves hidden among your groceries—sit in a bag on the counter. You begin to rummage through the items, listing off each thing that you found no belonging to you, but you find your tongue tripping on your words at the looming presence behind you. 

He is a strange man, you realize. Truly strange. Selfless enough to assist you—a stranger—yet so quiet. A gargantuan boulder made of scar tissue and crooked bone, he seems more animal than he does man. Roughened by the wilderness. Fond of the freedom that lies beyond human shackles. Beyond human skin. 

“This ought to be all of it,” you say, tapping the counter. “At least, it was the stuff that I didn’t recognize being mine, but if you-” 

Words catch in your throat when you turn back around to face Simon and find him bent over your stove, spoon in hand, stirring your pasta. The timer goes off, and he shuts it off like he’s done it a million times previously before he kills the burner. You swallow, and your anticipation feels thick in your throat. 

“Oh, Simon, you don’t have to do that.” Your polite tone smothers the confusion you feel you ought to spit at him—a snappy what the hell are you doing? 

“Take a seat.” It’s the first thing he’s said to you since he’s entered your home, and yet he sounds like the host instead of the guest. His edict is firm, and leaves no room for argument. 

Stiff, you waddle over to the living room before sinking down into the sofa. With your flat being too small to house a proper dining room table, you’ve always eaten here, sitting in front of the TV and trying to use it to drown out the lonely silence that’s haunted these walls since you first moved in. Now, there is company to be had here, yet your mind reels as you listen to Simon in the kitchen, flat suddenly haunted by an unknown entity—a large creature with one of the most gentle touches you’ve ever seen. 

The kettle cries, boiling water is poured, china clinks as pasta is mixed—Simon prepares everything the way you had it laid out and presents it to you in the living room when he’s finished. Your gratitude leaves your lips numb as you place your plate in your lap and stare at the meal as he plops himself next to you. 

His weight is heavy on the couch, body sinking into the cushion, threatening to lure you into the gravity of him as he leans forward and places your tea on the coffee table. Simon’s hands are empty, void of any meal for himself, and you find yourself anxiously poking at your penne with the prongs of your fork. 

“How’s your mornin’ sickness?” he asks.

It’s an odd question to hear coming from a man like him, legitimate concern lacing his tone as if he has skin in this wretched game. Avoiding eye contact, you pierce a piece of penne onto your fork before inspecting it. You try to force yourself to focus on anything but Simon. 

“It’s alright,” you murmur. “The medicine helps some but it’s still… not great.” 

You’re transported back to the car park when you first met Simon—large hand obscuring your medicine, his eerie chime about which one he prefers more, his refusal to stand by and let you do anything on your own. Even now you feel the weight of his attention on you, meticulously cutting you apart as he waits for you to eat. There is little reprieve to be found when you finally force something down your throat, but the change in discomfort manifests as a pit in your stomach; angry muscles churn, esophagus expanding, ready to expel. 

“Did you find all your items in your bag? I didn’t miss anything, did I?” you question, anxious to get the attention off of you and onto something else. 

He hums, dark like the amber shade of aged whiskey. “Yeah. All there.” 

“Good.” Sharp. Short. To the point. You swallow. “Must have gotten mixed into mine when you helped me the other day.” 

“Must’ve.” 

You give up on the small talk after his blunt responses prove to be never-ending, and instead focus on eating your meal as quickly as possible. Each time your stomach begins to twist in protest, you reach for your tea and desperately sip away at the liquid, praying that the warmth will urge your abdomen into submission. The nausea is still there, puttering around in your stomach like an unwelcome guest, but now it’s coupled with the weight of slumber that so desperately attempts to pull you into its grasp. 

The room spins. Suddenly stricken with prostration, you find your lungs expelling the last bit of air they hold as you blink away the fog obscuring your vision, only for it to return a moment later. You try to focus on something. Anything. The gossamer sheen of butter that collects in the ridges of your penne, the small bend in the prong of your fork—

—the thick fingers reaching out to grab your plate. 

“Finished?” Simon asks. 

You swallow down the briny aftertaste lingering on your tongue as you allow him to take your plate and place it on the coffee table. Nodding, you swipe at your brow—there is no perspiration, but the thudding of your heart leads you to believe there should be. 

“Yes. I-I—Simon—thank you. Sincerely. But I’m not feeling well. I think it might be best if you-” 

“You should lay down,” Simon interjects, cutting off your fuzzy thoughts from ever leaving the cavern of your mouth. 

A rebuttal bubbles up in the back of your throat the same time your dinner does. Bile and acid sear your vocal cords, fraying them, pulling them too taut to speak. Wordlessly, you watch Simon stand before you with his hand extended and reaching for yours, and though you know you should recoil, you find yourself too dazed to really care that he grabs you and pulls you to your feet. 

Each step toward your bedroom feels like a marathon. Muscles too tight yet unforgivingly malleable, knees nearly buckling, feet swelling and throbbing. Simon aids you in laying down, going as far as to pull the covers up over your melting body. Vision shrouded with your impending repose, you watch him—fingers gripping the blanket, tucking you in, knees colliding with the floor, hand now rubbing against the fat on your cheek—

—his eyes. They’re dark. Voids holding the absence of light and soul. They widen as he looks at you. Fear cuts through your chest as you think they might swallow you whole. Solicitude plagues you as your mind questions why you recognize them. 

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice hardly reaches a susurrus. It whistles between your teeth and along the tip of your tongue as his warmth bleeds into your skin. “Why are you… taking care of me?” 

“Because it’s what’s right.” 

Simon speaks it like an oath—a prophecy unfolding before his very eyes as he beholds you, calloused hands and all. He sees the confusion flicker across your face like a dying bulb, and his lips nearly quirk into a smile. One day, you’ll understand it as he does. This wretched gift of creation. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he swears. “Both of you.” 

You’re too far gone to hear it. Mind drowning beneath the waves of nothingness and contorted dreams. Chest rising and falling, eyes fluttering beneath their lids—he watches you. His gaze rakes over your body just like his hands have done so many times in the past, floating over the curve of your breasts until he’s met with the swelling of your stomach. 

His. Both you, and this child. 

Wandering palms traverse from your face to your stomach. He presses. Feels the way your skin stretches around your growing womb, feels the warmth of creation beneath his very fingertips, feels the fluttering in his chest. Simon Riley feels alive. More alive than a gun in his hand could ever instill in him. 

Ardor suddenly swelling in the rotten cavern of his ribcage, he presses his lips to yours. It’s the first time he’s gotten to taste you without the barrier of a mask in the way—unadulterated, and true. You’re just as soft as he imagined you’d be, and when he pulls away, he finds that he can’t wander too far before he speaks again. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, Angel. You, and my child.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | early access to chapters here

[freshllamapeace]

Till the sun burns out

Remmick x reader

I posted the snippet earlier this week this is the finished product!

Warning - Dead dove do not eat, Gore, Noncon/smut, this is a rough read so you have been warned, probably not my best written smut if I'm honest

Stupid, pathetic, maybe even… desperate. The words described you well enough, wouldn’t you say? A lonely girl with nothing better to do than throw her life away. You do this because you think you're special, you think you're destined for greatness, You think one day you're gonna wake up and be the main character but you aren't. I mean how could you when you’re not even the main character of your own story. You aren't special, you aren’t destined for greatness. The only thing you're truly destined for is to die in this forest. Body broken and mangled while he loomed over you. 

It was clear you were going to die here. No way you get out of this, worst yet you could see the white walls of the house where you grew up in, the soft porch light admitting a warm welcoming glow. If you could have run a few more feet you'd be home safe. But you were just shy of that and he revelled in that. Walking circles around you like a wolf who had just cornered his prey. You hadn't even known what you'd done wrong. What made you deserving of this treatment but it didn’t matter, not anymore. 

Your leg was broken, the bone splintered in half, a jagged end poking out through the skin where your knee was meant to be. Blood leaking down the wound onto the forest floor. Your left arm was gone, ripped apart. The only evidence of it ever being there being the blood and tendons that leaked out of your bicep. The pain was unbearable, indescribable it ached everywhere. You could do nothing but cry and scream. Even your stomach suffered some blows, a large laceration planted diagonally through your chest, your internal organs threatening to spill out. The palm of your right hand was degloved, a sea of red covering the skin that was once there, tendons and muscle clearly on display for you to see. If you’d looked long enough you’d even be able to see the muscles moving, slow and concise. 

Grabbing you by your hair you were lifted from the ground and pressed into the cruel bark of a tree. A screech moved past your lips as broken body parts started to move and bend. “I told you, didn't I? That we’d make sweet sweet music together.” He pressed his mouth against your ear, hot breath assaulting your skin. “I ain’t say how but you were so eager… I ain’t wanna spoil the surprise for ya.” Using his body to keep you stationed against the tree Remmick started to fiddle with his belt. Taking his time to remove it, his eyes stayed stationed on you. Red like an amber sea and teeth glistening in the moonlight, it had been ages since Remmick had played with his food to this degree. Kissing your neck, Remmick allowed his pants to fall to his ankles, his cock in hand. 

“Please, you don't have to do this.” You cried, the cherry colored fluids dripping from your lips onto his chest. Remmick smiled, a smile he often did. It was mocking, cruel and yet the smile looked almost kind… almost. “I know little dove. ” Remmick wasted no time lining himself with your cunt. Pressing his body further onto you, you heard the sound of something stabbing into fresh. It was your bone piercing into his stomach. “Fuck.” He moaned. “You get me all hot and bothered looking like this.” Your gored body turning him on. He was disgusting, a freak of nature. Slamming himself inside you, Remmick gave you no time to prepare before setting the tempo, thrusting at a rough and savage pace. Remmick paid no attention to the bone that pierced his flesh with every thrust. Blood leaking down the wound he had created. Moving his hand down your body Remmick started to play with your clit. The rough circular motions pressed into your skin. You were in pain, your body was aching, the wounds burned and yet your body still reacted to the orgasm forced onto you by him. Your nails digging into his shoulder as you held onto him . You were trembling beneath him, breathing heavy, eyes half lidded. The blood loss was going to catch up with you, soon rather than later. “Fuck.” He groaned, his breathing uneven and his thrust getting impossibly quicker. “Don’t die yet darlin’ I'm almost there.” He whispered in your ear. “There ain’t no God above but if there was he made you just for me.” Soon his thrust started to stutter and slow, his nails began to dig into your skin creating new wounds on your broken body. A groan leaves his lips as he releases all his love and affection into you, the white liquid carrying a red tint to it. Not quite ready to pull himself out of you Remmick thrusted a couple more times making sure that you were filled with every last drop of his cum. 

“I'm going to break you over and over again.” Far too tired and dying from the blood loss the words didn’t register in your mind as anything other than gibberish. But what did register was the sharp pain you felt in your neck and the way he licked at the wound lapping up the blood. When he was done he allowed your body to crumple in on itself, you dropped to the floor. The world went black.

[dreamdragonkadia]

Hey!! I hope you’re doing GREAT! I was just wondering if you were going to do a part 2 to your Xaden x Tauri!reader fic? Have a great day!

I hope you are doing well!! I'll happily write a part two! x.riorson x tauri!reader Part one

Was it right, what you were doing?

Gods, no. It was cowardly. Shameful. You could admit that much, at least in the quiet dark of your own mind.

Avoiding everyone for a full week? Not answering a single knock on your door? Not even saying goodbye to Xaden before he left?

Pathetic.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” you’d said. Like a liar. Like a coward. You hadn’t meant it. You would’ve said anything to run, to just breathe.  

Then you’d climbed straight onto your dragon’s back, whispered a single word—“Fly”—and she hadn’t stopped until the mountains blurred below you like water.

The Swordtail hadn’t said a word at first. Just kept flying. Far. Fast. Away. And you’d let her, curling into yourself as the sky turned from near night to morning.

She didn’t take you back until she felt the Blue Daggertail had left campus airspace the next day. Only then had she banked, circled low, and landed with a bone-shaking thud on the edge of the quadrant cliffs.

“You are being a coward,” she’d said flatly, her voice crackling in your mind like embers on wind.

You shoved the bond aside. Hard.

And she let you. For now.

You didn’t expect to get cornered so soon after. And certainly not by him.

Not Imogen, not any of the other third years.

No, it was Bodhi.

Which felt almost worse.

He caught you just outside the mess hall, grabbed your arm without preamble and yanked you into a shadow-drenched corridor, the one near the war college that always smelled faintly of damp stone and full of suggestive memories.

“Crown princess?” he hissed, his eyes dark and wild with disbelief. “And you weren’t just going to mention that to anyone?”

You ripped your arm from his grip. “How did you—?”

“How do you think?” he snapped. “Xaden. He’s barely said five words before he had to leave and two of them were your name.”

Your heart twisted. A fresh wound over a bruise.

“Look, I didn’t—I never meant for any of this to happen.” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just…”

“No,” he agreed, crossing his arms. “But you sure didn’t stop it, either.”

You swallowed hard, guilt clawing up your throat. “Do you think I wanted to be found out like that? In front of him?”

He looked at you then—not with anger, but with something that felt almost like pity. “He loved you. Still does, I’m sure. But you’ve got to know what this looks like to him. To all of us.”

“I never used him,” you said, firmer now, stepping closer. “I never once used who I was to gain anything. I kept it buried so deep I forgot what it even meant. I bled beside all of you. Fought beside all of you. Earned my place like anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Bodhi said, voice low. “You did. But now we all have to ask ourselves—was she an ally, or was she a royal pretending to be one?”

That landed like a punch to the ribs.

You didn’t have an answer.

He stepped back, eyes narrowing. “Fix this. Or at least talk to him before he starts thinking it was all a game.”

You stared at the wall long after he left.

Because it wasn’t a game. Not to you.

It never had been.

So really, what other choice did you have?

Your dragon knew before you did. Before your hands even reached for the flight jacket still slung over the back of your chair, before you shoved the nearest things into a pack with little care for what you grabbed. Before your feet started moving—fast, frantic—toward the flight field like the wind itself might carry you there faster if you just begged hard enough.

It was Violet you spotted first.

Tairn’s black form casted a long shadow over the clearing. The outpost rotation. Fourteen days. You’d nearly forgotten. Or maybe you’d tried to.

Fourteen days apart. It had already been that long?

Gods, it felt longer. Like the air had been thinner since the moment he left.

You moved before you could think.

“I’m coming with you.” The words left your mouth as your hand closed around Violet’s forearm.

She blinked at you, startled, brows knitting. “You—what? Are you even allowed to—?”

But the Red Swordtail landed with a heavy thud beside Tairn before she could finish the sentence, the wind from her wings blasting across the clearing like punctuation.

“I’m the Crown Princess of Navarre,” you said, too tired to flinch from the truth now. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact. Mostly. One you’d spent your whole life trying to outrun, and now, for the first time, you were owning it. Because maybe the only way to fix the damage was to stop hiding what you were.

Violet looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether to hug you or deck you.

She hesitated, then glanced over at the dragons. Tairn eyed the other like he’d expected this exact kind of trouble, and your dragon simply lowered herself to the ground in a clear, get on with it motion.

Violet turned back to you. “This… isn’t just about the outpost, is it?”

“No.” You met her gaze. “It’s about Xaden.”

“Thought so.” She sighed. “You ready for that conversation?”

You swallowed hard. “Not even a little.”

“Well,” she said, already moving toward her dragon again, “then it’s going to be a hell of a flight.”

And a hell of a flight it was.

Your thighs were screaming by the time Samara came into view, the cliffside outpost jutting from the mountains like a jagged secret. You could already see the dragons circling lazily above, familiar shapes in unfamiliar sky, and—

Gods.

You definitely weren’t expecting to land and be met with the unmistakable bark of Violet’s older sister.

“Princess?!” Mira Sorrengail hissed the moment your boots hit the stone.

You winced.

Violet landed seconds behind you, clearly bracing for impact.

“Mira,” you greeted, barely managing to keep your voice level.

“What in the actual hell are you doing here? Does Command know you’re—”

“It’s a long story,” Violet interrupted, stepping neatly between you both like a shield. “That I will explain. Later.”

You could’ve kissed her. Honestly. If you weren’t already in love with a certain moody, infuriating, shadow-wielding ex-wingleader, you would have kissed her. Right then and there.

But you didn’t have time.

Not when you felt it.

The pull.

That familiar gravity sinking into your chest like a second heartbeat.

Your eyes lifted, and there he was.

Xaden Riorson. Standing in the stone archway of the fortress like some damn storm god had carved him from shadow and control. Arms crossed, jaw tight, unreadable.

And his eyes?

Locked on you.

Seeing you.

Not just looking—seeing.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up, walking fast, maybe too fast, trying to play it off like you weren’t practically sprinting. Like your legs weren’t trembling with every step, like your heart wasn’t thundering loud enough to echo.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t let him say a word.

You reached him and grabbed his arm, the familiar heat of his skin through his leathers nearly undoing you right there. “We need to talk. Now.”

His brow lifted, and you heard the softest huff of breath—almost a snort, like he couldn’t help himself—but before you could yank him toward some direction that only felt right, he moved.

Fast.

His fingers slid down your wrist, trailing fire in their wake before his hand settled low on your back. Firm. Right. Possessive in a way that shouldn’t still make your breath hitch, but gods, it did.

“Wrong way,” he murmured, voice low and maddeningly calm. Then he tugged you with him, pulling you against his side like it was how it was meant to be. Like your body belonged right there, pressed to his.

You stiffened, instinctively resisting the pull for half a second—because how dare he still touch you like that after everything? After Alic? After the truth?

But you didn’t move away.

Couldn’t.

Because, saints, you’d missed this. Missed him. Missed being seen and known, even when it hurt.

He guided you through the inner halls of the outpost without another word. No fanfare. No audience. Just the two of you, your steps too in sync for how fractured things were.

And when he pushed open the door, you didn’t even wait for it to close.

It wasn’t a decision. It was second nature.

You reached for him like you were starving. Like the absence of him had left something cracked open inside your chest and only this—only him—could make it stop hurting.

Your lips found his before the door even clicked shut.

There was no pretense. No buildup. Just fire.

Your hands cradled his face, fingers sinking into the dark curls at the base of his skull, holding him like you were scared the world might end if you let go. And maybe it would.

His hands were on your hips, not rough, just there. Holding. Desperate. Like he was terrified you’d vanish again. Like if he let go, it would all unravel.

You felt the shudder in his chest before you heard it, the way he breathed you in like he didn’t believe you were real. Like part of him thought this was a dream, and any second now, he’d wake up cold and alone.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his mouth, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

And still, he didn’t speak.

He just kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, with all the careful reverence of someone trying to memorize every shape and sound of something he thought he’d lost.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breath ragged, shadows curling faintly at the edges of your vision like they couldn’t stand to be far either.

His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse. “You left.”

You closed your eyes. Gods, that hurt more than it should have. “I know.”

“You ran.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and then—so softly you almost didn’t catch it:

“I thought I ruined it.”

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

“No,” you whispered. “You didn’t. I just— I didn’t know how to be everything at once. The rider. The liar. The princess. The girl in love with the one person I should’ve stayed away from.”

His breath caught. You felt it more than heard it.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Like the floor had just shifted beneath him.

“You love me?” he asked, quiet, stunned.

You let the silence hang for just a heartbeat longer, let him feel the truth of it. Then you said it.

Not soft.

Not shy.

But clear.

And honest.

“No,” you said. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes widened, barely perceptible, but it was there. That break in his walls. That flicker of something real and raw.

“Every part,” you continued, voice gaining strength now. “The asshole side, the protective side—even when it makes me want to gut you on the spot. The soft side you pretend doesn’t exist, the one that leaves chocolate on my bed and carries me to the med ward like I don’t weigh a damn thing.”

You stepped closer, if possible, pressed your palm against his chest, right over the heart you weren’t supposed to have. Right over the part of him that you’d fallen for, piece by infuriating piece.

“I love the side of you that growls at anyone who gets too close,” you whispered, your hand curling into his shirt, “and the side that looks at me like I might be the only thing holding you together. I love the way your shadows curl when you’re worried. I love that you care, even when you pretend you don’t.”

He still hadn’t said anything. Just stood there, breath shallow, like you’d knocked the air out of him.

You gave him a crooked, watery smile. “So actually, yes, Xaden. I love you. And it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt. But gods help me, I do.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, his mouth crashed into yours again, and this time it wasn’t careful.

It was want and need.

No hesitation. No restraint. Just heat—raw and unfiltered, like a storm finally breaking after holding itself back for far too long.

His hands found your waist again, but this time they didn’t just hold. They claimed. Fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms dragging along bare skin, bracing and igniting all at once.

You gasped into his mouth as he walked you backward, slow and sure, never breaking the kiss. One step. Another. Until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you had no choice but to fall back.

He followed you down, towering over you, shadows curling behind him like wings made of want. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, and he was breathing like he’d just come off a battlefield.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

Your heart stuttered.

“What?” you whispered, even though you’d heard him perfectly.

His hands were on either side of you now, caging you in, his mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your throat—never quite kissing, just close enough to set your skin on fire.

“Say it again,” he said, rougher this time. “I need to hear it.”

You looked up at him—really looked—and felt your chest ache with how much you wanted him to believe it. To feel it. To know he wasn’t alone in this.

So you reached up, slid your hand to the nape of his neck, and pulled him down until your lips barely touched his.

“I love you, Xaden Riorson.” you breathed.

He groaned like the words undid him.

And then he was kissing you again—deep and hungry, like he was trying to memorize every part of this moment. Like he didn’t want to just feel you, but devour you. Like he’d spent weeks trying to forget the taste of your mouth and was punishing himself for ever letting it go.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hands slid under your thighs, shifting you back further onto the bed with ease, his body pressed flush to yours in a way that left no space for doubt—or anything else.

He kissed you like a man losing his grip on restraint, like someone who’d been holding back for too long and had finally decided to let go. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, to the underside of your throat, where he lingered—breathing you in, brushing his nose against your pulse like he could feel the truth of what you said there.

His hands found the hem of your shirt again, tugging this time—not demanding, but asking. A silent question pressed into your skin.

You lifted your arms without hesitation.

Because this—he—wasn’t something you feared.

His eyes flicked up to yours once the fabric cleared your head, like he needed one last confirmation. And what he saw must’ve been enough, because he exhaled a curse against your collarbone and ran his hands up your sides like he was relearning you by touch alone.

Every brush of his fingertips sent heat racing along your skin, and when his mouth returned to yours, it was slower, deeper—possessive in a way that made your spine arch and your breath hitch.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips, voice frayed and low, like confession and apology wrapped in one.

And you, already left dizzy by his touch, whispered back, “Then don’t let go.”

He didn’t.

[xo2dee]

🗨️ ENTOMBED

PAIRING: Vergil/(Fem)Reader. WARNINGS: MDNI/18+ ONLY. Implied Sexual Content, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved!Vergil, Mentions of Violence, PTSD. WORD COUNT: 975. SUMMARY: He was not used to wanting in such a desirable sense. Not until you.

A/N: touch-starved vergil is real

source: me

DMC MASTERLIST

Touch had been a foreign concept to him for so long.

On the surface level touch was just the one of the five senses he was aware of – perhaps heightened to an extent more than he would’ve enjoyed but one he relied on in the expanse of his life. He was used to it mainly doing what he did best… fighting. Fighting and surviving.

For the longest time, Vergil’s only idea of touch was that of a destructive means (only distant memories of his mother’s soft embrace remained, or his twin’s incessant kicks diving into his ribs as they slept when they were nothing but toddlers). The only thing he knew about touching another was if his sword slid through their flesh and he had to flick the blood off of his blade –

(Or his own sword was through his gut, broken off as the shards in his flesh dipped and cut into his pancreas and intestines. His skin greying and pulling itself apart as he ripped off blackened armor bonded into his bones that he’d been a slave to for more than half of his life. His fingers with broken nails tracing the cracks that had manifested into his face as his arm jerked when he could feel the faint presence of the Yamato.)

– but other than that, he never cared for (and maybe even shunned) the idea of touching another living, breathing person.

He was well accustomed to touch and everything it’d done to ruin him. What he wasn’t used to was the wanting of a touch. Normal mundane things: a body brushing against his, hands ghosting by his own, or even something bold like the whisper of lips like silk pushing into his. His dreams were of fire and bloodshed, a crumbling home and the faces of his broken family, but never had they strayed into a territory of indulging in another’s body. Once he’d done it and even then, only a hollow hole remained in the place where he yearned for something far from his grasp; desiring a touch only made him feel sick.  

He was not used to wanting in such a desirable sense.

Not until you.

The first time your hand skimmed his cheek, he almost cursed whenever he felt his head lean into the warmth of your palm – chasing a touch he had no purpose for receiving.

Then the first time you kissed him Vergil nearly felt his brain short-circuit from the rush of endorphins, and then he realized he would never be able to get enough and that he’d never be able to let you go.

And the first time he was able to feel your naked body lie down next to him, he couldn’t help the flinch his body gave born from the idea of seeming so… vulnerable. Yet, the memory and feeling of it was forever engraved into his mind and forbidden to ever leave the consciousness where it resided. The first time had been rough, from his teeth to his hands, to your nails and gasps, only knowing touch through a violent means, but then times after became nothing but a security of safety and perfection brought on by a soothing touch of your presence.

Your body glistening in the moonlight, the beads of sweat trailing down the expanse of your skin (so unmarred and too soft for his undeserving palms), and the heave of your chest were pleasing enough, though it was the heat your body that he gravitated the most towards. He hated how he felt like a hormonal teenager again when it came to you, completely entrapped by emotions he was sure he had completely got rid of years ago. However, he supposed he was able to blame it on the absence of having control over his own body for more years than he’d like to remember, and having free reign over himself was birthing an influx of emotions he was struggling to control.

And yet, even throughout all the difficulties he may have brought and the agonizing gap you must have felt waiting for him to come around, you stayed there for him.

Vergil could never help himself when his head would lay against your chest, telling himself it was only to listen to the steady thrum of your heartbeat – just a reminder that you were real, alive, and that you were allowing him to do so, but really it was a sense of safety to cradle himself in your warmth and comforting smell. He would lie to himself and say his body wasn’t relaxing whenever your fingers ran through the thick tresses of his hair, being cautious in the way you would do it as if you were afraid he’d up and run away. And maybe he’d thought about it before, too much of it overstimulating him and unfamiliar, but he couldn’t find it in him to rip himself away from you when the tenderness your body gave to his was unlike nothing he’d ever felt before. He practically layered himself into you every time your arms curled around his back, an unbidden fear in the back of his mind that you would disappear like everything else had from him.

Though each morning when he woke you were still there, still offering the same solace you continued to bring him as you always had. And perhaps sometimes a dark part of his mind still haunted his ears briefly by a voice he’d long since shut out would whisper that the feeling wouldn’t last long, and sometimes he might’ve listened, but you still remained there bathed in the light waiting for him to come back from the deep recesses where he’d retreated and offering up the comfort your soul brought.

As long as you still smiled and held him, Vergil would believe himself to be worthy of your touch.

[munefille]

𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐑-

yandere!false angel x gn.reader

cw: gore, death, attempted sa (not by yandere)

2.2k; not proofread bc I believe in myself. based on this imagine.

what were you expecting, venturing this far into the woods at night? there's something stalking you from behind the trees. a terrible beast watches and you are powerless to its mercy. luckily, your prayers are answered; not by god, but by the angel covered in red.

The wind was the first thing you noticed. It was still, not even a breeze licked at your skin, nor a sudden chill digging into your bones. Cold, yes, the cold remained even without the slashing wind. The sun dipped farther and farther below the skyline as you walked, taking with it the last remnants of warmth. You tugged your shawl tighter around your form.

Regret began to seep into you. What were you doing in these dark woods? There could be packs of wolves, or bears, or mountain lions, or another predator searching for a meal out there, you being a prime target. A shudder raced down your spine. As terrifying as the thought of being ripped apart by wild creatures was, you were almost certain it would be worse to be caught by him.

You glanced behind you, into the maw of dark trees and snow covered ground from which you came. Threats of what he promised to do to you should you be found echoed through your mind, motivating you to ignore the weariness in your muscles and push forward.

You chided yourself at your predicament- the huntsman seemed so kind. He promised you a warm bed and a meal for the night while you waited out the snow, mentioning how he understood the difficulty of traveling during the winter months. He made good conversation, although he spoke little of himself. You doubted he would present to be a threat towards you. How wrong you were.

Oh yes, he provided a meal and a bed for you, but neither were out of the kindness of his heart. No, apparently there was an expectation that you were going to service him in some way- to which you promptly refused. It was then that his true nature began to reveal itself. The huntsman grabbed one of his weapons, threatening to get his rightful payment since nothing comes for free. He wasn't going to let you leave otherwise.

You were lucky to have made it out of the door. You booked it, running in whatever direction you were facing, which happened to be the thick, untamed forest. He was searching for you, that much you knew. You could hear the howls of his hunting dogs somewhere behind you, sniffing you out.

Panic was starting to set in. What were you going to do? It was cold, you were running out of stamina, and you had no clue where you were or how long it would take to reach another village. These woods seemed to stretch for hundreds of acres, completely uninhabited by people. It was easy to get lost here you imagined, the tall trees melded into each other at some point. You could be going in one big circle for all you knew.

Besides the clearly psychotic man on your trail, the woods itself concerned you. There was a distinct feeling that said you aren't supposed to be here. As if the trees were going to wrap around your limbs and pull you apart on their own. You knew that was unlikely, but still- something in the back of your mind remained aware of the fact that you were bordering territory that would not welcome you. Maybe it was because you recalled the horror stories of people who entered and never came out- or they returned with not all of them attached.

Another howl cut through the air, snapping you out of your rumination. It was much closer this time. Frighteningly close. Close enough that you wouldn't be able to outrun it from where you were. There was only one other choice- hide. You scanned your surroundings, searching for something that would cover you. There was a small clearing up ahead and woods on both sides of you. The trees were too thin, but there were a couple of fallen ones and an uprooted trunk that created an opening just large enough for you to crawl into and hide behind. It would have to work.

You tucked yourself in, heart hammering frantically in your chest. He was so close now that you could hear his boots crunching against the freshly fallen snow. The chuffs of his dogs resounded in your ears like deafening booms, each one ready to rat you out.

"We could've done this the easy way, you know." The huntsman spoke into the silence, voice dripping with malice. Your heart dropped. Did he know you were nearby?

Your hands covered your mouth, trying to prevent yourself from breathing too loud. You could see him now, he was a couple feet ahead of you in the clearing. A large hunting knife glistened in the moonlight. Heavy realization set in, he was going to kill you.

And there was nothing you could do to stop him.

If you ran, one of his dogs would surely chase after you. You had no weapons to fight him with nor the strength to go against his much more well prepared form. The cold sapped at your energy, making it a chore just to keep yourself alert. The adrenaline helped, but it wouldn't last forever.

You did the only thing you could do. Pray.

You clasped your hands together as you waited, shutting your eyes and mouthing pleas to whoever would answer. Even if you had never been one to pray before, the imminent threat of your mortality was enough to make you chant feverishly for mercy.

And an answer you got.

The huntsman paused, shushing his mutts while sticking his nose up to the sky. Then it happened.

It was almost too quick for you to catch- one minute he was standing in the clearing, the next he was dangling above the trees. A white flash of feathers came down upon him, plucking his form like a mouse caught by a vicious hawk. With a powerful beat of the creature's wings he disappeared out of sight, far above the canopy of the trees. His dogs cried out for their master, but even they retreated into the safety of the brush for fear of being snatched.

One long, haunting death screech pierced the once still air for just a few seconds before abruptly quieting. There was barely any time to process what you saw or what had happened when splatters of red rained down from the sky, staining the white snow like paint on a canvas. Something round and fleshy dropped and landed on the snowy floor with a cracking sound, almost similar to a coconut.

You strained your eyes to see what it was.

A... head.

Not long after the creature swooped back down with the remaining parts of the huntsman, holding his corpse up to its mouth like a cat with a large rat. You shifted ever so slightly from your hidden position where you could get a proper look at it while it seemed distracted.

The scene was horrible, but you couldn't stop the awe that crossed your mind as you gazed at it. Two large, white wings speckled with blood emerged from the pale being's back. So pale it was that it practically blended into the snow.

The more you looked, the more you thought it seemed to appear more humanoid than creature, so reminiscent of the angelic sculptures you would see watching over graveyards. From the great wings, to the long white hair, it was nearly exact to how you would picture heaven's inhabitants to appear. Except, they couldn't capture how overwhelming the presence of it was. Utterly magnetic in a way you couldn't describe, a kind of beauty not defined by humanity.

you've been rescued by an angel.

It came right when you called, in your greatest time of need, like it had already been watching. Like a guardian angel.

Distracted by your realization, you didn't notice eyes locking onto your hiding form.

-

He missed one.

Warm blood trailed down his lips, dripping onto the white ground below. A human thing was hiding in the foliage, behind the broken trees.

He focused back on the body in his grasp. So loud and annoying, parading about his territory, hunting his prey. The deer were already scarce this winter, but the human had scared off the remaining few. Other prey were not as abundant. Humans he did not often approach, but everything was fair game in his domain.

He took a bite of the neck, the flesh tearing apart like filled dough. The metallic taste caused his wings to rustle in delight. He almost forgot the tenderness of human meat, rich with fat and underdeveloped muscles from a life of comfort. As of late, there had been less and less willing to enter the deep woods where he roamed, most likely due to what ends up being leftover of those who do.

His attention is drawn back to the one who tried to hide. Amusing, it hasn't run yet. Maybe it knows that it has no chance if it runs, even in the crowded trees his form is lithe enough to maneuver around the branches much better than the human can. It must've thought that the only viable option is to wait for him to finish and leave. Such a plan might've worked, if he was a much less vigilant predator.

The body is dropped onto the snow with a thud, entrails spilling out of the half eaten man. He was in a good mood, not only was the problematic creature dead but he had just gotten a meal along with it. Maybe he would decide to do something else with the remaining one.

Slowly, he turns his head in the human's direction.

-

The angel is approaching you.

It's now crouched, no longer standing on two legs; instead slinking towards you like a cat. You would be terrified by the sight of this massive creature covered in blood targeting you had you not already made up your mind that is must be your guardian angel.

When it is close enough to reach out to you, it pauses. It cocks its head, temporarily parting the hair covering its face to reveal pale, blanched purple eyes. Its- his- face was decidedly masculine, you thought. The wings on his back are folded close to his form, reducing any drag they could've caused.

Your heart is pumping, but this time not out of fear- no, you're enthralled by this opportunity.

The angel opened his mouth, uttering words that made you freeze.

"Be not afraid."

You think your pulse stopped for a solid moment. The voice was somehow quiet, yet cold and not quite reassuring. It surprised you that he could even speak in the first place. The smell of metallic blood and pine was noticeable. You reach out shakily, just slightly touching his hair. Your fingers meet the white threads, long and thin, like spider webs. The creature flinched in surprise at your boldness, but didn't move away.

The question tumbled out of your mouth before you could regret saying it. "Are you... are you my guardian angel?"

The angel fixed you with an unreadable expression. You thought he was confused for a second, before he stood up to his full height, no longer face to face with your form curled up in the branches. You couldn't help the raw unease that came to you then, he must've been nearly twice your height, taller than any man you had ever seen.

"Angel?" it repeated, looking down at you. "Your angel?"

Your mouth felt dry. The wind started picking up again, gliding through his feathers and into your bones. There were two options being presented to you; either you were right, and this being was an angel, or you were wrong. You didn't want to imagine what was standing before you if you were wrong, especially not after witnessing what became of the huntsman.

He seemed to consider this, staring down at you with strange intensity. His eyes were once again covered by hair, making his expression even more difficult to decipher.

A tense few moments passed before he spoke again. "Would an angel show you mercy? Lead you out of the woods to run back home?"

You nodded your head, still not daring to move. He bends down to pet your head, lips curling up subtly at your reaction.

True to his word, the angel did lead you out of the forest- although you lagged behind significantly and weren't nearly as swift navigating through it. It was a wonder how something so large moved as fast as he did. You were beyond grateful, thanking whatever higher power had listened to you. It was unlikely you would've made it out yourself, even with the huntsman gone. The woods were not friendly to outsiders.

You didn't say a word as you followed, too busy keeping up to ask any more questions. Tiredness overcame you as well now that your survival mode was beginning to wear off, leaving you sluggish and inattentive.

When you reached the treeline outside of the huntsman's cabin, you looked back up at your savior to thank him, only to be met with nothing but the breeze.

"Thank you." You whispered, regardless of whether or not you would be heard. The thought of your experience being a trauma induced hallucination crossed your mind, one you would consider if it wasn't for the fact that there was a large white feather caught by a tree limb beside you.

It was now almost morning. The sun was preparing to rise over the horizon soon.

You trekked your way back home, unaware of the new pair of eyes following you from the sky.

[mothinkling]

what do you think would be the touchstarved characters reactions will be to the MC dying from a soulless encounter after a relationship was established??

SOUL RIPPED (TOUCHSTARVED X GN!READER)

Summary: Touchstarved cast's reaction and aftermath of finding out their partner was killed via Soulless attack.

TW: Mentions of death, grief, murder, depression and delusions.

A/N: HHHHHHHH i'm so sorry this request took so long! but hey at least we have the updated demo while everyone waits for my slow ass Hehe <3

Leander; 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

DENIAL

♡ He simply refuses to believe it; there's no way, it's simply a trick, a lie to distress him.

♡ He'd laugh it off with a strained, tight smile on his face as he asks the informant if they've had a bit too much to drink.

♡ And then he'd wait, wait for you to walk through the doors and back into his arms, completely healthy.

♡ His eye-bags would grow darker as the days go on, his smile become faker and more unhinged as everyone tells him over and over, you're not coming home.

♡ The only thing that proves he hasn't actually deluded himself into believing your still alive is the sight or sound of a soulless.

♡ it'd ś̸̯̯͕̟̙͖̲̏̏e̶̛̜̹̲̣̤̦̪̺̺͆̾͋̉̓͛̔͘͝ň̶̢̞̟̥͚͖͇̮̀̆̍̄͗͒̈́ḑ̸̛̥̥̦͕͓̪̜͂͌̋͂̒̚͝ ̴̛̼̖̘̠̥̏̊̽̾̈́͛h̷̬͆̈́͋i̴̡͎͍̱͖̔̒̋̅̔̈́m̸̧̛͉͍̜̬͙̭͚̯̌̊̊̑̎̊ ̵̨̗̗̝̭͆͌͗̉̅́͗͐̑ḯ̷̧̞ṋ̷͍̍͆̀́ẗ̶̜̮̩̳͓̹̥͍̐͑̋̇̾̈́o̵̧͖͇̗̰̜̘̻̼̥͛̿͗̓͗̍͗ ̵̢̫̖̺̦͉̭̲̽͌̽́̊̊͜ͅa̶̬͈̠̙͐̈̓̅̑̍̓̚͠n̶̹͑̍͛̍̈́͊̌̋̚ ̶̨̞̖̪͈̣͙̯̈̓͐̎ǘ̶̻̄͗̕n̸̻͙̙̙̱̄̿̃f̴͚͔͇̻̱͐͌̂́̀͗ò̸̳͕͍̯̮̫̟̣̂̐r̸̙̿̀̀͋͆g̷̗̈́͝î̷͎̒͒̈́v̸̡̧̜͚̦̂͝i̸̘̯̦̼͍͈̖̩̭̽̓͐͂n̵̤̓g̸̬͗́́̑̍̀̓̊͘͝ ̸͚̥͍̼̲͇̻̪̣͆m̷̧̞̬͖̦̱̭͔͒̍̔̽̂͛̓̋e̴̡̺͗̂͐̌̋l̶̡̡̪̟̝̣͛̊̀d̸̝̓o̶̼͍̞̬̯̝̤͐̊̒͜ẘ̴̨̨͚̞̟̤͈̂̊̑͂̽ň̷̞̌̒͂͝--

♡ He'd be fine because it's just another soulless, can't be looking too roughed up fightin' it, he needs to look his best when you come to the bar for a drink.

♡ His poison attempts against Ais would become quite a few more, and a few shades more lethal than before; he's sure that his soulless wouldn't miss him too much not as much as he misses you.

♡ You trust him, so he'll trust that you wouldn't dare leave him.

Vere; 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

ANGER

♡ Let's hope you didn't have anybody travelling with you when you were taken from him, and if you did, lets pray they were ripped apart in the attack.

♡ He'd blame everybody else for your death, pure rage from a chained god.

♡ It doesn't matter if there was nothing that could be done, he'd rip apart the flesh of anyone who had accompanied you and made it out alive.

♡ They should've sacrificed themselves, giving up their own lives for their god to have what he wants, needs.

♡ His words would be venomous, promising a punishment much harsher than death as soon as his restraints are broken, something that'd made this filthy land beg for divine mercy.

♡ His tantrum would be irreversibly destructive, innocent or not- blood will spill across the streets as he hisses blame onto everybody else.

♡ It's only after far too many heads are ripped off that he'd start to slow down a bit, the grief crashing into him.

♡ He'd do his best to hide it, the last thing he wants is to look weak in front of everyone else.

♡ He'd grow far colder to the main cast, his snide and petty comments growing crueller than normal.

♡ Somehow, he'd become more demanding, more entitled to his wants and anything standing in his way to even something trivial.

♡ His work hunting soulless would turn personal, without any break he'd hunt them mercilessly, spending day and night tearing through their flesh and eyes.

♡ His hair would start to fray, his gossamer sleeves tearing and staining just as the black makeup dripped down his cheeks, the only evidence of his tears.

Mhin; 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

BARGAINING

♡ No, no.

♡ There is simply not a chance, that the first person that's ever managed to pry them open would be ripped from them with the very thing that they hunt on an almost daily basis.

♡ The sense of failure would settle deeper in their bones as every day passed, how could they fuck up like this?

♡ They were meant to protect you, meant to keep you safe during the almost never-ending search for a cure.

♡ But they refuse to simply accept this, they're in the city of knowledge to seek the impossible.

♡ Their quest for a cure is halted by the new-found objective.

♡ R̵̬̔̐͂̆̄̚ȩ̷͚̈́͌̋͜s̶̲̳͎̤̗͒͂ų̵̢̧͎͍̻͓̰̀̓̔͐̔̌̐͘ř̷̹͚̪̤͉͓̫̝̫̄͗̾̉̀̊̐r̷̠̮̻̎̚͜ȇ̴̡͖̰̻̳̳̦̦͒͒͜ͅc̵̡̮̦̫̖̠̔̊̽͐̋͆͝͝ͅͅt̸̢͎̩̳̏̏͋͂̎̀̊͝ì̵̡͈̣̱͔͍̞͌̎̅̈͗̉ố̵̟͍̽̾̆͒̊̕n̸̡̛̖̤̔̈́̀̀̈̄̐,̶̨̠̥̳̤̟̮̱̣͝ ̵̢̳̽͊̓̏̍̈́̉à̵̖̪̪̺̹̜͂͛̎͘ ̸̡̨̛̼̥̻̬͈̟̤̆͊̃͜c̶̦͈̙͎̓͌̿͌h̴̡͙̳͖̦͈̄͊̉̈́͑͆͜͝ë̴͚̳̬̬́̂̐̀̽̍̀̃̂a̴̬͙̹̱͍̲͕̩̽̊͐̀͑̔̍̐͐̃ͅṭ̴̢̡̤̜̼̭̜͙̩̏̉̀̽͆́͋̄͘̕ ̵̜̤̭̜͓͌͐͒͝ͅt̴̡̹͓̹͉̂͑̽̆̿́o̴̳̓̄́̈̄̈́̕ ̸̧̢̗̘͙̼̘̃̂̔d̶̛̗̘͔̦̥͆̽͘e̴̢̧̩̦̜͍̟̼̭̜̕a̴̝̔̍͊̉̽͊͠ṱ̴̨͎͕́̄̀h̶̨̙̻̱͖̍.̸̣̳͓̪̍̂̎̑̃͆̚͘̕ͅͅ

♡ The Senobium has to have answers, their knowledge is limitless, the rumors they've brushed off as horseshit suddenly much more enticing than before.

♡ They won't fail you again, they won't let you down, you'll wake up again with both of you completely cured, because they can't fail.

♡ They can do it, they've survived this long, have they not?

Ais; 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

DEPRESSION

♡ Oh how he'd blame himself so, his own pets tearing apart the thing he holds most dear.

♡ It'd feel the same as when his own gang stabbed him in the back, he doesn't have control over every soulless roaming the wasteland out the city, but he feels like he should have.

♡ He should've tried harder to keep you safe, to keep the pets he uses to hold so dear to him away from you.

♡ He couldn't bear to look at them for a long time, even Princess he'd push away with a shake of his head.

♡ The only thing he can see in her claws is the vivid picture of your blood and flesh, even if it wasn't really there, it's infected every claw of the soulless in his mind.

♡ The spring would be full of smoke, cigarette after cigarette lit as he sits, a blank expression on his face.

♡ That doesn't mean he wouldn't hunt down any bastards who might've been responsible, or failed to protect you.

♡ But after that he'd simply feel empty, almost like his own 'soul' was ripped from his body the same time yours was.

Kuras; 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

'ACCEPTANCE'

♡ His long life has tortured him with many losses like this, enough to send him into a spiral of self-loathing 'acceptance'.

♡ Of course this would happen, he couldn't spare the lives of his past lovers, why would your soul render any differently.

♡ He'd almost disassociate from the situation entirely; the same method he's used to overcome any sort of grief, to rise above it until he simply feels hollow.

♡ Continue with his work, heal patients while he tries to shove the thought of how he failed to help you into the back of his mind.

♡ But not even his mask is immune to cracking.

♡ Night-time is usually when it hits the hardest, he has no need to sleep, leaving him staring out the window blankly for hours of end.

♡ The other would be when he sees the face of a soulless, he wouldn't fly into the rage in the same way the others would, but he could feel heat brimming underneath his skin.

♡ Clawing at his insides, the rage and grief pushed down into a small, scolding part of his soul that aches.

♡ May the gods have mercy if he finds out somebody else was responsible.

[w1w2]

The Price of Affection

Previous part | Part 4

Minatozaki Sana x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 8k

Synopsis: When Y/N asks her to let go, Sana disappears into the background, loving quietly, helplessly, from the edges of a life she no longer belongs to. But some ties refuse to break, and some hearts don't know how to stop choosing, even when they should.

Notes: Oh god, it's the last one. It was hell of the ride. I hope you like it! Thank you for being here with me, mwah.

Req by Anon

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

She thought it would be a relief.

Aching but clean, the kind of pain you could take a breath through, the kind that would make her stronger in the end, the kind that would fade into something she could carry without feeling like it was ripping her apart every time she moved.

She thought that asking Sana to let her go would give her power back, that it would be a declaration, a reclaiming of herself after all the months she had spent quietly wishing for a version of Sana that was never going to exist. But the silence that followed didn’t bring peace, no. It brought a weight that settled over her life like ash, soft and suffocating, coating everything she touched with the residue of what could have been, what almost was, what she had still stupidly hoped for even when every part of her knew better.

It wasn’t the sharp kind of pain, the kind that explodes and burns fast and clean, it was slower, the kind that sat heavy in her bones until even breathing felt like a betrayal. Every breath was proof she was still here, still hurting, still somehow surviving the wreckage of something that never really belonged to her in the first place.

Because letting go wasn’t a single moment, it wasn’t a choice she made once and was done with. It was something she had to do every time her fingers twitched toward her phone, every time she heard a voice that almost sounded like Sana’s laugh, every time her heart lifted at a shadow passing by the café window, stupid and instinctive, before crashing back down when she remembered that Sana wasn’t coming again.

And the worst part, the part she could barely stand to admit even to herself, was that there was no ghost of Sana in her apartment to banish, no shirts left behind to bury at the bottom of a drawer, no half empty bottles of perfume, no toothbrush leaning against hers by the sink.

Sana had never been there in any of the ways that mattered.

And still her absence filled the rooms, louder than her presence ever had, a roar in the silence, a hum in the walls, a shadow where nothing should have been.

She hadn’t lost a person, she had lost a hope she had built with her own hands. She had loved the possibility of her, and the betrayal of that, of knowing that she had done this to herself, was what gutted her the most.

Because deep down, Y/N knew she had never truly been chosen, she had been an almost, a maybe, something beautiful to look at but too complicated to keep.

And still, she had stayed, she had waited, she had loved her.

And now? Every minute of every day, she had to live with the bitterness of that choice.

She stripped her life of Sana’s presence, not out of spite, but out of necessity. The money was just enough to buy her time, time away from the café, time to throw herself into her art like it was the only thing tethering her to herself, time to paint until her fingers ached and her vision blurred and the ache inside her was too tired to scream.

And she was angry, god, she was. 

Not just at Sana, but at herself. Angry that she had let herself fall, knowing better, angry that she had let herself hope when Sana had shown her every step of the way that she would never be enough to make her stay.

She worked until she couldn’t think, she painted until her body gave out. She dragged the grief out of herself one canvas at a time, pouring it into shapes that didn’t make sense, colors that bled and bruised across the page, hands that reached and never found what they were looking for.

People praised her work, they said she was evolving, that there was something raw in what she was doing now, something fearless. But they didn’t know they were looking at the pieces of her she had nowhere else to put, they didn’t know that every brushstroke was a wound that hadn't closed.

They didn’t know she was painting Sana.

Some nights she stared at the dress hanging untouched in her closet, the only thing she hadn’t get rid of, still carrying the weight of what she had once believed might happen, and those were the nights when the anger slipped out of her and all that was left was the unbearable, gutting tenderness of missing someone who had never truly been hers.

Because for all the pain, all the bitterness, all the furious pride that kept her moving forward, there was still this small, stubborn part of her that whispered that if things had been different, if Sana had only been a little braver, a little kinder, a little more willing to be what she could have been, they might have had something real, something worth the fall.

But she couldn’t live in that fantasy anymore.

She had survived the worst of it, and she would keep surviving, even if it meant dragging her heart behind her like dead weight. She chose forward, not because it felt good, not because it healed anything, but because there was no other way to live that didn’t break her all over again.

Waiting for Sana to choose her had been another way of losing herself, and she refused, absolutely, violently refused to lose herself anymore.

And even if some part of her would always carry the shape of what they might have been, even if she would always feel the echo of Sana’s name somewhere under her skin, she knew that loving someone wasn’t supposed to feel like begging.

Not again.

Not ever.

Sana hadn’t understood what real heartbreak looked like until the door closed behind Y/N, soft and final in a way that left no space for hope, no space for second chances, no space for anything except the silence pressing against her ribs, squeezing until she could barely stand.

And for a long moment after, she just stood there, staring at the empty hallway like she could still piece something back together if she just didn’t move, if she just didn’t blink, if she just didn’t breathe.

But the truth was already settled.

It wasn’t the leaving that shattered her, it was the fact that Y/N hadn’t left in anger, hadn’t slammed the door, hadn’t thrown accusations or hurtful words. She had simply stepped back, had simply let go, had simply said please, let me go and that quiet devastation was what tore Sana apart in ways nothing else ever had.

She had meant what she said that night, even though no one was there to hear it. She had meant it with every breath, with every fracture inside her chest, with every desperate, broken part of herself she never dared to show before. It was real, it was true, and it was too damn late.

She didn’t call, she didn’t text, she didn’t show up at her door with flowers or apologies or grand gestures, because she knew, she knew in a way that left no room for excuses, that Y/N didn’t want to be chased anymore, that chasing her now would only be another wound, another selfish act of taking when all Y/N had ever needed was to be chosen freely.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

It didn’t erase the way her fingers hovered over her phone in the early hours of the morning, didn’t stop the way she found herself driving by places where Y/N might be, didn’t soften the brutal, endless ache that gnawed at her every time she realized that Y/N’s absence wasn’t something temporary, wasn’t something she could fix with enough regret or enough love, no matter how much she burned with both.

She kept her promises, even when they tore her open.

She stayed silent, she became a ghost in Y/N’s life, a presence she refused to announce, a shadow she refused to cast across her path, because if she couldn’t be the woman Y/N needed, if she couldn’t be the one she deserved, then she would at least have the decency to disappear.

But she couldn’t vanish completely, no, she couldn’t.

She whispered Y/N’s name into the right conversations, left her work where important people would see it, used her influence like a secret offering, a penance she knew would never be enough. Because she couldn’t stand the thought of Y/N’s talent slipping through unnoticed, because even if she wasn’t allowed to love her out loud, she could still build a future for her in the quiet.

She didn’t need recognition, she didn’t need forgiveness.

All she wanted was for Y/N to have everything she deserved, success, joy, peace, even if Sana herself had forfeited the right to be anywhere near it.

So she watched from the edges, careful and aching, slipping in and out of her orbit without ever letting herself get close enough to burn, showing up at gallery openings she wasn’t invited to, standing at the back where no one would notice, where Y/N wouldn’t have to see her and remember all the ways she had failed her.

Then she would leave before the ache could split her open again, before her feet could betray her and carry her forward like some desperate thing reaching for something it had no right to touch.

Because real love wasn’t about holding on.

It wasn’t about forcing your way back into someone's life, it was about standing in the spaces they no longer wanted you in and loving them anyway, even when it broke you, even when it hollowed you out, even when all you could do was carry their name like a wound you didn’t know how to heal.

And so Sana faded into the background of Y/N’s life, present in ways she would never be thanked for, invisible in ways that made the missing worse, a constant ache she carried without asking for anything in return.

She watched Y/N’s world move forward without her, watched from the quiet edges as new doors opened, as opportunities bloomed where once there had only been struggle, and though pride swelled in her chest every time she heard Y/N’s name spoken with admiration, it was a pride laced with grief, sharp and unrelenting.

Because loving her from a distance meant celebrating her victories with a heart breaking open a little more each time, meant standing still while Y/N took steps further and further away from her. When the call came, when Y/N’s name was placed among artists who mattered, Sana knew it would be her last offering, the last quiet thread she would weave into the life she was no longer allowed to touch.

She knew Y/N deserved this, she had always deserved this.

Somewhere across the city, while Sana sat in the silence she had built for herself, Y/N’s phone buzzed to life, carrying a future that neither of them could ever quite claim without remembering everything it had cost.

It was a Thursday afternoon, the kind of grey, unremarkable day where the hours blur together, where the world feels too heavy and too indifferent to believe that anything extraordinary could still be waiting, long after Y/N had convinced herself that good things were for other people, that breaks and miracles and second chances were doors that only opened for those who hadn’t already been left behind.

She was elbows deep in a canvas that refused to cooperate, hands trembling from too many cups of coffee and too many nights spent chasing something she couldn't name. Fingers stained with colors that felt too loud for the hollow ache inside her, when her phone buzzed against the floor, sharp and insistent in the silence.

For a long moment, she just stared at it.

Because hope was a habit she had been trying so desperately to unlearn, a dangerous thing she had taught herself to set down and walk away from, and she didn’t think she had it in her to pick it up again, not even to answer a call that could be anything, anyone, another wrong number, another reminder that the world was still spinning without her.

But something, maybe stubbornness, maybe instinct, maybe the last flicker of a girl she used to be, made her reach for it.

Something made her answer.

And then the words poured through the line, careful and measured in a voice that didn’t understand it was reshaping her whole world in a single breath, telling her, almost casually, that she had been chosen to showcase her work at one of the most respected galleries in the city, that someone had seen her, had chosen her, had opened a door for her.

She sat there, frozen, the brush slipping from her fingers and landing with a soft, wet slap against the floor, still she didn’t move, just stared at the wall and tried to understand how something had managed to slip through the wreckage she thought she had built around herself too tightly to let anything good find its way in.

It didn’t feel real, it didn’t feel possible. It felt like standing in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by every broken piece of herself she had ever tried to bury.

And somehow a door swinging open in the distance, a way out, a way forward, a way back to the version of herself that had once believed she was worth saving.

And for the first time in weeks, something fragile and bright cracked open inside her chest, something reckless, something that tasted a little like hope. Something she hadn’t let herself feel for a long, long time.

And for a moment, just a moment, she let herself believe that maybe she hadn’t been wrong to keep trying.

Y/N should have let herself have it, the joy, the pride, the quiet astonishment of standing on the brink of something good, something she had earned with her own hard work, with her callused hands and sleepless nights. But she had learned by now, that life was rarely so clean, rarely so kind, and the universe had a way of dragging the truth into the light when you were least ready to bear it.

It happened the night before the showcase, when she had returned to the gallery for a final walkthrough, nerves humming low and constant under her skin, a stack of final paperwork clutched in one hand and a cup of bitter coffee in the other, telling herself she had done it, she had survived the storm, she had carved something out of the wreckage that no one could take away from her.

And then she heard it.

A voice carried from the gallery director’s open door, casual enough that it might have gone unnoticed if it hadn’t held the one name that could still crack her in half without warning.

"Miss Minatozaki, thank you for your call.” the director was saying, voice low and easy, deferential in a way that made Y/N’s stomach lurch before she even fully understood why.

“The girl is a truly amazing artist, raw but brilliant. She still needs a little sharpening, of course, but she’s good enough that we decided to showcase her art after all. You were right to push her under our noses."

The world tilted.

For a moment, she just stood there, the words lodging themselves inside her like thorns, so small and sharp she almost didn't feel the full weight of them at first, almost.

She stood there, stupid, invisible, a ghost in her own life, listening to the director laugh softly, thanking Sana again for her "recommendation," as if Y/N’s entire future was a favor passed between two people behind her back, as if her work had been plucked from obscurity not because it deserved to be seen, but because someone had finally decided to open a door for her.

She kept asking herself why, out of guilt, or pity, or worse, out of love that had come too late to mean anything good.

The betrayal hit so hard she almost dropped the coffee right there on the pristine gallery floor.

She stumbled out before anyone could see her, clutching the cold paper cup like a lifeline, her breath scraping her ribs raw, her pulse slamming against the inside of her skull, humiliation flooding her so fast and hot that for a moment she thought she might actually throw up right there on the polished sidewalk outside.

Because she wanted this, god, she fought for this.

She bled for this when no one was watching, sobbed herself raw on nights when the loneliness was too sharp to carry. Built herself back from nothing when the world kept telling her she was invisible, unremarkable.

And now? Now it felt like it had been handed to her like a gift she didn’t ask for, a mercy disguised as success, a triumph stained with invisible fingerprints she would never be able to scrub clean.

It made her want to scream, it made her want to tear her paintings down from the walls, smash the frames, rip the canvases apart with her bare hands until there was nothing left of what had once felt like salvation.

But beneath the fury, beneath the humiliation, beneath the sick, gutting shame curling itself around her ribs, there was another truth, quieter and more cruel, one she couldn’t claw away from no matter how hard she tried.

Without Sana, this might never have happened.

Without her name spoken in rooms Y/N had no access to, without her quiet influence, her silent pulling of strings, the world might have kept looking past her, might have kept seeing just another girl with paint under her nails and too much feeling in her chest and no place to put it.

How could she celebrate something that didn’t feel fully hers? How could she stand in that gallery tomorrow night, wearing her best dress and her best smile, knowing that every eye that landed on her art was only there because someone who had once broken her heart decided to pity her enough to put it back together?

How could she ever breathe easy inside something that tasted like mercy instead of victory?

And yet, somewhere deeper, somewhere smaller, somewhere she didn’t have the strength to kill yet, there was still the tiniest flicker of gratitude, burning low and miserable and real. Because for all her anger, for all her humiliation, for all the ways she wanted to hate Sana for touching this part of her life without permission, she couldn’t deny that Sana had seen her.

Had believed in her, even when Y/N had stopped believing in herself, and somehow, that made it hurt worse than anything else.

Next day, Y/N stands in front of her closet after the sky has gone dark, hands trembling slightly as she pushes hangers back and forth with more force than necessary, each brush of fabric against her fingers another reminder of who she used to be, of the girl who once believed that love could be fought for, that it could be earned if you just held on tightly enough, if you just loved fiercely enough, if you just refused to let go.

Most of the dresses hanging there were hers alone, bought in the aftermath, chosen with hands that had learned the hard way how not to hope too much, and yet tonight, even those felt wrong, too ordinary, too small for the storm brewing under her skin, too stitched through with the life she had built on surviving instead of celebrating.

Then her fingers land on it.

Tucked away at the back, half forgotten but never fully erased, still wrapped in paper that crinkled under her touch like an accusation, waiting for a night that had never come, waiting for promises that had crumbled long before they had the chance to be spoken out loud.

The dress Sana had bought her.

A gift given with a careless sort of affection, the kind that had once made her heart stutter with wonder, back when she hadn’t yet learned that affection without commitment was just another kind of cruelty.

She should hate it, she should shove it deeper into the closet, bury it under sweaters and jackets and every other version of herself she had outgrown, or better yet, she should leave it behind altogether, let it rot away with the rest of the things she was trying so hard to forget.

But instead, she pulls it free.

She lets the fabric slide through her fingers, soft and expensive and weightless, except it isn't weightless at all. It carries every unsent message, every unfinished promise, every goddamn almost they never became.

It feels like a dare.

Maybe it’s a fuck you to Sana.

Maybe it’s something softer, something sadder, something she isn’t ready to look too closely at yet, some part of her still aching to believe that not everything Sana touched had to turn into something that hurt.

She steps into the dress with mechanical hands, zipping it up without ceremony, without sentiment, without the reverence she might have once given it, her fingers steady not because she is calm, but because she has run out of ways to fall apart.

And when she sees herself in the mirror, tall and radiant in a dress that had once been meant for a different kind of night, she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, doesn’t soften.

She just looks.

She looks at herself, at all the ways she has survived, at all the ways she is still standing, still goddamn fighting even after everything, and she lets herself feel it. The anger, the pride, the devastation, the hunger for something she had built with her own hands even if the door had been opened by someone else.

Then she grabs her coat, lifts her chin, and steps out into the night, wearing the past like armor, wearing her defiance like a second skin, daring anyone who looked at her to see anything but the artist she had always been, screaming without words.

"I am here because I deserve to be, I am here because I fucking earned it."

The gallery is already alive when she arrives, the air thick with the low, golden hum of conversation spilling out onto the street, laughter mingling with the soft clink of champagne glasses, the weight of expectation settling into the night like mist, and for a long moment, Y/N stands frozen on the sidewalk, heart hammering so violently against her ribs she wonders if anyone inside can hear it.

She stares at her own name printed clean and bold across the program clutched in her hand, her breath fogging in the chill evening air, her fingers trembling despite the steady beat she tries to will into them, and it feels unreal, impossible that it could be her name they are saying tonight, her art they are gathering to see, her voice etched into every canvas hanging on those pristine white walls.

She is here.

Not as someone's guest, not as someone's afterthought, not as someone's beautiful distraction.

She's here as the artist.

For a moment she feels it settle into her bones, feels the years of being overlooked, of being told to be patient, to be realistic, to be grateful for crumbs, all press against her chest at once, a tide of memories trying to drag her under.

But she doesn't let them, not tonight.

She steps through the doors and the sound swells around her, warm and heady, and for a dizzying second the world tilts, the lights overhead blurring into gold and white, the polished floors gleaming underfoot like a stage she isn’t sure she’s ready to walk across.

She grips the program tighter until the edges crumple under her fingertips, a small anchor against the urge to run, to shrink back into the girl who never dared to dream too loudly for fear the world would laugh at her audacity.

People are turning toward her now, curators with assessing eyes, critics with notebooks tucked into the crook of their arms, strangers with the kind of smiles that mean something, and they are talking to her, not around her, not over her, not through her. But to her, and their words are not pitying or patronizing, they are admiring.

They talk about her work, the bruised, beautiful mess of it, the way she captures color like it’s alive, the way her pieces bleed emotions through every line, every fracture, every brushstroke, the way she seems to reach into something too raw, too human, and make it visible, make it inescapable.

And she smiles.

Small, careful, dazed.

Not because she doubts them, not because she thinks they’re lying, but because some deep part of her still doesn’t know how to stand in the center of the room without flinching, still expects to be pushed aside, forgotten, undone by the simple fact of her own existence.

But tonight? Tonight she doesn't flinch, tonight she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and lets the words settle into her skin without apology, without fear, without shame.

Tonight she lets herself feel it, the wonder, the pride, the fragile sweetness of being seen for what she created, for what she built from the ashes, for what she clawed into existence with nothing but her own hands and her own aching, stubborn, relentless heart.

And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, she lets herself believe she has earned this. Not because someone opened a door for her, not because someone whispered her name into the right ears, but because she had the strength to walk through it anyway.

It happens halfway through the night, just as she’s setting her empty champagne glass down on a side table, fingers brushing the cool surface a little too fast, a little too clumsy, like some part of her still can’t quite believe she’s allowed to be here, allowed to stand in the glow of her own making, and for a moment she lets herself lean back into the wall, breathing slow, trying to steady the wild rush of adrenaline thrumming under her skin.

The noise around her softens into something almost bearable, conversations blending into a low, pleasant hum, the clink of glasses and soft bursts of laughter swirling lazily through the air, and for the first time all evening, she feels like maybe, just maybe, she can stop holding her breath.

She isn’t looking for it, she isn’t eavesdropping.

But some truths are cruel enough to find you no matter how carefully you try to outrun them.

"She’s phenomenal," a voice says just behind her, low and admiring, and she doesn’t recognize it but it cuts through the crowd anyway, carving a sharp path straight to her ribs. "Every single piece sold before the doors even opened. Some private collector swept them all up."

There’s a ripple of laughter then, soft and almost reverent, the kind that spills from people witnessing something rare, something inevitable.

"Did you hear? Minatozaki Sana pulled it off again. Her instincts are impeccable. She knew exactly what she was doing when she found this girl."

And just like that the floor shifts, the walls tilt.

The entire world inside the gallery blurs at the edges, voices smearing into noise, colors bleeding together until she can’t tell where the paintings end and the people begin, and she is left standing there, weightless and sinking all at once, the stem of the glass still curled between her fingers, the smile she had worn like armor slipping, cracking, shattering against the realization clawing its way up her throat.

Because she knows, of course she knows. She doesn’t need anyone to say it outright, she doesn’t need confirmation. She doesn’t need anything but the echo of that name Minatozaki to feel everything she fought so hard to rebuild splintering apart all over again.

She knows whose hands have been reaching into her life, rearranging it with invisible fingers, pressing against the fragile spaces she thought she had finally carved out for herself alone.

Sana.

Always Sana.

Always lingering in ways Y/N hadn’t asked for, hadn’t agreed to, hadn’t known how to defend herself against without tearing herself open even wider. And the betrayal, god, the betrayal is sharp enough to leave her breathless, her lungs seizing under the weight of it, her heart pounding a broken rhythm against the walls of her chest.

Because this was supposed to be hers. Hers to earn, hers to fail. Hers to hold or lose or mourn, but hers all the same, and now even this night, this victory, was stained by Sana’s ghost, by her stubborn refusal to let go, by her desperate, aching way of loving too late, too wrong, too much.

And still beneath the fury, buried under the humiliation, tangled in the wreckage of everything she was trying so hard to stand tall above, there is that same brutal, aching tenderness that refuses to die no matter how viciously she tries to kill it.

Sana didn’t just buy her paintings to support her, no. She bought them to hold onto pieces of her, bought them because loving her from afar was the only thing she had left. Bought them because if she couldn’t stay in Y/N’s life, she would bury herself in Y/N’s art instead, silent and unseen, clinging to brushstrokes and color where her hands were no longer welcome.

She should be furious.

She is furious.

But she is also wrecked, gutted by the quiet, desperate way Sana keeps choosing her now, in the dark, in the shadows, in the aftermath of all the chances she hadn’t taken when Y/N needed her most.

And she doesn’t know whether she wants to scream or sob or run straight into the night, or go to Sana’s place and drag every broken word out of her throat, demand why, why she keeps doing this, why she only ever seems to know how to fight for her after it’s already too late.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there after the whispers die away, frozen in the corner of the gallery with the weight of it all crushing her ribs, the soft laughter and murmured praise around her turning into little more than static against the roar inside her head.

The glass in her hand grows heavy, forgotten, her knuckles white around the stem as if letting go of it might mean letting go of everything she’s been holding together for hours, for days, for months, and part of her, some small, desperate part, wants to flee, wants to disappear into the night and pretend none of this ever touched her, none of this ever mattered enough to leave scars.

She could walk away right now, pretend she never heard, never saw, never knew. She could swallow the hurt down until it calcifies into something sharp and silent, something she could carry without bleeding every time she thought of Sana.

But she doesn’t.

Because somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the rage, beneath the endless exhaustion of loving someone who only ever seemed to find her too late, there is a raw, reckless spark that refuses to be quiet this time.

And it drives her forward.

Her feet move before her mind catches up, cutting through the crowd, heart slamming against her chest so violently she feels it in her throat, her ears, her fingertips.

And that’s when she sees her.

Half in shadow, near the side exit, her coat draped over one arm, her body turned halfway to the door, posture small and folded inward in a way Y/N has seen only a handful of times, only when Sana is trying to make herself invisible.

Sana.

Quiet leaving.

Without a word, without even the decency of goodbye. Something inside Y/N burns hotter than grief, hotter than rage, hotter than the bone deep ache she has been carrying for what feels like forever.

She closes the distance between them in quick, purposeful steps, the noise of the gallery dimming to meaningless hum around her, the only sound that matters the harshness of her own breathing and the crackling, electric snap of something inside her breaking loose.

She doesn’t call her name softly, she doesn’t plead. She sharpens the word like a blade and throws it across the space between them.

“Minatozaki.”

The sound of it cuts through the noise like a crack of thunder, sharp and cold, formal in a way that says I see you, and you are not getting away from this.

Sana freezes.

Her fingers curl tighter around her coat, her spine stiffens, and for a second, she doesn't turn, doesn't move, as if hoping, praying that if she stands still enough, if she wishes hard enough, she can pretend she didn’t hear.

But she does, of course she does.

Slowly, like the movement costs her something she can’t afford to give, Sana turns to face her. And for a moment, for a beat stretched taut between them, neither of them speaks, neither of them breathes, the air thick with everything they had never said, everything they had said too late, everything that still lived between them like a ghost they couldn’t exorcise.

Finally, Y/N steps closer, her hands clenched at her sides to keep them from shaking, voice low and fierce when she speaks again.

“We need to talk.”

There’s a flicker in Sana’s expression then, a crack in the armor she has tried so hard to wear, exhaustion bleeding through her carefully neutral face, something old and familiar and wrecked in the way she meets Y/N’s eyes, like she knows this is a reckoning neither of them will walk away from unscathed.

Sana nods once, almost imperceptibly, voice rough and worn thin when she answers, a rasp of surrender more than agreement.

“Somewhere private.”

No questions, no protest, no more hiding.

They step out into the night together, the door closing behind them with a soft, final click, the cold air rushing around them like a warning, and for the first time since she walked into that gallery, Y/N feels something steady settle in her chest.

Not peace, not hope, but the certainty that whatever is about to happen between them can no longer be buried, no longer be swallowed, no longer be survived in silence.

It is going to break them open.

One way or another.

The elevator ride is brutal, the kind of silence that feels alive under the skin, humming in the blood, pressing against the glass and steel of the small space until breathing becomes an act of will.

Neither of them speaks.

There are no words light enough to carry the weight between them, no language soft enough to wrap itself around the jagged edges of what they are about to unearth, no apology deep enough to cover the years they lost to fear and pride and silence.

When the doors finally slide open into Sana’s penthouse, Y/N hesitates at the threshold, heart hammering against her ribs like a warning, a desperate plea, because stepping inside feels like crossing a line she won’t be able to uncross, feels like surrendering to something that might break her in ways she doesn’t know how to survive.

But she moves anyway.

Because she needs to know, because she deserves to know.

Y/N crosses the living room without waiting for permission, heels tapping softly against the marble floor, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence pressing down on both of them, and when she finally turns to face Sana, her hands are trembling with the effort of holding herself together.

And then the anger comes, hot, wild, uncontrollable, because love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

“You can’t just fix everything with money,” Y/N spits out, the words sharp and shaking, cutting through the silence like a blade, her voice too loud against the glass and stone, bouncing off the walls and back into her own chest.

Sana flinches, barely, like she’s been hit, but she doesn’t look away, doesn’t defend herself, just stands there with her hands curled into fists at her sides, taking the blow because she knows she deserves it.

Y/N laughs then, a bitter, broken sound, raw at the edges.

“Is that what you thought would happen?” she says, voice cracking. “Throw enough money at me, buy my paintings, pull a few strings, and what? What was supposed to happen Sana? Was I supposed to fall at your feet? Thank you for finally noticing me after everything?”

Sana’s face crumples, just for a second, just enough for Y/N to see the crack running straight through her carefully built facade, and it only makes her angrier, because Sana isn’t supposed to be the one who looks like she’s breaking.

She’s supposed to be strong, cold, unaffected. She’s not supposed to look like this hurts, because it wasn’t supposed to mean anything, it wasn’t supposed to be love.

And then Sana speaks, voice low, rough, the words clawed from somewhere deep inside her.

“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” she says, each word a struggle, each word heavier than the last. 

��I know you don’t want me in your life. I know you hate me for not choosing you when it mattered. I know it’s too late. I know it, but I couldn’t—” she breaks off, breath hitching, jaw tightening, hands shaking with the effort of holding herself together.

“I couldn’t pretend I didn’t love you.”

The words land like a blow, harder than anything Y/N was braced for, harder than anger or betrayal or grief, because she had spent so long telling herself that Sana’s chase was about pride, about ownership, about needing what she couldn’t have. 

Not love, never love.

And hearing it now, spoken in a voice stripped of everything but truth and desperation, undoes her more completely than any silence ever could have.

Y/N stares at her, stunned, heart breaking open in her chest, fury and grief and longing tangling so tightly together she feels like she might collapse under the weight of it.

For a long, trembling moment, she says nothing, every word she wants to scream caught and burning in her throat.

Because she wants to hate her, she wants to tell her that love isn’t enough. That love should have come before pride, before fear, before distance, before silence. She wants to tell her it’s too late.

But the words die there, heavy and useless, because the look in Sana’s eyes is not pride, not ownership, not triumph.

It is devastation, it is surrender, it is the quiet, terrible truth that she would tear herself apart just to stay close enough to love her, even if it’s from the outside, even if it’s from the ashes.

And it’s everything Y/N ever wanted and everything she’s terrified to want again.

Sana steps closer, slow and careful, like someone approaching a wounded animal she’s afraid to scare off, her movements deliberate, measured, the air between them stretched tight enough to hum, and Y/N feels every inch of it, every crackle of tension, every desperate beat of something too big to name rattling inside her chest as Sana dares to cross the impossible distance between them.

When she speaks, her voice is so low and wrecked that the words barely reach Y/N’s ears, trembling in the space between them like something half broken already.

"I am so deeply in love with you," Sana says, her voice raw and uneven, "that I don’t know how to breathe without it hurting."

And it’s too much. It’s everything.

It’s the one thing Y/N had begged for in the quiet, in the dark, in all the moments Sana had been too blind, too afraid, too late to see her standing there with her heart in her hands.

Now it comes wrapped in devastation, now it comes after the leaving, after the loss, after the pieces were already shattered beyond recognition, and some furious, broken part of her can't bear it.

She shoves her.

Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to feel the heat of her anger rising between them, crackling in her fingertips, her breath coming sharp and ragged as she spits the words between them like knives she doesn’t know how to take back.

"Don’t you dare," Y/N hisses, voice breaking in the middle, "don’t you dare stand there and say that now, not after everything, not when you only started chasing me the second I walked away."

Sana stumbles back a step, but she doesn’t retaliate, doesn’t defend herself, only looks at her with eyes that are too wide, too wrecked to be lying, and that only makes Y/N angrier, because she’s supposed to be the strong one now, supposed to be the one who isn’t unraveling first.

"You didn’t love me when it mattered," she says, louder now, angrier, every word sharp and aching and bleeding. "You liked the idea of me, you liked the way I stayed no matter how hard you made it, you liked knowing I'd be there even when you didn’t choose me."

And Sana, instead of fighting back, instead of building the walls Y/N is hoping to slam herself against, simply stands there, breathing like every second is another cut she doesn’t know how to survive, her hands curling uselessly at her sides like she wants to reach for Y/N and knows she has no right.

"I didn’t like an idea," Sana says, and it’s not soft, but something cracked and stubborn and breaking open at the seams.

"I loved you." Her voice shakes, her whole body seems to shake with it, but she doesn't stop.

"I still love you. Not the version of you I could hold at a distance, not the safe, tidy version. The real you, the messy, stubborn, brilliant you, the one who made me want things I was too much of a coward to reach for."

The air between them is vibrating now, too heavy with everything they’ve buried, and Y/N feels herself shatter under it, the last fragile defenses she’s been clinging to splintering apart with a force that leaves her raw, gasping, barely able to keep herself upright.

She wants to hate her, god, she wants to hate her.

But there is no hate left in her, not really, only love so battered and bruised that it barely knows how to stand anymore, only love that has been waiting for too long to be met in the middle.

She moves before she can stop herself, fingers fisting into the front of Sana’s jacket, dragging her forward like she’s furious, like she’s starving, like she’s drowning and Sana is the only thing that has ever tasted like air.

And Sana gasps when she crashes into her, her hands flying up to catch Y/N’s face, cradling it like something precious even as their mouths collide with none of the grace, none of the hesitation, none of the slow tenderness that kisses are supposed to have.

It’s messy, it’s wild, it’s survival.

It’s grief and forgiveness and desperation stitched together in every clash of teeth, every desperate pull of breath, every broken sound torn from aching throats too full of all the words they never said.

Sana kisses her like she’s terrified she might vanish if she lets go, fingers trembling where they hold her, and Y/N lets herself fall into it, lets herself cling back just as fiercely, because there is no pride left anymore, no anger sharp enough to drown this out.

They kiss like it’s the only thing keeping them alive, like if they stop for even a second they’ll disappear, two ghosts finally burning into something real.

And when Sana finally pulls back, breathing wrecked and frantic, her forehead pressing against Y/N’s with a kind of desperate reverence, she whispers so quietly it almost isn’t a sound at all.

"Don’t leave me."

Y/N closes her eyes, her hands still tangled in Sana’s jacket, her heart beating too loud, too hard against the ruins of everything she thought she had buried, and for the first time in what feels like forever, she doesn’t feel alone.

She feels found.

The hallway feels endless, the silence between them not heavy anymore but trembling, fragile, full of a different kind of tension, the kind that has nothing to do with anger anymore and everything to do with fear, with hope, with the terrifying possibility of something real.

Y/N’s hand is still tangled in the fabric of Sana’s jacket, not dragging, not pulling, just holding, anchoring herself to the one thing that has always felt like danger and shelter all at once, and Sana follows without resistance, without hesitation, the way someone follows their own fate.

The bedroom glows faintly under the soft, blurred spill of city lights through the windows, turning the sharp lines of the penthouse into something softer, more human, and Y/N stops in the center of the room, breathing hard, feeling like if she says the wrong thing, moves the wrong way, the fragile thread between them might snap.

Sana stands there, a few steps away, the shadows catching in the hollows of her throat, the curve of her jaw, the tension in her hands that she doesn’t try to hide anymore. And for a long, breathless moment, they just look at each other, both of them wrecked, both of them open, both of them too scared to speak first.

It’s Sana who moves.

Sana who takes the last step forward, closing the distance not with force but with a kind of trembling reverence, reaching out, brushing tentative fingers along Y/N’s wrist, not grabbing, not demanding, just touching, asking without words.

And when she speaks, her voice is a wrecked whisper, breaking down the last walls still standing between them.

“I want you to see me,” Sana says, and it’s not smooth, not seductive, it’s broken and trembling and so unbearably real Y/N feels her own heart seize. “I want you to see the real me.”

It undoes her, it undoes everything.

Y/N’s hands move without thinking, reaching up to cradle Sana’s face, feeling the way she shudders under the touch, the way her breath catches, the way she leans into it like she has been starving for this, for gentleness, for forgiveness, for being seen and still being loved.

And when she kisses her again, it’s not anger, it’s not desperation, it’s not survival.

It’s love.

It’s fire and tenderness wrapped into one devastating pull, Y/N’s hands threading through Sana’s hair, Sana’s arms wrapping around her waist like she’s afraid she might break apart if she lets go, mouths meeting in a kiss that feels like building something, not destroying it.

This kiss isn’t a war, this kiss is home.

They don’t rush, they don’t tear at each other, they move slowly, like learning, like worship, like stitching every broken piece of themselves together with every soft, shivering breath.

Sana lets Y/N touch her like no one ever has, trembling and open under every careful slide of hands across skin, shivering under the weight of it, because this isn’t about possession, and it isn’t about erasing the past, it’s about building something in spite of it, because of it.

They fall into each other without hesitation this time, clothes sliding away not with frantic need but with a desperate kind of awe, every new inch of skin revealed like a secret kept too long, every gasp and shiver a promise neither of them dares to say aloud but both of them feel in the marrow of their bones.

Sana lets Y/N see all of her, the scarred and scared and stubborn and hurting and loving her. And Y/N touches her like she’s memorizing her, like she’s building a map back to the place they lost and found again all in the same aching breath.

When they finally fall onto the bed, tangled in each other, it isn’t frantic or wild anymore.

It’s slow, it’s breathless in the way that speaks of reverence, of relief, of everything words could never say. And when they disappear into each other, when the city fades away beyond the windows, when touch turns into shivering sighs and whispered names and hands tracing every beautiful line, it is not a victory.

It is a beginning.

And when sleep finally finds them, limbs tangled, hearts pressed close, there is no more loneliness, no more fear, no more pretending. 

There is only love, heavy and aching and utterly, breathtakingly real.

The morning slips in slow and golden, sunlight pouring over the tangled sheets, over the bare skin of two bodies curled around each other like they forgot how to exist separately, the world outside the windows moving on without them, the city humming somewhere far away, but inside this room, there is only quiet, only breath, only the slow, miraculous unfurling of something neither of them knows how to name.

Y/N wakes first, her lashes fluttering against the swell of Sana’s shoulder, her body aching and for a long, trembling moment, she simply lies there, breathing, feeling the weight and warmth of Sana against her, the slow, steady thrum of a heart that had once been closed to her and now beats so recklessly close.

She shifts slightly, the sheets rustling softly, and Sana stirs with a quiet, broken sound, her arm tightening instinctively around Y/N’s waist like even in sleep, even in dreams, she is afraid to let her go.

And Y/N, god, she feels her heart crack open again, not from pain this time, but from the unbearable tenderness of being held, of being wanted, of being seen.

Sana blinks awake slowly, her gaze unfocused and soft with sleep, and when she finds Y/N staring back at her, something raw and unguarded flashes across her face, a flicker of fear, of awe, of a thousand things Sana has never been good at saying aloud.

She shifts, lifts a trembling hand to cup Y/N’s face with a kind of reverence that steals the breath from Y/N’s lungs, and for a long, shivering second, neither of them speaks, neither of them moves, the world holding its breath around them.

And then Sana’s thumb brushes across Y/N’s cheekbone in a motion so gentle it aches, and when she speaks, it’s a whisper so fragile it barely makes it into the space between them, but Y/N hears every word as if it’s been etched into her skin.

“Let me show you how much I love you,” Sana says, it isn’t a question, it isn’t a demand. It’s a promise, small and terrified and stubborn, the only one she knows how to make now, the only one that matters.

Not with money, not with grand gestures, not with words. But with presence, with choosing, with staying.

Y/N exhales shakily, feels the last of her old anger, her old grief, bleed out into the sunlight pooling between them, and when she shifts closer, when she lets her forehead fall against Sana’s, when she breathes her in like air after a lifetime underwater, she realizes that she isn’t falling anymore.

She’s landing. 

And maybe they don’t have forever, maybe they don’t have promises or neat endings or easy answers, maybe all they have is this bed, this morning, this wrecked and stubborn love trying to stitch itself back together one breath at a time.

But for the first time in what feels like forever, Y/N doesn’t need more than that. She closes her eyes, feeling Sana’s fingers trembling where they cradle her, and she lets herself stay.

They don’t talk about what comes next, they don’t make any promises.

But they don’t let go.

Not this time.

And somehow that feels enough.

[plutoswritingplanet]

am I the only sour cherry on your fruit stand? (Derek Hale x Female!Reader)

a/n: I have no expanation, other than me and my partner are rewatching Teen Wolf together, and I really wanted to write some filth

Warnings: Carpet Munching (ha), Enemies to Lovers except not really enemies to not really lovers, Full Moon Shenanigans, Shotgunning,

Summary: It's a constant dance between you and Derek. You hate him, he's supposed to hate you. He wants you in his pack, you want him to leave your brother the hell alone. Either way, the full moon always brings out the darkest of truths to the surface.

MASTERLIST

Your body is so cold.

An overwhelming feeling of a slow, creeping chill climbs through your veins. Breath coming out in quick, sharp gasps, you lay frozen on the wooden floor, the charred and twisted presence of the Hale house looming over you. The broken roof stares at your form, laughing mockingly at your predicament, as the floorboards greedily soak up your blood. As if they try to eat the very essence, suck the marrow from your bones. 

You can feel it leaving your body. A steady, crimson stream, dripping out like a broken faucet, your vision blurring with each drop. And, by God, does it hurt. It hurts like nothing you've ever felt. You've been hurt before, of course. Throughout your life, you've suffered injuries big and small, but this... Nothing could prepare you for the sharp, burning sensation spreading throughout you, frayed nerve endings screaming for help. You'd take a broken bone any day, instead of this. 

The bullet went right through the side of your stomach. A last hurrah on Kate Argent's part, as she pulled the trigger blindly, right before her throat was ripped out. She's in here somewhere, as well. Her lifeless body staring at you with unseeing eyes. Some twisted sense of ancient justice, her dying in this house. The Hale family has finally gotten their revenge. You'll join the Hunter soon enough. Perhaps this is your punishment for being unnecessarily rude to Derek. 

Just another soul claimed by this cursed place, about to join the tally. Innocent? No, that's for sure not the case. You could be called many things, but innocent wasn't one. Hell, some people wouldn't even call you good. But if there's anything you've got going for you, it's you're loyal. Which, is the sole reason you've landed in this situation, in the first place. You're loyal to your fucking grave. 

Someone grabs your hand, the back of your head cradling it softly, you can feel shar points of a clawed hand scratching lightly at your scalp. Through the fog of darkness, you can see your baby brother. Tears gather in his eyes, and despite your sorry state, you can't shake the instinct to make it better. To somehow protect him from the pain of your own imminent passing. Like you've always done, combining your efforts with your mother, and keeping all the monsters away. Shining a proverbial flashlight under the bed. 

"It's okay" you manage to choke out, not entirely able to recognize your voice "You'll be okay" 

Your hand shakes in his, and Scott screams for help, teeth growing into sharp fangs at the sudden crash of emotions. His eyes shine that blasted shade of yellow, as he begs for something. Anything. Your heart breaks for him. You've managed to save him from a stray bullet, but you can't do anything now. You can't protect him, and it tears you apart more than any Wolfsbane covered casing could. 

And then you see another person, looking at you through the fog.

Your heart skips a bit, although whether it's from the blood loss, or the man leaning above you, is anyone's guess. 

Red eyes bear down onto you, a calloused hand resting on your cheek, and your eyebrows furrow, as Derek Hale brings his face closer. Perhaps it's the delirium setting in, but for just a split-second, you're almost convinced his expression twists into that of concern. 

Which, given your current situation, would be warranted, if not for one simple fact, that's been hanging over the both of you, ever since your first meeting. 

You hate each other. 

Or at least, you hate him. Deeply despise everything he stands for, especially since he's been acting like a complete and utter dick to your brother, threatening him at least two times a day. And you couldn't let that slide, couldn't see the tremendous amounts of stress, he's been putting your brother through, and not react. 

"Please, Derek." your brother begs, his voice breaking, "Save her, please."

It takes you a moment, your brain is slowly, but surely being deprived of oxygen. But once the implications of your brother's words hit, a new sense of purpose floods your bones. It's not panic, not necessarily. You've always been much too calm and collected, to let yourself be drowned by fear. 

You suppose it's the curse of being the oldest sibling, this outward tranquility, mixed with boiling rage just beneath the surface. 

Derek leans down, red eyes search yours, although, you can see by the determined tick of his jaw, that he's already made his decision. For just a second, you're tempted. You don't want to die, of course you don't. And the idea of being so much stronger, more resilient, being able to protect those you love, without tearing your veins out in the process... You'd be a fool not to consider it. 

But then, you look into his red eyes, burning like coals in a dying fire, and something akin to a steel conviction settles itself over you, like a protective blanket. 

Your shaking hand rises, fingers trembling, as they slide over Derek's cheekbone. He freezes under your touch, eyes widening slightly, at the unexpected, tender contact. Your eyebrows scrunch in concentration, and he sucks in a sharp breath, as the pads of your fingers press against his mouth. 

With the last, fraying remnants of strength, you push, until you can feel his teeth through the soft plush of his lips.

"Don't..." a wheezing intake of breath rattles through your lungs, as you force yourself to focus

"Don't you fucking dare"

Derek's mouth opens, a silent gasp pushing past your fingers, and your hand falls onto the ground. 

The sudden, cold steeliness of his burning, red gaze is the last thing you remember, before waking up in Beacon Hills General Hospital, your mother and your brother at your side.

***

From that point onward, Derek's name is like a constant presence, looming over your life, whether you like it or not. And truth be told, you really, really don't like it.

Having now taken the power of the Alpha, he's become even more insufferable, if that's possible. And as such, you've decided the best course of action, was to steer clear of him, to save yourself from any more anger issues. 

After recovering from having the right side of your body obliterated by a bullet, you took time to search for a job. You've found one relatively quickly, as a waitress at a small diner right at the edge of Beacon Hills. It was such a typical, American place, filled with the smell of grease and cheap coffee. But it payed well enough, and the owner, an older woman with a warm, round face, was almost too excited by a prospect of 'fresh blood' working for her. You didn't mention, that you're not exactly 'fresh blood'. Nor did you remind her, that during your rebellious teenage phase, you used to draw graffiti over the back of her establishment.

You're not that angry, troubled teen anymore. You've dealt with it. For the most part. 

Doesn't change the fact, that every time you slip out the back entrance for your break, your eyes follow the painted over ghosts of your highschool years. Doesn't change the small, almost wistful smile, tugging at the corners of your perpetually frowning lips. You used to smile more back then. You used to be kinder.

Derek never invades your place of work, not once. Small blessings, you suppose. 

For the most part, he tries to keep his distance from you, despite the fact, that circumstances keep forcing him to work with your brother, and as such, bringing him into your orbit. 

Even the mention of his name, in passing conversation, evokes emotions you're not sure how to deal with. Because yes, you hate him. He's annoying, he's all that. But there's also this strange hint of understanding, of kinship between two born protectors. Two people, who care so deeply, in such an overwhelming manner, they have to hide behind a mask of thorns, just to keep themselves safe. 

You can't shake the feeling, that during that small interaction, where he almost made you the first addition to his pack, he saw you. He saw, what you are, every part that makes you, who you are, and understood it without a second thought. 

And you can't have that. The idea is so preposterous, so terrifying, you have to actively fight it away, everytime you even catch a whiff of his presence. 

Avoiding him goes pretty easily. You tend to stay away from the supernatural aspects of your brother's life anyways, too focused on helping your mom keeping the house afloat. Sometimes it's better not to know, and you consciously make the effort to know as little as possible. 

That is, until one evening, you exit your run down car, and see him standing right outside your house, throwing daggers at the closed door. One of his Betas, you're pretty sure his name is Boyd, stands next to him, his overgrown-for-a-teenager statue practically dwarfing Derek. The sight would be comical, if you weren't so god-damned tired, and this wasn't your house they were standing in front of. 

Turning the ignition off, you wonder for a moment, if this is worth the trouble. Perhaps a couple laps around the neighborhood would do you good. Avoiding confrontation went so well until now, you're almost mournful to end it. But then again, the gas prices are definitely more annoying, than the werewolf's presence, so you open the creaking door and leave the car.

His eyes snap to you, as the car door slams shut, and for a moment he seems almost surprised you're here. Then, his jaw tightens, as he schools his expression back to a grumpy frown, one you've come to consider synonymous with him. 

"Miss McCall" Boyd nods at you, to Derek's general displeasure, and you respond with a wave.

"I don't remember inviting you guys for dinner" you say, stopping to stand a safe distance from the two werewolves "I would've bought kibble"

A low hanging joke, you're aware, but your legs hurt from running around the diner, and your hair smells of grease, so you feel justified. 

Something sounding almost like a low grow,l grumbles deep in Derek's throat, as he tears his gaze away from the house, pinning you in place with the sheer intensity of the look he gives you. 

Boyd just looks confused.

"We're not here for you" he says, keeping his voice low and measured, although, it doesn't take a genius to gather, there's something else hidden behind his words. 

"Well good" you respond, barely keeping your eyes from rolling, your gaze landing on the kitchen window of your house. 

A soft 'huh' leaves your mouth, as something moves the curtain behind the glass. You can see quick movement inside, but before you can take a step towards the direction of your place, Derek interjects, almost hurriedly.

"Although since you're here..."

Containing an eye roll around him, should become your personal sport niche. Shooting him an unimpressed look, you cross your arms in front of your chest, and definitely ignore the way his eyes linger on the cleavage of your work uniform, which just so happens to be pushed up by the gesture. Hate is a funny thing, and you're not sure, if you can blame it for the sudden fluttering, stirring in your stomach. You're not about to dwell on it, not at all. And you're absolutely not going to dwell on the way, he wets his lips before speaking. 

Nope. Not at all. 

"I've been meaning to talk to you" he starts, after taking a deep breath, as if to compose himself.

Now, that must be a lie, because you know good and god-damned well, he hasn't approached you since the Hale House incident. 

"About?" the borderline indifferent tone of your voice, cuts through the invisible bubble of tension between the two of you.

A moment of silence stretches in the rapidly approaching evening, shadows growing on his face, accentuating the frown that's settled over his expression. You try to remain unaffected, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Your eyes catch a glimpse of a blue jeep, that most certainly belongs to Stiles, and although his visits at your house aren't unexpected, something akin to suspicion climbs up your back. Stiles and Scott camping at the house, that's nothing new. But the addition of Derek, alongside his teenage bodyguard... That's definitely a reason for being worried.

As if sensing the sudden change in your thoughts, Derek takes a step closer, his boots crunching on the gravel road. Your muscles tense involuntarily, an instinct you can't seem to get rid of, and your eyebrows shoot up, daring him to come even closer. Daring him to do something, you'll both regret. 

"Why didn't you let me change you?" he asks, voice so low, you can barely hear him. 

Boyd's head snaps in your direction, confusion mounting on his face. 

And just like that, all thoughts and suspicions about the werewolf's presence, get thrown out the proverbial window. Sucking in a sharp breath at the question, your lower lip migrates between your teeth, Derek's gaze zeroing on it with laser-sharp focus. 

"You could've died, and yet, you refused" he continues, taking another step "I could've saved you."

A sharp scoff leaves you, as if the scenario is beyond preposterous. And to some degree, it is. 

"Is it really such a ridiculous idea?" his tone dips even lower, into something almost too seductive, too much like dark persuasion "Imagine the power, the strength I could give you..."

"Strength to do what?" you challenge "Wipe tables faster? Be fucking for real."

A small, almost imperceivable smile splits his lips, and you catch a glimpse of his perpetually sharpened canine teeth. One more step closer, and suddenly he's standing right on the edge of your personal bubble, dancing on what's considered proper between two people, who supposedly despise each other. That small change whispers to you, compels you to let your arms fall from your chest, your defenses lowering without your consent. 

"You wouldn't have to wipe any tables, ever. If you'd join my pack" Derek promises, and the way words leave his mouth, makes you want to believe him. 

Alas, you're a realist, through and through. Your feet stay planted on the ground, no matter what, and in this moment, you know, you have to end this. Before any more ridiculous promises are made. Before you actually fall for one of them. 

"And how would that work, huh?" another challenge, and Derek's eyebrows jerk upwards "Is there a magical, supernatural fund for new werewolves? Do you pay hourly?"

This time, it's Derek's turn to roll his eyes, and the gesture makes heat rise in your bones. He shouldn't look this good while frustrated, the clicking muscles of his jaw almost begging you to go further, to push him.

"I have a family to take care of, you know." you seethe through your teeth, before stopping yourself. 

You could say more. You almost want to say more, words already forming on your tongue, and tasting like bitter venom. Scolding words about his family, about his strange determination to remain detached from the real world. But you swallow them, knowing full-well, that despite Derek's many faults, he doesn't deserve that much. And yes, you're confrontational, sometimes even rude. But you're not cruel. 

Derek notices your angry restrain, his eyes flitting around the way your lips are pressed tightly together. There's a slight note of appreciation, when he speaks next, as if the previous animosity was lifted, by the evening wind, and carried somewhere far away. 

"I know, you're a protector, through and through" he whispers, finally crossing that imaginary line "You'd fit so well, you're just what I need"

Boyd's eyebrows nearly jump off his face, as he looks between Scott McCall's asshole sister, and his Alpha. Derek never mentioned wanting to turn you. Hell, he never mentioned you at all, despite Isaac's efforts at baiting him into a discussion about your tits, and other, less important values. 

"My pack needs someone like you" Derek presses, his hand sneaking closer, fingers brushing over your wrist, and it's as if you've been touched by fire itself. 

End this. You have to end this now. 

A sharp, cutting scoff leaves you, as you rip your hand back, crossing your arms around your chest once again. 

"So you came here to baby-trap me with a bunch of teenagers." your voice is like ice, crushing the bubble of tension between your teeth, and Derek reels back.

He's stubborn, of course. Years of constant defeat have made him desperate to get what he wants. But in this moment, looking into your cold, stinging eyes, he understands with utmost clarity, there's no going through to you. Not today, at least. And so, he steps back with a small nod, an acceptance of temporary failure, before his gaze hardens enough, to make a shiver run up your spine. 

"No" he says, with a strange sort of finality "I didn't come here for you. I came here to kill Lydia Martin."

Immediately, your mind flies to the metal baseball bat, you keep hidden in your car, and deep down inside you're glad, you haven't lost your cool completely. He soaks in the way your expression twists, into one of unbridled, righteous rage, already imagining, how your eyes would look like, burning with amber flames of werewolf powers. And what a glorious sight it would be. You were already so fierce, such a strong personality, he could only picture, what a wonderful Beta you'd be. Loyal to a fault, protective beyond control. The tough alone makes him shiver. 

As if on cue, the door to your house opens, two bodies flying out of the darkness, and you watch, with growing confusion as Erica and Isaac land on the front lawn, grunting in pain, and precariously unable to move. 

"What the f-" you murmur under your nose, and Derek seems to echo the sentiment. 

Then, much to your relief, your brother steps out onto the porch, Stiles and Allison in tow behind him. Your body reacts faster, than your brain can comprehend, your feet carrying you forward. That is, until Derek's now clawed hand, wraps around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His touch burns you, shoots through your body like an arrow. The way his thumb presses into the underside of your wrist, the ligt scrape of his claws on your skin. You must be going insane. You must be. 

For a second you're ready to whip around, and show him, why your right hook was famous throughout the whole Beacon Hills. But before you can, the window to Scott's room opens, and some strange, lizard creature crawls out, it's scales shining in the moonlight. It throws a menacing hiss in the general direction of the group, then jumps off into the darkness, leaving you confused, and maybe, just a little bit terrified. Derek hand tightens around you, tugging you back in a gesture, that would be considered protective, if you weren't struggling with an onslaugh of confusing feelings right now. 

By the time Lydia Martin exits the house, your wrist has a perfect imprint of Derek's fingers around it. 

***

Nothing fixes supernatural nonsense better, than throwing yourself into work. 

At least, that's what you tell yourself, as you swish all over the diner, serving coffee refills, hash browns, and slices of not-exactly-homemade cherry pie. White tennis shoes squeal urgently on the linoleum floor, when you finally get called over for your break. The kitchen welcomes you with the sounds of oil cracking, and the main cook throwing another crappy pick-up line your way. You've grown to appreciate them, knowing full-well he would never step out of line. It's the beauty of working in a diner, you suppose. 

Pushing the back door open, you pull out a half-empty pack of cigarettes, another habit you've picked up, while working here. First, it started as a way to relate to other workers, make yourself more social, in a way. Now however, as all addictions, it's a subconscious need, a welcome distraction from the absolute cluster fuck, that is your life. 

The air is crisp, and fresh, filled with an ever-present scent of the woods, which surround the diner on three fronts. A perfect horror setting, you think with a small laugh, as you perch yourself on a stack of cardboard boxes, leaning your head against the wall of the diner. The AC unit hums loudly above you, and you soak in the rhythmic sound, so much more calming, than the constant chaos inside. 

With a small huff, you set the timer on your phone to fifteen minutes, and finally pull out a cigarette, alongside a well-used lighter, you totally did not steal from one of your coworkers. The bombshell blonde in an American flag bikini stares at you from the plastic, as you light one up, taking a long, glorious drag, the delicate burn in your lungs grounding you.  

"These'll kill you" a familiar voice chokes the smoke out of you, and your eyes fall onto none other, but Derek Hale, approaching you with a strange sense of purpose from the tree line. 

Standing up, you throw him a glare, that doesn't look half as hostile, as you would've liked.

"I told you not to come around he-" 

The rest of the sentence gets cut off, as Derek crosses the remaining space between the two of you, kicking the cardboard boxes away, so he can fully push you into the wall. Coldness of the concrete seeps into your skin, despite the flimsy covering of your work uniform, and before you can shake off the shock, of being so close to him, he leans even further in, taking a deep breath, his nose sticking into your hair. There's a low, almost whining sound coming from him, as he exhales, and despite your general distaste for the man, your body warms up in a way, you haven't felt for a while now. 

An involuntary gasp leaves your lips, as the cigarette slips from your hand. Derek catches it in a casual display of his werewolf reflexes, and you will never admit, that it was very fucking cool. 

"The fuck are you-"

"No" he interrupts you again, causing your teeth to grind against each other in frustration "Stop this. Just stop talking." 

There's an unexplainable tension in his voice, something not entirely human creeping into the surface. Your eyes flicker up, above his shoulder, above the tree line, until it lands on the full face of the moon, staring back at you, almost taunting. Still, shouldn't he be practically immune to those things, he's supposed to be an Alpha, or whatever goofy thing he calls himself these days. 

Despite his status, Derek's eyes drop to your neck, where your pulse is picking up more and more, sprung on by the strangeness of this situation. 

You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, goosebumps erupting all across your arms, as something not entirely unpleasant twists inside your stomach. Your chest expands in a shaky breath, and suddenly you're surrounded by the smell of pine tar and smoke, mixed with something so distinctly his, it makes your head swim, just a little. 

"Derek..." his eyes snap up to your face, when his name leaves your lips, and for the first time, since you've met him, you notice just how blue his eyes are. 

They're nearly burning, glossed over with something you don't dare to decipher, as they trace a slow path down, right to your lips. 

A resounding chorus of 'What the fuck?' repeats inside your brain, when he sucks on his own bottom lip, wetting it with his tongue, as if noticing something too delicious to resist. 

Your hands find purchase on his upper arms, fingers digging into the muscles, stuck in a limbo between pushing him away, and just... Letting him.

"Just..." he starts, then cuts himself off, swallowing thickly "Just stop talking."

Now that'll be the fucking day, you think, but before you can formulate some biting response, Derek's hand travels upwards, the still burning cigarette held firmly between his pointer and middle finger. Eyes zeroing in on your mouth again, he presses the filter between your parted lips. 

"In" he says firmly, voice low, bordering on a growl, and the undertone of command tinging that single word, makes your insides melt into a puddle.

Seemingly on their own, your lips close around the filter, as you take a deep inhale, feeling the familiar burn travel through your throat, all the way to your lungs. Nicotine filters through your blood, stealing your breath away, and making your head feel so much lighter. You shouldn't have brought such strong ones, and now you're paying for it.

"Hold it" Derek murmurs, his free hand climbing up your body. 

Clawed fingers slide up the apron, teasing the white ties on your lower back. Then, without a warning, he grabs a hold of your breast, squeezing it tightly, before running his thumb over you rapidly hardening nipple. The action forces a gasp out of you, alongside a cloud of smoke, which immediately gets swallowed down by Derek, as he closes the remaining distance. His lips are hot and slightly chapped, the stubble on his chin scratching your face, as he presses even further in, his tongue diving behind your teeth with such determination, it would be a shame not to respond.

So you do. 

However confused you are, by this unexpected turn of events, you welcome him into your mouth, a small grunt of content forming at the back of your throat. Because by some strange magic, or fate, or a curse placed upon you both by a witch, it feels right. It feels like this is where you belong, where he belongs. And the realization is both exciting, and deeply terrifying. But fuck, it feels beyond good.

The moment you kiss him back, he moans. Actually moans into your mouth, his hand on your breast squeezing once again, before moving lower. You can feel the scrape of his claws on the cheap fabric of your work uniform, and you almost scold him. 

"Wha-" you manage to let out between the kisses, before he dives in again, this time focusing all his attention on your neck.

This shouldn't be happening. You hate him, he's supposed to hate you too. And yet, for the time being you can't seem to find it in yourself to push him away, because god above, he's good. He's devastatingly good. 

"Keep smoking" he growls into the pulsing vein on your neck, as he pressed the filter back to your mouth, and despite your very nature, you comply. 

Taking the cigarette into your own, trembling hand, you huff in another drag. Derek groans in approval, lips sucking hard on the spot right behind your ear. The smoke pushes past your lips with a loud moan in tow. He turns his head, just for a second, his eyes dragging across the slowly fading imprint of his hand on your wrist. The sight slows him down for just a second, and he lets his sharpened teeth scrape down the column of your neck.

Now, having freed both of his hands, he's back to your skirt, pushing the edge up, and tugging it behind your apron. He acknowledges the small, wet patch at the front of your underwear with a pleased hum, then gets back to work. First, he grabs ahold of your thigh, dangerously close to the curve of your ass, and you can't really stop your body, from angling towards him. His other hand latches itself to your other breast, giving it the same, rough treatment. Tugging, pushing, squeezing like a stress ball, your usually tense body becomes pliant in his grip

"I said, keep smoking" he throws you a warning look, and you immediately take another drag.

Satisfied with your compliance, he dives down, burying his face in between your breasts, his lips descending upon your skin with hard, wet kisses. 

The combination of his ministrations, and the nicotine flowing through your system, effectively shuts your brain off. You let your head fall back against the wall, let your legs squeeze around his knee, which had precariously found it's way in-between them. A wave of white hot arousal crashes over you, stronger than you've felt in years, and you don't know what else to do, other than grab his shoulder for balance. 

Derek murmurs something inaudible against the cleavage of your uniform, before popping the first two buttons free, and reaching into your now exposed bra, freeing your breast in a way, that is bordering on desperate. He doesn't liger there for long, however, your smoke filled breath catching, as he falls to his knees in front of you, without a warning. 

Another heated look exchanged between the two of you, and you nearly yelp, when his tongue runs a long strip across the cotton of your panties. You don't even have the common sense to be embarrassed, by the washed out marihuanna pattern, or by the fact you've been on your legs for hours, because he doesn't let you gather your thoughts. 

If anything, the broken, growling sound he makes, when he buries his face between your legs makes you feel like the most powerful person on the planet. 

"God..." he groans, his hands grabbing onto the fullness of your ass, pulling you closer to his waiting mouth, all but grinding you into him.

"God..." you echo, letting your thighs fall open, as you try to take another drag of your cigarette from your shaking hand. 

Encouraged by the breathless moans from above, Derek tugs your underwear to the side, too impatient to bother with taking it off properly. 

Cold air of the rapidly approaching evening hits you, and with it, a sudden sense of clarity washes over you, like a bucket filled with ice water. The realization of what you're doing, what you're letting him do, hits you like a freight train.

The cigarette slips from your fingers, landing on the concrete, as Derek dives in, immediately locating your clit and sucking on it with a groan, that is downright pornographic.

Your entire body shudders, knees almost giving out. Your fingers dig into the leather material of his jacket, your knuckles turning white from the force. The noises he makes, as he begins to devour you, coupled with the obscenely wet sounds, would make Satan himself blush, and you can't contain the gasping moans spilling from your lips. Derek is relentless, shifting and squirming on his knees, hands digging into your flesh in an effort to bring your closer, to drown himself in the sweetest of tastes. Your back flies off the wall, then slams against it, thundering waves of pleasure crashing through you with each movement of his tongue, his mouth. 

In your darkest, most shameful of dreams you would've never imagined Derek Hale being this good at eating out. And yet here you are, thighs clenching desperately around his head, as he brings you higher, and higher. You twist in his unrelenting grip, as the coil snaps, your mouth hanging open in a silent scream, your entire body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. His tongue fucks you through it, until you can't take it anymore, until you slam your hands onto his shoulders, ripping him away from between your legs.

Derek makes a growl of discontent, as he lands with his ass on the concrete, and you take just a second to admire his expression. The wild red, burning in his eyes, the blush covering his entire face and the tips of his ears, the obvious traces of your arousal on his chin, which he immediately licks clean. Stars slowly die down in your vision, your breathing leveling, and you notice a growing patch of wetness, staining his jeans. He looks beyond debauched, and you're certain the look is mirrored on your face, if not more so. 

"How can someone so tart, taste so sweet?" he asks, his voice rough and breaking.

You don't know. You don't know a lot of things right now, but one is certain. And it's the sound of an alarm coming from your phone, signaling the end of your break. In a daze, you tug your skirt down into place, fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. Derek watches, still seated on the ground, still occasionally licking his lips. 

"I gotta..." you whisper, not trusting your voice at all, and Derek's mout splits in a grin, that will haunt you every future night. 

He hums in acknowledgement, and you take his lack of protest in stride. The gravel crunches under your white tennis shoe, when you turn on your heel, and stumble back into the diner.

And the moon keeps laughing from above. 

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Prologue to this post

Tw: graphic descriptions of body mutilation

Player who lost their arms while working for Playtime.co

It happened in a blur. A malfunctioning conveyor belt jerked violently, pulling the Player’s arm up into several grinding gears. Without thinking you grabbed at your forearm, attempting to pull it out. Instead that hand got caught too. The world seemed to slow as you felt the sensation of cold metal bite into your flesh.

Gears continuing to turn, filing the room with the horrifying sound of your own bones snaping. By the time someone turned it off, it had mangled an entire arm along with half of your other forearm. The last thing you remember was being held up by a coworker as your body slumped over. Certain that this was it.

To Dr. Harley Sawyer, your accident wasn’t a tragedy, it was a stroke of luck. An opportunity that he couldn't help but take. He has been experimenting with mechanical body parts. But the bigger body initiative left him no time for any personal projects. Then you came along and gave him an excuse.

It was more about proving his theories than helping you. When you woke up, harsh florescent lights flooded your vision. Clueless to what has happened. He stood next to you, analyzing how your heart began to beat rapidly. The way your eyes moved rapidly across the room, focusing onto him. He made no attempts to console you, and fear turned into confusion.

★ After the dust had settled, you were asked to leave your position. It was probably for the best. The company always did its best to avoid a lawsuit, this was no exception. Plus, they gave you enough "compensation" for the accident that working wouldn't be a concern. At least for a while.

★ You still have nightmares about being pulled into those gears. For years now, you would wake up in a cold sweat. Haunted by memories of skin being ripped apart and the screams of your coworkers who could only watch. You wonder, did your coworkers ever get therapy for that? Probably not.

★ Mommy's death in particular was hard to cope with. Despite every fiber of your being telling you to look away, you watched. Pulling the lever down with a far too steady hand. Even though Mommy Long Legs was a threat to you, you still feel guilty about it.

★ The heavy machinery terrifies you. Avoiding it each opportunity you get. The sound of grinding gears, no matter how far away, always makes you flinch.

★ Sawyer remembers you. How could he forget? And he's actually happy to see you. Seeing your survival as a testament to his skills. Dr. Sawyer fantasizes about taking you apart, to analyze the wear and tear on his creation. If he gets his hands on you, he'll do just that.

[saveyourblood]

Pretty Boy - Ch 7 (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: You can feel Buck staring. When your eyes meet his, you realize he’s staring at your hand, which is still on Eddie’s knee. You slowly retreat, which makes Buck turn his attention to your face. You smile softly. He just looks out the window. The one where you’re an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6

Chapter Summary: You and Buck are officially a couple, but it isn't an easy start for either of you.

Word Count: 3k Warnings: none

It’s strange how effortless it is to go from being Buck’s best friend to his girlfriend. Maybe that’s because you’re still best friends, only now, you can make out with each other. Buck being on medical leave is kind of perfect timing, too, because none of your coworkers suspect anything. They aren’t surprised you spend most of your time at his loft. When they wonder how Buck is doing, they ask you; they know you know him best.

“Woah, hey, be careful!”

You and Buck are sitting around his table. Well, you’re sitting at the table, and he’s off to the side, sitting in one chair while another elevates his leg.

You look up at Buck and roll your eyes. “What, you’re gonna sew it back together?”

You’re holding a pair of his navy slacks and ripping apart the left pant leg.

“It doesn’t mean you had to rip them,” he chastises.

You lift up the pants, and you have to admit: it’s not your best work. It’s even, but the edges are frayed.

“Yep, looks terrible.”

“It’ll be fine!” you assure, setting them back down. “We’ll just tuck it in the top of your cast.”

You sit in an uncomfortable silence.

“Are we ever gonna talk about it?” Buck eventually asks.

You sigh. He had a follow-up appointment with the surgeon today, which wasn’t great. Granted, it could have been much worse. The fracture isn’t healing as expected, so he wants to perform another surgery. It wouldn’t be a minor surgery, either — he’d be replacing the rod and using bone grafts instead.

You lean back in your chair and cross your arms. “You already know what I think.”

You and the surgeon think Buck should wait a few more weeks before surgery. Buck, being Buck, disagrees.

“The sooner I have the surgery, the sooner I can get back to work.”

“We’re talking about your ability to walk, Buck,” you say slowly. “We’re talking about your health, your life.”

“No, being a firefighter is my life!” Buck shouts. “It is the only thing I have ever done that was important and that mattered, okay? Without that, I-I don’t have…”

His eyes are red, and his voice is breaking.

“You will still be Buck, okay?” You say, kneeling in front of him. “We’ll all still love you. There are lots of other important things that you can do with your life.”

He stares at you, then looks away and clenches his jaw. “Do you know how hard it is to watch you walk out that door every day? Leaving me behind to just sit here and stare at a wall? Knowing you get to go do the one thing I want to, but can’t?”

You press your lips together. “Buck, I’m sorry, I never thought about it-”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” he interrupts. “I-I want you to keep working. I just want to be working with you.”

You move closer, setting a hand on his face and pressing your foreheads together. “I know. I know you do.”

He reaches up to hold your wrist. The two of you stay like that for what feels like hours.

“People assume we choose this life; I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think this life chooses us.”

Everyone is gathered around foldout tables in the station loft. There are two rows: on one side sits the 118 staff, and on the other side is Eddie’s family. Bobby and Eddie stand in front of everyone.

“For those that answer the call, there can be no doubt, no equivocation,” Bobby continues. “It's not just the lives of those we serve that depend on us, but our own. The lives of our fellow firefighter and first responders. Today, we welcome a new brother into those ranks. After a year of hard work and dedication, I am proud to officially declare that your probationary period is at an end. Welcome to the Los Angeles Fire Department, Firefighter Diaz!”

The two men shake hands as everyone claps and cheers. Christopher stands up and approaches Eddie, offering him his helmet. Eddie picks Christopher up into a hug.

Something draws your eyes to Buck, who’s sitting next to you. He doesn’t see you looking, so you watch as he claps and smiles for his friend.

It’s crazy to think that Eddie’s only been in your lives for a year. In 365 days, he’s become the third closest person to you, right behind Buck and Hen. Something about him, in both a personal and professional sense, fits so perfectly into your life.

Everyone disperses to converse and get lunch from the catering table. Eddie makes his way around the small crowd. Eventually, he makes it to the table where you and Hen are sitting.

Hen pulls him into a sideways hug. “Congrats, Eddie. This is well earned.”

He thanks her and pulls her in a little tighter.

You rise out of your seat and pull him into a hug. You turn your lips to his ear in a whisper. “I’m proud of you.”

Eddie squeezes you tighter. This is the closest you’ve ever been to him. For a brief moment, the only thing between your bodies is a held breath.

You separate, but he keeps his hands on your arms. He chuckles and dips his head down.

“What?” You ask, lips curving into a confused smile.

“I’m just… I’m glad I met you.”

You smile warmly as you pat his arms. “Ditto.”

You hear some shouting and laughter. Across the loft, Buck and Chris are playing a game on the TV console. You see Christopher laugh and rest back on the couch while Buck leans forward, pointing at the screen. He gives Chris a gentle push, which makes him laugh harder.

“You two are a thing, aren’t you?”

You turn back to Eddie. You look him up and down. His hands are now buried in his front pockets, and his smile isn't as wide.

You could try faking it, but he’d call you on it in five seconds flat. “We’re that obvious, huh?”

Eddie shrugs a little. “To me, I guess.”

Your smile softens a little.

‘I’m not saying it can never happen.’ The sound of your own words keeps bouncing around your head. You essentially told this man that you could see sharing a life with him… if the timing wasn’t wrong. A strange sensation settles into your stomach. You wonder why it’s the right timing for Buck. You wonder how Eddie feels, knowing he has time to spend with you while also knowing his best friend’s time is just a few minutes sooner. You wonder if it’ll ever be Eddie’s time, and wondering this makes the feeling in your stomach more than a little bit worse.

“Well, you seem happy,” Eddie says, cutting into your thoughts. “I’m happy for you both.”

Part of you hopes he means it, and the other part sort of hopes he’s lying.

You and Buck spend the next few months growing closer. He has the second surgery, and you’re there to help him recover. For now, you’re not sharing work hours, but you’re sharing time. You’re telling your stories, and he’s telling his. Your relationship sews itself like a quilt, each day getting cozier and heavier. The extra warmth is worth the extra weight.

It’s still weird not working with him. Now that he’s going through re-certification, he at least has something to keep himself busy. Before that, he was always at his apartment when you got off work. You’ve been spending most of your free time at his place. You can’t remember the last time you spent the night at your own place; you just pop in occasionally to grab something.

You blink awake, rubbing at your eyes as you yawn. You slowly sit up, and the pleasant smell of fresh coffee greets you. You rub your eyes again, and when you open them, you see Buck standing at the top of the stairwell. He’s already dressed, and he’s holding a mug.

“Hey,” you smile. “You’re up early.”

Buck smiles back. He sits on the edge of the bed, handing you the mug. “I’m heading in now, wanna get a jump on things.”

“Today’s your final eval, right?” You ask as if you don’t already know the answer. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

“Nah, watching me pretend to save lives isn’t as important as actually saving lives.”

“Well, you’ll be done with pretending by the end of today,” you remind. “You’re gonna do great.”

He grins. “You’re just a twelve today, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back around 8 tonight,” you confirm. “I’ll make dinner! We can celebrate.”

“Sounds perfect,” Buck smiles again.

You return the expression. God, you can’t remember the last time you were this happy.

He looks at his watch. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

You nod and bite your lip to hold back a massive grin.

Buck springs to his feet. He kisses you on the forehead before trotting down the stairs. “Love ya!”

Before you can say anything, the front door opens and closes. He’s gone.

“It was just… weird,” you say, tapping your finger against the steering wheel. “I mean, we’ve implied it, but we’ve never said it, you know?”

You’re chatting with Hen in the rig. You’re on your way to a scene call, but it’ll be a few minutes before you arrive.

She figured out you and Buck were dating a few days after it started. Hen’s always been able to read you like a book, so you didn’t even try to deny it. Truthfully, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. The only other person on the team that knows is Eddie, and you’re friends, but not kind of friends. Talking to Eddie about Buck would feel like talking behind Buck’s back.

“So you said it back?” Hen asks.

“He was gone before I could.”

“Do you want to say it back?”

You sigh. “I mean, I kind of feel like I don’t even have to. He knows I love him. He has to know. …Right?”

Hen shrugs. “Just because he knows doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell him. He might need to hear it, even if he knows.”

You pull up to the scene, and it effectively ends the conversation. A car ran through a crowd of pedestrians using the crosswalk and T-boned another car. Once you’re out of the rig, Bobby assigns you and Hen to the most critical pedestrian while Chimney and Eddie check on the driver.

“Hey there,” you greet, grabbing a C-collar from your bag. “What’s your name?”

“Shannon,” the woman musters. Her lips are pale and her voice is raspy.

“Hi Shannon, my friend Hen and I are going to look you over, okay?" You say as you start an IV. "Where does it hurt?”

“Nowhere,” she answers. “That can’t be good, right?”

“You’re in shock; we won’t know the extent of your injuries until we get you to the hospital,” you assure. “Can you wiggle your toes for me?”

You look down at her feet. They aren’t moving.

You place your hands in hers. “Can you squeeze my hands?”

Her hands sit limply in yours.

“I’m not doing anything, am I?” Shannon asks. She shakes her head as much as the collar will allow. “That’s bad. My husband, he’s a paramedic. He’s said that people with severe spinal cord injuries either die or probably wish they were dead.”

“No one’s dying, you hear me, Shannon?” You say, squeezing her hand, even if she can’t feel it.

Shannon. Her husband is a paramedic.

“Eddie,” you whisper before whipping your head around.

He’s already barreling towards the three of you. You stand up, taking a few quick steps forward. You place a hand on his chest to stop him from moving closer.

“Eddie, let me handle this,” you say in a low voice.

“How bad is it?” he asks, staring at his wife. “Spinal injury?”

“Maybe worse.”

Eddie pushes past you and kneels beside Shannon.

“Vitals are trending downward,” Hen says as she pulls her stethoscope from her ears.

“We need to get her out of here, now!” You order, ushering in some paramedics and EMTs.

Eddie stands by and watches as you and some other first responders transfer her onto a backboard and gurney. He then follows you and Hen as you load her into the rig.

“I’m riding with her,” he says, leaving no room for argument.

You turn to him, pressing your lips together. “Eddie, it looks like a cervical spine injury. We’ll probably have to intubate her. If we do that, there’s a good chance it’ll never come out.”

Tears form in his eyes. His jaw sets. He nods slightly.

“You need to say goodbye,” you whisper.

You end up intubating her in the ambulance. When you’re hitting the ER, her heart stops, and you begin chest compressions. They code her for about half an hour before Eddie says enough is enough. They call her time of death. Eddie goes to fill out paperwork while you pace around the waiting room.

He comes out a little while later, holding a plastic bag full of Shannon’s belongings. You stop dead in your tracks and just stare at him.

You rub your hands up and down your thighs. “Eddie, I’m so-”

Eddie pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. You return it in full force.

You open the door to Buck’s apartment. He’s in the kitchen with his back facing you. A bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice on the island. You hear a sizzling sound and watch his arms move. You close the door a little louder than normal.

“Hey, you’re home!” Buck says after he turns around. He’s holding a skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, dropping your bag and jacket on the floor by the front door. “I thought I was supposed to cook.”

“Well, since you were running behind, I figured I’d get a jump on things,” Buck says.

You smile. Even though it doesn’t feel genuine, you hope it looks it. “So you passed, huh?”

“In record time,” Buck adds, returning to his cooking. “Cap should clear me in no time.”

You kick off your shoes and take a seat at the kitchen island. “I’m proud of you. …I love you.”

Buck stops what he’s doing. He turns to face you again, a puzzled look on his face.

“You said it this morning, on your way out,” you say. “I say it in a lot of different ways, but I realized I never told you directly. So… I love you. I need you to know that.”

Buck folds his hands together and leans on the island. “Did something happen at work?”

You smile sadly. “Yeah. Uh… you know Shannon?”

“Eddie’s wife?”

You nod. “She got hit by a car when she was walking in a crosswalk — C-spine injury. We had to tube her in the ambulance. She coded and died in the ER.”

Buck takes his hands in yours. “Are you okay?”

Tears start to form, but you quickly blink them away. They aren’t yours to shed. “I’m fine. I mean, I was just doing my job.”

“How’s Eddie?”

You clear your throat. “Um, about as well as can be expected, I guess? He kind of just… took off. I called him a few times, and he texted me back saying he’s at home with Christopher.”

“That poor kid,” Buck mutters.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, playing with his fingers. “Life is short, so… I just needed to know that you know.”

Buck smiles softly. “I know.”

He begins to cough.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

He steps away, waving a hand as if to tell you he’s fine. He cups the other as he coughs into it.

“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” you say, already standing to go to the cupboard.

Buck puts his free hand on your shoulder, stopping you. When he pulls back his hand, it’s spattered with blood. Your eyes widen as you look up at him.

“Buck?” you ask, setting a hand on his waist.

He starts coughing again, but this time, a flood of dark red blood flows out of his mouth and down his chin. He stumbles backward.

“Evan?!” you shout, helping him to the floor.

“You got lucky. Most people who suffer a pulmonary embolism aren’t in the same room as a medical professional. It saved your life.”

You’re sitting beside Buck, who’s lying in an ICU bed for the second time this year. You keep his hand in yours, your thumb gently rubbing the back of his hand.

“What caused the blood clot?” you ask.

“Clots, plural. There's the one that hit his lungs, and then there's two more in his leg,” The doctor explains. “As to the cause? It's unclear.”

“Yeah, but he just got a clean bill of health last week,” you argue. “This came out of nowhere.”

“Did it?” The doctor counters. He looks at Buck. “No pain or tenderness in the leg? Any skin discoloration, swelling?”

“...I thought I just pulled a muscle or something.”

You run your free hand over your face.

“Okay, um, well, great. Look, I'm not dead. You found the clots. When can I get out of here?” Buck asks.

“We'll move you to a room and keep you on the anticoagulants. Tomorrow, we'll run some more tests. And then we'll see.”

You thank the doctor for his time, and he dismisses himself from the room. You stare at Buck.

“I wasn’t ignoring this,” he says slowly.

“When did the symptoms start?”

“...A day or two ago.”

You stand out of your chair. “Dammit, Buck.”

“I didn’t know what it was,” he argues. “I thought it was a leg cramp or something.”

You start pacing. “If this happened when you were alone, you could have died.”

“But I-I didn't, okay?” Buck says. “Can… can you just sit down again? Please?”

After a moment, you sigh but ultimately listen to him. You take his hand again, this time with both of yours.

“The last time you were in the hospital, I told you I was scared of losing you. I hope I don’t have to repeat myself,” you say quietly.

“You don’t,” Buck assures. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ch 8

[anaburbononburbon]

It Takes a Team

P1, P2

141 x reader

18+, MDNI

Smutsmutsmutsmut

-

The world was underwater until a familiar tone rang in the air. The TV stating mindless matter, the timer reminding you to check the citrus chicken roasting in a bed of carrots, potatoes, and onions. The never-ending pulsing between your legs, for no reason other than you were a degenerate, all ceased when you heard the best ringtone in the world. The only ringtone that mattered to you:

Johnny.

Your Johnny.

Your hands fumbled, still slippery from the dish water that hounded you to finish them and to not leave them like you normally do. It didn't matter though.

Johnny was calling you.

"Hi, baby!" You chirped out, excited and eager to get any morsel of him that you could get.

It wasn't enough. It was never enough, but you would never complain.

"Hi, hen." Johnny whispered, his voice thick, deep, Scottish brogue infiltrating your mind and settling into your bones. You knew he was on base and probably wasn't suppose to talk, so you took this for what it was:

Love. Dedication. Devotion.

Same as you felt for Johnny.

"How are you? Will you be home tonight?" You were hopeful, probably too hopeful but it didn't matter. If you had any chance on getting him home, you would do it. You would take it and thank the heavens after.

Maybe you could convince him to eat his dinner as you sit between his legs and stuff your throat full. Show him the only way you know how to thank him for taking such good care of you. For loving you. For never judging you. Let him get his fill as you got yours.

Your mouth instantly watered just at the mere thought of him. His smell. His salty taste. The taste of his flesh and the moans you could pull from deep within him.

Your body ignited, you squeezed your thighs as your cunt ached, leveraging yourself against a counter corner so the edge could rub against your needy clit.

There was something deeply wrong with you, but Johnny never made you feel that way. Johnny accepted you wholeheartedly. Johnny was your saint, even if he wasn't always very saint-like.

It didn't matter to you. You would defend Johnny with your life, with your whole being.

"Yeah, bonnie, I'll be home. Later though. I have instructions that I need you to follow, okay?" You couldn't stop the gasp that left your lips, or the way your hips rocked harder as your thoughts spread aimlessly.

Johnny wanted you to follow instructions. Of course you would listen. Your Johnny needed you like you needed Johnny. Johnny love. Perfect love.

You opened your mouth to speak but his chuckled had beaten you to it, immediately catching you in your desperate act.

"You touching yourself already, bonnie? Hm? I haven't even said anything." A whine ripped itself from you, his voice mocking you and patronizing you like you were a silly thing that couldn't handle yourself around him.

And maybe because it was true, it made you that much more pathetic. Needy. Desperate. Johnny owned you mind and soul and you couldn't stop him even if you tried.

"I'm-I can't help it, Johnny. You know your voice, you know how badly it turns me on!" Whimpering as you finally stop moving your hips, focusing on his laugh and dramatic sigh.

"Oh, hen, what am I going to do with you? Hm?" You felt heat raise and eclipse you entirely before you giggled yourself.

"Tell me what I need to do, Johnny, please." You begged, heart racing with ideas that he may ask of you.

And oh...he'd asked the best from you. Johnny knew it too. The smiles from his team that surrounded him as he whispered the plan to you. Perhaps leaving out who would all be gorging on your flesh but it wouldn't matter for long. You had your instructions and you would follow them to the letter.

-

Midnight is when Johnny arrived home, just like he told you. A few other people in tow, but you would be none the wiser. The apartment was clean, the smell of citrus and roasted poultry lingering in the air. A vanilla candle that had been recently blown out, still leaving behind its tantalizing scent. The bedroom emulated a warm glow, and Johnny knew exactly what he would find.

He drooled as he eagerly watched each of his team take you in for the first time.

They knew you as Johnny's lass. Sweet girl. Happy to make them sweet treats and always offered to pick them up from late night pub crawls. You were kind. You made jokes and never made anyone feel like they were too much or not enough. You had even won over Simon the second outing you were on. You didn't question his mask, his intense eyes or lack of words. You gave him a warm smile and kept moving as if there was nothing out of place.

But this? They've never seen you like this before. They've never seen you in your element. As Johnny's perfect slut.

A blind fold and headphones covered your ears, taking away two of your senses and making you depend on the man before you. You were obedient and thorough. There was no way you could hear or see and it was perfect on you. It made Price want to kiss you for being so good. For listening. For being the best little plaything that they could ask for.

Your mouth was held open by a gag ring. Perfect size for Kyle to slip his cock in and fuck your throat. Smear the drool that covered your chin and throat until he was nice and slick. He smiled wide, looking at your bound feet and hand, spread eagle across the comforter as your free hand held the handcuff diligently. Desperate to be fully tied up, but unable to do it yourself.

Absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful in every way.

Simon wanted to rip the lace off of your body. The black matching set that covered your tits and puffy nipples from his gaze. Your panties that did nothing to hide your bush or the slick that rolled down your thighs. Simon couldn't help but groan, the scent of your cunt taking him hostage, begging for him to have a taste. To feast on your flesh until he's had his fill.

Johnny was pleased. Beyond pleased with you, hen. He couldn't believe his luck, how good you were for him. He walked to your free hand and quickly cuffed it up, leaving you at his mercy.

At their mercy.

You moaned, body wiggling as you realized he was home. That he was here and wanted you as badly as you wanted him.

Johnny didn't make you wait, not for long. His finger expertly finding your nipple and pulling on it, twisting it until it pebbled up and flicking it meanly. Your body jumped, a sharp noise escaped your throat but your hips rocked, desperately trying to find some release that would be impossible to find. Not right this second.

Not when there's so much fun to be had.

Johnny moved from your breasts, tracing his fingers over your flesh. Your belly. Snapping your panties against your skin until he pulled them tightly against your clit, letting the fabric grind against you, stimulating your poor little bud.

Johnny felt like he was in heaven. Top of the world. He watched his teammates, the men who he would kill for instantly, who would do the same for him without question. Men who he trusted with everything he's ever had, maybe now he felt a little ridiculous realizing that should have always been able to trust them with you too.

But now isn't the time for regrets.

Especially when he's pulled your soaked panties to the side, letting the cold air hit your flesh, exposing your wet hole, puffy lips, hardened clit and rampant desire to the men who will help him out with his perfect little lass.

Kyle groaned.

He watched you wink your holes at him. Flex that little cunt between your legs, almost as if you were begging him to shove his cock head in you and have you milk him. He could feel your heat, feel her practically begging him to fill her up and split her open.

Kyle groaned again, squeezing his dick before ripping off his shirt and quickly removing his pants. The air felt amazing against his heated skin, but it did nothing to calm him down. He stood there, panting over your cunt, a rough hand tugging his cock as he watched you clench for him over and over and over and over and over again.

Simon smiled at Johnny, eager for him to unveil his secret to the lass beneath them. Watch your face as you cycle through your most intense emotions. Anger. Fear. Horror. Arousal. And then, finally, acceptance.

If not, the three of them would take turns licking deep within your holes until you agreed with their plan.

Fool proof.

Johnny looked back at Price, his hands close to undoing your blindfold and headphones, finally letting you see what the plan is for you.

Price waited a moment, dipping his head down to your soft pussy and dramatically inhaling your warm scent. His eyes almost rolled in the back of his head. His mouth watered, wishing he could just get a quick taste of you.

Maybe if you fought against them, they would get lucky.

Price nodded towards Johnny, sitting up so your cunt wasn't inches from his face anymore. The heavy scent on you still dancing on his tastebuds and the promise of you soothing the beast within him.

Johnny waits a moment, looking at the guys. Watching Kyle stroke his cock, spitting on his hand and going back to hard, weeping length, his eyes focused on your pretty cunt. Price squeezing his cock methodically while he calmed down, and Simon who decided that it was a good time to start taking off his own clothes. Starting with his shirt, leaving his black cargo pants on and his soft black balaclava. Even if no one could see his face, it was impossible to ignore how his body trembled, his muscles twitched or how his eyes glazed over - hungry, wanting, demanding.

Johnny quickly sent out a prayer for good luck and began removing your headphones.

-

Blood rushing into your ears, the heat of the headphones off of your head and the sound of a slight moan and the slick noise of Johnny rubbing his cock filtered in immediately. Something felt...off though.

That was Johnny, right?

Your blindfold was tugged until it fell down your face and you could finally see Johnny. Your beautiful, handsome man. A tired smile laced his lips and you suddenly felt so guilty for your boyfriend.

He's tired and still taking care of you. Selfish. You wished you would have realized and told him no.

Movement caught you from the corner of your eye and a horrified scream left you before you could stop it.

Kyle. Your boyfriends friend. His teammate.

Naked.

Stroking his-

God, that was fucking big.

Perhaps longer than Johnny's, slightly less girth, but a beautiful curve, making it a perfect dick to deep throat-

Stop.

You were horrified by your thoughts. How dare you think about that when Johnny is right here. When Johnny treats you so right. When Johnny-

You realized John, John Price, Johnny's Captain, was standing right by Kyle, his hand rubbing his impressive bulge and staring at your exposed cunt.

You tried to pull your legs closed, you tried to hide away your pulsing, leaking, sopping wet pussy but the handcuffs kept you spread and exposed.

You whimpered, still unable to speak through the gag that held your mouth open until you realized who was standing on the other side of Price:

Ghost.

Simon.

Johnny's best friend.

And someone you, guilty, regrettably, had dark fantasies about.

It was wrong.

You shouldn't.

But late nights, long deployments, you thought about Johnny but you also thought about the big man with a dry sense of humor and thick fingers that would spear you open if you begged prettily enough.

Oh, God.

Johnny knows.

He knows, right?

About your sick thoughts. Dirty fantasies. Raging wet pussy.

He was showing you that these men wouldn't want you. Teasing you. Giving you false hope before breaking up with you. Wasn't Johnny enough?

Tears fell down your face and Johnny's heart broke.

"Nonononono, sweet lass. Please don't cry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have- I have asked first. This was so stupid of me." Johnny was so sweet. Brushing your hair from your eyes. Placing little kisses across your face and licking up your tears. His hands frantically undid the cuffs around your wrists before his words started making sense.

You didn't notice how Kyle stopped stroking, looking over at his Captain with sorrow in his eyes, or Simon, who hurriedly threw on his shirt or Prices hands, staying by his side.

You only noticed that Johnny's eyes welled up with his own tears and you could almost hear his heart shatter.

"Johnny? What do you mean by 'ask me first'?" You croaked out after he removed the gag and held a bottle of water to your lips. His shoulders fell, guilt racked his being and you were more confused than ever.

"I...I've been having issues with keeping up, lass. Just recently. I love having sex with you, don't get me wrong. I feel so close. I feel so loved. But - I just can't. I'm so sorry, pretty girl. I'm so sorry." Johnny gathered you in his arms, almost crying into your breasts. His body shook but your hands massaged where you could grab, trying to comfort your love.

"Why, um, why are the guys here, Johnny?" You whispered, heat rising to your face, eclipsing your entire upper torso. You felt so exposed, but you could see how the guys felt ashamed, refusing to look at you but refusing to move.

Price didn't look at you, but he answered in lieu of Johnny.

"Gonna help him with his problem, pet. Figured maybe if we all chipped in, Johnny could get some rest." You could feel your face melt. All of your thoughts. Your fantasies.

At your fingertips.

Johnny sniffled, looking up at you before he stopped breathing.

He knew that look. The way your eyes darted. Your teeth digging into your lip.

Hope simmered in his chest and he could feel his cock stirring.

"Would you like that, hen? Like if the guys take turns and ruined your little holes?" You couldn't look at Johnny, or the guys. Your eyes were stuck on a cobweb in the corner of the room. Your heart pounding-

Like your cunt could be. Johnny watching in the corner. You choking on Kyle, Price and Ghost taking turns using your pussy -

"Johnny. That's enough." Ghosts voice commanded, rough and done with this plan.

But he saw you.

He saw you shiver.

And suddenly-

"Unless you don't want him to stop, pet. That it?" Johnny's smile widen, sharp teeth gleaming off the light as he saw you try to justify why you didn't want that. Of course you didn't want that.

Unless -

"Kyle, get over here." Kyle's eyes widen, looking over at Price, who gave a short nod in approval before following Johnny's request. He felt exposed, and absolutely embarrassed, being naked in front of you, when you clearly didn't want him.

Unless...

"Look at him, bonnie. Tore off his clothes as soon as he saw you. Couldn't even keep his hands to himself. He was standing there, watching your pretty pussy clench and throb, leaking all over the fuckin bed, and all Kyle could do was pump that cock of his." Kyle should be mortified. He should reel back, smack Johnny one good one, demand that he apologize to you.

But-

Your eyes glazed over and they locked with his soften dick.

He could feel his blood starting to flow back while you watched. While your tongue swiped your bottom lip. As your fingertips danced over your chest before grabbing your nipples and twisting.

Kyle's breath hitched.

Naughty, naughty, naughty girl.

"You're so gorgeous, princess. No way I could keep my hands to myself. Had to keep em busy. Look at you." Your eyes snapped back to Kyle's, your face heating from his sweet coos and soft words.

"What do you want, baby? Hm? You think about Kyle?" You melted into Johnny, his prying dipped in syrup and molded into your skin. Johnny maneuvered you, climbing behind you so your back could rest against his chest. So you could feel how hard his dick was, how much he wanted you to have this. You still asked though, just to be sure. To be safe.

"You sure?" Soft, still, words of trust between two lovers. Johnny smiled, lightly kissing your neck.

"Of course, my love. I want to hear it all. Let them hear it all."

You broke.

"I think about them all. I-I don't mean to. It was a dream I had and, ever since then, I just couldn't stop. I still can't stop. Sometimes, when I ask you to mess around on base, I keep hoping that one of them would show. Would blackmail you into letting them fuck me." Your eyes lowered, shame filling you until you heard laughter.

John.

His hand running across his beard, his crowsfeet etched into his face and his soul, if he had a soul, was a thousand times lighter.

Simon wasn't as guilt free, but he didn't leave, and that was enough.

"Hmm...some good ideas there, bon." Johnny whispered into your hair before giving you a kiss.

"Can-can I suck your cock, Kyle?" Kyle groaned, nodding quickly. The way you moved to get closer, your mouth dropping and tongue rolling out like he had the best treat for you erupted through him, hardening further until it hurt to breath.

The taste of him was a perfect blend of Kyle. Soap. Musk. Earth and a bit of his cologne that you couldn't get enough of.

Your moan was loud, almost painful sounding but Johnny knew that sound. Your needy - want more, need more, demand more - before you shoved your own head down his length, trying to not gag as his cock entered your throat. You could feel your stretch of your lips, your throat, your tongue lapping at what it could touch. Pulling off with a audible slurp and your giggle filled the air.

"So good, Ky. So big. You fit so well." You barely started but your voice was raspy and both men on the other side of the room groaned. Kyle laughed, keeping his hands behind his back like a good boy until you told him to move.

So sweet.

You peered back at Johnny, his pupils blown out, eyes dark and hazy and his lips red and swollen from biting them.

He looked so sinful, your perfect man.

"Do you think the others would stand by me and jerk off?" You whispered to him, still under the assumption that this is just a dream, and you would do anything to make sure it didn't end by your hand.

"Ask us yourself, pet." John's voice boomed, his pants long gone and his boxers were the only thing between you and his cock.

Tease.

Simon was no better.

Now more relaxed, especially after hearing your confession and watching you gag yourself on Kyle's dick, his shirt came back off and his hands massaged himself through his pants.

Sinful.

All these men were downright sinful and you loved it.

"Please, would you please come over here and stroke yourselves by me?" You didn't wait for a response, you didn't hear them groan or walk over or remove enough clothing to pull their angry, leaking, heavy cocks out and begin to pull on them for you.

You immediately went back to shoving Pretty Boys dick in your throat.

Your eyes locked together, and you refused to budge. Your eyes watered, tears streaming down your cheeks and you fell deeper and deeper into your preferred hazy state. The one that makes you want to cockwarm Johnny in your throat for hours. The kind that makes you beg Johnny to fuck you more and more and harder and harder and-

You pull up for air, strings of saliva connecting you and Kyle together. You make it a point to suck them back to your mouth, drawing you to his cock head. He was a beautiful sight, dark and red, precum dripping from him like he was a facet that someone forgot to turn off.

You couldn't help yourself.

Your tongue ran over the slit, bringing you to the source, dragging moans and whimpers Kyle like it almost hurt him.

Glancing at his face, you could tell that it did not.

Hearing Price and Simon, both vocal as their hands work their cocks to the picture of you making love to Kyle's cock, drew you further into your abyss.

Feeling Johnny behind you.

Kyle in your throat.

Simon and John watching you, telling you how good you were doing, how beautiful you are and-

Home.

You were home.

"Fuck my throat, Ky. Please. Right now." You begged, your voice thick and wet. Now you sounded like you were in pain. Like if Kyle didn't fuck your face, you would die.

Maybe you would. Kyle wouldn't let that happen though.

"Yeah? You sure, baby? Want me to fuck that perfect throat of yours?" Kyle slurred, face warm, body heavy and his arms almost refused to work.

Almost.

"Please please please please-" Kyle put you out of your misery, sweet girl. He grabbed the back of your head and worked his aching cock in your mouth until your nose pressed against the dark curls at the base. He held you there. Letting you cry around him. Letting you swallow, letting you work your throat over his length.

He had to throw his head back. He had to cry.

Fuck, you were so fucking good. So warm, so tight, so eager. So perfect.

Perfect. You were fucking perfect.

You let him pull back and you let him slam in. You let him take his dick out and you happily lapped at his balls, swollen and tight against his body, showing you his last party trick.

You suckled, slurping one, then both of them into your mouth. Rolling them around. Humming softly as he snapped his teeth together.

Before he came, he used your throat again. One hand on your head, one hand around the back of your neck and he pounded you like he hated you. Like this was your punishment for never telling Johnny this is what you wanted. That you deserved to drool over his dick, down your chin and all over your tits.

Fuck, you were perfect.

"I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum all over you. You're fucking mine, you hear that? You fuckin belong to us and I'm going to remind you. I'm going to mark you. I'm going-fuck!" Kyle pulls out and ropes of hot cum spray across your face, over your lips, your chin, your lashes, your tits, your stomach -

Kyle is still cumming and he crawled on you, pinning you back on Johnny, he aims for your cunt, glistening in the warm light. Kyle is still cumming and he's cumming all over your sopping wet pussy and before he's done, Kyle sinks his still cumming dick into your wet, tight heat.

You squeal.

As much as you can with your voice almost gone and your whole face covered in his spend.

It was involuntary. The way your pussy clenched over his pulsing cock, still marking you, claiming you, owning you.

His cock was perfect inside of you. He was nuzzled up to your cervix. His curls pressed roughly against your hard little clit and each roll of his body brought you higher and higher.

Kyle's crying.

Beautiful face covered in sweat and tears as his cock finally stops cumming, deep inside your pussy. He worries he hurt you, that you weren't ready, but he barely moves and he feels your soft walls rippling over him. A little jiggle of his hips and you gasp.

Kyle doesn't move. He stays above you, stays in you. Works on calming his breathing before pulling out and watching his cum leak from your cunt.

You moan, feeling it leave you and you felt empty inside.

"Push it in. Keep it in me. Please." You whisper, satiated when Kyle dug his cum from your cunt and fed some to you. You moaned around his fingers, thanking him when he was done.

Kyle laughed, legs shaking as he crawled off you and found a chair to sit on.

Johnny decided to be nice to you, and feed you the cooling cum from your face.

After you caught your breath, got a sip of water and a sweet forehead kiss, John crawled between your thighs and watched as your cunt clenched for him.

You thought he would thrust into you like Kyle did, you thought you would feel the weight of his cock stretching your walls out but-

He buried his face between your thighs and ate like it was his last meal.

You couldn't stop your sobs, your wiggles, your hips that tried to get closer to his mouth and then as far away as you could.

John didn't let you. Of course he didn't let you. He held you down, suckled on your fat, pulsing little clit. Drinking it like a thick milkshake. Slurping on it like you did with Kyle.

You almost screamed.

John pulled back, smiling before spitting directly on it. Watching it as it slowly rolled down, over your hole and to your puckered little star that John needed to work open.

Simon wouldn't be able to. Not as on edge as he was.

John began rubbing his thumb over your clit, a finger sinking into your heat and his tongue lapping at your hole.

Johnny had to hold you down as John enjoyed his meal.

And enjoyed his meal, he did.

Occasionally would plunge his tongue into your cunt, letting you soak him with a mix of yours and Kyle's cum. Other times, he would pull your clit in his mouth, lap at it like a thirsty dog but he mainly tongue fucked your ass, getting you relaxed for his fingers.

Johnny told them about your sex life. You weren't a virgin. But John didn't care. You were theirs and they took care of what was theirs.

Eventually, you took one finger, and then two fingers, and he slipped his pinky in with the fourth and you wailed, cumming hard and long with his fingers in your ass and thumb on your clit.

He gave it a few taps, keeping your orgasm going, letting it stretch on and on as molten lava poured from you.

John was mean sometimes.

Like right after, still feeling you weakly pulse against his fingers before he dipped his head back down so he could put his mouth to your cunt and suck up all the juices that leaked from you. Feeling you shutter. Hearing you moan.

Sometimes, John was nice.

Like giving you soft little kisses around your pulsing core, fingers still stuffed in your ass and one last little peck on your sensitive clit.

Seeing your face after he was done was enough to make him cum on the spot.

Eyes rolled back.

Drool over your chin.

Skin heated from his feast.

All glossy from sweat and tears.

So beautiful. So perfect. Entirely his.

"Gonna fuck this cunt of yours, okay, pet? Let me fuck this cunt and cum in your ass so Simon can fuck it, olright?" You barely nodded, but a drunk giggle escaped you and that sealed your fate.

John slowly sank in. Your heat sucking him in even further until he was pressed tightly against you, his bush scraping against your sensitive clit and your body unable to stop pulsing against him.

It was madness.

John used you like a fleshlight. Sawing himself in and out of your cunt. Hearing you squelch and feeling you drip down his balls. Sometimes, he wouldn't thrust. Just sink himself in until he couldn't, and hump you like that. You scream as you gushed over him, soaking his cock matting his hair down.

John didn't stop. He focused on finding your perfect spot before your bunched up eyebrows and broken moan let him know that he did just that.

He tormented you.

Milking that spot over and over again until your body tightened and John slipped his fingers down to your clit and squeezed.

You almost blacked out.

Your scream was brutal, horrifying to any strangers that may have walked by. Your slick gushed out of you in waves. John laughed, picking up speed before pulling out and pressing his cock head to your loosened hole. He barely pushed in, enough to pop the head inside, and came.

His loud moans filled the air, his cock pulsed and jerked as he relaxed on his knees and let himself fill you up.

John looked beautiful. Sweat soaked skin. Chest hair glistening from fucking you. His beard matted down from your slick. All the tension removed from his body and his big, hard cock hanging after he pulled out.

There's was a moment of silence, of breathing, of making sure you were okay and John didn't hurt you.

No, of course he didn't. It was perfect.

Your feet were removed from the cuffs and your legs were pulled up until your knees were by your head, held there by Johnny, who couldn't look prouder at how well you were taking them.

Someone big moved on the bed, demanding attention with his sheer size alone.

With John, you didn't get to see his size, but with Simon, you almost wished you didn't.

His fucking cock had to be the size of your forearm. Was it even real? Would it bite you? He's expecting it to go where?!

He chuckled as your eyes removed locked on his shaft. He let you soak it in, even stroking it so you could see how it hanged and throbbed in the air.

"Need your mouth." He grunted out, pulling his cock to release some pre, letting his shine off his head. Your mouth immediately opened, moaning as his salty taste clouded your senses and, like with Kyle, you to work on throating his cock.

Unlike Kyle, your throat and mouth ached and you couldn't get him half way until you started gagging and choking.

Simon gave you some breathing room and used his hand to spread around your spit, not forcing you to take the whole thing. Not right now...

Simon got back between your thighs, making sure Johnny held your knees tightly before he began to push and the world fuzzed out. You had never been so stretched, so full, so beautifully ripped open and feasted upon.

But here you were. Struggling to take your boyfriends teammate cock in your ass as your boyfriend held you and whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

It took some time, slowly working his shaft in and out of your hole before he was able to sink his entire length in.

And fuck, was it heaven.

You were heaven.

And absolutely on cloud 9. Simon's cries, his whimpers, the incredible stretch he gave you, all loosened up by John's mouth and his cum. Being held by the love of your life.

Simon could hardly pull out to push back in before you were cumming again.

And then you blacked out.

-

It took a minute to bring you back online. Thoughts were scattered. Eyes swollen shut. Your body covered in warmth. Someone's lips pressed to your head as a towel gently cleaned you off.

Bathroom.

You were in a bathroom.

Longer than necessary, but eventually, you realized that you were in the tub with Johnny behind you, holding you, loving on you as he cleaned you.

And you cried.

You sobbed.

You thanked him over and over for such a wonderful night. You couldn't stop telling him how much you loved him, how much you loved everyone. How thankful you were.

Johnny laughed, rinsing the cream from your hair before draining the tub.

"That was okay for you, bonnie? You promise?" You nodded quickly, a dopey smile crossing your lips.

"Perfect. Just perfect."

With the bed made with fresh sheets, warm food in your belly and surrounded by the best men you knew and loved, you fell deeply into sleep, feeling of love and happiness.

And, if that next morning everyone decides to make a plan on which man fucks you and when, well, that was your business. Like its been said -

It takes a team.

- - - -

Done! I'm sorry this took so long. Omg. I'm terrible at smut. But I loved doing a part 2! I'm so happy others liked the first part. Hopefully this is okay!

Shout out to @gazstations for letting me ramble this idea. Always coming in with banging ideas. I appreciate it more than words can say!!!

Take care😊

-

P1, P2

[ara-the-great]

Savage Kisses

Tw: slightly mentions of gore(?)

(This was originally a snippet from a story I was writing. So i thought why not turn it into Sylus fic.)

You remember when you first realised how much physically stronger Sylus was than you. Of course you knew he was strong but it hadn't really crossed your mind to compare his strength to yours since he was always controlling his strength around you. You didn't know what you expected when he had handed you the package. You had pestered him to let you help him carry the boxes and with much hesitation he had agreed. you had considered youself strong- at least stronger than the ladies your age- and seeing Sylus lift the boxes with ease made you sure that you could help speed along the process. What you didn't consider was the actual weight of the boxes. They were much heavier than they looked - than Sylus had let on. You nearly stumbled trying to pick one of the boxes up.

"Are you sure you want to do this sweetie? I would want you to break your back, at least not like this" Sylus 's brow had furrowed and his brown eyes gleaming with worry and mischief while his hands carried two boxes with ease. He didn't even break a sweat.

Your eyes had strayed to his arms peaking from underneath his folded sleeves. And only one word thing crossed your mind- strength.

And that's all you could think of now. Snug in those very same arms. He held you with such tenderness that it shook you. You wanted more. You wanted wanted to be closer to him, even though you was flush against his body. You could feel each cord of muscle running through him, winding around his bones like the roots of an ancient tree. They were warm, they were close but both of them seeked more. While Sylus feared that he might mistakenly hurt you- treating you like a rose made of thin iridecent frost, you wanted nothing more than to let Sylus rip into you chest and take his place beside you beating heart. You could feel his heart mirroring yous -hammering in his chest right beneath you palms. Just a bit more and you could hold it in you hands. A little more and sh-

"Y/N" with the tender call of you name you looked up at him. He was nothing but tender love and adoration at that moment yet when you looked at him, he looked as if he himself would break apart in the way he restrained himself. They were close enough to feel the the other one's breath fan across thier face. Like some heady drug their heads were dazed, nothing but instinct guiding them on.

As his eyes flickered to you lips, you leaned forward capturing his lips with you own. Urging him silently to let go of his restraints and control. To lose himself. And following you command he did. Like a man dying of thirst, he drank down every single bit of you. The desperation in the way he held you was clear as day. From the way he cradled the back of you head to the way he pull you impossibly close by you lower back. Both of them would either be incapable of feeling or lying to themselves if they had not felt how their veins seemed to be carrying molten lava along it. How each of them has no thoughts in their head except for the other. How all they now felt was the spark from eachothers skin. He swallowed each and every sound you had relinquished to him and heeded every tug you gave. They were a formidable clash of tongue and teeth. Fighting- no, dancing in unison.

you had steadied yourself by grasping his arms, your nails digging in to them in the process. But that didn't deter him, instead it ushered him further, just like you intended. You wanted to consume him whole and you intended to let him do the same.

"Sylus " you called out breathlessly, breaking off the kiss which felt nothing short of being electrocuted and drowned at the same time. You peered up at his eyes, dark, unmoving from you own. It felt like that little tint of red he had in his eyes was swallowed up entirely by darkness- by need. He leaned closer again but instead of you lips he set a kiss on you forehead. You whispered a silent prayer to the heavens for you knew you would not survive long if this man were to love you. Though you was athletic, you heart had never beat so fast. It felt as if it would explode to a million pieces Infront of him.

"You terrify me." He whispered his confession breathlessly by pressing his forehead on yous. "I have never felt so much, and yet felt so helpless. You terrify me Y/N . I fear I become nothing short of a beast at your command. You have my heart in one hand and my mind on the other. You have shaken me to my core. And you have made me loose any sense of sanity for all my thoughts are filled with you.... Look what have you done to me" he bought up a shaking hand to you fluyoud cheeks to caress it. "Y/n what have you done to me?" He smiled