#and the cage of bone thing is just what the thing is

[marvelseries19]

STILL HERE

Chapter Three - Castaway

Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: Time has passed. You've survived, learned how to get food and water, keep warm, and even made a friend, but at what cost?

A/N: I'm kinda lowkey proud of the summary this time :) Here's another chapter, probably out of four or five, maybe, not sure yet. As usual, your feedback is welcome, suggestions, questions, or anything is also welcome, I'm all ears... well, eyes. Enjoy :) By the way, do you guys actually read these things?

Warnings: +18, just because at this point.

Word count: 3k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

Time had become a blur. Days bleeding into nights, seasons shifting with little mercy. The island was cruel and beautiful, both a sanctuary and a cage.

You had grown leaner, stronger. Survival demanded it. The shoulder you’d dislocated never healed quite right, a constant, dull ache that you had learned to push through. The broken ribs had mended, though not without their own reminders—twinges of pain that flared up when you pushed yourself too hard.

The fire crackled steady and sure, a sound you no longer flinched at. It had taken you months to master fire — blistered hands, frustration, tears you hadn’t wanted to shed. Now, it came easily. A skill carved into your bones like every other survival instinct you’d been forced to learn.

You sat cross-legged on the packed earth outside your cave — your cave now — tucked into the cliffs where the ocean wind couldn’t reach you at night. It wasn’t home, but it was shelter. Dry. Warm. Stockpiled with everything you’d salvaged or shaped over three years: rusted metal scraps from the wreck, woven nets, jars made of carved-out gourds, sharpened bones, and a shelf of smooth stones that held what little was left of the emergency kit.

You’d even made a bed out of dried grass and woven mats. It still smelled like salt and earth, but it didn’t hurt to sleep on anymore.

The fish crackled over the flames, speared cleanly on a hand-carved skewer. You didn’t miss anymore — not when it came to spearfishing. The water was your rhythm now. You knew how the shadows moved, where the fish hid, and how long you could hold your breath before your lungs screamed.

You survived.

But that didn’t mean you were whole.

You turned to the coconut sitting beside you, her painted face faded but still watching—always watching.

Red.

You gave her a nod, like she was an old friend. Maybe she was. Maybe she was all you had left.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you muttered, your voice hoarse from days without speaking.

It was always worse when you didn’t talk. Your thoughts got louder. Messier.

“She’d laugh, you know. If she could see this,” you said to Red. “I made a shelf yesterday. A shelf. Out of driftwood and spite.”

Red didn’t answer, but you imagined her smirking. Natasha used to do that — that crooked half-smile when you were being ridiculous.

The ache came back, low in your chest. The kind that didn’t go away with fire or fish or sleep.

“I don’t know what day it is,” you said quietly. “Haven’t for a long time. I stopped marking them when the notches on the wall started to look like a prison.”

Your eyes drifted to the makeshift calendar you’d abandoned. Years, etched in stone. A tally of time that had started feeling like a weight instead of a reminder.

“I talk to you more than I talk to myself now,” you added, glancing at Red. “It’s easier to pretend you’re listening. Pretend I’m not completely losing my mind.”

You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees, eyes on the fire. The light cast shadows on your face, highlighting the sharpness that hadn’t been there before. The hollows. The scars.

You were still you. But not the same.

“I think I forgot what she smells like,” you whispered. “That’s the part I wasn’t ready for. How your brain starts… letting go. Of little things. Her perfume. The sound she made when she laughed. Her voice saying my name.”

You didn’t cry. Not anymore. You didn’t have the energy to mourn things you couldn’t get back.

“But I still remember how she looked at me. Like I was worth something.”

A breeze passed. You looked up toward the treetops. No birds. No planes. Just the whisper of wind and the endless sound of waves below.

You reached out and gently adjusted Red’s flower crown, then leaned your shoulder against her.

“I’m not crazy,” you told her. “Not really. Just lonely... I just want to go home."

The fish was done. You took it off the stick you made and tore into it with practiced ease. Nourishment. Function. Habit.

But when the fire dimmed and the shadows stretched longer, you didn’t move. You just sat there, shoulder to a coconut, staring at the dark.

And for a moment, just a flicker, you imagined you weren’t alone.

—

The Hydra agent coughed again, wheezing through cracked ribs and the blood clogging his throat. Natasha didn’t flinch.

She stood at the edge of the warehouse, the shadows clinging to her like a second skin, eyes fixed on the man she’d dragged here three nights ago. He was barely conscious now. Not because she needed answers. She didn’t.

She already knew everything.

Hydra had tracked your flight. Waited until you were far enough from any backup. Shot you out of the sky like they were swatting a fly.

They hadn’t even known where you landed. They didn’t care. You weren’t the mission.

You were just the message.

She didn’t scream when she found out. Didn’t cry. Natasha Romanoff didn’t cry in front of others.

But she made sure he did.

The man tied to the chair hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, but he had smiled when she mentioned your name. That was enough.

Now, he couldn’t smile anymore. His jaw hung crooked. One eye swollen shut. The other darted toward the dark corners of the room like he was still looking for an exit.

There wasn’t one.

Natasha didn’t speak for a long time. The silence did more damage than any threat could.

Then, finally—

“She was supposed to come home.”

Her voice was quiet. Barely there. Almost soft. The kind of softness that came before a storm leveled the world.

“You didn’t take her from S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers. You took her from me.”

She stepped into the light. Blood dried on her knuckles. Her face was blank. Hollow. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks.

Because she hadn’t.

“She fought for people who didn’t deserve her. She smiled when she was exhausted. She—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed it down. “She was going to marry me.”

The agent trembled. Natasha tilted her head.

“You don’t get to die easy,” she said. “You don’t get to be a name in a report.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to beg, maybe to explain, maybe to lie — but she raised her hand, and he stopped.

“Don’t. I don’t care what you say. I’m not here for closure. I’m here for balance.”

She didn’t scream when it ended.

She just stood there for a long time afterward, staring at what was left of him like maybe it would make a difference. Like maybe pain could fill the hollow space you left behind.

It didn’t.

The room smelled like blood and gasoline.

She left without looking back.

—

Steve and Clint didn’t know where she’d gone. Not exactly. But they knew enough to follow the silence. She hadn’t answered her comms in two days, and when Clint finally cracked and tracked her location, he showed the screen to Steve with a sigh that said more than words ever could.

They waited until she came back.

When Natasha entered the safehouse, covered in dried blood and someone else’s regrets, they were already there — sitting in the dark like ghosts.

She didn’t flinch. She just dropped her weapons on the table with a clatter and peeled off her gloves.

“I’m not in the mood.”

Clint’s voice was soft, like he’d practiced it a hundred times before saying it out loud.

“You’re not the only one who lost her, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t look at him.

Steve spoke next, standing near the window, arms crossed like he was holding himself together by will alone.

“She wouldn’t want this.”

That made her look up—slow and sharp.

“Don’t,” she said, and her voice had teeth.

“She wouldn’t,” Steve repeated. “You know it. She wouldn’t want you to burn down everything just to feel something.”

“I’m not doing this for her,” Natasha snapped. “I’m doing it for me.”

Clint stood now, voice low, pained. “No, you’re doing it because it’s the only thing you know how to do. Hurt the people who hurt you. Hurt them enough to numb the rest.”

“She’s not coming back,” Steve said gently.

The words hit harder than a punch. Natasha blinked like he’d slapped her. Then she turned away from both of them.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You haven’t let yourself know it,” Clint said, stepping closer. “You’ve been chasing leads that go nowhere, carving bodies like they’ll give you peace. But there’s nothing left out there, Nat. And there’s nothing left in here either. Not like this.”

“I can’t let it go,” she whispered, not to them — maybe not even to herself. “If I stop, it’ll mean she’s really gone.”

Silence stretched.

Steve’s voice softened. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Natasha whispered. “Because if I stop fighting for her, I won’t know who I am anymore.”

Clint came up beside her. Didn’t touch her. Just stood there.

“Maybe it’s time to remember who you were before you met her. And who you were because of her.”

Natasha stayed quiet. Long enough that they thought maybe she was shutting down again.

But then she spoke.

“I want to go home.” Though it wasn't really, not without you.

The apartment was still.

Too still.

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful — it felt wrong. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Her fingers hesitated over the lock, then turned. The door opened with the softest creak, and suddenly she was inside, and the air hit her all at once — stale and untouched, like time had frozen the moment you were gone.

Everything was exactly how you left it.

The coffee mug you always forgot on the side table. The jacket draped across the back of the couch, still wrinkled at the elbows where you used to fold your arms. The boots by the door, still dusted with sand from that last trip you took together — the one where you’d laughed so hard she’d forgotten to be afraid.

Her legs moved without permission.

She walked through the apartment like it might vanish if she stepped too loud. A ghost drifting through a life that used to be hers. Your toothbrush was still in the cup. Your handwriting is still on the list stuck to the fridge—"get milk / remember to breathe.”

She couldn’t breathe.

She opened the bedroom door last.

It smelled faintly of you — faded now, but still there. That quiet warmth you always carried with you, even when the rest of the world felt cold.

She crossed to the closet and stared at it for a long time before reaching out.

Her hand trembled as she slid the door open.

The clothes inside swayed gently, like they’d been waiting for her. She touched the sleeve of your favorite sweater, then the collar of the shirt she always teased you about — the one you insisted was “lucky.”

And then she saw it.

Half-buried in the back of the closet, tucked behind a shoebox and the coat you never wore — a scarf.

Yours.

She stared at it for several seconds, like her brain needed time to register that it was real. That something of you was still here, still whole, still untouched by the fire that burned everything else to ash.

Her fingers reached out. The fabric was soft and warm.

Her breath hitched.

She pulled it from the shadows slowly, as if afraid it might disintegrate in her hands. The color was faded in places. The end was frayed. It still had that slight bend in the middle where you used to loop it around your neck. She held it like it might break.

And then she broke instead.

Her knees gave out before she could stop them, and she collapsed onto the hardwood floor with the scarf clutched to her chest like a lifeline. Her forehead pressed to her knees. Her breath shattered.

The scent hit her next.

That faint trace of you — barely there, but unmistakable.

And with it came everything else.

The way you used to hum when brushing your teeth. The way you’d curl up beside her on the couch and tuck your cold feet under her thighs. The way you kissed her like you were memorizing the taste of home.

Gone.

You were gone.

And she was still here.

A sob tore free before she could choke it down. Raw. Violent. Like something in her ribs had snapped and let all the air rush out at once. Then another followed, and another, until her whole body was shaking from the force of it.

She curled in on herself, scarf clutched so tight her knuckles went white. Her shoulders shook. Her lips formed your name like a prayer — or a plea.

No one saw her.

No one heard.

Just her and the scarf and the weight of everything she’d been pretending not to feel. The pain she’d hidden behind missions and knives and revenge. The aching silence she drowned in every night when she refused to sleep in a bed that no longer had you in it.

She wept until her throat was raw and her chest hurt from the effort.

She stayed there long after the tears stopped.

Until her body went still.

Until the sun began to rise, casting soft light through the window onto the floor where she lay curled — a soldier made small by grief.

And in her arms, the last piece of you she hadn’t yet let go.

—

The rain had passed by morning, leaving the jungle slick with mist and the air heavy with salt. You’d waited for it — not just because the humidity made it easier to gather drinking water, but because the downpour loosened the earth on the cliffs and gave you better access to what remained of the wreck.

The quinjet had broken apart when it hit the ocean. You remembered that. The sound of metal screaming underwater, the taste of blood, the impossible pressure of being dragged down, limbs locked in panic. You weren’t supposed to survive that.

But you did.

And over the last three years, you’d pulled every salvageable piece of that ship from where the tide left it to rot — a shattered wing here, the broken skeleton of a cockpit there, the cracked remains of what once might’ve been a comms panel, now warped and corroded with salt.

You didn’t know what you were doing at first. Just collecting. Hoarding scraps like they might build a bridge home if you stacked them high enough.

But over time, you started remembering things.

Training. Systems. The way the emergency transponders were built to last, even in the worst-case scenario. They were buried deep — meant to survive a crash, even when the rest of the jet didn’t.

You’d found one last week. It had taken you six months of digging and prying and near-broken fingers just to reach that compartment. It wasn’t intact. Of course it wasn’t. But the casing had survived, and inside—something.

Maybe hope.

Now, sitting under the overhang just outside your cave, your fingers worked through the wires like it was surgery. You’d cannibalized parts from every ruined circuit board, every scrap of antenna you could find. You’d melted rusted solder with fire-heated blades. Wrapped copper with woven threads of your own hair when the cables snapped too short.

And now, by some miracle or madness, the thing sparked.

Just once.

But it was enough.

Your breath caught.

It wouldn’t send a full message — not voice, not even coordinates. But maybe it could do what transponders were built for: a repeating pulse. A ping. Something low-frequency. Something that, if someone out there was listening, could be traced.

You twisted the stripped cable back into the rusted port and flipped the switch.

Nothing.

You held your breath.

Then—

A faint click. A pulse. Barely audible. A slow, steady signal thumping out into the static.

It was working.

It was working.

You didn’t smile. Not really. Your face didn’t know how to do that anymore. But your chest rose, a little higher than it had in weeks. You closed your eyes and let yourself sit with it.

Maybe someone would hear.

—

Somewhere far away — in the middle of a quiet SHIELD base buried in low orbit — a console that hadn’t lit up in months gave a quiet chirp.

Maria Hill didn’t look up right away.

She’d been running diagnostics. Useless protocols. The kind of tasks she took on when sleep refused to come and she wanted something to distract her from the impossible ache in Natasha’s voice every time she said your name.

But then the console chirped again.

She frowned.

An old transponder signature — SHIELD-embedded, but ancient. Malfunctioning. The code was warped and barely legible. Buried in interference. But the system flagged it anyway, because deep in the mess of static…

…it was repeating.

Her fingers moved over the keyboard.

Isolating.

Narrowing.

The pulse came again.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

It couldn’t be.

The signal was weak. Crude. Barely functional. Like someone had thrown together scraps and bones and coaxed them into whispering across the void.

But it was enough.

Maria stared at the screen, her hands frozen above the keys.

Then, slowly, she sat up straighter.

“…Natasha.”

She didn’t call her yet. Not yet.

But the screen glowed, and the signal repeated, and for the first time in years…

…it wasn’t just silence anymore.

-----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127

[90slavenderh4ze]

“if i ever go to azkaban, will you still write to me?” - sirius black

pairing: bit of marauders era!sirius black x reader in the beginning, post azkaban!sirius black x reader mainly.

summary: a dumb joke he made in seventh year. you didn’t think it would become your reality. you wrote him every week anyway. he never replied. now he’s back.

warnings: none that i can think of; slight angst, hurt/comfort, soft ending.

a.n: finally wrote something after over a month lol had to be post azkaban!sirius.

He had said it like a joke. Of course he had.

The fire had been low that night in the Gryffindor common room, casting honey-colored flickers on his cheekbones, and he’d been bored—lazy-limbed and draped over the arm of the couch like a prince exiled from his own throne. James had been arguing about something, Remus trying to shush him with a book pressed to his chest, and Sirius—he had looked at you. That stupid, sharp-eyed grin crawling across his face.

“If I ever go to Azkaban, will you still write to me?”

You’d scoffed, not bothering to look up from your book. “Only to gloat.”

“Cruel,” he said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Heartless. I bare my soul and this is what I get.”

“You’re not baring anything. You’re being an idiot.”

He had leaned in, just a little. Close enough that you could see the mischievous glint in his grey eyes, the hint of something softer tucked beneath it—something too fragile for a boy like him to admit. “So you’re saying you would write.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers had gone still on the page. “Don’t flatter yourself, Black.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“Goodnight, Sirius.”

“Goodnight, love.”

It was nothing. A throwaway moment between teenagers who didn’t know anything about war or loss or cages of cold iron and madness.

And yet, you remembered it.

You remembered it the morning the news broke. The headlines burned themselves into your vision:

Twelve Dead. One Man Responsible. Sirius Black Arrested. No Trial.

You remembered it when you held the letter in shaking hands, rereading it as if the words might reorder themselves into something that made sense.

You remembered it as you sat on the floor of your flat, back against the kitchen counter, and wrote your first letter with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling.

November 2nd, 1981

Dear Sirius,

What the fuck happened?

No signature. No softness. Just raw disbelief.

You didn’t think he’d get it. You hadn’t even known if they let prisoners receive mail in Azkaban. But you sent it anyway.

And then you wrote another. And another.

Every week. Rain or shine. War or no war.

You didn’t stop.

—

By the third year, your letters had changed. Less fury. Less confusion. Just little updates. Things he wouldn’t care about. Things you needed to say.

March 18th, 1984

I saw a dog today. Big. Black. Shaggy fur. I almost thought…

Never mind.

Hope the Dementors don’t get in your head too much this week. Bastards.

You joked sometimes. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you wrote three sentences and tore up four pages before settling on the fifth.

October 31st, 1986

I lit a candle for James and Lily.

Harry looks so much like James. He’s even got the same shitty smirk when he knows he’s being clever. He has Lily’s eyes though.

Still, no response.

The owl came back empty every time. But you kept writing.

You didn’t even know why anymore.

—

Years passed.

You stopped telling people you were doing it. Remus had disappeared after the war. The Order scattered. Nobody really checked on each other anymore. You learned to make your peace with silence.

Until Dumbledore wrote to you. Until the words Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban landed in your lap like a ghost resurrected.

You didn’t know what to think. The Prophet screamed murder, but your hands didn’t shake with fear. They shook with hope.

That hope almost killed you.

And then—one night, long after the world had gone quiet again— him.

Stepping in like death incarnate. Pale. Hollow. Wild-eyed and soaked to the bone, like he’d swum through every nightmare just to knock on your door.

You didn’t speak at first. Just stared at him.

He looked like a man on the edge of disappearing.

“Sirius?”

His throat moved when he swallowed. “Hi.”

Your breath caught, and you crossed the room without thinking. Hands on his face, fingertips tracing the hollows beneath his cheekbones like you were trying to map the years that had stolen him. “You’re real.”

He laughed, soft and dry and a little broken. “Barely.”

And then you pulled him in.

You held him like he might collapse, because he might’ve. You felt the ribs through his shirt, the way his heart pounded beneath thin layers of muscle and fear and grief. He didn’t speak. Didn’t pull away. Just let himself breathe you in like it hurt.

When you finally let go, he looked at you like he was afraid to ask what came next.

“I got your letters,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You stared. “You… what?”

“They didn’t let me keep them. But they let me read them. Once a week. Maybe to mock me. I don’t know. I read every single one.”

You stepped back, blinking hard. “You never replied.”

He shook his head, eyes cast low. “Didn’t know how. Didn’t think I deserved to.”

“Sirius.”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “You were rotting in a cell, and you thought you were protecting me?”

He looked up. “I didn’t want you to wait for a dead man.”

Your voice cracked. “I wasn’t waiting. I was remembering.”

The silence between you stretched, full of ghosts.

“I thought about you,” he said, quietly. “All the time. More than anything else. You were… the only thing that didn’t fade.”

You didn’t say anything. Just walked over to the desk and opened a drawer.

He froze.

You pulled out a box. Set it down. Opened it.

Inside: copies of every letter you’d ever sent.

“You kept them.”

You nodded. “I didn’t want to forget what it felt like to believe in something.”

His voice wavered. “You believed in me?”

“I still do.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You thought he might shatter.

“Tell me I’m not too late,” he whispered.

You stepped forward and placed his hand over your heart.

“Feel that?”

He nodded.

“You never left.”

And that was it. The dam broke.

He kissed you like he’d been starved of warmth for twelve years. Like you were the only thing he remembered how to want. You held him like you’d been waiting a lifetime, because you had.

You’d never meant to wait.

But you had.

And now—finally—he was here.

Not a ghost.

Not a memory.

Real.

Yours.

[enimsiyobeht]

your teeth in my neck. teaser.

wc : 631 , tw : yeonjun x amab reader. modern setting (❌ idols), toxic/abusive relationship. smutty angst. implied sex/suggestive, language, smoking, reader & yeonjun are 🚩🚩.

The first time you meet Yeonjun, it isn’t romantic.

It’s not even kind.

It’s a heatwave night, city lights bleeding through half-open blinds, sweat clinging to your skin. He looks at you like a dare—eyes sharp, mouth curled into something you can’t quite name. You trade words like knives, sharp and reckless. And it isn’t long before his lips are on yours, desperate, angry, tasting like smoke and something unspoken.

You know then what this is going to be.

Dangerous. Addictive. Doomed.

But you let it happen anyway.

It keeps happening.

He comes over late. Always uninvited. Always expected.

He acts like he hates you, and maybe he does—or maybe it’s something worse.

You fight, you press buttons no one else would dare touch. The air between you always feels like a loaded weapon.

"You only love me when it benefits you," Yeonjun spits one night, shoving you back, teeth bared like he’s seconds from sinking them into your skin.

You grin, bruised and cruel. “And you only come back when you want it.”

He doesn't deny it.

And every time, it escalates.

Touch turns violent. Words turn venomous.

You leave bruises you don’t apologize for, and he digs his nails in so deep you carry his mark for days.

It’s a terrible kind of comfort.

A language only the two of you speak.

"I feel you in my bones," you whisper against his neck once, the taste of him lingering on your lips.

He laughs, bitter and beautiful. "You feel me when no one else will."

And you do.

God, you do.

It’s not love.

It’s a possession, a hunger neither of you knows how to starve.

You tell yourself it’s control, but you both know you’re equally wrecked.

The nights are long, your apartment a cage you willingly lock yourselves inside.

"You don't even know my real name," Yeonjun hisses one night, pulling his shirt back on, his skin littered with your fingerprints.

You watch him in the dim light, feeling nothing and everything.

“Does it matter?”

And it doesn’t.

Because he’ll be back.

The cycle repeats.

Over and over.

Late nights. Scratched skin. Choked apologies that taste more like confessions.

You fuck and fight like it’s the same thing.

And maybe it is.

Bleeding, losing, sinking deep.

You don’t remember when it started getting worse.

Maybe the night he showed up already drunk, mouth slurring out all the ugly truths you both ignored.

Maybe the night you told him you didn’t care.

Maybe the night you did care.

But it’s always ending the same—his teeth in your neck, your hands in his hair, both of you chasing something you’ll never hold.

The breaking point isn’t loud.

It’s a quiet, mean little thing.

He stands by the door, his face unreadable.

“I’m done,” Yeonjun says, voice rough, eyes glassy.

And for the first time, you don’t try to stop him.

He waits.

You say nothing.

“I fucking hate you,” he spits. “And the worst part is—you never even cared.”

You finally look at him then.

Empty. Tired.

“I don’t care who you are,” you say. “I just wanted what you gave me.”

And that’s it.

He leaves.

You sit in the silence afterward, the ghost of his touch still lingering, the scent of him clinging to the sheets.

Your throat hurts. Your chest aches. Your skin remembers every place he ever touched.

Your teeth in my neck.

You're leechin' off me.

And you realize, it was never about love.

It was never about need.

It was about the way you both liked to bleed.

You light a cigarette.

The apartment is cold without him.

And for the first time, you don’t believe he’s coming back.

(full fic here)

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Blood

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You wake up in the grasp of your kidnappers, and they are far from done with you. But they forgot to take one thing into account: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, blood, S1 plot, allusions to domestic violence and sexual assault

Word Count: 3k

A/n: Hi! It's been a while! In fact, since before Daredevil: Born Again came out. It's strange to write a story that takes place in season 1 of the original show after watching Born Again, but also weirdly refreshing to work with the Netflix version of Matt again. Anyway, this chapter takes place in episode 4. Hope I didn't disappoint.

Read Chapter 17: Blood here on AO3!

You still remember the day you first held a human heart in your hand. It was eleven ounces, the size of your fist, and still beating. The pale cadaver you encountered in your first year of medical school couldn’t have prepared you for what it would feel like: a terrifying honor and a privilege. 

The day you witnessed the miracle of open heart surgery for the first time was also the first time your hands felt destined for good. Becoming a surgeon was never going to bring back what you lost, but at least it gave you the feeling that all the agony you went through finally meant something. You held onto hope with all you had, made sacrifices, and scraped your knees praying to a God you never had faith in, but at what cost? 

You gave more than you’ve ever had, and you still keep losing. 

You jolt awake when your head hits the wall of the tiny trunk they stuffed you into, God knows how long ago. The already bleeding skin around your scalp burns with the sudden impact, and you cry out. Even the darkness seems blurry. You try to move, but the car hits another pothole, and you’re thrown back into the hard plastic with a force that makes your stomach churn. 

You don’t need a medical degree to figure out that you have a concussion, probably lost half a liter of blood, too. Your heart is beating so fast, so loud that you can taste it on your tongue. You must be stuck in an infinite time loop of misfortune because there is no reasonable explanation for why this keeps happening to you. And if the situation weren’t so grave, you would have laughed at the irony of it all.

You’re not scared. You know you should be, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. The pain is merely an old, familiar ache in your bones, so familiar that it has rendered you numb. Your mind is screaming for you to fight, even if it kills you, but your body has already flatlined. The memories flash in a sequence of distorted pictures before your inner eye. 

You swore to yourself that you would never let this happen. You swore you would never let a man lay a hand on you again. Over your dead body, you said, but no matter how hard you try to reason with the voices in your head, you just can’t move.  

The car comes to a stop. You hear the doors open and close, and the voices disappear for a moment before a set of footsteps approaches the trunk. 

Bright neon lights break through the darkness. You lift your duct-taped hands to block it out, but the stranger takes hold of your arm and yanks you out of your makeshift cage. You catch yourself on unsteady feet, panting, only for a moment, before he throws you to the cold floor like garbage. One of them laughs, or maybe it’s all of them. You can barely make out who’s who over the ringing in your ears. 

Blood trickles from your temple to the cracks in the cement. It reeks of burnt rubber, motor oil, and varnish. Not even a minute passes before one of the men grabs you again. You don’t recognize him. You close your eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning, but his grip on your hair tightens. And then he lands his fist in your face. 

The skin above your brow splits open. The pain spreads through every nerve and every muscle, settling deep in your stomach and traveling back up your esophagus. When you spit it out, though, all that comes out is scarlet. 

He pulls you off the floor and onto a fragile plastic chair. It’s cold, hard. The cab they transported you in—you can tell it’s a cab, obnoxiously yellow with that telltale sign on its roof—offers a stark contrast to the fog that continues to cloud your vision. 

Another man appears. His eyes, empty and soulless, zero in on you. “Here’s the deal,” he says, twirling the metal of a baseball bat in his hands. “You answer my questions, he stops hitting you. Everyone is happy.”

Everyone but you, he fails to add. 

The men who took you, those nowhere to be found, didn’t bother covering your eyes. You may not know where you are, but you have seen their faces; you know that you have no chance of getting out of this alive, and once they have what they want, or they inevitably find out you truly know nothing, they will dispose of you.

You manage a weak and broken, “Go to hell!” But the man only laughs at you. It echoes off the walls and pierces your eardrums.

You don’t see it coming until it does. His henchman lands a clean punch across your already bruised nose, and the bone cracks. The pain pierces your skull, straight through to your brain. You lean forward, the taste of copper in your mouth overwhelming enough for you to retch, but a hand pushes you back into the hard plastic underneath you, and you choke. 

A pool of maroon has long formed at your feet, slowly seeping into the cracks in the cement. You suppose once they’ve cut up your body into neat little pieces and drowned you in the Hudson, at least your DNA will be left at the scene of the crime. And when the police run it, they’re not going to find that it belongs to Olivia Clarke; they’re going to match it with a missing person’s report from California with your real name on it, and then they will know. 

But who is left to mourn you, anyway? Claire has made it clear she is done with you. She wouldn’t cry for you. Or maybe she would, for a week or so, and then she’d take her secrets and move on. But at least she’d still be alive, you think. At least she wouldn’t be at the bottom of the Hudson, and you wouldn’t have to mourn the only friend you’ve ever had in this city.

It would kill you, but if you died, she would be fine. She will be fine. That is all that matters.

“The man in the mask,” the man says then, “I want his name.” 

Your lungs burn with every breath you take. “Wh–” You must have not heard right. 

But then you remember the night you first met him; the night you were trying to help that woman, and he jumped in because you couldn’t have cared less about your safety. You were reckless, and he was there, as if he just somehow knew where to be. 

You let him go. Of course, you let him go. No one admits it, but everyone knows the city is a safer place with him out there.

You have had more perpetrators on your table this past year than their victims. Men beaten to a pulp by someone with very skilled fists, never gravely injured, except for the one they’d pulled out of a dumpster not so long ago with a head injury that even a neurosurgeon couldn’t fix. The nurses said he was Russian and that they had to put him in a coma. He put him in a coma. And a few days ago, he went into cardiac arrest.  

You’re not sure how it connects, but it must, somehow.

Another sharp tug at your hair makes you groan. “I don’t know him,” you choke out. “I don’t know who he is.” 

The man sighs, unbothered at first, then his face contorts. It’s as if someone stabbed you with a syringe full of unbridled adrenaline, and you exhale a shriek when he brings that metal bat in his hands down on you, on your fragile skull. 

Your heart opens up to the possibility that this is it, you are going to die, and the panic that grabs you without warning knocks the air out of your lungs. 

You were kidnapped. You’ve been beaten and tied up, and now they’re going to kill you because you can’t give them the answers that they want. Because you don’t know anything. It’s not just a morbid thought anymore, it’s reality. And you’ve already given up. How sick is that?

You couldn’t care less about your life, but this is not what you escaped for. This is not natural selection. This is madness. 

You close your eyes, but instead of your skull, the man smashes the metal into the window of the taxicab behind you. Glass goes flying everywhere. It scratches whatever skin it can find and leaves you bleeding some more. You swear you can even taste it on your tongue, slicing open your esophagus when you swallow the salt that has collected on your tongue.

It’s only then that you realize you are crying. You’re so detached from your body, you’re suddenly looking back into your own broken eyes from the other end of the room, and what you see is nothing short of terrifying. 

“I swear!” you cry. “I don’t know him! I don’t…” your voice cracks, the air getting caught in your throat where it meets the blood that has long made its home there. 

The man lifts his bat again, but before he can bring it down again, someone stops him.

“Sergei!” He switches from English to Russian. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but it at least gets him to put his weapon down.

The man takes another breath to steady himself. “This gives me no pleasure,” he says. “It really doesn’t. But I have been given a job to do, so please, answer the questions I was told to ask.” Though all politeness leaves his body when he waves that godforsaken baseball bat for the millionth time and adds, “Or I will begin breaking you, a piece at a time.”

You try to breathe through the pain that has consumed your entire being like a fire-breathing dragon. “I told you, I don’t know him,” you say. “I only met him once, and we barely… we barely even talked. I don’t know him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not! You’ve got this all wrong. Just…” You shift. “Please.”

He takes a step forward, and the men around him scowl as if you’ve threatened their puppy with murder. “Are you calling us stupid?” he asks. 

“No!” you’re quick to answer. “No, I’m saying you’re wasting your time.”

He growls again. “Tell me his name!”

“I can’t! I–”

His hand finds your jaw, grabbing it and forcing you to meet his eyes, not an ounce of humanity left in them. You open your mouth, but before you can utter another pathetic plea, the neon lights above flicker and then go out completely. 

The moment of silence that follows is deafening. Then, all hell breaks loose. 

Voices start to overlap. Orders or curses are shouted in Russian. You can barely make out where they’re coming from anymore. A body hits the ground not far from you, then another. Fists collide with bone.

You can’t make out anything through the faint glow of the moonlight streaming in from somewhere outside.

Outside.

You push through the pain threatening to paralyze you and rise to your wobbly feet. You manage one step, two, before your knees buckle and you cave in on yourself. The moonlight disappears into darkness.

Your skull hits the cement, but your skin is numb to the pain. Your nerves are tired. You are tired. Every thought about lifting yourself off the ground stays just that—a thought. And that primal need of survival starts to lose its hold on you. 

A gunshot rings out, followed by a groan and the clanging of metal, and then… silence, again. 

The air is thicker now, full of smoke and something you can’t quite put your finger on, and underneath all of that, there is a scent you recognize, soft, soothing. 

You try to remain still as footsteps pad across the floor toward you, but another wave of blood in the back of your throat tickles a cough out of you. 

“Hey,” a low voice says. “Hey, I got you. You’re okay.” His hand brushes your shoulder, fingers curling into the bloody fabric of your shirt, and you jolt.

It’s as if he met you with electricity, or the blade of a knife. Your skin burns where he touched you, and with what little strength you have left in you, you scoot back as fast as you can until your back hits the wall. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” The moonlight engulfs his silhouette, dark and looming. You can make out the faint lines of black fabric over his eyes. “You’re okay,” he says again. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The more you try to focus, the more you start to recognize him—his lips, his nose, his stubbly jaw, and his gloved hands stained with blood. He looked less terrifying in the alley that night. Perhaps because you weren’t hurt, and there was enough light to see him. 

But tonight, you don’t trust him. He is the reason these men even took you. You can’t trust him. You don’t even know where up and down are anymore.

“Get away from me,” you croak. 

He sighs as if hearing you say that physically pains him. “Liv…”

The way he says it, the way he utters that name, is so strikingly familiar that it sends a chill down your spine. 

Your heart stutters for a few beats. “No!” You inch back even further, your spine protesting when it touches the hard metal of a support pillar. “H–how do you know my name?”

“I–” You half expect him to say that he guessed, but the lie dies on his tongue. Instead, he reaches for the edge of his mask, slowly, and peels it off like the layers of an onion. 

The moonlight is enough to break down the wall of denial your brain erected. 

You should have known. You should have filled in those missing puzzle pieces the moment you sensed something was wrong. But you were hurt, you got drunk, and you pretended your life was not even remotely connected to the bullshit Claire was trying to sell you. 

Your vision blurs, not from the pain but from the onslaught of tears that begins to burn behind your eyes. “No,” you whisper. 

Staring back at you are those unseeing hazel eyes you have fantasized about. Hazel eyes that were covered by a pair of red glasses, the last time you saw him. Before he broke your heart. 

No.

Denial fights with reality once again as you try and find some other explanation for this. Something reasonable. Something that doesn’t add up with the evidence starting to collect in your foggy mind. It must be the concussion playing tricks on you, a hallucination. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be the same man you met the night you lost a kid in the operating room and cried like a baby in the hallways of Metro-General. 

Except when he opens his mouth and whispers, “I’m so sorry,” you know, without a doubt, that it is him.

Matt Murdock. Your Matt Murdock. And the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

“You’re not real,” your voice cracks. “I’m hallucinating. I, uh, have a concussion. The blood, I…” 

He shakes his head, and you do the same, but for an entirely different reason. “It’s me,” he says.

You whimper, “No.”

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? And then I’ll explain everything. I promise. You’re safe now.”

“No.”

“Liv.” His hand meets your knee. “Please.”

You cry out, throwing your body back against the pillar, “No!” 

He pulls away instantly. If there is hurt in his eyes, he doesn’t let you see it. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I’m sorry. I won’t. I won’t.”

A strangled sob escapes you.

Everything hurts. Your body, your mind, even your soul. Your nose is broken—it has been broken more times than you can count—your head is bleeding, and your ribs are bruised, but the old scars that decorate your body scream louder than the fresh ones. 

You remember his hands, so harsh when they broke your bones, so strong when they wrapped around your neck and knocked the air out of your lungs, and they, too, tossed you around your apartment as if you were nothing but garbage. You accepted it. But then they would caress you, his touch suddenly so gentle you thought he meant it, and no stopped having meaning.

So many hands have touched you tonight. So many hands, cruel hands, have hurt you, and when you close your eyes, you can still feel them. You still feel him. 

Matt’s fingers were gentle, too, where they’ve brushed against you, and it hurts. It hurts because for the longest time, you’ve associated gentleness with pain, and you cannot bear it. 

Dark spots begin to dance in front of your eyes. The world resumes spinning at a pace that might eject you. Your limbs start feeling dangerously light where they lie curled against your body. 

“Hey,” Matt says through the cotton in your ears. “Stay with me, sweetie. Stay with me.”

There is that name again, sweetie. His face blurs, as does the hand reaching out for you.

“Keep your eyes open.”

You can’t. 

The darkness buries its claws in you. It tears at you, dragging you under, steadily toward the abyss, your body folding in on itself. But before your head can hit the concrete, he catches you. Soft. Gentle. It doesn’t hurt this time. Nothing does. 

His fingers brush over your face, the blood, the cuts, the scrapes, and the broken bones—everything. He curses under his breath, something blasphemous, maybe, you’re not sure. The fear in his voice tastes bittersweet on your tongue. 

Your heart flutters, then starts to slow. “Matt,” you breathe.

“I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

But the darkness wins the war. 

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @thatonegamefish @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred @echo-ethe @kezibear @peterbarnes @littleagxs @silas-aeiou @scoliobean @spn-reader @daisy-the-quake

[anikabooker]

Reid stared at her, as if he didn't expect an answer so brutal; a raw truth from a liar's tongue. There was not a thing that's lived on her tongue and crawled out of her mouth, that he would believe. Not even if she bled, or fell apart right in front of him (the memories of a wolfish grin and the faintest beats of her heart, still blurry, but there)

He'd watch her die— like death was what she deserved. A punishment well fit, for a crime committed. And him, her jury and her executioner, standing at the edge of the gallows, unwilling to swing the axe. "Why'd you stay? You never answered that question, and I'm not answering any of yours, until you do." Anika was a fucking masochist, for asking a question, the answer to which would be nothing but a cruel thing; venomous and poisonous, like snakes and toads crawling from his mouth.

"Why did you stay, Reid? Why didn't you let me die? You hate me so much— I know, because I listened to the message you left me. You hate me, so why didn't you let me die?" loud, louder— not in volume, but in strength, the weight of the question crashing against the walls between them, leaving him no room to hide. Loud, because he's told her to be quiet, because her voice was like a punch to the gut, and she wanted to be heard, to be felt—

Like that chair, snapping into a thousand pieces, another furious attempt to silence her. Unsuccessful, of course, because he couldn’t hurt her. There was not a bone in his body that wanted to hurt her. His hand shot out, fingers closing around her, but it froze midair, paralyzed by his own hesitation. He didn’t know how to bring her harm without feeling the sting of it himself. A feeling all too fucking familiar, that had taken her months spent at the bottom of the nastiest pit, to settle into it, while eyes stared into the hand that's touched him, and felt the same burn.

You thought you could tear him apart and walk away unscathered.

Anika couldn't break him, without beaking herself, and that was painfully evident in the way she trembled, the way her eyes flickered between fury and something else, something fragile, and raw. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" voice a cracked, jagged thing. "Have you gone fucking mad, Halstead? Are you losing it?" A man possessed, a beast rattling its cage; their fucking cage. He had locked himself in here with her, knowing he couldn't breathe the same air she did, or look in her eyes, without—

There was no hiding from her, even with his back turned, he couldn't duck beneath the whip of her sharp tongue— "What more do you need to understand? You want me to spill my fucking guts over this fucking floor, for you? Is that it? I was stupid, and drunk, and I was hurting." only her voice was quiter now, as she twisted the knife in her own flesh, another fucking deja vu. "I wasn't thinking, I was fucked up, for a few days after our fight, and—" and that fucker took advantage, just like any other predator would, when a hunter had lowered their guard.

You weren't there. Every person in that room that night wore his face. Every pair of eyes — his.

It was easier, telling him the truth like this — with his back turned, his gaze somewhere else. Maybe that’s how all their conversations would have to go from now on. If there was anything left to say.

She washes forward like the first signs of a tsunami. Where the waters pull away and leave behind wet sand. An act that risks revealing the secrets it had been protecting to be another kind of reckoning — not a cowering force, but a decisive one. Gathering strength to form an uneasy shape, she surges ahead like she cannot wait to strike him down and decimate a city that's already been bled dry of life.

Hurts? Is that what it is? Reid defends that he'd never have said that. He's numbed those parts. Made real an emptiness that unremittingly ravages — it seizes its host, gutting them of sensibilities. And hungrily gorges on those that dare stunt his path. Hollowness is just the same as desolation. It's a hole in the wake of something absent or lost. He's got all he needs; he doesn't need anything but to feed the hunger.

A glassy voice, cracking at the edges, doesn't dissuade him from this show. But it does leave behind broken shards, sharp enough to cut.

There's no reason for doing any of it. Anika got in the way of his path, and now she's finally got some bite back in her. He can't stare too long, behind glazed eyes, sparking with a darkness that swirls in light hues. They dare to redden, with every crashing wave of the tidal that comes, word after word; that fucking voice —

'Fight back. Fight — the fuck back!'

His fists clench around the back of the chair, twisting his head, he feels something in his throat. A jagged thing that feels like he's been up in altitude for too long, and he needs to breathe. He doesn't need to; he hasn't for eight years. But Anika's drilling a mortality into him, that he has to fucking laugh in disbelief about. Humbling the monster, imagine. After she survived in the memories he tried to burn in the flames. When Veilview fell, he threw her in there along with the dozens he didn't learn the names of. He won't fight a ghost. She's a phantom, stumbling on his borrowed life —

'Go on then. Kill me.'

What am I fighting? Reid stands so quickly, the chair is across the room, clattering with the force of his shove. She's preaching at him about the sanctity of life — of Michael Booker. He'd like to meet her, whoever that —

No. No! Not the same — He's not in a dank hole with her —

Anika can't possibly know his ordeal. It's his first assumption that she's in his head, before he festers on the words; she was in a basement for months. He doesn't understand. There's the kicker; he never does. And at least this time around, she'll fucking admit he's never going to know what the fuck she's on about. Booker's got a sailing path in her mind, but she's the only one who gets a map. Worry about yourself, princess. Not Book. But she doesn't have to. She's a lamb, grazing the room that is the motel. He's not shearing her for warmth or slicing her up as cattle.

Don't be a fucking pussy, Halstead. You were a shitty hunter, don't be a disappointing fucking vampire too.

"Shut the fuck up, Booker." It rips out of him as he whirls towards her. A hand flies out towards her and stops so suddenly, right as it would have landed around her throat. It's a voice so similar, but not this one. Before he lingers a clawed hand too long, it's rearing back and digits are flying through dishevelled hair. Teeth bared, as something finally bursts from him, like an explosion with a fuse she'd lit; it's exhausted its length and finally struck detonation. "I don't give a shit about whoever is going to kill him. Just be quiet. You're doing so much talking—" Reid brushes past her to stand nearer the door, a flat hand bracing on the frame. Eyes squeezed shut. It's laughter again, he thinks.

He's pointing his back toward her. And maybe a part of him thinks it's better this way. She exists outside of his scope, then.

We're nothing. You're nothing to me.

He tastes burnt caramel on his tongue, a sense that no longer knows sugar or sweetness. But it's there, a note that carries in the crevasses of a remembrance he'd tossed away.

Reid remembers what he'd said to her, of all of this: This is what you want, isn't it?

An end. An ending. This is an epilogue that never needed to be written.

He can't stop it. But he feels the flood rocking over his foundations. A choked breath that's unlike his own escapes as he slams his fist through the plasterboard. Not anger. Not pain. Not anything. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. This, is just — it's just...

I killed all those people.

Anika Booker is behind me.

Reid's struggled sound is clipped; he scratches stoniness out of his throat, tongue feeling out the points of his teeth. There's sunlight behind this door. And neither of them can cross. Refuses to allow either of them to. He doesn't care. Can't.... won't. But he turns his head a little, to capture the silhouette in his peripheral vision of a woman who has haunted his nightmares, his dreams and all his murderous fantasies. He unfurls a fist from the caved-in wall and braces it back on the rotted wood of the motel door.

It's unreflective of the man — monster, of thirty seconds prior. Tries — for what? There's just stoicism now. Dare he fucking say that with the churning of war taking place inside of him: "I need to understand more than that."

[toastedseavegetable]

brain space, bone space

[light-wrath-paradise]

Really feeling Your Body Is A Graveyard today ngl

[ardentghcst]

SOMETHING IN MAYA SNAPPED , much like the twigs in the wood had beneath his booth . sharp , absolute , the echo of her own cut patience with no lingering of the shear's SNIP afterwards . her breathing grew jagged , not from a struggle to collect air but from the gravel in his words she had swallowed , straining like a madman against a canvas coat . it was what he wanted — her sanity to come undone like he were pulling at a spool of thread until the skein was empty . once his footfall had began to move elsewhere , maya suddenly turned , so fast if she could see her surroundings she was sure they would have spun . her fists came back down against the door with such a ferocity it begged the question of where the strength came from , the energy , her whole cage seeming to rattle with each relentless drive of her clenched firsts against it .

but words , , , they didn't come . just NOISE , as he had called it . ' almost musical , a dying rhythm . ' one fist then the other , and then — like something tearing through her — maya screamed . like her very soul were being torn from her physical body ; ripping through flesh , bone , and aching muscle . slow and cruel so she could really feel it as it was separated from her . screaming like it hurt . she was tired and hungry and scared and in so much PAIN — one would think the robbing of her sanity would have been a mercy . at least then she wouldn't have the means to grapple with what has happened to her .

two weeks in the dark , followed by the illusion of escape , the fantasy of choice . the eventual acceptance of circumstances in exchange for something as simple as a shower . choosing defeat then backpedaling once she had realized what she had done . she had closed the door to the shower herself . she might as well have closed this one , too .

maya once more deflated , coming to lay on her side , tucking her padded knees to her chest and curling up as small as she could . every nerve vibrated , buzzed , like they were grappling with the aftershock of electrocution . maya finally cried , really cried , sobbing hysterically — angrily , brokenly — like it were the only thing she knew how to do . an infant that didn't have the tongue , the teeth , the articulation or knowledge of the english language to express their emotions in any other way .

time was no longer important , it didn't matter like it had before , so she didn't bother to consider how long she stayed like that .

maya no longer cared .

He almost smiled at the profanity she swung his way. Another one. More a placeholder than an attempt to grasp at power in her situation; something loud to fill the space where silence had started to scare her. To grate on her nerves. Then a wet sound, friction, cloth tearing, snapping against teeth. Loud enough to make it clear to him what she was doing; going for the bandages. Self-harm disguised as defiance.

He moved a little further towards her door, gaze lingering on the cool, grey contraption as though he might see through it. He stopped just beyond the door, one hand brazed lightly against the surface - and tilted his head slightly, as if listening for an echo she wouldn't ear. It was there again; deflection, noise, endlessly reaching for shape in the chaos. Her voice was raw as it scraped along ruthlessly unforgiving metal. Her words, like throwing a stone with no direction. He didn't respond.

Her next words carried less emotion, but then came the laugh. Dry, broken. The kind that carried more venom than humour. Sebastian let the silence breathe for a few seconds after her accusation. Long enough to let the words rot on her tongue. Psycho, pervert; more empty words spat at him like they were supposed to mean something. Perhaps to provoke. Perhaps simply slinging them against the wall to see if something stuck, convinced that if she could name him, define him, perhaps then she could dull the teeth of what he was.

When he spoke, it was soft and precise; the tone of someone correcting a student’s faulty reasoning. "You fell asleep, Maya," he said quietly, his voice like a brush of satin against skin - and suddenly much closer than it had been before, carried clearly through the door between them - as though his lips were no more than a few inches from her ear. "I carried you back the way I found you." A pause, brief, but long enough to let his words settle. "If modesty mattered to you, you should have stayed awake." In his tone lingered no accusation, no pleasure either. Just the clean, plain weight of truth; fact. Correction. He left her to interpret whether her lack of clothes happened to be a lesson - or a punishment for failing one.

"As for my name," he added a beat later, "you'll get it when you've earned it."

Then he drew back, turned and began walking the path back upstairs, this time letting his footfall set just heavy enough for her to hear it - to sense the closing of her window; to feel the weight of her failure to take advantage of that second chance he'd given her.

[be-xkyy]

𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑁𝑎𝑔𝑎

Warning: sexual content, aphrodisiac, breeding kink, eggs, kidnapped, biting (twice), possessive, dirty talk, two cocks, big cocks, calls you "human" and "little human".

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★ @dreamlessnight ★ @riawrld ★ @darkuni63 ★

Divider credits: @cafekitsune ★ @bernardsbendystraws ★

Masterlist

Yandere Naga who used to live in the forest like a king (no. not really) until he was captured and brought to a nature reserve.

Yandere Naga who doesn't like humans at all, always lets out threatening hisses and tries to attack the caretakers who enter his territory to leave him food or clean up his messes.

Yandere Naga who had already planned creative ways to get rid of his new caretaker (just like he did with the last ones) but what he doesn't expect is that it would be such a cute and delicious thing.

Yandere Naga who stares at you when you enter his territory to clean the place and leave him food, he narrows his yellow eyes, his pupils contract into thin slits and sticks out his forked tongue to taste the air —your smell... you smell delicioussss... like a mate...

Yandere Naga who from that day on stares at you every time you enter his territory lying on his rock, his eyes follow all your movements, he acts docile around you without hissing at you or trying to attack you, which causes the other caretakers to congratulate you for achieving the impossible, for making him adapt to you so quickly...

Yandere Naga who manages to identify at what moment you have your fertile cycles and creates a plan to make you his partner and mother of his offspring, he only needs to catch you off guard when you enter his cage for your daily chores, he must act when the other caretakers are not around.

Yandere Naga who can execute his plan with relative ease thanks to the fact that he became more "tame" that made everyone around lower their guard including you, one day when you enter his cage to clean he slides towards you quickly and wraps his tail around you tightly sliding quickly into the interior of his cave.

He drops you onto a nest made of branches, leaves and what look like old blankets, a clear attempt to make the place more comfortable, without giving you time to analyze what's happening he slides towards you, getting between your legs, his scales brushing the fabric of your pants and he sticks out his forked tongue sniffing the air before speaking.

"Your delicious rubber... like ripe fruit, I want to take a good bite out of you..."

"Wait! Wait! You can't do this! The other caretakers will notice that I'm not there, they'll come looking for me and when they find me they'll take me outside, they'll punish you if you do anything to me!"

Your voice tries to be firm but it's clearly shaky, he looks at you with his yellow eyes that narrow a little at your words, he hisses leaning over you until his face is right in front of yours, your breaths mix and he stares into your eyes without blinking, his words make your blood run cold.

"I will kill anyone who dares to come here to try to take you away from me. I will crush them until their bones break and their eyes pop out of their sockets, you are mine human~"

He hisses softly when your warm hands rest on his cold chest trying to push him away from you in a panic, he smiles at your fighting attitude and although I wish I could see more of that attitude unfortunately you are right that the other caretakers will start looking for you when they notice your absence so he must be fast, he grabs your head firmly tilting your neck to the side he opens his mouth and leans down sinking his sharp fangs into your soft neck making you let out a moan, he uses the aphrodisiac in his venom to make me more submissive and to make your body go crazy.

"What did you do..? Are you going to kill me..?"

"What?! Kill you?! Of course not! It's an aphrodisiac, it won't kill you, it will just make your body loosen up so it can receive my cocks, silly human~"

He smiles playfully as his venom quickly takes effect, he can feel your body heat skyrocketing, he sticks out his forked tongue which writhes as he smells your excitement permeating the air in the cave, he sees you writhing beneath him clearly uncomfortable and in pain from the effect of the aphrodisiac, he coos at you as he proceeds to quickly remove that ugly and rough uniform you're wearing and does the same with your underwear, his eyes studying your flushed naked body.

"Such a pretty human~ you smell so fertile I can't wait to lay my eggs inside you~"

"It hurts... please–"

He smiles as you can only whimper shakily, he rubs your dripping cunt his slender fingers tracing circles on your wet bud delighting in the way you shudder and your breathing becomes more labored, willing to not waste any more valuable time his scales seem to part and two terrifyingly large cocks reveal themselves making you shudder despite your daze but he chuckles as he takes one of his cocks in his hand bringing it closer to your swollen cunt.

"Don't be afraid human, your body was made to receive my cocks, you will enjoy it~"

He lets out a deep hiss as he slides his fat cock into your pussy, fascinated by the warmth of your insides that embraces him deliciously. You, on the other hand, are left breathless as you feel his cock stretching your poor walls as far as it will go, making its way into your channel, and the sensation is a confusing mix of pain and pleasure that makes you want to cry. He hits bottom and you feel his cock deep inside your uterus while his other cock rests on your stomach, staining it with precum.

"You feel so warm human~ I've never felt anything like this with any woman of my kind, I knew you and I were destined~"

He hisses and without giving you time to think he starts to thrust into you over and over again he pulls out his cock leaving just the tip inside before thrusting into your pussy again with a hard thrust, the sound of his thrusts and your moans fill the cave echoing off the walls, your pussy squirts on his cock and you feel dizzy at the delicious sensation his cock gives you, his scales scrape your thighs but that only adds to the overwhelming pleasure, his cock hits your cervix over and over again without slowing down or showing mercy, you're reaching the top when suddenly he stops making you let out a pitiful moan but he silences you with a playful hiss.

"Don't worry human you'll reach your climax~ but first I have to fit both of my cocks inside you~"

He laughs as you just let out a pathetic "uh..?" too fucked out to think, he pulls his cock out of your tight pussy leaving just the tip before guiding his other cock inside, both of his members slowly entering your pussy making you arch your back and let out a high pitched cry, you feel as if an arm is being shoved into your battered pussy, he senses your discomfort so he begins to rub tight circles on your mound trying to relax you, when he bottoms out your eyes roll back in your head, he takes a moment before he begins to slowly move as your walls squeeze him so hard.

"You're too tight on me— I'll give you some more of my venom to relax you human, that'll help us out a lot"

He wastes no time in leaning down to your neck biting just above the mark of his other bite, he injects you with a larger amount of aphrodisiac poison than before which causes the effect to be instantaneous, he feels your walls loosen little by little and your juices begin to drip making a mess and then you can't help but smile as he begins to move again, his cocks ram into you mercilessly he grabs your hips to hold you better while he listens to the high pitched moans that escape from your open mouth the erotic sight makes him move faster.

"That's it~ you take me so well little human~ keep it up~"

He praises you even though he's not sure you're listening to anything he's saying, he still keeps moving non-stop admiring the bulge that forms in your stomach every time he thrusts into you, his heads hitting your bruised cervix over and over again feeling himself getting closer to the limit he can feel you getting closer too by the way your pussy tightens on his cocks, he can feel your walls throbbing and a few seconds later you cum your juices dripping down wetting his cocks and scales, your pussy tightens him like a vice which takes him to the limit he gives you a few erratic thrusts until he cums inside you deep inside your pussy.

"Yessss~ very good little human~ take my eggs!~ keep my offspring inside this womb and give me beautiful children~"

Your nails dig into his arms when you feel something round the size of a tennis ball slide from one of his cocks into your uterus that stretches painfully to receive it, eggs. You sob when another egg follows the same path and another, another, another. You lose count of how many eggs he lays inside you, you can't do anything but receive them, when he finishes laying eggs his other cock fills you with sperm, you stay like that for a while when he pulls out you are sore, tired and uncomfortably full, your belly is so big it seems like you are nine months pregnant, he wipes the tears from your cheeks and kisses your lips looking into your eyes.

"Don't cry little human, you did very well I'm very proud of you. I put all my eggs in your womb and fertilized them I'm sure all of them will gestate without any problem... in a few months you'll be a mother, but for now sleep little human, I'll be here when you wake up~"

Exhausted and unable to do anything else you obey, you close your eyes and let Morpheus' arms wrap around you, he watches with adoration as your chest rises and falls gently, he decides to lie down next to you, he pulls you to his firm chest and wraps his tail around you protectively enjoying your body heat, the tip of his tail caresses your swollen belly and he murmurs in a dark voice.

"I will protect you and our young with my life, I will kill anyone who tries to take you away from me or tries to hurt any of you, it's a promise my little human~♡."

[alanisstonedd]

MDNI - sexual content

an: it’s that time yall…

i need a big boy to love on me like it’s his only job on this damn earth.

the slow ascent over his lap feeling more like mounting a horse. the feel of his strong hands gripping at the plush of your hips. the tug and pull at each others clothes while your lips lock in the slowest, wettest fuck. his scorching tongue in your mouth feels like he’s reaching into you for your soul already and the firm fingers in your hair make sure he gets exactly what he wants.

he can’t help but grind up into your heat on instinct, the slow roll of his hips intoxicating you. the heat spreading through your core and straight up your spine, unable to keep your mouth shut. the rhythmic back-and-forth of humping fully clothed, no time to take any clothes off. his hands sear a path over every inch of skin he can get to, yours content in his hair too focused on rocking your clit over the throbbing bulge in his shorts. a concentrated frown etched into his strong features, sparkling eyes locked on your thrown back head.

his hot mouth going straight for your bared neck, addicted to the taste of your skin. he’s laving at anything his mouth can reach, sucking at your nipples like the feel of them in his mouth alone is enough to make him bust - your whole chest glistening by the time he’s done.

the rushed struggle to stuff yourself with every thick inch he has, clothes still on, mouthing at his lips. him thrusting up into you short and fast, grunting against your collar bone, palms firmly planted on your hips. chest to chest, you can feel every breath he intakes, the outtake fanning over your wet, pebbled, buds. his solid arms caging you in, making damn sure you take everything he’s giving.

he has to back up just to see you in all your glory, pushing at your belly, still canting up into you with no problem. his mouth hangs open in bliss, floored at the the clench of you around him when he man handles you down to the hilt, hitting a spot so deep you think you see tweety birds.

he flips you both over like it’s nothing, his belly up against yours, his pudge and happy trail rubbing your clit just right. the weight he puts behind his thrusts hitting you like a mack truck. it makes you dizzy, the way he’s putting his all into it yet completely unfazed by the way you can’t shut your mouth. his lazy thumbing at your sensitive clit sending you up the wall. he keeps you on the edge for as long as you can stand, heaving breaths into his mouth from the force of his thrusts.

he’s nasty with it, biting at your lips in a sloppy kiss, tasting yourself lingering on his tongue from earlier. he’s flipping into whatever position gets the loudest moans out of you, massaging the plush of your thighs and up your back like that’ll ease the punch of his hips. he heaves into your neck, gripping at you like the heat of you around him is wearing his sanity thinner than is possible.

he don’t care about the mess, the splat splat of the wetness in between you both makes you even wetter, the gush around him calls for teeth biting, groans, and hot tongue on the column of your throat. you moan like you haven’t had a homemade meal in years - the palpable hunger for you that seeps out of him when you buck up onto his leaking dick, is only thing that can quell your hunger.

when you’re on your side, thigh stretched up in his hold, the soft muscle of him envelopes you from behind. he reaches so deep with every thrust you think he can feel how much you need his dick. it overwhelms your senses, his baccarat, your miss dior, and the thick musk of sex

FANUM, price, dadbod!simon, ony

[roscolate]

OH MY GOD??!!

‘KP got the least votes, which means he suffers the least’

Me:

TW: Eyestrain / Choking / Torture / Burning

ACT 1

ACT 2 - 1 <<< 37 / 🔥 / ?

How are you guys doing so far? Good. Good. But WAIT! It gets EVEN BETTER!

[javierpena-inatacvest]

His

Summary: Javi can't get enough of you (aka idk how to summarize this other than it's pwp whoops)

Word Count: 1.8K

Pairing: Husband!Javier Peña x Wife!Reader

Warnings: ... again, this is straight up pwp, unprotected p in v sex, rough(er) sex, breeding kink (I'm sorry!! I'm sorry!! It's physically impossible to not!!), praise kink, big, nasty creampie, cum play, 1 use of daddy and papí (but like, that's the goal), an ass smack, prone bone and the one position from s2e3 of Narcos because I say so!!! also sweet, tooth rotting fluff because I don't know how to write any other way

A/N: She's nothing, if not consistent, your honor 🤠 You'll have to pry Javier Peña and his big, fat breeding kink out of my cold, dead hands before I stop writing about it!!!!!! Figured what better way to break a hiatus than letting the ovulation demons do the lords work for me to post some smut on tumblr dot com, hope y'all enjoy!!!

Never Too Late Masterlist

“Fuck, Javi!” 

The only thing that’s keeping you from waking up your neighbors with the volume of your moans is the way Javi has you pressed against the mattress, muffling the sound of you screaming his name as he pounds into you, over and over. 

You swear he could smell it on you from the second he walked through the door, how you had been craving him all day. Just the thought of him alone was enough to make you ache with unbearable need and want. From the moment he left for work this morning, you were counting down the hours until he got home so you could climb him like a goddamn tree. 

But then again, how can anyone blame you when he’s the one who instigated it in the first place? 

“I swear to god, when I get home, I’m not letting you out of the fucking bed tonight ‘till I knock you up.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise, Javi?” 

“Both.” 

Javi’s always been a man of his word, but with the way he’s fucking you right now, it makes you wonder if he’s ever planning on letting you out of the bed again. 

“That’s it baby girl, let me hear it.” 

You can feel the way the words rumble in his chest, pressed against your back as he fucks into you, deeper and harder with each thrust. The grip around your intertwined fingers tighten, practically melting you into the bed with the weight of his broad body is pinning you down, caging you beneath him. 

Heat is radiating off him, the tacky sheen of sweat pooling where your skin meets, Javi’s hips flushed against the meat of your ass. He’s already got you three orgasms deep, but there’s just something addictive about Javi that always has you begging for more, desperate to cum around his cock over and over again until you have nothing left to give. 

“Oh my god- fuck. Fuck, Javi, I want more baby, please. Fuck me harder- oh fuck-” 

You swear you can feel his smirk creeping into the corners of his cheeks as he kisses your shoulder, relishing in the mess he’s already made you, and yet, you still can’t seem to get enough of him. 

“You want more, hermosa? Let me hear you, baby.” Javi coos, purposely slowing his pace down just enough to make you whimper, quietly laughing to himself at the way he can feel you back your ass up against his hips, trying to keep yourself as full of him as you can. 

“I want it, I want more, baby, please.” You whine, craning your neck behind you just enough to see the devilish grin Javi has plastered across his face. 

“You gonna be a good girl and take everything I have to give you? Let me fill you up until it’s got no choice but to fuckin’ stick?” He groans, the thought of fucking himself so deep inside you that nine months from now, he’ll be the reason for your growing family, igniting something indescribably primal in him. 

“Yes! Yes, please, fuck- I’ll take all of it!” 

It’s borderline pathetic how many octaves your voice has climbed as you beg him for more, a pitch and volume so loud and high you nearly startle yourself with your response. You can hear Javi sigh and curse under his breath. You’re not sure if it’s because having you like this drives him crazy, or if having you like this drives him so crazy, he’s worried he’ll bust right then and there if he doesn’t control himself. 

Your response has him shifting behind you, sitting back on his knees and gripping his fingers into the meat of your sides to force your bottom half up, one hand letting go to smack your ass just hard enough for your breath to hitch in the back of your throat. 

You’re not sure how, but the new position has him feeling even fuller, stretching you out to the point of pleasure filled sobs as he starts to pound against your g-spot, each thrust rougher than the last. 

You’re so wet that the sound of him sliding in and out of your cunt is almost as loud as the noise of his skin slapping against yours. That, combined with the lewd panting and moaning heaving from each of your chests, has the room sounding like you could easily give any porno ever produced a run for its money. 

“Love this pussy so fucking much. Always so fucking wet and tight for me. Whose pussy is this, baby?” Javi asks, his once smug demeanor quickly dissipating as he chokes out his question through gritted teeth, so drunk on you he can barely think straight. 

“Yours! Fuck, fuck fuck- It’s yours, Javi.” You sob, fisting at your bedsheets so tightly, you’re convinced it won’t be long until your knuckles turn white. 

“Fucking right, it is. Fuck you so full of me that I knock you up, make sure- mierda- make sure everyone knows you’re all mine. That what you want, Mami?” 

“Yes, y-yes! Oh fuck- yes! ” 

Javi gets one more smack at your ass before he reaches around to scoop you up from your front, draping his arm across your chest to flush it with his back, never letting the pace of his hips falter. If he wasn’t holding you up, you’re positive you’d be limp, so all consumed by pleasure that it’s engulfed every inch of your body. to keep yourself upright. 

His free arm snakes around to find your clit, whimpering as the pads of his fingers rub tight circles around the bundle of nerves. The undeniable tingle at the base of your spine is beginning to build again, the all too familiar clamping of your cunt around Javi’s cock growing tighter by the second. 

You can all but feel him in your stomach, every inch of him sunk as deep as you can take him, backing your ass into him to counter every snap of his hips. You shoot your hand behind you, digging your nails into whatever part of his thigh you can find to brace yourself on as he fucks into relentlessly, only egged on by the fact he knows how close you are. 

“You got one more for me, baby?” Javi mewls, nipping at your neck while the hot words of his breath dance across your skin. “One more time before I cum so fucking deep inside you?” 

You’re not sure how you even have the capacity to form words, nodding your head in compliance as you try your best to string together something comprehensible as the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter. 

“Y-yes, oh fuck- want you to fill me up. Put a baby in me, please, papí.“ 

“Fuck me.” Javi huffs under his breath, furrowing his brow in an intense focus to keep from fulfilling your request preemptively. “Cum for me, Hermosa. Cum all over my cock, and I promise I will.” 

It only takes a few more frantic strokes before you’re collapsing around him, orgasm shooting through your body with such radiating pleasure, you’re not even sure you’re on this earth anymore. The way he’s pinning your nearly limp body to his, pounding into you relentlessly to chase his own high is almost too much, but you’ll take it. You’ll take everything he has to give because it means that you’re his. 

“That’s my girl.” Javi coos, sliding the hand that had been rubbing at your clit up your chest, stopping to wrap around your jaw, just firm enough to dip your head back to rest against his shoulder. “My good fucking girl.” 

His head is buried in the crook of your neck, pants and moans muffled against your skin, growing louder with each snap of his hips, each one more reckless and sloppy than the last. You can barely make out the words he’s mumbling into your ear, his brain just as jumbled as yours as he nears his finish line. 

“I have so much fucking cum for you. Gonna fuck it so deep in you, it’ll- oh fuck- it’ll fucking take. Fill up this pussy with every last- shit- every last fucking drop. Fuck!” 

It’s a low groan that rumbles in his chest first, followed by a strangled whimper that dies somewhere in the back of his throat as his hips stutter, hot ropes of his spend spilling inside of you while he cums. You know he doesn’t dare let a drop go to waste, that he’ll keep his cock stuffed inside your cunt until you’ve milked him of every ounce he has to give. 

And fuck, he wasn’t lying when he said plenty to give. 

You can’t even tell where your body ends and his begins, melded together as one, his length nestled so deep inside you, you can feel all of him pulsing while his seed overflows, leaking out pussy and dripping down your thighs. You know there’s nothing more Javi wants than to keep every last drop inside your cunt, but the best he can do with how much he has to give is to keep fucking it into you, forcing hips to thrust deeper in sync with the heavy heaves of his chest until you’re all but sobbing. 

“It’s- fuck- it’s so much, Javi, fuck-” You whimper, jaw slack at the slick, sticky mess pooling around the base of his cock. 

“Jesus, fuck- I know, baby. I know, but you’re taking me so fucking well.” He coos, softly kissing your neck and shoulder before shifting your body to lay you down, somehow remembering to grab a pillow from his side of the bed to prop under your hips before your back hits the mattress. 

You hiss at the loss of Javi inside you, the sharp breath quickly replaced by a gasp as you the next plop of cum dripping out of your hole caught by Javi’s fingers, sliding up your soaked folds to gently press back into your cunt. He uses the last bit of strength he has to part your legs just enough to make room for his head, leaning down just enough to pepper soft kisses to your clit, trailing up your stomach and chest until he collapses next to you. 

The both of you lay there for a moment in silence, nothing left to fill the room but the post-orgasmic haze you’ve left behind, catching your breath as you try to let your brain sync back up to your body. 

“Javi… Javi, holy fuck.” You huff, the corners of your cheeks turning upwards in a cheeky grin as you roll your head to face him, giggling at the wide eyed, fucked out expression his face still can’t seem to shake. 

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Javi sighs, shaking his head in disbelief before running his hand through the sweat-dampened curls of his hair, prying them from the damp mat they’ve made on his forehead.  

“You came so hard, Jav.” You softly giggle, scooting close enough to lay your cheek against his chest, smiling as he drapes his arm across your back to pull you in closer. 

“Yeah, I know. Fuck, I haven’t cum that hard in a long time.” Javi smirks, fingers drawing gentle patterns on the warm skin of your back. 

“Trying to knock me up really turns you on that much, huh?” You tease, the two of you laughing like you didn’t already know the answer, or that he couldn’t say the same for you. “It’s hot.” 

“Yeah?” Javi asks, biting down on the plush of his lower lip as he raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Mhmmm. You’re already about to be the hottest DILF known to man, makes it that much hotter how badly you want to be a daddy.” 

Even though Javi rolls his eyes at you, trying his best to hide the boyish grin stretched between his cheeks. You snicker at the pink flush of his face, leaning over to leave a lingering kiss on his lips, both your smiles meeting each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck me.” Javi sighs, quietly laughing to himself, carefully brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. 

“Again? Already? Hate to break it to ya, but I think it’s safe to say you’ve got nothing left in the tank there, Jav.” 

This eye roll makes him grin even harder, supring on your giggles with the ticklish kisses he pecks across your body as payback for your awful joke. 

“You’re such a fucking dork. God, I love you.” 

“Love you more, idiot.”

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[blvdheart]

what, too big, sweet thing?

cw: mdni, fem!reader, drabble, size difference, breeding kink, mention of birth control, aftercare

note: he could crush me. not that he would because he’s a sweetheart, but omg pleaseee i wanna be lovingly smushed by him ૮꒰ྀི >⸝⸝⸝<꒱ྀི i cannot describe the positions well, hope you guys understand

umm anyways, yes <3 thinking about how bulky he is.

him kneeling back on the heels of his feet and shoving his cock inside you while you straddle his hips, one of his hands splayed against the plush of your ass while his other arm is slung around the small of your back, keeping your back arched so you’re pressed against him all nice and snug.

you reach back to hold onto one of his hairy forearms—the one whose hand is fondling your ass. your nails leave indents on his skin, the slight tinge of sharp pain only making him slow down his pace so he can focus more on deep thrusts and making sure he buries himself to the hilt, until his balls are pressed up against your bottom.

or when he’s prone boning you, rutting into you from behind and making the mattress shake. your hands clawing at the sheets so hard your knuckles turn white. it’s only natural to need to clutch onto something when a hunk of a man is making your vision all blurry and rearranging your insides. right?

“leon…so big…fuck.” your sentences are all chopped up and spoken through high-pitched gasps, all you can do is say whatever words come to mind first.

“i know, i know i’m big. feels good, doesn’t it? you love this dick?”

geez, what a bastard. you nod eagerly.

one of his hands leaves the side of your hip, instead reaching over to slide his hand on top of yours. massive, of course, his fingers spread yours apart to accommodate the size of his. and god, you’re sure your fingers can’t spread anymore than that.

or hello? when he has you in a mating press, murmuring false promises of getting you pregnant against the shell of your ear. “c’mon sweet girl, you’d look so pretty with your stomach all swollen. what do you think?”

yours hands settle on his biceps, squeezing the built up muscles. so beefy. the headboard is slamming against the wall so aggressively you’re scared the wood will chip and break. okay, actually, no you’re not. you’re not even worried about that. you have better things to be concerned about, like whether leon is going to break you in half or not.

leon’s very aware of how big he is compared to you, even with his mind all clouded with thoughts of how good your cunt is and how much he wants to make you gush around his cock, he still manages to keep some rationality and keeps some of his weight off of you.

“mhm, want it. wanna get knocked up by you.” you whine in response, acting as if you weren’t on birth control and way too fucking unprepared for such a thing. not a problem, a girl can fantasize, can’t she?

it’s always so cute to him when you cum, the way your entire body writhes around while he cages you in entirely, the way you babble his name out endlessly, and he has to kiss you to shut you up. “so noisy.”

he always takes care of you afterwards. cleaning you up, massaging your entire body because yeah, being manhandled into different positions as if you’re a soft pretzel is taxing!

“here?” he asks, his hands on your hips, kneading away the discomfort that had built there. you’re just glad you didn’t get a cramp while he was fucking you.

he can’t help but laugh a bit (a lot) when you try to get up and your knees buckle. what an ass. but he’s also nice, so he carries you to whatever destination you desire until you tell him you’re completely okay.

[thehappyvet]

Just a reminder if you decide to illegally take a wild animal from the wild for yourself, even if you have the best interests at heart, you could be killing it.

If you feed it the wrong diet you can cause it's bones to break or other diseases associated with mineral imbalances. If you feed it too much you could cause issues associated with obesity including excessive fat stores.

If you aren't a trained wildlife rehabilitator you won't understand the importance of preventing imprinting or humanising. So you'll cuddle it, play with it, and let your pets play with it. So it will think it can only get food from humans, and that humans and domestic pets are part of its family.

If you take it while it's still young it won't learn the necessary foraging and social skills from its parents to survive in the wild. You might joke you don't even need a cage for it, but it isn't able to go anywhere because you've made it dependant on you.

If you aren't a wildlife carer or in the animal health industry you might not realise it's injured and needs treatment. This could lead to broken bones setting in ways that the animal can't perform normal functions and suffering from a life of chronic pain. Or it could lead to it suffering a slow and agonising death.

You might also not be aware that wildlife can contain diseases that can make you sick or even kill you. You could put yourself and your loved ones at risk of serious zoonotic diseases by bringing it home.

And, if you are found to be illegally holding a wild animal without the intention of rehabilitating and releasing it, the authorities are stuck. They can't release the animal because it thinks humans and domestic pets are friends. It can't forage for itself. It can't socialise with its own kind. It could have injuries or diet associated diseases that mean it can't perform normal functions, or is suffering from chronic pain. If they released it, it would die.

Is it fair for that animal that your choices have led to it not being able to experience its life in the wild as it should?

If you take something from the wild and intend to keep it, I hope this makes you think twice.

These kinds of stories are all over social media now, but none of them tell this side. They normalise putting a wild animal though an incredibly stressful experience purely for likes and engagement.

If you want to be a hero, get accredited to be a wildlife rehabilitator. Join an amazing network of compassionate humans just like you who understand that wild things should be wild, and do everything they can to get them back there.

If you find a wild animal and you're not sure what to do, call your local veterinary clinic or wildlife rehabilitation group. Trust that we have the knowledge to make the best choices for that animal. And if you want to make those choices, join us.

[manicandobsessive]

You’re my lady, I’m your fool | L.H.

Summary: Logan missed his girl.

Warnings: fluff fluff and more fluff, the man is lovesick, cursing, pet names, SUGGESTIVE, mdni please, reader is shorter than logan, based on a wham song, not really proofread im lazy, kind of rushed ending but its still cute

WC: 1.5k+

I had a vision after listening to this song and I wrote this in approximately 1 hour. I’m a wham girlie.

Home. You. Dinner.

That was the mantra Logan chose to repeat in order to remain sane on his drive home. Pedal to the medal, at least 30 over the speed limit at all times. The truck rumbled and groaned with the weight of years of memories and use under him, but he continued his trek home regardless.

Gonna have to change the fuckin’ oil soon, too. He thought. The mere inconvenience adding to his already ever-present irritation.

Every douchebag in Canada had decided today was the day to test his patience. From his dumbfuck coworkers at the lumber yard to the asshole currently riding his tail. He’d had enough. He wanted to be home with you. His girl. His sweetheart, angel, darling, the list goes on. The thought of you was the one string pulling him back to reality. The tether to his life he cherished with every bone in his aching body. He truly didn’t know where he would be if he didn’t have you.

Probably jail.

But you taught him the beauty of kindness. Yours being a beacon of hope for him when he accidentally spilled beer on you at a dingy bar. He’d been staring at you anyways, but humiliating himself wasn’t on the agenda for the night. Yet you didn’t scoff at him, didn’t look at him sideways, not even a curse under your breath. You didn’t bat a fucking eyelash and without skipping a beat, you asked if he was okay. The first example of many showing your unwavering selflessness. It was admirable, you were the better half of the pair of you- in his opinion. He often found himself frustrated with your lack of regard towards yourself, brushing it off like nothing. He’d tried time and time again to tell you to take care of yourself, not to worry about him. And you always, always told him the same fucking thing:

“Can’t control it, Lo. Just care about you.”

Hugging him tightly around the waist, resting your chin on his pecs and looking up at him with that sweet, sweet smile. Your bright eyes and soft face making him huff as he instinctively moved his own arms to hold you closer to him. He never could find himself angry with you.

He reminisced on those memories often. On top of plenty of other moments with you that brought a pleasant smile to his face.

He had no idea that accident at the bar almost 3 years ago would bring him to this point, but fuck if he isn’t overjoyed that it did.

Love was never on Logan’s radar. Written off as another extra thing he didn’t need to bother with. He was certain that life would never be for someone like him- that he’d never find someone to accept him for what he is. For who he is. And you did without a second thought. You’d blown life right back into him, showing him what real happiness is. He swears that when he met you the sun shone brighter each day. Something you would always roll your eyes at, calling him cheesy. But he wholeheartedly believed it- which is saying a lot coming from a man who no longer believes in much else.

The soft glow of your shared cabin came into view, practically calling to him by name. The visual had already calmed his racing heart, knowing you were waiting for him. Probably in one of his flannels and old socks. Your hair flowing freely and your entire demeanor relaxed. It was his favorite look on you, other than when you were begging for him, caged between his thick arms. An endeavor for later, to say the least.

He slammed the truck door shut, moving with a newfound purpose to the front door. He kicked off his boots, leaving them on the front porch. If you took care of the house, the least he could do was be mindful of it.

And laundry, he knew you fucking hated laundry.

The door swung open. Logan made a silent note in his head to oil the hinges of that thing, the creaking got on his nerves.

He’d heard faint music from outside, the notes only getting louder the closer he got to where he needed to be- near you. He knew you were cooking, he could smell the various seasonings and vegetables. But most of all the music. You always had something playing, but it was only ever this loud and upbeat when you were in the kitchen. He’d found you dancing and singing enough times to know what the deal was.

And tonight was no different.

He knew you loved this song, something your dad had you listen to as a kid. A song you grew up on and still loved to present day. He was never a big fan of 80s pop, but whatever you enjoyed he was right there with you. Bopping his head along or tapping his foot lightly, it always made you giggle.

He leant against the wall, watching as you moved with ease throughout the kitchen. How you weren’t an extraterrestrial being was beyond him. He swore you had a halo sometimes.

The grace of your smile, the lightness in your steps, even your voice as you sung along to the music entranced him. Like a siren call. He made his way into the room, smiling when you weren’t even phased in the slightest at him catching you mid concert.

He was however surprised when you pulled him in by his arms, swinging them back and forth as you laughed. He was so caught up in your smile he didn’t even register you telling him to dance with you. Slowly but surely he gave in, a deep, warm chuckle erupting from his chest as you jumped and sang with the energy of a kid on Christmas morning. Your soft hands and sweet scent making him all the more taken with you, if that was even possible.

He spun you, lifting you off the ground in his arms as you let out a squeal.

“Logan!”

He put you down, not bothering to even try removing his arms from your waist as he looked down at you with the most lovesick expression on Earth. Scratch that, every universe. There wasn’t a single one where he hadn’t been head over heels in love with you.

“Hi baby.” He smirked when your face flushed as it always did when he called you that. He loved seeing it, it gave him butterflies. Even after all this time.

You slowly inched your arms around his neck, entangling your fingers with the hair on the base of his neck. He hummed and buried his face into your own, making you giggle. He pressed feather-light kisses on your neck and jaw before pulling back to look down at you once again.

You sung along to the rest of the song, Logan even joining in for one part:

“You’re my lady, I’m your fool.”

He sang, making you smile as you pecked his lips and he drew you in for a much deeper kiss.

“How was work?” You asked as he rested his forehead against yours. He groaned, not bothering to ruin the moment with the laundry list of complaints he’d had about people.

“Hell.” He simply replied, “Missed ya too much.” He mumbled against your lips, kissing you yet again.

You hummed in contentment against his mouth, pulling him impossibly closer. He was so intoxicating you nearly fell to the floor every time he kissed you. Always making you forget your name with the way his lips and tongue moved against your own.

He slowly walked you backwards, not breaking the kiss as he led you to your bedroom. He’d needed to show you how much he missed you since he left this morning. He was a lovesick fuck, and was damn proud of it.

You obliged without hesitation, allowing him to take control and softly rest you on your back on the bed. He kissed your eyelids, cheeks, nose, forehead. Anywhere that was accessible to him, he worshipped it- worshipped you. Your breath hitched, arching into him. You’d nearly forgotten you were in the middle of cooking when he came home. The realization hitting you in the face as you squirmed.

“Lo, dinner.” You huffed, trying- and failing- to push him away so you could finish cooking. Of course, you couldn’t fight off a man with a metal skeleton, let alone want to. You needed him, desperately. But you also wanted to make sure the house didn’t go up in flames.

“Logan.” You groaned, he growled against your skin. Pinning you down effectively as he continued his trail of kisses down your body.

“Logan Howlett.” You said with all the authority you could muster up in the moment. He stopped, lifting his head from your stomach and looking at you with a raised brow and that stupidly handsome smirk.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I gotta finish dinner.” You tried to look as stern as you could, but the way his rough hands were gently stroking your thighs made it impossible. Not to mention the look on his face. You knew him well enough to recognize it. Whatever he was about to say would solidify the one thing you knew: you weren’t leaving this bed anytime soon.

“I’ll cook. Jus’ lemme have this, sweetheart. I missed ya.”

[heeluvv]

SHE'S RIGHT.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ sister's bf! lee heeseung x reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex, cheating, etc.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

you feel his gaze even when you’re not looking.

it burns into your skin like an open flame, scorching and heavy, even as he sits across the room, his lips locked with your sister’s.

she’s curled up against him on the couch, giggling into his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair as she kisses him like she’s the only one in the world who matters to him.

but you know better.

because even with her pressed against him, even with her whispering sweet things in his ear, he’s not looking at her.

his eyes are on you.

your stomach twists, an icy dread creeping up your spine as you shift in your seat, refusing to meet his stare. but you feel it—deep, piercing, and utterly unashamed.

heeseung doesn’t look at you the way your sister thinks he does. he doesn’t glance, doesn’t spare you a passing acknowledgment like a normal boyfriend would.

he watches.

you hate it.

you hate him.

there’s something wrong with him, something lurking beneath that perfect smile, beneath the charming words and effortless affection he showers your sister with. something that makes your skin crawl.

you tried to tell her once.

you sat her down, voice trembling as you tried to explain the way heeseung’s eyes linger too long, the way his presence feels suffocating whenever you’re alone with him. you told her about the way he always finds an excuse to be near you, how his touches are fleeting but intentional—how you feel like a mouse in a cat’s cage every time he’s around.

but she only scoffs.

“god, you’re so jealous,” she had said, rolling her eyes. “you're so fucking pathetic. you always do this—always trying to ruin things for me just because no one wants you. maybe if you weren't so miserable and desperate for attention, you wouldn't have to make up lies about my boyfriend.”

jealous.

that’s what she called it.

as if the way heeseung’s gaze strips you bare, as if the way he devours you with his eyes, as if the way he makes you feel like you’re being hunted is something as simple as jealousy.

now, as you sit stiffly in the armchair, fists clenched in your lap, you force yourself to ignore the way his fingers grip your sister’s waist—because you know, you just know, that he’s imagining it’s you instead.

your sister pulls away first, breathless, lips swollen from the way heeseung had been kissing her like he was starving. she giggles, murmuring something to him before she turns toward the hallway, her attention stolen as your parents call for her from another room.

and just like that, she’s gone.

leaving you alone with him.

you hear him shift on the couch, the soft creak of the leather as he spreads his legs wide, making himself comfortable like he owns the place. like he owns you.

you don’t dare look at him.

but you feel him.

his gaze is heavy, suffocating, dragging over every inch of your body like an invisible touch. it makes your skin prickle, makes your pulse hammer in your throat.

you try to focus on something—anything—but the weight of his stare is too much, pressing into you like a brand.

then he hums, low and amused.

“why aren’t you looking at me, baby?”

his voice is rough, raspy, laced with something thick and dark that seeps into your bones and coils around your spine.

a shiver racks through you before you can stop it.

heeseung catches it, of course.

he sees everything.

you can hear the smirk in his tone as he tilts his head, his fingers tapping idly against his thigh.

“i know you feel me looking at you…” he murmurs.

his words slither under your skin, wrapping around you, suffocating.

your fingers tighten into fists in your lap, your body rigid as you force yourself to keep your eyes anywhere but on him.

but he doesn’t like that.

heeseung tuts under his breath, shifting forward slightly—close, too close.

“don’t be shy,” he drawls, voice dipping even lower, his gaze burning into your profile. “look at me.”

your stomach twists.

you don’t want to. you can’t.

because if you do, you know exactly what you’ll see.

the hunger in his eyes.

the ownership.

the satisfaction of knowing he already has you exactly where he wants you.

he scoffs, the sound sharp and condescending, like he’s already tired of your defiance.

you don’t have to see him to know he’s annoyed—the air between you feels heavier, thicker, charged with something dangerous.

then comes the tsk, a slow, deliberate sound of irritation, followed by his voice—low, sharp, demanding.

“fucking look at me, y/n.”

you stiffen.

his tone leaves no room for argument. no space to escape.

your breath hitches as your body betrays you, your head slowly turning until your eyes are forced to meet his.

they’re dark, hungry, full of something that shouldn’t be there.

your stomach knots, heat creeping up your neck as his gaze pierces into you, drinking in your every reaction.

“is it that fucking hard to just listen?”

you gulp, your throat dry, fingers clenching against your thighs as your entire body tenses.

you can’t answer. your mouth won’t move.

you shift in your seat, discomfort rolling off you in waves, your gaze flickering toward the hallway—toward the only place that feels safe.

but heeseung sees. he always sees.

and he doesn’t like it.

there’s a low exhale, almost a growl, before he moves.

your heart jumps to your throat as he pushes off the couch, his long strides closing the distance between you before you can even think about moving.

he looms over you, his frame casting a shadow, his eyes scanning every inch of you like he’s starving.

then—he groans. deep. guttural. pained.

your chest tightens.

you don’t understand why until he’s right in front of you, until you finally see it.

the thick strain in his pants.

your breath catches, the realization slamming into you all at once, your entire body going rigid as heeseung reaches out, his fingers threading into your hair—not gentle, not soft, but possessive. claiming.

“this is what you do to me, y/n…”

his voice is husky, dripping with frustration, with need.

your lips part, your mind scrambling for something—anything—to say, but all that comes out is a broken, breathless whisper.

“heeseung… w-what are you doing?”

his fingers tighten, his head tilting slightly as he watches you, drinking in the panic in your eyes, the way your lips tremble, how your thighs press together as if you’re trying to disappear.

but he’s not letting you go.

not now. not ever.

“teaching you a lesson,” he murmurs, his grip firm, his eyes alight with something sick and possessive.

“one you should have learned a long time ago.”

his fingers worked swiftly, unzipping his pants with a harsh, metallic rasp, freeing his hardened length to the cool air. his hands, strong and sure, began to stroke his cock, the soft skin gliding over the steel beneath. a symphony of soft groans escaped his parted lips, each one humming with pent-up desire. you sat rooted to the spot, your feet heavy as stone. even if you wanted to, you couldn't move, frozen in this tableau of tension and forbidden yearning.

a wave of shame crashed over you as you felt a spark of arousal, unbidden and unwanted, kindling within you. it spread like wildfire, fanned by the sight of heeseung stroking himself, his eyes locked onto yours. it was wrong, every fiber of your being screamed it. he was your sister's boyfriend, her trust wrapped around him like a shroud.

he moved closer, his shaft heavy and insistent as it tapped against your lips, leaving a trail of silken warmth. "open up," he commanded, his voice harsh and unyielding, brooking no argument.

"heeseung-" you began, your voice barely a whisper, but it was swiftly muffled as he slid his long, girthy length into your mouth, filling it completely. the world narrowed to this singular act, the taste of him, the feel of him, the raw, primal power of it all.

his moans clawed their way out of his throat, a primal sound he futilely attempted to smother, aware that your family was merely a whisper away, tucked behind thin walls. his hands navigated to the back of your head, fingers digging into your hair like a man possessed, as he guided your mouth onto him. his shaft delved into the depths of your throat, your gag reflex constricting around him, sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body. he tilted his head back, eyes rolled to the whites, lost in the sensation. "fuck, you're so much better than her, baby…" he groaned softly, his balls beating out a steady rhythm against your chin, punctuating each thrust.

your pleas were stifled by his flesh, his head lolling back as he guided your head down on him. your hands fluttered against his thighs, a desperate morse code of dissent, but to no avail. he was enthralled by the way you felt, you were more than good, you were exquisite.

"oh shit… baby…" he moaned, his eyes now meeting yours as tears welled up and spilled over, tracing silvery paths down your cheeks. "you're so fucking cute… taking my dick so well, baby…" he grunted, his voice a low, primal rumble, like the distant thunder of a storm about to break. his eyes, hooded with lust, bore into yours, and his teeth were bared in a savage grin, a conqueror's smile, as he reveled in your helplessness, in your submission to his carnal desires. the room filled with the raw, primal sounds of his pleasure, a symphony of grunts and groans that seemed to echo off the walls, a brutal, intimate serenade.

he swiftly separates you from him, his hands gliding down to your pants with a sense of urgency, pulling them down in one fluid motion, along with your panties, which are unexpectedly damp against your skin. there's no hesitation as he thrusts his hard length into you, his hand swiftly covering your mouth to stifle the cries that spill from your lips, muffling them into soft, desperate whimpers.

“god, baby…” he groans, his brow knitting together with the intensity of his pleasure. “loosen up for me, baby; you're so fucking tight…” he murmurs, his voice trembling with the overwhelming sensation of your snug warmth enveloping him, his entire body quivering with the exquisite friction.

the narrowness of your walls does little to impede his frenzied rhythm as he slams into you, the couch quaking beneath your combined weight. you're astonished that your sister hasn't returned yet, and even more so that neither of you hear her approaching, given the racket you and heeseung are making. his moans escape in a relentless stream, his lips pressed firmly against your ear, one hand clamped tightly over your mouth to stifle any noise from you because you don't know how to be anything but loud.

"f-fuck, baby…" he growls, his voice a low, husky rumble in your ear. "taking your sister's boyfriend's cock like a good girl, huh?" his taunts are cruel, his pace unyielding. "or are you just a whore for any fucking dick, huh?"

your whines are muffled beneath his hand, but he hears them nonetheless, crystal clear. your eyes are filled with tears, your vision blurred by the salty streams that stain your cheeks. the room is a whirlwind of sensation and sound, your bodies moving in a brutal, desperate dance. the air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the couch creaking like a old ship in a storm.

your walls constrict further, echoing the tautness in your stomach that twists and tightens with each passing second. as you clench, electric shocks radiate through heeseung's body, drawing out moans that grow more intense with every breath. "fuck, baby…" he gasps, his voice a ragged whisper, "you’re going to make me cum any second now if you keep clenching on me like that…" his hands, strong and insistent, press your head down into the plush cushions of the couch, while he lifts your lower body, adjusting the angle to plunge deeper into you. the new position amplifies every sensation, every thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

"hm! fuck, heeseung!" you cry out, your voice muffled against the couch cushion, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "fuck yeah…" he growls, his movements escalating to a primal, relentless rhythm. "fuck yeah, baby, say my name again…" his voice is a low, desperate plea, urging you on as the world around you blurs into a haze of pure, unadulterated sensation.

the scent of your arousal fills the air as heeseung's cock pumps into you. sweat drips from his face and onto your back, rolling down your curves. your hands grip onto the couch, your fingers digging into the fabric. you push back against him with every thrust, your body begging for more.

every sense is heightened, every nerve alight, but guilt is notably absent. all you can do is marvel at the way heeseung's touch ignites something within you, a magic that dances through your body like a spell. your sister's words echo in your mind, and you begin to wonder if she was right. perhaps there was a kernel of jealousy buried deep within you. she never deserved this, never deserved him. heeseung was not the man for her. your thoughts scatter like startled birds as you feel your climax approaching, your body trembling with anticipation.

"shit! hee!" you cry out, your voice muffled against the cushion as waves of pleasure crash over you. your release coats heeseung completely, your body convulsing with the intensity of it all.

he throws his head back, tendons taut against his neck as he grows his own release. "oh fuck, baby…" he groans, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. he bursts within you, a hot, thick rush that fills you completely, overwhelming your senses. your legs shake as his essence overflows, trickling down your skin like a river of sin.

in that moment, you know you've crossed a line, but you can't find it in you to care. wrong or right, you are intoxicated, addicted to this dance of desire. and you know, with a clarity that is almost cruel, that you won't stop. your fates are intertwined, a tangled web of passion and betrayal, and there's no turning back now.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ okay first of all i wanted to thank y'all for all the support on cramped, i am extremely grateful for it and i honestly can't believe it hit 1K that is unbelievable!! but anyways i have written abt my man so i hope you guys love this just as much as my others, tysmmmmm ilygs !!!