#and the gauze was so disgusting

[littletrumpetcat]

i got my wisdom teeth out (abridged version, i was not put under, i babysat a half hour later. long story) and i am in PAIN. also taking out the bloody mess of a gauze every hour fucking sucks. i almost yakked every time i pulled it out of my mouth. the worst part? every time i burp i taste remnants of paper towel. i need to know if anyone else can relate. this is so gross. im tired

[preach]

what if i was so brave and changed the dressing on my funny gaping wound?

[pawsitivevibe]

3 more days until Haley finally gets that disgusting fucking lump removed. I'm so excited for my dog not to smell like death anymore.

I'll also soon be able to take pics of my dog without a freaking cone and t-shirt on! I have half a year's worth of photos and videos of my poor dog in a shirt. I never want to see my dog in a shirt again when this is finally over.

[oraclekleins]

hello hello!! i discovered you a few hours ago and LOVE your content<3

could i request a joost klein x gn!reader where the reader is also competing in eurovision, representing {readers country} and basically they are already dating and joost kind of gets jealous because readers new make up artist got a little TOO touchy.. once they get back to their shared hotel room he expresses that jealousy by getting a bit more clingy?

when reader tried to ask about whats wrong he just kisses them or brushes it off as not important :3

thank you if you accept my request and have a great day <3

ill be 🩵anon if that’s okay!

Hii! Thanks for being so sweet, nonnie! Hope this is up to your liking. 💙 I changed the prompt a little iiif that's alright, so here's kind of an aftermath of that. ^^ I love any feedback.

You're Overcomplicating Things . . -> Jealous!Joost Klein x Reader

The buzzing of Joost's phone wakes him with a start. 

His head turns a bit to the side, slowed from exhaustion. Joost's vision is still catching up with him, the living room gauzed in a radial blur; he feels like he’s wading through quicksand — dragging himself to sit up, before his arm catches another body. You're curled onto the left side of the bed, unmoving —  the pillow your arm was wrapped around having ended up on the floor. There’s a spot of drool on your hoodie, plush lips tugged along the bold Eurovision logo of your sleeve. 

“Morning,” Joost mumbles, patting the cushions for his phone. His voice is groggy, scratched dry from the shitty beers you two had downed the night before. He grimaces at the spit webbed on the top of his mouth, flicks at it with his tip of tongue in disgust. He moves to gently push at your leg; it’s hot, too hot for you to lounge this close; there’s a pool of sweat sinking into the crook of his chest — he feels gross, sticky, uncomfortable. There's a heavy silence in the air. It feels like you did something wrong, but you can't place your finger on it. You stir in response, a whine of annoyance rumbling from your throat. You blink over to see what Joost's all worked up about, who’s grabbing his phone from the nightstand, pinching at his forehead.

"Good morning — what's wrong?" You're still waking up, clearing the spit from your throat. Biting back a cough, you manage to sit up, pressing on the wrinkles from your shirt.

Joost offers you a tired smile, moving to kiss your forehead. "Long day ahead, right? Hop to it." A bit of enthusiasm pokes out of his voice as the words die out, his lips trailing to your jaw, pressing into it. It feels like he's hiding from you, even when he's slotted into your side like a puzzle piece, lazily tracing his fingers against your hip.

He's sulking, the boy-shape trying to disappear into your skin, upset and loathing.

Your fingers find his curls, gently raking your nails across his scalp. He makes a noise of satisfaction, face nestling closer to your collarbone.

You would know his envious touches through death. There were small, red marks around your waist where he had been pressing into it, marking you, yet.. gentle. Apologetically, he rubbed his thumb over them, turning his face from you.

"Joost," you sigh, "you think it's stupid," he perks up. "Right? That's why you won't tell me."

His bottom lip is caught between his teeth. "Your makeup, it looked good yesterday. The new artist. Good." Joost fixates on the blanket under you both, looking anywhere but at you. "Good connection."

"Good connection?" He's already kissing the words from your mouth, stealing them from you. If he took them, then he wouldn't have to hear you say them. Listen to you accuse him — be disappointed. "Joost, let me," you're tired of this game already, and he's holding you like he can't get enough, arms tightly wrapped around your waist. You can feel the tense of panic in him, cold throughout his veins, a tremble to his grip.

You're prying his fingers away — careful, soft, not like a punishment. A warning. "You need to talk to me."

Joost is quiet for a minute. He's thinking. His uncomfortable grin is full of teeth, ones that graze on your irritability, biting into you like a peach. He doesn’t wipe the juice from his mouth —  instead lets it dry on his chin, picking at the stain. A rash of his own, festering nerves.

He sits up. Joost's tank hugs his figure. His hair is coiffed into loose, blonde strands of fray, kissing the back of his neck — bouncing when he tilts his head. He frowns. You wrap your arm around his shoulder, keeping him afloat.

"You do not rehearse today, yes?" Joost asks after a bit. You want to make a remark about how you have his schedule memorized, everything written down on your phones, laid out for him — it's a little mean. He doesn't need it right now.

Swinging your legs to the side of his bed, you nod. "Not today, yeah. You want me to come hang out with you?"

Joost nods, a little too fast.

You kiss the side of his head, pulling him back into your chest. "You need to tell me when you're upset. Even if you think I'm gonna get mad, or, I don't know — weirded out."

"I love you." You hum into shoulder. You're ghosting the pad of your thumb against his cheekbone. He looks satisfied, curling back into you.

Joost tangles your fingers. You know how this goes.

"I love you too."

Thanks for reading!

[coryosbaby]

Cw: stepcest (stepbrother x stepsister), intoxication/drug use, a bit suggestive . Slight angst . Soft Rafe <3

Rafe, he thinks, fell in love with you before the drugs.

He shouldn’t of— and for obvious reason. You were perfect, an angel. But you were Rose’s daughter.

He tried to pry the thoughts away, at first. Tried not to think about your kindness, your innocence, your pretty eyes — your ass, your tits, your cunt. But it wasn’t long before they utterly consumed him.

Another day it was, in the Cameron household: Rafe, coming home, completely coked out of his mind, drunk, and clattering around in the kitchen. He didn’t know what he was looking for, just knows that it had something to do with a spoon and a jar of peanut butter.

It would’ve been almost funny if he didn’t look so distraught to you. When you came down the stairs you knew the noises were Rafe. He always did this; you’d have to clean him up, put him to bed— sometimes you’d cook for him. But that was when he was in your good graces.

“Rafe, what the fuck are you doing?” You groaned, rubbing your eyes sleepily. He hadn’t woken you up, but you were extremely tired. You had wanted to wait up for him because he promised to go on a 7/11 run with you when everyone was asleep and then watch a few movies.

And as usual, he broke his fucking promises.

It angered you, but when Rafe turned around and greeted you with that beautiful intoxicated smile, your frustration wavered when you saw the way his eyes seemed to light up.

“Hey, y/n!”

“Hi, Rafael.”

He frowned, knowing you only called him that when you were aggravated at him. He stumbled drunkly when he tried to approach you. You made sure to catch him by his arm.

“God, you’re wasted,” you said. “Do you feel sick?”

“I did…” he slurred. “But ‘m better now that my favorite girl is here.”

Your face became flushed at his words, but you pulled yourself out of your wandering thoughts and dragged the boy over to the couch. He plopped down onto the cushions, grunting.

“‘M tired..” he murmured.

“Gotta check you for any cuts, first.”

You usually checked him out so you could make sure he wasn’t fighting anyone or getting any bad injuries; he was likely to not even feel it until morning, and when he got a disgusting cut on his ankle once it had got infected and he had to be sent to the hospital. You’ve cleaned up his wounds since then.

And of course, taking his palm into your hand, you found that he had a medium sized cut on his palm. You sighed.

“Any idea how you got this?” You asked.

“No sir, doctor, sir.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

It was true, but you just let out a scoff and went to get the first aid kit from one of the cabinets in the nearest bathroom. Pulling out the proper cleaning materials, you got on your knees in front of Rafe and began to care for his wound. He was almost in a daze as you did this; you looked even better when he did a line or two. He’d mistaken you for an angel quite a few times.

“You’re ‘s pretty.” He whispered.

You couldn’t help but smile. You didn’t say anything until you could see that his eyes were shut and his breathing had calmed. You looked up at him and lightly slapped the side of his cheek.

“Rafe— you can’t go to sleep yet.” You stated calmly. He opened his eyes, just a tiny bit, and a grin spread across his face when he saw your doe eyes staring up at him.

“Sorry, sweets. Couldn’t help it.”

You finally wrapped some gauze around his cut. Made sure to press a kiss to it. He always gave you hell if you didn’t.

“Cmon. Gotta get you upstairs.” you said.

Rafe yawned and stretched when he stood up, and you grabbed his hand so you could guide him up to his room. It was immediate when he saw his king sized bed, and he made sure to strip down to his briefs and climb under the covers. You tried not to stare too long at his chiseled chest or his pretty sculpted muscles. You were about to leave when his fingers grabbed your wrist and wrapped tightly around it.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Don’t want you to go, momma.”

The nickname isn’t one he used often, but on nights like this he let it slip up once or twice. You didn’t mind it; in fact, it was quite cute.

“I shouldn’t,” you replied.

“Please.”

You couldn’t say no when he begged like that, with those puppy dog eyes. You had already gotten into your pajamas earlier in the night and done your skincare routine so you didn’t really have anything left to do. You climbed in beside the boy, laid down beside his half naked body. You didn’t trust yourself or him to be in the same bed, but exhaustion was taking over you and you just wanted to sleep.

“Happy?”

“Mhm..”

He looked up at you, dazed. He stared at your lips almost intensely. It wasn’t long before his breath was hot against your lips and he was trying to lean in.

You move away from it, from his kiss. You couldn’t do that with him. You knew how wrong it was.

“Don’t. Please,” you murmured to him. Rafe looked saddened, pained, at your rejection.

“Give me one kiss,” he pleaded. His thumb came up to run over your bottom lip. Your face was on fire. “Just one, I promise. I can’t keep going on like this forever, without one kiss.”

You wanted to kiss him; you wanted it so badly that it hurt. You had wanted it since the first year that you moved in and saw him sitting at the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal every morning. You’ had wanted him since he taught you how to roll your first joint, took you to your first high school party.

You always wanted him.

You gave him what he begged for. It was small, feather light and like angel wings against Rafe’s lips. He went back in for another one; he knew he promised just one, but as usual, the boy didn’t keep his promises.

You let him, though. And it felt nice. He peppered them along your neck, too, after that. You could smell the alcohol on his breath and the cologne he used as he did it. It left electric shocks along your skin.

After one more sloppy kiss against your jugular, he pulled away and buried his face into your neck sweetly.

You didn’t know how you were going to look at him in the morning. You didn’t know if he even remembered the next day.

He did, though. He remembered all of it. In fact, he made sure to get you back in his room and kiss you even more the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

You were so fucked.

© 2023 bratty-lxndry444 🤏🏻 all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours !!!

[thesightstoshowyou]

Makin’ Friends

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: A truck stop bathroom is about to see more action than it has in years.

Warnings: Nonconsensual touching, brat taming, use of “Daddy,” slapping, excessive dirty talk, descriptions of blood and gore, descriptions of drug effects, dubious consent, degradation, biting, facial

Fat drops of crimson drip and splatter onto broken tile and dingy, cracked porcelain. Trembling fingers rifle through supplies, bottle caps and ammo clacking as they are shoved aside. Gritted teeth grip hold of gauze wrapping and tear.

Smashing the dressing over your oozing gut forces a grunt up and out of your throat. The bullet in your belly burns where it sits nestled between innards. Your leg burns too—a graze—but it will have to wait. Vitals first.

You spit out a curse and frantically upend your bag. Provisions and supplies tumble into the sink and crash to the ground, but your concern is elsewhere. Against your palm, the dressing grows warm and sticky faster than you can replace it. If you don’t find this fucking Stimpak soon you’re gonna pass out. You can almost hear the Radroaches excitedly clicking their disgusting mandibles in anticipation of their next meal.

A pane of glass from the broken bathroom mirror smashes onto the worn countertop and you jolt, your frayed nerves making you skittish as a cottontail. Your gaze momentarily raises to your haggard reflection. Sweat beads along your brow and sticks your hair to your skin. Chapped lips press into a thin, anxious line when you see how much color has drained out of your face, the effects of blood loss startlingly visible.

Where in the fuck is that god damned—

Movement in the mirror, behind you. Breath sticking in your throat, you whirl around, boots slipping in the gore that has pooled at your feet. Your free hand grips the countertop to keep you upright as your eyes meet the gnarled, grinning face of the last thing you want to see in your current state.

Where’s your gun—your eyes flick to the right—shit, you set it on the back of that busted toilet—

“The fuck are you doing here, ghoul?” Your question drips with condescension, bravado your only available weapon.

The Ghoul shoulders the doorframe as one gloves hand comes to rest against the bandolier across his chest. “Shoulda known it was you making all that racket back in town. Did ya’ bite off a bit more than ya’ could chew, darlin’?”

You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so lightheaded. “Bounty had some unexpected friends,” you comment. It would be nonchalant if not for the white-knuckled grip you have on the countertop.

A wry chuckle, then, “Friends, huh? Now that’s somethin’ you’re painfully short on, ain’t it?” The toe of his boot playfully taps at some debris on the floor. “Think it’s cuz of that winnin’ personality a’ yours?”

Your knees shake, your shoulder aching from keeping you upright. “You’re one to talk. I don’t see your entourage anywh—

Your words die on your tongue when you finally focus on what the Ghoul rolls under the heel of his boot. What you thought was a chunk of tile is actually the thing for which you’ve been searching so feverishly: The fucking Stimpak.

The Ghoul’s brows raise in feigned surprise when he spots you staring at the floor. “Oh, this what ya’ been lookin’ for?” Keeping his gaze on yours, he leisurely crouches and retrieves the coveted little vial before standing to his full height once more.

Your stomach plummets. You can’t stop the way your chest heaves, your body desperate to pump oxygen into your slowly dwindling blood supply. Agony pulses in nauseating waves through your belly, your jaw clenching to keep your weakness hidden. But who are you kidding?

You’re not stupid. You know this Ghoul has no qualms about splattering your brains all over the broken mirror behind you. If he wanted you dead, he would have done it already. No, he must be here for something else.

“What do you want?” you mutter, the words shaking as they leave your lips. Yellow teeth peek from between tattered lips as the Ghoul smirks. He pushes away from the door and steps toward you, boots crunching on shattered tile and glass and refuse with each unhurried step.

You stumble back, his advance pressuring you against the counter behind you, but he doesn’t stop until he’s mere inches away, until the scents of ozone and gunpowder and worn leather sting your nose. Instinct takes over and you lash out, fingers intent on his eyes, but he catches your weak jab with embarrassing ease. The Ghoul snatches your other limb for good measure and gathers up both of your wrists in one, gloved hand.

Your lips pull back over your teeth in a snarl, but it’s useless. You’re caught, caged in by his body and the sink digging into your ass. And now, with no pressure over the wound in your gut, blood freely leaks down your front to soak the both of you.

The Ghoul hums thoughtfully. “Kitty’s been declawed.”

“Fuck you,” you grit out, but it sounds more like a whine than an insult. Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision. You’re about to black out—

“Ah, now, is that how you ask nice for somethin’?” He brings the Stimpak into your line of site and dangles it there, taunting you. You give him the nastiest glare you can muster, but your anger seeps out of you with your blood. Animal panic takes its place.

He must see the desperation in your eyes because he leans down, his face so close to yours you feel the heat of his breath as he murmurs, “Go on now. What’s the magic word?”

Tremulous breaths spill from your nose as you clamp your mouth shut. Pride is going to be the death of you. Would you really rather die than give him whatever the hell it is he wants?

Thickly, you swallow and whisper, “…please.”

The Ghoul tilts his head, “What was that, sweetheart? Couldn’t make it out—

“PLEASE-“ you bite your tongue, suck in a breath, “Please, I…help me.” A low chortle greets your words, then stabbing pain as a needle plunges into your abdomen. You grunt and hiss as the drugs burn their way through tissue to jumpstart the healing process. Pain killers douse the anguish like water over a fire and you slump in relief, forehead dropping to a sturdy shoulder.

The empty syringe clatters when it’s tossed onto the counter. Gloved fingers find your hair and grip hard to tip your head back. You wince and blink in an effort to come back to yourself, opiates and stimulants and steroids and whatever else was in that vial at war with your consciousness as they repair your shredded guts.

“There now. All better. I believe a ‘Thank you,’ is in order,” the Ghoul drawls. You’re still so weak, desperately in need of rest and hydration, but the drugs have rekindled the embers of rage.

“I’m not telling you a god damned—

WHAP

Blinding pain collides with your cheek and suddenly you’re staring at the torn ad for Cram plastered to the wall: Now with 50% more Cram! Wetness, thick and tangy like iron, drips into your mouth. Your nose…it’s bleeding. Your cheek throbs in time with your pounding heart.

He’d fucking backhanded you….

Your head is yanked back by the hand in your hair until your face is inches from the Ghoul’s once again. “If you’re gonna be an ungrateful little shit, I can just put another hole in your belly and be on my way.”

You clench your eyes shut as your teeth grind together in barely contained ire. Curses that would make a sailor blush sit at the back of your throat like bile. It’s so tempting to just spit in his face and suffer the consequences. You’re not gonna fucking saying it, you can’t….

“…thank you.”

“That’s a good girl. I knew there were some manners in there somewhere.” Pressure between your legs makes your eyes fly open, a startled yelp slipping from your mouth.

Gloved fingers rub gentle circles at the apex of your thighs. Pleasure blooms in their wake, little pulses that arc through your core and zing up your spine. You open your mouth to hurl outraged insults, but, to your horror, a little mewl escapes instead.

Your cheeks burn and you splutter, “W-What-what are you—

“Looks like them drugs are workin’, huh?” The deep purr of the Ghoul’s voice rumbles against your chest and you squeak, goosebumps raising across your flesh. Fruitlessly, you tug against his iron grip on your wrists, but even just that consistent pressure makes you shiver.

You have got to be kidding….

The fingers massaging your cunt through your pants push right where you want them most and your lips part in a sharp gasp. It’s like your hips have a mind of your own as they tilt to increase the friction. The muscles of your thighs quiver in an effort to keep you from completely humping his hand.

Angry tears—anger? Is that what you’re feeling?—prick at the corners of your eyes as you look up into the Ghoul’s face. He smirks down at you, his eyes alight with mirth and hunger. Just that simple look he gives you makes your throat go dry.

“Feels good, huh?” You suck in an irritated breath through your teeth when he pulls his hand away. Yellowing teeth catch a fingertip of his glove, his bare fingers sliding free. “Good girls get to feel good. Simple as that. Now open up.”

Digits press insistently at your lips. Against your ribs, your heart pounds, the needy pulse between your legs matching its rhythm. It’s infuriating how badly you want him to touch you again….

A defeated groan sounds in the back of your throat when your mouth pops open. Fingertips tease your front teeth as the Ghoul murmurs, his words dark and deliberate, “I think ya’ know what’ll happen if ya’ bite me.”

You shoot him a withering look that says, ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’ He raises a brow in response. ‘I ain’t taking any chances with you.’ You let your tongue unfurl from your mouth for good measure.

Two fingers slide past your teeth and plunge deep into your mouth to test your gag reflex. “Suck,” the Ghoul orders. You only hesitate a moment before you close your lips around his digits and hollow out your cheeks. Still, that disobedient part of you can’t help but tease your teeth against his nails when he pulls the wetted fingers from your mouth.

“Seems like you’re wantin’ another slap,” he grumbles before shoving his hand down the front of your pants. Whatever clever quip you had prepared morphs into garbled nonsense when he locates your aching clit and strokes it with calloused fingertips.

You don’t realize the extent of your desire until he dips into the remarkable slickness of your folds. “Appears we didn’t need your mouth,” the Ghoul jokes. You would respond with something scathing if you could think of anything to say, but the mind-numbing shocks of pleasure rippling through your belly are making it difficult to speak.

“Turned ya’ into Daddy’s little brain dead whore in no time, didn’t I?” Your cheeks blaze and you choke on an indignant sound.

“I-I-you can’t just—fuck—

“S’alright. You can say it. Ain’t nobody else here to see you debasing yourself.” You whimper and shake your head, but your traitorous body rolls your hips into his stupid hand despite yourself.

Hot breath ghosts across your ear. “Say it and I’ll fuck that wet little hole. Just four simple words is all: ‘Please fuck me, Daddy.’”

“N-Not, I’m not—

“You know as well as I do that needy cunt’s beggin’ to be filled.” As he speaks, fingers circle your entrance for emphasis. You feel your resolve crumbling away beneath your curled toes.

But—christ—a ghoul? And a mean sonofabitch ghoul with the filthiest fucking mouth at that…. A ghoul that has you leaking like a broken pipe….

“…p-please—god dammit—please fuck me…Daddy.” Your face has to be on fire.

No sooner do the words leave your lips than you are twirled around. The room whirls like a top, your palms slipping in the blood still dripping off the countertop when you try to steady yourself. Only the hand in your hair keeps you from smashing your chin on ancient porcelain.

The Ghoul ruts against your ass while his free hand works his pants open. Your mouth snaps shut, your teeth clacking together to stop the groan when you feel his hard length dragging against your clothed flesh. Your skin tingles, your cunt soaking through your underwear in anticipation.

Dizzy from the drugs surging through your thin blood and the maddening want, you watch in the broken mirror as the Ghoul grasps the waistband of your pants to shove them down to your knees. Hot, gnarled skin slides along your slit, teasing, until you whine and wiggle your hips.

He meets your hazy gaze in the mirror, a smug sneer tugging at the corners of his lips. You huff and open your mouth to lash out, but the thick head of his cock breeches your entrance and turns the retort into a slurred, “Ffffuck!”

Hips surge forward to bury all that rough girth into slippery muscles that haven’t been used in god knows how long. Your eyes grow wide as saucers, your jaw locked in a silent scream, the air forced from of your lungs by the intrusion. Your walls spasm and clench in an effort to accommodate the stretch.

Behind you, a strained groan, long and low. “Tighter than I thought you’d be.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’d say it if you could figure out how to do anything other than moan.

The Ghoul’s scarred fingers dig into your locks, adjusting his grip so he can pull you back into his sharp thrust. The wanton noise you make has you wishing you’d bled out, but it’s not long before complex thought is wiped from your brain to be replaced with a mantra of ‘more, more, more.’

Wet slapping, the jingling of a belt buckle, rustling of a shredded duster, harsh grunts, and high, girlish cries fill the dilapidated bathroom as the Ghoul pummels you into the countertop. Your guts now ache for a different reason, assaulted from pleasure so taut and intense it borders on agony. You feel each frenzied stroke in the top of your skull all the way to the tips of your toes.

Warmth envelops your back as the Ghoul leans over you, the pistoning of his hips never faltering. Again, his lips find your ear, that voice like smooth bourbon filling your fuzzy head when he asks, “Is that pretty pussy about to cum on my cock?”

Resistance leaves you in a breathy keen. All the fight has been fucked out of you. Submission comes as an eager nod and a tiny, pathetic, “Please, Daddy.”

He gives a low growl in response, one you feel vibrating against your back. Fingers hook in the collar of your shirt and wrench it to the side. Bared teeth find the place where your neck meets your shoulder and sink into smooth flesh so hard you’re sure they’ll come away red.

You cum with a strangled scream, that pressurized ball of need rapidly unraveling in your belly. Slick walls squeeze, clinging tight to the girth battering them. Your eyes roll back, your shriek of euphoria reverberating off the low ceiling. Against your shoulder is a muffled rumble, then the absence of heat at your back.

Your head spins when you’re flipped around and shoved to the floor. A pained cry leaves your lips when your knees crack on filthy tile. Your head is jerked back, neck tendons popping with the force, while Ghoul’s other hand furiously pumps his drenched cock.

Your brain catches up with the situation just as he utters a pinched, “Fuck!” Eyelids snap shut a second before sticky warmth splatters across your face. The dose of radiation you’ll receive if any of that drips into your mouth…. You clench your jaw, lips pressed tight together.

Panting, trembling, skin buzzing like a thousand bees, you hastily wipe your face on your sleeve. Timidly, you peek up at the Ghoul looming over you. One hand still holds your hair, the other already readjusting his belt.

“That’s a good look for you, sweetheart.” All you can manage is an irritated nose scrunch. You’re too exhausted to bite, weariness settling deep in sore muscles. Rest and water are now your priority; that, and getting rid of the fingers still digging into your scalp.

Your stomach flips when he chuckles. “That’s cute.”

“What now?” you snap, the harshness of your tone lessened when your voice cracks.

“You think you’re done, dontcha?” Your breath catches in your dry throat. He can’t be serious.

“Hey, no, c’mon—

Your hands fly to his wrist when the Ghoul tugs you to your feet by your hair. You curse and stagger like you’ve forgotten how to walk, your knees seconds away from buckling.

“Up and at ‘em, baby. Night’s still young.”

[storywriter007]

request: 2) This one is Percy Jackson x reader who gets seriously injured on the Argo II and tries to act like it's not that bad but then Percy (her boyfriend) forces her to let him look at it and it is really bad and he takes care of her and comforts her (kinda like the Leo fic where he cleans the wound on her back because I love that one so much), and then helps her fall asleep after.

You're Alright - Percy Jackson x Fem!Reader

author's note: i didn't want to do the same injury again, so i tried something new. i hope you like it :)

-> @c-evans-lover22

warnings: cursing, mentions of injury

genre: fluff

word count: 933

-> heroes of olympus masterlist

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send me requests here! (these are my guidelines)

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y/n's eyes filled with tears as she sat on the floor of the infirmary. how could this have happened? well, she knew exactly how it had happened.

one of gaea's mountain minions attacked the argo ll, and hurled rocks at the ship. they escaped, but not before a huge rock smashed into y/n's ankle. she had basically crawled to the infirmary.

she couldn't bring herself to stand up, her ankle wouldn't support her. she unlaced her high-tops, and tried to pull the shoe down.

"ow!" she whispered to herself. "ow, ow, ow, ow."

she managed to pull it off after immense pain. she carefully removed her sock and got to look at the beautiful sight that was her foot. it was bleeding, it was swollen, and it was just hideous. she tried to grab a towel, so she could wipe the blood off, but unfortunately, she was capable of nothing. she couldn't move and if she did, she'd knock everything over.

"y/n?" a voice called throughout the hallways. "y/n? oh, there you are!"

percy came into the infirmary.

"hey." she smiled.

"what're you doing on the floor-what happened?" he asked, looking at her disgusting ankle.

"nothing, i just got hit." she said, trying to hide the tears that had welled up in her eyes. "i'm fine."

"you're not fine. you're sitting on the floor of the infirmary with a swollen, bloody ankle that doesn't let you stand." he said, almost offended.

"it's really not that bad-"

before she could finish her sentence, she felt herself get picked up and placed on the exam table. she felt embarrassed at how warm her face felt. he picked her up so easily. he brought another exam table and put the together in an l-shape. he then took her leg and put it on the table he had brought over.

"thank you." she smiled. "but seriously percy-"

"you can do it on your own?" he chuckled. "i'm here for you y/n. please, accept my help."

she silently nodded as percy grabbed a towel and wet it with warm water. he gently wiped the blood away.

"let me know if anything hurts."

"i will."

percy washed her foot and ankle with soap and water. after that, he dried the area. instead of bloody and swollen, now it was just swollen.

"this is going to burn." he warned, before pressing the towel to the various small cuts she had acquired.

y/n hissed in pain.

"you're alright." he assured.

he kept going, until he got to her toes. when there wasn't a cut, it didn't burn, but when there was, it hurt like hell. afterwards, he put small band-aids on the cuts. he pressed the swollen spot.

"ouch! percy!" y/n blurted.

"i'm sorry." he said calmly. "i needed to see how bad the swelling was."

"is it bad?"

"nothin' to worry about." he smiled. "you'll be alright."

she felt herself relax. she might've not been able to walk, but she did feel alright.

he grabbed a roll of gauze and began wrapping it around the middle of her foot to her ankle. when he got to the swollen part, it squeezed her ankle, making her hand shoot up and grip percy's bicep.

"y/n, this isn't the best time to feel my muscles." he smiled.

"get your head out of the gutter." she laughed, gently pushing him away.

when percy was done wrapping her ankle up, she felt a lot better, but it still hurt. like she had been stabbed straight through the bone and with every movement of her foot, the knife bent inside of her. he gave her a little bit of ambrosia for the pain. percy quickly cleaned up and y/n tried to slide off the exam table but was stopped by percy putting her back in place.

"you can't put weight on it." he said, concern flooding his voice.

he cared. somebody cared. percy picked her up bridal style and walked out the infirmary. he set her down on her bed, and made a pillow mountain for her to keep her foot on.

"let me know if you need anything." he said, sincerity in his eyes.

"yeah." she paused. "can you, uh, stay here?"

"yeah." he smiled. "i can."

he laid down behind her, and pulled her down so she was laying on his chest while keeping her foot elevated. she could feel his breath down her neck as his arms wrapped around her. he smelled like salt-water and vanilla. she felt herself physically relax as she melted into his warm touch.

"thank you." she said, turning around to see his sea green eyes.

"always." he smiled.

they looked at each other for a moment before percy leaned down and kissed her. it was slow, and y/n was about to turn around so she could put her hands on him.

"no, you stay that way." he demanded, pulling back from the kiss.

"you're no fun." she whined, feeling percy turn her back around.

after an hour, y/n felt herself completely relax. her body felt fine, her mind was at peace, and for once, she didn't feel like the world had it out for her (even though it did, and that's why she had a swollen ankle). but for once, everything just felt alright. as she became one with percy's firm grip, the lights began to dim and her eyelids felt heavy.

"percy?" she whispered.

"i forgot to tell you i gave you a sleeping medicine." he whispered back.

"percy!" she whined, before falling asleep.

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; best friend's dad | John Price x Reader infidelity. age gap.

He breaks your heart in Greece. Cuts a jagged line down your middle. Spills your wet, sticky blood over the Naxian marble outside of the Temple of Apollo with just a handful of words.

(fitting, you find: you've always considered your aimless pursuit to his heart some bastardised delusion akin to Icarus chasing the immovable sun—)

And you suppose it's kind. Or as gentle as a man like him could ever let himself be. Still gruff, surly. But you've always loved the sound of his voice, haven't you? That sarky growl reminding you of classic muscle cars, American-made; the low, gritty purr of an old Mustang. Enough to make you shiver, even as he's shaping it around these awful, cutting words. It makes you heart flutter, enraptured as he speaks like he's ripping a bandaid off.

Except that now that wound is being filled with salt. Acid. Cauterising itself from the friction burn when the gauze is wrenched off your skin. A permanent scar right in your sternum. A gaping hole spilling all the ugliness out. You wonder if he cares that it's being slashed across his shoes—no sandals, he griped when you teased him in the airport; I hate the feelin' of sand between my toes—that this madness inside of you is finding a home on the hot pavement, rotting under the summer's sun.

"m'thinkin' about marryin' her."

The her in question is ten years older than him. Pettily, you wonder if this is to compensate for the fact that he's nearly two decades older than you. An obscene age gap, you know. But—

It's Price.

Your best friend's dad. The man you've been in love with since you were sixteen. Falling all over yourself after a dumb boy broke your heart, and he offered to drive you home, silent the whole way there before he stopped, a block away from your house, and told you that boys weren't worth your time. Boys. Boys—

Not men.

Foolishly, you let yourself hope. Let yourself become the very thing they talk about in TikTok videos lambasting age gaps and silly little girls who let older men run them into the ground. Why would a man his age have any reason to be interested in a girl yours? Sickening. Disgusting. You're being lead stray, groomed. But you clung to it still, even as you thumbed through the comments on those videos and found pieces of yourself lying among the rubble.

You've always known what they say about girls like that. And you were just delusional enough to believe that you were different somehow.

And now—

"Gettin' older," he grouses out, and you wonder if she finds the ornery lilt to his cadence as comforting as you do. Or if it rubs her all the wrong ways. "Might be time to settle down."

Shamefully, you wish he'd say, but maybe you can convince me otherwise, climb into my lap, and eat this decision from between my teeth until all I see when I open my eyes is you.

But that's not the John Price you know. Mr Price. Single dad. Widower. Untouchable.

Mr Price who sees you for what you are—smarter than them, he'd said when you broke down in his Bronco after a softball game where everyone, your best friend included, went to an afterparty that no one invited you to.

Quiet, thoughtful, even when you spent the evening afterwards (the fight hashed out between your best friend and you; i'm so sorry and me too) thumbing through old vinyl records he kept in his basement, listening to the classics that kids your age just didn't understand, so why the fuck do you?

Weekends spent bonding over golden cinema (movies just ain't what they used to be; there's no romance anymore, it's all so—vapid; you don't talk like a kid; i've never considered myself one, do you? he didn't answer. you didn't expect him to). Listening to music older than your dad. Niche jokes and texts that read like I saw this and thought of you.

Your fault, of course, for thinking you could trick him into loving you if you played your feelings through Johnny Cash, Vashti Bunyan, Fleetwood Mac, and Smokey Robinson. An impossibility you know now.

Mr Price who knows you. Who sees through the thin skin you wear and into the heart, the core of you. Who must have known since you called him in the pouring rain to pick you up when you got too drunk to drive home. A house party in the suburbs. Waterlogged flats he told you to toss.

Said nothing at all when you apologised with your head pressed against the foggy glass. You never told him that your sorry, Mr Price was for kissing a boy and wishing it was him.

But he must have known.

open book. pages spilling out. silly little girl with your heart cupped in your palm—

So he knows. Has known. Hindsight says this is him letting you down gently before you get any ideas about forever with your diploma tucked into your chest like a shield. A trip to Greece with your best friend and her dad to celebrate the rest of your life looming over you like a thundercloud. Your eye slanting sideways, glancing yearningly back at him.

sorry, but no. look the other way—

And you think fine, fine, whatever, so long as this doesn't hurt anymore—but what comes out is, "oh."

What follows is this:

He says he's thinking about marrying her with his hands tucked tight under his arms. He tells you he wants to settle down with his chin tucked against his chest, four lines rucked across the pinch of his brow. An emphasis, perhaps, on just how serious he is.

You taste salt in your throat. Sand between your toes. The sun blisters against the thin straps of this pretty blue dress that match the melting sapphire of his burning gaze. It's heatsickness, maybe. Or just all the years of want building and building, festering and growing, until it can't climb any higher—forever reaching for god that won't spare you a glance—and—

falling down around you. wings of beeswax and bird feathers.

Solemn, he says, "it's what I should do."

(i saw this and thought of you—)

Your fingers knot into the soft cotton of his dress shirt, pulling the fabric taut between your knuckles until it peels back from the seams, curling between buttons.

You've had too much to drink. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. Somewhere along the walk to the temple, you snatched a puff of his cigar, the nicotine blooming between your teeth. Head full of cotton too thick for you to think. To retreat.

In the morning, when he refuses to look at you, you'll blame it on the drinks. On the sun. On being young and dumb and untouchable under the Greecian sky.

Daddy issues, you can shrug. You have the diagnoses from every single TikTok psychologist embedded between your teeth. See, mine never loved me and now I'm taking it out on you—

But right now, you kiss him.

Or maybe—

Maybe he kisses you.

It's a mess in your head. Everything turned upside down, all askew because when your lips touch his, he shudders. His chest rumbles under your fingers, expanding with the sudden inhale as he breathes you in. Deep. Takes you into his lungs—all salt-slick, and sunburnt—and groans low in his throat, all want. All heat.

He should push you away. He's your best friend's father. Two decades older than you. Dating another woman who's so far removed from the person you are that she might as well be a different species. Mature. Stoic. Poised. Graceful.

The perfect antithesis to you.

Everything about this must be ringing shrill in his ears: abort, abort, do not engage. He should push you off.

And he does.

After a moment of your greedy, unpractised kisses pepper along the bristles hanging low over his lips, he makes another sound. Angry. Whitehot. His hands slip free from the damp prison of his armpits and latch tight onto you. Thick, hirsute fingers curling over your upper arms, and pushing, shoving—

Your back hits the marble pillar. The air in your lungs punched out.

But when you try to siphon more balmy air into them again, you find an obstacle in your way.

His mouth.

Searing, blistering. Slanting hungrily across yours, devouring. Intense, dizzying. Your head cracks against the wall when he shoves his thigh between the silken softness of your inner thighs, blanketed by the dress that made him swallow when he first saw you in it, eyes darkening like a storm.

(bit short, ain't it? he'd groused, and your friend slipped her hand into yours with a huff. stop being such a dad, dad—)

It slots there now like it's owed the right. Thick thigh spreading yours apart on a gasp, a groan. Corded muscle pressed taut to the seam of you that burns hot. Melted wax. Dripping against his leg. He must feel the way he liquifies you, turns you into putty. It drags a sound his chest. The misfire of an engine.

"Fuck," he breathes, all teeth. Salt. He should be saying, no, stop. go back to your hotel room, and we'll pretend this never happened, silly girl. But he pulls you closer instead, his hand looping around to cradle the back of your tender head in the cup of his palm. A small comfort as he delves his tongue between your teeth. "Makin' me lose my goddamn mind—"

The words are growled against your mouth. You taste the tobacco-smoked fury between his teeth when they sink into your lower lip. Angry, maybe, that you're making him do this. That you had to be who you are, and despite that, he kisses you like you're not.

"Price," you whine, arching into his chest when he pulls at your bottom lip still caught between his teeth. Skin tender, bruised. He ruts into you at the sound, nearly purring. You feel it then. The hard press of his thickening cock against you. Mindlessly gyrating against your hip. The turgid length proof of his desire. His want for you. All you. "Please—"

He folds himself over you. Tucks you into the bracket of his chest, his arms. His fingers are iron bars on your skin, holding you tight to him. Unwilling to let go. His hand on your crown; his fingers gripping your thigh, hiking it up his waist. It's good. Better than all of your meagre fantasies combined. You've wanted this since you knew what want was. When he wandered into the kitchen the morning after a sleepover with a towel slung loose around his hips, his hand scrubbing the damness from the wet tangle of his hair, spilling them down his neck where they disappeared into the thick bed of hair on his chest, his belly.

He paused in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the island, eyes wide and drilling holes into his chest.

"Shit," he'd cussed, gruff and mean with sleep. "Didn't think—"

But you did. Over and over again. With your face pressed against your pillow, fingers shoved into the sticky wetness leaking out of your cunt. Thinking of him. Wrong. Wrong. Terrible—

Dad bod, your friend said with a cluck of her tongue that afternoon. And you feel it under your fists as he heaves. As he eats you alive, whole. Because kissing John Price, Mr Price, is a whirlwind. A maelstrom.

He devours. He conquers. He owns.

He licks into your mouth, petting over your tongue, your teeth, until you can't remember anything else except the tobacco and whiskey tang of him. Heady. An elixir you want to sip from for the rest of your life. Damn him—

He tells you he's thinking about marrying someone else. Then whispers, ash-soft, against your chin that he can't get enough of you.

Grunts, "you need to go," as he sinks his teeth down, hard, into the throbbing skin of your pulse. Laying claim as he slowly comes to.

The coarse hair of his beard rubs your flesh raw when he buries his face into your neck. You can feel the thunder of his heart against the knob of your wrist. The heat of his skin burning through you.

"Fuck," he rumbles again, and you know this time it's for good. Ironclad. But the remorse is paperthin. "Shouldn't have done that, should have—"

"I want you," you whisper through bruised, kiss-bitten lips. "I want you so bad. I loved you since I was—"

"Don't."

The sweat beading along his hairline smears across the naked arch of your shoulder and neck when he moves; a shallow shake of his head. Muted and small. Heavy with reluctance.

The man who meets you when he pulls back is frowning with wet, red-stained lips. His eyes are hardened sapphire reinforced with unbreakable obsidian. There's no inch to move. No cracks to squeeze through.

"This—" he swallows. You hope he tastes you still. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. The drag of his cigar, the one he coached you through, scoffing when you choked, when you cough. You hope he runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes nothing but you. "This shouldn't have happened."

You don't say anything. Can't. The words are staining his lips.

You nod, slow. Cautious. He tells you he's marrying someone else. Thinking about it. Says this shouldn't have happened—

But he holds you like he can't bring himself to let go. Fingers clutching, clenching tight around you. Possessive. Greedy, even he as he slowly unspools from around you. As he pulls away, scouring his hand down his face with a deep, ragged inhale. Rough, worn fingers digging into his jaw until the knuckles under a dense cropping of umber hair turn white, nails pinking under the strain.

"This isn't—"

You nod again. Soft and slow, but you let your tongue flicker out, chasing the smoke drying on your swollen lips. It stings. The burn makes you think of him. Of his hot, heavy hands on your skin.

His eyes drop down to follow the slip of red that teases out between your teeth, blackening as they trace the new wetness left behind. You can feel him twitch against your thigh.

Your name is a broken snarl trapped in the thick of his throat. You've never heard it like that. Never. It does something. Lights you up from the inside out. Supernova in his arms. Icarus burning, crashing down to earth—

Catch me, Apollo—

He pulls away instead. Detaches from you with a heavy groan, as if the distance that now sits between you hurts him just as much.

The silence is broken by the sound of the crowd just beyond the pillar. You can see the moment it settles over him in the flattening of his eyes, the erasure of all affection that bloomed bright in blue. The terse set to his shoulders. The distance, the space, that grows and grows and grows—

He clears his throat. Mr Price once more. Untouchable. Off-limits.

"You should go," he says, and there's not an ounce of give in the rough flatline of his voice. Fixed. Firm. "You should go back to your hotel room. Come on. I'll call you a taxi."

"And you?"

He sucks in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Don't worry about me. Just—go back to the hotel room. We can—we'll talk in the morning."

"Where'd you?" She asks when you crawl into bed, the starchy sheets rubbing against your sunbitten skin.

There is a deluge of things you want to say. Things like—

I'm sorry. I love him. I—

can't let go.

"I think I just got my heart broken," you say instead, and wonder when the tears are supposed to come. At the wedding, maybe. But right now, you just feel numb. Empty.

The bed creaks when she rolls over, facing you in the dark. "Really? Didn't know you were, you know, foolin' around with anyone."

"I wasn't. It's—" your dad. But you can't say that, can you?

There's something painfully nostalgic about loving a man you're not supposed to want. A man who cannot, should not, want you back. An unrequited love in a foreign land. Unconsummated in the summer's heart. Sticky, bittersweet heartbreak.

Or, that's what it's supposed to be.

They are not John Price, though. Your best friend's dad. And they didn't kiss you back—

But he did.

And you think it's the worst thing he could have ever done.

[drabblesandimagines]

Hitched

Leon Kennedy x fem reader, established relationship Couple of swears, mentions of blood

The sudden noise behind you sends you spinning on your heels to confront it. Your pistol is raised, finger slightly squeezing the trigger in preparation to blow the next monstrosity’s head off only to see Leon’s alarmed face, his hands up in surrender, gun dangling from his grip.

“Whoa, baby, it’s just me.”

You exhale in relief, immediately dropping and holstering your weapon. “Sorry – jumpy. You okay?”

You look him up and down, looking for injuries after you’d been separated a little while ago. It felt like every other mission these days led to the two of you working your way through underground caverns, as evil scientists seem to just love setting up their bases there, with ill-maintained wooden walkways that collapsed below your feet. Leon had gone toppling down the last one, reassuring you he was fine - he did always manage to forward roll his way out of taking any impact – and said by the map he’d pilfered from one of the supply rooms, it looks like your paths would cross again eventually and it meant the two of you could cover more ground until then.

“I’m fine. You, however…” He steps forward, grasps you by the elbow and pulls it up gently in front of you to reveal a nasty slice across your forearm, dripping blood on the dirt.

“Slashed out at me as I took it out. Misjudged the space. I blame the moody lighting.” You joke, but Leon doesn’t respond, inspecting the damage.

“I’m okay. We should keep moving, we can’t be far from-”

“Uh-uh. Come on, there’s an alcove just back this way to provide us some cover whilst I see to this.” His grip is still firmly on your elbow as he tugs you back the way he emerged from.

“I promise I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart, you’re gonna leave a blood trail if we don’t. Besides, as your fiancé, I insist.”

The fiancé card is not one that Leon pulls out often on a mission, but has started to do so considering how long your engagement has been. He’d proposed two years ago, literally the moment he got you within eyesight as he returned from a solo mission to Spain to rescue the President’s daughter. He didn’t have a ring – later rectified – but just dropped to his knees and asked you to become his wife. It wasn’t like you hadn’t started wedding planning. There was a folder of brochures under the coffee table, half-drafted emails to venues and caterers on your laptop, saved photos of wedding gowns and centerpieces… But it just felt impossible to ever truly put a plan in place, nail down a concrete date, you didn’t know where the two of you were going to be one month from the next. Sorry, terrorism, could you wait a week or two for the Kennedy wedding to pass first?

“Okay.” You concede and allow him to guide you back a few hundred metres to the alcove – it’s more a deep crevice in the wall, but it won’t be obvious the two of you are hiding in there if anyone or anything was to stroll by.

“Sit.” He points to the space furthest back and you drop down, crossing your legs beneath you so he can crouch down in front. You lay your wounded arm out in front of you with a slight wince. If you were being honest, it did hurt.

“Here, chew this. It’ll make you feel better.” He passes you one of those stupid green herbs from his supplies. The man swears by them as a natural pain reliever – useful in a bind, he claims.

“Ugh, really? But they’re so bitter.” You shake your head, “I’ll be fine without.”

He quirks his eyebrow at you, pulling out a roll of gauze from one of his pouches to begin to dress your wound. “Sweetheart, either you chew it, or I will go mamma bird on your ass, chew it for you and then kiss you so hard you’ll have no other choice but to swallow.”

You laugh, dryly. “I think that might be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Chew.”

Again, you concede. Leon won’t stop at anything to ensure you’re taken care of. As his gentle fingers begin to wrap the bandage tightly around your wound in an effort to stem the bleeding, you crunch the herb between your teeth. It’s scratchy, horrendously bitter, makes you want to gag almost. You can’t chew fast enough to get rid of it. He is right about them, though – a moment or two later the stabbing, stinging pain in your forearm where the creature slashed you dulls to a low, much more tolerable ache.

He has a smug look on his face, knowing your tells too well.

“Told you it would make you feel better.”

He finishes wrapping the gauze around your arm and ties it off with a tight knot, slicing the excess off with his knife. He puts away the roll before he turns and sits down besides you, throwing his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his chest, kissing your crown. You can feel his heart pounding beneath your cheek – he was worried about you. He knows you can take care of yourself, you’ve been through as much hell as he has, but seeing you injured always sets him off.

You know you should press on – BOWs wait for no man - but it’s clear the two of you need a moment to catch your breath, take stock of what’s occurred, work out how you’ve ended up here - again.

You begin to fiddle with the engagement ring that hangs around your neck. Too much risk wearing it on your finger when out on missions, but it felt odd and wrong to leave it at home on your dressing table, so you’d settled for having it like this, tucking it away on a chain out of sight, but playing with it had soon turned into a nervous habit.

Leon clocks your fidgeting immediately and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“About?” He probes, gently.

“What we’re doing here.”

“You forget the brief?” Leon teases and you elbow him lightly in the stomach – not that you’d manage much damage given how muscular he is.

“Like, is this just our life now? Every couple of months, another set of BOWs appears, we deal with and eliminate - rinse and repeat.”

“I…” He sighs. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I hope not. I’d like to think that one day we stop them all and we get a pretty sweet retirement package.”

“I want to get married.” You say, softly.

“Hey, I’m the one who did the proposing, you’re the one who said you wanted to wait until-”

“I know, but I don’t want to wait anymore. I can’t keep holding off for a big event that I’m not sure we’ll ever get to have.” You pause a moment as you sit up, turning to face him head on. “The second we are out of here, I want to marry you.”

“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously. Registry office. We’ll wear what we’re wearing – blood splatters, camos, bruises, all of that. I don’t care. I just want to be your wife already.”

“My wife, huh?” He grins at the idea. “Yeah, I want that too. I can’t lie, though, I was looking forward to seeing you in a wedding dress.”

“You will. We’ll do that later – a party or whatever, something that can be rescheduled easy enough if the world goes to shit. But this, this can just be us, huh?”

“Just us, baby.” He places a hand on the side of your face and guides you in for a heated kiss, teasing your bottom lip with his teeth until you permit his tongue entrance and the wrestle for dominance begins. After a moment or two, you place your palm flat on his chest and push back.

“We’re getting distracted, Leon.”

“We sure are.” He gets to his feet and offers you his hand, pulling you up with ease. “Come on, let’s go kill these bastards and get hitched.”

“Took the words outta my mouth, handsome.”

--

“Okay, Leon said it was casual, but I didn’t picture this casual.” Hunnigan appears behind you in the restroom mirror, dressed in her usual work suit, albeit with a paper bag in hand. Leon had radio’ed in as soon as your objective was clear – DSO teams swooping in to clear up and confiscate and destroy the weapons retrieved – and asked Hunnigan to get them into the registry office today.

“Yeah, we were going for work casual, but we had to leave the weapons in the SUV.” You shrug, washing the grime off your face in the sink. You supposed you should at least prep that much. “Thank you for getting us in.”

She shrugs, “It was one of Leon’s easier requests, funnily enough.” She holds the bag in front of her in offering. “For you.”

“Just me?” You raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t think Leon will like it as much.” You take the bag with a smile and place it down on the counter to open it – a small bouquet of white daisies within.

“Just so I can catch the bouquet, obviously.”

--

Hunnigan acts as the witness, of course, as you find yourself standing in front of the officiant. He barely batted an eyelid at your attire and you think he must’ve seen all sorts come through the door in his time, so the couple who decided to get married in tactical gear, bruised and bandaged, is just another day.

“Do we have rings?” The officiant questions and before you can say no, Hunnigan steps forward again, handing over a box.

“Should’ve known you’d have our ring sizes on file.” Leon laughs.

“Had a suspicion it might come in handy one day.” She smiles, taking her place back in a seat behind the two of you. The officiant opens the box to reveal two simple gold wedding bands.

Leon takes your hand then – his leather gloves removed for the occasion – and smiles. He’s got a bruise blossoming on his left cheek, his hair’s a beautiful mess, but he’s here and you’re here and it’s perfect.

“If you’ll repeat after me.” The officiant looks at Leon, who continues to look lovingly at you, biting his lip in an excited smile. “I, Leon Scott Kennedy…”

He wets his lips with his tongue and squeezes your hand. “I, Leon Scott Kennedy….”

The vows are over before you know it. You feel giddy, a combination of exhaustion and love, surely.

“I pronounce you husband and wife. It gives me great honour to introduce to you,” he looks at Hunnigan, “the new Mr and Mrs Kennedy. You may now kiss the bride.”

Leon doesn’t hesitate, pulling you in close and into a bruising kiss, dipping you back a little before returning you to your feet. “Just a little show for our guest.” He whispers in your ear, nodding his head over at an applauding Hunnigan.

“Dare I ask about honeymoon plans?” Hunnigan comments as the three of you exit the registry office. “I’m expecting the two of you back in HQ tomorrow for a debrief, after all.”

“I don’t know. Any ideas, beautiful?” Leon brings up your hand to his mouth, placing a kiss across your knuckles, the gold band sitting snugly on your ring finger.

“Yeah, I have one.” You nod. “I wanna burger – a real greasy one – and fries. And a beer.”

“I knew there was a good reason I married you.” He drops your hand and wraps his arm around your waist and slips another under your knees, sweeping you off your feet and into his arms and you squeal.

“Gotta carry my beautiful wife over the threshold of the nearest diner, don’t I?”

You grin. “That is the tradition. Oh, and speaking of traditions…” You toss the bouquet over Leon’s shoulder into Hunnigan’s arms. “Look who’s next!”

“On second thought…” she walks over to you and places them back into your hands, “keep it. I might as well wait for the redo. See you tomorrow, lovebirds. As a wedding gift, I won’t expect you in until the afternoon.”

“Too kind, Hunnigan.” Leon smirks as she waves over her shoulder and heads towards the parking lot.

Once she’s out of sight, you grab the back of your husband’s head, pulling him down into a chaste kiss and smile up at him. “I love you, Leon.”

“I love you too, Mrs Kennedy.”

--

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[suguru-getos]

//fractures// geto suguru x f!reader // chapter 2

🔗-> part one

warnings: hurt-comfort, mentions of wounds, mentions of stitches, guilt, complex emotions from suguru, panic attacks, reader is in a dark headspace, fluff too!! 🙂‍↔️💅🏻

story summary: being a monkey is the norm except when you're captured by geto sama because he needs money from your parents. however, you may just have to suffer a little extra because of the forced thinking about the right and wrongs... you're putting him through. the affection you’re forcing him through…

chapter summary: suguru tends to you after the whole ordeal caused by him, still conflicted & somehow tortured with the way his heart pangs at your condition. 🩷

a/n: please comment down below if you want to be tagged in the taglist <3 thank you ‼️ it's so evident that i'm just writing this for my own silly liddul heart TT_TT

an hour, at maximum. an hour had passed from when geto left your bleeding, tattered body on the bed. the mark of 'MONKEY' with deep, gashing cuts and the way your blood oozed out of your injured, broken skin was haunting his very core. he did it majorly for himself, just to remind himself that you're one. you're nothing but a monkey and monkeys shouldn't have the freedom of life. monkeys are filthy- monkeys breed curses- monkeys are disgusting and vile- monkeys-

his own feet betrayed him quickly when he found himself running for your room. the cream colored satin bedsheet stained with blood. your foot prints stained with blood directing towards the bathroom. his can feel his heart sink at the sheer amount of blood loss. jaw clenching and a soft wave of anxiety which ripens with every passing moment hugging him. did you… die? no, no its just been an hour-

he rushes to the bathroom door, watching you lay limp, holding a piece of gauze in your bloodied hands. you must have passed out by trying to give yourself first aid. he falls to his knees, tears in his eyes seeping through at the sight of usual color in your lip faded to discoloration. you look so peaceful when you sleep. he finally notices the wound inflicted by him on you, it was looking lethal. a striking reminder that you were a monkey and he was, well, a monster.

he doesn't understand what's happening, he was pretty clear that he needs to irradicate the whole human race, he has to. only those with superior selves, who can withstand not creating a curse should be allowed to live. how will he achieve this milestone when his heart weeps at the sight of one pathetic little human half his size losing consciousness.

his bulky and sturdy arms wrap around your body, hugging you closer to him and taking you to his room. your room was a blood bath anyway, he needs to ask the servants to clean it up. gently placing your body atop the plush mattress of his room, he took out his first aid kit, good thing you had been passed out. your wounds are deep and require stitches. he can't bear any more of your screams now without breaking like glass. his mind has already decided to punish him with repeated rings and episodes of your cries and wails when suguru did this to you. he wishes they could stop - he wishes they never stop. he needs to be punished.

bringing your wrist close to him, he decides to stitch those gashes up, watching your face every few seconds. you were knocked out cold, not an expression on your pretty face. he feels like it’s a win, when you'll be awake, at least you wouldn't see the word 'MONKEY' engraved on you… then again, it will scar, and it will scar bad. "you're pathetic" he hums at your sleeping form. "fragile, useless, powerless, pathetic." he adds on, the sentence more a reminder to his own self rather than for you. you're not listening to this anyway. "I could snap your neck like a twig and you wouldn't be able to defend yourself. anyone I call my family could." he sighs, fuck - he's tearing up again. you almost look dead over just an anger tantrum of his. he really needs to be very careful. you're like a little bunny who could die at the slightest bit of carelessness.

a few hours pass with suguru holding your hand, observing the crests and troughs of your sleeping face, how your chest barely heaves but still reminds him that you're alive. he couldn't be more glad that you're alive. he hates that. he hates that it brings him joy that your heart is still beating. he hates that you are bringing him joy and copious amounts of guilt.

"geto sama!" nanako gleams from outside his bedroom door. he wipes his tears at the sound of his adopted daughter's voice. "yes? what is it?" he hums from inside. "the monkey isn't in her room!" she pouts from outside, and suguru gets up to open his door. the teenager watching you lie down on geto's bed with a face of confusion. why were you laying down on 'their' geto sama's room? you- a monkey- the look of disgust in her face is inevitable.

"relax, nanako." he hums, "we need to return her to her parents after 9 days." he responds with his usual close-eyed feline smile. "yeah, but why is she here?" she pouts, "she's too pretty for a monkey though-" a frown envelopes her face. "I agree." suguru looks at you momentarily, a moment of longing and guilt erupting from the depths of his heart before quickly snapping out of it. "I got angry at her, and punished her." he continues, while nanako could see with the way the gauze bandage on your forearm was inflicted with dark reds of blood, that you indeed, were punished. "what did she do?" she asks instinctively and suguru gnaws at his lower lip.

nothing. you did absolutely nothing.

"well, she is a monkey after all." nanako adds, shrugging. "her purpose is as our 'money collecting monkey', isn't it?" she asks him, and he faintly nods. "well, if she really made you angry, geto sama. I suggest you can kill her after getting the money!" she chirps as if it was the most normal thing to say. suguru, on the other hand, feel sickened to his stomach at the thought. "hmm. I need some time alone, nanako" he declares, watching the teen leave his room and locking his door.

he's quick to grace himself in the sanctuary of your presence though, hand back holding yours. "just nine more days of you here, monkey." he reminds both of you. "then your parents will come and get you and this wouldn't exist." he smiles, a sadness spreading across his face.

------------------------------------------------------------

you don't wake up for one and a half days. the exhaustion on your body, the lack of nutrition and the loss of blood demands rest. AND, geto suguru is absolutely tweaking!

he sat next to you, watching you gently, leaning beside you against the headboard. you didn't wake up. he hasn't showered, hasn't gone out of his bed. his family thinks its weird, but they don't push him. suguru is a tantrum king after all, and a pissed off suguru chan is best avoided. the next morning, you're awake before noon. suguru hasn't budged, he has declined all his meetings, all his catch-ups, everything. why? he doesn't know that now, his mind doesn't give him the time to reason for any of it right now. the hollow pit of anxiety that was created was now a bottomless one. he wanted relief from it, he wanted to see you awake! shoko- maybe he needs to talk to shoko-

you shifted a little and his attention is immediately diverted to you, looking at you with the biggest sigh of relief possible. "ah-" a pained whimper escaped you, it hurts everywhere. your ribs hurt, you can barely breathe, tears sting your eyes as you groan, trying to get up. the lack of iron in your body making you dizzy. "good morning, it's afternoon now." suguru hums, just 7 days with you. why is he counting days like a mad man in prison?! before you could process anything, your eyes widened when you heard his voice, heart fluttering out of your very chest and breathless pants echoing in the room. you gripped your chest, it burns, your lungs burn from the lack of air your body can't get due to the whole panic of it all. what will he do? will he hurt you again? fuck- your head hurts, everything hurts- "plea- please" you gasp out, the veins in your forehead strained and popping as you began wailing again. shrieks and cries of pain and panic.

suguru doesn't know what to do about it, he needs to hug you close and tell you it's going to be okay. he wouldn't hurt you. he feels sorry- you don't have to break apart like this- does he even deserve to say that?

instinct… he is just acting on his instinct now.

"breathe with me, ssh~ listen, listen, little one. look at me, breathe with me. deep breath in- come on- follow me-" his voice is soft, but you're inconsolable. you have your very own instinct, the instinct to flee from him. the instinct to run away from him. you struggle against his hold and choke on sobs, leaning away. suguru is quick to pull you back to him, your head against his chest, soft head pats coming after. "ssh ssh ssh~ nothing's happening, no one's going to hurt you." he echoes it repeatedly. "that's it, that's it…" his own rapid heartbeats turning calmer and calmer as your shoulders slump back in exhaustion. you stop resisting after a few minutes, letting him hold you softly.

"just seven more days, and you'll be home." suguru hums to comfort you.

"I hope you die." you mumbled with equal hatred to his comfort. may as well be killed instead of spending seven whole days with him… "I hope everyone you ever knew dies, and they die in front of you." you spit out in your venom laced tone after calming down, trying to lean away from suguru's hug.

"and? who will kill them? you?" he is almost amused, but nothing you say with outweigh his guilt right now. "let’s get you cleaned up and get you to a doctor." he announces. he still has 7 ol' days with you after all.

[bee-writes-n-spins]

tw - unusual ways of sh please read at your own risk.

a/n - this is very bad but i need to feed y'all.

there have been moments when all you want to do was stop breathing. but you have too much to do and too many people who rely on you. so, you settle for hurting yourself instead.

tonight is one of those nights. sitting on your bathroom floor, you pull at your hair and bite your own arms. you taste blood.

tears fall from your eyes as you fall on the floor from exhaustion. you need to clean yourself up. he's supposed to come over in fifteen minutes.

and so, with a shaky sigh, you get up off the cold tile and rinse the blood off your arm. it kind of hurts but also feels kind of nice. it makes you feel kind of alive.

your gaze slowly looks up to the mirror and is met with what most would call an absolute trainwreck. "what a disgusting sight," you think.

your gaze moves back towards the floor as you finish washing the blood off. removing your arms from under the faucet, you look at the bite marks that adorn your arm. it almost makes you feel proud.

fingers trail across the marks as you exit the bathroom to find bandaids. or some gauze. or somthing.

but, much to your dismay, he is standing right outside the bathroom door. your eyes widen with panic as you stare at him. as you look up at him, his eyes meet yours.

"darling... this is getting out of hand," he murmurs. pulling you close, he looks at the damage you've done to yourself. his brows furrow with worry as he sees just how bad it is.

"i.. i'm sorry.." you mutter. it makes your heart hurt every time he sees you like this. it's not the first time he's had to help you after a breakdown.

"don't apologize."

"but you have to deal with me. i'm an adult. you shouldn't have to take care of me."

"i don't take care of you because i have to, darling. i do it because o want to." and with that, he pulls you into a tight embrace. his face buries in the crook of your neck as he goes on: "and i want to because you are my everything. not just my world, but my cosmos."

a lump forms in your throat as he rambles his love for you.

"i love you," you sigh as your voice breaks. a shaky breath leaves your lips as you cry into his shoulder.

"i love you too," he whispers.

the rest of the night is then spent with you curled up in his arms, watching a movie, and him whispering little 'i love you's every chance he gets.

bonus:

"why'd you come over so early anyways?"

"cause i left my razor..."

chuuya, kunikida, fukuzawa, dazai (delusional), aether, zhongli, neuvillette, tighnari, venti, diluc, giyuu, and any of your other amazing favs.

[livelovelizz]

now i'm no longer alone

jason todd x reader / fluff

tw: mentions of blood and a knife

“What the fuck.”

You try to swallow the lump that’s appeared in your throat. You know you must look stupid with your open-mouth stare, but you couldn’t help it. Really…

“What the fuck,” you repeat, scanning the figure in front of you. In the dingy hallway of your apartment complex, stands an out of place person. Red helmet scratched up, black tactical suit torn, and the most startling of all, the amount of blood pouring out from behind a hand.

“Hey, I don’t mean to rush this… but do you mind like—” the figure jerks his head and all you can do float aside to allow him to hobble through. You bite your lip and peek into the hallway. All that stares back at you is flickering LED lights and dingy wallpaper.

Letting out a shaky breath, you stare at the blood spots left on the floor as the door closes, latching it as quietly as possible. You turn the lock.

The injured vigilante you let in has made their way to your couch, draping themselves across it with legs falling off the sides. It’s silent, air tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You open your mouth, ready to start complaining when glistening liquid catches you eye. Clicking your tongue, you go to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom.

Flipping on the switch, you squint to adjust to the sudden brightness. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Mussed up hair from sleep, wrinkled pajamas, and a deep frown. You take in a deep breath to collect yourself. Right. Now’s not the time to be distracted by anything other than the problem bleeding out on your couch.

You rummage in the cabinet underneath the sink for a couple minutes, noises too loud for whatever fucking time it is. Behind a stack of toilet paper is where the med-kit is hiding, so it's quickly snatched up and you hurry back to the living room. The idiot is still in the same position, sans the red helmet, which has been tossed aside on the floor.

You shake your head and sigh. “You actually have to take off your suit for me to do anything.”

Blue-greenish eyes swipe to look over at you. They look distinctly glassy and out of focus. Concussion?

“You tryin’ to get me in bed already? At least take me to dinner first,” the mighty Red Hood responds, trying to smile but winces and carefully remains still. You bite your lip.

“Think you can move, or am I gonna have to cut the suit?” you ask, settling on the small sliver of couch left for you, pressing against his thighs. Opening the med-kit, everything gets set out in preparation.

There’s a groan and instantly you zone in on Jason’s face, twisted in pain.

“Just take it off. Trying to replace this shit is too annoying,” he grunts, slowly sitting up. You watch him closely, taking in every small twitch and tense muscles. Gently, hands are placed around his waist, slowly peeling back the top half of his suit. Jason’s been through this a lot. Too much, you think sourly. He forcibly relaxes and doesn’t move when his shirt finally pulls away from his wound. It takes several minutes, going slow and checking over everything, before his top is finally off of him and tossed on the floor somewhere.

His chest is littered with bruises and small scratches, but none of it compares to the gaping knife wound spanning from his ribs to waist. You’re not going to lie, the amount of blood along with how deep the wound is disgusting—you don’t want to know what muscle you’re seeing behind his peeled back skin—but you hold your breath.

Neither of you say anything. You’re focused on cleaning, disinfecting, and wincing as you feel and hear loose skin squish against the needle held in bloody hands. You only fully relax when everything is safely bandaged behind white gauze. Eyes dart up to Jason’s face, becoming slightly startled and embarrassed when you find him already looking at you. Maintaining eye-contact, you reach a hand up to his face, gently brushing over his cheek.

“Anything else I need to know?” you ask quietly, afraid to break whatever comfortable silence the two of you have. Jason takes in a deep breath and shakes his head, leaning into your hand. You don’t want to disturb him. He finally looks somewhat peaceful and not in too much pain after the many pills you shoved at him to take. “I’m going to get a washcloth and some clothes, okay? Don’t move.”

Jason flinches and wide eyes meet yours. “I was, uh, I wasn’t planning on staying,” he says, obviously confused. You stare into his eyes. He only stares back.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think I’m letting you leave this apartment in this state?”

“I’ve had worse, nothin’ to worry about your pretty head about, doll,” he grunts. He’s in the process of sitting up, but doesn’t get too far before a hand is pushing him back down.

“That doesn’t exactly make me feel better,” you dryly respond, “Now, you’re going to sit here and wait for me to come back, okay?”

There must be something showing in your expression because Jason takes a moment before relenting with a sigh. “Hurry it up then, I’m tired and want to sleep.”

You scoff. Honestly, the audacity of this man is astounding. You quickly gather clean clothes for him, random stuff he’s left here from past visits. Armed with a bowl of water and a washcloth, you’re ready to tackle the problem of wiping him down. By the time you make it back to the couch, Jason’s already discarded his pants and shoes. He smiles widely as soon as he sees you, wiggling his eyebrows. The washcloth you were holding is now hitting him in the face.

“Wha—Hey!” Jason pouts, “What was that for?”

The bowl of water is set down on the table, a little splashing over the sides. You look up to him. “You woke me up at an ungodly hour, bleeding out, made me fix you, and then expected me to wipe you down myself? Are you kidding me, Jason?”

You’re actually a little upset. It’s not that you haven’t seen him covered in blood before, but usually it’s not his blood he’s covered in. You knew what you were signing up for when you got together, but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying. A warmth wraps around your clenched fist and squeezes. You focus back into the present.

Jason’s looking at you with furrowed brows and a frown. You look down at your hands before you’re suddenly exhausted. Stumbling, you sit down next to Jason and deflate into his side.

“I–I’m sorry. Just…” you close your eyes and take a moment to collect yourself. “It’s just scary. Seeing you like that.”

Your chin is gently clasped and turned to look over to your lover sitting next to you. A thumb brushes against your cheek. “No, doll, I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask of you,” Jason whispers, regret filling every word.

Shaking your head, you cover his hand with yours to keep him from pulling away. “Don’t. I would rather you come to me like this than I not knowing, with you in some dirty alley or safe house,” you reply and press a gentle kiss to his palm. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

The exhaustion has finally caught up to you, dragging you down. You didn't really want to leave him alone, but a large yawn seizes you. Giving him another once, you deem it okay to leave him by himself.

“I’m gonna go to bed. Join me when you're clean,” you lean forwards and press a gentle kiss to his lips before silently making your way back into the bedroom. Too much has happened too early in the morning. Collapsing onto the bed, you take in a deep breath. You won’t go to bed without him, but your eyelids are heavy and begging for you to close them, so you do.

The next thing you know, the bed is dipping next to you while the blankets slowly cover you up. Not opening your eyes at all, you blindly reach out your left hand and wave it in the air until it makes purchase on something. A hand catches yours. Even with your eyes closed, you can basically feel the guilt he has for worrying you rolling off in waves. Gripping his hand tightly, you drag him down and press your body to his, keeping him in place. You're not chancing him leaving as soon as you fall asleep.

Your head rests on his chest, the gentle thump of his heart and rhythmic breathing is quickly lulling you back to sleep. In your last moments of consciousness, you feel his arm wrap around your back and a pressure on the crown of your head.

“G’night, doll,” he whispers. With him safely wrapped around you in the comfort of your home together, sleep is quick to find you.

fin.

[heartfullofleeches]

not to be crazy but i think the first time his darling called him “husband” during sex clover came immediately and then spent like 20 min crying about it

[suggestive/very light smut, minors begone]

"Clover - you coming to bed soon?"

"In a moment, dear. Just finishing up."

The magician waits for the settle of the bed as you lay back down before snipping the excess string of the stitching over his heart, picking up a roll of bandages as he places the medical scissors in hand on the counter. He wraps the gauze around his torso twice over with a third binding for good measure. It really was a hassle, more nights than before now considering he had a lover. Nothing Clover had tried was able to seal the wound. Stitches of various patterns, patches and whatever cut of cloth deemed viable- all bled through by that eternal infliction within his heart. The only functional stopper was the dagger that had done him in. The ghastly sight disgusted him before, but now it only reminds him of how times had changed for the better.

Though his heart had been torn to shreds in the physical sense, it and his broken soul had been mended by the simple comfort of another to share his bed with. Clover wipes at the mirror, staring deeply at his reflection. A man once without a love now a beast with so much he'd die for good at its lost. How could such a face catch the eye of someone as magnificent as you?

Somwhere, his ears catch the faint rustle of fabric. Clover's eyes dart to the bathroom door as an article of clothing hits the tile.

"What a spacious bed. If only I had a certain rabbit to take up some of the room."

"Ah - I'll be there shortly, my love." Clover gathers up his supplies and crams them into the medicine cabinet before dropping to pick up the fallen cloth. His face burns red; fur frizzled as he smoothes the soft fabric in his hands realizing it to be your underwear. The rabbit hops to his feet, flicking off the bathroom light as he barrels into the bedroom. You sit up as he makes his way over to the bed, pressed back against the headboard as his lips meet yours - fingers gripping the hip of your night shirt.

You giggle, roused to laughter by his fluff as he kisses at your neck. "If I had known this was going to be your reaction, I would've done that sooner."

Clover freezes like a deer in headlines; ears twitching with a nervous tic. "I.. I'm sorry, did I keep you waiting too long? A-am I going too fast? This is all so new and I suppose all the excitement just makes me a little..."

Clover yelps as you bring your hands up to his face. " I'm just messing with you. There's no rush, Clover so just take it easy."

The rabbit melts as your warm thumb strokes over his cheek. How serene every waking second with you was. His ever present fears and anxieties washes right away spending mere seconds in your arms. Clover sighs, placing a palm over your left - tracing the cold metal wrapped around your finger.

"I'm aware, it's just... being with you is such a wonderful experience, Angel. I'd hate for there to be any reason you didn't feel the same."

"If I didn't, I probably wouldn't be sitting here half naked in your bed. Now, you gonna kiss me again or -"

You didn't need to tell Clover thrice. Clover kisses you, gently lowering his weight atop you as he supports your back with one hand. You help undo his belt as he rolls your shirt up to your chest, marveling at your breathtaking image through lidded eyes. He could never find himself getting used to the sight - falling in love all over again everytime you give him more to behold.

Clover whines into your chest, squeezing the back of your neck as he presses in deep. He fancied himself the type to treat his love as the treasure they were, but finally having you in his grasp he couldn't control himself. He swore another night he'd give you everything you do deserved. A dreamy smile spreads across his face your fingers lock together. You weren't technically wed just yet, but how he heart leapt being able to claim you as his spouse now. In the dead of night, the word slipped from his lips as you held each other dear. It was magical.

Clover rocks into you slow, cherishing the heat your body gives as he imagines the night of your official commune. Holding you - like this, hours after your vows of everlasting devotion. He'd lean in, whispering ever so softly. "What has someone like I done to desire a spouse as wonderful as you?'

Clover flushes. He didn't mean to say that aloud. To his surprise, you lock your arms around his neck sporting a dazed smile of your own - stealing his heart for the billionth time as you speak.

"Dunno. What did I do to get such a loving husband?"

"H-husband?..." His ears fall flat; a whimper caught in his throat as tears cloud his vision. Your husband - him. It was too much to bare. An angel, his dear gift from above - choosing him of all beings. His spouse to have, to love, to...

"F-uck..." Clover pants, gripping the sheets as he bottoms out inside you, spilling deep as he buries himself in your warmth. He fucks lazily into you, energy spent - but determined to ride his high to completion. He shutters, pulling out as he picks his tired body off of you. The euphoria fades, and shame overtakes as his cum leaks out onto the satin sheets.

"Stars, I... I usually don't- I didn't mean to- I was going to pull out I just-"

Clover gasps - tearducts reaching compacity as he throws himself towards the end of the bed covering his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm an awful husband. I don't even deserve to be the one who can call you his spouse."

You shoot up from the mattress as he wails, throwing a comforting arm over his shoulder. "Clover - Clover, it's okay. Don't say that about yourself over something like this."

Clover wipes at his eyes. "But... but, I failed you as a husband...."

"No you didn't. You just got a little excited, that's all. I love you, Clover - and this doesn't change anything."

You press a kiss to his tear soaked fur as Clover brings his hands down to his chest. Moments like this remind him of one of the best things about being married. Loving your soul mate through faults and all. Yours only made you more perfect in his eyes. He wondered if it was the same for you.

Clover rubs his nose against your hand. "S-still... I feel bad. Is there anyway I can make this up to you?"

"There's nothing for you to make up for, but if you really want to..." His eyes widen as you guide his head between your thighs, throwing a leg over his shoulder. "I think here would be a good start."

Clover paws at your thighs, gripping them to pull you closer to his face as tongue licks at your sex and his release. Here was a much better placement for him and he prayed with all his tattered heart you'd be able to take all that he was so willing and eager to give.

[chvnnie]

Thoughts on a boxing match with min/chan where you ask them to teach you and you end up manhandled to the floor and floored

the way i stopped breathing—

SMUT — MINORS DNI

“You throw shitty punches.”

“You’re a shitty teacher.”

“Oh? Is that why you asked me to train you?”

You drop your fists, face twisting in annoyance as you glare at your friend. There’s a smug smile on his face, one that you were fully expecting. Minho finds far too much enjoyment in your struggles.

“I actually asked Chan.” You say, tugging the gloves off and letting them hit the floor. They bounce a bit, rolling to the edge of the ring. “You inserted yourself into this.”

“Trust me, you much rather have me train you than him.” Minho, who opted for gauze instead of gloves, starts to unravel it. Though he called you weak, his hands are glowing red. A little swollen. Good, you hope it fucking hurts. “Just because he has more muscles doesn’t mean he’s better at fighting.”

You’ve walked towards a corner of the ring, picking you water bottle up off a stool. “What, and you are?” You ask following a long drink, holding it out to offer him some.

God, you hate how cocky he can be. Menacing smile, playfully evil eyes as he takes the bottle from you. As he drinks, he’s sure to make eye contact with you. Raise his brows a bit. You scoff in disgust and look away, acting like the bobbing of his Adam’s apple isn’t making you uncomfortably warm.

“Mhm.” He caps the bottle, returns it to its home on the stool. “Chan might be stronger, but I’m faster.”

You can’t help the laugh of disbelief you give. This can’t be serious. What is this shit? “Sure, Min, whatever helps you cope—“

“I’m not joking.” He’s so serious, it’s almost chilling. The playful expression he had is gone, replaced with his normal, almost cold one. The laugher is gone, replaced with a shiver you try to hide. “He’s bigger, which means he’s slower. To swing, to move, even to react. By the time he’s ready to land a blow, I’m already out of range.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Minho shrugs, and you think that’s the end of it. What time is it? It feels like you’ve been here forever. As you turn your head to look for the clock, you see something in the corner of your eye. Sharp reflexes have you ducking, narrowly missing your friend’s punch.

“What the fuck?” You shout, popping back up in anger.

There’s that aggravating smile. “See. Have to be quick.”

This. This is exactly why you asked Chan and not Minho. Blood boiling, you snatch your gloves off the ground. His eyes are on you the entire time, fire dancing in his eyes at your reaction. Once they’re secure, you swing.

And miss. Light on his feet, he bounces back. Just out of reach. Another one, another dodge. He laughs this time, avoiding each punch with a hit.

“Faster, come on!” Minho coaches. “You’re so close—“

“Shut up!” You snap, chest heaving as you begin this dance around the ring.

Punch. Duck. Swing. Miss. The fucking rabbit narrowly avoiding your shot every single time. As irritating as it is, you’re starting to become more confident. Your aim is better, there’s more force behind each blow.

You hate the smile he gives you. One of pride. One that makes your heart start to skip beats.

Oh, you’re fucking over it.

You lunge towards him, determined to put an end to this grueling and annoying session. Before you can even raise a fist, he hooks his foot around one of your legs. Suddenly, you’re on your back, groaning as stars dance on the ceiling on the gym.

Minho has you perfectly pinned to the ground; you can’t even squirm. Strong legs locked with yours, hands on your wrists and keeping them to your sides.

The smug smirk is back, and he’s leaning in. Nose close to yours, warm, minty breath fanning across your face.

“Still think I’m full of shit now?”

Stars begin to fall, yellow, white, and a soft pink as they land in the tight space in between your bodies. Some of them are cool, like the low octave of his voice. Some are warm, complimenting the fire in your belly. The gravity they bring has a pulling sensation. Follow the light, let it show you how it shines.

You have nothing to say, blinking up at your friend. His body has never been this close to yours, strong thigh perfectly wedged between your legs. It seems like he’s aware of this; the stars are beginning to dim as he gets closer, burning. Ready to explode when the tips of your noses meet. Lips hovering—

The metal door makes a loud door when it’s shut, scaring the pretty lights away. They spin back up to the ceiling, gone as quickly as they appeared. Minho gives an annoyed grunt, snapping his head to see who crashed this closed practice.

Chan stands near the door, gym bag in hand. His grey, cutoff gym shirt is drenched in sweat, obviously coming from his own workout. With a raised brow, he laughs.

“Am I interrupting something?”

The question snaps you out of the haze, gloved fists banging against Minho’s chest. Grunting, trying harder to escape his hold. If the others get wind of the compromising position, you’ll never live it down.

“Fucking move, you cunt—“

“You did.”

The gloves hit the mat with a thud, staring at Minho in complete shock. What the fuck is he doing? Whatever was sparkling is long gone, way out of reach now. Ruined by Chan. It should be left to fizzle away, never to be spoken of again.

With a laugh, he drops his bag, walking up to the ring. “Apologies, I thought we were training.”

You don’t like the look Minho gives you before he sits up, a small but evil grin on his face as he looks at his friend.

“We are.”

It takes him only a second to flip you onto your stomach. Before you can do much as protest, Chan is kneeling in front of you. A hand clasped over your mouth.

He clicks his tongue. “Didn’t you want our help?”

The braids you had so painstakingly put in this morning are untangled with little care. Chan has a rough grip on your hair, keeping your nose flush to his hipbone. Though you gag, cry, drool, he doesn’t move. Staring down at you with dark eyes and parted lips.

With a tap to his thigh, you could end this. Make him release you, and the three of you will leave. Never to speak of this again.

But the weight of his cock on your tongue is almost as heavenly as the one buried deep in your cunt.

Minho moves his hips in an agonizing motion. Hands on your ass, he kneads the flesh. Teases you other hole, thumb just barely inside. The tip of him nudges your walls deeper than anyway has, fluttering and clenching as the new feeling brings the stars back to earth.

Slowly, Chan pulls you off his cock. He thinks it’s precious how you cough, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

“Aww, poor thing.” A thumb collects the mix of spit and precum on your chin, pushing it back into your mouth. Quickly, you work around the digit just as you had with his cock. “Not used to this much attention at once?”

Your glassy eyes blink up at him, hardly processing the question. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why can’t you think? Where are the words that are spinning in your hallow mind, refusing to leave?

Minho laughs at his friend’s question, thrusting into you hard enough to make you unsteady. You slip, sweaty hands unable to hold you up.

“Of course not, hyung.” The way he smacks you makes your entire body sting, cries aching along with the sound of it. “Think about who you’re talking to. She’s too much of a good girl.”

You hate the way he speaks to you. You hate the way you love it, clinching and whining at the insult.

Chan smiles fondly at you, pulling his thumb from your mouth and quickly replacing it with his cock again. He guides you, setting the tempo himself while you work your tongue around it.

“Maybe with some training,” he tilts your head. Making sure you’re looking right at him. “You can be our good girl.”

[misskingshit]

𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 summary: After so long, you finally take the step. Note: I hope the fandom of The Maze Runner is not dead because yesterday I watched the movie and my fandom that was buried and gathering dust deep inside me, finally came out again, but I hope I'm not the only one. xoxo

At the beginning, when you arrived, you couldn't deny the fact that you were a little scared for being the only girl among so many teenage boys. Going through a place and feeling some gazes on you was uncomfortable, flirting (or attempts to) were unbearable, but you were lucky to be part of the best group on the glade, your favorite boy in it, Minho. He spent most of his time in the maze but whenever he came back the first thing he did was make sure you were okay and didn't have any trouble with any slimy boy. Your best friend… best friend. "What's up today, are you idiots or what, every five seconds some idiot gets hurt" you sighed "and you guys leave all the work to me" you looked accusingly at Clint and Jeff. "Why do you think they come? They all want you to attend to them, you're the only girl" the second mentioned says obviously. "You are disgusting" you turned around to continue organizing the table with the materials and remedies that you have. The noise of the door made with branches or whatever Gally used, was heard opening and you couldn't take it anymore "for God's sake stop being so stupid and be more careful or I'll have Clint start healing you" You turned around to see who had entered. "Shunk, I never really liked Clint" his voice sounds tired but playful. "Minho! what happened to you?" You analyzed everything you could about his clothes, a bruise on his right cheekbone, a cut on his eyebrow, and his lips somewhat dry and pale. Still, he was the most handsome boy you had ever seen. "The maze, I just tripped, nothing to worry about" he said "but I really would like you to heal me, not Clint" you both chuckled. "You are my exception" you grabbed a couple of gauze pads and alcohol to disinfect. You were standing between his legs, even so, his faces were at the same height since he was sitting on some kind of stretcher, the distance was very short, your body was completely bristling. Your gaze and his meet when you finish putting the band-aid on his eyebrow, you don't really know how to react when you feel Minho's hands on your waist, and even less when you feel his lips on yours. Without hesitation, although very nervous, you followed the kiss passing both of your arms around his neck, Minho pressed you more against him, he was perfect, the situation was perfect, everything was perfect. At this moment you didn't care about being the only girl, being locked up with murderous bugs and a little labyrinth around you, having forgotten everything about your past life, because now you had him and it was the best thing that could happen to you. Your lips collided very well, your saliva mixing with his at that moment seemed the hottest thing in the whole world. "If that's how you start treating your patients, they'll line up" Clint's voice came from behind him. "And I'll kick your asses one by one if you just look at her" Minho's voice sounded loud, mad, rude, Clint just raised his hands scared and left. You couldn't help but kiss his cheek and laugh a little "if you're like that to protect me, I'll make you jealous more often" you kissed him again. "You don't know how long I waited for this moment" he said between kisses, which each time became more passionate and needy. "Oh god Minho" you blurted out after feeling his hands squeeze your butt, kissing your neck. "Say my name like that one more time and I'll fuck you right here, right now” My God, the real man.

[eqt-95]

Hi hello! I found the ask game related to the hearts finally so I’ll ask for 🤎 for supercorp if it sparks joy?

oh it does, it does spark joy! many thanks for the ask from both of you.

🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss

- - - - - - -

“We’re playing Doctor!” Kara shouted excitedly when Alex, Kelly, and Lena walked in to find the apartment in absolute disarray, Kara mummified with ace bandages, covered in stickers, and talking past a thermometer sticking out of her mouth, and Esme unraveling a ball of yarn.

“During an apocalypse?” Alex asked, bypassing the pile of forgotten pillows and cushions, over the stacks of books, and through the disaster zone of puzzle pieces and legos. 

“I’m a warrior injured from battle,” Kara scoffed, annoyance on her scrunched face. “See the armor?”

It was nearly impossible to see the cardboard cutouts from under all of the gauze.

“Yea, and I am her princess and the world’s best nurse,” Esme added. She reached for Kara’s hand and began tying the yarn around her wrist. “We just need to lift your arm to rest,” Esma continued, trying gallantly to hoist Kara’s arm.

“Is that my emergency med pack?” Alex asked, eyeing the black canvas bag wearily and the equipment scattered around it. 

“We ran out of band-aids,” Esme explained. “But don’t worry, we didn’t use yours. They were too boring.”

“You should get the colorful kind like the Bluey ones,” Kara added.

Before Alex could get a word, or sigh of resignation in, Esme extended her hand toward her: “Can you hold this, please?”

And that’s how Alex got roped into holding the length of rainbow yarn to elevate Kara’s very unbroken arm while Esme removed the thermometer from Kara’s mouth.

“Uh-oh,” she scowled.

“Uh-oh?” Kara asked with exaggerated worry. “What’s wrong nurse?”

“Just what I susepted.”

“Suspected, babe,” Kelly offered from the kitchen where she and Lena exchanged smirks at Alex’s expense.

“Right, suspested,” Esme said. “It’s bad news.”

“How bad, Nurse?”

“We need to cut off your arm.”

“What? Isn’t there anything else? A disgusting herb? A powerful potion?” Kara rambled. “I really need my arm to hold a sword.”

“Hmm,” Esme pondered. “There is one thing. But it’s magic” “Anything,” Kara said without missing a beat. “Please, Nurse, please!”

“Ok. Are you ready?”

Kara grimaced, clenched her eyes shut and nodded. 

In turn, Esme gave Kara’s elbow a quick kiss. “You’re healed!”

Kara opened one eye and peered toward her arm still held up by Alex and yarn. She cautiously flexed her fingers then rolled her wrist and rotated her elbow. “I’m healed!”

“Yes, you’re healed. Now please leave my house,” Alex mumbled.

------

“Hey,” Lena said when Kara stirred. 

“Hey, back,” Kara mumbled, reaching for Lena’s hand to squeeze. She hummed then opened her eyes, finding Lena then offering a dopey grin. A sign Lena could sigh with relief. “Was I out long?”

“A couple hours. You didn’t completely blow your powers, so you should recover quickly.”

Kara nodded then winced as she sat up. “And the others?”

“J’onn and Dreamer handled the rest,” Lena explained, helping adjust a pillow. “You provided enough distraction that no one else was injured.”

“Tell that to my face,” Kara huffed, lifting a hand to rub her jaw. “I think I need Nurse Esme to make me all better.”

“I think Nurse Esme is in the middle of show-and-tell,” Lena replied. “But I’ll see if Alex has a Bluey band-aid for you.”

“Or,” Kara said, then blushed beet red. “Or we could try magic.”

“I am not about to…” Lena squinted then rolled her eyes. “Oh, I see. You don’t mean my magic.”

“Well, it-it would kind of be your magic,” Kara replied, fingers worrying at the blanket in her lap. “Just, a different kind.”

Lena refrained from rolling her eyes again when Kara offered the biggest, sappiest look. 

“If you think it’ll work,” Lena answered, and she pretended not to see the glee in Kara’s face.

“It would. It really would.”

And that’s how Lena found herself pressing a kiss to Kara’s eagerly lifted cheek.

“There. Better?” Lena chuckled, leaning back into her chair and missing the way Kara’s face chased after Lena’s retreated lips.

“Um…” Kara answered, a bit downtrodden with her lower lip beginning to protrude outward.

“Um?”

“It’s just that, actually I’m pretty sure it was my left side.”

Lena tried containing a smile and resisted letting a disbelieving eyebrow arc. “Is that right?”

“I guess I forgot?”

“Maybe I should get Alex in here to check for brain damage,” Lena teased.

“No, no, it’s ok. I just… I’m still groggy and sleepy, but I just need a little more, um…”

“Magic?”

“Exactly. Then I’ll be all better.”

A kiss landed on Kara’s other temple. “Was it here?” Lena asked, lips still pressed against warm skin.

“A-a bit lower,” Kara answered, face flushing red.

“How about here?” Lena asked, offering another kiss an inch lower.

“Getting uhm,” Kara coughed. “Getting closer?”

Lena continued trailing kisses down the length of Kara’s jawline, no longer waiting for Kara’s fibs to guide her. 

“How’s that, darling?” Lena asked when the final one landed at the edge of Kara’s mouth.

“Just one more,” Kara answered, tugging a laughing Lena onto the bed and pressing a final kiss to her lips. “There,” she sighed. “All healed.”