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gainercontent · 5 months ago

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Eli's Thanksgiving Feast

Eli had been dreading this moment for weeks. After three months of dining hall food, late-night pizza, and chugging beers, he knew the consequences of college life were starting to show. The freshman 15. Everyone talked about it, but no one really prepared him for how quickly it could sneak up on you.

When he pulled in the driveway and saw his two older brothers tossing a frisbee in the front yard of their house, he could already see the smirks on their faces.

"Damn, Eli, you look like you’ve been hitting the dining hall more than the library," his brother Noah said, giving him a teasing once-over.

"Seriously, can't even hide it now," Micah, the middle brother, added, a laugh bubbling in his voice. He reached out to give Eli a pat on the back, but the gesture turned into a playful poke in the stomach. "You sure you're still fit to play ultimate, or are you just here for the Thanksgiving stuffing now?"

Eli tried to laugh it off, but deep down, he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He had always been the skinny one growing up, the one who could eat whatever he wanted without worrying about his weight. But college had thrown him off balance—dorm food, late-night study sessions, and the absence of his mom’s homemade cooking. It didn’t take long before he found himself snacking on pizza rolls at 2 a.m. or grabbing a double cheeseburger between classes. And now, it showed.

"You guys are ridiculous," Eli muttered, trying to change the subject. "It’s just a few pounds."

"No kidding. It's not like you can just wish it away, bro," Noah teased.

"Don’t worry, we’ll help get you back in shape… after dinner," Micah added with a smirk.

Later, at the dinner table, the teasing reached new heights. Their mom had outdone herself this year, as usual. The kitchen was filled with the familiar smell of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, Mac and cheese, cranberry sauce, and—of course—her famous stuffing. It was the kind of meal that made Eli’s mouth water just from the smell.

"Sit down, Eli," his mom called, placing a massive plate of food in front of him. "I know you’re starving after your long drive."

"I’m not that hungry, Mom," Eli protested, eyeing the mountain of food in front of him.

"No, no," Noah chimed in, grinning. "You’ve gotta eat it all, Eli. You need the fuel. We don’t want you looking like you’re gonna float away after dinner."

Eli shot him a glare but sat down, his stomach already rumbling at the sight of all that food. Micah was already halfway through his first plate, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth with reckless abandon.

"Come on, little brother," Micah teased. "You’re not gonna let me beat you, are you?"

Eli rolled his eyes. "I’m not racing you guys."

But as the meal went on, Noah and Micah’s constant badgering wore him down.

"No way you can eat all that," Noah challenged, smirking at Eli. "Come on, show us what you've got."

"Yeah, we dare you," Micah added. "Five plates. You know you want to."

With each bite, Eli found himself getting fuller and fuller. But the challenge was too tempting to ignore. He loaded up his plate with mashed potatoes, a giant scoop of stuffing, turkey, green beans, and a spoonful of cranberry sauce. His brothers cheered him on, making exaggerated comments as he shoveled it all in, their voices getting louder the more he ate.

By the time he finished his first plate, the edges of his stomach were beginning to protest. He was full, but his brothers egged him on, urging him to keep going.

"Come on, one more plate. You can do it!" Micah shouted.

Noah chimed in. "You know the rule—no one's allowed to leave the table until they’ve finished five plates."

The competitive fire in Eli flared. He couldn’t back down. Not now. So, he loaded up a second plate, then a third. He felt the strain in his stomach with each passing bite, the tightness in his waistband beginning to feel like a constant reminder of how much he was stuffing in. But his brothers kept making comments, kept laughing, and it pushed him forward. He kept eating.

By the time he reached plate number five, Eli felt like his body was about to give up. His stomach felt like a bloated balloon, full and aching. The tightness of his jeans was becoming unbearable, and he let out an involuntary, loud burp that echoed through the room.

"Uh-oh, bro," Noah said with a grin. "Sounds like someone’s gonna pop."

Eli’s face flushed crimson, and his hand instinctively went to his waistband. He couldn’t take it anymore. He unbuttoned his jeans, letting out another long, audible burp as he tried to ease the pressure.

Micah leaned back in his chair, his grin practically splitting his face. "Dude, you seriously ate five plates. I’m impressed, but you might need a stretcher to get off that chair."

Eli laughed weakly, clutching his stomach. "I think I might just sleep here," he groaned. "Can’t move."

"Ah, don’t be a wimp," Noah said. "There’s still dessert."

Eli’s eyes widened. Dessert. He had completely forgotten. His mom had already brought out a spread of pies—pumpkin, apple, pecan, and chocolate cream.

"You guys are insane," Eli muttered, but when Noah placed a huge slice of pumpkin pie in front of him, he couldn’t say no. His stomach might have been on the brink of revolt, but dessert was a whole other beast.

The rest of the meal passed in a haze of discomfort. Eli could barely look at the food in front of him, but he forced down a few bites of pie. By the time dessert was over, he felt completely stuffed. His pants were barely holding on, and each breath felt like a labor.

Eli slumped in his chair, a hand pressed firmly against his bloated stomach. He had lost the battle—not only had he eaten way too much, but he’d also been completely outdone by his brothers’ teasing.

But despite the discomfort, there was something oddly satisfying about the whole experience. Sure, he was stuffed to the point of misery, but he had done it. He had survived five plates, countless teasing remarks, and endless jokes.

As the night wound down, his brothers gave him one last, affectionate jab.

"You’re gonna need a week to recover from that," Micah said, ruffling Eli’s hair.

"Probably a month," Noah added with a chuckle.

Eli just smiled weakly and groaned. "I think I’ll just sleep until Christmas."

And, for the first time in a long while, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

#eli #gaining weight on purpose #gaining kink #male gaining #belly gainer #gaining fat #bhm weight gain

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qwimblenorrisstan · 6 months ago

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Regrets | Ghost x Reader

Day 25: Simon “Ghost” Riley

Summary: After a rough night, Simon treats you a bit too roughly, and tries to make it up to you.

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: SMUT, p in v, mentions of rape, allusions to past rape, rough sex, panic attacks, simon being a meanie, sort of dubcon? but it’s okay they make up after it (smut to angst to comfort)

Minors, do not interact!

A/N: thank you to anon who requested this, I hope it’s what you wanted, if the writing tone randomly switches up it’s prob bc I fell asleep 300 words in and finished it later, hope you enjoy regardless<3

Requests are open!

It had originally been a one-night stand, something simple with no strings attached, no expectations Ghost had to keep up with or care about.

He’d met you at a bar, a girl able to handle more alcohol than him despite his much larger body. It wasn’t every day he saw that.

One night had turned into two, two had turned into three, and now he was showing back up again, dragging himself to the doorstep of your apartment where he knew you lived. He’d seen your car outside in the parking lot, so he knew you were home. Those three nights had turned into almost daily visits when he was on leave.

Some nights, he’d stay a bit longer, treat you how a proper gentleman would’ve with the aftercare, giving a bottle of water, a little towel wiping you down, and tucking you in. He knew it wasn’t fair to give you little tastes of what you could’ve had instead of him, but he just couldn’t help it.

You two weren’t exactly a couple, but were more than just fuck-buddies at this point. You’d let him come over and eat dinner, watching him shovel down an impossible amount of food, devouring everything like the human garbage disposal he was. Most nights were followed with slow sex, not exactly tender as much as being patient and gentle, not rushing it. He’d been rushed too often on the field to enjoy it when on leave most days.

But today he was angry.

Recruits had arrived, and been shoved into a team at the last minute with Ghost because of some complications with their commanding officer being out, so he’d had to take over. You’d think that the men had never held a gun before in their lives, considering their shitty grip and twitchy trigger fingers. They’d been all too eager to please at training, trying to show off to the Lieutenant who didn’t seem to care much, annoyed brown eyes flicking between them to check their forms.

He’d approached one of the taller rookies, opening his mouth to correct his stance while going through the motions and exercises, and that was when it had happened. The man had grabbed the base of his balaclava, yanking the fabric roughly up in a way that made it scratch against his scars.

The other recruits had all dropped what they were doing, trying to catch a glimpse of Simon’s face, failing as it was pulled right back down, and he promptly beat the ballsy recruit’s ass.

But even after, he was still angry. His blood was boiling beneath his skin, even after filing a report, leaving the base with bloodied knuckles and a scowl on his covered face. And well, he’d never been one to indulge in rough sex, not after what he’d heard his father did to his mother in the night when he thought no one was listening. He could still hear the crying and begging if he tried hard enough.

But he wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t in the mood for the usual tender session, the buildup just as enjoyable as the release. He needed an outlet.

Your door wasn’t locked when he opened it, throwing his bag to the side of the door, shutting it, and sliding the bolt shut before moving to hunt you down. There was a nice aroma coming from the kitchen, the smell of sweets, freshly baked cookies, or brownies.

He walked, more like stormed, into the kitchen, mask staying on, towering over you even from a distance as he saw you pulling a tray out of the oven, one full of cookies, chocolate chip, just the way he liked them. You pulled your oven mitts off, clicked a button to turn the oven off, and heard his heavy footsteps. You turned, smiled, and offered him one.

“Hey, Si. Just finished cookies, you want one?”

You asked. He didn’t reply. He just stood, staring at you from the holes in his skull mask. You swallowed, seeing the black pit of hunger forming in his eyes, not for the cookies or any other food you’d usually have for him. His hands went to his belt, and you tried to shove down the little tingle of anxiety you felt forming.

He didn’t fiddle with the buckle, pulling, pushing, and having it off in less than five seconds flat. He let it clatter to the floor, missing the way you flinched just a little bit, too focused on pulling his shirt off, military pants soon to follow.

You got the message, eyes watching him all too closely as you pulled off your shirt and slid your shorts down.

He grunted something, maybe a word you didn’t understand, before grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you off to the bedroom. When you were both down the hall, he picked you up, tossing you on the bed.

On any other day, you might’ve found it amusing or hot how easily he could manhandle you. Today, you just weren’t really in the mood, but you could play pretend if he needed it that bad. You didn’t want to disappoint him, not when you’d finally gotten him to slowly let you in behind the walls he’d built up.

He crawled into the bed, hand hooking into your panties and pulling them off, throwing them on the floor, and spitting on his hand before shoving it in his boxers, pulling his half-hard cock out. He gave it a few pumps, lining it up at your entrance.

You scrambled a bit, having absolutely no prep, a stark contrast to the usual at the very least 20 minutes of him scissoring his fingers in, rubbing and occasionally licking your cunt.

He pushed in despite the little grimace on your face as the sting of the stretch made your eyes water. His eyes fluttered shut with a little raspy groan, and he didn’t let you adjust for a second when he bottomed out, moving immediately in sharp thrusts.

“Fuck—slow down, need a minu—“

You tried to gasp out, the friction between your hardly wet folds and his poorly lubed dick burning slightly. He didn’t pay you any mind, continuing with the deep thrusts that were certainly bruising your insides where the tip slammed against each time.

“Fuckin’ deal with it,”

He growled, British accent heavy and thicker the closer he grew to his release. Your throat tightened, tears welling, as you tried to push him away.

He didn’t move.

He grabbed your hips with his meaty hands, shoving you back down to him. It wasn’t the first time you’d been trapped by a man, crushed underneath him, his dick inside of you when you didn’t want it.

And suddenly it wasn’t Simon Riley above you, it was him.

His hands holding you down, keeping you from moving. His cock shoving in and out, ignoring the friction from you being drier than the Sahara desert. His raspy grunts and heavy breathing. Him using you.

You kicked and flailed, desperate not to just be held down, docile like before. The ball of your feet kicked him directly in the knee, his bad knee, the one he’d taken a bullet in before, and he crumpled, being roughly pushed out of you as you kicked and shoved him away with your feet.

“Red,”

You finally choked out, scooting away from him, despite Simon being back to being Simon Riley again. The skull mask stared at you, but was abandoned quickly, pulled off as soon as he saw how you shook, tears rolling down your cheeks before you curled in on yourself in the bed. He’d fucked up, he knew it.

Honey brown eyes smudged with eyeblack watched as sobs shook your body. He didn’t know what to do.

“Hey,”

He tried, rough voice mellowing down to a little more than a cooing baby voice. He knew what this was. He should’ve recognized the signs from the beginning.

Your sobs quieted to sniffles over time. He shoved his dick back in his boxers, feeling as if he deserved the sting of pain from the sensitivity that came from the rough handling. He scrambled for any clothes, pulling out a pair of his jogging shorts and one of his on-leave shirts and pulling them quickly on.

He grabbed a water bottle from your dresser, not knowing nearly how old it was, but deciding that anything was better than nothing, and he wasn’t leaving you alone to go to the kitchen right now.

He unscrewed the cap, set it down on the nightstand, and kneeled at the side of the bed. His finger connected with the bottom of your chin, pulling your face up, to see your watery eyes meet his. He offered the water, putting the tip at your lips, watching your trembling hand reach to steady it as you took a long drink.

“I’m sorry,”

He whispered. It was hard to speak when your body language was suffocating him. He’d scared you. He’d had his panic attacks before, he knew what they felt like, how catastrophic they could be on your mind and body.

You handed the bottle back, breathing a little bit steadier now, which reassured him at the least. You stared.

He’d never been good at making idle conversations, not without someone to carry the backbone of it and keep it smoothly going like you and his Sergeant were easily able to do, but he would try.

“I was thinkin’ about those cookies you made. Maybe we could—watch a movie, one o’ them…”

His voice trailed off, watching as you wiped your eyes, calming down, eyes refilling with something other than blind panic.

“…those—the, uh, cheesy romcoms you like, yeah? Laugh at how dumb they look? We did that over a pizza once, was cracking up so bad I almost had to pull the Heimlich on ya.”

He glanced hopefully up at you as he heard a little giggle bubble up out of your throat through the sniffles. He’d filtered out some of the usual words he would use for those shitty romcoms, knowing it might set you off.

It was only when he caught sight of the curve of your breast, was he reminded that you didn’t have any clothes on.

“You…want me to get you some clothes, luv?”

You nodded. He got up, moving to the dresser once more, opening the drawers, pulling out the pajama set with different little cartoon dinosaurs on them that he knew you loved, as well as a pair of your more comfortable underwear.

He handed you the clothes, shutting his eyes as he heard you shuffling around, a little blush coloring his pale cheeks. It was only when he felt your hand brush his shoulder, that he dared crack one eye open, seeing you in your pj’s, as you slid your legs over the bed, not even hitting the floor as he picked you up.

He knew you were sore. He’d seen how you’d hesitated before trying to stand before he’d scooped you up.

You hadn’t recoiled at all, so he took it as a sign that he could keep holding you, and he stood, walked to the kitchen, grabbed the tray of cookies in its entirety, and walked to the living room, plopping you down on the couch with the cookies, and handing you the remote.

“Find us somethin’ to watch, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

He murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek and walking into the kitchen again.

You grabbed the remote, using it to turn the TV on, before scrolling through your options for the cheesiest, worst-rated romance there was. You and Simon had watched one or two, but he never stayed long after they ended.

You found a particularly awful one that was free with ads, and you paused it at the very beginning, hearing the sound of popping, your microwave buzzing, the sound of something being pushed around, and a few cabinets being opened, before an exasperated sigh.

“Where the hell are the bags?”

He asked from the kitchen, and you giggled to yourself, grabbing a cookie from the tray and taking a big bite.

“Bottom, left of the fridge.”

You called back, and moments later, he appeared with a bowl of popcorn, and a bag of ice that he handed to you. You raised a brow.

“Don’ know where it hurts, but I know you’re sore.”

He replied. He’d thought about trying to put it where it might hurt but quickly realized that putting a bag of ice on your vagina might not come off well after the events of the night.

“Thanks.”

You murmured, adjusting it to where you wanted, taking a bite of popcorn.

“No need. I was bein’ an ass.”

A beat of silence.

“Yeah, you were.”

You took a handful of popcorn.

“You wanna talk about it?”

A strange question from a man who was so unemotional most of the time, but you figured with his smarts, he’d figured out why you’d reacted like that. You shook your head. A little nod, and he was ready to talk about it later, if not right now.

“Let’s watch the movie.”

You spoke, turning it on, setting the remote down as he wrapped a gentle arm around your shoulder, pulling a blanket from the floor overtop the both of you.

It was safe to say the rest of the night was spent giggling at the movie, his dead one-liners making you laugh your ass off as you both made fun of it.

#writers on tumblr #cod mw3 #call of duty #simon ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley cod #simon riley #kinktober2024 #kinktober

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peachbubbless · 23 days ago

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An SBR request! Could we have Johnny bring around a reader with Keratosis Pilaris? Aka strawberry skin, they look similar to bug bites! Btw I absolutely love your writing, I’m falling for characters I hadn’t even paid full attention to before!

YOUR MIND - astounding. The things you’ve done for the Johnny Joestar community 🙏 I have KP myself and suddenly love it a lot more! I'm so glad you enjoy my writing my love, hope you enjoy this one too, it’s such a fun premise! <333

Strawberry skin – Johnny Joestar x Reader

Sexual themes | Word count - 1676 | Day 2 SBR fanfic Week

It hadn’t been a plan.

Not at first.

After the Steel Ball Run ended, after the winners were named and the dead were not, it turned out no one really knew what to do with themselves.

You hadn’t expected to survive, much less to have to figure out what came after. You’d ridden halfway across a continent for a reason that didn’t even make sense anymore. Salvation, maybe. Or spite. Some days it was hard to tell the difference.

But when it was over, your name wasn’t in the papers. There was no parade. No epilogue written in gold.

Just bruises, half-healed wounds you still didn’t like to talk about, and a quiet life with Johnny Joestar.

“You don’t have to go back,” he’d said, not quite looking at you.

“There’s room at the ranch. I could use the help.”

You knew what he meant. You both did. It wasn’t about chores. It wasn’t even about the room.

It was about not being alone.

He hadn’t wanted to ask. You hadn’t wanted to say yes.

But here you were.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere you were living on Joestar land, sleeping in the old guest room, and pretending it wasn’t strange that your post-trauma coping strategy included shovelling horse shit and arguing about who made worse coffee.

You weren’t together-together. Not officially.

But there were looks. Drinks together. Moments that lasted too long and silences that said more than anyone was willing to put into words. Something had started in the desert, and it hadn’t stopped growing. Not yet.

The morning was already warm by the time you started on the stables.

The air smelled like leather, grass and dust, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how many times you washed. The sky stretched overhead in that cloudless, uncaring way that reminded you of your race days - only now, the only thing trying to kill you was hay fever.

You had your sleeves rolled up and your pants cuffed at the knee. Not for fashion. Just because it was hot, and the horses didn’t care what your legs looked like.

You were halfway through mucking the second stall when you heard the slow crunch of gravel behind you.

“You get bit up bad or somethin’?”

You turned.

Johnny was leaning against the fence, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in that classic Joestar way. He wasn’t wearing the hat today. His hair was tousled like he’d run a hand through it and then given up halfway. There was a glass of lemonade sweating in one hand and a twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

He nodded toward your legs.

“Legs’re lookin’ a little rough.”

You blinked. Followed his gaze.

Right.

The keratosis. Strawberry skin.

The skin below your knees prickled under his stare. Pale, red-flecked, raised along the surface. The sun wasn’t helping.

You dropped the pitchfork, wiped your hands on your legs as if that would help, and shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“It’s not bug bites. I have a skin condition.”

Johnny didn’t answer. Just kept looking.

“Keratosis Pilaris,” you added, like it was a spell that might end the conversation. “It’s not contagious. Just… ugly.”

Still nothing. Just the breeze. Just him, watching.

You tried to brush it off with a laugh that didn’t quite land.

“You can say it’s gross. I’m used to it.”

Johnny tilted his head. Sipped his lemonade. And then, slowly:

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

Pause.

“I was gonna say something worse.”

Your brow lifted. “Worse than gross?”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Then looked away, like he needed to physically reset himself to say it out loud.

“I’ve only ever told one person this before,” he muttered. “And that was Gyro. Which I regret every goddamn day.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

“I have a bug bite fetish.”

You froze.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a thing,” Johnny said defensively. “A real thing. Don’t look at me like that.”

You were absolutely looking at him like that.

He kept talking. Too fast. Clearly spiralling.

“It’s not like - not in a weird way. Or not weirder than the stuff people are into now. It’s just - there’s something about it. The texture. The way it looks. And you’ve got that- look.”

You raised both eyebrows.

“Bug bite look?”

“Okay, that sounds worse out loud, I’m realising that now.”

You stared. For a long moment.

Then:

“You’re a fucking weirdo.”

Johnny grinned, all teeth.

“Takes one to move in with me.”

Your face burned hotter than the sun overhead. You rolled your eyes and went back to the pitchfork, jabbing it into the hay a little harder than necessary.

“You need therapy.”

“I had therapy. He quit when I started talking about corpses.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Well, neither is watching you stomp around in barn muck and somehow making it hot.”

Your hands stilled on the pitchfork.

Then, slowly, you looked over your shoulder.

“You wanna touch it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept working the pitchfork like you hadn’t just flipped the entire balance of power in the barn. Straw and whatever-the-hell-else shifted under your boots while the silence behind you stretched dangerously.

“You serious?” Johnny said, a beat late and a little too casual to be real.

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned on the handle like you had all day and zero intention of making this easy for him.

“Well,” you said slowly. “You’ve been staring at my legs like they owe you money.”

“I haven’t.”

“Johnny.”

“Okay but like - respectfully.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. He was standing there, lemonade in hand, mouth slightly open like his brain had completely shut itself off from the rest of his body.

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I could be,” he offered. “But you just keep… existing. Like that.”

You gestured vaguely to the pitchfork, to the sweat, to the literal shit you were knee-deep in.

“Like what? Covered in dust and horse piss?”

“Like someone I absolutely should not be thinking about in this setting.”

“You need help.”

“I need to look - respectfully.”

“You are not looking respectfully.”

Johnny didn’t respond. Just sipped his lemonade in the world’s most suspicious silence.

You raised an eyebrow. “You thinking about it?”

“I’m trying not to,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m failing.”

You couldn’t help it - you grinned.

“It’s just skin, Joestar.”

“No. That’s like - fuckin’ - limited edition.”

You nearly dropped the pitchfork.

“Limited - what? Are you mad?!”

“I’m just saying!” he blurted, face pink. “You’ve got that… deluxe model skin!”

You wheezed.

“You are so goddamn weird.”

“You offered!” he reminded you, voice cracking halfway through the sentence like his vocal cords had just tried to file a protest.

You tilted your head, still grinning.

“So…?”

He stood there. Glass still in hand. Eyes firmly planted somewhere below your knees like they were trying to manifest a deeper meaning from your skin texture.

“I want to,” he admitted, and he sounded uncomfortably sincere about it.

“But?”

“I don’t wanna get slammed in the jaw while you’re holding that pitchfork.”

You stepped closer. Just enough for your foot to bump lightly against his boot.

“Then don’t be weird about it.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Okay, but like - don’t be gross about it.”

Johnny looked you dead in the eye.

“I make no promises.”

Johnny looked like you’d handed him something delicate, forbidden, and weirdly exciting.

“I’m gonna… just - yeah,” he mumbled, reaching out like your shin was booby-trapped.

You didn’t move. You also didn’t help.

He finally touched it - just a light brush of fingers along the skin, slow and cautious, like you might retract your leg and kick him in the jaw at any moment.

“Huh,” he breathed.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“It’s… soft,” he said, surprised like you were some kind of rare terrain.

“Wow. Crazy how skin works.”

“No, but like - textured. In a cool way.”

“You’re describing me like a countertop.”

His lips twitched.

“A countertop…” he repeated, like he was testing the flavour of the word.

Then he looked up at you, slow and unmistakably up to something.

“You’re giving me ideas.”

You pointed the pitchfork at his chest without missing a beat.

“Finish that thought and I’ll brain you with this.”

Johnny grinned. “You say that like it’s not still on the table.”

You groaned.

He was still touching your leg gently, like he was scared he’d be banned if he pressed too hard. You permitted it. Just for a second.

Then you stepped back, and his hand dropped like you’d unplugged him.

“Okay,” you said. “Enough leg fondling in the barn.”

“You’re cutting me off?”

“I’m cutting you off before you start talking about getting a second helping.”

Johnny squinted, obviously trying to think of something clever and failing miserably.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“You were about to say something unholy. I could see it building.”

“I was gonna say ‘compliments to the chef,’ actually.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, already turning away. “I am not letting you simp for my legs in a room full of hay and horse shit.”

“That’s fair,” he said, recovering instantly. “But just for the record, I was being so respectful.”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder.

“You looked like you were about for my leg in marriage.”

“Was gonna ask real nice, too.”

“Save it.”

“So, not never,” he called after you. “Just… not while you’re holding a pitchfork?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Cool, cool, cool. Hypothetically, if I brought you a drink and washed my hands-”

“Johnny.”

“Okay! Just checking. Later, then.”

“-I’ll clean the countertop.”

You stopped in the doorway.

“Clean it with what, your drooling mouth?”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat.

“Good idea. I did call you a countertop, didn’t I?”

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comfortless · 1 year ago

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syl im begging on my hands and knees pls pls pls expand on that idea of könig being a warrior rumored to eat womens hearts its like giving scheherazade and i NEED IT

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. vague time period/setting. fem(afab) reader. light descriptions of violence and gore, talk of cannibalism, non-con groping & cuddling, forced marriage.

There are endless tasks to be done and everything beneath a vast blue sky to explore, forgoing those things, the men about your village often prefer to gather for a duel. There are no rules for their game, only that you bring a weapon and thrust it toward the opponent in such a way that it brings you glory, pride, some scabbing mend to a crooked scar.

Except not you, never you. They wouldn’t so much as allow for the women to watch unless sparring for the hand of a weeping bride happened to be the gleaming prize waiting at the end of the night.

Your eyes had witnessed such before, a girl with hair the color of autumn straw that rolled down to the end of her back, whisked away by some man from the sea after he dug his blade into an old farmer’s belly. Her father. A sad thing, but you imagined her life must be much better now. Instead of tending to a mule or pricking her fingers on needles for sewing, she’s off collecting sea shells and has the ocean’s breeze eternally perfumed in her hair. Maybe she cradles a baby on her hip now, plump and cooing happily whilst they watch the waves roll and glitter beneath the sun.

A better life for only the cost of a swift death. It was something that you had always envisioned wanting for yourself, away from this village that reeks of blood, the very place where your options were limited to shoveling after the horses or to die a lonely hag.

That was until the behemoth began to show his face. Not quite his face at all, actually. It changed things for you. Instead of a longing for one of these strong men to carry you off into the night, there sat a creeping terror each and every time he crossed the threshold into the village.

He was rumored to be many things: an executioner from a foreign land, either a lost and wicked saint or a demon made flesh, and worst of them all… a cannibal from out in the untamed downs that crest the mountainside.

The women of the village were frightened by him, by the bulk and height that suggested he was not a man at all, but something far more terrifying beneath that black veil. They hid away when he first arrived, claiming he carried an organ in his hands, chewing away at a still-beating heart with blood running down his fingers. The men remained rigid, but their hands shook when they took up their weapons against him.

And there was no way of knowing then that this man was to be yours.

Time and time again, the giant would win, request a warm meal and a bed for the evening, and would be gone away come morning. He wouldn’t return for months, and the gossip would continue to fester until his return. Then, only then, would lips be pursed in silence and another fool would rush to death in an attempt to win some measure of pride. His opponent would be buried in the very field they would fight in, his bones serving for another layer upon the earthen stage once the worms and rats had picked him clean, and the giant would be back. He was always back.

The town is hushed to silence when his horse is led through the well-worn street. There are lingering observers: the broad stable hand that would not even dare to raise a whip or a dagger to this behemoth, the women of the brothel even shy away from him, and the children who whisper their rumors behind open palms.

He does not stop for any of them, only carries forward with that dark cloth concealing his head.

You peek out from your window, nursing tea with honey to calm the chill drifting through the air, feathering over your skin. It’s bitter on your tongue, even with the sweet coursing through it. Bitter, when his blue eyes flick in your direction and you feel every inch of your skin begin to prickle and tense.

He’s worse up close like this. The man doesn’t conceal his torso, never seemed to find a need to— no one ever gets close enough to wound him. Not any more, at least, judging by the pasty scars that mar his chest with the biggest being a healed, pinkish blemish that stretches from below his ribs down to a narrow hip. You find the most unsettling part about him is not those marks of violence, but the fact that you can not read his face.

Time slows to a halt as he just stares, takes you in with your cup of tea and the old dress stolen away from your mother’s own wardrobe. And you return it, warily looking him over from his veiled head down to the toes of his boots. After regarding you in the very same way a bored cat would observe an unaware, little bird, he moves along his path with a quiet huff of breath as his face is turned away from you.

There’s a heavy axe strapped to his back that you only notice then. Something new and shiny, glistening in the rays of golden sunlight above. Sharp and wicked, too cruel a weapon to be used in a bout for dinner and a lumpy mattress stuffed with decaying straw.

You could only hope he brought a cloth to clean it once this ordeal was over. Perhaps he truly does use his veil to do so, gets drunk on the scent of blood and gore clinging to it and pleasures himself to the violence as they claim. The macabre tales of this giant only go darker than that. But the tales he lives up to most of all are the ones about his skill in killing.

When night begins to scrape across the sky in dark, drab purple, fate comes crawling throughout the town as though it is nothing more than a famished ghoul.

Your mother storms toward you where you’re sat, preparing for bed. Her face is a mask of pure anguish when she pulls you into a tight embrace. She bawls into your hair, digs her nails into your back as though she would sooner die than let you go.

The men of the town follow behind her, wrenching her arms away from you and pulling you up by the front of your gown. The thin linen tears with the force of rough hands, rips a thick line down your chest that almost leaves you bared to them. Though the hands are eager, the eyes of these men do not shine with hunger, only with fear.

The shouts and cries from your lips are lost to them, to even your mother who wails in defeat someplace behind you.

“You’re plenty old enough to be a bride,” says one of the men, voice like a coiled snake spitting venom. It doesn’t take one of the well-educated people of the capital here to explain just what is to happen to you now.

The giant, the cannibal, saw something that he liked, and decided that you would be his prize. When you’re led to the field, kicking and flailing against the strong arms that hold you tightly in their grip, the sight is enough to tell you just how much that he enjoyed your silent, curious staring only hours before.

He stands upright, silent and daunting above a body that’s been split by the axe still held in one strong hand. The color of crimson cakes his knuckles, crests over his arm and the expanse of his chest, all from the headless corpse lying disposed at his feet.

The scene is what you expected, you’ve heard the words of your people about this beast of a man’s propensity for violence, but no amount of mental preparation could have truly readied you for seeing so much blood. The blood of a man you knew to be good and true, a hard-working blacksmith from the foothills. What a tragic way to go out: fighting for a pouch of coin when this horrible giant must have clearly lost his mind to rut and rage.

No hand comes to cover your mouth when you shriek, and the tight grips guiding you forward only loosen when your man or murderer stalks forward to take his prize. Through your tears, you still manage to make out the lines beneath his eyes, how they fold upward, and there’s no doubt that he’s smiling beneath that mask. A big, ugly grin at the thought of prying open your ribs and helping himself to a maiden’s heart.

He lifts it over his head in a swift motion, and drops it over your own instead, opposite to the hastily cut eye holes to block out all of the hazy, pale light of the moon and flickering yellow-red torches surrounding. Amidst the panic threatening to send your heart fleeing from your chest, the cold trickle of dread that finds itself curling in your belly, you feel two arms hoist you up and settle you over the back of his wretched steed.

“Gehen wir.”

Then, the darkness turns abyssal.

You only pray your body has truly died of fright when you first wake. There’s no darkness, no scent of blood when your eyelids pry apart to flutter. Water laps over your bare thighs, cold enough to force a shiver up from your feet to the blades of your shoulders. But behind you sits fire, a warmth so comforting you would think you’re rested against a stone bathed in summer sun, if not for the softness.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, rationalize just what’s happening, until a hand clutching a scrap of cloth maneuvers up from your thigh to your tummy, lathers you in a soap that smells only of pine. It halts, cinches around your waist when you begin to tense, when he knows you’re truly awake. A pond to your front and a man of horror at your back.

There’s sunlight streaming down from above, painting the clouds in gold. There are birds happily singing from the surrounding trees, and other, unseen animals scurrying through fallen leaves. Serene, pretty, and almost comforting when the wind turns course and brings with it the scent of late-ripening fruit. If the reality of your situation were not so dire, perhaps you would have enjoyed it, being here with a man who killed instead of presented your family with a dowry or offered you some pleasant wedding to dine and drink your fill of berry wine at.

“Let me go.” Your voice is a feigned warning, the mocking growl of a mere pup. You imagine he must keep his weapons close, only offering himself the courtesy of cleaning you so your meat doesn’t taste of dirt or lavender oil when he sinks his teeth into it.

“Süss frau,” he mumbles behind you, presses his head into your hair and inhales deeply as your body only grows further rigid. There’s a pause, before he corrects himself. “Meine süss frau.”

It would help if you knew what he was saying, calm your nerves some, maybe, but each word spoken only sounds guttural and instills further fear. You twist in his grip, hissing small curses that would have left your mother in a rage, but he only laughs at your squirming. Then, he tightens his grip as the cloth is dropped into the pond’s glassy water.

“Take me back home,” you continue to urge, placing a trembling hand over the limb pressing your body further back against him. “Please.”

Your small attempt at pleading is met only with his head dropping to the nape of your neck, a kiss pressed against the flesh there. It warms for him, sends a heat spiking up to your cheeks in spite of the way you still suspect he wishes only to rip your throat open with teeth more akin to a devil’s fangs.

You turn your head, intent on spitting right in this monster’s face, but find only a man looking back at you.

There’s a shimmer in his eyes that almost seems playful, a grin so prevalent there it must cause the corners of his mouth to ache. No blood in his teeth, and though the silvery-blue of his eyes seems distant, they are not cold. The goliath who stole you away stinking of blood and innards isn’t present now, and that seems even less of a comfort. He’s even handsome in the strangest way, certainly not the look of nobility, but none of his features are cruel. There’s a boyish charm to him, perhaps he would have the look of a charismatic farmhand or an apprentice of sorts if not for the scarring.

“Won’t hurt you… too pretty,” he assures, burying his face against the side of your neck. But the bastard does, digs his teeth right in and suckles at your skin when you claw at his arm in surprise. It’s not enough to draw drops of blood, but it accentuates the point that he seems to see you as something of his, a possession of sorts.

There’s a messy patch of drool over bruising skin when he pulls away to laugh at the wounded expression upon your face. He apologizes in a huff of breath as he guides you up to stand at his side. His hands linger too long for comfort when they rest along your waist. Your sullen glare only seems to further endear him. Too much, judging by the way the pillar between his legs bounces thick and hard and proud, throbs when you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze and angrily hiss to him about how a man should treat his wife. Cannibal or not, the beast needed to learn some manners.

Fear still edges its way up your spine, but it diminishes more and more as the seconds pass.

He’s no gentleman when he splashes away the remnants of soap from your body, hands grazing over every inch of your bare skin he sees available to touch. Your breast first, weighed up in his palm with the nipple pinched between his index and middle. Emboldened by your hushed protests, he dares to slip his other between your legs, and only then do you force his hands away.

He certainly bears no resemblance to a proper husband when he hoists you over one shoulder to carry you further into the woods and into his shack, either.

It’s barren and ugly, an unsightly wooden structure decorated only with a thin mattress, a table too small, and blades of many forms. The axe sits proudly below the window, astonishingly cleaned of the gore from the night prior. The veil rests above it on the sill, damp from a cleaning that never should have been. You stare at his belongings for a time when you’re placed on your feet, silently judging the array in search of anything to justify the gossip, only to come up short of anything.

He doesn’t even touch you past the bathing in the pond. You’re dressed in a tunic that fits like a dress upon your form: far too big, long and dull to be anything you would normally be seen in. But there are no tailors this far out in the wilderness, though there’s an apologetic promise whispered to you once he sees you in his clothes. He’ll buy you a new dress upon your first visit to town as his wife, several if it pleases you.

The man leaves for a spell, brings you rabbit to clean and prepare, then busies himself stoking up a fire for cooking. His speech is a little broken when he tells you of how long he’s waited to have someone like you here with him, how he never suspected a woman so pretty would be his wife. And you don’t eat when the meat is fully cooked and placed in front of you both. You insist that you only wish to return back home, to hug your mother and tell her that you’re still alive.

That, he takes insult to.

His brow is pinched when he forces you to sit in his lap. He brings the meat to your lips and presses into your cheeks with his free hand to force your mouth open. There’s nothing romantic or cute about it, about him, but you do glumly settle in his hold when the realization does dawn on you that, though his strength is extraordinary, he is only a man and the only harm coming to you would be between your legs.

You’re drug over to the mattress after dinner by a tight hold over your wrist. The fight hasn’t left you, not by a smidge, even when the loose tunic is lifted over your head with shouts of your displeasure and you’re pressed onto your back with the giant watching you curiously from above.

He pins you there, but doesn’t force his hands down to your sex again. He only sighs when he rests his weight next to you and curls in to lie his head over your breasts.

You’re body remains stiff and rigid as a bowstring. His nearness only sends that same swell of heat back from the pond, brings with it the scent of fire smoke and sweat emanating from him. His hair is long and soft, soft as the kisses he places on the plushness of your tit, long as the drag of a callused palm from your hip up to cup the other.

He offers you no warning when his teeth circle over your nipple, holds fast to you when your back arches and your fingers weave into his hair to jerk him away. The worst part about him seemed to be having a penchant for leaving a mark, and the smug grin that crosses his face when he meets the fury in your eyes with the lust-drunk look in his own.

“Was? You don’t like?,” he grumbles, tracing over the marks of his teeth with his thumb, pressing against and smearing his saliva until you feel your back begin to arch and your breathing grow heavy.

“It hurts.”

He stares at you in amazement for a moment, whether surprised you haven’t made an attempt to flee or startled by the lack of a strike to his jaw after such a thing, it mattered not. Your terrible, ignorant “husband” only seems satisfied with your response. He draws back to sit on his knees before you, sliding his hands along each curve and dip of your body until they rest at your ankles.

“Ja… hurts. I will make it better, meine süße.”

He’s no less brazen when he makes a dive toward your womanhood, lips parted in preparation to breathe you in. Or… taste you in full, whichever option was suited for men who were more beasts than men at all. Maybe that was his only feat of cannibalism: licking at women until they were wet and pliant for him to take entirely. You pry him away with a gasp and a quick shift onto your side, demanding that he not touch you any further.

Again, he laughs, curls behind you and shifts his hips to slot the girth of his cock between your thighs, buries his face into your neck once again. You can feel the grin that stretches over his lips against your skin. When the dark envelopes you both, the quiet crackle of the fire in its pit still showing signs of life, he seems content to just cuddle you close.

Exhaustion creeps its way through your limbs, steals the fight from your voice and leaves your eyelids heavy. You consider waiting it out, listening to his breathing deepen and slow to creep away, but his grip is firm around your middle, so strangely comforting that you do allow yourself to relax. Running could wait until the morning sun rose.

#könig x reader #konig x reader #this has been in my inbox for months i am SO sorry

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jyoongim · 1 year ago

Text

An old request i thought i would try

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Human Alastor x demon!wife reader

FLUFF

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Something was off about you.

Alastor just couldn’t put his finger on it.

He loved you dearly, he married you after all but there was just something uncanny about you.

You were obsessed with listening to the crime reports on the radio, relished in it. He would often catch you smiling in malicious glee at the gruesome details.

You weren’t like most women when he revealed that he was the cause of most of the murders in your town.

You asked him for details, even if you could go with him to see how he killed his victims.

Being the gentleman he was he refused, saying that blood and brains were nothing a pretty thing like yourself should see.

And for a time you listened.

Until he wasn’t back for dinner.

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You caught scent of blood on the wind and followed it.

You knew Alastor had said he would be out ‘hunting’ tonight and that he would done quickly, but your husband was late and it made you worry.

The sound of a sharp cry greeted your ears and you ran through the woods to see your husband on the ground. His victim had his shovel raised above his head to hit him again and you saw red.

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He should have finished him off when he had the chance, but he wanted to taunt the man. He had underestimated his strength and canny as the man had gotten loose of his restraint and whacked him over the head with his shovel.

His head spun as he looked to the night sky and the only think he could think of was what were you making for dinner.

”Hope you burn in hell you pyscho” the man said as he raised the shovel and Alastor smirked.

How ironic.

The forest grew cold and a chitter rang through the air.

Fear not my love, Ill handle it that sounded like your voice

But how?

The sound of the shovel dropped to the ground as the man whipped around.

A pair of red eyes stared at him and the shadowy figure of a grotesque beast emerged for the trees.

You let out a thunderous growl as you approached the man, your eyes shifting to Alastor to make sure he was alright.

He was breathing, but he was severely wounded.

“what the devil are you?” The man whispered frightened.

You flashed your sharp teeth at him, a wide grin on your lips

”Your worst nightmare”

Alastor groaned as he sat up, his head spinning and in pain. He saw a large creature loom over him, slowly approaching his now attacker.

It was feminine. Long wild hair, a spiky tail, and beautiful black horns.

You jumped at the man, causing him to scream, but he was soon silenced as your claws ripped him in half.

You clawed and ripped into him, gorging him of his innards and chomping into him. You plucked his beating heart and swallowed it, blood dripping from your lips, marring your face.

You let out a huff and turned around to see Alastor staring at you.

You approached him slowly and a bloody claw reached for his face

”Are you alright dearest?”

He tilted his head in confusion at the question and your form shifted back to normal.

His eyes widened “You’re a …”

You smiled sheepishly “Your kind call us demons, though it is a very broad term”

His eyes searched yours and you feared he would shrink away from you, turn tail and run.

But he smiled at you with that suave smile and leaned into your hand

”just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect”

You helped him up and began to carry him back home.

”I don’t repulse you?” You asked nervously. You had never intended to let your husband in on your true identity, for fear he would abandon you.

But the lanky man nuzzled into your shoulder “heavens no dear, but that does explain everything”

”Can a human fuck a demon?”

You laughed, your eyes flashing as you looked at him

”Care to find out husband?”

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#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel fanfiction #jyoongim #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor hazbin hotel #human alastor x wife reader

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fireside-fanfics · 15 days ago

Text

After All This Time

The mission was supposed to be easy. A recon op. In and out. No civilians, no surprises. Just a quick scan, log, extract.

Cameron had said it with her usual confidence, gear strapped tight, goggles pushed up onto her head. Joaquin had watched her go through the motions—checking their drone feeds, syncing comms—like it was muscle memory. She’d done this a hundred times. She always made it look easy, like nothing could touch her.

But even the best plans fall apart.

Now she was lying on a SHIELD med bay table, blood matting her side, her breathing shallow and uneven. The silence in the room felt like a scream. Joaquin stood next to her, still in his flight suit, streaked with soot and ash. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. One was gripping the edge of the table like it could ground him, the other hovering uselessly near her shoulder, afraid to touch her again, afraid to let go.

She wasn’t supposed to be the one hurt. Not her. She was the one who always came back with everyone else’s gear, always double-checked the plan, always covered his six.

“Cam,” he said softly, leaning closer, eyes locked on her pale face. “Hey mi cielo, you with me?”

“I told you not to follow me,” Cameron stuttered. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded, unfocused, but she smiled ... barely.

“Yeah, and I told you to stop giving orders once we’re out of uniform,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Guess we’re both bad at listening.”

She tried to laugh, but it turned into a grimace. “Still reckless…”

“You love it,” he said, softer now, brushing her hair back from her face. Her skin was too warm. Her pulse too slow.

His heart felt like it might beat out of his chest. He remembered the first time he met her. They were four years old, standing next to each other at a sandbox outside their pre-K building. She’d offered him her favorite dinosaur-shaped shovel, and when a bigger kid had tried to steal it, she’d socked him in the nose. Cameron had been fearless, even then.

From that moment on, they were inseparable. Sleepovers turned into weekend hangouts, which turned into road trips by the time they were seventeen. They got tattoos together on their eighteenth birthday—hers a set of coordinates, his a winged insignia on his bicep.

They had a rhythm. She was the responsible one, the one with a plan. Joaquin was chaos. He lit the matches just to watch her roll her eyes while she put the fires out, but he never let anyone hurt her. Never.

When she enlisted, he was the one who drove her to the airport. He didn’t cry until she was out of sight.

“You remember when I dislocated my shoulder sophomore year?” she murmured suddenly, voice barely audible.

He blinked and managed to stutter, “What?”

“You rode your bike across town to bring me Oreos and Gatorade. Told my dad you were my emotional support animal.”

A laugh burst out of him, shaky and real before he continued, “You said I could stay if I didn’t make eye contact with your mom.”

“You didn’t. You stared at the ceiling for four hours straight.”

“I would’ve done it for four more.”

Her lips twitched again, but her eyes started to flutter. Panic flared in his chest.

“Cam, hey—hey, no. Stay with me. Just…” He cupped the side of her face, careful not to jostle the IV lines. “Just close your eyes for a second. I’ll still be here when you open them again. I promise.”

She hesitated, just for a beat, her gaze locking with his. Something flickered there—something deep and scared and vulnerable.

“Okay,” she whispered, “but only ‘cause it’s you.”

Then she closed her eyes.

The hours that followed were torture. Joaquin didn’t leave the med bay. He paced. Sat. Paced again. Argued with a nurse who tried to get him to rest, then apologized. Then went back to pacing.

When they finally moved her to recovery, he was already at her side, pulling the chair close, fingers laced through hers. He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until the shift change startled him awake. Her eyes were open when he looked up.

“Hi pretty boy,” she murmured, voice scratchy but there.

Joaquin blinked hard, fighting back tears as he said, “You scared the hell outta me, Cam.”

“I told you not to follow me,” she repeated, smiling weakly.

He didn’t smile back this time. Just studied her face like it held the answers to every question he’d been avoiding since they were kids.

“You were right,” she added softly. “You were still here.”

“Of course, Cam.” His throat tightened. “I’m always gonna be right here.”

He pointed at her heart. She looked at him for a long time, and something shifted.

“Why?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You could’ve stayed back. You should’ve, but you didn’t—and you never do. You’re always there when I need you, even when I don’t ask. Even when I’m mean...”

His pulse thudded in his ears as he looked away, blush creeping up his neck. Finally, Joaquin glanced back up at her and whispered, “You really don’t know?”

Cameron pushed herself up slightly, wincing but determined. “I want to... Please, J, tell me.”

He took a breath. Held it. Let it go.

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Cam,” he said, voice low and steady. “Maybe since we were kids. Definitely by the time you joined the Air Force. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to steal your moment, but mostly because I didn’t want to screw up what we had. You were my best friend. You are my best friend. You’re my everything, Cameron...”

Cameron stared at him, stunned silent. Their hands were still intertwined, and her grip around his fingers tightened.

“I love the way you roll your eyes at my stories. I love how you fix engines better than half the guys on my team. I love that you always carry extra snacks and pretend it’s not for me. I love that you trust me—even when you shouldn’t. And I love you enough that I’d follow you into hell just to make sure you get out again.”

“Joaquin…” She blinked hard, tears gathering.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly, trying to backtrack. “I just needed you to know. In case—”

“Shut up,” she whispered.

“What?”

She gripped his shirt weakly and tugged him forward. Her kiss was soft and a little shaky, but full of every feeling she’d buried for years. When they broke apart, her forehead rested against his.

“I’ve loved you forever too, you idiot,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you my whole life, Joaquin.”

He smiled, really smiled this time as he said, “So you’re saying I’m your emotional support animal and your soulmate?”

She laughed, then winced. “Careful. I might take it back.”

“You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” she said, settling against the pillows, pulling him close again. “That’s exactly where I want you.”

The sound of the key turning in the lock was still new. Joaquin stepped inside with a paper bag tucked under his arm, kicking the door shut behind him. He took off his shoes and tossed his keys in the bowl by the door

“Hey Cam, I brought tacos!” Joaquin called from the entry way. “And I got the salsa you like that makes you cry but you still eat it anyway.”

From the couch, a voice called out, half-muffled, “You’re an instigator!”

“Yeah, but I’m your instigator now,” he grinned at her as he finally entered the room.

Cameron peeked out from under the blanket cocoon she’d wrapped herself in. She still moved slower than usual—healing ribs and stitches will do that—but her smile was soft and easy.

It had been three weeks since the med bay. Two weeks since she’d been discharged. One week since she’d brought it up casually over breakfast: “So… my lease is almost up. You still want that third drawer in your dresser?”

It hadn’t felt like a big thing. It was Cameron. He’d been folding her laundry and storing her snacks in his pantry since they were sixteen. But still, something shifted the moment she actually moved in.

They were still them. Still best friends. Still teasing each other over morning coffee and finishing each other’s sentences mid-mission briefings. But the quiet moments were different now: warmer and heavier as if the final bit o f space between them had finally been filled.

Joaquin dropped the bag on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch beside her. “You’re hogging the blanket.”

“You like a challenge,” she muttered, not moving.

“You’re the only challenge I like.”

She rolled her eyes but lifted the edge for him. He slid in beside her, letting their bodies press together like they always had—only now, it meant more. They sat in comfortable silence, the kind that came with years of knowing. She rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her without thinking; and for a while, that was enough.

Until she spoke.

“Do you think this’ll change everything?”

His heart kicked up a beat. “You mean us?”

She nodded against his shoulder and continued in a hushed tone. “We’ve always been … us. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he said urgently. Then, quieter he added, “But it might shift a little... That’s not bad, right?”

She was quiet for a moment, but then: “It’s just weird waking up next to you and having it mean something.”

“Cam,” he laughed, “we’ve been waking up next to each other since that camping trip junior year when you punched me in your sleep.”

“You stole the sleeping bag!”

“It was raining!”

Cameron’s laugh rang throughout the room as she tried to punch him in the chest, but Joaquin caught her hand in his and laced their fingers together.

The summer when they were eight they were obsessed with building blanket forts and movie nights. One evening they were building a blanket fort in Joaquin’s living room, and Cameron was bossing him around like a mini sergeant. “You need structural support, not just vibes,” she scolded, frowning at the sagging sheet. Joaquin had grinned and saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” Later that night, they fell asleep inside the fort watching Spy Kids. His mom found them in a tangle of blankets and Goldfish crumbs. She took a picture and whispered, “Those two are gonna get married one day.”

Later that night, they lay side by side in bed, legs tangled beneath the sheets. It had started storming—Cameron’s favorite. She always said thunder made her feel grounded. Joaquin was tracing slow, aimless patterns on her arm.

“I know this is new, Cam,” he murmured, “but it doesn’t feel different to me—not really. You’ve been home to me for as long as I can remember.”

Her throat tightened with uncertainty, but she managed to whisper, “I feel the same. It’s just ... I don’t know how to be someone’s girlfriend.”

He smiled softly, kissing her temple. “Good news: I don’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend. Guess we’ll figure it out together.”

She giggled, and they fell quiet again, listening to the rain.

One hot summer weekend Cameron returned home from her first month of training. Exhausted. Bruised. Homesick. Joaquin had shown up at her parents’ house with a box of pizza and a lopsided smile. “I saved your spot on the couch,” he said excitedly. “Nobody else gets to sit there while you’re gone.” She’d cried for the first time in months, falling into his open arms.

“I think,” Cameron whispered, “I’m scared of losing what we’ve built. What if we fight? What if it doesn’t work?”

Joaquin turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. His gaze was steady.

“We already have fought,” he reminded her gently. “Remember that week you blocked me after I bailed on your birthday dinner for a drone op?”

“You deserved that. I made reservations.”

“And you still came back. We always do.”

Cameron rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t need some big, dramatic love story,” she said finally. “I just want… this. You. The tacos. The dumb blanket fights. The days when we do nothing but sit in the quiet and exist.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Then that’s what we’ll be. No pressure. No pretending. Just us. Like always.”

“You’re right,” Cameron said, relaxing into his side. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. “This is how it’s supposed to be...”

Moving in together didn’t look like what she thought it would. It wasn’t roses and love notes and constant PDA.It was Joaquin leaving her post-it notes on the coffee maker with “Don’t forget your protein shake, nerd :)” scribbled in his terrible handwriting.

It was Cameron organizing the toolbox because she couldn’t stand his chaotic system of “just shake the drawer and hope for the best.” It was arguing over thermostat settings and where the cereal should go.

It was falling asleep with his hand around her ankle under the blanket because he liked knowing she was close.

When they were fourteen, the spent the summer in Cameron’s garage, trying to rebuild an old go-kart. She’d smudged grease on her cheek and he hadn’t told her. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she huffed later. With a cheeky grin, he shrugged and said, “You looked cool.” That night, she wrote about him in her journal for the first time. Just his name. Then a heart she erased three times.

One night, a month into living together, Cameron found Joaquin in the kitchen at 2AM, staring blankly at the fridge.

“You good?” she asked, sleepy.

For a few long moments, he simply stared at her, eyes soft in the dark.

“I used to think,” he started slowly as if he was still planning out his sentence, “that if I ever told you how I felt, it’d be this huge thing. Like a firework moment.”

“And now?”

He reached for her hand. “Now I realize that’s now how things ever are with us—and I like it better this way. Actually, it’s quiet. It’s real. It’s you, in nothing but my shirt, brushing your teeth at my sink. It’s you, barefoot, telling me I forgot to take the trash out.”

“Baby, you did forget,” she smiled, leaned up to kiss him.

“Guess I’ll do it tomorrow. After pancakes.”

A year later they still teased each other like they were twelve. Still had sleepovers on the couch instead of going to bed. Still argued over who got the last gummy worm. But now they said “I love you” out loud. Sometimes mid-sentence. Sometimes half-asleep.

They weren’t perfect, but they were steady. They were sure. They more confident in each other than they were about anything else.

Joaquin once told her love didn’t have to be loud to be life-changing and Cameron believed him now. Because even when she closed her eyes, he was still there when she opened them. Every single time.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres oneshot #joaquin torres imagine #joaquin torres fanfiction #joaquin torres fic #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres falcon #marvel #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel one shot #marvel imagine #danny ramirez

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irisintheafterglow · 3 months ago

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move like an odd sight, come out at night

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: hozier - "movement"

summary: you escape to hell's kitchen, but your reputation follows you no matter where you run. the vigilante on your roof, however, believes you're more than just a weapon.

wc: 2.9k

cw/tags: black widow!reader, canon-typical violence and blood, minor injury, explicit language, pre-ddba bc i put bullseye and fisk in this as antagonists, angst with happy ending, iris loves matt murdock's ass

note: *cautiously approaches 'marvel x reader' writing tag, sets this on the doorstep like a cat with a bird, and runs away*

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated <3

Truthfully, neither of you were very skilled at working with other people. It’s why you were vigilantes, not superheroes; heroes worked on teams and played nice on the playground. You preferred more direct forms of getting the job done, of swinging your pink plastic shovel and beating away kids threatening to invade your square of sandbox territory. Or at least, you did in the past. As of late, you only donned your tactical gear again because unfortunately, the best hiding place you could find was truly a shithole.

“Got anything yet?”

“No. Whoever’s talking about you, they’re making a point to do it quietly,” he replies, his expression blank as his ears sort through the noises of Hell’s Kitchen trying to find a needle in a city-sized haystack. He’s crouched on the brick ledge your legs dangle off of, looming over the street below like a gargoyle guarding a cathedral. “What was your plan the other night?”

“The night where you crashed my surveillance spot, you mean,” you quip. “And the same night I made the Devil jump out of his skin.” He sends a heatless glare in your general direction.

“What I’m hearing is, you didn’t have a plan and you’re avoiding the question.” Smart-ass.

“My plan was to listen in on police comms and get some extra energy out, but there was a trespasser on my roof.” He hums, satisfied with your answer. To your unwelcome surprise, you ran into both of his identities within twelve hours of moving into your crummy little apartment–Matt at the deli down the street and Daredevil on top of your building. Both times, you also caught him off guard to the point where he nearly threw the nearest cylindrical object at you. The first time it was a sandwich, and the second time it was a baton, but you only had Foggy to save you in the shop.

You can’t go throwing sandwiches at pretty ballerinas that come into the shop, Matt, you heard Foggy say when he thought you were out of earshot.

They’re a ballerina? Foggy snorts, assuming that Matt already knew you were jaw-droppingly stunning. In fact, he was waiting for the day his best friend came out as not actually being blind and only using it to reel in women.

Yeah. You would know they were a new teacher at the studio down the street if you weren’t busy trying to assault them with pastrami.

They caught me off guard, Matt dodges. What’d you want me to do?

Not scaring them off would be a good start. Jeez, I thought you were the charming one in this duo.

“I can’t say I’m a fan of a spy who can slow their heartbeat,” he admits, finally cracking the smallest of a smile. “It’s a cool trick, but pretty unfortunate for a guy who relies on hearing the bad guys.”

“Good thing I’m not an opponent, Murdock.” Like you, he’s not used to people knowing both his vigilante and his civilian faces interchangeably. You pieced together each other’s alternate identities the moment you interacted on the roof for the first time; your mind clocked his gait, his height, and his voice while he sensed the faintest scent of perfume he smelled earlier in the deli. Because of the accidental encounter, a severe lack of information regarding your new home, and a few other reasons you were purposefully hiding until the need arose, you begrudgingly asked Matt if you could run surveillance with him. He agreed, shrugging and asking if there would be people trying to come after you.

A buzzing in your pocket grabs your attention and you scowl when you see the dollar sign notification with a hefty amount of zeroes. “Problem,” you huff.

“What is it?”

“He put a bounty on my head.” The muscle in Matt’s jaw clenches. “Said to bring me in alive, thankfully, but I guess he doesn’t like I’ve been ghosting him. He also didn’t verify how alive I had to be.”

“He’s used to getting what he wants,” Matt explains with severe distaste. “Fisk isn’t a kind of guy you say ‘no’ to. Last guy who tried to tell him something he didn’t like–”

“Got well acquainted with a car door,” you finish unexpectedly. “Intelligence community, remember? We hear everything, including the brutal executions. It’s why he wants me in the first place.”

“A Widow in his pocket’s like having the Winter Soldier for a genie.”

“Ex-Widow,” you correct. “You know, I met the guy once. Big metal arm. Scary blue eyes. Not my type, especially the greasy hair.”

“Oh?” Matt allows amusement seep into his tone, despite the fact that your freedom just had a price tag put on it. “And what is your type?” You loose the first thought in your head like an arrow straight into his heart.

“A blind vigilante with a ton of Catholic guilt really get me going,” you answer casually and bite back a smile when he tries to hide his speechlessness. “I figure it’s easier to explain my history to him than Martin the accountant living a few doors down. Plus, the vigilante’s got a nicer ass.”

“I’ll bet,” Matt remarks and you allow yourself to feel the flutter in your stomach at his softer tone. You weren’t used to having a friend, let alone a friend who would help make sure you weren’t used as a weapon again. It didn’t hurt to flirt with him, just a little bit.

His head suddenly jerks to the side, concentrating. “Found ‘em.”

“Where?”

“Warehouse six blocks down. Fisk’s best prepping for a hunt.” A chill runs through your body and you exhale slowly through your nose to center yourself. It’d been months since you were freed from Dreykov’s mind control, weeks since you first arrived in the Kitchen, but the need to fight for your life was something that would never disappear. It constricted your throat, blurred your vision, and made your palms too clammy to hold a knife. Without the one-track-mind of a Red Room assassin, you found yourself able to feel fear…and it terrified you. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” you deadpan, your voice no longer melodically carefree.

“You’re not telling the truth,” he says and you swallow thickly. “It’s the one time I hear your heartrate go up, when you’re afraid.” Up until now you would work exclusively solo and you’re unfamiliar with someone who would call you out when you were scared. Your defenses raise immediately.

“Yeah. What about it?” He takes your standoffish nature in stride, rising from his crouched position and holding out his gloved hand to help you from yours. You take it with only a moment’s hesitation and let him give it a comforting squeeze.

“You’re not fighting alone anymore, you know. As long as you don’t shoot me, I’ll have your back if you have mine.” You nod and even if he can’t see it, it’s mostly for yourself anyway. “Unless, of course,” he continues with a shit-eating smirk, “you’ve got another blind vigilante in mind you’d rather–”

“Alright, Murdock. You’re done,” you chuckle, feeling more at ease. “Let’s get this done quickly; I’ve got class tomorrow.”

—

The confrontation could barely be considered a fight, and you easily would handle them on your own had Matt not been with you. Though, it was much faster having four fists throwing punches instead of two.

“You didn’t use the guns at all,” he notes once you’re both done knocking out and disarming the three dozen enemies in the warehouse. Catching your breath, you stick your batons in the sheaths on your back and shrug.

“You’re the one who said not to shoot you,” you point out.

“I appreciate the thoughtfulness.” His head tilts and you watch him listen to the labored breathing of a nearby thug. “One’s still conscious. I’ll get him.”

“He’s all yours.”

He stalks toward a guy who you would’ve assumed was unconscious and grabs him by the collar to reveal him very much awake. “Why’s Fisk after them so badly? Answer,” he hisses, “and I won’t break your hands.”

“I’ve found they talk if you dislocate their shoulder,” you suggest nonchalantly, your voice muffled under your mask. The guy’s eyes dart over to you, wide and bloodshot with fright. “Then, relocate it but slightly misaligned. Makes a weird kind of friction if you swing it back and forth.” Matt visibly pauses, considering your stomach-churning advice for a good ten seconds. He wasn’t used to working with others, let alone someone with your skillset; it was like having a slightly more stable Elektra, and that wasn’t much of an improvement. He doesn’t have time to act on your words, though, because suddenly the dam of information in the guy breaks.

“He’s scared of you!” The man exclaims and your eyes narrow.

“Scared of who?”

“Both of you,” he squeaks and looks back at you. “You were supposed to kill the Daredevil, not team up with him, you deceitful bitch!” Shit. Matt’s body goes deathly still.

“Fisk hired a Widow to kill me?” He asks lowly. Shit!

“He tried. That’s why he’s pissed.” The scene feels frozen, like a snowglobe on a high shelf. You didn’t necessarily feed Matt a lie; you rejected Kingpin’s offer the same night you went up to your roof, looking for a way to punch out your anger. “And you weren’t supposed to get involved,” he spits on the cowl and it’s the last thing he says before Matt knocks him out cold.

You stare at his back while he stands, your muscles tensed and ready to retreat or fight, however he reacts.

“You can take your hand off your gun,” he says without looking at you and your attention flicks down to your hands. You hadn’t realized your fingers found the cool metal on pure instinct. They feel naked without access to any immediate weapon.

“Are you upset?”

“Why would I be?” He turns to face you squarely. Every nerve in your body wants you to run, but you root yourself into the floor because your mind can’t understand how this so-called ‘friend’ could ever hurt you.

“Because I was supposed to kill you. Your archnemesis wants me to kill you.”

“And you didn’t,” he states patiently. “Your heart is racing.”

“I’m waiting for you to attack me, so I’m not sure what you expect,” you reply carefully. Puzzlingly, his posture remains relaxed, and it’s impossible to read what he’s thinking. “I lied to you. Aren’t you angry?”

“Why would I be angry for actions you didn’t take?” You blink and look down, suppressing your reflex to bolt when he approaches you until his boots are in front of yours. He murmurs your name, so quietly that only you can hear it. “I’m not Dreykov. You don’t need to plan an escape if you do something I don’t agree with. You’re your own person now.”

“Am I?” You whisper. “I get out, and yet I still feel like I’m nothing but a weapon.”

“I don’t think you’re a weapon.” Your body is still stiff as a board, waiting for a berating or a beating that won’t come.

“Then what am I?”

“A friend.”

Your mouth opens to reply, but a flash of movement catches your eye in the doorway you used to enter the warehouse. Acting on its own, your body shoves Matt to the side as an object goes flying past you and a stinging sensation blooms on your upper arm. You duck behind a storage container and find that your self-proclaimed ‘partner’ has disappeared into the shadows. Warmth drips down your arm and you remove your gun from its holster for the first time that night, steadying yourself.

“Alright, Widow. The boss is mad, so let’s not keep him waiting,” your assailant announces, his voice echoing off rusted metal walls. You hear him make a noise of disgust and kick something solid. “You left a shitshow to mop up, too. I thought you people were supposed to be clean killers. Quick with your target, just like me.” You fight through the adrenaline and finally piece together his identity with one word: target.

“Fuck off, Poindexter. I’m not going,” you snarl and immediately change positions to avoid a small knife that moved with the precision of a homing missile. The blade lodges itself in the metal where your head used to be and you don’t bother trying to yank it out. “Missed.”

“That was a warning, darling.” Creeping carefully from container to container, you catch the reflection of his nearly-identical Daredevil suit in the broken glass on the floor. It crunches beneath his feet as he paces leisurely, waiting for you to reveal yourself. “Let’s go, Widow. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. It’s just you and me here.” He thinks it’s just you.

He doesn’t know that Matt is here.

“How do I know you’re not gonna kill me when I step out?” Another phrase, another quick change of positions.

“If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be alive to mouth off.”

“You say that with such confidence.”

“This confidence is turning to impatience, so let’s go. Don’t make me take you in struggling,” he warns.

“Fine, but don’t throw anything at me, asshole,” you say with as normal of a voice as you can muster, reholstering your gun and stepping into the exposing moonlight. “Entrance in the front’s too exposed. There’s an alley out back we can go through unseen.” Without another word, he follows you to the rear doors and, for once, you’re relieved for your heart to be beating out of your chest. You figure it’s easier for Matt to track your movement.

“Fisk is pissed about your little tantrum the other night, but enough groveling will get you back in good graces.”

“Like I care about that,” you retort.

“You should. He won’t stop hunting you.”

“If he does, I’ll come after him myself.” You step out of the warehouse and the top half of your face is hit with frigid air. He was lurking somewhere, you could sense it. A small rectangle of paper crinkles under the toe of your boot and you peer down at it, smiling when you recognize the familiar font of Nelson, Murdock, & Page. “I’m not an asset anymore, Poindexter,” you declare once you’re both shrouded in the dark alley. “And I don’t fight alone anymore.”

Your stealth training takes over, slowing your heartrate and disappearing from his senses, if only for a moment. Before Poindexter can attempt to find you, there’s a whoosh of air in front of you and the sound of gravel beneath another pair of boots. Matt doesn’t give his enemy a chance to grab any projectiles, bruised knuckles striking in the darkness while you slip behind and knock out his legs.

When your enemy regains consciousness while slumped on the wet asphalt, there is no trace of the Daredevil or the Widow to be found.

—

Your students catch wind of your fondness of the ‘hot lawyer down the street’ a few weeks after you move into his apartment, and Matt doesn’t do much to keep your relationship a secret.

“Let’s, uh,” your voice trails off when you see him enter the studio for the first time, his mere presence making your cheeks outrageously hot. “Let’s run that combo one more time and call it a day, yes?” Your students follow your eyeline to the man waiting for you by the door and they all perk up at the same time, dancing with near perfection that makes you wonder if Matt should show up at the end of all your classes.

“Hope it’s alright I came to walk you home,” he greets with that easy smile that sends all sense of reason into the atmosphere.

“You were a definitely a distraction, but considering that we call the same place ‘home,’ I’ll let it slide,” you reply. His hands pull you by your hips and you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your forearms resting on his shoulders.

“Can we go out tonight?”

“Don’t we always?” You ask, confused. “We’re out so much where I think our collective sleep hours are in the negatives.”

“Not on patrol,” he corrects. “Let me take you to that place you’ve been wanting to try. The one with the rotating pie stand.” Your mouth gapes. If there was someone who had a worse work-life balance than you, it was your boyfriend. Yet here he was, recommending you both skip patrol. “I wanna give you a proper date. Please?”

“Since when are we allowed to take nights off, Murdock?” You tease.

“Since I made a deal with Spiderman to swing through the Kitchen once a month,” he drawls, attempting to kiss you and frowning when you gently pull back like you’ve offended him. “Sweetheart.”

“You can’t kiss me until you tell me how you managed to pull off a deal with Spiderman.” His forehead creases above his red-lensed glasses.

“I called in a favor.” You know he can hear the skepticism on your face. He exhales before continuing, “I told the kid I’d proofread his friend’s job application. Some opening as a photographer for the Bugle.”

“You tell him you were a lawyer?”

“I told him I’m a very good lawyer.” The last of your students wave goodbye, their eyebrows waggling as they leave the studio.

“Well, counselor, if it is your professional opinion that we should go on a date tonight, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“God, I love you as a partner,” he breathes.

“For romance or vigilantism?”

“Both.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #daredevil x y/n #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x y/n #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel x y/n

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ambiguous-avery · 1 month ago

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Untamed Soul

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You x Sam Winchester | WC: 1270

Summary: You’re down bad for two guys who aren’t even yours. Then again... they’re not technically not yours either...

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, female masturbation, no wincest, no use of Y/N, pining, PWP (Plot? What plot?), unsatisfying ending, no beta we die like men

A/N: Third piece to complete the trifecta. But clearly I can’t just leave it here. Sorry not sorry, but my brain has decided that there has to be more. Just know that I am a little gremlin behind the screen, rubbing my grubby little hands together because I'm excited about this. Read about Dean’s Sly Grins and Sam’s Careful Stares

Three Hearts, One Flame Masterlist

The job hadn’t taken nearly as long as you had expected, and for once, the only injury between the three of you was your chipped nail from the damn shovel you had passed Dean so they could dig up the grave. If the case had wrapped up any earlier, then you might’ve thought that you could’ve been enjoying your shower back at the bunker rather than the motel room with the discolored walls. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. And while you weren’t particularly covered in grime, a shower was probably going to be the closest thing you could get to having some time alone.

The problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was privacy. Specifically the distinct lack of it.

So when the most recent hunt had wrapped up and the three of you weren’t beat up, bloodied, and skulking back to the motel room to lick your wounds, you had happily leapt at the idea of some much-needed ‘you’ time while the boys went out to the bar.

You sighed contentedly, tipping your head back into the spray and reveling in the warmth. The rhythmic sound of the water hitting the tiled floor was a steady background noise as the tension melted away from you. It was a rare luxury to have a moment of peace. A moment to indulge in your thoughts.

The other problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was your attraction. To both of them.

And being in such close quarters with them for prolonged periods of time was bound to have done some irreparable damage to the way you looked at any other guy ever in your lifetime. Not that you wanted to look at anyone else.

You had two handsome-as-hell men who were each willing to lay down their lives for you. And you’d do the same for either of them. That sort of commitment was hard to find anymore. Well... maybe that level of commitment was a bit too much. But the point still stood.

But they weren’t yours. Never had been. Maybe could be?

It didn’t help that you had a good idea of what they thought of you. The funny thing about boys was that they always thought they were so subtle. But you were a hunter. A damn good one, at that. And very little escaped your keen eye. You could see it in the sly grins Dean would flash you. In the way you’d catch Sam’s careful stares out of the corner of your eye when he thought you weren’t looking. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were a little surprised that neither of them had made a move.

Dean and you flirted plenty, made numerous allusions to actually hooking up but never gone through with it. And the kind of chemistry you shared with Sam was the kind that Hallmark movies could only hope to capture on screen. Really, any way you cut it, the three of you were a symphony, and any sort of change might throw off the harmony you had somehow managed to achieve. Things were better off staying how they were.

But no matter how many times you tried to push those thoughts aside, they always snuck back in, especially in the quiet hours.

You slid your hand down your stomach, fingers tentatively slipping between your legs and imagining that it was a hand far larger than your own. Rough and calloused. With fingers longer than yours. The air in the shower was warm, steam rising from the water turned as hot as you could get it. You could imagine an unsteady breath near your ear.

Imaginary lips pressed against the side of your neck, and your lips parted as you dragged your fingers over your center. It should’ve been alarming how easily thoughts of your hunting partners could consume you. But here in the privacy of the bathroom, it was all too easy to lose yourself in the fantasy. You let out a shaky breath as your fingers danced over your skin, each touch more electrifying than the last.

In your mind, Dean’s strong hands roamed over your body while Sam’s soft voice whispered sweet promises in your ear. Your back arched slightly and you bit your lip, a soft moan escaping you as your fingers ghosted over your clit. You leaned back against the shower wall and propped one leg up on the edge of the tub, heart rate quickening. You could almost feel Dean’s rough stubble against your skin as he kissed you, tasting of whiskey and leather. You imagined Sam’s lips trailing tender kisses down your neck before finding your breast and teasing your nipple between his teeth.

Through the haze of desire, you could hear Dean’s voice, deep and gravelly.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ve got you.” It was a promise. A promise you knew you could believe.

“That’s our girl. You can let go for us,” Sam’s voice wrapped you in a sense of safety and security.

You knew without a shadow of a doubt: you belonged with them.

You belonged with Dean, with his rough exterior and kind heart. You belonged with Sam, with his soft words and gentle touch. To Dean and Sam. Would you be too greedy to ask them to share? The universe would truly be cruel if it made you pick just one.

You pressed two fingers into yourself. They were a poor substitute for what you really wanted, but they would have to suffice. Your breath hitched as you pressed them against that soft spot, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined two sets of eyes on you. Hazel and green. Their hands. Their mouths. Their cocks.

Holy shit.

You hadn’t even begun to imagine the way they’d feel inside you. The way they’d move in tandem. Never leaving you fully empty. The thought of them filling you completely. The thrill of it all made your head spin, and those thoughts wound the coil in you tighter and tighter. You could imagine their hands grasping your hips. Your thighs. Wherever they could find purchase to pull you closer. Their mouths devouring you as they took what they wanted from you.

So close...

Sam’s large hands splaying across your back as he presses you down. His blunted nails scraping across your skin as he presses deeper and deeper with each slow thrust.

“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Right there...

Dean’s green eyes, bright and in awe as he sinks into you in one fluid motion. His lips on you, tasting your skin while you come apart in his hands, around his cock.

“Look at you. Taking us so well, sweetheart.”

Closer–

A heavy knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts, and you nearly slipped as hastily pulled your hand away, startled back into reality. The abruptness of the sound echoed in the small room, shattering the illusion you had weaved in the steam.

“Got a six pack with our names on it, sweetheart!” Dean’s voice rang through the door.

“Fuck!" Your heart pounded in your chest, breaths still heavy, eyes wide from shock. "Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Could give you more than that,” he responded with a mischievous chuckle, and you could clearly visualize the shit-eating grin he wore, even without seeing his face.

“I’ll give you a black eye,” you muttered under your breath, the words tinged with irritation as you dipped back under the water for a quick rinse. The cascade of water washed away the remnants of your interrupted tranquility.

So much for your privacy.

---

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Dean taglist: @aylacavebear @globetrotter28 @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @maddie0101

Both: @jollyhunter @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @sir-thisisadndserver

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steviewashere · 24 days ago

Text

I love only child Steve Harrington, but how about I suggest something else that's really angsty? Stay with me here, please.

CW Ahead: Death of a Sibling, Grief/Mourning, Minor Suicidal Ideation, Steve's Sacrifices to Prove Self-Worth

Steve Harrington had a twin. They were identical.

They'd chase each other around in the Indiana sun, when it was at its lowest, grass green in the field, lightning bugs about. Barefoot in the backroads, dust particles, laughing until their stomachs hurt. Riding their bikes up and down their street, seeing who could go faster. Swimming laps in the pool, trying to beat the other.

Their parents are happy. A good marriage. Lovely kids. Living that smooth, good life.

Both of them super young when it happens. He and his twin are roughly...12? 13? Middle school age.

It's another summer night. No school. Not a care in the world. The Harrington family go out of town for a lake house vacation. Steve and his twin swim laps and laps around in the lake.

They've got beach toys, playing in the very little amount of sand. Then, Steve accidentally drops his little plastic shovel into the water. It sinks, or at least begins sinking. His twin tells him to stay out of the water, that he'd go down and retrieve the shovel. His twin had the better swimmer's lungs after all.

But then thirty seconds pass. Forty-five...a whole minute.

Bubbles come to the surface. The water rippling like somebody's thrashing. And then...nothing.

Of course, Steve runs up to the lake house to get his parents. To get help. But he was too late. He couldn't save his brother.

After this, he can't even look himself in the eyes. Can't look into a mirror. After this, his parents grow distant from him. They leave more and more frequently, leave him alone in his guilt. Affairs and arguments...it all happens too frequently now. Steve keeps to himself. He's quiet and weird. Barely has any friends. Won't talk about that summer evening. Won't consider going around a lake again.

But...but then he goes to high school. He tries out for the swim team, just to give himself something to do. It made his dad pay attention to him. It made his parents stay. It made a small part of him proud, when he did good at his meets, when he was eventually given the co-captain spot. He worked as a lifeguard over the summers.

Barb goes missing from his backyard. He isn't aware that she was dragged through the pool. Didn't see it, never knew.

Nancy lives with the same sort of guilt that Steve did. But Steve only knows one way of coping: moving on. Busying his brain with stupid things: drinking and partying and sports and other things that seem meaningless. He seems fine, doesn't he? It's not like he's weighed any of the shit he's been through.

(He is. He won't tell anybody this.)

Dustin asks for his help that one day, the same age as Steve's twin brother was—will forever be. And Steve knows, even if he accepts reluctantly at first, that this is his duty. It's what's going to prove that he can care, that he isn't fucked up over this thing that happened, that he can do better.

Helping where he can, that's what makes him proud. Being somebody to step in, to throw themselves at the danger rather than letting anybody else experience it.

And then Lover's Lake.

He hasn't been out on a lake, not even dipping his toes in the water since the incident. But when it comes down to it, to the group he's sitting on that rickety boat with, he knows he must. He must prove that he can help, that he can swim best, that he can use his skills for good; rather than sitting by, almost uselessly.

He's being dragged back under the surface, something wrapped around his ankle. He's panicking, of course he's panicking—there's questions and broken sentences flashing through his brain: did this happen to him? is this what he felt like? am I going to die like this, too?

For half a moment, he expects to die. He's ready to die. Like maybe dying will break him free from the guilt he's been carrying. Like a cycle will be reset.

He's relieved when he doesn't drown.

Yet, when that demobat releases his throat and he can get enough oxygen to focus on his surroundings, he sees all the others around him in the Upside Down. And he's furious. Furious that they had to go after him, to save his sorry ass. Because, again, he's put himself in a position of complete uselessness.

Always the one needing help, needing to be saved.

He'd rather do it alone. Rather be the bait, the hook line and sinker.

And when the fight is over, when Dustin loses Eddie...

Steve sees himself in Dustin's eyes. Helpless, scared, vengeful—

Guilty.

He considers his new duty to be to actually help Dustin's guilt. To try and make it better. But he's fucking it up, he constantly fucks it up. Just like he did with Nancy. He still can't look himself in the eyes.

Not without seeing his brother's face. Not without seeing scars where he failed to fully protect. Not without seeing Dustin's guilty, angry gaze. Not without seeing himself.

And somewhere along the lines, he knew his self-worth was low. But it's even lower. Like it was when he lost his brother; it shouldn't have been his brother. It shouldn't have been Eddie. It should've been him.

But he doesn't tell anybody this revelation he has. He continues on, life normal, trying to be helpful where he can. No matter how little, no matter how much he must sacrifice.

————

Another version here:

Dustin is guilty because Eddie got so injured, but Eddie's saved by Steve. Steve makes it his only mission in that moment to resuscitate Eddie—he learned CPR after his brother died just in case, he's thankful for his anxious self-nagging.

But Dustin is still guilty and Steve still sees himself.

And Eddie's trying to reassure both of them, but nothing seems to get through. He's the only one who can really see through Steve's cracks, he ends up not liking what he's seeing. Under the surface, Steve is just hollow. Not hollow like he's dumb or boring or unimportant. Hollow like there's nothing keeping him tethered, nothing fulfilling him, nothing to keep him satiated and happy.

Under the surface, Eddie sees a version of a man he doesn't really know. He sees Steve constantly fighting a mental battle, some sort of self-worth argument, some prattle with his own thoughts. He sees a man barely living; he sees a man willing to die for anything.

Again, he ends up not liking what he's seeing.

#this was also in my drafts #I don't know where I was *really* going with this #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #dustin henderson #eddie munson

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archive-of-ink · 2 months ago

Text

Bite That Old Man

moodboard for the vibes ; reader has no physical description

Summary - She wants to bite Joel. for some reason, he lets her.

Warnings - biting, teeth, no actual smut, one mention of a boob (plus nipple!!) other wise no physical description, language, age gap in my head but not actually mentioned. heavy kissing. 3rd person pov

word count -1.3k

a/n - this being the first Joel fic I've posted is insane. this entire thing is sooo silly to me but I wrote it in one sitting and well, here ya go I guess.

She wanted to bite him, maybe wrap her arms around him and squeeze.

She didn’t even mean it that way, nothing sexual. Well, maybe a little. It was only a fleeting, absent thought. Something that flitted through her mind that morning as they had breakfast. Following the revelation, Joel Miller was fucking adorable.

She wasn’t sure how she missed it this long. The way his hair would curl and fall across his forehead, the honey-glow of his eyes in the sunlight that would make her heart ache, she knew that. The heat that ran through her when his jaw clenched or the muscles of his back flexed when he peeled off his shirt, golden skin slick with sweat from the beating sun that she so badly wanted to lick off. Oh, she knew that.

But the giddy bubbling in her chest, she never let that take hold - never felt it hit so suddenly.

He sat across from her at the kitchen table, listening to Ellie’s joke. Shaking his head, failing to repress the smile that pulled across his face - the apple of his cheeks pushing up and eyes crinkling.

Ellie and Joel resumed their meal but she kept staring long after the moment passed. Focused on sipping his coffee, he was oblivious to her eyes. Still focused on his face, trying to will herself to calm the school-girl crush threatening to consume her.

“Why’re you being weird?” Ellie said, mouth full as she swatted her on the arm with the hand not shoveling eggs into her mouth. She jerked back, breaking her trance and looking at the girl.

“I’m not” It came out too rushed. Her voice was too high, guilty. She’d always been a shit liar, everyone knew it. Face burning, she looked away and busied herself with her drink.

“Ellie.” Joel warned.

“I’m not the one staring at you like you’re the meal.”

“Ellie”

“I’m out.” She stood from the table, all teenage attitude and snark. Mumbling under her breath as she walked out. “You guys are fucking gross.”

She had half the mind to beg her to stay, just to avoid being alone but it would’ve been worse. Ellie never filtered her thoughts - much to her current dismay and apparently Joel’s by the way he was looking at her.

“I wasn’t being weird.” Damn it.

He didn’t respond, face blank and bored as he chewed his last bite. Asshole was siking her out, he’d done it before. The silence stressed her and he knew it. Figured it out the first time she lied to him, the day they met and she said she wasn’t armed. Shit liar, horrible under pressure. When she decided to stick around, a very serious conversation was had about not being a dumbass. She was lucky she made it this far in the fucking apocalypse.

The way he was staring at her, gaze gripping hers. She was fucked. It had her picking her cuticles, and anxiety replaced the dopey, girly feeling. She wanted to rip her hair out or dart for her bedroom.

“You’re cute” The words tumbled out. Hands flew to her mouth like she was stopping any more from falling out.

His eyebrows shot up, shock covered his face for a split second before he was nodding. He still didn’t talk, sipping his coffee again. Shit.

“And I want to bite you. Wanted.” She was going to die. She groaned, burying her face in her arms. He was going to kick her out, call her a weird bitch and tell her to pack her things.

She heard the clink of his mug against the table, the scrap of his chair against the floor but he never stood. She peeked over her arm.

Joel sat, legs spread and arms crossed.

“C’mere then.”

“What?” Her head shot up. He couldn’t be serious, he was. Her hands were covering her face again. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No ‘M not, darlin’.” He patted his thighs. Oh god. “C’mon.”

Her face was searing as she stood, bare feet against the cold wooden floor she padded over to him. Stopping next to him, she looked up to meet his eyes. A glint of amusement passed through them though there was something else. He motioned for her to sit on his lap. When she didn’t move fast enough, his hands were on her waist pulling her down and knocking the breath out of her.

They’ve never been this close. Warmth radiated from where they touched. Knees bracketed his thighs, not sitting down completely holding onto his neck to prevent her from tipping them off the chair.

She was a whirlwind of emotion, an amalgamation of everything she felt in his presence for years. Her heart was aching with affection and beating in her ears, a slight heat simmering low within her from where they were pressed together, and that giddy feeling, that primal urge to sink her teeth into him bloomed in her chest again.

“Where?” His head tipped back, gazing at her before his hands slid down to rest on her hips, pulling her down the rest of the way. She inhaled at the new contact. Brows knit in confusion when she processed the question.

What was he- Oh.

Where.

She lifted her hand from his neck and circled his cheek with her fingertip, barely breathing.

“Go for it, baby.” The corners of his mouth twisted into a half-grin “” M all yours.”

She groaned desire and embarrassment fluttering through her. Her head hit his shoulder and she buried her face in his neck. This was mortifying. She didn’t understand why he was entertaining her weirdness.

“Joel-” She mumbled in an almost whine, feeling his pulse jump when her lips brushed skin. “This is stupid.”

For a moment, calloused fingers moved across the skin between her shorts and the top that had ridden up, calm and reassuring. Only breaths filled the room as the morning sun filtered through. Then he tapped for her to sit up. She pulled back, hands resting on her knees.

“I can’t.” She shook her head, hands going back over her face. He peeled them away by her wrist and pinned them to his chest.

“You can.” He was smiling at her, a real true teeth-showing smile that reached his eyes and had his cheeks all full.

She exhaled a laugh, embarrassment waning as she realized he really did want her to and she let herself go. Leaning forward until they were nose to nose, she grinned as his smile grew and giggled. Moving to the right, she let her teeth graze the skin of his cheek.

Something ignited in her.

Hands braced on his shoulders, she nipped at his stubbled jaw down to his neck, teeth catching his earlobe. His head dropped backward as she bit at his throat, teeth just hard enough to leave an impression, tongue darting out against to soothe the mark.

A strangled mix of a laugh and a grunt escaped him. His hands trailed up from her hips to her waist, raking her shirt up and stopping when his thumb grazed the underside of her breast. She gasped when he paused, waiting for her permission. She nodded against his neck, inhaling the faint scent of his soap mixed with something she could only describe as Joel. His hand slipped underneath her shirt, fingers brushing against her nipple eliciting another gasp - feeling it pebbled under his touch.

She was a panting, desperate mess when their lips met, a clash of teeth and tongue and years of repressed tension. He licked into her mouth, nose brushing against her cheek, hand on the small of her back pressing her flush with him. A ragged breath escaped her as she broke for breath, foreheads pressing together.

“Christ, I told you.” Ellie’s voice rang from the doorway, hands covering her eyes. “You guys are fucking gross.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu fandom

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obriengf · 1 year ago

Text

Jubilee || Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Summary: You find moments of clarity throughout your boyfriend's birthday. Words: 1.9k Warnings: totally added tay swift references - not really a warning (: Notes: despite the photo used in the banner, the reader is non-gender specific, non-race specific, etc.

April 8th, 1995 - Happy Birthday Stiles Stilinski ・❥・

You weren't sure what it was, exactly - maybe it was simply just how his eyes would widen with excitement, a childhood gleam that twinkled so exuberantly as he smiled. Or, it could be how his body jumped with so much positive energy, the balls of his feet built with springs as he bounded around with pure enthusiasm. Perhaps, it was really the way in which he couldn't stop talking, in absolute Stiles fashion, his mind and mouth running with stories and ideas and honest happiness. Selfishly, you would like to say that it was when he encased his body around yours and provided loving kisses with every 'thank you' during his never-ending expression of gratitude. Whatever it was, it made this time of year your favourite of them all. Nothing could beat celebrating your boyfriend's birthday.

His twenty-ninth year started with a tender peck - lips pressed to his cheek as they covered a freckled canvas, his skin warm as it remained settled under the morning sun that filtered through the blinds. It twitched from such a delicate sentiment and was followed by lashes dancing as the boy began to wake. He was so beautiful, and it prompted your heart to clutch in absolute awe.

His arm was heavy as it remained slung over your waist, despite pulling you closer to his chest in oblivious movements from his still-slumbered state. He hummed lightly against the shell of your ear, a sound of acknowledgement, wordless contentedness to the complacency you helped him feel. It made you kiss him again on the upturn of his nose and he groaned as it scrunched.

"Hi." You whispered so quietly, his caramel toned eyes fluttering once again as they tried to adjust to the morning light. Stiles smiled at you, completely loving with just a simple glance. A hum pushed past your lips, "Good Morning, handsome."

"It is now." He replied, so smooth, so swift. The truth embedded in such little words and encapsulated with sleepy raspiness.

Noses brushed as you giggled under your breath, your thumb rubbing gently under his eye, "And Happy Birthday."

He leaned into your touch as if it were moulded to fit his face, love exuberating from his features with ease, "Thank you, baby."

It was amusing to watch as Stiles shovelled his face with pancakes - the breakfast dish easily branded as his favourite, and seen quite evidently as he moaned loudly in satisfaction. The plate was stacked high and you knew that the sugar rush could potentially be catastrophic, but it was his day, and he deserved everything he desired.

An incredulous look was etched deeply into the furrowed brows and confused lift of Noah Stilinski's lips as he watched his son across the table. The coffee mug in his hand was teetering on the edge of lukewarm by now, but he couldn't tear his focus away. You'd think that after twenty-nine years, the man would be somewhat immune to the quirkiness of his son. Noah's eyes glanced briefly around your small kitchen space - an area where you and Stiles spent much of your time since you moved in together. He had always admired the varied elements representing you both and how easy it was for your lives to merge. It was as if soulmates were united, and this is how your beings were destined to be intertwined.

"You spoil him." Noah's deep voice broke through the silent chuckle you expelled toward your boyfriend, eyes managing to break free as they looked to the man beside you. Appreciation filled the small smile he shone your way and you couldn't help but release an elated exhale, your head nodding in agreement.

"I know." Your reply was simple but was spoken with the utmost adoration for Stiles, observing as a childish spark embodied him with joyousness; a light that took a while to finally settle within his heart after years of trepidation and great wars. A sigh pushed past your lips, "But he deserves it, all of it, after everything he's been through."

And you would give him the world on a silver platter if you could, but you knew that all Stiles truly wanted was to be content. He craved silly grown-up routines and times when he could relax without the threat of worry. He wanted to relive mundane moments from his teenage years that were short-lived due to monsters that lurked in the shadows. He yearned for endearment and safety and just simply knowing that you would be there every morning and night, curled up in his arms, loving him unconditionally. Stiles never asked for a lot, so days like today were ones you strived to make special. Because he deserved special, every last speck of it.

Noah snickered to himself, pride filling his chest as he looked between yourself and Stiles. "He deserves you most, ya know." His words struck a chord - one with melodic tunes, strummed hard enough to get your heart beating fast as a red blush pinched at your nose and cheeks. You reached across and placed a hand over his, your eyes bright as you looked at the older Stilinski.

"Thank you." That was all you ever wanted.

Stiles could work a room, especially when the buzz was centered around him. He had bounced across your living room several times by now, excitement filling his veins as he couldn't stop talking to the friends and family who came to see him for his birthday. You were standing off to the side, half listening as Scott was making conversation about his week at the Clinic - your focus was mostly on Stiles, admiring the way he was utilising his over-energetic nature and definite possible sugar hype from his breakfast. He had never looked happier as words flowed from him, a bottle of beer clutched between the fingers of his right hand as his left arm hung jovially over Liam's shoulders in deep narration.

"You're not listening, are you?" Scott spoke up, amused as his arms crossed over his chest and he leaned back casually against the wall.

"Sorry, Scotty." You offered a smile, apologetic tones seeping through and your friend couldn't help but shake his head as he returned your smile amiably. You took a sip of your own drink, making sure to turn your body slightly, attempting to provide full attention even though your mind still wandered whenever you heard your boyfriend's laugh. "I was, I just got a little distracted --"

" -- It's all good." He intercepted your explanation, a look of knowing putting you at ease. He knew well the effect that you and Stiles had on each other, for the most part, and how you were both connected so seamlessly by an invisible string that without fail drew you back to one another. It only made sense that a part of your focus would always be on him. "But kudos on the party. You definitely decked the place out, and Stiles seems to definitely be enjoying himself."

You hummed, eyes picking up the array of decorations that you so carefully placed only a couple of hours ago. "You know more than anyone that I'd do anything to just see him happy. After all, today is Stiles Day and honestly..." You trailed off, features already beginning to scrunch up as joviality shaped your words, "I think I like it more than Christmas."

You laughed, and Scott joined you. He agreed wholeheartedly as his hand splayed over his chest, head nodding and lopsided smile growing by the second.

It wasn't too long after when the crowd gathered around your dining table with Stiles perching at the head as he sat tall. The lights were turned off and the room became swallowed by darkness - building anticipation, creating an atmosphere of smiles and eagerness for the theatrics to follow. It was the sound of hissing that made ears perk and eyes swiftly track the source as it entered from the kitchen. You had gentle hands as his cake remained in your hold; silhouettes sitting against the walls from shoots of sparking fire that sat atop his cake. His gaze grew large, and the normal caramel tone of his eyes shifted to a glowing golden hue from the reflecting sparklers.

You placed the cake in front of Stiles before planting a tender kiss against the apple of his grinning cheek, your nose nuzzling into his favourite spot under his ear, "Happy Birthday, my handsome man."

The crowd began to sing, mismatched harmonies growing louder in the small space of your apartment. It was hasty as Stiles' large hands gripped at your waist, your body falling toward his own before he sat you in his lap. Legs dangled over his knees and it made you giggle against the curve of his shoulder. Stiles pecked your template before replicating your nuzzle, his nose dragging against your hairline, "I love you."

You watched as the sparklers danced patterns across his affectionate expression, completely mesmerised by him and the fortune you felt, before you smiled up at him, "I love you too. Now blow out those candles!"

It wasn't much different from your usual Monday night; the television played some reruns of comedies from the 90's, every light in the room was turned off except the dingy floor lamp beside the couch, and the coffee table was graced by Chinese takeout containers and leftover plates of birthday cake. Stiles slumped back against the soft cushions with his feet perched upon the table, socks cladding his feet as they moved in tune with the opening credits of an old sitcom. He was in complete comfort, only made better by your frame as it was situated under his arm with your head pressed to his chest and hands curled in the material of his t-shirt. His touch was absentmindedly dragging up and down your side with dancing fingers, the sentiment just barely felt as the movements remained delicate and featherlike.

"Today was amazing." He said so nonchalantly, voice hardly competing with the television as the sound remained low.

You burrowed yourself closer to him, tiredness beginning to takeover, "I'm glad."

Stiles grinned lazily, his lips puckered before pressing kisses down the expanse of your cheek as his nose trailed after them, "But this?Right now... full of cake and chow mein, us cuddling and watching Friends reruns... this is my favourite part. Without a doubt."

"But we do this practically every night." You mused, voice laced with humor and confusion before gently pulling away from him. Your brow was raised, but the puzzled expression across your features was captured with a smile.

"Yeah, we do, but... just knowing how much effort you put into making today the best birthday, it just makes it all mean so much more."

Your heart pattered, a rush of endearment and affection. It was loud and fast in your chest, but one would never have guessed from the quiet squeak of your voice that followed, "I only ever want the best for you."

"And all I ever want is you. Period."

The light from the television casted a blue glow as you leant forward, your arms encasing themselves around Stiles' neck as thighs straddled his own. The programme was long forgotten, and his face settled against your shoulder. You could feel him breathe you in as his own arms wrapped around to your back, his large splayed hands pushing your body further against him.

You kissed the crown of his head, fingers gentle as they tangled themselves in the loose locks of his hair, "Happy Birthday, Stiles."

#dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien x reader #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf x reader #stiles stilinski fic #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski x you #teen wolf x you

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imjustatorturedpoet · 3 months ago

Text

Meet me in the Hallway

Chapter four: If it weren't for you

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3

word count: 5,3k

-----

“You motherfucker!”

The shout tore through the dormitory like a gunshot, sharp and violent, cutting through the low hum of murmured conversations. It was the kind of sound that made your body react before your mind could catch up. Instead of going to your bed like you intended, you stopped.

Your head snapped toward the source, your pulse spiking—because you knew what was coming. Everyone did.

A commotion? No. A beating.

MG Coin—Player 333—was on the floor, trapped beneath Thanos and Player 124. But this wasn’t a fight. This was a slaughter. Thanos was on top of him, fists hammering down in relentless succession. 124 grabbed 333 by the collar, hauling him up just to slam him back down again.

A sickening thud. Then another. The sharp crack of knuckles meeting flesh echoed through the dormitory. Gasps rippled through the crowd, but no one moved.

No one helped.

You exhaled sharply. Cowards.

It didn’t matter what 333 had done—fraud or not, no one deserved to be beaten into the floor like a goddamn animal.

You took a step forward.

“I lost all that money because of you, you piece of shit,” Thanos snarled, punctuating the words with a brutal kick to 333’s ribs. A choked gasp left his mouth.

A choked, wet gasp left his mouth. He curled inward, instinctively shielding himself—but it didn’t matter. The next kick came anyway.

“Be grateful,” Thanos spat. Another kick, “And fucking eat what you’re given.”

Still, no one moved except you.

Not Jung-bae. Not Dae-ho. Not the players who, moments ago, had been shovelling food into their mouths like this wasn’t a goddamn death camp.

Dae-ho unconsciously rolled his sleeves back up, flexing his tattooed arms. Considering stepping in. But he didn’t.

Fuck this.

You let out an annoyed sigh, hands stuffing into your pockets, "This is bullshit."

You were almost there when a firm hand clamped down on your shoulder.

You froze. Player 001.

Your breath hitched, heartbeat stuttering. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it held just enough weight to make you stop. His fingers lingered, just for a second longer than normal—then he stepped past you, slipping through.

Purposeful.

There was something about the way he moved—unhurried but deliberate, like a lion stalking its prey.

Gi-hun stood, too. His shoulders squared, lips pressed into a hard line as his eyes tracked 001’s approach. The older man stopped a few feet away from the fight, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Then—

“Boys,” his voice was even, almost gentle. And suddenly the beating stopped. Thanos and 124 turned toward him, confusion flickering across their faces.

001’s gaze dropped to 333, who lay on the ground, panting, his body curled inward like a dying animal. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened.

“No fights during mealtime,” he continued, his tone light but firm enough, “There are elders present. Mind your manners.”

A weight settled over the room. Tension thickened like smoke. Thanos sneered, rolling his shoulders back, ”You’re lecturing me?”, his voice dripped with mockery, disdain.

He took a step closer, ”Uncle, what the hell are you even doing here?” His lips curled. “You ended up in this shithole too. Maybe you should shut up and take care of your own damn kids.”

The dormitory stilled. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Slowly—too slowly—001 tilted his head.

“What did you say?”

Thanos smirked. He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t notice how players nearest to 001 subtly moved back. Didn’t notice how his own friend, Player 124, hesitated. Didn’t notice the way your stomach coiled, instincts screaming at you.

Thanos’ arm jerked upward—instinct, pride, stupidity—but he didn’t even make it halfway.

001’s grip tightened, cutting off the movement before it even started. ”Don’t,” 001 said, voice low, steady.

001 struck.

Fast. Precise. Unforgiving.

His hand shot out, clamping around Thanos’ throat—not a full choke, but a grip so calculated it forced him to freeze. His thumb pressed just below his jaw. A perfectly placed hold. Thanos stiffened instantly. His hands flew to 001’s wrist, gripping, clawing, trying to pry him off.

It wasn’t working.

001’s grip didn’t waver. Didn’t tighten. Didn’t need to. It was controlled. Measured. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply to hurt without crushing. A calculated show of dominance.

124 lunged at 001 from behind. Big mistake.

You were already moving before you even thought about it. Pure instinct. Right?

A sharp sidestep, just enough to throw him off balance—then your foot connected with his shin, fast and brutal. A sickening thud. 124’s body jerked, a strangled yelp escaping as his leg buckled beneath him. His hands shot down to grab at his knee, staggering—

Gasps. Someone swore under their breath.

You barely heard them. Adrenaline burned in your veins. 124 writhed, clutching his leg—but you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“Oh you goddamn bitch, I’m gonna—“

Another precise kick to his rib. You didn’t have to, but the way he called you a bitch did something to you.

“You’re a goddamn bitch, (Y/N), you know that? If it weren’t for your sorry ass maybe Jonah would still be here. If you just would’ve done more.”

Your fists curled so tightly at the memory, they trembled. Thanos was still struggling against 001’s grip, gasping—but before he could claw his way free, 001 let go—only to drive his knuckles into his chest.

A sharp, precise blow. Thanos choked, staggering. His knees buckled, his lungs fighting for air.

“I—” He wheezed. “Wait—”

Too late. 001 grabbed his arm, twisted. The movement forced him forward, crashing onto the cold steel floor. Two brutal kicks to the ribs.

Thanos wheezed, barely moving now. 001 stepped over him. Not rushed. Not angry. Just there.

His fingers wrapped around Thanos’ throat again— This time, his grip wasn’t controlled. This time, it was crushing.

Thanos gasped, struggled. His purple hair fell over his face, but his complexion was quickly matching it. 001’s fist rose again.

You moved, “001, that’s enough! Look at him. He gets it! Let him go.”

The room held its breath. Thanos gasped, choking.

“She’s right,” he croaked. “I’m sorry.”

001’s expression was unreadable. Then finally he let go. Thanos slumped to the floor.

A beat of silence. Suddenly, applause.

At first, just one person. Then another. Then a wave of cheers. 001’s brows furrowed slightly. He smoothed his hair back, the movement shy, almost self-conscious.

What the fuck was that? And why did it feel so nice?

You turned back toward your group. 390 leaned over.

“Who the hell is that?”

Jung-bae and Dae-ho exchanged a glance. Then, simultaneously, they fixed their sleeves. 001 sat down. You followed, heartbeat still hammering.

Jung-bae exhaled. “Sir, where the hell did you learn that?” Dae-ho shook his head. “No way you’re just some old guy. And you—” He looked at you. “Miss 132, one kick and that guy was down!”

001 and you chuckled. You tilted your head slightly. “But… you’re okay, right?” 001 met your gaze. His expression softened, “I left and came back the same. You?”

You nodded.

There was something very peculiar about this man.Dae-ho nudged you. “Miss. Sir. You have to teach us that.”

—

Lunch and dinner was nice and the evening crept in faster than you expected. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly as the robotic female voice announced, sharp and indifferent—

"Bedtime will begin in 15 minutes."

The words settled over the dormitory like a thin layer of dust, familiar yet suffocating. The air shifted. Conversations grew quieter, movements more deliberate, as players shuffled toward their beds. Some climbed to the top bunks, staking their claims. Others stuck close to the lower levels, rooted in silent alliances they hadn’t yet put into words.

You watched, eyes flickering across the room, before glancing at Gi-hun.

"Can we just move to any bed we want, or are they assigned?"

Gi-hun nodded, rubbing his arm absently. "Yeah. But most people are sticking to their X and O zones."

You glanced down at the blue sticker on your chest. Oh.

So that was it, then. An invisible divide, carved out by something as simple as a shape. You weren’t sure why it made your stomach twist, why it suddenly felt heavier, more permanent, like the sticker had been pressed directly onto your skin instead of your clothes.

It did matter. The proof was all around you—the way people clustered together, how the dormitory had already begun to separate itself into something more than just a sea of players.

X’s with X’s. O’s with O’s.

And you? You were somewhere in between.

Your fingers hovered over the sticker for a second before dropping to your side. It wasn’t like you cared where you slept. That would be stupid. You just needed a bed. Any bed. This was survival, not summer camp.

But still…

Your eyes flicked toward Gi-hun, then to Jung-bae, who had already claimed a spot next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t even considered looking for somewhere else. Something about it felt… warm. Not quite comfort. Not quite safety. But something close enough that you let the feeling settle for just a moment before pushing it away.

You already saw them as friends. But did they see you the same way?

Or were you just another number, not a name?

You turned your head.

Player 001.

He sat in the same corner where your group had gathered earlier, his expression calm, unreadable. But the way he was watching you too, lord. Your stomach twisted. Not in fear. Not even in discomfort. Just… something you didn’t quite know. It felt fluttery.

Familiarity.

And yet you didn’t know why. Something cold curled at the edges of your thoughts, but before it could take root, before you could even grasp onto it, he smiled. Soft. Knowing.

And suddenly, the moment felt ridiculous.

Of course he was looking at you. You were looking at him. What else was he supposed to do? You took a breath, shoving the tension aside, and moved toward him. You weren’t sure whether or not to ask. Would he welcome it? Or would it feel wrong? Or worse, would it feel nice?

Your hesitation hung heavy between you, the seconds stretching just long enough to make you reconsider. “Sir...", you started, voice quieter than you intended. But 001 didn’t let you finish. His smile grew, as if he already knew the question before you asked it.

"We can sleep next to each other if that’s what you wanted to ask."

A pause.

"Really?"

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I refused?" His voice was light, playful—but there was something behind it. Something that made your skin prickle.

You swallowed. That feeling again. In your stomach. Recognition, but… not quite. Still, you let it go. The tension in your shoulders eased, and you returned his smile, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you."

You dropped your water bottle onto the nearest bed, he shortly followed suit, claiming a space the same way Jung-bae had earlier, as if you two had always belonged there. And for some reason, it actually felt nice. You sat down, hands resting on your lap, gaze drifting across the dormitory. For the first time, it hit you how massive this room really was.

Row after row of steel-framed beds, stacked high, stretching into the distance. People whispering, blankets rustling, quiet conversations dipping into hushed murmurs. A small movement caught the corner of your eye.

You turned, 001 was already looking at you. This time, he didn’t smile. And this time, the feeling didn’t pass. Your chest tightened, breath catching—because there it was again. That whisper in your brain, pulling at something buried. Something just out of reach.

A flicker of memory, too fast to hold. A distant echo—smoke curling, the sharp click of a lighter, the weight of silence shared between two people who barely spoke at all.

“Could I have a cigarette?"

Why?

Your lips parted, instinctually about to say something—but then he smiled again. Soft. Measured. Like he had been waiting for you to figure something out. Like he knew you couldn’t.

And just like that—the moment slipped through your fingers. You forced a small, nervous smile of your own before breaking eye contact.

---

Gi-hun shifted on his bed, stretching out, but his eyes weren’t relaxed. Every few moments, his gaze swept the room. Watching. Calculating. The weight in your stomach remained. You needed to focus.

"Do you think we should take shifts at night? Considering the big fight today.” you asked quietly. Gi-hun exhaled. His fingers tapped against his knee as he considered.

"That’s a good idea."

Another voice—steady, calm, ”I can take watch first, if you’d like."

You turned.

001 sat up, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows across his face. The perfect opportunity.

To talk. To ask. To figure out why the hell your body reacted to him like it had known him in another life.

The dormitory lights dimmed. The robotic voice announced: "Lights out in five minutes."

Chatter faded. The room shifted—bodies settling, whispers dissolving into the rustling of blankets. The moment was slipping away. You exhaled, steadying yourself.

And yet—as you laid back, staring up at the metal slats above you, you could still feel his gaze.

The moment the lights shut off, the dormitory shifted. Silence never really settled here. Even in the dark, the room breathed—soft murmurs, the occasional rustle of a blanket, the distant creak of a bed frame. Someone let out a quiet sigh in their sleep. Another stirred, turning over. It was a lull of human noise, subtle, constant.

You stayed still. Waiting.

Twenty minutes passed. Maybe thirty. Your mind wouldn’t stop.

It felt too heavy. Too full. Too restless.

“Where is the money, dad? Did you drink it away already? That was for Jonah’s funeral and you know it.”

"You think you're so smart, don’t you?" He leaned in, the stench of alcohol thick in the air. "Just like your mother.”

Your fingers curled against the thin blanket, pressing it into your palms. You let out a slow breath, as if you could force the memory out with it. You turned onto your side, eyes adjusting to the dim light seeping in through the high windows. The metal slats above you cast faint shadows, lines stretching long and thin against the walls. Across the dormitory, bodies lay still, curled into themselves, exhaustion pulling them under.

But not him.

Player 001.

You could just barely make out his figure—a quiet silhouette sitting at the base of the stairs. Not asleep. Just there. Watching the room, or maybe watching nothing at all.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel like you were meant to sleep yet.

Slowly, carefully, you slid out from under your blanket, shifting your weight onto your feet. The floor was cold. The air was colder. You moved without thinking too much about it, letting instinct guide you past the beds, weaving through the steel maze of bunks, every breath held just a second too long.

When you reached the stairs, he didn’t turn immediately. But you knew he was aware of you.

You lowered yourself onto the step beside him. Not too close. Not too far. The weight of the dormitory stretched around you both, swallowing the world outside this moment.

A beat.

“Can’t sleep?”

His voice was soft. Not quiet, but something close to it. A murmur in the dark. You hesitated.

“No.”

The word came out bare, stripped down, something more honest than you meant for it to be. He nodded slightly, as if he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. For a moment, neither of you spoke. This felt familiar.

The quiet settled thicker this time—not awkward, not uncomfortable, just there. Like it belonged between you. Like it had always been there. You exhaled, pressing your hands together between your knees. “You?” His lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite not.

“Not yet,” he admitted. Not yet. That answer sat strangely in your chest.

You looked ahead, gaze trailing the empty air in front of you. The darkness stretched wide. Deep. Like if you reached too far into it, it might pull you under.

You swallowed. “Does it ever stop?” He turned his head slightly, watching you. You could feel it.

“What?”

“This,” you said, the word felt heavier than it should. Motioning vaguely at the space around you with your hands, “The weight of it all. The noise in your head. The way it follows you even when you're safe.”

The words tumbled out before you could catch them. You weren’t sure why you said them, why you let the thought escape. But maybe it was because it was late. And maybe, just maybe, he felt like someone who would understand. 001 didn’t answer immediately.

“No.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded once. “Thought so.”

A pause.

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made your chest feel tight. Something knowing. Something too familiar.

“You lost someone,” he said. Not a question. Your breath stilled. You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

A shift. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

“So did I.”

Something about those words cut deep.

You exhaled, the weight of the conversation settling into your ribs. It was strange, sitting here in this awful place, talking about ghosts like they weren’t still haunting you. Like you hadn’t carried them into this room with you.

You licked your lips, your voice quieter now. “How long ago?”

001’s hands rested against his knees, fingers barely moving, as if tracing patterns only he could see.

“9 years,” he said. “And yesterday.”

“Me too.”

You blinked. Turned to him. He finally looked at you. The dim glow from the high windows cast his face in soft shadows, making it impossible to tell whether he was smiling or frowning or something in between. The quiet stretched. Too thick. Too fragile.

Your fingers curled slightly. “That’s not fair.”

His head tilted. “What isn’t?”

You swallowed, forcing the words past your throat. “Time. The way it drags some things with it and leaves others behind.”

His gaze didn’t waver. It stayed on you. Fully. “I know,” he said, voice low. Understanding. Deep. “I know.”

The weight in your chest pulled tight. Neither of you spoke after that. Just sat there, staring at the dark, letting the quiet fill in the spaces you couldn’t. And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel lonely.

The silence lingered between you, thick and unspoken. But for once, it didn’t feel suffocating. It didn’t press against your ribs, clawing at your throat, demanding to be filled. It just… was.

You stared ahead, watching the faint glow from the high windows stretch long shadows across the floor. Somewhere, in the distance, a player shifted in their sleep. A faint snore. The rustle of fabric. The steady hum of breathing all around you. Still, neither of you moved.

“I remember the rain,” you murmured. It came out softer than you intended. Like a thought that had slipped through the cracks before you could catch it. Beside you, 001 didn’t react right away. But you knew he was listening.

You swallowed.

“Back then… when I got the news that he didn’t have much longer,” your fingers curled against your knees, pressing down like it might ground you. “It was raining. That’s the first thing I remember. Nothing else. Just the sound. The way it filled the silence before the weight of it could crush me.”

A pause.

001 shifted slightly. “Rain has a way of making things heavier.” You inhaled, sharp and quiet.

“Yeah.”

“You were alone that night?”

The words landed wrong. Too specific. Your pulse stuttered. I didn’t say it was night.

He could’ve guessed. Maybe. But the way he said it—it wasn’t a question. Not really. You turned your head slightly, studying him from the corner of your eye. He didn’t look back. Just sat there, staring ahead.

Like he hadn’t just slipped. Oh, but he did. The question now was; did he do it on purpose?

Your throat tightened, “I was supposed to be,” you said. “But… someone else was there.”

001 tilted his head slightly. You could feel his eyes on you now, watching. Waiting. “I don’t remember his face,” you admitted. “Or his voice. Just… the moment.”

Your own voice felt distant. Like you were speaking from somewhere outside yourself, slipping between past and present without meaning to. 001 stayed quiet. Something about it made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, studying his profile. The dim light carved soft lines into his features—gentle, unreadable. He looked… calm. But something told you he wasn’t. That same weight. That same understanding. Like he knew exactly what you meant. Like he had been there, too.

Had he been there too? Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know why, but the thought made it hard to breathe.

You opened your mouth. Hesitated. But then he beat you to it.

"You don’t have to remember his face,” Young-il said suddenly. His voice was low. Steady. “You already remember the part that matters.” Something in your chest clenched.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” he said simply. “You just don’t want it to.”

You exhaled. Looked away. The quiet settled between you again, softer this time. A few minutes passed. Maybe more.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“Go get some rest,” 001 murmured, voice soft, almost reluctant. “It’s late.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t even that you wanted to stay. It was just... You stopped and looked at him.

001’s gaze met yours, steady and unreadable. And for a second—just a second—something flickered there.

Recognition. Not the kind you’d find between strangers who happened to cross paths. Not the fleeting kind that slipped away before you could name it. This was something deeper, something settled. Like he was looking at you and seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“You never told me your name.”

“Does it matter?”

“No. Guess not.”

There it was in your mind. Another memory you couldn’t place. Your breath caught, and then he smiled. Soft. Knowing. Just like before. And just like before, the moment slipped through your fingers before you could grasp it.

You turned away. But you didn’t leave.

“…001?”

A beat.

“Yes?”

You turned to face him once more, only now realising how close you actually were. Close enough to see the faint creases at the corner of his eyes. The way the dim light traced the sharp lines of his jaw. The way his presence filled the space between you without effort, without force—just there, as if it had always been. If you leaned forward just a fraction more, his breath would be warm against your skin. The thought alone sent a strange shiver down your spine.

“It’s weird addressing each other with a number,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “What’s your name?”

Something shifted in him then. Not a flinch. Not surprise. Just a hesitation, barely there.

“Oh Young-il.”

The name sat between you, delicate and unfamiliar. You tested it on your tongue, rolling it over in your mind. It was a nice name. Strong. Steady. But somehow, it didn’t really suit him. Or maybe you had just been calling him something else for too long. You didn’t say that, though.

Instead, you tilted your head slightly, studying him. “It’s a good name,” you admitted. “But it doesn’t feel like yours.” Something unreadable passed through his expression. Then, a soft chuckle.

“You’re the first person to tell me that.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. The first person? Somehow, that didn’t feel right. No, that couldn’t be right.

“Really?” you murmured, watching him carefully.

001—Young-il—held your gaze, his expression unreadable, but his lips still curled at the edges, like he was amused by something only he understood.

"Would I lie to you?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Would you?”

His smile deepened, but he didn’t answer. And maybe that was your answer. Your fingers curled slightly against the metal step beneath you, grounding yourself.

“I feel like…” You hesitated, the thought curling at the edges of your mind, forming into something half-real, half-memory. “I feel like I’ve met you before.”

His gaze flickered—quick, unreadable. Then, just barely, to your lips. So fast you might have imagined it. But you instinctively licked your lips.

A breath held a second too long. A slow inhale. “Is that so?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, he tilted his head slightly. “And why do you think that?”

Your fingers curled against your lap, pressing into the fabric of your pants. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “I just… do.”

It sounded stupid when you said it out loud. And yet, the feeling wouldn’t go away. That heavy, sinking sense of familiarity—like something you should know, but couldn’t quite reach. Like déjà vu stretched too thin over your head.

Young-il hummed, something close to amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Interesting.”

That single word settled into your ribs, unsettling. You should let it go. You should let him go. But you didn’t. You inhaled slowly, pressing your palms together between your knees. “It’s not just a feeling,” you said before you could stop yourself. Young-il didn’t move. But his presence sharpened, like he was waiting.

You exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been having flashbacks.”

There. You said it.

The words felt heavier than they should, as if saying it out loud made them real in a way they hadn’t been before.

For a second, nothing happened. He just looked at you. “What kind of flashbacks?”

You hesitated, pulse picking up. You should lie. Keep it vague. Say something meaningless. But the words slipped past your lips before your brain could stop them.

“From when my brother was in the hospital.” You forced out a breath. “It’s not the big things I remember. Just… pieces.”

Your fingers twitched slightly, like they were remembering the weight of something that wasn’t there.

“The feeling of it. The way the air smelled. The beeping. The sound of the rain outside. The way the doctors looked at me before they spoke, like they were bracing for something. Like I was bracing for something.”

Young-il didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“My father used to visit,” you continued, voice quieter now. “But once it got too bad, he couldn’t do it anymore. Just stopped showing up one day. Couldn’t even look at him. Or me.” A sharp exhale. “And my mom—” You stopped. Shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

A beat of silence. Too heavy. You almost regretted saying anything at all. But now that you’d started, you couldn’t seem to stop.

“What I was going to say is that I felt alone, at first.” You swallowed, throat tight. “But I wasn’t.”

You flexed your fingers against your knees, grounding yourself.

“There was this guy. Always lingering somewhere. Just close enough to be there, but never enough to feel like real company.”

Your breath came shallow now, the weight in your chest pressing tighter, “We didn’t talk much. Barely at all. But he was always… there.” You shook your head, a humourless huff leaving your lips. “We were alone together. If that makes any sense.”

And then—before you could stop yourself—

“You remind me of him.”

Young-il only looked at you.

And suddenly, you felt like you had said too much. Maybe you should let it go. Maybe you should turn around, crawl back into bed, and pretend this conversation never happened.

But you didn’t. Instead, you found yourself leaning in slightly. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the shift in his pupils, the way his jaw tensed just slightly before relaxing again.

“You ever notice how quiet it gets at night?”

The words left your mouth before you even realised you were saying them. You hadn’t meant to change the subject, but maybe you needed to. Maybe it was easier than whatever had been building between you.

Young-il’s head tilted slightly, considering. “You call this quiet?”

It wasn’t silent, not really. The room still breathed—muffled whispers, the rustle of fabric, the distant creak of a bed shifting under restless weight. You could hear 388 quietly snore behind you, you stifled a laugh.

“No, I mean—not like that. It’s not silent. Just… different.” Your gaze flicked to the rows of beds, the slow rise and fall of sleeping bodies. “Even in a room this big, with this many people, there’s a moment where it stops feeling like we exist together.”

Young-il hummed, something unreadable in his expression. “And what does it feel like instead?”

You hesitated. “Like we’re all just… waiting.”

His gaze lingered on you a second too long. “Waiting for what?”

Your throat felt tight. You weren’t sure why. “Morning.”

A beat. Then, softer, he murmured, “If it comes.”

It wasn’t a dramatic statement. Wasn’t even grim. Just… matter-of-fact. And that was the worst part. Because he was right.

Your pulse thrummed against your ribs as you pressed your hands together between your knees. “That’s a terrible way to think about it.”

His lips curled in a sad smile. “Is it?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Because if we wake up already expecting the worst, then what’s the point of trying at all?”. Something flickered in his eyes, dark and unreadable. “Are you trying?”

The question landed heavier than you expected. You blinked. “What?”

“Are you really trying to survive?” His voice was even, but something about it made the air feel thinner. He shifted closer, thighs touching. “Or are you just waiting, too?”

A shiver curled down your spine—not from the words themselves, but from the way he said them. Low. Like he could see straight through you. The silence stretched between you, thick, buzzing with something else now. Not quite fear. Not quite safety. Somewhere in between.

Your throat felt dry. You tried to answer, but nothing came.

Young-il exhaled through his nose—soft, almost amused. His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth. “You hesitate,” he murmured, voice lower now. “That means you don’t know.”

Your breath hitched.

He was too close. Physically and in the way he spoke. The way his presence pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, like he was testing just how much space he could take up before you noticed.

Your fingers curled against your thigh. “I do know,” you said, steadier than you felt.

His lips twitched, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Then say it.”

Your pulse hammered. You shouldn’t be reacting like this. Not to him.

But when you looked at him, really looked at him, you realised—he wasn’t just asking about the games. And that terrified you more than anything.

Your pulse thrummed against your ribs, and there was something in your eyes that he immediately recognised. There was something here. Something you didn’t understand yet.

And the worst part? He knew exactly what it was.

Lust.

Or something worse?

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your thighs. “You should get some rest,” Young-il murmured again, softer this time. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”

He was giving you an out. Telling you to walk away before you dug too deep. A carefully placed door he was holding open for you, waiting for you to take it. Maybe he was right. Maybe you should.

But when you turned your head, just slightly, catching the way his fingers twitched against his knee—just barely—you realised something.

You weren’t the only one feeling this. You weren’t the only one remembering something you couldn’t place.

“…You should rest too,” you murmured.

“I will.”

Liar.

He didn’t. And neither did you.

Just before you turned to leave, his fingers twitched—like he almost reached for you. But he didn’t.

#ao3 #books #hwang inho x reader #hwang inho #thanos #player 230 #player 124 #squid game fanfiction #seong gi hun #x yn #young il #older man younger woman #age g4p #lee byung hun #squid game #loss #dealing with grief #flashbacks

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carefreecoffee · 5 months ago

Text

Fluffmas Day 4: Snowball fight w/ Iida Tenya

Word count: 1.5k, Gender-neutral

Tenya looked out at the falling snow as he walked next to you, taking in the quiet surroundings. He breathed out gently, clouds of fog forming in the cold air from his breath. "The falling snow is quite beautiful, do you not agree?"

You glance around at the falling flakes, each one reflecting off of the other. “Yeah! It's really pretty”

He smiled faintly as he glanced over at you watching the snowfall, before returning his own gaze back outwards. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat as he spoke again, his breath fogging in the cool air.

"Indeed. Nature is truly incredible. Especially when you stop to appreciate the small details, such as each unique snowflake."

As he spoke, you two continued to walk slowly through the snow, the faint sound of his boots crunching on the ground beneath him echoing through the quiet street. "I read somewhere that no two snowflakes are ever alike. Each one is unique, with its own shape and structure frozen in time as it falls to the ground."

"It's fascinating to think about, isn't it? All the different types of snowflakes falling from the sky all at once, each different from the last. It's almost mesmerizing."

He paused for a moment before glancing over at you again, studying your expression as you took in the snowfall. "You seem to be captivated by it."

You nod with a sheepish smile. “How can I not be? It's like a bunch of glitter was thrown everywhere”

Tenya's faint smile grew a little wider as he heard you chuckle. He could see the awe in your expression. "Glitter, hm? I suppose you could describe it like that. Although, glitter can never truly compare to the wonder of snow."

He paused a moment before continuing, his voice softer. "You have a lovely smile, by the way."

You feel your face heat up slightly at his words, the cold feeling colder now that the blood has rushed to your face. “T-thanks Ten!”

He felt his heart skip a beat as you grinned up at him, the warm smile on your face filling him with a fluttering sensation in his chest. He cleared his throat, hoping to hide the slight blush creeping onto his cheeks.

"O-of course. Just stating a fact." He quickly averted his gaze forward again, his heart still racing.

You continue to walk upon the paved path, the crunch of the snow mixed with the scent of the fresh fallen snow was enough to make you shiver in delight. Suddenly a playful but devious idea had emerged within your mind. You trail back a bit, scooping some of the freshly fallen snow into your gloved hands.

He glanced over, his curiosity piqued. He slowed his footsteps as he watched you sculpt a snowball. "What are you doing?" He asked, his voice tinged with intrigue. You grin, hurling it toward him without remorse.

He let out an "oof" as the snowball made contact with his arm, the impact momentarily causing him to stumble slightly. He looked back at you, a mixture of surprise and disbelief on his face. "Did you just... throw a snowball at me?"

You nod slowly, the grin leaving your face as you notice his red eyes darkening. He raised an eyebrow in response, a competitive glint growing in his eyes. He smirked slightly as he quickly knelt down, scooping up a handful of snow and compacting it into a tight snowball.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be, hm?"

You began picking up as much snow as you could, shoveling it between your fingers eagerly to evade his attacks.

Tenya chuckled as he watched you make another snowball to protect yourself, a sly grin forming on his face. He followed you into the snow, making a few more snowballs as he moved closer, preparing for the attack. "You can't hide from me that easily!"

You hurled another one toward him, not really dictating where to aim but just knowing you have to escape him.

He let out a grunt as the snowball made contact with his chest, the impact barely phasing him. "You'll have to do better than that!" He quickly hurled a snowball back at you with lightning precision aim, the projectile speeding through the air towards your face. You emit a small ‘oomf’ sound as you semi-dramatically tumble back into the plush snow, holding your face.

Tenya's eyes widen in mild surprise as you stumble and fall back, a look of concern overtaking the competitive look he had on his face. He quickly dropped the snowball in his hand and rushed over to your side, kneeling down in the snow next to you.

"Are you okay?! That last one was a little harder than I intended..."

As soon as he had gotten close to your fallen body, you shove another snowball in his face, running off with a cackle.

He let out an indignant sound as you shoved a snowball in his face and took off running. He rubbed the snow off his face, momentarily stunned.

"Hey! Get back here!" He quickly recomposed himself and chased after you, scooping up more snowballs in his hands as he sprinted through the falling snow. The snow crunched beneath his feet. His pace quickened as he gained on you, a competitive expression on his face. He lifted one of the snowballs in his hands, preparing to throw it at you as he closed the distance between you.

Tenya was gaining on you, closing the gap between you with each step. He smirked, seeing that you were struggling to pick up more snow as you ran. This was his chance.

"You're slowing down! Surrender now!" He called out, a triumphant tone in his voice.

“Haha, never!” You stumble over the snow, falling into it. One of his snowballs successfully hit you as you plummeted.

Tenya stopped running and smirked as he watched you stumble and fall in the snow. The snowball he threw had struck you perfectly. He walked over to where you were sprawled in the snow, a satisfied grin on his face. He placed a hand on his hip and looked down at you, his tone playful. "Looks like I won that one."

You heave a breath, the fog coming out of your mouth and trailing through the air as your chest rose and fell. “Yeah yeah, whatever!”

He chuckled as you conceded defeat, his competitive nature temporarily sated. He extended a hand towards you, offering to help you stand up from the snow.

"Come on, get up. I hope you're not seriously hurt from that fall."

You shake your head, taking his hand, “Nah im fine, snow was soft”

Tenya helped you up from the snow, his hand grasping yours firmly. He noticed that your jacket and clothes were now covered in snow and chuckled softly. "You're a mess. The snow has gotten all over you." He paused for a moment, his heart skipping a beat as he noticed how the snow clung to your hair, making it more tousled than usual. He quickly looked away, trying to hide the slight blush forming on his cheeks. "Uh, maybe we should head somewhere warmer and get you dried off."

You start to shake off what you can, running your snow covered gloves over your jacket. “Hmph, I guess, but it was fun right?”

Tenya nodded, his competitive drive giving way to a friendly grin. He brushed off some snow from his own clothes as he spoke. "Yeah, it was definitely fun. It's been a while since I've played around in the snow like that."

He paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on you as he continued to brush the snow off his clothes. He couldn't help but think how adorable you looked, covered in snow and a little disheveled.

He cleared his throat, trying to shake off his thoughts and focus on the conversation at hand. "Um, anyway, let's head back. I know a nice café nearby where we can warm up and grab a hot drink."

You glance up at him, the thought of a nice warm place and drink sounded perfect in contrast to the snowy atmosphere. “That sounds really nice, Ten”

Tenya smiled back, his heart doing a little flutter at the sight of your grin. He motioned for you to follow him. "Great, it's not far from here. And they have the best hot chocolate. It'll help get you warmed up in no time."

You took his gloved hand into yours, successfully warming up as you traveled through the snow and back onto the paved path. The unexpected gesture caught him off guard, but he quickly composed himself and returned the gesture, holding your hand as you walked together.

He led you down the snowy path, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the falling snow. He glanced at you, his expression softening as he spoke. "You know, you look cute covered in snow like that."

You nudge him, the compliment throwing you a bit off guard as you glance away, “You did too you know..”

He chuckled as you nudged him, feeling his cheeks heat up slightly. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he walked alongside you. "I suppose we were both a mess, huh? Covered in snow and all."

He paused for a moment, a sly grin forming on his face. "But I think I made a better snow warrior than you. I won, after all."

Please request! <3

{Taglist: @staygoldsquatchling02}

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