#concrete cover blocks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sadburntbread · 22 days ago

Text

BATFAM X NEGLECTED! MALE READER - PART TWO -

----- Warnings before you read ----- torture, experimentation, angst, death, use of needles

A soft ringing noise wakes you from your rest, you tried to find the cause of it, however you couldn't find the strength to open your eyes. Slowly, the noise got louder. The ringing caused a pounding in your head that made you desperately want to cover your ears, to try and block out the terrible noise. Then, it faded into a low ringing, not exactly perfect but much better.

It was in that moment of peace that everything came back to you, your family, the fight, your death.

You suddenly felt cold; an unbearable chill ran through your body. You weren't sure if the sudden chill was from the fear of your death or if it was because of the temperature. You wondered if this was how your mother felt when she died. No, you don't want to think about her, knowing how disappointed she would be in you. Your heart started racing as panic began to set in, a single thought repeated over and over again, like a mantra inside your head.

"I don't want to die"

"I DON'T WANT TO DIE"

You needed to calm down and breathe.

Your body felt heavy as if tons of weight were resting on it, everything hurt. everything but your arm... Why couldn't you feel your arm? You could feel your heartbeat getting faster and your breath getting shorter-

Then your breath caught as you realized something, you could feel your heart beating. That had to mean you weren't dead. With this realization you tried even harder to open your eyes, you struggled for a few minutes before you could finally crack them open. You took a few moments to look around the room. The walls and floor were completely concrete with a red door near the foot of the bed you were in, to the right you noticed a small rolling table that seemed to have tools on it, but you weren't able to see from your current position. A soft clack of metal caused your attention to drift to your left hand; you were strapped down by a thick piece of metal. When you tried to lift that arm you noticed that one of the screws were loose, maybe you could unscrew it with your other hand. Your gaze drifted over, and you noticed a large wrap around your stomach, your heart shuddered as you decided to ignore that, escape comes first. As you looked over, all the hope left you. Your arm was gone, cut off just below the shoulder. It was wrapped in some white gauze that was drenched in blood.

A loud creek caused your body to tense, looking over to the cause of the sound, you saw a man holding a clipboard walk in. He wore a long lab coat and had a stethoscope draped around his neck. His dark brown hair just barely reached his shoulders; his eyes had a bored look to them however, as soon as he noticed that you were awake his eyes lit up.

"Good morning!" he walked up to your right side and looked closely at the bandage. "You woke up a bit faster than I thought you would. Very good" After a moment he clicked his tongue at the state of the bandage. The man then walked over to the small table, placed his clipboard down and rolled it over to the bed. Thanks to this you were able to see most the stuff on it. There were multiple tools that looked like something a doctor would use and a few that you couldn't recognize. You opened your mouth to speak, to ask the man where you were. However, as if reading your thoughts he stopped you. "Try not to speak for a few days. Your throat was damaged a bit during the explosion. But you don't need to worry, you are safe here. I will take good care of you". His soft smile did not match the look in his eyes. "Your stomach was in the worst shape, you lost a lot of important internal organs, but I was able to get some...replacements" You wanted to ask the man what he meant but decided to save the questions for later. The man then began unwrapping the bandage on your shoulder, his touch was gentle, yet it still caused a sharp pain to shoot through your body. You grunted in discomfort but that only seemed to make your throat ache. The man then shook his head and sighed. "See? what did I tell you about speaking?", You wanted to argue that a grunt wasn't speaking, and it only happened because of him but the lingering pain in your throat caused you to instead just give him a glare. The man simply ignored your glare and instead picked up a fresh roll of gauze and rewrapped your shoulder you had to hold back any sounds in fear of the pain from your throat. He then looked at your throat. "This one was replaced a just a few hours ago, and lucky for you I am almost done with the replacement for your arm". At his words you shot him a surprised look, was this something Bruce paid for? You found it hard to believe given the state of the room you were in.

While you were lost in thought, the man then pulled out a needle and stuck it into the side of your neck, the pain was immediate. You let out a sharp yell which only made it worse. You looked up at the man, he was speaking to you, but you couldn't hear what he said. Your eyes got cloudy before sleep pulled you under.

The next time you woke up you were in a different room, this one was bright, the walls were white and there was a large light positioned overtop of you. The man from before slouched in his chair on your right side. He seemed very focused on what he was doing, he hadn't even noticed that you wake up yet. You steadied yourself and watched the man, making sure not to move any muscle more than necessary. You knew that the best thing to do in this situation was to stay quiet, after all this unknown man held a sharp tool against your skin. He seemed to be attaching the nerves to something metal, an arm you guessed, you couldn't see form this angle.

Your gaze was trained on the man as he worked. You realized that you didn't feel any pain from the operation, you realized that it must've been from whatever drug he injected you with before.

It took a while, but the man finished with a satisfied expression. After checking over his work he looked to you, a look of surprise crossed his face as he noticed you awake.

"Oh my, how long have you been awake?" He asked, as if you could answer him with what he did to your throat. Your glare seemed to speak volumes because he let out a laugh "Don't worry, you can speak now. You have an incredible healing speed. Definitely something to take advantage of" The man seemed to mumble the last part.

"Who are you?" Your voice was rough and scratchy from not using it. How long have you been out?? "Where am I?" You tried to sound threating, however given your current situation, you probably looked no more intimidating than an injured doe.

The man smiled back "I am the one who saved you, my name is Dr. Crane. During the fight between Batman and Joker you were left to die, the building you were placed in blew up. Luckly for you I was grabbing supplies for an experiment nearby and happened to be passing through the wreckage", He watched you carefully as he recounted that day's events, "Unfortunately, there was no saving your right arm. After all, it was hardly attached. Not to even mention the terrible state of your stomach, I was surprised you were even alive, it was then that I knew I had to have you as my patient. However, I had to sever the remaining bit of your arm and drag you with me. Once we were safe and far enough, I stitched you up enough to survive and brought you back to my lab."

You knew you couldn't trust him however knowing your family left you to die shattered your heart. You never thought they would just leave. You realized then that you had never truly mattered to them; you were just a tool. You resigned yourself to the painful truth before asking Dr. Crane another question.

"So, what do you plan to do with me? Kill me? Use me against Batman, I'm sure you figured out his identity because of me". You felt tired. Honestly, at that point you wished you had died, at least then you would've been able to see your mother again, feel her warm arms wrap around you, more comforting than a blanket.

At your question the man let out a laugh. "What I plan to do? It is simple. I plan to make you into my greatest project. No one will stand in your way when I am done." He seemed excited at the mere thought of your future success, "Ah, and about Batman. I honestly could not care less about him; I am a scientist after all, my projects are the most important to me".

You squinted your eyes at him, disbelief coating your features. However, you paused when you saw him reaching for a needle. "What is that for?" You demanded.

"Well, I thought since you keep waking up, we can try a few experiments. you seem healed enough for now". With that he injected the needled into your upper left arm. Pain shot through your body. Red dots danced through your vision; you hollered out in pain. You tried to move away from the pain, how? the pain is everywhere, but you were strapped to the table. Dr. Crane only watched as you withered in pain. You thought you were going to pass out, but you couldn't allow yourself to.

Use him. Use this man's smarts and take revenge on Bruce. For what he did to you. Don't give into the pain. Stay awake!

A voice echoed in your head pulling you from unconsciousness, forcing you awake. Forcing you to suffer through the pain.

Someone- Please it hurts. Please, make it stop! Save me! PLEASE!

Your pleading only seemed to make the voice stronger in your ears, refusing to let you rest. Until finally, the pain subsided into a dull ache across your body. You could feel your own face wet with sweat and tears, your body trembled and twitched. Your eyes were blurry as you tried to focus them on Dr. Crane.

"You managed to stay awake?" the surprise evident in his voice, "Interesting..." Dr. Crane rustled around the table, picking up a small vile and holding it up to your lips, "Let's keep going until you can't anymore. Ok, M/n?" Although he phrased it as a question, you didn't get the luxury to answer before he poured the liquid down your throat. You tried to turn your head, but he squeezed your cheeks with his other hand and forced your mouth open and your head still. You could feel the strange liquid slide down your throat as you tried not to swallow. Eventually you couldn't hold it anymore and had to swallow it down.

Dr. Crane did many experiments that day, you don't remember how many, only the unforgettable, excruciating pain. You lost count of the experiments after around number five.

You learned a new meaning of pain that day.

You don't know how long you were out, but when you woke up again you were in the first room you started out in. You realized you weren't strapped to the bed this time. After gathering the strength to move you got up and looked around the room, for a way out. A Sharp pain emerged from your stomach and arm thanks to the movement. Ignore it, you told yourself, there's more important things to focus on. It was obvious that your only hope was the door. So, you walked to it, using the wall for assistance.

The door was locked, you sighed, of course it was. The faint sound of footsteps echoed through the halls; you hurried back to your bed and just as you sat down, Dr. Crane walked in carrying a tray with food. After noticing you sitting back down, he let out a small huff.

"Now, now. If you're going to be trying to escape, I will have to strap you back down". He sounded like he was scolding a disobedient child. Dr. Crane placed the food down on the table that was now cleared of tools, aside from some gauze. He rolled the table over to you. On the tray was mashed potatoes, some kind of soup, and water. You looked down at the food, unsure. Dr. Crane, noticing your reluctance, picked up the spoon and grabbed some mashed potatoes, he made eye contact with you, then ate the spoonful. "See? Nothing to be afraid of, no poison. We well work on poison resistance another time"

You hesitated before hunger took ahold; you quickly scarfed down the food, as if someone would take it away. Dr. Crane watched as you ate, making sure you finished it all. You chose to ignore the obvious hint of amusement in his eyes.

"How long have I been here?" You asked once you finished eating. Dr. Crane seemed pleased that you spoke with him, he most likely assumed you would hate him. You do; you just need information.

"It has been 9 months and 13 days since I brought you here". He answered, "but, who's counting?"

You hesitated for a moment however you couldn't hold the question back. "And my family, do they know?" Your voice was quiet, as if you didn't want to hear the answer. As you met Dr. Crane's gaze your eyes held an unspeakable plea, one not even you could understand. As if Dr. Crane could read your every thought; he left your question unanswered. You laid down on your side, away from Dr. Crane, as though hiding from the truth. Dr. Crane gathered the empty dishes and left in silence; the soft click of the door rang through the air.

The next day Dr. Crane sat and chatted with you as you ate. When you finished eating, he grabbed the tray and pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and set it down on the small table. Once he left the room you cautiously picked it up. After reading the headline you felt your heart drop in sadness? fear? anger? you couldn't say for sure.

"BRUCE WAYNE REFUSES TO SPEAK AT M/N WAYNE FUNERAL"

Your fingers traced the words, then drifted to the article. Your funeral was court and simple, much like your mother's. Her voice soft in your ear as you read.

See? they never cared about you. Take revenge on them. Don't forget all those years of neglect.

The voice was all around you, there was no escape from it. It demanded revenge, you began wanting it to.

Days turned into months, then years. Every day was similar; Dr. Crane would do experiments; he'd keep testing new things until you passed out. After the experiments He would bring you food, during these times he'd always sit and talk with you, it would be about anything that came to mind, you began to feel a type of connection with him. You almost felt like he was your friend, or maybe like the big bother you always wished you had. You resigned yourself to this fate, vowing to one day get the revenge that voice promised you.

After the first couple months Dr. Crane started putting his experiments to the test. He'd take you to what he called the 'training room'. It was a white padded room with vents in all corners. There you would train in strength, agility, resistance and even testing your smarts. The worst experiment that would happen in this room was when he would release a poisonous gas, you were told to bear with it, and you did, past limits you once thought you had.

Other times he put the room to a terrible cold temperature, leaving you with nothing more than your boxers. Even as frost bite gnawed at your bare body, you gritted your teeth and refused to give into the pain.

Everyday Dr. Crane would try injecting you with something new he invented. Sometimes the drug would fail, and he would have to rework it until he deemed it a success, then after that he would take you to the training room to test it.

It was a miserable experience. However, it allowed the betrayal and hatred to build over the years you were there.

You were strong, stronger than ever before. You had him to thank for it, and you knew it. So, you resolved to give him a painless death. You had been planning your escape for years and finally you could leave and extract your revenge. As you looked down to Dr. Crane's smiling face, you knew you did what you had to do. However, you could not stop the silent tears that fell down your face. In one way or another, this man had become someone you learned to care for.

"Wonderful..." Dr. Crane's voice was shaky, he coughed up some blood. So much for a painless death. "No, don't cry over this. You are my greatest success; through your actions I will live on". His voice faded as the fire you caused wrapped around the two of you. However, His eyes remained open, so you leaned down and closed them as a final gesture of gratitude, then you left. You walked through the fire that consumed the lab, the building crumbled around you. The scene almost beautiful in a way, your white pajama pants slightly charred at the ends, you didn't even flinch as your bare feet stepped on the burning embers.

Thanks to Dr. Crane you have truly become a monster, driven only by the need for revenge.

TO BE CONTINUED

Tags @mallowryblog @blover143 @venomsvl @sunnyfield

#male reader #batfam x reader #batfam #batfam x male reader #batfam x neglected reader #batfamily #batman angst #batman #batfamily x reader #batfamily x neglected reader #batfamily x male reader

570 notes · View notes

anothermaletfwriter · 2 months ago

Text

Don't Climb the Stairs in the Woods

Carter isn’t what you would expect from his appearance. He hated how even in the year of 2025, people made assumptions based on what he looked like. Yes, he was a twink but that didn’t mean he was gay. In fact, he was the opposite. He was the elusive straight twink, having the slender youthful pale white frame often held up by gay men as one of their beauty standards while having only attraction for the opposite sex. He was entirely straight, not even remotely bi-curious. It was a constant social problem but it particularly plagued him in his love life. The hot girls he wanted to bang friend zoned him as they wanted their own little gay best friend. Surprisingly despite his looks, he wasn’t very tolerant of the gays or their lifestyles. Unfortunately, he would learn tolerance and acceptance the hard way.

Today was one of the few dates he snatched with a woman. His tactic of deepening his voice and making his flirting extremely obvious worked this time. He was in the middle of talking to the cute blonde named Carrie at a coffee shop when her muscle-bound gay Asian best friend, Tristan, came along. He sashayed in his walk, wrists limping and hips swaying, as he hugged his bestie. While Tristan’s only direct interaction with Carter was a friendly wave and “Hello, how are you?”, Carter felt the atmosphere had been spoiled. He got sick of the man at first sight and hated it even more when Tristan opened up his mouth and all that came out was his overtly-flamboyant cadence. Carter abandoned his date and left the shop instantly, explaining that he didn’t want to date a girl with gay friends like Tristan.

Now he was walking through the woods, attempting to find a peace of mind like he always did. He took on his usual trail, passing some pine trees and a pond that had geese and ducks. Strangely enough, there were no sounds of creatures. No things hissed or slithered. Even the ducks that honked at him were silent. Everything in the forest was quiet save for the crunch under his feet and the breezy wind that haunted him. Something is wrong here.

He tried to turn back on the trail but the forest had reorganized itself, his path now blocked by a thick brush of trees. It was too thick to get through. He turned forward and a staircase stood there. It was made of concrete with graffiti of rainbows and nets of vines on the side. Chills ran through his heart that warned him to not get on it. He became paralyzed as voices without a source whispered for him to go on it. There was something exciting only seen at the top. No matter how hard he tried to push his legs back, they could only move forward, his body out of his control.

“I don’t deserve this. I wanna go home,” He tried to speak out but his tongue didn’t follow. He hoped that this was all a bad dream and not karma for acting like an asshole earlier.

As his sentient body slowly went up the stairs, the voices got louder. As he got on the top, the voices felt like they were screaming in his ear but with both feet on the final step, only the ground afterwards, it stopped. Everything was frozen in time like someone had paused the channel. The only noises he heard were his heartbeat and stomach churning before it all returned. The trees swayed in the softer wind and the ducks quacked and tackled each other in the pond.

His entire body felt cooler, and he felt his raised goosebumps. He was naked! All of his clothes gone and out of sight. God this was embarrassing. He covered his average-size junk with his hands, realizing he was in control of his body again.

Happy that nothing severely bad occurred, Carter carefully went back down the stairs.

He noticed that the steps seemed lower down than before, as his legs made larger strides. His skin was changing, while initially thinking it was a trick of the light, he finally realized his skin tone was shifting into a darker and tan shade. His flat cardboard of a chest popped up like two meaty balloons as his skinny abs hardened into a vascular 8 pack. His jawline felt sore as it elongated into a more rectangular shape and chiseled out for a more mature appearance. His stick-thin legs became tree trunks. His curly brown hair shortened into jet black and straight short hair dyed with a tinge of brown. On the arms he held on the rail, they exploded with muscle. His bicep grew more prominent with veins that pumped testosterone through out his whole body the closer he got on the bottom. His ass felt heavy as it had expanded with muscle.

After getting off the stairs, Carter ran to the pond and was shocked by the stranger in the reflection of the water. He was a Chinese hunk now!

His member poked out as he became aroused from his own reflection. The more he stroked, the more of his memories transformed. All the nights he spent in his car banging woman turned into Sniffies and Grindr meetups where they flip-fucked in his car. His attraction to woman replaced by an attraction to men, notably Asian muscle men like himself, like a real man. His name was not Carter, it was Cade. Before he could climax, his phone dinged, ruining his streak.

He sighed, opening past the lockscreen off his near naked body in front of a tropical sunset to a Grindr notification. It was from Azn muscle, “U at the trail yet?”

“Yeah. Got so horny I almost got off lol.”

“Lmao save your hot cum for me. Be there soon.”

Cade exhaled with impatience. After a blink, a backpack and bike manifested on the ground next to him. After another blink, a pair of tight white shorts appeared on his body, not leaving much to the imagination. He began to remember that he was biking shirtless as usual to his Grindr hookup spot and passed the time by admiring the gorgeous nature and his handsome reflection.

Once his hookup, whose name was Tristan and was complaining of a bitchy straight white twink earlier, arrived, it didn’t take long for them to get on their knees on the warm sun-heated ground, taking turns as they pounded each other’s bubble butt with their monster Asian cocks. Cade reveled in being used by a fellow muscle Asian, their mouths fondling their asses and cocks. After they filled each other with their hot potent seed, they parted ways, messaging each other to meet at the same spot again next week.

Cade returned to his apartment to prepare for the rest of the hookups for the day. In an hour, he had to meet in the bathroom of a closing down mattress store. In three hours, he was back in the trail. He would finish his last hookup in an upscale luxury apartment at the stroke of midnight before sleeping on the stranger’s bed.

Cade sometimes had nightmares that he was a straight white twink lost in an eternally paused forest but they went away after a few weeks. After all, he had always been Cade and no one else. He was a gay Asian muscle slut and was proud of it.

#male tf #muscle tf #whitetoasian #twink to jock #straight to gay #male transformation #reality change #racial tf #tf story #race change

421 notes · View notes

doppel-doodles · 3 months ago

Text

That illustration is making me want to slam my head against solid concrete, Art block said no, and I know when to pick my battles so fuck it we ball-

A normal post about Matthew Hallard from Poppy Playtime

I briefly mentioned this in the Jack post, the fact that I didn't think I had anything new or particularly interesting to say on Matthew as I always thought the Fandom had a lot of the bases covered.

But the more I actually thought about him, the more I wanted to talk about one thing in particular:

Let's talk about Doeys tape.

In game we find a vhs tape recorded by Doey, talking about how he almost ditched everyone in favor of running away, ultimately deciding to go back for them instead. It reveals a lot about how he truly feels about the responsibility that has been given to him.

I think it was so important to include this and the reason why is quite simple:

It humanises Matthew for me.

Why I point him out specifically is due to reasons I mentioned in my other analysis, Jack's control is mostly passive, Kevin only really comes to the forefront when he feels like there is a threat to assess or deal with and it has been confirmed that Matthew is the oldest of the children as well as having been a leader of sorts since he was still a human child, so in the tape it's basically him venting.

Which is great as it makes something crystal clear: He is not a perfect saint.

Matthew is a teenager who has been parentified from an incredibly young age, places immense pressure on himself, is suffering from more burnout than a college kid and not to mention the horror that is his current existence and life-

He doesn't WANT this responsibility, he only takes it on because nobody else will or can.

And nobody even thinks to ask him ONCE how HE is doing, no,no it's him who has to do that, he is not allowed to have breaks.

For godness sake he literally tells us in the tape that he is recording it because he feels like he can't talk to anyone about his problems!

The toys- The children having someone like Doey or more accurately Matthew is not a guarantee, it is a privilege but it's a privilege Matthew needs to!

And you rarely ever see kind characters COMPLAIN about having to be kind all the time, truly looking after everyone else drains you, it's exhausting to fulfill the needs of others, more often than not you'll have to put aside your own and when you really pull the shit end of the stick you get more complains then appreciation for your troubles.

It is such a CHORE and I think a character struggling with being so selfless actually can have such a massive impact instead of just being able to handle everything, it's that tiny bit of realism I love.

Despite how exhausted and miserable Matthew was over being stuck in this position in the end he turned back. Because he loves his friends that much, and he should get massive props for that.

And to think he still did so much but didn't think anything he did was good enough is just painful, like no honey you are enough, more than enough-

Also Poppy having once been the leader makes you think that maybe Matthew might have been hurt the most by her disappearing.

Like her leading was the closest thing to a break he ever got- and then she just up and disappears?? And it's all up to him now? Not to mention the concern? The worry??

Boy it speaks volumes that he doesn't seem to display more hostility towards her considering Poppy doesn't even EXPLAIN herself on why she left or why she couldn't come back.

He is even civil in discussing the fact that she demands for them to be okay with being blown up(also correct me if I'm wrong but didn't Poppy also include in her plan that SHE will get to live? If I heard that I would be flabbergasted.) But that's something I should discuss in another post.

For now that is everything I have about my boy, if you want to see what I have to say about other characters here is Kevin annnnnnd Jack, plus some extra stuff on Doey

#doppel rambles #poppy playtime #ppt 4 #ppt doey #poppy playtime fandom #poppy playtime chapter 4 #poppy playtime doey #doey the doughman #matthew hallard #character thoughts #character analysis #poppy playtime character #poppy platime matthew

472 notes · View notes

nsharks · 5 months ago

Text

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach when he disappears around the truck. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground and motion for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. You steady your breath. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted. When you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look back. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass thrust in her palm.

Blood oozes.

You have no supplies on you, but you carefully pinch the glass between your thumb and forefinger. She bites her lip as it wriggles free, releasing another gush of blood. As if on cue, the kitchen doors burst open with ear-splintering screeches, and three Greys surge toward you.

Blue's bloodied hand reaches for her ankle knife as one tackles you, grinding your spine into the counter's edge. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat, keeping the chomping jaws at bay, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull three times, until it whines like a dying animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from one skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots," Nereida whispers frantically.

"Then we find somewhere else to hide. Come on." Your eyes land on a graffitied door on the side wall. It leads into an alleyway that smells putrid. You motion for Ari to give you the gun as you lead the way, sandwiched between brick walls. You can still hear rounds firing from the street. They stutter in sync with your heartbeat.

You shove a rusted crate that blocks the path. You catch sight of movement, and something scurries between your boots. Blue squeaks and grips Ari's arm, your hand tightening on the gun—but it's only a raccoon.

"There."

You spot a sizable dumpster around the corner, where the narrow alley widens enough for cars to pass behind the buildings. Nereida helps you shove off the debris on top and heave open the lid. A thick waft of rot rises, along with a buzz of fruit flies. The dumpster is half-filled with blackened garbage and charred bones, but no Greys. You don't have time to find another spot as two male voices echo from down the alley.

"I heard it over here!"

"Let's check, come on."

Shit.

You lace your fingers for Blue to step on them. "Quick, get in."

Once the kids are inside, Nereida grabs the edge and hoists herself up. You glance back, stomach coiling as two shadows approach the corner. Quickly, you close the lid after her, scatter the debris back on top, and scurry behind a nearby crate, palm sweaty around the gun.

A fevered study of the shadows reveals two healthy, fit men. One bullet. Something in the second one's gait seems slightly off. You make a split-second decision, peek over the crate, and aim for the first man's chest, doubting your ability to land a headshot.

He falls dead with a thud and then you are launching blindly at the second man with your knife, but you fail to pierce flesh when a strong grip snatches your wrist. The man's rifle skids across the ground and your back is slammed against the wall, your skull colliding with the brick hard enough to make stars dance across your vision. A muscled forearm presses into your neck, effectively cutting off your air.

"Fucking bitch."

Even through the blood rushing between your ears, the growl in your face is—familiar.

You blink up at a man swallowed by a massive burn scar.

The tip of his nose is gone, with eyelashes and scalp burnt away, revealing poorly healed ripples of flesh.

One eyelid fails to open properly, the skin too scarred.

The recognition unfurls your eyes.

He presses harder. "I know you, don't I?" Anger cuts through his gaze. "Ah. That's right—a thief and a killer. You're full of surprises, sweetheart." The curl on his burnt lips makes you flinch, but there is nowhere to go. "I guess you found new friends."

"I guess—I guess you did... too..." Short gasps leave your mouth.

"Shut up," he growls. "I don't want to hear a word from a stuck-up bitch like you who thinks her tits and her cunt are worth more than my goddam face." He is yelling now, spit flying in your eyes. "Don't you dare look away from it! What, not proud of your handiwork?" He breathes hard and looks you over with a snigger. "Finding you is just my luck. I was going to go easy the first time, but now I think I'll kill you then enjoy you. How's that sound? Your corpse being passed around? Hope your cunt is as good when you're dead—"

White-hot anger ripples through your veins and you snarl before hurling a wad of saliva in his face, using the brief distraction to drive your knee into his groin. He staggers back enough for you to escape his hold and push away from the wall.

Gulps of air feel painful down your throat. You back away, readjusting the hold on your knife while he rubs his eyes furiously.

"You're sick," you growl, voice hoarse and low.

"And you're not, princess?"

"I'm not a goddamn rapist."

"You ruined my fucking face," he retorts, stalking you down the alley. At least you are drawing him away from their hiding place—you make an unnoticed glance at the dumpster to ensure no one else has approached, relieved to see the lid unmoved. When your eyes flick back to him, a sick curl twitches on his lips. "You're not innocent here. You're damned like everyone else. That ride of yours now has a shot tire, and that boat—" he chuckles, "—what? Thought you were gonna get out of this hell? We made sure to put a hole in that, too."

His words sink in.

For a moment, horror grips you.

But you channel it through your veins as something useful—rage—and launch at him without abandon. He anticipates an attempt to stab his side again, so he blocks there, but instead, you reach for his marred face and claw the unhealed wounds, reopening them. He howls like an animal, stumbling back and cradling his cheek as blood seeps between his fingers.

"I'm going to kill you, bitch—"

He blindly reaches for the rifle on the ground but you are quick to kick it away. You jump on him, this time bringing him to the concrete, which scrapes against your exposed skin as you wrestle to come out on top. But he is stronger. Heavier. For the second time you become pinned, he tries to dig his hands into your throat. The lack of oxygen threatens to turn the world black, but you slap a hand back on his face and rip off his scarred eyelid before it can.

He roars.

You spit in his face.

Your knife—you lost it in the midst.

As blood pours from his eye, you outstretch an arm and feel for the handle.

The leather is in your palm.

You stab his side.

You shove at his shoulder to get him off.

Then you pin him down, and plunge the knife over and over into every piece of him you find. Neck, chest, cheek, shoulder.

Again and again.

A slashed jugular. Ripped arteries.

Your vision is consumed by blood. You let yourself drown in it. Hot, thick—

Arms grab you by the waist and lift you into the air.

You attempt to wriggle free and dig your knife in them, but the person is quick to disarm you.

"Twix."

A skull face stares down at you. Your bloodied fingers wrap around Ghost's shirt as you pant heavily. It's him. He's here.

"Where are they?" he shouts over the ringing in your ears.

He sets you down, gripping your shoulders to steady you. It takes a moment to gather your senses, to comprehend his words. Your hands, shirt, and face are drenched in blood. Your head throbs with weight. Slowly, the world snaps back into focus. You glance around, spotting Kyle and Price standing behind him.

"There," you finally breathe out. "The dumpster. They're...they're in there. Safe. They're safe."

His eyes flick over the length of you, perhaps to ensure all of the blood is not yours, before the three of them thrash off the debris and lift the lid to the dumpster around the corner. They help out Nereida, Ari, and Blue.

"Ghost." You try to swallow, but the pain hums with each attempt. His eyes snap to yours just as he checks over Blue. "He... They've shot a tire."

"I know. I've got a spare."

"The kayak, too. How are we—"

"We figure that out later. We need to leave." Price slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs his wife by the arm. "Those fucks are going to be drawn straight to us now."

Blood. Right.

You push through the ache in your head and run after them back to the truck. The absence of gunfire signifies everyone else has been taken care of, but just as predicted, a chorus of moans begins to filter through the buildings. From windows, underneath cars, and benches—Greys begin to crawl out. The faster ones are quickly shot by either Kyle's handgun or Ghost's rifle. Price helps everyone into the car and slams the door shut as Ghost and Kyle continue firing.

"Wipe yourself, quick. And change inside." Price throws a rag at you. Your backpack.

You get into the passenger seat, wiping your face and hair with a splash of water from Blue's canteen, then toss the stained rag out onto the street.

You don't care if anyone can see as you slip off your shirt, throwing it out the window, and slipping on a clean one.

Outside, Price and Kyle shoot away any Greys that approach as you suspect Ghost is changing the blown out tire, because you can't see him even in the side mirror.

Within ten minutes, he flings open the door and takes seat behind the wheel. This time Price and Kyle hop in the truck bed with their guns as Ghost starts the ignition with a loud rumble, veering sharply back onto the road.

Time has been stolen. It is high afternoon, the sky a clear blue even though the streets you leave behind in Halstead are tainted red.

Now the map is in your hands, but Ghost seems to know the way from here.

"How long can the spare go for?"

"Long enough." His words are clipped. "But the kayak we need to figure out."

"It can't be fixed, can it?"

His silence is your response.

Your mind races.

Minutes blur. Behind you, Nereida quietly helps wrap Blue's hand.

Colchester whirls by without obstructions, but you keep looking out the window and squinting, paranoid. You make it to the coast within an hour. The buildings turn into colorful, seafaring cottages and the streets turn to uneven cobblestone. Seashell chimes dance in store fronts that are plastered with old signs reading KEEP OUT IF INFECTED. Ghost makes a sharp right down a narrow street and parks the truck in front of a lone, blue cottage that seems remote enough to be safe. Even if the kayak was fine, you'd have to stop for the night in order to get out on the water at the start of morning.

A flock of oystercatchers scatters as the truck doors slam open and close. The air, thick with salt and spume, is cooler here, the breeze tugging at your tangled hair, where bits of dried blood still clings. The view of the sandy shore and rocky pier would be beautiful, if your mind weren't elsewhere, if the day hadn't been marked by panic.

Ghost circles around to look at the kayak. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Price mutters.

He helps him pull it out.

Blue and Ari sit on the steps to of the cottage's porch and listen in silence.

Nereida watches from beside you, tucking a sweater on against the chill.

Ghost flips the kayak, revealing a bullet hole that goes through one end and out the other. Anger radiates from his tense shoulders. "Christ."

"We can't patch it like we did the raft, can we?" Kyle asks, bending on his knees to look at the damage.

Price raps his knuckles against the hollow sides. "No, it's hard plastic. It would need welding to fix holes like that."

The understanding lingers in the air as you cross arms over your chest. "I'll stay behind, then," you speak up. Nails cutting your palms. You're damned like everyone else. Nereida looks at you with wide eyes, touching your arm. "If we can't fix it, then all we have is the raft and it only fits six. You guys take it in the morning and I will stay behind here—"

"No one is staying behind," Ghost grits fiercely. He gestures at the truck bed. "It doesn't even matter if we got rid of a person. The supplies have to fit, too. Even if we make it across, we're dead without the ammo and food."

Price trails his thumb over the hole in the plastic. "Two would have to stay behind in order for us to fit all the supplies." Your breath hitches as you watch him calmly stand up. "Or... two would have to swim."

"Swim?" you repeat. "You can't just swim it. I mean—it's open water."

"Nothing we haven't swam in before." Kyle leans against the side of the truck, crossing his arms. "But it's further across than the strait. Jesus, what is it? A 40, 50 kilometer swim?"

"Then we take turns," Price says. "Two of us at a time."

"I can take a turn," Nereida offers. "I used to swim in college. I mean, it can't be so bad if we go in intervals, and hold onto the raft."

You breathe deep, looking at the water that crashes upon the shore in the distance and then at Ghost, who is already staring at you. "I can take a turn, too."

"The three of us will start it off. If we need you two to cover, then you'll be ready to go. The kids stay in the raft."

You swallow. "It's not just about getting tired, we need plenty of water to drink. You can still get quickly dehydrated, and the temperature of the water—I mean, hypothermia can set in fast even it is warm."

"We load up on clean water tonight and have blankets and towels ready to go," Kyle says.

You glance back at Ghost. The rise and fall of his chest turns more steady as he nods his head in resignation.

"That's our only choice, then."

The evening is thick with silence.

No one has the energy for conversation, only exchanging brief requests or simple instructions. Starting a fire is risky even here, but you need clean water. A freshwater creek lies a few kilometers back, so Price and Ghost take the truck while the rest of you work on inflating the raft for tomorrow. Whatever happened between you and Kyle goes unspoken, both of you focused on the task at hand, taking turns pumping and checking the seams for anymore holes. When the two return, you help boil the water over a small wood-burning stove in the cottage, praying the smoke rising from the chimney isn’t too noticeable in the growing breeze as the sun sets.

The cottage is mostly bare, with only a dining table, a knocked-over chair, and a stripped bed frame in one of the rooms. The bathroom is quaint, its sea star wallpaper faded, and a warped mirror hangs above the sink. You stare at your reflection while the others lay out sleeping bags on the dusty floor, turning in early to conserve energy for the new plan to cross the channel. Ghost has taken first watch, sitting out on the porch with a rifle.

You listen to their soft murmurs outside the bathroom door as you work on getting out the rest of the blood in your hair. There is a red mark on your throat that is sore to the touch, and the back of your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. Your eyes seem darker than the last time you saw them. You take another rag, wet it, and wipe it all over your skin. Then, you pad back out where the last lamp has been turned off and only moonlight through the boarded windows is left.

You slip into the empty sleeping bag next to Blue and stare at the ceiling. It is impossible to sleep—to even close your eyes for longer than a few seconds. Your heart refuses to even its pace, furiously pumping blood through your veins.

After an hour of lying still, the itch becomes intolerable. You slip silently from the sleeping bag, grab your backpack, and creep to the back door by the kitchen. It opens to a patch of overgrown grass. The cold air raises gooseflesh on your arms, but after emptying your bag, saving only the clothes, and tying it up on a branch, your blood runs hotter. Teeth gritted, you pound your fists into the makeshift punching bag, breathing hard through your nose to keep the noise to a minimum.

You hit it until your lungs burn cold, and take a pause only to grab the backpack, close your eyes, and lean your forehead against it while breathing deeply.

"I would say you can't sleep because you're excited for a swim tomorrow, but I know better."

His voice is just behind you, a rough murmur over the distant lapping sea.

You don't turn around. "I'm thrilled for it, actually."

A pause. Then, "Quite heroic of you. Offering to stay behind."

"I wasn't trying to be a hero. It just made the most sense."

You let out one last huff and then settle back into your stance, reopening your eyes to take another swing, but a hand on your wrist wretches you away. You glare up at him as he holds both of your closed fists, peering down at the raw, reddened knuckles.

You’re ready to argue—to tell him to leave you alone and let you hurt your own hands if you want to—but instead, he surprises you by letting go and stepping back. He chucks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground, unrivaled strength evident in the width of his bare, inked biceps. His feet widen, and his fists rise, silently beckoning you.

It’s been over a week since your last sparring session, but as soon as your fists are raised, the familiar rhythm takes over. He doesn’t hold back—not here, not ever. You abandon strategy, driven by the primal satisfaction of ramming your knuckles into his ribs. The adrenaline surge becomes the perfect distraction, each punch feeding your hunger for more. Your breath quickens, harsh and ragged, as you throw punch after punch. Most of your hits are deflected with effortless grace. He mirrors your every step, matching your intensity with his own.

He sweeps his leg out, sending you to your hands and knees. A growl escapes your lips as you spring back up.

He circles you like a vulture.

"I saw his face."

Cold sweat trickles down your bruised neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It was burned. Well, what was left of it. You fucked him up more than necessary." He lowers his fists, eyes locking onto yours with an intense scrutiny. Your nostrils flare as you aim a swipe at his jaw, but he catches your forearm, yanking you close until your chest is pressed against his. With a firm grip on your chin, he tilts your face upward, forcing your narrowed gaze to meet his."You can't hide, Twix. Not from me."

"He was the one who almost raped me, is that what you want to hear?" You dig your free hand into his chest. "And I killed him."

The shade of his irises darkens. "You did what you had to do—what I knew you could do when I left you. You protected yourself and the others."

"I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and I have never wanted that before." You swallow through your sore throat and feel a subtle tremor up your spine as the fresh images brandish your mind. "I wanted to feel his blood on my hands, and if you hadn't stopped me, I would've kept going."

"He deserved it ten times over. I would've done the same."

"And what do I deserve?"

His voice is harsh. "You deserve to cross the channel tomorrow, and keep going. It was life or death. He got death, and you got life."

"And how much longer do I get it? Until the next time people start attacking us? The next horde of Greys? Even if we make it there alive, it will never be a normal life. I can never be a normal person again. Never. I feel like...like there is something broken and rotten inside of me, a-and maybe it was always there, like you said. But only now can I truly feel it."

By the last word, your voice has quieted to a harsh whisper. You avoid the stare bearing down at you by turning your chin. You failed to realize how close your faces have become. Your gaze drifts to the arm still holding you, prominent veins trailing beneath the inked skin, and you swear you can see a pulse in them as fast as your own. Heated breaths pass between your bodies in silence before you look back up at him.

"You murdered someone, didn't you?" you breathe out. "Before shit happened. Outside of the military. Actual murder."

His jaw ticks. "Yes. I did."

The blunt admission doesn't surprise you, nor does it frighten you.

He lowers his face a bit, enough for his exhalation to leave gooseflesh across your cheeks. "Ask me if I enjoyed it. Go on."

"Did you?"

"Very much so."

You swallow hard. "I guess you haven't been normal for a long time."

"No. I guess not," he murmurs.

The air feels thick between you. He studies you intently, fingers uncomfortably tight around your wrist, when the tip of his masked nose nudges tentatively—experimentally—against yours. Your breath hitches at the top of your throat. Your fingers absentmindedly slip under the hem of his mask on their own accord, peeling it up his neck to reveal a stubbled, scarred chin and full, pink mouth.

He doesn't move to stop you.

You study the sight before you—one you didn't see so close up even when he broke his nose.

Then—the last thin thread of sanity within you snaps. With a surge of abandon, you firmly close your lips over his.

Heat instantly spreads through your mouth, through your limbs, and down to your socked toes. It is enough to flood you with the raw need to taste more of it. Your hands lower to twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer, and for a moment, those warm lips move slowly against yours. Then, he firmly presses on your shoulder and breaks away with a thin thread of saliva joining your mouths.

"Ghost." You pant raggedly, eyes darting across his face. Humiliation is ready to sink in at his rejection, but he growls under his breath and kisses you again—harder this time, drawing you in with a hand to your jaw.

It quickly turns into a clumsy, greedy mess of clanking teeth. One of your hands curls around the short hair at the nape of his neck. It is difficult to comprehend that it is his tongue, hot and demanding at the seam of your mouth, pushing in once you part it open. It is his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, fisting it to the point of pain, while his other grips your hip and backs you into the tree.

Your spine presses roughly against the bark. The heat and solidity of his chest against your breasts makes your mind go numb. You can't think about anything, not the day behind you or the one ahead, only feel. Blood courses through your veins with the same heat as when you fight him, but instead of growling in anger, you release a throaty sound of desperation, moving your hands to the backs of his shoulders and digging your nails into the flexed muscle. It encourages him to grind his hips against yours with a low groan, striking an unfamiliar wave of warmth between your legs.

You try to recreate the satisfying friction, greedily bucking into him, but it's difficult with the standing position. The mess of emotions inside you is impossible to sift through, but one certainty stands out: you need more of this, whatever it is.

You attempt to lift your legs and lock your ankles around him, biting his lip as a demand for him to help you, but his hand suddenly releases its hold on your hip and he rips away from your mouth, breathing hard through his bitten lips.

"That's enough," he says roughly, stepping away.

What?

It doesn't feel like even close to enough.

Before you can reach for him, he gives you his back and leaves you there, trying to regain your breath.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley #cod #zombie apocolypse au

1K notes · View notes

goyalcementblocking · 6 months ago

Text

#concrete cover blocks #mm concrete cover blocks #buy concrete cover blocks #cement concrete cover blocks #concrete cover blocks near me #concrete cover blocks spacers #concrete cover block size #concrete cover block price #cover concrete block wall #concrete cap block sizes #concrete cover blocks manufacturers #concrete cover blocks price

0 notes

ghettogirly · 11 months ago

Note

Hey boo! I'm not sure if you're taking requests, but if you are, would you be willing to check this out?

I was thinking about a fresh out of prison Armando Aretas. He's been a little rough with you during sex, ever since he was released. Hurting you is definitely not his intention but he can't help but lose control after all this time away from you. It doesn't bother you at all but he still feels bad about his actions and wants to make it up to you. (Soft smut)

xblackfemalereader or femalereader would suffice.

This is for the freaks! Okay, I'm out.💋💋

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐨́𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚..

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

᯾ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐗 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

᯾ synopsis: Armando couldn’t wait to return back to you after being freshly broken out of prison, wanting to come back home and to cherish you again was all that he wished for. However, he certainly didn’t wish to hurt you either.

᯾ theme: angst with a happy ending, smut.

᯾ format: story.

᯾ warnings: sex, mentions of escaping prison, armando is a rough during sex, mature language, reader gets hurt during sex, use of a safe word.

᯾ authors note: i hope you enjoyed!! This is my longest story yet, sorry it took so long, i added so many different elements.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆, this was a normality within the institution as the men went crazy being locked in their cell for 23 hours a day. Their brains slowly turning insane at the routine of staring at white walls while the day goes by. Men turned into animals here, feeling as if they’re in a cage, they had nothing else to cast out their anger on.

Animalistic screams were scattered around the block of cells as the prison warden took no notice, sitting down on his chair with his hat covering his eyes as his head was down. Clearly taking no notice of the cameras. Casually walking over to the welded steel door, Armando looked through the tiny screen on his door, looking around as far as the tiny little screen within the door let him. He was used to the chaos, however, that didn’t mean it got any less annoying.

Yet, today was the day.

Plopping his magazine on his bed, he walked around to his shower room. Armando crouched down slightly. Pushing his fingers through the small steel gaps of the tiny vent in his cell, he opened it, taking out a match. “aquí tienes…”

His prison flip flops created a smack on the concrete floor as they connected. Whistling, he looked up at the camera while messing about with it in his hand. Wasting no time, A whoosh of light appeared before him as the flame quickly ignited and started moving slowly down the little stick. “Hasta el fuego.” Throwing the match onto his bed, he ran into the shower and disappeared down the hole.

Below the hole was a motorcycle waiting for him , with some cartel members side by side. Jumping on the blacked out bike, armando revved his aggressively before driving off. “Vamos! ¡No tenemos tiempo!” The other men nodded before quickly following their boss.

𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃. Armando’s orange jumpsuit clung to him as the fibres shrunk due to the contact of the rain above, now displaying his buff physique. Alarms were heard blaring in the distance, presumably because of the chaos he left behind.

Regardless, he kept his pace, running to a remote location within the field. His cartel organised a chopper for him there, to safely secure him back at the mansion. Branches snapped as he jumped over them or threw them out the way, Armando stayed alert.

Left. Right. Up. Behind.

Every area had to be surveilled. No witnesses. No police.

Finally reaching the location, a chopper was there awaiting him. A member stepped out to greet him, yet, there was no time for that. “¡Súbete al puto avión!” The male shouted, ordering his men as he signalled the pilot to engage. Some cartel members were still far behind. “Tsk.”

Bolts of light flashed among the mexican faces as bullets made of hardened steel penetrated the bodies of the workers still running to the helicopter, knocking them down one by one, the male angled his arms with ease. Looking through the scope, he released each bullet one by one, none of them being able to escape this fate. BANG! BANG! BANG!

“If they can’t keep up, leave them in the dirt.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍̃𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐒. Twirling his ring around, all he could think about was his wife. You was the light of his world. Staying with him through thick and thin, you even gave up your dream of a beautiful wedding by marrying him in prison.

He was coming back home now though, ready to give you the world baby.

Satisfied with the life Armando already gave you, each day you thanked the heavens that he was still alive. It was painful, seeing him locked up. Yet, it would’ve been worse placing down his casket six feet under. 𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, travelled through your system as amygdala integrated your emotions with the other areas of your brain. He was coming back.

“Ma’am he’s here.”

“Jefe, estamos aquí.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐈. Cartel members swiftly moved to the door, opening it, revealing the muscular leader. Splashes of dirt imprinted the orange jumpsuit due to the dampness of the forest. It had slight rips in it, clear signs of getting caught onto nature.

Armando slowly made his way out of the chopper, slowly analysing all his workers as they waited for his approval. “Es bueno estar de vuelta.” Bottles were popped as loud cheers were heard from the whole crowd, who walked over to greet him. He gave handshakes and side hugs to his most loyal “friends.”

𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃. “Finally you’re home!” Running up to him, you jump in his arms as they wrap around you, leaning in for a kiss. “ive te perdió..” Armando whispers, feeling your scent flow over his senses, bringing him a sense of comfort. Looking up at you with love in his eyes, he licks his lips, “Maldita sea, no puedo esperar para quitarles la ropa.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒, 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍. His heavy arm laid on your thighs, sleeping at an angle due to his constant movement while sleeping. Clearly he was not used to being in a comfortable bed, transitioning from prison conditions to luxurious conditions being a massive jump.

Yet, you felt strange. Your body felt sore due to the sudden use of muscles contracting while keeping up with Armando’s rough pace. Maybe it was the prison system that made him more aggressive, maybe it was the excitement. Who knows?

Nevertheless, you brushed it off. Not wanting to overthink all the possibilities of the sudden change in his sexual stance the night before. This was a moment to enjoy life, not dwell on it.

Removing the pink, silk bonnet that rested on top of your head, protecting every curl from breakage, they spilled out. Resting beautifully on your shoulders. It was frizzy at the roots due to the intensity of last night, the sweat causing the curls to become puffy, but that’s not nothing a little mousse can’t fix. Messing about with your curls as you was lost in thought, you felt a gentle press to your shoulder.

“está bien?”

You nodded, not really feeling the need to tell Armando about your thoughts from the night before, not wanting to concern him on his first morning being free from the cage he used to be contained in. “Never been better.” Planting a kiss on your lips, he smiled at your reply, not thinking anything of it as he was essentially on cloud nine. “Ven a acostarte con-“

A loud buzz reverberated off of the oak bedside table, a loud groan was made by the male as he slowly rolled over to pick it up. Swiping the green button, he answered. “¿Por qué coño me llamas tan temprano en la mañana?” You chuckled at his blunt answer, typical Armando.

A sigh escaped your husband’s lips, clearly annoyed at the shit he had to deal with so early in the morning. Placing the phone down he looked over at you, “tengo que irme..”, annoyance was plastered all over his face.

“That’s fine, i’ll be waiting here for you anyways babe.” You said gently, kissing his cheek and then his lips. Wrapping his arms around you, he leans for another kiss. and another. and another. “You need to go..”

“¿Realmente tengo que???”

Chuckling you lightly hit his arm, “Go and get up.”

“Ya no me amas?”

A pillow was then flung towards his head.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟎𝐏𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍. Armando had blood splatters on his white-collared shirt. The first two buttons were undone as he coordinated the outfit with black pants, he was looking sexy but that wasn’t the point. “What happened?” Asking in a panic as you walk up to him to check if he’s okay. “Estoy bien, no te preocupes.”

He walked into the bathroom, taking off his shirt and pants as he threw them into the wash basket. Walking back out, half naked. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, the scars tattooed all over his body due to the violent nature of the cartel being a sad story to tell, but sexy to look at.

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 - 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐀

“Súbete a la cama, princesa.”

Wasting no time, you did as you were told, stripping off your clothes. Slowly crawling onto the bed you laid down, spreading your legs as he got in between you. Tracing his finger up and down your clit, your wetness coating his finger. “Stop-“ Not even having time to finish your sentence, he pushed a finger in, making you gasp.

Pumping it in and out, you writhed under him at the pleasure he’s inflicting upon you. “Oh fuck!”

He slowly lowered himself down by your clit, still pumping in that finger. You felt his hot breath on your lower area, sending down electrical impulses throughout your nervous system, diffusing through your synapses. A wet object then placed itself upon your clit, circling it.

Armando licked stripes up and down,

making you moan in pleasure, tugging on his hair as you urge him to do more. “I can’t..”

“Puede.” Lifting himself up from that area, he pulls his finger out from you, putting it in his mouth and tasting you. Repositioning himself, he lines up his cock with your pussy before pushing himself in, stretching you out. A sharp flash of pain struck you before quickly dying back down. Armando didn’t seem to notice and slowly started thrusting for about 5 seconds before increasing his speed.

It was somewhat animalistic as he roughly thrusted into you, clearly taking his anger out on your body. It was satisfying at first, but then, his pace got faster. His grip becoming harder. “Armando!” You shouted, but he was still caught up in the overwhelming feeling of being inside of you.

“Cherry! Cherry!”

That’s when he noticed and stopped., quickly pulling out of you “¿Te lastimaste?”

“Estoy bien, todavía estoy adolorido de la otra noche.”

You noticed the pained expression that plastered his face. “Lo siento, lo siento-“

Holding his face in his hands, you look at him with a passion in your eyes. “I know you never meant to hurt me. Stop blaming yourself so much.”

Armando looked at you and nodded, before lifting you up and carrying you to the bathroom.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇, he slowly stroked your face as you relaxed against him. “Perdoname quierda.” He whispered.

“Don’t worry, i already have.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[🕷️] 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

“aquí tienes…” : there it is..

“Vamos! ¡No tenemos tiempo!” : Let’s go! We don’t have time!

“¡Súbete al puto avión!”: Get on the fucking plane!

Los campañeros: Their companions.

“Jefe, estamos aquí.”: Boss, we are here.

“Es bueno estar de vuelta.”: It’s good to be back.

“Te extrañé” I missed you.

“No puedo esperar para quitarme esta ropa”: I can’t wait to take these clothes off.

“está bien?” : You okay ?

“Ven a acostarte con-“ : Come sleep with-

“¿Por qué coño me llamas tan temprano en la mañana?”: Why the fuck are you calling me so early in the morning?

“tengo que irme..”,: I have to go

“¿Realmente tengo que???” : Do i really have to ???

“Ya no me amas?” You don’t love me?

“Estoy bien, no te preocupes.” : I am fine, don’t worry.

“Acuéstate en la cama, princesa.” : Lie on the bed princess.

“Puede.” : You can.

“¿Te lastimaste?” : Are you hurt?

“Estoy bien, todavía estoy adolorido de la otra noche.” : I’m fine, i’m still sore from the other night.

“Lo siento.” : I’m sorry.

“Perdoname quierda.”: Forgive me, love.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[🕷️] 𝐓��𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @milliumizoomi @shurisgf @tyneshaaa @sarcasticbitchsblog @amplifiedmoan @wizewhispers @5tarlan7 @thedarkworldofhananerea @armandosbabymama @dyttomori @deadpool15

#imagines #reactions #headcanon #jacob scipio #armando aretas #armando lowry #armando armas #badboys ride or die #bad boys #headcannons #ghettogirly #armando x reader #armando aretas smut #angst with a happy ending #armando aretas x reader #bad boys for life #short story #fanfiction #armando aretas x black reader

959 notes · View notes

ilovemitsuya · 6 months ago

Text

sylus x reader (fluffy,angsty?)

summary: “During a mission, I sustained serious injuries and was hospitalized. Though Sylus couldn’t visit me, he sent Mephisto in his place. When I was discharged, I wasn’t expecting him to be outside.”

“I’m not going to lie to you two.” Jenna said, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned back against her desk. “This mission isn’t like the others we’ve done. That facility is more unstable than we initially thought. The few teams we’ve sent to investigate before found nothing at all.”

Crossing my arms as I studied Captain Jenna’s face.

“So why send just the two of us, then?” I asked.

“Why not a full squad if it’s that dangerous?”

“Because we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with. A bigger team could draw too much attention.“

“And if we find something… unexpected?” Tara asked.

“You report back immediately.” Jenna said, her tone firm. “Don’t try to take on anything alone if it’s beyond your capabilities. This isn’t about being heroes.”

There was a beat of silence before Jenna pushed off her desk and took a step closer to me and Tara. “But you’re not going in blind. We’ll have a team on standby if things get too hot. You need to trust your instincts and watch each other’s backs.”

Glancing at Tara, she gave me a reassuring nod.

Tara and I turned to leave, but Jenna’s voice stopped us just before we reached the door. “And remember.” she called out, “If things start to go sideways, you get out. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” I replied, glancing over my shoulder at her.

With that, Tara and I exited the office, both of us knowing that we were walking into something dangerous. But we had our orders.

———————————————————————

The facility loomed over us, the metal creaking with the weight of its own decay. Tara and I moved cautiously through the halls, weapons at the ready, our footsteps echoing against the cracked concrete.

Dust hung in the air like a fog, making each breath feel heavy. We’d been searching for signs of Wanderers for hours, but aside from a few ominous claw marks on the walls, there was nothing.

Tara walked a few paces ahead, her sharp eyes sweeping the darkened corners as she scanned for any signs of movement.

“This place gives me the creeps.”

“The readings are coming from this sector.” I confirmed. “It’s like there’s a cluster of energy sources in the storage area up ahead. Something’s definitely drawing them here.”

Tara nodded and pushed forward, keeping a steady pace as we approached the large metal door that led to the storage room. She placed a hand on the door’s surface, glancing back at me. “On three?” she whispered.

I tightened my grip on my gun and gave her a quick nod. “On three.”

“One… two… three!”

Tara shoved the door open, and we moved inside in a swift, coordinated motion. The room was just as the rest of the facility, old crates and equipment lay scattered across the floor, and the walls were covered in peeling paint.

I took a step forward, my eyes sweeping the room for any signs of movement. But then, there was a flicker of motion in the shadows, too quick to pinpoint at first.

I turned to Tara, but she had already seen it. Her eyes narrowed, and she raised her weapon in the direction of the disturbance.

“Stay sharp.” she said, voice tense. “I think we’ve got company.”

I reacted on instinct, surging forward to intercept it with a gunshot.

It swiped at me with one of its jagged claws, forcing me to block the strike with my forearm. Pain shot through my body as its claws tore through my sleeve and left deep gashes across my skin.

Before we could even do anything, the wanderer let out a loud roar and smashed its claws against the support beams around us. A low rumble vibrated through the building, and the ground beneath us trembled. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and a series of cracks split the concrete walls, spreading out in every direction.

“Get out of here, now!” Tara shouted, sprinting for the exit.

I turned to follow her, but the ground heaved under my feet, and a section of the ceiling gave way with a deafening crash. I stumbled and fell, barely managing to roll out of the way as a massive metal beam slammed down where I’d been standing. The room shuddered violently, and the walls seemed to cave inward.

“Tara!” I called out, but my voice was drowned out by the roar of collapsing debris. I saw her struggling to keep her footing near the exit, but then another tremor hit, and a cascade of rubble came crashing down, forcing us apart.

I fought to keep moving, dodging falling beams and lunging over shifting pieces of debris. But it was no use. The floor buckled beneath me, and I felt myself falling through the collapsing structure.

The impact knocked the wind from my lungs, and pain exploded through my side as I hit the ground hard. I tried to move, but my legs were pinned beneath a heavy chunk of concrete, and the darkness quickly closed in around me.

The last thing I saw before everything faded was the shattered remnants of the facility above, crumbling like a house of cards. Then, there was nothing.

———————————————————————

The steady beep of a heart monitor was the first thing I became aware of as I drifted back to consciousness.

The world came back in hazy fragments, a faint antiseptic smell, the dull ache radiating through my entire body, the blinding white light overhead. I blinked slowly, the ceiling tiles came into focus. I was in a hospital room, covered in bandages, and every muscle felt like it had been dragged through hell.

A groan escaped my lips as I tried to shift into a more comfortable position. The movement must have caught someone’s attention because I heard a chair scrape back and then footsteps rushing closer.

“Hey, hey, take it easy.” It was Tara’s voice, low and familiar, filled with a relief I hadn’t heard from her often. She came into view, her face creased with worry. Her eyes softened when she saw I was awake, and she let out a breath that sounded like she’d been holding it for a long time. “You’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”

I managed to lift my head just enough to give her a weary look. “Like I got hit by a train.” I rasped, my voice rough from disuse. “What happened to me?”

“You were inside when the building collapsed.” she explained, pulling a chair closer and sitting down beside me. “By the time we got a rescue team in there, you were unconscious and pinned under the debris.” Tara’s voice wavered slightly, and she quickly looked away, as if embarrassed to show how much the whole thing had shaken her.

“You’ve been out for a while.” Her tone was a little lighter now, a hint of humor breaking through. “Can’t believe you’d scare me like that. Do you know how annoying it was waiting around here?”

A faint chuckle escaped me, though it quickly turned into a wince.

“I should let the doctors know you’re awake. They’ll want to check you over.”

I gave a slow nod, already feeling exhaustion pulling at me again, but I didn’t want her to worry. “Go ahead.” I murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, the room fell silent again, and I found myself staring at the ceiling, fighting the familiar feeling of emptiness that came whenever I was alone. I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath.

I wished Sylus were here. There was no way he could just walk into a hospital like any normal person.

I was about to close my eyes again when I heard a soft tapping on the window. My eyes snapped open, and my heart skipped a beat as I turned toward the sound. There, perched on the narrow ledge just outside the window, was a black crow. Mephisto.

I struggled to sit up, limping a little as I reached out to unlock the window. It slid open with a creak, and Mephisto hopped inside, a small bundle of wildflowers clutched in his beak. They were ragged and windblown, a little wilted from the journey, but I could tell they’d been picked carefully.

I took the flowers gently from Mephisto’s beak, my hands trembling slightly. There was a small note tied around the stems with a piece of dark string. I untied it and read the familiar handwriting: “Since I can’t be there. Take care of yourself. – S.”

Sylus couldn’t come to see me himself, but he’d sent Mephisto instead. His way of saying he was there, still watching over me.

“Thank you.” I whispered

Mephisto tilted its head and gave a soft caw, as if acknowledging my words. Then, it took off out the window again.

I sank back against the pillows, holding the flowers close. It wasn’t the same as having Sylus here in person, but it was enough to know he was thinking of me.

———————————————————————

As I lay in the hospital bed, I reached for my phone on the side table and unlocked the screen. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed out a message to Sylus.

I hit send and waited, my heart beating a little faster than it should. The minutes dragged on, and I started to wonder if he'd even seen my message. But then, my device buzzed with his reply.

Typical Sylus.

The response came almost instantly, as though he'd been expecting my question.

I glanced back at the window, half expecting to see the crow still there. It made sense. Mephisto had always kept an eye on me, by Sylus’s command.

I stared at the screen, my chest tightening as I read his words.

There was a long pause before his next message arrived.

It was the closest thing to comfort I would get from him, even if he couldn't be here with me.

———————————————————————

The final paperwork was a blur, the nurse’s instructions fading in and out as I focused on keeping steady. I was bandaged up and aching from head to toe, but at least I was getting out of the hospital. They’d wanted to keep me a few days longer, but I’d insisted on leaving.

As soon as they handed me my things, I slipped into my jacket and headed outside.

When I pushed through the front doors, a figure was leaning casually against the side of the building, half hidden in the shadow cast by the streetlamp. Sylus. He looked up when he saw me.

“Sylus…” I said, managing a small smile as I walked over, but his expression was tense as he straightened up, his eyes quickly scanning over my injuries.

“You’re stubborn for a hunter.” he muttered, his tone flat, though I could tell by the way his eyes lingered on my face and my bandaged arm that he was probably worried.

“The hell are you doing out here so soon? You could barely stand a few hours ago.”

“They were going to keep me trapped in there another week,” I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt. “I couldn’t just stay there doing nothing.”

He gave me a sharp look, he slipped his arm around my shoulders, guiding me firmly to his car parked a few feet away.

“You’re barely out, and here you are, thinking you’re ready to run around already.”

I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow.

"Since when do you drive anything other than that death trap of yours?"

"Since I figured you might not be up for riding around on a motorcycle after getting half crushed under a building."

He helped me into the passenger seat, taking extra care to ensure I was settled in before closing the door. He didn’t say anything as he walked around and got in himself, but the silence felt heavy, like he was holding back from saying a thousand things.

We drove through the streets in silence until we reached the edge of the city. I realized where we were going the moment we turned onto a narrow road.

“Your place?” I asked, glancing over at him.

He kept his gaze on the road. “You’re not going home alone in that condition. Not happening.”

I knew better than to argue, so I just nodded.

When we finally arrived, he was already at my side, opening the car door before I could even move. I tried to slide out on my own, but he offered his hand, steady and warm, and before I could argue, he was lifting me out of the seat.

I groaned, shaking my head. “Sylus, I can walk. You don’t need to—”

“Too late, sweetie.” he smirked, his arms sliding under my legs as he pulled me up, holding me effortlessly in a bridal carry. “Just sit back and let me do this.”

I sighed, trying to hide the warmth creeping up my face. “I’m tough, you know.”

“I know you are.” He glanced down, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he carried me toward the door. “But you’re hurt, and besides,” he added, leaning closer, his voice softening, “sometimes, you need someone to take care of you.”

Inside, he led me to his room and gestured for me to sit on the bed. “Wait here. And don’t try moving around.”

I managed a small, sarcastic smile. “What, you think I’m going to run off?”

His gaze darkened. “You have a habit of being reckless.”

Before I could respond, he was already disappearing into the other room, returning moments later with a small first aid kit and a glass of water. He knelt beside me, unwrapping some of the bandages on my arm with practiced precision.

“I already saw the doctors for this.” I said, watching him closely. He ignored me, dabbing disinfectant on a fresh cut and glancing up with a glint of warning in his eyes.

“Clearly, they didn’t do a good enough job if you’re in this condition.” he replied, his tone clipped.

I sighed, not bothering to respond. Instead, I watched his hands move, careful but efficient, his expression focused as he replaced the bandages. He was so quiet, so steady, so… unlike his usual self. His eyes kept flicking up to meet mine, only for a second, before going back to my injuries.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” I murmured, not sure if I was talking to him or to myself.

He paused, his hands stilling for a moment, before he looked up, his expression unreadable. “And if I don’t, who will?”

I watched him as he worked, watching how he gently wrapped fresh gauze around my arm, tightening it carefully.

His fingers lingered over the bandage, as if making sure it wasn't too tight.

"Is this too tight?" he murmured, his gaze flicking up to meet mine.

"No... it's fine." I whispered, feeling my heart hammering in my chest. My words were barely a breath, and I wasn't sure if he heard me, but he continued anyway, his focus unbreakable.

"You can tell me if it hurts." he said softly, his gaze locking onto mine.

"It doesn't hurt." I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. But the truth was, all I can think about is how his fingers felt against my skin.

“You could have been killed.” he suddenly said, the faintest tremor in his voice. “And you didn’t think to tell me, or anyone, what you were dealing with out there?”

I looked down, feeling that familiar pang of guilt again.

“Tell me next time before you go off on one of these suicide missions.” he snapped, his jaw tight. “Or better yet, stay out of places where buildings collapse on you.”

“I don’t get to pick and choose which missions are dangerous.” I replied.

“And I’m supposed to sit back and just watch you throw yourself into the line of fire?” His voice was low, but I could hear the worry simmering beneath it.

He was silent for a moment, his expression hardening as he reached over to brush a strand of hair from my face.

“And next time, you’re telling me about this kind of mission. I don’t care if you think it’s nothing.”

My expression softened as I looked up at him

“I’m okay now.” I whispered.

He stared at me for a moment before he gave a reluctant nod.

“Try to rest here. I’ll get you some fresh clothes.” he said, guiding her down gently. “I’m guessing you don’t want to stay in those all night.”

I took the bundle of soft, comfortable clothes he offered.

“Thank you, Sylus.”

His lips quirked into a gentle smile, running his fingers lightly through my hair, guiding me to lie back against the bed.

“Enough fighting it, sweetie.” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You need to rest.”

I started to protest, but he pressed a finger gently to my lips, shaking his head. “No arguments,” he said softly. “Just close your eyes.”

He pulled a blanket over me, his hands lingering as he tucked it around my shoulders, and as my breathing slowed, I felt his fingers brush my cheek, tracing gentle patterns along my skin. The last thing I saw was him watching me, his expression filled with something I couldn’t quite place, a mix of worry, relief, and maybe… something else, something deeper.

“Sleep.” he whispered, his voice a barely audible murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”

———————————————————————

The soft rise and fall of her breathing filled the room. Sylus sat beside her, one leg folded over the other, his arms crossed as he watched her sleep. In the dim light, she looked peaceful, a stark contrast to the worry that had been etched into her face earlier. He’d seen her like this before years ago.

He could still remember that night, when she’d slipped through his fingers.

He reached out almost instinctively, brushing his fingers against her cheek. She didn’t stir, but his touch softened, lingering there, feeling the warmth of her skin against his fingertips.

Unable to bear it, he slipped his arms around her, drawing her close, careful not to wake her. She was warm, her head resting against his chest, her body relaxed in his embrace. He pressed his cheek against her hair, letting himself take in her scent, the steady beat of her heart.

“You don’t get to do this to me again.” he whispered, his voice rough, barely audible even to himself. “Not this time. I won’t lose you. Not again.”

if you made it this far thank you sm for reading! I appreciate you feel free to request ♡

713 notes · View notes

jr-acrux101 · 2 months ago

Text

Soldat's Kin

Summary: You were kidnap to create the strongest soldier. Word count: 2.9k Not beta read. Dark Fic Глупый - stupid Вверх - up Полоска - strip Симпатичный - pretty держи ее в безопасности - keep her safe E/C-eye color H/C- hair color

Warnings: noncon, dubcon, kidnapping - 18+

PT.2

2014- Hydra Base

The girl drew in a labored breath, her hands were trembling; fear was coursing through her. Your hand found the ground, the cool and damp floor brought you back to reality. You were trapped, in this cold destitute room. There was a single, beaten up, stained mattress in the corner, your stomach coiled at the thought of what that was for. Sitting there, only God knew for how long, waiting, watching for any signs of life through the metal; it seemed to stare and mock you. Freedom on the other side, a steel frame only 4 inches thick was blocking the pathway. Prove of life was found as footsteps passed your door, holding in a breath, afraid it would alert someone.

Trying to find some comfort, you shifted. In doing so, pain erupted, you silently whimpered. The stinging behind your eyes was abrupt, blood from chapped lips was drawn; holding in the sounds of pain for only yourself to hear. With no light, there was no opportunity to assess yourself. It had to be a bruise, a massive one at that; from your rib cage to glute, pain pulsated. ‘I’m okay. It’s okay,’ you repeated this mantra, trying to convince yourself that whatever this situation held in storage, you were going to be fine.

Clenching your eyes tight, you tried to remember how you ended up in this room. A light ‘thud’ was heard, a soft pain was felt as your head dropped backwards into the wall. There was nothing, no recollection of how you ended here.

The sound of heavy boots hitting the floor were in the distance, creeping closer and closer to the door. Keys jingled, and terror spread through your veins, drawing in a breath, you closed yourself in. Making yourself as small as possible when the door opened, you flinched at the light that made it through the barricade. A scoff made its way to your ears, it belonged to a man, “Глупый.” You flinched at the foreign language, it sounded Russian. “Вверх,” you flinched again, body trembling. The man in uniform rolled his eyes, he grabbed your arm causing a gasp from the pain. “Up!” Wide eyes, and tear streaks stared up at the man, you nodded your head with a quick pace. Unable to speak, words caught in your throat, you hastily got up. Hand still gripped on the forearm, he dragged you though what was considered your safe haven now, “Follow.”

The hallway was dimly lit, made of concrete and the walls were cracked. You stumbled over your feet, as the soldier picked up his pace. What felt like a mile walk, of being continuously dragged, the pair finally stopped. The man reached with his free hand for the keys, before opening the door, the man turned his gaze to you, “Do not fight.” With your eyebrows furrowed, the man opened the door and threw you in.

Stumbling, you were confused on why there was a transfer to a new room. You examined her surroundings, the room was the same, except this bed; it was almost identical with one exception, this one had blood. You stiffened at the sight, with your eyes trained on the stain, there was no notice of the figure emerging from behind you.

“Полоска.” Turning quickly, you tripped over your own feet. Landing on the floor, in pain, you turned to the man who spoke. His hair reached his chin, his mouth was covered with a mask, and his eyes had black dust around them, masking his features. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, his eyes were cold and distant. There was no humanity in them. “Полоска,” he repeated the word a second time.

Mouth agape, you ever so slightly shook your head, “I… I do-don’t,” before you could finish the sentence, he bent down and hauled her to your feet.

“Strip,” there was a heavy accent, Russian maybe.

Eyes filled with terror, you uttered a small, “What?”

His eyes narrowed, “I said strip.” The tone was hard, and as you were going to protest, the soldiers' words echoed in your head, ‘Do not fight.’

Your bottom lip quivered from holding in the sob, eyes were stinging again; with trembling hands you undressed. The man watched you, not moving, not saying a word, simply just watching. You stood there in a bralette and underwear, shielding your exposed body - horribly. “All of it,” e/c eyes snapped to blue.

“Why?” It was small and weak but the soldier heard you still.

“The mission is to procreate,” the words were so monotonous and uncaring, it grew a pit in your stomach. You went to speak, but the man cut you off, “Finish, or we will get another woman. "The threat loomed in the air, you weren’t dense; ‘Finish undressing, or we will kill and replace you.’

You nodded, the tears finally falling. He looked at you and then the bed, understanding, you laid on your back. Ignoring the blood stains and keeping in the full blown out sobs, you waited. The mattress shifted under the new weight, the warmth of the man made you drop a few more tears. A hand slithered from your knee to the inside of the thigh, prying it to the side. A cold and hard touch made its way to the other thigh, a gasp escaped your lips. Eyes searched the man, landing on his left arm; it was made of metal. Your thighs clenched from the cold touch, but you forced yourself not to move, or to comment, the words he said kept you from reacting.

A metallic taste hit your taste buds, as your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip. The man continued, hand making its way high up. Sucking in a breath as he started to touch you, it was robotic. A man on a mission, no soft grazes, no playful touches. The cold metal against your burning flesh resulted in a flinch. Metal fingers were in and out, you clenched instinctively at the thought of something inside you. He spread his pointer and index finger, opening you more up. The man's stare made its way to your face, as you avoided acknowledging what was happening. Your gaze was trained on the ceiling. He brought his right hand, gently rubbing your clit. Your body squirmed at this new action taking place, he saw as your cheeks become dusted with red. He continued, enthralled at watching you squirm; besides this was part of the objective.

The Winter Soldier continued to watch you, as your breath became ragged. He felt his lower body slowly harden, this time of his own accord. Unable to focus on the ceiling as the man touched you, your eyes found his. Retracting his right hand, it made its way to his zipper. His cock sprang out, hard and throbbing. Glancing down, your eyes widened. “It’s too big!” You clasped a hand over your mouth.

The Winter Soldier simply stared, he put his member at your entrance, "It will.” Shutting your eyes, anxiety clawed its way through you: he pushed the head though. He was met with resistance, her body was wound up and tight. “Relax,” it was gruff, the tightness was painful.

A sob finally broke through your crumbling facade, “I’m trying! I am, I swear I am.” You clamped your mouth shut, afraid crying would agitate him. He narrowed his eyes once more, he brought his hand up, and you turned her head away. Cool metal was felt, he moved your face back to the original place. Your eyes sought his expression, his mask was off. His chiseled chin was clenched, her leaned down and captured you in a kiss. Slowly, the clenched and frigged state you were in, relaxed. He entered slowly, inch by inch settling in wet, slick heat.

A string of saliva connected the two as the Winter Soldier broke apart. His hips were flush against you, he pulled back slightly before thrusting back in. Your breath became ragged, and desire pulled in the bottom of your stomach. He repeated his moves, earning a moan. Curiosity got the better of man, he moved his mouth to your neck as he thrusted in. He sucked on your flesh, and your arms hesitantly gripped his shoulders. Thrust after thrust, licking, sucking after licking and sucking, You let out a moan. Clenching tightly around his girthy cock, made him falter his pace. Opening your eyes, looking at his ocean blue ones, you nervously touched his jaw. With no protest, you gently guided his face toward yours. His pace quickened as you moaned into the kiss. He let out a grunt as he came inside. No urgency was felt so there was no slowing down, he continued to fuck you as he came, pushing his cum further and further in.

Your orgasm snuck up as he continue to fuck you after cumming, you gripped him tightly as the waves continued to pulse throughout the body. Seeking some type of human connection, you held him close. Ragged breath, and chest heaving, the Winter Soldier hardened again. With eyes pleading to stop, you shook your head. “The mission is to procreate.” With that the night continued, orgasm after orgasm, until you were delirious in pleasure and pain, the perfect balance.

Everyday, at what you assumed was the same time, you would visit the Winter Soldier. Whoever gave the mission, also gave the soldier hours to complete each day. You were there for months, not that keeping count was feasible. Some days you would hear, “Winter Soldier is out.” He would be gone for long periods of time, when he would return - he was rougher, less touches, less softness… less humanity in him. The two of you never spoke too many words, just letting actions speak; both forced to the task at hand.

Before the last day you had seen him, he spoke, “Симпатичный,” it was low, as if you were not meant to hear it. E/C looked at him, as your body was sprawled for him to use. He climbed over you, as if he was stalking prey, his eyes never leaving yours. Your eyes fluted down to his lips, before reaching back to his pretty blue eyes. There was a ghost smirk on his lips, it was quickly squashed as the Winter Soldier does not feel. He was fully naked, his body burning against yours, the only relief from the heat was his metal arm; it hovered your breast. The cool metal in contrast to your body heat made you flinch as he gently pinched your nipple. You sucked in an inhale as the hand made its way to the upper part of your jaw. He had gripped the base of your neck, bringing you in closer. The kiss was anything but innocent, the lewd salvia being swapped as your tongues danced around each other would make a whore blush.

He pulled back, breathing hard and wild. You looked down, towards his body, his cock red and bulging, for some reason based on how he kissed you, you decided this would be different. Your voice was soft, always soft when you spoke to him, “Could you sit down?” There was no hard tone, or direct order, just a question with soft intentions. He hovered as you continued, “You don’t have to, but I,” you hesitated to speak, embarrassment now coursing through your veins, “I-I want… to uh… make you feel good, in a different way.”

Another moment of silence passed before he nodded at your request, “You could sit or lay down or do whatever felt comfortable.” The Winter Soldier kept his eyes trained on you, he laid on his forearms to have a view still. You pushed yourself up, landing on your hands and knees, you were shy and slow as you made your way towards his bulky thighs. One hand rested on said thigh, as the other gripped his cock. You slowly started to pump; up and down. He continued to stare, as you left your mouth agape, allowing his member to slide down towards your throat. He hit the back, you gave a sharp inhale through your nose, continuing to let him slide down until you couldn’t handle the size anymore. You pulled up slightly, letting your tongue slide around the head as you hollowed your checks. The Winter Soldier threw his head back, and let out a groan. He’s made sounds before, but knowing you were able to make him feel so good that he had to break contact, lit a fire in your stomach. You bobbed your head, repeating the action again and again. Letting yourself choke on his cock, swirling your tongue down and around, in circles even.

A freezing touch made its way to your scalp, he gave a soft tug - telling you to stop. You did as instructed, your eyes dark with lust. The Winter Soldier reflected that, the heat in his navel intensified as you asked a simple question, “Do you want me to ride you or get on my back again?” He pondered, never having to choose before, he looked at you then his member, motioning with his eyes for you to sit. You nodded, and positioned yourself over his cock, ever so slowly taking him inch by inch. The sweet burning sensation made your legs quiver. You took a deep breath as you finally met his hips with your thighs, he finally laid completely back. His hands resting on your sides, when you moved up he thrusted upwards, not liking the feeling of your warmth around him gone. You moaned as he did so, the slap of skin echoing throughout the room. He pulled your hips down, driving himself deeper in you.

“Симпатичный,” he said the same phrase as you gasped for air, the thrust winded you in a way, never having someone so deep inside you. He let his hips fall and pushed you back down, the Winter Soldier felt in control for the first time in a long time. He used you, in and out, up and down, his cock entering you repeatedly. His metal hand found your clit, the cool metal made you flinch. He rubbed his thumb of the pearl, gentle but fast. His thrust was becoming sloppy, you held yourself up, hands spread out across his chest. You bounced up and down, little “uh, uh, uh’s” falling from your mouth as the Winter Soldier was deep in you. He shifts forward, throwing off your momentum, now he is sitting up your clit up against his upper pelvis area. He leaned further forward, his lips kissing across your chest until he found your nipple. He suckled the perky flesh, beginning to thrust forward, his metal hand guiding you to fuck yourself on his cock still. Thrust after thrust, the Winter Soldier continued, when the warm feeling in your lower stomach made its way to your pelvis, you clenched as you orgasmed. He followed close behind; your tight heat becoming tighter, your moans sounding like symphony, and how your mouth part opened, gasping for breaths, it was too much for him.

You laid on his chest, becoming too weak to continue, too weak to even hold yourself up. You continued to clench around him, your body slightly convulsing from the pleasure still. With heavy eyelids, tiredness seeped through the body, your breathing started to even out and your body let itself rest. The Winter Soldier gently laid you on the bed, simply staring at your beauty. A h/c strain of hair laid effortlessly across your cheek, he stared at your lips; full, plump and raw. He slowly dressed, his black leather suit clad against his body, a knock on the metal door was heard; a sign his time was done.

Vlad stood there, posted in position next to the door. He kept his eyes trained on the floor. The Winter Soldier halted his footsteps, his gruff voice breaking through the silence, “держи ее в безопасности,” the man froze. The soldat never looked at anyone, he ignored all the other soldiers unless it was a superior officer, and Vlad was not that. He turned to Vlad, eyes piercing his soul. Vlad found himself nodding, in awe and terror; the Winter Soldier spoke to him, the Winter Soldier also trusted this girl to him.

Long h/c hair had the wind flow through it, the feeling of the sun’s warmth cascaded down your face to the body. The soldier that was assigned to you since the beginning, turned around and started to walk away. “Why?” He halted his steps, the question plagued you, and him.

Facing you, his gaze turned ever so soft, “Your name, it was my daughters.” His accent was thick but the words pierced your heart. “What happened to the soldat? Who was he?”

His eyes made their way to your stomach, then met your e/c eyes again, “An experiment. All I know is his name was James, and he was around for a while as a top assassin.”

“Thank you.” He gave a nod, and went on his way. Patting your outfit down, a map was found with the nearest town circled, and some money. Your mind wandered to the Winter Soldier, you hadn’t seen him in a while. With no return and the base scrambling, you figured he must’ve not made it out the mission he was assigned. Glancing down, the swell of your stomach made you nauseous. There was success in the task that was supposed to add an extra nine months to your life; now freedom was in your grasp, and so was life.

284 notes · View notes

abbotjack · 17 days ago

Text

⠀˖⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀⠀JACK ABBOT TATTOO HEADCANON (wc : 1757) ˖ ✦⠀

Jack Abbot has one tattoo.

It covers nearly his entire back — thick black ink pressed deep into the skin, running from the base of his neck down the length of his spine. A gothic cross, built wide across the shoulders and heavy through the middle, the lines rough-edged from the start. Not sloppy — just deliberate. Meant to hold. Meant to last.

Behind it, broad wings stretch low and battered across the blades of his shoulders. No soaring angles. No graceful lift. The wings look like they've been dragged through hell and stayed standing anyway, snapped at the ends where scars have broken the ink, feathers ragged, blackening into the burn-scored skin.

It isn't a decoration.

It isn’t a statement.

It’s a brand.

It’s a map of a man stitched together out of survival and failure and the kind of duty no amount of discharge papers can strip out.

He got the cross first.

Late 2003. Afghanistan.

Jack had just finished his first back-to-back rotation.

He was twenty-seven and already carried himself like someone older — shoulders squared against the weight of shit he didn’t have the time or the luxury to process.

He wasn’t a grunt, not exactly.

Combat medics never are.

His job was to keep people alive long enough to die somewhere cleaner.

Tourniquets. Decompressions. Chest tubes jammed through ribs slick with blood and dirt. Dragging men out of wrecked Humvees with their legs hanging by threads. Holding arteries shut with bare hands. Telling men who knew better that they were going to be alright even when Jack could already see it in their eyes — the knowing.

When they died, Jack made sure the bodies went home right.

Flagged caskets. Dusty salutes on the tarmac. Honor, at least, if nothing else.

But what nobody told you was what stayed behind — the blood that didn’t wash out of the sandbags. The personal effects that never made it onto the inventory lists. The things they never trained you to carry.

He didn’t go out drinking with the others when they got home.

Didn’t crash motorcycles or get in bar fights trying to feel something.

Didn’t call his family, not even once.

Didn’t tell them he was back.

Instead, he drove forty miles outside of Columbus, Georgia in the middle of the night, past the closed gas stations and darkened diners, until he found the place someone in his unit told him about — a concrete block of a tattoo shop, all flickering neon and cracked windows.

The artist was an older guy. Ex-infantry. The kind of man who looked Jack over once and didn’t say anything stupid like, “You sure about this?”

Jack stripped off his jacket. Turned his back to the counter.

Said, flat and unflinching: "Cross. Centered. Big."

That was it.

No explanation.

He sat down in the chair and took the pain without a flinch, the buzz of the machine burning low into his bones.

Three hours.

No breaks.

When it was done, Jack paid cash and walked out without glancing at the mirror.

He didn’t need to see it.

He already knew it was there.

For a while, the cross was enough.

It wasn't about God. Jack stopped believing in anything higher than the people bleeding out in front of him years ago.

The cross was a mark. A ledger.

The weight of every body he couldn’t save.

Every face he couldn't scrub out of memory.

Every time he held pressure over a bleeding chest and knew it wouldn’t be enough but stayed there anyway because you don’t let go until someone else makes you.

The cross is the line between standing and falling.

Between duty and despair.

It’s what he chose when he realized coming home didn’t mean coming back clean.

A reminder that there are weights you carry even when nobody else sees them.

He didn't talk about it.

He didn’t show it.

He didn’t even think about it most days — the way you don’t think about breathing when you’ve done it long enough.

It just was.

Then Iraq happened. 2005.

Jack had been attached to a mechanized unit, running convoys through streets that changed loyalty every two hours.

He wasn't supposed to be in the blast radius.

Wasn't supposed to be on that street at all.

But orders change, radios go silent, and Jack went where he always went — where the bleeding was loudest.

The explosion ripped through the front of the convoy, tossing the first Humvee into the air like a kicked can and sending debris raining down onto the asphalt. Jack was moving before the dust even cleared, tourniquets slapping onto stumps, IVs jammed into collapsing veins, adrenaline and muscle memory dragging him forward.

He didn’t make it out clean.

He doesn’t remember the blast that took his leg.

Just waking up in a field hospital in Baghdad, throat raw, leg missing below the knee, an unfamiliar medic looking down at him and saying:

"You're still here."

Like that meant something.

Recovery was hell. Not because of the pain.

Jack could take pain.

It was the slowness that killed him — the waiting, the crawling pace of days stacking up like bodies you couldn’t bury.

Learning how to walk again wasn’t heroic.

It was survival, stripped down to its ugliest parts.

He got his prosthetic.

Did the work.

Moved forward.

Because there was nothing else.

When he was cleared to leave, Jack didn’t go home.

He went back to the shop.

Same cracked concrete. Same flickering neon.

Different guy behind the counter this time — younger, trying too hard to look tough.

Jack didn’t explain anything.

He pulled off his shirt.

Turned his back.

Pointed once at the black cross burned into his spine and said, voice low: "Add wings. Heavy ones."

No more words.

The artist didn’t ask what kind. Didn’t offer designs.

He just nodded, pulled on gloves, and started building them straight into the skin.

The machine buzzed steady over old scar tissue, dragging new lines over broken skin.

Jack sat through the whole thing in silence.

No grimacing.

No posturing.

No fucking catharsis.

Just pain.

Real. Clean. Useful.

They spread low across his shoulders, broken at the ends, snapped where the ink drags over old shrapnel scars.

They aren’t wings built for flight.

They’re built for burden.

Jack never wanted to soar.

Never wanted to be lifted out of the dirt and the blood and the endless fucking work of keeping people alive long enough to break again.

The wings carry weight.

The wings remind him — every time the prosthetic clicks against the tile, every time he feels the stitch of old wounds under new movements — that some things you don’t escape.

Some things you live with, whether you want to or not.

When it was done, Jack pulled his shirt back on and left.

Now, twenty years later, the ink rides over every scar the surgeons couldn’t smooth out.

The cross still holds fast over his spine.

The wings still stretch wide across his back, battered and blackened, torn at the edges by old shrapnel wounds and skin grafts.

He never touched it up.

Never will.

The breaks are the point.

The fact that it held together — not perfectly, but still standing — matters more than any clean line ever could.

Nobody at the Pitt sees it.

Not unless they catch him stripped down in the locker room after a shift gone bad — the kind where blood stains deep into the seams of his scrubs and there’s no pretending you can just walk out without washing it off.

Not unless they’re careless enough, stupid enough, to glance over at the wrong moment — when Jack pulls his top over his head with the sharp economy of a man who doesn't waste movement, exposing the thick black lines burned into the wreck of his back.

Even then, most of them don’t realize what they’re seeing.

They look away fast.

Learn not to ask.

Jack doesn’t invite questions.

He doesn’t offer answers.

He peels the ruined scrub top off, tosses it into the biohazard bin, and steps into the biting rush of the locker room shower — washing off blood that isn’t his, wounds he can’t name, losses too old to mourn.

The water stings where the skin splits open again along old scar lines, where the ink feathers into the broken places, but Jack doesn't flinch.

Pain is familiar.

Pain is simple.

He scrubs until the pink water runs clear.

Pulls on clean black scrubs with his back turned to the rest of the room, working around the ache in his knee, the stubborn old prosthetic that never fits quite right when the humidity climbs high.

The tattoo isn’t about grief.

It isn’t about forgiveness.

It isn’t about the dead.

It’s about what you bear when no one else will.

It’s about standing up when every goddamn inch of you has been telling you to stay down.

It’s about the blood you wash off and the blood that stays under your skin no matter how many times you scrub.

It’s about the debt you can’t ever pay back because there’s no one left to take the payment.

It’s about surviving when surviving means dragging the dead with you — not out of guilt, not out of penance, but because it’s what they deserve.

Because they deserved someone to remember.

And Jack remembers.

He remembers every tourniquet that slipped under his fingers.

Every heartbeat that flatlined under his palms.

Every name he never let himself learn because it was easier to bury strangers than brothers.

He carries them all.

Quiet. Heavy. Without complaint.

The tattoo rides the same way.

Not a badge. Not a wound. Not a plea for understanding. Just a part of him. Fixed in the bone. Written into muscle and scar tissue.

Same as the limp he pretends isn’t there.

Same as the uneven thud of his boot against the tile — a sound no one dares to call out.

Same as the empty silences he leaves between sentences, where everything real still lives.

Jack carries it.

Has carried it for twenty years.

Will carry it for twenty more if that’s what’s asked of him.

Without complaint.

Without prayer.

Without hope.

Because that's what you do when the cost isn’t yours to decide. When you survive and you shouldn’t have.

You carry it.

You stand up.

You move forward.

And you never, ever forget.

Even when the rest of the world does.

#trying to see if i like the element of the pics/gifs #i think it sets the scene?#ALSO PLEASE IF U DONT AGREE.... its my headcanon... look away #hes fictional #jack abbot #jack abbot fanfiction #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #shawn hatosy

332 notes · View notes

aspenmissing · 2 months ago

Text

ᴀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ʀᴇᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ | ᴠɪ | ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 6508 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛꜱ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴇꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏᴠᴇʀᴅᴏꜱᴇ (ᴠɪ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ꜱʟɪᴛ ᴡʀɪꜱᴛꜱ (ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴏɴᴇꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴜᴘ (ᴇᴋᴋᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴊᴜᴍᴘɪɴɢ (ᴍᴇʟ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ/ᴄᴘʀ (ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴛ 2 ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ @ɪᴍ20ʏʀꜱᴏʟᴅ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ <3 <3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

CAITLYN

Being an enforcer meant standing strong.

It meant being the shield between chaos and order. The voice of reason in the madness of Piltover’s streets. The one who protected those who couldn’t protect themselves.

You had always played that role well.

Always smiled through the tension. Always cracked jokes to lighten the weight of the badge pressing against your chest. Always kept your head high, even when exhaustion gnawed at your bones.

Caitlyn had admired that about you.

Your resilience. The way you could brush off the worst of days with a laugh, the way you always seemed untouchable, unshaken by the horrors you both had witnessed. To her, you were more than just her partner—you were her anchor. The warmth in a city that often felt too cold.

And maybe that’s why she didn’t see it.

Didn’t see the exhaustion beneath your smile. Didn’t see the weight you carried behind your easy laughter. Didn’t see just how close you had been to breaking.

Until you finally did.

The night was quiet when the mission went south.

Too quiet.

A bad omen.

It was supposed to be a simple patrol. A quick sweep through the lower districts, one of many routine nights as an enforcer. Smugglers had been moving weapons through Zaun, and Caitlyn had a lead that this rundown warehouse was a part of their supply chain.

In and out. Easy work. At least, that’s what she thought. But as soon as you both stepped inside, that false sense of security shattered.

The dim glow of flickering lamps barely illuminated the rusted walls, casting long shadows that stretched unnervingly across the concrete floor. There was a moment—just a split second—where everything was still. Then, a sudden shuffle of feet. A whisper. A metallic click.

An ambush. Figures emerged from the darkness, a dozen at least, armed and waiting.

Caitlyn’s instincts kicked in immediately. With a sharp breath, she raised her rifle, her mind already calculating escape routes, cover, angles.

"Enforcers! Take them out!" Shouts rang out. Weapons were drawn. The fight began. But you—

You just stood there.

You saw them coming. You heard the shouting, the boots pounding against the ground, the unmistakable rush of adrenaline that should have sent you into action.

But nothing came. No instinct. No drive. Just… silence. A dull ringing in your ears, drowning out the chaos.

A part of you knew Caitlyn needed you, that she was counting on your backup, but another part—the part that had been whispering to you for weeks, months—grew louder.

Why bother? What’s the point? Wouldn’t it be easier to just… let go?

The first blow struck before you even flinched.

A brutal impact against your ribs, a sharp pain exploding across your side, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body stumbled backward from the force, but still, you didn’t raise your fists.

Didn’t block. Didn’t fight.

Another hit—fists slamming into your jaw. A warm, metallic taste filled your mouth as blood dripped down your chin. But still, you stayed still. Let them hit you. Let them break you.

Because, in some cruel, twisted way—it felt like relief.

"Y/N!" Caitlyn’s voice cut through the fog like a gunshot, sharp and desperate.

You barely registered the real gunshot that followed, but you felt the force of it—the way the air shifted as a bullet whizzed past, taking down one of your attackers in an instant.

The chaos around you shifted, the smugglers scrambling at the sudden retaliation.

Caitlyn was moving before she even thought. A blur of precision, each shot landing clean. Two, three, four bodies dropped in seconds. The remaining thugs tried to flee, but Caitlyn didn’t let them—not until the last one hit the ground with a sickening crunch, her rifle slamming into his head with brutal efficiency.

Her chest heaved. Her blood pounded in her ears. Then, her head snapped toward you. You were still standing, barely. Bruised, bloodied, but alive.

Her breath caught—relief, fury, panic, all crashing into her at once. And then she was on you. Grabbing you, fingers digging into your shoulders, shaking you hard enough that your head snapped back to focus. "What the hell was that?!"

You blinked slowly, your expression eerily blank.

A thin trail of blood ran from your split lip. A bruise was already forming along your cheekbone. And yet… there was no fight in your eyes. No tension in your stance.

Just… emptiness.

Caitlyn’s grip tightened. "Why didn’t you fight back?"

Silence.

You looked away, something flickering across your face—something raw, something fragile. "Does it matter?"

Caitlyn froze. Her stomach dropped.

For the first time since she had met you, you looked tired. Not the exhaustion that came after a long shift, not the kind that sleep could fix, but something deeper. Something that had been building for far too long.

Her breath hitched. And in that moment, something inside her broke.

She had always believed you were strong. Unshakable. The one person who could take anything Piltover threw at them and still smile at the end of the day.

But now—

Now she realized she had been so blind.

Her hands trembled as they moved from your shoulders to your face, her thumbs brushing gently over the bruises blooming beneath your skin. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. "It matters to me." Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

"It matters because I almost lost you today," she continued, voice thick with emotion. "Because you let them hurt you instead of fighting back. Because—" She swallowed, blinking back the sting in her eyes. "Because I care about you, Y/N. More than you know."

You inhaled sharply, eyes widening just slightly. You could see it now. The fear in her gaze. The unfiltered pain behind her words. And it hurt.

Because you never wanted this. Never wanted her to look at you like this, like she was afraid of what might happen if she let you out of her sight.

Never wanted her to see the cracks in your mask.

Her touch softened, fingers ghosting over your cheek. "You're not alone," she whispered. "Whatever you're carrying, you don’t have to do it alone."

You wanted to believe her. Gods, you wanted to. But the weight in your chest had been there for so long. Pressing down, suffocating. You didn’t know how to let it go.

Didn’t know how to let someone in.

Caitlyn seemed to sense your hesitation. Because she didn’t let go. She didn’t push. Instead, she pulled you forward—slowly, carefully—until you were pressed against her.

Her arms wrapped around you, her warmth seeping into your frozen skin. She held you tightly, like she was terrified that if she let go, you would slip away for good.

"Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Let me help you."

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her uniform.

And for the first time in a long time—longer than you could remember—you let yourself lean into her.

You let yourself believe, even if only for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, someone would catch you if you fell.

You always smiled.

No matter how hard things got, no matter how brutal the streets of Zaun could be—you were the one who kept people going. The bright spot in the darkest alleys. The girl who always had a joke, a laugh, a reason to push forward.

No one ever questioned it.

Because if you smiled, you had to be okay… right?

Vi didn’t believe in fate. She believed in fighting. For what you wanted. For who you loved. That’s why the unease gnawing at her gut tonight pissed her off.

She had been trying to ignore it for hours, trying to shake the damn feeling crawling up her spine. It sat in her chest, heavy and unrelenting, like a bad bruise that just wouldn’t fade.

She stood behind the bar at The Last Drop, idly drying a mug as the crowd buzzed around her.

Vander was working the far end, caught up in a conversation with some regulars. Mylo was running his mouth, probably talking himself into trouble. Claggor was doing his usual rounds, keeping an eye on things.

Powder had been hanging off Vi’s arm all night until Vi finally told her to go upstairs and get some sleep. That had been hours ago. And still, the feeling didn’t go away.

Something was wrong.

Her fingers tapped against the wooden counter. She hadn’t seen you all day. Not at breakfast. Not in the usual bickering between Mylo and Powder. Not at the bar, where you’d always sidle up next to her, smirking, trying to get her to sneak you an extra drink when Vander wasn’t looking.

At first, she figured you were just off doing your own thing. Maybe you were out. Maybe you just needed space. But the longer the night stretched on, the worse it got. Because you never just disappeared like this.

The mug slammed against the counter. Mylo shot her a look, but Vi ignored him. Her fists clenched at her sides. No. Something was wrong.

She wasn’t waiting any longer.

She shoved her way out from behind the bar, ignoring the way Vander glanced at her as she moved. She didn’t have time to explain. Didn’t have time to say anything.

She was already heading toward the back of the bar, her boots thudding against the wooden floor.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, the dim lanterns casting flickering shadows across the walls. Normally, she could drown it all out. But right now, it felt suffocating. She took the stairs two at a time.

"Y/N?" Her voice was firm as she stepped into the hall.

Silence.

Her stomach dropped. She passed Powder’s room, the door slightly open. Soft breathing. She was asleep. Good. She wouldn’t see whatever this was.

Vi didn’t stop. Your door was closed. That cold, sinking feeling in her chest turned into something sharp. She stepped closer. Knocked once.

"Y/N?" Nothing. Her breath hitched. Another knock, harder this time. "Y/N, open the damn door." Still nothing. Then she noticed— The door wasn’t just closed.

It was locked.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She kicked the door open. The wood splintered under the force of it, crashing inward. The noise barely registered.

Because—

Oh, fuck.

You were slumped against the bed, body limp, skin too pale. Your breathing was slow. Too slow. And on the floor—an empty vial. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt.

"No. No, no, no—" She was at your side in an instant, grabbing your shoulders, shaking you roughly. "Y/N! Wake up—what the fuck did you do?!" Your head lolled, eyes barely cracking open. Hazy. Unfocused. Wrong.

"Vi..." Your voice was weak. Barely there. Like you were already slipping. Vi’s chest ached.

"Shit—shit!" Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She pulled you up against her, patting your cheeks, trying to keep you here. "You’re okay, you’re okay—just stay with me, alright?" Her voice cracked, panic bleeding into every syllable.

She had been in fights before. She had taken punches, thrown them, broken bones, gotten back up, and kept swinging. But this—this wasn’t something she could fight.

And that terrified her.

"Why?" The word barely slipped out, hoarse and broken. "Why would you do this?" Your fingers curled weakly around her wrist. You barely had the strength to hold on. You turned your head slightly, like you wanted to look away.

Vi wasn’t having it.

Her fingers caught your chin, forcing you to look at her. "Talk to me." Desperation clung to every word. "Please, Y/N." A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, trailing down your cheek.

"I... I didn’t want to be a burden."

Vi went still. The words hit her like a sucker punch. A full-force gut-shot that knocked the air from her lungs.

"A burden?" She said it like it was something disgusting. Like it physically hurt to say it out loud. And then—

Rage.

Pain.

Helplessness.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Her voice was rough, almost shaking. "Do you know what it would’ve done to me if I found you too late? If I—" Her throat closed up. She couldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it.

Her hands clenched into fists against your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt so tightly her knuckles burned.

You were supposed to be here.

With her.

Always.

Your breath hitched weakly, your body pressing against hers. You felt so fragile. She swallowed thickly, blinking hard to fight the sting in her eyes.

Then she brushed damp strands of hair from your forehead, fingers gentler now, lingering in the way she needed to touch you.

"You’re my family, dumbass." Her voice was raw. Rough. But her grip was gentle. "You don’t get to just leave." A breath. A beat. "Not without a fight."

Your chest trembled. Vi had always been a fighter. For Powder. For Vander. For Zaun.

For you.

And now, for the first time, you realized— She wasn’t just fighting for you. She was fighting to keep you. Your throat tightened. Your vision blurred.

"I don’t know how to stop feeling like this." Vi exhaled sharply. Shakily. Then she shifted, pressing her forehead against yours, grounding you in her.

"Then let me carry it with you." A sob broke from your lips. She held you tighter. And for the first time in what felt like forever—

You didn’t feel so alone.

CAITVI

The thing about masks is that people believe in them.

And you were good at it.

Flashing that brilliant smile, cracking jokes that made Vi snort into her drink and Caitlyn shake her head with soft, fond exasperation. Being the warmth between them. The glue that held the three of you together. Or at least, that’s what they thought.

Because if you smiled, they wouldn’t ask. If you laughed, they wouldn’t worry.

But no matter how much you smiled, no matter how much you pretended—it was never enough to silence the voice in your head.

The one that told you you weren’t enough. That they’d be better off without you.

So you did it.

The blade had felt cold at first. The sting had been sharp, almost electrifying. But when the warmth of your blood pooled at your wrists, dripping onto the tile, the world started to fade into something quiet.

Something peaceful. For the first time in forever, your mind wasn’t screaming.

Until Caitlyn and Vi found you.

The first thing Caitlyn noticed was the smell.

That sharp, metallic scent of blood. It made her stomach turn before she even fully processed why.

Then she saw you.

Her breath stopped.

There you were, slumped against the bathtub, skin pale—too pale—contrasted by the deep, red streaks trailing down your arms. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking into the white tile, seeping into the cracks like it belonged there. Your hands lay limp at your sides, fingers twitching weakly, your head lolling forward as if even existing had become too heavy to bear.

The world tilted.

"No—no, no, no—" The sound that left Caitlyn’s throat was barely human. A strangled cry of disbelief and pure, pure terror. She froze.

Just for a second. Because this—this—wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

But it was.

Her body moved before her mind caught up, knees slamming against the floor as she threw herself toward you. Her hands hovered over your wrists for the briefest second, like she was afraid touching you would break you further—then she clamped down.

Warm, slick, too much blood.

"VI!" Her scream tore through the apartment, a desperate, raw plea. The door slammed open so hard it nearly broke off its hinges.

Vi.

Caitlyn barely registered her presence—barely saw the way Vi’s chest heaved, the way her wild, frantic eyes locked onto you, and then—

And then Vi stopped breathing.

Because she saw.

She saw the blood. She saw Caitlyn’s hands shaking as they pressed down on your wrists. She saw the way your body wasn’t moving.

And for a moment—just a second—Vi was sixteen years old again, standing in the ruins of her home, looking at her dead parents, her fallen family, feeling that same, raw helplessness that she swore she’d never feel again.

Her stomach lurched.

"No. No, no, no—baby, stay with me," Vi choked out, running to you, falling to her knees so hard it hurt. Her hands hovered over you, trembling, afraid.

"I—I need cloth, something to—Vi, help me!" Caitlyn’s voice broke.

Vi snapped out of it.

"Shit—fuck—"

She ripped off her undershirt, barely noticing her own shaking fingers as she pressed it hard against your wrists, wrapping the fabric as tightly as she could, ignoring the way the blood seeped through instantly.

"Shit—shit—Y/N, you’re gonna be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine. Stay with us, baby, please—" Vi pressed a shaking hand to your cheek. You were cold.

Too cold.

Her stomach twisted. "Why the fuck would you do this?" Her voice cracked, forehead pressing against yours as she held onto you like you were already slipping away.

Your eyelids fluttered. A weak, barely-there breath slipped past your lips. "V-Vi…?"

Vi let out a broken sound, something between a sob and a growl. "Yeah, baby, I’m here. We’re here. Stay awake for us, okay? Just—just keep looking at me."

Your eyelids fluttered again, but the effort of keeping them open seemed too much.

"Don’t—don’t move," Caitlyn whispered, her hands still clutching your wrists, her grip so tight it was almost painful. "Just hold on, love. Stay with us."

Your lips parted slightly, but no real words came out. Just a breath, just the faintest trace of a tired smile. "I'm sorry…"

Vi snapped.

"Don’t you fucking say that!" she barked, voice shaking violently. "Don’t you fucking dare." Your brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering through your glassy gaze.

"I didn’t want to be a burden…" Caitlyn inhaled sharply.

She squeezed her eyes shut for just a second, willing herself to hold it together before she spoke, her voice steady but so, so broken. "You—are not a burden, Y/N."

Your breath hitched. "Then why do I feel like one…?" You hated how your voice broke, how weak you sounded.

Vi pulled back just enough to look at you, her face a mixture of heartbreak and fury—but not at you. Never at you.

"Because your head is feeding you lies, baby." Vi’s voice shook, her hands cupping your face like she was terrified you’d disappear if she let go. "You’re fucking everything to us. Everything."

Caitlyn swallowed past the lump in her throat, nodding fiercely. "We love you, Y/N. So much. Do you hear me?"

Your vision swam, everything hazy, but through the blur, you saw it.

The absolute terror in Vi’s eyes. The devastation in Caitlyn’s. The way they were holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping them breathing.

Your throat tightened. "I’m tired…"

Vi shook her head. "I know, baby. I know. But we’ve got you, okay? We’ve got you. Just hold on a little longer. Please."

Caitlyn took a slow, shuddering breath, squeezing your hands in hers even as the pressure hurt. "We’re not letting go of you. Ever."

Vi swallowed hard, pressing a kiss to your forehead, her lips trembling. "We need you, Y/N."

Your chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven rhythm. Your mind was a storm, a chaotic mess of exhaustion and numbness, but their voices—their love—was something solid.

Something that fought against the darkness trying to drag you under. Maybe the storm wasn’t over. Maybe the weight wouldn’t disappear overnight. But with them?

Maybe, just maybe, you could try again.

EKKO

Zaun never slept, but tonight, the air was eerily still—a rare silence that seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was about to unfold.

Ekko’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he sprinted through the labyrinthine back alleys. His heart pounded louder than the clamor of any fight he’d ever known. This wasn’t a chase against enforcers or a desperate escape from chem-barons or even a cunning dodge from a Piltover patrol. No—this was something far more personal. This was the race to save you.

A Firelight scout’s panicked words still echoed in his ears—something about you, about explosives, about how you were alone near the old docks. That was all it took for him to bolt, his mind burning with dread and determination.

When he finally found you, the scene seared itself into his memory. You lay curled on the cracked stone floor of a deserted alley, your trembling hands clutching a small, flickering device. It was a bomb, its fuse a silent promise of impending catastrophe.

For a moment, time halted. Ekko’s heart lurched as he cried out, “Y/N!” The sound reverberated off cold walls, slicing through the heavy silence.

Your head snapped up, eyes wide with shock and raw fear, just as Ekko lunged forward. In a split-second decision, his hand snatched the explosive from your grip, his muscles straining as he hurled it away. The bomb sailed through the air and, with a deafening clatter, skidded across the uneven ground before coming to rest. The fuse sputtered and then, in an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, the bomb exploded.

The blast tore through the alley, a violent burst of heat and force that threw debris and darkness into every corner. Ekko’s instincts, honed by years of defying time and fate, kicked in immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched to shield you from the fury of the explosion. In that chaotic moment, when the world around you was reduced to a maelstrom of light, sound, and raw energy, his arms became a sanctuary—an anchor amidst the devastation.

When the roaring noise subsided, dust and ash settling like a sorrowful shroud, Ekko was there. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths as he knelt by your side. His eyes, wide with shock and heartache, locked onto yours, as if willing you to see just how deeply you mattered to him.

“What the fuck were you doing?!” he demanded, his voice raw and broken by a mix of fury, relief, and unspeakable grief. The force of the explosion still lingered in his veins, each throb a reminder of how close he had come to losing you forever.

You curled tighter into yourself, the weight of the moment crashing down like a tidal wave. “I—” your voice faltered, torn between words and the overwhelming cascade of emotion.

“You were gonna blow yourself up?” Ekko’s voice cracked, and suddenly, his hands were on your shoulders—gripping you with a desperate tenderness as if to ensure that, even for a fleeting second, you wouldn’t slip away. “You—Y/N, do you even understand what that would’ve done? To me? To everyone who cares about you?”

Tears burned at your eyes, but you maintained the same guarded expression you’d perfected over the years. It was your shield, your way of hiding the storm inside. For so long, you’d worn that happy front as a mask, convincing everyone that everything was fine, even when your inner world was in ruins.

In the thick silence that followed, Ekko’s grip loosened just enough for him to breathe, his forehead pressing against yours as if trying to merge his warmth with your cold despair. “You were gonna leave me? Just like that?” His words trembled in the air, laden with disbelief and pain.

Your lips trembled, the simplest apology feeling woefully inadequate. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” His whisper, though soft, carried the weight of an entire universe. “Don’t fucking apologize, Y/N. Just tell me—why? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting so much?”

Your gaze dropped to the stained ground, every word a shard of regret. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden?” Ekko’s voice hardened into a hollow laugh that quickly dissolved into despair. “You’re everything to me, Y/N. Everything. And you thought I wouldn’t care?” His fingers, gentle yet insistent, brushed against your cheek, tilting your face up so you could meet his eyes—eyes that seemed to hold every promise of protection.

“I see you,” he murmured, his voice softening as he spoke with fierce tenderness. “Even when you're smiling, even when you’re pretending everything’s fine—I see you. I know you’re hurting.”

In that moment, as the smoke of the explosion still swirled around you and the city’s chaos resumed its ceaseless pulse, Ekko gathered you into his arms. His embrace was a fortress built of raw emotion and unwavering resolve. He held you close as if anchoring you to life, his heartbeat a steady drum urging you not to fade away.

“Please,” he whispered against your hair, his words trembling with urgency. “Stay. Just stay with me. Let me help you carry this burden. I can’t—won’t—imagine a world without you.”

The overwhelming noise of the aftermath faded into a distant hum as you clung to him, your own pain momentarily swallowed by the safety of his arms. In that fragile, suspended moment, you realized that maybe—just maybe—allowing someone to see your true self wasn’t a weakness. Perhaps, instead, it was the beginning of healing.

Ekko’s eyes, fierce and full of unspoken promises, searched yours for any hint of hope. And as you met his gaze, you understood that while the scars of tonight might never fully vanish, there was a chance—a fragile, flickering chance—to rebuild, together.

In the stillness that followed, with debris settling and hearts slowly mending, you allowed yourself to believe that the light he offered could one day outshine even the darkest shadows of your pain. And as his arms held you, you took that first trembling step toward a future where you didn’t have to hide behind a mask anymore.

MEL

Piltover’s skyline was breathtaking at night.

From this height, the city stretched endlessly, a glimmering web of golden lights. The streets pulsed with life—figures moving between towering structures, carriages rattling over cobblestone roads, people talking, laughing, existing.

It was beautiful.

It was distant.

And standing on the ledge of the building, the wind whipping against your skin, you felt like you were watching a world you didn’t belong to.

How many times had you smiled in those streets? How many times had you laughed, held conversations, reassured others, lifted them up? How many times had you convinced everyone—yourself—that you were fine?

But illusions had never been enough.

And tonight, you were tired of pretending.

Your fingers curled against the cold stone beneath you. The wind tugged at your clothes, teasing, inviting. You wondered if falling would feel like freedom—if for just a few seconds, you’d feel weightless, untethered from everything that had been suffocating you for so long.

But before you could lean forward, a voice shattered the silence.

"Y/N."

The sound of your name made your body jolt. It was smooth, controlled, but beneath that carefully placed veneer, there was something else. Something raw.

You turned your head slightly, already knowing who it was.

Mel Medarda.

She stood a few feet away, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights. The golden accents of her dress shimmered as she moved, slow and deliberate, like she was approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any second.

She didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. Didn’t break the fragile moment with frantic desperation.

She just watched you.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to remain steady. "Go back, Mel." She tilted her head ever so slightly, unreadable. "This isn’t something you need to see."

Mel didn’t listen. Of course she didn’t. Another step forward. Then another. The click of her heels against the rooftop was almost inaudible beneath the wind.

She was closer now—close enough that you could see the flicker of something dark in her golden eyes. Something almost dangerous.

Not anger. Not fear.

Determination.

"You’re trembling," she observed, her voice impossibly soft, but her gaze never wavered. "You don’t want this."

Your jaw clenched. "You don’t know that."*

Mel exhaled through her nose, almost like she was restraining herself from reacting. She studied you, as if peeling back every layer, every mask you had ever worn.

Then, after a pause, she murmured, "Don’t I?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

She took another step, slow and measured, until she was close enough to touch you. But she didn’t. Not yet.

"You’ve spent so much time making sure everyone else is happy," she said, her voice dipping lower, "that you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve the same."

The words struck something deep inside you.

A bitter laugh bubbled up, but it sounded wrong—hollow, empty. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Mel hummed, a sound so soft you almost missed it.

"You do," she countered. "You always do."* Silence stretched between you. Your fingers curled against the stone ledge. Your heart pounded.

"I just…" You hesitated, voice barely audible. "I don’t think I can keep doing this, Mel."*

Mel inhaled slowly, carefully. Her posture remained composed, but there was something new in her expression. Something that made your chest ache.

Pain.

"You can," she whispered. "And you will."

You turned your head fully now, searching her face, your eyes burning. "Why do you care so much?"

Mel stilled.

And then, after a long moment, she spoke.

"Because I know what it feels like to stand on the edge of something and believe there’s no way forward."* Her words sent a sharp chill through your body.

You had never seen Mel Medarda falter. She was always so composed, so in control. A force of nature—untouchable, unreadable.

But tonight, she was human.

"And I know what it feels like," she continued, "when someone reaches for you before you fall."*

Your throat tightened.

Mel slowly, finally, reached out, her fingertips brushing against yours. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just there.

"Come back to me," she whispered. "Step down." The wind howled around you, but it wasn’t the wind that made your body waver. It was her.

Because Mel Medarda was not a woman who begged.

And yet here she was, golden eyes raw with something so painfully vulnerable it almost undid you completely. Your lips parted, but no words came.

"I don’t deserve you," you choked out instead.

"That is not your choice to make," she countered, her voice unwavering. "Step down."

Your heart thundered against your ribs. You stared at her outstretched hand, at the warmth and steadiness it promised.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be selfish.

You took her hand.

The second you did, Mel moved.

With a quiet, shuddering breath, she pulled you into her arms, crushing you against her. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other gripping your waist as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Her warmth surrounded you—steady, grounding. Her heartbeat thrummed against your own.

"I’ve got you," she whispered. "I’ve got you, Y/N."*

Your fingers dug into the fabric of her dress. "I’m sorry," you whispered against her shoulder.

Mel exhaled, her hand smoothing over your hair. "No," she murmured. "Just stay."

And in that moment—buried in her strength, her quiet desperation—you realized something.

You had spent so long trying to carry the world, to be the light for others, that you forgot what it felt like to have someone hold you.

Maybe you weren’t alone after all.

And maybe, just maybe, you could learn how to stay.

SEVIKA

The water welcomed you like an old friend. Cold. Heavy. Quiet. You thought it would hurt. That maybe your body would fight against it, that some primal instinct would kick in and force you to claw your way back to the surface.

But it didn’t.

There was no struggle. No panic.

Only the gentle pull of the depths, the soft lull of the current wrapping around you, dragging you downward as if the city itself had finally decided to let you go.

The world above faded, the distorted glow of neon lights disappearing as your vision darkened.

And for the first time in a long time—there was peace.

No expectations. No forced smiles. No pretending.

Just silence.

Just—

Nothing.

Sevika had a bad feeling. She wasn’t the sentimental type. Didn’t believe in gut feelings or fate or any of that bullshit. But tonight, something was wrong.

It started with little things.

The way your hands shook when you thought no one was looking. The way your laughter came a second too late in conversations, like you had to remind yourself how to react. The way your smile was too perfect, stretched too tight like it might shatter at any moment.

Sevika noticed.

She always noticed.

You thought you were good at hiding it. Thought you had everyone fooled. But Sevika had spent too many years reading people, understanding their weaknesses, predicting when someone was about to break.

And tonight— Something in you had cracked.

She should have said something. Should have pulled you aside, forced you to talk, pried the truth out of you with sharp words and soft hands.

But she didn’t.

And now you were gone. She searched for you. The bar. The alleys. The rooftops. Nothing. Her heartbeat quickened, each passing second making her pulse drum louder in her ears.

Then she heard it—

A scream. Bloodcurdling. Terrified. Sevika’s stomach dropped.

Her legs carried her before her mind caught up, pushing through the thick crowd gathering near the docks, voices blurring into meaningless static.

She shoved past them, her gut twisting, and then—

A splash. A glimpse of something pale beneath the surface. And then—

You. Floating. Still. The murky water of Zaun was swallowing you whole. No—

"NO!" She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She jumped. The river hit like a fist of ice, numbing her limbs instantly, but she fought against it.

Her body cut through the water, powerful strokes tearing through the current. The city above blurred, muffled, disappearing as she dove deeper, reaching for you—

Her fingers brushed your wrist. Then your arm. Her metal hand latched onto you, tight, refusing to let go.

"I got you, baby, I got you," she muttered, voice lost beneath the water as she dragged you back up, her own lungs burning.

She kicked hard, breaking the surface with a sharp gasp, the cold air slicing into her chest like a blade.

"Breathe, damn you," she growled, hauling your lifeless body onto the dock, collapsing beside you on trembling arms.

Your skin was ice. Your lips were blue.

You weren’t breathing.

"Shit, shit—fuck!" Sevika’s voice cracked as she pressed two fingers to your throat. Nothing. "No, no, no—" Her pulse roared. Her vision blurred. Her hands shook. Then she moved.

She tilted your head back, her hands automatically finding position on your chest.

"Stay with me, baby—!" She pushed. Hard. "Come on, come on, come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, slamming her palms into your sternum, forcing your heart to beat.

Once. Twice. Five times.

"Don’t fucking do this to me, Y/N—!" Her breath hitched, but she kept going.

She tilted your chin, pinched your nose, sealed her lips over yours, and breathed.

Her own chest ached from how hard she inhaled, desperate to fill your lungs, desperate to hear you gasp, to feel anything.

She pulled back.

Nothing.

"FUCK!" Her fists curled, her body shaking as she wiped the wet strands of hair clinging to your face. "Don’t you dare fucking leave me, you hear me?" Her voice cracked, splintering with something raw and ugly. "Don’t you fucking do this—!"

She pressed down again. Harder.

"Come on, babygirl, fight—fight me, damn it!" Another push. Another breath. "Please, Y/N—just breathe, just fucking breathe!"

Her vision swam. Her jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might crack. "I swear to God, if you leave me, I’ll—" Her voice caught, breaking into something closer to a sob.

Another push. Another—

A cough. A strangled, gasping choke as your body convulsed violently.

Water spilled from your lips, your whole frame shuddering as air tore through your lungs.

"Oh, fuck—" Sevika nearly collapsed onto you, hands cupping your face, her forehead pressing hard against yours.

"Shit, shit, baby—" Her breath came in ragged, uneven gulps, and she felt her body trembling, her mind catching up to what almost just happened.

You were alive.

Barely. But alive.

"Sevika..." Your voice was wrecked, barely a whisper, but the second you said her name, her fingers tightened on you.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Her voice was hoarse, torn somewhere between anger and something closer to begging. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Tears burned your throat. "I—I don’t know." Her breath hitched. You looked small. Smaller than you ever had before. Like if she let go, you’d slip away all over again.

"You really think I’d let you go that easy?" she muttered, voice raw.

You swallowed thickly, barely holding back the sob in your chest. "I thought—"

"Don’t." Her grip tightened. Metal fingers digging into your soaked shirt, grounding you to her. "Don’t fucking say it."

Silence.

The water dripped from both of you, pooling beneath her knees, mixing with the blood on her knuckles from where she had gripped the dock too hard.

Then, softer—

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Her forehead pressed against yours, her breath warm despite the cold, her entire body trembling. "Do you have any idea what I’d do if I lost you?" Your chest ached, but not from the CPR.

"I didn’t want to be a burden."

Her eyes darkened. "Burden?"

She pulled back just enough to glare at you, her jaw clenching so tightly you swore you heard her teeth grind.

"You're the only thing in this shit city that makes me feel alive, and you think you’re a fucking burden?"

Your breath shuddered. "I'm sorry."

Sevika exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a bitter chuckle—one that held no humor, only exhaustion.

"Yeah? Don’t be sorry."

She pulled you closer, her arms wrapping around you, her metal hand pressing against the back of your head, keeping you there—safe.

"Just don’t fucking do it again." You weren’t sure if you could promise that.

But as she held you—tightly, desperately, like you were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world—you thought… maybe, just maybe…

You could try.

322 notes · View notes

oaksgrove · 17 days ago

Text

Where Loneliness Ends

Pairing: Nikto x Reader

Synopsis: An arranged marriage born out of strategy, not affection, leaves you and Nikto sharing a cold, crumbling apartment—and colder silences. At first, there’s only duty and distance. But somewhere between shared tea, soft conversations, and tentative touches, something warmer begins to bloom.

Warnings: Slow-burn romance, emotional vulnerability, strangers-to-lovers, mutual loneliness, soft hurt/comfort, minor depictions of nightmares/anxiety, arranged marriage setup, gentle physical affection.

Word Count: 1055

The apartment was cold. Not freezing, but cold in the kind of way that settled into your bones and made your breath come out in faint clouds for the first ten minutes after entering.

It was a wedding gift—if it could be called that. A thin, government-issued flat in one of the concrete apartment blocks along the gray veins of a Russian city you didn’t know well enough to call home. The wallpaper was cracked in places, faded rose-colored floral print peeling at the edges. The kitchen smelled faintly of mildew. The living room was barely large enough for the two-person couch that had likely been there since the ‘80s. The bed was... singular. One. In the only bedroom. A twin mattress wouldn’t have surprised you, but it was a queen—generous, given the space.

You stood at the threshold of the room, suitcase in hand, your new husband already dropping his bag with a quiet grunt. He didn’t say much. Never did. You barely knew him, just his name and that he was efficient, distant, and painfully precise. Cold, even.

The marriage was arranged. Strategic, signed with pens that left heavy ink stains on long-winded contracts. A merger, not of hearts, but of usefulness.

You hadn’t spoken a full paragraph to him since the ceremony.

He wore a black turtleneck and fingerless gloves, even indoors. His mask—the one that covered the lower half of his face, not the full one from work—remained on. You wondered if he ever took it off. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know yet.

“…Do you want the left side or right?” you asked eventually, nodding to the bed as you finally wheeled your suitcase in.

He glanced up from unzipping his duffel. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” You took the right. It felt like defeat somehow.

The first week passed with minimal conversation.

You cooked. He washed the dishes. You picked up groceries. He took out the trash. The division of labor was more out of politeness than partnership. You sometimes passed each other in the hallway, too close, your shoulders brushing slightly. He never flinched, but he never looked you in the eye either.

At night, the bed was a minefield of boundaries.

The silence became louder as the days crept by. You didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he should.

One evening, you stood at the window with a cup of tea clutched to your chest, staring out at the snowfall. The radiator barely worked.

“It’s very quiet here,” you murmured. Not expecting a reply. Just needing to hear something.

Nikto was at the table, cleaning his sidearm with mechanical precision. The soft clicks of metal on metal were the only music of the flat.

“We like quiet,” he said simply.

You turned, gaze softening. “I used to think I did, too.”

He looked up then, eyes meeting yours for just a beat too long. It wasn't warmth, not yet—but it was something softer than before.

The turning point was a nightmare.

You woke up with a sharp gasp, sweat slick across your spine, the blankets tangled around your legs. The room was pitch dark, and your chest ached from the tight knot of panic still coiled inside it.

Nikto sat up slowly, not saying a word. You felt him shift beside you, and when you turned to look, his face was bare—only the dim light from the hallway lit his sharp features.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower than usual. Almost gentle.

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t let yourself be since you arrived.

“Bad dream,” you whispered. “I… I didn’t expect this to feel so lonely.”

The words slipped out before you could swallow them down. You braced for his usual silence.

Instead, you heard the rustle of sheets. And then: the tentative brush of fingers over yours under the blanket.

“It is lonely,” he said. “For us, too.”

You blinked. Let that truth settle into your skin like warm water.

You didn’t say anything else. Just let his fingers stay wrapped with yours, both of you pretending that it was only for comfort. Just for tonight.

Over the next few weeks, things began to shift.

He started cooking breakfast sometimes. He brought home flowers once—muted, wintery ones with grey-blue petals and icy stems. You didn’t ask why. He didn’t offer a reason.

He still rarely smiled, but you learned how to read the way his eyes softened when you passed him a cup of tea without asking. Or how he stood a little too close in the kitchen when he didn’t need to.

You found out he liked old books. Russian literature. Pushkin and Tolstoy and the smell of libraries. You told him about the time you built a plane model with your dad when you were twelve. He listened.

One night, you came home with snow dusted on your coat and found him on the couch, blanket thrown haphazardly over his lap. He looked up, and for the first time, smiled.

Not a full one. Barely there. But it was real.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Sorry.” You kicked off your boots. “Train stopped working again.”

He stood, walked over, and without thinking, pulled the scarf from your neck. His fingers brushed your jaw. Deliberate. Careful.

You froze.

“Your face is red,” he said quietly. “From the cold.”

You stared at him, throat tight. Then, slowly, deliberately, reached up and placed your hand on his.

“I don’t mind the cold,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”

“Can we?” he asked, leaning his face, voice like crushed velvet.

You nodded.

And he kissed you, gently, almost reverent. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

He still didn’t smile.

But you felt it in the kiss. In the way he held your face after, forehead pressed to yours.

In the way he whispered, “You make this feel like home.”

And by the end of the month, the flat didn’t feel so cold. You’d hung a photo or two. A mug collection had started by the sink. The bed stayed warm at night—not from the radiator, but because of his arms.

You’d both stopped pretending.

It was inconvenient, strange, uncomfortable at first.

But somehow… love had moved in quietly and no contract could have prepared you for that.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

#call of duty fanfic #call of duty #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #nikto x reader #call of duty nikto #cod nikto #mwii nikto #nikto #nikto cod #kortac x reader #kortac #cod

171 notes · View notes

writeriguess · 4 months ago

Text

The Quiet Storm // Katsuki x fem!reader

author's note: another comfort fic <3

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of burning metal. Explosions echoed in the distance, but you were too focused on the enemy in front of you to care about anything else. Katsuki Bakugo was a few meters to your left, palms sparking and lips curled into a familiar snarl as he sized up the group of villains blocking your path.

"You keeping up, or what?" he barked over his shoulder, crimson eyes flicking toward you for the briefest second.

You smirked, raising your fists. "Don't get cocky, Dynamight. I'm not the one who's been holding back."

His laugh was sharp and brief, more of a scoff. "As if! Watch and learn, princess."

Without waiting for a response, Katsuki launched forward, palms blasting him through the air as he closed the distance to the nearest villain. You moved in tandem, feet pounding against the concrete as you targeted the opponent on the right.

The fight was chaos—an orchestra of shouts, quirk flashes, and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears. You dodged a burst of ice, countering with a well-timed uppercut that left the villain sprawling. Beside you, Katsuki was relentless, explosions lighting up the battlefield as he dispatched his targets with brutal efficiency.

"Hey!" he shouted, jerking his head toward a trio of villains regrouping further down the alley. "You take left, I'll cover the rest."

"Got it!"

You veered left, engaging a tall villain with a quirk that seemed to amplify sound waves. The noise was deafening, but you powered through, using your agility to weave past his attacks before delivering a decisive blow. The moment he dropped, you turned to see Katsuki finishing off the last of his targets with a thunderous explosion.

"Done already?" you teased, jogging over to him.

"Of course I am," he shot back, his expression a mix of pride and irritation. "What, you thought I'd let some weak-ass extras slow me down?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but the sound of approaching footsteps made you both tense. Turning toward the source, you caught sight of a shadowy figure emerging from the smoke, their presence radiating danger.

"Stay sharp," Katsuki muttered, stepping in front of you without a second thought.

"Like I need you to protect me," you replied, though you felt a flicker of warmth at his instinctive action.

The figure stopped a few paces away, their lips curling into a sinister smile. "Well, well. Dynamight and his little sidekick. This should be fun."

You exchanged a glance with Katsuki, his eyes burning with determination. "Sidekick?" he growled. "You're dead."

The fight shifted in an instant. The villain moved faster than you anticipated, closing the distance and slamming you against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of your lungs. Pain radiated through your back as you crumpled to the ground, your legs refusing to respond.

You tried to push yourself up, but your body betrayed you. A wave of panic surged through you as you realized you couldn't move your legs.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath, your hands trembling as you tried to drag yourself away from the approaching figure.

"Hey!" Katsuki's voice cut through the chaos like a whip. The second he saw you on the ground, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and his explosive rage ignited. "Get your damn hands off her!"

The villain barely had time to react before Katsuki launched himself forward, his palms detonating with a deafening roar. The force of the explosion sent the enemy flying, slamming them into a crumbling wall with a sickening thud.

Katsuki didn’t stop. He didn’t even glance back at you as he relentlessly advanced, blasting the villain again and again until they were completely incapacitated. Smoke and rubble filled the air, the battlefield eerily quiet as the last explosion echoed into the distance.

When he finally turned around, his face was a mixture of fury and worry. "You okay?" he barked, crouching beside you. His hands hovered over you for a second before he hesitantly rested one on your shoulder.

"I—" You gritted your teeth, your voice trembling. "I can’t move my legs, Katsuki."

His eyes widened briefly before narrowing again, his jaw tightening. "What the hell are you talking about?"

You gestured weakly to your legs. "I don’t know what they did, but I can’t feel them. I think—" Your voice cracked. "I think they hit my spine."

For a moment, Katsuki just stared at you, the realization sinking in. Then, with a surprising gentleness, he slipped an arm under your shoulders and another under your knees, carefully lifting you into his arms.

"Don’t you dare freakin’ cry," he muttered, his voice gruff but oddly soft. "You’re gonna be fine, got it? We’ll get you outta here, and Recovery Girl’ll fix you up."

"Katsuki..." you started, but he cut you off with a glare.

"Shut up. Save your strength. You’re not dying on me, you hear?"

Despite the situation, you managed a weak laugh. "I don’t think not moving my legs means I’m dying."

"Don’t care," he snapped, adjusting his grip on you as he started moving. "You’re not allowed to give up. Not now, not ever. You’re tougher than this."

As the two of you left the battlefield behind, the sound of distant sirens growing closer, you clung to his words like a lifeline. For all his explosive temper and harsh words, Katsuki had a way of making you feel like you could survive anything—even this.

The stark white walls of the hospital room felt oppressive, each sterile surface a harsh reminder of the situation you were in. You lay in the hospital bed, blankets pulled up to your waist, hands clenched into tight fists atop them. The doctor’s words were still ringing in your ears, louder than the quiet hum of the machines around you.

"The injury to your spine is significant," he had said, his voice measured but heavy with caution. "We’re going to do everything we can, but there’s a possibility... there’s a possibility you may not walk again."

You’d barely been able to nod as he continued, his expression softening. "I’ll also be informing your school about your condition. You’ll be signed off hero duty temporarily... though the decision may be permanent, depending on your recovery."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was unbearable. Your thoughts filled the void almost instantly, spiraling out of control.

What if I can’t walk again? What if I can’t fight anymore? What if I can’t be a hero?

The images in your head came unbidden: your classmates excelling in their training, while you watched from the sidelines. Pitying looks from teachers, friends, and strangers. Worst of all, Katsuki turning his back on you because you couldn’t keep up with him anymore.

The thought hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. You barely noticed the burning sensation in your eyes until a tear slipped down your cheek.

"Stop it."

The sharpness in Katsuki’s voice cut through the haze, dragging you back to reality. He was sitting in the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. His crimson eyes burned into yours, filled with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, frustration, and... concern?

"Stop what?" you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

"That look," he snapped, leaning closer. "Like it’s over. Like you’re some kinda useless extra now."

You scowled, your frustration bubbling to the surface. "Easy for you to say, Katsuki! You’re not the one who might never walk again. You don’t know what it feels like to have everything you’ve worked for ripped away in one fight!"

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a low, growling voice, he replied, "You think I don’t care? You think I’d just stand here if I didn’t give a damn about what happens to you?"

Your heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his words. "I—" You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. "I don’t know, okay? I don’t know anything anymore. I’m scared, Katsuki. What if I can’t be a hero anymore? What if I’m just... nothing?"

Katsuki shot to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor as he glared down at you, his expression a mix of anger and something softer—something raw. "You’re not nothing, dammit!"

His voice rang out in the small room, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed.

"You’re one of the strongest people I know," he continued, his voice rough but steady. "Stronger than half those idiots at school, stronger than me sometimes. You don’t just give up because shit gets hard!"

The sincerity in his voice was like a punch to the chest, leaving you breathless for an entirely different reason.

"Why do you care so much?" you asked, your voice trembling.

For a moment, Katsuki froze, his crimson eyes widening slightly before narrowing again. "Because..." he started, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, turning his gaze away from you.

"Because what?" you pressed, your heart pounding.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his teeth gritting audibly. "Just... shut up, alright?!"

You flinched at his outburst, but before you could say anything, he stepped closer, his expression fierce. "Look," he muttered, his voice quieter now, "I don’t care what the hell that doctor said. You’re not giving up. Not now, not ever. You’re gonna fight through this, and I’ll..." He hesitated, his gaze softening slightly. "I’ll make damn sure you don’t do it alone."

Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from fear or frustration. There was something in Katsuki’s tone, in the way he was looking at you, that made you feel like you weren’t completely lost.

"You mean that?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Tch. Don’t make me say it again, idiot."

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped your lips. "You’re such an ass."

"And you’re a pain in mine," he shot back, but there was no heat in his words. Instead, he moved to sit back down, his chair scraping softly against the floor.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the weight of the situation still hanging in the air, but something had shifted. Katsuki’s presence was steady, grounding, and for the first time since waking up in the hospital, you felt like you could breathe again.

You didn’t know what the future held, but as long as Katsuki was by your side, you felt like you could face it.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

293 notes · View notes