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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 days ago

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A Hold On You 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, bullying, depression, controlling and abusive behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to look on the bright side of life but a man comes along to blot out the sun.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your eyes narrow as you hunch over the folding TV table. You work at tamping the felt in just the right shape. The headless body, made of metal wire encased in more felt sits on the corner, awaiting its final touch. Your vision is cloudy at the edges. You let yourself have a cry last night at the cost of puffy eyes today. Those grey moods exhaust you.

You sigh as you blend the grey black and white. The small raccoon will be the first of many. At least twelve for stock.

A hobby and some extra income. You need it since they cut your hours to part-time. All the data entry firms are. You read on a forum that AI is slowly depleting the field. You don't relish going back to customer service... you're not very good at it. You can hardly make yourself smile at your reflection.

You sniff. You look up at the corner shelf, stuffed with similar figures to the one in pieces before you. Squirrels, bunnies, lots of cats. Those are a best-seller.

You put the head and needle down. You can't focus. Usually, the work puts a pause on the gloom. The grey sky outside your windows doesn't help. You sit back and press your hand around your forehead. You knead your temples with your thumbs.

It's too quiet. Well, not exactly. You can hear Katy yelling at her teens and Mr. Burton is hammering on the wall again. He needs to just call the building for whatever he keeps trying to fix. Or maybe he's breaking it?

You get up and go to the record player. You lay on the one album you've yet to listen to. That new poppy hit. It's probably a few years too young for you. You're in the limbo between twenty-five and thirty. A murky no man's land where all your friends are newly married, freshly pregnant, or celebrating promotions. You're doing neither of those.

You let the record spin the intro and retreat to the sagging armchair. The seat is molded to your shape but not comfy. You lean on the high armrest and close your eyes.

Oh, I leave quite an impression Five feet to be exact You're wonderin' why half his clothes went missin' My body's where they're at

You chew your cheek as you follow the lyrics as best you can. Scandalizing, scintillating, sexy. Not you. Maybe that was a bad choice. This is music for the young girls with their long lashes and coy glossy smiles. That was never you.

Affairs, flings, hookups, whatever the young ones say...situationships? You're not the type. You're not good for it. Too sad. Too quiet. You overheard the giggly whispering. It's your own fault you don't see your friends. Or that they aren't your friends anymore.

Knowing what they really think of you... you're not good at pretending like that. You can smile, you can chirp, you can run a script with stranger, but they were supposed to actually like you.

Choices can be liberating but they can also be oppressive. Cut the cord and you're free falling into the void. You sit up as the next song starts.

I know I have good judgment, I know I have good taste It's funny and it's ironic that only I feel that way I promise 'em that you're different and everyone makes mistakes But just don't

You wish you had that confidence. You get up and turn down the volume so you can hear the melody but the lyrics are obscured. You shuffle over to the couch and flop onto it. You're tired. Another night wasted.

🧡

Punk Rock Market. You've never been to one. Never heard of one. The flyer was mixed in with your mail. Bills, adds, some religious pamphlet. It was the only thing that piqued your interest. You keep it on your fridge until the date of.

You clutch it in your sweaty hand. It wrinkles as you keep checking the address. It's at an intersection. Hmmm. Okay. You think you know the one.

It's a few blocks further than you thought. You follow the swell of pedestrians into the browning green square. The grass is flattened from the traffic. Second thoughts slow your steps but the tides of patrons keep you moving.

You stop to look at jade and quartz medallions. Hand-made as the signs proclaim. The women behind the stall table have thickly-winged liner and lots of piercings. Their hair is shades of burnt-out bleach blond and pastels. One asks if you're looking for something in particular.

"Just look, I guess," you answer with a shrug. You bend to examine a cuff with opal. "Very pretty."

They don't hear you as they're already more interested in a customer who looks more like them. You move on. It's not unusual. Those who notice you, don't for long. Or if they do, it's never a good thing.

You stop to admire some hand-sewn dolls with twists of cotton for hair. You sell most of your things online, or a few places let you buy half a shelf for display, though they don't sell many. Something like this might be a good idea but you saw the prices for the other markets... you don't have that sort of overhead.

You're edged out of the stall by a group of platformed-booted shoppers. You back away and collide with a stroller. You spin and apologise, a glower from the mother and her husband as you do. You're trapped between them and the distracted group behind you.

Your heart picks up. You should've expected crowds but this is a bit much. You look around. You'll only hit the stroller again or someone else. You search until you see your only hope of escape. Between the stalls, right past the empty crates and thick electrical wires.

You flee, keeping your head down in case one of the sellers thinks to stop you. Your pulse tempos behind your eardrums. You curl around the back of the stalls and race toward the park entrance. You're going to call it another fail.

You slip out between a stall and the post of the banner for the market event. You're nearly taken off your feet as someone entering hits you with their arm. A rather thick arm that has you reeling and rubbing your side. You back up as the figure stops with a gruff growl.

It can't be. You're sure you recognise them. It's almost impossible to run into the same face twice in the city. Yet, your luck has always been grimly ironic.

As the deja vu clicks. You gulp. It's the man from the record store. You pout.

"Sorry, I..."

"What're you creeping around for?" He snarls.

"I... I was leaving--"

"Why were you back there?" He asks.

"Huh, oh, I got lost--"

"Dude, chill," his buddy peeks past him. "Place is packed."

The man's fist opens and closes, drawing your attention as his jaw grits. "I could get... through." You eke out.

"You," he raises his gloved hand and points in your face. "Girly pop."

You blink. Oh no. He remembers you.

"I..." you shrug. "Sorry, excuse me," you try to slip by and he catches your arm.

"You didn't answer me. What were you up to?" He drags you back as others grumble behind you, pushing to get into the park.

"Yo, she told you," his friend jabs. "Chill, Buck. Let's get going."

He narrows his eyes as his forehead lines. He squeezes until you feel your blood struggling to course past the tension. He lets you go with a subtle shove.

"Whatever," he turns back to his pal. "Let's go find that oil or whatever you were going on about."

He stalks by and you turn to watch him. He's not a very happy person but neither are you. You turn and flee before he can have second thoughts. Strange how his friend seemed familiar too.

You head down the street and reach for your phone. Maybe you'll find something else. Going back to your apartment just means giving in to the grey. It's a sunny day, you want to enjoy it.

There's a cafe near here. They boast of nitro brew and protein coffee. You're not sure of either but they must have tea.

You get lost a block down and have to back track. You can be so clueless. You finally find the front door, though it is easy to miss. Black windows, black glass, like some sort of secret meetup.

You enter and join the line. It's not much less crowded than the park. You wait patiently for your turn and order the 'booster' tea.

You shove your hand deep into your satchel. You fish around frantically. Your wallet? Where is it? You blink helplessly at the employee behind the counter and apologise.

You run out and look up and down the street. Your wallet is gone. You feel around your pockets and all over. You retrace your steps, along your detour and back to the market. You gape into the sea of people. There's no way you'll find it!

What can you do? Cancel your card and figure out how to replace your IDs... figures. Nothing nice ever happens. Every idea you have is just a mistake. Go home. Stop trying.

🧡

The New York skyline looms darkly through the windows. The moonless night invades your apartment, the single lamp doing little to light the space. You sit in its glow, shoulders wracked, neck bent, tediously poking the pattern into the felt. The leopard was an optimistic choice in subject.

The record player turns. Etta croons richly as the clock ticks on. It's midnight, probably later. You haven't checked in some time. You can't sleep but you also can't bare to lay and stare at the ceiling.

Your tendons strain with your efforts. Everything is so precise. Your fingers feel as if they might lock into place. Your head is throbbing.

The record plays through Side B and the player clicks. You don't get up to stop it for some time. Your hands shake as you put the needle back and hit the power button.

You push your head back and stretch out the kinks. Your stomach clutches with hunger. Dinner is in the fridge still. You didn't bother reheating the pasta.

You close your eyes as you rub your cheeks. You yawn then drop your arms. You look around the empty box you live in.

You flinch. The windows are so dark, obscured with the reflection of the lamp, yet you swear you can see something. You shake your head. You're imagining it.

You got back to the table and gather up the felt and unfinished project. You have a few new orders. You need to go get some packing stuff to send them out. You tuck it away in the shoe box and slide it onto the cube shelf beneath the record player.

Tap, tap.

You raise your head and look over your shoulder. Something must have bounced off the window yet there's no wind, no rain. The weather is painfully still.

You ignore it and stand. You go back to the table to shut off the lamp.

Tap. Just one but louder. You keep your fingers on the switch attached to the wire but don't flick it. You glance over.

Slap. Something presses to the pane. You can't tell what it is. Small, rectangle. You near as your adrenaline flows and your heartbeat thrums. Something tells you to go back but it's impossible that anyone could be there. There's no fire escape, no balcony. The building is short a few codes.

You stop at the window as your face stares back. The small image on your ID where you don't smile, just stare. DOB, height, number...

Another face appears behind the small card. A scream blooms in your chest but can't escape as the man stares back at you. He taps again. How on earth did he get out there? That man. That one from the record shop and the market. The one you seem to plague more than your own sanity.

He tilts his head and mouths. 'Let me in.'

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #a hold on you #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #mcu #marvel #avengers #captain america #winter soldier

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luvseisagi · 1 day ago

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—s. across the wrong universe.

chapter 07. rooftop talk

(🕷️) smau + narrated ch.

content. cussing. kinda angsty?? idk things get serious

after a long time trailing him through the city —and losing him twice after he left the skyscraper— isagi finally finds the local spiderman sitting on the rooftop of an apartment building. it’s dark, well into the night, but he has no trouble spotting his figure on the edge, legs dangling into the void.

he hesitates for a few seconds before stepping closer. the boy’s probably only a year or two younger than him, but sitting like that —shoulders hunched, head down—, he just looks like a kid. he almost feels bad for having called him spiderfail.

“hey,” isagi says, landing beside him with a long jump. “careful taking your mask off on rooftops at night. last time I did that, someone made a tiktok out of it and it went viral.”

the local spiderman lifts his head, a gasp of surprise crossing his face fleetingly. then, in one swift movement, he gets up, puts his mask on, and pins isagi to the ground.

he looked like a kid just seconds ago, but now he could very much be lethal.

“you finally show your fucking face” he almost spits, his forearm digging into isagi’s clavicles too close to his neck for him to be comfortable “who the fuck are you? what do you want, and what are you doing in my city?”

“hey, hey—chill.” yoichi tries to move his arms, but they’re trapped under his own body. he sighs “i’m not here to hurt you or steal your city. i’m here to help.”

“help with what?” the boy says bitterly “and how the hell do you even exist? there’s no way two radioactive spiders bit two people in the same fucking place.”

isagi swallows hard, but doesn’t respond. he just nods toward the arms still pinning him down, asking the other guy for freedom. a few seconds pass before the local superhero decides he’s not a threat and finally lets him go.

his voice is calmer now, but still bitter, when he repeats, cautiously, “who are you?”

yoichi raises an eyebrow —which, through the mask, probably looks like one eye opening way wider than the other— and answers simply:

“well, i’m spiderman. the amazing spiderman.”

the other boy stares at him for a second.

“no. i’m the amazing spiderman.” he replies, deadpan.

“okay,” isagi sighs. “look, it’s a long story, but i’ve been spiderman in my new york for four years. so i know what i’m talking about when i say: you need help.”

a mask identical to his own replicates his cartoonishly raised eyebrow.

“oh, do i?” the other guy replies, mocking his tone. “well, i do not want your help.”

“and that’s the first problem, right there. you can’t go around pushing cops, being rude to people, or refusing to help grandmas cross the street just because it feels dumb —even if they only want to grab your bicep while you walk them. you’re a superhero, people count on you.”

“i do save kittens in trees,” he mutters.

“that’s not the point.” isagi sighs, again. it sounds tired, though. he wants to be mad at him —angry like he was a few hours ago— but he can’t, really. he remembers too well what it was like to be new and alone, and it was hard.

“being a superhero means sacrifice. you won’t always be able to save everyone. but you have to at least try.”

the boy scoffs and puts a hand to his head—probably a habit, something he does to push his hair back normally. but with the mask on, it just looks like a movement of pure exasperation.

he doesn’t answer immediately. it takes a few seconds, like he’s trying to untangle something that's been sitting in his chest for a long time. something he’s never actually said out loud.

“i didn’t choose this. why should i have to do it if i don’t want to?”

isagi feels something shift in his chest, squeezing his ribs. of course he doesn't want to —he didn’t, either. none of them did.

“none of us chose it,” he answers softly. “but that’s what happens when you’re chosen. call it fate, or the universe, or dumb luck. it doesn’t matter —once it picks you, it sticks.”

the other spiderman takes a few steps toward him. under the dim light coming from the apartment windows across the street, yoichi catches a faint turquoise glow in his suit.

his voice is quieter this time, sounds muffled through the mask.

“you don’t get it, it’s not about being chosen or not, i don’t give a shit about that. luck? whatever. the universe? sure." he says, voice rising slightly. “but why do i have to save the world? what has the world ever done for me?”

isagi wants to answer, and it doesn't take long for him to realize that he has no words to say. that's something he's never asked himself before —what has the world done for him?

forced him to break up with his girlfriend. made him quit his job. turned him into a viral meme without his consent. took away his parents. left him with one friend. and put that one friend in danger every day, just because isagi had been dumb enough to let him know the truth.

he closes his eyes, then takes a deep breath.

that’s not what it is about, and he knows it. the point is not what the world does for you —being a hero means bringing a touch of color to a world that’s gone gray, making people laugh when things feel hopeless. being a sliver of safety for those who can’t protect themselves.

and it’s not a fun job, but it’s what they have to do and what the rookie superhero needs to understand. however, by the time he finds the right words to express all his thoughts, he realizes the boy is already gone.

and maybe that’s the problem —maybe he’s the one running from his own life. maybe he’s the one who can’t be saved, who doesn't want to be saved. maybe the universe made a mistake in choosing him.

yoichi moves fast to the edge of the rooftop. the other spiderman can’t be far —and yeah, there he is. he sees a bluish green blur drop into the fire escape staircase across the street and slip through a window in less than a second.

isagi takes a deep breath, again.

he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of creeping on someone’s home, even if that someone is technically himself in another universe. but if it helps fix the anomaly —if it helps the city— it has to be done.

he crosses to the far end of the rooftop and crouches near the ledge, keeping a clear line of sight to the building. then, using his ability to defy gravity, he starts climbing down the wall until he reaches the third floor, and stays there.

it doesn’t take long to find the right window. he spots the boy inside, suit off now. he can't even deny that he resembles him in some way.

if he hadn't confirmed already that isagi yoichi doesn't exist in this timeline, he would've thought that guy was him if he listened to my chemical romance and went everyday to the skatepark.

“the universe must’ve had a laugh with this one.” he mutters, smiling bitterly.

the boy has black hair, same length as yoichi’s, only parted to the side. his eyes are the exact turquoise shade of his suit, and they’re framed by long, dark lashes. he’s tall—probably taller than him—and very pale in comparison. baggy black clothes hang off him, but they don’t hide the body shaped by the physical demands that being spiderman require.

for a second, isagi really considers taking a picture of him to search his face online, but he can’t even reach to the pocket in his suit when someone else walks into the room and gets into the frame of the window.

yoichi freezes.

if he weren’t naturally stuck to the wall, he probably would’ve fallen.

what the hell is his ex doing there?

chapter 06. ✦ masterlist. ✦ chapter 08.

tags ౨ৎ @levihanmyotp @inojuuy @blu3-l0v3r @rohfulike @inosukehana @cruziival72 @kuromixheartzzz @koko-77 @kurona-theshark @yoichiin @elliehenry24 @kuronarnze @sugarcor3 @ranzess @lovingmayday @vinzcoke @soph1sticatedly @l0v3ly-st4rs @milkteeboba @ilovewonyo @mivqko @beepbopzlorp @thatmf-jay @angelhqlo1111 @jnkosstuff @ssngkk @c4ttheart @risagichi @neeeooon @emicatz @chokifandom @n0tbelle @veyyluvezcats @saekisserfr @scoosh4you @ihsoti .ᐟ

﹫luvseisagi, june 2025.

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algrimthestrong · 3 days ago

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The corners of Aednan's mouth dropped pitifully when Mal slid off his lap to sit beside him instead. There had been a few instances in the past where his pleasure had been cut short by unfortunate circumstances or ill-timed interruptions, but never had a lover left him unsatisfied on purpose. It briefly occurred to him that he could have simply suggested that they delay their departure for another hour, but it was plainly written on Mal's face how much he relished the fact that he had the power to make royalty wait. The elven prince reminded himself that the sooner they arrived in Alfheim, the sooner there would be an opportunity for them to pick up where they left off. "Soon," Aednan corrected Mal when the other man stated his intentions to see to the prince's satisfaction, eventually.

Aednan sank back against the chaise, closing his eyes and drawing slow, deep breaths into his chest in an attempt to will his libido to calm down. Being forced to deny himself the release that his body craved was unpleasant to say the least, a rare and entirely unwelcome exercise in exerting control over his physical needs, made all the more difficult by the fact that the object of his desire was sitting next to him.

"I will open an interdimensional portal, yes." Aednan's eyes fluttered open to meet Mal's gaze, his tone slightly sheepish as he explained, "I have yet to master teleportation." He leaned over the arm of the chaise and fished his discarded shirt from the floor of Mal's cottage. The prince swung his legs over the edge of the chaise, pausing to put his shirt back on and shake out his long hair behind him before pushing himself to his feet.

Aednan retrieved his boots from where he had left them by the door and took a few steps into the centre of the room, where he positioned himself and held out a hand for Mal to take. With his other hand, he drew a series of arcane symbols into the air, his brows pinched tightly in concentration as he began to softly recite ancient words in elvish. The air rippled and shimmered as his spell took hold and an arched doorway materialised before them, a glowing purple portal that bridged the distance between their worlds. Flashing Mal a quick, reassuring smile, Aednan pulled the other man with him as he stepped forward through the magical doorway, right into a lush garden.

The rich, sweet scent of roses wafted through the dusky evening air. Crickets chirped in the grass and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves. A little further ahead, water trickled from the top of a large marble fountain decorated with peacocks to a clear pool at its base. Fireflies, who upon closer inspection would turn out to be faeries, drifted between the flowers and bushes like tiny lanterns. A magnificent palace rose above the trees beyond the garden, its graceful curves and sumptuous whorls reminiscent of an orchid in bloom, nestled between gigantic leaves. Aednan turned towards Mal with a smile, his eyes glimmering in the low light. "Welcome to Alfheim."

Everything?

Well, if Aednan insisted — and that certainly took care of the matter of packing.

For all his initial resistance, Mal couldn’t quite deny just how excited he was by the prospect of seeing the prince’s home for himself, and all the better if the elf had no qualms with spoiling him and catering to his every need whilst he was at it; he figured he would only stand out like a sore thumb in his own clothes after all, no matter how much Aednan seemed to approve of his sartorial choices.

“That’s very generous of you.” He acknowledged with a smile, though it swiftly broadened to a cheeky, boyish grin as the other man’s gaze dipped to his lap, eyeing up his current…predicament trapped between them. As well as feeling awfully pleased with himself (who wouldn’t?) Mal couldn’t help but find the situation utterly hilarious, but not enough that he didn’t take a smidgen of pity on the elf, laughing delightedly at the playful swat of his ass as he slid out of Aednan’s lap and then settled on to the chaise beside him, reaching for his shirt and sliding his arms back into it. “Who said I didn’t intend to finish it?” He added with an arched brow and a teasing curl to his lips as he began to fasten the buttons once more, smirking as he followed the way that the other man’s gaze flickered downwards, then met that sparkling amethyst gaze, utterly unrepentant. “Eventually.”

Trying his best to behave and keep his amusement at bay when Aednan apparently needed his focus to be able to send them between the realms, Mal hoped that a slightly more practical line of enquiry might take the prince’s mind off of more…stimulating matters. “How does this work, then?” He queried, propping his chin on his hand. “Do you make a portal, or something?” Truth be told his only frame of reference was passing to and from Faerie through the nearby tears in the veil, but any sort of magic was fascinating nonetheless.

#beautifulmischief #beautiful-mischief #:side muse aednan:

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johnnycadesmuse · 2 days ago

Note

JOHNNY SMUT??? please.?? (Rough)

·. ˚ ༘ everybody here wants you

— ex!johnny cade x ex!reader

song 𝄞 everybody here wants you by jeff buckley

warnings: pnv, f!receiving, rough sex, harassment, alcohol, squirting

johnny laid on the curtis couch, his legs laid out and his arms behind his head. he hadn't gone out in weeks, not since the both of you split.

it didn't end on good terms, if anything, it was extremely messy. you had told him you wanted to talk after school and he could tell by your voice that it was serious. he thought that maybe he had gotten you pregnant or you were moving, something big— he didn't think that it would be so big to the point where he would be crying himself to sleep for weeks.

"I'm not good for you." you stated, attempting to hold back tears. your insecurities had gotten the best of you, no matter how hard you tried to fight them.

Johnny was surprised because.. well, you two were good. better than good, you two were amazing? at least, that's how it seemed. there were no signs that you were going to break up with him. you weren't pulling away and your behaviour toward him hadn't changed. the only thing that changed was the way you viewed yourself. you hated your body, the way you smiled, how many mental issues you had and the baggage that came along with it. Johnny has enough on his hands, he doesn't need me to add to that you always thought to yourself. but you were wrong, dead wrong. he did need you, more than anything, you just couldn't see it. you couldn't see what he saw in you.

"what are you talking about?" he responded, his heart breaking as he watched you explain how you were a burden to him and that he didn't need you. "I do need you. I need you more than anything. you are everything to me. you help me-"

"no, I don't. i'm only dragging you down ,Johnny."

the sound of you using his full name practically confirmed what was happening. you never called him Johnny, not even in serious situations. you only ever used Jay, JJ, or any pet names that you both used for each other.

after more bickering and Johnny trying to get you to stay, you left. you left him in the lot alone, the cold winds howling as the fire at his feet burnt out and the darkness consumed his surroundings.

now, he found himself moping around the curtis home for the 6th time that week. "man, you gotta get up." groaned Pony, clearly frustrated that his best friend wasn't doing anything except sulking. every time he asked to hang out, Johnny just mumbled "not right now" before turning over or going to the bathroom. "I get you loved her and all, but she ain't the only girl in the world."

"he's right." said Steve from the dining room table as he placed a card onto the deck in front of Soda.

Johnny didn't listen, he didn't want to. he simply rolled over, as he usually did, and closed his eyes in hopes he could sleep and forget about everything.

after a quick nap, he woke up 2 hours later to the sound of the gang hollering, making him groan and stuff his face into a pillow. "we are gonna pick up so many chicks tonight!" he heard Two-Bit cackle, patting Johnny's thigh as he picked his legs up off of the couch before placing them back down in his lap.

"where are y'all going?" Johnny asked, finally sitting up, his hair messy and ungreased.

"Bucks. there's a huge party there tonight since Buck is celebrating something, I dunno" Dally informed him, mumbling the last part. Johnny hummed in response, leaning back as he watched whatever show was on the TV. Dally stared at him for a bit before a lightbulb basically appeared over his head. "come with us."

"what?"

"you heard me. you've been moping non-stop for weeks. it's time you get out and find a new chick to fawn over. forget about her."

"I can't just do that Dal, yknow that." Johnny mumbled, playing with his nails. Johnny never listened to Dally about relationship advice, not unless it was about sex. Dally knew everything about pleasing a woman right, yet he knew nothing about making a woman happy outside of the bedroom. his longest relationship lasted 6 months, and that was on and off.

"Dal is right" Soda said, sitting on the arm of the couch that was next to Johnny. "maybe going to this party will help you forget about her, just for tonight. you can have a few drinks, maybe play some pool.."

the idea sounded somewhat intriguing to Johnny. he had been trying everything to avoid thinking about you, and the only thing that ever works is sleep— the only bad part about that method is that you can't sleep forever, no matter how much Johnny wanted to. "fine" he groaned, getting up for the first time in hours. "can I borrow some grease Pone?" Johnny asked, Ponyboy nodding with a smile as he was relieved that his friend was finally up and no longer melting into the couch.

Johnny walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him to get ready for the party.

as soon as the gang entered Bucks, it reeked of alcohol, sweat, and tobacco. It made Johnny's stomach churn, his nose burning at the stench. because Johnny hadn't been to a party in a while, he was no longer used to the toxicity of a party atmosphere. now, he had to readjust whilst trying not to hurl.

the boys immediately went over to the bar, ordering a round of beers for everyone. Dally handed Johnny the beer before giving him a pat on the back and shouting over the music, "drink up man!"

Johnny obeyed, almost chugging the first beer in a few minutes before ordering a second, surprising everyone. Johnny wasn't much of a drinker. sure, he got drunk and would sometimes have a beer to cool down, but he never did it excessively. he wasn't one to rush to the bar when the opportunity arose, not like Two-Bit or Dally.

as he took a sip of his second beer, tuning into the gang's conversation, Soda suddenly stopped mid story, making everyone confused. Soda's face was no longer bright, but was instead concerned, as if he had just witnessed a car crash or something.

he stared at a specific area of the room, making everyone stare, Johnny included. when he turned around, he felt his heart sink. there you were, leaning against the wall as you talked with your friends.

you looked so beautiful. you were wearing the short black dress that he loved so much paired with fancy lace stockings. you looked as though you had just walked out of Vogue, practically taunting him with your beauty.

Johnny quickly chugged down his second beer before ordering a 3rd. "Johnny, slow down man." Soda said worried, patting him on the shoulder.

"I'm fine" Johnny said sternly, shrugging him off.

halfway through his 3rd beer, he began to feel its effects wearing on him. he wasn't entirely drunk, but he definitely wasn't sober either. his thoughts were getting a bit fuzzy and the music somehow got louder, despite the volume of the jukebox in the corner staying the same.

as he continued to listen to Two-Bit talk about one of his bizarre adventures he had gone on earlier that day, a sudden commotion began on the other side of the room. everyone turned to see what was happening, Johnny included.

he felt his heart stop as he saw some guy trying to get a hold on you, gripping your arm tightly as you yelled at him to let go. before Johnny could think, he began rushing toward you in anger, the ground practically shaking. he grabbed the guy by the shirt, swinging him around and down onto the floor, causing the wind to be knocked out of him. Johnny was stunned, stunned that he even managed to get the guy down, stunned that he even found the courage to do it.

sure, he fought in rumbles and knew how to fight, and he would always defend you against guys when they were trying to make a move on you, but those situations never got violent. this time, it was different. the mixture of booze and heartbreak gave him confidence, a confidence he never had before.

as the guy began to stand up, fury boiling within him and his fists clenched, Johnny, without a second thought, grabbed your hand and dragged you upstairs to safety. you didn't argue, continuing to trail behind him as you both entered an empty bedroom.

as soon as the door was closed and locked, the both of you began to catch your breath. the room was silent except for heavy breathing and muffled music from downstairs. "you okay?" Johnny asked, walking toward you.

"yeah.." you said softly after a few moments of silence. the air was thick, tension high. the both of you stared at one another longingly. you stared into his eyes as he stared into yours, your pupils filled with things you were desperate to express but were too scared to say. "thank you." you finally said to him, sitting on the bed.

"no need to thank me. that guy was being a creep."

"yeah" you chuckled as you looked down at your shoes, the room silent once again. Johnny walked over, sitting next to you yet still keeping a good distance as to not make you uncomfortable. he wanted so desperately to reach out and hold you, to feel your skin against his after so long. "i'm sorry."

"what for?"

"you know what for, Johnny." you looked up at him sadly, your eyes resembling those of a lost puppy. you could feel tears brim your waterline, threatening to fall as you thought about what had happened between you two. you blinked them away the best you could, turning away as a few fell. you quickly wiped them, sniffling before laughing to yourself.

Johnny made his way closer to you, scooting on the mattress ever so slightly. "you don't gotta be." he began, "I know what it's like to feel.. lost. like you don't deserve nothin' good. like you're nothing"

you looked back at him sympathetically, him giving you a small smile that you missed so dearly. then, you burst into tears. you couldn't help it. your emotions, mixed with booze, mixed with everything that had just happened, it was all too much.

without hesitation, Johnny pulled you into him, holding you tightly as if you would slip away forever if he were to let go. he laid soft kisses on top of your head as you sobbed into his chest. "I'm so sorry." you cried, clinging onto his shirt, tears staining the fabric.

"shh, you don't gotta be sorry baby." he whispered, the pet name along with his voice making your heart soar.

you pulled away from his chest, looking at him, your faces merely centimetres apart. before either of you could say anything, your lips met in a passionate kiss. you held his face in your hands, his hands in your hair before slowly sliding down onto your waist. he helped lift you into his lap, your legs now straddling him. he licked your bottom lip, asking for entrance to which you happily allowed.

as your tongues melded together and your lips pressed against one another, you could feel warmth begin to pool between your legs. Johnny felt his dick get hard as you ever so slightly grinded against him.

"do you want to-"

"yes." you said breathlessly without a second thought. Johnny's hands immediately flew to the bottom of your dress, slowly lifting it up and over your head, tossing it onto the floor.

you two continued making out until you were both left in only your underwear. he laid you down against the mattress before leaving harsh kisses down your body, making his way toward where you needed him most.

he looked up at you for permission, hooking his finger into the waistband of your panties. you nodded, leaning on your elbows as you watched him discard your underwear, spreading your legs and placing his face between them. he peppered soft kisses on the skin of your inner thighs, making you whine.

without warning, Johnny began eating you out like a man starved. his tongue massaged every spot perfectly, his mouth now covered in your slick. you were a moaning mess, your breath and legs both shakey as he continued to lap at your pussy. "f-fuck" you whimpered, trying everything in your power to not clamp your legs together. you began to play with his hair as he continued to please you, lightly tugging at his roots whenever he hit your sweet spot.

as you felt yourself get closer to the edge, you spread your legs wider for him, something he knew you always did when you were close. he began to suck harshly at your clit, the sound of slurping along with your moans filling the room. "fuck, you taste so good" he groaned into your pussy, giving off vibrations that made you want to scream. "I missed this."

"I'm gonna.. cum" you panted, moaning and whimpering as he continued his harsh assault on your clit.

"cum for me, let your pretty pussy cum all over my face." and you did, you came with a loud moan followed by a soft whimper as you came down from your high. Johnny left a few more kisses on your pussy lips before coming back up, his lips glistening and chin wet.

you both smiled at each other before Johnny began to suck harshly at your neck, leaving marks that were sure to be very obvious tomorrow.

"I wanna fuck the shit out of you." he whispered into your ear, his boldness making you more and more needy.

"please.." you groaned, running your fingers through his thick strands.

Johnny began to pulling down his boxers before throwing them onto the pile of clothes below, his dick now free, his pink tip covered in pre-cum. he pumped himself a few times as you spread your legs again.

he stared into your eyes as he slowly slid into you, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your warm walls enveloping him. "fuck" he moaned, waiting a few moments for you to adjust.

"move.. please" you begged, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling you closer (if that was even possible). Johnny wasted no time in beginning to thrust into you, his pace somewhat fast but not too harsh. "more.. please. fuck me harder"

"yes ma'am" he smirked as he began to practically pound into you, the sound of skin slapping filling the room. "oh fuck!" Johnny groaned loudly, making your pussy flutter around him, his noises making you want to cum right then and there. "fuck. you feel so good baby. you're such a good girl. god, I missed you so much."

"I missed you baby" you whimpered before pulling him into a passionate kiss. you slipped your tongue into his mouth, holding his jaw as one of his hands held onto your waist, the other beside your head for support. as he continued to fuck you, you felt that you wanted more of him, that you needed more of him. "I want more." you whispered against his lips. as if he could read your mind, Johnny pulls out of you, flipping you onto your stomach with your ass in the air.

he rubs his slick between your folds a few times, making you whimper before slipping back inside of you. he continues his rough and fast pace, making you moan his name over and over. "you're so fucking beautiful" he says breathless, his hands massaging your ass before giving it a firm smack, making you squeal. "god I fucking- fuckin' love you."

"I love you too, Jay." you moaned out, your nickname for him making his heart pound as it brought back all of the memories you two shared together.

without thinking, Johnny began to pound into you as fast as he could, making you practically scream. "fuck! oh fuck!" you yelled, holding onto the headboard for dear life as you felt yourself about to finish. "i'm cumming!" you shouted, a warm feeling of pleasure bubbling in your stomach. suddenly, clear liquid shot out of you, soaking Johnny and the sheets below.

despite catching Johnny by surprise, the sight of it turned Johnny on, making him cum thick ribbons onto your stomach, the feeling of your warm liquid soaking his dick pushing him off the edge.

as you both came down from your highs, you collapsed, laying on your back, Johnny still on his knees. "well.. that's new." he chuckled. you laughed in response, nodding. "did you know that you could?.."

"no.. that's a first" you joked, Johnny nodding with a smile as he reached over the nightstand, grabbing a few tissues. he immediately began to clean you up, softly opening your legs and gently rubbing any residue off of your pussy before wiping his cum off of your stomach. he cleaned himself up, tossing the dirty tissues into the trash nearby.

he laid next to you, pulling your body into his. as you laid there together, both of your legs intertwined, you couldn't stop thinking about how much you missed one another.

"I missed you." you finally spoke, nervous about what Johnny would say.

"I missed you too" he mumbled into your hair before laying a soft kiss a top of your head, stroking the strands lightly.

"I wanna be with you, if you'll have me" you told him nervously. there was silence for a moment before he lifted your chin up with his finger, laying a soft kiss onto your lips.

"course I will"

#johnny cade #johnny cade x reader #the outsiders johnny #johnnycakes #ralph macchio #the outsiders #the outsiders x reader #1980s #1980s movies #1980s television #greasers #1980s aesthetic

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soakedstar · 2 days ago

Text

✹・ﾟ “BLEED FOR ME” ・ﾟ✹ (1/1)

﹕✧ synopsis:

they didn’t even look at each other.

she performed. he danced.

she bled. he touched

﹕✧ pairing:

ni-ki x f!reader

﹕✧ warnings:

explicit content, dark themes, emotional dependency, unhealthy coping mechanisms, manipulation, consensual pain, possessiveness, ballet tights (yes this needs a warning)

﹕✧ author’s note:

sex is not therapy. go cry to a professional. or at least write something good about it.

Y/N walked in with three people. She laughed at something one of them said but didn’t really hear it. Her bag was expensive, her hair tied loosely. The kind of effortless that takes hours.

She sat down near the window. She always sat near the window.

People kept coming in. Some waved. Some leaned down to say hi. She smiled at all of them, said names back like she meant it.

But by the time they were seated, she didn’t remember who had said what.

The professor was late. Someone played music through a phone speaker for a few seconds until they got shushed. A girl asked if anyone had a pen. Someone else handed her three.

Then the door opened again.

She didn’t look at first. Just another person coming in late. Whatever.

But the smell hit first. Not cologne. Not strong. Just… clean. Something citrusy, expensive, and soft like skin right after a shower. Limoncello, maybe. And soap that didn’t come from CVS.

He walked in slowly. Not like he was trying to be seen — like he didn’t care if he was or not.

Black sweater. Duffle bag slung over one shoulder. Hair still wet. Not soaked, just… like he didn’t bother to dry it all the way.

He scanned the room once and sat near the front, a row over from her, back perfectly straight.

“That’s Ni-ki,” someone whispered behind her. “He’s in the conservatory. Ballet.”

Y/N didn’t turn. Just blinked a little slower.

The professor came in three minutes later, apologizing for traffic and fumbling with her slides.

“Let’s do quick intros,” she said. “Name, discipline, and why you chose this class.”

A few theater kids went first. Then a girl from experimental movement. Then some guy from music who made a joke no one laughed at.

Then him.

He didn’t stand up. Didn’t clear his throat.

“Ni-ki Nishimura. Ballet. I’m interested in what stillness does to the body.”

That was it.

A few people nodded. Someone wrote it down like it meant something. Maybe it did.

Y/N leaned forward just a little, voice casual, not loud.

“Stillness. That’s… poetic.”

A couple chuckles. Nothing mean. Nothing loud. Just enough.

He turned slightly.

Their eyes met for a second too long.

“You think it isn’t?”

His voice was low. Clear. Almost quiet. Not fragile — just unbothered.

Y/N tilted her head.

“I think some people hide behind it.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her for another beat, then turned back to the front.

The professor kept talking. Y/N let her fingers play with the ring on her hand.

She didn’t look at him again. But she kept hearing his sentence.

What stillness does to the body.

She didn’t know why it stuck. Maybe because it felt like something was already doing something to hers.

The class ended five minutes late.

Students stood, stretched, shook off the weight of sitting too long. Some lingered, packing slow. Others left in a hurry, already late for wherever they had to be.

Y/N stayed seated. Not for any reason. She just didn’t feel like moving.

Sophie leaned in.

“He’s weird, right?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She watched Ni-ki zip his bag, smooth and precise, then stand like he hadn’t been sitting at all. Like his body didn’t creak or crack the way everyone else’s did.

He walked up the steps toward the door. Passed her row. Didn’t slow down.

She spoke before she thought.

“Hey.”

He stopped.

Turned slightly. Not all the way. Just enough to acknowledge.

“You’re not gonna say anything back?” she asked, still in that calm, soft, too-polished tone she used with people she didn’t trust.

He blinked once. No reaction. Nothing mean. Nothing amused either.

“You already did,” he said.

A pause.

She let out a laugh — short, a little breathy, like she couldn’t decide if it was funny or not.

“Okay. So you’re one of those.”

“One of what?”

“Silent, serious, artistic. The mystery act.”

He tilted his head just slightly, like he was deciding whether or not to care.

“Is that how I seem to you?”

“A little.”

“Then maybe you’re not looking close enough.”

That shut her up. Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Because it should’ve sounded arrogant, or pretentious — but it didn’t.

It just sounded… quiet.

He didn’t wait for her to reply. Just nodded once and walked out.

No lingering glance.

No smug smile.

Nothing.

Y/N stayed seated for a while.

People kept passing. Waving. Saying see you later.

She said “bye” at least five times. Smiled four. Faked three.

When the room was mostly empty, she finally got up.

The seat under her felt warm.

The theater was cold, and quiet in that heavy way only old places are. Velvet curtains drawn halfway. Scuffed stage floor under dim lights, the kind that made everything look a little bruised.

Ni-ki came out from stage right, steps soundless, towel loose around his neck. His chest still rose and fell slightly, the kind of breath that comes after movement — controlled, sharp, but real.

He wore black ballet tights, high-waisted and unforgiving, a thin gray shirt that clung to his skin, sweat darkening the fabric at his back and under his arms. His ankles were wrapped. Feet bare now, but calloused from hours of work.

And that smell.

The air changed around him — citrusy and dry, sweet but bitter at the edges. Like limoncello left on warm stone. Like something expensive that didn’t try to be. It wasn’t a perfume. It was him. Like he carried it under his skin.

Y/N entered through the side hallway, pushing the door open with her shoulder. Her heels clicked once, then twice. She stopped.

She had coffee in one hand, half-cold. A script under her arm, folded, creased. Lipstick too red for 5 p.m. Eyes lined sharp like she had somewhere better to be.

She saw him before he saw her.

He was stretching — back arched slightly, arms overhead, spine impossibly straight. His hair was damp. His expression blank.

She stared. One beat. Then two. Then:

“Nice dick.”

It came out dry. Almost bored. Like she’d said it before, to other people, in other theaters.

He didn’t react right away. He finished the stretch. Turned slowly. Not surprised. Not offended. Just… done.

“Do you always talk like you’re five, or is that just today?”

His voice was quiet. Clear. No edge. Just a fact.

She took a sip of her coffee. Winced. It was bitter and watery. She didn’t throw it away.

“You’re still wearing tights in public. That’s on you.”

“They’re ballet tights.”

“Still tights.”

He looked her over once. Not up and down — just once. Just enough.

“You wear skirts that don’t cover anything and call it art. I don’t judge.”

She tilted her head. Her smile didn’t move past her mouth.

“That wasn’t judgment. That was commentary.”

“Same thing when you’re insecure.”

That stopped her.

Not because it hurt.

Because it landed. And she didn’t like that he could see anything at all.

She shrugged, forced casual.

“I’m not insecure.”

“You don’t even believe that.”

She looked away, toward the empty seats. The light caught the dust in the air. Everything felt too quiet, suddenly. Too still.

“You really think you’re deep, huh?” she asked. “With your silence and your quotes about stillness. You’re just another boy who thinks moodiness equals meaning.”

He dropped his towel into his bag. His hands were red from floorwork. His knuckles, raw.

“And you’re just another girl who says shocking shit so no one asks what you’re actually thinking.”

That one wasn’t said loudly.

It didn’t need to be.

She stared at him. She could feel her pulse in her jaw.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re right,” he said, finally looking her in the eye. “But I know enough to not be impressed.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

Someone called her name from backstage. She didn’t answer right away.

Ni-ki turned. Picked up his sweatshirt. Walked toward the side exit without hurry.

That scent again — lemons, cold metal, something like memory — brushed past her as he left.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t look back.

She stood there alone for a while. Lights buzzing overhead. Coffee going cold in her hand.

The script felt heavier than it had earlier.

The hallway lights buzzed above her head as Y/N walked barefoot down the corridor. She held her heels in one hand, her phone in the other, scrolling without reading. The glow lit up her face unevenly.

She pushed open the stage door with her shoulder. The metal creaked. Cold air swept in.

Outside, the night smelled like damp wood and old leaves. The back of the theater was quiet, tucked between two brick walls and a rusted railing. Someone had left an empty coffee cup on the ground.

She stepped into the corner where the wind didn’t reach. Lit a cigarette, holding it between her fingers like she’d done it a thousand times. She had.

It wasn’t about addiction. It was about ritual. Inhaling something and letting it go.

The first drag didn’t calm her. It never did. But it filled the air with something she could control.

Then came the smell. That familiar mix: citrus and clean cotton, with a sharpness beneath it like cold steel.

She didn’t have to look. She knew.

Ni-ki stepped around the corner, hoodie on, tights still clinging to his legs like second skin. He was rubbing chalk from his hands with a small towel. Quiet. Self-contained.

Their eyes met briefly. He said nothing. Just took a cigarette from the inside pocket of his bag and leaned against the opposite wall.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” she said.

He lit his cigarette. Exhaled like it bored him.

“Didn’t peg you for much, actually.”

She smirked, shifting her weight.

“Wow. That was almost a flirt.”

“Wasn’t.”

The silence settled. The wind moved through the alley in soft pushes, carrying a few leaves with it. Her skirt fluttered, barely.

She stood near a broken light, so her face glowed half gold, half shadow. Her hair lifted with each gust, wild around the edges.

“So,” she said after a minute. “You’re allowed to smoke, even if you’re a dancer?”

“Technically, no.”

“And yet here you are.”

“You already said that yesterday.”

She rolled her eyes. Took another drag.

“Guess I repeat myself when I’m around people who don’t talk.”

“Or maybe you’re just hoping I will.”

That one sank in.

She looked down, then at him. He wasn’t smiling.

The wind picked up again, a sharper gust this time. It lifted the hem of her skirt—not high, but enough.

Just enough.

Just enough to see the faint red line across the top of her thigh. Thin. Delicate. Angry. Fresh.

She reached down instantly, smoothing the fabric. Too fast. Too defensive.

He looked away—but not like he was flustered. Like he saw, and didn’t need to stare.

“Pervert,” she said, sharp. Automatic.

He took a drag from his cigarette, slow.

“Maybe.”

The word landed strange. Not playful. Not guilty. Just… still.

She stared at him for a beat. But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was watching the smoke curl into the cold air.

“Say something,” she muttered, quieter.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. You just saw my—”

“I didn’t see anything.”

He looked at her now. Direct. Flat. Not cold, but serious in a way that made her pulse jump.

“And if I did, it’s yours. Not mine.”

She blinked. Then scoffed, because she didn’t know what else to do.

“You talk like you’re reading subtitles in your own head.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“And you talk like you’re performing for people who already left.”

That shut her up.

Not in a dramatic way. Just… like turning off a switch.

She dropped the cigarette. Crushed it under her bare foot like it didn’t matter.

“You’re a dick,” she said, barely audible.

He nodded once.

“Yeah.”

She walked past him then, back toward the door, and he didn’t follow her with his eyes. He just smoked, and let her go.

The light above them flickered once, then gave out.

The room smelled like dust and disinfectant. Long mirrors lined one side of the wall, streaked from fingers and breath. The floors were black-painted wood, worn down by years of movement, cracked just enough to catch a shoe if you weren’t careful.

Ni-ki was already there, sitting on the floor with one knee bent, hoodie on, script unopened in his lap. His hair was damp at the edges again, like he’d just washed the sweat out from something else — probably another rehearsal.

He looked like he didn’t want to be there. He also looked like he didn’t care that anyone knew it.

People filtered in, loud and laughing. Some dropped their bags with a thud. Others sat cross-legged, chewing gum, scrolling through their phones. It was the kind of energy that made Ni-ki feel further from everyone else than usual.

And then Y/N walked in.

Different today. Not in her usual skirt, not in heels. Just black pants, loose and sharp. White button-up tucked in like it didn’t mean anything. Her mouth was still red, though — always red — and her eyes didn’t miss much.

She didn’t look at him. Not right away.

The professor clapped her hands together twice.

“Alright. Molière today. Le Malade Imaginaire. Scene 3, Act II. You’ve been paired.”

Groans. Laughter. Some people already whispering who they hoped they got.

“Y/N and Ni-ki.”

Silence.

Someone let out a low whistle. Y/N blinked once. Then sighed, scribbling something into the corner of her script.

“Seriously?” she said under her breath.

“Is that a problem?” the professor asked, looking over her glasses.

Y/N glanced across the room. Met Ni-ki’s eyes.

“Not for me,” she said. “He just doesn’t talk.”

“You didn’t think I could act,” Ni-ki said from where he sat, not moving.

“I still don’t.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood up, finally. Moved to the center of the room like he’d been told to do it. Not like he wanted to.

Y/N followed, script in hand, shoulders relaxed like this was nothing new.

They faced each other under the warm, high light.

The professor sat on the edge of a chair with her pen in hand.

“Toinette and Argan. Read it once slow. Then try it again without reading. Let’s see what you discover.”

Y/N was first. Her voice slipped easily into the role — bright, slightly mocking, with a hidden intelligence behind every word.

“Why are you looking like that, monsieur? What’s happened now?”

Ni-ki looked down at the page. His lines came out stiff, too careful.

“Toinette, I… I feel sick. It’s spreading. I feel the sickness rising in my blood.”

He winced slightly at his own delivery. She raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” she whispered. “That’s your sick voice?”

He ignored her.

She stepped forward. Circle-like, lazy but controlled. Her tone shifted.

“Maybe it’s not sickness at all,” she said, voice lower now. “Maybe it’s… desire. Repressed. Disguised as fever.”

The professor tilted her head, interested.

Ni-ki froze for half a beat. He wasn’t used to this. His body knew how to move through choreography — not words. Not tone.

He tried again.

“I need— I need a doctor.”

Y/N smirked.

“Do you, though? Or do you need someone to press their palm to your forehead and tell you you’re burning?”

The room got quieter. Even the professor stopped taking notes.

Ni-ki blinked. She was too close now. Not touching him, but close enough that he could feel the heat off her breath.

He dropped the script. Let it fall to the floor.

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she said, stepping even closer.

His hands were at his sides. Her fingers brushed past his — not fully intentional, not fully accidental.

“But you’re not,” she whispered.

“No.”

They stood there like that. Two inches apart. Breathing each other in.

Y/N didn’t smile. Her face was unreadable.

Ni-ki’s eyes drifted down to her mouth, then back up. He didn’t say anything.

And then the professor clapped once.

“Stop there. That’s enough.”

The spell shattered.

Y/N stepped back fast, brushing her hair from her face like it had just gotten too hot in the room.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re terrible.”

“You’re terrifying,” he said, without looking at her.

She laughed once — short, flat.

“Yeah. I’ve heard.”

They moved back to the edges of the room while the next pair took the stage.

Ni-ki didn’t watch the others. He just kept his eyes on the scuffed floor, running his thumb along the seam of his hoodie.

Y/N sat across the room, flipping through her script, pretending to be bored. But every few seconds, she looked up.

And when he did finally glance back at her, her gaze didn’t drop.

Something shifted then.

The class had ended, but the tension hadn’t.

People were packing up — scripts shoved into backpacks, water bottles snapped shut, the air filled again with useless chatter and forced laughter. The kind that feels louder when something real just happened.

Ni-ki sat near the mirror, lacing his shoes like nothing had happened. His face was blank, perfectly calm, as always. As if his hands hadn’t just brushed against hers. As if she hadn’t been so close he could smell her skin under the perfume.

Y/N lingered by the door, flipping through her script with one hand, casually. Too casually.

She looked over at him.

“You know you kind of suck at this, right?”

He didn’t look up.

“Yeah. I figured.”

“Do you want acting lessons? I mean, clearly someone should help you before the performance.”

He tied the last knot on his shoe. Slowly.

“I’ll survive.”

“Oh, I know you will. You’ll just drag me down with you.”

That made him glance at her. Not annoyed — just patient, like someone watching a cat knock things off a shelf.

“You really want to spend more time with me?”

“No. I just don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“You’re already playing a maid. I think that ship sailed.”

She let out a breath of mock offense.

“Wow. The dancer makes jokes.”

“Only when pushed.”

She walked toward him now, stopping a few feet away.

“The professor said I should help you, by the way. Her exact words were: ‘Y/N, maybe you can knock some personality into him.’”

“Touching.”

“I thought so.”

He stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

“When?”

“Tomorrow. After six. There’s a studio upstairs that’s usually empty. I’ll bring the sarcasm, you bring the deadpan.”

He started to walk past her, but she blocked the door just slightly. Enough to slow him.

“Unless you’re scared.”

He didn’t blink.

“Of what?”

“Of rehearsing with someone who might actually make you feel something.”

For a second, he said nothing.

Then:

“Maybe I’m scared of what you’d do if I did.”

She tilted her head. The smile on her face was half-real.

“See you tomorrow, Argan.”

She stepped aside.

He walked past her, silent, the faint scent of citrus and sweat trailing behind.

He didn’t look back.

But she did.

Just once.

The studio was quiet except for the low hum of the lights and the sound of her pacing.

Her socks slid over the wood floor with every turn. She glanced at the clock again.

7:12.

Of course he was late.

She bent down, picked up the script again, and tossed it onto the chair. She hated waiting. Hated it even more when she didn’t know why she cared.

The door opened with a soft creak.

He walked in like nothing had happened. Hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp at the ends. Bag slung low on one shoulder. Ballet tights, again. And that look on his face — unreadable, like always.

“You’re late,” she said without looking at him.

“I came.”

“Fifteen minutes late.”

“Traffic.”

“You don’t drive.”

He let his bag fall to the floor with a soft thud. “You’re in a mood.”

“I was ready. You weren’t.”

“You’re always ready.”

She paused, just briefly. Then rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

“We’re doing Act II. The scene where Toinette calls him out for being pathetic. Which means you have to actually sound like you care.”

“I do care.”

“Your face doesn’t.”

He blinked once, slow. “You say that like you’re trying to piss me off.”

“If I wanted to piss you off,” she said, stepping toward him, “I’d tell you you look like a backup dancer in a luxury soap commercial.”

“Better than looking like a failed drama student still clinging to applause.”

She smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it hit something.

“There he is,” she murmured. “I was wondering when you’d finally talk back.”

They were closer now. She could feel the warmth of his skin, see the slight rise and fall of his chest. His jaw was tight again. He always looked like he was holding something in.

“You’re stiff,” she said, softer this time.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re bracing for impact.”

“Maybe I am.”

Her eyes searched his face.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Good.” She stepped closer. “Close your eyes.”

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then obeyed.

She raised her hand to his forehead. Her fingers brushed against the skin just below his hairline. Then his temple. He was warm, but not relaxed.

“Relax here,” she whispered. Her thumb slid along his cheekbone, tracing down to his jaw. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

Her hand moved to his throat, pressing gently against the base of it. She felt the tightness in his voice before he even spoke.

“And here. This is where you lock it all down.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

Her breath caught. “About what?”

“Kissing me.”

She didn’t pull away.

“You’re the one with your eyes closed.”

“You’re the one touching my neck.”

“You’re the one letting me.”

He opened his eyes. Their faces were close — too close now to pretend this was just an exercise. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up again.

“So,” he said. “Are we going to kiss, or are you just going to keep pretending this is professional?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You already do.”

And just like that, the space between them disappeared.

Their mouths met in something too fast to be soft. Her hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His fingers found her waist, anchoring them in place.

The kiss deepened, messy and real, nothing like the roles they were playing. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t practiced. It was what happened when two people tried not to want something and failed.

She pulled back first, barely an inch, breath shallow.

“You’re still a terrible actor.”

His lips brushed hers again. “You’re still exhausting.”

“Perfect.”

Neither of them stepped away.

And neither of them knew what the hell to do next.

They were still close. Too close.

The silence had thickened between them, and neither had moved since the kiss. His hands were still at her waist, her fingertips still resting against the back of his neck. Both of them breathing too loudly, not looking away.

She broke it first. Not with a step, but with a smirk.

“I can still see your dick through those tights.”

His mouth twitched — the first real smile she’d seen from him. Not cruel. Not controlled. Just amused, and real.

“Just admit you like looking.”

She didn’t say anything. Just met his eyes.

And then they were kissing again.

Harder this time. Hungrier. Less like a mistake and more like a decision they’d both been putting off.

Her back hit the mirror wall, soft and quick. He didn’t press — just followed her there, one hand at her hip, the other curling behind her neck, lips rougher now. She arched slightly, one leg shifting between his.

His hand slipped down. Over the side of her thigh. Light. Careful.

But then — she flinched.

Just a breath. Just a twitch. But he felt it.

He froze.

She pulled back, chest rising and falling, lips red and parted.

His hand stayed frozen at her leg, fingers slightly wet.

He looked down. Blood. Just a streak. Not his.

She stepped back quickly, eyes wide — not panicked, just caught.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then he looked at his fingers again, then at her.

“Let me see.”

Her jaw tightened.

“It’s nothing,” she said too quickly.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not—” She swallowed. “It’s fine.”

“Let me see.”

He didn’t say it like a demand.

He said it like it mattered.

Like he already knew. Like he wasn��t leaving without knowing more.

She didn’t move for a long second.

Then, slowly, she sighed — that sharp, tired kind of breath that comes right before surrender — and reached for the hem of her skirt.

She pulled it up. Not all the way. Just enough.

Three red lines across the top of her thigh. Thin. Raw. One still open.

His face didn’t change.

He just looked.

And then looked at her.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t explain.

There was nothing left to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

But he didn’t move away.

He just stood there. Still. Quiet.

Like the world had shifted slightly — not violently, just off-axis.

And she hated that he saw it.

And hated even more that he didn’t flinch.

The blood on his fingers hadn’t dried yet. She was staring at it — her own blood, warm and bright against his skin — as if that made it less real.

“You’re bleeding,” he said again.

Her voice came out tight. “It’s nothing.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t argue.

Just… stayed there, eyes fixed on her thigh. He kneeled.

The silence stretched. Then he reached for her again.

She didn’t move. Not away, not toward. Just stood there, breathing like she might forget how to if she thought too hard about it.

When his fingers brushed the edge of the cut, she flinched.

He didn’t pull back.

Instead, he leaned forward.

And kissed it.

Not soft. Not sweet.

His mouth met her skin like it belonged there, like he was testing how far she’d let him go. His tongue followed, slow and steady, tracing over the open line. Salt and heat. Her skin twitched under him.

She gasped, sharp and breathless.

“What are you,” she murmured, almost laughing, “a fucking cat?”

He looked up at her.

There was blood at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe.”

His voice was too calm.

She stared at him, chest rising and falling. Her face was flushed, but not from embarrassment.

“You’re disgusting,” she said.

He smiled — not kindly. “You’re still standing here.”

He pushed himself up, walked over to his bag like nothing strange had happened. She watched him pull out a small black pouch — not a full first aid kit, but it had the basics: wipes, gauze, bandages. Of course it did.

Of course he carried that.

He crouched again, not asking this time. Just cleaned the cut carefully. Efficiently. No dramatics. His touch was exact, like he’d done it before — maybe on himself. Maybe on someone else. She didn’t ask.

When he placed the bandage, she didn’t look at his face.

“There.”

She finally spoke. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

Another pause. He stayed crouched, still looking at her thigh.

“You really shouldn’t do this,” he said. Not soft. Not cruel. Just plain.

She swallowed hard.

“Don’t tell me what to—”

“If you want someone to hurt you,” he said, cutting her off, “I can do it properly.”

Her breath caught.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes — not anger. Not concern. Something in between. The kind of thing you say when you’re daring someone to react.

She met his gaze. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t care. But it was honest.

The city outside her window didn’t sleep, but her apartment felt like it did. The walls were still. The air, heavy. Her knees pulled up to her chest on the edge of the bed, phone glowing in her hand.

The message she wrote sat unsent for five minutes.

are you still up

Delete.

Then:

can you come over

Delete.

Then:

do you want to come hurt me

She didn’t delete that one.

She sent it.

He answered two minutes later.

Send me the address.

She didn’t think he’d come.

She thought maybe he’d laugh at the message.

Ignore it.

Screenshot it.

Use it against her later.

But thirty minutes after she sent it, he was standing at her door.

She opened it slowly.

No words. Just her in a giant shirt and nothing else. Hair messy, face clean, eyes hollow.

He didn’t look surprised.

He stepped inside like he already knew where everything was. Dropped his bag. Looked around her room like it bored him.

“You really called me for this?” he asked, his tone light. Almost amused.

She closed the door behind him. Didn’t answer.

“You couldn’t wait to be alone again, huh?”

Still no answer.

He walked past her, slow, brushing against her shoulder just enough to make her catch her breath. He kept going, toward her bed.

“Tell me,” he said as he sat down. “What happened tonight?”

She stood across the room, fists clenched. “Nothing.”

He laughed softly. “Right.”

“You don’t care.”

“I do. I just like asking things I already know.”

He leaned back on his palms, looking at her legs like he was studying bruises on a painting.

“So?” he said. “You want me to hurt you?”

She nodded, slow.

He tilted his head. “No. Say it.”

She swallowed. Her throat was dry.

“I want you to hurt me.”

He smiled — not wide. Just enough to let the silence stretch.

“I knew you were fucked up,” he said, “but this is a new low.”

“You came,” she shot back.

“Of course I did.” He stood now, walking toward her. “You don’t text someone that and expect them to stay home.”

When he reached her, he touched the hem of her shirt. Barely. His fingers grazed the edge.

“You want me to fuck you up?” he asked, voice soft like a dare. “Or do you want to pretend this is about healing?”

Her voice cracked. “I don’t care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

He lifted the shirt slowly, inch by inch, until the top of her thigh was bare. The same spot. The cut not fully closed. Red. Angry. Still warm.

He crouched. Looked at it closely, like he was appraising a flaw in porcelain.

Then: “You did this tonight?”

She nodded again.

“You were thinking about me when you did it?”

Silence.

That amused sound in his throat again — not quite laughter, more like satisfaction.

“You’re sicker than I thought.”

Then he licked it.

Slow. Intentionally.

She gasped — not from pain. Not from pleasure. From something else entirely.

“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.

“And you want more.”

He kissed higher. His breath warm now, tongue brushing over skin that had nothing to do with pain.

“You’re going to let me do this,” he murmured against her leg.

She closed her eyes.

He bit — not hard. Just enough to leave something behind.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

She didn’t.

He smiled into her skin.

“Good girl.”

He tugged on her shirt and it aside, leaving her in nothing but her panties. He smiled—too satisfied, too calm.

“I’m gonna mark you so much you’ll forget about cutting yourself,” he said with a chilling softness.

Then he lowered his head and began to kiss, suck, and bite her skin, leaving trails of bruises and red welts along her shoulders, her chest, her thighs. She flinched. He noticed. He grinned wider.

He didn’t ask. He just grabbed her, maneuvered her onto her hands and knees, as if her body were his to rearrange. She trembled beneath him, presenting herself.

“You want to feel pain so badly?” he said. “Then take this.”

His hand came down hard on her ass. Once. Then again. She lost count after the fifth blow. Her skin was stinging, but she didn’t know why it felt so good.

Then, with no warning, he yanked her panties down. Spit on her cunt. Shoved two fingers inside.

She screamed in pleasure, and in shock.

He laughed. “Is this too much for you, babygirl? Just wait until you feel my dick inside you. Then you’ll really have a reason to scream.”

He curled his fingers, searching for her sweet spot like a keyhole, trying to unlock her body. She cried out pleasure twisted in with confusion, pain layered with shame.

“Niki… Niki… I’m gonna cum…”

He stopped. Just like that. Withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty and shaking. She could feel his spit dripping between her thighs.

And then came the stretch. Deep, burning, slow. His cock pushed inside her.

“Fuck. Fuck. Niki—“

“That’s it, baby. Say my name.” He growled, throwing his head back. When he looked down again, he slipped a finger into his mouth, wet it, and without pause, slid it into her ass.

She was crying now. Her voice cracked from sobbing—pleasure, yes, but also shame. Raw, unfiltered shame.

“Niki—Not my ass…”

He only grinned.

“Thought you said you wanted me to hurt you?”

He kept thrusting with no mercy, adding a second finger, forcing her body to adjust to his will. Her moans were strangled, confused. She didn’t understand why it felt good.

“Why does this feel good?” she whimpered.

He laughed again. Slapped her hard across her ass.

“You’re such a kinky little slut.”

The words pierced through her, and her body responded. She came violently, helplessly, squirting all over him.

He groaned. “Oh, you’re squeezing me so hard. Fuck.” And then he came inside her. Deep. No warning.

“Carry my babies, bitch.”

He collapsed beside her, breathless, content.

“Did I hurt you enough… or do you still need more?”

The room was still.

Just the sound of their breathing — deep, uneven, slowly syncing back into something human.

Y/N lay on her side, her skin burning in places she didn’t want to name. Her breath trembled against the pillow. She wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t anything.

Just raw. Quiet. Present.

Ni-ki was beside her, one arm draped lazily over her waist. His fingers rested on the dip between her hip and her stomach. Not possessive, just there.

He didn’t speak for a while.

Then, gently, like the words might spook her, he asked,

“You okay?”

She nodded against the sheets.

But he didn’t let that be enough.

“Was it too much?”

Her voice came out hoarse. “No.”

“You sure?”

She rolled onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling. The air felt heavy. Her legs ached. Her voice was quiet, but steady.

“That was exactly what I needed.”

He turned his head toward her, one brow raised.

“To get fucked like that?”

She exhaled a broken laugh.

“To get pulled back down,” she said. “To feel something that wasn’t mine. That wasn’t shame or silence or… razors.”

His expression changed. Just a little. Like he understood more than he’d admit.

She looked at him. “You grounded me.”

He studied her for a second, then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone. Then another. And another. Nothing hungry now just warmth.

“I don’t usually do that,” he murmured into her skin.

“Be nice?”

He smiled against her shoulder. “That. Or fuck someone like they’re made of dynamite.”

Her fingers curled in the sheets.

He kissed the curve of her neck. “Do you want me to stay?”

She hesitated. Then nodded.

“Okay,” he whispered.

He got up quietly, walking to the bathroom. She heard water run. He came back with a warm, damp towel in one hand and a bottle of lotion in the other. No theatrics. Just calm. Focused.

Without a word, he sat beside her and began to clean her gently — between her legs, along her thighs, where sweat had dried and where spit and come had mixed. His touch was clinical, but careful. Not embarrassed. Not cold.

She bit the inside of her cheek, not knowing why it made her want to cry.

When he was done, he tossed the towel into the corner and uncapped the lotion.

“Relax,” he murmured.

He started at her calves, kneading the muscles gently, slowly working upward. His thumbs pressed into the sore spots like he could read them. The backs of her thighs. Her lower back. Her shoulders.

No words now. Just hands.

She didn’t even realize how tense she’d been until he softened her.

When he finished, he reached for the blanket, pulled it gently over her body like she was something worth covering. Then he pulled her close, chest against her back, arm around her waist. His chin tucked near her shoulder.

He didn’t say anything else.

But his fingers stroked lazy patterns along her arm, again and again.

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like hurting herself.

She just let herself be held.

The room had gone quiet again. She was curled against his chest now, both of them warm under the blanket. His fingers ran slow patterns down her spine, lazy and constant. She hadn’t spoken in a while, and he hadn’t pushed.

But then:

“Why do you do it?”

His voice was low, but direct. No buildup. Just the question.

She didn’t answer at first. Her breath caught. He felt it.

After a long pause, she said quietly, “Because sometimes I can’t feel anything.”

She turned slightly, resting her chin on his chest.

“Or I feel everything at once. Like I’m suffocating in my own head. And I just… I need to bleed a little to make it stop.”

He didn’t blink. Just nodded, like he’d already suspected as much.

“And you think pain makes it better?”

She looked up. “It’s not about better. It’s about real.”

His hand trailed along the curve of her waist. She could feel him thinking — that dangerous quiet right before he said something he shouldn’t.

“Well,” he said, “next time you feel like cutting yourself…”

She waited. His thumb pressed gently into the side of her hip.

“…just call me.”

She blinked.

He smirked.

“I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget why you wanted to bleed in the first place.”

She hit his chest lightly. “Ni-ki.”

“What?” His grin widened. “You said you needed to feel something, right? I’m just offering a healthier alternative.”

“Psycho.”

“Maybe. But I guarantee it works.”

His hand moved up her thigh slowly, tracing along the edge of her shirt.

“You don’t need razors,” he murmured near her ear. “You need dick.”

She burst out laughing, despite herself, her face heating up. “You’re the worst.”

“But you’re smiling,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I really don’t.”

“You’d beg for me.”

She rolled onto her back, hiding her face with her hands, still laughing — not because it was funny, but because he made it possible.

He kissed her shoulder softly. Then her collarbone.

“Call me,” he said again, quieter now. “Anytime you feel it creeping in. I’ll come over.”

“And do what?” she teased, looking at him from under the blanket.

He met her eyes.

“Remind you you’re alive.”

The apartment smelled like skin and sleep. The light came in soft through the window, falling across the tangled blanket at the edge of the bed.

Y/N stirred first.

She shifted against the warm weight behind her, stretched lazily, then turned to face him. He was still half-asleep, one arm under his head, the other sprawled across her stomach like he owned it.

She watched him for a second.

“Hey,” she whispered.

His eyes stayed closed. “What.”

“I’ve never seen you dance.”

He groaned.

“Seriously,” she pressed, nudging his ribs with her knee. “You’ve seen me act. You’ve seen me cry. I’ve literally cried on your dick. And I’ve never seen you dance.”

“Exactly,” he mumbled. “Let’s keep it that way.”

She sat up, pulling the blanket around her. “You’re a coward.”

He cracked one eye open. “You want a pirouette in your living room? Should I bring stage lighting next time?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t move.

She raised an eyebrow. “What are you scared of? That I’ll fall in love with you?”

He stared at her for a long second. Then sighed.

And got up.

Without a word, he crossed the room. He was still half-naked, hair a mess, eyes heavy from sleep. But he stood tall. Straightened his spine. Rolled his shoulders back.

Then he moved.

No music.

Just breath and control.

He turned slowly, arms sweeping out. Every line was exact. Every shift was grounded. It wasn’t flashy — just elegant. Quiet. And stunning. He didn’t perform. He simply existed inside the movement, like it had always been part of him.

She didn’t say anything.

Until he stopped.

And looked at her.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “I think I just fell in love with your dance.”

He tilted his head, walking back toward her, loose and fluid again now.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes still wide. “You wanna be my boyfriend?”

He raised an eyebrow.

She grinned. “Come on. I’m fun. I give good head. I’m emotionally unstable. What more do you want?”

He sat back down on the bed, pulling the blanket off her chest with one hand.

“You don’t love my dancing,” he said.

“No?”

“No.” His voice was calm. Smug. “You just love my dick.”

She laughed.

“Okay,” she admitted, pulling the blanket back. “But like… I love it artistically.”

“Sure you do.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing her collarbone.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Say you want me for my dick and nothing else.”

She pushed his face away, laughing into her hands.

“I hate you so much.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

She kissed his cheek. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up and go make coffee.”

“You’re already addicted,” he called over his shoulder, standing to leave the room. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The hallway was full. Too full.

People milling around after class, waiting for rehearsal, pretending to be busy. Y/N pushed through like always — sharp chin up, half-tired, half-powerful — but this time, something was different.

Her neck.

A mess of bruises trailed down from her jaw to her collarbone, uneven and impossible to miss. A few had already darkened into purple. Others were fresh, red and angry.

And she wasn’t covering them.

Not with makeup. Not with a hoodie. Just a black off-the-shoulder shirt that might as well have come with a neon sign: Yes, someone did this to me. Yes, I liked it.

She held her iced coffee like a weapon. Walked like she didn’t care.

Next to her, Ni-ki matched her pace. Hands in his pockets. Hoodie up. Always a step too quiet to be noticed, until you noticed him too much.

His eyes kept flicking to her neck.

Then to the people staring.

Then back to her.

“Everyone’s looking at you,” he murmured.

“No shit.”

“You like it.”

She sipped her drink, deliberately. “You like that they know it was you.”

He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

They turned the corner toward the rehearsal wing, and someone from their acting class — tall, nosy, name-forgotten — stopped mid-step.

“Y/N. Uh… your neck—”

Y/N didn’t slow down. “What about it?”

“It’s just—did something happen? Are you—?”

“I’m thriving.”

Ni-ki stepped slightly in front of her then, blocking the view just enough. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

“She’s fine,” he said coolly. “She wanted marks.”

“And he delivered,” Y/N added, brushing past.

The guy blinked. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

They kept walking.

When they were out of earshot, Ni-ki leaned toward her, voice low and close to her ear.

“You like wearing me.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “You’re such a narcissist.”

“I’m right, though.”

“Keep talking and I’ll bite you next.”

He looked at her like that might actually be a welcome idea.

Then he did it again — that gaze. Slow. Heavy. Direct. Like he was scanning her all over again, taking inventory of what belonged to him.

“You should be mine all the time,” he murmured. “Not just when we’re alone.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I already am.”

“Then let me show everyone.”

“You already did.” She gestured to her neck. “You’ve basically branded me.”

“Not enough.”

He stopped walking.

She turned to face him — annoyed, amused. “Seriously?”

He looked down at her like he was trying to decide whether to kiss her or start another fight.

Then, with infuriating calm: “I don’t like people looking at you.”

“You literally made me look like I got mauled.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed once, loud. “You’re insane.”

He shrugged. “I like what’s mine to stay mine.”

She shook her head, pushing him lightly with her hand. “I don’t even know why you’re my boyfriend.”

His expression didn’t change.

“I mean it,” she said, smirking. “You’re rude. You barely talk. You embarrass me in public. You act like I’m your property.”

“I fuck you like you are,” he said without missing a beat.

She shoved him harder this time, laughing despite herself. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You love it.”

“I actually don’t even like you.”

He grabbed her wrist gently. “Sure, baby.”

“Not even attracted to you.”

“Want me to remind you?”

She turned her face to hide her grin, pulling her hand back. “Shut up.”

“Thought so.”

They reached the door to the theater. She opened it without looking at him.

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered.

“And you’re obsessed.”

“I need therapy.”

“I am your therapy.”

She scoffed. “My therapist would quit.”

He leaned down, brushed her ear with his mouth, and whispered:

“She’d quit because she knows I’m doing a better job.”

She slammed the door in his face.

He just laughed.

And followed her inside.

#enha smut #niki smut #enha imagines #enha scenarios #enhypen fic #enha x reader #enhypen #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen niki #ni ki

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doormuncher3 · 3 days ago

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Young Lovesick Sevika x Young DocReader

Lovesick Sevika who met you in an undergrad biology class she accidentally walked into because she confused it for the architectural design class going on next door. She was getting up to leave when you decided to sit beside her and wipe any coherent thought coursing trough her mind paralyzing her to that chair.

Lovesick Sevika who added herself to the class knowing she knew nothing about biology just so that she could make you fall for her. She never missed a class sitting beside you at every single one.

Lovesick Sevika who introduced herself in her second class with you and asked you out by the end of it. You said no, but she didn't give up following you out of the building cause she didn't know what else to do. It was raining heavily outside and she followed you to the bus stop putting her jacket over your head so that you wouldn't get so wet. You didn't take it off.

Lovesick Sevika who wore down your defenses after enduring rejection after rejection from you. It wasn't beacuse you didn't like her but you were too emotionally unavailable to give her what she needed. Yet she presisted and you let her in. Thinking that she would walk away once she could see that you couldnt give her the availability she would eventually long for. But she stayed slowly winning you over by the end of it.

Lovesick Sevika would eventually follow you across the country so that you could accept the residency of a lifetime. Leaving behind her well paying job at a big architectural firm. Packing up all your furniture by herself. All because she couldnt live without you.

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

This was not what residency was supposed to be like right? You questioned trying to get yourself motivated enough to get off your office chair. You were exhausted, to say the least. They called you at the last minute the resident on call was not answering and someone had to pick up the slack. For 12 hours you ran around like a maniac emergency after emergency piled up like wildfire with you as the sole fighter.

You were running on adrenaline and when it wore off you finally could clearly see the time. And the guilt settled heavily on your chest. How could she forgive you after missing your first anniversary in the city?

You had to drag yourself to the car exiting the hospital tired and starving head hung low as you slowly made your way through the mostly empty parking lot. You looked up as you got closer to the car smelling the familiar scent of a particular cigarette when you saw her.

She was leaning against the side of your car, cigarette in her mouth head thrown back and arms crossed as if no care in the world. You walked up to her stopping close enough for her to reach you and she straightened up looking down with a smile that made your heart melt.

"What are you doing here"

"You shouldn't have come, its late" You said looking up at her with tired eyes and a monotone voice

"You're mean you know that?" She said as she looked down into your eyes with a playful smile

You reached for her cigarette and took one last drag before throwing it on the ground and extinguishing it with your foot. Before sliding your arms inside her jacket wrapping your hands around her waist putting your head on her chest and hugging her tightly as she took in your embrace.

"It's stupid to smoke you know... What would people say knowing your girlfriend's a doctor huh" You started lecturing her

"Won't do it again I promise," she said with a grin amused at your pestering

"How long did you wait for me?"

"Not long," she said absentmindedly

The guilt ate at you. You could tell by the coolness of her chest on your face that she must've waited a while. Her briefcase beside her on the ground telling you she came as soon as she got off work. And although the guilt chipped away at your resolve to her you could do no wrong.

"I would have waited for as long as it took," she said trying to appease the guilt she knew you would not let go of easily

You stayed silent unable to voice a reply. Her heartwarming words the salt to your wound.

"How was work?" She said changing the subject giving the top of your head a kiss

"Fine" you said muffled into her chest

"U hungry?" she asked

"Yeah, but don't move" u said back

"I won't" she spoke

A beat of silence followed. It was a typical and comfortable silence the kind you could only get from her presence

"I'm so sorry" you spoke quietly

"There's nothing to be sorry about," she said leaning down to kiss your neck then rising to kiss near your mouth to try and comfort you

"Besides I'll find a way for you to make up for it" she then spoke into your mouth before kissing you deeply

You didn't go home right away that night you both fell asleep in the back of the car until dawn. You were on top of her body using her body heat and her leather jacket on top of you for warmth as she slept under you.

--------

Lovesick Sevika who had the idea for your future family home sketched out after that first class, and who built that same house for you years later.

#sevika x reader #sevika fluff

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milk-is-stable · 2 days ago

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The Shoot From the Hip Hunger Games: Day/Night 5

Masterpost (<-START HERE! the posts are best read in order)

Content Warning: descriptions of violence, blood/injury, major character death

The sun rises on the fifth day of the Hunger Games, and the first pale tendrils of dawn have barely appeared in the sky as the camera zooms in on Julian, Inga, and Michael's campsite. Johnny's face is creased in a frown and he tosses and turns in his sleep, muttering to himself. Suddenly he cries out and his eyes fly open. He reaches out with his right hand, but stops when it finds only dirt and leaves.

"Wha–" Michael sits up, his face stretching with a long yawn. "What's happening?"

"Sorry," Johnny says, sitting up and wrapping his arms around himself. "I was just dreaming."

"Really?" Inga asks blearily, cracking one eyelid open. "Was it a future dream?"

"I do have normal dreams sometimes, you know," Johnny says.

"What'd you dream about?" asks Michael. "Whatever it was, it sounded bad."

"I...it was the kid from District 10," Johnny finally admits. "He was raiding our camp, and he was about to shoot Inga when I woke up."

"Sounds like our next target then," Inga says with a yawn. "But I need at least another hour of sleep before I can think of any plans."

"That's fine," Michael says. "I think I'll get up and check some of the rabbit traps I set around the woods. Johnny, you good?"

"I'm fine. I'll go back to sleep," Johnny says.

Michael nods, picks up one of their tree branch spears, and inches his way back across the bridge over their trench. The camera lingers on Johnny, who watches Michael as he disappears into the trees...then when the other boy is gone, his gaze drifts and lands on Inga's sleeping form.

The camera zooms in closer to her, then cuts to a similar extreme close-up of Alexa, who's asleep with her head leaning on Benjamin's shoulder. Peter is awake, watching the sunrise through the trees, so he spots the sponsor parachute as soon as it descends into view. He reaches and shakes the other two awake, pointing as the mystery gift drops to the forest floor below them. The three of them clamber down the tree, and Peter opens the package to reveal a light compound bow and a quiver of wickedly sharp arrows.

"Well, at least now we have something to use against that mutt," Benjamin says. "Do you know how to fire that?"

Peter shrugs.

"It can't be that hard, can it? Just pull back the string, point, and let go?"

"It's better than nothing, I suppose," Benjamin says.

Alexa opens her mouth, but before she can speak, her stomach growls audibly and she winces.

"It would probably be good to try and get some food today," Benjamin says. "We didn't eat much yesterday."

Peter looks between the two of them for a moment, then nods.

"I know a place we can go to get enough food for all three of us," he says, strapping the quiver to his back. "Follow me."

He heads off into the woods, and after a moment, Benjamin and Alexa follow him.

The camera cuts to show Chip walking on his own, eating a handful of berries as he goes. A rustling noise in the woods catches his attention and he stops, looking around cautiously as his hand drifts towards the knife sheathed on his belt.

Suddenly, there's a snarling sound, followed by the high pitched keen of a small animal dying. Chip's face goes pale, and he turns and hurries away in the other direction, glancing behind him every so often to make sure there's nothing following him.

The camera cuts to a close up shot of Michael, who is walking back towards his campsite and carrying two dead rabbits by their hind legs. The shot zooms out and swings around to the back of his head, so that the viewer sees what he sees at the same moment he does: Johnny standing at the campsite, one of the sharpened branches held in both hands. He's looking down at something on the ground, then he squeezes his eyes shut and lifts the branch up over his head and drives the point straight down.

The camera cuts to Inga's face as her eyes fly open in shock, a gasp of pain on her lips. Johnny staggers away from her, and she stares at him in disbelief.

"Y-you..." she coughs, and her breath comes in a strangled wheeze. "But...the future..."

"Can be changed, "Johnny says quietly.

He turns and begins gathering up as much of the supplies from their camp as he can carry, pointedly not looking at Inga as the last of the life bleeds out of her. Finally, the cannon fires, and Johnny carefully makes his way over the makeshift bridge and takes off into the forest...passing the bush that Michael is hidden behind by mere feet.

The camera cuts back to Alexa, Peter, and Benjamin, who have reached the part of the arena where the forest gives way to the rocky terrain surrounding the ravine.

"We've got to find the stream, then follow it down to a cave," Peter is explaining. "Hopefully whatever the gamemakers did to the water hasn't affected the food that's growing there."

"Are you okay, Alexa?" Benjamin asks suddenly. "You've been awfully quiet today, and I know I haven't known you super long, but that doesn't seem like you."

"Ah...I suppose that's true," Alexa says, looking down and picking at her fingernails. "I do usually like to talk, to tell jokes...I guess I was just thinking."

"What about?" Peter asks, and Alexa shrugs.

"Back before the reaping...I had this little apartment in the city, just me and Janusz. It was small, and drafty, and we only had one thin blanket to sleep on and one little candle to burn and some nights all we had for dinner was a thin cabbage soup that the lady downstairs would share with us."

"That sounds awful, I'm sorry," Benjamin says, but Alexa shakes her head.

"No...no, living in that little apartment was the happiest that I have ever been. It was the first time that nobody wanted me to be something that I was not. I was just thinking...I miss that."

"I miss home too," Peter says. "I miss my room and my toys and the back garden. I even miss my dumb old PS5." He sighs, and kicks a rock ahead of them as they walk. "Mostly though, I miss my parents."

"Me too," Benjamin adds. "And Clarissa, and all the other kids my mum and dad took in after the accident.

"Maybe you'll see them again," Alexa says, and Benjamin huffs.

"But the only way for me to do that is if both of you die," he says. "And the only way that Peter gets to see his family again is if we both die."

Peter looks away at that, a troubled expression on his face.

"The fucked up thing about this game," Benjamin continues, "is that even if you refuse to play, you still lose."

Alexa shakes her head.

"No...no, I don't believe that's true. I told you that I do not care about winning, but that's not quite it. I don't care about winning the Hunger Games...I have to win the fight I am having with the people who want us to do bad things. And at least for now, I am still winning that fight."

Peter opens his mouth to speak, then he freezes, staring off into the distance.

"What?" Benjamin asks, and Peter points wordlessly.

The mutt has returned, and is slowly stalking towards them from the treeline.

"Not again," Benjamin groans.

"Nowhere to run this time," Alexa says, looking around frantically. "Could it follow us if we climbed up those rocks there?" she asks, pointing at a small formation of boulders near the edge of the ravine

"Maybe?" Peter says, though he doesn't sound very sure. "You may as well try, I'll see if I can shoot it down before it gets here."

Alexa and Benjamin hurry forward, and Alexa begins climbing up the side of the rocks as Peter fiddles with the bow and arrow for a moment. He manages to knock an arrow on the string, but it's clear that he is unsure of what he's doing. He pulls the string back as far as he can, aiming his shot towards the mutt as it approaches, but the arrow flies wide and instead of hitting the creature, it strikes Benjamin in the back of the calf just as he begins to climb.

"Aaagh!" Benjamin screams in pain, stumbling forward. "Fuck!"

"Benjamin!" Alexa screams as Benjamin slides back to the ground.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Peter exclaims, flinching violently. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"Shoot it!" Benjamin shouts.

The mutt's attention is trained entirely on Benjamin now, its nostrils flaring wide as it prowls closer.

"Blood..." Peter says, his eyes widening. "It's drawn to the scent of blood!"

Benjamin looks down at his bleeding leg, then back to the beast as it draws nearer, and he takes a deep breath. Turning, he limps his way towards the edge of the ravine.

"Benjamin?" Alexa asks, and he looks up at her, his eyes wide with fear. "Benjamin, what are you doing?"

"You were right," he says, and he forces himself to smile. "What you said about winning. So I'm going to win, in the only way they'll let me."

He turns to face the mutt as it begins to run at him, and he takes a step back so that he's standing right on the cliff's edge. He looks up towards the sky, his breath coming in quick, shaky bursts.

"Mum...Dad...if you're watching...I'm sorry."

He closes his eyes, and as the mutt leaps forward to tackle him, he leans back. The creature slams into his body, then the two of them go flying down the ravine together. Benjamin's scream is drowned out by the monster's panicked howl, and once again, a cannon fires as a body lands at the bottom of the ravine.

Peter rushes to the edge and peers over, then looks back at Alexa.

"The mutt isn't moving," he says quietly. "I don't think it made it either."

Alexa doesn't speak; her face is white as a sheet and her hands are trembling at her sides.

"Listen, I'm so sorry," Peter says, taking a step towards her. "About everything. I'm sorry about Benjamin, and about your other friend, about scaring you on that first night when all I wanted was to ask if you would team up with me..." he trails off as Alexa slides down the boulder onto the ground, wincing as she lands on her weaker ankle.

She wordlessly walks right past him, heading back towards the forest. When she reaches the treeline, she pauses and looks back.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," she says quietly. "If you do win...try to remember that."

She turns and disappears into the trees, and the camera fades out on the shot of Peter standing alone at the edge of the ravine.

The screen fades in on a shot of Johnny trudging through the forest. He moves slowly due to his wound, and he is so focused on walking steadily on the ground in front of him that he almost doesn't notice Chip watching him from a berry patch until he's right on top of him.

"Shhhhh!" Chip hisses when Johnny flinches, and he puts a finger to his lips. "Listen, I'm going to be straight with you," he says in a low voice. "I think there's something in the woods. Some kind of wild animal, maybe a mutt. I've been hearing traces of it all day."

"Really?" Johnny asks, and Chip nods.

"You heard the cannons, we're on the final five now. I know alliances are probably all moot at this point. But I'd rather die on my feet fighting than be torn apart by whatever...thing is out there stalking us. I say we agree not to kill each other for one night, so that we can watch each other's backs and try and both get some sleep. Agreed?"

Johnny looks at Chip for a long moment, then slowly he nods and holds out a hand. Chip takes it, and they shake.

"Agreed."

The camera cuts to Michael, who has gathered as much food as he can from the forest surrounding his ransacked campsite. With his flint taken by Johnny, the rabbits he killed that morning are useless to him, and he's back on a diet of foraged berries and roots.

"Four more to go," he mutters to himself as he walks back towards his camp. "You just have to make it through four more. You can do that, can't you?"

He lets out a groan, and rubs a hand over his face before continuing through the woods.

For a time, the woods are silent, then a soft, eerie sound drifts towards him through the trees, and he freezes.

It's a small voice, singing softly in a different language than what's been spoken in the arena thus far.

"Bayu-bayushki-bayu, Ne lozhisya na krayu! Pridet seren'kiy volchok,I ukhvatit za bochok."

Michael quickens his pace, and finds Alexa walking a few yards ahead of him, in the same general direction as his campsite. Her arms are wrapped around herself and she's hunched over slightly as she walks, and all the while she sings.

"On ukhvatit za bochok, I potashchit vo lesok. I potashchit vo lesok Pod rakitovyy kustok."

She gets closer and closer to the campsite as she sings, and Michael is listening so intently that he almost doesn't realize where she's walking.

"Wait!" he calls out, and Alexa spins around, her song cutting off in a gasp of surprise. "Don't move," Michael says, holding out a hand in warning.

"What do you want?" she demands, her voice quivering, and Michael takes a deep breath.

"Nothing," he says carefully. "I don't want to hurt you."

Alexa laughs, and the sound is bitter and hollow.

"I don't think it matters what you want anymore, does it? It doesn't matter what either of us want."

"Look, just listen to me," Michael says, and he takes a step towards her.

She takes a step back on instinct, then her eyes widen in shock as the ground beneath her feet vanishes. She falls backwards, her arms flying out in a vain attempt to catch herself, and one of the dozens of branches that fill the pit surrounding the campsite pierces her through the back and sticks out through her chest. She makes a pained, choking noise, and Michael rushes forward.

"I'm sorry!" he cries out, raising his hands to his mouth in shock.

"I...I did it," Alexa says, her voice impossibly small. "Did you see?"

"Did I see what?" Michael asks, but she doesn't even look at him; her gaze is fixed upwards, and the reflection of the stars shines bright in her eyes

"Did you see, Janusz?" she asks. "I didn't let them use me...I won after all." She smiles, and a tear rolls down her cheek. "I'm coming after you, Janusz. Now we can finally be free..."

She lets out a shaky breath, and does not breathe in again.

— — —

The day ends and the Capitol anthem plays. The sky lights up with the fifth nightly ceremony honoring the fallen. The face of each tribute that died, in District order, appears in the sky. Your TV shows a brief clip of how each death occurred, though the projection in the arena doesn’t show this to the tributes.

You see Alexa fall and a spike pierce her chest, Benjamin go over the cliff with the mutt, and Johnny drive his spear into Inga's stomach.

The anthem ends, and the projection in the arena goes dim.

This concludes our broadcast for the day! Please tune in again tomorrow to see what will become of YOUR favorite tribute!

Game Summary

Deaths:

Inga was killed by Johnny

Benjamin was killed by an animal

Alexa was killed by Michael

Kill Counts:

Pinocchio: 2 (Maria, Jimmy)

Inga: 2 (Jim L, Scottish Robin)

Caesar: 2 (Juliet, Pinocchio)

Chip: 3 (Clarissa, Marty, Hugh)

Jasper: 1 (Pinocchio)

Robin: 1 (Janae)

Peter: 2 (Priscilla, Caesar)

Michael: 2 (Scottish Robin, Alexa)

Johnny: 1 (Inga)

Game Meta

MY DISAPPOINTMENT IS IMMEASURABLE AND MY DAY IS RUINED

Look. I was low(read, high)key rooting for Alexa. The whole seed, she was my favorite, the one I wanted most to win. There were other tributes I would have loved to see take it and who I was sad to see die, but I was rooting for Alexa the whole time and I almost threw the seed out when she died. But that felt like cheating, and I'm not a cheater /silly.

Shout out to everyone being like "Inga is gonna betray them isn't she" because YEAH she probably would have, had Johnny not beaten her to it. Which he only DID because he was certain that she would. That whole storyline was born of getting the incredible back to back punch of "Johnny begs Inga to kill him and she doesn't" and "Johnny stabs Inga with a tree branch" and asking the question "How would their relationship have to progress for that to make any kind of sense?" I think I like what I ended up with!

Housekeeping: Chip getting the picture as a sponsorship I put yesterday, to make it so that each tribute group got something after the interviews, and Peter's nightmares will be mentioned in tomorrow's post since I couldn't really figure out how to pace a mention of that with the last death scene.

Final four tributes now....which means why not, have another poll.

#sfth hunger games #shoot from the hip #sfth fanfic #sfth fanfiction #sfthposting #sfth #sfth alexa #sfth johnny #sfth benjamin #sfth michael #sfth inga #peter steven #sfth peter #my writing

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wizzdot · 1 day ago

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The Patron Saints of One Way Trips

Chapter 31

description: More shit goes down. Laika wakes upand goes feral. Cops are cops. Simon is Simon. Laswell is a bit harsh to the boys. Johnny and Kyle are lovesick. Simon feels feelings. John feels guilty. Needs to make it up to you in the next chapter…

*Simon’s POV*

No. No. NO. NO. FUCK.

How could she have slipped away without me noticing?! Why did I let this happen?! She’s gone…

I sling the sniper rifle to the side, not bothering to pack it away. It’s not important right now. The elevator is right down on the bottom floor so I waste precious seconds waiting for it to return. Still quicker than using the stairs from the top of a fuckin’ sky rise.

I’d already alerted the pack Alpha, and I know that the two sergeants would have heard my voice over the comms as well. This has turned into a massive shit show.

Laswell’s voice comes over the radio then.

“No visuals on Laika. Simon, any idea how long she’s been missing from your post?” -

“No. She crept out. Could have been anytime. I was watching the scope the entire time”

“God, Simon..” John rumbles disapprovingly through comms. It makes my stomach lurch.

The last time John and I ‘spoke’ we were about to have a fist fight over the Omega we wanted to claim and make a member of our pack.. And now she’s gone. And I am to blame.

“Kate - I’ll find my weapon and then search for the omega.. I’ll need medical once we’ve got her. Broke a couple of ribs, I reckon..” John’s breathier-than-usual voice rasps through my earpiece.

“Solid copy. Let me know immediately of any sightings. We can’t let her disappear”.

*Laika’s POV*

I see black. My head thumps and my shoulder aches. It’s warm, but stiff. Something’s wrong.

I still can’t will my body to follow my consciousness, my eyes won’t open, my voice - silent. I can hear John rumbling from across the hall, and I hear him moving slowly from his position over the hall. He sounds winded and short of breath.

“Shit. My gun” he groans to himself “- and my fuckin’ hat”

He sounds close now. So close. I know that I can’t be too far from the blast site, as I tackled Hassan right in front of the doors. I hear his heavy boot hit flesh, as he rolls and moves the two dead guards and the dead marine in an attempt to try and locate his gun and his stupid bucket hat. I hope he rolls me over and realises that I’m right here.

No such luck. It’s at this moment, I really start to regret my decision to wear scent patches. He doesn’t know I’m here. He obviously finds his gun and hat, as he checks his remaining ammo and I hear fading, uneven footsteps. He must be leaving. I wish I could move. I wish I could call out to him. I try to force my brain to force a movement, but all it does is send more pain to my shoulder. I feel the tiniest whimper escape from my throat. Good. I must be coming round.

*Johnny’s POV - a couple of hours later*

Kyle and I manage to wrap up the objective, with a little help from Simon and a well timed head shot on Hassan. The missiles were redirected and detonated safely. But I felt no pride. No relief. She’d gone. She’d left us. Just upped and left while Simon had his back turned...

We’d all stayed at the facility for ages, searching for her. But she’d gone. At least we hadn’t found a body… I guess that’s one small positive from this situation.

John debriefs with Laswell and re-tells the mission and how he has a bit of a close shave when Hassan had him on his knees, about to shoot him point blank range from behind just after that explosion knocked us both out. Thankfully Kyle managed to drag us away but the poor marine that tackled Hassan just as he pulled the trigger on Price wasn’t so lucky, poor bastard.

Officials are saying a power surge is to blame for an explosion over downtown Chicago last night due to severe winds leaving thousands of residents in the dark. Electricity is expected to be restored by this evening.

We land at a shady bar in Chicago with Laswell.

She sits at the bar watching the news as Price brings two glasses of alcohol for him and Laswell.

“What’s the plan on locating Laika. We need to find her. She’s not just vanished. Surely someone saw something.”

“-John, I’m sorry to be negative, but she very obviously left on her own terms. Perhaps she will return once she has cooled off. I noticed the atmosphere was a little bit tense on the helicopter ride in. Look - I’m not in the best place to theorise what went down, but I’m assuming there was a disagreement? She may have left, John. She never liked conflict. You’ve all read her files. She’s a flight risk. One upset suspected-Omega, coming off suppressants for the first time, unbonded but glued to a pack of Alpha’s who are yet to claim her… I reckon she’s ran… she needs time…”

-“we don’t have time, Kate.. what if -”

“She’s smart”

“They’re after her. You know as well as anybody…”

-“and if she wants to go back, she will. John. It’s out of my hands. She has the ball in her court.”

My brows furrow and my stomach lurches. I can’t just listen to this absolute pile of piss. There’s no way…

“Naw. That’s Bullshit, Laswell -”

I’m shouting before I even realise I’ve stood up and interrupted their conversation.

“Sergeant…” she warns me with a raised eyebrow.

“Naw, she was with me and Kyle before we left for this. Perfectly fine. She was happy. She widnae’ just have left us. They’re no fuckin’ way. Kyle..? Tell her!”

I motion Kyle over to the bar.

“It’s true, Kate. She was acting normally this morning. It was just the Captain and Lieutenant who she was pissed off at. But she wanted to prove a point. Not run off. We went shopping. Had lunch.. nothing would have suggested she was planning to run off..”

“Sergeants, look. I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t have any leads or suggestions. Of course, I’ll keep my ear to the ground. It’s in all of our best interests to find her and return her to the pack, but my best advice is to let her make her own decision. That’s the end of the matter. I’m sorry it’s not what you want to hear.”

“Now. About Iran…” Laswell turns back to Price, clearly suggesting that me and Kyle butt out of their private conversation.

I can smell the anger and frustration in Price’s scent, and I know that my own scent is sour and thick.

I grab Kyle and Simon and leave the bar.

“She cannae be serious” I shout once we are out on the street. I kick a rubbish bin and growl, angrily. I want to punch someone. Or something.

“Johnny-”

“Don’t even fuckin think about tellin’ me to calm down, LT” I growl back, before he has chance to finish his sentence.

“Kyle, have you got your phone on you? Mine got busted in the blast”

“Uhm-” Kyle pats his pockets and pulls out his phone, placing it in my palm.

“What.. you goin’ to just call her and ask her to come back.. think that’ll work do ya’?” Simon teases, sharply.

“I dinnae see you comin’ up with any better ideas. And it was you who fuckin’ lost her” I growl, ready to punch him.

“Guys.. this isn’t helping. Is it?” Kyle tries to calm us down.

I press her name on Kyle’s phone and the line just goes dead immediately.

“FUCK” -

*Laika’s POV*

I eventually woke up. Cold, and stiff. And stuck. Stuck under a body.

It takes me a few attempts to get the dead man off of me, especially with my shoulder being completely unusable. I’m covered in blood and dust, obviously from the dead guy I’d been unknowingly using as a flesh blanket.

I stagger to my feet, feeling dizzy, and weak.

I hear voices. They sound American. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, so I decide to keep myself hidden. I manage to eventually find the exit, without alerting any of the others in the huge high-rise building. I don’t know what time it is, and my phone is broken.

When I get to the ground floor, there is what looks like an ocean of body bags. That is what those people must be doing. The clean-up crew. It’ll probably look like nothing ever happened here by tomorrow morning. In and out. No one gets hurt. Hah. Yeah right.

I stumble my way into the dark night. Still feeling totally drowsy and nauseous. I must have taken a hard hit to the head. I feel warm and cold all over. I really need help. I check my phone again, as if it might miraculously un-smash itself. I long to see one of the Alpha’s name on the screen. But I’m alone. In Chicago. Just limping down a random street in Chicago. Covered in blood.

I jolt when I hear a shocked voice.

“Holy shit, lady. What the fuck?! I’m callin’ the cops” - wait what?

Oh no, a civilian has seen me.

“Oh. No no no that won’t be necessary, sir… I’m fine!” I try and smile, holding my hands forward in a placating manner.

“You crazy-ass bitch walking about like that. Stay back!!”

I shake my head.. “no.. no, please!”

“Yeah - 911? Uhm, there’s a woman walking about covered in blood. Looks like she’s been blown up, good lord.. she’s carrying a gun..”

I gulp, and tremble. I don’t know what to do. I can’t run. Not in my condition. I can’t argue with this civilian, he’s clearly distressed by my appearance. Surely I don’t look that bad, right..?”

“I-I’ll wait.. I won’t run..” I plead, hoping to calm the guy down. He can’t cause any more of a scene if he tried. I see curious passer-bys start to look.

I try to stay close to the walls, in the shadows.

That’s when I hear the distant sirens. A couple of minutes later I see the blue lights flashing off of the night sky, and nearby buildings. I kneel on the ground, praying that the police would be kind enough to just listen. And maybe they’d even let me borrow a phone..

Shit! SHIT.

Four cars screech to a halt in quick succession and I can hear a helicopter from above and then I see that I’ve been lit up in a huge search light, by said helicopter. What the fuck is going on?!?

“ARMED POLICE, LAY YOUR WEAPON DOWN AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD” a voice yells over the megaphone.

I whimper, terrified. I can feel my omega clawing to come out. No. NO. This can’t happen now. You can’t go fucking feral now you stupid mutt.

I slide my gun away from myself, and then reach into my tac-vest and throw a knife to the ground. It clatters sharply against the road.

I try to place my hands behind my head as instructed, but that damn shoulder of mine doesn’t play ball.

One arm is up. The other is - well - limp to my side.

“I SAID BOTH HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD”

I shake my head, trying my best. Tears flow freely down my face, my body racked with my harsh sobs. “I can’t” I whisper, pained. Weak.

“WHY AREN’T YOU COMPLYING. ALL UNITS, ARMED AND DANGEROUS - I REPEAT. ARMED AND DANGEROUS.”

All of a sudden I’m rushed by a team of about 8 Alpha officers and one of them grabs both my arms, wrenching them both behind my back as they hand cuff me, tightly.

I wail. My shoulder feels like it’s on fire. It feels as though it’s getting cut off. I’d never felt pain like it. I scream, and thrash. And my omega turns feral. I growl and scream, kicking officers away from me as I fight the pain. The Alpha’s causing me pain. I try to run away. Run away from my shoulder. The pain.

They tase me. I fall to the ground, face first, no arms to break my fall. Of course it’s my shoulder and face that takes the fall. My omega decides it’s time for her to take the drivers seat, now. Everything goes black. I’m like a passenger in my own body. I can hear everything. And some of the sounds are coming from me. Ok, maybe not some. Maybe the majority.

*Simon’s POV*

I am on a short fuse. One wrong move and I’ll kill someone. I blame myself for this. For the tension in my pack. Johnny would shoot me if he could. I am not helping myself either. It’s not easy when I get like this. I withdraw from the situation. Pretend to be cold and unattached.

In reality, I would kill every last person that stood between my pack and her. Every last one. If it meant she’d be safe, back where she belongs, hell the whole fuckin’ world could burn for all he cares.

I feel hopeless. Utterly hopeless. I consider walking to the Chicago bridge and throwing myself off. But that wouldn’t bring her back. So I don’t. I just throw snarky comments at Johnny instead.

I feel a pit of guilt in my stomach. He’s just trying to help find her. But it’s useless. She probably left because of me. Probably decided the Russian bastards were better than us. Probably decided that she didn’t want us anymo-

AGGHHHHHH

My blood runs cold. The Alphas walking beside me freeze. A fleeting moment of eye contact between us all, and our feet are carrying us toward the blood curdling, pained scream.

Kyle’s the fastest. Because of course he is. Johnny is slower, but still faster than me. I can’t stand that I’ll be last there. I push myself faster. Faster than I’ve ever moved.

*Kyle’s POV*

My legs are moving before my brain has time to catch up.

It’s her. She’s screaming. But she’s alive. And close.

As I get closer, I see sirens and cops. Loads of cops. My alpha growls. And then I feel Johnny’s presence behind me.

“Laika? LAIKA?” He shouts into the sea of officers and police cars.

“ALPHA” she screams. Terrified.

“HELP. HELP ME.”

Johnny and I shove through the cops and civilians who had gathered to watch. If any of them got punched or knocked out. Well that was their own problem.

Then I finally see her.

She’s covered in dust and blood. How? She wasn’t -

Her eyes meet mine. Feral Omega eyes. Her face is scraped, her shoulder’s been torn through - looks like a bullet wound. She’s a mess.

“ALPHA..”

*Laika’s POV*

Alpha. Alpha’s here. He came for you. Sweet Alpha. He’s here.

I try to crawl towards the safety. But I’m roughly stopped by another officer. I hear a growl.

My other Alpha.

“Get your filthy fuckin’ hands off her, ya fuckin’ brutes. Cannae you see she’s fuckin’ hurt?!” Johnny yell at them .

“Alpha..” it’s all my omega can whine. It’s the only word my omega knows, it seems.

I crawl again, towards Kyle. My hands are still cuffed behind my back, so I’m pushing with my legs, scraping my shoulder along the stone.

Ass up, face down, so to speak…

Kyle surges towards me. He gathers me in his arms, gently. He cradles my face, like I’d break in his hands, and seep through his fingers like sand.

“Alpha..” I whine happily.

“Shhh baby. Shhh, it’s ok. It’s ok.. calm down. Come back to me baby. Y/n..?” He coaxes into my ear, trying to let the omega know she can leave now. Her job was done: survive.

“Which one of you cunts has the key.. before I fuckin’ detonate this whole fucking city” a voice bellows from behind Kyle’s back.

Simon.

“STEP AWAY FROM THE SCENE. THIS IS A POLICE ARREST!”

That does it. That’s the straw that breaks the camels back.

“I’m a fucking Lieutenant for her majesty’s SAS. And I’m HER fuckin Alpha. So hand me the fuckin keys, so that I can uncuff her, or I’ll call a fuckin air strike on your family’s home. And your mother’s home. And all of your friends’ homes”

A shaking hand reaches forward, presenting a key to Simon.

“Good fuckin’ choice. Now piss off. All of you” he growls, dangerously, squaring his shoulders to the entire crowd.

Meanwhile, the omega watches on. I am slowly emerging from my feral state, but that only brings my attention back to my current situation what with my shoulder, and new scrapes to my face. And the fact I was tased. And my concussion. And so on..

I slump against Kyle slightly, feeling pure relief. He continues to coo at me, and stroke me gently.

“Bonnie? You broken..? Shit baby, look at yer Alpha.. need tae see yer pretty eyes..” Johnny’s rich accent floods through my brain.

“Johnny..” I smile, using what was left of my strength to look up at him from Kyle’s hold.

“Mate, she’s not good. We need to get her seen to now” Kyle plans aloud, for Johnny to hear.

“Aye.. need to find a hospital”.

“NO, med-evac landing in 2 minutes” Simon barks, finally making it over to unlock the handcuffs from my wrists.

My arms swing forward, having been released from their position behind my back, causing me to yelp in pain again.

Then I feel as if I’ve been torn from Kyle and I’m suddenly being held, bridal style, by Simon. I whimper, my shoulder jostling against his rough coat.

My nose finds his scent glands. I press my nose firmly into his neck and breathe him from the source. He grumbles and coos, his Alpha instinctively trying to comfort the omega in his arms.

He goes to press his nose into my scent glands, and a growl - an angry growl - comes from the gigantic Alpha.

“Johnny. Take those fuckin’ scent patches off her NOW”

Oh. Oh..

“M’sorry Alpha. Didn’t mean to leave. Please don’t give me into trouble. I’m sorry…” I cry against his throat.

I feel gentle hands slowly peeling the scent patches from my neck. Then I feel his nose pressing into my neck, then his lips, just brushing the shell of my ear.

“Don’t you ever do that again. Ever. Y’hear me?”

“I- I’m sorry. Please don’t -”

“Scared us. Scared me..” he finally admits.

*Captain John Price’s POV*

“Iran.. that’s your next step, John. I’ll make a plan, but do expect to be deployed within the next couple of weeks”.

“Cartels... Russians...?” I enquire.

“Shepherd... Shadows... They got past us”

Fuckin’ Shepherd. I glare into my whiskey glass, angry.

“Any sign of Shepherd?” I ask.

“He’s totally off the grid” - “Well, we'll find him.”

“No, we've got bigger fish... I've done some digging on the Russians”.

“Well, that's a dirty job, Kate” I grumble.

“Ultra-nationalists ambushed that convoy, John.”

“Kate, this conversation is over. You know, especially with Laika involved, that this isn’t a job for us”.

“They were working with someone new.”

That piques my interest. Slightly.

“Who?” I can’t help but ask.

Laswell takes out a photo from her vest and gives it to me to look at. I take a good look at the photo.

Makarov.

Laswell’s phone rings. She excuses herself to answer the call, and stands from the bar, leaving me sitting, staring at his picture.

My fist thumps the bar, glasses rattling and drinks falling. I scrunch his picture into a ball and squeeze.

He will die for what he did. Mark my fuckin’ words.

The door to the bar slams and I hear rushed steps coming toward me.

I turn to see a panicked Laswell. She’s not easily rustled up like this.

“John. You’ve got to go. Your pack - they’ve found her-”

My chair is pushed back and I’m barging from the bar before she’s even told me where I’m headed. I ignore her, calling Kyle instead. He answers on the first ring.

“Kyle. Where is she? Is she ok?”

- “she’s not great, Cap. She’s Uhm - she’s broken. But she’s alive. We got med-evac for her. All of us are here with her. Just come home, John. We’ll be there..”

Kyle ends the call.

Home. Go home to your omega..

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kickmedown · 2 days ago

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love might not be enough but sometimes it's all that we have.

There's something extremely bittersweet in seeing your best friend, who happens to be friending a bit too much lately, losing one very important match while you're watching in the stands. A part of you is “happy” to be there to support and comfort him but the other side is completely shattered and lost and you don't know how you will cope with his pain now that you can barely bear yours. You gulp as that last point strikes, him trying not to break apart in front of everyone, you fighting the urge to run down the stairs and into his arms to tell him that you see no other champion on the court. He just sits there and you feel your heart sink into your stomach as you watch him blankly stare in the distance, pale, lost in his own thoughts as you fear he might drown if he doesn't catch a breath soon and you desperately want to bring him to a safe shore. You try to catch his gaze but he seems to be escaping any helping hand from anyone and you start wondering if it was a good idea for you to come here. Maybe you brought him bad luck, sometimes you do, you also are a bit too negative, maybe you annoyed him too much yesterday or even this morning when he kept joking and you suddenly burst. Why are you so stupid sometimes? You spot a couple of tears running down your cheeks, the tension of this final weighing on you together with the feelings you might have developed for your beloved friend these past months. Maybe it's the way he looks, the things he says or the jokes he makes but you know there's something.. more and you fear it might become too clear. Even now that you're not taking your eyes off him as he speaks, struggling to find the words but still managing to be polite, fair, elegant, wildly beyond any imagination.

You are next to his mum while you wait for him to join you and the rest of the team. You're shaking but you try to hide it by not looking at anyone but your phone, opening and closing the pictures you took half an hour ago on the court which is by the way not helping you at all to keep focused. You hear him talk with someone as he makes his way to where you're standing and you wonder how you will behave. It's like you're about to meet your long distance, year long, crush who’s not corresponding you at all and who will most likely tell you to shut the fuck up because you're too annoying. His team is really trying to cheer him up, a more defined analysis of the match coming later, his mum reassuring him, you not really knowing what to do. He gives you a quick hug, barely looking at you as he does that, not even realizing who you are and why you're there. You need to wipe away an insolent tear as he steps away with the others.

“Don't worry, he's just really disappointed.” you spot his mum intently looking at you and you wish you could just disappear. You shake your head and fake a little smile.

“Yes, I know.. I mean, he will get better.” and she gives you such a sweet look that you know that she knows. Damn too well.

You've been crying for the past couple of hours now and you could easily win a contest to play the zombie in a horror movie. You feel stupid but you cannot stop. Stupid to think you could actually be of any help, stupid to accept to come, stupid to still be there caring too much when he's obviously more mature than you and thinking about his career and responsibilities while you're a mess, too in love with your best friend to actually be a good friend yourself. You wipe away the last rush of tears as you hear a knock on the door. You go wide eyed and try to recollect enough decency to at least open the door without looking like a mummy but as you open the door you're paralyzed as if you were one.

“Hi.. uhm, are you okay?” he sounds worried, like really concerned, so you just decide to go in fill truth mode.

“Not really. And you? You look tired.” he does look exhausted but even in this state of sadness he looks like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. His messy hair, the sleeve of his sweatshirt slightly pulled up to reveal his bare soft skin, eyes darker than before.

“I guess I've been better.”

“I guess too. Uhm.. can I help you?” the tone of your voice is a bit harsh, way more than you would have like to but you're a bit annoyed but this conversation and it shows. He seems to be caught off guard so he clears his throat.

“Can I come in for a second?” you move to the side to let him come inside and the scent of his cologne is making you dizzy. You're looking at your feet as you feel his hands circling you and pull you impossibly close to him. He sneaks his face into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you as you lean on your tiptoes to keep him there with you. You know you'll relive this moment on repeat for days but for the moment you just enjoy it as much as you can.

“I'm sorry.” he just whispers it.

“For what?”

“I barely acknowledged your presence after the match.”

“As you can see I'm not mad.” he chuckles a little and pulls you a little closer. You can't really fight the urge to play with his hair at the base of his neck so you just start rolling them around your fingers, softly, breathing in slowly as his perfume makes its way until the depth of your lungs. You feel his arms strengthening their grip on you, fingers digging into the skin of your hips, him exhaling hard. Your heart is about to explode so you just ignore it for the moment as it will give you a tough time later.

“I think I might apologize for one more thing.” his voice is raspy and needy.

“What?” he takes your face into his hands and kisses you way better than you've ever imagined it happening. His body is burning again yours, hearts pounding together as you need to just feel him closer. Your arms are wrapped around him, hands wandering to find a piece of his skin to hold on to, shivers eating you alive from the perfection of this moment. Your back is now against the wall as he desperately needs to find a way to have you closer while he just tastes how sweet it can be to find such a reward even if you just lose something so important. You pull away just a little to take a breath.

“Should we talk about it?”

“Yes, I think we should.”

“Yeah..” you look at his lips and his face and he's just lit up. You cannot even finish your sentence as you feel his hands on the back of your neck once again, noses touching as a rush of pleasure finds you both eager to explore the other. You're a winner after all and you didn't even play the final at RG, what a day.

#jannik sinner #jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner imagine #jannik sinner one shot #jannik sinner fanfic #tennis x reader #tennis fanfic #tennis imagine

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adorechris · 1 hour ago

Text

your presence — chris sturniolo (2)

includes … counter sex, p in v, making out, awkwardness, cumming inside (don’t do it please), slight size kink, aftercare, chris being a sweetheart

not proofread !!

1 2

you walk back downstairs to the living room, trying to act like nothing happened. but the memories of what just happened keeps flashing in your mind.

nick and matt both look up at you. “is chris coming down here soon?” nick asks, shifting to make more room for you. you sit down next to nick, matt on the other side of nick now.

“uh…i—i don’t think so.” you stammer out, your mind going blank. you couldn’t just lie to them—but you couldn’t let them know that you just saw chris have an orgasm.

matt gives you a puzzled look. “you don’t think so?” he questions, making you look up at him.

“well…he was sleeping, so.” you lie, your eyes never meeting his. you hated lying to them. you felt guilty. but you just knew chris would be pissed if you told them.

nick and matt simply nod, not thinking too much into it. they turn their attention back to the tv. you look at the tv, staring at a corner blankly. your thoughts keep traveling back to him. how his eyes rolled back briefly, how his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, how attractive he looked—

no. you never thought of him as anything more than one of your best friends. until now…who could blame you though?

around an hour later of laughter and bickering, nick and matt fall asleep. your eyes feel heavy yourself, but you fight off sleep. for now, at least.

nick has his head resting on your shoulder, matt snoring softly, his chin to his chest. you sigh, a smile on your face at nicks sleeping habits. he’s always done this, almost every sleepover.

but you don’t move him. instead, you get out your phone, scrolling on it mindlessly.

everything suddenly reminds you of chris. your stomach flips as you rememeber what happened just over a hour ago. your thighs press together at the thoughts.

you giggle quietly at some stupid video on your phone. you hear someone coming downstairs, and instinctively you look up.

chris.

you shift, sitting more upright. you gently lift nicks head up, careful not to wake him, to a more comfortable positon.

when your and chris’s eyes meet, his cheeks flush and he immediately goes to the kitchen. he opens the fridge, hoping you don’t come up to him.

but you do anyways. you feel like you need to talk to him about it for some reason. as if it’d help things be less awkward. you stand up quietly, walking over to the kitchen. you stand on the other side of the fridge door, waiting for him to close it.

when he shuts it, he flinches a bit at the sight of you. clearly not expecting you there. “shit—“ he mumbles, putting his pepsi down on the counter.

“uh..hey.” you say quietly.

“hi.” he says back.

gosh, this is so awkward. he shifts his weight on his feet, rocking back and forth subtly, his eyes never meeting yours. he stares at the ground as his hair just barley covers his eyes. you swallow thickly.

“about earlier, look chris—“ you begin, but he’s quick to interrupt you.

“don’t talk about it. please.” he pleads, looking up at you, his eyes wide and pleading. it’s clear he felt embarrassed, but damn, this was nothing like him.

“no—no it’s nothing bad. i just don’t want it to be awkward between us.” you explain. you hesitantly step closer to him.

“it won’t be. i…don’t think.” chris mumbles out. he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants awkwardly, his actions completely contradicting his words.

“well, if it helps…i don’t see you any different.” you try to say to make him feel better. but it didn’t really do anything. something chris has always been good at is keeping eye contact. like now. despite his embarassed demeanor.

“oh. well thats—that’s good, right?” he breathes out, chuckling softly.

you nod slowly, watching as he shifts. his eye flicker up to yours once more. this time they stay longer. more intent. his blue eyes seem darker—maybe it’s the dim lighting on the kitchen, maybe it’s just in your mind.

“are you sure? that it’s a good thing, i mean.” he asks, his voice almost cautious; hesitant. “it feels different now.”

“different?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly as you look into his eyes.

chris pauses, unsure. like he doesn’t wanna ruin everything. as if he could with a few words. “it’s just—i’ve never done anything like that. not while thinking about you, at least. not when you were right there.” he explains, his voice quiet. low.

the way you continue to look at him makes him want to say more. but there’s nothing left to say. nothing he can think of, at least. “did you hate it? or…think it feels different now?” he asks, not wanting to press to far, but wanting to know.

your breath hitches, and you shake your head slowly. “i didn’t hate it.”

chris steps closer, hesitantly. your guys’ chests are almost touching, but not quite. he doesn’t want to mess up more than he thought he already did. his hands are still in the pockets of his grey sweatpants, his shoulders tense.

the air feels thicker now. heavier, almost.

“look…i haven’t stopped thinking about it. i get embarrassed every time.” he breathes out, his eyes trailing down you before they meet your eyes again.

your cheeks flush. “then why’d you ask me to not talk about it?”

“because if we do…” he sighs, his breathing getting a bit deeper. “i don’t wanna do something stupid.”

“something stupid?” you question dumbly, your voice quiet.

he hums, his lips right in front of yours now. you feel his breath on your face. your thighs clench together instinctively. you feel your own breathing get shallower.

“like kissing you. or—or touching you.” he says quietly, his breath hot, his eyes trailing all over you.

you stare at him for a second, taking in the words. realizing the moment. “i wouldn’t mind.” you respond. his eyes lock on yours as you say this.

one of your hands trail up his back, to the back of his neck. he stares into your eyes for a moment before he slowly closes the gap between you two, placing his lips on yours in a hot, desperate kiss. one that pours all of his feelings into it. your eyelids flutter closed as you kiss him back, pressing your body impossibly closer to his.

the kiss is hesitant but hot at first. but it quickly turns deeper once your hand moves to his hair, tugging it lightly. the kiss is hungry—more urgent. his fingers twitch before they move. one to your waist, the other cupping your cheek, like he can’t believe this is happening.

and neither can you.

“i didn’t know you’d feel like this about me.” he mumbles against your lips, never breaking the kiss.

“neither did i.” you respond, the kiss getting sloppier.

he chuckles lightly, but before either of you can respond, he’s slowly backing you up until your hips meet the counter. his hand that was on your waist dips beneath your shirt, feeling the warmth against your skin. you sit up on the counter, your legs dangling off, wrapping them around his waist. the countertop is cold against your thighs, a stark contrast to chris’s touch.

he pulls away, looking into your eyes with such hunger. “if this is too much,” he murmurs, “tell me to stop.”

“please, don’t stop.” you say breathlessly. that’s all he needs. he kisses you again—sloppy and hot—before his lips trail down your jawline, tasting you. you exhale at the feeling, like a relief.

his hand under your shirt moves up, and he realizes you have no bra on. he pulls back, and you help him take your shirt off.

he admires you as he sees your body. it’s better than he could’ve imagined. he swallows thickly. “fuck, you’re beautiful.” chris compliments before his hands carefully play with your breasts, the feeling better than you expected. you moan, but he kisses you again.

his hands roam now, touching everywhere he can. like he can’t get enough. he breaks the kiss only to take his tank top off—which you help him. it’s clearly you both need this. you glance down, seeing the noticeable bulge in his sweatpants. your thighs clench and you don’t need to check to know your panties are soaked.

you hesitantly place your palm over his clothes bulge, making him groan, burying his head in your shoulder. thats a good sign.

his body presses against yours, your legs wrapping around his waist again. “i don’t wanna mess this up.” chris admits quietly, lifting his head up to meet your eyes.

“you won’t.” you assure him. then when you say that, you tug at his sweatpants, to which he pulls them down. your eyes travel down to look at his bulge.

his dick slaps against his abdomen, his dick thick and long. your eyes widen, looking up at him. “you’re huge.” you breath out, completely forgetting you already knew that from earlier.

he chuckles, shaking his head. “you’re ridiculous.” he says before he pulls down your shorts and panties in one go. you lift your hips up to help him.

he slowly runs a finger through your heat. teasingly slow. the action makes you moan out quietly, your eyelids fluttering. “so wet, all f’me hm?” he asks his voice low and gravelly.

you nod desperately, your eyes locking on his once more. “n—need you.” you say.

you know he’s big—you also know that you need to feel the stretch. the stretch that would burn so bad yet hurt so good.

he looks up at you, smirking. his cocky demeanor finally returning. “yeah baby?” he asks, bringing his finger up to his mouth, tasting you.

you nod, whining quietly. the sight is so hot. he grabs the base of his dick, pushing your hips forward slightly off the counter. one of his hands snakes to the small of your back, helping you stay in place. your stomach curls with anticipation and excitement.

he slowly pushes in—the burn delicious. you moan out, completely forgetting nick and matt are asleep in the living room. chris groans, pressing his forehead against yours. he keeps eye contact with you until he bottoms out.

you feel so full. “fuck—i needed you.” he says, not moving his hips yet. he lets you adjust.

after a few moments, he slowly starts thrusting in and out of you. you whimper, gripping his shoulders. “you’re so big chris…” you moan out, your eyelids fluttering. his eyes stay locked on yours, watching your face contort into one of pleasure.

sweat builds on chris’s brow, and he looks into your eyes as he sees your eyelids fluttering. he smirks almost cockily. “yeah? y’feel me hmm?” he says breathlessly.

you nod desperately. you moan out louder when he picks up the pace, the wet sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room. “yes—so—so good—fuck—“

he slowly and sloppily connects his lips to yours, almost missing them completely in the process. he kisses you, muffling your moans and his groans.

wet slapping sounds fill the room, and chris parts his lips from yours. his jaw falls slack as he pants louder when he feels your walls clench around him. he adjusts you, pushing you closer to him, making the tip of his dick hit the spot that makes you see stars. you moan louder, biting your lip to try to suppress the sounds.

his pants begin to sound a bit like a whine, making you peel open your eyes. when you do, the sight is beautiful.

his brows pinched together, his jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, thrusts becoming sloppier, it’s clear he’s struggling to keep up.

you move one of your hands to his hair, the other cupping his jaw. you tug on his hair lightly, making him let out a whimper. a whimper. he didn’t mean to. he slowly opens his eyes, meeting yours.

“fuck—i—mmppmm…” he struggles. “b—baby m’close.” chris moans out, his eyes struggling to stay open. his thrusts become impossibly sloppier, his eyes pleading up at you. he looks so submissive. as if you won’t let him cum.

“chris i’m close too—please—“ you beg. you don’t even know what your begging for.

his thrusts speed up, repeatedly hitting the spot that made you see stars. “chris—m’cumming—fuck!—“ you cry out before your body tenses, your legs shaking as you cum hard. your eyes shut, letting out uncontrollably loud moans. he fucks you through your orgasm, prolonging it.

as you come down from your high, his thrusts are sloppy, desperate, it’s clear he’s at the edge. you whine at the slight overstimulation, but ultimately you don’t mind.

“p—please let me cum—i need it…” chris whines, his eyes threatening to roll back every few seconds as he tries to keep them on yours.

“cmon baby, be a good boy and cum for me, yeah?” you say in your sweetest voice, to which he nods quickly like an absolute slut.

he whines loudly, his body practically shaking as he cums. his hips still, his eyes roll into the back of his head, and his dick twitches as it releases warm ropes of cum inside you. his jaw falls slack, his head burying in the crook of your neck.

after he finishes, he slowly lifts his head up, his eyes meeting yours. “did i hurt you? was that okay?” chris asks, the two of you panting lightly.

“that was amazing, chris.” you say, smiling softly and tiredly.

he looks visibly relieved. “okay, okay i’m glad.” he breathes out. he slowly pulls out, careful not to hurt you. you both whimper at the feeling, and you feel so empty.

chris stands there for a moment, recovering from his intense orgasm. when he somewhat does, he grabs clean wipes to clean you up. he kneels down between your legs as he carefully cleans you up. you sigh, the feeling nice.

“i didn’t know you could whimper like that.” you comment jokingly. he looks up at you, his cheeks flushing.

“don’t mention it.” chris says jokingly. once he cleans you up and makes sure your okay, he helps you get clothed.

he puts your panties, shorts, and baggy shirt back on. you sit on the counter, your legs still shaking subtly. chris clothes himself. you try to stand up as he’s getting his clothes on. but you suddenly grab onto him, making him turn, worried. “are you okay?”

you giggle sheepishly. “yeah, i—i can’t really walk…” you admit quietly. chris’s cheeks flush with embarrassment but also pride.

“guess i’ll have to carry you.” chris suggests, to which you nod. he picks you up bridal style, carrying you upstairs to his room. the two of you giggle the whole way.

it’s not awkward anymore. and neither of you are embarrassed.

a.n. - i hope you guys like it!!!!!

🏷️@cayleeuhithinknott , @izzylovesmatt , @sturnlovematt22 , @urfavvbilliemunch , @awesomesauce12345 , @sturkneeohloww , @sturnsxbbyeilish , @chrispycremedonut , @chrisgirltillidie , @sturnslotto

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sweetttsummer · 2 days ago

Text

flee from me (keepers of the gloom)

summary: set in season three… so dean’s running out of time. he doesn’t want to leave sam alone, so he finds the only other person he would trust with sam’s life. the only other person who sam left behind to go to stanford. the only other person who he thinks could understand why he gave his life for sam.

sam winchester x fem!reader (in theory?), dean winchester x reader (platonic)

wc: 2.6k

tw: none? i think? but just in case typical spn things, death, demons yada yada

author's note: this is.. mostly just something i needed to get down. i've never written for supernatural so i'm nervous about the overall tone of these characters but oh well! i'm sure there could be more to this if y'all wanna see it, a part two or even just drabbles of childhood sam and reader. anyways! come bother me please! not beta read, so errors galore im sure.

It had been a long night. (Y/N)’s feet felt achey as she stepped out of the back of the building. The cook’s voice tampers out as the door shuts behind her yelling a small goodbye. She pulled the hair clip out of her hair and felt the tenderness of her scalp as her hair fell out of the updo. She pulled the car keys out of her purse as she stepped onto the dark sideway.

Her hand is buried in her purse, eyes practically useless in the dark night, when a small whistle was sent her way. Despite the rustling for her keys, her fingers reached for the silver switchblade that sat in her bag, eyes darting up towards the whistle. The grip on her blade tightened a little at the figure in the shadow, she debated her chances for just a second before the figure spoke.

“Relax, killer,” The figure moved just an inch causing the small flicker of moonlight to flash across his features.

(Y/N)’s grip on her blade immediately dropped as she pulled her hand out of her bag and sped up a little towards the figure, a small laugh getting stuck in her throat.

“Dean fucking Winchester” She finally says in a sticky emotional voice.

“In the flesh, pretty lady,” He held his arms up a little as if present himself.

(Y/N) took the chance to really look at him. She had met the Winchesters before any of them could remember, her parents had ran in a similar circles as John and she had ended up growing up with them before she realized it. They played at Bobby’s on multiple occasions, (Y/N) had started journaling at a young age just to be able to remember all the details she wanted to share with the brothers when they saw each other again.

When her parents finally died at 15 she had made the decision that she was going to stick with the Winchester brothers, and spent two weeks tracking them down. John had barely noticed, barely saw his children by the time she had come around. Dean was 19 and fought it tooth and nail for about a week, the idea of having to watch over his baby brother was enough, now there was two of them? In the end it was Sam’s attitude that made Dean change his tune. Dean had felt himself slowly losing Sam ever since he took off and spent those weeks in Flagstaff, he had started mentioning college a few months before (Y/N) showed up, pushing John more and more every time John did come by.

So when Sam started to laugh again, make jokes, and even help research every once in a while, Dean couldn’t help but connect it to the sudden permanent presence of (Y/N). Dean made the decision then that (Y/N) was now a forever member in his life. The decision was only solidified when he walked into a motel room to see Sam and (Y/N) on the couch together, a small sigh from the couch and the warmth in the air was enough for Dean to quietly shut the door and decide to sit in his car for at least an hour before he tried to bother them again.

“Do you know how much the FBI is offering for your capture?” (Y/N) raised her eyebrow a little in a playful manner.

“Don’t be annoying,” Dean rolled his eyes with no real malice.

Without putting too much thought into the movement, (Y/N) looked around his body and tried to peek into the dark impala that Dean was standing in front of, trying to see if someone else had come to visit. Dean deflated a little when he realized what she was doing and pulled her into a rough hug. His cheek pressed against the side of her head.

“Doesn’t even know I’m gone,” Dean mumbled a little against her, “But he’s the reason I’m here,”

(Y/N) stiffed a little at the words. Dean had always been the figure in the corner of her life. It only made logical sense, her whole life she had spent looking at Sam, and in the audience with her was always Dean. He had taken photos of Sam and her for every random school dance that popped up as they moved around, he had awkwardly danced around the idea of her and Sam sharing a bed in motels, had taught her how to play pool and then had saved her ass every time some dick didn’t like the two underage teenagers swindling them.

She pulled away from his embrace and looked at him, with concern.

“He’s still kicking,” Dean spoke

“But not okay?”

Dean looked away from her and she saw his jaw clench in the moonlight. (Y/N) sighed, understanding there was a long story ahead of her.

“There’s a 24 hour diner four blocks from here,” (Y/N) said as she made her way over to the passengers seat of the impala.

Dean didn’t start the retelling of the last two years until he was in the parking lot of the diner. He kept the impala door lock as he tried to keep a cold clinical tone. While there was never a real spoken agreement Dean had stopped by any time he was in a surrounding state and visited (Y/N) until about two years ago. Suddenly, it all made sense. Two years ago, he had picked up Sam from Stanford, two years ago he witness Sam love another girl enough to want to stay, even if the building was on fire. (Y/N) didn’t ask any questions despite the pile of them that built. Did he ever mention her? Was she that easy to replace? Why didn’t he take her with him?

“…and then when Dad was dying he told me,” Dean clenched his hands around the steering wheel as if he was debating saying it.

“Wait John Winchester is dead?” (Y/N) ignored the obvious struggle Dean was having with the story, finally able to ask a question without feeling too vulnerable.

Dean nodded a little and the silence lasted for only a second before he turned and noticed (Y/N) holding back a smile. He waved his hand just a little.

“Yeah yeah, he was a dick go ahead,”

(Y/N) had never been quiet about the mistreatment of the brothers, she had learnt quickly what buttons she could press before it was too far but still she never let the Winchesters forget that they had been stuck in a shitty situation with a shittier dad.

“God he was a dick, Dean. Remember the time he left us in La Crosse, Wisconsin for a whole three months and you had to get a job as a handyman just to keep paying the motel bill?” (Y/N) bit back a smile at the silly outfit the motel had offered Dean when he said he could be a handyman.

“Would have gotten a job not at the motel, but you and Sam were 16 and fully in love, dangerous game” Dean finally unlocked the doors and pulled himself out of the car.

(Y/N) felt herself flush at the accusation, but couldn’t deny it. She followed suit into the diner and shoved Dean as they entered the diner.

“Whatever, John Winchester is dead and angels are singing,” She joked as she slide into the corner booth that Dean had herded her towards.

“More like demons,” Dean let out a small sigh and glanced around the empty diner before continuing the story.

(Y/N)’s eyes stayed train on the menu, her leg bouncing as she heard each new piece of the story. A father’s too little, too late sacrifice, yellow eyes, demon blood, psychics powers, (Y/N) bit back the urge to ask if it’s really psychic powers or demon powers considering the circumstances. Dean was obviously building to something when the waitress made her way over with the coffee pot, pouring some in the empty cup in front of (Y/N). Her eyes ended up watching the steam of the drink as Dean talked about the way Sam seemed to just disappear one day and his panic to find him. Still, the whole time, she felt Dean watching her trying to make sure she had been following, trying to see if she was connecting the dots.

“Next time I saw him, he was being stabbed in the back,” Dean finally stopped and cleared out his throat. “It was bad, there was so much blood and he-“ Dean let out the smallest breath.

The sound was enough to have (Y/N) pull her eyes up and finally stare down Dean. (Y/N) could count only one other time she had seen the broken down look on Dean’s face. It’s a night she rarely thinks about, the night Sam left for Stanford. Still, now seeing the same look on Dean’s face had her slump a little in the bench seat, her heart started to kick up at the notion that Dean had lied earlier.

“You said he was alive,” (Y/N) gritted her teeth as she said it.

“And he is, now.” Dean pulled his own eyes from the stare down they seemed to have locked into.

(Y/N) furrowed her brows just the tiniest bit before it seemed to all fall into place for her. Why he told the story from the start, why he was so detailed about John’s death deal. Dean fucking Winchester. Daddy’s best solider. The boy who immediately started wearing his father’s old jacket when it fit, who would practice lowering his voice to try and perfect the accent his dad wore, the boy who guarded his brother with every god damn fiber of his being. The boy who grew into the overgrown man in front of her right now, who would, as always follow in his father’s footsteps. (Y/N) took the chance to look over Dean, trying to convince herself she was hallucinating all of this, trying to find something that made him not Dean.

“You didn’t” (Y/N) finally said. The burnt tongue she had from the hot coffee had grown numb, the ache in her scalp and feet from work barely existed as she tried to understand what was happening. “You’re still here, so obviously it-“

“They gave me a year, 10 months ago,” Dean interrupted (Y/N) before she could try to talk herself into not believing it.

“You’re giving me two fucking months to figure this out? I didn’t even know demon’s really existed until you told me last year during a fucking minute long voice mail, ‘Hey (Y/N), sorry about being MIA, demon hunting, I’m okay, I’m with Sam, he’s... okay. Be safe’” (Y/N) mimicked the voicemail in an exaggerated gravelly tone, “and now you’re giving me two months to stop one from killing you?” (Y/N) felt herself slowly start to heat up at the situation, the anger simmering under the surface.

“No.” Dean finally focused his gaze back on hers, “Deal goes south, Sammy gone again, it’s why I didn’t come sooner,”

“You don’t get to tell me you’re going to die in two months, going to hell and have me sit back and take it, are you crazy?”

“I’m here to ask you for something bigger, something more important, (Y/N). Can you just.. let me finish?” Dean’s glare was another familiar look, the weirdly perfected big brother glare he had seemed to suddenly have the rare times they got into trouble growing up.

(Y/N) took a long sip of her coffee as an act of defiance, she didn’t want to hear anything more, she had had enough, there was nothing that Dean could say that would stop her from trying to keep him and Sam alive. After her extra long sip, she motioned for Dean to continue.

“I need you to go find Sam after I’m,” Dean paused trying to find the word,

“Buried six feet deep, but actually in the depths of hell?” (Y/N) had learnt quite quickly that sugar coating never worked with Dean, had learnt to get him to react meant to react yourself.

“He’s going to need you, (Y/N)”

(Y/N) was shaking her head as she heard Dean talk, Sam didn’t want her before obviously didn’t need her enough to keep her around.

“You’re all he’s going to have, and he doesn’t even know he still has you. He's going to be a fucking disaster, worse than the time he thought we left you behind in Bentonville. Please, just in two months, call Bobby, he’ll know where we are, where it happened, and go find him. Don’t let..” Dean trailed off, unsure exactly what he thought would happen once he was gone.

(Y/N) felt a warmth behind her eyes and she clenched her jaw to hold back the tears, “No. You can’t ask me this, he doesn’t want me around and I can’t live with the idea of doing nothing about this,” She shook her head a little more.

Dean stayed quiet for a minute, letting (Y/N) sit with the information he had come to barely accept.

“If I could ask anyone else, I would, but you know you’re the only person I trust to keep him safe, sorry sweetheart” Dean finally said in the softest voice (Y/N) thinks she had ever heard from him.

(Y/N) felt the tears build in her waterline, she ignored them and kept her focus completely on the man in front of her, “And when he turns me away?”

“Don’t think he has it in him, honest”

“He did before,”

“Things were different”

(Y/N) let out a watery laugh at the statement. “Yeah, things were different then,”

(Y/N) leaned back in the booth and crossed her arms, the tears still teasing to push over her eye line, “You owe me one so hard,” She tried to joke but instead her voice cracked at the end, a tear finally coming out. She quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of her jacket and recrossed her arms.

“Really, I think you owe me considering I’m reconnecting long lost lover,” Dean tried to joke back but the smile he tried to put on wasn’t holding up,

Dean pulled a folded up piece of notebook paper from his jacket and slid it across the table, “When you find him, give him this, so he knows I sent you,”

(Y/N) took the paper and debated opening it right in front of him but instead just shoved it into her own pocket.

“Okay.” She agreed.

Dean gave her one thankful nod.

The table stayed silent until the plate of pancakes Dean had finally ordered were slid into the middle of them.

______

(Y/N) crumbled the worn out note in her jacket pocket as she kicked a rock across the parking lot. The impala was parked in front of the door the attendant had said that Sam checked into. She looked up into the dark sky for just a moment before realizing her mistake and instead glanced down towards the broken up parking lot gravel.

“I hitched-hiked for three days, so you better be right when you say he won’t turn me away, you massive dick.” (Y/N) mumbled, trying to ignore the fact the Dean would never hear it, having to believe in some crazy way he could.

She pressed her hands into a fist in her pocket, the note suffering the rage. As she passed the impala she pressed a small handprint onto the obviously just cleaned trunk, almost to spite Dean, as if he had been the one to keep it clean the last few days.

She stood at the motel door, and knocked just once, firm enough to be heard, but gentle enough to not sound like some sort of cop, just as Sam had taught her when they were canvassing in their youth.

(Y/N) held her breath as she watched the motel door slowly be pried open.

“(Y/N)?”

“Hi Sam”

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