#it’s exactly the kind of sick twisted thing he’d do | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wordsofwhimsy · 1 month ago

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๑ The Cycle of You ๑

y'all got to know it by now if you live in the Mark Grayson tag like I do but art credit goes to the amazingly talented @gods-banshee!!!

Pairing: Shiesty!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Toxic relationship!! Threatens of self-harm

Genres: Angst, romance, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2,172

Inspiration: “Ex-Factor” — Lauryn Hill

Synopsis: You and Mark are in love in the most toxic way, and neither of you are willing to let go.

Being in a relationship with Mark was hard. It was the kind of hard that made you question your sanity, like walking through a storm you knew would tear you apart, but somehow still hoping for something better on the other side.

Mark, or as he called himself these days, “Invincible,” wasn’t exactly the most… stable partner. Sure, he was cocky and brash, wearing that boldly colored costume with the shiesty mask over his face like it made him untouchable. He’d walk around like he owned the world, that signature smirk plastered on his face, a swagger to his every step that screamed confidence. But beneath that facade? It was like peeling an onion—layers of insecurities, fears, and emotions he refused to acknowledge or deal with.

He’d snap at you for the smallest thing, then pull you close and kiss you like it was the only thing that made sense in the world. He could be sweet one moment and cruel the next. You'd fight, you'd argue, and then... nothing. Just silence, until he made some grand gesture to keep you close. It was a toxic cycle, but damn, it was a cycle that somehow felt impossible to break.

“Don’t you get it?” Mark would say. “I’m doing this for us. We’re in this together. Always.”

To him, this was love. He’d never learned how to show affection without wrapping it in a barrier of pride and chaos.

You were tired of the back-and-forth, tired of the games. It was exhausting, and yet, you always found yourself coming back. Why? Because no matter how much he hurt you, no matter how many walls he put up, you loved him. And you knew, deep down, he loved you too.

One night, after another argument that felt like it was leading nowhere, Mark stormed out of the room—slamming the door behind him. You barely had time to process what had just happened before you heard the faint sound of something heavy being thrown against the wall. Your heart started to race, an awful sinking feeling crawling up your spine.

You waited for a moment, listening for any more sounds. Silence.

Then, it hit you. You didn’t have to wait. He was doing it again. You knew Mark’s patterns—this wasn’t the first time he’d stormed off, only to return later with some kind of dramatized crisis, desperate for attention. Desperate for you.

You stood up, moving toward the door to make sure everything was okay. But before you could reach the hallway, Mark’s voice—low, desperate—sounded from the other side.

“You think I don’t care? You think I don’t care about you? I do—I just... I can’t keep doing this.” His voice was shaking, and you could hear the weight of his words, even if you knew part of it was for show. “If you want me to just leave you the hell alone, I will. But you need to know this: I can’t handle it anymore. I just... I don’t know what else to do.”

Your pulse quickened, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. You reached for the doorknob, but before you could open it, the door slammed open on its own, revealing Mark standing in the hallway.

He was holding something in his hand—a bottle of pills, his knuckles white around it. His eyes met yours, dark and frantic.

“You think this is a joke?” Mark’s voice was unsteady, but there was a sick, twisted confidence in it too. “Maybe I’ll just take these. Maybe I’ll just make it all stop. You’ll see how much you really mean to me, huh?”

Your stomach dropped. You tried to take a step forward, but your feet felt frozen to the floor. “Mark, don’t—”

He laughed, though it was more of a bitter chuckle, his hand shaking as he twisted the cap off the pill bottle. “What? You think I’m bluffing? You think I’m just trying to get you to stay?” His smile was all teeth. “Maybe you’ll believe me this time, huh? Maybe then you’ll realize what you’re doing to me.”

"Stop it!" Your voice broke, and your hands shook as you tried to reach for him, but he stepped back, holding the bottle further away. "Mark, please—this isn't the way. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to hurt yourself to make me care."

For a moment, his eyes flickered, and you thought—just for a split second—that he was going to drop the act. But the moment passed too quickly. His smile faded into something darker, more desperate.

“Maybe you’ll finally care if I’m gone.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper now. “Maybe then you’ll see how much you mean to me. How much this—you—mean to me.”

Your heart was hammering, and the fear in your chest was suffocating. You knew the pattern—this was his way of drawing you back in, pulling you into his chaos to make you feel responsible. He wasn’t going to hurt himself. Not really. He never did. But it was a tactic. A manipulation.

But the fear still gripped you, because no matter how many times he used this trick, it still cut deep every time.

“Mark, listen to me. You can’t do this. You’re scaring me.” You took a step closer, carefully, trying to get him to listen. “I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

He hesitated, staring down at the bottle, and for the briefest moment, you saw the cracks in his facade. His chest heaved with emotion, and the hardness in his face seemed to soften just enough for you to see the truth—he was scared. Just as scared as you were. But he didn’t know how to admit it. He didn’t know how to reach out without trying to control the situation.

“I... I don’t know how to fix this,” he murmured, his voice suddenly much quieter, almost fragile. “I don’t know how to make it stop hurting.”

You reached out, slowly taking his hand, your fingers brushing over the pills. “You don’t have to fix everything by yourself, Mark. We can work through this... together. But not like this.”

There was a long, tense silence between you, broken only by the sound of Mark’s shaky breath. Slowly, his grip on the pill bottle loosened, and he let it fall to the floor.

“You make me crazy,” he muttered, his face buried in his hands as he dropped to his knees. “I just—I don’t know how to be enough for you. How to be what you need. I’m losing you, aren’t I?”

You knelt down beside him, wrapping your arms around him. “No. You’re not losing me. But this—this isn’t how we fix things. You don’t have to push me away. I’m here, okay? But you’ve got to stop doing this.”

Mark clung to you, his body shaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. The storm raged inside of him, and you both knew it wasn’t over. The cycle would continue, as it always did. You loved him—too much, maybe. But sometimes, love wasn’t enough. Sometimes, it just wasn’t enough to save either of you.

And yet, you stayed.

—

Later that night you were sprawled out on the couch, half-watching some random show on TV, trying to unwind after a long day. The soft hum of the television filled the living room, but your mind was elsewhere, drifting between the quiet moments and the chaotic ones with Mark. You were still trying to piece everything together, to understand the weight of what had happened earlier. The arguments. The tension. The love that seemed to both save and suffocate you.

The sound of water running from the master bathroom snapped you from your thoughts. Mark was showering again—something about him needing a few moments to himself after everything, the way he used water to wash off his frustrations. You let the sound of the running water settle in, letting it be one of the few things that could calm you down.

Minutes passed, the only noise in the room being the occasional clink of the TV show’s soundtrack. You were starting to lose track of time when you heard his voice calling out to you.

"Hey... babe," Mark's voice was soft, almost tentative. "Can you come here?"

You sat up, letting out a sigh as you got off the couch and stepped thoughtlessly toward the master bedroom. When you walked in your breath hitched, freezing at the sight of him. Mark was kneeling on the bed, shirtless and pantless, his toned body gleaming with the remnants of the shower. He was still wearing his shiesty mask, the familiar fabric dangling loosely over his face.

You couldn’t help but admire the sight. He looked good, too good. The way his muscles rippled as he shifted, the way the water droplets clung to his skin, his posture—it was all so raw and real. But beneath all that, you couldn’t help the tinge of sadness that crept up in your chest. Even in his most exposed state, he still felt the need to hide his face. The part of him that you wanted to see the most was always shrouded in darkness.

Mark beckoned you with a simple, almost casual gesture—a slight motion of his hand, inviting you to join him on the bed.

"Come here," he said quietly, his voice rougher now, but still laced with that trademark confidence. Something in the way he said it—something in the way his body was tense, the mask still perched on his face—told you it wasn’t just a casual request. It was more. It always was with him.

You moved toward the bed, your steps measured but gentle. As you climbed onto the soft sheets in front of him, you couldn’t help but feel that pull between you, the one that had always existed, even when the space between you felt impossible.

You gingerly reached for the fabric of his mask with a quiet determination, your fingers brushing against the rough material. Mark’s body stiffened at first, like he wasn’t sure what you were doing. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t stop you.

You slowly, carefully lifted the mask off his face, your fingers grazing his skin as it fell away. The look in his eyes—wide, almost a little unsure—caught you off guard. He was so exposed now, more vulnerable than he ever wanted to be. But there it was, that beautiful face of his—the face you always wanted to see, the one that made your heart ache when he kept it hidden.

You looked at him for a long moment, your gaze soft but filled with affection. His expression was uncertain, like he was waiting for you to pull away or laugh or say something hurtful, something that matched the cold, guarded mask he so often wore.

But you didn’t. You just took his face in your hands, your thumb brushing across his jawline as you appreciate the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. "Mark," you whispered, voice full of tenderness, "You’re so handsome."

You smiled softly, your thumb still brushing gently across his cheek. "I'm so lucky to have you," you continued in a whisper. And then, without another thought, you leaned in to kiss him—softly at first, as if you were trying to reassure him that these weren’t just empty words.

Mark’s lips met yours with a softness you hadn’t expected, a tenderness that felt almost out of place. Normally, his kisses were rough, urgent, filled with a burning intensity that left no room for hesitation. His touch was always a little too strong, his hands pulling you close like he was afraid you might slip away. But this—this kiss was different.

For a brief moment, you let yourself enjoy it, savoring the gentleness of his lips against yours. You could feel the sincerity in his touch, a quietness to it that you weren’t used to. It was almost like he was letting his guard down, just for a second, and you let yourself fall into it. The world outside of that kiss faded away, and you held on to that softness, grateful for it.

But the softness didn’t last long. The kiss quickly grew more insistent, more familiar. His hands found their way to your back, pulling you in with a possessive force that left no room for doubt. The tenderness dissolved, and what was left was the intense, commanding kiss you were used to—rough, desperate, a silent demand for you to feel just how much he wanted you.

And despite the shift, despite the intensity of it, you didn’t pull away. You welcomed it, knowing it was just as much a part of him as the gentleness had been. You knew the balance—knew how to dance between the softness and the fire.

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson fanfic #variant!mark x reader

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godmadeaterribleerror · 5 months ago

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Chapter 6 - Everything I Do

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), light fluff, mutual pining, light angst, love confession, smut (handjob, fingering, p in v sex), Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: The Mark reaches a breaking point. Usual Warnings, little angst, lotta smut.

Author's Note: I am of the firm belief Rowena would’ve said cunt religiously if the CW wasn’t full of a bunch of pussies.

Chapter title from Video Games by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.7k

Read on A03!

Chapter 5

Dean can breathe. Not easily, but he can. He can feel the weight of something airy and thin wrapped around him, stuck to his skin and far too heavy. There’s a hand on his brow, and it’s not the right one. Dean’s not sure what the right one would even be, but he knows it’s not this one. This one feels a little wrinkled, and the nails are too long, and it doesn’t satiate the betterlust. It’s just there, pressed to his skin like it’s looking for something and not all too pleased with what it finds.

The longer it’s there, the more the betterlust pounds and stabs and scrapes at him. Rots his guts and carves open his skull and rips through his chest. It’s searching for something that’s not there, and Dean’s head is too clouded with pain and ache and sickness to figure out where he should even be looking. Not in the hand. Not in the thing around him like a shroud–hot and clinging to him like a plague—but maybe somewhere close. Because wherever Dean is—he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have enough of a brain to guess right now—it’s unfamiliar, but feels right. He’s lying on something soft, and it smells good, and when his fingers flex, they’re tracing over an impression left on the area next to him. An indent left on the space by something that could curve and press into Dean exactly like he wants. Craves. Needs.

The betterlust starts to flare and bellow, almost drowning out the low voices around him, and Dean knows he might die if he doesn’t find what fits into that impression and take it.

“How long has he been like this?”

“I’m not sure, a few hours?”

“Well can you try to be sure, Samuel?”

“I got here the same time you did, how am I supposed to be sure-“

“Ask our resident Dean Expert, the poor girl has been stuck with him all week-“

“No, I’m not going to make her do more. And, uh,” there’s a long sigh, and Dean still isn’t really sure what’s going on, or who these people are, or why they’re talking about him. “I don’t think it’s safe for her right now. To be around him. He said he didn’t want her-“

“He obviously lied, you idiotic boy-“

“He didn’t want her to know, Rowena. And it’s not my place to tell her-“

“She’s a big girl, she’ll survive a little bit of emotions.”

“He’d, he’d fucking kill me-“

“And he will kill himself if he does not accept what he needs! It’s quite honestly a miracle he was a stubborn enough arse to resist the Mark’s demands this long.”

Dean’s really fucking confused. There are two voices, one that sounds a little like his and one that very much doesn’t, and they’re both talking about him like he’s important. He doesn’t feel important. He mostly just feels tired, and bad, and sick. Sweaty and hungry and desperate for something he can’t name, but they say he needs to name or he’ll die, and he doesn’t even really know what names are right now-

“If I tell her, this becomes her responsibility-“

“Well, Dearie, I wasn’t aware you were stupid and blind-“

“Hey-“

“You cannot look me in the eyes and say that she would not welcome the responsibility, boy. She is so pathetically obsessed with him it makes me feel ill.”

Dean felt his mouth try to frown—he can’t figure out how to move, so it more of a twisted grimace—as he racked his mush of a brain to figure out who they could possibly be referring to. He couldn’t remember names, but he could remember presences. Remember that the voice like his was good, and he was supposed to protect it. The voice that wasn’t like his was bad, and kind of a bitch, but helpful when they ran out of options. There wasn’t a third voice, but there was a smell that he really liked. Loved. Craved. Needed-

That was the imprint. And it wasn’t here right now, but the betterlust and already spiraling around it and constricting his lungs as he tried to find it. He needed it, and it didn’t need him, and he was going to die-

“I know,” the familiar voice sighed. “Believe me, I know, but I can’t ask that of her-“

“She’ll shred your sorry arse apart if you don’t-“

“And Dean will put a bullet through my brain if I do!”

“He will die before he gets the chance. Have I not made it clear that, unless Dean receives the help our lovely, pretty, lovesick-“

Then the voice that wasn’t like Dean’s said a name, and the betterlust exploded inside him. He knew that name. He’d die and kill and cut himself to pieces for that name. He wanted it. He couldn’t have it. He needed it, more than he needs air or water or food or music. The betterlust demanded it, and was shredding apart his insides because he refused to take it, but was also lending him the strength to find it. To find Her. Dean needed to fucking find Her, or nothing would ever be good again-

His eyes fly open, and for a long movement everything is only a blinding blur of color. There’s noise around him—both voices shouting words that sound like they’re for him but he can’t understand—and Dean’s brain kicks into a vigilant, borderline feral function as he hauls himself up, something pushes him back down, and the betterlust grew feral.

“Rowena, grab the other arm-“

“I am not meant for brute labor, Samuel-“

“Are you fucking kidding me-“

Dean roars Her name clawing and grabbing at the air to try and go, try to get to Her, because he was going to fucking die, and the betterlust told him She could fix this, make this better, make Dean better-

“Oh for- Fine.”

The voice not like Dean’s says something he can’t understand, his whole body tightens. Like a weight has been dropped on his chest, and ropes have been wrapped around his limbs, forcing him to collapse back onto the bed with a noise that might have been a whine.

“Dean.” Rowena appears in his vision, her face drawn in annoyance. “Blink twice if you understand me.”

Dean scowls, but blinked twice.

“Good. Are you going to try and kill us again?”

Dean glowers at Rowena, keeping his eyes wide open in a gesture of no, and she sighs.

“Good boy. I’ll let you up, but if you ever try and grab my hair again, I’ll make you regret having hands, aye?”

The tension vanishes from Dean’s body, and he sits up slowly, pinch the bridge of his nose to try and curb the pounding ache behind his eyes, taking deep, mechanical breathes to get some fucking control over his body. Over the betterlust. Over himself.

“Dean, are you feeling okay?“

Sam looks worried. He’s frowning and scanning over Dean with concern, like there will be wound on his skin they can patch up to fix this.

But only one thing can fix this. And Dean still isn’t strong enough to not know where She is, not when all he can remember is dragging himself to Her room, and hearing her voice, and seeing her pretty face before it all went dark.

Dean mutters Her name, his voice low and gruff, and Sam and Rowena freeze. “Where is she.”

“She’s eating.” Sam mutters, bracing his hands on his hips. “I told her to get some rest. You freaked her out, dude, she-“ Sam shakes his head, giving Dean a look he doesn’t understand, and doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher. “She was really shaken, when we got back. She needs-“

“She needs you.” Rowena interrupts Sam, and he shoots her a venomous glare. “You’re too much of a meat-headed dolt to see it, but that darling girl looked as if she’d been devastated over you.”

“Rowena.” Sam hisses. “We agreed-“

“You agreed. I made no promises-“

Dean raises his hands—they both need to shut up, or his skin will fly off his body—and their argument stutters off.

“How bad is it.” He looks to Rowena, the moment alone an act of labor. “And don’t try to lie or sugarcoat it. How long I got.”

Rowena sighs. “If you insist on keeping your head up your own arse, a day. Maybe two.”

“But we’re going to try to reverse it.” Sam jumps in, his voice desperate. “And Rowena gave you something to keep you going-“

“But, as I told your brother,” Rowena’s words are harsh, and Dean appreciates it. This really isn’t the fucking time for dancing around anything. “It is a very temporary solution, and the reversal will take time you no longer have. There is an obvious fix to your little problem-“

Dean lets out a dry chuckled. “My problem? Last I checked, Rowena, you were the one who fucked this up-“

“I did not fuck anything up, you petulant man child-“

“Rowena-“

“No!” Rowena cuts off Sam with sharp words, holding Dean’s glare. “I did my job, Dean Winchester, but you are too much of an arrogant, brooding little cunt to do yours.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Watch it, bitch-“

“I did not have to help you,” Rowena hisses. “But that poor, desperate, lovesick woman begged me to. You know exactly what you need, and you are too cruel and stupid to do it.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists on the sheets. “I said fucking watch it-“

“She’s right.” Sam mutters, and Dean’s gaze whips to him, his mouth falling open at Sam’s pitying, exhausted expression.

“I’m sorry, I must be going insane, because there’s no fucking way you just sided with Rowena-“

“I didn’t side with her.” Sam snaps, running a hand over his face as he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to get you to think for five seconds. I’m trying not to lose my brother because he can’t see what’s right in front of him-“

Dean scoffs. “There’s nothing in front of me, Sam. Rowena botched the spell, and now I can’t do anything but-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, a stab of pain twisting over his ribs, and Sam throws his hands in the air.

“For crying out loud, Dean, you’re dying because of this self-righteous, sacrificial bullshit you always pull! Rowena didn’t botch the spell, you’re just refusing to give the Mark what it wants, and until you do-“

“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Dean roars, slamming a hand down on the mattress. “Fuck, Sam, I’m not going to force myself onto her just because-“

“Because you think she’ll say no?” Sam rolls his eyes. “Dude, you can’t be stupid enough to really believe that-“

Dean scowls. They don’t fucking get it. Sam and Rowena don’t know Her like Dean does. They don’t understand that She would say yes, but she wouldn’t really want it, and Dean would stain and mark Her in a way that they’d never come back from. She’d never smile at him the same, and he’d have to die alone in the dirt when she finally got the memo that he wasn’t worth helping. When She left him, her soul more tainted than when she’d found him. When his poison sunk into Her skin, and she would still be so pretty and amazing, but ruined and marred from Dean’s touch. From how weak and pathetic and toxic he was.

He couldn’t do that. He’d rather fucking die.

“Just drop it, Sammy.” Dean mutters, his gaze falling to that imprint of Her on the bed. Her bed. Dean was finally in Her bed, and he didn’t even get to enjoy it. “It’s not happening. And you’re not going to convince me, so either fix this, or let me die without goddamn yelling at me.”

There’s a moment of wired silence, Rowena silent in the corner of the room as Sam and Dean glare at each other, and Sam shakes his head like he can’t believe Dean’s nerve. Like Dean isn’t saving the only good thing they both have. Protecting the only person that’s stayed with them, that they both love, even if Dean’s love is made of undying, animalistic, grime and dirt covered devotion, and Sam’s is purer, softer affection that could never cut and scar Her like Dean’s.

“She was crying.” Sam finally says, his tone colder than Dean’s heard it in a long time. “When we got back, she was sobbing, Dean. Have you ever seen her cry? Ever?”

He hasn’t. Dean has seen Her grit her teeth and bite back sounds of agony from injuries, seen Her scream and flail when they’ve lost people, and seen Her so angry it scared him a little, but he’s never seen Her cry. She didn’t cry. Her eyes got glossy, and her voice grew tight and choked, but she didn’t cry. Sam has to be lying, and he doesn’t look or sound like he is, but he has to be. She doesn’t cry, so why the hell would that be the truth? But why would Sam lie, and why has She stayed this long, and fuck, everything hurts and Dean’s too damn tired to figure out what the hell Sam is trying to tell him but the betterlust is scratching at his heart to know-

“Sam,” Dean swallows, watching his brother carefully. “I-“

There’s a knock at the door, and everything in Dean flies to the sound. It’s Her. Before Sam’s hand is even on the doorknob, Dean somehow knows it’s Her. Here. Maybe for him, maybe not, but the betterlust doesn’t seem to care because it’s Her-

She looks horrible. Still so fucking pretty, but horrible. There’s a slump to Her posture as she stands in the door—hair tangled and shirt wrinkled—and Her gorgeous face is slightly puffed. Her lips pouting. Her eyes lined with red.

Like She’s been crying.

Sam says Her name in question, and when She speaks her voice is hoarse.

“Look, I know you to told me to rest, but-“ Her mouth falls open as her eyes land on Dean, and Her sharp inhale feels like it shoots adrenaline right into his blood.

He tries to offer Her a winning, I’d be happy to see me too smile, but it doesn’t feel right on his face. It feels too vulnerable, where it’s always been like a shield. It feels like it’s a lie, or trick, or act of cruelty when Dean’s rarely met a woman who doesn’t flush and giggle under that attention. It’s supposed to make him feel good from their happy, hopeful eyes. It’s supposed to make them feel good from Dean’s well-crafted, carefully wielded charm.

But right now he still just feels like shit. Bottom of the gutter, horrible, flea-ridden and matted shit. A fucking piece of shit that might have made Her cry, and isn’t even smart enough to know why.

He tries again, making the smile wider, adding his most casual drawl. “Hey, Sweetheart-“

She makes a strangled sound—loud and pained, making the betterlust start to snap at Dean’s brittle spine—and all but runs to the bed, almost falling to Dean’s side as Her hands begin to grab at his face and run over his skin. Angling him for Her to examine with frantic eyes and words, igniting little paths of insatiable fire wherever She touches.

“Are you okay?!” She turns his head to the side, her fingers tracing his jaw and cheek like boils or scars might have just appeared. “Your fever is gone,” the back of Her hand presses to his brow, flipping to touch it with Her palm. “But shit, you’re covered in sweat-“ Her glare whips around to Sam, Her grip still tight on Dean’s face. He doesn’t really mind. The betterlust is still trying to climb out of his throat, but he can fight it—for Her—and this can be enough. It’s all he’ll get before he’s gone anyway. Her touch, and loud almost furious shout at Sam. “Why didn’t you change the sheets like I told you to-“

“He was dead weight,” Sam says Her name, his voice a hell of a lot kinder than when he’d been talking to Dean. “And you also told us to make sure he got some rest. Rowena said the fever broke, and he’s lucid again-“

“But this is gross Sam, and you could’ve moved him if you tried-“

“Moved him where? He started freaking whimpering when we took away your comforter-“

Dean scowls. “Can you guys stop talkin’ about me like I’m not right fucking here-“

Her gaze turns back to Dean, the odd, aggressively mind-numbing panic and care returning to her eyes as she begins to examine him once more.

“You seem better, but you’re redder than you should be, and, shit, was that scar always there-“

Her finger’s trial over Dean’s chin, dangerously close to his mouth, and he has to bite down a groan as he says Her name. “That’s been there at least a decade-“

“What about this one-“

“Three years, you were there when I got it-“

“Fuck, you’re right.” She shakes her head, Her eyes suddenly boaring into Dean’s and settling warmth in his gut. “Well, are you feeling okay? Does anything hurt, or feel sick, or feel numb-“

“Sweetheart.” He catches Her hand, and she falls silent with wide eyes. “I’m-“

“And,” She moves his gaze onto Her’s, and fuck She’s always so pretty. Even when She’s pissed at him. Especially when She’s pissed at him. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Winchester, I’ll stab you-“

He chuckles, and it’s dry and low, but maybe the realest sound he’s made since he woke up. “I don’t doubt that, Sweetheart.” He drawls, and she lets his guide Her hands away from his face. “But I promise, I’m feelin’ better.”

She nods slowly, and Dean pretends he can’t see Sam’s eye roll in the background.

“Oh. Okay.” She turns at Sam and Rowena, her voice slightly unsteady and weak. “Have you, um, have you both been in here? The whole time I was eating?”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” She swallows, and Dean notices Her body go slightly rigid. Sam must notice too, because he tilts his head and frowns at her.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just…” She trails off, staring at her nails as her voice drop to a mumble. “There’s a lot of people in here. Makes me nervous.”

“Shit, sorry.” Sam says Her name, his voice apologetic. “Didn’t know that. We can go, if you want.”

There’s a long moment where She’s just staring at Sam, Her mouth slightly open, and her body curled in on itself like she’d been punched. Sam repeats Her name, his voice cautious, and when She snaps out of it, her voice is still soft and anxious.

“That would be good.” She whispers. “Thank you.”

Sam nods. “No problem. Me and Rowena,” he shoots the witch a glare, and she rolls her eyes. “Are gonna go try to fix this. Text me if you need anything, either of you.”

She hums an acknowledgment, Her attention never leaving Dean as Sam and Rowena close the door, and Dean’s whole existence begins to curve into only the feeling of Her as her fingers trace over the back of his hand.

After a long moment of silence—only the sound of Dean’s heart in his ears and the shifting of blankets under their bodies—she swallows, her voice barely a breath. “They can’t fix it, can they.”

He blinks at Her. “They’re gonna get it-“

“Don’t lie to me, Dean.” She gives him a soft smile that makes her look like she’s already grieving, and something in him lights up and withers away in the same second. “Please.”

He swallows. He is really tired of lying to Her. And he can say something closer to the truth and still hold his ground. He’s not quite that weak. Not yet.

“It’ll be close.” He grunts. “But I’ve survived worse. I just gotta pull through-“

“You don’t, though.” She whispers. “Rowena said you just have to-“

“Rowena can eat me.” Dean mutters, glaring at the door. “I’m not doin’ whatever the hell the Mark tells me to, that was the fucking point of this.”

“The point was to help you, Dean.” She sounds so freaking sad, and it’s pulling Dean apart. His will and mind all being reduced to Her. Too good and pretty to be sad. And it’s just Dean. She shouldn’t be this sad over only Dean.

“Sweetheart-“

“I don’t,” She swallows, speaking over Dean with quiet, soft words. “I don’t know why you’re being such an ass, Dean. Why can’t you just do what the betterlust wants? Isn’t it what you want-“

“It is.” Dean has to push the words through his teeth, because She so close and it’s not close enough and everything fucking hurts. “But I can’t have it, so we’re dead in the water. But Sammy and Rowena-“

“Dean.”

He can’t look Her in the eyes. Her voice is so gentle and nervous, and he’s not strong enough to look Her in the eyes and see all that worry and pity in them. He can barely even grunt an acknowledgment for her to continue.

“What do you want?”

“I’m not gonna-“

“Is it me?” She whispers, and Dean’s eyes shoot to Her’s. He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything but stare at Her and try not to die as he realizes this is it. This is how he loses Her. Forever. This is the last time he gets to look at Her and bask in her beauty and kindness, the last time he gets to drown in the smell of cherries and feel a little more alive under Her touch.

But She doesn’t look afraid, or disgusted. She just looks urgent. Desperate. As confused and hopelessly hopeful as Dean feels.

And he can’t speak, or think, or do anything but stare at Her as she speaks again.

“Dean, do you,” She takes a shaking breath, and Dean needs to touch Her. “Do you love me?”

——————

He’s not saying anything. Dean’s looking at you like you’ve shot him right through his heart, ripped it out, and taken a bite. Gaping like he’s trying to ask you for it back but can’t find the breath to, blinking like he’s trying to test if you’re really there. He reaches a hand up to run over his own face, reaches out to touch you—trace broad, calloused fingers over your cheekbones and jaw, over your chin like he’s wiping something you can’t see away—and jerks back suddenly, like you’d hurt him. Burned him. Branded him.

He’s branded you. You’re never going to forget his voice in your head, sounding like he’s overdosed on something awful, and doesn’t think he’ll come back down. Like he’s trying to cleanse himself of something by whispering words that will either haunt you past the grave or feed you for the rest of your life. Your heart will never forget the way it stopped for only a second before kicking into a pace that was all too fast when Dean’s eyes closed, and your hands will always remember the cold fever of his skin.

“Dean.” You have to make your voice strong. Steady, like you’re demanding something from him and not praying to him. “Please-“

“Why-“ His voice is hoarse, almost strangled, and it makes your every muscle feel a little weaker. “Why would you ask that.”

“I’m, I can’t tell you, just please answer me-“

“Did Sam tell you-“

“Sam?” You frown, shaking your head slightly. “No, I just, this has nothing to do with Sam-“

“Then why the hell are you-“

“What would Sam have told me?”

Dean falls silent, opening and closing his mouth as he goes red, his eyes looking almost feral. He looks like a cornered animal, something starved and needy, unsure if it should bite the hand reaching for it or grab it and never let go.

You want to hold him and never let go. You want him to grab your hand, and hold it, and never think to drop it again. You want to hear him say those words again, and have his voice be certain. You want to touch him, no matter if he’s like this or breaking or furious or—in those rare, priceless moments—happy. And you need to know. Dean’s never owed you anything, and he never will, but if there’s only one thing that he can offer you in universe, it would be really nice if it was this. If Dean ever gives you anything, please, dear God, let it be this.

“Dean,” you whisper, moving your hand to his knee and holding his almost fearful, rabid gaze. “Please answer me. Tell me what Sam-“

“He,” Dean swallows, voice gruff. “He wasn’t supposed to say anything. He fucking swore he’d never-“

“He didn’t.” You repeat, unsure if he’s even understanding the words out of your mouth. “All I’ve talked to Sam about is the spell. But why-“

“Rowena.” He mutters, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Rowena must’ve open her bitch mouth-“

“I haven’t really talked to Rowena at all-“

“Must’ve been some fucking spell-“

“Dean!” You scream, your nails digging into his leg like you can hold him with you forever. “It was you! You told me you loved me! You had a fever and you told me you loved me, you said my name, and I just,” Your voice cracks, desperation starting to break through your blood, out of your mouth in spit. “I need to know, please, you need to tell me if you meant it-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Please.” You refuse to look him in the eyes. The moment you look in Dean’s deep, pretty eyes you’ll know what he’s thinking, and you’ll lose him forever. Everything in you is screaming to know, but you’re still not able to just look into Dean’s eyes. “Dean, please tell me.”

“Why.”

For a second you’re not sure if you heard him right. The question startles you enough to make you look up, and the moment you see him something snaps inside of you. He looks wounded. Nervous. Almost as afraid of you—of your words, and what they might be capable of doing to him if you use them wrong—as you are of him.

“Why would you need to know.” He rasps, staring at his own hands. Flexing in his lap, seemingly against his will. “You’re not- It’s not somethin’ you’re-“ He looks up to you, his eyes almost pleading. “Why would you give a shit about-“

“About you?”

Dean’s throat bobs, his nod short, and you summon more bravery than you’ve ever been capable of before. Enough to reach out, over the space between your bodies that so small—but still feels like miles—and place your hand on his cheek. Keeping his gaze on yours.

“I always care about you. I-” You take a shaking breath, the last words falling off your tongue. “I love you.”

Dean’s hand shoots up to cover yours. To hold you against him, with a grip that tells you he might be trying to sear his skin into yours.

“You-“ His voice is so soft. His hand over yours is like iron, but everything else about him seems to be dreamlike. Hazy and uncertain, both of you watching each other like you’re sure the other will vanish if you look away. “You love me?”

“Yeah,” you try to smile at him, and it’s not charismatic. It’s pleading and tragic and so fucking delicate. “I do. I mean, I have. For a while.”

“How-“

“Four years.“

He blinks at you. “No, I, I meant-“ He swallows, shaking his head. “I meant how. How did that happen.”

It’s your turn to frown at him. “How did that happen?”

“You shouldn’t love me.” He mutters, his hand over yours flexing. Like he’s trying to pull it away but doesn’t know how. “It’ll get you hurt.”

You raise your brows slightly, running your thumb over his cheek. “Are you going to hurt me?”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what I-“

“Are you?”

“Of course not, I’d never-“

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why-“

“It does.” You whisper, folding your legs under you to rise on your knees, dropping your brow to his. Holding his gaze the whole time. “It matters to me, Dean.“

He makes a choked sound, but doesn’t move away. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” You whisper. “And it would be really cool if you loved me.”

Dean’s only staring at you, his eyes flicking between your own, slightly blurred gaze that can still see him so well, and your lips.

“And it happened,” you push on, your voice growing a little weak when he still doesn’t respond. “Because it’s really easy to love you, Dean Winchester. You’re a good man.” You offer him a smile, and his own mouth falls open just a little. “And even if you don’t love me, I wouldn’t have you any other-“

Something in Dean’s eyes flickers, and he moves before you’re sure what’s happening. Yanking you into his lap with his hand—fingers now tangled in yours—catching you with an arm around your waist, and kissing you.

Kissing you. Dean’s kissing you.

Your body sparks into action—even as your brain becomes fogged with a hazy, Dean-shaped lust—and you fist a hand into his shirt, pulling him as close as the world will allow. He’s holding you so carefully, leaning down in a slight dip, and there could be a storm raging around you instead of the soft, romantic rain this feels like it belongs to, but you wouldn’t know. Because this is a kiss people wage wars over.

It’s louder than music in your ears and electric in your blood, but sparks isn’t a strong enough word. It’s like lightning. Shooting through your spine and lighting up every nerve in your body to Dean. Soft lips molding perfectly into yours, warm and calloused hands skillfully mapping over your skin, a groan down your throat that you can feel settle in your lower gut and start a wildfire. You’ve been hungry and you’ve never dared to eat, but Dean is here now and you’ll either be starved for the rest of your life or never want for anything again.

When Dean tries to pull away, you just follow him. Chase after his lips with yours, trying to get just a little more before this all comes tumbling down. Before the thought can even dare to cross Dean’s mind—that he’s not good for you, and he should go—because this is all you’ve ever wanted and you’ll be damned if you don’t cling to it for as long as he’ll allow. You’ll fall all the way down, until your body is only supported by Dean below you, and you’ll forsake oxygen until your body demands it. Maybe a little while after, too.

And Dean doesn’t seem to care to let you go. Every time he tries to pull back it’s a jerked movement, and every time you collide again he grows more and more feral. His groans turn into deep, animalistic growls, and his touch on your skin becomes rough. Not painful, never painful, but urgent. Uncontrolled. Pulling at your skin like he’s trying to meld it into his, kissing you with bruising force, bucking up into you with his hard cock brushing your inner thighs.

You grind down onto him once—when he hits closer to where you’re beginning to ache for him, and your own need grows stronger than you’re desire to let Dean control this—and he bites you. Dean catches your lip between his teeth, sucks in into his mouth, and grins like he’s won a prize when you whine a plea of his name.

“Holy shit,” he mutters your name, pressing his brow to yours as you both catch your breath, grabbing your waist to stop the next roll of your hips. “I’m not- I can’t do this to you-“

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you whisper. “I love you. I want this.”

Dean catches your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles and staring at the movement, his voice so low you almost don’t hear it. “Say you’re lying.”

You blink at him, and shake your head. “No.”

His eyes flash, shooting back to yours as he grunts your name. “You need to say you’re lyin’ right now, or I’ll-“

“You’ll what?” You lower your face back down, until you’re sharing Dean’s every breath. “Fuck me? Actually say you want me?”

His throat bobs, voice rough with lust. “You, I can’t fucking control it, sweetheart, if you’re fuckin’ with me you need to take it back now-“

“Dean.” You grab his face between your hand, forcing his darkened gaze back to yours. “Answer my fucking question.”

He shakes his head weakly. “You don’t-“

“I love you.” You hiss. You need to make sure he feels it, in the slightly spit on his face, that still tastes a little like him because it’s pushed through lips that are swollen from Dean, and Dean alone. You glide a hand down his chest, the kiss apparently fueling something bold inside you that hadn’t been there before. Your fingers trace down, over his abdomen—hardened from work but still soft in all the best places—and Dean takes in a sharp breath, his hands on your hips tightening enough to leave a mark, and you lean back. Just enough to open space between your bodies, just enough for you to palm him through his sweatpants.

He’s huge, and twitching under your careful, light fingers, and God, you need him inside of you in any fucking way—between your hands or filling your mouth or buried deep into your cunt—but Dean’s still just staring at you. His chest heaving, eyes so dark and wanting you might cum just from his attention, and nostrils flaring as you move your hand up, resting right over the hem of his pants.

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, the rush of confidence barreling down as you wait for him to do anything. “And you need to tell me now that you don’t love me, or-“ you take a long breath, dragging up the last bit of your nerve. “You need to say you love me, and do something about it.”

Something shatters in Dean’s gaze for the last time, and whatever war he’s been waging with himself reaches a brutal end as he surges back up, kissing you with all spit and bloody need. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever dared to have on his tongue, and he might be trying to chew off a bit of you to keep.

He won’t need to. He has you. He’s had you for a while, and when he leans back to watch you with glazed, hungry eyes, his words seal some deep, fragile part of you to him forever.

“I love you,” Dean grunts your name, scanning over your face like he’s afraid the words will yank you from his hands. They won’t. “I need you. I gotta have you, but I’m- I’m not in control of it right now-“

“I can take it.” You push your hand into Dean’s sweats, taking his cock in your hand. He groans, eyelids fluttering, and when you run your thumb over the head of him—pressing into the weeping slit and squeezing just so lightly—he hisses your name like a prayer. “Please, Dean. I want it. Please.”

You pull down his pants with your free hand, taking his boxers with them, and start to slowly pump your hand up and down his impressive length. There will be bruising marks of Dean’s hands of your hips for a while, but you’ll survive. It’s worth it, to watch him unravel below you, to see Dean’s pretty eyes grow glazed with lust for you, feel his dick throb and hips jerk under your touch, hear his low growls and grunts as his jaw clenches and he doesn’t pull you away.

“God,” he moans your name, and you start to squirm above him, desperate for a bit of your own relief. “I wanna- Wanna taste you. Fuck you. Ruin you-“

“So do it,” you slip your other hand down—trusting Dean’s hold to keep you upright—and squeeze his balls. “You say you love me, Dean, but you haven’t proved it-“

The words do exactly what you’d wanted them to. Dean yanks your hand from around him, crashes his lips into yours with a fervor that might have been dangerous if it didn’t taste and sound and feel like Dean, and lets go.

His every movement is rough and uncontrolled, because his tether over every bit of will that had seemed to keep him restrained is gone, and in its wake is only the Mark. All its lust and fury and hunger, primal and focused on you. On taking what it wants.

And you’d give it to him, even if it left a few marks on your skin and bruising on your heart, but you realize that the Mark doesn’t seem to just want to use you. If it did, Dean wouldn’t be sucking on your neck and moaning at the taste of your skin, all while tracing big, warms hands around your body to palm your breasts. He wouldn’t allow you to grind onto him, or whimper his name, or scratch at his skin as he pulls you apart with barely anything at all. When he flips your over without any effort—only a low grunt and flex of his muscles—you feel like the most priceless bag of flour in the word. Perfect to be tossed around like that forever, but worth more to him—more the Mark—than just another body.

And you can’t see him anymore, but you don’t need to. You hear the sounds of him shuffling behind you, the muffled noise of his shirt being tossed onto the floor, and then his voice. Low and feral and saying your name in a way that makes your knees weak.

“Up.” He grunts, and you whine when he angles your hips up and pulls down your shorts, you already wet cunt being hit by the cold air. “So fuckin’ pretty, gonna ruin you, baby. You’re never gonna even think about a cock that’s not mine again-“

You nod a little stupidly, wiggling your ass back into him and moaning when his still-clothed erection presses right into you. “Fuck, Dean, please-“

He spanks your pussy—just once the stinging pleasure shooing up your spine—and you bury your face in the sheets to stifles your desperate moan.

“Need ya’ to listen.” He mutters. “You’re gonna have to talk to me, baby, lemme know what feels good, what you’re likin’, what you need more of-“

“You,” you gasp, and Dean chuckles, running a taunting finger between your folds. “God, I need you, Dean, need you so bad-“

“You need me?” He pushes the finger into your cunt, his body moving to covers yours as he whispers in your ear. “Need me to fuck this tight little pussy until you scream? Goddamn prove you how much I’ve wanted you, how much I’ve always wanted you-“

“Yes.” You nod frantically, grinding your ass up into him. “Show me, please show me-“

Dean moves your head to the side, capturing your lips in a long, slow kiss, and hums in satisfaction when he crooks that finger right up against that deep, sensitive spot inside of you, and your hands start to claw at the sheets.

Then he’s gone. Without warning Dean draws back, yanks his finger out without warning, spanks your pussy again—chuckling at the high, needy sound that escapes your lips—and presses one hand to your lower back to still your writhing as he shuffles behind you

“Tell me whatcha want, baby.” He mutters, moving his hand to rub up and down your thigh. “And I’ll get it for ‘ya. But you have,“ He slaps your pussy one last time for emphasis, and you can only moan. “To say what you-“

“Your cock.” You whisper, spreading your legs wider for his to see. To look at your wet pussy—need dripping down to your knee—and take whatever the Mark is asking of him. “Want your cock Dean. Want you to fuck me, no holding back, please-“

He slams into you without warning. Burying himself at the hilt in one brutal movement, groaning above you as you go limp under him, trying only to twist and touch him, only to push back and somehow get him deeper. You feel so full, so fucking high on the stretch of Dean inside you, but it’s not enough-

“God, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good.” Dean starts to massage your ass, with one hand, the other holding you up in the air for him to use. “Better than I dreamed, feel like heaven, gonna fuck you so good like you deserve-“

“Dean, fuck-” you clench around him, the praise feeding right into your cockdrunk daze of Dean, and he groans.

“Don’t do that,” he grunts your name, and it sounds like an order. “I ain’t gonna last if you-“ He moans as you squeeze around his massive cock again, and pulls all the way out before slamming back into you with a growl.

Your mouth falls open, a sound like a mewl escaping your mouth, and Dean starts to fuck you. Really, properly fuck you into the mattress, with low groans and an unforgiving pace, bumping your cervix and snaking a hand around your stomach to pull you up to his chest, rubbing your clit until you’re wrecked and seeing stars, thrusting up into you like a jackhammer and keeping you so blissfully pleasured and warm.

“So fuckin’ good,” he growls your name in your ear, and you squeak. “Takin’ this cock so fuckin’ well, all warm and tight, made for me. You were fuckin’ made for me-“

Dean’s thumb and fore finger roll your clit in a tight circle, and you cum with a scream. Light and color lining your vision, the far-off sound of Dean’s filthy praise making your orgasm ride out and out and out until you’re sure you’ve reached something like heaven. Your vision is still blurred when the satisfaction has washed fully through you, and you realize Dean’s stopped moving.

His hand tangles in your hair, angling your face back for him to see, and fuck he’s so handsome. Breathing heavy in your ear, lips puffed from sucking and kiss your skin, eyes glazed but still focused on you.

You must look like an idiot. Your expression is slack and needy, your eyes glazed a lips parted, but Dean looks at you like you’re a diamond and his cock twitches inside you as your eyes meet.

“Shit, baby,” he mutters. “You gotta say somethin’-“

“That-“ You let out another moan, your pussy still fluttering around him. “Good.”

He chuckles, kiss the very corner of your mouth with a smirk. “You got full words, Sweetheart?”

You swallow, the full feeling of Dean—throbbing inside you, still rock hard, pushing against that heavenly spot but with just too little pressure to send you over once more—crashing into you, and you say the only thing you can think of.

“Keep going?”

He stares at you for a second, then shakes his head. “No, I- I’ll be fine, I can take care of myself-“

“Want you to use me.” You’re practically whining, and you’d be more embarrassed if the words didn’t make Dean jerk up into you. “Please-“

He groans your name, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. “I’m not- you’re-“

“I said don’t hold back.” You whisper, rolling your hips against him and feeling pride glow in your chest at his moan. “Fuck me, Dean. I’m yours.”

And there it is again. You say the exact right thing, the thing you knew would work, and Dean gives in. He shoves you down, flips you onto your back—pulling out for only a second as he adjusts you under him—and starts to fuck you like an animal. Rutting into you at a near inhuman speed, hitting your cervix with every thrust, every word a low growl that coils release tighter and tighter in your lower gut.

“So fuckin’ greedy,” he grunts, slamming a little rougher. “Wantin’ more, begging me to fuck you, so fucking pretty comin’ apart on my cock, tell me how good it feels, baby-“

“Good,” you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders as the bed creaks around you, your whole body overwhelmed with pleasure. “Feel so full, Dean, feels so good, you’re so fucking big-“

He groans, and you start to babble. You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, because every word feels like it’s spilling from your mouth. But every inch of your brain trapped in Dean’s skin slapping against yours, his muscles flexing around you, the low and primal sounds rumbling out of his chest as his movements grow sloppy and his cock starts to throb inside of you, and you couldn’t think about anything else if you tried.

“You feel so good, Dean, please don’t stop, want you to cum, I-“ You gasp as he starts to kill up your neck, your hands shooting into his hair. “Fuck, Dean, please, so good, God, I love you-“

His mouth slams into yours, and your orgasm rushes through you like a tidal wave. Longer and powerful, leaving you so fucked out you can only whine under Dean’s body, toes curling and eyes rolling back in your head as your pussy flutters around him.

Dean pulls out, keeping one hand gently on your knee as he pumps himself with an almost blurring fist, and cums over your abdomen and thighs. It’s hot and sticky, and part of you wishes you’d had enough of a brain to ask him to let you taste it, but you’re so completely spent that when Dean collapses over you—a heavy, comfortable weight you’re more than happy to be trapped beneath—your brain wipes every other thought but Dean away, and you decide to just stay here. Where Dean’s face in buried in your neck, and your sore from all of it but there will never be a better pain to experience.

“I-“ Dean breaks the silence, words muffled in your skin. “I feel better.”

“Oh.” You huff a soft laugh. “Good.”

“What, uh, what should we tell Sammy?”

You tug on his hair, just enough to move his gaze back to yours. “That we had sex?”

“No,” Dean groans your name, a smile pulling at his lips. “About the Mark. But we should tell him that-“

You make a mock, dramatic gasp. “Dean Winchester, are you going to brag about sex to your brother-“

“It’s sex with you, Sweetheart.” He winks, rolling you both over and caging you comfortably against his chest. “And Sammy’ll be thrilled to hear it, he’s been on my ass for years-“

“Years?” You squeak. “How many years?”

He shrugs. “I dunno, all of them?”

“All of them?! What do you mean all of them-“

“I mean since I met you.” Dean starts to rub soothing circles on your back, his mouth curling in smug amusement. “Deep breathes, baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You flush, still not really use to the baby thing. Or Dean’s hands on your skin, every touch lingering like an imprint that will never even try to fade. “Shut up-“

He shakes his head. “Nah. You love it.” A boyish, wide smile splits over his face. “You love me.”

You might die. You might explode into a million, tiny pieces of confetti and shimmering glass, because Dean looks so happy. There are no ghosts in his beautiful eyes, no loathing or dread stained over his perfect face. He’s happy, here, with you, and you’re not cruel enough to stop yourself from crawling up his chest and pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.

“I do love you,” you mumble against him, straddling his torso as you push yourself up flat palms. “But I’m still gonna tell you to shut up.”

He chuckles, the sound rolling and humming right into your blood. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dean reaches up to tuck a little hair behind your ears, and freezes, his eyes trained on his forearm. On the Mark.

“We, uh,” he clears his throat, watching you carefully. “We do need to figure out what we’re gonna do about this.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “We do. But I, I think-“

You cut yourself off, taking his hand in yours and running light fingers over the Mark in thought. Dean stares up at you with a slight awe in his gaze that makes you feel almost important, and your words fall to a soft breath.

“If you want.” You whisper. “We can turn it back-“

“No.” He shakes his head, sounding almost panicked. “I’m not goin’ back to that shit, not now-“

“Dean.” Your fingers still on his arm. “Was it me? That the Mark wanted?”

He swallows, but nods, and you sigh.

“We’re going to have separate sometimes. And we can figure out the bloodlust-“

“We should have to figure it out though, you don’t gotta put up with that-“

“I know.” You smile at him, and it’s not hard. Smiling at Dean is never hard. “But I will.”

“Do you-“ He stares at you, tangling his fingers in yours. “Do you not want me to keep the betterlust? You can tell me, I don’t want you to feel like you have to, for me-“

“God, no.” You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “I’m just, I’m worried about what might happen when the betterlust decides I’m not enough. Or when this, um, when you-“

Dean says your name, slow and firm, and you swallow. “This is it for me. It’s you, and the Mark knows that. You’re gonna be more than enough, hell, you’re more than I deserve-“

“That’s not true.” You mumble. “You deserve the world.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. “It’s adorable that you really believe that, baby, but-“

You scowl at him. “It’s the truth, Dean. You’re a good man, I meant what I said-“

“I know you did.” His charming, cowboy grins falters slightly. Not falling, but twisting into one you’ve never seen before. Still roguish, still well designed and stealing your breath, but with a slight crack that allows you to see deeper. To see the lonely part of him, that really thinks you don’t belong here with him. That’s trying to drag you into him, because he’s certain you’ll start running if he doesn’t. “But this,” he nods to the Mark. “Is still gonna be a problem. I’m still gonna be a problem-“

“You’re not a problem-“

He says your name, the word careful and tender and holy from his lips. It’s the best way you’ve ever heard it. The only way you want to hear it again. “Do you want me to keep the betterlust.”

You purse your lips, and nod.

“Words, baby-“

“Yes.” You whisper. “But I need you to promise me that if it stops working-“

“It won’t.” He shrugs, his voice flat, as if he’s speaking in fact. “And we’re gonna keep looking for a way to get this son of a bitch off. But we’re doin’ it together.” He pauses, scanning over your open features. “If that’s what you-“

You lean down, silencing him with a long, easy kiss. It’s not desperate anymore, but careful. Like you’re making art, or starting to spin a web that could unravel with a single tug, but neither of you will let it. You’ll never let this—whatever this becomes—fall apart. You’ll put your whole life into keeping Dean, fighting for him and helping him and reminding him that he’s not really a burden. Letting him remind you that he really does want you, and he’s never going to allow you to doubt that again.

“Together.” You speak against his lips, letting your content breath fall into his mouth. “I’d like to stay together.”

He nods, mouth curving into a grin. “Alright then. Together.”

End Note: Thank you so so much for reading!!! I've had a lot of fun with this one, and I'm so happy y'all have as well! I hope to see some of you soon for the next one, and if not, thank you. no matter what!!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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penny00dreadful · 2 years ago

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So does anyone remember that post that was like "Robin and Eddie meet when she does that thing that's like 'hello, please pretend you know me so I can get away from this person' then Steddie happens?" Because I do. I cannot for the life of me find it. If anyone knows the post I'm talking about please let me know so I can link it, this is very much not my idea, it's that persons idea but the brain worms got me so here we are. 🤷‍♀️

We found it! It's this post by @wynnyfryd Thank you Anon! Obviously I went in a different direction with it but this post was 100% my inspiration so thank you for helping me find it!

AO3 link for those asking! 🖤

Robin should be royally pissed off with herself right now. She would be if she wasn’t so damn scared.

That guy was still trailing behind her, no matter the twists and turns she’d taken down different streets trying to lose him and the only thing she’d gained from it was to get totally and completely lost. It could be something completely innocent, the guy might be coincidentally going in the same direction as her but she wasn’t willing to give him the benefit of the doubt if it meant keeping herself alive.

The distance between the two of them was slowly closing as she was followed through the dark and empty streets of the city, hoping, praying for some kind of shop or restaurant or something to make an appearance so she could hide inside but apparently Robin was able to find the one street in this city where everything was either closed for the night or boarded up.

Her heart was pounding in her ears and the beginnings of tears were starting to sting her eyes and all she could think of was how sick with worry Steve was going to be in the morning when he woke up to no missed calls, no missed texts and no Robin. She’d scoffed at him hours earlier when he’d offered to go to the ‘work thing’ with her but she'd told him she was a big girl and she could look after herself and not to be such a worrywart mom.

And now she had no idea where her phone had gone, if she'd left it behind or dropped it somewhere, no idea where she was and no idea of what she was going to do.

If she’d been a bit more present in her head she probably would have noticed the loud, braying, male laughter coming from just ahead of her and crossed the street to avoid them before it was obvious she was avoiding them. But as it was she could barely see straight through her tears and panicked tunnel vision while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the slowly encroaching guy behind her. She was practically already in the group’s space and one of them had definitely already seen her though he didn’t pay her any attention.

But even through her blurred vision and panic, she finally registered what exactly she was looking at. Four men standing around the entrance to what looked like the diviest of empty dive bars, chain smoking and being as loud as humanly possible, but that’s not what caught her eye.

Long hair, chains, leather, denim, tartan, rings, tattoos, subculture. If Robin had to choose a group of men to approach, any kind of subculture would be the best option. They knew what it was like to be other. There was no guarantee these guys were safe, but they were probably safer than a group of frat boys.

The next thing that caught her eye that nearly made her cry in relief as she got closer were the patches and pins.

A rainbow ‘A’ against a black and white striped background pinned on one guys collar, a yellow-white-purple-black patch on another's arm, a pink-yellow-blue patch over the third guys heart and a progress pride flag pinned to the largest guys pocket.

Her people.

Without a second's hesitation she made a bee-line for them, planting herself firmly next to yellow-white-purple-black patch person who had a mess of thick light brown curls that reminded her of Steve’s hair. They fell painfully silent at her arrival.

The four of them blinked down at her, with her tearfilled eyes and wild aura of panic around her they were probably, understandably freaked out.

“Hi guys!” She called out to them, probably a little too loud, hoping her voice carried back to the fucker following her, tensing as she could actually hear his footsteps approaching now.

The guy with the longest hair and the pink-yellow-blue patch standing directly in front of her glanced quickly over her shoulder before returning his gaze to her. His face split into a wide warm grin, tapping her shoulder lightly.

“Hey girlie. We thought you weren’t coming, we’ve been waiting.”

The footsteps behind her audibly slowed down. Robin laughed, a little maniacally, keeping her frantic gaze on him, not daring to turn around. “Yeah, I uh- g- got sidetracked.”

“Eddie, what-”

Pink-yellow-blue patch guy, Eddie she supposed, slapped ‘A’ patch guy lightly on the stomach with the back of his hand, shutting him up as her pursuer passed them by, giving the group a wide berth.

“Hey, no worries. You’re here now, right?”

Pride patch guy kept his eyes on the guy who’d been following her the whole time, only looking away when he eventually turned the corner, disappearing into the night.

Robin immediately felt her posture slacken now that he was finally gone, the full weight of everything coming down on her. Her tears began to spill over and her whole body shook as hysterical sobs started to pour out of her body.

“I’m sorry. I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I think I left my phone behind and I don’t know where I am. We only moved here a couple of weeks ago and I got lost trying to get away and- and-”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Yellow-white-purple-black patch person squeezed her shoulder lightly, keeping their distance. “You’re okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“We can call someone for you, if you want?” Eddie asked, crossing his arms tight like he was trying not to reach out to her, probably worried it would freak her out more. “Boyfriend or girlfriend-”

“Or romantic partner.” The person with their hand on her shoulder interjected lightly.

“Alright Baron from the Baronies.” Eddie snorted. “But fair point, Gareth. Romantic partner or friend or whatever?”

“Um,” Robin’s voice was still shaking. “I don’t… I’ve never been good at memorising numbers…”

“Me too, terrible at them.” Eddie smiled again, pulling his phone from his pocket. Robin’s fear and panic was almost entirely gone now even though she was still hiccuping and sniffling underneath their concerned gazes. They were all firmly keeping their distance, keeping any touches short and fleeting, not moving too suddenly, trying their best to make sure she knew they weren’t a threat and it was really helping her to start feeling safe again. “But we could try to find them online? Instagram or something?”

“Yeah. Yeah we could try that.” She wiped her eyes roughly against her sleeve as she shuffled over to Eddie’s side. “My best friend, Steve, he uh- he’s probably asleep and I don’t think you can call him if you don’t have him added…”

“You can send him a message.” Eddie replied easily, handing his phone over. “And if he doesn’t wake up, we’ll try something else.”

“Don’t worry we’ll get you home.” ‘A’ patch guy smiled down at her while pride patch guy nodded along.

Robin sniffed again. “Thanks.” She was able to conjure up a small watery smile as she opened the app and found Steve’s profile, shooting off a quick message begging him not to freak out and explaining the situation as concisely as she could.

“Here.” She handed Eddie back his phone who glanced down at it for just a second before his eyes widened slightly as he scrolled through Steve’s profile.

“Oh shit. This is your friend?”

Robin nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“He’s… he’s really pretty.”

That managed to pull a startled laugh from her. “Oh god, don’t tell him that, you’ll give him a big head.”

“Let me see?” Gareth asked, whistling low when Eddie turned his phone around showing a photo of Steve and Robin at their last pride parade cheering with the crowd, Steve with the pink-purple-blue of the bi flag smeared across each cheek and Robin with the pinks, oranges and white of the lesbian flag draped around her shoulders. “He is really pretty.”

Eddie snatched the phone back, cradling it to his chest. “Fuck off, Gare. I saw him first.”

Robin smiled again. “Any response from him?”

“Hm?” Eddie asked distractedly, scrolling through Steve’s photos before pride flag guy punched him in the shoulder. “Ow! Wh- oh, sorry!” Eddie frantically scrolled back up before clicking into his messages again and shaking his head. “Nothing yet.” He held the phone out to show her.

“Okay.”

“What’s your address? If he doesn’t respond, we'll find a way to get you there.”

“Uh…” Robin was drawing a complete blank, only able to remember her parents home address hundreds of miles away.

“Or tell us something nearby.” Eddie added, not missing a beat, clearly picking up on Robin’s lack of an answer. “What’s on your street?”

“Um,” she closed her eyes, trying to picture it in her head, “there’s a couple of Chinese take outs, Asian food store, paint store… there’s… I think it’s a tattoo parlour? There’s designs painted on the window, a tower on either side. I think they’re from Lord of the Rings?”

“Inklings? Is that the place?”

Robin opened her eyes. Eddie was grinning at her conspiratorially. “That’s it. You know it?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I work there?”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Hope was starting to grow feathers inside Robin’s chest. She could go home, she didn’t have to stay out all night waiting for Steve to wake up and never let her out of his sight again, she could hug her best friend and drink coffee out of her favourite mug and curse at their finicky fridge and steal his hair products again. She could go home.

“Is it far?”

“Nah, only a few streets away. Ten minute walk, tops.”

“D’you- I mean… do you think you could-” Could she really ask them to walk her home after they’d already done so much for her? Would she be asking too much? Could she be putting herself in more danger?

“I can take you there if you want? Let you get back to your… Steve.” There was a slight blush dusting over Eddie’s cheeks. Maybe he did have an ulterior motive, but it wasn’t an ulterior motive involving her. If she wasn’t so wrung out and aching to crawl into her own bed she’d be thinking up teasing material to lambaste Steve with. But as it was, she was desperate to get home.

“Would that be okay?”

“Yeah.” Eddie replied, bright and easy. “It would just be me and you though,” he held his hands up in surrender, “and you can totally say no, like if you're uncomfortable or whatever. Gareth is Grant and Jeff’s ride home and you’re still on the clock, right?” He turned to Gareth towards the end of his sentence.

“Yeah, but I get off shift in about an hour so could come in if you wanted, wait around in the back room until then if you wanna go as a group?” They answered.

“I think… I think I just want to get home.”

“Okay, cool. No worries I’ll get you there safe and sound. Here,” Eddie pulled his phone out again, “I’m gonna message Steve to let him know we’re on the way in case he wakes up,” he showed her the short message only sending it off when she gave a nod, “and I’ll get you to navigate just so we don’t get lost.”

He handed his phone to her with the maps app open, directing them towards Inklings tattoo parlour. He was playing it off like an easy joke, instead of another way to assure her she was safe. He was making sure she knew exactly where he was taking her at all times, he was making sure she had the ability to call the police or whatever if he turned on her, he was making sure she knew he didn’t need or want her address if she didn’t want to give it.

This fucking guy.

He definitely wouldn’t be the worst choice Steve had ever made if it did go that way.

“I don’t know how to thank all of you, seriously. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t run into you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Grant smiled at her before hesitating. “Uh, I just realised we don’t have your name.”

“Oh!” She laughed at herself, feeling lighter. “I’m Robin.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Robin.” Grant held his hand out, shaking hers once she took it.

“Likewise.”

“And don’t worry about thanking us, just pay it forward, yeah?” Jeff said.

“Plus.” Gareth took on a nonchalant tone even though they had a smirk plastered over their face. “We’ll see you again at Steve and Eddie’s wedding.”

“Shut up!” Eddie scowled but didn’t hold onto it for long in the wake of Robin’s giggles.

She sighed once the giggles subsided, a weight lifted off her shoulders. “I look forward to it.” She raised her hand in salute as the three of them headed back inside, turning to Eddie as he held his elbow out.

“Shall we?”

Robin tried to suppress her smile but took Eddie’s arm anyway. They only made it down one street and around one corner, Robin clutching tight to Eddie’s phone before he finally asked.

"So."

"Best friend Steve." Eddie twirled his rings around his fingers. "Is he…"

“He’s single.” She answered lightly. “But you might be arriving into his life at the wrong time. He’s recently sworn off men.”

“Well we’ve all sworn off men once or twice. Men are terrible.”

“Agreed.”

“Is it because of a bad ex?”

Robin threw her head back with a groan remembering the giant breakdown that had finally finally ended it. “Tommy was the worst. He’s the reason we even moved out here, there’s nowhere to get away from an ex in a small town, you know? They’re everywhere. I’m not going to go into what happened, it’s not my business to say but it was bad.”

Eddie nodded, his eyes down on the ground, running through everything in his head.

Robin could see the tattoo parlour up ahead, the glorious sight of their apartment building just a few buildings away.

“Do you think… with time… he could open himself up to men again?”

Eddie had such a tentative hope in his eyes, it was adorable really. Looking over him, she thought about the type of people Steve would constantly thirst over, blip in the matrix Tommy Hagan notwithstanding.

Lithe bodies with full lips and giant eyes, hair he could run his fingers through and something unusual about them. Something odd.

He’d never explicitly gone for someone so heavily into a subculture before but he’d never turned them down either. And based on Eddie’s job at the tattoo parlour and the way he was dressed, he almost definitely had some ink on him. That alone would be enough to make Steve swoon.

“I think he might. Will you walk me up?” Robin asked, holding the door to the building open, offering Eddie the same kindness under the guise of doing a favour that he had offered her so many times tonight.

“Yeah, sure.”

They’d managed to make it up to the third floor, walking down her hallway before Eddie’s phone started to ping incessantly.

She turned the phone over in her hand, looking at the screen. “He’s awake.”

Robin, where are you?

Are you okay?

I’m on the way.

Please be okay.

Their apartment door was flung open just as they reached it. Steve was standing there panting and terrified, his hair a mess, his glasses askew, his jacket and shoes thrown haphazardly over his pyjamas.

“Robbie.”

Steve slammed into her, holding her tight before immediately letting go to inspect her face and running his hands over her body, checking to see if anything was wrong.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened? What do you need?”

“Steve.” Robin caught his fluttering hands in hers and squeezed, nearly crying out in relief just to have him with her again. “I’m okay. Eddie and his friends helped me.”

“Eddie-” Steve looked to the side, noticing her saviour for the first time. “You’re Eddie.”

“I’m Eddie.” Eddie gave him a short little wave and a dazzling smile that quickly dropped in shock as Steve pulled him into a crushing hug, his blush returning with full force.

“Thank you, thank you so much. I don’t know what I would’ve-” Steve took a big breath in and loosened his arms from around Eddie’s shoulders. Robin saw his eyes slowly trail over his face before very briefly flicking down to the pink-yellow-blue patch then back up. “Come inside, the two of you. Can I get you anything? Tea? Decaf coffee? A glass of water? Like, literally anything to say thank you.” He asked, ushering the two of them into the apartment.

Steve caught Robin’s eye behind Eddie’s back and mouthed ‘oh my god he’s fucking gorgeous!’

Robin snorted and thought to herself ‘sworn off men, my ass.’

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bokunoheros · 7 months ago

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ཐིཋྀ KINKTOBER - day 23 corruption : tomura shigaraki

warnings : DARK CONTENT, afab reader, non-con, mention of the word r*pe, somnophilia, no quirks, reader and shigs are co-workers at a boring 9-5 job, gagging, kind of bondage?, stockholm syndrome?, this shit is sick and twisted btw

word count : 880

🐙 note : i’d let him rape me sorry yall im so normal about him

tomura shigaraki was an interesting character; he was never really on time to work and he always performed sloppily at his job. to be honest you weren’t quite sure how he wasn’t fired, perhaps it was because your manager was his adoptive father. despite that, it was obvious the poor man had a crush on you, he wasn’t exactly good at hiding it. he’d often stare at you as you passed by or he’d linger by your desk more so than others, chatting you up about nothing in particular. his presence was always overwhelming, as though he was dangerous and not to be trusted, something about him simply made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. if someone told you what he would do to you, well you wouldn’t really be shocked but you should’ve seen what was coming, you should’ve been more careful, you should’ve taken precautions to prevent what happened, but sadly, you didn’t realize until it was too late.

it started off subtle, little things you would notice; like how your bedroom door was always open even though you swear you closed it, or finding your underwear laying around your house after it had gone missing. however, tomura’s admiration for you grew, so much so that he couldn’t stop himself from making advances on you behind the scenes. he’d find himself breaking into your apartment while you slept or were out running errands. doing nothing but being in your home for hours was enough to satisfy him. like a total creep he’d just pretend he lived there, he’d sit on the couch and watch TV or drink some water from your fridge, even sometimes when he was feeling brave he’d sit beside your bed and watch you sleep. often in times like those he would let his mind wander, wander to places about your intimate life. he’d wonder to himself if you were a virgin, if you like taking his cock like a pillow princess, if you were good at sucking dick. every once and a while, he’d even masturbate to your sleeping body, lying there helpless and peacefully.

but for tomura, today was a very special day; today was the day he decided he would make a real move on you. he’d finally work up the courage to try and advance to the next stage with you. it was a typical day for the both of you, work was slow and there was too much typing to be done on your computers. as per usual, shigaraki would wait by your desk in the morning to greet you and would ask you every question under the sun about the presentation you were working on. it was a long and grueling day, once you got home you shoved your shoes off, threw your briefcase down, and flopped on the couch with a heavy sigh. you ended up falling asleep without realizing it, being too exhausted from the day to bother showering or taking your makeup off.

you don’t know what woke you, if it was the sharp sting in your lower abdomen or the strong grip on your waist. you awake to find shigaraki lingering over you, a sadistic and creepy smile on his face. you almost screamed but couldn’t when you realized your mouth was stuffed full of your own panties. tomura was inside you, thrusting in and out at an animalistic pace. you tried to squirm out of his hold but couldn’t when you noticed his other hand had yours held tightly above your head.

you closed your eyes and squeezed, hoping, praying that this was just some sick joke and that this wasn’t happening to you. you wished that it couldn’t be true, that tomura shigaraki didn’t just break into your house to rape you as you slept. the pain was unbearable, the way he pushed himself into you left an ache between your thighs, his drool leaking onto your tits that were pulled out of your blouse.

“you’re so wet for me, pretty. you love how i fuck you right? doesn’t it feel good?”

he was taunting you, the sick bastard broke into your home and violated you and now he had the nerve to ask if you were enjoying it?

“please—please let me go, it hurts, it hurts!”

your screams were muffled by the gag in your mouth, all you could do was wiggle in his grasp and stare up at his enveloping gaze. his ruby eyes stared into your soul, you couldn’t look away despite the way they burned into your being.

yet somehow, against all logic, it started to feel… almost… good? the feeling was painful but almost pleasurable and suddenly shigaraki’s twisted evil smile turned you on, you found yourself smiling back at him with the same disgusting demeanor. your screams of pain turned into moans and whimpers, you found yourself squirming more because of how good it felt then the pain of it all. tears welled up in your eyes, from the awful situation? because it felt amazing? because the man you knew as nothing more than a coworker was invading your entire being? you had no idea but the tears spilled over and tomura licked them away.

“don’t be sad baby, just enjoy it.”

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maybanksbaby · 6 months ago

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summary: the unbelievable has happened, the pogues had rafe powerless and locked down. and some take advantage of it more than others....

warnings: season 4, part 2 spoilers! nothing more i think

⋆౨ৎ ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The cold, dimly lit storage room on the ship was a prison, its walls closing in on Rafe with each rocking motion as the waves tossed the boat. Bound and bruised on the hard metal floor, he couldn’t move beyond a few inches at a time, and each shift sent sharp pain through his wrists, where the rope bit into his skin. His left eye throbbed with a deep bruise, courtesy of JJ’s punch, making it almost painful to see straight. He was seething, helpless and furious, but his anger was the only thing keeping him steady as the floor swayed under him.

Then, suddenly, the door creaked open. Rafe’s gaze snapped up, his scowl fierce and unyielding—until his eyes landed on you. You slipped inside with a plate of food balanced in your hand, the outline of your figure backlit by the light outside, casting a shadow that made his pulse quicken. There was something in your expression—a dangerous, amused glint—that told him you weren’t here for a quiet little peace offering. You were here to enjoy every second of his predicament.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just closed the door behind you and leaned casually against the wall, letting him feel the intensity of your gaze on him. Rafe hated it. Hated the way you were looking down at him, barely hiding the smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. It made him feel…vulnerable. Weak. And the fact that he couldn’t just shove you away or do anything about it gnawed at him like a raw wound.

“Rafe,” you said finally, your voice low and almost syrupy with that taunting sweetness he’d come to know all too well. “How’s the floor? Comfortable enough?”

“Go to hell,” he growled, his voice rough, cutting through the stale air. His bound hands flexed against the rope, the fibers digging into his wrists as he fought against his own helplessness. The last thing he wanted was to be seen like this—especially by you.

You tilted your head, seemingly unaffected by his anger. Instead, you just walked further in, placing the plate on a crate, just out of his reach. He could smell the food—warm bread, some kind of seafood. His stomach twisted, betraying him with a growl. A knowing smile flickered across your face as you heard it, and Rafe’s jaw tightened.

“Oh, I thought you might be hungry,” you said innocently, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “But I wasn’t sure if you’d earned this meal yet. After all…you haven’t exactly been on your best behavior.”

Rafe glared at you, his blue eyes smoldering with frustration as you leaned against the crate, studying him. He hated this—hated being tied up and forced to look up at you, unable to do a damn thing to stop the smug look on your face. His jaw clenched tighter, his muscles taut with anger, but the ropes binding him were unforgiving, and every slight movement only reminded him of how powerless he was.

“Do you get some sort of sick pleasure out of this?” he muttered, his voice filled with venom, though the anger in his words was tinged with something else. Something darker and more desperate.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s sick pleasure,” you replied, taking a slow step closer to him. “But it is nice seeing you…like this.”

Your words lingered in the air, taunting him, filling the silence between you with a tension that felt almost unbearable. You were so close now that he could see every detail of your expression, from the slight curve of your lips to the glint of mischief in your eyes. And as much as he wanted to look away, he couldn’t. Your presence was suffocating, maddening—and he was starting to feel something he hadn’t expected. Something he couldn’t quite define.

Rafe tried to shift away, but the ropes held him firmly in place, and every movement only served to deepen the ache in his bruised face. “You think this is funny?” he bit out, his voice shaking with barely restrained rage. “You think this makes you…better than me?”

“Oh, I know it does,” you said, your voice smooth as silk, unruffled by his anger. You leaned down, your face drawing closer to his, until he could feel the warmth of your breath brushing against his skin. “I think you’re cute when you’re all tied up and frustrated. You really don’t like being in this position, do you?”

His breath hitched, and he cursed himself for the slip. He knew you could see the frustration in his eyes, the raw, unfiltered rage simmering just beneath the surface, mixed with something he was fighting hard to keep at bay. You were enjoying every second of this, and he could tell that you knew exactly how much it was getting to him.

Your fingers lifted to his cheek, tracing lightly over the bruise that was forming around his eye. He flinched, the pain sharp and immediate, but he refused to let himself show weakness. Not to you. He held his glare, but his heart was pounding now, a steady, relentless beat that matched the rhythm of the ship’s swaying.

“What’s wrong, Rafe?” you whispered, your voice soft but laced with mocking. “Does it hurt?”

He wanted to tell you to go to hell, to spit some cutting retort that would put you back in your place. But as you leaned in, closer than before, he found himself frozen. His lips parted, as if to say something, but no words came out. You were too close, your presence too overwhelming, and suddenly, he was acutely aware of how trapped he really was.

Without warning, you closed the distance, pressing your lips against his in a slow, deliberate kiss that was nothing like he expected. It wasn’t soft or gentle; it was firm, taunting, filled with a confidence that left him reeling. Rafe’s body tensed, every muscle taut as you kissed him, the ropes binding his hands the only thing keeping him from reaching up to pull you closer—or push you away. He wasn’t sure which he wanted more.

The kiss deepened, your lips moving against his with a sensual intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. He tried to lean in, desperate for more, but the ropes held him in place, the tension in his body building to a fever pitch. His chest heaved with each ragged breath, his heart pounding harder with every second that passed.

Just as he started to lose himself in the kiss, just as he was beginning to forget his frustration, you pulled back. His eyes shot open, and he stared at you, his gaze filled with a mixture of anger, desperation, and something he couldn’t quite name. His lips parted, as if to say something, but you only smiled, a slow, wicked smile that told him you knew exactly what you were doing.

“What?” he muttered, his voice low, rough, as he struggled to regain his composure. “You’re just going to…leave?”

Your smile widened, and you leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. “Maybe next time, Rafe, you’ll remember that you’re not the one in control here,” you whispered, your voice a soft, dangerous murmur. “And until then…try not to miss me too much.”

With that, you straightened, stepping back and moving toward the door. Rafe’s eyes followed you, a dark intensity in his gaze as he watched you reach for the handle. His whole body was tense, every muscle coiled with frustration and unfulfilled desire, and he wanted nothing more than to tear through those ropes, to demand that you finish what you’d started.

But you didn��t give him the satisfaction. You just looked over your shoulder one last time, your smile full of mischief. “Enjoy the food, Rafe,” you said, your tone light, almost sweet. “I’m sure you’ll figure out how to eat it. Eventually.”

And then you were gone, the door clicking shut behind you, leaving him alone in the silence, the taste of your kiss lingering on his lips and the ache in his chest sharper than any pain the ropes could cause. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands still bound, his mind racing as he tried to process what had just happened.

The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but there was something else now—something dark and undeniable, something that only made the frustration burn hotter. He didn’t know how long he’d be stuck here, but one thing was certain: when he got out, he would find you.

#⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ maybanksbaby .ᐟ #outer banks #obx #drew starkey #obx rafe cameron #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #drew starkey prompt #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron outer banks

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bachiras-toaster · 1 year ago

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bachira loves his girlfriend : ̗̀➛

MEGURU BACHIRA x f!reader

content. like one suggestive comment

Even when away from you during his time at Blue Lock, Bachira can’t help but drone on and on about you. Since he had first entered the building, he would talk people’s ears off about you and would yap to anybody who would listen. It didn’t matter if it was to people he considered his friends or people he had just met; if he wasn’t sleeping, he was talking about his lovely girlfriend.

When at lunch, he’d pick at his food with a deep frown, sighing heavily as he prodded at the sloppy meal with his fork, only to drag it up to his saddened gaze.

“If my girlfriend was with me, she would never let me eat this. She always makes the best meals for me!”

His comments would always cause the rest of the people at the table to twitch their eyes as they wondered when enough was going to be enough for him. They’d all side-eye begrudgingly as Bachira forced himself to chew at the food that wasn’t made with the kind of love you made food.

And even at times he was supposed to be serious, he couldn’t help but casually let slip his thoughts of you into his words. The last time he was on the field, he had a hungry look in his eyes as his gaze chased the ball, flashing an inhumane glare towards his opponent with a sick and twisted smile.

“Don’t hog the ball, alright? Throw me a bone and let me score a goal. I wanna win points for a day pass to visit my girlfriend!~”

And even when making it back to the locker room, his words did not cease.

“Ugh, so close!” Bachira stepped into the room stretching. A disappointed look was plastered onto his face upon realising that he hadn’t gotten any goals that match. “We won, but I didn’t get to score a single goal. No points for me… Man, I’m so close to getting enough points to be able to trade it in for a day pass!” He frowned as he turned towards his locker. “I was really hoping that this weekend would be the time I would finally get to see her!—“

“Oh, shut up about that stupid girlfriend of yours!” Raichi’s voice snapped as he suddenly appeared in front of Bachira to slam his locker shut. “It’s always this and that about her! When are you going to take a hint that no one cares?!”

Bachira went silent for a moment, and his eyes widened— Though it was unsure of whether this was due to confusion or rage.

“…What did you just call my girlfriend?—“

“Get a grip! You can’t be talking about her all the time! We get it! You wanna see her! I’ve never heard you say a single sentence without the word ‘girlfriend’ in it!” Raichi yelled, however it only caused Bachira to give him a seemingly innocent expression.

“…If she was your girlfriend, you’d wanna talk about her all the time too.” He beamed with a childish smile, before allowing it to form into a darkened grin. “Be glad wanting to see her is the only thing I’m talking about.” He quickly leaned up, causing Raichi to back away a little when he saw how close his eerie smile was getting to him. Bachira faced his palms towards his chest and made a squeezing motion as his expression became more unhinged. “After all, there’s more that I miss about her than her food and company, you know. But you don’t wanna hear about that, do you?”

“O-Obviously not…” His muttered, face flushing as he looked away.

“Exactly!” Bachira smiled, backing away again, although still maintaining that creepy look in his eyes. “So next game, pass the ball to me when you can.”

#blue lock x reader #blue lock #bachira meguru x reader #bachira meguru #blue lock meguru bachira #meguru smut #bachira x reader #bllk bachira #blue lock bachira #bachira x you #bachira x y/n #bachira fluff

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wherewritersgotodie-blog · 7 months ago

Text

Thousand Yard Stare — Kit Walker x reader

A battleweary soldier and a clairvoyant girl who is a little too curious.

warnings: piv, unprotected sex, sadism if you squint, war, psychopathy idk, ptsd

AU in which Kit Walker was sent to war and was traumatized, which is why more people don’t believe that he in fact wasn’t Bloody Face. Alma, nor the aliens, are mentioned, however this version of Kit is still not guilty, even as it is not clearly stated.

I do not specify said war below, but the timeline aligns with the Vietnam War. To clarify, this is entirely fictional and not indicative of my views on experiences of people who’ve served.

This AU takes place in the late 60s. Kit Walker is in his late 20s/early 30s, unspecified.

Deinstitutionalization (the closing of many psychiatric hospitals) began in the late 1960s in Europe then in the U.S.A. shortly thereafter. In this timeline, Kit is admitted after Briarcliff is sold to the state.

Take everything I write as pure work of fiction and not indicative of my beliefs on any life experience of real people. This is fantasy.

Dead dove do not eat.

Happy reading.

You’re the first truly beautiful woman he’s seen since being overseas.

Sure, he saw a few pretty girls out on the town before he was locked up in Briarcliff, but none so exquisite as you.

He couldn’t stop staring.

The way your body pressed against the gray romper you wore, which seemed as though it was a bit small for you. He deduced that a male staff had likely administered your clothing in the smallest sizes so they would fit the way they did.

He wondered if you felt uncomfortable in them, if you knew how easy it was to guess exactly what was underneath. That alone could get him off: watching you adjust yourself as you stood up, look down and pull on the fabric, hoping for it to offer you some privacy from the rest of the patients and staff— to no avail, of course.

He usually sat in corners, staring into the room or sometimes out the window. That was, until you showed up.

He wondered when you’d notice his constant gaze. You’d been here about a week, and not yet had you even made eye contact with him.

He sort of liked that, how unaware you were. Like easy prey.

Something has flipped in his brain, something sick and scarred.

All that emptiness, that endless void in the pit of his stomach was now filled— rather, overflowing— with lust, vengeful and unforgiving. Every minute he was out of bed he spent watching your every move. Perverse, twisted images of the violating things he would do to you were he ever to get his hands on you rushed his mind as he watched your often bare legs as you walked and the teasing silhouette of your waist and chest underneath your clothes. He wanted to make you feel dirty. He wanted you to be covered with his filth, just as he was.

He wasn’t always like this. Before the war, he was actually quite the gentlemen. Sure, he’d had quite a few girlfriends, but he was kind to all of them. He brought them flowers, bought their milkshakes, kissed their foreheads and gently whispered in their ears as he made love to them.

That version of him died right alongside the people he killed in the jungle— with guns, with his bare hands. That version of him died with his brothers in arms, of whom he helplessly watched bleed out just beside him on the battlefield. The light left his eyes just as it did in theirs.

The faces of those girls were simply shadows now; that version of himself the darkness.

He couldn’t remember if any of them were as beautiful as you. He doubted it.

You certainly weren't an alert person. You entered every room without scanning either direction, as if you'd never been in danger a day in your life. He admired that naivety— revered it, even. He could stare from the minute you entered the common area until you left without meeting your eyes once.

He stared at your hair often— the way you'd tuck it behind your ears as you scribbled in your notebook with your short pencil, which was cut to just about an inch long so you couldn’t hurt yourself or any of the other patients with it.

Most patients didn’t get the privilege of even regulation writing tools or reading books other than the Bible. He wondered what you had said– or done– to get such privilege, or if it was your pretty face that was just able to melt a man’s resolve enough to give you whatever you wanted. Other patients had rebuked you for your unfair advantage over them, but it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t help that everything about you made men curious about how your pussy felt.

He loved your legs, too. On days your legs were uncovered, he'd watch as your thighs rubbed together, your knees pressed to your chest. He stared as the fabric rode up your leg, teasing the soft skin of your perky ass. Your skin was smooth, your face soft and cherub-like. If he believed there was a God, he would believe that you were made to save him from his emptiness.

It wasn't until halfway through the second week that he finally got your attention.

You were in the common room, completing your daily mundane routine of reading and drawing. You had hardly introduced yourself to anyone, as you were trying to keep your head down and not become one with the wildness of Briarcliff. You thought, maybe, if you didn't interact with anyone, if you played the game right with the psychiatrists, if you reflected their language and healing back to them just right, maybe you had a shot at going home.

Today, though, you were desperate for some company. You craved conversation where you weren't screamed at or spoken to like a child or a criminal. Once you were finished sketching a vase of flowers– from memory, as you hadn't seen a flower since your admission to Briarcliff– you looked up from the page and glanced around the room. You began to fear that there was no one at Briarcliff who would at all understand you. No one seemed to be so lucid as you were, let alone able to hold a substantial conversation.

Just as you were about to return to your sketches, more frustrated with the state of things than before, your gaze instinctively flickered in the direction of a pair of brown eyes, watching you with a dead stare.

You recognized them– they were the eyes from a dream you'd had a few weeks prior. You hadn't slept for days after.

You couldn't see much through the smoke. It was enough to drown in. You felt your breathing get shallow and labored, but it didn't seem to be suffocating you. Your vision stayed steady.

After a few moments of directionless wandering through the endless gray swirling in the air, a shadow emerged from the distance with a heavy stride. You first identified it as a man. As he marched forward through the smoke, which was slowly dissipating, you saw the outline of heavy gear on his belt and a machine gun swung over his shoulder.

You went to move in the opposite direction of him, but you were froze in place.

Your heart pounded as he halted just a few feet from you. You eyes flickered to the all but fluorescent green forest behind him, realizing then that the smoke had cleared entirely.

You looked back at the man, scanning him from his dirt-covered boots, to his belt of bullets, heavy-duty camouflage jacket, black helmet, cloth that covered his face up to just above his nose, and, finally his eyes.

Deep brown, lacking definition, you watched as they traveled up from your hips, resting on your waist, then your chest, landing to gaze directly into yours. Your breath hitched.

There was an unmistakable blankness in them. They'd look exhausted, mournful, angry, maybe, if it wasn't for the endless black, that slack expression– emptiness.

You felt it to your core, like all the life had been sucked right from you, too. Suddenly, your limbs felt so heavy and your eyes were burning and the smoke was returning to the scene. The empty eyes ran up and down your figure once more, before the man turned his back to you.

You woke up in a cold sweat.

Those eyes, they were the same. Even from across the room, you could see how shallow they were—like all emotion, all humanity, had been ripped from behind them.

You could swear there was a smirk playing on the right corner of his mouth, but the shadows cast on his face from the window beside him made it hard to tell. Like a killer Mona Lisa.

He allowed his eyes to wander all across your body in the lewdest ways possible, full of lust that circled the air.

You felt it deep in your chest now. The emptiness was almost infectious, and it caused you to panic.

Just like the dream, you were frozen in place, watching those dead eyes.

You weren't sure what to do with yourself, so you offered him a small, twitching smile and a raised hand. Your chest, though, was heaving, and gave away your fear. Then, you were certain he was smirking.

When you finally pulled your eyes away from him, you gathered your things and rushed back to your room.

That night, his thoughts of you were so perverse they were violent. He was sick with his obsession with you.

He laid awake, facing the ceiling, fisting his cock, imaging you riding him, your hair a mess all around your bare shoulders, your hips rolling against him. As he got closer to release, his thoughts became more twisted. He imagined you beneath him, his hand wrapped around your throat as he forced himself into you, tears gathering in your round eyes as you stared into his. They'd be filled with fear, he was sure.

In the same hour, you dreamt of those eyes again, but this time, they were on top of you, and you could see a glimmering silver in the lower rim of your vision.

When you saw him in the kitchen the next day, you resolved to approach him, whether it was a good idea or not.

You walked up behind him, while he was facing the opposite direction, and tapped him on his shoulder. He turned around slowly, and when he met your eyes, that smirk returned to his face. His eyes were at half-mast again, and they scanned you shamelessly once more.

"Hi," he said, a toothpick in his mouth. His voice sounded far-off, like it a was ringing from a distant land– it was almost ghostly.

"Hi," you said, trying to shake that unsettling familiar feeling his eyes gave you. "I'm (Y/N)."

"I'm Kit. Kit Walker," he said, checking your hips once again.

"I know," you say, "Bloody Face."

"Nnn," he hummed, shaking his head, "I killed a lot of people," he said, "But those women back home? I didn't touch any of 'em."

"I know," you say, not breaking eye contact, as hard as it was. He could feel your discomfort. He reveled in it. "Thank you for your service."

That sent chills down his spine. The images flooded back for just a moment— the death, the carnage, the thrill. "You're welcome, sugar," he drawled. It felt oddly personal, like he really had been fighting for you.

You asked him a few questions about the war, to which he replied with short, vague answers. Your curiosity about the man whose eyes you had predicted only grew with his mystery.

Finally, after he’d grown tired of dodging your morbid intrigue, he settled on asking, “So how’d you end up here?”

You told him your sordid tale. How you had been able to predict future events all your life. You rarely told anyone about it.

You saw in a dream a vision of a girl, a girl you knew, being brutally murdered out on the edge of town. You wrestled with it for days, then finally resolved to telling her. She relayed your strange omen back to your family, who called you crazy for even suggesting such a thing could happen. So, when the girl in fact died, her family was quick to point fingers at you. As it was, her father was a prosecutor himself, and before you knew it, you were stuck in Briarcliff for a murder you hadn’t committed.

He simply nodded. He had no stake in the matter. He of all people knew that killing was situational— anyone could do it if they were given a good enough reason. Even pretty girls.

“So, how are you managing?” you ask, voice soaked in concern. You then push yourself onto the counter with your palms, straightening your arms and hoisting yourself up. You adjust yourself to sit on the edge of the counter. You don’t bother to pull the fabric of your dress down, which makes the full length of your thigh up to just about two inches below your hips visible to Kit.

He doesn’t bother answering your question, his gaze now flickering from your legs to your face rapidly.

There’s something penetrating that emptiness in his eyes, even stronger than the lust that’s been coming to a boil.

Hunger. Starvation.

You can feel it radiating off him— a need to fill that void now becoming a ravenous beast threatening to pounce.

Now you understood.

He could hardly breathe. So close to you, able to feel your body heat, able to reach out and touch your pussy, your ass, to see the outline of your nipples through the fabric covering your chest. They were hard, he could tell.

After the things he’s seen and done, after the places he’s been, offending you is the last of his worries. “I haven’t been this close to a beautiful woman since before I left the states.” He places a hand on your thigh.

“Oh,” you gasp instinctively.

“God, your skin is warm,” he practically groans, his head dropping to lean on your shoulder. Your muscles tense at the familiar action from the unfamiliar body. He runs his palm up and down your thigh, flat against your skin.

It’s like you already belong to him, he’s feeling around your thighs, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to milk every second of contact between your skin and his. He’s groaning into your neck, now placing each of his hands on the opposite sides of your thighs, feeling up to the soft skin of your ass and down to your knees.

He was worshipping you.

When you finally accepted him, you placed a hand on the back of his neck. In response, he press his hips against the counter and groaned into your collarbone as if you’d just put his whole dick in your mouth.

He was starved. Weary and uncaring, and you were feeding him and healing him with the warmth of your girlish fingertips and Playboy legs.

“I wanna touch your pussy so bad, sugar,” he mumbles into your neck.

What’s a girl to do? A handsome man who’s been overseas, who has been forced to do unimaginable things simply because his birthday was picked on the television, a man who bravely served his country and is now paying for it with his freedom, asking to touch you?

“Okay,” you hummed.

He pushed his hand into your cotton underwear, pressing his fingers to your wetness. He couldn’t resist then. He pushed his two fingers into you, earning a yelp, then, with his other hand, wrapped his fingers in your hair and pulled down— hard— causing you to whine again. He gripped harder, and your scalp burned.

“You like that?” he asked.

“No,” you mumbled.

“No?” he responded. Your neck was forced back as far as it could go, which added to the pain of his assault on your soft locks. It didn’t help, too, that he was pushing his fingers into you, and it was making you ache powerfully.

“Uh-uh,” you whined.

You heard a door close down the hall. You looked up at him in fear, and for a moment, you almost thought he was going to keep you in this compromising position, however, he pulled his fingers out of you slowly and stepped away from you just as the staff came to check the room. You jumped onto the floor, and you both put on your best business-as-usual act. Just as more patients entered the kitchen, he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “I’ll come find you.”

I’ll come find you.

The words replayed in your mind over and over.

“I’ll come find you.” I know where you are. You can’t escape me. You’re in it now.

That evening, during dinner, he didn’t even bother to look up at you. He was going to have you.

That night, in the dark of your small, locked room, you waited. In just a cotton t-shirt and white panties, you waited, back against the wall behind your bed, knees pulled in. You fiddled with your fingertips, internally criticized your legs. You looked like you were expecting someone.

The light from the window poured into your room. Moonlight and street lamps made a twilight of your hour before midnight.

Was he coming? Were you disappointed? Was he caught on the way here? Is it normal to be so worried about him? Were you really crazy?

Then came the keys jingling. Then the door opening. Then, Kit.

He took a moment to take the vision of you in, leaning his head on the door. “I didn’t think you’d wait up for me.”

You only smiled in response, which you didn’t really understand. His knees got weak. He closed the door behind him.

He got a good sight of your body, barely clothed, your hair in a braid that had dozens of strands that had fallen out. He thought he could finish right then.

He wanted to hurt you, that he couldn’t deny. But he wanted to be able to have you again. So, he did what any gentleman does: he played you slow.

He climbed onto your bed, kicking his shoes to the floor. He put his hands on your knees, leaning over you, then muttered, “All this for me?”

You stared up at him, wide eyed, nervous. You bit your lip and nodded.

“Yeah. For me,” he cooed.

He went in, starting at your neck, kissing down to the collar of your shirt. His hand traveled to your chest. You weren’t wearing a bra.

He put his thumb against your nipple, rubbing it gently, determined to hear you squeal. He squeezed lightly and you did.

He continued at your neck until his hand reached the stitch of your shirt. He grumbled and pulled it over your head.

He could swear his heart stopped.

On the field, thinking of these moments kept him alive. Civility, femininity, the possibility that a woman might be naked in front of him again.

He went straight for your chest, his mouth attacking your cleavage, your nipples.

You were still leaned up against the wall, but your legs were now parted, knees bent, his body between your thighs.

As he sucked on your nipple, his hand traveling down to your underwear, his fingers flattening against the cloth.

You were wet. His head dropped to your chest. “Fuck,” he whispered. He rubbed over the cloth with the back of his knuckles.

Then, he pushed his hand down your underwear, his fingers running along your slick. “Fuckin’ holy shit.”

You look up at him, a deep blush hitting your face that doesn’t go unnoticed, even in the dark.

“You really want me, don’t you?” he taunts, half shocked, half disturbed by your lack of self preservation, or lack of basic common sense.

You nod. You bite your lip and you nod.

He stares at you, working you with his fingers underneath your underwear, until he, frustrated with the stunt they put on his skills, pulls them down to your knees.

“You don’t… You don’t have to… I wanna take care of you,” you mumble into his shoulder.

“Aw, sugar,” he whispers, biting your neck. You gasp. “Your pussy’s gonna take care of me just fine.”

You groan into his neck. He reaches up and wraps his fingers in your hair and pulls down hard. Your back arches and he latches his mouth onto your nipple. It’s overwhelming, the combination of sensations. That’s when he reaches his hand around and latches it onto your throat and presses onto either side.

When he brings his mouth back up to the crook of your neck, combined with his finger speeding up against you, it’s enough to push you over the edge. You wrap your arms around his neck, attempting to stifle the sounds squeaking from your throat.

After he has let go from your neck, you reach down to undo his belt.

“Eager little lady, huh?”

“Oh, Kit,” you mumbled against his mouth. You attempt to push him on his back, but he doesn’t budge. But when you flutter your eyelashes at him, though, he gives into you.

You swing your leg over him, straddling him. You lower yourself onto him— you couldn’t quite see in the dark, but you can feel that he’s very big.

When your pelvis hits his, he moans. It’s not soft, it isn’t breathy. You can hear his tone of voice, the dryness of his throat. You think maybe the other patients may have heard, too. He latches his hands onto your thighs, hard.

It hurts, bad, especially when he digs his nails in. It’s entirely possible he’s drawing blood, but you can’t see. You squeal, but it’s suppressed.

He doesn’t miss this. He was smart, and even in the dark he could read you like an open book. You were letting him hurt you.

He wasn’t sure if it was pity or a lack of self-protection. Either way, he decided to accept it, even though it actually made him want to be more gentle.

He always took pity on the people he killed who didn’t fight. You were like that. Like a deer who doesn’t know to be afraid.

He retracts his nails from your skin, resting them flat on your hips. He pushes you back and forth, very gentle.

He let out a string of, “Fuckyou’retight, fuckyou’rewet, fuck, I can hear it, Isthisallforme? You’redrippingalloverme,baby,” to which you replied with incoherent moans as your ability to stay upright become more and more difficult.

As he started to roll himself up into you, you were grabbing at his thighs trying to hold yourself up.

Out of pity, he propped himself up on his hands, wrapping his arm around your waist. The heat from his body drove you over the edge again. You moan into his neck, mumbling his name, and then somewhere in there, “I love you.”

He chuckles at this, but it catches between moans, and he breathes out something like, “You better.” You come again as he does, too. He pulls at the roots of your hair again, arm wrapped tight around your waist. It just then occurs to you that you weren’t using protection.

After you peel yourself off of him, sweat making your skins feel like one, he pulls you into his chest as he melts back into the bed.

“Baby, you are some homecoming,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face.

“Anything for our bravest,” you smile into his chest.

He laughs like he just won the lottery.

#american horror story #evan peters #evan peters ahs #ahs #kit walker #ahs asylum #evan peters x reader #kit walker x reader #ahs kit walker #american horror story asylum #kai anderson ahs #tate langdon

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velvetures · 2 years ago

Note

Hi baby!! I like your writing sm it's amazing 💓💓 If RQs are open I would like to request König stealing from readers dirty panties to use when he's self pleasuring~ she finds out and confronts him and one thing leads to another and next thing you know he's got her thighs locked on the side of his head while she rides his face so he can finally taste what he's been wanting for weeks. Thank you so much I know you'll do great with this req

Do Me?... A Favor

A/N: God, I love this! I had such a great time writing this and might've needed a lil' break halfway through. This trope has a special place in my heart. (I'm mentally unwell) So I hope you enjoy! Forgive me for being so late on this. Summary: König steals your panties and does dirty things with them. You catch him, and... well... you and I both know exactly what happens after that. T/W: !!NS/FW 18+ ONLY!!!, thievery of panties, male masturbation, fem-reader, dirty talk, fantasy mentions, face riding, exhibitionism if you have 20/20 vision, fem-recieving oral, spanking?, prob missed something... I don't proofread, ya'll better know this by now.

GIF and Story Below Cut

Extended missions with KORTAC usually meant that König would be within touching distance of you for days on end. Hearing you talk with his squad and watching you make jokes that got almost every single one of the stone-cold men melting with affection for you. There wasn’t a single one of them that didn’t absolutely adore you; Jump at the chance to help you, offer to take watches, ask to be paired with you, or just try and be the lucky one that got to either sleep with you or next to you. As Colonel, König always had his hands full maintaining order when the girl from the United States sector was sent to help them out.

On a personal level though, König struggled to hide the desperation and pathetically overwhelming feelings of jealousy he had when seeing anyone get that close to you. Having known you the longest, spent the most time alone with you, trusted you with his own mind and vice-versa, the Colonel -problematically- believed he had a bit more of a right to you than any of this men. Perhaps your own behavior towards him didn’t help out much either. So little and gutsy, you always liked teasing him. Tempting him to wrestle and always so confident you’ll win, and toying with his mask; begging so innocently to see the “handsome face” under there.

You’d been like that with him for so long, he couldn’t tell the difference between close friendship and flirting anymore. Blurring lines and also his own ability to control the compulsions to get just a little bit more of you. In any sick or twisted way he might be able to get his hands on. No man could resist your charms and beautiful little face. Especially König, who melted from a towering 6’10 to a weak and desperate boy crawling after you like a lost puppy.

He wasn’t proud of it. Then again, he didn’t care all that much. Especially when he found a way to satisfy his more carnal and disgusting desires for you that couldn’t even be tortured out of him.

In his defense, you’d been the one who started it. Calling out his name when you were in the small bathroom of the safe house and asking him to grab some clothes out of your rucksack, having forgotten to get them yourself. Half dazed knowing you were naked with just a thin, open, door between you had the Colonel making a beeline for your bag and ripping it open to do exactly what you’d asked of him.

Now… if any of his men would’ve asked him if he had a thing for panties, he would’ve very sternly disagreed with the whole idea.

But when he laid eyes on your panties, balled up and stuffed in a little side pocket in white, black, pink, and some cute patterns, the darker side of his mind slipped. Throwing him into an entirely different kind of temptation that he’d never entertained before. He’d hardly been able to deliver your clean clothes to you without incident, and spent the rest of the evening with his brain consumed with fantasies of what you looked like in all those pretty things. Surely your ass looked downright sinful with that material stretching over it and cradling your body closer than he’d ever have the opportunity to. Fuck… even your thighs would be that much more brilliant with the crease made that much more obvious by the hemline of the panties. The images kept flowing long into the night after he should’ve been asleep, his own watch hour ticking closer with each minute.

Struggling with the urge to palm his hard cock and just try to ease some of the pressure. Begging for some type of solution to his weakening self-control. König was up and headed to the bathroom, ready to take care of his painfully throbbing erection before he could even stop to think about how wrong it was to jerk himself off less than fifteen feet away from you and his men. The moment he unzipped his jeans and freed his drooling cock, his mask was shoved up so he could spit in his hand, and stuck his mask between his teeth to try and muffle his own sounds of pleasure.

Thoughts of what you’d look like gasping for breath on top of him, impaling your little body on his cock, spurred König to smear his own spit over his length. Fisting the head and rotating his palm around the tip with a deep rumble in his chest. He wished he could’ve seen you in the shower… soft skin wet and dripping with lathered soap. Rubbing those tiny hands over your body and rinsing away the sweat he’d seen soaking your shirt and running down your neck earlier during your rotation. His hazy vision cut to the shower, looking at it with a mental picture of you taking use of the handheld shower head. Putting it between your plush thighs and watching your tremor.

Only some small and purple sitting in the corner of the floor next to the bathtub froze his movements. Every muscle tensed at the sight of it, and while precum drooled from his swollen head, the Colonel couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The massive man didn’t even need to get off his seat on the toilet to pick up the delicate scrap of material and dangle it in front of his face. Taking into account his interaction with you, he couldn’t believe that your dirty underwear had fallen out of the balled up clothes you’d worn all day.

König’s cock twitched at the disturbed idea of smelling them. His body goading his mind to forgo the moral line of doing such a thing, and just do it. You wouldn’t know… his men would never find out… As long as he put them back in your rucksack before morning, there’d be no reason for anyone to question it. Besides, he was so turned on. And it wasn’t hurting anyone for him to just use a piece of your clothes to help let off some steam…

König ripped his mask off his head and let it drop to the floor next to his boot, and hesitantly lifted your panties up to barely touch he tip of his nose. The silky fabric was so damn feminine… so much like you in many ways. He rubbed them between his fingers, slowly moving his other hand up and down his cock; Nearly teasing himself with the full experience. Denying the satisfaction of experiencing your scent intimately. The otherwise self-composed Colonel couldn’t wait another moment, and buried his nose into your dirty panties with a lustful growl muffled by his hand.

His balls tightened with pure excitement, spitting more clear fluid down his shaft and filling the small bathroom with vulgar sucking sounds of his fingers sliding up and down with more desperation. Your scent was nothing short of a sweet and salty pheromone jolt of a daydream that made his brain go to nothing but static and arcs of electricity. His dick throbbed as his second inhale came as a much deeper and purposeful acceptance of this new and still very taboo action.

“F-fuucckk…” König had to whimper into your panties, his hips twitching up into his own fist.

“S-so fucking good…” Even with the very real risk of someone hearing him moaning, König continued whispering and whining his praise and pleads for you into the crotch of your panties. Going so far as to lose his willpower and reach out his tongue to feel the soft fabric and give his tastebuds one, lingering, taste of your sweet cunt. The tangy and candy-sweet remainder lingering in the threads of your panties utterly ripped König’s orgasm out of him.

His toes curling in his boots, his stomach flexing and his one fist tightening around the base of his shaft as thick and pearly release dripped hotly over veins and the between his balls before dripping in quiet drops onto the floor. The Colonel sat for full minutes, working over himself slowly and hiding his panting breath against your used underwear. He felt so goddamn monstrous for using you like this. Going behind your back and cumming over his fist like an animal in rut. Denying just how good of a release he had wasn’t possible either though. Not only had his most recent solo attempts been miserably unsatisfying, but his most horrific thought after cleaning up his evidence was that he wanted nothing more than to pocket your panties and keep them.

The Colonel blamed his own rotation on watch as the reason behind why he pocketed your panties instead of putting them back in your rucksack.

Two days later, you were still quietly in search of your panties that had apparently disappeared into thin air. You’d turned your bag inside out, went through the bathroom at least five times, and checked every other room of the safe house thinking someone might’ve found them and just tossed them somewhere they believed you’d see them. Searching came up with zero sign of your panties, and you felt like you were going insane. Not that it really mattered if they were gone… You had packed plenty of spares in the case you -for some reason- needed two back-ups for every day you were gone and couldn’t buy more. It was more so just the simple fact that you’d been so unobservant to misplace a pair of bright, purple, fucking panties.

Being surrounded by nothing but men only added to your silent mortification.

“You alright Sergeant?” One of the KORTAC guys paired on your rotation nudged your shoulder with his elbow, drawing your attention back to the -quite serious- task at hand.

“You look a little distracted, everything okay?” The look on his face made you think he was concerned that the cold weather was getting to you.

You shook your head. “M’fine. Just lost something, and I can’t fucking find it anywhere.”

He chuckled, adjusting his rifle against his chest. “Something important?”

“No. Not at all,” You sighed, seeing your breath fog up in front of your view of the forest and the heavy snowfall. “Just can’t figure out where it went and I’ve turned the whole house over.”

The Lieutenant at your side looked back towards the edge of the perimeter and then back to you with a little shrug. “Well, i suppose you could go in early. Get warm and have another look around. You’ve already had more shifts than plenty of the other guys.” He patted you on the back and jerked his head back in the direction of the safe house and outlying buildings.

You couldn’t help but grin under your face mask, eyes squinting to show your appreciation and giving him a quick ‘thanks’ before jogging back through the snow. You passed a few of the other guys out on rounds and either waved or called out a short word or two so as to let them know you’d come in for a few hours. Typically König was the one who dictated the different schedules to ensure no one got left out in the snow too long. Kicking off the frozen slush and snow off your boots, you waddled yourself inside and set out to get warmed up and find the Colonel.

Maybe he’s seen my underwear… You muse a bit mortified, unclipping your heavy overalls and yanking your tac vest over your head. God, it was a thought that made you shiver not just from the cold nipping at the wet cuffs of your winter layers and damp socks.

It wasn’t very secret that you had a very soft spot for König. He was just so damn sweet to you, and might’ve always given you a little bit of preferential treatment when you got sent to KORTAC on collaborating missions. Whether he did it because of his belief that you were a woman -and much smaller- than any of his men, or maybe for a more personal motive, you didn’t know. Really having the courage to bring up the topic was extremely intimidating. Joking around and teasing the massively tall and handsome solider was one thing. Asking him to lay out how he truly felt about you as more than an occasional partner was very different.

By the time you’d changed into some dry and comfortable clothes to hang out in for the rest of the evening, you noticed that the few guys lingering in the living room had left out. Leaving you alone, with the entire couch to yourself and a quiet house that gave leeway for a really good nap right in front of the wood-burning stove blaring heat right at you. Thank god for the KORTAC guys being so nice to you, and making sure that you didn’t have a hell-on-earth experience for your first winter in Russia.

You’d not really even gotten settled on the couch when you heard a somewhat loud thump from down on the other end of the house. Nearly like a head or hand smacking against the wall in one of the little rooms -made bedrooms- once you’d all arrived a little over a week ago. It didn’t happen again, and trying to just ignore whatever fools the guys could be making out of themselves outside to make that sort of noise, you just went ahead and closed your eyes again.

Thump.

Your eyes snapped open and stared at the ceiling, tuning your ears to the sounds emanating from the far end of the house. You waited patiently, and a third heavy and thud met your ears. Immediately you were up and on your feet, standing in the entry to the hallway leading that way, seeing that only one door was halfway shut, and it was König’s room at the very end. Eyebrows furrowed and hands resting on your hips, you stared at the door waiting for some kind of sign as to what exactly was happening. Surely one of the others weren’t setting up some kind of prank for the Colonel to come back to… right?

Oh god… he’d be soo mad. We’d all get ripped new asses if that happened.

And it wouldn’t have been the first time you’d faced König’s wrath for nothing more than someone thinking a harmless prank was acceptable. Even if the Colonel was extremely lenient on you, he wasn’t to be toyed with. He was a hard and cold man when it was called of him, and you really didn’t want to risk being thrown back out in the snow within the next twelve hours. What had your feet moving was another small and muffled sound, almost like a clipped and high-pitched sort of thing. It didn’t settle right, and you’d got to the door and pushed it open just a few more inches to tell whoever was in the Colonel’s room to get the fuck out.

You were the one struck speechless.

Through the small gap in the door and frame, you saw none other than König laying on the too-small cot with his shoulders propped up against the wall, mask rucked up over the bottom half of his face, and a distinct, purple, material pressed against his mouth and nose. The sensation of your heart and stomach jumping into your throat nearly choked you of oxygen. You could hardly drag your eyes away from his massive hand teasing his thick and hard cock. Once again, that thud reverberated through the room and it was nothing more than the erotic sight of him throwing his head back against the drywall with an -almost- silenced moan.

“Jesus Christ…” The whispered words fell from your awestruck mouth before you could stop yourself. Breathless, but damn sure loud enough for the Colonel to hear you and his dark eye to snap right to where you’d been peeking through the doorway. His whole body stiffened, and his hand stopped. Even dropping your dirty panties right into his lap. The purple fabric fluttering down to rest at the base of him.

“Shit!” You gasped, turning right around and hiding your face in your hands.

You could hear fabric shuffling and enough of a panicked movement to realize König planned on at least talking to you. Somehow having the sheer guts to not immediately act like nothing had ever happened. You heart thumped right at the back of your throat for what felt like and eternity before you heard the door behind your creak open and the distinct pattern of labored breathing. You jumped when his massive hand rested on your shoulder, nudging you to turn around.

“W-we… need to talk,” He mutters downright guilty. “About, what you just - just saw.” Swallowing the massive wave of conflicting feelings welling up in your mind, stomach, and in your pussy, you nod your head and wait until your hear König walk back into the bedroom before turning around and walking through the door to face him.

Right away your eyes fall down to his belt and take note of the -very large and still very hard- outline of his erection straining against his belt and the zipper of his jeans. Your face flushed bright red, realizing he’d pinned his cock beneath the leather strap around his waist to keep it as under control as possible. Before you could draw your eyes away, one of his hands falls down to shield his arousal, and you hear him clear his throat nervously. It draws your attention back up to his re-masked face. Noticing his eye darting anywhere but your eyes and the rise and fall of his wide shoulders. Comparing reactions, it seems that the Colonel is far more effected than you are.

Maybe you weren’t as… upset as you should be.

“I must apologize for my… disturbing behavior,” He blurts out with a raspy tone, visually shrinking a bit. “I… can’t begin to…” Trailing off, you watch him rub at the back of his neck, in thought and obviously tense.

“I just couldn’t help but - you’re just so…”

Eyebrows furrowed and your interest piqued, you take a step closer; Seeing your used panties tucked under his pillow and a small little glimpse of purple peeking out. Screams in the back of your mind make the very dangerous assumption that he’s still somewhat possessive over the item. It makes the growing wetness in your panties more significant, forcing your to flex your thighs together.

“I’m so, what?” You press softly, your head tilting up at him with the shortening gap between you.

The Colonel audibly swallows, “So… pretty.” You’ve never heard such a whimpering and weak sound from him. Almost like it’s a desperate thought he couldn’t help but admit to you. It stokes a fire inside your belly, and you’re very quick to push just a little more.

“So you stole dirty panties?” A low, gravelly whine escapes from under his mask as shakes his head.

“They were on the floor… And I was so frustrated, I didn’t mean for you find out. I just - just needed to know…” His voice stiffens, but he’s still struggling to defend his actions, and not totally own up to the fact that you’d caught him using your scent to get himself off.

“How many times have you used them, Colonel?” Your voice lowers a little, pussy clenching in anticipation of his answer; Fluttering wet walls that silently beg for more stimulation than the pressure your thighs can provide.

König squirms where he stands, sighing heavily. “Six. Six times… Fuck, I’m so sorry.” His head drops in guilt that actually squeezes your chest with sympathy. He’d always held the biggest piece of your heart, and seeing him so hard on himself for being -not only human- but having been no more desiring for you than you’d been for him… you just couldn’t stand letting him do this anymore.

“Well that just won’t do, will it?” You’re pulling your sweatshirt over your head and dropping it on the floor before König can look up and register what you’re doing. Halfway through pushing your pants down your thighs, you hear a sharp gasp and a little grunt of a sound.

“What are you doing?” His voice has flattened, and you peek up to see his wide eyes roaming all over your exposed skin. You just smile, standing there in a soft bralette and some panties and shrug like this wasn’t making your knees quake under your weight.

“I’m gonna give you fresh pair.” You lick your lips nervously, slipping your fingers under the waistband and begin to tug them down.

“Wait!” He almost shouts, taking a couple steps closer to you and grabbing your wrists to keep you from moving. “F-fuck… just, hold on a second.” He’s panting heavily, staring at you with dilated eyes.

For a long moment, you just stand there feeling his hot skin burning against your own. Silently staring at each other like trying to read the other’s thoughts without attempting to just do it the easy way and ask. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and that all-too-comforting scent of sandalwood lingering on his body from some kind of cologne or deodorant you’d never quite seen him apply. You’re about to ask him a question when you feel his fingers trailing down your inner wrists towards your hips, and finally resting on the waistband of your panties. Heavy hands being much more gentle than you’d ever experienced, raising chills on your massive expanse of bared skin.

“Can I…?”

His eyes dart between his hands and your eyes with such an innocent look that you’re nodding your head before you actually think it through. Implicit trust had always made you and the Colonel a good pair on the field. Never pausing to think there might be a day like today were you’d test just how good things cold be in the bedroom. He’s down on one knee and nearly eye-level with you, fingers rubbing the fabric withholding the ultimate of your intimate regions… His face so close that it’s brushing against you stomach. Steadying yourself, you grab ahold of his shoulder; Needing some kind of grounding since you can’t really feel your bare feet on the freezing cold floor.

Squeezing the meat of your hips, the Colonel hisses.

“Always thought you were the tiniest thing… Wanted to know how someone so small could be so deadly,” His teasing evolved into slowly pulling at your underwear. Dragging them over the swell of your ass and leaving them there for a moment.

“Lucky me, knowing better than anyone how you can kill a man so slowly.”

He’s slow but purposeful in pulling your panties down your legs, his head following them instead of taking the first look at your bared skin. Reverently, he picks up your bare feet one-by-one and helps you out of the material, immediately rubbing the fabric between his long fingers. Your stomach drops when you realize that he’s purposefully feeling the crotch. Giving away the sheer arousal you’d collected there in mere minutes. It should’ve bothered you, made embarrassment floor your system. Only it just proved to make your legs feel weak under you. Almost visually shaking when the Colonel slid your panties under the hem of his hood.

“Want to tase what I do to you,” He murmured, giving you the exact answer of how pressed you were to find out what was happening under that bleached t-shirt of a shield.

“Need you to watch me…” Your cunt clenched hearing him sound so broken.

Nodding dumbly, your gaze never left König’s eyes. Seeing his heavy lids close, just to open back up drunkenly with a low groan that nearly penetrated your very bones. Wet sucking sounds emanating from under the mask, his tongue lapping at your soaked gusset and leaving no question as to just how fucking hungry he was for it. Spit-covered cotton sucked dry by one of the most powerful and intimidating men on the face of the planet; Down on a knee in front of you and literally lost to your taste. Lips parted and awestruck, you tried to force some words out.

“You look so hot like that, sir.” Breathless, it’s clear just how much it’s effecting you too.

Using his title has his eyes snapping up to you. Dark and dilated pupils, wide shoulders rising and falling quickly, and one hand still circled around your ankle to prevent your -impossible- escape from him. The Colonel is off his knee and has you lifted off the ground with only one arm before you can blink. Spinning you around and dropping you down on his cot; His massive body looming over yours. Downright terrifying save for the sight of your pink underwear hanging limply in his fist. That intimidating shadow of his erection -somehow- bigger than before, twitches against his belt. You’re driving him wild sitting so innocently with your thighs clenched together on his bed. Looking like you hadn’t the slightest idea just how badly he wanted to utterly destroy you right there and now.

“Sergeant?” Maintaining his composure takes every last fiber of concentration. Seeing your head tilt to the side in silent question and anticipation nearly doubles the weight of his balls.

“You must be so needy. Waiting so patiently for someone to give you satisfaction,” He steps closer, hips less than a foot away from you. Tempting your baser instincts to lean forward and swipe your tongue over a wet spot resting just over the tip of his cock.

“Your sweet cunt tastes like she’s been neglected… Have you been neglected Sergeant?” Almost mocking, you can’t begin to challenge him. Right away your nodding your head, flexing your thighs and crossing your ankles to attempt some small relief of pressure.

“König - I -” You’re fumbling for the right words when he chuckles lowly, bending just far enough to place his palms on across your thighs and squeeze just a little.

Meeting your forehead with his own, you’re right back to where you always felt with him. Safe and like he somehow understood everything about you without ever asking. Unique to König, he could always tell when something was wrong or you just weren’t quite on your game for some reason or another. You always thought it’s what made you such a good pair. And if you had to admit it, you’d have thought you knew just about everything about him too; But now after this, there’s a question lingering if all of his sweetness was just out of friendship, or something much more significant swirling around behind that shroud of a mask. Either way, you wanted to find out more. Get closer and explore the Colonel in a way you’d never believed possible.

“If you want this… me,” Just above a mere whisper, he paused to look between the small gap withholding you from him. “I need you to say so, meine perle.” Hearing your longstanding pet name in this connotation felt so very different, yet so much more impactful than on just your feeling of standard closeness. Giving you the suspicion that König hadn’t just thought it was a simple throwaway nickname.

“Please, please. I want you.” Your answer feels confident. Specifically choosing to ask for him, and him alone.

König met your lips with heavy intention. Cradling your neck with one hand and leaning your weight back against the bed; All the while crawling overtop of you. You could barely taste your own tangy arousal on his tongue, fighting for the chance to take the other fully. While König did try to resist your little bites at his bottom lip and your fingers prying at his shirt, it didn’t take long for him to finally happily give up. Rolling onto his back and pulling you to straddle him. Helping you along with the subtle movement of your bare cunt against his clothed cock and the ridges of his zipper.

“Mm,” He pulled away from you far too soon, admiring you sitting atop him so delicately. Pink cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, and a look in your eyes that made his whole body truly feel desired ****************and appreciated. Maybe even loved.

“Come here, meine perle. Let me give you everything you want.” Pulling your head down to meet his lips one last time, you sighed.

Sinking against him with so many fuzzy feelings of happiness and surreal recognitions of just how crazy this was. Of how one single change of your day had brought you to König’s room.

“Süßes Mädchen, ich will dich probieren..” It was the last coherent thing you could remember König saying as he effortlessly pulled your bare cunt closer to his face with an utterly wrecked look on his face and his tongue licking at his lips.

Hip flexors and thighs quivering, you could hardly keep your eyes focused on the Austrian below you. With your legs spread and framing his head and his hot palms cradling the entirely of your ass to keep you from squirming too much, König had spent the better part of half and hour with his tongue buried in your cunt. Snarling and growling like a hungry dog who’s chain had finally snapped. Between your almost totally fried nerves and the nudge of his thick nose rubbing against your clit while tongue-fucking your hole, you’d nearly pleaded and moaned yourself mute with a sore throat. ail scratches had been scraped into the drywall in front of you, and the strength in your legs had long faded into boneless mush that König hardly needed the endurance to hold steadily. The Colonel had been nothing but painfully patient and determined to give your more orgasms than your body could withstand.

You’d been ordered to count them, and it’d never been more challenging to count to four.

“Bitte meine Perle, komm, fick mein gesicht.” You never wanted to follow an order so badly. But fuck if you came again, you weren’t sure you’d ever resurface from the sensation. The previous had almost left you sitting full-weight on his face and blacked out in overwhelming pleasure. Mentally preparing wasn’t an option though. König wasn’t stopping for anything. Including your weak whimpers and whines that protested the command despite your desire to listen to him as closely as possible.

“C-can’t do it again-” Your voice cracks pathetically.

A loud crack of his palm smacking against the flesh of your ass releases a guttural moan from you. Spanking you firmly for the denial, and nipping at your swollen and abused little clit in punishment. You whine again, knowing your choice in the matter is being denied. König’s hunger for your release dripping out from the corners of his mouth motivates him to wrap his lips around your swollen bud and suck. Using the tip of his tongue to flick against the painfully sensitive end. That movement had brought you to release the first time, and it worked just as efficiently again to rip your pleasure out of your body right into the Colonel’s waiting mouth.

Your shaking and tears being to roll over your cheeks as König uses his own strength to help ride you through the aftershocks that cause your thighs to tremor and your stomach to flex and waver. The only somewhat meaningful things you’re able to do is use one hand to run your fingers through his hair and try to keep yourself grounded to the cot and König. By the time you feel sensation in your toes again, König has already gotten you settled back in his lap with his massive arms snaked around your bare body, holing you tight against his chest.

You feel slickness not just of your own between your thighs, looking up at the Colonel with a question tugging at your eyebrows. There was no mistaking that König had finished some time through your turn and he’d either been really good at hiding it, or you’d been totally inconsiderate of noticing.

“Schön, meine Perle. Das hast du so gut gemacht,” His wet lips press to your forehead reassuringly.

“Did perfectly, so good at following orders.” His hands cradle your flushed cheeks carefully.

Thumbs brushing over your cheekbones and sliding up until he can wipe the sheen of sweat clinging in the hair of your eyebrows. You look downright angelic to him like this. Raptured by nothing more than his own desire to give you everything he possibly could of his physical and emotional being. Giving himself the most intimate position to see just what he’d fantasized about for so long. You, being loved by him. Adored just for being yourself. Pleasured, because you deserved it.

“König… didn’t you..?” Your little pants and confused look made him smile, leaning forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss.

He chuckled lowly against your mouth. “I did. Twice, actually.” He pecked the tip of your nose like a little praise for you.

You weren’t in any shape to fuss with the Austrian, however you did your best to put up a fight. “Let me… I wanna give you-”

“I’ve had just enough to satiate me for now,” His voice rasped a bit. “Besides, my men will be coming in for shift changes. And I don’t have enough faith in either of us to stay that quiet, meine perle.”

It was your turn to go shy and quiet, looking towards the shut -and locked- bedroom door, but forgetting that you weren’t the only two people in the area. Actually, thee was a good chance many of the men could’ve heard you making little to no effort to quiet yourself. One glance at the Colonel still holding you close to him, and you must’ve given him some sort of expression because he started laughing softly again.

“Kein Problem. Meine Männer reden nicht über uns.” You believed him.

But it was still a little intimidating. Now that it seemed everything was out it in the open, you had a lot of questions about what was going to happen, how things would work between you, or if there was even a possibility of somethingserious. The observant Colonel didn’t miss a single beat of your heart in that moment.

“Das bedeutet nicht, dass ich ihnen keinen Gesprächsstoff gebe, meine Perle,” His head nudged yours sweetly, despite his very flirty tone. “I’d like to keep you to myself. That is… if you’re okay with that?”

Nothing could stop the grin that spread onto your face.

“Ich liebe es, dein zu sein, mein König,” You wrapped you arms around his neck, kissing his ear softly. “Auch wenn du mein Höschen stiehlst.”

Reblogs & Comments are Appreciated

#könig #könig x reader #kortac #konig mw2 #konig cod #anon ask #anon answered #anon <3 #velvetures #velvetures writes #anon request #könig smut

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puttersmile · 3 months ago

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Heart & Sol Month Days 9 & 22

Prompts: Shared Secrets and Under the Stars

Join the HeartnSol community!

A short story comes with this one!

A Lonely Kind of Cheer

The town square glowed with twinkling lights, festive garlands draped across every storefront. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, settling on the cobblestone streets like tiny, frozen stars. It was the kind of picture-perfect winter evening that should have felt magical.

But for Dogday, it felt heavy.

He leaned against a lamppost near the bakery, watching the towns-critters bustle past, their arms full of wrapped gifts and baskets of sweets. Everywhere he turned, someone was laughing, smiling, embracing the season. And every time someone waved at him—called his name—he waved back, flashing that effortless grin of his.

Just keep smiling. They expect you to be happy.

The thought sat sourly in his chest.

It hadn’t always been like this.

In the past he had thrown himself into the holiday rush—helping neighbors hang their lights, hauling trees into living rooms, carrying more bags of flour and sugar into the bakery than Bobby could count. If he kept moving, kept helping, kept making himself useful, maybe he’d find the warmth of the season that everyone else seemed to feel so easily.

But this year was different.

The cold months were a drain. The long, sunless days left him exhausted before he even got out of bed. The thought of lifting another box, decorating another tree, or forcing another grin made his limbs feel like they were weighed down with rocks.

The exhaustion was deeper this time. And worse—this year, he didn’t have the energy to ignore it.

“Dogday!”

He turned at the sound of Bobby’s voice, and for a split second, his exhaustion faded. There she was, bundled in her favorite holiday sweater, a tray of steaming pastries balanced effortlessly in her hands. She looked as warm and bright as the holiday itself.

“There you are! I was hoping I’d run into you.” She beamed, offering him one of the treats. “Fresh out of the oven! Tell me that doesn’t make you feel at least a little festiiiive!"

He took the pastry automatically, but his stomach twisted at the forced cheer in her voice.

It was too much.

Her eyes were too bright. Her voice too eager. And the way she moved—it was as if she was trying to keep pace with the world around her, not allowing a single moment of stillness.

Dogday had known Bobby long enough to recognize when something was off. And right now, beneath all that sparkle, he could see it—something strained.

Something painfully familiar.

“You ever sit down this time of year?” Dogday asked, keeping his voice light.

Bobby huffed a laugh. “Not if I can help it. Too much to do! So many cookies to bake, decorations to fix, last-minute gifts to wrap—”

“Sounds exhausting,” he cut in.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second—so quick that anyone else might have missed it. But Dogday didn’t.

Then she laughed again, waving him off. “I like being busy.”

That was truth but with a hidden lie. He knew it.

But what was he supposed to do? Call her out? Tell her he knew exactly what she was doing because he did the same thing?

Because he used to overcompensate, too—rushing to help every critter with their Christmas plans, throwing himself into the holiday chaos just so he wouldn’t have to sit with the weight pressing against his chest?

Because if he didn’t, people would see what was underneath—and that scared him more than anything?

The thought made him feel sick.

Instead, he took a bite of the pastry, chewing slowly. Strawberry, it was delicious. Of course it was.

“You know,” he said carefully, “you don’t have to do all of this.”

Bobby’s smile faltered, just a little.

“Oh, I know,” she said quickly. “But I like doing it. Really. Makes everything feel…” She trailed off, gaze flickering away. “I dunno. Full.”

Dogday exhaled softly, feeling that sourness rumble in his chest.

“Hey…Bobby,” he said softly. "I want to tell you something. A-a secret."

She looked at him then, her usual confidence cracking just enough for him to see something raw underneath.

For the first time all season, she wasn’t grinning.

And for the first time all season, Dogday didn’t force a smile either.

“I hate Christmas,” he admitted.

The words hung between them, suspended in the cold night air. Bobby’s eyes widened, and for a long moment, she didn’t say anything.

Then, very quietly, she whispered, “I hate being alone.”

Dogday’s breath hitched.

The weight of the season didn't lift. But it had shifted.

They had spent so long pretending, so long trying to convince the world (and themselves) ñthat they were fine—that Christmas didn’t hurt.

But now, standing here, facing each other, there was no more pretending.

“…Guess we’re a mess, huh?” Dogday said, voice thick. Despite himself, there was still a smile.

Bobby let out a breathy, teary laugh. “Yeah.”

Then, before he could react, she reached out and hugged him. A real hug—not the usual playful, squeeze-the-air-out-of-you kind she usually gave. This one was different. It was slow. Careful. Steady.

Dogday hesitated only a second before he hugged her back.

For once, neither of them had to fake anything.

They didn’t have to act.

Maybe they weren’t as alone in this as they thought.

End.

Headcanon: Dogday gets winter depression.

And its likely "canon" Bobby has bad seperation anxiety.

I did use shipping tags but I think a moment like this would happen before they are a couple.

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mscherub · 4 months ago

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Right, so…you’re transported to a new world, and me being the science geek I am, I can’t help but think of all the bacteria you wouldn’t be accustomed to in Twisted Wonderland…so imagine how bad flu season would be, or just the spreading of sicknesses around the school in general

You better have a good immune system cause oml would it be put into overdrive. Anyways…here’s my twist on what the Scarabia boys would do in order to be helpful in your recovery ❤️‍🩹

Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, Diasomnia

Warnings!:

Sickness, obviously

Mentions of vomiting, snot, etc

To start us off…

It’s flu season in Twisted Wonderland, well you call it the flu, they call it something else you don’t even bother to learn. With you’re immune so shot and not used to the illnesses that spread around, getting sick more often that you honestly should, you woke up with a headache. Ok…nothing too serious, but you thought it to be a good idea to just take some ibuprofen equivalent in their world and “thug it out,” which ultimately lead to your current situation. Currently, you’re in the infirmary, having passed out from a raging fever and a disgustingly congested respiratory system during PE and you’re bed ridden back at ramshackle, at least until your fever goes down. Sevens bless Grim and the ghosts as they try and get you things to feel better, but you need some sort of intervention, and here comes you’re favorite person at the right time. How do they help you out?

Kalim ☀️:

Ok, saying this and being as nice as possible, Kalim would try to take care of you, key word is try there, yall. It’s literally cannon that he’ll go to any extent if he puts his mind to it, and your his concern right now, so he’ll try

I mean, he has literally had everything handed to him on a silver or gold platter, probably both, so when he hears what happened and that your sick, first thing he’ll do is comprehend it, then he’s gonna freak out and he’s going to go and help you out through any means. Granted it’s not that big of deal, but to him it is. You’re a good friend and person :(

Safe to say he wouldn’t know exactly all of what to do. He probably drags Jamil along with him to Ramshackle to have him cook you something while he just sits and pouts at you. Great help

He’ll chill in your room with you and probably yap your ear off, but he doesn’t mind if he gets sick because of you, so cough and sneeze away. He’ll laugh with you, and hopefully make you laugh with him

He’ll remember to give you you your medicine on time surprisingly enough. I don’t think he’d forget, he’s still capable of that. He’ll ask Jamil to brew something or go buy other medicines that’ll help you get better quicker. Also…maybe buy you more blankets, pillows, emotional support animals—

Stop him from buying you anything extra, it’ll save you and Jamil the extra stress :)

Jamil 🐍:

He already has Kalim to watch and now he has to go take care of you? Well, at least you’re more tolerable so he won’t won’t complain, and he is doing this on his own, so there’s that for the excuse

Of course Jamil is going to cook for you. He’ll make you whatever you want, but if you don’t eat it I fear he may get a little pissed off…don’t waste his time if you're not hungry!

He’ll clean around Ramshackle, disinfecting, etc. but if he sees a bug he will stop and he will go grab grim, and just like those people with their cats, put him in front of the bug so Grim can get it

Now, he doesn’t want to get sick himself, so he will keep his distance while you stay in bed. He has stuff to do around his own dorm and he can’t afford to become ill because of you. Don’t cough or sneeze on him, he’ll walk out.

While you lay in bed, he’ll sit downstairs and he’ll write down his notes for you, a get well well token from him to you

He’s on top of medicines, very calculated with that, and since he’s kind of educated on the topics of remedies, specifically for Kalim’s sake, he’ll use that knowledge and maybe brew you up something to expedite the process of your recovery

Sorry for not posting for a day 💀

Anyways…I’m gonna try and finish up the bed ridden series tomorrow so I can start on a new one, and also post a Vil oneshot soon, hopefully, we’ll see if I have energy. ANYWAYS, THANKS FOR READING LOVELIES MWAHHHHH!!!

Master list

Please don’t steal or copy any of my work! You may, however, reblog if you’d want to!

Pictures belong to Disney Twisted Wonderland but are edited by me :)

#twisted wonderland #scarabia #twst jamil #jamil viper #twst kalim #kalim al asim #twisted wonderland jamil #twisted wonderland kalim #comfort #sickness #feel better #fluff #headcanon #scarabia x reader #<3 #kalim x reader #jamil x reader

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yanyandam · 2 months ago

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Hulloo hullo 🥺 may I ask for hanma shuji comforting the reader? Like a scenario where he's the reader but also one as friends

HII tysm for requesting. Okay, here's a small scenario: you can see it as platonic or romantic depending on which one you prefer tbhh. Its pretty short + I tried to not be too out of character? Seriously, its hard for me to imagine HANMA trying to be genuinely comforting LMAO

The neon lights of Kabukicho flickered above like a drunken heartbeat, painting the wet pavement in shades of red, blue, and sickly yellow. The streets reeked of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and the faint, unmistakable stench of sins. A place where love was rented by the hour, debts were settled with fists, and where men with hollow eyes staggered out of hostess bars, laughing too loud, acting like kings in a kingdom made of lust. You didn’t belong here. But here you were.

The plastic bag in your hand crinkled as you stepped out of a small, run-down convenience store, your thoughts a mess. Your chest was tight, and your head buzzed with frustration. You shouldn’t have even been out this late, but avoiding your problems at home was easier than facing them. Then, just as you turned onto a quieter street, a voice, deep and eerily monotone, slid into your ears like an unwelcome ghost. “Look who it is.”

That voice. It sent a shiver up your spine, not out of fear, though fear would have been justified, but because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You turned sharply, heart lurching.

“Shit—Hanma!?”

Shuji Hanma and those damn hands, one of them decorated with a single word: Sin. The other, Punishment. Fitting. His lips curled around a cigarette, exhaling smoke in lazy ribbons as he observed you with those half-lidded, sharp eyes that always looked like he was waiting for something interesting to happen.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you shot back, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. A little shaky. A little tired. He studied you for a moment before smirking. “I could ask you the same thing. This ain’t exactly a place for lost little puppies.”

You rolled your eyes, tightening your grip on your bag. “I go where I want.”

Hanma let out a small chuckle, the kind that made you feel like you were a joke he hadn’t finished laughing at yet. “Shit. Someone’s cranky. You get kicked out of a love hotel or something?”

“Long story,” you muttered, not in the mood for his usual bullshit.

“Then cut it short,” he said, falling into step beside you like he’d decided your business was now his business. “I’m bored.”

You let out a breath, debating if you even wanted to get into it. But maybe, just maybe, talking would help. “I… got into some trouble with a guy around here.”

Hanma raised an eyebrow. “Trouble? Like, you fuckin’ owe him money, or did you sleep with him?”

You shot him a glare. “It’s not like that. I owed him a bit of cash. Took me a while to pay him back. And instead of just letting it go, he started spreading shit about me.” The words felt heavier when spoken out loud, like bricks pressing down on your chest. It wasn’t just about the money. It was the humiliation. The feeling of being so goddamn powerless, of having someone twist your reality just because they could. You swallowed hard, blinking fast as your throat burned. “I’m just tired, okay? Feels like I always find new ways to fuck things up and embarrass myself.”

Hanma stopped walking. You barely had time to react before he let out a short, barking laugh. The kind that wasn’t so much amusement as it was a mockery.

“Wait—hold up. Are you crying?”

Your stomach dropped. “What? No—”

But Hanma only laughed harder, his voice sharp and cutting. “Holy shit. You’re actually crying.”

You clenched your fists, the heat in your face growing unbearable. “Yeah, so what? Like I need to explain myself to you.” You turned to walk away, embarrassment creeping in like a sickness. You knew this was a mistake. Of all people, why the hell did you think Hanma would care? But before you could take another step, a rough hand snatched your wrist.

“Hey.”

His grip was firm, fingers cold against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make it clear, you weren’t going anywhere until he decided otherwise. “Let go,” you snapped, trying to yank your arm away.

“Not done talkin’,” Hanma said lazily, though there was something strange in his tone. Not quite irritation, not quite amusement. Something in between. “C’mere.” His hold loosened just enough for you to pull back if you really wanted to. But you hesitated. Hanma exhaled smoke, letting it curl around his lips before flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel. “Tch. You’re seriously lettin’ some lowlife’s bullshit get to you? Thought you had more spine than that.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to stay composed. “Not everyone can just not give a shit, Hanma.”

His grin widened. “Sure they can. You just gotta decide their opinion ain’t worth dick.”

You shook your head. “Easy for you to say. You don’t care about anything.”

Hanma tilted his head, pretending to think. “Nah. I care about stuff. Like…” He tapped his chin in mock contemplation. “Kicking ass. The way blood looks under streetlights. The sound of teeth breakin’ when you hit the right spot.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “You ever just… lose it? Just go all-out? No fear, no hesitation? That’s what life’s really about.”

You swallowed hard. His words were low, slow, dripping with something both terrifying and intoxicating. You shook your head. “That’s not me.”

“That’s me. And you know I’m here. So the real stuff is here for ya.” Then, just as quickly as he had grabbed you, he let go. “Anyway,” he muttered, stretching his arms like he had just finished a particularly boring conversation. “Guess that’s enough of playin’ therapist for one night.”

Before you could react, he snatched the plastic bag from your grip.

“H-hey! What the fuck!?”

Hanma grinned, shaking the bag teasingly. “Thanks for the food.”

“Are you kidding me—”

“Later, crybaby.” But he was already walking away, waving lazily over his shoulder. "By the way, if that son of a bitch pulls some shit on you again, call me. I’m always down to break a few teeth."

You stood there, stunned, fists clenched, heart still pounding. And yet… somehow, the weight in your chest wasn’t as heavy anymore.

Bastard.

BONUS: Comforting hcs

He won’t say comforting things, but he’ll be there. Sitting beside you, standing near, keeping watch.

If someone hurt you, and you're one of these RARE people he tolerates, that person’s gonna regret it.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #shuji hanma #hanma #hanma x reader #hanma shuji #hanma shuji x reader #shuji hanma x reader #hanma fluff #hanma shuji fluff #tokyo revengers x reader

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oddballwriter · 2 years ago

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Moon Boys w/ Reader who is on their Period

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Warnings: Mentions of periods, cramps, and other period symptoms (of course). Reader is kept gender neutral for all my he/hims and they/thems who still have their periods. Mention of Layla, I know that’s not really anything but whatever.

Author’s Snip: Guess who’s on his period! Me! So might as well use this as something to help fill out my MoonKnight masterlist.

Notes: There is no dysphoria talk in here but if anyone wants that they can request it.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Steven Grant

Steven of course knows what a period is but he’s never actually been with someone long enough to come to the part were they would get their period or see them while on their period

He’s great support though

If you have any issues while on your period like bad cramps or fatigue he’s right there to help

Steven actually reads up and researches as much as he can about periods and menstrual cycles to actually understand what’s happening and how to help you

If you hold up fine on your own then he respects that but if you need something he’s on it

Literally nothing is too big of a task for him. If you want a specific snack then he’s going to go get it and some extra things

He’s had a cashers look at him after noticing all the stuff he’s buying and say “You’re a good man.” or just give him a knowing look

Steven does get a little scared if your moody because he doesn’t like feeling like you’re mad at him. But he understands.

I mean you’re bleeding against your will for several days and can sometimes be in pain and still have to go on with your day like you’re not. That’s defiantly not comfortable. He’d be a bit snappy if he had to go through that.

Steven is a huge cuddle bug so if you want him to hold you while you sit through a cramp he’s right there and holding your heating pad for you

He’s just a sweetie the whole time

Marc Spector

He was married to Layla

He knows how it goes

Marc isn’t doting like Steven (very much) is, but he’s not going to tell you to walk it off either

If you’re stuck in bed because your period isn’t going easy on you he’ll get you what you need, but he’s still very much Marc about it

“Alright. Think of what you need because I’m not gonna walk back and forth repeatedly.”

For the most part he leaves you alone and lets you come to him since he doesn’t want to get in your space and bother you

Marc memorizes and remembers when you usually get your period and so he’s able to prepare for it so that you don’t have to worry about running out of pad/tampons or painkillers

Again he’s not going to treat you like your sick and dying but he still very much cares about you and wants to make sure you’re okay

You can twist his harm into getting you a specific snack if you do puppy dog eyes and hit him with the “pretty please”

Is he aware that you use that against him? Yes. Is he mad that it gets him every time? Yes. Is he still going to drive all the way to the store? Also yes.

Jake Lockley

“Beba, I’m in the period aisle. What pussy size you wear.” energy

You know he would. Jake’s the type of man to do that. Don’t argue with me

So all the boys know your cycle and what time frame you get your period. But Jake is able to be most on the dot

It’s kind of creepy because he knows exactly when you’ll get it but Jake’s just used to being observant and so he just recognizes it more than the rest of them

This also leads to him telling when you’re really going through it with your cramps and just trying to keep a brave face

When he sees that he just picks you up and puts you on the couch with your heating pad, pills, and a blanket

Whatever you were doing before doesn’t matter, he’ll do it. You go ahead and just lay there and relax as best you can

To all my Mexicans and hispanics reading this, if you’re cramps are bad then he puts his hand on your stomach and does “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana” to help you feel better and also make you laugh if you know what it is

For context to any non hispanics, “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana” is a rhyme that parents will do while rubbing where their child got hurt or feels pain

#moonknight #moon knight #moonknight x reader #moon knight x reader #steven grant #steven grant x reader #marc spector #marc spector x reader #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #period comfort

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levmysweetheart · 1 month ago

Text

AMALGAMATE CH1 REREAD

Hello everyone i will be rereading amalgamate tonight and actively documenting my thoughts below

OBVIOUSLY SPOILERS I LITERALLY STEAL EXCERPTS TO VOMIT ABOUT THEM

Ok so i'm already shaking and physically sick i think i need to be diagnosed

KAITO TRYING TO HATE KOKICHI AT THE START KNOWING THE END IM GRHGHHHH

" Still, staring into the oppressive, black doom grinding closer, Kaito was struck by the sheer finality of it all. This was the last thing Kokichi Oma was ever going to see." the fact that it IS the last thing he sees in canon... ic ant dot his guys

"Kaito’s stomach lurched at the realization that Kokichi was getting worse and quickly. He knew it was inevitable – the kid had lost a gallon of blood in an agonizing smear across the hangar floor, and he was poisoned – but seeing him actually deteriorating still sent a chill down his spine." my stomach is lurching too oh my god like if i could draw this i would throw up and sob all oveer it oh to write like this. the horrors of chapter 5 will always haunt me

" “I… I think we need to hurry.” He didn’t have to elaborate; Kaito knew exactly what he meant. “Do you need me to pick you up?” “No.” “Is that a lie?” “…Yes.” " their dynamic their dynamic their duyanmic their dyanmiuc GYAHT

HELP I CANT STOP GIGLING ITS 2AM MY WHOLE FAMILY IS ASLEEP

Everytime kokichi convulses my stomach clenches . i should be doing hard drugs like a normal teenager but here i am

"“…You’re all so predictable.” Kokichi’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it resounded in Kaito’s skull like a blade being plunged through his temple. “…You’re all so boring.”" this side of kokichi.. i need this more guys i need more of this my hands are SAHKAING oh my GODD

"Finally, Kokichi raised his head, and Kaito was stunned by the sight of tears running down his face. He’d seen Kokichi cry gallons of crocodile tears since he’d met him, but this… this was not that. Kokichi was weeping. They were raw, ugly tears – the kind that can’t be controlled no matter how badly one wants to stop them. Kaito hadn’t seen Kokichi cry like this since – No. Kaito didn’t want to believe those tears had been real. And if they weren’t real, then these…" he makes me sick he makes me sick OH MY GODDD whenever kokichi shows emotion i start acting like a tweaker

"The look he gave Kaito in that moment was ill and twisted, as if dozens of Kokichi’s masks had been burned and melted together into a sick caricature of a human expression. Now that final mask was sloughing off, leaving behind flayed flesh and bone… sadness and disgust… rage and sorrow… self-pity and hatred…" KILL ME RIGHT NOW THIS IS SUCH A PERFECT FUCKIGN WAY TO DESCRIBE HIS RAW EMOTIONS IM GHWAYGUHRGI

" “A-after I’m gone, just… read through the script, alright?” Kokichi stammered. “I tried to cover… every scenario I could think of, but… you’ll have to improvise, too…” The boy who had once been the Ultimate Supreme Leader peered up at Kaito through half-lidded eyes and gave him a faint smile. “It’s your worst nightmare, Kaito… You have to become me…” " the tears are starting the tears are startnig

" Kokichi’s face shuttered and went blank. The look he gave Kaito was so unreadable… so devoid of emotion… that for a moment, he wondered if Kokichi had died with his eyes open. There was something so unnerving about that look – like seeing a shark with its teeth removed. Kaito realized he hated that look on Kokichi’s face. It just looked wrong. Wrong, wrong, WRONG! “…This is how it’s supposed to be,” Kokichi said softly, as if all the fight had gone out of him. “Don’t you get that? When Monokuma picks the wrong culprit… the one who has to emerge victorious from the Exisal is you. Y-you’re the hero, Kaito. If you show up at the end of the trial, it’ll give the others hope. If they realize I’m the one who’s dead, it’ll give them relief. They’ll be unified against me because I’m the villain. I’m the common enemy. I’m alone because that’s how it’s supposed to be.” Kokichi closed his eyes and released a shuddering breath. “That’s how it has to be.” " THE AWY THIS IS EXACTTLLYLYYY HOW I THINK ABOUT HIM IM PISSING no im not but OHH MY GODD this perfectly encapsulates him. he's speaking clearly despite the poison, like hes reciting facts or common knowledge deeply ingrained in his mind. his logical side, the determined one that knows how everything should end with everything he knows.

" Kokichi sobered up suddenly as he realized Kaito was serious. Something dark and desperate flickered across his face. “…Kaito, do you… do you realize what you’re asking me to do? You’re asking me to – to jeopardize the plan I’ve spent weeks creating – jeopardize a plan to beat the mastermind – and for what? Do you…” Kokichi’s eyes bore into Kaito’s as if trying to see through to his very soul. “Do you hate me that much?” “What?! What the hell are you – ” “It hurts, Kaito,” Kokichi sobbed. “Everything fucking hurts. T-talking hurts, breathing hurts… being alive hurts. I’m gonna die, Kaito. That’s the only truth. I gave you the antidote so you would do this one thing for me… and now, you want to deny me my last request… and m-make me suffer for hours. Do you enjoy seeing me in pain? Is – is this your revenge?” " this is CRUEL this is cruel to READ to think about EVERYTHING i can hear his voice god someday i have to fucking learn game developing JUST so i can make this goddamn fanfic into a fangame i would kill for it. i would kill to do it fuck oh my ghod

" Kaito cocked an eyebrow. The whole thing would’ve been amusing if he wasn’t so mad. “Maybe I am smarter than you because the fact that you complimented me tells me that was the biggest load of horseshit you’ve ever spewed in your life.” “That’s King Horse Shit to you!” " King horse jokes will never not be funny you can pry them from my stiff dead fucking hands

I CANT BELEIVEE THIS OH MY HOD OGODHGA GDIJAIGHAJ

THIS IS SO GOOD WHY WOUD I IEVER DO ANYTHING ELSE IN LIFE BUT THINK ABOUT THISGUYATTTT

end of chapter 1

bathroom and snack break because i forgot dinner

Jamie Primack i love you

#amalgamate #drv3 amalgamate #drv3 #danganronpa v3 #kokichi ouma #kaito momota #oumota #fanfic #amalgamate fanfic

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aller-geez · 3 months ago

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Oxygen

Written & illustrated by: allergeez 🖤

Hey! Remember back in August how I teased a Svelex fic set for Elex’s birthday? NWELL, I FINALLY FINISHED IT 6 MONTHS LATER ✨

Just under 8k words, CW: Illness & Injury (fever, pneumonia, difficulty breathing, passing out) Medical Settings (hospital/ER scenes, oxygen use, discussions of health conditions), Mild Alcohol Use (social drinking, light references), Themes of Self-Neglect (pushing past physical limits, refusing to ask for help)

Though Oxygen explores themes of stubbornness, friendship, and vulnerability, at its heart, it’s a story about learning when to let go—and knowing when someone cares enough to catch you.

Summary: S7en has never been great at self-preservation, but for Elex’s birthday, he’s determined to pull off the perfect surprise. Weeks of planning, secret coordination, and late-night prep have all led to this—one flawless night where everything goes exactly as planned.— There’s just one problem. S7en is sick. Really sick. And he’s been hiding it.

With the weight of the day pressing down on him, the only thing keeping him going is sheer stubbornness and the desperate hope that he can hold out just a little longer. But as the night unfolds, his body has other plans, and no amount of willpower can fight the inevitable.

As reality comes crashing down, S7en is forced to confront a truth he’s spent his entire life ignoring—he’s not invincible. And sometimes, pretending to be okay only makes things worse.

Prologue:

S7en had never worked so hard on something in his life.

For weeks, he had been obsessively planning Elex’s birthday party—late nights spent hunched over sketches, paint drying on his fingers as he designed the perfect decorations, hours scouring online shops for the exact shade of green streamers that wouldn’t make Elex groan about “clashing aesthetics.” He’d snuck around behind his back to pull together the guest list, bribe people into secrecy, and track down the most obnoxiously over-the-top cake he could find. It had to be perfect.

Elex deserved perfect.

And, as always, Elex had no clue.

Which, honestly, wasn’t surprising. The man could smell a lie from a mile away, sniff out bullshit like a bloodhound, but when it came to anything about himself, he was painfully oblivious. S7en could have probably told him, straight-up, “Hey, I’m planning a surprise party for you,” and Elex still would have just grunted, shrugged, and gone back to chewing on whatever plastic thing he’d picked up that day.

The same way he had completely failed to notice that S7en was getting sicker by the hour.

It had started as a scratch in his throat, nothing major—just the kind of raw, dry feeling he chalked up to too many sleepless nights and the absolute joke that was his hydration levels. He ignored it, popped a cough drop, kept going. He had too much to do to slow down now.

But then it got worse.

The scratch deepened into a constant ache, turning into that burning, sandpaper sensation that made every swallow a chore. His voice had started rasping sometime around day three, but he played it off, clearing his throat and mumbling that it was just from talking too much.

Then came the congestion.

Thick. Unshakable. A slow-building pressure behind his nose and eyes that made his head feel too heavy, too tight. He kept sniffling between sentences, breath hitching every time he tried to take a full inhale, but he was damn good at keeping it subtle.

Elex never noticed.

When he felt a sneeze creeping up, he’d duck into another room, press the back of his wrist hard against his nose, and wait it out. If he got caught off guard, he’d twist away, stifling into his sleeve so violently it left him dizzy. It left his chest tight, his head pounding, but it was better than Elex hearing and asking questions.

There was too much to do.

If he let himself sneeze once, it would turn into five. Maybe ten. And if that happened, he’d never get through his never-ending to-do list.

So he fought it. Again and again.

S7en had become a professional at dodging suspicion. He had to be—Elex might have been oblivious about some things, but he wasn’t stupid. If S7en so much as sniffled too obviously, the badger would latch onto it like a feral dog with a bone.

So S7en adapted. He learned how to mask it, how to time it, how to slip away just before his body betrayed him.

But sometimes… it got close.

The first time was late—way too late.

S7en had been running on a handful of energy drinks and sheer force of will, hunched over his desk, hand-painting decorations that no one but him would care about. The apartment was silent, save for the soft glow of his desk lamp and the occasional sound of Elex shifting in his sleep.

Which was a problem.

Because that meant every single noise S7en made was way too obvious.

He had been trying—really trying—to keep himself together, but his nose was done playing nice. The burning deep in his sinuses was unbearable, and no matter how much he bit his lip or rubbed furiously at the underside of his nose, it wasn’t stopping.

The tickle teased mercilessly, rising, falling, rising again.

Don’t. Don’t. Not now.

His breath hitched.

He jerked forward, smothering the sound into his hoodie sleeve as hard as he could.

“Hhh’NGXT!—h'KXT’chh!"

He held still, heart hammering in his chest.

The silence stretched.

Then—

A sleepy mumble from the bed.

“...Why you sneezing like a bitch over there…?”

S7en froze.

Shit.

He hadn’t even realized Elex had woken up. The badger’s voice was thick with sleep, slurred and lazy, but there was just enough suspicion in it to make S7en’s stomach drop.

Think. Think.

“Fucking… dust?..,” he muttered quickly, sniffling once for effect. “The paper’s covered in it.”

A long pause.

Then—

A heavy sigh, followed by the sound of Elex flopping onto his other side.

“Go to bed, dumbass,” he mumbled.

S7en stayed still until he was sure Elex had drifted off again.

Then, finally, he slumped forward, burying his face in his arms.

Too close.

The second time was worse.

They were sitting on the couch, half-watching some dumb action movie, Elex’s feet propped up on the coffee table as he mindlessly chewed on the plastic cap of a water bottle. He was in a good mood, talking non-stop about how he "just had a feeling something cool was gonna happen" on his birthday.

Which would have been hilarious if S7en wasn’t actively trying not to sneeze on him.

His nose had been itching relentlessly for the last five minutes. That awful, creeping burn was rising up again, and no matter how much he rubbed at his nose discreetly, it wasn’t enough.

Bad timing. Really bad timing.

His breath hitched—barely enough to make a sound.

Too close.

He needed to get out of there.

Stretching his arms in an exaggerated yawn, he forced his muscles to stay loose and casual as he pushed himself off the couch.

“Gonna grab a drink,” he muttered, already heading toward the kitchen.

“Get me one,” Elex called after him, not even looking away from the screen.

S7en didn’t answer.

Because the second he was out of sight, he barely made it to the sink in time before a violent—

"Hh—! HHAHH—! HAHDT’tchhiew!! Hh—! AHHDT’tchhiiuhh!"

—ripped through him, bending him forward with the force of it.

His hands gripped the edge of the counter, breath shuddering as another chest-deep cough tore out of him immediately after. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to get it together before—

“You good in there?”

S7en nearly jumped out of his own damn skin.

Elex’s voice was casual, distracted, but S7en knew him too well.

The badger had noticed something.

Shit.

He barely had time to smother another cough into his sleeve before he forced his voice to sound normal.

“Yeah. Just—fucking—dropped something.”

A pause.

Then, mercifully, Elex just grunted, attention snapping back to the movie.

S7en exhaled slowly, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.

Too close. Again.

By the end of the week, he knew.

This wasn’t just a cold.

The signs had been there for days, creeping up on him like a slow, inevitable landslide. At first, it had been subtle—a scratch in his throat, a little extra weight in his chest. But now? Now, every breath ached, every inhale felt like dragging air through soaked fabric.

His lungs weren’t just tight anymore. They were drowning.

And when he coughed—because, at this point, there was no fighting it anymore—it wasn’t some weak, dry little thing he could brush off. No, it was deep, raw, rattling, the kind of cough that came from somewhere low and dangerous, scraping the bottom of his lungs like a dull blade.

It hurt.

And Elex still didn’t notice.

Because S7en made sure of it.

He had perfected the art of hiding it.

Whenever Elex was around, S7en played it off like nothing was wrong. He timed his coughing fits so they happened when Elex was in the shower, when he was digging through the fridge, when he was too distracted ranting about something to notice the way S7en had to brace himself against the counter just to stay upright.

If a sneeze hit, he bit back against it with everything he had, muffling it into his hoodie sleeve until his head pounded. If he couldn’t stop it, he’d make sure to stifle it into near silence, no matter how much the pressure made his already aching sinuses throb.

His voice was going hoarse, his breathing was labored, but he pushed through, kept talking like nothing had changed.

When his hands started shaking, he simply curled his fingers tighter around whatever he was holding—a drink, his paintbrush, the edge of the counter—until they stopped trembling long enough to keep up the act.

His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, but if Elex glanced at him for too long, he’d just mutter something about being exhausted and wave him off.

Everything needed to be done.

And he wasn’t about to let a little cold ruin it.

Even as it got harder to stand without swaying. Even as his lungs tightened like a vice with every breath. Even as his body screamed at him to just stop.

He pushed forward.

Forward. Forward. Forward.

August 10th:

The morning of Elex’s birthday should have been easy.

After all, S7en had spent weeks planning every last detail. The decorations were set up, the cake was waiting in the fridge, and their friends were in on the plan, all waiting for the big reveal later that night.

All he had to do was get through the day.

And yet, when Elex jolted awake that morning—cocky, buzzing with birthday energy, already texting half his contact list like he was about to throw himself the most legendary party of all time—S7en could barely sit up without his vision blurring at the edges.

The second he lifted his head, a fresh pulse of pain slammed through his skull, a migraine so sharp it felt like his brain was trying to escape through his eye sockets. He swallowed against the nausea, trying to ignore the way his throat burned, raw and swollen, while his chest tightened with every inhale.

Bad. Really bad.

But he didn’t have time for bad.

So, S7en forced a grin, let Elex’s nonsense birthday rambling wash over him, and powered through.

“S7en, I swear to God, my birthday instincts are going crazy today,” Elex announced, cracking open an energy drink before he was even fully sitting up.

S7en barely managed to hold back a pained wince at the sound of the can popping. Too loud.

“Oh yeah?” he croaked, then immediately regretted speaking. His voice was wrecked, rougher than usual, like he’d spent the entire night screaming into a pillow.

Not ideal.

But if Elex noticed, he didn’t say anything—too busy stretching with an exaggerated groan before flopping onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His mismatched eyes gleamed, that lazy smirk pulling at his lips.

“Yeah. It’s like—I dunno, a sixth sense,” Elex went on, taking a sip of his drink. “Like, I just know when something big’s about to happen.”

S7en hummed, noncommittal. “Birthday instincts,” he repeated flatly.

“Exactly.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you might need a refund, dude.”

Elex snorted, waving him off. “Nah, nah, it’s real. Watch—by the end of the day, something sick is gonna go down, and I’m gonna be totally right.”

S7en bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, because if Elex had even the slightest clue about the party, he would not be this calm. But the badger, for all his cocky bravado, was utterly, hilariously clueless.

Good. That meant S7en’s work wasn’t for nothing.

But as he pushed himself up, the room lurched sideways, and his stomach twisted violently.

Shit.

He froze, pressing his hands into the mattress to steady himself, willing the dizziness to pass. But his lungs ached when he took a breath, and his ribs felt like they were wrapped in tight, unrelenting bands.

Breathe. Breathe through it.

Elex, of course, was too busy hyping himself up to notice.

“Bet something sick happens before noon,” he said, checking his phone. “Maybe I’ll win some crazy giveaway. Or, like, get free food somewhere.”

S7en forced out a breathy laugh, ignoring the sharp, rattling sensation in his chest.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Something like that.”

Because at the rate he was going?

Something was gonna happen before noon.

Just not the kind of surprise Elex was expecting.

S7en just had to get through the morning.

Then the afternoon.

Then the party.

Simple.

Except nothing about this was simple when his entire body was actively trying to betray him.

He had barely been upright for two minutes before the pressure in his sinuses flared up again, an unbearable, burning tickle crawling its way deeper. His breath caught just once—a sharp, involuntary inhale—before he forced it down, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting.

Not now. Not in front of Elex.

Elex, still riding his birthday ego trip, had zero idea what was going on, stretching like he had all the time in the world. Completely unaware of the absolute war S7en was fighting just two feet away.

"Alright," Elex announced, cracking his neck. "I’m thinking pancakes."

S7en barely heard him. His focus was on not sneezing.

The burning sensation spiked, his nose twitching, his breath threatening to hitch again. He clenched his jaw, exhaling slowly through his mouth, willing the tickle to settle.

No luck.

It was coming, fast.

Shit. Move.

Before Elex could glance his way, S7en swung his legs over the bed and pushed himself up, heading straight for the bathroom. Too fast. His vision swam, dizziness crashing into him all at once, but he barely managed to keep himself upright, gripping the doorframe for balance.

He shoved the door shut behind him, barely able to hold back the gasping inhale before—

"Hh—! Hhh! HAHPT’tschiew!! HAH! AHHDT’shiiiiew!!"

Fuck.

He doubled over against the counter, pressing the heel of his hand against his nose, his breath still stuttering from the sheer force of it. The moment he tried to straighten, another thick, chest-deep cough forced its way up, scraping like sandpaper in his throat.

His lungs felt wrecked. His head was pounding.

And he had approximately five seconds before Elex came looking for him.

Swallowing hard, S7en quickly turned on the sink, splashing cold water onto his face, trying to erase the obvious flush creeping into his cheeks. A second later, he heard Elex’s footsteps outside the door.

“You dying in there?”

S7en cleared his throat, ignoring the sharp pain it sent through his ribs. Make it sound normal.

“Chill,” he called back, voice rough but controlled. “Didn’t know I had to schedule my pisses around your breakfast plans.”

Elex snorted. “I mean, you do. But I’ll allow it, since it’s my birthday.”

S7en exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the sink.

Too close. Again.

By the time S7en forced himself back into the kitchen, Elex had already trashed his pancake idea in favor of raiding the fridge for anything edible. He stood with the door wide open, shoving a piece of cold pizza into his mouth like he wasn’t the absolute most unhinged person alive.

S7en could barely look at food without feeling his stomach twist unpleasantly.

"You good?" Elex asked around a mouthful, finally giving him a passing glance.

S7en shrugged, keeping his movements casual, despite the way his body screamed at him to sit the hell down.

"Tired," he muttered, heading for the cabinet where they kept their mugs. If he had something in his hands, it’d be easier to look normal.

Elex didn’t press, which was both a relief and kind of funny, considering if their situations were reversed, S7en would have had him in a chokehold demanding answers. But Elex just yawned, stretching again.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Big day. You should nap or something."

The irony almost made S7en laugh.

Yeah. Sure. Great idea. He’d get right on that.

As soon as he survived the next fourteen hours.

But as he reached for a mug, the telltale prickling started up again. His breath hitched before he could stop it.

Shit. No. Not here. Not now.

Keeping his back firmly to Elex, he pressed his wrist hard against his nose, willing it to stop. His shoulders tensed as the itch flared up, teasing mercilessly.

Hold it. Hold it. Hold it.

Elex, blissfully unaware, just kept rambling, his voice distant, drowned out by the relentless burning in S7en’s sinuses.

It was winning.

S7en had no choice.

With as much control as he could manage, he ducked his head into the crook of his arm, forcing the sneezes silent.

"Hh'NGXt! Ktchhh!—h’NNgch!"

The pressure was brutal, his skull throbbing with the effort of holding them back. His lungs seized painfully, a cough clawing its way up, but he swallowed it down, knuckles tightening around the counter.

He waited.

Nothing.

Elex hadn't noticed.

Slowly, carefully, S7en straightened, schooling his expression before turning back around.

Elex was still halfway through his pizza, scrolling through his phone with zero clue about the absolute disaster happening right in front of him.

S7en let out a shaky breath, grabbing his mug with slightly unsteady fingers.

He just had to get through the day.

That was the mantra he kept repeating in his head, over and over, like a scratched CD skipping on the same damn track. Just a few more hours. Then the party. Then the moment when Elex would finally see the absolute masterpiece S7en had spent weeks putting together. Then—maybe—he could breathe.

If his lungs still worked by then.

It was getting harder to ignore. Everything.

The aches had settled deep into his bones, like he was dragging concrete around his limbs. His head pounded relentlessly, his chest felt like it was wrapped in steel wire, and his breath was turning shallow, forced, unnatural.

And Elex?

Still didn’t notice.

Somehow.

It was actually impressive, in a way that was borderline offensive.

Because anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell that S7en was not okay.

His skin was pale, fever-glazed, dark shadows lingering beneath his eyes. His voice had gone from a little hoarse in the morning to full-blown wreckage, scraping and raw like he’d been swallowing glass shards for fun.

And yet.

Nothing.

Elex was still living in his own little birthday world, sending obnoxious texts to his friends, hyping up his own damn existence, and loudly debating whether he should get a new tattoo or a pet snake to mark the occasion.

S7en was dying in real time, and Elex was googling exotic pet names.

Ridiculous.

By the time they left the apartment, the sun was too bright, the air too sharp, and S7en was too damn tired.

He had planned to stay inside, get through some last-minute details, maybe even steal a moment to sit down and pretend his body wasn’t actively staging a rebellion.

But Elex, in all his unmatched, chaotic glory, had insisted on going out.

“It’s my birthday,” he had said, flashing a grin that should be illegal. “You’re legally required to follow me around and do dumb shit all day.”

S7en had just barely held back a groan.

The first stop was some hole-in-the-wall shop Elex swore had the best snacks on the planet. S7en, running on sheer force of will and the lingering effects of a third energy drink, followed him in, head pounding, lungs on fire.

He was so focused on staying upright that he didn’t notice the way his sinuses had been slowly tightening, congestion pressing like a vice behind his eyes.

Then, as he shifted his weight, something shifted with it.

A sudden, sharp readjustment deep in his sinuses sent a blinding tickle straight through his nose, pressure tipping over into something unstoppable.

Oh, fuck.

His breath hitched dangerously, his nostrils twitching, the overwhelming sensation building too fast for him to fight.

Not here. Not now.

He turned sharply on his heel, heading toward the corner of the store, hand clamped over his nose.

The moment he was out of sight, he braced against the shelf, burying his face into his sleeve as his body gave up.

“Hh—HhAH’DTschhh! Hh! HHhih—! HAHDT’tchhhiiew! Hhh! AHHDT’tsschueh!!!”

His ribs screamed in protest, his vision swimming from the sheer force of it. His breath hitched again, another wracking cough tearing out of him immediately after, leaving him shaking, dizzy, breathless.

Too much. Way too much.

He forced himself upright, swallowing against the rawness in his throat, fingers digging into the shelf for balance. He needed to move before—

“Sven?”

Shit.

He barely had time to school his face into something remotely normal before Elex appeared around the corner, holding a pack of sour candy and a soda, looking infuriatingly relaxed.

“You find something?” Elex asked, popping open the drink like nothing was wrong.

S7en cleared his throat, biting back the unbearable urge to cough again. “Nah. Just looking.”

Elex blinked at him, then tilted his head slightly.

For half a second, S7en thought—hoped, really—that maybe Elex was finally putting two and two together. That he’d look at him and actually see what was happening.

But then the badger just shrugged.

“Cool. Let’s hit the gas station. I wanna see if they have those weird energy drinks from Japan.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

S7en swallowed back another cough, another wave of exhaustion, and nodded.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice scraping at the sides. “Sure.”

And without much more, he followed Elex back out into the sun, lungs screaming, heart pounding, the warmth of the afternoon too sharp, too heavy against his feverish skin.

The heat pressed down on him like a weight, making the air feel thicker, harder to breathe, and for a moment, as they stepped onto the sidewalk, the world tilted dangerously beneath his feet. He forced himself forward, keeping his stride even, controlled, ignoring the way his vision blurred at the edges.

The party was just a few hours away.

He just had to last a little longer.

But his body? His body was done.

The fever that had been simmering beneath his skin all morning had finally boiled over, turning into a suffocating, all-encompassing heat that made the world feel distant and unreal. He felt like he was walking through a fog, slow and sluggish, barely tethered to his own movements.

His hoodie, usually something soft, comforting, familiar, now felt like a weight pressing down on his overheated body. The fabric clung to his skin like insulation, trapping the fever in, suffocating him from the inside out.

It was getting harder to think.

Harder to breathe.

Every inhale was tight, shallow, unsatisfying, as if the air itself had thickened, turning into something too dense to pull into his lungs. He knew he should have eaten something, but the mere thought of food made his stomach twist violently, nausea crawling up his throat.

But none of it mattered.

None of it could matter.

Because Elex was still completely oblivious.

So when the badger shoved his phone into his pocket and announced they were going to the arcade, S7en nodded.

When Elex cracked another joke about his “birthday instincts,” S7en forced out a laugh, even though his ribs ached from the effort.

And when a sneeze built out of nowhere, sharp and relentless, he bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting, forcing it back, forcing his breath to even out before it could betray him.

It was fine.

He could do this.

And then—

Elex threw an arm around his shoulders, dragging him closer, leaning some of his weight into him in that effortless, careless way he always did.

S7en felt his legs nearly give out beneath him.

It was only for a second. A brief, involuntary dip in his balance that he corrected just in time, locking his muscles in place before he could actually collapse.

Elex didn’t notice.

Because of course he didn’t.

He just kept talking, laughing, existing, completely unaware that the world around S7en had started to tilt dangerously again.

That the sounds of the arcade were beginning to blur into a low, distant hum.

That every inhale was tighter, shallower, harder to take in.

That S7en, for the first time all day, wasn’t sure if he could keep this up.

A single thought forced its way through the haze.

You’re not gonna make it to the party.

The arcade was a neon-lit blur, the pounding music and overlapping voices slamming into his skull like a hammer to glass. His fever had reached new, unbearable heights, making the room feel hot and cold all at once, the flashing lights too bright, the noise too much.

And still—he kept moving.

Elex was having the time of his life, completely in his element, button-mashing through some fighting game like it was a life-or-death battle. S7en barely processed what was happening, just stood there, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, rocking slightly on his heels to keep himself upright.

The floor tilted beneath him again, nausea coiling tight in his stomach.

Just a little longer.

Just a little—

“Dude, you’re terrible at this,” Elex announced, nudging him toward the machine. “Come on, you gotta play at least once. Birthday rules.”

S7en knew if he sat down, he wasn’t getting back up.

But Elex was staring at him now, actually looking at him, and S7en had to move, had to do something, had to make sure Elex didn’t catch on.

So he shrugged, smirked through the absolute exhaustion dragging at his limbs, and picked up the controller.

The match was a disaster.

His hands were too shaky, his reflexes too slow, but somehow—somehow—he made it through without drawing too much attention.

By the time they left the arcade, the sun had begun to set, and the cool air should have felt refreshing. Instead, it only made his fever chills worse.

S7en barely made it through the door before he was shrugging off his hoodie, the fabric sticking to his overheated skin. His t-shirt underneath was just as bad, suffocating, but Elex was already grabbing beers from the fridge, completely unaware of the absolute train wreck standing behind him.

Elex tossed one over without looking.

“Happy birthday to me,” he announced, cracking his open. “Now drink, coward.”

S7en caught the can out of reflex, but the thought of alcohol sent an immediate wave of nausea rolling through him. He hesitated, fingers tightening around the cold metal, trying to psych himself up.

If he refused, Elex would notice.

So he lifted it, took a sip—

And nearly gagged.

The second the liquid hit his throat, his stomach flipped violently, his body rejecting it on instinct. He swallowed it down, forcing his expression to stay neutral, relaxed, normal, but the warmth rising in his throat told a different story.

Fuck.

The carbonation burned going down, only agitating his raw, sore throat further. He barely contained a cough, throat clenching as he forced himself to lower the can casually, like nothing was wrong.

Mercifully, Elex had already turned away, completely distracted by his phone buzzing on the counter.

“Rex?” he muttered, before picking up.

S7en exhaled silently, relief cutting through the fever haze.

“Yo, what’s up?” Elex answered, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he grabbed his keys.

S7en barely processed the conversation, his focus slipping in and out as Elex and Rexar started talking about car problems, something about the transmission, something about a weird noise.

Then, finally—finally—Elex headed for the door.

“I’m gonna check my car while I talk him through this,” he said, already halfway outside. “Don’t drink all my beer while I’m gone.”

S7en barely managed a smirk, lifting the can in mock cheers as the door swung shut.

The second the lock clicked, his whole body gave up.

The first cough was immediate, tearing through his chest with enough force to make him double over against the counter. The sound crashed through the empty kitchen, harsh and unrestrained, his body finally allowed to react after an entire day of suppression.

Then another. And another.

It was unstoppable now, his body making up for all the times he’d held it back, a brutal mix of hacking, gasping coughs and desperate, shuddering sneezes.

"Hh—hhAHH’Tschh! Hhh—! HhhAHH—! HAHDT’tchhhiew!! Hhh! AHHDT’tschhhiu!!"

His body jerked forward with each one, raw, painful, messy—his breath barely catching before another slammed into him. His hand scrambled blindly for his phone, barely able to see through fever-glazed eyes as he pulled up his contact list.

The party. The guests. He needed to check the plans.

He hit the first name.

Freya.

Her face appeared on screen, and the second the call connected, she took one look at him and frowned.

"Geezus, S7en. You look like death.”

S7en sniffled hard, rubbing at his nose with his wrist, attempting to smirk, but it came out more like a grimace.

“Damn, angel, don’t hold back,” he rasped.

Freya narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Are you seriously still running this party?"

"Obviously."

"You can barely hold your damn phone up."

S7en rolled his eyes, regretted it immediately when the movement made his head swim. "I’m good."

Freya looked like she wanted to reach through the screen and shake him, but before she could argue, another rapid-fire sneezing fit tore through him, leaving him breathless and hunched forward over the counter.

"Hhh! HAH—hhAHDT'shhiiew!! hHh—! HhHPTT’tchhiEW!! hh—! HAHHDT’tchhIEEW!!”

Freya just stared.

Then—flatly: “Uh-huh. Sure. You sound great.”

S7en groaned, sniffling thickly as he waved her off.

"Look, just—are we still good for eight? I don’t have time for a lecture.”

She sighed, clearly not thrilled, but nodded. "Yeah. Everything’s set."

"Good. See you then."

And with that, he ended the call before she could press him further.

Next.

Kriia picked up on the second ring.

And just like Freya, she took one look at him and immediately frowned.

"Yo. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Evening to you, too," he muttered, sniffling into his sleeve.

"You look like you lost a fight. With, like. A bus."

S7en snorted, regretted it instantly as another cough tore through his chest, sending a sharp, tearing pain through his ribs.

Kriia’s expression shifted, concern settling in. "Dude. Are you sure you should be doing this?"

S7en waved her off before she could start, ignoring the way his vision blurred at the edges.

"It’s Elex’s birthday. I’m not ruining it.”

Kriia exhaled slowly, like she was debating whether to fight him on this. But in the end, she just muttered, "Your funeral, man," before confirming the plans.

S7en ended the call and dropped his phone onto the counter, fingers digging into the surface as another wave of dizziness hit.

The door clicked open again.

Shit.

His body snapped upright on instinct, throat still burning, lungs still raw, but Elex was already stepping inside, phone tucked away, beer still in hand.

"Apparently Rex’s transmission’s fucked," he muttered, completely unaware of what had just happened.

S7en forced a half-smirk, voice barely above a whisper.

"Tough break."

Elex flopped onto the couch.

"Whatever. Commute’s gonna be shit, though."

S7en swallowed hard, ignoring the fire in his chest.

"Yeah," he murmured.

Everything was too hot, too loud, too sharp at the edges. His body was dragging, fever weighing him down like cement blocks strapped to his limbs, but the worst part was his head. It was pounding relentlessly, a deep, throbbing ache that had settled right behind his eyes, making his vision swim every time he moved too fast.

And yet—he still almost forgot the damn restaurant reservations.

It wasn’t until Elex, now two beers deep, kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and stretched like he had no plans to move for the rest of the night that it finally hit him.

Shit.

"Alright, get up," S7en said, standing way too fast. The floor tilted. He gritted his teeth, planted his feet, forced himself to stay upright. "We got dinner reservations."

Elex blinked at him, caught mid-yawn. "Wait—what?"

S7en sighed, rolling his eyes like his head wasn’t spinning in slow, miserable circles. "You really thought I wasn’t taking you out for dinner? What kind of boyfriend would I be?"

That earned him a grin, lazy and smug. "Damn. I really am the best."

S7en snorted. "Uh-huh. Now get your shoes on."

And just like that, the plan was back on track.

As long as S7en didn’t pass out before they got there.

The drive was a blur.

S7en shouldn’t have been driving. He knew that.

His vision swam every time he shifted lanes, his hands felt unsteady on the wheel, and every time he blinked, his fever-hazed brain took just a little too long to process what was in front of him.

But if he let Elex drive, that meant questions. That meant attention. That meant a risk he couldn’t afford to take.

So he forced his fingers to grip the wheel tighter, focused on the road like his life depended on it.

Which, honestly, it probably did.

By the time they pulled into the restaurant parking lot, his knuckles were white from how hard he’d been holding on.

Just a little longer.

Except—when they got inside, it all went to hell.

S7en barely processed what the hostess was saying at first, his fever-glazed brain lagging behind reality.

“…I’m really sorry about the mix-up, but unfortunately, we don’t have a reservation under that name.”

S7en blinked. "…What?"

The hostess winced. "It looks like there was an error in our system, and we’re completely booked for the night."

Elex frowned, looking at S7en. "Didn’t you book this, like, a week ago?"

"Yeah," S7en rasped, throat raw, jaw tightening. He turned back to the hostess, forcing himself to stay calm. "So… what’s the wait time?"

She gave an awkward smile.

"About two hours."

S7en nearly laughed out of sheer exhaustion.

Elex sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Welp. Guess we’re going home, then."

And for the first time all day, luck was on S7en’s side.

Because that was exactly what he needed to happen.

He gave the hostess a half-hearted nod before turning back toward the door, shoulders tense, every muscle aching.

Fine. Home it was.

S7en still should not have been driving.

His head was swimming, the world tilting at the edges, but he was too stubborn, too deep into the lie to stop now.

Elex, meanwhile, was perfectly content, reclining in the passenger seat like he hadn’t a single care in the world. "Honestly, I wasn’t that hungry anyway," he mused. "Good call, though. The universe clearly wants me to have homemade pizza instead."

S7en made a noise that might have been agreement, though it came out more like a weak exhale.

His grip on the wheel was tight, too tight, but he didn’t trust himself to loosen his fingers without them shaking.

Then—a problem.

The congestion that had been building behind his eyes all day shifted suddenly, sending a sharp, burning tickle straight through his sinuses.

His breath hitched violently, the urge to sneeze crashing into him like a tidal wave.

No. Not now. Not while driving.

He swallowed hard, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, clenching his jaw so tightly it hurt. His fingers flexed against the wheel, breath quivering, trying desperately to force it back down.

It wasn’t working.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

His vision blurred, breath stuttering, but just as his body jerked forward involuntarily, he lunged for the volume knob on the radio, cranking it up just in time.

"Hh’NGXT! K’tshhh!—h’NNgch!"

The pressure made his ears ring, his head throb twice as hard, but Elex didn’t even flinch.

"Okay, why the hell is the music so loud now?"

S7en sniffled subtly, shifting in his seat. "Needed to wake myself up."

Elex huffed a laugh. "Damn. Didn’t know dinner cancellation trauma hit you that hard."

S7en forced a smirk, even as his sinuses screamed in protest. "Devastating."

And then, thankfully, mercifully, they pulled into the apartment lot.

The second the car was in park, S7en let go of the wheel like it had burned him. His fingers were stiff, locked from how tightly he’d been gripping it the whole drive.

Elex stretched, groaning dramatically. "Man, what a weird-ass birthday. Hopefully, the universe has one more surprise left for me."

Yeah.

You have no idea.

S7en forced himself to stand, lungs protesting, vision blurring dangerously for just a moment.

Almost there.

He just had to get inside.

Just a few more steps.

Just a little—

His breath hitched again, and he clenched his jaw, swallowing it down.

Not yet.

Not until he was alone.

S7en barely made it through the door before chaos erupted.

“SURPRISE!”

The apartment exploded with noise—cheering, shouting, laughter—all blending into one deafening wall of sound.

Elex’s reaction was instantaneous.

His fists shot up, body twisting instinctively, already halfway through swinging on whoever had dared to startle him.

For a split second, S7en had a horrifying vision of Freya or Kriia getting decked in the face, but just as Elex’s arm tensed, realization hit.

His narrowed eyes scanned the room, taking in the decorations, the crowd of friends, the drinks already in waiting hands.

Then—he turned to S7en.

That stupid, crooked grin stretched across his face, all sharp teeth and amusement, his previous fight mode already forgotten.

“You little shit,” he muttered, clapping a heavy hand on S7en’s shoulder, shaking him a little. “You actually got me.”

S7en barely held back a grimace at the sudden contact, his body thrumming with exhaustion, but he forced himself to grin through it.

“Told you your birthday instincts were trash,” he rasped, barely audible over the noise.

Elex laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah—okay, you win.”

The moment should have felt like victory.

And in a way, it did.

S7en had done it. The party had come together exactly how he planned, every detail falling into place just as he had imagined.

He had made it.

But as the music turned up, as drinks started passing between hands, as people settled into the celebration, S7en realized—

He still had to survive the rest of the night...

By the time everyone had arrived, the apartment was a perfect mix of chaos and celebration.

Music blasted. Drinks flowed. Elex was in his element, soaking up the attention, grinning like an idiot as his friends hyped him up.

S7en stayed near the edges, tucked into the background, letting the night move around him.

Everything felt far away, like he was watching the party from the other side of a glass wall. The fever had dragged him into a dreamlike haze, every noise muffled, every movement just slightly out of sync.

Still, he could see Elex—laughing, teasing, play-fighting with Rexar over some inside joke about "Toad Biscuit" merch.

The night blurred around him—colors bleeding together, laughter twisting into an indistinct hum, the weight of the room pressing down too heavy, too hot, too much.

S7en had spent the entire day pushing forward, ignoring the way his body was crumbling beneath him.

This was the last thing.

Just one more step.

One more task.

Someone called for cake.

The words barely registered, muffled beneath the fever’s grip, but his body moved on instinct.

S7en stepped toward the table, striking a match with trembling fingers.

The tiny flicker of fire blurred before his eyes, swaying unnaturally, and it took him a second too long to realize—it wasn’t the flame that was moving.

It was him.

The floor lurched beneath him like the ground had been ripped out from under his feet.

His chest tightened—seized—refused to expand.

A sharp, deafening ringing filled his ears.

His vision tilted violently, everything twisting into a warped, spinning mess of distorted colors and movement.

Far away—too far away—he could hear Elex’s voice, lighthearted, distracted, still caught up in the conversation, still completely unaware.

S7en tried to step forward—to finish what he started, to keep going, to keep standing—

But his knees buckled.

His breath stuttered dangerously, shallow and weak, his body losing the battle he had forced it to fight all day.

And then—

Elex’s voice sharpened, cut through the fog.

Something in his tone shifted—not joking anymore, not distracted anymore.

Alarm.

Realization.

“Wait—Sven!?”

Elex saw it happening.

But he was too far.

He was on the other side of the room, still surrounded by people, still grinning one second ago, still completely oblivious to just how wrong things were.

Then he turned.

And his stomach dropped.

He saw it—the way S7en swayed violently, the way his fingers slipped, the way his breath hitched in a way that had nothing to do with laughter.

His body was giving out.

Too fast.

Too soon.

Elex moved instantly, shoving through the crowd, but he was too late.

S7en’s body tilted forward, his orange eyes rolling back slightly.

The match slipped from his fingers, flame snuffing out before it even hit the ground.

His legs crumpled.

And before Elex could reach him—before anyone could react—

S7en hit the floor.

S7en drifted somewhere between consciousness and nothingness, floating in the thick, fevered haze of half-awareness. His body felt heavy, his limbs like lead, his chest wrapped in tight, suffocating bands that wouldn’t let him breathe fully.

He could hear voices.

Familiar, but distant—like sound carried through waterlogged fabric, muffled and uneven.

Then, one voice cut through the haze, clear and sharp.

“His blood oxygen was at eighty-one percent when they brought him in.”

That was bad. Even he knew that was bad.

A sigh—low, exasperated, but not surprised.

Elex.

“Geezus fuck,” he muttered, voice strained with something tired, frustrated, guilty.

The other voice—a woman’s—continued speaking, firm but calm, the kind of voice used to dealing with stubborn, repeat offenders.

“He has pretty severe pneumonia," she said, matter-of-fact. "You’re lucky he passed out when he did. If he’d stayed upright much longer, he probably would’ve just stopped breathing entirely.”

S7en didn’t have to see Elex’s face to know exactly what expression he was making.

Jaw clenched.

Hand rubbing over his face.

That rare moment when Elex wasn’t just annoyed, but genuinely upset.

And not at anyone else.

At himself.

S7en could practically hear the weight settle in his voice when he muttered, “…I should’ve noticed.”

The woman—whose voice was familiar in a way that took too much effort to place—sighed through her nose, not unkind, but firm.

"Yeah," she agreed bluntly. "You should have."

A pause.

Then—paper rustling, the sound of something being shifted from one hand to another.

“These are his prescriptions,” she continued. “Antibiotics, steroids, inhalers—we’re trying these this time. Make sure he actually takes them.”

That voice.

The realization hit sluggishly.

ER nurse.

He knew her.

She had been there every time he’d landed himself in this exact same situation.

Enough times to know him by name.

God, that was embarrassing.

Elex sighed again, and S7en could hear the distinct crinkle of the paper bag as he took it from her.

His voice was quieter this time. Tired. Guilty.

“I got it,” he murmured.

Another pause.

Then—her voice softened just slightly.

“Just… be more observant next time, yeah?”

No sharpness now, just gentle warning.

“Could be worse, next time.”

No argument. No defensive retort.

Just the quiet sound of Elex nodding.

S7en wanted to laugh.

If only he had the breath for it.

After a moment, a long, heavy sigh broke through the silence.

Then—the soft creak of a chair being dragged across the tile.

S7en felt more than heard Elex drop into the seat next to his hospital bed, elbows resting on his knees, the weight of exhaustion settling into his frame.

Then came the sound of both hands dragging down his face, a quiet but telling frustration behind it.

S7en almost would’ve gotten away with pretending to still be asleep.

Almost.

Except—his damn ear twitched.

Elex caught it immediately.

"I know you’re awake, dumbass," he muttered, voice low and uncharacteristically gentle.

S7en hesitated.

Then, slowly, he cracked his eyes open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light overhead. The world swam for a moment before settling, and when his vision finally focused, the first thing he saw was Elex watching him.

Worried. Tired. Like he’d just come back from a war he hadn’t even realized he was fighting.

S7en’s ears flattened instinctively in embarrassment, a quiet flicker of shame settling in his chest.

The room was small, sterile, impersonal—the same goddamn hospital he had spent far too much time in over the years.

And the weight of his failure hit him all at once.

This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

A shift in his nose made him suddenly aware of the cannula, delivering pure oxygen to his wasted lungs.

His fingers twitched, reaching up to pull it off, but Elex’s hand was there first—firm but gentle, gripping his forearm.

"Don’t," Elex said softly.

S7en stilled, swallowing hard, ears pinning further against his head.

A beat of silence.

Then, in the same quiet, unusually careful voice, Elex asked,

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

S7en hated how much that question hurt.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Elex. Instead, he dropped his gaze to his lap, claws absently picking at the thin hospital blanket.

"I—" He stopped, voice raw, barely above a whisper. He swallowed, trying again.

"I didn’t want to be the reason your birthday sucked…"

Elex stiffened slightly.

S7en continued, ears still pressed flat, tail curling closer to himself.

"I worked so hard to make it perfect," he muttered, barely breathing the words. "And after everything, we’re still here. Another—" his voice wavered, thick with frustration, "another claustrophobic, shitty little hospital room."

Silence.

S7en braced himself for Elex to be pissed. For the usual snark, sarcasm, maybe even an exasperated rant.

But instead—

Elex sighed, slow and deep, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer than S7en had ever heard it.

"Dude. I don’t give a shit about some stupid party."

S7en blinked, glancing up at him hesitantly.

Elex ran a hand through his messy, dark green hair, shaking his head. "You really think I care about that more than you literally—collapsing in front of me?" His voice wavered slightly, jaw clenching before he forced it back down.

S7en didn't know what to say.

Elex exhaled sharply, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees.

"I should’ve noticed." The words came out quiet, guilty. "I mean, fuck, you looked awful all day. I just—I was too caught up in my own bullshit to pay attention."

S7en shook his head weakly, ears twitching. "Not your fault."

"Not entirely," Elex agreed, mouth quirking slightly. Then, more serious, "But you’ve gotta stop doing this, man."

S7en swallowed, feeling suddenly very small.

"You don’t have to—I don’t know—carry everything yourself," Elex continued, voice softer now, tired but firm. "It’s okay to tap out sometimes. Party or not."

S7en hesitated.

Then—finally—he met Elex’s gaze.

And what he saw there wasn’t annoyance, or frustration, or the usual bullshit banter.

It was genuine concern.

That made something tighten in his chest in a way that had nothing to do with pneumonia.

The corner of Elex’s mouth twitched into something softer, and after a pause, he added,

"By the way, next time you try to fake being fine, maybe don’t fucking pass out in the middle of a party. Kinda ruins the illusion."

Despite himself, despite everything, S7en huffed a weak, breathless laugh.

"Noted."

Elex rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it.

And for the first time all day, S7en finally let himself relax.

The end 🖤

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