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take-it-on-the-run · 10 months ago

Text

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

#wally clark #school spirits #wally clark x reader #milo manheim #wally clark smut #wally clark angst #maddie nears #xavier baxter #simon elroy #rhonda school spirits #zed necrodopolis #zombies 4

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aetherraeys · 3 months ago

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worst behaviour

poly!moonwater x afab!reader ⊹ 2.5k

cw ⟢ smut, mdni 18+, swearing, reader lashes out, signs of burnout, edging, brat taming, bratty!reader, soft!rem, choking, p in v, lowercase intended

summary: the pressure of a work project is making you act out of character and poor regulus receives the brunt of your stress and he simply wont have it.

a/n: so much horny brainrot, writing this when my midterms are two days away....i think i need jail time....not proofread x

it’s been hours.

hours since you sat down at your desk, working tirelessly on your project, eyes straining against blue light of the screen, back hunched over. the backs of your irises burning under the pressure of a mild headache that has been brewing since the morning.

the project wasn’t due for another six days, and yet every single day since you’d been assigned it, you forced yourself to focus on nothing else. the looming pressure of failure and desire for perfection invasively creeping into the forefront of your mind whenever you tried to rest.

and it was having some adverse affects on your, usually, rather pleasant and sweet disposition.

you had been told before that you don’t handle stress well, and that your tongue can get quiet sharp without you realising, but you hadn’t even noticed your scrowl and sour attitude.

or the harsh tone you’d been using with regulus all day.

and he was well aware of the stress you refused to talk about, or even admit to feeling—as silently as possible trying to ease the pressure.

small things throughout the week, both him and remus had been worked to make sure you didn’t overwork yourself like always.

and remus had only popped out to the shops for maybe an hour, picking out ingredients to make you something that might tear you away from your laptop screen.

it was only when regulus had peaked into your shared room for the fifth time that day—just checking in—to see the water he’d left completely untouched. it forced his lips to purse together in mild frustration, but with a small inhale through his nose, he pushed down the desire to reprimand and slipped in through the door.

he was perched on the bed for a few moments before he spoke, voice light and gentle.

“you should drink some water, love,”

you didn’t acknowledge him with more than a mild hum, frown etching onto you face at his presence. its not that you didn’t want him there, but he was surely going to distract you, and in your mind, the faster you were done with this, the better.

even if it did mean being a bit distant.

he heard the way your fingers paused their steady typing when his voice cracked the manicured silence you worked in—resuming after a few moments, and still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave you for another hour in your scrunched position.

“you shouldn’t sit like that, love, you’ll hurt your back,”

regulus could have sworn he saw your eye twitch in the reflection of the screen, and you didn’t mask the small sigh that left you before you spoke, “i’ll be fine, reg.” tone clipped, words abrupt.

there were a few more beats of silence passed before the soft clicking of your fingers filled the room again. he continued to watch you intently—the way you picked at the skin around your nails each time you paused, one corner of your lips slightly reddened from your excessive biting, brows pinched in concentration.

“you haven’t left the room all day—come eat with me,”

he was already standing just beside you, still trying to push down the chiding words and coax you out of the same four walls you’d caged yourself in for the last five fours.

you didn’t even bother responding, but he saw the way your jaw clenched, the way your hands squeezed into small fists over the keyboard before stretching out, tapping a bit harder into the keys. he had to bite down the scoff that built in his throat at your blatant disregard, swallowing his pride—he knew it wasn’t personal, you were stressed, probably hungry and dehydrated—burntout.

raising his hands to your shoulders, his fingers worked lightly into the tense knots that had built in your shoulders, brows just as pinched as yours—in sympathy, “why don’t you take a break?”

it didn’t last long.

almost instantly you were shrugging off his touch, hands coming up to your face, forcibly rubbing over your eyes and browbone as if to will stress away, “please, reg. you’re making me lose my train of thought.” snippy and curt, but regulus could hear the undercutting tone of desperation in your voice.

not once did you spare him even a glace, and with another heavy sigh you tried to hone your attention in on your work, pushing down the simmering irritation that was burning in your chest.

couldn’t he just let you be?

let you work in peace?

so you can finish your work, just be done with it.

his lips pursed into a tight line, composing himself with a deep breath, hand hovering over your shoulder for a few moments before he let it rest on the back of the chair. “maybe if you ate something or took a few minutes, amour, you’d be able to—”

your head whipped up to him, eyes glossy in frustration, cutting his words short with a snap,

“could you fuck off for five minutes?!”

regulus’ jaw clicked, his brows arched high on his forehead at your words, and you knew you’d done it.

though that little outburst wasn’t the reason why you were in your current predicament.

lips bitten raw, chest rising and falling in rapid succession, head lolling against the pillow, hair stuck to the sweat that had prickled at your forehead—regulus fucking into you with a meanness that had you screwing your eyes shut.

“…stubborn little thing,” punctuating his breathless words with each unforgiving ram of his hips into yours, forcing the air out of your lungs in choked muffled mewls, teeth forced into the flesh of your lips. and, you were—stubborn. because you could have easily avoided this if you’d just apologised like he’d asked you to, but no. instead regulus was steadily working you to another high he was undoubtly going to deny you.

there was surely a darkening patch of wetness on the bed beneath where you were joined, thighs split over his hips, his brows were knit tightly together, chest rising with each puff of air he sucked in—he was grinning down at you dangerously now. tongue darting out to wet his lips—”cat got your tongue now, amour?”

you squirmed in his hold, hips bucking into, then away from the rummaging thrusts he pushed into you, shaking your head into the pillow as your eyes squeezed together even tighter.

“hmmm, g’na let me hear you, then?”

regulus was only met with another hushed cry, smothered by your teeth’s long lasting refuge into your bottom lip and more mindless shakes of your head. your wrists were crossed over your abdomen, held together by the bruising grip of his hands—using you as leverage to fuck into you harsher, producing a lewd squelch from between you.

“aww, my girl doesn’t wanna talk to me?” he was goading, forcing more bullying thrusts up into your plush walls, legs stuttering and trembling where they bracketed his hips, “that’s okay, amour, my girl can have whatever she—wants,” runting into you explicitly mean, adjusting his grip on your wrists.

watching with a leering smirk as your eyes rolled back in your head, lips parting to release a singular honeyed whine, before immediately worrying shut. and regulus noticed it, narrowing his eyes, and bucking up in that same manner—earning him another cry, and a wolfish grin split onto his face.

he could feel it, the way you clenched and pulsed around him, each time his pressed into that spot. “thaat’s more like it, amour, nice and loud for me,” brows furrowing in concentration, working the coil that rested in the pits of your stomach tighter and tighter.

your blood was ringing in ears, spine arching at the pleasure, heat spreading invasively under you skin—trying to focus on anything other than the delicious stretch that sparked through you with each thrust. but it felt like all senses except for touch, had been dulled.

so much so, that you didn’t notice the soft click of your bedroom door when it shut behind remus.

“well, well, well,” he drawled, immediately settling on the bed next you, eyes dark with interest, “couldn’t wait an hour before you started the fun, reg?”

you just barely found the strength to let your eyes open just a slither, head rolling to find remus just inches away from you—smirk etched onto his face in amusement as your gasping whines filled his ears. “haah—not even. this brat couldn’t behave for the hour you were gone,”

mouth parting, your protests falling dead on your lips, only able to shake your head deliriously as your bucked your hips into regulus, loud mewls leaving as you got dangerously close to the edge. gaze still trained on remus, as he hummed in acknowledgement—bringing his hand to brush the hairs that stuck to your face away. “oooo, what d’you do, pet?” cooing in a low tone, breath fanning over your cheek.

you couldn’t focus on his words even if your tried, eyes screwing shut as the coil in your stomach threatened to snap, walls fluttering frantically around regulus, forcing a groan from his lips as he quickly reeling all the way out, his tip just barely kissing your glossy folds, watching as you clenched around nothing.

speaking breathlessly over your frustrated cries, “was just trying to take care of her—she told me to fuck off,” releasing one grip over your wrists, pushing teasingly against your slit before bullying his way back into your core, bottoming out in one languid thrust, his breath catching in his throat as he continue, “too, ngh—too stubborn to say sorry,”

regulus wasted no time in working you back up, even as you whined in protest, looking over to remus with pleading eyes as he ground his hips harshly into yours—adding just the right amount of pressure to leave you leaking and gushing around him.

remus was still stroking your head, eyes soft when they met yours.

but his lips split into a deceivingly innocent smirk as he spoke, “don’t look at me, dove, you know what you have to do,”

your eyes were glossy when you squeezed them shut, a broken cry of, “hngh—rem,” leaving your lips, and you could hear the low snicker that left him as you turned away. regulus shifted, using all his weight to pressing into you harder, and the change in angle made you head spin, forcing wanton babbles out as you shook your head restlessly.

working you up again, too fast, and you could barely think straight, let alone breath—drinking in greedy gasps of air, fruitlessly trying to squirm away each heavy plow of his hips. you were clamping down around him, the pressure of your walls had regulus’ jaw slacking—words littered with hoarse groans, “f-fuck, close already, amour?”

you couldn’t respond, not when remus’ voice was in your ears, filling the blank space in your brain with his low and honeyed tone, lips just carressing the shell of your ear.

“hmm, don’t you wanna cum, pet? so stubborn, gonna make reggie fuck it out of you?”

it was all too much, the rough drag of regulus filling you up, the way one of remus’ hands wandered over your skin, hitching you leg to give regulus more room, or how he nipped at you jaw the second your neck craned away and stretched as your back arched—you could almost taste your high, so close your hips trembled and vision blurred.

and then nothing.

empty.

regulus had pulled away with a sharp hiss, just when you were about to teeter over the edge, body shuddering against the mattress, tears of frustration welling in your eyes.

remus wasn’t looking at you anymore, gaze fixed on regulus as he sucked in a harsh breath, “merlin, reg, almost gave her a ruined one,”

he was already rocking into you after a few moments, hissing when as your walls sucked him in desperately—the wet slick sound mixing with your whines and whimpers once again. remus was too soft, taking pity on you ever so slightly—he was going to make you break.

bringing his hand gently over your throat, not squeezing, just resting, and you drew in a sharp inhale at the contact, brows curving into a deeper arch with each jolt of pleasure that ran through you.

“you want me to squeeze, love?”

your hands clenched into a tight fist, wiling your fast approaching high away, eyes rolling to the depths of your skull when regulus leaning into you, reeling his hips back before sinking all the way in, again and again and again into your poor swollen lips. you weren’t even sure you were in the room anymore, mind hazy with the endless onslaugh pleasure, nerve endings set alight—nodding deliriously at his words.

“yeah? be a good girl and break for me—give reggie what he wants,”

a almost gutteral groan left regulus at the first spasm of your walls around him, hips stuttering as your incoherent cries of half-formed thoughts, “mmphf, fuck—pleasepleaseplease, reggie—” filled his ears.

hips chanting up into his to meet each thrust, eyes rolling into a tight squeeze, forcing tears out of the corners when you heard his voice, almost just as wrecked as yours, “hngh—not enough, amour—wanna hear you say it,”

you were practically melting into the mattress, body shivering with each push push push, walls were clinging to him so tight he almost struggled to pull away.

one testing press of remus hand around your neck, you caved—babbling urgent sobbing strings of, “m’sorry—hck, reg—gna be good, pleaseplease, m’sorry,”

dragging in deep breaths between words with every even deeper stroke he was planting on you, and when remus’ hand finally squeezed deliciously around your throat, you body went ridgid—high washing over you in unforgiving waves, vision spotting, breath hitching as regulus praise reached your ears.

“thaaat’s it, amour—cum f’me,”

the wet sounds of skin on skin becoming more and more languid before his head presses into your neck, cheeks flush against remus’ hand, strangled moans muffled by the press of his lips to your skin as he spilled inside you, “—mmphf, s-so good—fuck,”

jaw slacking as the aftershocks struck through, remus ever so gently peeling his hand away from your neck, thumbs brushing over the tops of your flushed cheekbones, as your shuddered coming down from high, blissful hums passing into the air from your lips.

body boneless as regulus pressed small delicate kisses to your skin, voice just above a whisper, more breath than words—”you okay, amour—not too much?” you just managed the smallest of nods before you melted into his touch, the tempting lull of sleep too strong to deny.

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always-just-red · 2 months ago

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hii! i have a request!

the mc/reader has a pet cat and adores cats so rafayel will have to accept that his beloved bride has a furry little companion bc them and the cat are a 2 for 1 deal and the cat is basically their baby and there’ll alway probably be a cat in the home forever

ty!! adore ur writing!

Aww thank you anon!! As a devoted cat-person, I'm THRILLED to finally be sharing my vision of cat-dad Raf. 🙂‍↕️ This fic felt so personal in the end, I swear I can't write Raf without it accidentally becoming this window into all the intimacy I want but don't have 😭 Anyway!!! Dedicating this to my babies, Floof and Velcro!

Cat-Sitting

Rafayel x Reader 🎨

Summary: Was it really a good idea to leave Rafayel and your cat unsupervised?

Genre: Fluff + humour

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, established relationship

| Word count: 2.5k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Captain Jenna indicates the large, glass monitor behind her— a finger dragging across it, zooming in on a smaller section of the virtual map. “There’s been an insurgence of Wanderer activity here, and—” another swipe of her finger— “here, so we’ll be increasing patrols in these districts. While public safety remains the priority, we should be investigating any unusual fluctuations of…”

You’re so, so tired. Your chin is resting on your hand and your leader’s briefing is starting to sound like a bedtime story. Sat beside you, Xavier is looking similarly uninspired. The blue of his eyes is glazing over. His eyelids are drooping. When he blinks, it’s slow and unfocused.

Your phone buzzes and it feels like you’ve been doused in cold water; your heart jumps. Glancing around, thankfully no-one but Xavier noticed. His gaze flits over to you with lazy interest as you reach into your pocket, checking your phone under the table. It’s a text from Rafayel: your cat is broken??

You frown, ever so slightly. Before your mind has any time to run away with that ominous message, another notification comes through:

[Silly fish <3 has sent an image]

With one more furtive check that no-one’s watching, you tap at the screen, opening up your messages. You squint down at the photo. It’s your cat, perched on the arm of your sofa. She looks perfectly content, and decidedly unbroken.

Rafayel texts: it had legs before, right?

Again: where

And again: where are they???

You have to consciously hold back your smile. Your cat’s legs are tucked away underneath her; you can’t see them in the photo. ‘Loaf’, you surreptitiously text back.

Rafayel responds: ???????????

You close your phone as more messages come through. You don’t have to read them to know it’s the same emoji, over and over: artsy birb, lying in a puddle of tears. You’ve silenced your phone so it no longer buzzes. Jenna is drawing patrol routes on her map. Xavier leans over to you, whispering: “How’s the first-time cat-sitter?”

Without saying a word, you move your phone under the table so he can sneak a peek at it. There are now twenty-three unread messages. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

Xavier chuckles under his breath, and this time, you can’t help but smile. Jenna turns, locking both of you in a steely-grey stare. Xavier gives her a grin, and you give her a double thumbs-up. With a sigh, she goes back to her presentation.

…

“So I said, ‘what am I supposed to do? Not kill the Wanderer? Y’know, the Wanderer tearing its way through a street full of people— just because it’s a tiiiiny bit different than normal?’ And get this! He says, ‘yes.’ He says, ‘you should have taken some time to study it, brought me data and samples.’ Can you believe that?”

You laugh quietly as you finish up typing your latest report. You can believe that, actually. If a Wanderer broke in through the window of this building right here, right now, you’re pretty sure Nero would be sat with a clipboard, taking notes. “C’mon, what did you expect?”

“Uh… some empathy, maybe?” your colleague frowns.

“Yeah, that’ll be the day.” Your phone rings in your pocket, and you whip it out with business-like efficiency. You’re on autopilot. “Hello?” you ask, opening up the next set of gloriously exciting blank text boxes on your screen.

“Cutie!”

It’s basically a yell. You narrow your eyes at your monitor, inputting your name, your badge number. “Raf,” you return apathetically. “What’s up?”

“Code red. Code red!”

“Mmhmm?” You don’t know what that means.

“You have to come home. Right now. It’s an emergency!”

“Is it, though?” Your keyboard clacks, only stopping when you have to check today’s date before filling it out on your form.

“Are you even listening? I said code red. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Yup! Gold star for Rafayel.”

“Seriously?! I’m trying to tell you that your precious little angel’s in trouble.”

Was that supposed to be your voice? You don’t sound like that. “I’m sorry you’re in trouble, Raf.”

“No!” he squeaks. “Not me! The— oh for the love of the ocean, the lobsters, the sharks and the crabs— can you just get here? Please?!”

For the love of all of those things, hmm? You chuckle. “Okay, okay. I’m on my way. Hang in there. Okay, angel? Little angel fishie. Ooh! Angelfish!”

There’s silence from the other end. “…You done?”

You hit enter on your keyboard. “Please, we both know you’re blushing right now.”

…

You stand at the door of your apartment— home early from work, courtesy of the old ‘family emergency!’ card. It’s sort of nice, honestly; you can’t remember the last time you got to play it. Family emergency… You think of you and Rafayel, your little cat, and Reddie. There’s a warm feeling in your heart as you open the door.

That feeling is gone when Rafayel snatches you by your arm.

“Quick,” he says, dragging you towards the lounge, “quick, quick, quick!”

No ‘welcome home’ kiss means something’s wrong. Actually wrong. Your bag tumbles from your shoulder; you have to skirt around the coffee table to keep from crashing into it. “Whoa,” you mumble, “Raf, slow down. What happened? Tell me what happened.”

“Look!”

At last, your arm is released. Your heart is in your throat as you do look, and—

You’ve got to be kidding.

Your cat has moved from the arm of the couch, but she didn’t make it far. She’s snuggled up like an adorable croissant— one paw over her face. You realise, fairly quickly, that the ‘emergency’ lies in what she’s found a nest in: a crumpled heap with a criss-cross pattern. Cream, navy, and red wool, all squished up beneath her. It’s Rafayel’s cardigan.

“Aww!” you coo.

“Aww?” Rafayel echoes. “That’s all you have to say— aww?”

You’re not listening. You crouch down beside the couch, leaning in close. “Hi baby,” you coo again, tickling at your cat’s paw gently. She lifts it, one eye half-opening. You smile, and the eye widens more— filling with your reflection. “Has the big, bad fishie been bullying you today?”

She makes a tiny chirp as she stretches her front legs.

“That’s a lie!” Rafayel snaps.

“Oh no!” you sympathise— pointedly not with the man behind you. “What did he do, huh? This is a safe space. You can tell me.”

Both of your cat’s eyes are open now, still heavy with sleep. She speaks back to you: matching your tone with a soft-spoken meow.

“I see,” you tut, nodding. “And then what?”

She meows again. You gasp.

Suddenly, Rafayel is on his knees beside you, jabbing a finger towards her face. “You traitor! We had a deal.”

Your cat stares at the finger. Yawns— briefly an eldritch horror: all sharp, shining teeth— before curling a paw over it. Rafayel goes still. His eyes shine with the quiet panic you see when you brush a hair away from his forehead, or sweep a tear from his cheek with your thumb. It’s so soft; he doesn’t know what to do with it. You smile knowingly. He sees you and clears his throat, his hand slinking back.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, “I have an idea. Lemme just…”

He pinches an edge of the cardigan. “What’re you doing?” you ask.

“You ever seen that magic trick? With the tablecloth? I’ve just gotta…”

“No!”

He’s biting back a grin as he adds: “But if I’m fast enough—”

“No, Raf!” you giggle as you intercept him. He laughs in a small, genuine way too, his hands shooting back to the cardigan every time you manage to wrestle them off of it. You have to pry at his fingers. Catch them before he sends your cat on an unscheduled flight across your apartment.

Inches away, she watches your scrabbling hands, completely unperturbed. When Rafayel gives up— his fingers relaxing in their tangle with yours, his laughter dwindling— she blinks drowsily.

Time feels slower, and somehow forgiving. You lay your head down on the sofa. “Do you really want your cardigan back?” you murmur, because your cat is asleep again.

Rafayel slumps, mirroring you as he pulls your hand close to his lips. “Nah.” His voice is like warm, orange light, and he kisses the tip of your forefinger. “It’s okay. What’s mine is yours, cutie. And what’s yours is—” he falters, looking towards the bundle of fur beside you.

You hum appreciatively, letting him plant one, two more kisses before you pull your hand away. “Wait here,” you breathe, pushing yourself back up onto your feet.

One expedition to the kitchen later, you return with a small bag of treats. You find your previous seat on the floor, then reach into the bag— pulling out a small, fish-shaped biscuit. “Look,” you chuckle, wiggling it through the air like it’s swimming, “it’s you.”

“Ha, ha.” Rafayel rolls his eyes, cheek still squished against the couch.

He needs more convincing, so you make the fish swim in his direction, stopping just short of his nose. It floats patiently before him, persisting even when his face wrinkles. You wiggle it one way. Then the other. This earns you another eyeroll, but he does at least smile.

You flick the fish over to your cat. She’s awake in an instant, mouth snatching it up: teeth splintering it with a crack. You swear you see the colour leave Rafayel’s face. You hand him the bag of treats, and with a pout, he starts to set up a trail of them: leading across the sofa. There’s a mournful sigh for each he lays down. Even the odd, whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Give it a rest, will you?” you huff. “I watched you eat an entire seafood platter last night.”

He narrows his eyes at you, holding your gaze as he puts the next treat down deliberately slowly. Behind him, your cat has stood, stretched, and is now pottering along, crunching away without a care in the world. Rafayel reaches for his cardigan, giving it a shake before threading his arms through the sleeves.

When the crunching stops, he turns— another treat caught between two of his fingers. Your cat takes it carefully, delicately, and she chirps as those same fingers tickle the top of her head. A contented purr underscores the moment. Rafayel smiles as he plays with her ears.

Then he catches you watching him, your eyebrow raised. “What?” he asks self-consciously.

You scoff. “Code red my ass.”

…

Rafayel doesn’t really know when you fell asleep.

Your head is on his shoulder, and his pencil moves mindfully slowly: a quiet scratch, scratch as it waltzes over his sketchbook. The room has gone dark. Tangerine light has stopped spilling from the windows, and he can’t reach any light switch, so he settles for the bleedings of the TV. Cool blues. Pale greens. The space around him flickers, and there are voices, too: broadcasters, droning on.

He hears it, even though he’s trying not to. “Another Wanderer attack”, they report. “Indicative of a recent, worrying insurgence of incidents.” Updated statistics. Civilian casualties. Hunter casualties.

Rafayel’s pencil has stopped. After a moment, he sighs— pressing a kiss to the top of your head you don’t feel, and will never know the weight of. He forces himself to look back down. Draw the shapes and the lines of the things that distract him from that feeling in his chest.

Someone is watching him.

His gaze wanders up, finding eyes across the room. Your cat is studying him from afar, sat with her tail curled neatly around her paws. He pokes his tongue out at her. She chirps back. He returns to his sketches, and half a minute later, she lands on the arm of the couch beside him, having pounced gracefully up. She doesn’t deserve any more of his attention. His pencil moves up and down, up and down, and she’s transfixed by the end of it. She lifts a paw, and—

“Nuh uh,” Rafayel warns, his eyes still on the page.

The paw waits. Rafayel chuckles. He raises the pencil, waggling it in the air between them, and her pupils go wide as she bats at it. With one sweep, she brings it closer to her mouth— bites down. Crunch.

Rafayel tuts: “Monster.”

Thankfully, she’s soon bored by the game. She sits, watching him expectantly, like he must have another one lined up for her. He doesn’t, so he turns his sketchbook towards her instead.

“What d’you think, little co-conspirator?”

The page is full of sketches, mostly of you. There’s one of you sat at your kitchen island, sipping some tea and looking like you wished you were back in bed; your hair was a mess. There’s also Reddie: soft, flowy lines and shimmering, monochrome scales. In one corner, your cat is sleeping with her legs tucked underneath her. ‘Loaf’ he’s written next to it, with a crude, tiny sketch of some bread.

Your cat isn’t looking; she’s staring past the page, at the real you. With a half-formed meow, she leaps onto his legs, making a beeline for yours. “Nope!” he says, blocking her path with the sketchbook. “Sorry, kitty, but our brave hunter needs to rest.”

She tries to get past him, but for her every movement, his sketchbook moves too: always one step ahead. With another, more indignant meow, she starts to tread circles on his lap. Then she kneads at his leg, claws sinking in. “Monster,” he whispers again, drawing air through his teeth. “Relax, will you? Jeez.”

His thighs are still being treated like pincushions, so he lifts her gently, his other hand reaching behind him. He knows what she wants. His cardigan is draped over the back of the sofa, and he drags it onto his lap—straightening it out as he grumbles, “this is extortion, you know.”

The cat is lowered back down, and she curls up in the wool of his cardigan, like that had always been the plan. A purr begins to rumble, deepening as Rafayel pets at her head, running fingers— aching from sketching— through the warmth of her fur. Her eyes are sleepy. Rafayel yawns, his head drooping to rest against yours.

His fingers move mindlessly, enjoying the softness while the television talks of tragedy, and he doesn’t notice.

#🖋rach is actually writing #rafayel x reader #rafayel #love and deepspace #lads rafayel #lnds rafayel #l&ds rafayel #qi yu #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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ryes-brownies08 · 2 months ago

Text

feature me [jay x male reader]

"You really killed it out there." Jay spoke, almost taunting. "You really think so?" You asked, reciprocating his energy. "I know so. Because I watching the entire time."

NSFW - If you're a minor, i literally do not care. Just dont let ur mom catch u or whatever 🤷‍♂️

Requested by: Anonymous

˙⋆✮ genre: SMUT ˙⋆✮ roles: top! jay, bttm! mreader ˙⋆✮ word count: 3.7k words ˙⋆✮ inspo: feature me - flo

SYNOPSIS: Jay and M/n. Two fierce performers in their respective categories, and a surprisingly good fit for one another. Their label knew what they were doing when they arranged for the two to perform a cover song together. What the two musicians hadn't known, though, was how attracted they'd be to each other, and how they weren't just impressed with one another's talents. As Jay and M/n entertained their mutual attraction, they found themselves caught in a night they'd never forget.

WARNINGS + TAGS: flirting, music industry, rough unprotected sex, swearing, insensitive at times, guitarist jay, fingering, intense sex, tension ;))), depictions of any irl character here does not reflect who they are irl this work is purely fictional, etc

The stage is set. The room holds its breath with anticipation. You stand in the middle of darkness as you stare out into the audience of the acoustic lounge you're in. You can see them, but they can't see you.

It's somehow nerve-wracking given you've performed in a lot of places for a lot of different people before. Maybe it’s different now because this acoustic lounge had pretty skilled instrumentalists in it, and you never really performed with a live band before. That means you have to match their performance with the only tool you have, your voice.

Then it hits. The kick and closed hi-hat. The signature sound of the song you were covering, aside from the notable guitar; ‘Feature Me’ by FLO.

The lights fade in, and you barely manage a 'singer-model expression' before it gets illuminated. The hi-hats of the intro shuffle complexly, matching the rhythm of your tense heartbeat. God, this live set makes you so nervous. That didn't matter now, it was time to do what your fans loved best; sing and move your body. After all, you know that this performance, much like any other, would definitely be recorded and posted.

Your makeup glistened as the light rose, reminding you of your look. A light streak of blue and white glitter, spread across either cheekbone like glossy freckles. Silver piercings in your ears, small but intricate - you can't remember them too well. Light blue denim jeans, well-fit at the thighs and gradually loosening at the calves, paired with a sleeveless denim vest of the same color, buttoned up except for the top button, showing off your collarbone.

Your arms were also out, and while they weren't built at all, sometimes your biceps flexed, and it felt like the stylists made the right choice. Maybe that dreadful gym was proving to pay off more than you thought.

You’re set up for success, and can't make this all for nothing.

You hold the mic stand firmly as you do your best to look confident. You’ve got to sing your first line as the intro comes to an end. "Not what I usually do, but I've been peeping you." You sing. Not bad, albeit a bit breathy for how you'd prefer to sound.

"I'm tryna play it cool but it's too much, yeah." You follow, your free hand slithering up to your collarbone. Still getting used to everything, you wonder if that move was too much. Your hands weren't really free in your other performances, always busy with a handheld mic or doing a dance, so you thought to pull that sensual move.

"Got me breaking the rules; there ain't no second to." You take a breath, a sharp inhale which could have been avoided if you managed your breath better. "He's my forbidden fruit, yeah." You do a good job at the latter half, your tone rich with vibrato.

Then, the bass kicks in, and an ambient light from behind you casts a warm, orange glow on your (S/c) skin. The hall is acoustic and cozy, but quite modernized as well, and it excites you. The keyboardist plays a vibey tune, followed by the guitarist playing the signature sound of the amorous, seductive R&B anthem. What surprises you though, was the electric take on the originally acoustic guitar. It made everything more sensual and interesting.

You take the mic from the stand, and walk around slowly, the crowd lightly cheering as you become comfortable. You gotta move and give this performance some flavour; you were always about adding a bit of zest into the things you did, which made you as authentic as you were.

A nod from the drummer, a grin from the keyboardist, but one instrumentalist in particular catches your eye. The guitarist. Amongst them all, he's someone you know. Not personally, but you're a pretty big fan of. You've liked almost every post of his, despite having a load more followers than him.

Park Jongseong. Or better known as the attractive guitarist Jay. Beautiful and talented, seductive by just doing his thing. He was an actualisation of a very interesting concept, his visual sleek, polished and upper-class, whilst his aesthetic and marketing was edgy, sexualised and so seductively masculine.

He catches you looking at him, and you see that look in his eye. Slender and strapping. He’s biting his lip in concentration, his eyebrows knit tightly together as he focuses on his guitar. But something about that gaze feels partially reciprocal, with undertones of tension. That’s the sexy look you’ve been dying to see up close – as a fan, all you’ve done so far is fantasize about him in ways not appropriate for everyday conversation.

You change your trajectory and strut up to him, as you sing the lines of the chorus, now being able to balance your voice against the volume of the live band. "Set the scene and feature me. Touch on me, get on your knees. I'll take the lead." You smile as the audience around you warms up with your performance. He plays the guitar, bopping his head as he vibes to the beat.

You approach him, and the two of you are standing before each other. You're testing the waters, and it doesn't seem like he minds at all. The crowd cheers; loud enough to be appreciative and quiet enough to be respectful of your show.

To look casual, you swagger over to the other band members, trying not to look hyperfixated over Jay. But it's clear that when you waltz over to them, it's more supportive than when you and Jay stand before each other. It's like pitting a growing flame against a gentle daisy; intense tension against a friendly, platonic support.

As you reach the bridge and the song gets closer to its end, you find yourself drawn back to the centre stage. You roll your body just a little, and the crowd loves it. You've performed expertly, and subtly but effectively seductively.

"Are you receiving the signs? I'm speaking on my mind." You sing, and it comes out like velvet and thunder; you're not just singing, you're inviting him. And when you look back at him, he's biting his lips and shredding that guitar. He's definitely not minding the signs.

"I just want you to come through. I've already set the mood; I'll tell you what to do to me, yeah, yeah." You sing, hitting the high note of the song. Grand and demanding in it's tone - rich yet sultry enough, wavering healthily with vibrato.

The crowd erupts in a full blown cheer, some hands in the air, some jaws knocked right open, and unseen tongues tied for sure. You can see the instrumentalists truly feel it from your peripherals, appreciative of your high note as they continue to do their thing. But again, you come back to Jay.

In a surge of confidence, you place a hand on Jay's free shoulder, gyrating your hips slowly as you wink at him, and he looks at you with a bold smile, dimples forming on either side of his cheeks. The crowd goes wild as you follow up with some ad-libs and riffs in honour of your inspiration trio, FLO.

The last post-chorus feels danceable, and you don't have to do so much at all. You repeat a simple "oh-oh~" over and over and that takes you to the end. But just before the song finishes, you walk behind Jay, and as you sing the finishing line, "I'll take the lead," you slither a hand up on his shoulder. The crowd delivers a round of applause, and you let out a breath of amusement and gratefulness.

The band members look at each other in reverence, and you smile at the audience gratefully. You, alongside the rest of the crew, bring your hands together as you applaud each other, and you and Jay spare a glance at each other. His is firm, his smile stoic and a bit more than just platonically appreciative. Flustered, you chuckle and break the eye contact, drawing a laugh from him.

You turn to face the audience, placing the mic back in the stand. They cheer and have faces full of smiles. It takes a moment, but it dawns upon you; you did well.

After giving the audience a few words of gratitude, you and the rest of the members leave the stage.

The rest of the crew vanishes elsewhere, whilst you walk backstage, catching a breath as you grab your water bottle from your desk in the dressing room. Everyone is gone by now, and the night feels like it's coming to an end. It's nice to have a moment to yourself knowing you didn't do that bad at all on stage.

You hear the door creak and shut lightly. It doesn't alarm you, but someone else just entered your dressing room. "I'm not interrupting, am I?" You hear from behind you, and already know who it is.

You whip your head back, and you're met with the sight of exactly who you expected. Your favourite guitarist, in a silk white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top with his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, with black slacks that fit his legs delectably.

"Not at all. What's up?" You respond before thinking. It's quite casual for who you are, but you can't undo the trajectory of the conversation now.

He lets out an expensive chuckle. It's like fine wine, or cigarettes after sex, or a hybrid of both - it calls out to you. "It's M/n, right? I mean, I just wanted to say that you killed it out there. Every part of that." He smiles nonchalantly as he puts his hands in his pocket and leans on a hip. In your opinion, he didn't need those pants.

"Awh..." You manage, your fingers running through your collarbone sheepishly. It was a little penchant of yours, and a weird contrast to how you'd touch it on stage. Maybe it just looked charismatic, but was you trying to comfort yourself. "I'm actually a big fan. I follow your page." You admit.

"For real? Appreciate it man." He says, tilting his head a little before placing right back to a neutral position. How seductive. You weren't that type of guy, but Jay was so attractively masculine. Grounded, sexy, dominant, and enough of a tease to get you going without pissing you off.

"No, you're great! Tonight, too; and the guitar was electric, so I was so surprised. Cause the guitar of 'Feature Me' is acoustic, if I'm not wrong?" You cross your arms and lean on your hip, comfortable and enjoying his company.

Jay shrugged, hands still in his pockets. "I dunno, I just followed the sheet. Glad you liked it. But really," Jay spoke, his voice with an undertone of implication. "You really killed it out there." It was like a taunt. It was prying something out of you, the way he took no more than half a step closer to you. Not yet implicit enough to be brass-necked, but audacious enough to be exciting.

The air in the room shifted, and you knew exactly where this was going. There was no more room for the cute chitchat, things were taking a turn. "You really think so?" You ask, reciprocating that energy. But to be fair, that was just you; led easily into submission and ready to serve. In your experience, it felt like that nature about you excited the more assertive type, the trait acting like a beacon to people like Jay.

"I know so. Because I watching the entire time." Jay replies, the tone in his voice no longer a question. His hand reaches out to gently grab your chin, vigilant for any signs of discomfort.

You look up to meet his gaze. It's everything you want. Assertive, strapping, lustful, sly. Undeniable.

"Well," Your eyelids relax as your expression, once eager, submissive and excited, was now sedative, alluring and lustful. You want him bad. "What happens now?"

He can't help but grin, letting out a playful scoff. He doesn't say anything, letting the silence speak for itself as you stare in each others eyes, as you realise the two of you are much closer to each other than before.

TIME SKIP

The sound of moist squelching fills up the now locked dressing room, and the air around you is still except for the whirr of a nearby fan. You're out of breath, panting helplessly as you're now certain that your face is red through your (S/c) skin. The leather couch in the dressing room feels cold against your bare ass, your legs spread on either side as Jay kneels in front of you, two slender and skilful fingers deep in you.

Your leg twitches, hips locking as if shifting between becoming free of tension and tense again as he does so. You're a whimpering hot mess beneath him. He pushes his fingers in deep, admiring your face as he fingers you. The only clothing on you now was your unbuttoned denim vest, revealing your slender body.

"Jay... fuck..." You bite your lip, trying your best to hold back your moans.

He just chuckles in response. It makes you feel weak in the knees, and slightly embarrassed. "You're so cute, M/n." He leans closer, face to face with you as his fingers remain sunken deep inside you, making you squirm and arch up as your shoulder blades press against the back of the couch. "You're gonna feel so good around my cock."

You melt, and you can't keep the eye contact with him. He looks so sure, so ready, and it makes you feel completely at his disposal. He smirks and leans in for a kiss. Gentle at first, then gradually more demanding. His tongue slides into your mouth, swift, slippery and expertly taking charge. Alongside the slurping, squelching sounds of your lips, you can still audibly hear him still finger you, rubbing against your prostrate every now and then.

He then bites your bottom lip. Hard. But not hard enough to draw blood. You gasp, and hold onto him out of reflex, needing support. He lets out another chuckle against your lips, finding you adorable. You blush every time, more and more bashful of your reactions while you're just entranced by the sexy and dominant man he is.

With a few more kisses and strokes to the inside of your tight hole, he pulls his fingers out. Sharp enough to make you wince, but gentle enough to feel pleasurable.

You take a breath, and it comes out shaky and frazzled, then watch him as he undoes his zipper, bringing something solid out of the confinements of his pants. "Alright, M/n. You ready for this?" He asks, and his sly gaze is something you realise you'll never get over.

You nod in response.

"Nuh-uh." He tuts. "I wanna hear you say it." Jay replies, pulling a sizeable erection out of his pants.

"Jay, please fuck me..." You respond, flustered, your own erection hardening at the thought of sex with him.

And just as you expect he would, he lets out another chuckle. "God, M/n." Jay spoke, getting up for a moment as he took off his shirt. He reaches for the lube you have in your bag, and pours a sizeable amount onto his shaft, unzipped and free from the restraint of his pants. He doesn't bother to take his pants off fully, letting them hang below his v-line. Then, he begins leaning over you, fists buried in the couch above either of your shoulders.

Jay looks down at your legs, spread wide open, making him lick his lips at the thought of fucking your pert ass. His tip teases your entrance as he tries to line the two up, hitting your perineum every now and then.

But then, when he's aligned perfectly, he enters you unmissably. It's swift, rough, and intense. He's prepped you up real good, and you can feel him inside you, his well-rounded size and thickness pleasuring you without even thrusting.

"Fuck!" You whine, letting out a wet moan. Jay growls as he enters, his cock surrounded by your walls.

"Shit, M/n." He lets out an eager, husky chuckle. "Still so tight after all that prepping, huh? I'm gonna enjoy this." He begins to pick up some momentum, and you can feel his pubic hair tingle against your leg every now and then.

Watching him like this was a treat; everything about him is perfect. His abs are lit up perfectly, the light behind him making him look ethereal. His arms are also well defined, and his thigh muscles flex with every thrust. Everything from his face, to his muscles, to the hair on his body; it's all gorgeous. But you don't have as much time to think about that as you'd like, given the way he furiously pumps into you.

Each thrust was raw and primal, going to lengths you hadn't known were possible. "Ah.. fuck... Jay..!" You moan exasperatedly, feeling an ache in your inner thighs and hips from being in the strenuous position for so long.

"Yeah, baby. Keep moaning for me. Don't you dare fucking stop." He replies, a hand reaching out to grab your face, squishing your cheeks. Jay is the epitome of hot, and you love being made into his plaything. You truly are all his tonight. And of course, you don't dare stop, no matter how shy you get. That's why Jay locked the door before any of this happened, so you can let as loose as he needs you to.

He thrusts hard into you, propping one of your legs over your shoulder. The pain is beautiful, hurting in the way you need it to every single night, in every single place.

"Jay.. f-fuck! P-Please..!" You beg. You don't know what for, but you do anyways. After all, the way his member slides in and out of you so perfectly, like a sensual caress to your insides and a roar of pleasure at the same time, you don't care about anything except for him right now.

Jay looks up at you, a tense grunt escaping his lips as he gasps, eyes rolling backwards for a split second before he regains composure. "Fuck, M/n. You're so fucking beautiful... I'm gonna fucking cum..." He growls, leaning in to meet your lips in a wet, sloppy kiss.

"Cum inside me, Jay. P-Please.." You moan, and in response, you get one back from Jay. It's a mix of submissive and dominant, yet still so strapping and masculine. Whatever it is, it makes your cock twitch with anticipation and arousal. It builds up an intense passion and longing for him, and you either need to hear that sound again or need to cum right now, because he's making you so horny.

"Oh, I'll fucking cum inside you alright. You just sit there and take it like the slut you are." He replies, delivering a firm slap to your lean ass. You let out a loud moan, and wonder if anyone heard. But truly, you don't care. You just have to reach to your climax.

"Oh fuck, M/n...!" Jay groans, delivering a few more thrusts with a newfound intensity as what must be adrenaline kicks in. You wince as he pounds into you, feeling a pain in your lower back as he essentially starts folding you.

Then before you know it, you and Jay start releasing at the same time. Frantically. Intensely.

The both of you moan into each other, gasping and grunting as you juice each other out as best as you can, lips tangling in a flame that seals the passion of the moment just minutes ago.

Jay places a few more kisses, less lustful, and more romantic, on your lips after you finish. He hunches over you, trying his hardest to catch his breath as he pulls out.

You relax, legs finally free of tension as they quiver from your tryst. That was fucking incredible.

"You know what, M/n?" Jay asked as he sits on his knees in fatigue, still in between you.

"Y-Yeah...?" You ask, still regaining composure.

"You're still so fucking beautiful." He says, flashing that same iconic smile of his. You let out a flustered scoff.

"Thanks. That was... that was pretty good." You reply.

"I know, right?" Jay smiles, the two of you breaking into soft laughs. "We should do this more often, huh?"

"Like... hook up?" You ask.

"Uh... well, I meant collabs." Jay chuckles, a bit caught off guard.

"Oh shit. No, no, I didn't mean to-" You start, another blush rising to your cheeks.

"No, no. Calm down. I was actually gonna suggest the hookup thing after I said we should collab." He smiles, holding your forearms to reassure you.

"Oh." You reply, throwing your head back in a wry, exhausted, but nevertheless content relief.

"Yeah." Jay laughs, eyes slim with glee. "Alright, let's get the fuck up." He declares, helping you up.

You get up, a wince escaping your lips as your ass begins to feel extremely sore. You didn't even wanna think of how it'd feel tomorrow.

"Pass me my shirt." Jay asks, holding out a hand as he put his now softened cock back in his pants. Like you thought before, he didn't need them at all.

As the two of you get dressed and laugh about how you surely have to shower when you get home, you see how the whole venue at this point is basically empty. When the time for you two to go your separate ways arrives, you exchange numbers, and Jay rakes your body just once more with his eyes as you head off.

"Catch you round, 'kay, M/n?" He holds a hand up as a greeting.

"For sure." You nod, offering a small smile before you walk off. You did well today.

As you walk out the venue, and the cool air of the pitch black sky hits you, you're able to take a breath and reflect as you make your way to your car.

What a fantastic fucking night.

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wingedhallows · 5 months ago

Text

pairing: vi x reader | 1.1k words plot: a little slip up on your end results in a happy end authors note: hey, babes. I recieved a message - or rather a demand for more vi content and other characters so, here is a little something. hope you enjoy it :)

navigation

Her sheets are soft around you, the dim light casting gentle shadows across the room. The familiar sound of her favorite band hums in the background, a quiet, steady rhythm that blends with the warmth of the moment. You sink back against one of her pillows, feeling the comforting weight of it behind you.

Your hand rests on her thigh as she carefully drags the nail polish brush across your fingernail, her brows furrowed in concentration, The glossy black liquid glides into place, and you watch as she bites her lip, her tongue just barely peeking out in focus.

“You’re cute.”

The words slip out before you even realize you’ve spoken them, your voice quiet - almost uncertain.

Her head snaps up in an instant, an - oh, sweet god - those sky-blue eyes.

“What?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, the tiny brush frozen mid-air as she stares at you.

Panic flares in your chest. Crap. You clear your throat, scrambling to backtrack, to smooth over the moment before it turns into something more than you meant. She wouldn’t like you back, right? Not Violet. No chance.

“I said you look like a fruit.”

The words tumble from your mouth before you’ve even fully processed them.

A fruit. Really? You mentally curse yourself. You’re the biggest idiot to walk this earth.

Her eyebrows knit together, and she tilts her head, clearly trying to make sense of your nonsense. Oh, you’re done for.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Her voice carries amusement, like she doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. You curse yourself—of course it doesn’t make sense. The room feels heavier, the shadows stretching longer as her gaze stays fixed on you.

What are you supposed to do now? Your hands grow clammy as you force yourself to look away, willing your heart to stop its relentless hammering.

“I heard you, you know.”

Her voice is softer this time, a gentle caress against the storm in your mind.

What?

Your eyes snap back to hers, your shoulders tensing as you sink deeper into the pillows, half-hoping they’ll swallow you whole.

“You did?” The words barely escape your lips, breathless and uncertain. Your heart stutters, beating so wildly you’re convinced it might just give out.

She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she carefully drags the tiny brush over your nail, coating it in sleek black polish.

“You’re cute too.”

You swear you hear laughter in her voice. Is she enjoying this? Your stomach flips as you stare at her, and for the first time, you realize just how close she is.

“You think so?” You manage, and you curse yourself for the pathetic uncertainty in your voice. How much more embarrassing can you get?

Heat creeps up your neck, and suddenly, the room feels warmer—was it always this hot in here? She chuckles softly, moving on to your ring finger, her movements steady and precise.

“I do, yeah. Wasn’t I obvious enough?” Her voice is quiet, almost teasing, but there’s something in it that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your brows knit together. Obvious? What in the world—

“Obvious about what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Vi keeps painting your nail, but you notice how her hand stills, just for a second.

“That I liked you.”

The confession nearly flies past you. Nearly.

Your breath catches in your throat. Your heart trips over itself. You swear you’re about to die—right here, right now, in the bliss of her fluffy sheets.

“What?” The word comes out embarrassingly weak, and you hate yourself for it.

Then, her eyes meet yours.

And for the first time since you’ve known her, you see it—vulnerability. Fear. She’s terrified. Of rejection. Of you breaking her heart. She swallows, looks away, maybe to gather the courage to keep going. When her gaze returns to yours, the faintest blush dusts her cheeks.

“I like you.”

The moment the words leave her lips, your ears ring. Your heart soars.

She likes you?

“I like you too.”

It comes out higher-pitched than you intended, but before you can feel embarrassed about it, you see her smile—small, but real.

Then she leans in.

The air shifts, suddenly too thin, like the room itself is holding its breath. Was there always this little oxygen in here?

Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, and your heart stops for a solid second.

Is this really happening?

“Can I?” she whispers, her breath brushing against your lips, sending your mind into a frenzy.

You swallow—hard—before nodding. A silent assurance. A quiet yes.

Vi doesn’t hesitate. She crashes her lips against yours, and the sensation sends a soft, helpless sound spilling from your throat. You feel like a prepubescent teenager, but you’re too blissed out to care.

You kiss her back, and for a moment, the world outside this room ceases to exist. You swear you hear the same breathless sound from her as she deepens the kiss, her tongue brushing against the seam of your lips. You don’t hesitate—you welcome her in.

The moment your tongues meet, she threads her fingers into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. Your hands find her shoulders, clinging to her like she’s the only thing anchoring you to this moment. Your mouths move together, desperate, breathless, as if trying to make up for lost time.

Then Vi breaks the kiss, resting her forehead against yours, her breath coming just as uneven as your own.

“I think I love you,” she murmurs against your lips, and the words send a shiver down your spine.

You inhale sharply. The weight of her confession settles deep in your chest, but there’s no hesitation, no fear. Just her.

“I love you too.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, the words brushing against her skin like a secret only meant for her.

A small grin tugs at her lips. She brushes her thumb over your cheek in a slow, tender caress.

“Say it again,” she whispers.

And how could you deny her?

“I love you.” The words come out soft, reverent.

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, her expression melting into something so blissful it makes your heart ache. When she opens them again, you swear you see stars reflected in her gaze.

“God, I love you too.” Her voice is barely more than a breath, but it’s everything.

#vi arcane #arcane #vi x reader #vi x y/n #vi arcane imagine #violet arcane #vi imagine #vi x you #vi fluff #violet fluff #vi arcane fluff #violet arcane fluff

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m4fios0 · 5 months ago

Text

introductory / important post : )

> important thread

annoother importantish post

‹ “ here we go, folks. ”

;; basic rules, ›

no nsfw. flirting is okay, but i'm not okay with heavy shipping/implications; mafioso isn't interested in anything relationship wise :).

^ no pregnancy asks. didn't think i'd have to clarify, but please don't bring it up. i'm uncomfortable with the topic.

you don't control him; please don't act stuff out on my part.

don't overdo things- you can be a dick, but don't overplay it .

magic anons are okay! just don't flood our inbox with them.

don't force ships onto us! we're okay with light flirting (as stated prior), but nothing overboard? we're not comfortable with it if we don't know you well/at all 😓.

if we don't reply to an ask you sent, please don't resend it/send in further asks about it. we either haven't gotten to it or don't want to respond. we'll block you if you do.

don't vent to us. you won't get an answer

‹ “ you won't live to see the next day. ”

;; general info, ›

mod is a system! this blog will be run by a mafioso fictive.

mafioso's name on the blog is ettore (mainly maf/mafioso). modmaf goes by either maf or faust. : )

i am sex repulsed. please don't bring up anything related to the topic. lightly suggestive is fine.

bodily a minor . how i act on blog =/= how i act in-sys . i'm quite nice, i swear ! i don't !!bite !

we'll probably give fairly inconsistent replies, but asks will always be open!

anything nsfw won't be tolerated and you will be blocked.

again, this is run by a fictive, and not everything will be canon adjacent/accurate. especially considering that it's partially an au.

"ic" text, or rp responses to an ask, will look like 🐇 ;; “ this! ”

actions will be indented, but will always look like [ this! ]

mod responses won't have anything attached 2 them!! theyll probably have a tag or smtn saying who it was from though, we try to signoff as much as we can.

how i feel about. almost everyone i've talked with/recurring characters,

how i feel about the other killers :)

favorite types of asks!

poll post (so we don't forget it!!!), ignore !!!

‹ “ I feel no pain. Can you say the same? ”

;; extra things! ›

– misc. info : )

our main is @battery-enthusiast ! it's totally epic. and awesome. i swear. we don't bite (lie)

our roblox user is T04ST3ER , display is the same as our main ! feel free to add or join us ! our discord is jonahmarshall77. if you don't clarify who you are beforehand, we might not accept it..lmao

– about the blog itself!

– orange is ettore, plain text is bernadette. blue text in actions is josafá.

– it's (partially) a survivor au! i'm not classifying myself with the other killers - the ones who do it mindlessly (john doe, 1x, you get the point).

– i'm still a killer by definition; i'm still doing my job as a debt collector and killing those necessary, but nobody else. i think that'd be a passive killer ?

we have . fairly inconsistent answers , but we'll try to get to your ask as soon as we can !

i'm not bald. please i swear i have hair. nor am i a bunny , or british , , coughs

PLEASE don't be afraid to tag this blog! it's always lovely to see art people made of me. i'm not that scary , i'd say i'm nice. : )

— tags... ough

– walkspeed override! ;; ic posts (unrelated to asks).

– you won't live to see the next day. ;; ooc/mod posts

– just shut up and ragequit. ;; ooc asks/mod responses

– i see one of them. ;; ic ask responses

– i love knocking out teeth. ;; both ic and ooc reblogs

— art people made for me :)!!

by @/littlefuckingthing

by @/scratchingheads

by @/its-yer-boi-cleetus

by @/scrambled-nightmares

by @/spectrum-studios

by @/grey-washere

by @/pastelpurpled

— tags masterlist

^ we're also. not tagging miscellaneous reblogs solely because we'd probably wrongblog it so badly,

also! if you're a constant recurring anon/blog, we might just. make you a tag

counts ^_^

kill count; 4

magic anon effect; can't lie

magic anon effect duration; 10 asks

claimed anons; ^_^ , 💚📼 , 🍌💜 , 🦷 "mantisshrimpspecies" , 🌟 (?) , "starvedanon" , 📃🎉 , 🎸 , "jackie" , "midas" , "3anon" , "AICH_7913" , flower anon , 💫 , 🖤 , 🩶 , 🪶 , C.H.O.T.R.D.C , killbot / kb , 1x , tick , tock , possibly injured anon , clone anon , ⏰🩸 , 📝🎀 , watchful anon , 🍔 , 🐋 , killer bunny anon , 💮 , sharkbnnuy , copy-paste anon , 🍕 anon , hat obsessed anon , F3llow Anon💥 , an0n In w0nderland , mx hat obsession , 👻 anon , G , "Celeste (oc)" , anon.as , bug anon , dino anon , jester anon , radioactive anon , J.D. , narwhal guy , centipede anon , bananon , M. , 🫒 , Lost Hope anon , hairstylist anon , NYX =) , Timer.. , 🔔 , potential askblog anon , impulsive anon thoughts , unavowed , 🌧️ , 🍰 , bug anon , [💛💙] , raven anon , 🐦‍⬛🚂 , panon 🍳, catanon , 🍔👾 , 🌙🦴 , jfcsthu (ues) , 💥🌈 , green tv, ladybug/🐞 anon , 🦆 , 🦭 , robot , 🟣🌟👤/goop anon , sundowner anon , -💐🍀🌷/bouquet anon , 🎲🥀 , ■. , 🧣 , cat anon. Car. 🐱. , m!a (🔮✨) , weird Oreo Lover , 👾💞 , spider enthusiast , songbird, bowed wing anon🎀🪽 , -Mr.1234💚💜, 🧇waffle anon🧇, [An▫️n], 🐰❣️❣️🫰, plushie anon, bunnyanon, Zilly Anon

oh my god ? hi ?? ↑

things given to mafioso; cheesecake, a leaf, cheese (?), a tooth, some screws, mac and cheese. lots of it, "one million diseases" , lavender in a pot, a bunny pin, a bunny, an orcaling, avocado toast, lemon tart, a lemon, emotional support brick, a singular mushroom , AN ENTIRE LEMON TREE (???) , a bat (as in the animal), a mountain of chamomile, seven bees, a grub, a crochet bunny, bag of sunflower seeds, two baskets of muffins, a noli bean, a jar of jelly beans, dead rat, bag of sour patch kids, lilies of the valley bouquet , a truck sized banana, pocket watch, a necklace, a drawing of a bunny, bunny sticker , three beetles , yellow rose, 15,000 studs, a jar, a cricket, care basket, "totally not a glitter bomb" , "pink" , a few bags of marbles , the entire state of florida?? (although redacted . soon replaced by jacksonville specifically), the STATE OF FUCKING ARKANSAS????? , washington , colorado , texas , luxemburg , sweden, california , taiwan , city hall of winchester indiana , tennessee , iowa , zimbabwe , a ddr machine , slugcat , police baton , a raccoon , a comic book, bunny plush, duck plush, a whole pack of monster energy, giant gubby plush, bunny beanbag, ohio, vegas, north Carolina , Apollo plush, shedletsky plush

↑ i'm not counting bunnies nor flowers anymore. god knows how many we've gotten. nor pizza. we got, a LOT .

death counter: 0.5

draw 25 count: 2

uno cards in the metaphorical deck: 50

bricks thrown at me: four

reference made by yours truly. know who you're talking to! : )

updated last; 4/7/25 , marsh

#– walkspeed overdrive!#– you won't live to see the next day.#– just shut up and ragequit.#– i love knocking out teeth.#//#ask blog #forsaken #forsaken roblox #mafioso #mafioso forsaken #homicidalporkchops #roblox forsaken #forsaken mafioso #Spotify

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ruins-posts · 2 years ago

Text

Calling them 'Beautiful' [JJK Men]

Request: How would the JJK Men (Gojo, Nanami, Toji, Geto and Sukuna ) react if called beautiful?

Characters: Gojo, Nanami, Toji, Geto and Sukuna

── "You're so beautiful, Satoru."

The praise escapes your lips, drawing a lazy smile of Gojo's lips. It was true- this man was so majestic, his snow white hair and sharp blue eyes glittering as the pale light of the moon fell into the room through the white curtains.

"That I am, baby," he teases, his calloused thumb gently brushing the skin under your eye. "But..." he pauses to press a languid kiss onto your lips, smiling as he pulls away to resume speaking, "I'll never be close to how beautiful you are."

The smile you crack at those words only add to your beauty- he swears.

── The soft pads of your thumb pressed against Toji's face, caressing the scar at the corner of his lip. Your heart broke when you thought of the trauma he had to endure at such a young age.

His eyes glance upon you, wondering what you're up to. His scar is not something he's very proud of. The memory of its reception still burned into his mind till date. He is about to say something, when he's interrupted by that strangest words you could ever say-

"You're beautiful, Toji..."

He swears his heart stopped for a minute. Regaining his composure a quick kiss is placed on your lips before he speaks again, "Always a cutie, aren't you?"

── Nanami is so gorgeously handsome, you swear by it. Always to well put-together, hair brushed back perfectly, there is no denying the fact that the man is incredibly attractive.

"You're so beautiful, Kento," you compliment him, seated on the bed, watching him intently as he gets ready for work. He pauses, turning around to look at you.

"Beautiful?" he asks, seemingly not being able to register the compliment. But as he does, his lips curl into a smile.

"Thank you, darling." he bends down to kiss your forehead, "But I must say...Nobody rivals you in that arena."

── Your hands are tangled in Geto's soft black hair as he pulls away from yet another passionate kiss. It makes your heart melt, just how incredible he looks.

"So beautiful...'guru..." you mumble, brushing his bangs away from his face. He is slightly taken aback from your words, but is quick to recover, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Is that so?" he asks in a low voice, making butterflies emerge in your belly.

"Mhmm...very beautiful..." you say with a cheeky smile, making him laugh lightly.

"I'm afraid you'll always beat me to it, my love."

── Sukuna has been called a lot of things- a monstrous, dreadful, repulsive being- all of which he believed he certainly was. So when you decided to attack him with that silly compliment of yours, he was, for the very first time, utterly shocked in centuries.

"What did you say, brat?"

"I said you're beautiful, Sukuna." you repeat, brushing your thumbs against the back of the palm of one of his hands, tracing the markings on his skin. "It's the truth," you add, before he can say a word.

"Hmm," is all he replies. He's certain you've lost your mind, but can't help but smile as he pulls you onto his lap and kisses the top of your head.

Maybe you found him beautiful in your eyes, but in his, nobody could hold a candle to the beauty he believed resided in your heart.

#gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo imagine #nanami imagine #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #toji imagine #toji x y/n #toji x reader #geto x reader #geto imagines #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna imagine #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #ruins posts

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sweetheartsaku · 8 months ago

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(BLLK) LOVE BELT.

𝜗𝜚 BLUE LOCK VARIOUS: MYOSOTIS (FORGET ME NOT).

a/n: [fem!reader] AHHHHH FIRST BLLK POST!!!!! LASTEST FIXTATION!!!! hopefully not too ooc huhu, hope pt1-ers find pt2~

— characters: isagi, kunigami, nagi, reo

part two ! ♡ chigiri, rin, bachira

isagi yoichi ; love belt - jonghyun, yunha

ties your shoes for you!!!!! doesn't care if it holds back the group or how long it makes them stop for. double knot, never too tight (the occasional times my guy friends tie my laces i swear i lose circulation in my feet 😔).

embodiment of a beabadoobee song! hes such a sweetheart (apart from on the field) n' kisses you lightly on the corner of your lips or on your eyelid, holds you a little higher than your hip and hugs you with his arms supporting your back from beneath.

your mama loves him more than you do, i fear (ᵕ—ᴗ—) bro fr pulled up to your house with a rose for your mama and a mug for your dad, because who is he to pull up to his girlfriend's house without gifts for your parents? (with intentions of getting to know what they're like so the wedding goes smooth) how can you expect your mama not to fall for him after he offers to help wash the dishes?

learns all the little things you like, has a note on his phone with your fruit tea and coffee order. knows what type of materials you like, especially to the girls who have sensory issues 🫡. he always has you in mind, buying hoodies and shirts that not only he likes, but you like

in conclusion, spectacular gimme 14 more of em'

kunigami rensuke ; no. 1 party anthem - arctic monkeys

ALWAYS THE FIRST TO INITIATE. always plans dates first. has anniversary ideas months prior. he has your order memorized and makes sure the date won't ruin your latest set of nails.

holds your leg when you bounce it ! very worried when you do. always looks around for a little. is it cold? are there weird guys?

he's so boyfriend i just wanna kiss him, tells you to wear whatever you want because he can fight (#needthat)! kunigami one of the most boyfriend in the show pre wildcard! ദ്ദി(•̀ ᴗ - ) ☆

do you guys know that trend when there's a girl then her boyfriend comes in and swoops her away (or is it just me HELP hopefully i don't sound crazy)?? but he does it so effortlessly omg. didn’t spend that long in the gym for nothing

mornings are the hardest because his diligence and discipline for the gym are out of the roof. but he’s not completely heartless! kunigami feels really bad as you sleep uncomfortably without him, tossing and turning just missing the grasp that once held you. worst bit is when you wake up the same time as him, but you’re a lot sleepier, resulting in you weakly catching his wrist. breaks his heart whenever he has to go and presses a chaste kiss to your temple >3<

holds your waist on public transport. smells like axe body spray /hj

nagi seishirou ; no one noticed - the marías

BLANKET HOG!!!!!! unfortunately, you're always cold because sometimes you can find yourself freezing your toes off in the middle of the night because this little sloth feeds off warmth. if not wrapping the entire blanket around himself, is practically on top of you with his nose nestled in the crook of your neck and his lips basically on your collarbone as you run your hands through white locks (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

fiddles with the hem of your shirt or loose drawstrings on your pants. his hand in the pocket nearest to your butt, fidgets with your rings and knows which ones go on which finger by heart.

very very very immersed when you paint your nails or get them done. but nagi takes a good 5 minutes to stare at them (especially if there's charms on them) and a girl would be confused. but in reality, he just really likes them (but, he'd prefer if they'd run through his hair instead).

doesn't get the stuff on tall shelves on purpose SUPER SENIOR ALERT WEE WOO WEEWOO!!!!!!! either because its "too much of a hassle" or because he wants to get a reaction out of you (cruel)

falls asleep in movies sooo quickly its adorable. 30 minutes into the movie his head is on your shoulder. scared, due to his tall nature that he'd get neck pain when he wakes up, you have to gently pat him awake (੭˃ᴗ˂)੭ and he'll ask you to carry him (???)

reo mikage ; love maze - BTS

zip up your jackets, wraps your scarves. holds your hands when your cold and rubs them with his!!!!

reo's favourite place to kiss you is your hand. craves the intimacy of it all. as his princess what the hell are you doing without a kiss to your hand before every door you open? (you don't remember the last time you opened a door before you started dating reo)

apart from the soccer club, most likely plays in a band as well. occasional school-related gigs here and there and a few enjoyable get-togethers with his friends to just play whatever. watch his performances! (SOOO cheesy!!!! says "this is for you, [name]" before he starts his pasilyo cover.)

cooks' breakfast on hard weeks. when everything seems to be falling apart, your boyfriend will always be there to help you pick up the pieces, even if it's just the little things. when you're sick GYATT DAHH will you be feeling better in days!!!!! he'll keep distance but won't hesitate to move a strand of hair from your mouth as he spoon feeds you or place the back of his hand on your forehead. but also, doesn't mind being sick if it meant you were ok.

promise rings promise rings promise rings. did i mention promise rings? its either the crazy big, expensive diamond or a simple one in silver that has his initial on the inside <33

#bllk imagines #bllk x reader #blue lock #blue lock fluff #blue lock x reader #blue lock scenarios #bllk fluff #blue lock headcanons #bllk headcanons #blue lock imagines #isagi yoichi x reader #kunigami rensuke x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #reo mikage x reader #isagi x reader #kunigami x reader #nagi x reader #reo x reader

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meadowfics · 16 days ago

Text

lonely shades of blue

kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

synopsis: you return to the squid games to destroy it, but you're haunted by visions of sae-byeok, whose guidance leads you back to her.

warnings: major character death. hallucination!sae-byeok. spiritual themes. angst.

requested by @saebyeokbliss <3

the dormitory is cold, just as you remembered it.

you lie on your bunk, the thin mattress doing little to shield you from the cold metal beneath. the glow from the piggy bank, holding all of the blood money, buzzes faintly.

it’s night....or what passes for night in the squid game, where time is a construct dictated by the whims of faceless captors. you’re back here, three years after you and gi-hun walked away, swearing never to return.

it took away the woman you loved most.

unfortunately,the pull of justice and of tearing this hellish game apart, brought you both back.

you didn’t expect it to bring you back to her.

sae-byeok.

its a loving name which is a wound that never closes, a dull ache that flares into sharp pain when you’re alone like this. you loved her...love her still...with a fierceness that time hasn’t dulled.

every day since her death, you’ve carried her absence like a weight in your chest. you see her face in the quiet moments, hear her voice in the spaces between heartbeats.

here, in this cursed place, she feels closer than ever.

her soul is.

you close your eyes, and there she is.

not a memory, not quite a ghost, but something in between. she is a figment born of grief and longing.

she sits on the edge of your bunk, her dark hair falling just over one shoulder, her eyes sharp yet soft, just as they were when she was alive.

sae-byeok is wearing the green tracksuit, number 067 stitched on her chest. your lover's presence feels warm, not cold like the dormitory air.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she says. sae's voice is low, carrying that familiar edge of concern, “this place… it’s not for people like you. why did you come back?”

you open your eyes, staring at the underside of the bunk above. she’s not there, of course.

she’s gone.

you answer anyway, whispering into the dark.

“i had to come back. for you. for all of them.”

you close your eyes again, and she’s back, leaning closer now.

“you can’t save everyone,” she says, “you need to watch out for yourself for once. you’re too reckless.”

“like you were any better,” you murmur, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. you remember her in the games from three years ago, always with that flicker of kindness she tried to hide while trying to protect you, her loving girlfriend.

she’d saved you more times than you could count, even when it meant risking herself.

unfortunately, you’d failed to save her.

it haunts you every night.

“don’t do that,” she says, as if reading your thoughts. her voice is gentle but firm, “don’t carry that guilt. it’ll crush you.”

“it already has,” you whisper.

she doesn’t reply, but you feel the weight of her gaze, even if it’s just in your mind.

you’ve had these conversations every night since you re-entered the games three days ago with gi-hun.

each time, she’s there, offering advice, warnings, or just silence when you need it.

you know she’s not real, but her words feel like truth, like pieces of her you’ve stitched together from memory.

they keep you grounded, keep you fighting, even as the games grind you down again.

the days blur together, each game a fresh nightmare. you and gi-hun stick close, your shared mission to dismantle this place binding you tighter than ever.

the other players are more desperate than the ones from 2021... their eyes hollow with the same hunger you remember.

you see sae-byeok in them sometimes...the ones who fight not just for themselves, but for someone they love outside these walls.

tonight, you’re alone again.

the dormitory quieter than usual. the last game, some twisted version of a race, claimed too many lives, and the survivors are too exhausted to whisper or scheme.

you lie on your bunk, staring at the ceiling, and she appears again.

“you’re slipping,” she says, her voice sharper this time. she’s sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed, her hands folded in her lap.

“you’re not paying attention. you almost died today with that flying stone.”

“i know,” you say, your voice hoarse.

you’d frozen during the game, a moment of hesitation that nearly cost you everything. gi-hun and daeho had helped you just in time.

“i’m trying.”

“try harder,” she says, her eyes narrowing.

“you think i’d let you give up? after everything?”

you laugh, a broken sound.

“you’re not even here, sae-byeok.”

sae-byeok expression softens, and for a moment, she looks almost real enough to touch.

“i’m here as long as you need me to be,” she says, “but you have to keep going. for both of us.”

you turn your head, pressing your face into the thin pillow to hide the tears.

“i miss you,” you whisper as a tear falls down your right cheek, “every day. every second.”

she doesn’t answer, but you feel a phantom warmth, like her hand brushing against yours.

when you look up, she’s gone, and the dormitory is just as cold and empty as before.

the next game is announced at the arena of the next game.

mingle, they call it.

a sick parody of a children’s game, where having trust can save your life. you stand in the colorful arena, the walls painted in garish colors, like a child’s circus twisted into something sinister.

the rules are simple but brutal: form groups, but choose wrong or don't get into the doors on time... you’re out.

permanently.

gi-hun is beside you, his face grim.

“stay alert,” he mutters.

“we need to find the right amount of people each round.”

you nod, but your mind is elsewhere. you feel her presence before you see her, a flicker at the edge of your vision.

sae-byeok, standing just out of reach, her tracksuit stark against one of the blue doors.

she’s watching you, her expression unreadable.

“don’t trust people,” she says, her voice cutting through the chatter of the other players even though she seems further way, “they’ll push you out of the doors at the last minute if you are not careful.”

you glance around, trying to focus.

when you survive two rounds of mingle, sae-byeok is still in the same spot as if she was still alive.

"do you see him?" she nods.

you hesitate as you look over her direction... seeing player 333.

"watch out for him." sae-byeok’s voice is in your ear again.

as each round for mingle passes by, the groups get smaller.

you’re running out of time, and the other players are getting desperate.

when the clock hits zero, and you're locked out of the blue door that you so desperately tried to throw yourself into, you stumble, falling to your knees as player 333 locks you out the door.

the arena spins, the colors blurring into a nauseating swirl.

the next second she’s there, right beside you, closer than she’s ever been.

sae-byeok kneels in front of you, her eyes locked on yours. she’s so vivid, so real, that for a moment you forget she’s not.

“you’re a good person at heart,” she says, her voice soft but steady, “you always were. that’s why i loved you.”

tears stream down your face, and you reach for her, but your hands pass through air.

“sae-byeok,” you choke out, “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry i couldn’t save you back then.”

“its alright, but you didn't need to save me this time,” she says, her smile bittersweet, “you needed to save yourself. for me.”

the guard’s boots crunch closer, the gun’s barrel glinting in the light. you close your eyes, clinging to her image, to the sound of her voice.

“i love you,” you whisper, “i’ll always love you.”

“and I love you,” she says, and her voice is the last thing you hear before the shot rings out.

the world doesn’t fade.

it shatters.

you’re weightless for a moment, suspended between life and death, and then you’re falling, the arena’s colors bleeding into darkness. when you open your eyes, you’re somewhere else...a place without walls, without pain.

it’s soft and warm, like the sunlight she used to chase on rare days outside the games.

she’s there, waiting for you.

not a hallucination, not a memory, but sae-byeok, whole and real.

sae-byeok's hand reaches for yours, and this time, it’s solid, warm, alive.

“you did good,” she says, her voice free of the weight it carried before, “you fought hard. gi-hun is very upset right now, but he will be here soon too.”

“is this real?” you ask, your voice trembling.

she smiles, that rare, unguarded smile you’d only seen a handful of times.

“does it matter?”

you laugh, the sound breaking free from the grief that’s held you for three years. you pull her close, and she’s warm against you, her heartbeat steady under your touch.

“no,” you say.

“it doesn’t.”

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lauufeydottir · 2 months ago

Text

This Is Side One, Flip Me Over

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

You're ignoring Walker. John craves your attention. He gets it the only way he knows how, by picking a loosing battle in front of the entire team. But after a mission gone horribly wrong, he realizes his feelings towards you aren't as nuanced as he's been telling himself to believe.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 6k

cw: canon typical violence, swearing, graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, temporary character death, panic attacks/PTSD, implied suicidal ideation, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, the idiots are falling in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)

a/n: sorry for using fall out boy lyrics for fic titles it will happen again. i hope I have everything in this properly tagged, but if Ive missed something feel free to let me know! the next part will likely be the last.

dead on arrival - fall out boy

For the next week, you stalk about The Watchtower like nothing ever happened between you and Walker. Like you didn’t goad him into a real fight. Like he hadn’t pressed you into the floor and kissed you senseless with his hand gripping your throat.

As if you haven’t been letting your fingers slip under your waistband every night since to the way his touch set off a hunger in you. You might have been the one who cut it off, but you couldn’t stop thinking about that day in the gym. It’s a complete disappointment that your neck goes through all the stages of bruising to healed in just a matter of hours, the mottled blues and yellows disappearing before your eyes in the mirror.

You’ve never played dirty like that in a fight before. You liked it, a lot, but you like beating Walker a lot more. The betrayed look he gives you every time you’re in the same room only fuels the fantasies running through your mind, the unbidden attraction for him taking up most of your time. But you’d die before admitting to such a thing, and since death is off the table for you, you keep your mouth shut. You stop antagonizing him. No longer watch his every move so you can correct his stance or the way he balances his weight. It’s strange, but still obvious enough that the rest of the team notices immediately. Even Alexei seems far too pleased when he points out the peace between you, like it’s some sort of victory.

And John seethes. The way you’d walked away from him, completely unbothered, when just moments before you were cementing yourself into every last contour of his being. And he could have forgiven that alone, but it was the way you’d been ignoring him ever since that’s been keeping him up at night. He gets his fill however he can, trying to push your buttons, watching you during meetings, sitting next to you at dinner, as if anything he could do might make a difference. Anything to get you to look at him again, even if its with your usual disdain.

At night, in bed alone, he can’t stop his mind from wandering to places he knows he shouldn’t be going. The moans that you’d let slip, how your body melted against his. The way you see through him so effortlessly. He’s never been so infatuated with anyone like this before. He feels out of control and embarrassed, even if he’s the only one who knows.

You can feel his eyes locked on you during meetings, mission briefings, training, and team bonding, his gaze rivaling even Bucky’s stare. He watches your every move like he’s a predator stalking its prey— but you both know that reality is the other way around, that you have all the power. Every so often, you’ll acknowledge Walker with an unimpressed glare, just to see the desperation in his stance. Always so obvious, your mutation picks up on the way his pulse jumps once he finally has your attention, even if just for a moment.

But John always needed more.

All the New Avengers are packed together in the briefing room, going over the details of a mission they were all shipping out on today. It was an all-hands-on-deck type of situation— Valentina had insisted because of good publicity— but also because it was Hydra. John has been antsy throughout the entire meeting so far, all his effort put into hiding the way he can’t keep his attention off of you. He’s missed most of the details Bucky and Yelena have discussed, only providing half-hearted murmurs of agreement here and there. And then, Bucky announces you’ll be the one to run point.

He has no idea why it’s the thing to finally set him off. Maybe because it’s more of you paving the way for him to follow, maybe it was just another hit to his already fragile ego. But it snaps him back into focus, placing his hands on the tabletop with just a little too much enthusiasm. Sometimes, he still forgets his strength. Across the table, there’s a restrained excitement on your face. It’s not uncommon for you to lead the action during missions— after Bucky, you do have the most combat experience— but getting the first crack at the enemy is always a thrill. Especially when that target is a rumored bunker of Hydra holdouts.

But John mistakes your excitement for haughtiness, your confidence making his blood boil. He can’t help it. He wants to put you in your place, to show you that he’s just as strong, important, and heroic. That he’s worth your time. And so, when the chance presents itself, he takes it. The words are out of his mouth before he can even consider shutting up.

“You sure you’ll be able to control yourself, Red?”

His comment was bold enough for everyone in the room to freeze, landing like a slap to the face. There’s a moment of tense silence, Yelena and Ava share worried glances, Alexei’s brow furrowing in confusion. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, already knowing exactly what Walker is insinuating. And you turn to face him, eyes narrowing as you stare daggers at him, any hint of your previous excitement long gone.

“Excuse me?” you ask, tone sharp and dangerous.

John keeps his gaze steady on you in return, even though his stomach feels like it’s tied in knots over the cold way you regard him. "You heard me." He’s doing this on purpose; they both know it. He knows he’s pushing your buttons, pushing your limits, and he’s enjoying every second of it, even though he knows he should stop. "You sure you’re gonna be able to control yourself this time? Or are you gonna go off the rails and make a mess of the place?" he clarifies, leaning back in his chair with a forced air of nonchalance.

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your anger climbing. You don’t want to derail the meeting by getting into it with him in front of everyone— mostly because you fear you won’t be able to hide your reactions if things get as tense as they did last time.

“I really have no qualms about slaughtering nazis,” you reply, voice steady. “But maybe you should be worried about your own lack of restraint.”

He chuckles lowly, and though his bravado is faltering, he just pushes harder. "Just seems like you have a knack for flipping out in situations involving Hydra.” John shrugs, face turned into a grimace. “Just want to be sure that the rest of us will stay safe.” From you.

It’s left unsaid, and he knows he’s crossed every last line as soon as he feels a thrum he can’t explain rush through his body, his blood going static for a split second, until the sensation fades, leaving him numb in comparison. His initial reaction is that of betrayal, that you’d just used your powers on him— something that you are vehemently against outside of the context of wound clotting— but he can’t, not when he’s well aware of how much he’s fucking up and continuing to do so. It’s a silent threat, a reminder of what you could do if you wanted to like he’s implying.

“Guys—“ Yelena tries to interrupt but is quickly silenced by a gesture from Bucky. He knows trying to defend you will only make things worse, and the last thing they need before a mission is anyone else getting involved in this spat.

Your hands are clenched into tight fists, knuckles white, fighting with all you might to keep yourself from lunging across the table and taking a chunk out of his face. He’s damn lucky you only prodded at his blood instead of pulling it from his body quart by quart.

Instead, you swallow thickly, voice tight with rage, but a saccharine smile on your lips. "Watch your mouth, John." You’re using his first name again, something you’ve only done when you were underneath him on the training mat. His breath catches in his throat at the sound of his name on your lips, making his mind go to places he doesn’t want it to be going. But he’s stubborn and foolishly determined to get a rise out of you. Any kind of reaction, even just a single inkling of weakness, anything that could knock you off that pedestal he’s unintentionally put you on.

“Or what, Red?" John uses the nickname like a weapon.

A dangerous glint shines in your eyes that doesn’t match your grin as you rise from your seat, leaning across the table, your shoulders squared like a viper preparing to strike.

“Alright, fine. You wanna talk about it? Then let’s fucking talk about it,” you spit, your focus honed on him. As a group, you’ve done a lot of work since the day you all experienced The Void, letting go and accepting the things you all saw that day, understanding the guilt. It came easier to some than others, but you’d always known why that memory was chosen for you, you’ve just never had the guts to admit it. "The shame room you saw, Walker, wasn’t conjured because I feel guilt because of the massacre," you start, your voice low and measured as you bite the confession out. "I feel guilty because I enjoyed it."

The rest of the team know enough about your background to piece together just what you’re referring to, but they had no clue he’d ended up in your room by some cruel twist of fate. To you, it felt like an admittance of weakness that you leaned on him in that moment. And to him, the way you’ve held him at arms length ever since was digging a hole deeper and deeper in his soul.

Your words were the truth. Same as you’d called him out in the gym. They were set apart from the others, even if they were all trying to be better, you still craved the bloodshed, and so did he. At the end of the day, you were the most alike out of any of the team. Bucky hates the fight, even if it’s the only thing he knows. Yelena and Ava regret the pain that they’ve caused in their pursuits of cures and perceived justice. All of them have made active efforts to mend the peace that they’d shattered. Bucky crossing off the final name in his book, Yelena joining The Barton’s and Kate Bishop for family gatherings, Ava keeping in touch with the Pym-Van Dyne-Lang clan.

But you and Walker prefer to dig the knife in deeper, all under the guise of trying. You lied about your past to play superhero with the first iteration of The Avengers. You were never trying to own up to your mistakes like Natasha; you wanted to make them disappear. You should have died that day on Vormir, not her and not Clint, but you weren’t even capable of offering them that. and when The Avengers went away, you went right back to your old ways by running to Valentina for work. You actively refused to grow even if you did your best to change.

John took the serum, knowing it was more likely to go wrong than right just to feel deserving of the shoes the government groomed him to fill. Told himself over and over again while thrashing on the floor in some hotel bathroom in Europe that he can’t remember, the substance burning through him, the pain so excruciating he’d almost hoped it would kill him. He never truly regretted playing judge, jury, and executioner in Latvia to avenge Lemar, lying to his family about the person responsible, all to deflect from his own inadequacy.

He knows you’re telling the truth, just by the look in your eyes. And the worst part is, he understands it. You understand each other. What it’s like to enjoy the violence, to thrive on it. It isn’t a side of himself he’s proud of lately. But hearing you say it out loud, hearing you admit that same feeling. It stirred something him. Things he's been trying to ignore since The Void. And the last thing he expected you to do was to admit to it in front of the entire team. After all this time, you’ve finally rendered him speechless. No followup insults, no quips ready to fire. Just his jaw hanging open and the team’s suffocating silence.

And it makes his feelings for you even more difficult to rationalize as only lust.

His eyes flicker across the room, taking in the equally stunned looks from the rest of the team. The tension in the room is thick, and he can feel Bucky’s livid gaze boring into the side of his head. John’s fingers drum against the table, his mind racing as he tries to think of a way to dig himself out of the mess he’s made this time.

You turn to look at him, the look in your eye almost feral in the way you’re homed in on him. He’s about to open his mouth, to say something, anything to salvage the situation, but you beat him to it. "Are you done? Have you gotten your fill of trying to rile me up?”

"Yeah," he mutters. "I think I’ve had enough."

The rest of the briefing goes by without further incident, though the tension that settled over the room doesn’t dissipate and follows them onto the quinjet. But now, it’s John who’s avoiding your eye. The flight isn’t long, the advanced tech in the ship cutting hours off the trip to Bucharest. You’re endlessly grateful for modernism and all the disposable income Valentina has, because it’s less than half of the standard time that you have to be trapped in this hunk of metal with him.

————-

The mission itself is a blur, but John finds himself at your six more than a few times. He’s distracted, not just by the stunt he’d pulled earlier, but by the way you move in your tactical suit, just as ruthless as you were with him in the gym. He had an awful feeling in his gut, and it isn’t just his guilty conscience. He watches your every move, his instinct to protect welling up in the back of his mind, even if you might be the last person in the world who needs any.

And ultimately, it’s his distraction that gets you hurt.

You’re fighting your way through a labyrinth of corridors, taking down Hydra loyalists left and right. You’ve been fighting with your usual grace and precision, taking down opponents with ease. The rest of the team had split off into pairs— Bucky with Ava, and Yelena with Alexei— leaving you with Walker, who’s been… off. There’s not a trace of his usual intensity, his attacks sloppier than you’ve ever seen from him.

You’re picking up as much of his slack as you can without going overboard, his implication from earlier still echoing in your thoughts. You loathe the idea that you’d hurt any of the team— even him— accidentally or not. The control you have over your mutation is precise, but you’ve already taken a few deliberate hits; one gunshot to the shoulder, another through your thigh, and a knife to the ribs. It’s the price you willingly pay for access to your greatest weapon in a pinch, but it’s leaving you drained, your senses struggling to keep up as you push the limits of your healing factor and your pain tolerance.

It happens far too quickly. You spot a soldier coming up on Walker from behind while he’s taking far too long to deal with another, and you jump in without hesitation. He may be acting like a complete moron, but if he gets killed here, then you won’t be able to give him shit for it later. And you really should have seen it coming, but neither of you notice until a man with a stature twice the size of yours who’s obviously enhanced is already slamming you from the side. John turns just in time to see you fly across the room from the force, where your back collides with the wall, head bashing against the reinforced concrete with a sickening crack.

Your body is limp before it even hits the floor.

You don’t move, and suddenly he’s back in Latvia, the sound Lemar’s skull made when it collided with the stone pillar ringing in his ears, and his vision becomes more and more hazy with every second you don’t move, heartbeat climbing dangerously as he realizes he can’t hear yours.

You’re supposed to move, it’s what you do, getting back up after you’ve been knocked down. He’d seen you take a bad hit before, on many occasions. But your breath isn’t supposed to cease; your pulse isn’t meant to flatline. The blood isn’t so jarring with the way you always seem to be covered in someones, but it’s not supposed to flow from your body without your metaphysical command, pooling under your head and soaking into your hair. You were always saying you couldn’t die, with countless corroborations from others who’d seen you rise from the most lethal hits. But you’d never mentioned if you could come back once you had already died.

John had let his fear and boundless rage control him once before, and he’s about to let it consume him again. You were right, you were always right.

It’s like muscle memory takes over as he conflates Lemar’s final moments with the sight of you motionless on the floor. John moves without ever deciding to, acting on pure instinct. His need for vengeance is intrinsic, ramming his shield into the agent you’d been handling and knocking him out on contact. His stare is a million miles away as he goes for the one who did this next, tackling and inning him against the wall so hard it starts to splinter. The soldier struggles against John’s hold, but even his sheer bulk is no match for the prime serum in his veins. The crack of bone and splitting of flesh under his fists feels far away, his eyes locked on your prone body, still unmoving, still slack. His heartbeat pounding in his ears only serves to remind him of the lack of yours, his chest unbearably tight as the rage starts to suffocate him, and the soldier goes limp under his hands.

The second he lets the unconscious body thump to the ground he’s screaming into his comms, your name coming out as a frantic cry as he begs whoever on the team is listening to get over here now.

It’s Bucky who responds, far too calmly for John’s liking.

“Copy that, backup on the way.”

John doesn’t respond. He can’t, not as his shield clatters to the ground and he’s scrambling over to you. Every last synapse in his body feels caustic, your absence of life sending a violent wave of nausea through him. You’re supposed to be back by now. He’s seen you walk away from a shot through the heart, bomb blasts that carried so much shrapnel he couldn’t tell where the debris ended and you began, falls from eight stories high. He grabs onto your chin, forcing your drooping head from side to side as if it might bring you back.

You’re supposed to get up. He needs you to get up because if you don’t and everything is left like this, then he’s damned, and maybe he should just follow your lead and—

“Walker. Hey, Walker.” John registers the words, but it feels like he’s underwater. “Snap out of it.” He thinks he’s shaking as the voice slowly pierces through the fog over him. It takes him a few more seconds to realize it’s Bucky, vibranium hand on his shoulder, jostling him, trying to get his attention. It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him, trying to clear the panic from his mind as he mumbles about how you’re not moving.

“No pulse,” he rasps. “Why isn’t there a pulse?”

At first, Bucky only seems mildly concerned, but not scared, not like John. Then, he crouches down next to you, ignoring your blood smeared across the floor, flesh fingers pressing under your jaw to verify what John is implying. Out of everyone, Bucky has fought alongside you the longest. He’s seen the way your healing factor worked, seen you take a knife to the chest without so much as flinching, only to be screaming obscenities onto a pillow as your skin stitched itself back together— but always alive.

Then his face drops. He’d never seen you come back from death before.

The flight back to The Watchtower feels like an eternity. It’s bad enough when the team has to get you— or your body, they still aren’t sure— back to the quinjet. There are still Hydra stragglers, so while John lifts you into his arms, the rest of them flank him, weapons at the ready. You’re lighter than he’d expected, getting colder by the minute. He tries not to think about just how much of your blood is left seeping into the cracks on the concrete floor of the bunker, or how much is weaving itself into the seams of his suit, like even now, somehow, you’re still here, forcing yourself into the threads of his existence.

The New Avengers get back onto the jet with no further issues, the bunker left in shambles. Bucky and Ava jump into action as soon as John manages to get you lying on a bench, and he’s starting to believe that it’s less you and more corpse. The two work fast to get a transfusion set up, even if no one knows if it’ll make a difference. To his knowledge, Bucky is certain this is the longest you’ve ever been down, but they have to try.

The jet is eerily silent, the gravity of the situation settling over everyone. They’ve all been injured before, but they’d always gotten up eventually. The Thunderbolts haven’t lost one of their own, and none of them ever really imagined that it could be you. The only sounds in the hull are the low flatline of the monitor you’re hooked up to, the subtle sniffle Ava is trying to hide, and the occasional murmur from Alexei that you’ll be fine— you have to be.

Meanwhile, John’s boots are hollowing out a path into the floor, pacing up and down the aisle, checking your vitals constantly, like somehow, they’re going to change, that the next time he looks the flat line on the screen will have suddenly spiked and everything will be fine. But three hours into the flight and there’s still not a single sign of life. John keeps telling himself he’s only so wound up about it because of what he’s gone through before, that it has nothing to do with it being you lying there lifeless. Your taunt from last week echoes in his head, ‘—You can’t actually kill me. But you can find out how it feels to.’ In the end, you got what you wanted, because now he knows, and he hates the feeling. He stopped believing in a God a long time ago, but right now, he’s begging him for anything.

The quinjet is about thirty minutes out from the tower when it happens. a single beep from the machine monitoring your vitals, so out of left field that everyone thinks they’ve imagined it. Bucky hands the controls to Yelena and jumps out of the pilot’s seat, hot on John’s heels as they rush over. There’s still only a flat line on the monitor, your blood oxygen still zero. They watch with bated breath, John’s chest tight, and it’s been so long that he’s about to take another lap around the jet when it happens again.

Beep.

The line on the monitor jumps, the point spiking to the top of the graph before flattening again.

John waits until it finally happens again, quicker this time, to release the tension he’s been holding since the moment you went down.

Then once more. Two beats back-to-back, slow, but steadily climbing as your chest expands just a fraction. It’s a cruel sort of torture, having to wait and watch as your vital signs sluggishly come back to life. John is still on high alert, taking minor comfort in your heartbeat but watching, waiting for a twitch of fingers, a flutter of lashes. You’re paler than normal, the warmth from your skin is still absent, lips still tinged with the faintest hint of blue. There's still blood soaking your tactical suit, dried and matted into your hair. The rise and fall of your chest is so shallow, your body likely in an excruciating amount of pain, your healing factor working overtime between the physical trauma and the exhaustion. But it feels like the entire team takes a collective exhale, Bucky being the first to break the silence, his gaze flickering over to Walker.

“Thank God,” he sighs, the relief in his voice palpable. “She should pull through. It’ll just take some time.”

———-

Back at The Watchtower, John deliberately makes himself scarce as soon as the jet touches down. He can’t keep waiting, watching, pacing the halls of the medbay while the rest of the team looks at him strangely. This morning seems so far away, the way he’d picked another fight with you just to be sick with anxiety over you now. Bucky is the only one who might understand why, he was there in Latvia, but the rest of them act like he’s the one who got his head bashed in.

He disappears to the training room to pass the time, putting all this violent energy clamoring to get out to good use. He’s at the punching bag for so long he loses track of the time, the day, destroying several in the process. He stays until his knuckles are raw, until his muscles ache, and it helps, kind of. It takes his mind off of you— the sound of your skull cracking, the blood he scrubbed from his hands, how insubstantial your body felt in his arms— at least for a little while. But ultimately, he can’t get the sensations out of his head. It was too close, too close— the unbridled anger and helplessness that’s been hanging over him since Lemar’s death rearing its ugly head. He's still shaking when he drags himself back to his room after a scalding shower, the clock on his nightstand telling him he’d locked himself away for almost eight hours.

Fuck. He’s down bad, isn’t he?

John stumbles to his bed, collapsing onto it face first, sinking into the too soft and overpriced bedding that Valentina chose for the suites. And despite his utter exhaustion, he just keeps tossing and turning, replaying the mission in his head over and over and over and—

And then, there’s a quiet knock on his door.

He groans and rolls over, intending to ignore whoever it was. Probably Bucky, here to tear into him about all the shit he’d pulled today— yesterday at this point— or maybe Bob, who’s the only person who would go out of his way to see if he’s okay, but John doesn’t feel like he deserves his concern right now.

But the knock comes again, louder this time, and then your voice calls from the other side. “I know you’re awake, I can hear your blood pressure rising through the damn roof.”

He’s on his feet in an instant.

You stand—if you can even really call it that— in the hallway, all of your weight resting against the doorframe for support. Your eyes glassy, face still a little pale, but tinged with a subtle flush now that your blood has replenished itself. You felt like you’d been hit by a truck— or like you suffered a severe compound skull fracture, shattered spinal cord, severe exsanguination, and then came back from the dead— But you’re standing. Standing and alive.

John is silent for a long moment, his wide eyes skimming over you, like he’s surprised to see you in the flesh. You’re in your pajamas, an oversized shirt with the logo for Child’s Play on the front, Chucky’s mutilated face a little too ironic given the state of your own head, and flannel shorts just barely peeking out from the hem. You’re all cleaned up from the blood and gore of the mission, but you still look rough, and you feel even worse. Depending on how he looked at it, it was either a miracle you were alive, or you were some sort of freak of nature. Definitely both.

“I’m not a ghost, Walker,” you rasp, voice still rough from disuse.

“Red, what the hell are you doing here?” he probes, the words coming out strangled. His first instinct is to reach for you, to make sure you’re really here and not just in his head, but he remembers himself, remembers what the two of you are and keeps his hands to himself.

You smile, the gesture looking more like a grimace than anything else. “Thought you’d be awake. Figured I’d come check on you.” You try to stand up a bit straighter, but the pain flares up in your ribcage, and even though you try to play it off, John can see it clearly in your eyes. “Buck said you were having a rough time. It didn’t take me long to realize why.” You were there on the day that Lemar died in Latvia. You didn’t really know the man, disliked him on the principle of being involved in desecration of Steve’s memory. But you’d still tried to get his heart beating again, to no avail, as John ran off for his revenge. You’ve always wondered if the real reason he always hated you wasn’t because of the fight that ensued, but your failure that day.

John releases a long sigh, the guilt from Latvia and the mission today mixing and settling heavily on his chest. “Yea, well— I guess you would,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He tries to change the subject as quickly as he can. “You shouldn’t be up, you know. You look like hell.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Wow, John, you’re a real flatterer, huh?” You sway on your feet, your mirth taking more energy than it should, your equilibrium still off. “But I’m alive. I wanted you to see that.”

John looks you over once more, your tired eyes, the mottled bruising around your collarbone, the visible effort it’s taking you to get just a shallow breath in. Just over twelve hours ago, you were dead, the memory of your corpse haunting him for just as long.

The relief hits him hard, almost taking his breath away.

He knows you’re stubborn, a fighter down to the bone. But seeing you like this, standing there in front of him despite the excruciating pain just to ease his? It made him ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

You feel pathetically weak. He’s never seen you so strong.

He huffed a wry laugh as you start to sway again, finally letting himself reach out to stabilize you, calloused fingertips settling against your freshly healed skin. "You look like you’re about to drop. Let me get you to bed, please." For a moment, you consider saying no, brushing him off. You told yourself the last thing you wanted was gentleness from him, but a part of you was starting to doubt that notion. But your body decides for you as the room starts to spin, and he’s quick to react, holding you with one arm firmly around your waist. "Hey— hey, I gotcha," he mutters softly, careful not to put any pressure on her healing body.

Silently, you allow him to shuffle you down the hall to your room, leaning into him instinctively, too exhausted to fight it.

John nudges your door open and helps you hobble to bed, holding an arm out for you to lower yourself onto the mattress. You try to bite back a wince as you settle among the pile of pillows Bucky and Ava arranged for you, still unable to comfortably rest your head back. He catches it anyway, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers over you. His fingers tremble as they brush against your skin, the realization that you’re alive finally fully settling over him.

Despite your exhaustion, you still notice the misty look in his eyes as he watches your every move carefully. You reach up, gently wrapping a hand around his wrist, holding onto him with more strength than you realized you had right now. His breath catches in his throat— he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve your mercy. But for all the serum running through his veins, he’s not strong enough to pull away.

“I was distracted…” he trails off, voice tight.

“Yeah,” you acknowledge gently. “Yeah, you were.” It isn’t with judgement, just a simple observation. It surprises both of them. You know you could throw his comments from the briefing in his face. You could say ‘I told you so’. You could tell him off and never speak to him again outside of what was strictly necessary. But you can see it for what it is— an apology without words. He might be too prideful to give a simple ‘sorry’, but he felt it, and would for a long time, that this incident is already burrowing deep down into his chest and solidifying itself as one of his most dreaded fears.

"You...died,” he bites out, an anguished whisper. “I saw you go down. You stopped breathing. There was so much blood.”

You frown, your expression turning sorrowful at the mention of your death.

"Yeah," you agree softly. "I did." You know the look in his eyes, know it all too well. The sort of far away feeling you get when you replay your mistakes over and over again in your head. "But I’m here, John," you reassure him. "I’m alive. I’m right here. Can’t get rid of me that easily." As if to prove your point, you take his hand in yours, forcing him to rest his palm over your beating heart, your fingers interlaced.

The steady thrum of your pulse beats against his palm, the rhythmic thump a tangible reminder that you’re still here. John’s wide-eyed stare is locked on your intertwined hands, too afraid to look into your eyes and to see what he would find there.

"I don’t want to get rid of you,” he admits, his voice small and full of guilt. "I just...” he trails off, trying to find the words to express the things he’s feeling, the rage, fear, and shame that’s gnawing at him from the inside out. "You scare me.”

You blink at him, dumbfounded. You expected him to scoff at the notion, to try to deflect. Not for him to offer you a piece of himself that, admittedly, before the events of the last twelve hours, you would have used against him.

"I scare you?"

"You scare the hell out of me," John follows with a sharp sigh, his frown deepening as he looks at you like you have all the answers to the muddled mess of his mind. "I saw you go down and it was...” Like Latvia all over again. “I saw red. That Hydra soldier, I— why aren’t you pissed at me?”

Your expression turns serious, considering his question carefully before answering. “Because I understand.” Your voice a whisper, but your gaze held his, unflinching. It’s simple, but carries the weight of everything between you that neither is ready to confront just yet. You take a labored breath, chest rising and falling beneath his palm.

John doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to be so transparent, so easily understood by you out of everyone. So, he stays quiet, keeping a vigil at your bedside, thumb running over your shirt in comforting circles. After a few minutes, your eyes start to droop, the exhaustion catching up quickly. His heartbeat evens out to match the steady rhythm under his palm.

He stays at your side until he’s certain you’re finally asleep, and then a few hours longer. Watching your bruises fade, your breathing strengthen, just to silence his demons.

#john walker #thunderbolts #john walker x reader #thunderbolts x reader #john walker fanfic #marvel #us agent x reader #marvel x reader

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majestyeverlasting · 10 months ago

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𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞

Pairing Frank Castle x Reader [friends → lovers]

Summary A fresh start with no more loose ends—that’s what you promised yourselves. But when a quick outing stretches longer than expected, dread creeps in and reveals how deeply you care for Frank when he’s finally back by your side [3.7k]

A/N First time writing for Frank. Deeply appreciate Jon Bernthal’s embodiment of the character ♡

The rain hasn’t stopped by the time the van eases into the parking lot, where the water on the ground reflects the cherry-red motel sign shining against the night. It makes no difference to you—lips parted, head tilted against the passenger side window—until Frank gears into park and taps your thigh with two thick fingers.

Your eyes flutter open to tiny droplets pattering on the outside of the cool glass. That’s when you notice how still the world has grown. No more potholes, smooth turns, or periodic swells of acceleration to pass other cars who thought they had all the time in the world.

After cutting the engine, he runs a heavy hand down his face and tips his head back, disheveling the back of his dark hair against the headrest. It’s gotten longer. So has the coarser hair of his beard. He never asked for your opinion, nor had you mustered the courage to give it, but the look suited him, as if it was innately right. As he briefly closes his eyes, he misses the way you turn to study his profile, noting how the bridge of his nose catches the glow of the lights outside.

A satisfied hum escapes you as you stretch out your legs, drawing his attention back your way. He blinks observantly, eyebrows set in that eternal furrow that makes him hard to read. But you know he’s alright—content. There’s no other reason not to be. A couple hundred miles ago, he’d tied off one final loose end, and the world went silent for the first time in a while. It was over. No more living ghosts breathing down your necks. You and Pete Castiglione were free to start a new life, be whoever you wanted to be. That’s what you told yourselves.

Clearing his throat, Frank shifts in his seat and reaches into the cup holder, tossing the room key into your lap. “Room 103. There’s two queens,” he tells you. “I’ll grab the bags.” The finality in his tone suggests he won’t entertain any alterations to the plan.

You reach down to grab your crossbody. “Can I get this one, or is it too much?” You’re trying to be funny. He waves you off, mumbling under his breath, but there’s an undeniable flutter in his gut when you smile at him before hopping out of the van.

He purses his lips when you break into an amusing little jog, eager to escape the rain and key into the room. A muted yellow fills the space as you flip on the lights. No sooner does he watch you peek through the curtains like a groundhog popping up from its burrow. It’s hard to make him out, but you swear you can see him chuckling from behind the windshield.

It’s impressive how he manages to carry both your belongings in one trip. He hums in appreciation as you hold the door open for him. Rather than dumping everything in the main walkway, he trudges the extra few steps to where more space opens up, and a small bench rests beneath the full length mirror hanging on the wall.

The air is thick, as it always seems to be at motels, but the citrus undertones suggest recent cleaning. You stake your claim on the bed closest to the bathroom, ready to settle in. The wrapper of a meal bar crinkles as you dig it out from your purse.

Frank’s own mattress squeaks as he plops down onto the foot of the bed and lays back, tucking his hands behind his head. The movement makes the hem of his hoodie rise up just enough to reveal the light trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button. It’s not the most comfortable bed in the world, but you’d be back on the road in the morning headed for central Virginia.

A modest house in the Blue Ridge Mountains awaited, courtesy of one of his buddies who lived further north in Quantico. Of all the other options, it seemed like a promising place to find your footing away from the endless bustle of New York City.

“Frank?” He looks over at you. “Thanks.” For everything, you want to add.

“No worries,” he says. A few moments pass of the rain slowing down outside. It’s a lulling sound that masks the quiet gurgle of your stomach.

Eyes closed, Frank hears you begin to peel open the bar you’re holding. It’s one of the protein-packed ones that are supposed to taste like chocolate, but always end up too chalky. It’d been a while since the late lunch the two of you had.

“I’ll go get you something hot.” He sits up. “Passed a few places coming in.”

You can see how drained he is from driving. It’s in his voice, the slump of his shoulders. “This’ll tie me over for the night,” you insist.

He looks at you with partial belief. Frank was the type who could get caught up in the task at hand and go without eating, if it wasn’t for your reminders. Earlier, he’d brushed over his hunger, only to sit down across from you in that cramped diner booth and inhale his hamburger and fries as you watched with amusement sparkling in your eyes. That look often spurred him into a spiel about how he could get by on a handful of nuts every few hours if he really wanted.

But there was no such talk this time around. The food was good and hearty, and he enjoyed sitting down and sharing a meal without having to look over his shoulder. There was also something special about the way the sunlight streaming through the windows caught your eyes.

“Really, Frank. It’s been a long day,” you say as he stands and makes his way to the door. There was no stopping him when he made up his mind. “I can come with you.” That earns you a disapproving look, and you sigh your defeat. “Drive safe, okay?”

“Yep.”

The rain subsides shortly after he slips out the door. To avoid the risk of falling asleep, you decide to take a shower, considering yourself lucky that the warm water doesn’t run out after the first five minutes.

By the time you dry off, moisturize, and change into old pajamas, Frank hasn’t returned. When you peek out the window at the sound of an engine, it ends up being construction workers. Despite how much you try to will it away, a familiar sense of dread settles in your gut. It only roots deeper upon realizing that he’d left his BlackBerry behind on the bed.

Time continues passing by.

•••

Red and blue police lights appear blazing in the distance in a showy glow. Frank watches from the inside of a family-owned pizzeria, where beautiful candid pictures adorn the walls. The air is rich with the scent of parmesan and garlic, but his face is fixed in a scowl. There’s bruising beginning to develop on the apple of one cheek, and a thin bleeding slash on the other. A few chairs are overturned while tables are askew.

Under different circumstances, maybe in a different life, he would’ve been able to appreciate the homey charm of the place without trouble finding a way to fall at his feet. The universe had deemed him as the only alter fit to handle it.

The woman behind the counter, stout with a long ponytail, nearly collapses in relief as the wailing sirens draw nearer. Frank’s jaw ticks in irritation at the whole ordeal. Other customers who were once inside have either left or are now standing watch from the parking lot.

Frank turns to look down at the two young men sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. The masks have been ripped down from their faces, and it’s clear they’ve been roughed up. Despite feeling Frank’s gaze, they refuse to meet it.

Off to side stands another employee who’s around the same age as the men on the ground. He’s holding a wad of napkins to his bloody nose and can’t keep his eyes from flitting to Frank with reverence and gratitude.

“Hey,” Frank barks to the seated men. “When they bust up in here, you don’t run, you hear me? Cause I’m gonna be out there and you won’t even make it to the next lot over,” he says. “If you wanna come in here and be tough guys while your buddy’s trying to make a living and do better for himself, then you own it.”

Their nostrils flare in frustration, but they don’t dare open their mouths. He can see the misplaced anger of his own youth coursing through them.

“Whatever’s going on between you…you talk it out, yeah?” He looks between all of them. “One bad decision, and your folks will be crying and snotting in a courtroom while some guy with a gavel calls the shots.”

As the police cars turn into the parking lot, Frank walks over to a table and picks up the carry out bag of food he’d ordered.

“How do I get outta here?”

Both the long-haired woman and the young employee point to the back hallway where the bathrooms are, watching him disappear as if he were never there at all.

Frank makes it to his van as the police enter the pizzeria. In the rearview mirror, he can see the two men standing from the ground with their heads hanging low. Sighing, he pats down his pockets for his phone with the intent to call you. Nothing. All he can do is curse under his breath and start up the engine.

The No Vacancy sign is switched on when he makes it back. He sees you staring out the window, but you slink back into the room as if the sight of his return was all you needed. A mix of guilt and frustration stir in his chest when you don’t let him in. He has to dig out the key and do it himself with his free hand, the carry out bag crinkling with his efforts. When he slips in and shuts the door behind himself, you’re standing a few yards away. There’s a palpable intensity as you study the afflictions on his face.

Your body wants to fuss over him and push him away all at once—for leaving his phone, for scaring you, for coming back looking like he’d sought out yet another fight. Most of all, you feel foolish for believing that there was ever a chance at normalcy. There was no rewriting the curse that all the trouble in the world fell at Frank Castle’s feet so he could set things right.

Unlike eight months ago, when you thought he was bad news, you can’t imagine losing him. You wouldn’t survive it. That magnitude of that fear cloaks itself in anger and puts a target on him when it’s the last thing he deserves.

“What the hell, Frank? You can’t be serious right now.”

Your piercing gaze is muddled with a myriad of emotions, and he can see them all. He stops the knee-jerk reaction that almost makes him raise his voice and go on about how he didn’t ask for anything that transpired within the past hour. How happenstance wasn’t within his control. How the whole idea of the two people like you finding a sense of normality was probably closer to a fairytale.

He doesn’t get into it because he loves you. Even though neither of you have ever said it aloud. It was an unspoken truth, written between the lines of the fact that you worked each other’s nerves, but knew how to sooth them even more. Chasing after a fairytale would be worth it with you.

“Let’s just eat, yeah? Can we do that?”

He brushes past you to put the food on the small table. You track his movements, watching as he takes out a few small boxes. There’s wings, garlic knots, mozzarella sticks—a variety so you can take your pick and get your fill. It was never really too late for pizza, but he knew you would complain about the layers of cheese grease so close to bedtime. You’re not even sure you have an appetite anymore, but he motions for you to come sit and you can’t say no. Your eyes follow him as he goes to wash his hands, wishing you had it in you to scream.

There’s only two chairs and your knees knock beneath the table when he sits down. As you nibble on a garlic knot, you stare at the dried blood on his cheek and the forming bruise.

“Please tell me what happened.” Your tone is lighter than before.

Frank squints briefly then wrinkles his nose, gears turning in his head. Similar to when he walks into a new room, his gaze tracks around different points of your face, as if he’s trying to piece together what he wants to say as he assesses where you are. His thoughts are always written in his expressions even if they aren’t entirely clear.

“It was nothing,” he says.

“Nothing, Frank?”

Nine times out of ten, him coming back to base camp bearing signs of a fight meant that he’d either taken care of everything or it was time to bounce—no in between. There’s no urgency that suggests the latter, so he must be telling the truth. The events of the night have pissed him off more than anything, like a side quest he couldn’t avoid. As much as he dreaded playing it over in his head for the sake of relaying it back to you, he can see that you need it.

“Alright, look.” Frank waits for your attentive nod to continue.

“It was a couple of kids. Came in all loud, making a scene,” he starts. “Long story short, they gang up on their buddy who works there.” Your eyes drift to his lips as he talks, watching the way he wets them every so often. “Everybody starts freaking out, some suit who looks like Mayor LaGaurdia calls the cops.”

He shakes his head like it was all a big mess. “And I’m not about to sit there and watch this kid get the snot beat outta him, so I get up and do somethin’ about it.” The righteous indignation in his tone stirs an admiration within you. He notices the shift in the way you’re looking at him.

“What?”

You shake your head and bite your lower lip. “So you broke them apart?”

He nods. “One of ‘em got a lick in, pulled out a pocket knife,” he says. “Then I shook both their asses up and made ‘em sit ‘til the cops came.”

“You pulled your punches.”

“I pulled my punches,” he confirms.

This wasn’t the story you were expecting, but you’re grateful for it nonetheless. Frank breaking up fights and setting kids straight was something you could live with—better than dealing with crime rings, crooked feds, and personal vendettas.

A wave of rowdy laughter soon erupts from somewhere in the distance. When you look down, you realize the two of you have made your way through more of the food than you were expecting. Frank wipes his hands off with a napkin and leans back in his chair, watching as you do the same.

The silence is intimate. Frank’s knees are still pressed against yours. He looks like he wants to say one thing but changes his mind to another at the last minute. “I’m gonna go grab a shower, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you mimic the quick, New York way he always clips the word onto the end of his sentences.

He’s never minded your teasing. Every time he thinks he’s gotten away with masking his amusement, you always catch a tell that gives him away. This time, it’s the twitch of his nose as he stands up to throw his stuff away. You file it away in your memory.

“Hey, Frank?” He looks over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was scared.”

“I know.”

Later, the lights around the mirror provide a Hollywood-esque glow as you stand at the sink brushing your teeth, one hand braced on the counter. The rest of the bathroom is sectioned off behind a door, so you feel the lingering steam from Frank's shower as he steps out in his sleep clothes, drying off his hair. The air smells like the complimentary soap, light and fresh. You absentmindedly shift to make room for him as he drapes the towel around his neck and leans close to the mirror to assess his face.

Now that the blood is gone, the cut looks less imposing. Unphased that you’re bumping shoulders, he reaches for his own toothbrush.

You’ve never paid any mind to how heavy-handed he is while he brushes, but it stands out now that you’re right beside him sharing the same sink. Perhaps it only appears that way, but you force yourself to bite back a teasing comment as you move on to floss. Frank just stares at you in the mirror with a soft, tired look in his eyes that makes your insides feel all fluttery. You’re sure he’s not even aware he’s doing it—or maybe he knows perfectly well.

After he’s ditched the towel and the two of you are making your way to your respective beds, you bring a halt to his movements by wrapping your arms around him. It’s an awkward angle at first because you come at him partially from the side, partially from behind. But he adjusts himself so that your chests are pressed together as he wraps an arm around you—just the one initially, taken aback by your embrace.

“Okay. Oh, boy,” he chuckles in that low way of his that playfully denotes trouble.

You’re not sure why you made the move. As he adds his other arm, it occurs to you that there are too many motivations for there to be just one. Affection seldom looks like this between the two of you—maybe once every blue moon during notable partings or close calls. The seamless way you melt into him says otherwise. It’s as if relishing his warmth and the steady constant of his frame was all you were made for. The possibility doesn’t even offend you. You keep holding him and he keeps holding you.

“You okay?” he asks after a while, smoothing his wide palm up your back.

You nod before slowly pulling away. “Sorry, I’m just…” You touch a gentle finger to the center of his chest as he looks at you with that familiar furrow between his brows. “Glad you’re back.” Glad he’s still alive.

“Where else would I be, huh?” He taps your chin with his knuckle. “I walk out any door without you, best believe I’m making it back some way somehow.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice anymore.

He gives your chin another affectionate tap. “Alright then. Bedtime.”

•••

A small sliver of light slips in through the slit in the curtains, casting itself onto the lower portion of Frank’s bed right over his feet. Even after staring at it for what feels like forever, you can’t bring yourself to close your eyes and surrender to the grasp of sleep. Yet the steady rise and fall of Frank’s chest continues on like some sort of miracle. You wish you were close enough to feel it for yourself, and when that pull doesn’t go away, you push the covers off and tiptoe over to his bed amid the dark.

When the other side of his mattress dips, he thinks it’s one of those half-waking dreams until your leg brushes against his in your attempt to join him beneath the sheets. He immediately shifts to accommodate you, tugging more covers over to your side even though there’s already plenty. As he moves, you can smell the familiar scent of his skin and feel the weight of his proximity.

“Thought you were—thought I was dreaming,” he rasps.

With the way your heart has begun hammering in your ears, you’re surprised you can hear him. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, you’re okay, sweetheart.” His voice is thick, but not from tiredness this time.

Both of you remain still after you’ve settled, scared that moving would shatter this sweet reality that had been woven together by fate. The warmth of his body calls out to you, but you don’t indulge even though you want to. That hesitation doesn’t last long. The moment he reaches out, you press yourself back against his chest. He lets his hand come to rest over your stomach as he tucks his nose into your head, breathing you in. When you relax further into him, his fingertips venture just beneath the hem of your shirt to grace the soft skin above your waistline. The gesture is achingly chaste. The two of you fall asleep just like that.

Morning seems to come soon, sunlight spilling into the room around the closed curtains. The light is tender in the way it bathes the charming color palette of the room. Frank’s eyes flutter open to find that neither of you had shifted much during the night. You're further away, but his arm remains draped over your middle. He doesn’t know that you're awake—that you’ve been awake.

The first thing your gaze fell on was the alarm clock nearing nine o’ clock. You’d slept in way longer than usual, especially for what was meant to be another day on the road. You can’t bring yourself to mind.

It isn’t until Frank withdraws his arm that you finally allow yourself to shift. The sheets rustle in a tell-tale sign that he’s stretching, and you roll over in time to see him on his back with his arms extended, knuckles brushing against the headboard. You scoot closer, resting a hand on his chest after he lowers his arms and tucks the one furthest from you behind his head, bicep flexing.

Neither of you say anything, but there’s a quiet sense of acknowledgement—of seeing and being seen. With a lone finger, you draw lazy shapes over his pecs through the fabric of his shirt as he slowly blinks down at your hand. And as Frank turns to press a kiss to your forehead, he reckons he could get used to mornings like these.

♡ Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts.

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle fanfic #frank castle x reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #the punisher #jon bernthal #friends to lovers fic #friends to lovers

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wonryllis · 1 year ago

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dear future husband (m) | lee heeseung.

i can't say i do without you.

PREVIEW. you always get what you want, spoiled with the love of everyone around you. and it's all innocent love, at least that's what everyone thinks. it comes with much surprise therefore, when heeseung makes a move on you. thirteen long years of being in the brother zone having made him utterly clueless that if he’s going to date you he has to pass through your actual brothers first. and he knows how scary they can be. especially since they are known to have a sister complex and he’s been the third scary one with them, numerous times before.

OR WHERE, bimbo heeseung has no idea what the fuck to do with his feelings for you who are oblivious as fuck and your brothers who are overprotective as fuck.

MEET THE CAST. insanely love struck lee heeseung with his spoiled rich girl!reader ft. yeonjun, soobin, the rest of txt and the rest of enhypen. NSFW VERSION: BRAT TAMER heeseung with his BRAT girl.

GENRE & WARNING(S). social media!au + written chapters, SMUT MDNI!!! in the form of written chapters later on in the series, fluff, humor & crack, minimal angst, lots and i mean lots and lots of swearing and dirty jokes and everything nsfw. college!au, nonidol!au, neighbors to lovers!au, childhood friends to lovers!au. heavy on sister complex! rest other warnings will be stated in respective chapters.

UPDATE SCHEDULE. discontinued.

ׅ ꢾ꣒ profiles, character introductions & the groupchats. ( PLAYLIST ) theme song, code blue!

YEONIE NOTES. incase someone wonders if this is incest, no it’s not, they are not related by blood. sister complex. a state of strong attachment and obsession to sisters, always having them as their first priority. FIC ASKS: ask about the characters!

EPISODES rolling ..

000. prologue: the backstory.

001. arranged date gone wrong

002. it's a shame yn wants you

003. all good when all delusional

004. can you afford her a McLaren? TWT + WRITTEN ( 2.4k )

005. heeseung finally— [REDACTED]!

006. you went as my arm candy

DISCONTINUED!

i think its obvious enough why, the lack of response and enthusiasm from readers has made lose all motivation to continue this any further. i was so excited to revamp it but it seems it isn't the case for the other side. feedbacks are what keep most if not all writers going and absence of it for this one has just rid me of all interest i had to share it with you all. thank you to those who read it, and i apologize those who were looking forward to read it. this is it. over and done, with this kind of support i'm never doing a series on here again.

FIRST TAGLIST @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @shawnyle @enhastolemyheart @aaa-sia @criminalyun @oddracha @satan-223 @diorsyun @hooniehon @fakeuwus @caramelcandescence @intromortal @kookify @yutasberryy @sumzysworld @nikiswifiee @shuichi-sama @primroselover @rayofsunshineeee @aishigrey @yjwluvs @soraokkotsu @nyfwyeonjun @srhnyx @trashx678 @wondipity @winuvs @hoondiors @niniissus @firstclassjaylee @biancaness @enhaz1 @sophi-ee @un06 @heelariously @d-earlog @pharaways @ethelia @eneiyri @secretbarbariangardener @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @microwavedstrawberr1es @randomanothercreature @thatsoraya @graythecoffeebean @rikibun @jaeyungxrl @mxxnintheskyreblogs

#( 💍 ) 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #PROFILES WILL BE OUT TOMORROW!!#k-labels #enhypen smau #enhypen heeseung smut #heeseung smut #enhypen social media au #enhypen heeseung imagines #heeseung imagines #enhypen social au #enhypen socmed au #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts

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naristrawbz · 5 days ago

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Tidebound ☠

Chapter One

PirateOt8AU x F!Reader/original character

-In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own.

When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead.

You.

Betrayed. Bruised. Bound.

They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all.

And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.-

Genre: PirateAU, Angst, Slow burn, Enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: violence, death, swearing, fighting, drugging, angst (lmk if i missed anything)

Word count: 3.2k (i promise they'll be longer in future chapters!)

Taglist: open!

Masterlist > Previous > Next

Before there were pirates, there were gods. Not kind ones. Not ones who wept for man. They lived in the depths- in salt and pressure and silence. They fed on secrets. And they hated liars most of all. The old ones say the sea once held a voice. A chorus, even, the Abyssian Wives, sirens who sang truth into the bones of the world. But truth has always been dangerous. And man has always tried to steal it.

So the Wives drowned themselves, willingly One by one, dragging kingdoms with them. And when the last of them fell, she cursed the ocean with her final breath.

“Let all who chase immortality be claimed by it. Let the liars rot.”

The waters changed after that. Ships vanished between one tide and the next. Storms brewed in minutes. Sailors began waking with glowing eyes. And the word “Tideborn” was whispered like a warning. Some could see the future. Some could warp it. Others… could never lie again. Not without bleeding for it.

Then came the pirates. Not to beg the sea, but to take from it.

They built iron-clad monsters that ran on stormcores and salvaged tech. They called themselves kings, gods, devils.

But one name rose above all.

The HalaVeil.

Eight men. No master. No mercy. Only a curse ahead of them, and a storm always at their back.

They sail not for gold, but for a myth. A potion that doesn’t exist. A cure that demands a soul. A lie that just might save one of their own, if it doesn’t damn the rest. The sea remembers. And it always takes back what it’s owed.

The HalaVeil didn’t glide through the water, it tore through it. The sea bent beneath its keel like it feared the name carved into its hull. Metal and driftwood fused together with glowing scars, sails stitched with symbols from a language long dead. The wind screamed across the deck, dragging ropes and salt through the air like ghost fingers.

From the crow’s nest, Jongho squinted into the grey-blue horizon. His eyes gleamed pale for a heartbeat , and then dulled again.

“Storm in thirty,” he called down. “Big one. Hungry.”

Below, Seonghwa didn’t flinch. He stood near the wheel, hands behind his back, expression unreadable.

“We’ll go around.”

Behind him, Mingi scoffed. “You’re no fun.”

Seonghwa gave no reply, which, in Mingi’s experience, usually meant death glare pending.

Somewhere below deck, Yunho tightened a new bandage around his own shoulder. He hissed at the sting, but didn’t stop. Cuts healed fast, but not if you ignored them. Especially not with his gift — or his curse, depending on the day. Footsteps echoed above. A blur of movement. Wooyoung landed beside the main mast, swinging down like a shadow loosed from its tether.

“The merchant ship’s empty,” he announced. “Clean sweep. Food, cores, a few antique storm charts. And…” - he held up a flask - “...something that might kill us.”

“Just drink it,” Mingi muttered. “You’ve eaten worse.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

At the helm, Hongjoong said nothing. He gripped the wheel with gloved hands, his dark coat snapped by the wind, his expression carved from ice. When he was quiet this long, no one interrupted. Unless they wanted to lose something.

He finally spoke without turning.

“Siltshore.”

Yeosang, perched on a crate not far from the port railing, blinked. “No.”

“Seconded,” Yunho added, stepping into view. “You said we’d never go back there.”

“I changed my mind.”

“That’s not how this works,” San growled, spinning one of his blades in his hand. “We nearly died the last time.”

“And we will again,” Yeosang said coldly, “if you keep trusting liars.”

“Then maybe your power should’ve told us who was lying, Scout,” San shot back.

Wooyoung raised both hands between them. “Okay, okay. Everyone take a breath and maybe punch something inanimate.”

“Or punch Yeosang,” Mingi offered.

“Or shut up,” Seonghwa added.

“Enough.” Hongjoong let go of the wheel and turned, dark eyes raking over them all like he was taking inventory of strengths, of weaknesses, of who would die first if he chose wrong.

“We’re going to Siltshore,” he repeated. “Because the Blackeyes were seen there. And if we’re going to find anything good… we need to follow every ghost, every rumor, and every lie.”

Yeosang went still.

“You think they know something,” he said quietly.

“I think someone's hiding something from me,” Hongjoong replied. “And I’m going to kill whoever it is.”

Above them, thunder cracked. The sea rose. And far below, beneath rusted ruins and salt-bleached bones, something ancient turned its head.

The HalaVeil cut through the night like a scar across dark silk.

In the distance, Siltshore glowed, not golden like most ports, but flickering blue and red, like dying neon. A city built on bones and water. The closer they sailed, the more the air changed: metallic, chemical, thick with salt and smoke. The kind of place where sailors went to disappear, and some of them did.

On deck, tension clung like damp air.

"Thirty clicks until shore,” Jongho called from above, voice sharp. “We’re drifting too fast.”

“I know,” Seonghwa muttered from the wheel, fingers tight on the spokes. “The currents are wrong here.”

“They’re always wrong here,” Yeosang said quietly, gaze fixed on the distant glow. “It’s not the tide.”

San slammed his sword into its sheath with more force than necessary. “Maybe we just don’t go in like idiots this time.”

“Why ruin the tradition?” Wooyoung leaned over the railing, upside down, feet hooked casually on the ropes. “I’m sure there’s some local crime boss dying to stab me again.”

“You laughed when he stabbed you,” Yunho pointed out, adjusting the strap of his medkit. “You thanked him.”

“I did. He was cute.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Mingi asked from where he was packing a bag full of explosives and storm cores.

Wooyoung flipped upright. “Nope.”

“Great,” Mingi muttered, shoving a smoke canister in with a bit too much force. “We’re definitely surviving this.”

From the captain’s quarters, Hongjoong finally emerged, coat donned, hair pulled back, expression unreadable.

“You’re packing too much,” he told Mingi.

“I’m packing exactly enough,” Mingi shot back.

Hongjoong ignored him. “We go in quiet. No blood unless I say. We get the contact, get what we need, and leave.”

“And if someone recognizes us?” Seonghwa asked without looking up.

Hongjoong’s mouth twitched. “Then we burn the city.”

A silence passed over the deck.

Yunho stepped in, trying to pull the tension back down. “We’re not here to pick fights, remember? Just whispers. I’ll stay close to Yeosang. If anyone tries to lie, he’ll hear it.”

“Only if you stop being louder than the liars,” Yeosang muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Yunho raised an eyebrow.

“I said I’ll do my best,” Yeosang said, deadpan.

Wooyoung grinned. “He’s getting sassier. I like this timeline.”

Hongjoong cut them off with a single look. “We dock at midnight. I want the crew split into three.”

He tapped the map on the crate beside him.

“Seonghwa, Mingi, and Jongho — you take the east end. The stormcore black markets.”

“Mmm, my favorite kind of illegal,” Mingi hummed.

“San, Yeosang, and Yunho — stay near the central run. Get information. Stay clean.”

“I always stay clean,” San said, running a blade across his palm with a glint in his eyes.

“And I’m heading west,” Hongjoong finished. “Wooyoung’s with me.”

“Oh?” Wooyoung perked up. “Because I’m your favorite?”

“Because you lie the best.”

The crew scattered to prep: blades sharpened, cloaks donned, runes stitched into collars and cuffs. Saltbinding charms were passed around, cracked glass beads on corded string, meant to ward off curses or misdirection. No one knew if they actually worked, but wearing one was better than not. In the shared quarters, Yeosang sat on the edge of his bunk, fingers twitching.

“You okay?” Yunho asked, tightening the last strap on his gear.

Yeosang didn’t look at him. “This place feels wrong.”

“It always feels wrong.”

“No,” Yeosang said slowly. “It feels… watching.”

Yunho’s brow furrowed. “What do you hear?”

Yeosang shook his head. “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

Across the room, San grunted. “If anything does happen, I’m stabbing first and asking questions never.”

“You’re so romantic,” Wooyoung called from the hallway.

“Go choke on your illusions.”

“Gladly.”

By the time the HalaVeil reached the edge of Siltshore’s radius, the water beneath them had changed, thicker, darker, almost heavy. The ship groaned, wood creaking unnaturally. A shiver passed through them all, quiet, collective. Even Hongjoong paused as he stepped onto the landing deck, one gloved hand brushing against the railing like he was listening to the ship breathe.

“We’re being watched,” Seonghwa said, softly.

“No,” Hongjoong replied. “We’re being expected.”

Siltshore reeked of rust and rain.

The port was built like a trap, spiraling alleys, twisted bridges, dripping signs in every language, half of them glowing, half of them flickering. It rained even when the sky was clear. Salt clung to everything. So did blood. The HalaVeil’s crew didn’t exactly blend in. But they didn’t need to. Not here.

Seonghwa, Mingi and Jongho scouted out first.

They moved like wolves in a field of mice.

The stormcore market was tucked into the broken belly of an old sea-fort, surrounded by makeshift stalls and armed guards with rusted weapons. But no one questioned them when Seonghwa stepped through the gates first, tall, composed, and silent as a blade.

“Mouths shut. Eyes open,” he ordered. He didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to.

Mingi trailed a step behind, eyes already scanning for weak spots in the guards’ armor. “You want quiet theft or loud boom?”

“Neither,” Seonghwa replied. “Yet.”

Jongho watched everything- every twitch of the merchants, every shadow shift. His vision flickered briefly, the future humming at the edge of his skull.

“I see two outcomes,” he muttered. “One where we walk away. One where Mingi gets shot.”

“Which one’s more fun?” Mingi grinned.

At the core stall, the merchant tried to haggle.

“These are top grade. No pirate scum discount.”

Seonghwa didn’t blink. “You’ll hand them over.”

“Not unless you want your ribs electrified.”

Mingi leaned close, voice all sugar. “You ever see a man implode from the inside? No? Want a demonstration?”

The merchant paled. Five minutes later, they walked away with every stormcore on the table.

San, Yunho and Yeosang went in the east direction. This part of the town is said to be the more gritty end. No one stays out here past dark. The central run of Siltshore was louder, music, bodies, blood. Smoke curled from incense burners and weapon stalls. Everything was for sale. Especially people. San moved like he owned the place. He shouldered past market goers, knocked over a table, stole fruit without paying. The locals scowled, until they recognized him. Then they ran.

Yunho stayed closer to Yeosang, keeping a protective radius. “We’re not here to kill anyone.”

“Speak for yourself,” San muttered.

Yeosang paused at a charm stall. A small girl offered him a saltbinding necklace.

“It keeps the ghosts out,” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “Does it?”

She nodded, solemn. He handed her a silver chip anyway, and then turned away before anyone could see the tremor in his hands.

In the tavern, their contact was drunk and twitchy.

“There’s no potion,” he slurred. “Just stories. And death.”

Yeosang’s gaze sharpened. His power surged a chill like iron in his mouth. Yeosang drinks his mead to soothe his nerves, looking down and seeing a fizz inside his cup.

“He’s lying,” he said.

San was already pulling out his blade. “I’ll make him bleed the truth.”

“Wait,” Yunho said.

But it was too late. None of the locals look over at the commotion. It's just the norm there.

Hongjoong and Wooyoung went a different direction. They didn’t sneak. They strolled.

The western end of Siltshore was quieter, darker. All shadows and echoes. Perfect for people who wanted to disappear. Wooyoung leaned against a doorframe, smiling too easily at a passing courier. “Do you know who we are?”

“No,” the man stammered.

“Good.” Wooyoung’s smile widened. “Tell your boss we’re here anyway.”

Inside the smokehouse, Hongjoong stood over the map table, speaking to no one, fingers tracing routes no one else saw.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Wooyoung said softly.

“I’m not pushing hard enough,” Hongjoong replied. “Every second we waste…”

“Yeosang’s fine.”

“Not yet. But he won’t be for long.”

As they left, Wooyoung stopped to rob a smuggler blind while smiling into his face. Hongjoong didn’t stop him. He didn’t stop him when he broke the man’s kneecap either.

“Message delivery fee,” Wooyoung said, brushing blood off his boot.

Eventually, the crew finishes their pillaging, only just to further add fear to their name. They regrouped near the edges of Siltshore just before midnight. Heavy with supplies. Heavier with silence.

“Anything useful?” Seonghwa asked.

“Plenty,” Hongjoong said. “But not enough.”

Yeosang swayed slightly on his feet.

Yunho caught his elbow. “You okay?”

Yeosang blinked once. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

And by the next hour, they would all know.

The dock should’ve been quiet.

The HalaVeil crew moved like ghosts, returning from their split missions, boots echoing against warped wood and rain-slick stone. Siltshore slept, or pretended to. The city never truly rested. Not with the kind of things that crawled its underbelly. Yeosang lagged behind. At first, no one said anything. He always lingered. Always looked back at shadows as if they whispered to him. But this time, it was different. He was paler. Eyes sunken. Movements sluggish, like walking through water.

Yunho stepped closer, whispering, “Still with us?”

Yeosang blinked slowly. “My head hurts.”

“Sleep it off when we’re off this dock.”

Yeosang nodded faintly , and said nothing else.

On deck, Seonghwa was locking down the course map while Mingi counted what they stole. Wooyoung hummed as he cleaned his bloodied blade with someone’s stolen shirt.

San was sharpening his own weapons again, faster than necessary.

“Something’s wrong with him,” San said aloud, eyes locked on Yeosang as he climbed aboard.

“No shit,” Wooyoung muttered. “He looks like a drowned ghost.”

Yunho shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

“We should move,” Seonghwa called. “Wind’s changed. Storm’s building. I want us gone in ten.”

But Yeosang didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at his own hand.

“…it was the drink,” he whispered.

Hongjoong turned sharply. “What?”

Yeosang’s voice cracked, barely audible. “The merchant. The contact. He gave me something after we talked. Said it would help clear the noise.”

“And you drank it?” San barked.

“I didn’t… mean to... I-I didn't want to” Yeosang looked dazed, voice breaking apart like glass. “It tasted like salt and iron. Then it turned green.”

“Green,” Yunho repeated, tone flat with dread. “Shit.”

The crew went still.

Everyone knew what green meant in Siltshore. Especially when it came from a man known for selling truth-warding potions. It wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. And it was working.

Yeosang’s lie detection, his entire power, had been corrupted.

“Who was the man?” Hongjoong demanded. “What did he look like?”

Yeosang’s brow furrowed. “Tall. Gold rings. Left hand tattooed. Smelled like clove smoke.”

A long silence.

Then Jongho, up in the nest, called out: “Captain. Starboard side.”

The crew turned.

Docked across from them, as if summoned by the storm itself, was a sleek black ship. Torn sails. Rusted teeth welded into the side of the hull. And on the prow stood a man.

Smirking. Leaning on a cane he didn’t need. Wearing gold rings. Smoke curling from his mouth. The Captain of the Blackeyes.

“Permission to kill him,” San growled.

“Seconded,” Mingi said without looking up.

“No.” Hongjoong’s voice was quiet. Cold. “Not yet.”

“What’s the plan?” Seonghwa asked.

“We board.”

“They’ll run the second they see us.”

“Then we make them bleed first.”

Yeosang took a shaky breath and turned to Hongjoong.

“Whatever he gave me… it’s killing me, isn’t it?”

Hongjoong stared at him for a long, brutal moment. His mind ran ahead, calculating symptoms, duration, trajectory. And then, finally, his answer:

“Yes.”

The attack was silent. Then it wasn’t.

Jongho fired the first shot, a flashbomb arcing over the dock and exploding mid-air. Light shattered the fog. Shouts followed. Blades sang.

The HalaVeil crew hit the Blackeyes like a storm no one predicted.

San was first to leap across the plank, landing with a crack of steel and boot. His blade sank into the nearest crewman without hesitation. He kicked the body aside.

“Where is he?” he snarled.

Wooyoung followed next, a flicker of illusion trailing behind him like a second skin. One Blackeyes gunner raised their weapon, and found themselves stabbing their own hallucination instead.

“Oops,” Wooyoung whispered, slashing their throat. “Wrong reality.”

Mingi hurled an explosive at the mast. Fire surged upward, catching the rigging.

“You said no full burn!” Yunho shouted.

“I didn’t!” Mingi yelled back over the roar. “I only said maybe partial!”

Seonghwa moved like a ghost, clean and surgical. His blade was silent, but his eyes burned. The sea whipped around the ship unnaturally, tilting the deck in ATEEZ’s favor.

Hongjoong walked into the chaos with his blade sheathed, expression unreadable. He didn’t need to fight, not with his crew plugged into his mind. They were synced. Every swing. Every breath. It hurt like hell, but the results were flawless.

Yeosang, barely standing, stayed behind with Jongho. His eyes were glassy.

“They’re lying again,” he whispered, even as blood trickled from his nose. “They’re all lying.”

The Blackeyes screamed. They weren’t prepared. They weren’t good enough.

Men dropped. Steel clanged. Blood spilled across the deck like oil.

And finally, finally - a voice cried out.

“STOP!”

The fighting slowed. A thin, weaselly man, the first mate, stumbled forward, arms raised, face streaked with ash and fear.

“We call for parley!”

Hongjoong stepped forward, face unreadable. “Now you want peace.”

“We’re sorry—about the curse. We didn’t know..” Lies.

“You knew enough to stand there and watch him suffer,” San growled.

“We’re not the ones who cast it!” More lies. the man cried. “But we know someone who can help!”

The crew froze.

That’s when The Blackeyes captain stepped forward. Sickening grin. Gold rings. Clove smoke. Eyes like rotten oil.

“We’ve got a… guest. One of ours. Used to be, anyway.”

He jerked a thumb toward the lower deck.

“Bit of a freak. Knows things. We didn’t trust her. But maybe you will.”

A pause.

“She knows where the curse came from. And maybe how to end it.”

Hongjoong’s head tilted slightly. Yunho looked at Yeosang. He was swaying. San looked at Seonghwa. He gave the faintest nod.

“Bring her out,” Hongjoong said.

You were dragged. Wrists bound. Face bruised. Eyes wild with panic. You kicked. Fought. Screamed.

“Let go of me! I didn’t do anything!”

“Shut her up,” the Blackeyes’ captain snapped. “You want a cure or not?”

You struggled harder.

“I don’t know anything! They’re lying-!”

Mingi stepped forward, rage flaring.

“I say we gut their captain and take her anyway.”

“No,” Hongjoong said coldly. “If she’s cursed him, she dies slow.”

You spat blood. “I didn’t-”

Your voice cut off as a fist slammed into the side of your head.

You crumpled.

Out cold.

Silence fell over the dock.

The Blackeyes backed away, dragging their dead, leaving their wounded.

Hongjoong watched them leave.

Then turned to your unconscious body.

“Bring her aboard,” he said.

(any errors/mistakes pls let me know!)

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