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mocharyc · 2 months ago

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Invincible variants x reader ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

They watched you succumb to death in every twisted, agonizing way in their universes. Unable to prevent it, in this universe... ♡ It would be different ♡ Parts Available: The series is completed - 10 parts

☆ characters: MoHawk Invincible, Omni Invincible, Sinister Invincible, Viltrumite Invincible, Prisoner Invincible, No Mask Invincible, Phantom Invincible(Full masked), and Emperor Invincible.

☆ TW: Reader is manmade 'Viltrumite'

☆ WC: 5k+ [Part 1-]

☆ Author's Note: I'm truly sad I can’t find much Invincible variants x reader stuff, so I decided to make a story myself! This is going to be a long story with many parts, and I mean lonnggggg. If writer's block doesn't succumb me :P I also plan to include sexual content as well in later chapters. First time posting on tumblr, kinda nervous (ᵕ ´ ∇ ˋ ˶) ––––––––––––––––––

☆

The ice cracked, a shudder running through my suspended form, the cryopreservation ending once again. It was a sensation I'd grown intimately familiar with – the cold, the forced awakening, the metallic taste of the seemingly invincible shock collar tightening around my neck. The small sparks of electricity traveling to the wet muscle trapped inside my head.

My dull eyes flickered open, adjusting to the harsh glare of the white lights of the GDA facility.

"Experiment 1-01, designated Y/N, reactivation complete," a cold, clinical voice echoed from the speakers. Cecil's voice. Always Cecil. The weak, old white man.

"What is it this time?" I growled, my voice rough from disuse.

My body felt heavy, a dull ache permeating every muscle. Slunking down on the platform I hiss. The heaters appearing from each side of the enclosure wall to warm my aching body back into submission.

"A… situation," Cecil replied, his tone unusually strained, "Multiple hostile entities, Invincible variants… Viltrumites in origin, are causing widespread destruction. We require your… assistance."

Hostile Viltrumites? My mind struggled to process the information. They were sending me, me, the weapon they kept locked away, against Viltrumite variants of Invincible? This had to be bad.

The ice finally fully melted away, and I was lowered onto the transportation platform. The shock collar pulsed, a constant reminder of my captivity.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the raw power thrumming beneath my skin. My wet hair sticking to the skin of my back. The tight suit clamped to my skin.

They'd honed me, pushed me beyond any natural limit. I was an experiment seemingly born in this dreadful prison. A test tube for them to fill with anything they dreamed of, and use needlssy. Dissecting my body apart to inject with the results of false experiments. Viltrumite blood, from the one Omni-man himself… I was their ultimate weapon in the face of no return. Crafted as the last stand in the face of no return, even if they were terrified to use it.

"What's the mission?" I asked, my voice flat. My eyes glued to the one sided glass wall, where I could sense the heat Signatures of multiple scientists and Cecil standing behind.

"Eliminate all hostile Invincible variants. No collateral damage," Cecil instructed, his voice laced with a thin veneer of control through the speaker.

No collateral damage? They were asking the impossible.

The transport platform hissed, lifting me from the cold, sterile chamber throught the many levels of the base. Finally to the surface of the GDA's hidden base.

My eyes widen, as I see the sky for the first time in so many long years. The soft blue sky, the cool chill crisp of fresh air, beautifully painted clouds strengthening across the blue canvas stretched above me. I raised my arms spinning softly with a laugh. Fuck it feels good to be out again! The shock collar suddenly pulsed, a cold, insistent command that made me freeze. "Eliminate all hostile Invincible variants," Cecil's voice echoed in my mind.

With a grumble, I launched myself into the air, a surge of raw power propelling me upwards. The world shrank below, the GDA facility becoming a mere speck in the distance.

I spread my arms, feeling the wind whip through my damp hair, as it instantly dried in the strong breeze of fresh air. The raw energy of flight coursing through my veins. This was what I was made for.

Zooming through the sky I break the sound barrier, flying into New York.

The city was a chaotic tapestry of destruction, plumes of black smoke rising like grotesque fingers, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers reaching towards the sky. Building Collapsing.

Once again I break the sound barrier with a thunderous boom, the air around me shimmering with heat. The raw, untamed power of flight, the sheer speed, it was soooo intoxicating.

The scents of the city assaulted my senses – burning metal, acrid smoke, the coppery tang of blood, and the faint, terrified screams of the dying citizens trying to hide and running. It was a symphony of chaos, a macabre orchestra conducted by the Invincible variant in New York.

And I, the weapon, was here to silence it.

A jolt of electricity from the collar snapped me back to the mission. "Focus girl. Eliminate target in New York. Identification, Mohawk Invincible."

My eyes scanned the ruined cityscape, looking onto a scene of imminent destruction for any sign of the killing machine.

A child, no more than a few years old, stood frozen in terror beneath a crumbling building, its foundations groaning ominously. I felt a flicker of something, a faint echo of… what? It was quickly extinguished by the collar's control. A child...weak...protect? No, mission.

With a burst of speed, I was there. I braced myself, catching the falling building with my bare hands, the concrete groaning under the strain as I held the collapsing building up.

I glanced at the child between my legs, its face a mask of terror streaked with tears and mucus. With one arm still bracing the collapsing structure, I scooped the small body against my chest. Its warmth was shocking—so different from the cold sterility of my existence. The tiny heart hammered against my suit, a frantic rhythm that stirred something protective within me.

Releasing my hold on the building, I launched us both skyward as tons of concrete and steel crashed to the street below. Dust and debris erupted in a massive cloud, consuming everything in its path as I carried the child to relative safety, landing on a section of street that wasn't actively burning.

The asphalt cracked beneath my feet, blackened and weakened by the heat of nearby fires. The child in my arms whimpered, one limb bent at an angle that spoke of fracture and pain. I placed the small form on the ground, studying it with clinical detachment as its eyes—wide with terror—stared up at me. Unintelligible words tumbled from its lips, a litany of fear I couldn't process.

"Stay," I commanded, my voice devoid of warmth or reassurance. Yet as I reached down to brush a speck of blood from its cheek, a spark of something undefinable flared within me as tiny fingers clutched desperately at my hand. Why? Why do I feel this?

"Saving citizens is important, but defeating the threat is top priority." Cecil's voice intruded into my moment of connection, the implant in my head ensuring his control remained absolute.

I turned away, the mission reasserting its primacy in my consciousness. But a blur of motion caught my peripheral vision—a figure streaking across the sky on an intercept course.

"Finally, another fucking hero for me to fucking obliterate!!" A voice laced with manic glee echoed through the ruined streets as the figure—Mohawk Mark—accelerated toward me.

There was barely time to react. I pivoted sharply, using my body as a shield for the child, intercepting the charge with my shoulder. The impact was cataclysmic—like colliding with a runaway train. The force sent us both hurtling through the concrete wall of a nearby building, pulverizing it instantly. The shockwave rippled outward, shattering windows for blocks in every direction.

My body shot through the other side of the building, into the street where people were running.

The bodies of fleeing civilians exploded like fleshy water balloons as I crashed through them, the force of the impact turning them into a spray of blood and bone. I spat, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth as I picked the strand of intestines off my shoulder, flicking it away. The child I'd tried to protect was now unrecognizable, I was clumsy and squeezed the child so tightly against me it exploded. reduced to a pulped mass of tissue in my arms, its blood staining the front of my suit. A flash of anger and envy flickered through me—this child's suffering was over while mine continued indefinitely—I felt a flash of anger and envy, before the emotions quickly dismissed within me.

"Insignificant," I hissed, dropping the remains with a wet splat onto the blood-slicked sidewalk.

Rising to my full height, I ignored the pain radiating through my system. Pain was merely information, and information could be disregarded. The mission remained paramount: eliminate the target. And now, the target had revealed himself.

Debris from the shattered building continued to rain down around me as I steadied my stance. My eyes—cold, calculating, devoid of mercy—locked onto the figure hovering above the rubble. Mohawk Mark. His blue and black suit hugged a physique identical to the original, but the spiky mohawk and the arrogant smirk set him apart. It was a face I had been programmed to destroy.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with cruel amusement that barely masked something deeper, "What do we have here? Another hero comes to play?—" His expression shifted, eyes widening slightly as he studied me more carefully. Recognition dawned in his gaze, followed by confusion that seemed genuine. "Wait... Y/N?"

The name struck me like a physical blow. Something flickered in the recesses of my mind—a half-remembered dream, perhaps, or an echo of a life that had been systematically erased. I groaned, clutching my head as fractured images threatened to coalesce into meaning. The collar responded instantly, electricity searing through my neural pathways, burning away the nascent memories before they could fully form.

My mission remained untainted by sentiment: eliminate the target.

I launched myself at him. My fist aimed for his jaw with enough force to shatter concrete, but he reacted with equal speed, blocking the blow and retaliating with a devastating kick to my ribs. Blood erupted from my mouth as the impact sent me crashing through yet another wall. The concrete disintegrated around me, offering no more resistance than tissue paper.

I rose from the wreckage without hesitation, the pain relegated to some distant corner of my consciousness as I assessed my opponent with newfound respect. It had been a long time since anyone had landed a blow with such force.

Mohawk Mark landed before me, his expression a mix of confusion and something else I couldn't name. He was hesitating, holding back his attacks. Why?

"Y/N, what are you doing?" he asked, his voice tight with emotion. "Don't you remember me? Or did the fucking Mark of this universe not meet you?! Love you!" he hissed, frustration clear in every word.

"Target identified," I responded, my voice empty and cold. I ignored his words completely - they meant nothing to a weapon. "Elimination protocol engaged."

I lunged forward with everything I had, throwing punches that could level buildings. Each blow carried enough force to shatter concrete, aimed to destroy rather than just hurt. But he was good - too good - dodging and blocking with growing desperation in his movements.

Something was wrong. He wasn't fighting back with full strength. He was holding back, his eyes fixed on me with an expression I couldn't understand.

"Fucking stop, Y/N!" he yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "You don't have to do this y-you bitc–!"

I ignored him completely, focused only on my mission. Finally, an opening! My uppercut connected with his jaw, sending him flying skyward. I followed immediately, delivering another crushing blow to his chest that sent him crashing through the roof of a nearby building.

I zoomed to where he landed, pulling my fist back for what should be a finishing blow. But he caught my punch, his eyes wide and filled with emotion that made me hesitate.

"Y/N... please," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. When I saw he wasn't defending himself anymore, I delivered a savage kick to his ribs that sent him smashing into a burning bus. The metal folded around his body like it was made of paper.

"Shut up," I growled, feeling nothing as I approached. "You're a target. Nothing more."

He struggled to his feet, his mohawk now crooked, his blue and black suit torn and stained with blood and dirt. Despite the beating, his eyes never left mine.

"But... it's me, Mark! Don't you fucking remember?!" The pain in his voice wasn't just physical.

Remember? The word bounced around inside my empty mind. Remember what? My life was the cold lab, the endless tests, the collar's constant shocks. There was nothing before that. Nothing to remember.

I charged at him again, aiming for his throat this time. He dodged, grabbing my arm as he pulled me down for a punch and suddenly freezing as his eyes locked onto the collar around my neck. Something changed in his expression - understanding dawned.

"Shit, I mean it, stop!" he yelled, his voice mixing anger and desperation. "You don't have to do this! Are they fucking controlling you?!"

The collar sent a massive shock through my body, making my vision blur and my muscles spasm. I stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. He used the chance to grab my head, his fingers pressing against my skull as he pulled my head back to look at him directly. My eyes drazed against his fierce ones.

"Fucking listen to me!" he pleaded, his grip gentler than it should be. "I know who you are! I... loved you in my universe! B-before you—" His voice caught in his throat, and I watched, strangely fascinated, as tears formed in his brown eyes. His hands loosened, now almost cradling my head instead of restraining me.

Loved? The word was strange, meaningless to me. What did it mean to be loved? I shook my head, trying to clear the fog from the collar's shock. For a brief moment, I felt the control slipping, something else trying to surface. But it passed quickly, and I snapped back to my purpose. Kill.

"Fucking listen to me, Y/N," he begged, his voice rough with emotion. "They're controlling you! That collar... it's controlling your damn mind!"

I answered with my elbow, smashing it into his face with all my strength. I felt his nose shatter under the impact. Blood sprayed as he staggered backward, yet he looked unharmed. I didn't hesitate, unleashing a storm of punches that would crush a normal human to paste, but he wasn’t normal, he was a variant, of Invincible. He easily blocked, dodged, but I was relentless.

"Eliminate... target," I mumbled, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears.

As I paused to gather strength for another attack, he lunged forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. Despite everything I'd done to him, his grip was surprisingly gentle.

"SHIT, you have to fight it, Y/N!" he urged, his eyes burning with intensity. "You're stronger than this! Tell me who's controlling you! I will fucking murder them!"

I struggled against his grip, my body fighting like a puppet on strings as the collar shocked me repeatedly. But something about his words, his voice - they were cutting through the fog in my mind, stirring something buried deep inside me. Fight? How could I fight what I was?

"She's not listening," a new voice called out, calm but commanding, making both of us freeze. "She simply can't.. She wasn't made for you, she was made for me."

A new figure landed beside Mohawk Mark - another Mark variant, but this one wore a red and gray suit. A mask with black eyesless goggles. Omni Invincible. His mask couldn't hide his grim expression as he studied me. "Plus, the collar has her completely under their control."

"We have to stop her," another voice hissed as a figure in dark blue and black landed heavily on the rooftop. Phantom Mark. His voice carried deep pain and barely controlled rage. "She's being used... I can't bear to see her again... not like this..."

Used? Why did they care what happened to me?

"Used?" A mocking voice cut through as another Mark variant landed directly in front of me and Mohawk. This one wore black and yellow - Sinister Mark. His smile was cruel as he stared at me with open interest. "She's a weapon. A god damn killing machine. And we're her targets." His grin widened, predatory and cold. "She's perfect, so much better than the fucking pathetic Y/N of my universe."

Perfect? What did he mean? Another… me?

More Mark variants began to arrive, surrounding me on the rooftop. Each one showed recognition when they saw me, their faces displaying a mix of shock, grief, and something that looked like desperate hope. Viltrumite Mark, Emperor Mark, Prisoner Mark, and No Masked Mark all landed around me. Every threat I was supposed to eliminate was gathering in one place.

"Y/N," Viltrumite Mark said softly, his voice almost tender, his brown eyes wide with disbelief. A stark contrast to his white suit. "Wow... you look just like her. Just like my Y/N. Your face, that beautiful face... and your—" He stopped suddenly, his gaze fixing on the collar around my neck. His expression shifted from wonder to anger.

They all knew me? How was that possible when I didn't know any of them?

I felt something touch my back - warm, gentle - and it broke my frozen state. I lashed out blindly, my fist connecting with No Masked Mark who had tried to hug me. The impact sent him flying across the rooftop. Warmth? No. Target.

The electricity from the collar intensified, becoming nearly unbearable. I staggered under the pain, blood dripping from my nose as my vision blurred. My arm froze mid-swing as my muscles began to lock up. My strength was fading. But I must keep fighting.

"I believe she's too far gone," Emperor Mark said grimly, resignation heavy in his voice. "We have to disable her..."

"Are you fucking insane?! Hell no!" Mohawk Mark shouted, stepping between me and the others. His voice shook with fierce protectiveness. "I watched her die in my universe and I will not let it fucking happen again!"

Die? What did that mean?

The Marks surrounded me, their expressions complex mixtures of determination, sorrow, and fear. They weren't attacking to kill - they were trying to subdue me, to break the collar's hold. But every hit made the collar shock me harder.

Phantom Mark attacked first, moving faster than I could track in my weakened state. His fist aimed for my shoulder, and I managed to catch his arm, but the force still sent me staggering backward. I wasn't prepared for this coordinated attack, especially since they seemed to be holding back.

Omni Mark followed with a precise kick to my ribs. I twisted my body to block, but the impact still sent shockwaves of pain through me, launching me into the sky.

Viltrumite Mark and Emperor Mark moved together with perfect coordination, their attacks aimed to disable, not kill. They fought with ruthless efficiency, their movements showing years of combat experience. I blocked and countered as best I could, but their combined assault was overwhelming.

Prisoner Mark and No Masked Mark fought with less precision but equal power. Their attacks were wild and unpredictable, making them hard to counter. I dodged a powerful swing from Prisoner Mark only to be caught by a kick from No Masked Mark.

Mohawk Mark moved differently from the others. His eyes never left mine, filled with desperate pleading. His attacks lacked killing intent - he was trying to restrain me rather than hurt me. He repeatedly tried to grab me, to hold me still, but I was too quick.

And then there was Sinister Mark. He moved like a predator stalking prey, his attacks brutal and precise. His eyes gleamed with cruel enjoyment, fixed on me with disturbing intensity. He wasn't just fighting - he was enjoying every moment.

He feinted high before kicking my knee with savage force. Pain shot through my leg as I stumbled. He immediately followed with a vicious uppercut to my jaw that made my vision go white for a moment. I spat blood, the metallic taste filling my mouth as I nearly bit through my tongue.

"Come on, Y/N," he taunted, his voice low and excited. "Show me what you've got."

Unlike the others, Sinister Mark wasn't holding back. He reveled in the violence, moving with brutal efficiency. A predatory grin never left his face as he aimed to cripple me. His fist connected with my jaw again, sending another shockwave through my skull. I managed to retaliate with a kick to his chest that sent him crashing through a skyscraper.

New York was completely destroyed around us. I couldn't handle all eight of them at once. It was too many... but I had to fight. Must focus.

"Enough!" Omni Mark shouted, his voice echoing through the ruined city. His face was set with grim determination. "We have to end this!"

He launched himself at me with perfect control and precision. Before I could dodge, he grabbed me in a powerful bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides, his chin pressing to the top of my head. I struggled against his grip, trying desperately to break free, but he was too strong, and I was weakening by the second.

The other Marks surrounded me, their combined strength impossible to overcome. Their expressions mixed pain and resolve as they held me tight. I hissed and fought, biting Sinister's hand when he tried to touch my face. He pulled back, laughing as he licked the drop of blood from his hand.

"She's so feisty, I love it~" he purred, eyes gleaming.

"Enough! Come on guys, we have to get this fucking collar off," Phantom Mark said, his voice strained with sorrow. "That's the only way to free her."

Mohawk Mark reached for the collar, his fingers trembling. Fear and determination battled in his eyes as he hesitated.

"If we remove it, she could lose control," Omni Mark warned gravely. "She could destroy everything, or worse... we could lose her."

"It's the only chance we have," Mohawk Mark replied firmly, his fierce eyes locked with mine. For a moment, they softened with an emotion I couldn't name. "We have to trust her."

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gripped the collar around my neck.

"AHHHHHHH-!" A scream of pure agony tore from my throat as he tried to break the collar. The device unleashed its final defense - a massive electrical current that ripped through my entire body and into anyone touching me. The pain was beyond anything I'd ever felt, beyond what any human could survive.

The world around me faded to white as electricity consumed everything.

The air crackled with raw energy, the shockwaves from the collar's defense system rippling outwards like violent tsunamis across the already devastated rooftop. Y/N's screams tore through the ruined city—a primal, guttural sound that sliced through the hearts of the gathered Marks like a heated blade. Her body convulsed violently in their grip, crimson streams of blood trickling from her ears as her eyes rolled back, revealing only whites.

Omni Mark's muscles strained beneath his crimson and slate-gray suit, veins bulging like ropes under his skin as he maintained his vise-like grip on Y/N. Despite the electrical current surging through him, his face remained a mask of controlled determination—only the slight twitch at the corner of his right eye betraying his agony.

"Hold steady," he commanded, voice unwavering despite the pain. His analytical gaze never left Y/N's face, studying every microexpression with obsessive intensity. "The collar's defense system is activating exactly as anticipated. Maintain your positions." Behind his disciplined exterior, a possessive gleam flickered in his eyes—the calculated look of a general who had just discovered his most valuable weapon.

"FUCK! This hurts like a motherfucking BITCH!" Mohawk Mark roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he yanked at the collar with manic desperation. His once-proud mohawk now drooped pathetically to one side, plastered to his scalp with sweat that poured down his face in rivulets. His wild, bloodshot eyes darted frantically between Y/N's contorted face and the other Marks. "Back the FUCK off, assholes! This is MY moment with her!" he snarled when Emperor Mark moved closer, his voice cracking with equal parts pain and possessiveness.

Viltrumite Mark held Y/N's thrashing legs with unwavering strength, his pristine white uniform now marred with smoking char marks. Unlike the others who grimaced and cursed through their pain, he maintained an almost regal posture—back ramrod straight, chin lifted imperiously even as electricity danced across his skin.

"Such primitive technology," he remarked coldly, his voice carrying the smooth, cultured tones of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. His steely gaze traced the contours of Y/N's face with unmistakable ownership. "In my empire, she would have been conditioned properly. My Y/N required no such crude devices to ensure compliance." His fingers tightened possessively around her ankles, leaving white imprints on her skin.

No Masked Mark hovered anxiously at the periphery, bouncing on his heels like an impatient child. His unmasked face—so similar yet different from the others—contorted with a peculiar mixture of eagerness and uncertainty.

"Will she remember me when she wakes up?" he asked, voice tinged with childlike hope that seemed bizarrely out of place amid the destruction. His eyes never left Y/N's face, a hungry desperation evident in his gaze. "I won't let you suffer like William and my Y/N did," he murmured, the words tumbling out in a rushed whisper before his expression hardened again with determination.

Phantom Mark's grip on Y/N's arm was white-knuckled, his midnight blue and obsidian suit smoking where electrical feedback scorched the material. Unlike the others whose focus remained entirely on Y/N, his haunted gaze occasionally darted to the ruined cityscape surrounding them, as if seeing ghosts in the debris.

"We're going to lose her!" he cried out, voice thick with an emotion he couldn't fully suppress. The perpetual fury that typically blazed in his eyes momentarily gave way to raw grief—a glimpse into the trauma that drove him. "She looks just like my Y/N when they took her from me." His grip tightened, unwilling to let go even as the pain intensified, a guttural yell tearing from his throat as another surge of electricity pulsed through them all.

Emperor Mark strode forward with the confident swagger of royalty despite the crisis unfolding before him. His uniform, adorned with subtle gold embellishments, smoldered at the edges as he moved to assist despite Mohawk's furious objections.

"This primitive technology is beneath us," he declared, his voice carrying the practiced resonance of one accustomed to addressing multitudes. His movements were precise, efficient—a ruler accustomed to servants handling menial tasks now forced to act himself. "In my empire, she would have been treated with the respect befitting her connection to me." His eyes tracked possessively over Y/N's convulsing form as he grasped part of the collar, a barely audible hiss escaping through clenched teeth as electricity surged through his fingertips.

Through it all, Sinister Mark prowled the perimeter of the group like a predator assessing wounded prey. Unlike the others who betrayed their pain through grimaces and curses, his lips curled into a twisted smile that never quite reached his cold eyes. The black and yellow of his suit seemed to absorb the shadows around them, making him appear more demon than man as he circled the struggling group.

"Look at you pathetic fuckers," he sneered, voice dropping to a dangerous purr that somehow cut through the cacophony of pain and destruction. "All of you, burnt and crying over her like she's the last woman in the multiverse." His eyes gleamed with cruel delight as they raked over Y/N's suffering form, lingering on the places where her suit had torn during the battle. "Mine was weak, useless when it mattered," he continued, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "But this one..." His voice trailed off into an appreciative growl. "This one has real potential."

He continued circling them with predatory grace, each step deliberate and measured, like a lion stalking gazelles. The others, too focused on Y/N and their own pain, barely registered his calculating assessment until he suddenly stepped forward with decisive purpose.

"We'll do it my way," he declared, voice slicing through their collective agony with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. "Otherwise she's fried, and none of us gets what we want." There was no benevolence in his offer—only ruthless pragmatism and thinly veiled desire.

Sinister Mark moved into position with fluid grace, eyes locking with each Mark in turn. His gaze was sharp and challenging, daring them to defy him while simultaneously asserting dominance. "We're going to rip that collar off her neck, all at the same time. Understand that, you pussies?"

"But the shock—" Omni Mark began, his typically calculated façade cracking slightly as another surge of pain tore through his body.

"The shock is killing her!" Sinister Mark snapped, genuine anger flashing in his eyes like lightning. For the briefest moment, something almost like concern flickered across his features before being submerged beneath his usual cruel demeanor. "We either pull it off now, together, or she dies. Are you all going to be useless now?"

Despite their differences, despite the simmering tensions and individual desires to claim Y/N for themselves, the Marks exchanged glances of reluctant agreement. In this moment, keeping her alive took priority over their competition.

Sinister Mark positioned himself beside Omni and Mohawk, placing his hands on the collar with surprising gentleness. A low, unsettling laugh escaped his lips as electricity coursed through him—the pain seemingly pleasurable to his twisted mind. Prisoner and No Masked Mark grabbed the other side, their faces twisting into grimaces of determination. Phantom and Viltrumite followed suit, hissing breaths escaping through clenched teeth.

"On my mark," Sinister commanded, voice cutting through the chaos with sharp authority. "One..." His fingers tightened around the collar. "Two..." His eyes locked onto Y/N's face with possessive intensity. "THREE!"

With a collective roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of what remained of New York City, the Marks pulled. Omni Mark and Mohawk Mark yanked with such force that tendons stood out like steel cables in their necks, while Viltrumite and Phantom used their strength to counter Y/N's violent convulsions. The air around them crackled and sparked with deadly energy, the building beneath them crumbling further as a deafening SNAP echoed through the ruins.

The collar broke free.

The electrical storm ceased instantly, energy dispersing into the air with a final concussive shockwave that sent debris flying in all directions. Y/N's body went limp between them, her screams fading to an eerie silence that felt more ominous than her previous agony. The Marks, exhausted and scorched, collapsed around her on the rooftop, their breath coming in ragged gasps that disturbed the settling dust.

Sinister Mark recovered first, shoving Mohawk aside with unnecessary force to kneel beside Y/N's still form. His eyes traveled over her with unmasked hunger as he reached out to trace the line of her jaw with surprising gentleness—a predator admiring his prize. "She's still alive," he announced, voice unexpectedly soft, almost reverent. "But barely..."

"Get your fucking hands off her," Mohawk Mark growled, struggling to his knees despite his injuries. His normally arrogant demeanor was stripped away, leaving raw desperation in its place as his eyes never left Y/N's face. "I found her first, you sick piece of shit."

"In your juvenile fantasies perhaps," Emperor Mark countered icily, moving closer to Y/N's limp form despite his weakened state. His regal bearing remained intact even while injured, chin lifted with imperial disdain as he regarded Mohawk. "She requires proper care and guidance, which only I am qualified to provide."

Omni Mark silenced them with a sharply raised hand, his authoritative presence reasserting itself even while injured. "Enough," he commanded, voice brooking no argument. "She needs time to recover before any of us make claims." His eyes, however, told a different story—calculating grey depths already mapping out strategies to separate Y/N from the others when the moment was right.

The Marks exchanged wary glances, temporarily united by their shared goal but irrevocably divided by their desire for the same prize. They had saved Y/N from the collar's control, but the battle for her had only just begun—a new war brewing beneath the surface of their temporary alliance.

"We need to get her out of here," Omni Mark said, his voice low and urgent as his eyes methodically scanned the horizon. His brow furrowed in a deep, concerned frown that belied his typically impassive demeanor. "Angstrom won't wait forever. We still have a mission to complete."

A tense silence fell over the group, heavy with unspoken implications. The mission. The destruction of this universe. It was their objective, their reason for being here. But now, with Y/N lying before them, their priorities had irreversibly shifted.

"What now?" No Masked Mark asked, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes, wide and filled with an almost childlike worry, never left Y/N's face. His features drawn and pale, he anxiously gnawed at his lower lip—a nervous habit that revealed the youth beneath his power.

The original mission, Angstrom Levy's directive to destroy the mainstream universe, loomed over them like a shadow. They were here to wreak havoc, to dismantle this reality and claim it for themselves. But the discovery of Y/N had thrown their carefully orchestrated plans into beautiful disarray.

"Well we can't just fucking leave her here, dipshit," Mohawk Mark snapped, his voice cracking with emotion despite his attempt at his usual abrasiveness. His jaw set in a determined line, eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness as he hovered over Y/N's still form. "Not like this anyway. We need to find somewhere safe—" He trailed off, gaze darting around the ruined cityscape as if a solution might materialize from the rubble.

"A safe place?" Prisoner Mark scoffed, voice dripping with bitter cynicism. The scarred tissue of his face twisted into a mocking grimace as he gestured at the devastation surrounding them. "In this ruined world? We destroyed everything worth saving." Despite his harsh words, his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern as they drifted to Y/N's unconscious form.

"We'll find one," Viltrumite Mark stated with cold certainty, voice carrying the weight of imperial decree. His eyes, usually hard as flint, softened imperceptibly when they fell upon Y/N. "There must be somewhere untouched by our... activities." The slight hesitation in his typically smooth delivery revealed an unusual uncertainty.

"We can't abandon Angstrom's mission either," Omni Mark countered pragmatically, crossing muscular arms over his broad chest. His analytical mind was already formulating contingencies, weighing variables with machine-like efficiency. "He'll notice something is wrong if we deviate too significantly from the plan."

Sinister Mark rose to his full height, rolling his shoulders as if shedding a burden. His eyes—cold and calculating—swept across the ruined cityscape with predatory assessment. His features hardened into a mask of ruthless determination as he reached a decision.

"We'll do both," he declared, voice a low growl that somehow carried more authority than Omni Mark's reasoned commands. "We continue the destruction," he elaborated with a careless shrug that belied the intensity of his gaze, "but first, we take her somewhere safe."

He sighed—an oddly human gesture from such a monstrous figure—and pointed toward the outskirts of the city, where the skeletal remains of skyscrapers gradually gave way to the dense, seemingly untouched wilderness beyond. "There," he stated with absolute certainty. "We'll find a secluded spot, somewhere Angstrom won't think to look. Somewhere we can... protect her."

The way he lingered over the word "protect" sent an involuntary shiver through the group, but none dared contradict him. With a collective nod of reluctant agreement, the Marks carefully lifted Y/N's limp form, each positioning themselves to maintain contact with her—their movements gentle despite their immense strength. Viltrumite Mark delicately wiped a droplet of blood from her cheek with a tenderness that seemed entirely at odds with his imperial bearing.

They rose into the air in tight formation, carrying their precious cargo through the smoke-filled sky, leaving behind the ravaged husk of what had once been New York City.

Eventually, they found a secluded cabin nestled deep within the dense forest, a small, unassuming structure that seemed miraculously untouched by the chaos they had unleashed upon the world. Inside, they discovered a lone occupant—an elderly man whose rheumy eyes widened with terror at the sight of eight identical men, each bearing the face of destruction that had dominated emergency broadcasts before they failed.

A swift, brutal act silenced his frightened cries, leaving the cabin empty and waiting for its new occupant—a practical necessity that none of the Marks questioned or regretted.

They laid Y/N on the worn wooden floor of the small cabin with surprising gentleness. Her body remained still and pale against the rough-hewn planks, face tear-stained and peaceful despite the violence of her liberation. Tendrils of her hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo, slightly frizzed from the electrical assault she had endured. The Marks gathered around her in a protective circle, their expressions a complex mixture of concern, determination, and barely concealed desire as they gazed upon the woman who mirrored the one they had each lost in their respective universes.

"We'll take shifts," Omni Mark announced, instantly assuming command with practiced ease. His calculating eyes scanned the modest room with meticulous attention to detail, mentally cataloging potential threats and escape routes. "Someone will stay with her at all times. The rest will continue the destruction, maintaining our cover while we monitor her condition."

"And the mission?" No Masked Mark questioned anxiously, raising his arms in a helpless gesture. His youthful features contorted with uncertainty, clearly torn between their original destructive purpose and this unexpected development.

"We'll continue," Omni Mark replied with firm assurance, locking eyes with No Masked Mark. He placed a steadying hand on the younger variant's shoulder, grip firm but not unkind. "But we'll approach it strategically. Create diversions, spread out our forces, minimize unnecessary collateral damage. We'll maintain the appearance of following Angstrom's directives, but our true priority remains here." His eyes flickered meaningfully toward Y/N's unconscious form.

"She'll wake up," Mohawk Mark insisted with desperate conviction, roughly wiping at his reddened eyes with the back of his hand. The vulnerability in his voice was startling, stripping away his carefully constructed arrogance to reveal raw emotion beneath. "She fucking has to. She can't leave me again... not after I just found her."

Sinister Mark observed Mohawk's naked emotion with evident disgust, a contemptuous sneer curling his lip. Yet when he moved forward to kneel beside Y/N, his movements possessed an unexpected grace, almost reverent in their precision. His fingers—capable of crushing steel and ending lives without effort—traced the delicate lines of her face with obsessive gentleness, exploring every curve and hollow as if committing them to memory.

"She will," he said, his voice a low, rumbling growl that seemed to vibrate through the cabin's wooden bones. Unlike the desperate hope in Mohawk's tone, Sinister's words carried the weight of absolute certainty—a predator's confidence in claiming what he considered already his. His eyes—typically cold and calculating—burned with an intensity that made the other Marks shift uncomfortably. "And when she does, we'll be ready; waiting for those beautiful eyes to reopen to us."

The possessive emphasis he placed on "us" fooled no one—least of all himself. His fingers lingered a moment too long on the pulse point at her throat, his expression momentarily softening into something almost tender before the mask of cruelty slammed back into place.

The Marks had a new mission now. The destruction of the mainstream universe still bound them by obligation and necessity, but they were now equally bound by a newfound sense of purpose—a desperate, collective desire to protect the woman they had found. She was both stranger and intimately familiar, a phantom made flesh, the woman they had each lost in their respective universes, and now, the woman they were collectively determined to save—from others, from the world, and perhaps from themselves.

They began dividing their forces with military precision, Omni Mark drafting plans with Emperor Mark's input while Viltrumite offered cold, tactical suggestions. They would spread across different continents, maintaining the façade of random destruction that Angstrom expected, while rotating shifts to ensure Y/N was never left unguarded. Paris would fall next, then Moscow, Tokyo, and beyond—a symphony of calculated chaos designed to mask their true priority.

The first day of their war against this universe was far from over, but the discovery of Y/N had fundamentally altered its purpose. What had begun as simple conquest—the destruction of one universe among infinite possibilities—had transformed into something far more complex and personal. Each Mark now fought with renewed purpose, their actions guided not merely by Angstrom's directives but by the silent promise they had made to the unconscious woman in the cabin.

The mission was no longer just about conquest; it was about salvation—about reclaiming a lost love, about rewriting a tragic fate that had played out eight different ways across eight different realities. In their own universes, they had failed her, each in their own way. Too weak, too late, too cruel, too blind—their regrets took different forms but shared the same bitter taste. This Y/N offered something none of them had dared hope for: a second chance.

They would keep this Y/N safe at any cost, jealously guarded even from each other. None spoke this truth aloud, but it hung in the air between them, a silent agreement underscored by watchful gazes and lingering touches.

"Mohawk stays with her first," Omni Mark announced, his tone making it clear this was not a suggestion but a command. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the flash of rebellion on Sinister's face. "He found her first. We'll rotate every six hours. No exceptions."

The others nodded with varying degrees of reluctance, Viltrumite's jaw tightening with barely contained objection while Emperor Mark's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his thigh. Only Sinister Mark seemed truly at ease, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth as if he already saw moves ahead in a game the others didn't realize they were playing.

As the Marks departed one by one to continue their orchestrated destruction across the globe, Mohawk Mark settled beside Y/N's still form. Alone at last, his carefully maintained façade of arrogance and anger crumbled like the buildings they had destroyed. With shaking fingers, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch feather-light against her skin.

"I found you again," he whispered, voice cracking with emotion he would never show the others. "And this time, I won't fucking lose you. I swear it."

Outside the cabin, a gentle breeze stirred the trees, nature continuing its rhythms oblivious to the schemes of gods and monsters. Inside, a different kind of war was just beginning—one fought not with fists and fury, but with patience and possession. Eight versions of the same man, each determined to claim what they believed was rightfully theirs alone.

And at the center of it all, still and silent, lay Y/N—oblivious to the tempest her very existence had unleashed, unaware that she had become the eye of a storm that would reshape this universe and perhaps beyond.

–––––––––––––––––– ☆ TBC!! ☆

Hope ya'll liked it ♡ Leave a comment on whatya think!! next chapter will be from Mohawk's p.o.v Please keep reading, lovely!(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ Pt.2 ☆ 10 parts total! - The series is completed

Smut included with Sinister and Mohawk -

Fluff/Smut series following main one!! (𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜) pt.1-2-3

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pookalicious-hq · 6 months ago

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blue velvet... jinx x reader

| 0.1. wrecking ball | next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 1.7k

To the people of Piltover, you were a storm devil, a dark figure wielding unnatural power and chaos. In Zaun, though, they sang a different tune. There, you were their angel of death, a symbol of protection—or a promise of impending ruin. Your name meant salvation to some, doom to others. And depending on who you asked, it marked either a savior or a death sentence.

The billowing smog swirled around you, outlining your feathered wings like a ghostly shadow against the vibrant glow of Zaun’s undercity. This was no gentle welcome—the air was thick, saturated with oil, smoke, and the sharp bite of chemicals that burned your nostrils. It clung to your skin, coating everything in a fine, greasy layer. Eyes were on you already, peering from fractured pipes and shadowed alleyways, watching your every move.

The streets stretched before you, cracked cobblestones that seemed to pulse with a life both unsettling and invigorating. It felt as if the city itself was breathing—exhaling dust, shimmer, and a constant undercurrent of danger. Each step you took sent faint crackles of electricity tingling across your fingertips, the remnants of tonight’s mission still simmering through your veins.

Your wings, usually sharp and sure, were now folded tightly against your back, their feathers singed and dulled from the exertion. As you passed, people cast wary glances your way—some with awe, others with suspicion. Silco’s orders lingered in your mind like a bitter taste, a reminder of the duty that had brought you here.

You took a steadying breath, feeling the sharp current of electricity crackling through your body. Each pulse felt like an unbearable mixture of pain and power, the dark remnants of Silco’s relentless trials etched into your bones. Even now, the energy surged restlessly beneath your skin, reminding you of everything you’d endured to become his weapon.

You clenched your fists, grounding yourself against the power that begged to be released. This wasn’t the time to draw attention, though every instinct inside you screamed to let the storm loose. For now, restraint was your duty, and unruliness would be your downfall.

The smog of Zaun barely settled in your lungs when a sudden pop split the air, followed by a burst of glitter that exploded in front of you. It coated your face, your wings, and the grime-caked cobblestones beneath your feet. The sparkling mist shimmered mockingly under the dim neon lights of the undercity.

You froze, coughing as the glitter bomb went off, its sharp, chemical taste lingering in the back of your throat. You flapped your wings to dispel the cloud, the gritty particles sticking to your feathers. “Holy shit—”

“Birdie!” Jinx’s gleeful voice rang out, her silhouette dropping down from a pipe above. A wide, mischievous grin stretched across her face, pink smoke trailing from her latest concoction, the scent of sulfur heavy in the air behind her. “Gotcha good, huh? You were so focused on being grumpy, didn’t even see me coming.”

Your heart was still racing, the burst of noise and color stirring every survival instinct within you. A spark of electricity jumped from your fingertips, lashing out reflexively. It wasn’t deliberate, just the aftershock of the moment. The faint crackle of power hit Jinx square in the shoulder, and she yelped, staggering back, though the sound quickly dissolved into giggles.

“Woah!” she gasped, blinking in surprise, then patting the singed edge of her sleeve. The gleam in her eyes sharpened, her smirk widening. “Do that again!”

“What?” you sputtered, still coughing out glitter, the sharp metallic taste lingering on your tongue. “No, I’m not—Jay! Are you insane?”

She tilted her head, her grin crooked and knowing, the flickering neon lights casting shadows on her face. “You know, people say that a lot about us,” she teased, her voice light but laced with something sharper beneath it. A shared understanding hummed in the air, like the crackling static that clung to your skin.

You couldn’t help but laugh—a dry, unsteady sound, still choked with the taste of glitter and the pulse of raw power in your veins. She mirrored you, that familiar, wild energy swirling between the two of you, filling the space with a chaotic kind of warmth.

Her fingers reached out, brushing through the faint static still buzzing in the air around you. The tingling sensation ran along your nerves, a constant reminder of the force contained within you.

“C’mon,” she pressed, her voice low and coaxing, the coolness of the alley around you suddenly feeling a little too close. “Just a little zap? You know it’s cool.”

You shot her an exasperated look, swiping at the glitter stuck to your cheeks, the gritty particles scraping against your skin. With a resigned sigh, you muttered, “Absolutely not. And stop throwing glitter bombs at me��it’s stuck everywhere now.” The metallic scent still clung to the air, mixing with the heavy smog that seemed to saturate every corner of the undercity.

“Everywhere?” she echoed, a mischievous smirk pulling at her lips, her eyes gleaming with that familiar spark. The playful challenge in her voice was undeniable, but you knew it was just another one of her stupid jokes. You stared back at her, unimpressed, brushing your hands against your jacket as though to rid yourself of the last traces of glitter.

She crossed her arms, tapping a foot against the cracked pavement, the rhythmic tapping contrasting sharply with her casual tone. “Whatever. Glitter’s classy. You look like... like a hot and deadly, sparkly peacock.” The words danced in the air, teasing the edges of your irritation but lightening the mood just enough to keep it from escalating.

You shot her a glare. “Shut up, if anyone’s a peacock, it’s you.”

Jinx just laughed, skipping up beside you as you resumed walking. Her pace slowed when she saw where you were heading—back to Silco’s headquarters.

Her usual chatter quieted, and her grin faltered for just a moment before she slapped it back on. “So... uh, you sure we gotta go back right now? I mean, we could hang somewhere, grab a drink, blow something up—”

The slight tremor in her voice gave her away, betraying the calm she was trying to maintain. You paused mid-step, the gritty pavement shifting under your boots as you glanced down at her. “Jinx.”

“What?” she snapped, too quickly, her voice tight, like she was trying to cover something up. “I didn’t say anything. Why are your eyes all scrunched up? That’s gonna give you wrinkles, y’know?”

You frowned, sensing the lie beneath her deflection. The faint bruise near her temple caught the low, flickering light, deep purple against her pale skin, and it twisted something inside you. The way she scratched at her wrist, tugging her sleeve down almost defensively, made your stomach churn.

Without another word, you crouched, bending slightly to open your arms. You felt the faint crackle of static tingling along your skin as your wings shifted behind you. “Come here.”

Her brows furrowed, confused, but the hesitation in her eyes said everything. “What are you—”

“Jay,” you said again, softer this time, the tenderness in your voice breaking through the exhaustion you carried. “Come on.”

It took a moment, but the stubbornness faded, and she stepped into your embrace. The warmth of her body against yours made the cold grip of the city seem distant. Her head dropped against your shoulder, and though she didn’t cry—Jinx rarely did without the comfort of four walls surrounding her—you could feel her body relax, tension leaking away in small, silent waves.

The silence settled between you, the low hum of Zaun’s distant noise—smoke-streaked lights, the hum of machinery—filling the quiet. You didn’t need to say anything more. She had already said it all with her quiet surrender.

“Hold on,” you whispered, and your wings unfolded behind you, the air rushing against your skin as you stretched them wide.

“What are you—holy shit!” she yelped, her fingers gripping your jacket as you lifted off the ground. The sudden rush of wind swirled around you, the city stretching beneath you like a vast, dark labyrinth of neon lights and smoke. You could feel the electricity crackling at the tips of your wings, the air charged with your unstable power as you shot upward.

Jinx clung to you instinctively, her bravado fading away with the city’s dizzying height. Her breath was warm against your neck, rapid and sharp, as the familiar streets blurred beneath you. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if willing the world to slow down.

You didn’t go far, just high enough to leave the alleys behind, heading for a quieter rooftop on the outskirts. The cool air hit you once you landed, the scent of rust from the old water tank mingling with the smoky haze that clung to everything. The roof was sparse—just an old, rusted water tank and a few scattered crates—but it was quiet. Safe.

You set her down carefully, your wings folding back behind you with a soft flutter. The ground beneath your feet was solid, a welcome contrast to the dizzying heights you’d just left behind.

Jinx stared out across the city, her eyes narrowed in that sharp, calculating way she often had, but there was something different in her gaze now—a vulnerability, quiet but clear. Something unspoken hung between you, but for once, you didn’t need to voice it. You both knew the weight of the world you carried, even if you didn’t always acknowledge it.

The night stretched out before you, dark and endless, as you stood together—two figures on the edge of Zaun, floating in the same currents, bound by something far deeper than the chaos of the world.

a/n: so this is the start of my jinx x reader series!! i hope you like it, we're starting at around 17 years old for both jinx and mc,,, then after w few chaps we're gonna go into season 1 arc and eventually season 2. mwahhh

taglist: @stupendousbananasharkcop

lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist loves <3

#arcane x reader #jinx x reader #powder arcane #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x caitlyn #jinx arcane

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sodapopper · 2 months ago

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TW: // death, implied suicide

There were seven of them, bruised and shining, electricity under their skin. Boys; young enough to shake the world, futures unexplored, untainted, unwritten. They were buddies. They fought together, bled together, loved together. The streets echoed with their laughter and the sky wept for their tears.

There were seven, and then…

Johnny Cade was the best of them—that’s why he went first. He died in a fire, but was doomed long before Windrixville, before the fountain or the knife or the blood gushing over his hands. Nothing gold can stay. Johnny was more golden than any of them, burned up in a blaze of glory.

Then there were six.

Dally, vice and violence, backed into a corner. He couldn’t imagine a future, couldn’t see himself on the other side of the fight. Desperation drove him to it. Sorrow kept him going. Just a scared kid, bleeding out under the streetlights, a bullet in his chest. Just a kid, after all. Nothing more.

Then there were five.

Soda, beautiful Sodapop. He laughed when he got the draft notice. “Grease goes international,” he said, all jokes, untamed and untamable, too wild to see death written in the words. Reckless, sensitive Soda, who hugged his brothers tight and raced off to war with a chuckle and a grin, hair wild in the wind. The last thing they saw of him was that smile—they weren’t even given a body to bury.

Just like that, there were four.

Two-Bit never wanted much from life. A drink and a laugh, a smoke and a fight. Good food, good company. A pretty face by his side. Two-Bit had no goals outside of Tulsa, no dreams beyond each passing moment. They found him in an alley. The bottle still in hand, like a murder weapon. Alcohol poisoning, the doctors said. Two-Bit drank his life away; he had no reason to grow old.

There were three.

Steve simmered in his anger until anger was all he knew. Years passed, the tireless slog, every day the same: he wakes with rage held tight in his fists, holes in his wall, dents in the door. Work until his palms bleed grease. Home again, where a family should have been, where the absence of parents burns a hole through the carpet, where his anger coils like a noose. He sleeps, and dreams of Sodapop, beautiful beneath the sky. One day, he doesn’t wake at all. The pill bottle beside his bed, refilled only the day before, lays discarded on its side: empty.

Now there’s two.

Darrel lives a long life. He made his peace with what could have been, a version of the future never meant for him. That part of himself, laid to rest long ago. People cast him pitying glances, think washed out has-been Darry Curtis but his back is broad and his skin is thick, impenetrable. “I’d do it again,” he says, holding his baby brother’s—his last brother’s—hand, as the monitors beep around them, antiseptic in the air. Their hands are wrinkled now. Their faces faded. “Every moment was worth it,” he says, old and sick but still burning with that secret strength he never lost, not even in the hardest times. “For you. For our brother. I’d do it again.”

The jagged line goes flat. The beeping stills. His hands are cold, but even still, strong. The hands of a laborer. The hands of love.

One.

One goes home. Cane, limp, faded sight, grey hair. He climbs the worn porch steps, presses his fingers to the doorway and blesses the wood. The halls of that house are haunted. He hears voice, trapped like a smell in the carpet, the plaster. There is the sofa where vagrant boys found refuge. The dent where Soda’s elbow hit the wall too hard. The scratches from Dally’s knife, a name carved into trim. There is the coffee stain, Darry’s, a full mug dropped. The table where Steve arm-wrestled anyone and everyone.

There is the drawing little Johnny Cade gave to a mother not his own, who hugged him closer than his ever had. It’s still taped to the fridge, brittle and yellow, the faded pencil lines impossible to make out. He’s drawn a family. A gang of boys. Seven.

Now there is one.

Ponyboy Curtis. The last of them, the best. He stands on the threshold of everything they had to give. He holds their love like a beacon inside, trapped where the eyes don’t see, where the hands can’t touch. He is the monument of their combined greatness; he is a patchwork quilt of all their best parts.

They were children once, running free, dirt on their faces and grease in their hair. Those children never made it out of Tulsa. They were never meant to.

Doomed by the narrative, some say, born to fail and suffer and be broken.

But they were children, once.

Ponyboy Curtis strokes the faded photographs on the walls. His gnarled hands touch unblemished faces, a snapshot of time, gap-toothed smiles, unbowed shoulders, messy hair.

They were children, once.

“We were happy.”

#extremely non canon things fyi #sometimes you gotta indulge the emo #feel like I need to write some aggressive fluff as penance #had to stop half way through writing this and take a mental health break #it was too much even for me #the outsiders #darry curtis #sodapop curtis #ponyboy curtis #the curtis brothers #dallas winston #two bit mathews #steve randle #johnny cade #the outsiders movie #the outsiders musical

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acapelladitty · 11 days ago

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gross misconduct

Summary - A loss of concentration results in you being caught by Leland Coyle and, in a moment of pure desperation, you make him an offer before he can take what he wants. (6.6k words)

(tw for: extremely dubious consent, electroplay, sadism, physical assault, forced oral (f!receiving), torture, pain, handjobs, clothed sex, forced orgasm, branding, threat)

Link to AO3 ☆ Fic Masterlist ☆ Kofi

You know you're fucked when your strained ears pick up the tell-tale crackle of Coyle's stun baton as it springs to life from the depths of the wide darkness which fill the space you had only recently crept through.

The shuttle had travelled you down to a faintly familiar police station, a building you had only visited a few times before with different groups, but today you had entered the shuttle alone due to Dr. Easterman's recent campaign to place a greater emphasis on reagents completing their tasks without assistance. 'A push to promote independence' is what the staff sold it as and the promise of extra reward was too tempting to ignore.

The generator which you had been so desperately trying to mend was quick to sputter and groan its broken state as you diligently sought out a canister of gas to fill it with before starting work on the breaker switches which covered both sides. The buttons on the left had been easy enough to correct but the ones on the right, which you were currently tinkering with, were giving you hell.

Hell enough that you didn't even hear the approach of the monster pursuing you until it was too late to really do anything about it.

Surprisingly, it's not electricity you feel frying your nerves as you make a panicked attempt to bolt to the safety of the nearby door but the heavy, sharp weight of the stun baton itself as Coyle swings it harshly across your upper shoulders, the force of the blow enough to send you reeling forwards as you scream in mixed pain and fear.

"Think you can touch my shit? We got fucking laws around here you stupid bitch."

Having avoided him so far, the accented syllables are terrifying as he barks them at you – his sudden presence filling the space and closing in around you like a snare. His words burn in your ears as your body connects with the floor, immediately stunning you as the breath flees your lungs and the side of your head bounces off the hard ground in such a way that stars explode across your vision while you wheeze pitifully.

Face pressing into the floor as you struggle with the disorientation, Coyle’s foot is quick to correct your positioning as it connects harshly with your side, pain flaring across your ribs as he flips you on to your back with a brutal kick. Howling at the sharp discomfort, your hands fly to your side as you apply pressure to the aching space and fight for breath. Knowing you're caught with no chance of escape, fight and flight seem to abandon you in favour of freeze, and your watery eyes gaze up at Coyle with unrestrained fear as his stocky frame remains illuminated by the faint light of the generator and the blue crackle of his stun baton.

The wires wrapping around his body give him an odd outline, all stemming from the thick battery which is held against his back to power the baton. He's in the same outfit as ever, the only one anyone has seen him in, with his cops clothing paired by a filthy white shirt and red tie poking free at his neck. His face is almost obscured by both the police cap which sits atop his skull and the dark aviator sunglasses that hide his eyes from sight.

One hand gripping his weapon while the other plucks the thin, glowing cigarette from his mouth, Coyle blows a wide plume of smoke into the air with a satisfied whistle as he brings his foot down on your stomach - pinning you in place with the thick tread of his boot.

"So what are you, huh? A commie whore? One of those do-gooders who flouts the law and thinks they won't get their teeth kicked in for it? You touch my shit, you fry like the rest of them!"

Working himself into a quick frenzy, his movements become more animated as he swings the baton around and fresh ash falls from the cigarette to land against your shorts. His boot presses harder, the pressure making you whine as dull pain radiates from your squashed gut. Coyle peers down, eyes still hidden behind the dark sunglasses which are perched on his nose, but you feel the weight of his gaze as he visibly takes his time in looking you up and down. He’s sizing up his catch and you feel every inch the prey animal you absolutely are.

The trial had already been a total pain in the ass as a wayward giant taking a swing with their jagged club had ripped the lower half of your shirt to shreds like a hot knife scoring through butter. Dried blood coated the exposed area, the club having gouged a thin chunk from your skin which was quickly stemmed by some of the very odd healing liquid which always littered the trials. On top of that, your frayed shorts were just as distressed, grime and wiped oil from the generator staining the light fabric which had already been through a lot.

The overall outfit was less modest than you would have liked, your legs and stomach now exposed with the sleeves of your shirt rolling up past your elbows, but it was all you had until you could earn the means to purchase replacements from the staff or barter with the other reagents.

Not quite ready to die, your panicked flailing and scrambling limbs are quickly frozen into place by the tip of Coyle's stun baton as he presses ithe sharp points into the uncovered flesh of your collarbone. Your heart vibrates in your chest, pure fear of the electric shock to come making your expression wide and eyes squeeze shut in anticipation.

Pain explodes from your chest, your body turning rigid as your scream is caught in your throat. It's like fire, spreading across your skin and tearing apart the muscles while you convulse. However, the raw intensity is over almost as quickly as it starts and your pain-filled pants roar in your ears as you struggle to recover from the assault.

Again and again, fresh points of pure agony spring to life as Coyle gleefully presses the baton to different areas of your skin, sometimes breaking the skin with the sharp edges and sometimes not. Collarbone, arms, stomach, legs, all victims to his weapon as your lungs begin to burn from the screaming that you simply cannot hold back.

"Hrm, fucking waste of a pretty little thing." Coyle comments after a moment of reprieve, using the prongs of the baton to push the opening of your shirt to the side and shamelessly steal a glance at your covered tits. "Almost a crime to have to kill you when my dicks hard and twitching like this."

"I'll fuck you if you let me go."

You surprise yourself with your own offer, the words falling from your lips in a single, desperate blurt – more of a sob than anything - as a hint of hope dares to flash across your thoughts. You didn’t want to die. Not like this. Anything would be better than feeling your skin fry and heart explode because of that damned weapon of his.

"Easterman sending in whores for us to play with now? Didn't think the shitbird had it in him. You think I need you to bargain with me? I’m a fucking man of the law. I'll take what I want, when I want, from whatever junkie criminal fuck I want!" Coyle’s anger is obvious, baton alighting as he shocks the air just over your cringing, wide-eyed expression.

"But I'll do what you want." You counter quickly, wrapping a soft hand around the back of his ankle as his foot continues to press into your stomach. "I'll let you fuck me h-however you want, and do what you want. I won't fight it."

"Now where's the fun in that?" Coyle scoffs but his head tilts down at you as he tucks the baton away and continues to peer at you from behind his glasses. “Ain't no fun in a dead fuck. Trust me on that one, whore.”

A memory rises.

One of other reagents leaving the shuttle, fresh from their victory as three of them bounced off to visit the pharmacy and stock up on some items. But not the fourth. A thin woman, hair dark but greying at the temples, left the shuttle with no smile, no joy at whatever similar feedback had been received from her work. Her gaze was empty, despondent, and filled with something which had made your heart ache as she locked eyes with you. A weak smile from your lips had received nothing but a soft wave, one which showcased an obvious burn mark - one branded into her skin by an electric baton - as she shook herself off, stood tall, and limped off to follow her team.

The others whispered, told stories and rumours they had heard about the various prime assets. Gooseberry’s delusions, Franco’s insane perversions, and the similar tales about Coyle were often allowed to fade off into implication as very few were willing to pay lip service to the horrors which each of the monsters had been known to inflict on unfortunate reagents.

And he was a monster. A torturer. A sadist. A murderer. A rapist. A man who used every part of himself to inflict misery on his victims. And here you were, offering up your neck in the hope that he might not bite down as heavily if his prey let him put his mouth there willingly.

Coyle's silence is deafening as he considers his options but it only lasts for a few painful moments, each second making your heart feel like it is going to vibrate free of your chest, before he rolls his shoulders back into a more relaxed stance and hooks his fingers onto his belt.

"But I really ain't had one throw themselves at me like a whore before. Might be nice to relax and blow off some steam fucking something which ain't kicking out like a stubborn mule." Slipping his baton up behind his neck, Coyle blows another puff of smoke high above his head. "Ah, fuck it. Stand up, bitch, and get those hands on the fence so we can get to business."

Unsure you had heard him correctly and taking in a deep, relieved breath as his boot pulls free of your stomach - the sharp discomfort dissipating in an instant to a vague ache - you slowly roll to your front before pushing up onto your knees. Body tensed and expecting a fresh blow of his baton as you struggle to force yourself to your feet, your heart beats frantically as you wait for him to change his mind and cruelly knock you to your ass again.

"I said MOVE!" Unhappy with the wait, Coyle snatches the fabric at the back of your neck and hoists you to your feet - the shirt choking you for an instant as you gasp, sputter, and shakily turn to press your back and fingers into the chain link fence.

"Legs apart, inmate. I'll need to conduct a search and make sure you ain't hiding anything nasty to turn on me with. Try to run or do anything fucking dumb and I'll smack a hole in that pretty head and fuck that instead. Spread 'em."

His hands are rough and careless of your comfort as they slide across your shirt and grope at your tits, thighs, and any other skin which is peeking out from your torn outfit. Under the pretence of a search, you can do nothing but stand there and hold on to the fence like it were a lifeline as humiliation and fear build across your chest.

The search goes on for a full minute, only ending when Coyle slips his hand between your legs and cups roughly at your cunt through the shorts. You keep your legs spread, afraid of what he'll do if you move them, even slightly.

"Hard to get a feel for any contraband when you're so decent." He grumbles before barking out a new order. "Now, strip."

Knowing it was inevitable, you try to stop the shaking of your hands as you slowly drop your fingers to your shorts and slip them free of your ass. Your skin feels like it's burning as you slowly expose more of yourself, lower half now only covered by the thin fabric of your panties.

Shorts in a messy pile on the floor, you move quickly to have your shirt follow but Coyle knocks your hand away as you finish unbuttoning it. His hands are warm and textured as he delves into your bra and pulls your tits free, letting them hang atop the fabric of your bra in the cool air. Satisfied, he grunts at the view before rocking back on his heel and taking a deep inhale of his cigarette as his other hand continues to explore your skin.

This position, with your face just below his own as you stand frozen in place and boxed in by his wider frame, gives you a much closer look at Coyle as you try to focus on anything which wasn't the scarred hands gripping at your flesh hard enough that you knew bruises will soon form.

In another life, he could have been handsome enough as he really did have a cops face. Lined and serious, it was a face which held authority as easily as it could charm, but there was a bestial cruelty in his features. Predatory, sadistic righteousness shone from his gaze and any possible attraction which his features could have generated was quickly stripped away and replaced with cold dread as that righteousness spelled real danger for anyone who stood in his way.

His full beard looks rough and a little unkempt, the dark hair flecked with more than its fair share of grey. The scarring and burns on his face aren't too terrible, not as bad as some of the other monsters you had seen lurking around the trials. The skin bubbled and scarred, the right hand side of his face is a pitted mess which makes you think of pictures of men who had suffered in wars and accidents with similar patches of torn, angry skin.

On a good day, you could squint and pretend that Coyle was just any other guy. A guy you'd made the bad decision to pick up in a bar with a few scars across his face from a work job gone wrong.

But he wasn't that, and all the playing pretend in the world couldn't hide the fact that you'd agreed to fuck this monster in exchange for a vague agreement that he'd let you live. Luckily though, his hat and the shadows which it cast are enough to hide most of his predatory leering and you are thankful for that at least.

Obviously growing bored with his search, Coyle takes a big step forward and smirks as you press your back harder into the chain link fence to keep what little space you had to offer. His hand rises to settle in your hair, pulling your head tight against the fence with a vicious snap of his wrist as his body lays flush against your own. The burn in your scalp is wicked, pain making your mouth tremble as you stand to your tiptoes - desperate to alleviate the strain as your skull throbs.

"You do this for the other assets too? Hmm? Spread your legs for that dickless Italian freak? Let the fat bitch with the mouthy puppet take a ride on you with that drill of hers?"

You can't hide the grimace which stretches your lips thin as you think of the other monsters which haunted the various trials. They were just as horrific, but at least with him you could try to pretend.

"No. I haven’t- well, since-it's been…fuck -"

"Fucking spit it out." Coyle rolls his eyes, his hand tightening in your hair as the stun baton crackled threateningly. "Don't got all fucking day."

"I haven't fucked anyone since I've been stuck in here."

"Lying bitch." Coyle snaps. "That's all you junkies and sluts do back in those cells they keep you in. Ain't nothing to do but sleep, smoke, and fuck anything with a pulse."

"Well, I fucking haven't."

He ignores the snapped denial, once again switching his focus back to your body as a smirk at your outburst curls his mouth. The tip of the stun baton drops to threaten your lower stomach, placed tactfully to prevent any thought of escape, and the crackle of the electric sparks are like small needles of heat as they glance off your skin.

"Mmm, I like a bit of fire. A bit of meat. Really gives me something to work and hold onto while I tear you a new one." His eyes rove across your trembling chest, leering openly as his tongue licks at his cracked lips.

Overcome by a sudden wave of self-conscious fear, the onslaught of it making your throat constrict, you can't stop your hand moving and it quickly shifts to cover your chest - elbow tucking tight against your side to cover as much skin as possible.

You realise your mistake instantly.

Coyle's face twists into uncontrolled rage and a huff of air is the only warning you get before a sharp pain spears through your cheek as the back of his hand glances off your face, quick as a whippet.

"It's by the good grace of the lord that you're not a smoking pile of dead fuck on the floor, waiting to be scraped up by the assholes who run this place." Coyle snarls, his hand snapping around your own and gripping with enough strength to make you whine pathetically as he drags it away from his sight. "Don't make me sorry for being so kind cause I’ll use this stick to fry your holes and then just fuck what's left."

Frozen in place by the very real threat, your head moves of its own accord as you nod and agree with his words without conscious thought; your lips spewing a stream of incomprehensible apologies as you dig your nails into your outer thighs to force them to remain still. Your cheek burns, his backhand slap really showcasing his strength as the area continues to ache even as you nod.

"But you're clean," Coyle continues his tone almost begrudging, "so I think I'll forgive that little slip up. The badge makes people nervous sometimes."

"Thanks." You breath out, not quite sure what for and even less sure that you meant it.

Coyle grins at the apology as his hand drops to his belt once more. Beside his hand, the line of cigarettes holstered within the belt would be comical in any other situation but humour was the furthest thing from your mind as you stare hopelessly at the collar of his stained shirt.

"Now take my cock out and show me why you're so desperate for it."

Biting the back of your tongue as you attempt to steady your breathing and follow through on your earlier offer, you lean forward enough to reach his fly and release his cock. Despite it all, all the terrifying strength and the monstrous sadism, his cock is surprisingly normal as you pull it free. About average length, it wasn't the biggest cock you'd ever seen, but it was certainly the thickest and the slight flare of his cock head appeared a much darker shade than his shaft - the scarce light making any other details too difficult to see.

"What? You holding it so I can take a piss? You forget how to treat an officer of the law? Cause I got a firm hand to help you remember."

Startled by his words, you quickly shake your head and start to slowly pump your hand along his cock. He's already half hard from terrorising you and his dick twitches into your palm, your grip soft and too afraid to squeeze tightly in case it angered him in some way. You stroke along the length, feeling every inch of the velvety skin against your own as it hangs heavy and hot against your palm. But it's dry, too dry to really let you build up any momentum, and your fingers feel uncomfortable against the raw skin.

Releasing him, you see the outrage flair in his face for only a blink until he watches you spit into your hand - the noise vulgar and nasty against the gentle whirr of the generator - and then his lips split into another wide grin as you instantly return to the task at hand. The spit gives some lubrication, allowing your hand to slide more easily along his length as your fingers rub along the sensitive ridge where the shaft meets cockhead. It gains you a low grunt of approval, Coyle's breath visibly sharpening at the extra stimulation and he raises a hand to the chain link fence as he leans in even closer to your trapped positioning.

"You're a talented whore. I like the extra effort," Coyle growls into your ear, "and, hell, I'll even let you choose which hole I fuck cause I like it so much."

Having not even considered that he might demand to fuck your ass or throat, your hand stutters on his cock as fear cleaves at your chest. But you cover it quickly, resuming jerking his now fully hard cock as you struggle to clear your throat of your anxieties and answer him.

"Please, sir, fuck my-"

"Yeah, yeah." Coyle breathes, cutting you off in an instant as he pulls his cock free of your grip with one fluid jerk of his hips and replaces it with his own hand. "I ain't fucking stupid. I know what you want. But let's see if all my being nice is gonna be worth what I'm getting-" Coyle trails off, his other hand gliding past your lower stomach and within the waistband of your panties to weave through the trimmed hair of your cunt - the sensation making him quirk a brow as his teeth visibly clamp around the cigarette between them.

His fingers push past your slit, pressing up against your hole roughly, and you whimper at the stiff intrusion. He's too rough, too fast, and you aren't prepared at all to accept him as he struggles to slide his fingers in any further.

A fact which he notices in an instant.

"I thought you'd be soaked, honey. Ol' Coyle not firing up your juices? Or maybe you just need some help."

"Help?" You stutter out, eyeing the stun baton with open fear as your gaze flicks between it and his leering gaze.

"You think a respectable law bringer like me needs the lightning to keep you in line? Nah, we're gonna have a hell of a time. Just some old-fashioned perversion between a good man and the whore who wants him."

Coyle finishes his little mocking speech by dropping to one knee before you, the sudden shift making you jerk in position and gasp, and his hands are hard against your thighs as he roughly spreads your inner thighs before tearing your panties down. The fabric falls to your knees without protest and your fingers once again lock against the chain link fence which presses into your back.

Unable to do anything, you bite at your lip to save the pathetic noises which threaten to slip free as you feel the heat of Coyle's breath against your cunt. But before you can really dwell too much on what is happening, a scream snaps free of your throat as his blunted teeth sink themselves into the swell of your left inner thigh. The bite is hard, the skin roaring its distress in a dull, lasting ache until Coyle pulls away and refocuses his attention on his main prize.

Coyle's beard is rough and the sensation of it dragging along your cunt is not as unpleasant as it could have been. But any good feeling is cut short in an instant by how insistent and sloppy he is in his immediate fervour. His tongue is messy, forcing itself along your slit before delving into your hole without any focus or thought. This wasn't about bringing pleasure, not real pleasure anyway, it was about control and him forcing you to endure it. Knowing that you had to let him do as he wished.

Having his mouth devouring such an intimate location, one which very few of your previous partners had ever really been allowed, feels somehow worse than anything else he'd already subjected you to - despite the very slight twinge of arousal which traitorously licks up your spine when his nose greedily bumps against your clit as he presses himself tightly against your groin.

It's invasive and humiliating, his tongue leaving no part of you neglected as he uses his mouth to slicken you up and take what he wants. His facial hair burns as it grinds into your most sensitive skin, the friction adding a cruel stimulation that forces your hole to clench around nothing and arousal to continue to steadily grow within your gut.

"Mm, for a condemned whore you sure do taste good. Even better than my second wife. Put out a lot easier too…"

Second wife?

He had been married? More than once? In light of that revelation, you choose to ignore the insult which Coyle had also tacked onto the end of his comments as he pulls away from you and quickly rises to his feet once more. Relief floods you, sweeping across your skin as he quits his assault on your sex, but with it comes renewed anxiety as you know he’s going to want his promised fuck.

"No thanks?" Coyle spits out after a second of staring at you, his fingers striking forward to grip your chin so tightly that you're afraid he's going to rip the skin. "A man gets down on one knee and you don't even show him the proper respect? Didn't peg you for an ungrateful bitch- maybe I should have just fucked you high and dry?"

"Sorry, sir. Thank you." Grovelling the words out in a muttered rush due to the pressure Coyle is keeping on your jaw, you can't help the widening of your eyes as pain-filled tears blur your vision.

"Finally, a little fucking respect around here." Coyle says, the crackle of his baton flashing just to the left of your head as you flinch away in terror. He ignores the flinch and instead mutters a hissing warning as he trails the business end of the baton across your skin, carving a line past your tits and down to your thighs. Running the side of the baton along your slit, he pushes the cold metal up hard into your sex.

"Now, let's see how those cunt juices are firing off."

You grunt as he taps the baton against your slit, every heavy thud more pain than pleasure as it strikes the slightly exposed skin of your clit - the sensation making your knees jerk with every direct hit. It's too much and you bite your lip to keep the noises in your throat clamped up and unable to escape.

Coyle, his face only a few inches away from your own and only just illuminated by the glow of his cigarette, tilts his head as he finally drops your jaw from his inhumane grip.

"I fuck like a man, honey. So, yeah, I see you exercising your right to remain silent but it's just gonna make me want to hurt you more. I want to hear the little canary sing."

He punctuates his final words by grinding the baton into your cunt. Ensuring that the cool metal is wettened by his own saliva and your arousal, he holds the baton there until your whimpers and discomfort have satisfied his sadistic whims before snatching it away and bringing it to your mouth instead.

"Clean it off, bitch."

Humiliated, you press your tongue to the metal as fear that he will press the button and deliver a truly evil shock makes your entire body tremble. Immediately filling your senses, the taste of your own arousal - made acrid by the addition of Coyle's tobacco-stained spit - makes your nose wrinkle but you obediently follow his instructions. Too afraid to put a foot out of line, you work your tongue along the part presented to you until the baton is clean and glistening slightly in the limited light.

Satisfied by your work, Coyle moves so quickly into action that you can't prevent the short yelp of surprise you unleash as he sheaths his baton back in his belt and picks you up by the waist. Airborne for only a blink, you grunt in pain as he slams your back into the nearby generator. Using the crank screen as a makeshift ledge, he balances your ass on it with little effort as his stocky body pins you into place - his rock hard cock pressing insistently at your sex as he grinds himself into your mound.

"Now that I've been all gentlemanly and warmed you up, time to bury this bone and see if it was really worth all the being nice for."

In a single sharp and punishing thrust, he adjusts himself with his hand and sheathes himself inside you so roughly that you feel your back scrape against the generator. Your cry of discomfort, of the stretch and utter sting at his brutal intrusion, only nets you a tilted smirk as Coyle pauses long enough to drink in your distressed appearance. Your nails dig in to the leather of his jacket, the material too thick to allow him any sensation from it but you can feel that he's loving how tight your walls are squeezing him as he holds his cock still.

"Fucking hell, honey. Goddamn tighter than some of those mannequins around here. Or maybe you ain't fucked a real man before. Probably only been with them nancy boys that wouldn’t know what to do with their dick even if it told them."

Unable to catch your breath enough to reply, all you can offer is a discomforting whimper as you pull your legs up and around his waist in a vain attempt to alleviate some of the pressure on your lower half.

He seems fine with it though, and Coyle quickly drops his head to your exposed chest - tits still hanging over your bra as your shirt flutters uselessly around your sides. Pulling you towards him, his mouth makes itself known on your collarbone as his tongue draws a sloppy line across the burn marks which he had delivered earlier with his stun baton - almost as though he's trying to taste the residual electricity as it thrums within your veins. He quick to bite too, his teeth clamping down on whatever skin he can find purchase on as he sucks livid marks into your chest.

Never one to have shied away from a little bit of roughhousing with your pleasure, a sweeping cloud of shame fogs up your mind as you can't help but enjoy the harsh ministrations - every brush of his beard leaving a tickling heat behind which lasts for a few moments. Coyle, his cock rocking slowly back and forth while he adjusts you as he sees fit, is quick to pick up on the attitude shift, a shit-earing grin slipping across his lips as he raises his head from your skin.

"Huh, I think you actually enjoy me pulling on these pigtails of yours. You like it when I hurt you, yeah?" Releasing one of his hands from your waist, he pinches your nipple between textured fingers and the sharp pain makes your back arch and cunt clamp around his cock. "Hrm, I like that a whole lot. Pity I ain't the marrying type these days…" He trails off, mostly to himself, returning his hand to ensuring you were tightly pinned into place and unable to escape him.

Thrusting harshly with every comment, you try to focus on the pleasure which builds as the dull ache of his intrusion begins to fade. His cock is thick, so as much as it stretches you out, it's also brushing your nerves with every rock of his hips - sending thrills of arousal across your gut and shifting your groin as you seek out more and more.

His mouth now shifts its attention to your left tit, mouth greedily sucking your nipple between his lips as the bluntness of his teeth press at the sensitive bud. Moaning, you can't help but slip your hand up from its death grip on his jacket until your fingers find purchase against the back of his neck. It's the first physical contact you've initiated and the heat of his skin on your palm shocks you back into the reality of your situation and what you were allowing to happen.

Arousal, shame, disgust, heat, and something too self-loathing to really pin down pulses through your veins as you admit that, despite it all, you were finding pleasure in this monster. Just another fucked-up fact to add to the other horrors which haunted your broken nights back in the facility. Unable to really fall lower as a sudden shift of despair hollows your gut, you push it deep inside to focus on finishing securing your freedom.

Ignorant to your internal hell as he continues to rut into your body like a beast, Coyle's mouth never stops in its movements. From harsh bites to wild grunts and muttered insults which are lost due to their volume, he's vocal in a way which fills the small space - his only competition being your whimpers and the hum of the generator you are pinned to. Giving a particularly harsh thrust, you can feel the tickle of his dark pubic hair pressing against your groin through the hole of his fly and you stutter out something incomprehensible - the words between a plea and a groan - but he ignores it in favour of lowering his hand to fumble messily at the baton on his belt.

"Ready to ride the lightning, darlin'"?

Shaking your head frantically as you watch him turn the intensity of the baton to full, Coyle places the prongs perfectly at the juncture where his groin connects with your own, ensuring that the shock will connect fully with you both when he presses the button. Fear floods you. His previous shocks had apparently been held a lower setting and the thought of a full-scale taste of the voltage terrifies in a way you never could have anticipated.

"Fuck! No, please- don’t! I'm doing everything you want! Please-" is all you manage to squeal out before pain explodes across your frame.

Your muscles spasm, growing rigid in an instant as your eyes roll back into your skull and heat, like hellfire in a fucked-up handbasket, radiates across your groin to spread across your flesh. It's so intense that you can't even scream, throat and mouth locking into an open position that only allows for a desperate pull of strained oxygen as your brain whites out.

Through it all, heat of another kind makes itself known and you feel Coyle’s orgasm as it burns hot within your cunt, his gasping growls of pleasure rolling across your ears as his higher tolerance for pain allows him to continue his punishing assault on your cunt even as your body twitches and spasms around him.

Despite everything, despite the pain and the abuse you'd endured at his hands since being caught, you cannot prevent the inevitable and your groan as you come is deep and guttural - walls squeezing even more harshly around Coyle's pulsing cock as your desperate body attempts to claw as much pleasure from the pain as it can.

Limbs trembling and twitching from the exhaustion of the electricity, you pretty much can't help but go limp in Coyle's arms as your orgasm ebbs away and you're left with nothing but the residual aches and discomforts of his attention as your feet drop back to the floor. He pulls himself free in a smooth motion, his wilting cock a mess as he tucks it away quickly and steps back from your position.

Your legs feel unsteady as hell and you are thankful for the pressure of the generator as you lean on it heavily for support. Aching, exposed, and grimacing at the feel of his release as it drips free of your abused hole, all you want is a shower and you want it so badly that you could almost feel the desperate tears which threatened to well up in the corner of your eyes.

"Just one more job left to do." Coyle announces, his voice giddy yet almost slurred by his own satiated arousal as he fixed his hat. And without warning he plucks the shortened cigarette from his lips and grinds the stub of it out on the exposed skin of your right inner thigh.

Pain, sharp as a knife and searing in its intensity, flares in the burned skin as a scream pulls itself free of your throat - pain and shock making you writhe in place as he holds you there with a firm hard pressing into your leg until the skin is well and truly branded by the cigarette.

"What the fuck?" You sob out, a tear rolling down your cheek while your fingers drop to gently brush over the abused skin as Coyle releases you and tilts his head to admire his handiwork.

"Hell, just something to remember me by. A little gift to show you what that kinda whoring and public indecency gets you around here. Plus, it lets me keep a tally, one for each time you enjoy a visit with your favourite officer of the law."

Body bending to snatch up your abandoned panties, the simple gesture makes your nerves scream their discomfort and you whimper as you pull the scant fabric back on before quickly sliding your tits back within the bra and fixing the rest of your scant outfit.

Coyle watches with vague interest, his hand cupping his clothed cock as he stands back and hooks his other hand in his belt. "Next time you're gonna be on those knees and I'm gonna fuck that throat bloody. So, make sure you ain't staying away for too long cause ol' Coyle has needs too y'know. I’ll be watching out for you, honey."

Laughing at his own comments as you cringe at the scornful pet name, Coyle's gaze falls on an abandoned brick which lays not too far from his foot. Kicking it towards you with a swipe of his leg, Coyle turns on his heel and disappears back into the darkness - his sadistic needs satiated and not a single fuck given about you or your journey back to the shuttle. As he disappears, you can hear him whistling some tune as it grows fainted and fainter with each passing moment.

Shattered, fucked, abused, and absolutely bone weary, the strength which powers you allows you to hold it together for now as you force your broken body into motion. Limping off to find a barrel to hide in while you await the shuttle picking you up, it's impossible to ignore the smell of burned skin which seems imprinted in your senses.

I'll fuck you if you let me go.

At least your plan had worked and you could live to fight another day.

That had to be worth something.

Right?

#outlast #leland coyle #outlast trials #leland coyle x reader #leland coyle x you #the outlast trials #outlast coyle #outlast trials coyle #officer coyle

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corkinavoid · 10 months ago

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Okay, yeah, I just wrote a post about good!GIW like three days ago, but

DPxDC GIW Using Ghosts as Living Weapons

TW: dehumanization, mention of electrocution, whump

I've been watching Hell's Paradise, and it got me thinking. What if GIW doesn't just catch and study ghosts? After all, their tech is no match for something like Vortex or Undergrowth, or even Technus.

What if they catch ghosts and turn them into living weapons? Train them into following commands like dogs, and force them into obedience. Dehumanize them in the worst way possible, treating them like machines.

Ghosts are not sentient or sapient in their opinion, but they feel pain. They can be trained.

What I'm saying is whump Danny, mostly, but make it interesting. Make it not just a teen in pain, no, make him a merciless machine that follows any given order with unmatched efficiency, someone who doesn't feel any emotions anymore, knowing no pleas or cries will work.

I'm thinking along the lines of a muzzle, or a collar that gives him electric shocks every time he either disobeys or does anything he was not told to do.

Now, I've got two ideas of where this can go. One, GIW gifts Danny to the JL as an ultimate, all-powerful weapon. Maybe they don't even specify he is a ghost at first, presenting him as an object, and then they get to do a demonstration, and the JL is promptly horrified at the sight of what they think is a meta kid in a muzzle that doesn't even have holes for him to breath. And when they very carefully try asking GIW to explain this, GIW just shows off Danny's powers. Which are, well, a lot. Maybe they ask Danny to do something like, I dunno, destroy an asteroid or shit. Something big, something most members of the JL are not able to do single-handedly, but Danny does it easily, with little effort. And GIW explains that this kind of power, especially coming from a ghost, a being malicious at its core, can not be kept on the loose without any restraints.

The second idea includes Al Ghul Twins. GIW can have some ties with League of Shadows, so maybe they made Danny into a living weapon with the sole purpose of making him Ra's' living weapon. So Danny ends up back in the League, and Ra's tasks him with killing one of the Bats, or maybe stealing something, anyway, he ends up in Gotham. Where he meets Damian, and, boom, siblings' feelings hit. Cue all the whump angst you can imagine.

I'm not sure how to incorporate Fentons in the second idea. Maybe it was all a coincidence - Talia faking Danyal's death, him being adopted by Fentons, then later found out and contained by GIW. Or maybe it was all staged beforehand, and Ra's specifically put Danny there. Or maybe we bypass the Fentons in the first place and Ra's simply gives a spare kid to GIW in order for them to try and make him more powerful with the help of Lazarus Waters/ectoplasm. Maybe this can even be some kind of reincarnation.

Also, more ghosts can be added to the mix.

Danny disobeying the orders in order to protect Dani and getting tortured for it. Ember being used for mind control. Dan being the prototype of the living weapon program, the first experiment that turned out wrong and has been locked and kept contained.

The opportunities are endless.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #dpxdc #justice league #al ghul twins #danyal al ghul #league of shadows #whump #living weapon whumpee #wow thats a tag #angst #where did this even come from #i dont typically enjoy whump genre #yet here we are #giw #cork prompts

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greenglowinspooks · 2 years ago

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(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Prologue)

—

Tw: Danny is having a Certified Bad Time™️, dissociation, vivisection mention, suicidal thoughts (kinda?), basically just heavy angst for now

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

Note: you don’t need to read this chapter to understand the rest of the story, it’s mostly just to explore Danny’s headspace when he first escapes the GiW

(Pt. 1)

(Subscription post/masterlist)

—

Danny rocked back and forth, trying to soothe himself as the truck he was in continued to speed along.

It had been an eternity since he was captured by the GiW. He didn’t know why they were moving him to a new base after all this time, but he knew it wasn’t a good thing.

Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel afraid.

He couldn’t feel much of anything these days. The GiW had a routine and they stuck to it religiously, and that routine had sucked every bit of Danny’s soul out of him.

Something churned in his chest regardless. Anticipation? Excitement, maybe?

Perhaps they were finally going to let Danny fade. Was that a bad thing? Danny couldn’t decide if it was or not.

He wasn’t scared of fading. It seemed inevitable, especially with how he was treated on the daily. He would stop hurting if he faded.

Still, he’d like to see Jazz and Tucker and Sam at least one more time before he does. That would be nice.

The truck continues forward, unmoved by Danny’s thoughts.

The sound is nice, Danny thinks.

The hum of the engine, the crackling of pebbles being crushed under the tires, the electrical buzz of the anti-ghost handcuffs and shield keeping him trapped.

The only sound Danny’s heard the last few years has been the clatter of metal tools, the crunching of bone, the sawing and thunking and squishing of surgery, the murmur of voices.

It’s nice to hear something new, Danny thinks.

Strange, but nice.

The truck stops again. Another red light, probably. Danny continues rocking back and forth, back and forth, like the ticking of a clock.

Seconds pass. Second after second after second.

Danny hears shouting now.

Gunshots crack outside, and Danny sees holes appear in the side of the truck.

That’s definitely new.

Chaos is erupting outside. There’s a lot of screaming, and frantic footsteps, and cars zooming away.

The driver door slams open and shut. The truck speeds off, tires screaming as the driver swerves erratically.

Danny is thrown back and forth in the back of the truck, bumping up against the many weapons and other miscellaneous inventions stored alongside him. Pain blooms in his head and chest, an agonizing heat lining his surgical wounds. Danny licks his lips underneath his muzzle. It would be nice if the driver was a bit better at their job, he thinks.

The truck continues careening wildly.

Danny counts the seconds.

Second after second after second.

After around two thousand, three hundred and seventy four seconds, the truck comes to a stop. Danny didn’t lose count this time. He’s proud of himself.

The driver door opens and closes yet again. There’s chatter outside, excitement clear in the voices that Danny hears. There’s lots of talk of “congratulations,” and “lucky that the Bat didn’t follow you here.”

Then, the back of the truck is opened. Danny hears noises of confusion and shock. He turns his head, looking to see what’s happened.

There’s several men at the door of the truck. They’re wearing black tuxedo suits—Sam was right, black really is such a pretty color—and they’re staring at him.

They begin talking among themselves. Something about them not knowing about a kid, and not knowing what to tell the boss. It’s confusing to him. It’s not what he usually hears spoken.

Then, one of them climbs up into the truck. He approaches Danny slowly, speaking in a calm voice. He’s asking Danny if he can stand, he realizes, asking him if he knows why he’s in the truck.

Danny just stares at the silver glint of the gun at the man’s side.

It’s a nice one, he thinks. Semi-automatic, with a few modifications to make the reloads smoother and the gunshots quieter. His fingers twitch. He’d like to poke at it a little, see if he could improve it any.

The man notices where he’s staring and curses. He takes the gun and lowers it to the floor. Danny just continues to stare.

Silver is an ugly color, he thinks. He much prefers black.

Silver is the color of stainless steel, the color of lab and surgical equipment.

He doesn’t like it much.

The man reaches out a hand and grabs Danny’s shoulder, shaking him gently.

After a moment, he sighs, and hoists Danny up, carrying him effortlessly. He hands him to one of the men outside of the truck, hopping down himself a moment later.

They’re warm, Danny realizes.

He curls further into the new man’s arms, closing his eyes. It’s nice, he thinks, being held like this. He hasn’t been held with such care in a long, long time.

The man sets him down on a crate.

After a moment Danny opens his eyes again, watching as the many black-suited people take things out of the truck. He counts the inventions in his head as they do so, beginning to rock again.

Then, a new man enters the room, and everyone freezes.

He’s congratulating them, asking them about their escape, and then he spots Danny.

Danny would very much like to be invisible right about now.

“Where did you get him?” He asks, tapping his umbrella against the floor.

“He was in the truck,” the man who carried him says, “we don’t know why.”

The stout man looks at him closely.

“How did you get into a government weapon shipment? Did someone put you in there?”

Danny nods his head. He tries to speak, but his voice cracks painfully underneath his muzzle.

“You- someone get that thing off his face,” he says. Several of the other men scurry off, probably looking for something that can break the muzzle, “can you speak?”

Danny shrugs. He tries to talk again, but it seems that his voice doesn’t want to cooperate with him. The only sound he can make is a painful, broken wheeze.

“Hey,” the man says, resting a hand on Danny’s shoulder, “if it hurts to talk, stop trying, alright? We’re gonna get that muzzle and those cuffs off, and then we’ll figure out why you were in there. You know how to write?”

Danny nods.

“Good,” the man responds.

“You two, get something to write with,” he barks to a few of the other suited men. They, too, run off.

A few people come up, carrying a bolt cutter and a few other tools with them. They make quick work of the muzzle and handcuffs, the restraints falling to the floor with a clattering sound.

Danny looks down at his hands. They’re shaking. Slowly, slowly, he brings them up to his face. Thin fingers brush up against cracked, dry lips. He’s fascinated by the sensation.

Someone brought him a mirror, he realizes.

That can’t be right, though. The person looking back at him…isn’t him. That isn’t Danny.

That face is not his face.

Their cheeks are far too thin and sunken, their eyes dull and haunting. They’re far too old as well, they look like a young adult.

Still, they move when he moves. They stare at him with a look of fascinated horror that’s far too familiar.

He brings his hand up to his head, and they follow his movements. He trails his fingers over the stitches in his head, and they do the same.

Danny tries to speak, but is cut off by a painful cough.

One of the men brings up a pencil and notepad. Slowly, shakily, Danny writes down a question.

“What year is it?”

The man who had spoken to him earlier quirked his eyebrow up. He answers, and Danny freezes in place.

“What’s wrong?”

Danny looks down at his hands again. He looks into the mirror. The stranger staring back looks horrified. They look sad. They look…like him.

Danny lets out a mournful keening sound. He curls up into himself, covering his face with his arms. Distantly, he’s aware of someone rubbing circles into his back. He cries harder, his entire body shaking.

Three years.

It’s been three years since he was captured, three years of being cut open and sewn back together. Three years of burns and cuts and chemical damage and electrical shocks.

Three years of torture.

Danny sobs, hands gripping the thin fabric of his medical gown like a lifeline. Three years.

Danny’s being lifted up again. He wraps his arms around the person holding him and wails into their shoulder. Everything is quiet.

“I’ll deal with the kid,” the man holding him says, “the rest of you, finish unpacking the truck and dump it somewhere that the Bat won’t connect to me.”

The man brings Danny through the building, still rubbing his back comfortingly. He’s humming some song that Danny doesn’t recognize, occasionally pausing to bark orders at people.

Danny’s beginning to calm down now. He’s still shaking, but his breathing is beginning to even out.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt alive enough to cry.

He feels exhausted.

Danny tries to hold onto consciousness for as long as possible, but he’s so tired, and so sad, and he’s being held, and he’s warm, and��

Danny’s eyes flutter shut.

—

#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp fic #vengeful danny #villain danny #girl help I fucking love angst HDJFNSKFJDJFJF #literally pouring milk on Danny and throwing him against the wall to hear the thunk #he is going THROUGH it #truly rip bozo #don’t worry he becomes less scared and more neurotic and terrifying soon

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ravenna-reid · 1 year ago

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hey babe! how you're doing?

so here's an idea i had. Maybe something like reader was kidnapped by joker, tortured just like jason but Batman saved her before the same fate as the second robin hits her. And Bruce -needs- jason to help her because he's the only one who passed through what she passed?? like, they're relationship could be something angsty, idk

Hey!! I'm doing well and I hope you are too! <3 Tysm for requesting!!! I love writing for ya'll and this idea!!!! This idea is everything omg....I hope you enjoy what I've written hehe

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Old Scars - Jason Todd x Reader

TW: torture via electrocution, trauma (canon things)

Three and a half hours.

That's how Bruce had tried to smooth it over.

By saying it was only three and a half hours. But as far as Jason was concerned, that's three and a half hours too long.

"Bruce...fuck I can't believe he did this again."

"Me either..." Bruce murmured over the comms, barely audible. "It should never have happened."

It wouldn't have happened... if only you would let someone put the clown 6ft under.

The bitter thought repeated in Jason's mind like a broken record, but he kept it to himself. Because all he could think about right now was you and what had happened. All he could focus on was the traumas and fears that were resurfacing, itching away at him like a disease. Consuming him like a plague. And it was even worst knowing you had gone through it all too now.

₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖ ₊‧⁺˖

Three and a half hours.

It'd only been three and a half hours...and yet it was feeling like an eternity. You spluttered on the water that had made its way into your mouth and down your throat.

The manic laughter was numbing your ears. The straps on your arms and legs were digging so deeply into your skin it was making your stomach churn. The burning in your veins and jolts tracing through your limbs were near unbearable.

Wasn't it ironic how your main weapons on patrol involved electricity. And now, the clown had you strapped to some sort of hospital bed; routinely dumping a bucket of water on you before turning up the volts attached to your limbs.

Well, that's what the punchline was according to Joker. That's what made this all oh so funny.

All you could think was how much longer?

How much longer until Bruce came? Or Dick, Cass, literally fucking anyone. Clark or Diana even.

But no matter how hard you fought to suppress it, that same thought repeated in your mind like a broken record.

No one had come for Jason. They were too late.

Black dots were swimming in your vision and your head was pounding. It took you a second to realise that no one was actually hitting it to cause that sensation. Everything was blurred and hazy, but he was laughing again. You could tell. And laughing meant another jolt of electricity.

No please. You just wanted to go to sleep. Close your eyes.

Maybe if you slept, the pain would all go away. Fade away like a sick dream. Maybe it'd stop. Just for a second.

"No.." You cried, then cursed yourself. This sick freak would find satisfaction in your begs, but the words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

"I can't...I..."

Your scream tore through the atmosphere as he flipped the switch.

Then...glass shattering. The clown falling to the floor. Pointed ears.

And finally...darkness.

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It'd been 30 minutes.

30 minutes of Jason standing outside your bedroom door.

But he just couldn't do it.

He knew how selfish it was. Selfish and cruel.

You'd both had been friends for a while now. Nothing major, not like you and the others. But he had a deep-rooted respect for you. You and your backstory, your unwavering morals and goal. He really did admire you...he just had a shitty way of showing it.

You were kind without being a doormat. Strong without being unhinged and violent. And you always appeared at the perfect time. Whether it was when he was outnumbered in a fight, in need of some extra bandages and headache medication, or when he was alone on a rooftop contemplating everything.

You seemed to have always appeared at the perfect time. And he couldn't even do that.

"You have to help her through this Jason, regardless." Bruce had said to him. Chastised him. Berated him.

"Do you think..." Jason trailed off, those horrible words dying on his tongue.

'Do you think she'll end up like me now?'

Bruce hadn't given him the chance to explain what he was trying to say. "Jason this isn't about you!" He had snapped, ripping Jason from his thoughts.

"Y/n needs you right now. She needs someone she can relate to. Someone who can understand. Can you do that Jason? Be there for her when she wakes up?"

So here Jason was, before your door 35 minutes later.

A stupid tremble began in his hands as he glared down at them. Begging them to just rise and knock on your damn door. Was it the fact that you had just been involved in something so heinous that was crawling under his skin? Or was it his visit with the past? Most likely both. It was most likely everything-

The door swung open, Alfred dressed in his usual attire, now bloody and dishevelled, and a mournful look on his face.

Jason's heart leapt into his throat. "Alfred, is she-"

Alfred raised his hand and closed his tired eyes. "She should be fine Master Todd. Few bruises here and there, but most of the damage is internal."

Jason let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding.

"That vile man..." Alfred began with the shake of his head. "Whatever he used to electrocute Miss y/l/n, it was made so that she wouldn't die instantly..."

"He wanted the moment to last as long as possible." Bruce was behind Alfred, face as blank as ever.

Jason stiffened. Frustration and panic and hate bubbling all at once inside of him. For who was to blame for this deja vu of a situation?

The clown that should have been killed, or the man that keeps protecting him?

"I'm glad you decided to come Jason."

Jason wanted to scoff. Huff in annoyance. But stuck to his bitter glare. "So she's alright? A-alive, she'll live?" He snapped.

"Yes, she just needs a lot of rest. She's not fully conscious yet but, you should still go in and see her."

Jason swallowed hard. "You can leave then."

Bruce tried to keep his temper, and to do so, he left with Alfred without another word. Alfred gave a weak smile for encouragement before Jason forced himself into the bedroom.

No doubt Alfred and Bruce had performed numerous medical procedures on you. 'Electrocution' Bruce had explained, for who knew how long. But he had assured Jason that he did everything he could, and that for the mean time, you should be ok...

The door squeaked as he shut it behind him, and suddenly it was as though the room was trying to swallow him whole, the only comfort being your scent.

The sun fought to break through not only the dark clouds outside, but the sheer curtains that were drawn over your windows. It casted dark shadows across your room, and they sat and watched as Jason neared your bed.

He wish he would stop fiddling with his hands. Stop sweating. Stop continuously swallowing. But he had no idea what state you were in. What he'd see once he looked down at you.

Nearing the bed, he saw your form nestled amongst the thick duvet and pillows. And as he quietly sat himself down on the chair beside your bed, he let out another sharp breath.

Your face was pale like snow. Colourless like the overcast sky outside. Your eyes were closed as you remained in your slumber, and Jason only hoped it brought you more peace than reality did. That the drugs you were hooked up to weren't keeping you trapped inside of a nightmare.

Was this what he had looked like afterwards? So sad? So silent and distant from the world?

Every now and then you twitched, and instinctively Jason reached out to you. He took his time, gingerly running the back of his finger across your bruised cheek. Brushed the hair from your face. Your skin was still cold.

How could he make you warm? How could he get rid of the cold?

He could still remember that cold, and he wondered where Joker had tortured you. Most likely not where Jason had been beaten with a crow bar, but his memory still dragged him back there. To that abandoned wing. The cold tiles. The dirt and grime and darkness. The laughter and weapons and tools...

Jason clawed his way back to the present only to be greeted with the full impact of the grief that came with the fact that Joker had done to you what had been done to him.

And Jason hated it.

With the lump in his throat and pain in his chest, he rose from the seat and quickly left your room.

He was glad you were asleep. At peace for the time being before awakening and having to deal with it all. He was glad that you were asleep so you couldn't see the tears in his eyes.

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cypherbxbe · 4 months ago

Text

PART 4/4 - Ghost x Reader

previous part

notes: I’m still a newbie so bare with me pls, slowbuuurn, portrayal of violence tw (blood, weapons, injuries etc.), will contain smut in this part so beware lol

add. notes: features sexual content so mdni take care lol ♡ (also this is my first time writing smut so pls keep that in mind)

ㄨㄨㄨ

Simon couldn’t bring himself to walk away, not like this. When you glanced back at him, his tall frame filled the doorway, his gaze locked onto you in the dim lighting of the room. The sight of you safe should have been enough, but it wasn’t. He needed to be closer, to touch you, to know you were truly okay.

His hands flexed at his sides, tension rolling off him. “Can I…” he started, his voice rough. You could only give a small nod, and he stepped in, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The silence was deafening, thick with tension and words left unsaid. His piercing gaze pinned you in place, drinking in every detail.

When he finally moved, each deliberate step forward sent your heart racing. You instinctively retreated, your back hitting the edge of the bed. He closed the gap faster than you expected, and before you could react, his hands seized your wrists, drawing them gently but firmly behind your back.

Simon could feel himself losing his restraint, but to hell with it anyway. His breath was hot against your ear, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Before you could respond, he pulled off the balaclava, tossing it aside, and his lips found your neck, softly yet insistent. He slowly pressed you down onto the bed, his weight grounding you, his voice ragged as he murmured, “Let me make it up to you.”

“Wha-” you began, but the words faltered as his hand came up, his thumb brushing just below the bandage on your shoulder. The touch was featherlight, a striking contrast to his usual roughness. “Just let me take care of you,” he murmured, his voice deep and raw with an unexpected tenderness.

Your gaze locked with his, and the intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. The air between you felt electric, heavy with unspoken emotions. His restraint snapped, and before you could react, his lips captured yours in a searing kiss.

His hands cupped your face, his touch firm yet reverent. The kiss was fierce and consuming, his tongue sliding past your lips with a hunger that spoke of everything he’d been holding back. He pulled back leaving you breathless, only to let his lips trail down your neck again. Rough hands sliding underneath your shirt, cupping your breasts through your bra. “Tell me to stop..“ The whispered words sent a shiver down your spine.

A moment later your shirt was discarded god knows where, Simon‘s warm lips moving across your stomach, hands roaming over your body like a starved man searching for water. His rough fingers surprisingly gentle when they reached the waistband of your pants. The moment your gazes met, your breath hitched in your throat. In a moment of silent understanding, the longing in your eyes gave him all the permission he needed to go on.

With one swift motion you were completely bare, exposed and yet you hadn’t felt more comfortable, safer than this, ever. Simon reached out, his fingers digging into your thighs, hooking them onto his shoulder and before you knew his face was buried right where you needed him most. A strangled gasp escaped your lips, your hand sliding into his hair, grabbing the disheveled strands as if searching for an anchor desperate to keep yourself from falling apart. „Simon..“, his name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper - part sin, part prayer.

He got to work like rent was due, his tongue lapping eagerly at your slick folds. The groan he let out reverberated through your body, intensifying the overwhelming sensations his tongue was letting you feel. You inhaled sharply once he sucks in your swollen nub, two fingers sliding into your needy entrance curling up to that sweet spot that made you see stars behind your eyelids. „I‘m so sorry, love.. You got hurt because of me.“ His voice was muffled against your skin.

At first you barely even registered his words, too caught up in the pleasure he was letting you feel. „Ngh.. It‘s- Whatever, just..“ Struggling to get the words out, your hands tightened their grip in his hair. „Just please d-don’t stop..“ The words leave your mouth in a shaky, breathless whisper.

And just like that it was as if a switch was turned in Simon‘s head, a faint yet wicked grin forming on his lips. His eyes flick to your face, an almost dangerous gleam in his gaze, as he spoke against your wet heat. „You begging for me already, dear?“ All you managed in response was a soft huff, blinking down at him a few times, your mind struggling to keep up. He was enjoying this way too much, but hell, you weren‘t complaining.

Your gaze, hazy and heavy-lidded, locked on his, and a slow smirk tugged at the corners of your lips. “You’re gonna make me cum or what..?“ The challenging glint in your eyes was enough to elicit a deep growl from the back of his throat, his face buried into your creamy folds in an instant, his tongue back to tormenting your clit, swirling teasing circles around the rubescent nub. He groaned as you pull him closer, your hand greedily pushing his head against you.

Simon could feel you getting close, leg’s twitching against his head and it made him redouble his efforts. One hand moved to slip two fingers back inside you, curling them against that sweet spot, while the other hand kept your thigh firmly in place. Your walls clenched and his name left your lips in a breathless moan, your juices dripping onto his fingers. He lapped up your release greedily, not lifting his face until he was sure he'd gotten every last drop. Once his head lifted, his hand came up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, his face glistening with your sweet juices.

At this point he was so hard it hurt. “We‘re not done yet, love..“ he muttered through gritted teeth, his body moving back on top of you, hands working eagerly to get his pants unbuckled until they end up on the floor along with the rest of your own clothes. “I was hoping you‘d say that.“ Your voice came out in a breathless murmur, your eyes intently tracking his every movement.

Simon looked down on you, pumping his girthy length slowly to ease the throb of need pulsing through the thick veins. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, your eyes shamelessly staring, unyielding - a ghost of that signature smirk on your lips. Simon‘s lust-blown brown eyes stared into yours as he moved back on top of you, the matress creaking under his weight.

And then without warning he buried himself balls deep in your drooling hole, rough fingers grabbing ahold of your hips as he set a relentless pace. Your eyes rolled up, a shaky whimper leaving your lips as you felt your vision blur white. His veiny length stretched you unforgivingly, gliding back and forth, rubbing against your walls, one of his rough hands coming up to grab ahold of your bouncing tits. “Fuck, let me hear you, dear..“, Simon growled through gritted teeth, adjusting your hips so that his swollen tip pounded against your cervix.

Your mind was hazy, every thrust eliciting yet another breathless moan from your lips, the rhythmic movements making your leg‘s twitch and your toes curl. His fingers dug into your hips with a bruising grip, his other hand moving back in between your thighs rubbing your pulsating clit eagerly. A wave of pleasure washed over you, legs twitching as your walls clenched around his cock in a vice, milking him as he came along with you filling your heat with his warm seeds.

For a moment only the soft sounds of both of your labored pants echoed through the room. Simon‘s head dips down nuzzling against the soft sweaty flesh of your neck for just a faint moment before he pushed himself up, sliding out of you, leaving you feeling sore and empty. ”Don’t move,” he commanded, his deep voice slicing through the silence. He strode to the sink, returning moments later with a damp cloth in hand. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he began cleaning you, far softer than you had anticipated.

A smirk played on your lips, mischief glinting in your eyes as your arms snaked around his neck, pulling him back down on top of you. The move caught him off guard, a faint, surprised huff escaping his lips as his stoic facade faltered. Yet, to your surprise, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his strong arms encircled your waist, and with an easy motion, he rolled onto his back, taking you with him carefully avoiding putting pressure on your injured shoulder. “Such a damn troublemaker,” he muttered, his chin resting lightly atop your head, the gruffness in his tone softened by an unmistakable warmth.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you buried your face against his chest, your ear pressed to his warm skin, catching the faint, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “You love it,” you teased, though your voice was softer than usual, lacking its typical playful edge.

“Yeah… I do,” Simon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his head dipping slightly to meet your gaze. The warmth in his eyes lingered, speaking volumes in a way his words never could. And as silence settled between you, his arms tightened around you, a quiet promise that he‘d never let you go.

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(thanks for reading and if you read all parts bless you srsly I appreciate it a lot ♡)

tag list: @chosolovrrr @larkeyy @lostintransist @matchavulpix

#simon ghost x you #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost smut #simon ghost riley x you #cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley smut #smut #ghost #simon ghost riley

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raineandsky · 1 year ago

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Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

Love Ur writing!!

aaaaaaa this was such a fun idea - im absolutely in love with this lil dynamic!! hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing it :D

tw blood, death

Animals. That’s all the agency ever saw the villains as. Animals they could poke and push and test and break into nothing.

So when the jail’s power-dampeners fail, the villains are more than happy to make like the tigers are out of their cage.

The villain to the supervillain’s right is burning the lock on his cell door. The villain on his left has fazed straight through hers. The supervillain steps up to the iron bars across his own cell to look beyond.

VIllains are flooding the corridor, breaking for the stairs one by one. “You,” he snaps as someone passes, and they thankfully slow down. “Open the door.”

Escape might be tantalising, if the villain’s quick glance to the stairs is anything to go by, but no villain ignores a supervillain. They rest their hands against the door for a moment, their brow knitted in concentration for a moment, before the lock clunks open.

They pull the door outward as the supervillain steps into the corridor, waiting impatiently. “Thank you,” the supervillain says shortly.

The villain wastes no time continuing their great escape, chasing the tails of the other villains. Golden light flashes against the walls of the stairwell like fireworks, panicked shouting drifting from above, dull thumping as inevitable bodies hit the floor. The superhero strolls up the steps to take in the carnage the villains are wreaking on the pristine agency.

Gunfire showers the corridor in the light of heaven itself. Agency guards are backed up against the one exit. Most of the villains have already pushed past them into the room beyond, but those who haven’t are springing on them from all directions with fire or ice or electricity or nothing but hatred.

He can see someone familiar through the chaos, the eye of the storm. His gun sprays death, his face twisted into a mix of anger and fear, his eyes set on the villain currently making her way towards him with palms of steaming water.

Almost all of the villains have passed through. Most guards are either lying in a puddle of crimson blood or following the flock into the next room. There’s two of them—his Favourite, and someone he couldn’t care less about.

The villain’s water flicks from her fingers and sprays the guard, earning a pained cry and a cringe away from her. His attention falls to the scalding cutting through his skin, and in one fatal move the villain swipes the gun from his hands.

The supervillain doesn’t have time to intervene. The other guard swings his weapon to the villain, and with a flash of golden light she drops to the ground. The gun clatters to the floor with her.

The two of them heave a breath like they’re free, and the supervillain sees his chance. He sweeps up the gun from the floor, shouldering his Favourite out of the way, before turning it on the other guard and opening fire. The force of the bullets shove the guard into the wall behind him, and his descent to the floor is accompanied by a nauseating streak of red.

The supervillain turns his gaze to the last guard, his Favourite, the one who helped him from the day he got here. The one who saw past the animals and saw a person.

The guard returns his gaze with abject horror, defenceless, trapped. His eyes are wide, his back pressed into the wall, his mouth working in a desperate attempt at what is probably a beg for mercy.

The supervillain doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t have any. He grabs the guard’s arm, earning a startled squeak, tucking the gun under his arm. He can see the burns left on the man’s arm from the villain’s attack; small but undoubtedly painful. He lays a hand over them and the guard hisses and pulls in his grip, whether in pain or fear of pain he can’t tell.

His hand is cool—he can tell from the way the guard relaxes in his hold after a moment. The supervillain holds down a pleased smile. “That’s it,” he says smoothly. “Is that better?”

He lets go and the guard tips his gaze to his skin, unblemished and unharmed. Like the water never touched him at all. His mouth opens. Closes. His brow creases.

“Your power…” he tries after a moment, confused, “they never figured it out. They thought you’d have something violent.”

The supervillain throws him a smile, unhidden this time. “They never expected a healer at the head of evil, did they?”

The supervillain drags him along, following the path of bloodshed like a map. Some villains are still loitering—one of them slinks up to the pair with a grin. They inspect the guard closely for a moment before running the edge of their knife across his jaw in thought. He tries to shrink away but the supervillain’s grip on him holds fast.

“Oh, isn’t this one pretty?” the villain purrs. They give the blade a flick for emphasis, and the guard flinches as the edge cuts a crimson line into his cheek. “Can’t wait to show the agency what happens to good little boys like him.”

“No one touches him, understand?” the supervillain snaps coldly. “He’s with us.”

The villain scowls, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “Oh, we keepin’ pets now, boss?”

“We don’t keep pets, [Villain].” His gaze turns to the guard for a moment, a touch softer, almost thankful. “They’re not animals.”

#creative writing #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #heroes and villains #requests #annablogsposts #thank you for the request!!!#honestly loved this idea so much #i dont think i fully did it justice cause it was getting long but GOD its delicious #as always requests are open friends i am always down for new exciting ideas

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baronessvonglitter · 8 months ago

Text

if love be rough with you, be rough with love | chapter 16 | "all i want for christmas is you"

Dave York x f!Reader

Word count: 5,473

Summary: Years later, you run into Dave on Christmas Eve.

(Spoilers are in the Warnings under the cut so please peek responsibly)

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, Time Skip, TW for physical altercation (pushing, choking, pinning down), alcohol consumption, talk of weapons, hinting at reader being killed, mention of chemical paralytics (NMBA's), surprise pregnancy (happened after Chapter 15) and revelation of paternity, mention of wetwork, reader has C-section scar, wears a dress and nail polish, masturbation, pussy pronouns, p in v sex, quickest enemies to lovers ever, and one Christmas Eve marriage proposal (if I've forgotten anything please do let me know)

Author's note: I defrosted Mariah Carey earlier than anyone would like her to be, and yes I was listening to this song as I wrote. I don't care. It's one of my favorite Christmas songs ever and nobody can convince me otherwise 😜

Series Masterlist

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

Six Years Later

You step out of your car into the cold St. Louis night. It's Christmas Eve, and the streets are lined with snow. Brightly lit storefronts boast presents of all kinds, the electric glow of the holiday season luring in last minute customers. You keep your hands in your coat pocket as you walk, eyes scanning the perimeter.

Pour Decisions, the bar you've owned for the past couple years, is filled with its usual patrons, the atmosphere friendly and charged with holiday cheer. Checking to see that the staff is doing well and everything is in order, you ask for an old-fashioned, enjoying the warmth that spreads through you as you sip the whiskey cocktail, sitting at an inconspicuous table in the back and looking around at the one thing you can really call your own, the only place that doesn't hold bad memories.

That's when you see him enter your establishment. The man who claimed to have loved you with all his heart. The man whose life you destroyed. The man without whom you wouldn't be where you are right now.

Walking to the bar and sitting by himself, drinking to take away the pain, is Dave York.

It feels like all your breath leaves your body yet you give an audible gasp. He doesn't see you, doesn't even appear to be looking for you.

In your darkest nightmares he returns for you and kills you. You carry that fear with you. You've been preparing for it since the day your plane left for London years ago.

Emergency exit to my right you think to yourself, a habit you've formed in the six years since ruining his life. Glock, switchblade, syringe, you do a mental checklist of what you have on you.

You don't know whether to stay or leave. You're rooted to the spot, keeping an eye on him, poised to take whatever action necessary.

The jukebox finishes "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and moves onto "All I Want for Christmas is You" by Mariah Carey. You cringe at the sudden mood dissonance. This song would've expressed your feelings for him, once upon a very long time ago, but now it's almost comical. You want each other in a different way now: gone, even if it means dead.

Dave sighs and takes another sip of his drink, clearly lost in his own thoughts. He looks at the other people around him, some smiling and drinking to make the pain of Christmas a little more bearable, others in town for friends or family, eagerness evident on their faces.

He'd give anything just to be in their place right now. To be happy. To be able to smile like he used to smile. And it was all taken away from him by you.

Suddenly he hears someone calling out your name over the music.

In fact, he's been waiting for it. His head jerks up to see where you are, but he can't find you. His eyes scan the bar from face to face.. until finally he sees you. You're sunk low in your chair but he knows you immediately. He knows those eyes that have haunted him for years.

You're nodding and talking to your friend, and the moment you nervously glance around you meet Dave's gaze. It feels like pinpricks all over your body.

For one moment the world stops. All of the moments of his time with you come rushing back as he looks at you. All of the joy he felt with you, all of the pain you caused him. For a moment he allows himself the memory of your pliant body beneath his, your soft, slender throat beneath his grip, thumbs pressing just hard enough on your windpipe to make you cum.

What a waste, he thinks, keeping his cold gaze on you.

You talk to your friend a little longer then finish your drink, order another, and down it.

Now you have liquid courage to face him.

You approach him but it feels like you're moving underwater, your limbs fighting the current.

And there he is. There you are. After six years apart. He hasn't changed much in all this time. He's still handsome. A few gray hairs here and there, and a slight scruff of facial hair when he'd always stayed clean shaven. Still wearing a suit like he's just left the office, the subtle scent of his cologne wafts to you. It suits him. But you force the thought away. You take stock of your own looks: burgundy sweater dress, black boots, hair styled differently from how you used to, perhaps in the hopes that disguising yourself would throw him off your scent, confuse him and leaving him chasing his tail.

"Fifty thousand dollars," you tell him. "I'll give you fifty thousand dollars to leave."

He says nothing, just staring at you as he hears the offer.

Fifty thousand. That's all it would cost for him to let you go. Fifty thousand dollars to spare your life.

But..

..is that what he wants, really?

"No," he says firmly. "You can't make it up to me with fifty thousand dollars."

Your heart sinks to your stomach. "Then name your price. Whatever it is I'll pay it."

Dave takes a long sip of his drink as he considers your offer. For a moment he's tempted to accept it, to end this nightmare once and for all. But..

..no. It's not a question of money.

"The price is a hell of a lot higher than that," he says with cold finality. "You destroyed my family and you left me without my soul."

In your time on your own you've learned to be assertive. You're no longer the shy, simpering girl he used to know. "You did that to yourself, Dave. I only held up a mirror to show what you really are. Besides," you give him a devious smile, your words dripping with venom, "we both know you have no soul."

"Maybe I don't," he meets your gaze with unwavering ire. "But neither do you.. you destroyed everything good and beautiful that we had."

He takes another long sip, savoring the taste and savoring this moment where he's dissecting you. "You can try to blame me. You can try to make yourself the victim of this story. But you're not the victim. You're the monster. You're the one who brought darkness into my life when I didn't deserve it. When I gave you nothing but my love and my faith.. you used them to destroy everything I held dear."

"I disagree." You hop onto the barstool next to him, unafraid of him. "The real victims are my father, who you killed, and your wife and kids, who you betrayed. We both lost our families, Dave. I evened the score."

His eyes bore a hole into your soul as you speak. "That's the thing you can't seem to understand, sweetpea. Life isn't a zero-sum game. One person's loss is not another person's gain. You didn't 'even the score' by getting your revenge."

His voice turns cold and harsh as he speaks the truth. "You made a choice to try to destroy me. That's something I can never understand. And you'll never be forgiven for."

"I'm not interested in your forgiveness, David," you correct him. "You're the one in my city, in my bar, looking for me. With you, there's always an ulterior motive. Out with it."

And then he smiles at you. It's a cold, hard smile. "I came here to see you. So we can end this."

You stare into his eyes and wear a sardonic smile. "You mean, so you can end me."

"Yes," he answers simply.

You consider getting another drink, but two old-fashioneds on an empty stomach has you feeling good already. Maybe that's why you're not afraid.

"My late husband owned this bar, and now it's mine," you say, looking around with pride and wistfulness. "I met him here, years ago."

"Husband," he repeats in a dull tone. "Did you ruin his life too?" he asks.

"Well, he is dead," is your deadpan reply and you hate that your heart misses a beat when Dave smirks in reply. "It would be bad for business if you were to kill me in my own establishment, at peak holiday season," you remind him, proud of your practical tone of voice.

"You may be right about that," Dave admits. "The customers would scramble out of their seats, trample each other to get to the exits. In this day and age you know I'll be caught on camera. And that's not good for my.. 'business'.. either. But," he adds with a grin, "that doesn't mean you're safe."

"I've been looking over my shoulder ever since I came back to the states. I was surprised you didn't follow me to London. In the meantime I've just been waiting for the day when you would come and exact your revenge."

"That's exactly what I've come to do," he says coldly. "I made a promise a long time ago that I would never forgive you."

He takes a long drink and looks at you as if he's seeing you for the first time. "And now, the time has come."

You can see it in his eyes. You can see the darkness that now resides there, different from the one that used to excite you. It's Dave, but it's not the Dave you used to know.

A chill goes through you. You nod, knowing this day is long overdue. If your father faced death at the hands of Dave York, so can you.

You put down your glass, the whiskey still on your lips. "I'm glad it's you. Poetic that way." You stand up from your seat, surprised that your knees don't buckle automatically. "Outside," you tell him.

In the darkness of the alley behind the bar, your coat offers no protection from the cold you feel in your heart. The back street is empty. You look up at the stars in the night sky, feeling small in their midst.

This is it.. the end of it all.

He looks at you and sees the same calmness that he saw in your father. He sees that you've accepted your fate without fear, and he can't help but admire that.

"You know.. I thought about it a lot as I came here," he says. "What I wanted to do to you when I found you.. and what I wanted you to feel in your last moments."

You languidly turn to him, as if in a dream. "So tell me."

"I wanted to make you suffer. I wanted to see you beg for mercy, to see you plead for your life." His smile is cold and cruel. "But you're not scared, are you, sweetpea? Either you're as tough as I believe, or your self-preservation instincts are for shit," he sneers. "Even now, you're calm.."

Your placid countenance belies your shivering heart as you stand against the wall, deep breath in, deep breath out. "How are you going to do it?"

"You really want to know? You trust me that much?"

"You're the best, right? I'm glad it's you." You smile a little, shaking your head. "I loved you from the first time I saw you, Dave. I've loved you all this time. I love you right now."

He almost laughs. It's comical to hear you talk about love at a moment like this. "And I've hated you for all these years. I hate you for what you did to my family. I hate you with every fiber of my being.."

His voice turns to a whisper. "And I hate you because I still love you."

A brief smile flickers in your eyes. "As you once told me.. 'If this is love, we're both fucked.'"

Dave seems reluctant now, as if he's had a change of heart. You love each other, despite everything, and even now you're willing to let him just take your life, snuff it out with a single blow.

"Don't disappoint me, York," your voice pierces his thoughts like an icy blast. "Don't tell me you've come all this way for nothing. Not when I've been getting ready for you."

In an instant he pins you to the wall, his weight pressing you into the bricks as his hands wrap around your throat. Your breath comes in labored gasps as you fight to free your arms and legs. Despite your efforts, Dave is physically stronger. He's methodical, using his strength to subdue you rather than overpowering you with brute force. You can feel the desperation rising, your struggle becoming more frantic as you wrack your brain for any possible means of escape.

In a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, you find a small sharp object in your purse - the syringe. With a burst of adrenaline you jab it into the soft area right below his ribs, keeping your thumb off the plunger.

He lets out a sharp grunt and loosens his grip, staring dumbfounded at the needle sticking out of him, your finger hovering over the end, ready to press the danger into his bloodstream. "Let me guess," he says, his breath warm against your face. "Propofol? Rocuronium bromide?"

"Air," you answer with a winning smile, your voice hoarse from his choking you.

He swallows thickly, face pale even in the wintry moonlight.

You've never felt a surge of power like the one shooting through your veins right now. "I'd say my instinct for self-preservation is pretty fucking good."

Right as you see that angry spark in his eye you take advantage of the temporary adrenaline rush and push him away from you. Dave stumbles back, pulling the syringe from his torso and tossing it away right before you crash into him again. You both topple onto the cold wet pavement, grappling with one another, and it doesn't escape your realization that it's all an inverted display of the way you couldn't keep your hands off each other years ago.

You're unaware that the contents of your purse have fallen out in the scuffle, until Dave pins you down and notices the knife, the gun, neither of which you bothered to use on him just moments before. Then the bright light of your phone screen illuminates its presence in the shadowy alleyway.

Your wallpaper is a picture of you, holding a small boy who's smiling as you're kissing his cheek.

Still beneath him, your stomach lurches and you scramble for phone. "Give that back!" But Dave doesn't listen.

"You have a child?" he asks, completely bewildered that he hadn't thought of you having a life apart from the history you have with him. You'd mentioned a husband, but not a child.

The photo is lovely, taken recently as he guesses from the similar hairstyle as you have now. He's a beautiful child, with his mother's eyes. The love between mother and son is palpable, something pure and sweet that he has only experienced with his own children. It takes the wind out of him. He looks at you and all of the anger, all of the hate and rage he felt towards you seems to dissolve like salt in water.

Your heart is near palpitating as you take the phone from him, gently wiping the falling snow from the screen, taking a tiny moment to admire the photo for yourself. "The last night we spent together in that little motel room.. before everything happened.. a couple months later I found out I was pregnant."

It takes every ounce of courage you have to confess this to him: "This is Benjamin.. your son.."

Dave is paralyzed by your revelation, utterly unable to move or even breathe as he stares at the photo, puts the pieces together. He sees his features in his son, the perfect combination of you and him in another being, a little boy who is the culmination of your love.

He sees you as he never saw you before. You're not the woman who betrayed him and destroyed his family. You're the woman who gave him a son, a part of himself that he never knew would exist.

"He's beautiful," he murmurs, drinking in this moment, helping you to your feet as you struggle to stand, asking if you're all right but you don't answer him.

You've never envisioned how this would go. Not even your late husband knew Ben's real paternity, just that you needed stability to raise him. A part of you is on edge. You've just revealed the person who means the most to you in this world, and in one moment Dave could take it away.

"He just turned five in September," you tell him, "That night.. that terrible and wonderful night before I left you.. something good came from all of it," you tell him.

He nods. "I guess it did." He looks at the picture once more. "Where is he?"

You take a moment before answering. "He's at home. A friend of mine is watching him."

"I want to see him."

"You already have kids, Dave. Or have you forgotten them?"

"Don't go," he pleads as you start to walk away. Around the corner you can hear the holiday music blaring from the bar. "Last Christmas" by Wham!

"I want to see him," he says, catching up with you. "Please."

Being a mom has made you soft. And the truth is you spent the majority of your energy in your short scuffle with him moments ago. "Follow me home."

"Leave whatever weapons you have in the mailbox."

You wait on him, arms crossed, ensuring your safety before you let him beyond your threshold. Dave puts his semi-automatic pistol and a knife. He had these on him all the time but didn't use them..

"Now you," he says, watching as you put your own gun and knife into the mailbox. One corner of your mouth lifts up into a half-smile as your eyes meet, realizing you've both thought alike.

Inside your home it's cozy. A brightly lit Christmas tree glows with warm golden light in front of the main window in the living room. Dave looks around, taking it all in: the decorations placed with love and care, the presents piled under the tree for Ben - his son - to open the next morning.

A woman, clad in a soft gray sweater and jeans, comes out from the hallway, carrying little Ben in her arms. "He couldn't sleep without you here," she tells you, her glance jumping quickly between you and Dave.

You take him from her, letting her know you're home for the night and giving a quick introduction to Dave. "This is Paige, she helps me with Ben from time to time."

They exchange hellos, a little awkward under the circumstances. You take Ben in your arms, and he immediately wraps his arms around you. You wish Paige a happy Christmas and she leaves.

Now it's just the three of you. "Can I hold him?" Dave asks.

You hesitate before nodding, asking Ben if he's okay to go with him. Watching him with his father you can see the resemblance, plain as day. "Is he what you looked like as a kid?" You ask curiously.

"I think so," he smiles, still amazed that he's holding his child, a piece of him that he left behind with you for so long, your love made real.

Ben is bathed and put to bed. Dave knows everything about him by now: his birthday, favorite foods, his friends in his kindergarten class, the names of his stuffed animals and favorite superheroes. All this Dave takes in with the same interest he had when his daughters were younger.

He even reads him a bedtime story while you watch from the doorway, watching a scene you never imagined would come to life. Ben has Dave's smile, his hair. It's uncanny. You remember when you first started working for the Yorks, the first night you walked in on him reading to the girls before bed. That was the moment you fell in love with him.

It might be happening all over again.

After he's asleep you sit in the living room, sipping coffee spiked with brandy.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asks.

You sip your drink, letting it warm the chill that's going through you, hoping it'll dull the overpowering emotions coursing in your veins. "I was afraid you'd come after me, kill me, and take him away."

"Is that what you think of me? That I'd kill you for our son?" For a moment he actually looks hurt.

"I don't know what to think of you."

"I deserve to be in his life," he says stubbornly, and you get a peek of the old Dave from before. "We can put the past behind us. We can get reacquainted. We can be what we should have been all along. He belongs to both of us. And I want to be here for him." He pauses, seeing the photos on the table and walls: you and Ben throughout his young life: on a beach somewhere with pure white sand, at a zoo posing in front of the zebras, and in every picture it's obvious he's loved.

"You did a good job with him, sweetpea. Our son is happy."

"He was my reason for going on," you tell him. "I was still in London when I found out I was pregnant. At first I thought it was the worst possible thing that could happen, but when I really sat down to make a decision I realized there was no other option but to keep him and love him. I knew a miracle could be reaped from the awfulness we sowed."

You raised him alone, mostly, with some help from your mother, who of course asked who Ben's father was. There was absolutely no way you could tell her, so you simply said it was a boyfriend who'd wanted nothing to do with the baby. After getting your Master's you found yourself here in St. Louis, met Liam who cared for you and your child, and lost him to sudden illness only a year after you married him. And every day you did not stop thinking about Dave.

"I assume you're still involved in your.. activities?" you ask him.

He takes a deep breath, mentally going over the jobs he'd done in the past six years, of which he'd taken more than before you'd left. Not only had he needed the money, but he needed something else to keep from thinking about you.

"Yes, I am," he replies. "I know you were hoping for a different answer than that."

"I was hoping for a different answer, but I wasn't expecting one," you tell him. "And the situation with Carol and the girls.. did she leave you? Did you work things out?" You hate that this is the answer you dread the most.

"We're divorced now," he says curtly. "And the girls.." an actual smile melts away his bitterness. "The girls are great. They're teenagers now. We've worked out a custody arrangement and we're keeping things civil for their sake. They adapted better than I thought they would."

"Do they all hate me for what I did? For my part in the affair?"

He pauses. "It's complicated.. the girls know why you left. I haven't given them any details and I doubt Carol has told them anything they shouldn't know. But you shouldn't blame yourself. It takes two to tango. I'm just as guilty."

You've finished your coffee, and just as you start to rise from your chair you pause, giving him a smirk. "Dave.. calling yourself 'guilty' after everything you've done is probably the funniest thing I've ever heard."

He takes your hand as you try to walk past him. "What would you say if I said we should be together for Benjamin's sake?"

You should have seen this coming, should have known he'd attempt to ingratiate himself into your good graces to keep some control over your life. "I've already done that. I married my late husband so that Benjamin could have a father.. I'm not going to go into any more relationships under false pretenses."

There's something more he wants to say, something that he wants to get across to you. "A lot of my life is gone. Lost. Because of what you did."

"I know. And I can say the same about you. We took each other's lives away."

"But you," Dave continues, "you gave me this. All of the happiness you took away, you gave it back to me in a way I never would have dreamed." He takes your hand in his. "And what if this isn't false pretenses? What if I'm asking because I know.. because we know, you and I are meant for each other?"

He knows he's getting ahead of himself. He's letting his emotions and his desire take over.

But you shake your head. "You only want me because I'm the one left standing in the ashes."

"You're partly right," he agrees. "I want you because you're right in front of me now. That's just natural, I'd say. But I always wanted you, sweetpea," he says with total honesty. "You were always the woman I loved."

"Fucked up people always love other fucked up people," you remind him. "And you and I are the most fucked up people I know,. Weren't we just about to kill each other in an alley?"

"Maybe you would have killed me.. but you didn't. And I could have killed you.."

"I get it, I get it," you playfully roll your eyes. "Am I your first failed mission?"

"Yeah, but.. definitely worth it."

He manages to get a smile out of you, and as he pulls you close he rejoices that you don't pull away. When he brings his lips to yours for a kiss, you don't stop him. You come together as fluidly as if you'd never been apart all this time, and you kiss him back hungrily, having missed his taste.

In the bedroom your appetite only grows stronger as you unbutton Dave's shirt, running your hands over the warmth of his chest. He lifts your dress over your head and you continue to unwrap each other. Your eyes take in every inch of his frame, seeing that he hasn't changed much in six years. His side job keeps him fit and he's kept his little belly that you've always found so attractive.

He reaches for you, takes your curves under his touch and gently kneading your soft flesh. "I missed you so much.." he whispers as you gasp with pleasure. "Missed what's mine." As his hands trace your skin he discovers the small scar on your lower abdomen, nearly hidden by the softness of your own little belly.

"What's this?" he asks, noticing that his touch doesn't seem to register there.

"It was Ben," you explain. "I had to have an emergency C-section."

His fingers trace over the scar, imagining the pain you must have gone through, the fear you must have felt. "I should have been there with you."

"I'm not made of glass, Dave." Breaking from him you lay back on the bed, legs parted as you begin to touch yourself, lifting your eyes to meet his dark gaze as your fingers continue their pleasured work across your delicate folds.

"Open wider," he says in a low command, crawling over you on the bed, watching intently. "Make yourself come."

He follows each dip and swirl of your fingers, the tips painted in red glitter lacquer, as they brush across your clit, disappearing into your already drenched cunt.

"How does that feel, sweetpea?" he asks, his voice husky with lust.

"Good," you moan. "But not nearly as good as you." You reach for him, and though he wants desperately to dive into your sopping wet hole, he practices control.

"Not yet," he says gently, chiding you. "I said, make yourself come."

He watches as you add pressure to your clit, your pussy swallowing up your middle and ring fingers while your other hand palms your breast, twists and pulls your nipple. He's never seen you more gorgeous, chasing your pleasure. The scent of your sex is in the air, beckoning him, and it takes every shred of his self-discipline to keep where he is, cock in his hand, lazily stroking as his dark eyes dance with the vision of you spread out before him, coming at last.

He takes his time about getting inside you, and though you're slippery enough to handle him it's still a tight fit after years apart. He's careful until you ask him not to be, and then he fucks you with smooth, steady thrusts, bottoming out as you arch your back, crying out his name, the sound of your flesh slapping together a perfect symphony with your moaning and his praise in your ear my good girl, missed this pussy so much, needed her all this time, and she needed me, gonna tame her, make her mine all over again.

He moves with you, as if he's connected to every beat of your heart. This is the only thing in the world that feels right, no matter how wrong it is. You can't not love him, You've never felt more like yourself, realizing that he brings it out of you. The air between you becomes electric, frantic, your movements desperate and wild.

"Come for me, sweetpea," he whispers, taking your bottom lip between his teeth. "Let me feel this tight little hole get her fill of me."

It's a fucking relief when you finally come, the moment prolonged as he continues to move, stimulating your clit beyond your point, only letting up when you forcefully shove his hand away. Watching you come is a miracle made true, something he never thought he'd get to experience again, and he comes with the final clench around him, keeping him there, keeping him home.

You're both vulnerable, perhaps for the first time, with each other. There are no more secrets to be had, no more devastation to wreak. Just you and him, and an ocean of possibilities before you.

"Can you forgive me?" he asks, meeting your eyes. "For what I did?"

It's weighed heavy on your mind since the day you learned the truth, and you've come to realize that all the tragedy did was allow you to move on, even if it brought you to have to face your past more clearly.

"Yes," you answer. "I do forgive you. And now you have to forgive me."

It's easier to do that now, now that the walls you both built up have been knocked down. "I forgive you," he echoes. "We'll never bring it up again."

There's a clarity you never imagined you'd receive, a gift that's long overdue after the years of being in limbo. You snuggle to him, pressing a kiss his throat.

"I thought about you every day, sweetpea," he whispers. "And maybe I'm crazy, but.. marry me."

You're at a loss for words. You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. "What.. what did you say?" you ask slowly, usure if you even heard him right. "Did you ask me to marry you?"

"I did," he says assertively. "So? Will you marry me?" A little smirk crosses his lips and there's a light in his eyes that you've never seen before.

"I'm just so.. stunned," you sit up against the headboard and he does the same. "Why would you even want to marry me? Don't you remember everything that happened?"

"I remember everything. I remember it every day. But like you said, 'fucked up people always love other fucked up people' and look at us: still crazy about each other even after we've ruined each other's lives. There's nothing for us except to be together."

"You sound so certain," you look at him with a conflicted smile. "Are you really sure this is what you want? To wake up every day and remember what happened and who we are?"

His smile lights up his whole face. "I'm counting on us to remember who and what we are. If we forget everything that happened between us then we've learned nothing. But now we're standing in the ashes of our old lives and look at us: we won. If anything, that just proves we're supposed to be together. We know all the bad parts of each other and we still choose to be here."

Watching him, and listening, you become convinced. You can't ignore the truth of what he's saying. "I'm gonna marry you, Dave," you tell him, your voice full of love and joy.

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#dave york #dave york x f!reader #dave york x you #dave york fic #dave york x reader #dave york smut #dave york x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro boys #pedro pascal character headcanons #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal cinematic universe #enemies to lovers #if love be rough with you be rough with love #ao3 series #ao3 smut

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luveline · 2 years ago

Note

if you are taking suggestions, I would love to see a steve zombie!AU blurb!!

for you my love, steve zombie au — the college collapse and the fallout afterwards. fem!reader, 5k words tw for zombie apocalypse typical violence and gore, cuts/bruises, mentioned extreme violence/death, mentioned sexual assault (implied to have been attempted, no graphic description), hurt/comfort

You can hear people crying from the quad.

You don't blame them if they look anything like you right now. Your hands are crusted with blood, your knees more cut than skin. Evidence of the dead marrs the floor, and evidence of the living stains the walls, black gore streaks across the linoleum and bullet holes like inverted stars in the walls, backlit by the bonfire lit in the centre of the quad.

There hasn't been a shot in hours. Still, you hide, and still, you bite your tongue to stop from crying. Crying isn't going to help.

A familiar sound echoes from the east. A geek, the undead monsters that haunt what's left of the world, groans and sputters somewhere you can't see. Your skin crawls —sounds bound off of the tiled floor and walls, and in the dark you fail to pinpoint the exact origin. The smell of carrion is pervasive. You can't stay here. When the sun rises, you'll be plainly visible to foe rather than friend; raiders and geeks are waiting for morning to find you and whoever else survived. You have no choices, no weapons, nothing more than the clothes on your back.

By now, the dormitory that you called your bedroom will have been seized, your meagre possessions gone. Each precious gift, every book and blanket. You'll never get to see it again. All those memories–

You bite your tongue again. The pain doesn't count for much. You're already in agony. Your lungs ache from screaming, from running harder than you've ever run, and you've been cut from head to toe by shards of glass. You're in the worst state you've ever been in minus one risky head injury, but you're far from hopeless.

You've prepared for this. You know what you need to do. You'll do more than crawl across glass if it means you can reach the rendezvous point by morning.

Taking quick, terrified breaths, you bounce to your feet and hold out an arm. It's a bad strategy. If you get bit, you can't fix it. You don't have a knife, and if you did you don't have the nerve to amputate yourself. But your choices are to lead via hand or face, and hand seems wiser. You step over slippery tile in your ill-fitting shoes until you find a wall, your panting echoed back at you.

The sobbing has stopped. An eerie quiet takes its place. Something bad has happened.

Something bad already happened. Something is over.

You freeze when you hear chuckling. It's quiet but unquestionable.

Who could laugh? After seeing the carnage of the cafeteria? The bodies lining the east gate?

The pitch blackness wanes the closer you get to the door. A rogue tear races down your cheek as you squint against the flickering firelight. There's a herd of men standing at the pit of the quad, warming their hands with the spoils of the lives of the hundred who found shelter here. You hide your body behind the wall, the glass door of the gym you'd been secluded in stuck half open. They likely hadn't meant to, but the raiders tripped the electricity, and it hasn't come back on since. It likely won't come on ever again.

You squeeze through the door, so afraid of being out in the open that it makes you physically retch.

You rag your body through the door and wince at the deep gouges it feels like it leaves behind. Your knees don't want to bend, they're so shredded, but you've no choice but to sprint to the side of the gym, and then the fallen gates, and the treeline behind it.

You step over the heavy metal gates that once protected you slowly. Each grind of fence into the asphalt below feels like a siren call.

The only light is the orange flicker of the fire cast between the trees like grabbing fingers. You step in the shadows, flinching at every snapping branch under your feet, every dry leaf. You don't look back —you can't. You're terrified of what you'll see.

Please, you think, over and over, a prayer if there's ever been one, please, please. You're so afraid of not getting what you're asking for that you can't finish the sentence. Your head is a loop of pleading, begging, offers to someone who isn't listening.

I'll never complain. I will never wonder why. I won't cry, or ache, or so much as sigh. So please.

It happened at dinner. The entire community, what felt like every member of The College gathered in one place for 'thanksgiving dinner'. There was thanks to be said, sure, but nothing that aligned with the original celebration. Thank you for a place to call home. Thank you for the meal. Thank you for a safe haven. Thank you for–

But a shot rang outside.

Heads bobbed. Adults and children alike shifted at the cafeteria tables to try and see which of the patrolling gate guards had needed to fire.

It was like rain after that. Pop pop pop.

You grip the present like a bouy and hold on tight. You can't think about what happened while you're still in it. The fear will paralyse you.

Your shoe steps onto something soft. You look down though you don't want to, and it's too dark now to make it out. You bend at the waist and let out an involuntary whine at the pain that lances up your abdomen.

It's a blanket. You don't think it's one of yours, though you had so many you can't be sure. It's green and rough and the best protection on offer. You wrap it around your shoulders and keep walking.

You know where you are only because it has been drilled into you so thoroughly.

I'll meet you at the bottom of the hill… Do you remember, we ate vegetable soup and dumplings cold? It was the best meal we'd had in months.

"Oh, fuck," you say, losing the strength in your legs. You grasp at the rough trunk of a tree and gasp for air. You can't breathe, you can't think. "Fuck."

Your sniffling whispers are lost in the wind.

"I don't think I can do this," you mouth.

I promise I'll meet you there.

"I can't."

But you have to. You can see it all laid out in front of you. Eating sour cherries on the floor, bare-legged and brimming with love, his hand on your straggly knee. His hand on your back, guiding you through doorways and under tree branches. His hand on your cheek, your shoulder, your thigh.

His hand in yours, a hundred miles of highway behind you. Pulling you along.

You walk for what feels like hours but can't be so long. Your shoes are doing more harm than good, blisters like pebbles on your heels and toes. You step out of them and carry them down the hill, grass sharp under the soles of your feet. The socks you wear are threadbare.

You hadn't realised you'd have to do this, and that was a mistake. You could've been prepared for this; you should've been carrying a knife in your belt everywhere you went, and you never should've left yourself open to the elements. How many jackets do you have under your bed?

The convenience store beckons like a beacon. The night is heavy but the moonlight strives to lead you, and you follow it to the white walls one exhausted step at a time.

You circle the building.

There's no one waiting for you. He isn't where he promised.

You try to open the door but can't find the strength. Everything hurts more than anything has ever hurt before. Your hands are immobile now, your shoes falling to the concrete beneath with a dull thump. One springs away too far to reach.

You sit down against the back of the convenience store, drained of everything you have. If he isn't here, he's dead. If he's dead, you might as well die. He was everything, and he's gone.

You fall asleep sitting up against the wall, face smashed to your shoulder. Let whatever comes across you first finish you off while you sleep…

There's a pressure around you. You wake in a struggle, still too tired to move, to flail, completely encompassed. Your first thought is that you've died, but the pressure tightens, and you feel all your hurt reawaken.

"I know, baby," Steve murmurs. You must've made a sound. "I know. It's okay. I got you."

You really have died if he's here.

You grab limply at his back, trying to pull him away so you can see his face. It's a geek chewing through the juncture of your neck, and whoever's looking down on you feels sorry enough to let you see him before you go. It's a raider, tying you up and hanging you from a pike, the ropes constricting your blood flow. It's not Steve.

"What fucking happened to you?" he asks, his voice shaking. "What happened? Did someone–"

"Steve," a familiar voice says, "come on, man, she can't understand you."

Steve pulls away from you and it's him, his face, his pale cheeks and almond brown eyes, one ringed in a purple wine stain, the white bisected by an ominous red.

"What…" Your mouth won't cooperate. A cold hand grabs your face. It can't be Steve's, his hands are always so warm. Water is tipped into your mouth, the majority of which runs down your neck to your clavicle.

"Do you have, um, do you have that bottle of malt still?" Steve asks.

"She'll pass out–"

"Maybe that's best," Steve says.

"Not if she doesn't wake up again."

"She's gonna turn septic, no doubt. I have to go back, I can get antibiotics."

"You can't go back, are you stupid?"

You groan, their words rushing in one ear and out the other, indecipherable from the whooshing that feels like it's originating behind your eyes.

"Y/N," Steve says gently, "can you understand me, honey? Do you know what I'm saying to you? Can you nod?"

You nod as best as you can.

Steve puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gingerly. "I'm going to make everything better, I promise. I promise."

You try to say sorry, you should be really fucking sorry, he has to save you all over again, but the only thing that wants to come out is shattered breath.

Things are spotty after that. You have the sense of being moved flat on your back and dragged. It's not pretty, the distinct memory of a hand over your mouth, and then, when your bearings are coming back, you remember that you'd been screaming.

You have your head in someone's lap. You don't fall asleep or wake up, it's like you're treading water and your head's been under. Now you're breaking the surface, and it's to the tender touch of a fingertip climbing up and down your nose bridge.

Something crackles. It takes you right back to the bonfire in the quad, is it the bonfire? You try to lift your head and the person holding you startles.

"No, stay still," Steve says gently.

"Steve?"

"Who else?" He says, still gentle but a hint of his usual derision peaking through. "Do you let other guys treat you this way?"

"Steve," you mumble, tears pricking your waterline.

He can't hug you from the way he's laid you out, but he leans over slightly as though he's shielding you from the grey above. You try to turn your neck and find the white hot pain a quick deterrent.

"Look at you. Fuck, look at you," he says.

You cry a little, unsure if you can speak. Tears sting an abrasion beside your eye.

"Don't upset her, Steve," says a girl's voice. Your heart skips a beat as Robin Buckley comes into view, lip split and without a jacket but otherwise unscathed. "Hey, Y/N. Don't worry, you're not stuck solely with him."

You laugh, but you're crying so you cough, and pain zips up and down your arms and legs.

Robin kneels down beside you and hugs you lightly. Her hair, scraped back into a pony tail, tickles your cheek.

"I love you, I'm so glad you're okay," she says.

"Me too," you mumble.

Robin pulls back and smiles at you. "You gotta eat something, killer."

"I don't really think she can move, Robs," Steve says quietly.

"She won't be able to if she doesn't eat."

Steve sighs and helps you up painstakingly slowly, his hands under your armpits. He sits forward rather than pulling you back, supporting you like a Steve-shaped chair.

You realise for the first time since you woke up that you're inside, rather than outside.

And there are lots of survivors.

Jonathan and his mom are standing across the room. Jonathan has two little kids in his arms, and you're so shocked you actually try to ask about it. "Did he have babies while I was out?" you croak.

Steve hums near your ear. "He saved nearly all of the kids all by himself… Most of their parents are dead. I think he feels responsible."

"Most of them?" you ask.

"Yeah."

Lots of survivors doesn't mean all. It doesn't even mean the majority. The College had almost four hundred people living in it. This room houses what couldn't be more than a fifth of them, and there's at least a dozen children. You don't say it aloud, but you feel it thick in the air like an electric charge.

This is not good.

"Don't worry," Steve says, hands crossing over your stomach. "Please, honey, just– just think about yourself for now."

"I can't believe it."

He shushes you.

"Steve, all those people…"

"I know."

You use him as impromptu furniture and Robin returns with a can of peaches and a fork. She loves you enough to feed you. It makes you want to cry again.

You're relieved to be far away from what happened, but there's a feeling of unreality that won't cease. You keep looking at the corners of the room like the light will dim and the blood caked to your hands will reappear. Someone wiped them clean while you slept and bandaged them with care.

You feel sick after the peaches.

"Throw up if you gotta," Steve says mildly, his nose resting against the back of your head.

You fall asleep again.

When you wake up, it's night. You feel stronger than you had as soon as your eyes open, digging your elbows into the blanket tucked beneath you and hiking up to look around. Steve's asleep to your left, his hand screwed in the bedraggled fabric of your shirt, and Robin's asleep to your right, her hand touching your elbow.

A woman you couldn't name from the back sits in front of the door. The muzzle of a long gun sticks out over her shoulder.

The room isn't big enough for this many sleeping bodies, and so the group sleep toe to toe and hip to hip. The only people with blankets are the children and the badly injured. You have two. You have no idea how Steve managed it, one under you and one over your legs.

Or, you don't think you know how he managed it until you slide the blanket down and realise you aren't wearing any pants. Underwear that aren't yours have been pulled up your thighs and cinched with an elastic band.

Poor lovely Steve. He always does the gross stuff.

You pull the blanket back up for the sake of decency and swallow. You swallow again. You're thirsty and in an insane amount of pain, the intensity increasing the longer that you think about it. You don't want to wake him, but you know it's what he'd want, and he's saved your life for the millionth time, so. He should get what he wants.

You try to be sweet. You can barely breathe, your chest hurts that badly.

"Stevie," you whisper, tugging his fingers from your shirt and squeezing them imploringly. "Stevie, please, are you awake?"

It's Robin who rouses.

"He–" She yawns and her jaw clicks. "He might not wake up, I made him take a quarter of an oxycontin."

"Yeah? What for?"

"He wrecked his knee, and he made it worse carrying you up the stairs here." Robin scratches her eyes with her hands. "Not that it's your fault, it's not your fault. Just what happened."

"Oh." You pull Steve's hand to your lips and kiss it. Wincing, you turn onto your side to face Robin, pulling his slack arm over your tummy. He doesn't hug you closer in his sleep, and it feels wrong. "I know you look after him 'cos he's yours, too, but thanks."

She smiles, her cheek appling against the hand she's using as a pillow.

"Do you want a quarter of an oxycontin?" Robin asks.

"No, you should save it."

"I know you need it. It's not all superficial. Jonathan's mom gave you stitches, did you see?"

"Everything sort of throbs right now."

She pulls a half of a pill from her pocket and apologises that you have to bite it in half. She can't give you the full half because this is the full capacity of painkillers and she's lucky she has that.

"It's okay," you say, accepting the water she offers.

"I really don't know what we're gonna do, Y/N."

"I don't even know what happened, I… don't even think I want to know. I remember the beginning." The gunfire and the shattering windows. The shouting. "I don't remember where you went."

"We didn't know where you went."

"Sorry. I don't know."

"It honestly might be better if you don't remember any of it," Robin whispers wryly. "I wish I didn't."

You grab her hand with your free one, pretzelled between her and Steve. "I'm sorry, Robs."

"Me too. But we'll be okay. We're together."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Robin blows a curl of her hair from her face. She looks young, sun tanned and freckled as she is, and scared, which isn't her style. She acts like nothing ever gets to her. It's a privilege to be let in.

"I was terrified that you were dead," Robin whispers. "And then I thought me and Steve were gonna die anyways, and he got into a fist fight with a geek and Dustin almost died." She stops abruptly.

"Is that how he got the black eye? From a geek?" you ask.

"No. There was a man," she says, "trying to pin me down. I don't know what he… Steve pulled him off of me."

You rub the back of her hand with your thumb. "He hurt you?" you ask, eyes burning with heat. Angry and sad tears at the same time.

"Nah, Steve saved me. He's good at that."

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry. You really don't get how bad you look, I shouldn't be telling you anything. You need," —her voice takes on a saccharine but not ingenuine pep— "to get better, and to worry about yourself. I'll be surprised if you ever walk again."

"Really?" The oxycontin must be working (if a quarter even works), 'cos you're not nearly as disenfranchised by this possibility as you should be.

"No. But think about how much that would suck and this is almost the winning situation."

"Sorry, Buckley, I swear I'd laugh…"

"But everything sucks."

"Yeah."

You have one hand full of Robin's cold fingers and another woven between Steve's warm ones. You have two whole blankets, you're mostly fed, and there's a lady guarding you with a gun bigger than your head. You can rest easy, if only for an hour.

Robin falls asleep gradually, quiet snores growing louder by the by.

You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes you can see shapes like bodies standing over you, or hear a disembodied groan as it echoes in the shower room. You regretfully remove your hand from Robin's and turn back to Steve. There's a twinge in your thigh as you that reminds you about Joyce's stitches. You wonder how many there were. It feels like a lot when it pulls.

You put you hand on Steve's cheek. Thinking you might cry and actually crying are surprisingly far apart. He deserves to have some tears shed for him, your poor boy, defending his friends, hurting himself, almost losing you, losing his home, and watching the community he loves die all in one night. He deserves so much more than he gets.

"I love you," you say under your breath.

The mantra. Please, please, please, let him be waiting for me.

—

Your hand is like a hummingbird in Steve's, twitching twitching twitching. He rubs the back of your hand and tries not to wake you. The pain you're in now while sleeping will feel a thousand times worse when you wake, and he has nothing to give you for it.

He woke up to your fingers twined in his. You must've done it in the night.

Robin's sleeping curled up next to you, his two favourite people in the whole world getting a well-needed break from the horror of it. Horror doesn't even feel like the right word, it doesn't encapsulate the grimness of your situation. There's no potable water, barely any food, and a lot of months to feed. Steve knows they need as many people out looking for resources as they can get so they can move on, and they need to do it fast, before someone comes looking to pick off the rest of them, but he just can't do it. He can't leave your side.

He tries to think about how he got separated from you and every time it's like a kick to the chest. He looked to his left in the bloodshed and you just weren't there anymore.

Things got messy in between.

When he finally had the choice he tried to backtrack, and Chris and Robin had to forcibly drag him to shelter.

He told you and Robin the same thing, meet me at the store, though thankfully Robin hadn't been out of sight for longer than a minute, and he'd been able to protect her. He wasn't the only one to pick a familiar place. A small crowd of people had been waiting inside the convenience store, a gun aimed at the door.

He'd wanted to go back for you. He would've if he could stand, his knee a twisting hot pain, an agony —he tried anyway.

They stayed like that, kids hiding behind the shelves, the adults at the door like a barricade, waiting for a sign as to what to do. Waiting to be put down like animals by the monsters who invaded the community, geek and human alike.

There was a thump by the door. Steve realises now that it must've been you, but they'd been convinced it was a geek, and so nobody stood. It had his nerves aflame, because what if you were huddled somewhere unable to move? What kind of boyfriend, what kind of partner, would leave you vulnerable? He'd rather put himself in moral peril trying to save you than leave you to that fate. So he stood on his fucked leg and he eased open the door, Christopher beside him because he's a good man, and together they stepped into the dusk.

Steve did not have to look very far for you. You'd been laid out against the wall like you'd been thrown there.

He collapsed to his knees as soon as he realised it was you, scared to touch you, your clothes more blood than fabric and your eyes scrunched closed in pain.

"Holy shit," Christopher said.

Astute. Steve felt for your pulse, found it fast despite your state of unconsciousness. A wound on your leg was weeping furiously, and Steve ripped off the bottom of his shirt bare-handed to wrap it up.

He hugged you even though it would do nothing. It was selfishly all for him.

Steve had thought for a moment, Fuck, I cannot keep doing this. The level of adrenaline, the sharp spike of fear thinking he might have lost you. I can't keep doing this.

But he can, and he will.

They carried what food they could with them to the block of apartments they're currently taking shelter in, but Steve had carried you with help, and so he hadn't managed to grab anything at all. He relies solely on the charity of the community to feed you today, and he promises he'll make it up.

"Y/N," Steve says, a can of soup in hand, not knowing if waking you is the right thing to do, but his hand on your shoulder anyways, "wake up, I have something for you."

You mumble into the floor.

He hums. He could heat the soup up. He'd need to go outside, which would be exhausting, and he'd have to start a fire, but they'll be starting one soon enough to boil water while the sky is still dark enough to hide the smoke. Maybe he can call in a favour.

He limps over to Joyce. She's been great since the attack, considering what happened to Hopper.

"Hey, honey," she says. "What are you upto?"

"Can I be a total dunce and ask you for a favour?"

Joyce takes his can of soup. He limps back to your side and looks you over for a while, peeling back your blanket to check that the big cut on your thigh and the tens on your knees aren't visibly infected. He's been given a tube of antiseptic and applied it to you generously, but he worries it won't be enough. Your legs are fucked, really fucked, cuts and bruises on every inch of skin. He has no idea how it happened and you haven't been lucid enough to ask.

He tucks the blanket back around your legs to ensure some privacy and moves onto your arms. He thinks you must've fallen onto debris, if the scratches near the base of your forearms are any indication.

He puts your arm down gently and his eyes flick to your face. You're looking at him.

"Oh, hi," he says, breathless with relief.

"Hi Stevie."

"Hi." He covers his eyes with his hands.

"Steve…" You murmur, your fingers ghosting his elbow, stretched as far as you can reach from your position. "Baby, please."

He scrubs his eyes until they burn but successfully pushes away any waterworks.

"You have to stop doing this to me," he says, practically begs, nodding with each word like it might drive the sentiment home.

"I'm sorry." You sit up, clasping his elbow. "Really sorry."

Steve exhales until he's completely empty of breath. "God, I know. It's not your fault."

"Hey, Steve, stop using my mom like a catering service," Jonathan says suddenly, interrupting your moody conversation.

He's holding a camping bowl with a rag underneath it, pretending to be more pissed than he is. He smiles down at you. "Hey, how are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, eat up. Get better. I need friends that aren't fourteen years old or Steve," he jokes, lowering the soup into your lap. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks, Jonathan."

He smiles and leaves, accosted by little kids as he goes.

Steve puts his hand under the soup despite the rag, worried you'll burn yourself. You protest, and Steve's actually happy to hear it. It means you're feeling more like yourself.

"Are you sharing with me?" you ask.

"If that's what you want."

"Yes, that's what I want."

Steve lets you have the soup dumplings, hot and sweet, the best part. He doesn't bother eating even one. You take turns drinking from the corner of the camping tin, thigh to thigh, Steve guiding it to your lips whenever you look ready for another sip.

It's actually him that cries, to his surprise. He thought for sure he'd hold it together, but he's just so grateful that you're here and in one admittedly battered piece, eating soup and warm against him, they start of their own accord. You rest your head wonkily on his shoulder, seemingly unaware. He tries not to sniffle.

"I love you," you whisper, dropping your hand on his thigh.

He puts his cheek on your head. His tears seep into your hair. "I love you too."

"Are you crying?" you ask, sounding heartbroken as you turn to him. Your eyes widen in shock. "What's wrong? Is it your knee?"

It's not his knee. It couldn't be further from it.

"We lost everything," he says, everything coming out in a rushing whisper, "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to take care of you anymore. You almost died, again."

"I didn't almost die, I was tired," you say gently. "I wouldn't have died."

"That doesn't mean I can still do this."

"Steve, I'm not asking you to do anything. I know I was hard work–"

"No–"

"But this time it's different. I'm not saying you don't look after me, I'm not even saying you won't have to again, but I don't need a bodyguard this time around. And we aren't alone. You're not alone. I need you to be my– to be mine. That's it." You put your hand on his cheek. It's heavy, rough, but you try to be kind and he knows it. You're uncoordinated, stroking under his eye. "I'm sorry, Steve, I am, I'm so sorry, please don't–"

His turn to interrupt a ridiculous notion. "Please don't what?" he asks, not unkindly. You take your hand back. Your face crumples, your head dipped toward your shoulder. "Don't what? You think I'm going somewhere, really?"

"Please don't blame yourself for everything," you say.

It's not even that. He isn't blaming himself. He isn't blaming you. He's just mind-numbingly terrified to be back on the road.

"We're together," you say, nearly shy. "Isn't that okay for now?"

"...That's the only thing that's okay," he says.

He scrubs his face with his hand, scratching through his limp hair. He rolls his shoulders, and, after a deep breath, he takes your hand and pulls himself together.

Steve doesn't know what to say, and he suspects you're facing a similar dilemma.

"Don't get it twisted," he says eventually, his voice rough with earnestness, "you're the only thing that matters to me. But…" What do you say? After all those people have died? When your sweetheart can't stand, she's so cut up? All to get back to you and nothing good promised? "I wanted more than this for us."

We had more than this.

"This is the world now," you say, tired.

"Remember that phrase? 'I'll give you the world'? I'd say that to you, but I don't think you want it," he says, trying to lighten the impossibly heavy mood.

You laugh under your breath. "I do, though. I want it with you, handsome, so just… don't give up yet. Okay?"

"I'm not giving up."

"Thank you."

Steve wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Don't say thanks, you don't even have to ask me for that."

He rests his face against yours, mouth to your temple, his eyes slipping closed. He doesn't have it in him to unpack everything that's happened. Maybe he never will.

But he has his girl.

—-

ty for reading! requests for this au are open so let me know what you wanna see if you’d like to<3

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4

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boxxing-flavored · 1 month ago

Text

Abby x ex lover now enemy reader

Tw: fighting, blood…idk

The rain came down in streets of a once bustling city, soaking you both to the bone, turning the alley into a dark battleground. Your knife gleamed under the dim streetlight, stained red with Abby’s blood,

The cuts weren’t enough to be fatal but certainly enough to be a pain in the ass.

She rolled her shoulder, barely reacting to the wound on her arm. “Still relying on weapons to make up for your size?” Her voice rough with exhaustion.

You twirled the blade between your fingers. “Still relying on brute force to make up for any skill?”

Abby’s jaw tightened. “Always had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You smirked. “Guess you’d know.”

That was the last push.

She moved like lightning, her body a force of nature. You barely dodged, twisting away from the blow meant to knock you flat. Your knife flashed in the moonlight, aiming for her side, but she was already anticipating it. Instead of dodging she surged forward, grabbing your wrist and slamming you into an old building behind you.

The knife went clattering to the ground.

“Too slow,” Abby muttered, her breath hot against your rain-slicked skin.

You snarled, twisting in her grip, small enough to slip free. She swung, just a little too late but her knuckles still grazed the side of your cheek. You barely felt it. You were already moving, driving your elbow into her ribs, making her stumble back a step.

You didn’t stop. You lunged, grabbing her by the front of her shirt and using her own momentum against her. She wasn’t expecting it. wasn’t expecting you to be that vicious. You shoved her back hard, sending her staggering against the opposite wall.

And that was when you struck.

Your fist connected with her mouth, knuckles splitting her lip wide open. Abby’s head snapped to the side, blood spilling down her chin, mixing with the rain.

For a second, she just stood there, breathing hard, tongue swiping over the wound. Then she turned back to you, her eyes dark, pupils blown wide, something unreadable twisting in her expression.

And then she laughed.

Low and breathless, like she couldn’t believe you’d actually done it.

You didn’t move. Neither did she.

The storm raged around you, and still, neither of you spoke. The tension was suffocating thick, electric, something old and rotten clawing its way up between you.

Then you stepped closer.

Slowly, deliberately, you reached up, brushing your thumb across her bleeding lip. Abby didn’t stop you. She just watched, breathing shallow, her body still coiled tight like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to throw you to the ground or pull you closer.

You dragged your thumb to smear the blood across her cheek. The sight of it made something dark curl in your stomach.

“There,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Now you look pretty.”

Her eyes search yours before she grabs you by the jaw and kisses you.

It was vicious, with teeth and blood, her mouth devouring yours like she wanted to tear you apart from the inside out. Your back hit the wall again, her hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. You bit down on her already split lip, and she groaned, the sound guttural, like it wasn’t pain she was feeling but something worse. Something neither of you wanted to name.

Your fingers tangled in her hair pulling just hard enough to make her groan. nails raking down her arms as she shoved her thigh between your legs, pressing herself closer to you. Her blood smeared between you, hot and wet and staining, and you could taste it on your tongue.

It wasn’t love. It was never love.

But it was something, something twisted and raw and sick, something you both hated but couldn’t let go of.

And tonight, that was enough.

#lgbtq #abby anderson #tlou #abby the last of us #character x you #character x reader

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idkfitememate · 1 year ago

Note

Idk if it's obvious or not but I love the boar!creator so much! Could you possibly do one where they spend time with klee going fish blasting (fish blasting™ is not jean approved) and they run into razor? I really want to see what razor thinks of fish blasting :D then maybe we could get a little more andrius content? Ahh this is just such a cool concept!

Fish Blasting With Friends

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Boar Reader x Klee & Razor

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 542

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Fluff & Crack

Being surrounded on all sides by wolves was an amazing feeling.

The warmth, the fuzziness, the feeling of Razor’s hands running up and down your spine. Knowing Andrius was just a snort away.~

Yes life was good.

…

*BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM*

…Uh oh.

Klee.

You jumped up, making Razor flinch. You immediately apologized with a small huff to his face, which made him giggle. You tried to get out of the pile, only to be picked up by a certain blue wolf. You allowed yourself to be carried like a cub by the wind spirit. You also noted that Razor had climbed on Andrius’s back.

Now you’d have to witnesses. Neato.

As the three of you wondered out of the Wolvendom, you immediately found the child solider at a nearby pound. Blowing it sky fucking high.

You struggled out of the larger’s maw and ran towards the child, snorting the whole way. She must’ve heard your steps because she turned around immediately and gasped.

“Boar-boar! Razor! Mr. Andrius!” She said with the cutest smile agh your heart-

You ran up and nuzzled against her and she hugged you back. Andrius bounded over and let Razor off his back. Noticing this you rush back, grab his pants, and pull him towards the lake, Andrius chuckling.

“Would you like to fish blast with me!” Klee asked, Razor looked confused and you urged her to continue.

“Oh! Fish blasting is when we blast fish! Like this!” She summoned a bomb and threw it into the pound, the water bursting towards the sky was the explosive beneath the surface exploded.

Razor watched as fish flew through the air, some landing on the ground and some landed back in the water. He glanced at you and you looked… well you looked more than happy to be here.

He nodded and Klee bounced in joy, stepping aside so he could take his turn. Summoning his blade, he slung the weapon into the water after charging in, causing the pond to erupt into a brilliant purple.

Both you and Klee awed at the sight, and cater it was done Klee ran and jumped up to give Razor a hug, completing him over and over for his skill.

And now it was your turn.

You back up, before running up and jumping into the pool. The duo looked into the water…

Before it exploded upwards in a supercharged explosion! Fire and electricity danced with each other in the air and the smell of singed fish filled their noses.

Soon enough - after the water fell back into the pound - you crawled out, your fur drenched and you wagging your tail at the accomplishment.

“WOW!!! THAT WAS SO SUPER DUPER AMAZING BOAR-BOAR!!” Klee cried. She ran to you and hugged you hard.

“…That was… cool..” Razor said. He was still a bit start struck from the display, but he was able to bring himself to running a hand through your fur.

You looked for Andrius to see if he’d give you a compliment… only to see him eating the singed fish. You both made eye contact.

And you burst out into snort laughter. Rolling in your side, Klee and a Razor also began to laugh.

Today, was a good day.

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Mmm fish blasting with Klee. I wanna do that so bad- MMMM WHY CANT KLEE BE REAL

૮꒰ ˶꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ˶꒱ა♡-

#genshin impact sagau #sagau x reader #sagau #x reader #x gn reader #gn y/n #yandere x reader #yandere x you #Boar!Creator #anon <3 #asks <3

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anonymousonlyanonymoud · 1 year ago

Text

The Lost de Rolo

"I wonder... if you will ever find... Ciara?" Ciara de Rolo. Fourth-born child of the de Rolo Family, younger sister to Percy de Rolo, older sister to Cassandra de Rolo, and was believed to have been killed with the rest of the de Rolo family the night the Briarwoods attacked. But, Delilah Briarwood had choked on her blood to spit out those words. Whether to send them on an impossible search for someone who had survived the massacre, or send them on a goose chase for someone long dead.

TW: Death and murder

Next Chapter

Chapter One: At the Start

Vox Machina had defeated an army of the undead and killed a vampire and his necromantic wife which stopped them from unleashing an entity they called the 'Whispered One.' They had avenged Percy's family and liberated the people of Whitestone.

And helped rid their friend of his literal inner demon.

They had returned to Emon via Sun Tree teleportation thanks to Keyleth and cleared their names to Uriel and his council.

Afterward, they were allowed back to their Keep, given a parade, and seats on the Sovereign's Council. The taverns and brothels were once again open to them and they were awarded a small fortune for their work against the Briarwoods.

The Sovereign had even taken Percy aside and apologized to him personally for bringing the Briarwoods to Emon. And while Percy stiffly accepted it, the rest of the team could see that much still weighed on his mind.

He returned to his workshop in the Keep and began work on a gun to replace his original pepperbox and an electric glove he had dubbed 'Diplomacy.' The metallic clang of his hammer echoed from the basement, louder than before they had left for Whitestone since he kept the door open and did not lock himself in.

But as his creations took shape, his mind became more tangled as Delilah Briarwoods' last words rang in his thoughts. In all of theirs.

"I wonder... if you will ever find... Ciara?"

Ciara de Rolo.

Fourth-born child of the de Rolo Family, younger sister to Percival de Rolo, older sister to Cassandra de Rolo, and was believed to have been killed with the rest of the de Rolo family the night the Briarwoods attacked.

But, Delilah Briarwood had choked on her blood to spit out those words. Whether to send them on an impossible search for someone who had survived the massacre, or send them on a goose chase for someone long dead.

Either way, Delilah Briarwood had found a way to haunt the siblings until they died.

Percy and Cassandra had spoken on the matter for hours before Vox Machina left Whitestone, on the possibility that their sister was still alive.

The siblings agreed that since Cassandra would be staying in Whitestone to help rebuild and lead the people, Percy would look for any sign of Ciara.

But, there had been an agreed-upon deadline of three months. Cassandra had insisted on it,

"You've spent your life devoted to avenging our family, Percival. While I do wish for our sister to be alive and have her found, I don't want you to be devoured by this quest either,"

He could not fault her worry, and agreed, asking that the three months only began when he had replaced the weapons he had lost.

That bargain had been struck, and now, with Percy carefully placing the four-barreled pistol on the table before him and staring at the jeweled glove on his left hand, he knew it was time.

Originally, Percy had intended on going alone as he felt that his friends had done enough when it came to his family. But, when he declared his intentions to Vox Machina the next morning, Percy was met with disagreements from all sides,

"You honestly think we would let you do this alone?!" Vex questioned in disbelief as Trinket growled from where he sat,

"Vex... Look, I appreciate everything you have done-"

"You better fucking be! We've fought zombies, vampires, and even a fucking demon!" Scanlan exclaimed while Grog piped up,

"Yeah! And I let you shoot me!"

Pike put her hand on Grog's arm and turned to Percy, "What they mean, is that you shouldn't expect us to let you do this alone,"

"They're right, Percy," Vax nodded, his tired gaze meeting the equally exhausted eyes of Percy,

"I mean, it's like Scanlan said, we just defeated an army of the undead. So how hard can finding one person be?" Keyleth asked with a slight laugh.

Percy sighed while placing his hands on the table,

"Given the fact that no one has seen her since, the Briarwoods attacked, and all we have to go on is the dying words of Delilah, very hard, Keyleth,"

The druid's expression fell at his words as Vax rolled his eyes,

"Well, Percival, if you were planning on doing this alone, what was your first step?"

Percy didn't have an answer,

"Could scrying work to find her?" Pike questioned, "I've never attempted to do it myself, but we could ask someone at the Temple of the Everlight. Or Lady Allura?"

"Yeah, but, I think we don't exactly have the best relationship with Allura?"

"What? C'mon, Scanlan!" Exclaimed Grog, "She totally likes us!"

Percy sighed and glanced at Pike, "If, you are willing, would you go with me to the temple this afternoon?"

The gnome smiled and nodded, "I'd be happy to,"

A hand was placed on his shoulder as Vex said, "You're not going through this alone, darling. We won't let you,"

Agreements were heard around the table as Percy sank into his seat, disbelief crashing over him.

He'd thought that, after what happened, they would agree to let him go on his own.

What happened at the Ziggarut was a bit of a blur, but most prominent was when he'd pointed the pepperbox at his friends. As the barrel spun, and that thing showed him name after name in fiery lettering.

The names of his friends, and Cassandra.

The only family he had, this new one he had built and what remained of his old one, and he had almost killed them!

But each of them was willing to put their trust back into him.

Percy didn't think he deserved it, but he would not squander this second chance. He didn't know what would happen if he lost it.

Again,

"Thinking about your sister?"

He looked up at Vex's question, realizing that everyone else had left the room which left him and the ranger by themselves,

"Yes," He sighed, placing his head in his hands, "With Cassandra... I, could at least begin to understand what she went through. Since the two of us were kept together before our attempted escape. But, Ciara, I... know next to nothing,"

Vex carefully reached out, grasping Percy's gloved hand, and held it tightly with silent encouragement,

"The last time I saw her, was at that, damned dinner," Percy hissed, "She was standing next to Julius. She'd... Ciara had..."

The ranger squeezed the hand she was holding as Trinket nuzzled against Percy, placing his armored head in the gunslinger's lap with a huff,

"Darling?"

Percy slumped further against the table, his free hand resting on Trinket's head as he returned the grip Vex had on his fingers,

"They killed our parents first. A sword through the chest for my father, two bolts to the neck for my mother," The hand Vex held was shaking, "Julius saw what happened and tried reaching us. But, he had been next. Ciara had been standing next to him, his blood hit her face, and she froze. I..." Percy glanced up at Vex, "The last I saw of her, was when our sister Vesper grabber her and Whitney's hand, and ran out of the room,"

The kitchen was now silent as Percy's arms shook while he attempted to gather what fragile grip on his emotions he had,

"Then I saw Whitney being, tossed onto a pile with Ludwig and Oliver as if they were nothing more than trash and then- Vesper..." His glasses fogged from the tears as he forced out, "I heard her scream, followed by her body hitting the courtyard,"

Percy's voice fell into a broken whisper, "I never saw Ciara's body. But I'd...

Vex closed her eyes, once again imagining the horrors her Percy had faced before pressing her lips to the cold metal on his left hand,

"If Ciara is alive, we'll find her, Percy,"

"And what if she's dead? What if she'd been killed?"

"Then we find who killed her, and give them the same treatment as the Briarwoods,"

The determination in her voice brought a small smile to Percy's face, but it fell as quickly as it appeared when he asked,

"And what if it was the Briarwoods who killed her?"

The ranger, as if expecting this question, answered quickly,

"Then you and Cassandra mourn Ciara. Without either the Briarwoods or Orthax hanging over your minds,"

Trinket let out a light grunt as he licked Percy's hand, then nuzzled the man hard enough that he fell into Vex's side as she wrapped her arm over his shoulder,

"One way or another, Darling, you will get answers to what happened to her,"

"I... Thank you, Vex'ahlia,"

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alien-magnolia · 2 years ago

Text

His Little Grace

Prince Sidon x Hylian hyperfem! reader

Fic description: As Ganon’s minions infiltrate the Zora Domain, you, a weary, small, gentle traveler, are caught in a rut, on the brink of death, not being able to face creatures corrupted by the calamity on your own. The kind prince of Zora, Sidon, accompanies you, protecting you from the monsters. The two of you eventually are drawn into something more…

Tw: 18+ MINORS DNI, shark anatomy, omegaverse biology, breeding kink, sub-coded/super bottom hyperfeminine reader, SIZE kink, kind of non-canon breath of the wild, protective sidon, damsel in distress trope, rough sex, shark love bites, some sidon x link as well, pls reblog and help a writer out!!

Omegaverse rules:

https://www.wattpad.com/amp/706590591

It was a rainy morning in the Zora Domain, 7 o’clock to be exact. The rain battered alongside the icy pathways, the waves crashed below. The King, Dorephan, sat on his throne, concerned due to the noises heard outside the domain. The King has summoned some of his attendants and soldiers, including Link, the Hylian Champion. The King voiced his concerns to the group, saying that the noises sound like an attack on the kingdom; possibly Vah Ruta and guardians back under Ganon’s control. Link volunteers to go inspect the area outside the domain, in Upland Zorana. Sidon burst through the archway.

Father! What horrible news! I have heard that Ganon is possibly attacking the kingdom again! It is preposterous! Let me know what I can do to protect the kingdom!,” the shark smiles, winking and flexing his bicep, his signature look. “My son. Perhaps you can swim down the river, and see what is in the Lananryu Wetlands, closer to Central Hyrule, near the entrance to our domain,” the King suggests. “Of course,” Sidon agrees, and bids a goodbye to Link, whom he did have relations with. Sidon would never admit due to his pride, that he had a soft spot for Hylians. They were so tiny, so soft. The opposite of him. Link was his best friend, and sometimes lover. Link was a beta, however. Sidon, as an alpha, really yearned for a Hylian that was an omega. He wanted to feel one, experience being with one. As biology said, alphas and omegas were made for each other, regardless of race in Hyrule. Same or interspecies, it did not matter. Yet, Sidon failed to find a female, omega, counterpart to his sweet Link’s beauty.

He waved to Link, telling him to be safe, before watching him use Revali’s Gale to fly up into Upland Zorana. Sidon swam down the river, watching as electric Lizalfos, electric chu-chus, and golden bokoblins prowled around the plains, at the side of the river. “So many monsters…,” he thought to himself, swimming faster, hoping not to run into them. He swam to the bridge at the outskirts of Tabahl Woods. He saw a crowd of Black moblins, shrieking, with Dragonbone weapons, attacking something on the ground. He looked a little closely, barely visible to the monsters. He saw that they were attacking a Hylian. A very small one at that. He growled, jumping onto the bridge, facing the moblins, and took a few of them out swiftly, using his muscles and sharp teeth.

After throwing the last moblin down into the waterfall, Sidon comes closer to inspect the Hylain, to see if they were okay. A sickeningly sweet smell has hit him. He crouched down, taking a closer look. A very small Hylian woman, laying on the bridge, gravely wounded. Her blood, her body, smelled so good to him… could it be? An omega?

He stops his dirty mind from trampling him, and gently picks up the Hylian. Placing her in his arms, he swims up the river as fast as he could, eager to get her into the domain, so she could be properly healed and taken care of.

He reaches the domain, swimming up the waterfall, careful not to drown the woman. “Somebody! Please help! I have found an injured Hylian!!,” he shouts, and at instant, a few other Zora take her away to heal with herbs, in the lower chambers of the kingdom. Sidon meets back with Link, glad that he is okay, giving him a few kisses as well.

“My Link. I think I have found an omega. What should I do?! I am a bit worried!!,” Sidon shouts at him, the little man looking at the shark with a smirk.

“See if the chemistry is right, when she wakes up. If it is, perhaps then you could mate with her, for real, unlike you and I,” Link sheepishly tells him.

“Yes! Link! You are amazing! A genius! An absolute marvel!!,” Sidon shouts at him, giving Link his signature smirk and wink, and hugging him before running off to check on the Hylian he just rescued.

“My dear. Are you okay?,” he leans over the woman, his large shadow covering her small one. She moans in pain, looking up at him. “I think I’m okay now, yes. Who are you?,” her voice was small and shy, quiet. She meekly looked at him with her beautiful green eyes. Sidon blushed, loving how soft her voice was.

“Quickly, young one. Tell me your name.” The woman tells him. “Lily.” “Ah. What a beautiful name that is. I am Sidon, Prince of the Zora. I was making my round down the Zora River, when I saw you being beaten by monsters on Inogo Bridge!!,” he exclaimed, clearly worried for the young woman.

“I should have been more careful,” the woman replied, slightly blushing.

——-

You had been beaten by Moblins, and were about to meet your end, when you feltl a strong presence lift you up, carrying you up the Zora River, up a waterfall. You did not know who that was, yet you were extremely grateful. You awoke to a beautiful Zorana leaning over you. His smile, his voice, his muscles. You loved it.

Best of all, it seemed like he was an alpha. You could tell right away. This is who you had been searching for.

You had been born in a Hylian village off the coast, Luteno Village, full of Betas. The only other Alpha in the village was already mated — to a Beta. They did not have heats, ruts, pheromones. Sometimes, you wished to be one of them. Oh how easier it would be. Omegas were weaker than most, softer. This did not do you any good, especially in the calamity — so many monsters around. What options did you have?

Therefore, you left your small, coastal fishing village in hopes of finding a mate, a lover. You traveled up the Zora River, into Shatterback Point, up mountains, in the rain, in a thunderstorm. The time could have finally come. You were positive that whoever saved you, this ‘Prince Sidon’, was an Alpha. Further, he was royalty.

The size difference between you two was massive. You nervously watched as his clawed hand rested near your body. His palm was the size of your entire arm.

“My dear. Are you alright? You look positively out of it,” the handsome prince spoke to you. You replied that you were, which then coincided with him asking what you were doing in the area.

“Well, you see, Prince Sidon, I came here to find a mate. In Luteno Village, most of the people are Betas — normal. I’m a little helpless on my own, you see, with the calamity and all. I’m not strong enough to fight these monsters. I don’t even think that Omegas and Alphas are common in all of the kingdom of Hyrule…,” you trail off, a bit sad.

The shark grinned back at you, with a knowing yet gentle smile. “My dear. You see, they aren’t that common in the land of Zora either. Alpha and Omega pairs used to be more common before the calamity. All of our Zorai, they are mated pairs, since we usually have very long life spans. Except for me, of course.”

You nod, starting to realize what he was implying. You were sure that he was able to sense the tension between you. You had read, in an old book your grandmother owned, written before the calamity, that just each other’s presence can indicate true love between an Alpha and Omega. You hoped that your late grandmother’s book was right.

“Lily. I want to ask you something, sweet pearl,” Sidon starts. Perhaps, once you feel better, I can show you around the village?,” his yellow eyes look hopeful, bashful, even. A prince, paying attention to you. You were over the moon, and so, you obliged.

—-

Just in a few days, the Zora had healed you. You spent more and more time with the Prince every day, whom you now called Sidon. After a week, Sidon had asked you to accompany him for a nightly swim. The two of you had started doing that ever since you had healed.

You loved how fast he was in the water, how gentle he was with you on his back. Most of all, you loved how big he was. <3

Sidon took you into the lake next to the domain, and up the Veiled Falls. The two of you sat on the luminous stone filled dock, tension between the two of you rising. Sidon tapped his sharp nails upon the dock, nervous on what to say.

“What is it?,” you asked, putting a concerned hand on his shoulder, which made him flinch. “My Pearl. Lily. I have gotten to know you over the past week or so. You are truly amazing! I have never met a Hylian such as yourself before! This is a personal question to ask..yet.. are you possibly looking for something more than safety , here in the Zora Domain?”

You wince, deciding to tell him the truth. “I came here to look for a mate, Sidon. I’m an omega. They aren’t very common after the calamity,” you look down as you say it. Perhaps he has an arranged marriage already.

“My Lily. I am so glad to hear you say that!” He looked enthusiastic suddenly. “You see, I am one of the only other Alphas in this town myself! Everyone else is male or female, just a Beta. You are right, sweet Pearl! How clever you are,” he praises you.

You blush as he compliments you. He moves a bit closer to you. His clawed hand gently holds your head. “You and I, my pearl. I think you’re the most adorable little Hylian I’ve ever seen. The fact that you’re an omega — that is just even more precious and intriguing to me. Be my mate, sweet pearl,” he gently asks of you, yellow eyes full of passion.

You agree, giggling as he brings you in for a kiss. He was gentle with you, although you could feel his sharp teeth grazing your lips. You kiss him back with passion, you feel your lip start to bleed because of his sharp teeth. The two of you are inextricably close now, and his two hands easily grip your hips, almost as long as your whole torso. He gently moves you closer to him, although you can feel his sharp claws pierce your soft tummy.

His smell, his lips, his eyes, all of it was intoxicating. In your grandmother’s book, you have read that those with ‘sexual variance’ (gender classified as omega or alpha — instead of male or female (what Betas had) have greater chances for passionate and intricate sexual and romantic relations. It was biology, after all.

You press your smaller body closer to him, your softness against his rougher skin. You traced your small hands over his torso, his wide shoulders <3 as you could feel him moan into your mouth. He pulls away for a second, manhandling you onto his lap, where you felt a rather big bulge forming already..<3

“You know, sweet one…I have always hoped to find someone with sexual variance… a little omega I could have all for myself, to love, to breed…,” his voice seemed much lower now, you swore you could hear a growl behind it. “Make me yours then,” you softly reply back, gazing into his yellow eyes.

He smirks, and then uses those strong muscles of his to pin you onto the ground. A trail of wet kisses is left all over your face, your neck, your breasts, which he cups so gently, mindful of his claws, your hips. He asks if he can take off your clothes. You nod, and he does so, careful not to rip them with his claws.

“My little grace smells so good for me,” he chuckles darkly. “That’s all you wanted, hmm? A strong alpha to come breed you, claim you…,” he whispers, his sharp teeth grazing your lips. You nod. “Please, Sidon. Want it, please…,” you beg him, doe eyes meeting his.

“You know, my little love…Zora actually have two cocks. I wonder how they’ll fit inside my Pearl…,” he chuckles, bringing you in for another kiss. There you were, caged in his arms, your small hands around his large, bulging biceps, and you can feel him start to grind into you for a bit, before his cocks spring up, all hard, veiny. You almost drool, yet you stop yourself.

You have read in your grandmother’s book that alphas have bigger cocks than betas, than omegas. They have superior strength too…

You stare in awe as the Zora runs his clawed hand over his cocks, over his ball sack, all full and ready to burst!! “Sidon. Please, want it in me,” you beg of him, pathetically reaching up to him like a little girl would to her father.

“I’ll give you anything you ask for, little Pearl. So sweet…,” he moans, and with that, you see him gently line up his two cocks to your already soaking, wet, pussy. You wonder how his sharp teeth would feel on it … <3

“Sidon. I’ve never.. never had this before…,” you tell him shyly. He reassures you with a few kisses. “I will be gentle, little love. You will get used to it, you will want more. Don’t know how long I have been waiting for an omega, all to myself,” his grin showcased his row of sharp teeth, scaring and making you want him more at the same time.

You were ready. He gently began to push his pulsating cocks into you. The stretch hurt, yet since you were wet, you were ready for him. You could take it. He pushed in little by little, and the deeper he went, the more delirious you got. His cocks just stuffed you up so perfectly!! <3

Your eyes met his, your soft hands ran alongside his cheeks, his fins on his head. He has you in a mating press, and you could swear you were seeing doubles from how nicely his cocks filled you. Your eyes began to roll back into your head, as you drift away from the world, and solely focused on the moment: him.

“My sweet Pearl. Doing so well, my love. Taking these big cocks so nicely, can’t wait to breed you, my Pearl, have you carry my heir…,” he moaned out, just as delirious as you were. You were his prey, to be caught, bred, owned by him!! “Please, my prince, Sidon, please!!,” you squealed, eager to agree to everything he was saying, due to how earth shatteringly amazing you felt right now.

“Mate me. Claim me. Please, sir,” you beg him, a moment of clarity in your delirium. He smirks in response, giving you a little (sharp) love bite on your shoulder. “My pleasure, my little love.”

He starts rutting into you, faster, your little body shakes and you have to hold onto him as tightly as you could muster, burying yourself in the crook of his neck. You see stars, with his throbbing cocks inside you, you’ve never felt something be so right. You feel them twitch, and with screams from the both of you, you come at the same time.

You feel his hot seed spill into you, filling you.

You fall asleep in his arms after a bit of cuddling, and he gently takes you back to the Domain, to the palace, into his private chambers. You were his now. His mate, his little grace.

Author's note: Enjoy everyone! Let me know if I should make a part two, or maybe a sidlink fic!! Pls reblog and help a writer out!! <3

#liz writes 🖤#liz’s masterlist #prince sidon smut #prince sidon #sidlink smut #sidlink #sidon smut #sidon x oc #sidon x reader #sidon x fem!reader #botw smut

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