Lowkenuinely terrified that I’m supporting authors on this app who I’ve convinced myself are not using ai but as the pieces fall into place only show more evidence that their writing is generated
A.N - OMG YOU GUYS!! Thank you for being so patient but here it is! This is my longest fic yet and I’m so excited for you to read it! I’ve been pretty busy with work so I’m glad I finally managed to pump this out. My next fic is definitely OC so stay tuned! I also have some spicy stuff in store for Simon so you’ll just have to wait!! Enjoy!!
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It had been 3 months since you had started dating Simon J. Paladino, and everything was perfect. Like sickly sweet perfect, like fairy tale, disney princess perfect.
You had never been one for romantic gestures but Simon made you feel so special. Since you had started at the firm, several people had warned you of Simon’s “rude” and slightly scary manner of behaviour, especially his refusal to make eye contact, but they couldn’t be more wrong.
He brought you flowers, cooked for you, comforted you after long days, he was the perfect partner. You were just glad you snatched up him before anyone else could.
The pair of you had decided to keep your relationship private, meaning you would not be sharing shit with the gossipy members of the firm. And it was nice, for a while, until fucking Sarah saw you push yourself up onto your tippy toes to give him a kiss outside the building for bringing you lunch on his lunch break.
“Soooo?”
Sarah had snatched a chair and pulled up next to your desk.
You turned to her and raised an eyebrow suspiciously.
“So what, Sarah?”
You chose your words carefully. If you let anything slip, it was guaranteed to spread like wildfire.
She was looking at you smugly now, but you refused to make eye contact.
“You and Simon huh?”
You nearly choked on your saliva as you struggled to maintain a calm facade. You wouldn’t give her anything.
“What about me and Simon?”
“Well.. I saw you guys outside the firm building looking awfully close?” She sneered.
“What Simon and I get up to in our free time is none of your business Sarah. And quite frankly you questioning me about my personal life is extremely unprofessional. Now, I’m going to lunch. Goodbye, Sarah.”
And with that, you gathered your things and took off to lunch without a look back at the now not sneering woman.
“Sarah knows”
You whispered, later that night in bed, curled up next to Simon with your head on his chest.
You giggle softly as he audibly groans, dragging a hand across his glasses-free face.
“I assume everyone will know by tomorrow?”
“Most likely. But they’ll probably question me about it, not you”
“If they make you uncomfortable you’ll let me know?”
You snuggled further into his chest, grinning at his words.
“Yes honey I will.”
You feel him press a kiss to your hair, causing a blush to sprout on your face.
“Good. Now get some sleep, we have work early tomorrow.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more, sweetheart.”
And that’s how the entire firm found out. Like you predicted, everyone came to you for questions first and avoided Simon. In short, you told them to buzz off or else. It worked fairly well.
To summarise, you and Simon were in a happy, healthy, secure relationship and there wasn’t anything anyone could do to change that.
It was a totally normal Saturday. You had the day off, Simon was out for the morning and you had errands to run, so you would have all the afternoon off for yourself.
You yawned slightly as you reached for a can of tomatoes. The grocery store near Simon and yours apartment was small, but full of decently priced, good quality items.
Pasta tonight, you thought to yourself, Simon’s favorite. A small blush rose to your cheeks. Every day, he worked so hard as a lawyer to fight for supers rights, it was only fair you did something for him in return.
“FREEZE!”
Your head snapped suddenly towards the noise, the sharpness piercing the calm atmosphere of the grocery store.
Three grown men entered the store, all brandishing guns. Your blood runs cold as you drop the can of tomatoes.
“ALL OF YOU ON THE GROUND NOW!”
Your knees instinctively give way as you slump to the ground. You considered yourself a fairly tough person, but all that toughness evaporated and gave way to pure fear.
You laid yourself stomach down on the floor and put your hands behind your head, inhaling and exhaling to the point of hyperventilation.
Thousands of thoughts ran through your head, How am I going to get out? Is the cashier ok? What if I don’t make it out alive? What are they going to tell my family? What are they going to tell Simon?
Your heart sinks to your stomach as you feel tears well in your eyes. No. You would make it out of this. You would see Simon and your family again.
You carefully turn your head to face the group of men, who were now threatening the cashier.
You gasps as quietly as you can when one of the men grabs the cashier, who couldn’t have been any older than 18 across the counter by his shirt, and presses his rifle square into the teen’s forehead.
“NO!”
You couldn’t stop the word from escaping from your mouth, you weren’t about to let that kid take the fall for something that wasn’t his fault.
“Oh, you wanna mouth off, eh?”
You yelp as one of the robbers grabs you by the hair and yanks you up so that you’re facing him.
You’re breathing heavily now, trying not to show fear, trying your best not to grimace despite the burning pain coming from your scalp.
You feel the cool metal of the rifle press against your forehead and you squeeze your eyes shut. You only hope the kid got away.
“So, pretty, what were you saying again?”
You force your eyes open again, to stare at his grotesquely, ski masked face (so different to your handsome Simon) . You open your mouth to tell him to get fucked, but before you can, a flash of red light sears though the air and knocks the gun out of his hands in an instant.
You turn your head as much as the hand in your hair will allow, to see the gun on the floor with two perfect, smoking holes burned right through it.
“Shit man we gotta go now!” One of the robbers said to the one holding your hair. “It’s-“
Before he could finish his sentence, several more short, sharp blasts echoed through the air, sending the other robbers' guns flying out of their hands.
Your breath caught in your throat as you whispered.
“Gazerbeam..”
The masked man stood tall and intimidating, his visor still glowing and smoking from his laser vision.
“Put her down.”
The robber dropped you in an instant, and you crumple to the floor, massaging your scalp to relieve the still burning pain, slightly dizzy
Luckily, you are smart enough to stay down and you see several more flashes of red light before all 3 of the robbers collapse to the ground groaning.
You hear Gazerbeam’s commanding voice fill the room through your dizziness. You exhale slowly and close your eyes, but you gasp at the sudden touch to your forehead.
Your eyes fly open to see Gazerbeam himself leaning over you, with a concerned look on his face.
“Are you alright?”
Still slightly reeling from the pain of being held up by your hair, you struggle to slur out an answer.
“I guess so… Oh!”
You gasp as he lifts you up bridal style to carry you out of the grocery store, whose windows were now shattered by bullets.
You can’t help the redness from rising to your cheeks at being lifted up so effortlessly. You felt a warmth settling in your stomach as you feel your body relax. Something about his muscles arms and stride was so familiar.
You instinctively wrap your arms around his shoulders as he walks toward the ambulance that has now pulled up outside.
“I saw what happened.”
You turn to face him, to see if what you heard was correct.
“You protected that boy in the store, that was very brave of you.”
Wow. A literal superhero calling you brave? Now you have seen it all.
“Oh! No no it’s ok! It’s what anyone would have done!”
You had turned red partly at the compliment and partly at the fact that he was still carrying you like you weighed nothing.
Both of you had made it to the ambulance, where he set you down on the edge of the vehicle, sitting down.
“You are a very courageous woman.”, He paused as a flush crept up past his masked face, “And beautiful too.”
Your mind went blank. The paramedic attending to you raised an eyebrow.
“Oh! Um..” If your face could go any redder you’d be a tomato. “I’m so sorry Mr Gazerbeam but I’m very much taken.”
“Oh. My apologies, I did not realise you were in a relationship.”
“No no, it’s alright, but no offence you couldn’t pull me away from my boyfriend if you tried!”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.. he’s so sweet and kind and loving, he’s funny too! In his own way but that doesn’t matter. God.. I’m so lucky to have him..”, You sigh.
Talking about Simon always got you rambling. Because of course you were going to brag about your hot lawyer boyfriend to the literal superhero hitting on you.
“Ah. Sorry. Well, I doubt that. I bet you're equally spectacular."
“Thank you Mr Gazerbeam, for saving me and everyone else. The community is safer with you in it.”
“Thank you for your kind words Ma’am, and my apologies again for being so forward.”
“It’s ok-“
A hand is placed on your shoulder. The paramedic.
“Miss? I think we should take you to the hospital to get checked out, just in case.”
“Oh! Right.. Well, thanks anyway! Hope I see you around!”
You wave goodbye to the superhero, who manages an awkward wave back. On the way to the hospital, you couldn’t stop thinking about how familiar Gazerbeam seemed, like you had seen him somewhere before.
The superhero was handsome and kind for sure, but he was no Simon J. Paladino.
———
Simon had made sure all the victims of the robbery were safe and uninjured, before running off to an abandoned alleyway.
He needed fresh air immediately.
As soon as he gets there, he rips the visor off his face, leans against the brick wall, and smiles the biggest smile he’s had in ages.
He couldn’t believe he had gotten so lucky with you.
Any other woman might have abandoned him completely for a little bit of attention from a superhero.
But not you. Not his love.
Guilt wracked his body in an instant. He wanted to tell you so bad it was physically painful. But he’d have to wait. You’d have to wait.
For now, he would stop by his apartment, change into civilian clothes and speed to the hospital. (He should’ve gotten there quicker, he should have killed the bastard who grabbed you like that).
He would dote on you for as long as you needed, while the feeling of you snuggled in his arms, with your arms around his neck while he carried you would stay fresh in his mind.
Perhaps, he would carry you like that out of the chapel on your wedding day.
I know this is a horror blog but I just had to talk about this because I love The Incredibles but…
I know Headcanons are a thing but people on TikTok genuinely think Syndrome instantly started killing the Supers? Like… instantly? At the ripe age of 12-14? The very next day even? Like… Dude…
There is no way in hell he became a billionaire overnight, bought an island, built the first version of the Omnidroid, hired Mirage and started luring Supers to that island even within the first year or so. I know he was salty af but not to that extent.
And people who are saying stuff like “Oh, Gazerbeam didn’t answer the phone in Incredibles 2 because he was already dead on that island” NO! They say in the movie that he didn’t pick up the phone, nor did Fironic, because Supers had JUST been made illegal. Supers were made illegal probably a few months after the Mr Incredible incidents and again, there is no way Syndrome had already started his evil plan. Maybe he’d started planning it already but he could not have already had the island and the tech and the Omnidroid.
And we don’t know exactly how long it took for Syndrome to go through all the Supers before Bob. Gazerbeam wasn’t the last Super he killed before contacting Bob, there was about 4 more afterwards, and Gazerbeam is only shown to be missing a few months before the movie, which probably means Syndrome was actually going through the Supers way quicker than it might seem. Like he probably contacted one at least once a month, so his murders probably only started a year or two before the main events of the film.
Which makes sense to me, because again, that island, all those workers and his enormous wealth would’ve taken years to build even if he was incredibly gifted, and a few of those years would’ve gone to planning and THEN he would’ve started contacting the Supers to start killing them for his Omnidroid.
Also even if Syndrome did start killing Supers instantly (which there is no way he did) then for that theory that Gazerbeam didn’t answer the phone in Incredibles 2 to make sense, it would mean Syndrome went through like ten Supers in one night, because again, Gazerbeam was one of the last Supers killed. This dude was NOT contacting ten Supers and killing them all in one night.
this man needs some love istg. i finished reading his 2011 run and i needed to do this. not proof read. criticism welcome
cole cash | grifter x reader
hurt/comfort. there aren't really any trigger warnings. they're idiots. they're pining. mutually.
Vulnerability is usually a death sentence. But with him, a few moments managed to slip past. He started it too, which was surprising. A close call here, a quiet moment there. You got closer. Worse, you got attached. The worst, is that you actually have no idea if he had that same disgusting epiphany, or if he's just doing what he always does. Con people. Be the Grifter. I'd be annoying if he wasn't so respectfully good at it. God, you can feel a headache forming behind your eyes.
You wish he'd call. Although it's still unclear if it would help or not.
He usually shows up exactly when you don't want him to. Your fights. Your missions. Your fucking me time. It's like he has a sixth bullshit sense that lets him know when to bother and piss you off. Like now, for example.
You're bleeding, you can tell that much. Shit went sideways almost immediately, and while you could just pop some stitches in the worst wound and call it a day, it was too close this time. You didn't get reckless or dumb, but you are not invincible. It's almost inevitable that something like this happens. Still hate it, tho. Still gonna complain about it the whole way.
“Shit, shit, shit.” You're pretty sure you just knocked something definitely made of glass while trying to get out of your stupid suit, but it's a tomorrow problem. Right now problem is pants. And boots. Probably also every single wound that's slowly oozing blood onto your carpet. You manage to get into the bathroom relatively undressed, and that's when you catch a look at yourself in the mirror.
"Jesus fucking christ". Grumbling under your breath you get in the shower, figuring getting the grime off first is probably the best you can do for now. Through the sound of cascading water, you miss your alarms being turned off, your window opening and closing and then the sound of heavy boots landing in the middle of the living room. It's a state to how utterly exhausted you are, rather than a testament to your skill. You're damn paranoid when you need to be. But the past few weeks have been, well, ass. You barely got any sleep, the fights been getting longer and harder, and while a little bit of a challenge is sometimes welcome, you got sloppy today. Probably fucked up, majorly. You didn't even have time to eat a proper meal in a week for fucks sake. You're just tired, so fucking tired.
Getting out of the shower is a bit of a struggle, but somehow you pull through. Barely putting on underwear, you start to observe the damage through bleary eyes.
"And here I thought I would have to take you out on a date first." His smug voice hits you first, then his overall presence leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, and then the knife you have stashed underneath the sink that lands just a little over to the right of his goddamned eyeball.
"What the fuck do you want?" You weren't really aiming to kill him. If you wanted to, he'd probably be dead already. Which just begs the question of why the hell haven't you yet?
He's infuriating, obnoxious, arrogant and self-absorbed. He's also skilled, and objectively attractive, but it's not like you work in an industry filled with people that are not that. He's not that different. Except for moments in the past where she actually realized how similar they are. It wasn't often that you got to be emotionally vulnerable with anyone. Vulnerability is usually a death sentence. But with him, a few moments managed to slip past. He started it too, which was surprising. A close call here, a quiet moment there. You got closer. Worse, you got attached. The worst, is that you actually have no idea if he had that same disgusting epiphany, or if he's just doing what he always does. Con people. Be the Grifter. I'd be annoying if he wasn't so respectfully good at it. God, you can feel a headache forming behind your eyes.
"Can't I visit a friend?" He slowly stalks forward, but stops at a somewhat regular distance, which is strange on it's own, considering he doesn't really believe in personal space. But answering a question with another question is just the icing on the cake.
"I don't have the energy for this right now Cash. Come back when I'm not about to pass out from exhaustion. And probably like, blood loss." The last part is mumbled out, and it's like all the fight has been finally drained from you.
You look pale, is the first thing he notices. The second, is the fuckload of bruises and cuts all over your body. A bullet hole there, barely patched up. How the hell have you been functioning like this?
He heard from the grapevine that your job went south an hour ago. It's not like he's worried. He knows you can handle yourself, hell, sometimes he even has the self-awareness to admit that you might just be better than him, but something's been changing recently. He liked you the second he met you. Sure, at first it was purely physical, I mean he can't help it once he sees a pretty lady, but then he got to meet you. Got to spend hours talking with you about nothing and then everything. He figured he was fucked right around the time he told you about Max. He's not a coward, tho. He took a leap, and while aware it may never work out, considering you barely tolerate him on a good day, he figured at least he could try. It's not his first time being turned down, not a biggie. And maybe if he dropped everything once he heard the news tonight just so he could see for himself that you're fine, then what? Friends do that, right?
You are not fine, however. He can slowly feel himself getting that itch in his hands, begging him to go find whoever thought they could lay their hands on you and fucking break them, but he hears your soft sigh as you try to find anything to patch yourself up with from the med kit, he calms down. At least enough to help you. Later, he'll kill the bastards. Maybe just take you with him and watch you do it yourself.
He slowly steps closer and grabs your hand, stopping the motions of retrieving medical supplies.
"Let me, hm?" Cole said in a voice so soft, she almost forgot who she was looking at.
He took off his mask in the meantime, his gloves laid on the counter beside them. You slowly turn around, raising your head and looking him in the eye. It almost seemed like he was holding something back. She could feel the tension rising, but as soon as it happened, the spell broke. You finally got through his defenses; could finally see the man that hides behind shitty jokes, bravado and general idiocy. Because the man in front of you looked scared. You took a deep breath, for what seemed like the first time in a long while.
"Okay. Just… take it easy, alright? I've kind of had enough for one week." It was meant to be said like a joke, but it fell flat. He smiled; and not his usual cocky grin, it was gentle, almost.
"Sure, honey. Whatever you need." Your breath hitched at his words, almost spellbound you rose up and hopped on the counter to give him easier access.
He slowly and methodically bandaged you up. Every time you hissed or cursed in pain, he's apologize, murmuring sweet nothings, hoping to somehow soothe you. He was still raging on the inside, but taking care of you sort of became a priority in his mind. His touch was featherlight, never really knowing how to be gentle but trying anyway. He worked in silence, not knowing how to really break it. He wanted to say a million things, but he couldn't bring himself to break whatever the hell was happening between you two just now. Cash also felt like you were realistically too exhausted to even process what was going on.
As he wrapped the remaining wounds in gauze, he slowly touched your face, afraid of spooking you. Cupping your cheek in his hand, his finger making small patterns. For a second, he thought that he could get used to this. Making sure you're well taken care of, patching you up, comforting you. As foreign as it felt, Cole didn't feel the mortifying fear of being vulnerable in front of someone.
"Come on. I'll bring you something to wear and we can put you to bed, yeah?" She slowly lowered herself onto the cold tiles and swayed a bit in one place. She blinked, and Cole reappeared with an old, tattered shirt that you usually wear to sleep. Like he knew. You put it on, and then felt him grab you behind the knees and over your back as he bend over to pick you up. You didn't have it in you to even fake a protest. He walked slowly, hugging you closely to his chest, and tucked you in when you guys reached the bed in the other room.
You looked at him for a second longer, almost afraid of him dispreading if you closed them. He must have seen something in your eyes, because he just smiled again, kissed your forehead, definitely lingering, and said: "Don't worry sweetheart. I ain't going anywhere. Rest up."
His words were the final thing you heard before you completely passed out. The last thought was, that if he didn't keep this promises, you were so killing him.
Plot: He shows up bleeding again, same as always. Only this time, he doesn't leave before morning and that kinda fucks you up a little.
Words: 6,9k
A/N: okay listen this is just a tiny detour besties, I promise 👉🏻👈🏻 the other ones are coming I SWEAR but my brain short circuited the second I saw "Cole Cash" in my inbox and everything else just stopped mattering. I don't know what to tell you 🏃🏻♀️ he's unwell and apparently so am I 🫠
this one's a little angsty but like... so is he 😩 that man has never healed emotionally in his entire life. anyway, enjoy the violence, ILY byeee 🫶🏻
He shows up bleeding, because of course he fucking does. A smear of red down his jaw, one hand wrapped in a bloodstained rag, and that cocky, half limping swagger that says yeah, I handled it. Red mask half torn, blonde hair mussed like he rolled through a warzone—which, knowing him, he probably did.
And you just let him in like you always do.
You don't even blink anymore, just step aside, sighing like he's tracked mud in on your freshly mopped floor, not like he's bleeding all over your welcome mat and still has the audacity to wink at you when you arch a brow.
"You should see the other guy," he says, voice rough with smoke or adrenaline or maybe just that stubborn smugness you've come to associate with him. The bastard.
It's been like this for months, really. Ever since the first time he ended up in your bed, smirking against your mouth, fingers curling in your sheets like he owned them. Like he owned you. You told yourself that night was a one off, a slip up, a bad decision in a string of questionable ones.
Except he showed up again. And again. Sometimes with bruises, sometimes with blood, always with that same infuriating glint in his eye and that body you couldn't say no to even if you tried. And yeah, you've told yourself—lied to yourself—this is the last time.
The next time he shows up, you'll say something. Put your foot down, set a boundary. Either he wants something real or he stops showing up like this, like a stray cat with a bloody paw and a hard dick, but the words never come.
Because the thing is, you're not sure you want to end it. Okay, you actually don't know what you want. Not really. You're messy. You're clingy when you're tired. You fall asleep with your leg tossed over his hip and wake up to a cold bed more often than not.
And yeah, it stings, but you don't push. Because you're not sure you could handle the fallout if you did. Because maybe you don't need a relationship right now. Maybe this half thing, this "fuck now, pretend it's nothing later" thing... maybe it works. Sort of. Maybe.
Besides, Cole is not the relationship type. You know that. He's not yours. He's just... here. For now. Bleeding on your floor. Again.
"Hope you weren't sleepin'," he drawls, pushing the door closed behind him with his boot. "Missed me?"
You're not even surprised. He disappears for weeks at a time, shows up in the middle of the night like some devil's wet dream, stinking of gunpowder and smoke like he expects the world to stop for him. It usually does.
"You're bleeding all over my floor."
"Jesus," he grins, taking the mask off. "You say that like it's the worst thing I've done in here."
He doesn't even wait. Just stalks up, slow and loose hipped, predatory, bloodied knuckles flexing at his sides like he's been waiting all fucking night for this, and grabs your waist with those big hands. Too big, really, calloused and warm even under the grime, fingers curling like they belong there.
He walks you back like he knows you'll let him. You do, like always. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, breath catching, and that's all the invitation he needs.
His body towers over yours, all heat and tension and sweat, and that scent that clings to him no matter what: gunmetal, smoke, skin. Somehow, even caked in dried blood and dust, he still smells good. Still smells like him, and that quiet, primal part of you lights up instantly. Stupidly, even.
You try not to show it, try not to let your knees go jelly just because he's here, but it's hard when he's this close. When you can feel the weight of him, his chest just barely brushing yours, his breath ghosting over your lips, all wild and warm and Cole.
His mouth crashes into yours, all hunger and blood and that warm scrape of stubble. One hand bunches the hem of your tank top, the other squeezing your hip, grounding you while his knee wedges between your thighs.
You moan—helplessly, embarrassingly—because your body always betrays you when it comes to him. Your pussy is already wet, soaked through your panties before you even kissed him, because of course it remembers him better than you do. That stretch, that curve, the way he ruins you like he was fucking made for it.
And fuck, maybe he was. You feel it already, the hot pulse of his cock behind his pants, rubbing against your stomach while he devours your mouth like he's starving and you're his last fucking meal.
God, and his dick... of course he's smug. He's got every reason to be. He knows what he's packing, knows what it does to you. Long, thick, the kind that makes your thighs shake and your voice break when he splits you open. The kind you dream about even when you're trying to pretend he's just a good lay.
There's nothing polite about the kiss, no easing into it, just filthy tongues and teeth and the soft, slick sound of your mouth opening for him again and again. His fingers dig into your waist, greedy, dragging your hips against his thigh, and you swear he moans when he feels the heat between your legs.
"Fuck—knew I needed this," he murmurs into your mouth. "Thought about it every damn hour I was gone. You, spread out for me... the needy little sounds you make..."
"Then maybe don't disappear for two fucking weeks," you snap against his lips.
He chuckles, low and dangerous. "You mad at me, doll?"
"You think I'm gonna fuck you while you're bleeding?" you huff, but his hand is already down your panties.
"Oh, you're gonna fuck me," he mutters, lips wet and swollen, pressing his forehead to yours. "Or I'm gonna fuck you, whatever you wanna call it. Cause you're wet as hell, and I barely touched you."
He's right. His fingers slide through the mess between your legs, slow and greedy, dragging your slick up to your clit just to swirl it there until you're twitching in his grip.
Teasing you, not to be mean but just because he can. Because he loves how fast you fall apart, how easy it is to get you soaked and needy with just two fingers and that fucked up grin.
He smears the wetness all over your folds, fingertips parting you again and again like he's memorizing the way you feel. Like he didn't fuck you stupid just weeks ago and dream about it every night since.
And yeah, he did. Not that he'd ever fucking say it. He's hard, straining against his pants, so fucking hard it hurts. Has been since the second you opened the door in that little tank top, all sleepy heat and pissed off attitude like you weren't about to melt in his hands the second he touched you.
He tells himself it's just your pussy. Best he's ever had—tight, wet, always ready for him. That's all it is. That's gotta be all it is. It sure as hell ain't the way you look at him sometimes. It ain't your pretty mouth clapping back at every single one of his cocky remarks without folding or giggling like every other bitch. The way you say his name when you think he's asleep. The way he can't stop showing up, even when he knows he shouldn't.
He pushes his fingers in a little, just the tips, dragging them back up to your clit like he's testing how much you can take.
"You missed me, huh?" he mutters against your mouth, lips brushing your skin as you whimper. "Pussy so sweet for me it forgot how to behave."
He doesn't even give you time to argue, just hooks one of your legs around his hip, pulls your panties to the side, shoves his pants down enough to free his dick and lines up like it's the most natural thing in the world.
And God, he's already leaking. The head of his cock is flushed, swollen, drooling a fat string of precum that stretches between you and him—warm and wet where it lands against your thigh, sticking to your skin. It makes your breath catch, makes your mouth water like you haven't already had it in every way a man can give it. Doesn't. Fucking. Matter. It always does this to you. Big, thick, and pretty as fuck, veins bulging with the strain of how hard he is.
"Cole—"
"You want me to stop?" he asks, voice tight, jaw flexing like it's costing him something to even offer. "Tell me no. Say the word and I swear I'll stop."
You hesitate a beat too long. Because no, you don't want him to stop. You can feel it all over, this heat crawling under your skin, burning through your belly and straight down to where your pussy is dripping for him. You're soaked, dizzy with it, your body aching so loud your mind can barely think. You swallow hard, breath shaky, and he knows. Fuck, he knows.
Can practically smell the need on you, thick and sweet in the air between your bodies, clinging to your skin like heat lightning. He knows your tells by now, the way you press your lips together to keep from begging, the tremble in your thighs, the soft gasp you let out when the head of his cock nudges your pussy but doesn't push in.
Instead, he pulls back just enough to line his dick with your clit and slaps it there—wet and heavy, the sharp, obscene sound punching straight through your gut. It makes you jolt, gasp, your leg tightening around his hip. You try to keep quiet, you really try, but a whimper still slips out, all breathy and wrecked, followed by a choked moan when he does it again.
"C'mon," he murmurs, lips ghosting along the curve of your jaw. "Tell me to stop."
Smug bastard. He knows damn well you won't. You try to sass back, mouth opening with something smart, but he slides the head of his cock down, dragging it through your slick folds.
Your pussy clenches hard around nothing, aching, trying to suck him in with every flex and twitch. It damn near does, too, your body all but begging for it, but he's faster. He pulls back with a low, rough sound in his throat, just enough to keep you empty. Teasing. Fucking cruel.
"Say the word," he mutters against your lips, brushing them with his like he's coaxing out a secret. "Say stop. Say no. Say please."
You glare at him, breath hot and tight, hands curling in the front of his shirt like maybe you will throw him across the room, but your voice breaks instead.
"Just fuck me already or I swear—"
"Good fuckin' girl," he groans, voice rough, the edge of it making you whimper.
And then he thrusts, deep and rough and unforgiving, knocking the air out of your lungs. You gasp, choking on a moan that punches out of you when that perfect dick stretches your walls wide, sliding in with no resistance.
He's soaked in your slick, already drooling down to your thighs, and the obscene sound of him filling you up echoes in the quiet of your apartment, broken only by the sharp slap of skin against skin and the rasp of your breathing.
Your head knocks back against the wall with a thud, and he groans again, one hand catching your jaw, holding you in place just rough enough to make your pussy clench around his cock like a fist.
"Oh, baby," he hisses, lips barely brushing yours. "That pretty pussy just sucked me in like you missed me."
You did. Not that you'll say it. Not when your thoughts are a hot, brainless blur. Why the fuck does this feel better every time? God, you needed this, needed him, and it feels like every nerve ending is screaming from the inside out. Every drag of his dick feels like it splits you open—too much, too good, too fucking deep.
His mouth is back on yours before you can think of a response. Messy and demanding, teeth dragging your lower lip, tongue greedy as he fucks you—hard and sharp, hips slamming into yours with every thrust—and the kiss turns feral fast. You moan into it, one hand fisting his shirt, the other tangled in his hair, dragging him closer because it still isn't close enough.
His thoughts? He's not saying shit out loud, but they're all there, burning hot under his skin, right behind the dark glint in his eyes.
God, you fit him too good. He missed your pussy. Missed you. He can't even fucking think when he's inside you. And he most certainly can't fucking stay away no matter how hard he tries. Shit.
The moans you both let out aren't just want, they're relief. He always fucks you like this, like he's trying to exorcise whatever demons followed him home. But even when he's slamming into you like he's losing his goddamn mind, there's still that edge of care, that softness he hides under the bruising grip of his hands and the way his hips snap against yours.
He watches your face almost the whole time, eyes dark and hungry but locked in. Tracking every twitch, every flutter of your lashes, every whimper and gasp like he's studying you. And when you moan his name, broken and high, his mouth curls into a dirty little smile.
"That's it, baby," he grits out, low and fucking wrecked. "Sound so goddamn sweet when I fuck you dumb."
His hand yanks your tank top down in one rough tug, baring your tits to the open air. He doesn't even pause, just groans, eyes glued to the bounce of them with every thrust, thumb brushing over one nipple, then the other, just to hear the way your breath catches.
"Look at you," he rasps. "So pretty like this. Takin' my dick so good. That tight little pussy's fuckin' perfect."
You whimper, and he feels it—your cunt fluttering around him like it's trying to milk every word straight out of his throat. His gaze drops down where his cock slides in and out of your soaked, clenching pussy. It's so fucking messy, slick spread all over his shaft, your thighs, his jeans shoved halfway down, and he watches, fucking hypnotized.
"Goddamn," he groans. "Look at that. Look at this needy pussy fuckin' takin' me."
You can barely breathe. Can barely speak. Because he's fucking you so hard your whole body is pinned to the wall, hips jerking instinctively to meet every brutal, perfect thrust. But underneath the roughness is heat—devotion, almost. The way he leans in, the way he presses his chest flush to yours like he can't stand even an inch of distance.
And that's what makes it the best fuck of your life. Every fucking time. Because yeah, he fucks you fast. Feral. Filthy. He ruts into you like a man starved, jaw clenched, breath ragged, hips snapping up with enough force to bruise. You feel every inch of his dick stretching you open, dragging against every sweet, aching spot inside you.
But it also feels like he never forgets who he's fucking. Never forgets the way you like to be touched, the pace that makes your thighs shake, the angle that makes your back arch off the goddamn wall. He always finds it. Always hits it. Always watches your face when he does. His mouth is all over your neck, your tits, your ear, sucking little bruises and whispering things that make your sensitive walls tighten around him.
"So fuckin' tight. Been thinkin' about this every time I loaded a clip. Every time I ducked a bullet. Thought about how you sound when I hit that spot—yeah, there, you feel that?"
You do. And God, he always makes you cum. Even when he's chasing his own release, even when he's a breath away from blowing inside you, his fingers still find your clit, rough and fast and perfect, circling it until your moans pitch into that needy, high whine he loves. The one that makes his hips stutter and his eyes roll back like he's addicted to the way your body breaks for him. Because he is.
And you? You're just trying not to black out from how goddamn good he feels.
"You missed me. Didn't even realize how bad. But your pussy did. She's so fuckin' honest, baby."
Your hands claw at his shirt, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself as your body burns. He doesn't let up, doesn't slow down, just keeps fucking into you with this raw purpose.
Every thrust hits that sweet spot dead on, over and over. You're gasping, legs trembling, the base of his cock absolutely drenched from how soaked you are—slick smeared down his dick, coating his skin, dripping down your thighs. Every time he pushes in, there's a little squelch, wet and obscene, echoing with each slap of his hips against yours.
He makes sure you take every inch, one hand gripping your leg, the other braced beside your head while he pistons into you. He watches your face twist, watches your body seize around him, and fuck, he feels it too. How hot and tight you are, how your cunt sucks him in, and he's barely holding on, jaw locked, every muscle straining from how close he is.
Your walls flutter and squeeze so goddamn tight around him, all heat and slick and desperation, and it nearly knocks the breath out of him. He needs that mess—you dripping down his cock, the slick slap of skin on skin, the way your whole body clenches like it's trying to drag his cum out.
And still, he doesn't stop, just grits his teeth, slams in harder, deeper. You yank him down into a kiss, desperate, messy, your fingers curling tight in the collar of his shirt. His mouth crashes into yours again, all spit and breath and heat, and you moan right into it, high and wrecked, sucking on his tongue.
He groans, deep in his chest, and it vibrates right through your ribs. His thrusts get erratic, deeper, harder, every sloppy drag of his cock punching up into you and God, he's just so fucking good. Thick and long, curved just right to keep dragging over that sweet spot with every brutal stroke. You swear you can feel every vein, every ridge, every twitch of him buried in your cunt, stretching you wide and filling you so goddamn deep.
The kiss breaks when you both gasp, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling—his hand back on your jaw, your lips swollen and slick from all the spit and moaning.
He's so fucking close, but so are you. Every thrust slams your back harder into the wall, your nails digging into his shoulders, toes curling, your pussy clenching so tight around him it's a miracle he hasn't cum yet.
"Say my name," he moans into your neck. "Wanna hear you say it when you cum."
You don't last much longer. Because now he's grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out, rutting so deep you swear you feel him in your throat, the thick ridge of his cock dragging right over that raw little spot inside you. Each time his pelvis grinds down against your swollen clit, sparks rip through your spine, your moans go high and breathy, whimpering into his mouth. Between the dirty words, the angle, the heat of his body, you break.
"Yeah, I know, doll," he pants, voice rough and cocky and so goddamn smug in your ear. "Feels good, huh? I know it does."
And then it hits. Your pussy clenches hard, spasming around him as you cum with a desperate cry, whole body jerking, legs shaking. You gush around his dick, slick pouring down to the base in a wet rush, making everything hotter, filthier, messier. Your walls flutter and squeeze like you're trying to drag him deeper, locking him in, milking him for everything he's got.
"Cole—oh fuck—Cole—"
He shudders when you clench around him, biting down on a curse, hips grinding deep as he follows with a groan. One hand slams the wall beside your head, the other locking around your thigh to hold you in place while he spills inside you.
His cock twitches hard, thick spurts of cum flooding your pussy in hot pulses, so much you swear you can feel it leaking the second it hits. He groans like it hurts, like he's been holding it back for hours, days, weeks—and maybe he has. His body jerks with each wave, hips locked tight against you as he pumps you full.
"Fuck—fuck," he grits out, voice shredded as his head drops to yours, sweat streaked forehead against your temple. You're both panting, flushed, bodies trembling like you've run through a warzone.
Heavy breath. Silence. The hum of danger finally gone. You both stay there, panting, tangled together in sweat and blood and something unspoken.
You drag him into a kiss, sloppy and desperate and open mouthed, all tongue and teeth and need, and he kisses you back just as rough. He groans into your mouth as your walls flutter again around his still hard cock, squeezing the last drops of cum from him, keeping him right there, buried deep.
Even when the kiss breaks, you're still trading little, desperate pecks—lips brushing, catching, like neither of you want to stop touching.
He presses his face to your shoulder, nose dragging along your skin like he's trying to memorize the way you smell under the sweat and sex and heat. His breath fans over your collarbone, hot and shaky. He's still buried deep inside you, still twitching, the thick mess of his cum leaking around the base of his cock and down your thighs, warm and sticky between your legs.
"You're the only thing that feels fucking real anymore," he mutters, voice quiet in that way that always gets to you. "Even if I don't deserve it."
You don't say anything. You just keep your arms around him and pretend it doesn't hurt to hear, even though it does. Even though the ache in your chest is starting to match the one between your thighs.
You're still holding him a few minutes later, cheek against his hair, fingers lightly tracing the back of his neck, when you finally notice it—warm, wet, and not in the fun way.
He's bleeding again. Somewhere higher up, maybe his side, soaking faintly through his shirt where you've got your arm wrapped.
You sigh, too tired and too full to be mad. "C'mon," you mutter, rubbing your hand way too gently down his spine. "Let's get you cleaned up and patched."
He groans low in his chest like it physically pains him to leave the warmth of your body, but he pulls out slow and careful, though that doesn't stop the wet sound of his cock sliding free or the sharp gasp that escapes your mouth.
The stretch burns on the way out just as much as it did on the way in, and then you both glance down at the mess he left—his cum already leaking out of you, a sticky ribbon trailing down your thigh. You catch the flicker in his eyes when he sees it. His fingers twitch at his side, and you know he wants to press it back in like he always does, two fingers pushing his load right back into your fluttering cunt.
But he winces, sucking a quiet breath through his teeth, and you clock the way he eases your leg down with slow, almost reverent hands like he's not sure what's sore and what isn't.
"You okay?" he asks, voice hoarse, that usual cockiness not quite there for once.
You scoff, brushing sweaty hair off your face, heartbeat still pounding in your chest. "I'm not the one bleeding, dumbass."
Your panties are already clinging uncomfortably to your soaked thighs, so you peel them off on the way out of the room. Cole grunts as he tugs his pants up with one hand, wincing again, then kicks off his boots before trailing after you toward the bathroom.
You bend over to toss your panties and tank top into the washing machine, and the bastard slaps your ass—loud, unapologetic, full fucking palm.
You jerk upright with a sharp glare over your shoulder. "Seriously?"
He smirks like the devil, "My bad."
You don't even bother with a reply, just roll your eyes so hard it might dislocate something and pad over to the shower. You twist the knob and let the water run hot, steam already starting to fog the mirror before you turn back to him with your arms folded over your bare tits, expression flat.
"Strip."
His brows lift. "Aw, baby, you gotta wine and dine me first—"
"Strip before I knock you the fuck out and do it myself."
He snorts, but the gleam in his eye says he might not hate that idea. Still, he doesn't push. Just shrugs, dragging his shirt over his head and letting it fall to the floor. His belt clinks a moment later, jeans joining the pile with a dull thud.
You step into the shower, letting the hot spray soothe your muscles while you pretend not to watch him follow. But when he finally steps under the water behind you, your gaze catches on him anyway, and your mouth goes dry.
He looks worse than usual. Not torn to shreds, but bruised all over. Deep purples blooming down his ribs, a gash across the side that's crusted with blood and grime. His knuckles are wrecked, one shoulder scraped like he slid on asphalt, and an old scar near his hip looks red and raw again.
You don't say anything, just sigh, pick up the body wash, and start scrubbing your own skin clean. He watches you the whole time, eyes trailing the curves of your body, the shimmer of lather over your tits, the slick water beading down your stomach and thighs.
When you catch him staring too long, you wordlessly hand him the bottle.
"What," he asks, tone flat, "you're not even gonna ask how I got these?"
You tilt your head, dry as fuck. "Do I even wanna know at this point?"
For once, he shuts up real fast. He soaps up with slow, methodical strokes—no dramatics, no teasing. You watch the way he works the suds into his bruised skin, across his chest, around the cut at his ribs like he's done this in a field hospital more times than he can count.
When he turns, you get a good look at his body: more bruises, old scars, a few fresh ones. Your eyes trace the muscle in his shoulders, the broad stretch of his chest, the ridges of his abs twitching under the water's pressure. Even beat to shit, he's still... fuck. He's still him.
And your body, traitorous as ever, remembers that. You rinse off, step back to give him space under the spray. He tilts his head into the water, groaning under his breath as it hits the sore spots and drips down his strong jawline, over his chest, his dick half hard and swinging heavy between his thighs. And God, you don't even mean to stare, but you do.
Because no matter how many times you see it, no matter how many times he wrecks you with it, he's still the most unfairly built son of a bitch you've ever laid eyes on.
You turn around to step out of the shower, still warm and dripping and muttering under your breath about assholes and bruises. Cole doesn't move, but he watches the sway of your hips, the curve of your ass as you step onto the bath mat and grab a towel.
He swipes a palm across the fogged glass, clearing a strip just wide enough to see you—still damp, water glistening along your back as you wrap the towel around yourself. Fuck.
He leans a little on the wall, not even hiding the way his gaze drags down your body. Your legs, soft and still a little shaky from the way he wrecked you against the wall. Your ass, red from the slap he gave you earlier, just begging for another one.
Your tits, gorgeous, plush, perfect, nipples still stiff from the cold air and leftover arousal. You adjust the towel and the curve of one peeks out, and it makes his mouth water all over again.
But then your eyes flick up in the mirror, just for a second, and he sees your face and something in him fucking stutters.
It's not just the body. Not just the sex. He's had more pussy than he can count, more bodies, more flings, more women moaning his name like they meant it. But you?
Every time he looks at your face—wet hair stuck to your cheeks, pouty mouth, those narrowed eyes that don't take a single drop of his shit—it fucks him up a little more.
And yeah, okay, maybe he hasn't been with anyone else since you. Not since the first time he got a taste and couldn't bring himself to want anything else. But that's not the point. That's not the fucking point.
Because he shouldn't feel like this. Not about anyone. Especially not someone who stomps out of the bathroom, still cussing under her breath, towel clutched to her chest like she didn't just take every inch of his dick.
You disappear into the bedroom, and he's left standing there under the still running water, jaw tight, pulse slowing, just... thinking. Thinking about how you're still in his head even now.
Thinking about how the sight of you walking away, legs damp and attitude hot as hell, does something to him. Something he doesn't have a fucking name for. And he hates that, but he also can't stop staring at the trail of your wet footprints down the hallway like they're fucking calling him.
You come back into the bathroom just as he steps out of the shower, steam curling off his skin, bruises blooming darker now that he's clean. He's toweling a hand through his wet hair when you toss a folded red towel at his chest. It hits with a dull thud, and he catches it with a smirk, one eyebrow raised.
"Red towel, huh?" he says, dragging it slow across his abs, pausing just long enough to glance down at his dick still swinging between his thighs. "Trying to match my war wounds or just my dick, baby?"
You stare at him. Flat. Tired. "Dry off before you drip on my damn tile, Cash."
The smirk doesn't leave his face, but you can see the way it twitches like he's fighting a laugh.
You chuck a pair of sweatpants at him next—plain, dark grey, worn in and soft. He catches those too, but when he unfolds them and holds them up, he pauses. His head tilts, brow quirking in that annoying, cocky way.
"These yours? Or some other guy's built like me?"
You scoff, already turning on your heel and heading back out. "What, jealous?" you call over your shoulder, hips swaying a little too deliberately as you vanish out the door.
His mouth opens like he wants to snap back, something sharp and flirty and full of denial. But it never makes it past his lips.
Because the word jealous sits there, loud and ugly and weirdly heavy. Is he? Does he even have the right to be?
He exhales through his nose, hard. Shakes his head. "Fucking ridiculous," he mutters under his breath.
Still, he towels off with a few rough swipes, then tugs the sweatpants on. They're a perfect fit. Of course they are. Just like everything else in this place—your place—somehow fits him a little too well, and he hates how comfortable it feels.
The waistband sits low on his hips as he pads barefoot into the living room, water still clinging to his skin, hair damp and messy. And there you are, already planted on the couch, first aid kit open on the coffee table, your fuzzy sock clad feet curled under you like this is just any regular night.
Like he didn't just fuck you breathless against a wall. Like he didn't bleed on your floor. Like this is normal. And maybe that's what messes him up the most.
A few minutes later, you finally get him to sit still long enough to stitch him up. He's grumbling, shirtless, blood streaked across his ribs, knuckles swollen, but he lets you work. He always does, when it's you.
"You got real gentle hands for someone who yells at me so fuckin' much," he smirks, wincing as you clean a cut.
"You've got real dumb timing for someone who bleeds this often."
You finally press the last bandage into place, wiping the blood from your fingers with a sigh. He's gone fucking quiet again.
Not the smug silence, either. Not the kind that comes after he wins an argument or makes you squirm just to be a menace. It's just a heavy, tired kind of quiet.
You glance up at him, brows drawn. "What, no sarcastic response this time?"
He shrugs, eyes not quite meeting yours. His shoulders are hunched a little, and for the first time all night, he looks... worn. Not just beat up, not just bruised, but bone tired in a way that sinks into your chest and makes you ache a little on his behalf.
So you don't push. You don't say anything else. Just seal up the first aid kit with a soft click and set it aside.
Rain starts to tap against the windows a minute later—soft at first, then heavier. You yawn without meaning to, rubbing your eye with the back of your hand.
"I'm going to bed," you mumble as you stand, stretching. Then, shooting him a glance over your shoulder, "You coming, or are you gonna sleep on my couch like some stray dog?"
He huffs out something that might be a laugh, shoulders shaking just slightly as he stands and follows you out of the living room. Your bedroom hasn't changed much since the last time he was here.
Neat, quiet, just a little too tidy in that way that says you like having control over something. Your sheets are freshly washed, the scent of your detergent soft in the air—clean linen and something warmer, like vanilla or maybe coconut.
You crawl into bed and immediately flop down, grabbing the comforter and scooting over without looking at him.
And for a moment, it's awkward. Always is, with him. Because you still don't fucking know where you stand. He's hot and cold—there when it matters, gone when you think it might mean something.
And the thing is, you're a cuddler. You always have been. But with him? You never know if it's okay. If he'll stiffen up like you've done something wrong. If he'll pull away or stay. You've always been good at reading people, but Cole is a fucking locked door. Cold steel and a trigger finger.
And still... he snorts. Not at you, exactly, just the moment, maybe. Then he shifts on the mattress, pulling the covers over both of you with a sigh.
His arm snakes around your waist without warning, rough palm splaying warm and solid across your stomach as he yanks you back into his chest.
You freeze for a second. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to.
Because you feel it—the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against your neck, the way he lets out the kind of quiet exhale people don't realize they've been holding in.
For a while, there's only the sound of rain against the window and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Your body starts to relax, heavy and boneless, every muscle slowly untensing now that you're warm and clean and not being pounded against a wall. His arm around you doesn't move. Doesn't tighten or loosen. Just stays right there—solid, steady, safe.
Which is so fucking weird because if there's one word you'd never associate with Cole fucking Cash, it's safe. He's chaos in combat boots. A walking hazard sign with a gun on each hip and a smirk that could burn bridges in a second. He leaves more often than he stays. He picks fights with shadows. He's done more damage to your peace than anyone else ever could. And still, when he sleeps beside you, your body just… fits. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like maybe it was always supposed to be this way.
So before you can talk yourself out of it, before the weight in your chest gets too heavy to lift, you whisper, "Cole?"
Your voice is soft, barely there, but it sounds so fucking loud in the quiet room, in the rain, in the stillness of two bodies wrapped up in something neither of you know how to name.
He hums in response, low and lazy, lips brushing the back of your shoulder. "Hmm?"
You swallow. Your heart is thudding against your ribs like it's trying to warn you off. Like it knows he doesn't do feelings or conditions or rules. But you still say it.
"If you leave again before I wake up," you murmur, staring at the far wall, "don't bother coming back."
You feel it instantly, the way he goes rigid behind you. Just for a second, like your words caught him off guard. Like he didn't expect that of all things to come out of your mouth.
But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't nod, doesn't argue, doesn't try to joke it away. He just... stays silent.
And that silence stings, just a little, but you're too tired to fight. Too tired to beg him for something you're not sure he knows how to give.
So you let your eyes close, the ache in your chest dulling into something tolerable. And eventually, you drift off with the rain in your ears and his body curled around yours.
But Cole? Cole stays wide awake. Eyes open, staring at the window, jaw tight.
Your words echo in his head over and over like a warning. Like a line in the sand. Like something he already knows he's gonna cross if he doesn't figure his shit out. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn't have a comeback, just the sound of your soft breaths and the quiet realization that maybe he doesn't want to leave this time.
You wake up to the sun trying to peek through the curtains and the rain long gone. The air smells like soap and warm skin and leftover sleep, and for a moment, you don't even realize what's different. Until you shift and he's still here.
Cole Cash, chaos incarnate, who always slips out before the sun is up like a damn ghost, still here. One arm heavy on his chest, breathing slow and deep, fingers tangled loosely in your blanket.
You don't know what that means. You don't know if he stayed because of what you said, or if he stayed in spite of it. If it's guilt or comfort or just plain exhaustion.
But you also don't hate it. You don't hate waking up to him—his lashes dark against his cheek, the little cut on his lip healing, his features soft for once. Pretty, in that rough around the edges way he's got. The kind of pretty that sneaks up on you when you least expect it and knocks the breath right out of your lungs.
So you just lie there for a minute, heart doing way too much for this early in the morning, eyes tracing the curve of his mouth, the mess of his hair, the way his hand twitches a little against his chest.
He's still here. Still breathing the same air as you like he belongs in your bed, like he didn't spend months acting like none of this meant anything.
But when he stirs, when his eyes crack open and catch you staring, he doesn't pull away.
He scoffs, voice rough and raspy from sleep. "Little fuckin' stalker," he mutters.
And like it costs him nothing, he slides a heavy arm around your waist and pulls you in, presses your body flush to his, chest to chest, and buries his face in your hair like it's home, breathes you in like maybe he's been starving for it.
You don't say anything. Just press your face into the crook of his neck, barely biting back your smile. He didn't leave. Not this time.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ GAZERBEAM X READER - HOME ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Would you believe that I busted this out in 45 minutes? NEITHER! I’m currently working on my OC sheet but I have no drawing skills so I may have to resort to the tools of old (Gacha Life). My plan is to write X Readers for you guys and write some indulgent x OC for me! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it! Please give me some ideas for the next fic as all the prompt generators on the internet are shit. Enjoy!
- Reader pronouns are she/her
-No Y/N
-SFW!
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It had been a long day. A long, horrible day for Simon J. Paladino. Or if you want to get technical, Gazerbeam.
It was Baron von Ruthless, again. Took a bunch of hostages, dragged them to the city centre and demanded $100,000 ransom for each individual hostage. In total, there were 63.
Of course, Bob wanted to go head first, fist smashing against the giant robot the Baron piloted, but the NSA insisted on negotiations.
To be honest, Simon would have preferred the smashing. The ongoing communications were excruciating and pointless.
Simon would ask for a hostage, he would raise the ransom, he’d ask again firmly. Ransom raised again.
In the end, they went with Bob’s original plan, and stormed the city centre, taking down Baron von Ruthless and his stupid robot.
The whole thing was dragged out and painful and Simon just wanted to lay down and-
The man stopped in front of his apartment door. Despite being a lawyer, rent in Municiberg was absolutely ridiculous. This was the only thing he could afford right now.
But Simon wasn’t worried about that. He was more focused on the delicious smell seeping from under the door of his flat. Almost in a trance, the Super dug into the pocket of his trench coat for his keys, which hid his super suit quite poorly, mind you.
The door creaked open slowly as Simon moved inside, to find the source of the intoxicating smell.
“I saw the news.”
Simon dropped his briefcase onto the floor.
You had your back turned, humming slightly as you busied yourself over the stove. You were in your PJs, hair tied up messily, and wearing pink fluffy slippers.
Simon had never seen a more beautiful creature.
But he didn’t say that.
“You did?”
“Mhm..”
You turned slightly to look at him, your (E/C) eyes boring into his. The man looked down quickly out of habit, but forced himself to gaze upon you again.
Simon padded across the cold, wooden floor to reach you, before wrapping his worn out arms around your waist and burying his face into your neck, breathing in your scent like he’d never smell it again. You smelt warm and fresh at the same time.
You smelt like home.
You grinned when you felt him come up behind him. Like you said, you had seen the news. It looked painful, Simon looked exasperated, in his own serious way. You knew he needed some comfort.
Simon mumbled into your neck, his words indecipherable. You giggled at the action softly.
“What was that?”
He begrudgingly pulled his face from your neck, glasses now crooked from the action.
“What are you making?”
“..Soup..”
“What kind?”
You turned your head slightly to look at him, tousled hair and crooked glasses and all. His bright eyes looked dimmed. God, you loved him.
“Your favourite.”
Simon unwrapped one of his hands from your waist and brought it up to your cheek. Your eyes never left his. Despite the exhaustion from the day and having to come back to his shitty apartment, he knew he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
He leaned in and your lips met in a soft kiss. It was simple, and quick, but it meant so much more than that.
Before you knew it, he was leaning in for another, and another.
“-Simon”
He spun you around in his arms and repositioned you away from the stove, one of his hands fumbling to turn off the stove.
“Baby..-“
His kissed you hungrily, like a man dying of thirst, his hands roaming and grabbing every inch of your body. Jesus he needed this. He needed you.
You halfway gasped and giggled as you felt his lips travel down to your neck, licking and sucking like a mad man.
“Honey… the soup..”
“Just let me kiss you, sweetheart…”
He mumbled into your neck, breathless. He had wanted this all damn day and only God himself could drag him from your arms right now.
Your arms, which were formerly wrapped around his neck, unwrapped and your hands cupped his cheeks, stopping him from assaulting your neck any further.
He looked at you, confused and honestly kind of sad that you stopped him. You couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face.
“Simon, you’re exhausted, you’ve had a massive day…”
Your hands pulled his face close as your foreheads touched.
“Let me do this for you..” You whispered.
Before you knew it, he pulled you into a tight hug and once again, buried his face into your neck.
“I love you”
It was muffled by your neck and quiet, but you heard it nonetheless.
You wrapped his arms around his neck, propping your chin up onto his broad shoulder. You knew how hard words were for him, so this meant everything in the world.
“I love you too”
Eventually, you coaxed him onto the couch with a bowl of steaming hot chicken noodle soup, finally changed into his pyjamas.
The TV was blaring a shitty sitcom, the empty bowls were long forgotten, and you were both curled up in a blanket on the couch.
He heard soft breathing coming from his side. Simon turned his head gently to see you had fallen asleep, despite the circumstances.
He smiled at you softly. Despite whatever happened at work, or life for that matter, he knew he could always come home to you.
He gently lifts you up to position you in a horizontal position on the couch, before he lays down with you and pulls up the blanket to cover you both.
The only regret he had was his sore back in the morning, which you scolded him for.
I did not expect the super audio files to get a little bit popular now on tik tok-- especially gamma jack for some reason, so I decided to draw good ol gazerbeam cus... he's still my fav and hot
obsessed with characters who don't even show up in their own film series 💔 (made blazestone orange cuz she has fire powers n there’s already so many blue supers)
Maybe it’s just me but you know when you get an update on a chapter of an amazing book and you read it - your like that was great to then realise I have to wait for the next one. LOORRRRDDDD I CANNTTTTT
Unblocking JUST so @gammajacksleftsock can see this💖
“Fandom etiquette” is a crazy term to bring up as someone who likes to tag their works incorrectly for reach purposes. Is it unusual that it happens? No. Am I gonna make it my problem if it happens while I’m looking for fics and I see it? Why yes, of course! And dw I’ll block you again as soon as you see this. As for my question under your post, I’ll admit that it was indeed passive aggressive on purpose, but it was still a genuine question. You said it was your first oneshot, I was irritated but I wanted to see if maybe you tagged it wrong cuz you don’t understand how tagging is meant to work. Obviously we know that’s not the case now. Did I report your post for it after you told me? Hell yeah! Reported for “spam”(ming posts in the wrong tag. 😇) And ik how to curate my timeline, that’s why I blocked you.
Also I’m not a non-sharing yume-shipper. I think oc x canon is wonderful… when it’s tagged correctly. People come out with cool ass OC’S all the time that I really admire, but they don’t try to sell their selfships as content that everybody can relate to. When I click on the x reader tag I am looking for fics and content that I, as a brown-skinned coily haired midsized woman, can insert myself into. I am NOT trying to read about your named, pale skinned, straight haired, stick skinny oc. Also for someone who has “Yumeshipper | I don’t mind sharing I just don’t wanna see it” in your bio, you really have no problem inserting your OC in tags where other yumeshippers WILL see it 🙄
TLDR; stop mistagging your shit and no one’ll have any problems.🤷🏽♀️
Anyways, can’t wait for all the incredibles content drops. So glad that it suddenly blew up I’m excited to see all the headcanons and shit.
Regardless of what fandom you’re in I feel like using tags properly is something everybody should try and abide by, just out of respect for the other people consuming content in that fandom. On that note, please stop tagging your Predator universe x OC fics with the “yautja x reader” tag, thanks.
I speedrun those while the hype for the game is there
Warning, man covered in blood under the read more ‼️
The joke is cringe probably 💥 but I just find the idea of doubleganges completely not understanding human nature and concepts hilarious 💥💥
(P.S. also apparently “bloody” milkman is not a doubleganger canonically??? I always assumed he was, because only watched lets plays of the game and ppl always called D.D.D. on him. But on the wiki of the game it vaguely states that it is just the milk man💥 Which is omg??? Obviously ignoring it for the sake of funny, but damn if I understood correctly, this is such a cool sneaky detail that makes everyone automatically assume things)
kianamaiart
izzy806
germansingergirl
