•23• She/They • ♤MDNI♤ This blog posts a variety of fanfiction, including dark fics! Don't like don't read. *I do not own my pfp or header, and I'm not sure who took them.*
Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Thor Odinson x Reader
Summary: Another year, another Purge spent at Bucky's cabin has you questioning your sanity when you think your best friends want to kill you.
Warnings: NON-CON, g*ngbang, The Purge AU
🕸 HAPPY HALLOWEEN 🕸
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies
ྐ❤︎
You stumbled over a tree root you'd manage to miss in the darkness, but it didn't deter your determination to get as far away as you could. In the back of your mind you knew that there was no realistic way to get out of your predicament, but the desperation and self preservation inside of you wouldn't let you admit defeat.
You had to try.
Sweat coated your skin, evidence of just how much you'd pushed yourself the moment you realized the danger you found yourself in. It was insane to think that only some five hours ago you were relaxed and surrounded by who you thought were friends, feeling comfortable and protected with people you'd known for years. Now, you were running for your life from those same people.
You should have known that something was wrong from the moment you'd stepped inside of the cabin.
“What time is Nat getting here?”
That was one of the first questions out of your mouth as you'd sat your things down. Steve was the one to answer you, and looking back, you should've paid more attention to the slight pause before he gave you a response.
“She's not,” he'd said, turning to you with a sheepish look and a shrug. “Said she was going to wait it out at home this year”.
You recalled the way you'd frowned, finding it odd that Nat wasn't coming. Since the first year it was put into place, all of you always holed up during the Purge together in some fancy backwoods cabin Bucky owned. Your disappointment must have been obvious because Steve had reached out, playfully flicking your chin.
“Hey, you still have us,” he'd told you with a small smirk. “It'll still be fun.”
“Yeah, I know.”
You'd fought to keep your tone even, but you had been disappointed, and it wasn't just because of Nat. The day before Bucky had told you that Wanda wasn't coming either and a few days before that Tony made the sudden decision to stay in one of his many expensive buildings with Pepper. It wasn't like you hated that it was just going to be you and the guys, but naturally you loved being around your girlfriends.
“Cheer up, Lady Y/N,” Thor had said when he got a good look at your face. “I have brought you your favorite movies at your request, and we will watch them as many times as you'd like.”
The blonde's infectious demeanor and determination to make you smile had relaxed you, forcing you to brush off any reservations you'd started to have. Looking back, you wondered if that was planned too—for Thor to be the one to lessen your unease because naturally he would. He was Thor, and you didn't think he had one sadistic bone in his body.
When your shirt got caught on a branch, it took everything in you not to cry out as the sharp piece of wood broke skin. The saltiness of your sweat hit your tongue as you pulled your lip between your teeth, blinking back tears as you renewed your hurried steps. Your vision was starting to sway a bit, and you knew that you were pushing yourself too much but the alternative end to this night wouldn't allow you to stop.
You could both feel your heartbeat in your throat and hear it in your ears. That observation only served to remind you that they no doubt could as well even from far away, and you fought the urge to cry again as the trajectory of this night once again felt inevitable. How were you supposed to keep out of reach of two super soldiers and a literal god in the middle of the Purge? Where would you go? Who would even help you if you happened to stumble upon someone else out here? What would you tell them? That the friends you'd had for years and who you'd holed yourself up in a cabin with were chasing you down to do God knows what?
You didn't even know what they wanted with you.
In fact, for hours you'd been none the wiser to the danger you were in, oblivious as ever as you and Thor attempted to make Wanda's signature dish. You both were very bad at it, laughing at the mess you were making while Bucky and Steve were getting fire wood. Finally admitting defeat, you'd decided to go ahead and hop in the shower, opting to just go and get ready to call it a night.
You could hear Bucky downstairs talking with Thor when you got out, glancing at the clock in the hallway and noting you had about 4 more hours until the Purge commenced. Any other year and you would've been glued to Nat’s hip, but seeing as you found yourself a tad more alone this year, you instead decided to lay down for a bit. The drive up to the cabin was no joke and as much as you'd always been encouraged to every year, you never could relax enough to just sleep through it.
“You're in a house full of a couple of assassins and some of the most dangerous people on the planet,” Nat would say to you. “What would we possibly let happen to you?”
She was right of course, but even still your body would never just let you sleep through it, and this year was even more nerve wracking without her by your side. You found yourself in and out of sleep for what felt like ages but in reality it was only about two hours. Occasionally you'd wake up to the sound of Thor’s voice asking you if you wanted or needed anything but you'd continuously give him a grumbled ‘no’ before going back to sleep.
It was in those throes of sleep that you heard it.
Steve’s voice was so recognizable and clear, but his words were so off putting that you immediately thought you must be dreaming. You were convinced that you were dreaming because your body still felt too heavy to be awake.
“No, she's asleep,” you heard him say, his voice carrying ever so softly from the hallway. “Why would we be? We only have a couple of more hours.”
There were a few beats of silence before his voice carried again.
“Well, you can just never be too safe. Anything done during the Purge is legal,” he softly laughed to himself. “Why chance it?”
His words created a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you weren't able to place why until a few moments later.
“Bucky took care of her starter,” he said, making your heart sink. “She won't be going anywhere.”
His words were so vivid in your mind even when you did eventually wake up, and while you were sure your mind had conjured them up, something deep down in your gut wouldn't let you be convinced. You had sat in your room for a while just playing it over in your head and repeatedly telling yourself it was just a dream no matter how much something said otherwise.
Your jumbled thoughts must have been evident because Bucky asked you if you were alright when you eventually made it downstairs.
“Yeah,” you'd told him after a while, shaking your head. “Just slept weird, I think.”
The dark-haired man had looked at you for what felt like too long before humming to himself.
“You want something to eat? I know you and Thor’s attempt at dinner didn't turn out too well,” he'd chuckled.
His light demeanor made your shoulders relax a bit, and you knew he noticed by the way those blue eyes of his shifted.
“Yeah I might as well,” you'd sighed, moving to sit on the couch. “I won't be able to do much else for a while.”
The brunette only threw you a smile before getting up, and you’d flipped through the DVDs Thor brought. As nice as the cabin was, at the end of the day it was still just a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and while the lack of internet never bothered you before, it was glaringly obvious this year without Nat or Wanda to keep you busy.
Among other reasons.
You’d found your thoughts drifting as you stared at the DVD in your hand, eventually convincing yourself that you were losing it. Of course, it had been a dream. Even if it wasn’t a dream, what could you possibly think it meant? Bucky had broken your car and Steve was talking to someone about their plot to what? Kill you? It was almost laughable, and you’d shaken your head.
You’d finally chosen a movie to put on just as Bucky finished up in the kitchen, the sound of the opening door reaching your ears as Thor and Steve brought in more firewood.
The smell of said firewood still clung to your clothes and hair as your gaze roamed along the dark trees in front of you. You needed to make sure you weren’t just mindlessly running in circles, but you also didn’t have the luxury of stopping and assessing where you were. You held your hand to your bleeding shoulder as leaves crunched beneath your feet. You were out of breath and so tired and so…confused, but most of all you were scared.
The thought that that phone call you heard was real was one that almost paralyzed you with fear. It seemed too insane—too sick—to be true, and yet you found yourself running in the middle of nowhere during the height of the Purge in the hopes that you would last the night. You hadn’t wanted to believe it, but the short phone call from Nat that managed to get through still made your head spin.
“I’m surprised I even managed to get a signal,” you’d told her hours earlier with a smile, stepping out onto the back patio. “The service out here is almost the same as the lack of wifi.”
“Out where? The cabin?” she’d asked, and her genuine confusion had made you frown.
“Uh, yeah,” you mockingly told her. “You know, the one you decided not to come to this year.”
There was a pregnant pause.
“Bucky said he didn’t think they were going up there this year.”
The redhead’s words only made your frown deepen, that sinking feeling returning to your chest.
“The asshole didn’t tell me he’d changed his mind,” and you could almost see her rolling her eyes on the other side of the line. “It’s so boring waiting this out without my partner in crime.”
She was chuckling to herself, but you had fallen quiet. You’d stared at the woods behind the cabin, going over both her words and what Steve had told you. You gently shook your head, telling yourself that there must have been some miscommunication. In fact, you were just about to bring up Steve’s contradicting words when you turned around…and froze.
The man in question was just on the other side of the sliding glass door, an unreadable expression on his face and two mugs in his hands. There was a brief moment where you both just stared at each other, and then suddenly a small smile graced Steve’s lips as he held the mugs up, brows lifting.
“Yeah, I guess he did,” you slowly replied, distracted. “I’ll call you back later once we’re locked in and settled.”
You and Nat said goodbye, and you swallowed as you reached out to open the door.
“What did Nat want?”
The blond didn’t even try to pretend like he didn’t hear who was on the phone, and so you knew that he heard exactly what was said.
“Just checking in,” you told him, grabbing a mug of hot chocolate. “She misses me.”
You looked at him as you said that, and Steve only shrugged.
“Well, no one told her to stay home this year,” he said to you, bumping his arm against yours as you walked inside.
You only smiled at him, desperately trying to get your thoughts together.
Was it possible there was just some innocent miscommunication? Maybe Bucky hadn’t relayed it to Nat that he’d decided to come back up here, after all and maybe Steve thought her absence was because she just wanted to stay home this year, not knowing she was under the impression no one was coming to the cabin. It was plausible, and the simplest answers were often the truth, but…
That phone call.
It had to have been a dream because the alternative was too terrifying to think about. Steve was your friend. Bucky was your friend. Thor was your friend. They were friends that you’d known and worked with for years, and the idea that you were alone with them up here for less than genuine reasons was making your stomach twist into knots. You knew that you were scaring yourself, and you forced yourself to take a deep breath.
You forced yourself to ask yourself a few questions, wondering what the reason would even be? They weren’t homicidal violent men or anything like that, and you’d never once felt unsafe with them. In fact, it was always the opposite, so what would the reason even be? Why would they orchestrate this whole thing that left you alone up here with them…during the Purge?
You’d told yourself that you were losing it, and after some time you’d offered to take everyone’s empty mugs to the sink. You could hear them having some debate about some game a month back as you did, placing the empty dishes into the sink. Your hands found the counter, and your eyes met your reflection in the kitchen window. You acknowledged that you were making yourself paranoid, but you couldn’t stop.
You were normally such a rational person, and everything about your train of thought was irrational, but yet you could not let it go. It made zero sense because they weren’t even sort of like the kind of guys who would hurt you—or any woman—but something kept nagging at you in the back of your mind. Something inside of you refused to let you relax.
As Thor’s loud laugh reached your ears, your gaze drifted to Steve’s phone on the counter. The blond—still refusing to grasp technology to the fullest degree—never kept a passcode on it, and your hand was moving without a second thought. They were still talking as you looked at Steve’s call history, searching for something that would ease your worries, but you only got the opposite.
Tony was the last person Steve talked to, and while that wasn’t cause for any kind of suspicion, you did notice that the call was taken when you were asleep—or at least in and out of sleep. You placed it back on the counter as if it were on fire, staring at it with wide eyes and telling yourself that it didn’t mean anything.
A coincidence.
You told yourself it was a coincidence, but you didn’t feel convinced.
“Hey, I’m kind of cold,” you loudly said, making your way to the key hook. “I’m grabbing my scarf from the car.”
It wasn’t a lie. You were indeed still a little nippy, and your scarf was still in your car, but your brain wouldn’t let this go. You kept coming up with more scenarios to prove yourself wrong and ease your worries, and you didn’t know why. You were outside before any of them replied, and you did just as you said, unlocking the vehicle and grabbing your scarf.
However, before you could talk yourself out of it, you were sitting in the driver’s seat and your key was in your ignition and you were turning it. You turned it twice. Then a third time, and a fourth time, and each time…it wouldn’t start.
It was quiet outside aside from the odd sound of an owl or two as you just stared at your dashboard. You could see your breath as you exhaled, telling yourself all kinds of excuses for what you were experiencing. It was cold and maybe it just needed a minute, but even after trying it again after a few minutes, there was no such luck. You swallowed, turning the key again, and you felt like you were having an out of body experience as it just wouldn’t start.
“What are you doing, doll?”
The scream you let out scared you more than Bucky’s sudden presence, and you dropped your keys to the floor of the car. You pressed your hand to your chest as you turned to look at him, unsure of how long he’d been standing there. You blinked a few times as you stared at him, heart threatening to beat out of your chest and lips parted.
Bucky was standing in the gap between your door and your car, one hand on the top of the door frame, the other at his side. The cold breeze ruffled his dark hair, and the moonlight glinted off of his blue eyes as he stared at you. It took you too long to remember he’d asked you a question, and you quickly came up with an answer.
“I wanted to see how much gas I have left in my car, but… It won’t start,” you softly said, still fighting to catch your breath. “I thought…I thought maybe the cold had something to do with the engine, but it’s just not starting.”
Bucky didn’t respond right away, and when he hummed, a shiver crawled up your spine.
“I’ll look at it in the morning. Me or Steve one,” he said, offering his hand to you.
Nodding, you quickly grabbed your scarf and your keys, placing your free hand in his flesh one. Bucky closed your car door for you, and you thanked him when he took your scarf and put it around your neck.
“Just trying to keep you warm,” he said to you, rubbing your shoulders. “We don’t want you to freeze to death.”
You forced a chuckle at that, and Bucky joined you as you both stepped inside. Steve was just inside the door when you stepped through, and you watched him look between you two.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, her car won’t start,” Bucky answered for you.
The blond eyed you, a slight frown forming.
“Why were you trying to start your car?”
You told yourself that you were imagining his tone.
“I wanted to see how much gas I have left to get back home tomorrow…”
You shrugged at him, and Steve only nodded.
“Bucky or I will check it out in the morning,” he said, basically repeating Bucky’s words as he guided you back to the living room.
You sat on the couch as another conversation started up around you, and you chimed in here and there, but your mind was miles away.
You told yourself that the car was a coincidence, but how many coincidences were allowed before you started putting pieces together that painted a sick picture?
Steve said that Nat chose not to come this year, but Nat said Bucky told her they weren’t coming up to the cabin for the Purge this year. You were so sure that phone call was a dream, but Steve’s call history showed he’d absolutely been on the phone with someone and that someone was Tony…who also chose to sit at home with Pepper this year. It was that same phone call where Steve said Bucky had messed with your car…
Your car that wouldn’t start.
“Y/N, are you alright?”
Thor’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, and when you looked around you saw all three of them looking at you in concern. You only just realized that your heart was going crazy in your chest, and they could no doubt hear it. Their worried expressions were almost enough to have you rethinking this entire night, and you blinked back tears.
Bucky was the first to move.
“Hey, hey,” he gently said to you, placing a hand on your back. “What’s wrong, doll?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, placing a hand on your forehead.
“I think, um, I think…” you struggled to speak. “I don’t feel good. My head is all…”
You flailed your hands around your face.
“I don’t know, I just don’t feel good.”
“You want to take something?” Steve asked you, and you shook your head.
“No, I…” you heavily exhaled. “I just feel like I might be sick.”
Your voice cracked, and Bucky helped you stand.
“I just need some air.”
All of you were standing now, and Thor offered to go with you.
“No, I’ll just be a minute,” you hurried to tell him, placing your fingers to your temple. “I just need some air.”
You were stumbling towards the door before you were finished speaking, and you took deep breaths as soon as you were on the other side of it. The cold fresh air was definitely helping you clear your head, and you leaned back against it with your eyes closed. You thought that this would help you think more rationally, now…but it wasn’t working.
Everything you’d added up was going through your head over and over again.
They wouldn’t. You told yourself that they wouldn’t, but what if they would?
You recalled that one Christmas party that involved some Asgardian meade and a bold move from Thor that resulted in you having to let him down easily. The next morning he claimed to not have remembered a thing, but what if he did? What if something you’d written off as a drunken blunder was actually much more than that?
Like the time you and Bucky were undercover, and you swore he was getting a little too lost in the role but he assured you of otherwise? When you thought about the aggressive way he kissed you even now, it still sent chills down your spine, but he’d convinced you that it was nothing, that he was just trying to be convincing, and you’d believed him.
…and it was only a few months ago that Steve—under no influence of anything and under no false pretenses of a cover for some mission—had asked you out, and you’d told him no. It wasn’t because he wasn't a great guy or because he wasn’t handsome enough, but the two of you had been friends for so long that the thought of ruining that was something you couldn’t bear, and that was what you’d told him.
He seemed to believe you, but sometimes you still thought about that hint of something you swore you saw in his gaze. It had come and gone so quickly, and even now you still didn’t know if you imagined it or not, but it had scared you for a split second…and then it was gone and he was smiling, and you were just happy you hadn’t lost a friend.
Every single incident was at the forefront of your mind, now, and it was too many coincidences to keep you calm. You repeatedly told yourself that they wouldn’t hurt you—especially not over something as trivial as that—but you weren’t able to convince yourself. Every single nerve in your body was telling you something wasn’t right, and your internal conflict was driving you crazy. You told yourself they would never hurt you, and you wanted to be right. You wanted to be right so bad.
…but what if you were wrong?
You were unable to sit with your thoughts, and you didn’t know what part of you to listen to.
So…
You ran.
You hadn’t even been running for long when you heard your name being screamed through the trees, and it only made you run faster. There was some small part of you that told you you were being paranoid. After all, you were terrified and running based off of assumptions you came up with on your own, but a much larger part of you was telling you to run faster. A louder voice was in your head telling you that you were in danger.
Every time you faintly heard your voice traveling through the trees it only scared you more, making more tears fall at the predicament you were in. It didn’t seem real, and you wanted to believe it wasn’t happening, but nothing else made sense. The Purge had already commenced, even out here in the middle of the trees you knew that, and you were terrified of what would happen to you if you failed to make it through the night on your own.
But what if it was all in your head? What if you’d driven yourself crazy and took off in the middle of nowhere over nothing? What would you say to them tomorrow? How would you explain yourself? What if they were chasing after you because you took off like a crazy person and they were worried?
A sob caught in your chest because you didn’t know what to believe, and you genuinely felt like you were losing your mind. Your tears were blurring your vision, and you felt like you couldn’t suck in air fast enough. When your foot caught on a rock, it sent you falling to the ground, and your forehead bounced off of the hard earth. Your already questionable vision was now slanted as you fought to push yourself to your feet, and you looked around, relieved that you were still alone.
You felt like you were on the verge of passing out when you stumbled into familiar arms.
The scream that escaped you echoed throughout the woods, bouncing off of trees and making you flinch. Thor’s hands were firm on your arms as you fought to get away from him, pushing at him and hitting his chest as he tried to calm you down. You were inconsolable as your back met a tree, and you struggled to speak.
“Please, don’t kill me,” you choked out. “Please…”
The blond frowned at you, and you shook your head.
“I don’t… I didn’t…” you couldn’t breathe. “I’m sorry.”
Thor only frowned at you as he looked over your face, one of his hands reaching up to gently touch your cheek.
“I’m sorry,” you breathlessly repeated. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or made you think…”
Your words died in the air again as you struggled to catch your breath, and the gentle touch of Thor’s hand on your face and the way he was looking at you was a lot more calming than you wanted to admit. The blond seemed genuinely confused by your words and your demeanor, pressing his lips together as he ran his eyes over you.
“Is that what you think?” he gently asked you, and you swallowed. “Is that why you ran?”
Your silence was answer enough, and you watched him gently laugh to himself.
“You thought we were going to kill you?”
His question accompanied by his expression made you feel stupid all of a sudden, and you looked away just as Thor laughed again. He was careful in pulling you away from the tree, holding you next to him as he started to walk back in the direction of the cabin. He guided your head to lean against him, and you briefly closed your eyes, taking deep even breaths and feeling…insane.
“Why did you think we were going to kill you?” he softly wondered, and you couldn’t ignore that he was talking to you like some wounded animal.
“It’s…stupid,” you managed to whisper, not even wanting to say it all out loud now that Thor had managed to ease your fears. “I feel like an idiot.”
Thor rubbed your shoulder, and the sound of footsteps other than both of yours reached your ears.
“Is she okay?” you heard Steve ask, the blond closer to you than Bucky, a deep frown on his features.
“I’m fine,” you said the same time Thor told him you were fine. “I got too in my own head and...I don’t know, I just drove myself crazy.”
“She thought we were going to kill her.”
You felt even more embarrassed when Thor said it aloud again to them, and you started to frown at him when you were all too aware of his grip on the hair at the nape of your neck. Your frown deepened, wincing in pain as you reached back just as he leaned over.
“I do not know what gave her that idea,” Thor said seemingly to no one in particular just as he covered your lips with his own.
The kiss took you by surprise, and you pushed at his chest as he stepped closer, forcing you to stumble back. Your back met a tree for the second time that night, and you were unable to speak as Thor moved his mouth against yours. Your brain felt even more jumbled than it did earlier in the night, confusion pouring into you as Thor kept you from pulling away.
Your mind had immediately jumped to murder that you had never even entertained the possibility of…something else.
When you finally managed to get away from Thor’s hold—or when he let you—you stumbled back into someone else’s waiting arms, and you yelped in a mixture of fear and shock. Bucky held both of your elbows to him as his lips found a home in the crook of your neck, tasting your sweaty skin as you struggled in his tight grip.
“Kill you?” Bucky chuckled. “Never.”
“This isn’t funny,” you told them, voice shaking. “If you’re trying to scare me because of something I did or didn’t do…”
Your eyes met Steve’s at that.
“I’m sorry–!”
You cut yourself off with a gasp, crying out at the feeling of Bucky’s teeth in your skin. Your efforts to get away from him doubled the moment Steve started to make his way closer to you. You frantically looked between him and Thor, understanding that if this was for real and they were serious, there was no getting out of this. Your heart was going crazy in your chest, and Steve confirmed that they heard it.
“Listen to how scared she is…”
“Steve, please,” you begged as he got closer and closer, and when he ignored your apologies and pleas entirely, you accepted that this was no joke.
The blond caught your feet as you kicked at him, separating your legs and stepping between them. You were in an uncomfortable position as Bucky still held your elbows behind you. Steve’s fingers dug into your pants, and when his hands started to pull, you moved as much as you possibly could. Thor’s chuckle reached your ears as you found yourself dropped to the ground.
“I do believe she is besting you both.”
The teasing lilt to his voice made your stomach turn, and your attempt to crawl away was thwarted by hands on your ankles pulling you back. Your nails pressed into the dirt and leaves as you were dragged back, no match for the super soldier who flipped you onto your back. Every kick at Steve was futile, and tears blurred your vision again when he sat on your waist. You pushed at his hands as they reached for your sweater, the thick fabric ripping like paper at the mercy of his strength.
It seemed like no matter what you said to Steve, he didn’t hear a word of it, blue eyes locked in on his goal, and if you had any doubts about this being personal, they were gone the moment your gazes met. There was no give there, nothing in his stare even hinting that he could be talked out of this. In fact, you wouldn’t be shocked if the entire thing was his idea.
You screamed when he leaned down to take a hardened bud into his mouth, the cold air giving him exactly what he wanted.
“There’s no one around for miles, doll,” you heard Bucky say, making you cry harder. “...but by all means.”
He gestured to you as you turned to look at him through a tearful gaze.
“Scream as much as you’d like.”
You and Steve fought over your pants, the blond winning with hardly a fight, and you shook from both the cold and the turn the night had taken. To think it was only moments ago that you’d been so sure they were going to kill you. Another possibility hadn’t even been an option in your mind and why would it? What was tomorrow supposed to be like or hadn’t they thought that far ahead?
A silent conversation seemed to pass through Bucky and Steve as they briefly looked at each other, the brunette making his way over to you. Any fight you were able to give Steve was squashed the moment Bucky dropped to his knees and pinned your hands on either side of your head. You tearfully looked up at him, equal parts angry and defeated as Steve’s hand slid between your thighs.
“Uh uh,” Steve tsk’d, harshly slapping your cunt the moment you squeezed your eyes shut, making you shout. “Eyes on him, sweetheart.”
Bucky had no problem at all holding your gaze while Steve slid a finger into you, quickly followed by another. You couldn’t swallow down the gasp that climbed out of your throat, eyes widening as he curled his fingers into you. You twisted your wrists in Bucky’s grip, angrily staring at him as you fought to swallow down every sound that wanted to escape your lips.
Your toes curled as Steve fingered you, a third finger sliding into you with ease as his actions forced you to drip around his hand. Your chest was heaving with every snap of his wrist, and you attempted to turn your head away when Bucky leaned in, but he stole a kiss anyway. The dark-haired man tasted the inside of your mouth as Steve continued to stretch you out around his fingers.
The sensations from both were too much, and you desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. Bucky only let you catch your breath for a second before diving in again, and for a brief moment, you felt empty and the heat between your legs was gone. That reprieve, however, only lasted for a second, and your chest arched at the feeling of thicker fingers slowly pushing their way into you.
You let out a shaky breath, and you felt Bucky smirk into the kiss.
Thor was not as gentle as Steve, roughly fucking you with his fingers and making your hips lift off of the ground. You were dripping around him, you could feel it, and the sound of his thick fingers pushing into you reached your ears, so you could only imagine what they could hear. The humiliation of it all warmed your cold frame, and you blinked back tears when Bucky finally pulled away.
You stared at him, but his blue eyes were focused instead on what Thor was doing to you.
You refused to look, closing your eyes and turning your head away. Evidently, Steve found that funny, chuckling to himself, and the knowledge that they all found this amusing filled you with an indescribable rage. The sound of Thor fucking you with his fingers was loud, a wet squelch reaching your ears every time he pushed his fingers into your walls.
“I want to see her come,” Steve said, and you pulled at Bucky’s grip.
“No,” you cried, but both Thor and Bucky tightened their holds.
You could already feel your stomach tightening from Thor’s hand, his thumb brushing gentle circles over you, a stark contrast to the movements from his other fingers. You were gone completely however when Bucky leaned back down to nip at your chest before tasting the same pebbled bud Steve had, tongue brushing over the sensitive flesh and making you gasp.
It was all too much, and you could feel and hear your breathing getting heavier. Your stomach was tight and your toes were curled and your chest was arched upwards. Your lashes kept fluttering as you tried so hard to fight it, but against your will, you were pushed over the edge and you came around Thor’s fingers with an embarrassing sigh.
You heard Thor curse and then you felt his mouth on your mound barely a moment later. That only prolonged your orgasm, eyes falling close as he tasted you, his tongue lapping up any and everything you had to offer. He hummed against you, the feeling vibrating throughout your entire body, and you were so lost in the feeling that you didn’t even realize Bucky had let you go.
When Thor finally pulled away too, you were a trembling mess, and you could feel tears kissing your eyes. You barely felt the cold now, your skin so hot and your face so warm. You could hear the rustle of fabric, but you weren’t able to put two and two together until a metal hand was turning you over.
“Bucky–!”
His name had barely escaped your lips before a hand was underneath your stomach and forcing you to your knees. The head of his cock was pushing into you barely a moment later, and the noise that left you was one you couldn’t name. His metal hand was in your hair while the other was tight on your waist.
Your fingers dug into the leaves and dirt as he repeatedly thrust into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the otherwise quiet woods. Your head weakly hung as he pulled you back to meet his every thrust, pulling out until only the tip of him remained before sliding his cock into you to the hilt.
Every time you leaned away, the brunette pulled you back, groaning behind you at the feeling of you wrapped around him. For a while, you forgot all about Steve and Thor, but then you heard the crunch of leaves, and when you forced yourself to look up, your eyes met familiar blue ones.
“It didn’t have to be like this, you know,” Steve told you, and you hated that haughty tone in his voice. “It really didn’t.”
His betrayal—all of theirs—made more tears spill over as you glared at him.
“Fuck you,” you spat at the blond, and Steve only gave you a crooked smile.
You cried out when Bucky’s hand curled around your throat, pulling back and forcing your back to his chest. His other arm snaked around your waist, and you dug your nails into the skin of his arm. He pressed his face into where your shoulder and your neck met, and Steve took another step towards you.
“Be patient, and you will.”
Your vision started to tilt and blur as the result of Bucky’s tight hold on your throat, the dark-haired super soldier whispering in your ear.
“You take my cock so well,” he softly told you just before he came inside of you.
Unfortunately, you came with him, wholly embarrassed and upset as he told you to milk his cock, tightly holding you against him until you stopped trembling. He whispered something else in your ear that sounded a lot like ‘good girl’ before pulling out of you, practically handing you to Thor as if you were a glass of water and not a human being.
You learned that Thor liked to look at your face.
He wasted no time in forcing your legs over his arms and pushing your knees next to your head before sliding into you with ease. The new and uncomfortable angle had you clawing at the dirt in desperation, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. His chest brushed against yours with every surge of his hips, and you couldn’t bite back the whimpers that crawled out of your throat even if you tried.
His skin slapped against yours, and your lips were parted the entire time he was inside of you. Occasionally he kissed you, a gentle gesture that was the complete opposite of how he fucked you. The leaves and twigs of the forest floor scratched at your back with every movement, but the pain from that was almost nonexistent in comparison to the way Thor stretched you out around his cock.
The god amongst the three naturally had the most stamina, and sweat coated your skin after being with Bucky and now Thor.
“I should hope you’re not getting tired, little one,” he said to you, and you squeezed your eyes shut at the perversion of the affectionate name he sometimes gave you. “I don’t know about them, but I want to make the best use of these twelve hours.”
When Thor was close, he dropped one of your legs, a large hand coming up to cover your breast and massage the skin. His teeth nipped at your throat, and your nails dug into his arm. His hips started to slow, Thor torturously dragging his cock in and out of you, driving you crazy and making you lift your hips.
“Atta girl,” you heard someone say, and it sounded like Steve.
Thor slowly pumped himself into you, not minding at all that you didn’t come with him as he spilled himself into you. He didn’t stop thrusting until he was spent, satisfied with himself before pulling out of your limp frame.
Your eyes felt so heavy, and more than anything, you wanted to disappear, but all too soon you felt a familiar hand on your leg.
“No,” you mumbled, pushing at Steve.
“Don’t be mean,” Steve whispered to you, kissing you. “Everybody else got their turn.”
The slap was loud and unexpected, even by you, but it was more than deserved. Somehow, you knew that this was Steve’s idea, and tears skipped down your cheeks as he continued to press kisses along your face as if you hadn’t just hit him.
His lips traveled to your jaw and then your neck, and your attempt to sit up and back away from him was halted. Steve pulled you back by your hips, forcing your legs around him before leaning back and taking you with him. You let out a grunt when you settled on top of him, attempting to get away, but he was already forcing you down onto his cock.
You both let out similar noises but for entirely different reasons.
The blond wasted no time, getting a tight grip on your hips and bending his knees as he thrust himself up into you. A choked moan escaped into the air, and Steve tightened his hold on your hips. The palms of your hands were pressed against his chest, and against your will, you picked up a rhythm as he forced you to ride him.
You heard footsteps behind you, and you shouldn’t have been surprised to feel lips on the back of your neck. Bucky kissed along your throat as he forced your head back, and it took everything in you to keep your eyes somewhat open. He nipped at the skin, his lips eventually traveling to your lips for a few moments before pulling away entirely. Steve did not stop you once, forcing you to roll your hips over his and push yourself down onto his cock.
You were dripping around him, and when you managed to look down, you could see him staring at where you two met, his tongue poking at his bottom lip as he watched himself disappear into you. It both disgusted you and made your heart skip a beat, doubly so when Thor grabbed your arms, holding them behind you as it was his turn to press kisses along your neck and shoulders.
You shuddered at the feeling and he chuckled.
“I think she might come again,” Thor said, and the blond god kissed the tears on your cheeks.
When he let you go, Steve forced you down against him, his arms wrapped around your back as he roughly pushed his cock up into you. You gasped into his ear, your moans growing louder with every thrust. Your hands pressed into the dirt to steady yourself, but it was no use as Steve practically kept your chest glued to his.
One of his hands curled around the back of your neck, and his lips pressed kisses along your jaw. You couldn’t catch your breath, and Steve could feel you clenching around him.
“You going to come for me, sweetheart? Hmm?”
You couldn’t find a snarky comment to throw at him, simultaneously wanting this to be over and to never end. Steve was repeatedly hitting something inside of you that had you mewling on top of him, and when his hand wrapped around the front of your throat, you clawed at it.
“The sooner you come, the sooner we take you back…”
You shook your head.
“...and get you all cleaned up…”
You pressed your nails into his hand, more tears spilling over.
“...and fed and well rested…”
He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“...and ready to do it all over again.”
When you came around Steve you saw stars, vision going dark and heart skipping a beat as he fucked you through your climax. Even when you had long stopped rolling your hips against his, Steve lazily pushed his cock into you, forcing you to flutter around him as he coated your walls.
You were completely spent and out of breath, barely able to protest as Bucky grabbed you and swung you up into his arms. You were covered in dirt and sweat and God knows what else as the dark-haired man chuckled at the sight of you.
“...and to think…” he murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You thought we wanted to kill you.”
⊱⋆ ━ You were not meant to exist in his world — yet he tore open the veil to bring you through. A devotion that transcends death, creation, and divinity itself. He calls you his heaven, though he built it from ruin. ━ ⋆ ⊰
𓆩 Masterlist 𓆪 𓆩 Previous 𓆪
♱ Pairings: Alpha!Philip Graves x fem!Reader
♱ Warnings / Themes in this story: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics/Omegaverse, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. THIS IS A DARK WORK OF FICTION. You are responsible for the content you consume. this work contains many things that some readers may find disturbing (This work is *dark fiction*, not romanticized morality.). Coerced non-con, non-con, dubious non-con, abduction / captivity, severe distress, bodily & mental autonomy manipulation (magic, drugs, bioengineering, pheromones, magical serums), yandere / obsessive themes, age gap (20sF × 40sM), misogyny / power imbalance, emotional manipulation & trauma, unhealthy relationships, Stockholm Syndrome(later in thé story), corrupted soulmates / predestination vs. autonomy, horror/grotesque imagery (blood, injury, bodily changes), control / claiming of mind / body / soul, breeding/knotting, nipple sucking, fingering, marking(MF chews on you), creampies, pregnancy(future chapters), Omega nesting, disturbed longing / obsessive desire, gothic / religious metaphors, cannibalism as metaphor, strong language, angst & some fluff. more will be added as the story develops but I think I’ve got the majority of them for now.
♱ Whispers from the author: some of the dividers belong to @/uzmacchiato , I have reblogged the other accounts !! I got the pictures from Pinterest !! The photos displayed DO NOT determine the skin colour or shape of the reader, they’re used because I find them pretty and I find that they fit the aesthetic. Mention and use of a feminine reader and feminine body parts although anyone and everyone can read if you ignore those. all characters portrayed in my fanfics are always 18 years old and up.
♱ Chapter word count: 16.3k
♱ Mini Taglist: @coffeeandtealol , @lynvampy ,
The sun hung low over the southern horizon, spilling gold across miles of open pasture. Wind rippled through the tall grass and wheat fields, bending them in long, shimmering waves that reached all the way to the treeline. From a distance, the estate could have been mistaken for paradise — a sprawl of white-stone buildings set against rolling hills, framed by cypress and oak. The air was rich with the scent of rain-soaked earth, magnolia, and distant smoke from the stables.
It was beautiful in the way a mirage is beautiful — untouched, unspoiled, the innocence of it entirely false.
The Graves Estate stretched over five hundred acres of fenced land, most of it absent from any map. Long dirt roads wound through the fields and vanished into the woods. Security was everywhere, though invisible to the untrained eye — buried sensors ran beneath the fences, tuned to vibration, motion, and heat. Cameras hid as barn lamps and weather vanes. Even the fences hummed faintly with current — more deterrent than defense, but no less absolute.
At the far edge of the property, a small airstrip lay silent, a single hangar veiled beneath camouflage netting. The main gates stood miles from the house itself — steel wrapped in painted wood, guarded and monitored every hour of the day. No one entered without permission. No one left unseen.
From above, the mansion sat at the centre like a heart — three stories of pale stone and dark shutters, verandas curling around its sides, high windows gleaming with sunset. The gardens were impossibly precise and beautiful: hedges cut into spirals, roses and wisteria climbing wrought-iron frames, fountains whispering into glassy pools that mirrored the clouds.
Graves sat in his office, the leather chair swallowing him almost entirely. The last flicker of the projection from England vanished as he closed his laptop with a slow, deliberate click. Joanna’s voice, the soft hum of machines, the subtle fear in her words — all gone, leaving only silence.
The office was masculine and traditional, almost a cliché of old-world Americana: dark oak bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes, hunting trophies and mounted heads along the walls, heavy drapes shielding the room from the late afternoon sun. A Persian rug muted every step, and the scent of old wood and polished brass hung in the air.
Yet, like everything in Graves’ world, the traditional surface barely hinted at what lay beneath. Behind the row of books on the right, a discreet keypad hid a steel door. Behind the door: vials, scrolls, artifacts — the coded fragments of the past he had claimed, mapped, and bent to his will. Even here, in his sanctuary, the obsessive devotion to your fate whispered from the shadows.
He leaned back, letting the chair cradle him. The fading sunlight glinted off a mounted hawk in the corner, casting a shadow across the desk. On the desk, besides the laptop, a glass of neat whiskey caught the light — amber liquid like fire in repose.
Graves exhaled softly, tilting his head as if listening to something only he could hear. The estate beyond the walls was tranquil, almost absurdly so: pastures stretching for miles, horses grazing, the air clean and wide. The perfection of it all was maddening, a reflection of his order: immaculate, unyielding, absolute.
He rubbed his jaw, eyes scanning the papers and ledgers spread across the desk — synchronization readings, retention charts, serum data — all perfectly aligned, all within his command.
His hand lingered over the laptop for a moment, fingers brushing the keyboard as though tasting the residual hum of Joanna’s voice. Then he straightened, picking up the glass of whiskey. The liquid caught the light again, amber and molten.
Graves rose from his chair and walked to one of the massive bookshelves lining the office wall on the left. His hand ran along the spines of the leather-bound tomes, pausing on one that seemed slightly out of place. With a subtle push, the shelf creaked and shifted, revealing a hidden mechanism embedded in the wall behind it. Small lights flickered along the frame as a panel slid open, revealing a narrow passage with options etched in faint brass: “↑ Up” — “↓ Down.”
He hesitated for a heartbeat, then pressed the button to go up. The wall shifted silently behind him as he ascended, the passage spiraling gently before opening into a room bathed in warm light.
Graves pressed the panel, and the bookshelf swung open, revealing the narrow passage. He ascended the hidden staircase, the walls humming faintly beneath his touch, until he emerged into a room unlike any other in the estate.
The bedroom breathed. It was lighter, softer, and infinitely more delicate than the rest of the estate, a space that seemed almost untouched by Graves’ obsessive hand. Feminine elegance met subtle masculine restraint — balanced so precisely, it was like the room itself was holding its breath.
At its centre stood a canopy bed, immense and inviting. Sheer lace draped from its frame, embroidered with tiny hearts and stars that shimmered in the glow of the setting sun. The bedding was a symphony of silks and velvets, layered but unclaimed, arranged to leave space for movement — for you. This was meant to be your sanctuary, although to be shared by both of you, not his.
By the windows stood a dressing table clearly made for a woman’s presence. Three heart-shaped mirrors floated individually in carved wooden frames, angelic motifs etched into the beams, wings stretching toward the ceiling. A chair matched the table, and the drawers, polished and immaculate, waited to hold your belongings. Graves had arranged everything with care, but the room’s spirit was yours; untouchable, meant to breathe with your life. The air felt softer, as if aware of who it was meant to welcome.
The walk-in closet mirrored this duality. Half of it held his clothing, dark and worn, full of his habits and history. The other half was empty, pristine, and reserved. For you.
Above the head of the bed, a vast blank space stretched across the wall — clearly intended for a portrait of monumental size. When you arrived, you would choose what it became. Every thread, every surface, every space was designed for your presence, but none of it dictated. This room — his Angel’s room — would belong to you in ways he could and would never force.
Graves paused, running his hands lightly over the surfaces. The light through the windows caught the lace just right, casting tiny constellations across the floor. The mirrors tripled his reflection — three versions of a man who had already built a shrine to what he could not yet possess. He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t for himself: it was for you.
This was the one room in the entire estate that he would not fully master. It was yours. And when you arrived, he would let you decide what it became.
Graves sat on the edge of the bed, the side he’d long ago decided would be yours. The silks shifted under his hand like liquid light, pale and soft — waiting. He traced the edge of a pillow, the motion feather-light at first, then firmer, thumb pressing into the fabric as though testing the shape your head might make there.
Slowly, he reached for the folded blanket at the foot of the bed — the cashmere one. Your blanket.
Where you should have appeared, where your presence should have filled the room: the cashmere blanket took it instead. Giving him a fragment of the life you had been ripped from, a placeholder for the body and soul he had yet to claim.
The original had been torn away when the world split — ripped from your grasp as you fell through the seams of your own reality and into another’s hands. Not his. Much to his dismay. Graves had it remade, thread by thread, capturing the color, the weave, even the faint trace of your scent as it had been in your arms. It rests folded neatly at the foot of the canopy bed, waiting for his offering, his devotion made tangible — a promise that your fractured existence would be made whole again in his hands.
His fingers brush the soft fabric, tracing the weave with reverent care. A low groan escapes him as he inhales deeply, letting the faint scent — the echo of you — fill him. It’s the only thing he has of yours; something that has your scent, no matter how faint, woven into its very existence.
He opens his eyes and presses the blanket gently to his lips, inhaling once more. “Soon, my Angel. Soon, all of you will be here. And I will be ready.”
⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆
The lights were low, the air thick with coffee and tension. The hum of the projector was the only steady sound in the briefing room, broken now and then by the scrape of chair legs or the soft rustle of paper.
Price stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against cold metal. The shadows under his eyes said he hadn’t slept.
Laswell’s voice cut through the quiet. “There.”
She froze the footage — a blurred figure in a nurse’s uniform, face turned just away from the camera. The timestamp flickered red in the corner of the frame.
“That’s the last sighting before the feed cuts out.”
Price leaned in, frowning.
“Access logs confirm she entered under the name Catherine O’Niell,” Laswell went on, her tone even but tight. “Fake ID, fake background. Whoever she is — she knew exactly how to move through security without leaving a trace.”
“Christ,” Soap muttered, barely audible.
Gaz said nothing.
“How long was she on base?” Price asked, his voice low.
“Two, maybe three weeks. Long enough to build trust. She worked extra hours, volunteered for medical checks, blended in. Everyone liked her.”
Price exhaled sharply through his nose — the sound cut through the room like a blade. “That’s how it always starts. Play the long game. Get close.”
Laswell nodded once. “We pulled residue from the syringe she used on Y/N. My team’s been running it nonstop.” She gestured toward the laptop, its screen glowing a sterile blue across her tired face. “Whatever this compound is, it’s not in any known database.”
Price straightened, eyes narrowing. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Laswell said quietly, “it wasn’t made here. Or by anyone we know.”
Silence settled like weight. The only movement came from the projector — the blurred nurse frozen in grainy motion, her posture eerily calm.
Laswell tapped a key, bringing up chemical readouts that looked more like scripture than science. “Whoever designed this knew exactly what they were doing. It’s not just altering her physiology, John. It’s rewriting it.”
Price’s jaw locked. “Turning her into what?”
Laswell hesitated. Her eyes met his — steady, reluctant.
“Something she wasn’t supposed to be,” she said softly. “Someone like us.”
The room stilled. The hum of the projector suddenly seemed louder, the static whispering through the silence neither of them wanted to break.
Price dragged a hand down his face. “Ghost’s with her now?”
“Yes,” Laswell said. “We’ve noticed she doesn’t go into hysterics when one of you is there.”
Price nodded slowly. “Then keep it that way. She’s changing — and I don’t want her alone when it happens.”
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
Ghost sits in the corner by the window, chair angled just enough to keep you in his line of sight. The moonlight spills pale across the floor, silvering the edge of his mask.
He hasn’t moved in hours.
Your scent keeps shifting — subtle, but enough that even a soldier trained to bury instinct feels it coil through the air. It’s wrong. Too raw. Too new. Not you anymore. The hum of machinery fills the corridor, but he hears nothing except the quiet thrum of your breathing, the subtle shift of your scent: the scent of an omega awakening, of a body and mind reshaping themselves in ways he can feel but not fully understand.
You shift again on the bed, the faintest sound escaping your lips; a soft, breathy sound that makes every instinct in him sharpen. It isn’t desire; it’s confusion. Your body is searching, calling for a bond that isn’t here. That shouldn’t exist.
He imagines Graves. Always Graves. The pull is faint but undeniable, the invisible tether reminding him that you weren’t meant for anyone here — not for him, not for Price, not for anyone in 141. Your body, your instincts, your very essence were built for him. For Philip Graves.
And that’s what chills him most.
Because Graves isn’t just an Alpha. He’s a strategist with a god complex, a man who builds empires out of fear and devotion, who knows exactly how to make obedience feel like love. Ghost has seen what Graves does to people who fail him, who question him. The smiles never reach his eyes. The charm hides the rot. He’s patient — the kind of patient that bleeds cruelty beneath control.
Ghost has read the files. Watched the footage. He knows Graves has no limits. He doesn’t break things because he’s angry; he breaks them to see what they’ll look like afterward. To study the ruin. A predator with a soldier’s mind and a scientist’s curiosity. If Graves were to claim you, your body would respond entirely, instinctively, without question, without resistance. You would bend. You would obey. And you would be lost to him — not in death, but in something worse.
For a heartbeat, Ghost allows himself the impossible thought: What if I tried to claim you? Would that save you from the inevitable?
The idea sends a chill through his spine. Not fear for himself — never that — but a raw, gnawing terror for you. You weren’t made for this. But now, you’ve been broken down. Forced from the inside out to reshape, to bend to the wills and laws of their world.
Now, you’re… his creation. Your body manipulated by something made on his orders.
Ghost drags a hand down his face, exhaling slow through his nose. Get it together.
He imagines the first touch, the first claiming, and his chest tightens. Would you obey out of instinct, trembling under commands you don’t understand? Or would your body rebel, every cell screaming against the unnatural alignment? Your eyes… would they fill with terror, confusion? Could you survive being tethered to someone — to him, to Price — you weren’t brought here for? Could your soul?
Ghost exhales through his mask, voice caught in the hum.
“Philip Graves can’t get to you,” he mutters, quiet as prayer. “He can’t have you… not in the way you were built to belong.”
And the bitter truth sinks in: if Graves ever did, no one here — not 141, not anyone — could stand against him. Trying to stop him would be treacherous. Forbidden. To deny an Alpha his Omega — to deny Graves — is to step between a wolf and his blood.
And that thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He imagines Price here, too, trying to act, or Soap, or Gaz. The same nightmare plays out, but the stakes don’t lessen. Your body, your mind, your very being were never meant for them. Anything attempted would be violence disguised as care. Anything attempted would leave wounds — mental, physical, spiritual — that no skill, no training could erase.
Ghost steps back slightly, jaw tight, and lets the air between you vibrate with restraint. He’s close enough to feel your scent, the growing omega undercurrents, but he doesn’t move. He can’t. Not without risking everything you’re becoming.
And he knows, deep in his heart, that even watching, even resisting, isn’t enough to protect you from what Graves will do when the time comes.
Because in every cell of his body, his instincts whisper to claim you.
And in every thought he has left, he answers back — Not his.
⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆
The corridor hums low with fluorescent light and the faint buzz of the base still awake at midnight.
Price walks first, the others falling in step behind him — Soap restless, tapping a rhythm against his thigh, Gaz silent and thoughtful. The air feels heavier now that they know. Not just what Graves did, but why.
“She’s the only one,” Price mutters, more to himself than them. “No backups, no copies. Just her.”
Soap huffs, shoving his hands into his vest pockets. “Aye, well, that’s Graves for ye. Always wanted the shiniest toy in the box.”
Gaz shakes his head. “This isn’t about toys, Johnny. It’s about control. He built her to need him.”
“That’s what makes it worse,” Price says, jaw tight. “He doesn’t just want her obedient. He wants her devoted.”
Soap’s voice lowers, humor edged with disgust. “Christ. Mad bastard’s gonna start prayin’ to her next.”
Price doesn’t answer. He stops outside the door instead, hand on the handle. “Laswell’s right. If he ever gets close enough to claim her —”
“He won’t,” Gaz cuts in, firm.
Price nods once. “Good. Let’s try and keep it that way.”
He opens the door and it gives a hydraulic sigh. The sound makes you stir — not fully, not consciously, but enough that your fingers twitch against the sheets.
Price enters first, followed by Soap and Gaz. The air shifts with them — warmer, louder, charged. But the second their eyes adjust to the low light, the chatter dies on their tongues.
Ghost is still there.
The room is dim, lit only by moonlight and the hum of machinery. For a moment, none of them speak.
He’s seated by the bed again, mask turned toward you, still as stone. One gloved hand rests on his knee, the other half-curled near the edge of the mattress — close enough to feel the heat of your skin but never daring to touch. The tension in him is coiled, dangerous — not outwardly hostile, but barely contained.
“Simon,” Price says, voice low but sharp. “What are you doing?”
Ghost doesn’t move at first. Just the faint shift of his shoulders, the gleam of his mask turning slightly toward them. “Watchin’,” he says finally, voice like gravel.
Soap lets out a low whistle, trying to cut through the tension. “Watchin’? Christ, mate, you look like you’re about t’ ward off demons.”
Ghost’s gaze flicks to him, unreadable. “Maybe I am.”
That earns a pause. Even Soap doesn’t have a quip for that.
Gaz steps closer, his tone quiet. “You can feel it too, can’t you?”
Ghost doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The air itself feels thick, humming faintly with something that doesn’t belong in their world — a pulse that isn’t electricity but instinct.
Price moves to stand beside him, eyes on you. “It’s stronger tonight.”
Soap’s frown deepens. “You think he feels it too? Across the ocean?”
Ghost nods once. “Bastard probably feels everything she does.”
The words hang there, heavy.
Price folds his arms. “Then we don’t let him get anywhere near her. Not now, not ever.”
“Already said he won’t,” Gaz mutters, though even he sounds uncertain now.
Ghost’s head tilts slightly, eyes still on you. “You don’t get it,” he says softly. “If Graves comes… she’ll go. Her body’ll choose before her mind even catches up.”
Price’s expression hardens. “Then we make damn sure he never gets the chance.”
Soap glances between them, unease flickering through his grin. “Bloody hell, lads. You’re makin’ it sound like we’re fightin’ God himself.”
Ghost’s eyes don’t leave your sleeping form.
“Or fightin’ the Devil.”
For a long, trembling second, silence. Then you shift again: a small, involuntary movement, a soft exhale that brushes the still air. The scent that follows is faint but potent: sweet, new, wrongly innocent in its rawness.
Price feels it hit him like static, sharp at the back of his throat: instinct flaring before he can leash it. Across from him, Ghost’s posture goes taut.
Both men lock eyes. They don’t speak, but the truth passes between them like current: they feel it. The pull.
Not for them. Never for them.
But enough to know what Graves will feel when the bond fully forms. Enough to know that if she calls — even by accident — he will come.
Price’s jaw flexes. “He’ll feel that,” he mutters.
The room hums with that knowledge — fragile, electric, inevitable.
And outside, somewhere far away, the world keeps turning, unaware that something irreversible has begun.
⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆
Somewhere far from England — across oceans, across continents — Philip Graves wakes up.
It’s not a sound that rouses him. Not light, not movement. Just you.
The air in his room has gone thick — sweet, heavy, familiar. It sits on his tongue like memory, the taste of something he’s been starving for. For a moment, he thinks he’s dreaming — that you’re there beside him, that if he reached out, his hand would find the curve of your shoulder, the warmth of your breath, your skin.
But the bed is empty. The sheets are cool.
He stills, heart slowing from its steady rhythm to something else entirely — a hunter’s cadence. The kind that starts deep in the chest, where instinct lives.
Then it hits him. The pull.
Sharp. Electric. Perfect.
It’s you.
His lips part, and for the first time in weeks, he breathes in deep — and the air tastes different. Changed.
The serum worked.
He feels it in the marrow, in the unholy connection that hums just beneath his skin. Every nerve alive, tuned to your frequency. The distance between them may as well be inches.
You’ve changed.
Not half-formed anymore, not human. The rewriting has finished its first cycle. The foundation is there now — soft, ready, waiting for the rest to take hold.
And he feels you — the echo of your pulse against his own. Not sound. Not touch. Resonance.
A low sound breaks from him, half sigh, half laugh. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice gone reverent. “Knew you’d make it.”
He leans forward in the dark, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth. The city outside hums with distant life, but all he hears is you.
For a moment, the delusion feels holy. You’re here — not in body, but in presence. In soul. Your warmth ghosts against his skin like a memory reborn.
Graves tips his head back, eyes closing. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, and something in the air answers him — a faint, phantom echo of your heartbeat, syncing with his. “They can keep you for now. Let you rest, let you fight it a little. But you’re mine. You always were.”
The smile that curls his lips isn’t kind. It’s absolute.
He rises, slow and deliberate, moving toward the table where rows of small vials wait — six left, lined up in order, labeled in his own hand. The rest of the serum. The completion of the bond.
He runs a finger down the glass, each one gleaming faintly blue beneath the lamplight. “One down,” he murmurs. “Six to go.”
Then, quieter, as though speaking to the air itself:
“Hold on, sugar. Just a little longer. The world’ll burn before I let anyone else finish what I started.”
He glances once toward the window — toward the invisible line across sea and sky that leads to England — and for the briefest moment, he almost swears he sees your reflection standing there beside him.
Warm. Waiting.
⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆
The world feels different when you open your eyes.
Not louder. Not brighter. Just… clearer.
For a moment, you think you’ve overslept again — that this is the tail end of another fever dream, one of those long, restless ones where the air feels heavy and your body refuses to move. But this time, it’s different. The air isn’t pressing on your chest. It feels light. Breathable.
You inhale deeply.
The air slides in smooth, sharp, alive — and you smell everything. The faint trace of antiseptic, the metal of the bed frame, the sterile fabric of the sheets, even the distant hum of rain outside. It’s all there, layered and perfect, but it doesn’t drown you. It sits neatly in the back of your mind, as if your senses have been recalibrated.
You blink. Once. Twice. The room comes into focus — edges sharper, shadows softer, colors richer. The pale light filtering through the blinds glows almost golden.
You sit up slowly, the motion easy, effortless. The kind of ease that makes your heart skip — because for days, everything hurt. Your bones, your lungs, your very skin. But now… nothing does.
You feel good.
You glance down at your wrists. The restraints are gone — but the marks remain. Tender, little reminders of something you can’t quite name. Your fingers trace the skin gently, and the contact sends a faint ripple up your arm, strange but not unpleasant.
You flex your hands. They’re steady. Strong.
It feels… wrong to feel this right.
The quiet hum of the base thrums beyond the door — distant footsteps, the hum of machinery, the soft pulse of electricity through metal walls. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and let your feet touch the floor. The cold shocks you, makes you smile. Really smile.
For the first time since you arrived, you don’t feel trapped.
You stand — too quickly, almost giddy — and take a few steps. Every movement feels new, as if your body has been replaced with one that finally knows how to work. You pause near the window, drawn to the pale morning light.
The glass is cool beneath your fingertips. Beyond it, the world stretches out in muted color — grey sky, wet tarmac, distant motion. Everything looks smaller from up here. Manageable.
You breathe again, and it fills you. The scent of rain. Steel. Something sharp and clean beneath it all.
Something alive.
For a while, you just stand there, watching. Listening. The stillness feels sacred somehow — a moment untouched by fear, or pain, or whatever it is they’ve done to you.
Then, quietly, you turn.
The door stands a few feet away. Closed, but not locked.
You hesitate. Not out of fear, but out of disbelief. There’s a part of you that expects the handle to shock you, or an alarm to blare. Something. Anything.
It doesn’t.
The metal is cool under your palm. The latch clicks softly, like the world itself just gave permission.
And then — you step out.
Bare feet against the cold floor. A corridor stretching quiet before you.
You should feel lost. But for the first time since waking in this strange place, this strange world: you don’t.
You feel found.
And somewhere — far away — something feels you back.
The corridor greets you with silence. Not empty — alive in its own way, humming faintly beneath your bare feet. The air feels warmer out here, heavier with the scent of things you can’t quite name: steel, oil, fabric softener, the faint musk of people who’ve passed through recently.
And beneath all of it — something richer.
You stop. Inhale.
There it is again. That smell. Food.
The thought lands in your stomach like a weight, sudden and sharp. You hadn’t realized how empty you were until this moment. It’s not the soft ache of mild hunger — it’s a pull. A low, insistent need that curls deep inside you, tugging you forward like an invisible hand.
You follow it.
Your bare feet whisper against the cold floor as you move through the hall. Every light buzzes softly overhead, the hum almost musical now. You pass door after door — closed, unmarked — and for the first time, you notice how clear everything is. The way dust motes float in the fluorescent glow, the pattern of paint along the walls, the vibration of distant footsteps.
Everything feels like it’s waiting for you to notice it.
You take a corner and pause. There’s a faint rhythm of voices somewhere ahead — low, indistinct. Male. The sound ripples through you like static, sharp and grounding. You don’t recognize the words, but your body reacts anyway. A strange rush of warmth beneath your skin, your pulse quickening.
You shake it off. Food first.
Another turn and you catch it fully — the scent that’s been calling you. Tea. Coffee. Toast. Something frying in oil. It hits you all at once, and your stomach twists, loud enough that you glance around out of instinct.
No one’s here.
The corridor opens into a wider space. The walls shift from metal to concrete, softer light spilling from an open doorway ahead. You step closer, careful, your fingers brushing the cold wall as you peer inside.
A canteen.
Empty tables. A few trays left on the counter. Someone’s half-finished breakfast sits abandoned — eggs, a slice of toast, steam still curling faintly upward.
You swallow hard.
Your body moves before your mind catches up. You cross the room, each step steady, drawn to the warmth like gravity. You hover a moment — just long enough for the thought this isn’t yours to flicker weakly at the edge of your conscience.
But then the smell hits again, and reason slips through your fingers.
You take the toast first, biting in. The taste is overwhelming — buttery, salty, perfect. You almost moan. It’s ridiculous, but it feels like you’ve been starving for years. You eat fast, messy, tearing through it like instinct demands.
The sound of a chair scraping behind you freezes you mid-bite.
The air shifts before you even hear him.
It’s subtle at first — a low, steady pulse that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The hairs on your arms lift. You freeze, toast halfway to your lips, breath caught between one heartbeat and the next.
And then you feel it.
That weight. That quiet, immense pressure that folds through the room, slow and deliberate, like the world itself just remembered its gravity. It’s not sound or movement. It’s presence. A force pressed just beneath the skin of the air, restrained but alive.
You turn.
He’s standing there. Breakfast now forgotten. He’s huge. the half-light catching on the smooth plane of a black mask. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.
The silence between you stretches taut.
For a moment, you can’t breathe. It isn’t fear — not exactly — but the raw awareness of something vast. Dangerous. His stillness feels like the calm before lightning, the air trembling with the promise of what could happen if he decided to move.
Your heart beats too fast. You clutch the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it doesn’t help. He steps closer — slow, measured, predatory in its control. Each footfall sinks into the air like thunder muffled by distance.
When he stops, he’s close enough for the heat of him to reach you. It rolls off his body in slow waves, like standing too near a forge. His gaze rakes over you once, clinical and sharp, but there’s something else underneath it — recognition. Understanding.
The kind that makes your stomach twist.
He knows.
You don’t need words to feel it. The awareness between you hums, an electric thing that burns in your chest. You can feel the part of you that isn’t human anymore; the part that woke up hungry, aching, searching.
Ghost’s head tilts, the movement almost imperceptible. His hand flexes once at his side, leather whispering against leather.
“You’re awake,” he says finally, voice rough enough to scrape against your spine.
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He studies you for a long moment. The mask hides everything, but you can feel the weight of his gaze — tracing, measuring, knowing. When he exhales, it’s low, quiet, heavy with something that sounds almost like regret.
“It worked.”
The words drop between you like a blade.
You don’t understand. Not fully. But you feel it. Whatever the serum did — whatever was given you — it’s inside you now, alive and permanent. The air tastes sharper. Your pulse hums in your throat.
Ghost takes another step closer, and it’s instinct — not thought — that makes you step back. His eyes narrow slightly behind the mask.
“Don’t,” he says, low. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
But even as he says it, you can sense it — the danger coiled just beneath his skin. The raw, controlled power that vibrates through the room, filling every breath.
And underneath that, something worse.
Recognition.
He can feel it too — whatever’s in you now. Whatever Graves had put there. The part of you that hums like it remembers another voice, another command. The part that wasn’t built for him.
Ghost stands there, unmoving. You can almost hear the battle inside him — instinct clawing against restraint. When he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“Y’feel different now.”
He doesn’t ask. It’s a fact.
He drags a gloved thumb over the edge of the counter, eyes still locked on you.
“You’re not human anymore.”
The silence after that feels thick, suffocating. You can’t tell if you want to run or fall to your knees.
Then, softly, like it costs him to say it, “He’ll feel it too.” Ghost murmurs, voice low, almost to himself.
You shift on the edge of the table, lifting the toast to your lips again. You bite it slowly, deliberate, savoring the simple warmth and crunch, a small rebellion against the heaviness that’s been pressing on you. The smell of the butter, the faint tang of the bread, grounds you.
Ghost watches quietly, every subtle motion recorded in his mind. He notes the traits: the small, irrepressible sparks of the young omega now in you. The cheekiness hiding beneath your fatigue, the way your lips linger carefully over the toast before biting, like testing the world for permission.
But beneath it all, he can smell it: hunger. Real, aching hunger. Not just for food — but for everything that’s been taken from you.
Without a word, he moves to the counter, silent and efficient. He gathers a tray and some plates, and places more toast, soft pastries, and a small jug of water. His movements are careful, deliberate — a ritual of preparation.
His eyes flick to you, scanning, noting, measuring. The subtle rise and fall of your chest, the sharp inhale when you take a bite, the way your body tilts slightly as if reaching toward comfort — all of it tells him more than words ever could.
He steps back slightly, keeping the air between you taut. Close enough for you to sense him, far enough that you still have space to breathe. And still, you feel it — the weight of him, restrained, dangerous, assessing.
He knows the serum has transformed you. He can sense it in the subtle heat of your skin, the soft, quickened pulse under his gaze. You’re fully omega now. Fragile in ways he respects, powerful in ways he doesn’t dare touch.
And though he doesn’t speak again, his mind works silently: Keep her fed. Keep her safe. Let her strength grow before the rest of the world tries to take it. Let her be ready… for what’s coming.
You move past him slowly, tray in hand, and then set the tray down on the table where he had been sitting. The chair is pushed back slightly, the seat still warm from him, and without hesitation, you perch on the edge. The toast, pastries, and jug of water — all of it is yours now. The small victory makes your stomach flutter with something more than hunger: control, choice, a little ownership of this world that’s been so relentless.
Ghost remains by the food stations at first, silent, his eyes never leaving you. You can feel the weight of him — quiet, restrained, like a storm held at bay — but it doesn’t make you afraid. Not yet. It’s… something else. A presence that presses at your instincts, a pull that you can’t fully name.
You tear the toast slowly, savoring taste. Your fingers brush against the crisp edges, butter melting slightly under your touch. You sip water, careful, deliberate, tasting the freedom in the simplest things.
Ghost steps closer, quietly, carrying another plate of pastries and a small jug of water. He sets them down with soft precision, something that looks a little odd coming from someone who looks like him, “You’ll need more than that,” he says, voice low, restrained, as if speaking louder would somehow break the fragile moment, or spook you, “I don’t know how you take your tea. Or coffee. Or whatever you drink. So water will do for now.”
You glance at him briefly, noticing the way he moves: careful, measured, every motion deliberate, almost ritualistic. Even without speaking, you understand: this is his way of keeping you safe, letting you adjust. He won’t force, won’t rush.
As you accept the food, slowly, deliberately, something shifts in him. A quiet, subtle contentment curls through him: not possessive, not predatory, but something deeper, more primal: the knowledge that you are alive, sustained, and that for this moment, you trust him enough to take care of you. Every bite you take is a small acknowledgment, and it resonates through him like a grounding force.
He watches, sitting across from you, noting every flicker of motion, the way your back straightens a little as you take a bite, the subtle tilt of your head as you sniff the air, the way your body relaxes ever so slightly when you taste the food he’s brought — it all tells him more than any words could.
You finish the toast in slow, deliberate bites, drinking water in between. Ghost allows the silence to stretch, letting you inhabit the space fully, letting your mind adjust to what has been done to you, to what you have become.
And as you eat, he silently piles more food on the tray, refills your water when needed, and watches the undercurrents of your scent. The newness, the subtle shifts — the hallmarks of a young omega in bloom — are intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
He doesn’t lean too close, doesn’t intrude. He lets you take this moment. For now, it’s yours.
But beneath it all, he thinks: You’re fully omega now. The serum has rewritten you. Every breath, every instinct, every desire — it will belong to him when the time comes.
And quietly, in a way he almost doesn’t allow himself to admit, he savors the small contentment of the moment: that you are here, alive, taking nourishment, and trusting him enough to let him care.
The doors to the canteen slam open.
The sound cracks through the quiet like a gunshot, and you flinch hard — the plate in your hands slipping just enough to clatter.
Ghost reacts before thought; every muscle in him goes taut, shoulders drawn, one gloved hand hovering near the table, ready. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to.
You’re perched on the edge of your seat, finishing the last bites of pastry, a glass of water in hand. Your movements slow, unhurried — alive. The sight alone stops the man in the doorway mid-step.
“Jesus Christ—” Soap’s voice lands first, half-gasp, half-relief. He’s flushed, breathless, eyes scanning the room like he’s expecting an ambush. But then he sees you.
And everything in him stops.
“Y/N?”
He blinks once, twice, and the disbelief on his face melts into something wide-eyed and bright. “You’re— bloody hell, you’re up.”
The tension drains from his shoulders so fast it almost looks painful. He scrubs a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that’s half a laugh. “You’ve got some nerve, lass. Nearly gave us all a heart attack.” His voice softens as his eyes find you again — steady, sitting upright, colour in your face. “Thought we’d lost you again,” he admits, quieter now, the accent thicker when the emotion slips through.
His gaze flicks to Ghost for half a second, then back to you. “Price, Laswell, Gaz — they’ve all been lookin’ for ye. You disappear out your room like a bloody ghost, and now you’re in here nickin’ breakfast like nothin’s happened.”
You open your mouth to reply, but he’s already moving — slower this time, more deliberate. The smell hits him before he sits. Your smell.
Warm. Sweet. Unmistakable.
Soap’s steps falter. He doesn’t need Ghost’s rigid posture to tell him what’s changed. He can feel it — the air is different now, thicker, heavier with something instinct can’t ignore.
He lowers himself into the chair beside you, every movement careful, measured. The usual spark in his eyes softens to something protective. His voice, when he speaks again, is gentler than you’ve ever heard it.
“Ye alright, hen?”
He’s close enough now to catch your scent properly — that new, fragile sweetness humming under your skin, threaded through with the sharp tang of metal and antiseptic. It hits something deep in him, old instinct stirring, but he keeps it locked down with a steady breath. He won’t spook you. Won’t make you feel uncomfortable.
“Take it easy, yeah?” he says quietly, elbow on the table, chin dipping toward you. “You’ve been through hell. No one’s expectin’ ye to bounce back straight away.”
A beat, then a softer grin, trying to lift the weight in the room.
“But if you were gonna wake up an’ raid the kitchen, the least ye could’ve done was make me a cuppa.”
You smile sheepishly, and Soap huffs a quiet laugh — small, soft, the kind that eases rather than fills the silence. He doesn’t push. Just sits there, watching you chew, letting you exist. Letting you be.
He sits and waits. No pressure. Just presence.
Ghost moves behind him, the sound near silent but the shift in the air unmistakable. He crosses to the drink station, pours a steaming cup of coffee, movements precise as clockwork. There’s no wasted motion — every small action is deliberate. When he sets the cup in front of Soap, it’s gentle, almost careful.
“Figured you’d need it,” Ghost mutters, voice low behind the mask.
Soap glances up, catching the meaning behind the gesture — quiet gratitude passed between soldiers who’ve seen too much. “Cheers, mate.” He wraps his hands around the mug, grounding himself in the warmth, in the smell of bitter coffee and the faint sweetness of you now threaded through the air.
He exhales, shoulders easing.
You chew slowly, savoring the last bite before swallowing. “I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, voice hesitant. “I just… had all this energy all of a sudden, and I got really hungry.”
Soap leans forward a little, expression soft. “Aye, lass. Don’t be sorry. After everythin’ that’s happened, you could’ve torn through the whole bloody kitchen and I’d still be glad to see ye on your feet.”
You smile weakly, stretching your arms above your head. The movement feels good — easy, natural — and for a moment, you close your eyes and breathe. The air tastes clearer, the heaviness that once clung to you gone.
“I don’t know…” you admit, opening your eyes again. “Everything feels so open. Like I can breathe again. My head’s quiet. Nothing hurts.”
Soap nods, voice gentler now. “That’s ‘cause yer body’s finally takin’ what it needs. Ye’ve been run dry for ages — starvin’, burnin’ yerself out. But look at ye now.” His lips twitch into a smile. “That’s the real Y/N peekin’ through again.”
You glance up at Ghost then — his stillness both intimidating and strangely steady. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt. Just watches. His presence fills the edges of the room, quiet and solid like stone.
“It’s strange,” you say softly. “To feel all this energy… this hunger. I keep thinkin’ I’ll… crash again.”
You don’t mention the ache that sits beneath it — that hollow tug that feels like grief, like something’s missing. You don’t tell them about the pull in your chest, the whisper just under your skin that hums with a voice. It’s faint, but it’s there. Watching. Waiting.
The silence stretches — easy, fragile, peaceful. The hum of the lights fills it, joined by the soft clink of metal as Ghost downs the rest of his tea. You take another bite, slower this time, and let the warmth settle in your stomach. For the first time in forever, you feel full.
And then —
The door opens again.
It’s softer this time — not the violent slam of Soap’s entrance, but the deliberate sound of people who’ve found what they were looking for. Boots on linoleum. The faint shuffle of cloth.
You glance up.
Price steps in first, his presence filling the space before his voice even does. Laswell follows, composed as ever, though her sharp eyes betray the relief she tries to hide. Gaz trails close behind, expression easing the second he spots you at the table — alive, eating.
“Bloody hell,” Price mutters under his breath. The words are half prayer, half disbelief. “She’s awake.”
Ghost doesn’t move from where he sits, but his head tilts slightly toward his captain — a silent acknowledgment.
Price crosses to him, lowering himself into the seat beside him, forearms braced on his knees as his eyes sweep over you. He takes in the colour in your cheeks, the brightness in your eyes, the pulse of life radiating from you now. Whatever was given to you — that pink serum — it’s definitely done its work. It’s a painful realisation, because now: you’re well and truly stuck here in their world. One you still barely understand, one that hums with a hierarchy you don’t yet understand. Or see properly.
Laswell sits next to Price, hands folded, her gaze sharp but cautious. “How long has she been up?” she asks quietly.
“Half an hour,” Ghost answers. His voice is low, steady. “She walked herself here. Ate.”
Laswell’s brows lift — the faintest flicker of something between surprise, relief, and calculation crossing her face.
Gaz moves without hesitation, sliding into the chair beside you. His movements are easy, deliberate — careful not to startle you, but natural enough to feel like company instead of observation. “Hey,” he says gently, the familiar warmth of his voice softening the tension. “How’re you feelin’, love?”
You swallow, setting down what’s left of your pastry. “Different,” you admit, almost sheepish. “Better, I think. Just… strange. Odd. Everything feels clearer.”
Gaz nods, smiling lightly. “That’s good. Strange’s better than nothin’. You look like you’ve finally slept.”
Laswell studies you from across the table, her tone quiet. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Buzzing?”
You shake your head. “No. Just… light. Like my body has clicked somewhere here.”
Price leans back slightly, eyes narrowing. There’s understanding there — and something else. Something that makes his jaw tighten. He can feel it, the same thing Ghost does: that low, unspoken hum threading through the air between you.
The name flickers through the air like static — unheard by you, but felt all the same. The faint ache in your chest tightens, sharp and sudden. You don’t know why. You glance down, pressing your hand over your sternum, trying to quiet it. You feel cold for a moment — empty — and it sparks anxiety deep in your ribs.
Ghost notices. Of course he does. His gloved hand flexes once, slow and deliberate, but he doesn’t speak.
Price watches him, then you. “We keep her close,” he says quietly. “No more labs. No more tests.”
Gaz nods, leaning slightly closer to you, offering a small smile that grounds the moment. “You’re safe here, yeah? Promise.”
You nod, though the ache doesn’t fade. It sits just beneath your heartbeat — a soft, distant pull you can’t name.
Laswell glances at Price, her expression unreadable. “You know he’ll feel it, her,” she says, voice low enough that only the table hears.
Price doesn’t look away from you when he answers. “I know.”
The silence stretches a moment longer. Ghost’s gaze remains fixed on your profile, steady and deliberate. Price sits beside him, eyes flicking to you, noting the subtle shifts — the way your body moves, the light in your eyes, the pulse of something entirely new beneath the surface. Gaz slides into the chair beside you, leaning slightly forward, his tone gentle. Laswell perches near Price, quiet, cautious, her sharp eyes flicking between you and the others. Soap sits nearby too, careful and aware, his Scottish accent low when he murmurs encouragement, adding to the circle of care without stepping forward as a tether.
You shift, a tightening coil in your chest that makes your stomach flutter unpleasantly. The sensation is heavy, insistent — a longing you can’t name, curling inside you, making your pulse stutter and your breath catch.
Soap leans back slightly, hands folded in his lap, eyes soft, watching you with measured concern. “Take yer time, lass,” he murmurs. His presence is careful, unobtrusive, giving you space while still acknowledging your discomfort.
Ghost’s fingers flex once on the counter, subtle but sharp, every movement measured. Price’s jaw tightens. Gaz’s brow flickers in recognition. Laswell tilts her head slightly, noting the way you hesitate. They all know. The unspoken presence in the room threads through the air, a weight that isn’t just physical — it’s instinct, memory, engineering. They can feel it; you can feel it too, though it’s unnamed. That pull — Graves’ obsession, his dangerous intelligence, the way he’s built you — it’s there, threading through every quiet moment, every careful breath you take.
And they will keep him, to the best of their abilities: away from you. They won’t will allow him near you. Not now. Not ever.
Yet the awareness lingers.
He’ll feel it too. He’ll feel you.
You inhale slowly, trying to settle the fluttering in your chest, grounding yourself on the edge of the table. The half-eaten pastry offers some comfort, though it can’t reach the shadow that coils in your core.
No one speaks of it. They don’t need to. Ghost’s posture is rigid but restrained, Price’s eyes narrow without leaving you, Gaz leans gently, offering comfort, Laswell observes quietly, and Soap keeps his distance, attentive, quietly protective. Together, they form a buffer, a shield you don’t yet realize you need.
Yet the ache lingers. Twists in your stomach, a subtle shiver up your spine, breath catching in half-sobs that you don’t let out.
You shift in your chair, the pastry momentarily forgotten. The warmth in your chest blooms suddenly, spreading through your limbs, prickling your skin with a low, insistent hum. Your pulse hammers, breath shallow, and your stomach twists again, sharper this time. You press a hand against your sternum, trying to steady yourself, but the ache rolls through you like a wave. “I… I feel hot,” you mutter, voice small, uncertain.
The warmth doesn’t fade: it turns hotter. It builds — low and slow and merciless — until it’s curling through your stomach like fire, twisting up into your chest. Your breaths come shorter, sharper, the air thick in your lungs. The world feels too loud, too bright.
Soap and Gaz keep close, their scents grounding you — warm, steady, familiar. Their presence soothes something raw and trembling inside you. You lean toward them without realizing, the instinct buried in your new body tugging you closer to comfort.
But then Ghost moves.
Just a shift of weight, a subtle scrape of his boot against the floor — and suddenly the air is thick again. His Alpha presses against your senses, restrained but impossible to ignore. The instinctive pull toward him hits like a wave, dizzying, electric. Your body reacts before your mind can argue — your spine straightens, head tilting just slightly, like you’re trying to breathe him in.
And then Price’s scent cuts through, grounding but heavier, authoritative in a way that makes your stomach twist. His Alpha rises too, instinct responding to instinct, a steady dominance that demands to be acknowledged.
Something inside you preens at it. You don’t mean to — it’s automatic, the quiet tilt of your chin, exposing your neck slightly, the way your shoulders relax for a moment under that dual weight. Every nerve in your body lights up, craving the safety, the power, the urges to give into it..
The heat crawls beneath your skin, molten and restless, your pulse hammering at your throat. Every sound feels too loud now — Soap’s quiet voice, Gaz’s steady breathing, the subtle scrape of Price shifting beside Ghost. It all feeds the burn inside you, a rhythm that doesn’t belong to thought but to instinct.
You blink, trying to focus on the room, on the table, on anything that isn’t this ache building deep in you. But your eyes find Ghost again. You swallow.
He’s still as ever, posture controlled, his mask a dark, unreadable line. Yet underneath it — beneath the black fabric, beneath the armor — something moves. A quiet, dangerous energy that hums in the air between you. You feel it before you even see him — the sheer gravity of his presence, the restrained pressure that pushes against the edges of your senses.
Your body reacts before your mind can stop it.
Your fingers twitch where they rest on the table, and for one brief, blinding moment, you reach for him. Not out of thought — out of instinct. Something inside you recognizes his steadiness, the strength in him, the safety of it. A tremor runs through your hand as it stretches slightly toward him, as if caught in a pull you don’t understand.
And then it hits you.
He just… doesn’t feel right. For you.
You freeze halfway, the heat in your chest twisting sharply — not rejection, not fear, but something deeper. Wrong. His presence calms the noise but doesn’t quiet the ache. It presses against it, but it doesn’t fit.
Your body aches for something else. Someone else. A presence you can’t name, but your bones remember it all the same.
You flinch back, hand curling against your chest, confusion flickering across your face. “I— I don’t know why I did that… I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely holding steady.
Ghost’s head lowers a fraction, his shoulders tight, but his voice stays low, steady. “You don’t have to explain.”
But he knows. They all do. That instinct, that pull — it isn’t meant for him. Whatever Graves built inside you, whatever bond he designed, it’s there now, whispering across every nerve, every heartbeat. And it’s calling for him.
Laswell’s eyes narrow slightly, catching the motion. She doesn’t comment, but her jaw sets.
Price exhales slowly, standing. “She’s burnin’ up,” he mutters. “It’s dangerous for her to be out here now.”
Laswell rises next, controlled as ever. “Then we move her. Ellis and the nurses will monitor from a distance — no one else gets near.”
Gaz shifts closer, his hand brushing yours again, grounding you. Soap’s presence steadies you too, that familiar warmth cutting through the haze just enough to let you breathe. Their scents settle the panic in your chest, easing the confusion.
But when Price takes a step forward — the faint edge of his Alpha leaking through the careful calm — that same strange instinct claws at you again. The need to respond, to seek, to belong, to give in surges under your skin, and a soft, helpless whine slips from your throat before you can swallow it.
You go rigid, eyes wide, mortified at yourself.
Gaz gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “Easy, love. Nothin’ t’ be sorry for,” he says soft, his voice, grounding.
Price freezes, guilt flickering across his face. He steps back, forcing his Alpha down hard, and the air eases.
Still, the ache lingers — that quiet confusion, that pull toward something that feels right but isn’t here.
Laswell’s voice breaks the tension. “Let’s get her back to her room.”
You nod, dizzy, and let them guide you — Gaz’s steady presence at your side, Soap hovering close, while Price and Ghost fall in behind you. They’re a wall of quiet power, their instincts roaring silently just beneath the surface.
As the corridor stretches out before you, the cool air brings momentary relief, but the warmth inside doesn’t fade. It thrums, low and deep, like a tether being pulled taut across an impossible distance.
You press your hand against your heart again, breath unsteady.
You don’t know why it feels like someone’s calling for you — only that, wherever he is, he’s listening.
The walk back to your room is a blur of low voices and steady footsteps. The corridors are quieter than usual — the hour between shift changes, when the base hums in muted rhythm — yet the air feels heavier than it should.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
Price and Ghost flank the rear, silent but sharp, their Alpha instincts fronting just enough to deter anyone who looks too long. Gaz stays beside you, shoulder brushing yours now and then, his voice soft whenever your breath stutters. Soap leads just ahead, one hand hovering near your arm but never quite touching, the picture of controlled gentleness.
You can barely focus on them. Everything aches.
Your skin hums with too much awareness — the temperature of the air, the faint electric buzz of lights, the subtle pull of every scent that drifts by. It’s overwhelming. The ache in your chest has settled lower now, coiling in your stomach, a restless, trembling heat that makes your knees feel weak, and your increasingly wet pussy clench around nothing.
Price’s voice rumbles low, almost a growl. “Others’ll start smellin’ her soon.”
Laswell’s voice cuts through. “Get her inside. Now. Ellis and the nurses are ready.”
Soap opens the door to your quarters, guiding you with a steady hand at your shoulder. The cooler air hits you like a wave — relief and ache tangled together.
You breathe out shakily, trying to calm the tremor in your hands, but the heat keeps climbing. Your fingers clutch the edge of the desk. “Something’s wrong with me,” you whisper.
Gaz shakes his head softly, voice calm and grounding. “Nothin’ wrong, love. It’s just startin’, that’s all.”
Outside, Price and Ghost stand guard. Their scents roll through the corridor — sharp, territorial — warning anyone nearby to stay clear. A few soldiers slow, nostrils flaring, but one glare from Price sends them moving on fast.
Inside, you curl up on the bed, knees drawn to your chest, breath shallow. The warmth spreads through your skin, your heartbeat drumming in your ears, your first rut rising like a tide you can’t stop.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
Down the hall, a soldier pauses mid-step. One of Graves’ men — still embedded, still unnoticed. His uniform is crisp, his face unreadable. But the moment the scent hits him, it’s like a match striking dry tinder.
He goes still. Every instinct flares at once. The air shifts around him; his shoulders square, his jaw locks tight enough to hurt. His pants tighten.
Omega.
Not just any omega. You.
The scent is new, raw, wild — sharp-sweet and electric, laced with heat and confusion and something that doesn’t belong to this world. It coils through the air like smoke, like static, addictive in a way that shouldn’t be possible. It doesn’t just smell like an omega — it hums, engineered and deliberate, tugging at every instinct buried in his DNA.
He swallows hard, forcing his breathing steady. The urge to follow burns low and insistent, his instincts dragging like a leash. His Alpha stirs, straining toward the scent. For a second, he forgets to breathe.
Then training takes over. He straightens his shoulders, checks the hall, and slips through a side door into the narrow shadows of a comms alcove. He locks it behind him, fingers shaking only once before steadying.
He dials a frequency no one else on base should have. The encryption clicks through, layer after layer, before it connects.
“Sir,” he says quietly. His voice doesn’t tremble, but his pulse does. “It’s… it’s started. The girl — she’s in heat.”
There’s silence on the other end. Just the faint sound of static and breathing.
Then a soft, deliberate hum.
“I know,” Phillip Graves says. His tone is smooth — no shock, no urgency, just that lazy confidence that bleeds command. “I felt it.”
The soldier’s throat goes dry.
Graves exhales slowly, like he’s tasting the air miles away. “She’s burnin’ now, ain’t she? I knew that serum’d take. Faster than I expected, but…” A pause. A smile you can hear. “… she’s a pleaser, ain’t she…”
“Sir,” the soldier says carefully, eyes flicking toward the door. “What do you want me to—”
“Nothing,” Graves cuts in. Calm. Certain. “Keep your post. My team’ll handle it. We’ve been waitin’ for this.”
A faint click. The line goes dead.
The soldier stays still for a long moment, heart hammering against his ribs.
He should move. He should breathe. He should forget the way that scent is still lingering in his nose — soft, aching, impossible to ignore. But his Alpha stirs, pressing against his restraint, demanding that he follow it.
He forces it down. Forces himself to leave the alcove and blend back into the corridor.
But he doesn’t notice the faint tremor in his hands.
Or the ghost of a smirk that curves his lips when he thinks of the way Graves said I felt it.
Because somehow, it didn’t sound like a figure of speech.
⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆
The room hums faintly with low light and recycled air. Somewhere down the hall, machinery in the distance whirs, the rhythmic pulse of the base never truly resting.
You shift under the thin blanket, the fabric clinging damply to your skin. The room feels too warm, though the air isn’t hot. Your skin glows with a sheen of sweat, sweet and sharp — a scent that clings to the sheets, the air, everything.
You twist again, a soft sound escaping your throat before you can stop it. A quiet, needy whine that barely fills the space but hangs heavy in the stillness. Your hair sticks to your face and neck, curls damp where they touch your collarbone.
Your body is restless. Aching. Hungry in a way that isn’t just hunger anymore. Every inhale feels thick, syrupy, like the air itself is laced with something meant to pull a reaction from you.
The blanket slips down, pooling at your waist. You roll onto your side, legs tangling in the sheets. The world feels bright behind your closed eyes — every heartbeat, every hum of the base, every breath outside your door pressing against you.
You’ve tried touching yourself, tried to fill the emptiness with your fingers — but it’s not enough. The burns and aches just claw their way deeper into you, so deep that you’re sure no one can help you. Your thighs clench against each other, trying to give yourself fucking something. You whine pathetically in frustration, thé blanket is fisted tightly in your hand as your other hand slithers in between your thighs, giving you something to grind on.
Outside, the Beta stands guard — quiet, disciplined, aware of you, of the depth of what’s unfolding inside. His presence keeps the others at bay, their scents a faint, distant pressure just beyond the metal walls.
In the conference room, Price and the rest of the 141 sit at a table lit by sterile white light. Paperwork, briefings, the low drone of orders — things that mean nothing to them right now.
Soap fidgets, restless, foot tapping under the table. Gaz stares at nothing, mind half a mile away. Ghost’s hands flex once on the desk, gloved fingers curling tight.
They can feel it. Even here.
A faint thrum through the air — the echo of your scent bleeding into the base’s recycled airflow, caught in ventilation that hums like a heartbeat.
Price notices first. His jaw tightens, eyes flicking toward the door. “She’s still in her quarters?”
Gaz nods. “Aye, sir. Beta on post. Said she’s… coping.”
“Copin’,” Soap mutters, low, uncertain. “If ye can call it that.”
Ghost doesn’t move. Just breathes slowly, controlled, like he’s holding something back. Himself.
“She’s burnin’,” Price says quietly. It’s not a question.
None of them argue.
Laswell’s voice crackles faintly over comms from another wing, sharp and distracted. “I’m still in with command. Don’t move her yet. We can’t risk the others smellin’ her or getting to her until we clear the wing.”
Price exhales through his nose, jaw working. “Right. Keep her door sealed. No Alphas near her.”
The words are calm — but the tension beneath them is coiled and dangerous.
Back in your room, you moan something incoherent to yourself, voice catching in a whimper that softens into a sigh. Your back arches slightly as your fingers rub your pulsing clit.
The heat beneath your skin pulses with every heartbeat, building — a low hum that seems to seep into the air itself.
And somewhere, just beyond the edge of base sensors, someone else catches it.
A receiver hums to life in the darkness of a maintenance alcove.
A quiet alert flickers across an encrypted channel.
Your scent — the signal of it — bleeds out through recycled air, faint but traceable.
The man who answers that signal doesn’t wear Task Force insignia.
He listens for a moment, inhales, then starts moving.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
The corridor outside your room is silent.
Dimly lit. The kind of quiet that presses against your ribs when the night shift has settled, when even the hum of the vents sounds too loud.
The Beta stationed outside shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders, fighting off the pull of fatigue. His comm crackles faintly in his ear — idle chatter, command-line updates. Nothing unusual.
He glances once toward your door. The faint, sweet scent still seeps through the sealed edge — warm and wrong and alive. It makes his chest tighten.
He exhales, steadying himself.
“Evenin’, mate.”
The voice comes from down the hall. Calm. Low. Familiar enough that he doesn’t immediately reach for his weapon.
Two soldiers approach — uniforms crisp, movements unhurried. Shadows follow them like they belong there.
The Beta straightens. “Didn’t expect relief yet. Orders come down early?”
The first man — the one who spoke — gives a small, practiced shrug. “Yeah. Command wanted an extra watch detail for the asset. New protocol.”
The Beta frowns, uncertain. “Didn’t hear nothin’ on comms.”
The soldier tilts his head slightly, smiling politely. “Aye, not everyone does.”
The movement that follows is almost gentle. A gloved hand lifts, a sharp hiss of compressed gas, and the Beta’s eyes widen in shock. He staggers once — twice — then drops soundlessly to the floor.
The second soldier catches him before his body hits the metal with a thud, lowering him down with surprising care.
“Get him out of sight,” the first murmurs.
The third man — quiet, efficient — steps from the shadows, gripping the Beta under the arms and dragging him smoothly into the storage alcove opposite. The door slides shut behind them with a muted click.
The hallway falls silent again.
The leader — the one who smelled you first — glances at the sealed door. The faint hum of air through the vents carries it to him: your scent. Stronger now. Warmer. The edge of your heat bleeding through.
He breathes it in, slow, eyes closing for half a second. It hits like lightning under his skin — sharp, addictive, engineered to sink its hooks into any Alpha who catches it.
He exhales, controlled. To him: you’re more than ready.
He taps his earpiece twice. A coded frequency answers. Static, then a voice — low, Southern, smooth.
“Report.”
“She’s startin’ to show more signs, sir,” the soldier says quietly. “The heat’s hittin’. Beta on watch is down. We’ve got her clear.”
There’s silence on the other end for a heartbeat. Then a sound — a slow hum, deep and knowing.
“‘Course she is,” Philip Graves says, almost to himself. “Always did have good timing.”
The soldier waits, still as stone.
“Get her out clean,” Graves continues. “No noise, no mess. You’ve got a window before that base wakes up. She don’t get a scratch, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Graves’ tone softens, but it’s worse that way. “She’s mine. Bring her home.”
The comm cuts.
The soldier exhales once, steadying himself before gesturing to the others. “Go.”
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
The compound sleeps.
It’s deep into the night — the kind of silence that only settles after hours of watch rotations, when the air itself seems to hold its breath.
Three men move through the darkened corridors, steady and deliberate. They move like shadows, like they’ve done this before — because they have.
Reyes leads. His pace is measured, every turn and corner checked twice. Behind him, Blake keeps close, scanning over his shoulder for patrols. Between them, Carter carries you, unconscious via a sedative administered to you when he snuck in, your limp body held carefully in his arms, swaddled in a dark blanket that hides the curve of your form.
You stir faintly, eyelashes fluttering. A small sound escapes your throat — not quite a word, more like a whine, soft and trembling. Carter tightens his hold, one arm supporting your back, the other under your knees. “Easy there,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Just sleep.”
Reyes throws him a sharp look over his shoulder. “Don’t talk to her.”
Carter doesn’t answer. His grip doesn’t loosen either.
They pass through the auxiliary wing — one of the less patrolled hallways. The guard stationed by your door lies slumped against the wall behind them, unconscious but breathing. Reyes hadn’t even broken stride when he dropped him — a clean, silent strike.
The cool fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, flickering with each step they take.
Under the blanket, your scent still leaks through the fabric: sickeningly sweet and potent.
It’s unlike anything they’ve smelled before: addictive and sharp, threaded through with something electric that makes their instincts stir uneasily. Even suppressed by sedatives and confinement, it clings to the air like static before a storm. It’s addictive in a way that feels wrong — a scent that could twist loyalty if inhaled too deep.
Reyes, the leader, glances back, jaw rught, his own restraint on his face, “Don’t breathe her in too much,” he warns. “Graves said it can… do things to us. Don’t test it.”
Carter swallows, adjusts his hold on you again, The warmth rolling off you seeps through his uniform, and he grits his teeth, forcing his focus forward, “Not like I’m tryin’ to.”
Blake swallows hard, trying not to breathe too deeply. “Christ,” he whispers. “She smells—”
“Don’t,” Reyes cuts in, voice low, lethal. “Don’t even finish that.”
But the air between them is already humming — the pull of it subtle, primal. It threads through the vanishing space between their instincts and their orders, dangerously addictive. It doesn’t smell like any omega they’ve ever known.
It smells like creation.
Carter’s jaw flexes. He adjusts his hold on you, careful, trying to ignore how his pulse trips at the sound of your shallow breaths. “She’s hot,” he mutters. “Really burnin’ up.”
“Graves said she’ll progress faster than the normal omega,” Reyes replies without looking back. “So, he wants her hidden and quiet until she’s on the plane.”
They reach the maintenance exit — one Laswell’s sweep won’t hit until sunrise. The security camera above the door blinks, looping a feed of an empty hallway. Reyes had planned it hours ago.
Cold night air rushes in when he opens the door. You shiver against Carter’s chest, a small, involuntary sound that makes all three men pause for half a breath.
Then they move again.
A black van idles nearby, engine running low, lights off. Blake opens the side door, motioning Carter inside. He climbs in with you still in his arms, lowering himself onto the seat without ever letting you go. Blake shuts the door behind them with a dull click.
Inside, the red glow from the dash paints everything in muted shades of danger.
Your face is half-hidden beneath the blanket, skin flushed, lashes damp, lips parted around short, uneven breaths. The sweat at your temple glistens faintly under the dim light.
Reyes settles in the front seat, pulls the comm from his pocket, and speaks low. “It’s done. Package secured. Leaving the compound now.”
For a second, nothing but static answers him. Then a low hum filters through — familiar, controlled, laced with quiet satisfaction.
“Good,” Graves’ voice says, smooth and measured. “Keep her under. I don’t want her wakin’ yet, that’ll just make her… progress faster.”
Reyes doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. It’s an ambush disguised as a question. The scent still hangs in the confined air of the van — sharp-sweet, dizzying, utterly wrong.
“I know,” Graves continues, voice low, knowing, and dangerous, “keep your wits about you, boys.”
The line clicks dead.
Reyes exhales through his nose, shoving the comm into his pocket. “He already knew,” he mutters.
Blake looks at him from the back seat, “he knows more than what he’s letting on,””
“Of course, he does.” Reyes says, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “He’s been waiting for it, for her. We can’t question him.”
Carter glances down at you, at the faint tremor in your hands, the way your lips part on a shaky exhale. “So what happens now?” he asks quietly.
Reyes shifts the van into gear. “Now?” His voice turns flat, cold. “We will deliver her.”
The van rolls into the dark, headlights off, the compound shrinking behind them — silent, unaware.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
The road is empty this far out. Only the hum of the engine and the occasional crushing of tyres against gravel fill the silence.
Inside the van, the air feels thick. The faint scent of you — sweet and sharp, heat-warm and dizzying — still lingers, weaving through the air until it clings to their skin, their clothes, their lungs.
Reyes drives in silence, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of road ahead. The dashboard lights paint his face in harsh angles of red and gold. Blake sits in the passenger seat, one knee bouncing restlessly, gaze flicking every so often to the side mirror.
In the back, Carter keeps his hold on you. You’re lighter than you should be, body slack but hot to the touch. Your head rests against his chest, the blanket drawn high to hide your face. Every few minutes, you shift — small, restless movements that make him tense instinctively.
He can feel the heat radiating from your skin even through the layers of cloth. It seeps into him, into everything.
“You sure she’s out?” Blake murmurs, glancing over his shoulder.
“Mostly,” Reyes answers without looking. “Sedative Carter gave her before: it’ll still be in her system. Keeps her soft.”
Blake doesn’t like that word — soft. It sounds wrong when he says it.
Carter presses his palm to your shoulder, checking your breathing, his thumb brushing unconsciously against your arm through the fabric. “She’s burnin’ up,” he says again, quieter this time. “Doesn’t seem like she’ll stay under for long.”
Reyes exhales, long and measured. “Just keep her comfortable, that's all we can do.”
Outside, the landscape rolls past in darkness — fields, then empty roads. The compound’s glow has long since disappeared behind them.
You stir again. A soft, broken noise escapes your throat, the sound so fragile it barely reaches above the hum of the van. Your scent spikes — sharp-sweet and electric, like ozone and honey.
Carter’s jaw tightens. Blake swears softly and rolls down his window a crack, trying to let the air in. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “It’s gettin’ stronger.”
Reyes doesn’t react, but his hands tighten on the wheel. “She’s not like the others,” he says finally, voice low. “You smell that, you know it. Whatever Graves did — she’s different. He wants her for a reason. I’ve.. heard things about what he found, about what he’s done but.. nothing else. I’m just as in the dark as you.”
Carter swallows, looks down at you. Your brow furrows faintly in sleep, lips parted, skin still flushed from the fever of your first rut. “He wants her,” he echoes, softer.
Reyes glances at him in the rearview mirror. “Don’t start thinkin’, Carter. Just do your job.”
But the words hang hollow.
The miles stretch. The hum of the road becomes a rhythm, steady and endless. Somewhere behind them, the world they’ve left is waking — Price and Ghost and Soap and Gaz unaware of the empty bed, the Beta on the floor.
By the time dawn starts to bruise the horizon, the van slows. Reyes turns off the main road, headlights off again, following a narrow path through a stretch of old industrial land.
Ahead: a warehouse. Abandoned from the outside, but the faint glow of light seeps from the cracks in its doors.
Their first stop.
Reyes kills the engine. The sudden silence is suffocating.
“We move her inside. Keep her covered” he says, unbuckling.
Blake nods, opening the back doors. Cold morning air floods in, sharp and damp.
Carter shifts, adjusting his hold on you. You make another small groan, brow knitting, head turning toward the warmth of his chest. The movement is innocent, automatic — but it makes every muscle in his body go rigid. The first phase of your heat is already upon you, and he can tell it’s your first one by your scent.
“Easy,” he mutters again, though his voice trembles slightly this time.
Reyes catches the sound, glances back. “Don’t let her scent get in your head,” he warns quietly. “Graves doesn’t forgive that kind of thing.”
Carter doesn’t reply.
He steps down from the van, the blanket still draped over you, your heat-slicked skin hidden from the dawn.
The warehouse door creaks open, swallowing them in dim light and dust.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
The warehouse door groans shut behind them, sealing out the pale edge of dawn. The space smells of dust and oil, and something faintly metallic. One weak light burns overhead, throwing long shadows across the concrete floor.
Carter lowers you onto a narrow cot they’ve set up in a makeshift corner — a blanket, a crate for a table, a small heater humming in the background. You’re still half asleep, the fever of your altered body rising and falling in uneven waves.
Reyes rubs a hand down his face. “Keep her cool. If she wakes too soon, we’ll have hell to pay.”
Blake checks the small med case they’d brought. “We can’t give her the second dose yet,” he mutters, voice low but tense. “Too much too soon’ll crash her system. Graves said to wait ‘til we’re past the first checkpoint.”
Reyes swears under his breath. “So if she wakes—”
“We pray she doesn’t,” Carter says grimly.
He adjusts the blanket at your shoulders, jaw tight. Even through the fabric he can feel the warmth radiating from you. He’s been around enough Omega’s to know: this may be your first, but it’s not normal. It's heavier, thicker, like standing too close to a machine running too hot. And your scent…He glances at Reyes, uneasy, watching as he connects thé comms.
When it does, the line hums once, low and steady. Then a voice cuts through, bright and easy.
“Boys,” Graves says. That drawl. Cheerful, smooth. “Talk to me.”
Reyes straightens, every inch of him snapping to attention. “Package secured, sir. We’re at the first point. Unnoticed.”
A pause. Then the sound of quiet laughter filters through the speaker — the kind that shouldn’t sound warm but somehow does. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Graves says, almost to himself. “Knew she’d come to me one way or another.”
Carter glances down at you again. Your breathing’s gone shallow, lips parted, skin flushed. The faint sound of it fills the silence between Graves’ words.
Graves’ voice dips lower, smoother. “She stable?”
“Yes, sir,” Reyes replies. “Still out.”
“Good,” Graves says. “Keep her that way till I get eyes on her. I want her comfortable and covered. No mistakes. Do not let her wake up.”
The warning lands heavy. Blake swallows hard, nodding even though Graves can’t see him. “Yessir.”
Graves hums, pleased. “Atta boys. You’ll move her before sunrise tomorrow. Keep to the back roads. Plane’ll be ready at Dock Nine.”
“Yes, sir,” Reyes says again.
There’s another pause, the faint sound of him exhaling — like he’s tasting the air through the receiver. Then:
“She’s closer now. I can feel it.”
The line clicks dead.
The warehouse falls silent again, except for the hum of the heater and the shallow sound of your breathing.
Carter sits back on his heels, running a hand over his face. “He sounded… happy,” he mutters, the word landing wrong in the stale air.
Reyes’ gaze hardens. “You’ve never heard him happy,” he says. “You don’t want to.”
He moves to the door, checking the locks. Outside, the first grey light of morning seeps under the crack.
They have a few hours before they have to move again.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
The silence in the briefing room fractures the instant the door slams open.
Gaz stands there, breath ragged, eyes wide. “She’s gone.”
Price’s head snaps up. “What?”
“The Beta guard’s out cold,” Gaz says, voice cutting through the air like glass. “The door wasn’t forced — someone had the codes.”
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then everything happens at once.
Price pushes back his chair so hard it scrapes the floor. Ghost’s Alpha pushes to the surface before he can stop it — thick, suffocating dominance rolling through the room like smoke. Soap’s pulse jumps, his Beta instinct flaring, trying to anchor, to steady.
Laswell’s voice crackles through the comms, clipped and sharp. “Report.”
Price’s voice is low, but it vibrates with fury. “Laswell. Y/n’s gone. We’ve got a downed guard, unconscious. No breach on the door. This was inside help.”
Silence. Then, in a tone that feels colder than steel: “Graves.”
Ghost’s head lowers slightly, the mask doing nothing to hide the tremor in his jaw. “Has to be.”
The air turns electric.
Price’s hands flex on the edge of the table, veins standing out. “How long?”
Gaz hesitates, glancing at Soap, “We checked the feeds. Service corridor cameras went dead around 0200.”
Gaz swallows hard. “They timed the blackout. Used the old power grid route — the one we never reconnected after the last expansion.”
Price’s gaze hardens, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “And now?”
“Last ping on the guard’s biometrics was five hours ago,” Gaz says quietly. “Five, maybe six. She’s been gone that long.”
That word — gone — lands like a physical blow.
Ghost’s fists clench at his sides, every Alpha nerve screaming. “Five to six hours means she’s already off-site.” His voice drops to a growl. “He’s got her. Now he's moving her.”
Laswell’s voice cuts in. “I’m getting all route data within a hundred miles. Anything that’s moved under Graves’ old registration codes.”
Price’s Alpha is fully at the surface now — thick, commanding, dangerous. “They won’t make it far. Not with her in heat. These people will have to keep her sedated, keep her quiet, and manageable.”
Gaz’s expression cracks, eyes flicking to the floor. “You think he already —?”
Ghost doesn’t answer. The sound he makes instead is low and guttural, barely human. “He’d better hope she’s still intact when we find him.”
Gaz slams his hand on the table. “Five hours, Cap. We can trace that. Airports, docks, any goddamn vehicle that moved tonight — we’ll find her.”
Price nods once, curt, grounding himself in motion. “Get Ellis to secure her room, keep her scent contained. No one touches a thing. Ghost —”
“Already on it.”
Soap’s jaw tightens. “We’ll find her.”
The air hums with suppressed fury, every Alpha instinct screaming for movement, violence, blood. The faintest trace of your scent still lingers — sweet, confused, fragile — and it only makes it worse. Ghost’s head tilts toward it unconsciously, breath catching on the faint sweetness fading from the air.
“She’s scared,” he mutters.
Price’s gaze flicks to him.
Ghost says, voice low and certain. “They’ve got her in the first stages of her heat, plus with her possibly being sedated: she’ll be easy to transport. We don’t know how far they’ve gotten.”
No one answers — they just move.
Price’s scent hits the corridor first: harsh, electric, Alpha dominance that makes the nearest soldiers flinch and clear a path. Ghost’s follows close behind — colder, heavier, laced with threat. Soap and Gaz fall in with grim determination, every step echoing with the single thought they all share.
They have to try and get to you before it’s too late.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
The vehicle hums along the empty roads, headlights slicing through the darkness. They’re on their way to the second stop — a temporary safehouse, far enough from the base that no one will trace your scent, close enough to keep the extraction controlled. Carter carries you carefully, blanket tucked around you, your warmth pressing faintly against him even through the fabric. Reyes keeps his gaze on Carter, watching, measuring every subtle movement, aware of the way the man struggles to maintain distance even as he stabilizes you. Blake rides just behind, eyes sharp, scanning every turn, every shadow.
You stir in Carter’s arms, a soft whine escaping your lips — half-pleasure, half-distress — as your heat pulses through you, sweat glistens faintly on your skin. Carter’s arms tighten, murmuring softly, careful not to startle you. Reyes notes the tension in his shoulders, the slight hesitation when you shift, the faint catch in his breath — all signs of the way he’s struggling to keep professional control.
The city blurs past outside the windows. Your half-dream state makes the hum of the tires and the rush of air through the vents feel both distant and sharp, grounding and disorienting all at once. Your heat radiates in waves, subtle but insistent, and the men adjust their movements instinctively, silent communication keeping you secure.
Even in the quiet, the faint, sharp, addictive scent of your impending second phase, the growing slick between your thighs threads through the air, tugging at the three men’s instincts, signaling both urgency and the dangerous uniqueness of what you are.
Hours stretch like slow molasses. The roads wind, sometimes straight and empty, sometimes tight and winding, but the men move like a practiced unit. You feel every bump and turn through the vehicle, your pulse thudding in rhythm with your growing heat. Every sigh and soft exhale you make sends small shivers along your spine, and your stomach twists in that low, insistent ache. You’re burning, sweaty, flushed — and your body aches for more than sleep or food. You don’t know why, not really, just that it’s overwhelming, and there’s a helplessness in it that makes your fingers clench the blanket.
The men are grateful that you are only in your first phase.
Reyes sits close enough to see both of you, alert. He notes Carter’s movements, the way his eyes soften when they flick to you, the slight hesitation before he adjusts you in his arms. There’s a tension there, a feeling that goes beyond duty, and Reyes doesn’t like it. He doesn’t interfere — not yet — but he keeps his gaze sharp, ready to intervene if Carter lets instincts slip too far. Blake sits just behind, eyes scanning constantly, the silent muscle between the two of them and the world outside.
Every soft whine you make, every toss and turn, twists their senses. Even as professionals, they can’t ignore it: the growing scent of a needy, unclaimed omega, the sharp-sweet, addictive tang of your first rut threading through the air, as your building slick only makes the man holding you grind his back teeth; It’s raw and electric, a pull at every instinct. But Graves’ orders echo in their minds, anchoring them: keep you safe. Don’t let you wake up. Don’t let anyone else near you, keep you docile and containable before the second dose can be controlled.
You shift again in Carter’s arms, and the blanket slips slightly. A wave of heat courses through you, stronger than before. Your breaths come in soft, uneven whimpers, and your body aches with the intensity of what’s to come. Carter mutters something, adjusts you, presses a hand lightly to your forehead. The warmth and steady presence is almost grounding — but the ache in your chest is both your heat and something deeper, you reach, almost instinctively, and your fingers twitch toward Carter, but your subconscious mind recoils — confusion and longing battling each other.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
The vehicle hums along the road, tires whispering against asphalt, headlights cutting through the darkness outside. Hours have passed, but the heat inside the blanket hasn’t eased. The pheromones, and your bodily changes, have only become richer in smell — they can taste you on their tongues.
Blake sits close behind, eyes flicking to you repeatedly. His voice is low, almost casual, but carries an edge that hints at disbelief. “Never… smelled one like this before. Raw. Electric. Something… not right, and yet perfect.” He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “God, she’s going to drive someone, fucking me, insane.”
Carter stiffens slightly, the way he cradles you tightening, but his voice is soft, quiet. “Shh… easy. We’re almost at the second stop.” His gaze can’t quite leave you, and every so often his hand drifts just a hair too long across your back, adjusting the blanket, adjusting you — reverent, instinctively drawn.
Reyes sits in the passenger seat, keeping one eye on the road and one on Carter. His expression is unreadable, but his mind is running through calculations. “Shouldn’t be long now until she can be given another dose.”
Carter’s eyes flick briefly toward Reyes, a hint of frustration flashing through them, though unspoken. He keeps you close, careful not to jostle your fragile, burning form. His focus is absolute — you’re small in his arms, extremely vulnerable, and yet every curve of you radiates a pull that makes it impossible to look away. To keep himself at bay.
He swallows thickly, jaw tightening, hand flexing around your back. Every instinct screams to keep you near, to take you for himself, and yet he knows he cannot satisfy that need.
Blake leans forward just slightly, voice quiet but not discreet. “She’s… beautiful, isn’t she? There’s something about her. Sharp, sweet, and raw all at once. Not like anything I’ve ever seen or smelt.” His eyes flick to Carter and Reyes in silent acknowledgment — the pull she generates isn’t subtle, and the three of them are all tethered to it, in varying degrees.
Your fingers twitch slightly in your sleep-hazed state, curling against the blanket, reaching — but not entirely, not fully. Your omega instincts hum beneath the surface, desperate for release, for touch, for something.
Carter can feel the shift in your weight against him, the subtle lean into his chest, the warmth radiating from your flushed skin. His throat tightens, and he swallows audibly.
Reyes keeps one hand near the satchel of medical supplies, ready if the need arises, but mostly he observes. “Hold her steady, Carter. Don’t let her wake. If she does, I’ll be forced to give it to her early. ”
Carter nods, but his eyes don’t leave you. Every flicker of your eyelids, every small shiver, every soft whine — he sees it all. And somewhere beneath it, a pull he can’t fight, not entirely. He shifts slightly to adjust your legs on his lap, and your warmth presses more insistently into him, your intoxicating scent thick in the air. His hands flex almost painfully, gripping the blanket around you just enough to keep you covered, keep you safe, keep himself from being overwhelmed.
Blake lets out another soft murmur, shaking his head. “If Graves ever gets near her… nobody stands a chance. She’s… addictive. Something in her… you’d kill to taste it.”
Carter’s jaw tightens, hand flexing again. He brushes a strand of hair from your face.
Your body shivers in response — heat, longing, helpless instinct curling in ways that confuse you. You half-reach, curling into Carter’s chest without meaning to, almost instinctively, but your mind fights it, unsure, conflicted; he doesn’t feel right to you.
The vehicle hums on, the road winding beneath them, the second stop creeping closer with each careful turn.
Blake leans just a fraction closer, curiosity and awe flickering in his expression.
“Carter, look at her—” Blake murmurs, voice low, almost reverent, “She’s… she’s incredible. Feel that heat? You—”
“Shut it!” Carter snaps sharply, cutting him off. His jaw is tight, voice low but dangerous, and his hands shift to steady you more firmly against him. “Do not — don’t even think about it! Keep your bloody mouth shut!”
Blake raises his hands, shoulders tense, but Reyes intervenes before the moment can escalate. “Enough,” Reyes says firmly, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Both of you — calm down. This isn’t about what you feel. Do not let your instincts cost us or her safety. Keep it contained. Graves’ wrath doesn’t need a reason to burn.”
Carter swallows, jaw flexing, but lets his tone soften slightly, murmuring, “Aye, Reyes. I… I just…” His eyes flick to you, face half-shadowed, and his hands unconsciously tighten again around the blanket.
Blake exhales, leaning back, eyes still on you, muttering under his breath, “You’re impossible…” but his tone carries no real anger, only awe.
Reyes glances between them, voice low and measured. “We move carefully. One step at a time. She stays hidden. She stays calm. And Carter,” he adds, eyes flicking to him, “you keep your focus. She’s not ours to explore. She’s fragile — handle her anything other than like that and you’ll ruin everything, and potentially cost us our lives.”
Carter presses his lips together, nodding slightly, but his eyes don’t leave you. Reyes exhales softly, tension still coiled in his shoulders, while Blake mutters quietly under his breath about just how difficult you’re making everything feel.
The hours continue to stretch on. Every vehicle transfer, every hidden corridor, every stop to wait for clearance — a careful dance of speed, discretion, and tension. Your soft moans and whimpers ripple through the van, partially muffled by the blanket, and each time it makes the men flinch, every instinctual pulse from your increasing heat a reminder of Graves’ will, and what he’s created.
Finally, as dawn breaks, the last stretch begins. The van slows at a nondescript hangar, dimly lit and empty except for the figures waiting in formation. The private jet sits ready, sleek and silent, bathed in soft light.
Three more men in black stand near the stairs, betas this time — trained, loyal, calm. Their presence is meant to comfort, to soothe, to prepare for the final transfer without exposing you to any unnecessary stress or danger.
The van doors open, and a faint rush of cooler air sweeps in.
The betas move forward with gentle, practiced motions. “We’ll take her from here,” one murmurs softly, voice low and calm. They reach up carefully, hands ready to receive you, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of your half-conscious state.
Carter hesitates. His arms tighten just a fraction, as if letting go is physically painful.
Reyes and Blake flank him, scanning the hangar and surrounding perimeter. The higher stakes are obvious — any misstep could expose you to discovery, or worse, provoke Graves’ wrath.
Slowly, deliberately, the betas take you into their care. The jet stairs are only a few steps away. One of the betas carry you inside, careful, their touch gentle, reassurances whispered, grounding you. Your pulse races, whines catching in your throat as the ache intensifies.
Inside the cabin, soft beds and blankets are laid out. Beta women are waiting, each trained to care, soothe, and manage you through what’s coming — your first full heat since your… metamorphosis. You feel the security of the interior, the calm presence of the women, and the slight release of tension as your senses register safety, even as the heat inside you continues to rise, unrelenting.
Outside, the tarmac is quiet. Graves’ distant presence is still palpable, a subtle pressure threading through every breath, every movement. The men who transported you are still alert, eyes scanning, bodies tensed with residual instinct, even as you are passed fully into the care of the waiting betas.
The doors seal. The jet hums to life. You are finally in motion towards Graves, towards America, towards the next stage of what he has planned.
t.w. : Dark fic, Smut (with a robot that looks like Dinny Din Din >:)), Breeding Kink, Angst, Din and reader are both insane for each other
a/n : Please read warnings for all of my works before reading. 18+ only!
Summary : You always wanted something more with your Mandalorian companion, luckily a new advancement in Coruscant may help fulfill your desires.
“A memory wipe is protocol after a session.”
You nod slowly, staring at the blob-like droid in front of you.
Mando frequents around this part of the planet, always looking for parts, stocking up in supplies. You’re sure there were other planets around the galaxy that offered the same thing, even for a cheaper price but he always made the trip back to Coruscant.
You knew the area like the back of your hand now, or you thought you did until you saw an advertisement. A slip of paper made its way into your pocket. Obviously, it was a secretive business, the droids were advanced and the prices were high.
Whatever you desire could be yours…
It sounded promising and when you had approached the building in curiosity, hiding as a lodging rental building, and stride over to the front desk with your hood firmly in place asking for a more detailed description, your heart leapt at the prospect.
The possibilities are endless…
He had gazed at you weirdly when you kept on refusing to buy anything from the markets of the other planets you ventured into. You’d usually buy plenty of food, trinkets you kept in your small makeshift bunk you had built in the hull and clothing Din would nod in approval. They were usually bought to get his attention, although you’re not sure if some of your fashion choices ever had an effect on him, not how you wanted at least.
All those bounty credits he split with you went somewhere and there usually wasn’t anything left by the end of the month. Still, it was like he encouraged it, sometimes even going as far as taking you to the good markets of planets he’s already been to and gesturing where the best prices would be.
“What? Nothing?” he teases, bumping his arm with yours, nodding his head to the sweets of the stall, knowing you had a particular interest in candied and spiced fruits. You shake your head, smiling when he responded with his own, a sigh of exasperation making you chuckle quickly afterwards.
You both stand near a food stall now as you take a bite of chewy mystery meat off of a kebab stick. You wince at the pungent taste. You should have spent a few extra credits on the crowded vendor’s instead of the one stocked full. Mando noticed.
He presses a finger against your shoulder teasingly, his arms crossing at the way your nose scrunched in reaction. He was slightly worried by your sudden lack of spending and the way you would zone out constantly. Like now, just chewing on a burnt piece of unidentifiable meat and staring into his chest.
“Are you saving up for something I don’t know about?”
You refocus as if he had popped a bubble of your daydream. For a moment, he can see the way he had caught you off guard, he leans in closer, interrogatively. Your face heats up quickly and you shake your head.
Your cunt throbs at the thought. You were saving up on a lot of things. Trying to memorize every piece of his armor, analyzing and watching his every move, along with saving up credits, of course. The “experience” wasn’t cheap, and you’d be damned if you couldn’t at least have it once.
“Maybe,” you reply, avoiding his gaze, knowing he must be smirking under that helmet.
“For the last time, I don’t want you to get me anything for Life Day-“ he starts.
“It’s for me,” you interrupt sharply.
His head tilts, his hands shift to his hips. You knew he was aching to know what you could be possibly saving up for but you keep on walking ahead, as if nothing had been said.
…
“Anything? Even metal?”
It stares at you, its robotic voice echoing around the room. You were led to a private suite, the room pristine and clean in comparison to the outside. It really was worth every credit, the suite even came with a bathroom as well, the shower large and the amenities stocked to the brim with luxurious products.
“Yes, of metals found around the galaxy, although it is essential to understand that they do not contain the same properties-“
“Okay.”
You hum, shifting from foot to foot, unsure of your next move. You’ve never been to a brothel before, never having paid anyone or anything for those types of services.
But you were desperate, you felt yourself ache with just his proximity and it was starting to get distracting. Just the other week you had barely missed a knife to the stomach, too focused on the way Mando grunted with each hit directed at his enemies.
He was always a sight to see, but you’re sure all he will ever see you as is a friend, at most a dear one.
“You may start,” the droid says, gesturing its hand out to you, its skin shining a light transparent blue from the gel-like coating of its outer layer.
Your lips twitch, wanting to spit the words out but finding yourself at a loss of courage. How humiliating, you thought, you were about to ask a shapeshifting droid to transform into your companion and fuck you.
“You may start,” it repeats.
Your hands wring together, your eyes closing tightly as you mouth the words.
“A…” you shake your head and press your fist between your brow. You exhale shakily.
“A Mandalorian.”
You could hear the gel like skin shift, your lungs aching as if they wanted to compress into themselves. You opened your eyes to find a Mandalorian, standing in front of you, helmet tilted down in a stare.
Your skin pricks with bumps. You frown, the armor was vibrant in color, the pieces different from your Mando’s.
“Silver armor, unpainted, shines enough to see a reflection.”
It shifts color, you start to breathe heavily at the implication. Just the familiar tone of silver made your thighs clench together.
You move closer, hesitantly reaching a finger out to touch. It was cold, hard and thick. It felt close enough to the real thing.
“The helmet needs to be longer, no rangefinder, and narrow the vertical length of the visor.”
It looks down on you and you almost flinch. You give the rest of the descriptions your eyes avoiding its gaze, almost as if you were afraid Mando would actually come to life in front of you. You even placed the mudhorn signet on his right pauldron, the skull gleaming in the light as it shifted closer to you to confirm that it was how you wanted.
Orange tipped gloves, leather strap coming from his left and going down to his right hip, his blaster at his waist and a belt… Taller, his hands larger, his thighs thicker, shoulders so much more broader.
You stare for a few moments, amazed at how much the droid had listened to your instructions, how well it had taken in your requests. It looked like him, as if he were staring right at you.
Then it speaks.
“Is there anything else you would like me to do?”
It made you flinch. You frown and then you pull your comm from your pocket, almost letting it slip from how much you trembled in anxiety.
“Can-“ you almost choke on your spit, “c-can you upload recordings into your system?”
It nods silently, you almost let out a whimper from how much that reminded you of him. His armor ticks with each step, his hand now distended towards you, wanting to take the device and pair it with himself.
“It will only take a moment,” he says cheerily.
You hold his other hand as you wait, your eyes traveling over his body, commenting on the little things that seemed out of place and watching as he morphed into whatever you wanted.
His body was warm. You intertwine your fingers together, feeling his hand tighten over yours slightly in reciprocation.
It felt just like him, whenever he tangled his hand in yours if only for a few seconds in a sign of reassurance. Your heart thumps, this time he doesn’t pull away, this time he leans in when you press further.
It doesn’t flinch at your touch, or pull away whenever you try to get close. You felt pathetic, your yearning had made you helpless and made Mando irritated with you. Sure he was still kind, respectful and at times very humorous, but that was how he normally behaved with anyone.
So you thought.
You realized that your crush might have made you delusional. Hope blinded you to conjuring up his tenderness.
Tenderness that dissipated quickly.
He was acting differently with you, before you might have even imagined he was flirting, bumping into you and grabbing at your waist in passing, squeezing you into his hold when inches away from certain death or injuries during your hunts.
Now, every interaction you have feels dulled, he limited his touches to pats on your shoulder, he doesn’t speak to you with the same timber and suave. He even… You cringe at the memory. He even rejected you, which started the whole ordeal.
It had left a hole in your heart, when he shoved you away, the you who was barely even tipsy with spotchka, finally finding some courage in yourself. Your hands were roaming too much on his arm, he gripped them and shook his head.
You squeeze the droid's hand tighter, avoiding looking into the vizor it had created. Just thinking about it made your heart shatter in two again.
“I like you a lot Din-” He had told you his name the night before, just landing on Sorgan, finally finding some peace of mind for just a few moments as you laid together in the same bed, the same hut. You thought it meant something more.
“You’re drunk,” he said in a huff, sounding angry.
“I’m not,” you argued softly, feeling your shoulders deflate.
He sighed, pushing your hands onto your lap. He stared into the fire, scooting away and crossing his arms over his chest.
You had stared at the reflection of his armor, staring at yourself, trying to find what was wrong. Then his helmet tilted up, and your gaze followed only to find Omera, and she was beautiful, dancing along with the children, kneeling down to play with Grogu and her own daughter around the campfire.
“Oh,” you had whispered, brows furrowing in pain before you composed yourself. You couldn’t cry in front of him.
You sat up straighter, staring into the ground and festering in the awkwardness. You left quickly, after he just settled into silence.
The next morning you acted as if you didn’t remember a thing, even if your first cup was a third empty, you said you had just gotten so drunk you probably blacked out.
You went back to calling him Mando, which made him think you might not have been as truthful as you claimed
That was the end of that, but try as you might you still couldn’t let him go.
The weeks before the appointment you had managed to find ways to record him, as well as saving any messages he had left for you through holo and comm. You hope it was enough to show a bit of Mando’s personality.
At least the old one.
“Please feel free to enjoy yourself while the data…isss…t-transferred.”
It startles you how much the voice distorted, the body stiffening and locking into place.
You sit on the bed for a while, watching it, at times it’s body twitching. It was in a stance, shoulders hunched, legs spread and hands at its sides. His muscles strain against his flight suit and you could see your reflection on the chest plate, your widened eyes staring right back at you.
You lay down on the bed, pulling your tunic off, shoving your pants down and only leaving yourself in your breast band and panties.
Your hips rock lightly at first, against the edge of the mattress, keeping your eyes on the droid turned your very own companion. His hands twitched at his sides, his helmet pointed in your direction predatorially.
You pull your underwear up slightly, the fabric bunching over your slit and tightening over your clit. You moan lightly.
If he were to see you like this now how would he react, how would he feel? Disgust, you think. He would be disgusted by how far you were willing to give for just one night with a sex doll made in his image.
Somehow that made this whole thing hotter. You were doing something you weren’t supposed to, morally. Judging by the way his chest heaves in front of you, powerful and full, you’re sure it would be worth all of your credits.
Your fingers play with your erect nipple, sticking out onto the band in nubs from the cold and your arousal. They were tight with tension, pulsing with your heart from how tender they felt.
You close your eyes, your other fingers moving down to swirl over your throbbing clit over the thin fabric of your underwear. You were already so swollen, your pussy clenching with barely there stimulation.
Your body falls back into the bed, legs spreading wide and your head lifting only for a second to see his figure still firmly planted in front of you, helmet angled, making you pulse at the thought of him watching.
Movements slow, hips undulating with every breath out. You feel yourself slide against the fabric of your panties, folds squelching with each move.
“Mesh’la…”
You startle up, pressing your tunic over yourself, as if you were caught in the crest. You stare for a few moments. His helmet tilts, the glint almost blinding you from the position of the lights above which dim the longer he stares, making the room glow in a sensual orange-red.
“Were you touching yourself?”
You shiver, that was his voice, clear or clear enough with the crackle of his modulator. It was teasing, deep, and enchanting. A flash of electricity rips past your spine, he steps closer, his armor clinking together with each strut. You swallow thickly, aching when his helm tilts in question.
“Y-yes,” you practically whimper. He hums deeply, satisfied with your answer. His hand twitches and you stare on, open mouthed. It was one of his ticks, what he does when he anticipates something, or is nervous. His fingers flex and he shakes it off, tapping his crotch after a few moments.
“Cock or pussy?”
He chuckles, your shocked expression must have been amusing. You’ve felt him before, you fell on his lap, his hands tightened over your waist tightly to keep you from falling over when you had stood from your seat in the crest. You had rubbed over him, until he had hardened slightly. It was all accidental, you didn’t mean to make him react in that way, more occupying thoughts were in your mind at that moment, like the several ships flanking you suddenly. This was at the beginning of your partnership as well, so it was brushed off quickly, never talked about again.
“Cock.”
A bulge rises in the front of his flight suit, zipper straining against the mass forming underneath. He palms himself over it, the thick outline of it squeezed by his hand.
“Can you-“
You cut yourself off before you could finish, biting your lip in contemplation. He stands closer, his crotch now in front of you, his hand smooths over your face and you sigh, mouth parting and eyes closing in bliss. His gloved hand was so warm, he smelled like gunpowder and leather, the slight tang of metal.
“Tell me what you want, sweet girl.”
You let out a moan, breathy and throaty. You wanted to dip your fingers into yourself. His fingers tip your head up, leather gloves pinching your skin and making it pucker and shiver. He only ever calls you that teasingly, you guess he was finding all of the pet names in the data he had transferred. You barely recognized how strange that might be, having a whole record on Mando, files upon files, saved messages and conversations from your comms.
“Thicker… he’s thicker.”
You didn’t really know that, but the way he stood and sat gave you the idea that he was. You lick your lips, he was busy unzipping the front of his pants, pulling himself out. You watch as he pumps himself, the mushroom tip of the cock leaking, dribbling down the sides from the jerk of his still gloved palm.
“You can touch me.”
Again, a hint of humor and tease, so much like him that it gets you out of your doubtful mind. His hands tug at your bicep, dragging up to your forearm and your hand, making you shiver when he places it directly onto his shaft. It stiffens further, thickening under your touch.
“Would you like me to react audibly?”
“Yes.” An almost immediate response. You wanted this to feel as real as possible.
“How?”
“Not too loud, more grunts and groans… desperate, like you can’t hold it in anymore…”
He hums again, his hips slightly jerking in your direction all of the sudden. You stare up, his vizor trained on your face. His groans sounded pained, the edge of his helmet meeting his chest plate as he continued to watch you pump him. A brush of your thumb over his tip makes him keen, his back arching, his hand tightening over your shoulder.
He was pulsing in your hand, sticky with pre-ejaculate, lube you assume. You shake your head before exhaling shakily, your cheeks warming at what you were preparing yourself to say next.
“I want to suck your cock.”
He thrusts in the air, his cock so close to your mouth you could smell the musk from his body. You use both hands, a slick sound forming with your increase of pace.
“So g-good,” he breathes heavily.
You couldn’t stop yourself before you put him in your mouth, tongue curving around the head, swirling over the tip oozing with his slick. It tastes good, artificial and creamy. You moan, closing your eyes tightly. Like candy, a tangy fruit you’d come across but can’t recollect the name of. His hand moves to the back of your head, his groans raising slightly in volume, you could hear him swallow thickly, your mouth enveloping further down his shaft.
You were getting wetter, your lower half building heat. The thought of bringing him pleasure makes you want to crawl out of your skin and into his.
You moan when more of the taste enters your mouth, making you salivate naturally. You drool, now pushing yourself to your knees, arching your back as you scoot further into the bed, making him shift closer to the edge. It makes you gag, your throat flexing over him, making him pulse, the veins becoming prominent enough for you to lick when you let go with a pop and a string of saliva connected to his dick droops down to the floor in a splat.
He caresses your face as you catch your breath, leaning down, making you sit up and start to lean back as he crawls over you. It was so damn hot, goosebumps rose on your skin, your legs started to spread when his body slid closer.
“Let me make you feel good.”
“I already do,” you whimper. He groans as a response. His head leans down your stomach, the lip of his helmet grazing over your belly and making you shiver. His hand caresses up your calf, moving up to your thighs and squeezing possessively. His head tilts, asking you a silent question, what should I do next?
His hands stay put, caressing over your thighs, moving down further to pinch your ass. His shoulders were so broad they casted a shadow over you, his body so large you had to spread your legs wide to accommodate his torso. You catch the glint on his helmet and your head swirls.
You’ve thought about it before, how he would be able to see your bare pussy on the vizor like an invisible wall, see it glide back and forth as you grind on his helmet.
It was your call. Whatever you desired.
He positions himself on his back, helping you crawl up his body, patting your ass playfully when you hesitate to sit fully. You were hovering, your hand on the headboard, biting your lip, unsure. He tugs on your soaked panties.
“They’re sticking to you, you might have to get new ones.”
You chuckle, repositioning yourself and allowing him to pull them further to the side, your lips bare to him, your clit peeking through your folds, pulsing in anticipation.
“Are you sure?”
His head adjusts on the pillows, he nods.
“Yes, I am.”
His fingers, thick with his gloves, breach your slit, circling over the rim, flicking over your clit. Your fingers tighten over the wooden headboard, you hold in a moan. He looked to be getting impatient, his hands moving to your hips after a while, making your knees involuntarily buckle with the way he plays with your pussy.
“I’m not going to… crush you?”
He makes a sound of annoyance.
He had read Mando well. He had inherited his lack of patience it seemed. He made you sit, pulling you down, already moving you to grind against his vizor before you could think to do it yourself. Your thighs tremble from the cold of the sides, your clit bumping against the ridge of where the dark glass and metal meet. It was just like you imagined, a little colder and a little rough but once your slick had spread along the front it had felt heavenly.
“You have such a pretty pussy.”
It rumbles, his voice makes the helmet vibrate. It must have been the modulator. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, you clench uncontrollably, grinding harder than before. He helps you, slotting his arms around your hips, pushing and pulling when you feel as if you couldn’t move your cramping legs. He praises, talking to keep you stimulated.
“Clenching around nothing, look so tight, mesh’la. Can’t wait to have you on my cock.”
Your moans and gasps fill the room, he grunts on occasion, humming whenever you have stopped to catch your breath. His hand suddenly squeezes up to your breast, pinching your pebbled nipples, making you cry out from the slight pain.
You haven’t touched yourself in a long while and Mando has been turning you on almost every day.
Embarrassingly quickly, you cum, grinding furiously, making your clit bump against the ridges of his helmet. You lose yourself from this point, you couldn’t and didn’t know where reality and your own creation began or ended. This was Mando and you had fully succumbed to your ruse.
Lifting yourself off you sit beside his head, trying to steady your breath, moaning in the aftershocks of your orgasm and watching with diligent eyes as he rises up to his knees. His thumb caresses the underside of your knee, pressing into the sensitive part of your skin. His helmet was covered in your slick, a sticky mess on his vizor.
“Cyare, get on your back.”
…
He grunts, “mmh, good girl.” He slots his thighs against the back of yours, your calves mid air. His cockhead teases you, his knees rocking so that it catches on your opening but doesn’t go further. It has been years since you’ve had anyone. Ever since you joined the Mandalorian in his quests.
“Please just-“
You wanted to cry out in frustration, but he was strong and his body was on top of yours like a block of stone. You could only shift your hips and wrap your arms over his shoulders, tugging at his cowl in anticipation.
“Anything you’d like me to do, I’m here to please you, sweet girl.”
He buries his head on your shoulder, once again teasing you, urging you to ask for more, to beg for it.
“I-I want you to breed me.”
He had a database of almost everything in the galaxy, he knew a lot about Mandalorians and their culture. It was easy to adapt parts of it to make the experience that much better. His goal was to make you feel good, and you had requested to be sated by a Mandalorian. He’d give you just that.
He holds your body close so that you wouldn’t shift so much in bed, his hips slam into you ruthlessly, pounding the breath from your chest, making you squeal. His cock was so lifelike, so warm and girthy and his body on top of you was almost suffocating.
“Breed you full of warriors.”
You let out a moan, your back arching and your breasts pressing up onto his chest plate. The cold stiffens you, it makes you twitch. You couldn’t stop the sounds coming out of your mouth.
“Oh-Man-do-”
He moans, his hands gripping you tightly, as if he couldn’t get enough of the way your cunt sucks him in. Suddenly his head lands heavily on the pillow beside your head, he slows achingly. His voice sounds ruined, his moans and grumbles held back but ultimately failing.
“N-need to fill you up. Need to last longer.”
You bring your foot under his thigh, using it as leverage to flip him over. He lands with a bounce, his hands on your hips. You looked crazed, your eyes so blown they were almost pitch black. You sink into him, knees on either side of his waist, eyes closing from the immense pressure from the new angle.
“Beautiful, strong girl, need to fill you up with my seed.”
Lights seem to dim, you were in the cockpit, arms wound tight around his shoulder, and grinding. You’d keep him warm, your cunt tightening as he drives the ship. He’s swatting your ass, grabbing a handful and jiggling it whenever you distract him. He would be aching for you to move.
“Bounce on my cock, take it.”
And you do, your chest grazing his vizor with each thrust, your breaths coming out in puffs. It felt like your cervix was bruising, his cock spearing into you.
His thumb rubs against your clit, at times pinching. You close your eyes so tightly you see stars, you feel them in your gut, festering and building, gaining momentum with the feel of his armor, his gloves, the sound of his poorly contained moans.
It almost burned, you couldn’t breathe. You cum so hard your whole body ceases movement and locks up, wetness making a squelching sound between you both as he continues to thrust up.
He whines, whimpers, and his head falls back. It sounds like he sighs in pain.
He cums, cums so much you almost feel bloated. It was thick and spilling over the sides of his cock, accumulating over his still pulsing balls.
You open your eyes, his hands running up your sides, his breaths making his chest rise and fall exaggeratedly.
He cups your jaw.
“You are so beautiful, cyare.”
You squirm under his gaze, his gloved hand caressing over the apples of your cheek. His cock softened inside you, you moan when he adjusted under you, sitting up against the headboard, pressing deeper.
“Thank you…” you murmur, not quite sure what to do, much less say.
“The most beautiful woman in the galaxy.”
You chuckle awkwardly, he attempts to pull your head closer to his. To bump into his. You know what it meant, it means something special for Mandalorians, something Mando never does with you.
You don’t think he ever will.
“Stop.”
You should have just told him to be quiet, to shut the hell up. He kept up with the praises, saying things you knew weren’t true. At least not to the real Mando. The shame and embarrassment was rising within you again, the haze of your mind clearing all too quickly. This wasn’t him, this was just a puppet being told what to do by its coding.
His hands move to your hips, caressing soothingly, squeezing your skin lovingly.
“Want you to have my children, sweet girl, to be part of my clan.”
You scoff, pushing his hands away, leaning back so that his leaning head wouldn’t meet with your forehead. He continues, his hands traveling to your overstimulated clit making you jump and hold in a whimper, the other was at your breast, cupping its weight as if he were analyzing your body.
“I need you, just let me take care of-“
You shake your head, furiously.
“I said stop it.”
His hands stop, body slumping to the headboard. His voice becomes monotone again, still Mando’s but more robotic.
How could you forget?
“Why? It’s my job to flatter you, that’s what you paid for.”
What you paid for… It circles through your mind repeatedly, all in Din’s voice. This is what you paid for, to feel something with him, to make believe if only for a night. The tears fall before you even notice your eyes blur and despite feeling horrible about yourself, you still lean into his touch, his quiet whispers to calm you down.
“I am sorry if I had said anything to offend you.”
You ignored it, he wasn’t really sorry, you're sure it didn’t even have emotions, it was just reading your behavior, translating it to whatever circuit brain it had and doing what it was programmed to do. The gentle rub on your back helped though, the way he lifted up the soft and heavy comforter over you made you sigh and finally close your eyes from exhaustion.
…
“It’s never accurate.”
You hum in question, gripping your welder, and lifting your shades. He stands a few feet away leaning against the ship, his arms crossed. He looks down on you.
“It's a small repair… doesn’t need to be accurate…” you mutter, irritated by his implication of your welding and ship repair skills.
He shakes his head and steps closer, gesturing for you to drop your tool to the ground. You do.
You look away, feeling your body go hot at the sight of him nearer. You choose to ignore his sudden conversation, he’s been acting weird lately, more talkative than usual. You purse your lips, shaking your head and arching your brow.
“I’m busy Mando, what are you even on about?”
He sighs.
“There’s always something off, a birthmark, the curve of your nose, your eyes…”
A long pause, your face starts to fall and your eyes widen. You calm yourself with the thought that he couldn’t possibly know, that he was just being cryptic or he had ingested some drug that got him thinking crazy.
“What?” you blurt out.
He liked to tease, you first saw it when he hunted, how he made them nervous, staring at them, knowing that they knew they were his next prey. He stares at you, his hands unfolding, moving to his hips and leaning closer.
“Why do you think I stop in Coruscant every few weeks?”
You look on mortified, mouth agape.
“My blaster was on the wrong side, mesh’la.”
You step back when he starts closing the distance between you both.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Your hips were right,” he chuckles lightly, “I measure to make sure your body is precise.”
The look of confusion and shock amuse him. He corners you against the side of the hull, pressing on until your back is flat against the metal panels.
“It started off as a one time thing, and then I wanted it again, and again and again… it’s an obsession to make that thing as accurate to you as possible. I’m sure you would have gotten through the process too.”
Your breath stutters, some part of you was delighted, another mortified. His hands twitched to your face, leaning forward until his helmet almost met your head. Your heart races, you shiver at his implications.
“What process?” you sputter out.
His head tilts down and up again. Predator.
“I know every inch of your body, mesh’la.”
He taps his vizor, the side of the helm.
“I take note of every little thing you do even if you think I’m not there. When you said you wanted me to breed you it took everything in me not to storm in and do it myself.”
Your gaze was fixed against his shoulder, your body warms at the thought of him watching everything. He must have seen you break down too. You cringe, closing your eyes tightly, refusing to believe any of this was happening.
“But I’m no hypocrite, I let you have your fun.”
This was wrong, what he was doing was wrong. Spying on you, watching you when you thought you were alone. His hand grips your forearm, tightening when you refuse to look up. When you finally do he connects his head to yours, your eyes stuck in the pools of black, unable to look anywhere else.
Would you have gone that far? To start recording his every interaction, wanting to perfect an AI to be exactly like him. Who knows… you might have gathered enough credits again, visited the brothel and came in with new material.
The droid was a bit off, you’re sure you would have done something to fix it.
His helmet was spine chilling against your head, he leaned down, his hands smoothing down your sides and squeezing as if he couldn’t believe he was finally touching you the way he wanted.
“Didn’t think you’d want me the same way I do you…”
--------------------
Thank you for reading! Comment and Reblogs make authors happy! My asks are requests are also open. Chat with me as anon if you want!
t.w.: Soft-Dark fic!, Smut (Consensual), Somnophilia (dub-con/non-con), Super Harem inspired, Breeding kink, Pregnancy kink, Pregnancy, Some violence, Implied that Clark is a stalker, Bro has a thing for uteruses, Clark doesn't like being called Clark because he’s speciesist
a/n: Please read warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only!
Summary: Had Clark seen the second half of the transmission...
A plume of grey surrounded you, it filled your lungs and blurred your eyes. You shouldn’t have opened your mouth, you could taste the ash and it was almost warm from the carnage happening around you.
The city has dealt with Metahumans for years, but it was still relatively new. Your generation took the brunt of the changes in society.
Superheroes, supervillains and monsters have suddenly become a reality. But it has been getting out of hand. You’d just gotten out of college and things haven’t been settling down.
You hated this. You could feel the ground shake. You wipe your eyes and feel as if it did nothing to clear your eyes.
Then you felt the air shift, a gentle quiet enveloping you amidst the chaos. Cool air blows against your face and it almost stung. It sounded like a gentle breeze from a windy day across a coastline.
Everything clears. You look down and, oh god, your leg is trapped under rubble. You don’t scream. You just groan in annoyance, you could still move your toes and ankle.
And suddenly the cool air gets chillier, and the sound gets louder. A man was above you, floating up in the air, cheeks puffed out like a puffer fish as he blew the dust away from the area.
It was a man in a bright blue suit and bright red cape. Another hero with another gimmick you suppose.
“Hello.”
You respond with a small ‘Hi’ as he lifts the piece of concrete off of your right leg gently. His eyes roam over your body as you slowly make your way out of the rubble. The analytical gaze made you feel embarrassed.
“Just some bruises, no sprains, you should be fine,” he mumbles under his breath, as if taking notes like a doctor would when reading a chart.
He pauses at your lower stomach, his eyes blanking as they roam near your nether regions. They soften perceptively before darting to your eyes. He looks away when you do, his face reddening.
He lifts you in his arm as you attempt to stand, your body still shaky from shock. You protest.
“You don’t have to- I can walk.”
He smiles softly at you. It shuts you up. He had very defined dimples. The sun was behind him and created a halo that sprouted from his crown of dark hair, a single perfect curl out of his slicked back look.
As if he hadn’t broken a sweat from the fight. The only evidence being ash on his cheekbone.
There was a certain warmth to him that other heroes didn’t have. He held you close to him, his chest comforting against your side.
“The S stands for hope.”
He nodded assuredly, with conviction. You could see his hands fidget from where you sat in the medical tent set up near the destruction. He was nervous as he made his debut. You give him a thumbs up as he glances in your direction. He smiles widely.
You were his first damsel in distress.
The cameras flashed and headlines would announce the newest hero of the Metropolis.
Superman.
…
You didn’t think he had a crush on you. Your intuition is usually wrong though.
Clark was unnerving. He’d make whatever room you stood in feel unsettling. Like when you wake up from a bad dream and feel a pit of anxiety at the start of your day.
There was nothing ever wrong with him, he was normal, a little awkward but otherwise ordinary. But there was something about him you couldn’t quite understand.
He comes to your coffee shop all of the time, usually around 8 in the morning right before he goes to work. His press badge clued you in to his name and when you had called him by it, he almost looked astonished. As if you had remembered him from the last time he was there.
He started appearing after your news interview went viral. Some reporters and cameras crowded you as you were being checked over by EMTs.
It was mostly due to the fact that you ‘were unapologetically thirsty for the new hero’. In reality they cut the part where they asked you if you thought he was handsome, making it seem as if you brought it up yourself.
It brought attention to your business, so you let the story run through social media.
People found you quickly, your younger employees really wanted to make a special drink to keep up with the hype. So you let them. It brought even more attention.
You had assumed Clark Kent, the one who had the first ever exclusive interview with Superman himself would also write a piece on the drink. He even ordered the ‘Supershot’, or a regular Lungo shot the first time he came around.
He stares at you from the sitting area, his laptop open as if he were typing. You couldn’t help but feel his eyes on you every time you weren’t looking in his general vicinity.
You’re making him a sandwich, cutting it in half before ringing the bell and calling for his name at the counter. He smiles at you, his large form squeezing by the chairs and tables as if he were a giant.
He was, judging by his height and his width. But his imposing figure was somehow diminished by his sheepish behavior and stumbling movements.
“Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”
You hum inquisitively, tipping your head up to look him in the eye. Maybe he was going to ask for an interview once and for all, it would do good for the business. He might be asking for permission to write about the shop seeing that he comes around almost every day at this point, even chatting with you as you worked when it wasn’t as busy.
“Can I take you out to dinner?”
You give him a wide-eyed stare. Your face heats up and your stomach drops. Your hands drag across your apron nervously, you swallow thickly as you stutter out a response.
“I’m seeing someone.”
He smiles at you, the complete opposite of a reaction anyone who was just rejected would have. He nods, he says a quiet ‘I understand.’ and leaves out the door, leaving you slightly mortified and confused.
…
“He comes in for coffee and just sits there. He asked me out today.”
You stir the sauce mixture, glancing at the pot of boiling pasta noodles on the other burner. You feel his hands wind around your waist, his chin resting atop your shoulder. His entire chest covered your back, he made you feel cocooned. Safe.
Superman had found his way to your apartment window the week after he had made his public debut. You didn’t know how he found you, or how he even knew you’d be opening your front door to see him appear on your window, but you didn’t really think about those things.
He was a hero, he probably heard about you on the internet and wanted to check in.
He made himself part of your nightly routine, knocking on your window, climbing in and playing with your cat, Luna, as you made dinner. Luna liked his bongo pats. He liked the way she would sit on his lap and kneed his stomach, especially when he was wearing sweaters.
He had told you he was lonely, that he was new to the city. He needed a friend. You gave him the company he so wanted, and more.
He revealed that his name was Kal-El after a month. He was an alien from Krypton, a planet that had been destroyed. His parents sent him to earth to survive and to act as a guardian. His goal was to protect the planet.
He didn’t mention much else, an offhand comment about his human ‘caretakers’ made you think he didn’t really get along with his adoptive parents from Kansas. You didn’t judge. Although it did confuse you how much he didn’t talk about his childhood.
He kissed you last week, you made love the night after. You swore you heard him whisper a promise to take care of you as sleep pulled you deeper into unconsciousness.
He stands in his civilian clothes. Khakis and a sweater, hair swept back and perfect as ever. He pecks down your neck and to your shoulder. You shiver at the feeling.
“What did you say to the poor guy?” he asks softly.
You pause, you feel your heartbeat so fast your throat almost seizes. You shrug as you take a shaky breath in.
The relationship with Kal was so new, you didn’t want to presume anything.
“Told him I was seeing someone…” you say slowly.
He hums as a response. He holds you tighter and kisses your cheek roughly, eliciting a short laugh from you.
A comfortable silence surrounds you both afterwards, his hands were on your lower stomach, caressing near the waistband of your pajamas, right on your lower belly.
He’s been doing that a lot, you noticed. His eyes and touch would migrate to the area, sometimes you catch him staring when you’re sat down, his body would almost shut down and he would drift off into his own thoughts.
It was funny to you, especially when he would pop his own bubble of daydream and look at you as if he had missed years of conversation.
He watches you eat with newfound affection. You were loyal. He liked that. Loved it, actually. He loved how ready you were. You were in your fertile days, he could see your cervix, even more pliant than before, dilated and waiting for his seed.
He chokes on his spaghetti, causing you to laugh as he hits his chest with his closed fist and grumbles in irritation.
He loved your laugh, he realizes. He thinks he loves you.
He thinks about this as he pushes his cock into your cunt, the only light coming from your window, it illuminates his chiseled physique, the globes of your ass, the softness of your skin.
Your back arches, his hand presses you further into the mattress, your face smooshes into the pillows. Each crack of his hips against your ass produces a loud clap.
Your cunt drips over his cock, slicking up his pelvis and the pubic hair leading up his stomach.
You looked and felt good underneath him. He enjoys the way you mewled and twitched against him as he went deeper.
Your head is pulled back, he lifts you by the throat, pressing your back against his chest as he pumps into you from behind.
Upright on your knees, you press a hand to the back of his head as he kisses down your neck and shoulders. He bites and licks and sucks hard enough to leave bruises.
You blame his lack of experience for the way he draws blood sometimes or the way your body is so sore you could barely get up for work the next day.
He pushes you over the edge over and over again throughout the night. You were left a whimpering mess and he was still hard.
“Kal- I can’t-”
He was on top of you, your body melded between the mattress and his chest.
“Yes, you can. Be good and take it. “
You were stuffed. Literally. You felt it in your pelvis, his cum squirting out and slowly releasing the pressure slowly with each flex of his hips. The edges of your eyes fade black, you close your eyes tightly and feel his body shudder above you.
His fingers circle over your clit as he pulls you to lay on your side, his cock still pulsing inside of you, releasing more of his seed as he attempts to make you cum. You bite your lip to stop yourself from screaming out, you doubt you had the energy to do so anyway.
He watches your uterus closely as you come apart, your cervix dilating and allowing his seed further inside of you.
His palms rub against your hardened nipples as he cups your breasts. He squeezes them as you lay in his arms, your body deep in sleep and in need of rest. He imagines you plumper, his cock hardens inside you and he whines from the back of his throat.
Your hips would widen, he's sure he would give you big babies, it would help you in the long run. Your breasts would fill up with milk, nipples darkening and widening.
You’d be a great mother, he sees the way you take care of your cat. As if it were a human baby sometimes. He nuzzles the side of your head with his nose, he groans as he thrusts. Your body shakes with each movement, head lolling to and fro, tiny whimpers escaping you even in your sleep as he has his way with you over and over again until the sun shone from your window.
…
You wake up with licks to your face. Smelly licks. You wince as you sit up, Luna meows sweetly, breath smelling of her cat food. Any other day she would be begging for your attention, so much so that you would wake up and quickly fill her bowl.
Clark is rummaging through your closet and now you’re really confused. He usually leaves by now, he glances at you and smiles. His dimples deepen with his grin.
“Fed her.”
She licks your hand as you place her on your lap.
“Thanks.”
He responds quickly with an ‘mhm’. You sit up against the headboard watching him silently as he produces a winter coat and snow pants. Things you’ve only worn once or twice. He holds them up. It was summer, you gave him a suspicious look.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
The trip to the Arctic was longer than he wanted. Because of your fragile human body, he couldn’t go at his usual speed, unless he wanted to risk you getting sick or worse, he’d tear your body apart.
You slept in his arms because of the fatigue you felt from the night before.
He kept you close as the crystalized structure rose from the snow, the earth shook from the force of it, you stood at the door in complete awe. It made him feel proud, to have you so impressed.
You take in the fortress, head tilting up above to see the intricate crystals making up the ceiling.
“Is this your first mating partner, Kal-El?”
Your head whips to see several humanoid robots surrounding you both, some coming from the sides and peeking from the hallways as he leads you towards the console in the middle of the room. You chuckle awkwardly at the wording.
“First?” you ask, almost jokingly.
“One of many, of course. That is the plan,” it responds dryly.
He brushes off the robot with a hand, shaking his head and sighing deeply.
“I told you. We’re not doing that anymore.”
He chuckles and you chuckle with him, forcing yourself to laugh through the awkward and questionable things said. It must be a misunderstanding on your part, or things aliens joke about.
He blocks the robots’ view of you, shooing them away before telling them to pull up the message.
He lifts you by the waist and sits you down in what looks like a medical chair in the middle of the room.
“I want to share my mission with you. Want you to get to know me better.”
You felt something at the pit of your stomach twist. The way the robots were looking at you, the strange hologram with a man and a woman all dressed in white.
The message was sweet. He was looking up at his parents with pride and joy.
But the longer the message went on, the more unsettled you felt. You stare at the hologram of his parents as they instruct him to practically govern over Earth. You turn to him, he looks down at you with a soft smile.
He sees the confusion on your face, just like his when the Superman robots were able to decipher the complete message when he was sixteen years old.
“I’m not-“ he shakes his head and grabs your hands to press against his chest. To show he was being sincere.
“I’m not going to take over the world.”
He says it like it was impossible to imagine. He was the strongest being on the planet. It in fact was very possible.
“I’m not going to build a harem. I have you. You know that.”
Your heart was beating out of your chest, you could feel the insignia of his suit against your fingertips, the beat of his own heart. He has you?
“Are those really your parents?”
He takes a deep breath, looking to the side in irritation. He shakes his head before you could ask another question. As if you were being dense.
“They’re my real parents.”
You try to pull your hands away. His hands wouldn’t budge, he steps closer.
“Do your other parents know about this? About the message?”
He rolls his eyes.
“They’re simple. They’re just human.”
You flinch. The animosity in his tone startled you.
“Am I simple?”
He scoffs as if the answer was obvious.
“Well, yeah.”
He cups your face. He resists the urge to pinch your cheeks.
“Kryptonians were far more advanced than humans. I mean look around you.”
He gave you a look that you would give your cat. As if it didn’t know any better sometimes. That scolding smile when she refuses to get her nails clipped.
You remember he had found the concept of you owning a cat hilarious. You didn’t really understand. Maybe he thought of you and Luna as equals. In a more literal sense.
“Kal-“
“You know it’s funny. You’re the only person who calls me Kal-El.”
You blink. He kisses your cheek.
“You’re the only person who truly knows me.”
You get out of the seat and stand a couple of feet away from him. The surprise made him lose his grip. His brows furrow in genuine confusion.
“I think it’s time for me to go home.”
He looks distraught. Heartbroken. He sweeps his curls back, speechless by your sudden detestation of his affection.
“You are home.”
The look on your face makes his eyes water. Why were you being so cold? He steps closer to you, you don’t take a step back. Good.
“I thought it was weird too, but it makes sense.”
You scoff.
“I’m so much more than anything on this planet. There are wars that kill innocents, there’s people starving every day, ecosystems dying.”
You start to shake your head, his voice rises in volume at your stubbornness.
“I’m going to help. My future generations are going to help the beings on this planet. Because clearly, they can’t even save themselves!”
His shout was loud enough to echo. For the first time, you felt a tinge of fear in his presence. He tones down, crossing his arms and pressing his palm to his mouth to take deep breaths in.
He steps closer to you, you step back.
“It’s- it’s my duty as a kryptonian- as someone that could do something, to save you all from yourselves.”
“Take me home.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. The next second your face is pressed against his chest. He holds you tightly against him by your wrists.
“You could be a part of this too.”
You tried to pull away but his grip was tight, you felt as if you were going to pop your shoulders off from how hard you attempted to pull away.
“Our kids would be wonderful.”
You laugh awkwardly, glancing around the room as if someone could help you out of this situation. You shake your head furiously, he steps closer.
“Imagine how much good could happen with a family like ours.”
…
Ma Kent was fussing over you incessantly, she didn’t let you lift a finger, just allowing you to hold the plates and utensils, even then, you only held your own plate and fork. The lights were dimmed in the dining room, and you could hear Clark and his father discussing quietly.
You’d met his adoptive parents a year ago, they were a happy couple that lived on their farm. Clark, as he says is only his human name, which you refused to call him anything else these days, found it necessary to keep up appearances.
It broke your heart to know that even if they were sweet, caring, and good people, Kal-El would refuse to see them as his parents, not since he believed they were lesser than his biological kin.
They didn’t even realize he had disowned them.
You sing happy birthday, he has his hand on your hip as his lips spread into a boyish smile. You stand, leaning against him and rubbing his shoulder. He blew out the candles, you all clapped, and he handed out slices of cake.
“My baby is having a baby.”
Martha gleamed with joy, tears threatening to slide down her flushed cheeks. Pa Kent just rubbed her back, smiling sheepishly at the emotion she expressed so outwardly.
You could tell Clark cared for them, it was so obvious when he cared. Despite his denial, he was still somewhat human.
The way he kissed his ‘human caretaker’ on the brow, smoothing his hand up and down her back as he announced your pregnancy a couple of months before was proof of that.
He places a hand on your belly, feeling the firmness of your bump, proof of your child’s life. You look at him, your eyes meeting his before turning towards Ma, gently placing your hand atop hers and squeezing.
“Clark will be a great father.”
His smile falters slightly.
Everyone else at the table agreed wholeheartedly.
--------------------
Woah! I genuinely don't think he would have ever gone as far as ruling over Earth and making a Super Harem, but I do believe that as an easily influenced teen boy, the promise of greatness would have some effect on the way he thinks about Humans and Kryptonians. Idk tho lolz
A week before the wedding, you arrived in England.
The flight was long and quiet. Your mother sat beside you, her rosary wound tight in her hand, lips moving in silent prayer that she hadn’t said aloud in years. One of your uncles snored through most of it. The other read the same folded newspaper three times. Your cousins whispered to each other across the aisle, wide-eyed and excited. They thought it all very glamorous — the trip, the secrecy, the foreign groom with a title and a fortune.
You did not.
Birmingham greeted you with wet cobblestones and gray skies. The wind cut through your coat like knives. You stayed at the Grand Hotel, the entire top floor rented out for your family. Your mother filled the suite with fresh flowers and tried to keep her voice even as she answered calls. You barely left your room.
Your new aunt, Polly, sent you a package with your wedding dress, designed by one of London’s finest, as well as box of shoes, gloves, a simple pearl necklace and a hair comb set in silver. With the items, there was a note said that everything was chosen with care for you, and you weren't sure if it was kindness or strategy. Perhaps both.
Every evening leading up to your wedding, there was a dinner — not for you, but for your uncles and the men who came to negotiate, toast, smoke, nod. You weren't invited. But you could hear it all through the walls.
Two nights before the ceremony, you saw Thomas Shelby for the second time, but only briefly.
He came to the hotel for a private meeting. He didn’t stay long. You passed him once in the corridor, his coat slung over his shoulder, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He glanced at you — nothing more than a flicker of blue and silence — and then he was gone.
The night before the wedding, sleep did not come. You lay awake in the dark, palms pressed to the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You weren’t scared. Not exactly. But there was a feeling like standing at the edge of something vast and irreversible.
And then, morning came.
You bathed in silence. Your hair was twisted and pinned. Your dress laid out with surgical precision. You had tried it on a few days ago and your mother had it altered, but only slightly, to make it fit better.
After your bath, you got dressed and ate nothing and, when the car came, you climbed in without looking back. Your uncle sat beside you, whistling.
“You’re doing the family proud,” he said.
You said nothing.
The church came into view too quickly. Small. Gothic. Birmingham stone. You stepped out, the wind catching your veil — and when you walked down the aisle alone, it felt less like a wedding and more like a surrender.
***
It was the church that surprised you most.
Not the ornate marble or the stained glass — but the fact that it was a church at all. You knew Thomas Shelby had been married once before. You’d heard the whispers from your uncle’s men. A woman named Grace. Shot in front of him, they said. Left him with a son.
So why a church?
Because your family insisted. That’s what you were told. Your mother said it was symbolic — something to reassure the elders, something that would keep up appearances.
The Birmingham air was cold and wet that morning. The city smelled of coal and rain.
The church itself was quiet when you arrived. Small. Private. Elegant in a way that suggested money, but not warmth. The guests were minimal — select men from both sides, some with wives, none with children. A few women in hats, silent and ornamental. The pews weren’t even half full.
Thomas stood at the altar already.
He wore black, of course. Black tie. Black coat. Black gloves he didn’t remove. His face unreadable, carved from something colder than stone. His brothers flanked him — Arthur shifting from foot to foot, too much energy even for a wedding; John calm, sharp-eyed, still as marble. A few others behind them, men you didn’t know yet but would come to learn by voice and shadow.
You walked down the aisle alone.
It felt deliberate. And maybe it was. Your uncle sat in the front pew, nodding with pride like he was watching a merger close. Your mother, pale and tight-lipped, looked like she might unravel if you so much as glanced at her.
Thomas didn’t smile.
But he looked at you the whole time — steady and unmoving, like the tide.
Then, when you finally reached the altar, no time was lost and the priest began to speak.
“Dearly beloved,” he said and you didn’t hear the rest. Not really.
You watched Thomas as he shifted only once, calculated and cold.
The vows were said in murmurs. The priest asked you if you took this man. You said you did. Thomas’s voice was a little lower when he repeated the same. He looked at the ring before sliding it onto your finger, and for the briefest moment, you thought he hesitated.
There was no kiss. Not even a cheek.
Just a handshake with the priest, a few tight nods, and then it was done.
You were Mrs Shelby now and stood beside your new husband like a statue in a tableau. And he gave you nothing but a nod and a single, quiet word as he turned toward the door.
“Come,” he said and, with that, you followed him outside.
***
Once outside, some photos were taken in silence.
There was no laughter. No soft instructions from a smiling photographer. Just a man with a camera, clicking in short bursts as you and Thomas stood side by side in front of the church steps. His hand rested lightly against your back for exactly two photos. Then he let it fall.
You didn’t speak to each other during any of it.
His brother Arthur made a crass joke at one point, trying to lighten the mood. Someone — possibly one of your cousins — laughed too loudly. Your mother didn’t come outside for the pictures. She said she had a headache.
When it was over, you were ushered into a black car, Thomas beside you in the back seat. He didn’t look at you. Not really. Just lit a cigarette, cracked the window, and stared straight ahead.
Arrow House was a thirty-minute drive away, through the rain-dark countryside. You passed fields and stone walls, winding roads and empty land that looked older than anything you had ever seen.
And then — there it was.
Arrow House. Your new home.
It was bigger than you expected. Grand without being showy. Beautiful, but cold. A house that had seen war and whiskey and blood and grief. A house that belonged to men who rarely smiled and women who learned not to flinch.
Inside, the reception was already underway.
The main hall had been transformed — candles lit, long tables set with crystal and silver, bottles of champagne already uncorked. The fire roared in the massive hearth, casting dancing shadows across the polished floors.
Polly, who refused to come to the ceremony out of spite for the agreement reached between your uncles and your new husband, greeted you with a kiss on the cheek and a warm, steadying hand.
“Come in, sweetheart,” she said. “Let them see you. Then I’ll steal you away,” she told you kindly and, even though this was only the second time you had met her since arriving in Birmingham, you already began to like her.
Once you were inside the grant mansion and under Polly’s wing, Thomas disappeared quickly into the corner with Arthur and your uncles. Business, always business.
You stood there for a moment, untethered. Watching the room. Listening to the clink of glasses, the low hum of power in conversation.
And then, just as Polly turned her back to get you something to drink, she approached.
Lizzie Stark. Brunette. Tall. Wearing navy blue and pearls. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“You must be Y/N,” Lizzie said brightly — too brightly — as she stepped closer, swaying slightly in her heels.
You turned, offering a polite nod. “I am indeed. Yes,” you confirmed as, clearly, it was obvious. You were the only woman here wearing white and that had to speak for itself.
“Well,” she said, her smile stretched a little too wide. “Then I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you,” you responded, still wonder who she was at this point, but being too shy to ask.
“I’m Lizzie by the way,” she finally declared. “I am Tommy’s secretary,” she told you as she pushed the words out quickly, like she wanted them on record. “Well — I mean — I help him with a lot of things, really. Not just secretarial work,” she went on to say, which caught you somewhat off guard.
You gave a soft, noncommittal hum. “I see.”
She looked you up and down. Not cruelly. But not kindly either. More like someone studying a shop window and not liking what she saw.
“God, you look young,” she then blurted before laughing too loudly. “I mean, not in a bad way. Just — fresh-faced, that’s all,” she told you with a slight slur, clearly having had too much champagne and, of course, you said nothing in return because there was really nothing to say.
Lizzie smoothed her dress unnecessarily. “Tommy’s not really the romantic type, you know. He doesn’t do candlelit dinners or poems or whatever girls like.”
Her tone was light, but you felt the weight of her words and you wondered who she was really talking to.
“I hope you’re good at pretending,” she added with a nervous giggle. “This house... it takes a bit of adjusting.”
You tilted your head. “Does it?” you asked, remaining calm.
“Oh, definitely. You’ve got to learn the rhythms. And the silences. Especially with him.” She took a sip of her drink, eyes flicking toward where Thomas stood talking with Arthur and your uncles. “He’s… complicated.”
You didn’t ask the question that hovered between you both. But you were starting to piece things together. The way she looked at him. The edge in her voice when she said his name.
She cared for him. Probably more than she should. Probably more than he ever returned.
You weren’t angry about it though. Not even threatened. Just… aware.
Before you could respond, Polly appeared at your side, calm and graceful as ever.
“There you are,” she said, slipping her arm through yours. “Come with me. Ada’s dying to meet you.”
Lizzie gave Polly a tight smile. “Pol.”
“Lizzie,” Polly replied evenly. Not unkind. Just... knowing.
As she steered you away, you glanced back once.
“I think she likes him,” you said quietly.
Polly didn’t look surprised. “She does,” she said, knowing right away who you were talking about.
“Were they ever—?” you wondered, your curiosity piqued.
Polly glanced down the hall. “Yes, but it was never going to be what she wanted.”
That was all she said for now. And honestly, that was enough.
***
As Polly steered you through the crowd, her hand gentle but firm on your arm, you exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening.
“She means well,” Polly then said quietly, realising that you were still pondering about Tommy’s relationship to Lizzie, “but she drinks too much and speaks before she thinks. Always has.”
You glanced at her. “She said she helps him. With a lot of things.”
Polly didn’t blink. “She does. But don’t confuse that with what you are. Or what you’re becoming.”
That phrase lingered in your chest like perfume — what you’re becoming.
The hallway opened into a quieter lounge, slightly away from the noise of the reception. The light here was lower. Softer. A woman with dark curls and sharp eyes stood by the fireplace with a cigarette half-burned between her fingers.
“Ada,” Polly called gently.
Ada turned, appraising you instantly. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t sneer either. She studied you the way someone might study a book’s cover before opening it.
“This her?” she asked.
Polly nodded.
Ada stepped forward and extended a hand. “Welcome to Birmingham. And to this circus.”
You took her hand, surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Thank you.”
“She’s smart,” Polly said to her niece. “Quiet. But she sees.”
“I figured,” Ada said and, with that you entered into some conversations with her about love, philosophy and politics until, eventually, she excused herself, having to leave to tend to her son who was at home with the caretakers.
After that, the night wore on.
There were more faces, more names. The clink of glasses. The hum of conversation. The heavy scent of perfume, whiskey, and woodsmoke lingering in the air like fog. You met more of the Shelbys — some curious, some kind, none of them as terrifying as you’d imagined.
John, Thomas’s younger brother, was sharper than he let on and polite in a way that felt learned, not natural. He greeted you with a nod, kissed your knuckles like it was instinct, and told you to call him only if you needed someone to “translate the Shelby madness.”
Arthur, loud and brash, had been drinking steadily since the toast and kept giving you looks like he wasn’t sure whether to say something sentimental or wildly inappropriate. Eventually, he settled for, “You’re prettier than the last one,” and weren’t sure whether to laugh or leave, assuming that he did not refer to your husband’s late wife Grace but, rather, a more recent love interest instead.
Someone brought you champagne — you didn’t ask who — and a waiter passed with canapés you couldn’t stomach. Your mother sat quietly in the corner, eyes on the fire. Your uncles were still deep in conversation with Thomas and Arthur, voices low, faces too serious for celebration.
Eventually, you grew tired of it all — the socialising, the watchful eyes, the endless introductions wrapped in veiled compliments and measured glances. Every conversation felt like walking a tightrope in heels you hadn’t chosen. Your cheeks ached from polite smiles. The pearls at your throat felt like a noose.
Polly must have sensed it. She didn’t say anything, but her gaze lingered on you a little longer, and the next time the music swelled and the champagne flutes clinked, she took your arm and whispered low enough for only you to hear.
“Time for you to disappear and get some rest,” she suggested and you nodded gratefully.
***
She led you through the side of the hall, past a pair of French doors and into the quieter wing of the house — all shadows and history, the kind of silence that had a weight to it. The chatter behind you faded. The floors beneath your shoes creaked just once. A house like this didn’t groan unless it wanted to.
“This way,” Polly said.
She walked with quiet purpose, her silhouette sharp against the candlelit corridor. Finally, she stopped in front of a tall wooden door near the end of the hall. She opened it, and the air inside was warm, still, softly lit by the fireplace in the far corner.
“This is yours,” she said, causing your brows to furrow.
You looked past her into the room — high ceilings, pale wallpaper, a large four-poster bed draped in soft ivory linen. A fireplace flickered in the corner, and a low armchair sat beside it with a folded blanket slung across the back. There were fresh flowers on the vanity and a tray with a carafe of water and a glass.
You blinked. “This is… mine?”
Polly nodded once. “Yes.”
You stepped inside cautiously, your shoes silent against the thick rug. It was warm. Clean. Almost comforting. There were none of the cold edges or masculine shadows that clung to the rest of Arrow House.
You turned to Polly again. “I thought…” you hesitated, unsure if it was proper to even say it aloud. “I thought I’d be staying with him.”
Polly gave a soft hum, stepping into the room behind you. She didn’t close the door, but she did place a gentle hand on it, as if to keep the world out a moment longer.
“He has his own rooms,” she said calmly. “Always has. Hasn't shared a bedroom with anyone since… well. Since Grace.”
That name — Grace — landed in the quiet like a pebble into deep water. You didn’t flinch, but you felt it ripple all the same.
“He’s a man of habit,” Polly went on. “Routine. Boundaries. Sometimes sharp. Sometimes necessary. He needs control more than comfort most days. And comfort, when it comes, confuses him.”
You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the coverlet. “So he won’t—”
Polly stepped in gently, cutting you off before you could finish the question. Her voice was quiet but sure.
“No, sweetheart. Not unless you ask him to. And even then, Thomas won’t take what’s not offered freely.”
You stared down at your hands, resting in your lap, the weight of the day finally starting to settle in your bones.
“I’ve never… I don’t have experience with men,” you admitted, the words low, as if saying them aloud made you smaller somehow. “Not like that. I have never been attracted to anyone,” you explained and Polly didn’t laugh or flinch. She simply came closer, sitting beside you on the bed, folding her hands in her lap the way women do when preparing to tell a truth.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, with a fondness that wrapped around you like a blanket. “That’s your business. And it will remain your business. Tommy might be many things — cold, complicated, too clever for his own good — but he’s not cruel. And I can tell you right now, he won’t lay a hand on you against your will.”
You looked at her then, your throat tight. “Are you sure?”
Polly gave a small nod, her expression unreadable for a moment — something like pride and sorrow threaded together. “I’ve known him longer than anyone. Raised him after his mother passed. He’s not a good man, not by most standards. But he’s not a bad one either. Especially not to those he considers his.”
That made you pause.
“And I’m… his?”
Her smile deepened, gentle but sharp around the edges. “You are now. Legally. Strategically. Emotionally? That will take time. But he chose you, didn’t he? In a world where most things are transactions, he made the decision to go through with it. And that says more than you think.”
You nodded slowly, trying to absorb it all.
Polly stood then, smoothing her skirt. “There’s a wardrobe over there. I had a few things picked out. I hope they fit — and I hope you like them. Nothing too fashionable. But there’s time to make it your own.”
You stood too, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.
“Polly,” you said, stopping her at the doorway.
She looked back, her expression expectant.
“Thank you,” you said, and Polly’s eyes softened.
“You don’t have to thank me, love. Just take your time. Breathe. Rest. The night’s been long enough.”
She gave you one last look — a quiet nod, full of some truth she didn’t need to say aloud — and then she left, the door clicking shut behind her with a softness that made your chest ache.
Alone now, you turned slowly, letting the stillness settle around you.
You stood for a long while, just looking at the room. Your room. Every detail carefully chosen — nothing sharp, nothing jarring. Just warmth and quiet and space to breathe. The dress still clung to your frame like memory. You stepped out of it slowly, folding it over the back of the armchair before reaching for the dressing gown that Polly had left draped by the fireplace.
The fabric was soft. Clean. It smelled faintly of lavender.
Outside the wind howled faintly against the old glass. Inside, the fire cracked.
You poured a glass of water, sat on the edge of the bed, and let the silence wrap around you like a second skin.
You were alone — not in a frightening way, but in a way that was entirely yours. For the first time since you boarded the plane, you could hear your own thoughts clearly. You could feel the beat of your own heart without the noise of ceremony or strangers or duty weighing on your spine.
It was done.
You were a Shelby now.
And whatever came next — whatever shape this life would take — would be built from this moment forward. Slowly. Carefully. One breath at a time.
You laid back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed.
You did not dream of white dresses or champagne.
You dreamed of open windows, quiet voices, and the scent of woodsmoke in the dark.
t.w.: Dark-ish fic, Smut, P in V, Oral f receiving, Sex pollen Dub-con/Non-con, Voyeurism, Cucking, Breeding kink (forced pregnancy), Lactation kink (brief), LuthorCorp Secretary!Reader, Mentions of Ultraman x Reader (one-sided), Lex Luthor x Superman (also one-sided and psychotic), Cum play/eating, Reader has glasses, slight spoilers, fuck or die!, angst
a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only!
Summary: Ultraman wasn’t as successful as he expected. Lex Luthor is hoping to breed something new to defeat his nemesis, no matter how long the process may take.
Cloning didn’t work. Ultraman was stupid. Incompetent. A failure.
But he liked you. Lex Luthor would watch as he leaned closer to you. It made you uncomfortable, clear by the way you shifted on your feet and avoided his pointed gaze.
Lex trusted you in maintaining him. You’d lead him, after hours, to his room, to the shower, to eat. You were his caretaker in a way. Reluctantly so.
The clone’s base instincts clearly indicated attraction judging by the hard ons he would openly display as he bathed with you standing by the door to ensure he wouldn’t make a mess.
It gave Luthor an idea, an idea that would ensure the next Superman “clone” would be as perfect as possible.
Luthor would pay you handsomely for the trouble. You who kept most of his secrets, you who he sends enough flowers to fill up your apartment, you who he has special meetings with while his girlfriend was off on a shopping spree.
He almost feels tenderly towards you. You were a perfect candidate.
…
You bounce on his lap, sinking onto his prick as he leaned back on his office chair. Peering at you as if you were on your knees and praying to him.
You grunt quietly, he watches as you get yourself off, as he does nothing to help.
Your fingers glide diligently over your cunt, the squelching sounds making you whimper as your clit throbs between your fingers.
He’s not good at sex, he likes having it, likes getting himself off. But he is not inept at pleasuring others.
You’re fine with it. No one has ever made you finish anyway. You only needed his dick. Like a dildo.
You grind your hips against his pelvis, his cock pushes in deep as you pulse around him, your head falling forward to rest against his shoulder in a stifled final moan.
He grips your hips as he pulses inside of you, you groan at the action. He always pulls out. You give him a look as you stand, he pulls your panties up against your cunt and pats your ass.
“Keep it in.”
You snort, he raises a brow, wondering where the joke was in his tone. Thank goodness for birth control. You’d rather die than have his demonic children. Even more spoiled brats and the world's riches would be divided within the Luthor family entirely.
“Remember what the goal is today…” he says as he points a teasing finger at you.
You nod as you straighten your pencil skirt and button up your shirt. Your hands drag against the wood of his desk to swipe your glasses teasingly.
“I’m ready.”
…
Being jostled around the air was irritating to say the least. The clone repeatedly evaded Superman’s moves, causing you to be caught midair several times. One second Ultraman, the other Superman.
It was like tug of war, except instead of rope, your body was being pulled every which way.
Another frightening possibility you didn’t think of before was that hands slip, butterfingers, people fumble.
Superman drops you. You imagine Lex having a laugh.
Superman apologizes as he recatches you, hands tight on your waist as he turns swiftly to take a hit to his back. You could see the way he grits his teeth and shut his eyes from the pain, the way his hands tightened over your body as he cocooned you.
You get it, you realize. Despite the obvious threats around him, his focus was on protecting you, the civilian. It made your chest warm. You almost coo from how selfless he was.
He flees from Ultraman, disguised as a villain of the week, in an attempt to put you down in a safe location.
“You ok?”
You grip onto his shoulders fearfully, feeling the taught muscle underneath. You get those who swoon. He was even bigger in person.
You nod slowly, eyes wide, a hand pressing your glasses to your face to keep them from flying off.
“Yea-“
It was like a train had hit him, the impact of the clone ramming into his side so strong it caused him to lose his grip on you. Again.
Jealousy you briefly wonder, you’re sure Lex didn’t tell him to do that. You’ve never seen that move before.
You each go in opposite directions. You could hear Superman scream out a sharp no as you’re free falling in the air.
The genuine concern won him points by you again.
You think about Lex. About the way he practically begged you to accept the role as victim for his latest scheme.
You’d slap him the next time you see him.
Your attempts to scream are tampered by the rush of air, you couldn’t breathe in or out, the rush of adrenaline making it hard to focus on the action as you see the pavement inch closer.
And suddenly you’re in someone’s arms again, held tightly against their chest. You take a harsh breath in, the rush of oxygen making your lungs burn.
Your eyes stayed unfocused from your lack of lenses. You look behind you to find metal armor facing right back at you. You sigh.
You’re shaking as you’re deposited to the floor of the lab, located near a small town west of the city of Metropolis.
Ultraman dropped you unceremoniously, making your knees buckle and causing you to fall.
You glare up at him, narrowing your eyes as he refuses to look your way. Unlike him. He was most definitely jealous.
Several lab techs surround you and Ultraman briefly to assess damages. They find none, they leave quickly, leaving you to reorient yourself in your lonesome.
You stand, wiping your hands down your skirt as you grumble about the lack of adequate patient care they offered you.
You try the door closest to you, it was locked. For a moment you stare at it dumbfoundedly. This was supposed to be where Luthor was entrapping Superman. There was a bed in the middle of the room, a toilet to the side. This was a prison.
Surely someone was coming to get you, or one of the doors will lock once Superman arrives.
You try the other door, locked. You knock. Your polite knock turns into a slam of your palm. You shout that you couldn’t get out. That you needed to get out. That you were starting to freak out.
You could hear metal bend. Superman was here. You shook the door knob desperately.
“Lex!”
The pounding was getting louder, you could hear his grunts as he attempted to make his way to you. To “save” you.
What would he do once he found out you planned to imprison him for testing, then undoubtedly kill him afterwards.
The sound of the panels behind you, curling in his hands like cardboard, made you think he wouldn’t be too happy.
You turn your back against the door, chest rising and falling with each breath as he breaks himself into his own doom. He takes a breath of relief at finding you unharmed. His eyes scan over your form as he jogs forward, hand gently holding your glasses out to you.
You take them shakily, placing them on to see his soft smile clearly. He puts his hand on your shoulder, your expression terrified.
“You’re going to be ok.”
Alarm bells ring, the room turns red and walls appear, layers and layers of metal sliding atop each other, just to stall him for the next part.
You swallow thickly and shake your head in denial. There must have been a mistake, you weren’t supposed to be in here, no one other than him was. You were fucked. You step away from him, he looks around the room in confusion.
The size of the room is cut in half by the strongest metal Luthor could find. Superman could easily punch his way out, but the amount of punches would be too much for him to get out in time.
A greenish fog fills up the room. He reacts quickly, tugging you from the wall and covering his mouth with his hand, as if urging you to copy the action.
“Hold your breath, I’ll get us out of here.”
You stare at his back, hands at your sides, as he turns to pull his hand back and hit the wall. What a beautiful idiot.
He didn’t realize that with each layer he destroyed more and more gas was being pumped into the room. It made you feel lightheaded.
You stay put in the middle of the room, legs turning weak and arms barely holding you up against the bed. Superman calls for you to follow him, almost desperately as he feels himself weakening.
He holds his breath, he could hold it for several minutes. But he was barely leaving a dent now.
“Don’t breathe it in!” he shouts. It didn’t matter. The smog could be absorbed through the skin anyway.
You fall to your knees. He stops and rushes to you. He could see that he wasn’t as close to breaking out as he liked.
He could only think of one thing. Kryptonite. It was making him feel almost anemic. He starts to shake. But he didn’t feel any pain. He felt a strange rush go through his body.
“Don’t-“ you wheeze out as he kneels over you, hand coming up to touch your shoulder.
The more you inhale the more you feel the effects of the gas. Your stomach clenches, your clothes feel suffocating, your skin sensitive.
Lex said it was going to debilitate him. Make him bend to his knees and writhe.
He grips your bicep, to stabilize you.
Your sharp moan made the hero freeze. It was sensual, pornographic. Not of pain or agony. His breath stutters at the sound, he feels himself start to sweat, his face heating up impossibly in embarrassment and something else.
What the hell did Lex put in this damn cell?
Your stomach cramps. You could hear the room speaker turn on with a sharp crack. Superman stands, looking around the room, attempting to find it.
“Hello, Superman.”
“Luthor,” he says as a response, sounding tired, almost bored of the other man’s voice already.
“Why don’t you or your people ever show themselves?” he asks after a moment, looking up towards the corner, knowing that a camera was pointed right at him.
“I’m closer than you think.”
Superman’s brows furrow. He turns to you and shrugs his shoulders with an incredulous look, obviously mocking Luthor’s ominous tone and words. You look away in shame, his face falls as you cower away from him.
“Oh! I didn’t introduce you to my secretary. Say hi to my secretary. Isn’t she cute? Great actor too.”
Superman’s eyes connect with yours and you pant as you drag yourself to the far wall. His eyes sharpen and his brows furrow, so deep creases formed in his perfect friendly face. The hint of a smile, gone. He was clearly upset by the setup.
“What did you do?” he asked, voice raised. He stares directly at you, eyes roaming over your body.
You’re not sure who he speaks to. Lex or you. By Lex’s snort, he assumes it was to him.
“Do you feel it?” Lex’s voice reverberated around the small enclosure, you bite your lip to hold in a whimper.
Your breath comes out in short pants. You feel your thighs slicken, each shift highlighting the fact that there was now a building dampness underneath you.
“It’ll take a while to set in for you.”
You rock your hips, Superman watches you curiously. You fight the urge to press your hand between your legs. You turn in your embarrassment, your nipples were so hard they stung and pointed out against the fabric of your shirt.
You press your face against the cool wall, it gives you brief relief. Another cramp in your lower belly hits you, you shake and groan.
“It’s already set in for her. You’ll see soon enough.”
He could smell your arousal, he exhaled shakily as he felt a warmth travel through his spine at your twitches and small noises. His eyes start to roam over your body, the way your back arches lightly, your ass curving out against the fabric of your skirt, now showing a growing spot of wetness.
He licks his lips before refocusing.
“What did you do?” he shouts with force.
“Don’t worry, it’s harmless.”
Superman looks at you, your back to him, he steps forward before stopping. His stomach tightens, his mouth salivates, and he feels his briefs tighten against his growing heavy bulge.
His eyes were intense, pupils fighting between expanding and constricting. He holds a hand up, as if to calm you, maybe even calm himself.
“You’ll be fine-“ he attempts shakily. His knees wobble.
“Oh. She will die,” Lex’s voice cuts sharply, humorously.
You moan out into the air, your skin prickles and itches. You refuse to look away from the corner, you didn’t want to give Lex the satisfaction of your tears, your panic.
“You require the dosage of an elephant. I had to make sure it worked.”
Your lower stomach tightens so much the rest of your body locks into place. You feel a rush like no other and yelp as the feeling makes your cunt’s walls constrict around nothing. Your body trembles in sweet erotic pulses, you pant openly as the rush fades into a low simmer.
Did you just have a mini orgasm?
“She needs an antidote, luckily for you Superman, you have plenty of it.”
The comm clicks as it turns off. You groan as you flop against the metal floor, facing the ceiling, body spread out like a starfish. You could feel his heated gaze, he looked furious, huffing out like a bull ready to charge.
Lex had been testing weird shit on the clone. He’d figured this chemical out a couple of months ago. It affected hormones, made the body crave another.
It wasn’t as bad as this. It wasn’t as intense.
Sure, Ultraman had humped your leg when you were trimming his hair but you’re sure he never felt as if he were dying.
Then again, Kryptonians, clone or not, wouldn’t be affected as fast as humans. You had a feeling this time would be different, you could see Superman pace back and forth, running a shaky hand through his locks almost pulling on it as his chest stutters with each gulp of air.
“Bodily fluids,” you gasp.
A kiss made it better, Lex made you kiss the clone, on the cheek, to test it out. Lex had a boner as he watched the interaction. The freak.
He kissed the clone himself afterwards, right on the lips, to see which method worked best, according to him. Tongue on tongue worked the best for pacifying the chemical.
You were used to seeing Superman’s face. You just weren’t used to him being able to speak back to you. He turns sharply towards you, he growls.
“Don’t test me.”
You roll your eyes, your body was shaking, your heart beating so fast you were starting to feel lightheaded. He could see your heart, so fast he fears you’re going to pass out at any moment now.
Worse, you might get into cardiac arrest. He sighs in frustration.
He kneels beside you, sitting you up against the wall roughly, pressing your shoulders into the metal despite your discomfort.
The touch makes you shiver, you hold back a moan. He cages you in with his arms, hands planted on either side of you.
“What can we do?”
You lick your lips, and he follows your tongue with his eyes. His stomach flexes and he grunts.
“It helps, saliva, sweat” you swallow thickly. He was so warm, your lips part lightly. You’ve never wanted anyone inside of you so badly before.
Your hands weakly lift to grip his bicep, big bulging biceps that were so hard as you squeezed. You bite your lip and suppress a giddy giggle, your hand roaming over his chest.
He shakes you from your daze. You drop your hand to the floor and swallow thickly. Focus. You take a moment, body flushing even further from humiliation.
“Ejaculate, arousal fluid, I promise,” you stutter, you adjust your glasses.
He narrows his eyes, you gush at his stare, a fresh wave of arousal almost squirting out of your cunt at his proximity.
He closes his eyes tightly, his arms flex as he resists the urge to manhandle you. He didn’t know if it was from anger or something else. Maybe it was the half-lidded gaze you gave him, eyes wandering all over his body and lingering on his very prominent bulge.
“So… what do I need to do?”
You shrug. It was obvious. Your eyes blank as you lean back against the wall.
“Just let me die, dude,” you mumble. He scoffs. Your head rolls to the side and your neck is exposed. He zeros in on the soft skin of your throat, his jaw tightens as he’s hit with your scent of fresh arousal. The musk was enveloping him, his hand cups your face.
He kisses you, face scrunched as if he hated the idea of being near you. You gasp, his tongue swipes through the roof of your mouth before swirling over yours.
You moan, fighting to keep your hands on the floor, curled into tight fists as he pulls your head closer.
“You smell good,” he mumbles offhandedly, voice low and tense, as if he could be doing anything other than this. His actions said otherwise, his tongue splays over your skin, lips pecking down your jaw. His hand grips your hips and pulls you forward.
“Thanks,” you groan out.
His head pulled away from you, his pupils were dilated. He was breathing heavier. His body twitches, neck straining. He was starting to feel the effects intensify.
“You feel better?” he asks softly, eyes roaming over your face, stalling over your lips.
In fact, you were starting to feel worse. You nod, despite the way your face twisted in pain, the cramps intensity almost debilitating.
“Liar.”
He kisses you again, the make out evolving as he pulls you to his lap. He guides your hands to touch him, sliding your fingers up his chest, over his neck. He guides your fingers to the buttons of his suit, right at the nape of his neck.
Your skirt rides up and he starts to unbutton your blouse. His mind started to cloud, almost as if he didn’t realize that you were being watched, as if you weren’t both trapped.
Lex sits in the surveillance room alone, having dismissed everyone else once the gas had been pumped into the cage.
He has cameras for every angle of the cell, he zooms in between your bodies.
He unbuttons his trousers, palming himself as he focuses in on your ruined panties grinding against the pronounced outline of Superman’s cock and balls.
Superman presses you against his chest, you tug your arms out of your dress shirt, hands going to his face as your tongue caresses his, wanting to be impossibly closer.
Luthor chortles as he hears your underwear rip, flinging to the other side of the room. Your bare cunt was spread open by thick digits. His fingers press into you, making your head fall back in delight.
Superman’s thumb rolls over your clit, you gush around him, so sensitive that a mere touch makes you fall off the edge of pleasure.
Lex jerks his cock in his hand, thumb running over the head as he spreads his spewing pre over his shaft. His cum was inside of you, Superman was playing with his cum already in your cunt.
What a sight.
…
You pant out heavily, he licks up your juices from his fingers and watches as your heart slows, only to start up again. His hand roams all over your body, pressing into your soft skin, groaning as you ground down on him.
“I’m sorry I have to…” he trails off. Eyes connecting to your breasts. He rips your bra quickly, hands coming up to squeeze the soft mounds.
His mouth hangs open, he feels himself drool at the sight of your bare body. He was delirious.
“I have to save you,” he mumbles, as if he were drunk.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, pulling you closer, his nose trailing down the middle of chest, nuzzling softly between your breasts as he breathes in deeply.
“Jes- jeez-“ he stutters. His tongue flicks out to taste your sweat, your breasts smelled like heaven, a certain musk that guided him to suck the soft flesh in his mouth.
His nose sinks into the softness, as his lips suck around your nipple. The other hand cups your breast and squeezes, his fingers holding your nipple in place as he presses the surrounding area. Almost as if urging something to drip out.
And something does. It must be an adverse effect of the gas, you see pearls of white dribble from the nipple he grasps in hand.
You instinctively attempt to push him away, but he holds you in place.
You flush in embarrassment as he groans, sucking harder, having just tasted what you’ve seen. He holds the small of your back against him, pressing you closer, his face smothered in your breasts.
You cup his head, mouth wide open as you moan out into the air freely.
You grind against his lap, tugging at his briefs. Your weak pawings towards his cock made him ache further. He stands, your limp body pliant in his hold as he makes his way to the bed in the middle of the room.
You fall harshly against the mattress. Your attempts at unbuttoning your skirt left you feeling winded and weak. You close your eyes and your breath gets caught in the back of your throat. Desperate for him.
He rips your very expensive and very vintage pencil skirt as if it were wrapping paper. In a blink his suit was gathered on the floor in a heap.
His chest rises and falls with each breath. The cool air gave him a bout of clarity.
He was still so upset. He stares down at you, almost in a scowl. He jerks himself, he can’t believe the amount of pre-cum that was coming out of him, almost like a fountain. He pulls your legs, making your back slide towards the edge of the bed.
His eyes soften as you writhe against the sheets. He palms your breasts and squeezes, he swallows thickly at the milky pearls that bead out. He tests the pliancy of your body. He could break you if he’s not careful enough. His stomach tenses and his heart quickens, almost making him keel over.
“We dont have to do this- we can-”
He stares at your cunt as you spread your legs. He swallows thickly. He feels himself fight the urge to sink into you. But his mothers words dig into the back of his skull. Do not get a girl pregnant before marrying her. He stalls.
He could put his mouth on you for hours, he’s sure he genuinely could do it for hours. He’d love to even.
But sperm was proven to be the most effective antidote. Who knows what Lex had to figure that out. You glance at his dick, so hard it looked almost painful. He was about to speak again but you cut him off quickly.
“I’m on the pill,” you whimper.
He’s on you quickly, knees digging into the soft mattress as his mouth leads a path up your body to your lips. He thrusts into you. You squeal, a mix of pain and intense pleasure.
“Holy- goodness-“ he groans, mouth wide open as his hips flex into you. Your pussy was so wet, and so tight as if it wanted to milk him for each drop.
Lex didn’t have anything to hold onto. Superman's hair was out of its usual gelled back style, pieces of his hair tickling against your skin as he places his forehead against yours.
Your fingers curl into his locks so tightly you fear if he wasn’t nearly invincible, you’d rip them from their roots.
He groans, eyelids heavy as he gazes down at you. You were such a mess, your eyes were wet, body covered in sweat, a pool of your juices staining half of the mattress. With each of his orgasms, he could feel your body calm further, as if his seed were a salve.
His arms were underneath you, lifting you lightly for more leverage. The squelch of his cock, pumping into you as he held your body below him possessively was so arousing to you.
You’ve never had an experience like this, someone so attentive and desperate for your body. Although in the back of your mind you knew that he wasn’t exactly desperate for you. You were both so unbearably horny, chemically enhanced hormonal shifts.
His mouth sucks at your nipple, he groans as you wrap your legs around his waist, your hand reaching to pull his ass onto you.
His weight was pushing you down as he changed position, pulling your legs up in the air and pressing his chest to the back of your thighs. It was obscene, his spunk spews from your pussy, your lower half seemingly covered in the milky white.
Lex Luthor watches the whole thing, it lasts hours. He’s almost impressed. It infuriates him.
Superman did everything in his power to get the chemicals out of your system, through sweat, tears, your cum. And he did everything to feel normal again, to stop craving the feel of your plump heated flesh, the tightness of your cunt, the softness of your lips.
You were pretty for a LuthorCorp goon. Especially with your glasses all slanted as he pounds you into the mattress.
By the end of the day Superman was spent, your heart has finally calmed. The last spurts of his cum pump into you weakly. He falls on his side, facing you.
You both catch your breath, staring into each other's eyes, shifting closer until his arm wraps around you to pull you to his chest.
His fingers press against the curve of your cheekbone as you lay on your side. He takes your lenses off gently, placing them on the pillow beside your head.
You stare at him, finger pressing against his chin, his lips, his brow.
“You’re so different,” you mutter. His eyes look over your features, not hiding his confusion. He imagines you mean different from Lex Luthor. You meant a lot of people. His clone was fucked up, cute, but the bridge of his nose and chin were slightly different.
“Why do you work for him?”
You shrug. Lex Luthor was a good boss. At least before today.
You had great health care, optometrist, dermatologist, endocrinologist and many more ists included. Pay was great, company products were free. Lex would get you flowers, he’d listen to your opinions, he’d take you to expensive dinners.
But it was never intimate, not like the way Superman was pressed against you now. He hums, his hand traces over every mark he left on your body.
Your expression was grim.
“You should find another job.”
You shrug again. He rolls his eyes, disappointed by your nonchalant response. He points between you both.
“This is pretty messed up.”
You nod.
“I know.”
He stands, you stare at the ceiling. He gives you one last look as he changes. He feels better, stronger now. He looks down on you. He looks at the length of his cape. He could wrap you in it, fly to his apartment or Kansas. He’d make sure you were safe.
“You should come with me…”
You shake your head, turning on your side. Back turned away from him. He could sense the sadness, the betrayal. He’s sure you’ll leave LuthorCorp on your own. He’d find you. To find out more about what happened, to maybe even take you out for coffee.
He’s hoping you would confide in Clark Kent.
You hear him tear through the metal. You cocoon yourself into a ball and finally succumb to your fatigue.
…
You wake up in a hospital bed, the heart monitor beeping loudly beside your ear, making your head thrum with a headache.
Lex was sitting next to your bed, analyzing your face as you scowled at him. He remains neutral. Your hand whips out faster than even you expected, his head whips to the side as your palm lands on his cheek.
He rubs his jaw, amusement in his eyes. He takes your hand.
“How do you feel?”
You scoff, pulling your hand away from him.
“I’m done.”
He snorts, he gives you a look, as if you were stupid. Class Lex. He always makes you feel so small. So useless sometimes.
“You’re not done,” he says, shaking his head as if he were speaking to a toddler who didn’t want to eat their vegetables.
You sit up furiously. “I am done!”
He doesn’t react to your tone. His eyes look over your body as he speaks.
“You signed the contract. You work for me for another year.”
You fume. Your hands ball into fists. He passes you your glasses but you slap the offer away.
“Unless you want to void the contract. That’ll cost you 50,000, darling.”
Tears well in your eyes. You couldn’t afford to void the contract, or the NDA. Or pay for legal fees if you want to get a lawyer. You stare up at the ceiling, the pillow is soft.
He holds your hand once again, this time tighter than before, not allowing you to pull away. He pulls in close next to you, he grips your chin to make you look up at him.
“I own you.”
He kisses your lips lightly, you face twitches in irritation.
“You did good. We got what we needed.”
His lips skim over the marks left by Superman, kissing the bruises and darkened spots so delicately it sent shivers down your spine. Your body soften against the mattress, giving in.
Your hands were planted against the cushion of the medical bed as he lowered down between your legs, pulling your hospital gown up to expose your pussy.
He groans at the sight. You let out a shaky breath and spread your legs. Your mound was swollen and as he spread your folds he could see streaky white slick drip out.
He asked them not to clean you there as medical staff crowded over you after Superman had left. They understood. It would make for a viable pregnancy if the sperm were to last longer inside of you.
He licks you, sucks your cunt, slurping Superman’s cum from your gaping hole. There was so much of it.
Your hands grip the medical bed, his head underneath your soft gown and shifting as he mouths at you.
He’s never touched you like this, fucked you like this.
He almost couldn’t believe it worked. Almost. Your pills were switched out months ago, there was no protection and judging by testing done on his clone. Superman’s sperm was potent. Statistically, way more potent than his own.
He sucks your clit, you muffle a moan with the back of your hand. He stuffs the seed back into you, you succumb to a back arching climax.
He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and walks out of the room.
…
You sit up in Lex’s bed. It’s been a month.
He’d become more caring, in his own strange little ways. He broke up with his girlfriend, he asked you out on a date.
He apologized.
You think something was wrong with you. You stayed. You’d rather reap the benefits of a rich boyfriend than deal with the legalities of quitting your job.
He touches you as if you were a delicate thing. Precious. You moved into his penthouse. You had access to most if not all of his belongings.
It was fishy. You’ve asked him about why he did what he did. He said it was to collect more DNA, which was left all over the mattress.
He wanted to create a better clone of Superman.
You swipe through your phone, ignoring emails of this so-called Clark Kent from the Daily Planet who wants to discuss your kidnapping the month before.
He’s been trying for weeks now.
You trudge through the bedroom door to see Lex in the kitchen. You sniff and your stomach twists. You get closer and you have to stop.
Bile collects in your mouth, and you rush to the bathroom. He calls out for you in concern, rushing towards you as you keel over the toilet bowl.
“What were you making that smelled so disgusting?” you groan. His cooking skills were mediocre at best. You weren’t surprised by the horrible smell.
“Eggs.”
He could see the wheels turning in your head. You missed your period, but you’ve always had irregular months.
Your ears ring, you want to puke but not from the smell of breakfast.
Now that you thought about it. Your boobs were sore, you brushed it off as a long-term side effect of the chemicals. You were spotting for a few days. You felt off.
You slam the door on Lex’s face and scour through the drawers underneath the sink. A fresh box of pregnancy tests was almost gleaming at you.
You curse Lex. The bastard planned this.
You sit on the toilet for more than two minutes. Your legs shake, your hands smooth over your thighs anxiously.
You’re pretty sure it was Superman’s. You hoped it was just to spite Lex.
You shake your head and put your head in your hands. You hope it wasn’t anybody’s!
You pick up the test and close your eyes tightly. You open them and your heart drops. Your body goes cold.
Lex gleams with joy as you scream in a mix of frustration and pent-up anxiety. You open the door and shove the test to his chest.
He watches you pack your belongings.
It was positive.
——————————
Baby daddy needs to lock in… Lex Luthor is so freaky I fear he would make a scheme to carry the child himself if he biologically could. Anyways, I don’t feel great about this one. Idk. Let me know if y'all want more of this reader.
kinks: age difference, ddlg elements (no daddy kink), dumbification, reader is very ditzy, negan is protective, dom/sub dynamic, fingering, creampie, slightly rough sex, dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation
warnings and triggers: dumb! reader, name-calling, mentions of violence and death, negan is extremely manipulative, bullying, reader is a little insecure, dubcon
word count: 7k
plot with porn, slight alternate universe. slightly dead dove.
It’s beautiful, and Negan’s pretty sure this blind obedience and worship you have for him is the best kind of love he’s ever received. He’d do anything to keep you this docile. This trusting.
This dumb, about who he is and what he does. You think he’s the nicest guy in the world, and you’re a sweet little thing. Why would he ever want to change that perception?
It’s funny, because when he was growing up, Negan never wanted to play with dolls.
He was a regular kid. A regular boy, who liked toy cars and dinosaurs, dug in the dirt and killed spiders and dared his friends to eat ants. Threw rocks at squirrels and played pirates and cowboys, stayed outside until the streetlights turned off. Average. Grew up to be above average, sure, but the fundamental parts of what make him a man have been inside of him since day one.
He’s mean. He’s pretty damn selfish, and he’d be the first to admit that. He’s rough, he’s aggressive, and sometimes he gets so mad he swears he can feel his dick chub up in his pants - especially when he hears the sound of another grown man begging, crying, or pleading. It’s not a gay thing, of course - more like a fucked up thing, but he knows he’s not alone in it.
He’s around men all day. Sees them hurt each other, mostly at his orders - but it’s all in good fun. At least for him. Men like that shit. They love to hurt, even if they say they don’t, and the little secret that most women don’t understand is that they like to be the one who’s hurt sometimes. Most of them won’t admit it, but Negan will.
It feels good, to get smacked in the face or to spit a tooth out after a gnarly punch to the cheek (but Negan’s got a dentist under this thumb, so he can enjoy that feeling, he’s lucky, he knows). When his vision gets blurry and his nose bleeds, ribs aching after a good fight - phew. Negan loves that shit. Knows every other man does too.
That excitement, the frustration, all of it spreading through his body like a wildfire until he feels his hand curl into a fist to get his retribution. It’s almost as good as an orgasm, because it makes him feel alive. What’s more human than pain?
Negan Smith is a man, through and through. Always has been, always will be.
Which makes it so funny, such a crazy twist of fate, that his favorite toy is now you.
His perfect, little doll.
Crazy how life works out, huh?
────
When Negan found you, you were all alone.
Well, you thought you were alone.
You were staying at a run-down farm house that Negan’s men found because they were looking for a group of people that tried to fuck him over. A group of scared fucking pathetic excuses for men, which disgusted Negan to no end. He wants to terrify people, sure - gets a thrill, and an erection out of it. But seeing people sweat before he’s even opened his mouth is just infuriating.
What if he was a nice guy? They’d never know. Pretty fucked up, Negan thinks, judging someone based on their appearance.
The group started firing at his men before they even got out of their truck, and then they had to be chased, and when Negan’s men lost them he had to get involved. A few days came and went before they were finally found, and just in perfect time too - because those men must’ve seen that you were staying alone at the house and were planning to fuck you over.
Fuck you too. Negan heard them planning it by some trees about a half a mile away from the house, before he beat in their brains with his bat.
Now, Negan knows he’s a monster. But he’d never gang up on a woman with his men. It’s tasteless. Disgusting. Tacky, deplorable. Weak.
Because him? Well, Negan came on to you all on his own.
His first thought when he found you, completely clueless about the fate that awaited you, on the front porch of a farm house that had surely seen better days, was that you were cute.
Too cute to be alive in this world, living on your own. Negan has a lot of wives, yeah, but they all looked like shit when he found them. He just has an eye for that sort of thing - finding beauty in the things nobody else can see.
He saw it in all those women he forced to be his bride - beauty in their features all dirtied up from time on the road that he knew would be pretty again after a shower and some lip gloss. Beauty, in the blood under the nails of his men, the fragility of human life and the almost unbreakable spirit. Beauty, in all the luxuries he used to take for granted before walkers became a thing and changed everything.
Negan knows beauty when he sees it, and when he saw you, he realized he'd laid his eyes on the most beautiful thing still left in this world.
When you saw him, you didn’t panic. When you saw his men, you didn’t even frown. Instead, on that little porch, you arched an eyebrow and looked at him curiously. You were sitting down on the ground, a pair of tiny, denim shorts on and scuffed up boots. Negan noticed that you had a little flower tucked behind your ear, and he wondered if you were insanely brave or just stupid.
Either way, he was intrigued.
“You alone?” He asked a question that would have alarm bells going on in just about anyone else’s head. But not yours. No, you took it a step further than Negan could’ve anticipated. You stood up, walked to him, and gave him a hug.
Negan thought it was a trap. He really did. Was sure that this was going to be the way he finally died, and goddamnit - maybe he deserved it. Clever fucking asshole, whoever designed this honeypot of a beautiful girl all alone, looking like she was waiting to be rescued.
But it wasn’t a trap.
You were actually happy to see him and his men. You pulled away from the hug and let out a sigh of relief, blowing a piece of hair out of your face with a cute expression. You smiled, and Negan realized how much he missed the look of innocence. He didn't realize how long it'd been since he'd last seen it. “I’m so happy you’re here,” you said, taking the flower out from behind your ear. You handed it to him. “It was so scary being all alone.”
────
You’re beautiful, but that’s the least interesting thing about you. Don’t get Negan wrong though - you are beautiful. Fucking perfect, like a little doll, with soft skin and perky tits and a sweet smile whenever you get your way.
Which makes you perfect for Negan, because you’re also about as brainless as a doll, pretty head all empty, and whatever he tells you to do, whatever he thinks, whatever he wants - you agree. That simple, that smooth. Even Negan was impressed when he realized just how ditzy you were.
He’s not trying to be insulting either. People have different strengths, and using your brain is not one of yours. You’re so fucking hot though, that it doesn’t really matter what you say or do. Your passivity, your cuteness, the big eyed look you give him whenever you’re confused about something he says (which is frequently) - Negan could cum in his pants just thinking about it.
You’re special to him.
The minute he brought you home, he hated the guts of every single one of his wives. Although, maybe hate is too strong of a word. Because Negan doesn't even hate them, truthfully, because he doesn't even think of them. Once he had you in his presence, you took up so much of his time that he was shocked (and pleased) that someone didn’t try to overthrow his position as leader in his absence.
He knew from the minute he had you in his truck, leaving that farm house, that you’d end up meaning a lot to him. The day he found you, he had his men walk around the little house you were staying in, looking for any valuables. There were some, and even though Negan found you charming, he still didn’t know you. Didn’t know if that happy to not be alone thing was an act or not.
He drilled you, asked you questions and tried to scare you a little bit, but it was impossible to frighten you - which frightened him. He’ll admit, you spooked him with your naivety back then. It was creepy as shit.
You just kept giggling, kept standing too close to him, and when Negan finally made his men look through the house, you took a seat on the old couch in the living room. “So nice of them to help me with my stuff. I’ve been alone here since my brother never came back after he went looking for something for us to eat. I’m really lonely. Really hungry too.” It was obvious to Negan at that moment, just how clueless you really were - but it was also really fucking cute.
He’d spent so much time fighting, arguing, forcing - and finally having someone give in without resistance was nice. That day, he found himself sitting back on the couch in front of you, and then you made the move to get up and sit next to him. Clueless. Dangerous, your innocence.
But deep down, in a thought Negan didn’t even want to admit to himself -
It was nice to be around someone who wasn’t scared of him. Someone he didn’t have to force.
“We only just met, kid. Personal space,” he remembers saying, but you just laughed. Sweet and hungry, you said. Negan couldn’t wait to bring you home and feed you. He was already wondering where you would fit in, hating himself for being worried about how the other women would treat you if he threw you in with his wives. Maybe you could teach them a thing or two, about being nice. But then again.
His wives are bitches. Although Negan can’t say he doesn’t understand why.
“You play baseball?” You asked, looking towards his bat that was resting beside his foot while he held onto it. He was in a state of disbelief. He couldn’t understand how someone could be so, so -
“No, honey, I don’t. You pullin’ my leg or something? Or are you really just that,” stupid, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. Because your bottom lip jutted out like you were about to cry, then your eyes filled with tears, and Negan loves to hurt people to see how far he can take it until they try to hurt him back - but with you, he knew you wouldn’t fight back.
Took a lot of the fun out of it, so he quickly changed the subject. It’s only fun to make a beautiful woman cry when it serves a purpose, and Negan didn’t see any purpose in hurting someone as…you know what? He’s got nothing nice to say, he won’t say anything at all.
“How’s this,” he said instead, placing a hand on your knee. Your skin was warm under his palm, soft where his rough fingers touched you. “You come back with us, and you can eat whatever you want. As much as you want. You in?”
Truth be told, Negan planned on bringing you back with him, regardless of if you wanted to come, at this point. Because when he touched your knee, you put your hand on top of his, and that was all it fucking took to disarm him.
Little bunny, not scared of the big bad wolf. Now that’s a fairy tale Negan’s never heard of -
He’s always liked to write his own rules, anyway.
────
Negan calls you his bunny, and you like it, but you think you like being called doll better.
He tells you all the time that you look like a doll. No matter what time of day, no matter what you look like, he’ll never stop giving you that compliment. It always makes your face heat up, and sometimes it even turns you on.
What can you say? You’re a woman, and being by Negan’s side makes you feel more feminine than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.
He treats you like you’re breakable. Gives your forehead kisses, brings you food, takes care of all your needs. The truth is, you’ve always been treated like you’re breakable, but nobody ever acted like they enjoyed having to take care of you. Negan says he’s happy that you need him so much, and you like that.
You like being the kind of woman who gets protected. The kind of woman who gets doted on and adored. Ever since you met Negan, your nails have been clean and your knees have been without a bandage, your tummy has been full - you didn’t think you’d ever feel clean and pretty again, until he swept you off your feet like you always dreamed would happen to you.
Negan has a lot of pet names for you. Bunny, doll - those are just a few. Sometimes you wonder if he even knows your real name, because he never says it. Baby, sweetheart, cutie. Darling. Everytime he opens his mouth to say something in regards to you, something sweet is coming out of it.
You’ve only been with him a few months, but you love him so much you can’t stand it. You want to be around him all the time, but it’s just not possible, he says.
You don’t know what Negan does when he leaves his, yours, the room you both share, because you spend most of your time in there. Sometimes you go out, with him, or with one of his men that you met that day at the farmhouse, but if Negan’s not taking you out, you don’t really want to go anywhere.
You’re happy to stay in the room. There’s books, although you don’t really read…but there’s plenty of things to do to keep yourself busy. Most of the time, you just sleep. Sometimes it’s a little boring, waiting for Negan, but you’re eternally grateful for being able to nap again. Life on the road was scary, stressful.
“You’re not built for life out there, baby,” Negan told you once, which translated to life without me, but it’s not like you disagreed. You were sitting on his lap, your head resting on his shoulder, asking him to tell you about his day. You love the stories he tells you, because they make you feel even more grateful to be somewhere safe.
Negan is so good to you.
You know that Negan is in charge of the place you’re at, and that makes you feel funny, and lucky, to be the woman he chose. You know it’s practically the apocalypse and all, but you’re sure he had a lot of women he could’ve chosen to date. He’s handsome, so handsome, and he’s the nicest, most generous man you’ve ever met.
He gives people jobs, and medical care. He has a system to kill off all the walkers that come too close to the building, and it’s so smart that you know he must’ve come up with it himself. He has so many supporters and people that respect him - which tells you all you need to know, about him being an amazing leader. When he walks in a room, everyone gets quiet, and that makes you feel giddy, knowing the amount of power he holds.
Although, it shouldn’t exactly surprise you. Negan was able to get power over you pretty quickly, but that’s only because you let him. It’s just -
You don’t know how else to be. You’ve always been this way - ditzy, head full of air, dumb. You’ve heard it your entire life, which is maybe why it feels so good to hear Negan call you nice things. To love that you might not be the, what was it your father always said to you? Not the brightest candle on the birthday cake? Not the sharpest tool in the shed?
You know you sound dumb - but you like sounding dumb. You like that Negan is around to think for you, to tell you what to do and when to do it. He tells you what you should be thinking, and you listen.
Negan knows best. You could hardly survive on your own for a week, and look at what he built.
Sometimes though, no matter how strong a leader Negan is, things get hard.
Bad things happen, little bunny, he tells you, patting his lap for you to take a seat. You do, and you look up at him with wide eyes, ready for whatever he plans on telling you. You know it has to be serious, because he didn’t ask you to take your clothes off yet. That’s usually the first thing out of his mouth, whenever he’s back in the room for the night.
Negan tells you that sometimes, people break his rules, and when that happens, they have to be punished. He asks if you heard anything while he was out, any screams or any loud voices - but you shake your head. You arch a brow, curious. “Why?” You ask, and he stares at you for a moment, tongue licking over his bottom lip. Then he grins, and you smile back cluelessly.
“That’s it, huh?” He says, but you know not to reply. You don’t need to. Talking out loud, Negan explained to you.
Sometimes he’s just in shock, is all, about how clueless you really are.
He maneuvers you easily, his little doll, into straddling his lap. Bucks his hips up, so you can feel what you’re doing to him just by existing. He killed three men today, burned the face off of another, and you’re looking at him like he hung all the stars in the sky.
It’s beautiful, and Negan’s pretty sure this blind obedience and worship you have for him is the best kind of love he’s ever received. He’d do anything to keep you this docile. This trusting.
This dumb, about who he is and what he does. You think he’s the nicest guy in the world, and you’re a sweet little thing. Why would he ever want to change that perception?
He reaches his hand between your bodies, to lift up the bottom of the big shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, to feel how wet you are. No panties, because he told you that they don’t exist anymore. Just - they were all taken. He didn’t know if you’d seriously believe that, but you do, and it’s just too good to be true.
“Don’t mean to worry you about all that grown up, scary stuff, honey,” he fakes an apology, loves that your little cunt is ready for him, wet, shaved all proper, sucking his finger in when he starts prodding at your opening. You whine, biting on the inside of your cheek because his fingers are so long and you love the attention after you’ve spent all day alone.
You're not even offended at his little insult. Grown up stuff, as if you're not a full adult yourself. You're too busy focusing on the feeling of his ownership, the fact that you quite literally exist for him, like any good toy does.
Although, be real. Being finger fucked or not, it's unlikely you would've understood that comment was an insult anyway.
It’s your special time together, moments like these, and if it’s even possible - you become more brainless. Let him play with your pussy, let him push you down on the couch, slip his dick inside of you, make you so full that sometimes the feeling scares you a little, but you like it nonetheless.
Your favorite part about the sex is how it feels to be in Negan’s arms after. Warm, body loose, his cum dripping out of you as he tucks you into bed. Back at that farmhouse, all alone, you cried yourself to sleep every night. There were so many scary noises, so much land that you could only imagine the horror that was lurking outside. When your family was alive, you were still scared -
They’d just tell you to shut up. But not Negan.
There’s no fear with Negan, you think, closing your eyes as his arms wrap around you.
You’re the safest you could possibly be. You think about this while your drift off to sleep, but Negan thinks the opposite -
He’s the face of nightmares to more people than he can name, but you cling to him like he’s your savior.
────
“You got any brains in that head? Or is it just filled with ribbons and whatever that frilly shit you’ve got on is called?” Dave, one of the men you hate most in this world, snaps the strap of your tank top against your shoulder so hard that it makes you want to cry. Your eyes fill up with tears, and in typical you fashion, you stomp your foot and use what little strength you have to push him away from you. Your bottom lip trembles.
“Leave me alone,” you whine (beg), arms crossed over yourself protectively when Dave finally steps back.
He’s not alone - a few moments ago, you screamed and the men patrolling the compound heard and came running. But they did nothing to help, and instead, have made you feel bad about screaming at all. As if you could control your reaction to a fucking spider crawling across the toe of your shoe. Brand new shoes, you must add, because don’t these men understand how hard it is to get new shit nowadays?
Don’t they understand how scary and dangerous spiders are?
The honest truth is that it doesn’t cross your mind that these are the same men that risked their life to get you the shoes you’re wearing, but. They don’t have to be so mean.
“No. You’re such a dumbass. Screaming like that’s fuckin’ dangerous,” another man says, and you don’t even know his name but being reprimanded like this makes you cry. Being called a dumbass makes you want to sob. You admit that, yeah, maybe you’re a little airheaded sometimes. Maybe you’re a little clueless, when adjusting to life in this new, yucky world, but fuck - would it kill people to be nice?
Name calling is never the answer.
“I’m not dumb,” you say softly, with no confidence in your voice. You should have known better than to leave the room without asking anyone to escort you.
There’s no rule that says you can’t leave the room, but you’ve been at the sanctuary for months now, and you rarely leave the room you share with Negan unless he’s with you. Out of all the men that work for him - the only ones that treat you decently are the ones that were with him that day they found you at the farmhouse.
The times you do leave the room, everyone treats you so weird. They’re all cruel, whispering about how stupid you are when you walk past, holding Negan’s hand. Or they just stare at you, which makes you feel insecure. It’s even worse when they ask you questions, because no matter how hard you think about the answer, they’re unhappy with it.
You think to a few weeks ago, when you walked past a room with a bunch of women just sitting around. Negan said you weren’t allowed to go in there, but when his back was turned later that day, you walked over there to talk to some of them.
“Negan know you’re here?” One of them asked, looking nervously behind your shoulder. Your brows furrowed, confused.
“Huh? Uh, no, but it’s okay. I just never see any other women here, I,” but she cut you off, and you heard hushed whispers in the corner of the room where a small group of women sat together.
“You should go,” she said, dismissing you, and that was the last time you left the room. In the room, you’re safe.
You’ve got things to do, and a big collection of stuff that makes you happy that Negan got for you. Clothes, magazines, even if they are old. Purses and things to color with, to paint with. You keep pretty busy most days. Plus, his side of the bed smells like him, and you love to nap next to it when he’s not around.
You only left the room today because Negan didn’t come back last night, and you’re worried about him and very upset and lonely.
You walked around the sanctuary, wondering where he could possibly be, when a spider crawled across your shoe and, well. Here you are.
“A spider isn’t a fuckin’ emergency. Jesus fuck, I swear, Negan’s a sick son of a bitch for even fucking you. ‘S like you got a problem or something,” Dave says, and you wish you could just walk away and run back to the room, where you’d be safe, surrounded by all the things that make you happy - but they’re all blocking your path.
“Yeah, man,” the other one says. You wish you weren’t so bad with names. “Scared of a spider but not scared of the fuckin’ walkers outside,” he scoffs, and somehow you find it in you to defend yourself. You wish you could say more, but you just can’t. It’s so frustrating, not being able to come up with anything to say on the spot.
“Walkers used to be human. Spiders are icky bugs. I’m scared of bugs, not humans. I didn’t mean to scream,” but nobody is listening to you.
“It’s not right, Negan fuckin’ you. Weird as shit. You got something wrong with you? Dropped on your head as a baby? Can’t feel right fuckin’ a dumbass doll, you’re real cute though,” and he just goes on and on while the other men laugh, and you can’t help it, tears are pouring.
“I just want to find Negan. Where is he?” You try to wipe your eyes, hating yourself for being such a big baby. Hating yourself, for not paying better attention to the layout of your new home when Negan gave you a tour, because you were so focused on the feeling of holding his hand, that you paid no attention to almost everything else. You hate how dependent on him you are, and you wonder if he hates it too.
Maybe he’s been gone because he’s sick of you. Maybe he’s going to bring you back to the farmhouse, because he doesn’t like you anymore. Maybe everyone else told him why they don’t like you, and now he believes them, and he’s such a good leader that -
Footsteps, and then you hear the slow, deliberate chuckle you’ve come to know so well. You’d recognize Negan anywhere, even with your eyes closed. He rounds the corner, behind Dave and the other men, and they scramble like they’re stepping on hot coals with bare feet, making room for him.
“Ohhh, no no no,” he says, voice like honey, and you wonder why. You wonder why he’s happy, until it clicks in your brain that this might be the sarcasm your brother used to always talk about. “See, I might let a lotta things go. But talking to her like that? That’s just beggin’ for a lesson in respect.”
Negan doesn’t yell. Just tilts his head, eyes narrowing in on the men who were just being big old meanies to you. Your crying stops, but you’re so upset that you don’t even run to Negan like you normally would. You look down, towards your shoe, where Negan uses the tip of his bat to kill the spider that wandered off.
“Go to our room, bunny. You know how to get back there, don’t you, sweet girl?”
You don’t, not really, and you must freeze for long enough that Negan takes his eyes off the men and shakes his head. Then his eyes focus on you, and he nods in the direction to go.
“That way, baby,” he says with a sigh, and then you scamper off.
────
Negan’s pissed -
It’s been a long time since he’s felt this emotion, but the truth is that he’s pissed at himself.
He should have known better than to leave you alone overnight. He didn’t intend to be gone so long, but shit happened that he had to handle, and you’d been so easy to manage since you arrived. So good. So happy and at peace with what he gives you, eager for isolation in a way that even surprised him.
He didn’t think you’d even notice if he was gone, but that was his mistake - because the minute he found you back in the room, crying your eyes out again, he set his bat by the door and hoped to god that you were dumb enough to not notice the literal pieces of brain stuck to it. Dave, and the others who were dumb enough to fuck with you?
They were handled, and Negan finds it kind of funny that they had the nerve to insult your intelligence. As if speaking to you like that wasn’t about the stupidest, most suicidal thing a man at the sanctuary could do.
“I’m so sorry, Negan. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” you sob, even as he sits down beside you and pulls your tiny frame into his lap. You latch onto him, sniffling and shaking your head, obviously disappointed at the way you acted.
You’re such a good girl, that even when you don’t break the rules, you’re still worried about getting into trouble. Desperate for his approval, eager to please, eyes that look like that when they’re filled with tears.
Jesus fucking -
Negan’s painfully hard, and he’s ready to take his cock out and tell you to lick it, bunny, yeah, like a lollipop, but he’s got to make you feel better first. His sweet girl, his best girl, worried that he might be mad at her.
“You’re not in trouble, baby, you know that? Did nothing wrong. Dave and the others will be taken care of, don’t you worry,” he rubs your back with one big hand, doesn’t even try to mask the fake concern and damn near baby talk just to make you feel better. Anyone else would be able to see right through it, but not you.
Fuck, even that thought makes him harder.
“I don’t know why they don’t like me, but,” you stutter out. “It’s not a big deal. Guess I’m just being a baby, I just missed you, and I got lost, and then there was the spider and,” Negan has to stop you there.
“Not a big deal?” he echoes you, voice low and no longer sugar sweet. “Baby, someone made you cry. That is a big deal. That’s a fucking world-ending deal.”
Negan’s never felt this way about a woman. Protective. Sure, he’s felt possessive about his wives, will burn the face off of any fucking bastard who tries to touch them even if he’s ignoring them, but he could care less what actually happens to them.
But you? Knowing that you were lonely. Lost, all dumb and cute wandering around the sanctuary. It was risky, he’ll admit, to have you think it’s alright for you to just walk around freely. What if you saw something that changed the way you thought about him? What if you hurt yourself, what is someone tried to touch you? He makes a mental note to think of some excuse to have you stay in the room from now on, unless he’s with you. Something to scare you.
Just thinking about those fucking pieces of shit upsetting you - he might have to dig their decaying corpses out of the guts of the walkers he fed them to, just to kill them again.
You’re nervous. He can tell, by how tense you are on his lap. Wordlessly, he grabs your hips and forces you to sit, enjoys the feeling of his bulge bumping up against the thin fabric that hides your cunt. No more underwear - fucking genius of him.
“Look, honey,” he starts, sighing again as if it’s hard for him to say this. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly. You know that -”
“You killed a spider, though. That’s kind of like a fly.”
Are you fucking serious? Negan ignores that. At least you’re not crying anymore.
“Baby, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but anyone messing with you needs to have some consequences,” you’re pouting, and you look like you’re about to cry again, so he changes the subject. That’s always easy to do with you, and he feels a rush of affection for his sweet, dumb girl.
Gently, he pushes you off his lap so he can stand, then he grabs your hand to lead you to the bed. He takes your clothes off first, sitting on the edge of the bed while you’re standing between his legs, and he rubs his hands up and down your sides.
So soft. So perfect, your cute little skirt falling to the floor. He helps you step out of it because he knows how clumsy you are, and when your breasts are bare he grabs both of them in his hands, rubs his thumbs over your nipples, lets the sexy sounds you make go straight to his dick.
“Where were you, Negan?” You ask, and that surprises him. Takes him aback, because you never ask him questions like that. If you were any other woman, he might think that you were trying to catch him in a lie or something - but because you’re you, he just leans in and kisses you, fists a hand in the back of your hair while he does it, a little roughly.
You told him once, that he was too rough, and he told you that all men are like that if they really like a woman. That’s all he had to say. You believed him. Even asked him after that, on a night he was all gentle, if he still liked you.
His dick gets harder, if possible, thinking about it.
“You don’t need to worry your little head about that, alright? I’ll be honest with you, baby - I’ll probably need to go out again tonight,” he ignores your frown by standing, pushing you down on the bed. You’re on your stomach, and then he pats you on the ass, and you’re so good that you remember what that means. What you’re supposed to do. You get on all fours, and you don’t even whine like usual when he pushes down on your back to get you to arch.
You don’t question him further, but maybe that’s because he takes his belt off, unzips his pants, takes his dick out and gets behind you on the bed. He runs the head of his cock, leaking, between your folds, grins at the way you’re trying to suck him in. Greedy little thing, how badly you want his cock.
He presses in a little, just to tease you, and you make small noises and move your hips a little. “What a good girl,” he talks out loud, but he knows that his girl likes a lot of praise. “Doesn’t matter how long I keep you on a shelf, dolly, does it? You’d be here, waiting for me. Ready for me, however I want you. Fuck,” he groans, when he bottoms out inside of you.
Your pussy is better than all of his wives combined, but maybe that’s just because you’re his. His to break in, his to mold to his own liking. His to fuck, his to keep, his girl, his toy, his doll. Those other women - they weren’t even his to start with, which was a little fun, part of the appeal - but it’s nothing like this. Nothing is as good as this.
Negan fucks you, and you take it. Honestly, it used to freak him out a little, how submissive you are. Just laying there, however he asks you to, keeping quiet if not for the little noises you make. You cum fast, whenever he touches your clit or finds that spot inside of you, and he knows it’s because you never touch yourself.
He asked you once, if you play with yourself when he’s gone, but you looked at him like he was crazy. “Don’t know how to,” you said, all embarrassed, but Negan wants to keep you that way. Like a pot that boils only for him, his little magic lamp. A few thrusts here, his fingers or a lick there and - boom. Squeezing his cock so tight it feels like it’s about to break off. Perfect.
He cums deep inside of you, hopes that one day he’ll be able to knock you up, but he’s still a little nervous about how you’d be as a mother. Maybe he could get one of his wives to help out if that happened, or maybe -
He pulls his dick out of you, sweaty and spent, trying to screw his head back on straight. Maybe he should not even be thinking about starting a family right now. He’s got enough on his plate as is, especially when you turn around and look at him with hearts in your eyes, making grabby hands at him that just look too innocent when you’ve got his spunk leaking out of your pussy.
Negan lays down with you, and you lay your head on his chest, drawing hearts and little shapes with your finger on his skin while he catches his breath.
“Bunny,” he warns after a few minutes, and you look towards him, position yourself on your stomach with your hands flat on his chest, your head balanced on top of them. You’re looking at him like he’s the sun, and shit if it's not waning on his evil streak just a little bit. You’re fucking precious.
“I don’t want to leave you, but I have some business to take care of,” and then your happy look fades.
Even so, you try to snuggle closer, until he literally just pulls you closer.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. What if someone hurts you, and you never come back?” Your voice is quiet, sad, and Negan almost blows his entire cover right there, almost wants to tell you that there’s no bigger monster than him just to tame your anxiety.
Instead, he changes the story. Tells you that there’s some insane guy out there, with a group of people who are taking supplies away from the sanctuary. They want to hurt people, they want to hurt him, but he’s arranging a peaceful talk and hopefully, they’ll agree. He’ll have plenty of backup, of course, and you know how good I am at staying calm, honey, and then you’re at ease, kissing him all sloppy because you miss him already, and really, it’s a perfect send off.
“Good girl,” he tells you later, when you make it easy for him to leave. You don’t give him any shit. After fucking you, he spent a few hours just playing with you. Making you try on some of the new clothes he found you, he did a new puzzle with you (you’re surprisingly good at puzzles, and he’s impressed), and then he counted how many fingers you could take in your sweet little cunt before cumming (four).
You had good quality time together, which is why his praise means so much. But who are you kidding: Negan’s praise is the most important thing in the world to you.
When he says goodbye, he makes you promise (pinky promise) to stay in the room. That someone will bring you food, but he’ll be back in the morning. You promise, stand up on your tip toes when he teases you by holding his hand higher than you can reach, but you end up grabbing his closed fist and you press a kiss to his outstretched pinky. Then you kiss him, and he asks you to keep his bed warm. Stay pretty for him, he says, shutting the door. Keep bein’ sweet.
When the door locks behind him, Negan thinks about you the entire way to the car, even with his men following him. He should feel bad about the way he treats you, but he doesn’t.
He tells you stories, half-truths painted in bright colors. You think he keeps people safe, that he’s a good person who does things for the greater good, and you’re always amazed that he’s willing to protect people like you, who can’t do anything without someone else calling the shots.
It’s not so wrong though, he thinks, wanting to keep you in the dark. Someone like you deserves an opportunity to stay soft. If anything, he’s doing you a favor, keeping you sheltered like this.
You stay soft, you stay blind to the cold, hard truth about the fucked up world around you. About the man you share your bed with.
He’ll kill and hurt and do whatever he has to do to survive, and because he finds a thrill in it - and you'll stay locked up like a pretty doll on a shelf, spending your days applying lotion and trying on pretty dresses, doing your puzzles and looking through your magazines. Dumb and oblivious and waiting on him to give you a purpose. Perfect.
Negan’s not a romantic, but he thinks that there’s something safe about not knowing the truth. Something kind of beautiful about believing in the myth of a good man.
That night, before Negan steps out of his trailer, before he lines up every member of the fucking group he’s been itching to put in their place for much too long now, he looks in his pocket for the picture of you that he snapped on a polaroid camera. Pretty, sweet, sitting on his couch in a pink tank top and a little white skirt.
You’re beautiful, and you think he’s good.
If he looks hard enough at you, he wonders if he’ll start to convince himself of it too.
Negan Smith is a bad man, he knows - but he thinks you might be sweet enough for the both of you.
description: sue announces her pregnancy. johnny is elated for his big sister. but it makes you feel some type of way when you know he wants kids of his own. something you're not very sure you want.
warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, no spoilers for f4 really, no use of y/n, reader is 18+, established relationship, basically pwp, talks of use of birth control, reader is afraid of being pregnant, johnny is a menace, johnny the Dom, sub!reader, uses of "daddy" and "momma", heavy on the breeding kink, lots of dirty talk, unprotected sex, fingering, exhibitionism, creampie, no real aftercare lol
authors note: hey..... this came to me before i even watched the movie. i watched that one clip and was like yeah.... i'm horny. anyway. saw the movie, loved it and needed to write more for this doofus. also coming up with the title made me giggle. if you get it, lemme know. hope y'all enjoy!
how to help palestine ~ dividers by @saradika-graphics
Johnny knew how to get under your skin. He loved it.
You and Ben had just completed dinner, working for over an hour on perfecting his famous red sauce. Johnny had been bothering you two the entire time, pestering you specifically on how much longer it would be.
“We have dinner at the same time every night, Johnny,” You bite as you butter the bread. He did not let up, asking you to elaborate. He loved seeing your face get red and your lips opening up to let out a long sigh.
Once everything was plated and the table was set, you sat down at the table. You turn everyone’s forks and knives the right way as Ben sprinkles some more Italian seasoning over the pasta.
Johnny slams down in the chair next to you, a big box of Lucky Charms in his grip. Ben immediately takes note of it before you can even say anything.
“What are you doing?” He asks Johnny, his voice sort of small with a slight offense to it.
Johnny takes a handful of the cereal and dumps it in his mouth. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”
You peer at him, annoyed, already on edge with him today. He had been extra irritating today after you rejected his morning advances. You swore the man needed you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“You are going to ruin your appetite,” You say, grabbing the box from him. His bright blue eyes rolled to the back of his skull as he dumped the rest of the handful he had into his mouth.
“‘M hungry, baby.”
You grit your teeth, ignoring the question Ben had posed about Sue and Reed being late to dinner. Everyone always arrived before the set time, and by the looks of it, they were about 5 minutes late. You check your small watch front, humming a response. You hear some footsteps from across the living room, and see the two of them looking like they just got caught with their hands in a cookie jar.
“You’re late,” Johnny shouts to them, dusting his hands off over his clean plate. You grit your teeth. Why was he like this?
Reed and Sue stop dead in their tracks.
“What, uh, what do you mean?” Sue poses, slowly walking forward to her usual spot at the table. Johnny rolls his eyes again, and you silently plot how you could get away to stab him with your fork.
“What do you mean, what do I mean? You’re late for dinner,” Johnny explains, pulling his napkin into his lap, just like you taught him. Took him years to figure out how to prevent so many stains on his clothing until you came around and completely changed his entire world.
Sue and Reed go into an elaborate explanation as to why they took so long, but you sensed a shift. Reed never had a good poker face, his big brown eyes giving him away immediately.
Ben noticed, too, because he shot you a look.
“Why are you being weird?” Johnny asks, noticing their behavior to be rather off.
They go into more word vomit, and you cannot help but let a smirk spread across your face.
Ben quips up, “Are you pregnant?”
Sue’s face instantly shifts into a smile as she lets out some air from her nose, “Yeah, I’m pregnant.”
She and Ben stand up together, hugging one another in celebration. Reed gets up as well to join in on the embraces after he rattles off some weird and awkward gestures towards a flabbergasted Johnny. You shift out of your chair, grabbing him for a hug, whispering excited congratulations.
Johnny is sitting there completely astonished. “What? Really?”
You all look to him, still seated at the table. Sue nods, giving him a confident ‘yeah’. And then the celebration gets even bigger, with Johnny slamming his hands on the table. You are still half hugging Reed, slowly pulling away, watching Johnny lift his sister in the air, and telling her how great of a mother she would be. When he grabs Reed, he tells him how he’s going to be out of his depth. He’s always one to pull something mean out of the depths of his mind to lay into Reed. You pat Reed’s shoulder, whispering to him to ignore his jab.
You hug Sue and tell her congratulations. She gives you a squeeze, thanking you. Johnny grabs onto Ben as you pull away, “We are going to be the best uncles ever!”
You giggle, enjoying the excited look on Johnny’s face. He may be more thrilled than anyone else here.
-
After Johnny got his powers, you two decided it was probably best not to have children. With every scientist you know telling you it would be fine to have a mutant’s baby, you were still unsure. Even Reed had brought up the possibility, and that’s why he and Sue had given up on it for a while.
You did not know that they never really wanted to give up trying.
But you had done some semi-permanent things to ensure you would not get pregnant by your needy, insatiable boyfriend. Birth control. A small little pill you would take every morning with some orange juice and toast.
It had worked for the year that you two had been together, and you were confident that you would not have to carry his child until you knew 100% what you wanted to do.
But now a baby would be directly in your lives, and you had heard what baby fever can do to people. You were still sure you did not want a child, but the way Johnny is just blissful on the idea of having a nephew, you knew he would bring it up again.
And you were right. Seeing his sister and brother-in-law beaming over the prospect of their future child made him envious. He always wanted a little Johnny, a little you, but he understood your hesitancy. He respected it, of course, but there was now a nagging voice in his head that said if he didn’t do it now, it would never happen.
Dinner is finished in less than an hour, and you and Johnny take up the responsibility of cleaning up with H.E.R.B.I.E. Mainly, it was you cleaning off the table and stacking dishes while the robot did the rest. You still liked to busy yourself with tasks, making yourself seem useful to the team due to your lack of superhero abilities. You were essentially just their publicist and managed their daily lives at home while they went off to save the world.
You begin to wipe up the dinner table. Johnny creeps behind you, his hands shifting over your waist. He loved seeing you doing domestic activities. You were so pretty in your blue half-sleeved top, tucked into some high-waisted black trousers.
“You do not need to be cleaning, beautiful,” He hums into your neck, pressing a kiss to your pulse point.
“Let me finish what I’m doing,” You demand, scrubbing off some sauce he had spilled off his plate. By the way his warm hands rested where your shirt rode up slightly, you knew what he was trying to do.
He could sense some tension off of you, but refused to move away from you, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” You lie, your mind still settling with the exciting news, “I am just tired, is all.”
“I think you’re lying, sweet cheeks.” He pulls your hips closer to him, his back against your shoulder blades, “Tell me what’s on your mind, hm?”
You could not lie much longer, “I’m more worried about what’s on your mind.”
He halts any more movements, using his grip on your hips to turn you around. He was not expecting such a response. You knew he would never pressure you to do something you did not want to do. So you must be referring to something else. “What do you mean?”
You shrug, your eyes shifting towards the floor over his shoulder before reluctantly returning to his piercing gaze, “You seem excited about the baby.”
He furrows his brows. You always thought he was always so painfully clueless when it mattered most. But the truth was, he did not understand why your response would be so bitter about his excitement.
His head shifts down towards you, “Of course, I am. I know how much Sue wanted it.”
You groan, throwing your head back. “Yeah, I know.”
You were starting to feel a bit dumb and dramatic about the whole thing. At the end of the day, you are excited for them. You like children for the most part, and it will keep the public off you and Johnny’s ass for 9 months. They won’t bother you about the timeline of your future child. Truthfully, you just hated the questions. There is almost a demand to produce the next generation of the Fantastic Four.
“Then what’s the big deal, beautiful? Why are you being weird about it?” His hands press into your hips in a possessive and needy way. You brush those thoughts off, knowing Johnny is doing it without even thinking twice.
But then the look he gave you during dinner started to enter your mind.
The longing.
“'Cause it’s only a matter of time before you start asking again.”
His hands still, “Asking for what? A baby?”
You slap his shoulders in frustration, “Yes!”
H.E.R.B.I.E takes his leave, knowing this could get heated quickly. He beeps his goodbye, heading down the hallway to the charging port that is set up for him. You grit your teeth, looking at Johnny’s silly expression, watching the robot roll away.
Johnny cannot help but play oblivious, now. After you clarified for him, his mind was now plotting the ways he could sidetrack the conversation. He knew exactly what you were saying, but it’s so much sweeter when you lay it all out for him, your bubbling frustration only gets him off. And you knew that, which only annoyed you more. You usually fought spelling it out for him, but with a conversation like this, you wanted to be explicitly clear.
He sighs, shaking his head dramatically. “Of course I want a family with you, baby.”
“Well, we can’t. Not right now.”
Johnny smiles knowingly, slowly slipping into that cheeky smirk he gives you when he lets you win an argument. “Well, yeah, I know that.”
“Okay, good.”
Hands slip down your hips, reaching back to your rear and palming the flesh, “I would never put that responsibility on you. You know that?”
He drags out his fondling, his fingers rubbing closer and closer to your crack. His hands are wandering to places he only touched you in private. You want to smack him away, but he feels so good, you refuse to bother to reprimand him.
“Yes, I know,” You squeak, your hands now wrapping around the nape of his neck to almost pull him closer. After rejecting him this morning, you spent most of the day regretting not lazing in bed with him until noon. That option was always on the table, but today you were adamant about getting work done. What an idiot you were.
“Good…”
His head dips down to trail kisses on your jaw, down to your pulse point on your neck. Your fingers rake through his blond locks, holding his face close to you. His hands do not stop moving, tracing the line where your ass meets the top of your thighs.
“You know what, though?” He ponders, his lips cresting the edge of your ear. He returns you to your previous position with a quick pull of your hips. Your ass is now pressed against him as your front half is practically folded over the white countertop. “It’s not stoppin’ me from acting like I can put one in you.”
“Johnny,” you warn, eyes fluttering close at the thought.
He chuckles, pressing a kiss right below your ear on your already sensitive neck, “Come on, baby. We can do it in a hypothetical sense.”
You breathe out a long sigh, knowing this was a terrible idea. You give Johnny an inch and he runs a mile. Even pretending he could get you pregnant felt like manifesting it. “Why, though?”
“Cause it’s hot to imagine,” He states, his hands traveling slowly between your thighs. You can feel him growing in his pants with the way his hips are practically melted into your backside, “Just thinking about fucking you full until you are dripping and full of my seed.”
“Johnny, please.”
“Oh, now you’re begging for it?” His hands warm up, like a reflex to get the truth out of you. Fingers spreading over your lower tummy as he lifts your top. You cannot stop the moans that leave your lips.
“No,” you try to say with an ounce of confidence. He just giggles, his teeth starting to toy with your earlobe.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” His hand dips under your pants, not even bothering with the button. “I’ll give you that baby I want so badly.”
His words are so filthy. They always were. But these ones held an odd amount of weight.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, feeling his fingers go past your panties and seeking out your soaked slit. Once his fingers slide between your lips, a choked-out gasp leaves his lips. His words were enough to get you this wet. It fuels his ego every time.
Your body jolts, hands finding a spot on the counter to grip onto. There’s nothing to grab onto, so you let Johnny take control.
“You would be so fucking beautiful pregnant, you know?” His fingers dip further into you, and you surrender, laying your upper body on the freezing marble. He fucks you slowly, dragging his fingers in and out of your wet center with precision, “God, I’m so fuckin’ hard imagining it. All round with my baby.”
His other hand pulls you upward, resting right where your womb is. You know how effective your birth control is, so you know his words are just words. But god, are those words making you a mess.
“Shit,” You gasp, practically out of breath as he toys with your hole, “I can actually see the appeal of these hypotheticals.”
“Yeah?” His nose bumps the shell of your ear, “You like imagining making me a daddy?”
“Jesus, Johnny,” You sigh, as his fingers pull out of you, the wetness of your core dragging up to your tummy. He finally pops the button on your pants and shoves them down around your ankles. Your pants were quite tight, so you decided a seamless thong would suit the outfit. Johnny thanks his lucky stars for your usually-dragging-morning-brain for being so brilliant.
“We are going to get caught-”
“Everyone is in bed,” He replies quickly, not letting you finish your thought. He’s already shoving his pants down with one hand still resting on your body. “Just let me do what you deprived me of this morning.”
“Deprived you?” you quip, turning to face him. He does not take kindly to your movement, grabbing your hips and pressing them into the edge of the counter again.
You hated to admit that you loved it when he dominated you in this way. He was such a playful presence in day-to-day life, but when the switch flipped inside him, you were like sand between his fingers.
His palm comes down, slapping your ass. “Behave.”
You bite your lip and nod, smiling at his actions.
“You would be such a good momma, you know?” He ponders, his right hand reaching down between you two. You feel his tip swipe against the skin of your asscheek, his precum trickling slowly down your flesh. His words send your brain into a tizzy. You wiggle in his grip, wanting him to sink into you already. “I’d get to see your tits even more than usual.”
You stop your movements, peering over your shoulder at him. The statement is almost so comically funny that you cannot take it seriously. “How does that even correlate?”
His face is deadly serious before that familiar grin creeps across his lips. He moves your thong out of his way, rubbing his cock between your sopping pussy lips, “Gotta feed the kid somehow.”
You close your eyes, letting out a depraved sigh. You can feel the smile on his face as he sinks into you, his length taking up every inch of your pussy. You squeeze him briefly, trying to adjust to his size.
“So tight. Relax a bit, honey.”
Johnny is always warm, so in turn, so are you. Especially when you fuck. The moment his hips shift inside you and he drags his cock in and out of you, you break a sweat. Even the coldness of the counter could not cool you down as his body hangs over you and completely overtakes your space.
Johnny may be hot, but your cunt was even warmer. It was like his own personal drug. He would spend the rest of his days buried inside you, listening to your desperate whimpers as his hips snapped into you.
“Faster,” You urge, wanting to feel that familiar build-up in your tummy grow. He presses one hand into your waist, the other holding that spot that he’s now hyper-focused on.
He speeds up his motions, his waist slapping against the fat of your ass, “Greedy momma, huh? You just want my babies so bad, huh?”
The pressure builds up only intensifies when the hand from your waist pushes your thong out of the way. His pointer and ring finger spread you wider as his middle finger swipes across your swollen clit. The mixture of meticulous work on your clit on top of the swiftness of his thrusts makes your ears ring.
You are being loud, and you both know it. Usually, soundproof bedroom walls protect your pretty sounds from being exposed to the rest of the family, but you are in the middle of the condo, bent over the kitchen counter.
Johnny takes the initiative to quiet you by slapping his hand over your mouth, leaving a warm spot on your tummy. His other hand does not let up on your clit, chasing that familiar feeling of you spasming around his sensitive cock.
He jerks your head back, curling your back up into an arch, “I want you to cum for me, momma. I’m close, wanna feel you first. Then I’ll give you what we both want.”
Fingers speed up as his hips falter in speed a bit, but it’s still enough for you. Your eyes roll back the moment the burning spreads across your nerve endings. You moan into his hand, his name falling from your lips over and over. His hips go flush with your ass the moment his cock twitches, emptying every last drop deep inside you. His face is pressed into the side of yours, his words a jumble of “fuck” and “yes, take it all, baby”.
You stand there on wobbly legs as Johnny recovers and moves his hand away from your mouth. He kisses your cheek a couple of times before his hands go back to your lower tummy again.
“I’m in no rush,” He mumbles, drawing circles into your skin. You know exactly what he’s talking about, and hearing him reassure you again makes your heart grow a million sizes, “I'd rather have you all to myself anyway.”
The giggle that escapes your throat is clouded by some phlegm. You clear your throat, “I like that it’s just us. Especially right now.”
“I’m not ready to share you.”
He slips out of you as he says it, making it sound so casual. His cum literally drips down your thigh as he removes himself. “Sorry, honey.”
You run your fingers between your hips and thong to straighten it back out over your ass. When you slap it against your own skin, you hear Johnny chuckle at the obscenity. He bends down, grabbing the waistband of your pants, shimmying it up your leg, effectively wiping away the white liquid he left on your skin. To him, it’s a job well done. All clean!
To you, it means you have to ensure you run the pants through the laundry twice.
“Johnny-”
“Sorry,” He beams as you spin to scold him, “Again.”
There he is. Embedding himself so deep into your skin like a lovesick leech. You want to smack him for annoying you so quickly after getting you blissed out on his dick, but instead, you just grit your teeth and pinch his cheek.
“Daddy is going to sleep on the hard couch if he keeps it up.”
His eyes light up at your words, completely disregarding the latter half of the sentence.
“So you did like that little fake scenario I mocked up, huh?”
You shake your head, buttoning your pants. He is a menace and he knows it. “Oh, you read me so well, honey. You’re on fire tonight!”
You don’t mean it to have a double meaning, but of course it does with Johnny. The expression he makes is so painful to your pride that you scrunch your nose in disgust.
Got kinda bored while writing other stuff and made this- May make some mini fae series since I'm kinda in the mood
Not Proofread
<<< Masterlist
"Fuck- Should have called for a ride"
You grumble, struggling to hold all the bags from your shopping spree- It was only a few days from Halloween and you hadn't really been the most prepared.
So here you are- Hands currently feeling fucked and trying to figure out if you should risk setting down the bags on the concrete to call a ride.
Glancing around seeing a few cars pass and even some kids rushing past you- Wondering were the bus stop is you glance around before pausing.
A man not too far from you stood- almost like he had just appeared? Looking around the are without a care in the world.
He was Tall.
Too Tall...
Wearing a hood that reminded you of a those hood mask that executioners would wear...
Ew..
The odd looking Hood that had caught your attention was pulled low, perfectly covering his face and adding to the down right creepy look.
He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, slowly looking around as is observing the flow of things-
"Weird..."
You mumble and by some fucked up grace he heard to turning to look right at you which made you jump at being caught staring at a stranger and mildly insulting- making you blush in mild embarrassment.
Oh Shit-
You hesitated ready to quickly rush away, However see seemed to just be staring at you.
Maybe he was lost? He didn't seem kinda lost if he was just staring at the sidewalk afterall- and the mask?
Well it was close to Halloween so guess it can make sense..
“Uh… hey, You good?”
He turned his head to the side clearly curious as he stared at you- His very pretty if not unnerving gray eyes meeting yours.
“Ja.”
His voice was surprisingly light? Squeaky if anything which oddly put you at ease.
“Kannst du mich sehen?.. I am just learning this place.”
“Oh. New in town?”
“In a way.” He took a step closer not threatening in the slightest, but uncertain, like he was debating something and almost amused by you- Which really should be the otherway around?.
“It is… different here.”
You snorted. “Understatement. This town’s basically just a dumpster with a few houses and a walmart thrown in”
He chuckle, it was all nasally and high. Drawing a slight chuckle yourself just out of response.
“You are… funny" He finally hummed, almost as if saying something deeper behind those words- A decision made.
You grinned. “Thanks And you’re mysterious I mean-"
You gestured at his covered face.
“The whole Halloween costume test run?”
He paused again. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if fighting the urge to touch the fabric “...Something like that”
The conversation really should have died there. But you just had to say something else-
Which you didn't really know why..
“Well, if you’re new, you should probably try the IHOP down the road, Most popular spot besides the Buffet. If you're okay with a possible chance of food poisoning"
His shoulders stiffened and eyes narrowed. “...Poison?”
“Kidding. Mostly.” You laugh off with a shrug- and after another long second, he made that odd nose laugh again.
He was… strange, sure. But not scary. Just awkward. Like he didn’t know how to be around people.
“You are… kind too” he said suddenly, voice softening. “To speak to me. Most can not.”
You shrugged. “Eh, I talk to everyone. Comes with growing up here”
“Then this place is lucky, especially since you are so pretty too” His head tilted again. “What is your name?”
You feel a bit weirded out by the compliment however have a tight lipped smile. “(Y/N), (Y/N) (L/N). Yours?”
The second your name left your lips, the air changed? Like something invisible wrapped around your throat-
And pull-
"You may call me König-"
His storm-gray eyes glowed and you stumbled back, it was like in that second the awkward tall man who was wearing his Halloween clothes far too soon had disapeared being replaced by.. a Monster.
Dropping your bags of goodies to the ground as panic filled your soul.
Turning quickly you try to run but your feet feel planted as if they had been glued there, the invisible wrap around your throat tightening.
"Hel!- Mmm!"
Your lips pressing together harshly as if zipped closed to keep you from screaming, your fingers drifting up to press into your lips to pry them open in pure panic.
"You won't be able to do all that-"
You hear König say in a mocking coo. You turn to look at the man as he moves in closer, His eyes gleaning in what could only be described as starved glee.
“It is far too late anyways-"
His voice was a purr, unnatural and sending a chill up your spine that made you feel dizzy, the world starting to warp and not look like what you were used to.
Tears starting to well in your eyes as you look to the man now infront of you, feeling darkness begin to wrap around you and cloud your vision.
König lifting his mask slightly as you saw the curl of his lips- his face far from anything you'd seen from a person, your mind not even grasping it before you felt yourself faint..
His voice being the last thing you hear-
“Du gehörst mir”
You're Mine
Sneak Peak into a PT. 2 if I finish making it-
141TF + König x Reader
König stares down at you, You can practically feel him smiling at you as you sit on your knees before him shaken up and scared, trying to catch your breath by the rather rude awakening.
Looking around for a second as you take in the polished obsidian ground, the far too high ceilings and what seemed to be moving shadows and giggles that surrounded you from figures that were out of your vision.
"I see you've finally found yourself a new Servant König-"
A deep voice sounded, In the corner of your vision you see what you swore was some sort of skull masked figure that spoke.
"What?.. Servant? I-I don't understand..."
You mumble out, breathing heavily as more giggles filled your ears- Konig included as he turns his head to the side.
"Of course you dont Schatz-"
He hummed, as he looked to the side and a few other figures could be seen- You counted four as one handed something to König.
Even in the dark you could see the way it glittered between his fingers as he stepped closer to you making sure you got a good look at the object- a collar studded in crystals and diamonds you had never seen before.
"Oh and König- Try not to break this one like your last one.."
This Waking Nightmare (Part 1) Yandere!Morpheus x Fem!Reader
Part 2
Summary: Even before his capture, Dream of The Endless had always longed for a loving partner to share his eternity with, and when he finds that an unexpected turn of events may be the first step towards gaining what it is he has been yearning for for so very long, he’ll do anything to make it a reality.
So when Alex Burgess unexpectedly flees after the death of his father, leaving Fawney Rig to crumble into disrepair, Dream had no idea that his salvation would come, not in the form of any of his siblings, nor by any feat of cunning on his part, but simply by the unprecedented arrival of a single mortal girl who would go on to forever reshape and change the very fabric of the Dreamlord’s endless existence.
Warnings: There are no warnings for now, these first few chapters will be fairly tame.
Neil Gaiman is a master storyteller and I own nothing related to The Sandman in any of its forms and/or adaptations.
Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
GIF: Originally posted by @tavners
Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader
Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)
Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Home invasion. Voyeurism. Implied masturbation. Dream manipulation.
Word Count: 2.6k
A/N: Wow, this took way longer to finish than I had originally planned. My head's been all over the place with trying (and thus far failing) to find a new job. The themes are very different to what I've written before; I hope it reads okay. Please let me know what you think. All my love, Saskia xx
Sandman Masterlist
---------------------------------------------
Fate.
A phenomenon that governed every particle of matter within the known universe and even those beyond.
Some considered it a comforting concept that excused them from the burden of decision making, citing: "I'll leave it up to fate." For others the phrase was a cursory, throw-away comment or a romantic line they heard in the lyrics of a song.
The real truth of the matter was that Fate was a trio of immortal beings, goddesses, with sight so potent that they knew the past, present and future of every individual to have lived. The mythology of the Greeks, Romans and Norse hadn't been too far off with their stories of the Moirai, Parcae and Norns but of course, no humans really believed there to be any realism in myths. They were just stories. It didn't matter either way; they existed and had influence regardless of what the majority believed.
For beings such as The Endless siblings, the presence of Fate in the cosmos was not only real, but also something that affected even themselves.
For the King of Dreams, an eventuality had been prophesised long ago by The Kindly Ones that spoke of a bond that was to be forged between himself and a mortal.
Lord Morpheus, in his pride, had tried to be above such a foretelling, even questioning its validity because the notion of a mortal accepting his version of the universe seemed wholly implausible.
But he could not truly stop himself from wondering about you, reaching out to see if he could feel your presence in the minds of the dreamers he hosted.
It wasn't something he indulged in with frequency. More of a once-in a-decade interval. Enough to appease his curiosity.
Of course, this was put on hold during his imprisonment at Fawney Rig.
Morpheus had had much to contemplate during this period. The damage his absence caused to the collective subconscious, the decay of his realm, the loss of freedom and dignity. There was also a chance that you had been born and died in the 106 years he spent in captivity.
What if he was too late and had lost the chance of discovering who you were?
It was a nauseating prospect that scraped and scratched a space deep within his being; bleeding him of his remaining stores of hope that were so significantly depleted after the death of beloved Jessamy.
Despite the nasty emotional wound, finding you was a charge that he assigned at the end of his priorities after his escape.
Recovering his scattered tools, restoring the Dreaming, locating his absent creations, unravelling the mystery of Rose Walker and confronting Desire all had needed to come first.
The latter interaction had left Morpheus with a seething rage that was currently propelling him down the boards of the dock that sit above the Ocean of Dreams.
The dense mist in the air is buffeted by his movements and the only sounds are the tread of boots, the creak of wooden slats and the lap of water.
With each step, the liquid becomes choppier as it reacts to its master's mood and by the time he has reached the end of the dock, the surface of the water roils fervorously, completely in line with Morpheus' dangerous temperament.
The words of Desire's final silken-toned taunt echo in his mind with grating persistence.
"Oh, poor Dream. I really got under your skin this time, didn't I?"
He is loathe to admit there is truth in the question.
There are moments where Morpheus ponders the turn that the relationship between them has taken. How Desire went from being his favourite sibling to someone one shade shy of an adversary. Their faultless adeptness at provoking his temper and manipulating the events that encircle him would be impressive if not for the danger posed to humanity.
The agitated water eventually draws focus to how out of control he and his emotions have become. Morpheus knows he must get them in check, and quickly, for he knows the consequences all too well should he ignore it.
He clenches his fist and swallows it all down, pushing it deep inside his belly until the crackling entropy of the anger is fully dispelled.
Morpheus then sweeps his coat out behind him as he sinks lithely into a crouch. Trepidation nips at his heart and tugs his attention to a sobering thought.
This foray into the water may be fruitless.
You may be long gone and there would be no way of ever knowing you.
His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath; he has run out of excuses to not look, even if he is afraid of the outcome.
Long, delicate fingers dapple the surface of the inky ocean. The waves still at the touch, obedient to him with instancy.
He repositions to full height and reaches into his coat to find the pouch of sand stashed in the pocket. A handful of twinkling grains slip off his palm into the ocean, lighting the water it touches to a luminous green.
"Find my soulmate," Morpheus commands silently.
The intention is set. He steps off the dock into the water.
At first, like every other prior attempt, there is no sign of you. Morpheus floats submerged in the tepid liquid, filtering through the hubbub of countless other dreams and nightmares.
Then there is a pull.
It is faint yet indisputable. Warmth explodes in his chest and he groans inwardly from the delicious sensation of relief.
You are alive, and you are dreaming.
A path of radiance appears in the water, a line that shows your connection, and provides a location for him to hone in on.
Morpheus dives deeper without hesitation.
As he reaches the edge of your subconscious, he rejoices that he got a handle on his emotions. He wouldn't want your first perception of him to be one tinged with rage, however unaware you were of him, with your soulmate being the source.
He hesitates for a moment before entering the dream you are in and is somewhat taken aback by what he finds.
A room comprising of four blank walls, a floor, a ceiling and a door. There is but one other feature; a window, and its view is as non-descript and inoffensive as the internal space.
You stand by said window, head turned from him.
Despite being unable to see your face, he sees your anxiety with immediacy. It is an aura hovering about your body, being sucked into your lungs with every fast-paced breath.
You begin to throw glances towards the door. Morpheus filters through the layers of the dream. No one is scheduled to come across the threshold.
The more he observes, the more questions arise in Morpheus' mind.
What was making you so affected? What were you expecting to happen?
There's nothing in the scene that is intended to be unpleasant yet you are reacting in a way that most observers would characterise as unsettled.
Morpheus, despite not yet knowing you, doesn't like to see you this way. His dominant instinct is to end the dream but he quashes the desire to review the bigger picture.
The empty room dream was symbolic of a beginning.
It clicks into place.
What you were feeling, even if on a purely instinctual level, was the anticipation of meeting your soulmate and starting your new life.
Morpheus steps into the frame, just a couple of paces behind you.
You feel his presence instantly, eyes full to the brim with tears as you whirl around with a soft gasp.
You see him.
The tears spill and patter onto the white floor.
Morpheus reaches out, overcome by his need to provide comfort.
You disappear.
-------------------------------------
Morpheus is sat on his throne. He pores over the book he had located in the Dreaming's library a little over a week ago that contains the details of your life. It is something he has taken to doing when the impatience of waiting for you to fall asleep becomes too keen.
Your subconscious has him enraptured, watching it every night as if it is a stage show. Each dream he delves into is like the tug of fingers on a loose thread, your psyche has begun to unravel before him.
Everything from whims to cravings, hopes to fears. Your temperament, the things that delight and irk you. What drives you and demotivates you. He consumes it all with an insatiable hunger.
Based on the projection of yourself that he sees, there is no doubt that he is attracted to you.
All that prior haughty disregard for the Fates' prophecy has been cast aside like a negative thought in a meditation session. Morpheus is a romantic. A believer. He is ashamed to have even doubted your coming.
He wonders if it would vex Desire to learn of him finding his soulmate and by extension, the prospect of companionship, perhaps even physical intimacy or love.
It is all too easy to imagine the sickly sweet grin they would smile at him, shown to be fake by the almost imperceptible contempt glinting in their golden eyes.
Would his triumph drive them to distraction?
It is this smug sentiment that spurs his next decision. He wants more. The next logical step is to find you in the waking world.
He rises from his throne, a sure hand ready to bring forth his pouch of sand when he falters.
Tears pool in his eyes.
His mind is suddenly marred with the memories of what happened in 1916. The agony, mortification and rage that followed. He couldn't go through that kind of treatment ever again and the waking world expanded the risk of it transpiring.
"No," he says resolutely. His sadness turns to resolve, the hard line of his grimace matching those set in his brows.
He will not let the actions of a group of mortals dissuade him from going to you. And besides, he has researched everything he can about you from within the safety of the Dreaming.
He takes a measure of sand and uses it to materialise within your bedroom.
It is obvious from a quick scan of it that deliberate attempts have been made to ensure the space is cosy and calming.
Two marshmallowy pillows support your head. The cotton sheets have been meticulously tucked to avoid drafts. A lavender reed diffuser fragrances the air with a subtle scent. There are no devices or screens visible.
Everything has its place. A coaster supported glass of water within reaching distance. Touch activated lamp in case of emergency. The diary lined up with the back left corner of the bedside table, pen placed parallel in the spine dent. All clothes are in the wardrobe or stashed in the laundry basket.
Morpheus moves to the curtain-shrouded window and delicately moves the dark, heavy fabric to catch a glimpse of the outside world.
The scene is sepia stained from an old streetlight positioned right outside your home. It explained the choice of curtains.
You stir slightly from the change in environment and Morpheus allows the curtain to fall back in place. He remains stationary until your breathing returns to its previous pace. It is imperative that his presence remains undisclosed. He knows that mortals do not take well to home invasion.
Then, your right hand slips out from the duvet cocoon revealing a cushion cut ruby ring on your middle finger.
He smiles exultantly. The similarity between the jewel and his own now-destroyed dreamstone was undeniable.
The Fates were making it transparent.
You were the one.
Morpheus approaches the side of your bed now. In your momentary discomfort, you had moved your head, making your whole face visible to your uninvited guest.
He bends gracefully so his face is closer to yours and observes you with an intent fascination.
Even in the gloom, Morpheus asserts that your features are even more captivating now that he is able to look upon them in person and is certain that if he could guarantee an absence of fear then he would fall to knees and worship you right there.
Fingers stroke a lock of hair splayed across the pillow and his thoughts turn darker still, imagining what he would do with you if he could get you alone in the Dreaming. How he would seduce you with words, and then pleasure your body with his own until you were senseless.
Getting you there would be so easy, all he needed to do was move his hand up and touch your skin and -
Morpheus stops himself, deciding that now is not the time for an introduction. He will wait until tomorrow. You need to rest. It will be quite the revelation for your sweet mortal heart.
Morpheus whispers a promise, "We will be together soon, my precious soulmate."
He leaves after taking one last look at your peaceful form.
When he returns to the Dreaming, Morpheus discovers that the visit has riled him way beyond what he thought possible.
It was supposed to sate his curiosity and answer some questions.
It has done the opposite.
His craving for you is sublimely intense, opiate-like in its ensnarement.
He needs to possess you. To have you all to himself. Everything would fall into place. Loneliness, disillusionment, jealousy; they would never darken his outlook again. You would heal him, he is certain of it.
He paces restlessly in the low light of his private chambers as heat ripples beneath the surface of his being, charging him with pure sexual lust.
He hungers for the moment when you feel the same about him.
For now, all he can do is stand and touch himself while thinking of your face, an act that has been carried out repeatedly in the days since he found you in the Ocean of Dreams.
An erotic idea enters his mind.
Your subconscious is still in the Dreaming; he knows the feeling of it intimately.
Perhaps he could bring you a dream mirroring his own current fantasy.
To give you a taste of what was to come.
A gift that only he could bestow.
The mere thought of it turns him on even more. His back arches and his eyes roll back as he choses the words through which he would deliver the offering.
"Dream of me," Morpheus murmurs breathlessly. "Dream of me."
He repeats the phrase until he is unable to continue, moans taking over the darkened space around him.
-------------------------------------
It is dusk the next day when Morpheus returns to the waking world.
The instant he touches down on the Earth's surface, he knows exactly where to go. The metaphysical connection between you is as strong as the energy pulsing through a ley line.
The city he is directed to is thrumming with life but the side street he stands in has been spared from the furore.
It is fortuitous that he is permitted to be unobserved for Morpheus is struggling now with the urge to get closer.
Providence is pulling him in and also locking him out.
He walks up to the door and then an invisible force makes him back away.
He doesn't even try to fight it.
The Fates hold all the cards. Morpheus is beholden to their each and every whim.
It is surprisingly liberating.
He is dancing in the cross hairs. Blinkered by the tie the universe has fashioned for you.
All he has to do is wait.
The door to the building is pushed open.
-------------------------------------
Taglist: @herfantasyworldd
"Fate. Up against your will. Through the thick and thin. He will wait until you give yourself to him."
This was written at 3 in the morning after I'd watched the Predator Killer of Killers and Aliens vs Predator. This may be a short burst hyperfixation but eh-
NOT PROOF READ - Tired
Warning: Darker themes like Imprisonment, forced artificial pregnancy and sort of dark temporary post partum thoughts.
"Amir- What are you doing?"
You raise an eyebrow as you stare at your son in his highchair. Seeing him buff up to his bits of mushed up peas infront of him. His small nubby mandibles opening up slightly and eyes narrowed at the food infront of him as if they had personally wronged him.
He'd seemed to have a particular strong hate of the bright green vegetable however it was easy for you to grow and it was starting to get more and more difficult to give him milk with how fast he was growing.
"You can't fight Peas-"
You hum, Watching Amri fuss more and tru to pull away from the plastic highchair making it creak under his force.
"Wonder if your.. Other half hates peas or something"
You mumble to yourself, Watching your son continue his little tantrum.
You didn't really know what he was. You just knew he came from you. Which at this point was more then enough.
Amir was.. Obviously not planned.
Rent had been too high, Food too expensive and you couldn't donate more plasma.
You'd been desperate, so the short ad on your phone talking about doing a body checkup for science that you were paid for seemed like a dream come true.
It had been easy enough at first, Gave you a few hundred bucks and They would draw some blood. Do a quick physical and ask you some questions.
They said if they saw something they would call you back.
Which they did-
They had been nice, saying that they found something in your bloodwork they wanted to speak to you about.
So when you'd entered ready to hear what they had to say, you'd not expected a needle in your neck and the world going black.
Waking up in a far to sterile bleach white cell. Screaming and Banging on the walls like a wild animal till your voice broke and hands hurt.
You'd been unknowing selected for something much larger then yourself. Picked specifically as a target, healthy enough body and someone no one would notice gone.
These people had decided to take desperate souls to become more then just living incubators to whatever scraps of DNA they could collect from the unwanted visitors of earth.
Tweaking and using every bit of tech they had to turn these bits of DNA into something that could be fertilized.
You'd been put under a few days into your stay- Eggs taken from your womb on your original arrival. Unknowingly insinuated with a lab grown alien DNA and placed back inside of you.
Within a few weeks and some forced ultrasounds they found it had took.. Apparently the first time it had from what the scientist had said while you were strapped to the table hearing your own heartbeat and another that sounded.
Different..
It had been the most devastating moment of your life...
Most times you wouldn't even look at the screen when they did their daily checkups. Not wanting to see what they were growing inside of you.
It had been bleak.
For months you and the other kidnapped souls were like cattle to those scientist. Given short times to be social and interact together. Often huddled near one another in a desperate need of comfort and wanting to escape the reality you were in.
Each day you grew bigger- However you found yourself fortunate not as fast as others..
Those screams would most likely haunt you for the rest of your days.
You Escaping was just a matter of luck.
It seemed that one of the other unlucky individuals who had been impregnated with something too foreign had given birth to something that had broken out of containment.
It had triggered the alarms and seemed to have been destructive enough to start tearing through the electronic components
When those doors swung open you looking out immediately, Seeing the flashes of bullets down the halls and pained screams.
Running was your only choice. Despite your rounded stomach you bolted as fast as you could-
You'd ran out with others, Seemingly the scientist more concerned about their own lives then some experiments. Which you assumed they thought they could recapture.
Not you- Hell no.
Like the devil was on your ass you escaped that hell and didn't stop till you didn't recognize where you were anymore. After that you'd spent days walking- Picking up abandoned clothes and shoes from dumpsites and continued to just walk.. You couldn't go home, you couldn't risk going back.
It wasn't for another two weeks that you'd go to labor. Giving birth in what seemed to be a homeless persons camp that had been abandoned or simply not being used at the moment.
It had been one of the most painful agonizing moments of your life.
Screaming into fowl smelling blankets as you brought an unknown life into the world.
You'd screamed when you saw your son, Terror eating at you as you stared at the boy still connected to you.
Seeing his tinted scale like skin, Odd shaped skull with a sunken in eyes and that mouth that wailed out with open mandibles.
Reaching up to you as he cries out to the new world, a world he was never ment to be born into.
As you stared at him you felt anger at first-
You felt like grabbing him and ripping him from your body. Leaving him in that tent to starve and wither away to be forgotten about.
But for some reason you didn't..
You'd brought him to your chest and sobbed. Sobbed harder then you ever had in your life as you held the screaming boy against you.
Sure it wasn't fair..
But what is there to be done?
Those first few days you battled inside yourself- Feeling the push and pull of wanting to hate the baby or love him even further. You'd even refused to give him a name at that point.
It wasn't till one night when you were sitting there staring at him as you watched the rise and fall of his chest.
That's when it hit you- It was only you and him..
He didn't ask to be here as much as you didn't ask to create him.
Besides If they found him they would hurt him.
Poke and prod at him like they did you.
Lock him in the same cell as you had been.. and you feared they would kill him after they had cut him open and found every bit they wanted.
It made your stomach churn and heart break at just the thought alone.
You'd never let them hurt your baby.. Nor would you ever hurt your baby either.
It was then you finally named him-
Amir.
After that you put yourself into high gear and did what you do best..
Work with what you had.
You searched around after leaving the borrowed homeless tent. Finding a abandoned shack.
It did have some electricity luckily. Somehow having missed being stripped by people with some miracle. But it was clear it had been some sort of shoot up spot, so you cleaned it the best you could. Making small repairs with the bits of metal and plastic you could find. So it was at least livable.
It was out in the sticks- tucked just far away that no one would bother looking for the place however close enough that you could walk a few hours to the closest city for find stuff or go to food banks.
Most of the home being made from stuff you found in downtown dumpsters and dragged back to clean up.
Even the food you were trying to grow was from the local library seed program they had.
So far you'd sucked at it and had only gotten a few things to grow. Only one really flourishing much to your sons hatred.
Peas-
"MA! Rrrrrrrr 'click' Mae! 'Click' "
"Gotta eat your peas Amir-"
"No!"
Amir slapped his hands on the plastic table and gave a little growling noise almost to a roar however it fell short. Sort of like a lion cub trying to find its voice.
You couldn't help but smile, raising a brow as you made a little claw with your hand putting it to your lips and making a fake loud 'rawr' at him in return with a few random clicks of your tongue.
Amir stared at you before breaking out in squeals and loud chirping laughter. You had no idea what these ment and you doubted Amir did either, however you assumed it was whatever he was way vocal cords worked- But he was saying things like 'Mama' 'Milk' and 'No' inbetween stuff.
So a win amongst the clicks.
Rolling up from your seat you scoop up your son and grab your sun hat.
"Alright no more peas- Lets Get some outside time yeah? Maybe practice speaking"
"Rawr!"
"Yes Rawr to you too-"
--
It was suppose to be a good hunt.
That is what Ci'tde expected.. A supposed hybrid was on earth and needed to be taken care of.
There weren't many details, There never was truly. Simply whispers through the voids of space that would be set before him.
However it was enough to peak his interest. Hybrids enough are a rarity so it was fair to assume a Predalien. Something that was his speciality in particular, trained for by his mentor to clean up messed just as these..
Tarnishss really that something like it could exist- Wasn't even worth taking the skulls as a trophy.
However a good fight non the less and important to expunge.
On earth it took only half a day to track his prey down.
Walking through the stretch of forest, looking to his as he saw the DNA tracker input. There were rarely any yautja on earth unless to collect- This one in particular seemingly not hiding its signature either.
Boring. Made things easier..
His camouflage on he saw the little blip ahead before looking up calmly through the foliage ahead. Preparing his blade already before he stopped-
Cocking his head to the side as he took in the image before him.
There seated in human clothes of blue pants and a far to vibrant yellow shirt was a youngling?
Unevenly walking around the little gardened area chasing a lizard to the best of his abilities. A human women not far digging for some sort of gardened food a short distance from him.
The little thing chirping and chattering away babbling nothing in particular with a few human words he could pick up in the mix.
Glancing down at his tracker to confirm before looking back up.
It seemed this really was the hybrid.
The younglings eyes were the first true give away, sporting a lively (Y/E/C)- as well as his coloration which steered away from the rich more green undertones of yautja to something more akin to a humans. More accurately yours.
Quickly spotting the similarities between the two of you. This only fascinated him further.
Youngling were typically difficult to birth- Having even claimed the lives of many of the female species due to such difficulty.
So to see a human as yourself- weak and soft to actually give birth to one of his kind was impressive. Especially one that seemed so healthy.
He snapped from his haze when he saw the youngling move forward crouching unevenly before doing a almost flop trying to catch the lizard but just landed in the soft soil with a gentle 'plop' face first.
Ci'tde chuffed a bit to himself..
Seems he witnessed the first failed hunt.
Ci'tde watched the boy lay there for a short moment even spotting the lizard scurry up a rock for all to see. Listening now as the youngling begin to cry.
You turned your attention to your son there crying in the dirt moving over quickly and picked him up to set against your hip to check him over. Seeing he was unharmed and simply now had some dirt in his mouth.
"Why are you eating dirt baby?"
Amir continuing to cry pointed to the lizard. You see the tail end of it darting off the rock into the near by bushes. Knowing that Amir was probably chasing the poor thing before falling.
"Its okay honey. You can play with the lizard next time-"
You say softly, patting the boys back as he pressed his face into your chest. Clearly incredibly upset over the lost lizard.
"Lets Get you cleaned up okay Amir?"
You coo, Feeling him nod as he gripped your shirt. Heading inside with your basket of admittedly lack luster harvest.
So its called Amir..
--
Youd heated up a pot of water and washed the dirt off your poor baby- Who was still butt hurt at losing his lizard. Pouting the entire time you washed him, Staring out at the door as if he was plotting on how to find the lizard.
You couldn't help but chuckle at this. You could already tell he was gonna be competitive when he got older..
After the quick bath and try off you put Amir in a fresh diaper setting him down as you reached behind you carefully. Knowing he would bolt if he cause what you were doing too fast.
Amir looked to you as his (Y/E/C) eyes widening as he saw the dreaded coconut oil come out. Moving forward to attempt to crawl away as you cackled like a little witch snatching him up quickly and began to smother the oil onto his skin.
The baby trying to fight you every step of the way as you made sure you were thoroughly got every bit of him.
"Ah hush It's good for your skin"
He whined and squirmed in resistance throwing a nice few hisses your way which you ignored with ease.
"Oh the horror- Moisturizing"
Finishing off with smoothing some oil individually through each of his locs carefully. You knew they were sensitive so took extra time to do so. Releasing him once you were done which he quickly crawled away from you.
He glared at you with a pout, which made you laugh a bit and rub the remaining oil on your own skin to not waste a drop.
"Oh Boo Hoo-"
The rest of the evening being rather Uneventful, You taking your own bath after boiling more water. Playing with the few plastic toys you had managed to dumpster dive for with your son till the sun started to set.
Ci'tde watched the whole thing from afar. He couldn't help but be fascinated.
Conflicted even.
His mission was to handle the hybrid- However this was a youngling. A treasured thing within his clan and a absolute dishonor to harm or kill. The human blood now becoming a rather interesting inner debate.
Once you two had finally fallen asleep- Amir seemingly also putting up a fight about that, Ci'tde snuck into the home. It was small, He barely even fit into it as he had to keep his head lowered.
He glanced to you sleeping on the floor wrapped in blankets, hearing your steady breath and even heartbeat.
Turning off his camouflage as he moved a short step towards the nicest bit of furniture being the crib and stared down. Growing a bit to himself lowly.
Amir..
Taking in the boys apearance more closely. Stocky, If not a bit too well fed by his standards.. The natural born lean muscle of yautja coated in a thin layer of fat.
His clawed hand reaching down and carefully touching the arm of the sleeping youngling.
Soft..
Humans seem to have a tendency to make things soft it seems.. Correctly assuming it was that oil you'd rub on him and yourself.
Amir moved a bit, rubbing his face a bit as he slept. Ci'tde pulling his hand back slightly mindful not to accidently scratch the youngling.
This was no Hunt.
However he didn't know exactly what to qualify this as either-
...
He heard it immediately.
The rapid change in heartbeat and the breathing pick up suddently in his ears.
He snapped his head in your direction seeing your eyes open wide and fulled with nothing but absolute shock at first. Seeing his hand still in the crib of your son who was still fast asleep.
It felt like the air in the room had froze as he stared at you through his mask. Watching that familiar growing terror start to cloud your face.
Just a little fun writing something on my free day, might make a part 2
Part 2 here! - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 Part 6
It ached. Hand clutched to her own chest, unsure how to stop the pain from rushing through for the fourth time in lord knows how long. Y/N had this pain go through her exactly 3 precious times. She knew what it had meant. Her soulmate died… again.
How many times would Y/N have to endure this? The chances of finding your soulmate were next to impossible. One would think with a life of eternal youth it would give one more hope, but Y/N thought it was hopeless. It took no longer than a century for her to feel it 4 times.
The pain within her chest crashed like violent waves in a storm. Merciless.
The only soothing sensations she felt was when the familiar that she had born with would start to mutter spells of his own to help her through it. A demon familiar by the name Tyr.
Think of the demon and he shall appear. Tyr strode in seeing Y/N grabbing her duffel bag already he knew that this meant she had no intention to stay in this location any longer.
“Where to?” He asked her moving to her side. Tyr had been by her side for so long now. Having watched over her, helped her hide, helped her harness her abilities.
“You pick.” Y/N said shrugging; there was no point in staying in the town. Having grown bored of it, small towns were always the same like that.
“How about somewhere exciting?” He asked, eyes shining scarlet red, muttering an incantation as he opened the door to the room they were in.
Looking through the door, she glanced back at him with an eyebrow raised. “A carnival?”
“It’s a boardwalk! Now go through so I can close the portal.” He said to her, Y/N obeyed as she walked through, Tyr following after her.
Y/N looked at the place bustling with life. It was summer, of course it was packed. She had to admit, it was a great place to hide. No doubt she could blend in with the crowds. The sun was slowly setting. They had to find a place to temporarily call home.
How fun, a part of the beach had been closed. This meant something good for Y/N. Abandoned lifeguard buildings. She did happen upon one. Tyr had to help her in harnessing the power to change the small building into what they required. Bigger on the inside. If someone were to enter they would be in the original, she remained in this pocket dimension Tyr built and transported with her from place to place. Sure saved on rent.
After she set her things down Y/N wondered if she should travel to the boardwalk. “I’m going exploring, are you coming?” She asked Tyr who lay on the bed. Hands behind his head as one of his long legs bent.
“You’re on your own. You know how to call me if you need me.” He said closing his eyes.
Y/N rolled her eyes as she left. Y/N began walking on the beach until she ended up at the boardwalk. The sun had set already. The lights of the rides of the carnival illuminating it up for all to see, like a bug zapper luring in insects, her included.
How could anyone avoid the allure of the boardwalk? Y/N walked with a smile on her lips as she passed by the vendors selling trinkets and other things. Glancing at their wares before stopping to purchase a cup of lemonade. It had Santa Carla printed on the cup. It was huge. She was almost regretting buying the cup; seeing as she needed both hands to hold the souvenir.
She almost skipped as she made her way to the carousal. This was her first time in a place like this. Her excitement beamed from her as she looked for somewhere to sit.
Spotting a unicorn her eyes lit up. However before she made it to the unicorn someone beat her to it. She didn’t want to sit on the carriage. It was meant for 2 and she felt bad taking it from some couple who could use it.
The sound of boots and chains reached her ears. Her heart pounded in her chest as her eyes narrowed. She couldn’t explain why, maybe it was because her senses picked this up specifically through the loud boardwalk. Quickly she took a seat, not caring if she did take a potential couples spot. All she could focus on was trying to avoid drawing attention to herself.
The feeling of someone’s leg brushing against her snapped her attention to the formerly empty seat beside her. Her eyes on the leg before making their gaze drift up to the person’s face. Piercing blue eyes bore into her own Y/E/C.
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. What was this? The platinum blonde smirked at her as he lifted his hand to hold her chin, fingers against her cheek to keep her gaze on him when she started to look away to the laughter so close to them.
“What’s your name?” The male with platinum blue eyes asked her.
It almost felt like she would tell him anything he wanted to hear. Her mind in a fog as her lips parted to speak, then almost like a shock to her brain, something cleared that fog away. She knew that she should not feel that way.
“Does it matter?” Y/N responded moving her head back and out of his grasp.
This answer seemed to surprise the guy, but he only let it show for a second at most. Then he looked like he was accepting a challenge. His “friends’ started to laugh again. Enjoying that he seemed to not have as easy of a time as he had clearly expected.
"Of course it matters. How about this, I’m David. That’s Dwayne, Paul and Marko.” David said pointing at each one respectively.
Dwayne had the faintest of smiles on his lips, had it not been for the amused and excited look in his eyes Y/N would have thought he was the most calm of the bunch.
Paul didn’t hide his excitement in the least bit. His smile and his eyes showed just how much fun he was having with this encounter.
Marko, he was something, his gloved hand up, biting his thumb, hiding a grin. His eyes showed what Y/N could only describe as him trying to hold himself back from his giddiness.
David spoke again, “So… what’s your name?”
