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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

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The Odyssey | 0.5 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader (18+)

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You leave Como, your arrival in Verona is going to make the rest of the trip much more complicated.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance, professor / student relationship, age gap ( 22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity, bickering and teasing, extremely suggestive, somewhat graphic towards end, minors dni. WC: 5.8k

…

You’re driving him fucking crazy. You’re spending far too much time together. The worst part? — You’re actually listening to him now. No, the worst part about that is that you’ll listen to what he tells you, but you’re still giving him all of that fucking attitude about it.

The two of you have spent so much time together, in fact, that Bradley didn’t get another chance to get Natasha alone. It’s for the best, because she actually smiles and waves him off when he leaves this time. Normally, they’ve argued by now. He never moved on and she’s not coming back — the usual kind of stuff.

Today, she had stretched up onto her tiptoes and draped her arms around his thick shoulders, exhaling calmly against the warm skin of his neck. “We’re looking forward to seeing you again next year, Bradley.”

And then, she had taken a step back and entwined her fingers with her husbands. And Bradley hadn’t said anything. He’d looked the woman that he spent so long loving in the eye, and said absolutely nothing. And now, he’s sitting on a packed minibus to a different location, with nothing but you on his mind.

In a professional sense of course.

It’s professional, because he’s sitting here and watching you read the play that he gave you. It’s from the Gracchan period, a time where social mobility was a big focus, but the play itself is by a very wealthy man — making fun of that. It’s about a girl from a poor family of farmers who falls in love with a very powerful man in their town.

Bradley’s eyes scan the page, then flicker up to your face. Your brows are furrowed in concentration, the small playbook open against one thigh and your dictionary wedged open between yours and Bradley’s. You’re just past the first act.

“I don’t… she…?” You shake your head in confusion, lifting it to look at Bradley. “She wants to belong to him? — Like work for him?”

Bradley’s lips twitch. He gives a small shake of his head, leaning closer and taking the dictionary. He flips around a little, his shoulder pressing into yours. Warm skin, the smell of his cologne, the rumble of the wheels against the uneven road.

Pasquale’s love for the 1970s American rock pours through the car in the form of an Eagles album. Bradley knows which one. You couldn’t have less of a clue.

“She’s saying she wants to give herself to him. Not belong to him.” Bradley explains patiently, turning the book towards you so that you can see the rough translation. It’s an easy mistake to make. That’s why he has you reading the play, so you’ll be able to use the context of the scene to eliminate the mistakes you’re making.

You look up at Bradley briefly. Belong to, give herself to — you’re stuck on how that could possibly not mean the same thing, until it hits you. Give herself to. Her body, she means.

“Oh. Thanks.” You set your headphones back on your ears and turn your attention back to the play. Bradley gives you a curt nod and adjusts his sunglasses. He spreads his thighs just a little. His knee presses gently against yours, not pushing, just sitting there.

You don’t mind it much. But, you’re beginning to notice a pattern. He touches you too much. When you’re studying together, his feet rest on your side of the table, constantly nudging your ankles. He’ll get too close when you’re walking by each other. He’ll sit with his legs spread so far that you’ve got no choice but to let his thigh smush into yours. But, you don’t mind that too much.

What you do mind, is that the man in this book was described briefly in the beginning as having brown curls. And now, now that the protagonist is throwing herself at him, there’s only one person that you’re picturing playing him.

It’s not your fault. He’s arrogant, he mocks her constantly and he’s got brown curls. Sounds like Bradley. Unfortunately, at this moment in time, Bradley’s character is all too willing to make the wrong choice. You swallow softly, brows knitted together as you try to convince yourself that you’ve got the translation wrong.

That his hands aren’t trailing up, under the fabric of his skirt. Your eyes dart from the page to Bradley’s hands resting against his thighs. You study the tanned flesh, the sun-bleached, blonde hair at his wrist. The protruding veins on the back of his hands. The gold class ring on his finger.

Bradley feels you shift in your seat, your thigh knocking into his. He glances down again and quickly back to the road. Those denim cutoffs fit your thighs perfectly. But, he can’t stop himself from taking a peek at your face. Plastered in discomfort.

Maybe he shouldn’t have given you a book with a sex scene in it, but this is mild compared to some of the content in his class. This book is the introduction to virtus versus pudictia. He figures the concept will be something you get your head around pretty quickly. Men doing whatever the fuck they want and women waiting patiently for a husband. Sounds exactly like what you’ve got going on already.

It’s only a three hour drive from Como to Verona, and Bradley’s got prep work for his research here to get done. He sits there and cards through the papers like he’s working, but really he spends most of the journey just observing.

Your reaction to his syllabus irritates him, but intrigues him in a way that he just can’t explain. He wants you to stop being so old-fashioned and wake up to the concept that sex is just a natural part of life — but also, he isn’t used to being around girls like you. He has made a point of surrounding himself with people who are nothing like you.

“Hey, Bradley,” You broach the topic tentatively, and he feels you shift slightly closer to Pasquale. He sighs. You dog-ear the page and close the book of the play. His eyes linger on that, before he finally looks up at you. You shift once more, taking a deep breath before speaking. “So, I spoke to my parents…”

You’re not going home. That wouldn’t make sense. You wouldn’t have just spent three hours giving yourself a headache by trying to read a raunchy Roman play if you were going home. Bradley’s brows draw together. He sets his papers down on his legs.

Pasquale winces as he looks between the two of you — it has been such a smooth drive so far.

“My dad has spoken to the Dean, he wants me to have my own room for the rest of the trip. He’s paying.” You explain calmly, pulling your knees up to your chest and resting your feet against the bench. Dog-earing pages and sitting like a kid, it just doesn’t fit into this image that Bradley has of you in his head.

He scoffs, lips twitching under that stupid moustache. “Of course he is.”

Between the two of you, neither one is really sure what his problem is. Maybe he wants you to be more independent, maybe he just likes the way your face looks when you scowl at him. Either way, he’s an expert at getting under your skin.

“Would you rather pay?” You bite back. Pasquale cringes, leaning away from the two of you. Bradley’s stare is something to behold. He really has perfected it. It’s mean, hardened and it’s superior all at once. And yet, it still doesn’t make him look any less handsome.

“I’d rather that you at least try to get along with the other kids. It would make your life easier.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You know what I meant.” He knows that. It doesn’t make him feel any better about the way he feels about you. But, he knows that you’re more mature than he gives you credit for. Even if you punched him in the nuts last week.

“It’s really none of your business either way, I was just letting you know.”

It’s quiet between the two of you for a while. Almost long enough for the entirety of Hotel California to play through those dusty speakers.

“Does your dad know that you’re the one who started that fight?” Bradley really can’t help it. He’s a decade your senior, he should really be more mature about things. But, there’s just something about you that makes him want to put an end to your know-it-all attitude.

“I didn’t.” You cross one knee over the other, lifting your chin and straightening your spine.

“Pulled a good handful of her hair out, kid.” He scoffs, turning his attention back to his paperwork. His tone is so dismissive that even Pasquale wouldn’t judge you for hitting him in the balls again.

“I’m not a kid!” You turn sharply towards him, scowling furiously.

“Right. That’s why you’re here, huh? — Because you’re grown up enough to stand up to your dad?” He doesn’t even look up at you. That’s the worst part. Pasquale winces so hard that he has to fight with himself to keep his eyes open and on the road. He waits for the sound of an impact, a hit, a scream — anything.

Instead, you lean in so close that the soft curve of your breast nudges Bradley’s arm. “I’m grown up enough to know that pining over a married woman is pathetic.”

“Pining? — Kid, your own fucking fiancé couldn’t care if you lived or died. Don’t fucking lecture me about love.”

It falls quiet quickly. The voices in the back of the bus fade out, everyone turns their attention towards the two of you, arguing again. You look down slowly. Bradley follows your gaze to his fingers curled around your forearm, tight. He looks back up and this is all to familiar. Sitting with you facing him, blinking at him like you’re about to cry.

“Get out.” He breathes finally, releasing your arm and sitting back against the door. Your face twists, confused. Pasquale shoots a look at Bradley — they can’t just leave a kid on the side of the road, surely. “Sit in the back. Finish that fucking play, we’ve got more to cover.”

Pasquale pulls over to the side of the winding, countryside road and steps out of the van, pulling his door open. You’re silent as you get out and step into the back, finding all of the seats taken. Abigail pushes Luke’s backpack off of a seat and gestures for you to sit with a pitiful smile. You take the spot and secure your headphones over your ears again, reaching to the Walkman at your side and skipping the song.

You don’t say another word for the rest of the drive. Bradley doesn’t even look at you. He gives you your key first just so you’ll go. This place does have an elevator, it’s just dusty and creaky and awful. You’re on a different floor to everyone else too. That doesn’t help.

You sit down, settling against the foot of the bed with your suitcase abandoned in the corner. He doesn’t know anything about your relationship. He just has so many cruel things that he could say to you — she’s all that you’ve got on him, and clearly she is a sore subject. The thought bubbles in your chest to the point that it makes your face warm. It makes you entire body hot.

That stupid look on his face. Like he knows anything about you, or Malcolm, or the way that you love each other.

You wish you had longer to sit and stew. Instead, you’re interrupted by his stupid, big fist slamming against the other side of the door to your hotel room. You know it’s him because he’s the only one rude enough to do it. Unsurprisingly, when you tear the door open, he’s the one in the hall. Without saying anything, he brushes past you and walks inside, then lifts up the textbook in his hand.

“Let’s get this shit over with so that we don’t have to see each other later.”

You wouldn’t be foolish enough to think he was here to apologise, but still, his attitude makes you want to hit him with that textbook. But, he’s got a point, and you would rather not see him this evening either. So, you sit down on the bed and fold your arms over your chest.

He takes a look at you and frowns, then does a survey of the room. Wardrobe, your own bathroom, two nightstands, suitcase rack, floor lamp. No desk. Begrudgingly, he takes a seat beside you on the bed.

“Alright, the play that I gave you,” He exhales like that will make him let go of all of the anger he’s holding on to. It doesn’t. “It focuses heavily on the sexual roles of men and women in developing Rome. Did you pick up on that?”

You watch him open the textbook and flip through, searching for something in particular. It really would be quite easy to tear the book from his hands and get him with it. It’s a hefty book. Instead, you shrug your shoulders and leave him with a simple, “I guess.”

He looks up at you, bored. “You guess? — The male main character had a wife, a girlfriend and a mistress. The female main character devoted herself solely to this one man, that she knew was never going to be hers. What do you think that suggests about gender roles back then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know, stop acting like you’re stupid.” He bites back. There’s a second where you stare at him and both of you take a moment to decide whether this is going to become another argument. You sigh softly.

“It’s patriarchal.”

“Right,” Bradley nods, “So there were these concepts back then called—“

The lesson goes on, and the more you engage, the less hostile he becomes. As much as you struggle when it comes to reading text excerpts and answering the questions he gives you on those, it gets to the point where you’ll crack a joke and he’ll laugh. That’s got to be diplomacy of some kind.

Both of you grow unintentionally closer, shifting periodically, leaning closer to see the text, or look at a picture. So, when you’re stumped by a question and you turn sharply away from him and throw yourself down, smushing your face into the pillow and growling in frustration, he finally realizes just how close the two of you have gotten.

You, laying on your front on this double bed, groaning into the pillow. Him, close enough that if he moved his leg, it would graze your hip. Bradley stares at you for a moment, then — while you’re not looking — lets his eyes trail. Along the feminine length of your legs, up over the curve of your waist in those cut-offs.

He lifts a hand and strokes it tenderly over the top of your hair, careful not to catch of tug at your lengths. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel him shift closer.

“It’s alright,” Bradley says quietly, stroking your hair back with a surprisingly gentle hand. “It’s a hard class. That was good. You’re doing well, I’m impressed.”

“Please,” You scoff without lifting your face from the pillow. You shift just a little and hook your arms under it, hugging it closer to your body. His eyes dart down to the way your back curves into your eyes, then slam shut. He should make an excuse to leave. “The only thing that could impress you would have happened a hundred years ago.”

“You know that this course focuses mainly on things that happened from —“ Bradley stops correcting you as you turn your head and glare at him. His eyes are trained on your face. He’s not looking at the way those denim cut-offs hug your figure, but fuck, he’s thinking about it. “Nevermind.”

He stares forwards. His hand is still resting in your hair. He should move it. He should leave. He hasn’t ever felt like this — countless students throwing themselves at him and he’s ignored every single one. He’s being ridiculous. It’s just the forbidden fruit effect. The proximity.

He should move his hand. He just can’t take his eyes off of your face. The swell of your lips. The slight scrunch of your nose. The narrowed look in your eyes. Bradley lifts his hand.

Then, he takes the length of your hair resting against your cheek and brushes it softly back, revealing the rest of your face to him. He shifts his hips, sitting just a fraction closer, making you easier to reach as you lay at his side.

“I mean it,” He says quietly. Your lips quirk softly, almost a smile. You’re about to tell him that he’s probably never spoken to you so kindly ever. Then, he speaks again. “You’re trying. I see that you’re trying. You’re doing a really good job.”

His thumb swipes softly over your temple, guiding your hair back further out of your face. The smile fades from your face. Then, you’re just blinking up at him. Your face is calm. His doesn’t reveal anything.

Slowly, his thumb swipes along the same trial. Over the skin covering your temple, just slightly into your hairline. It doesn’t even cross your mind to move. Maybe because you’re too thrown off by this sudden tenderness, maybe because you don’t actually hate this feeling.

The third time, he doesn’t follow the same route. His thumb swipes tenderly along the skin of your cheek, gently trailing in a small circle along the apple of your cheek. Further down. You stare up at him. Your heartbeat betrays you, thudding away in your chest as his thumb leaves your cheek and meets the corner of your mouth.

His eyes dart from his thumb to your eyes, studying your expression briefly, before he looks down again. You’re silent as he swipes his thumb delicately over the plump skin of your bottom lip.

“What did you mean earlier? — About Malcolm?” Your sudden question surprises the both of you, putting an abrupt end to the out of body feeling that was fogging Bradley’s mind. He blinks, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he pulls his hand away from your face.

“What?”

“You said he wouldn’t care if I lived or died. Why?” You push yourself up from your front, settling onto your knees instead. Bradley’s brows knit together. The only thing he can think to say is your name. He stumbles it out, baffled. “You don’t even know him. Why would you say something like that?”

He could turn this into another screaming match. Avoid answering until you’re yelling so hard that you’re blue in the face. But, he won’t. He deserves answers too — he’s tired of that night clouding his head, having no idea if you remember or not.

“Because he left you on the side of the road to freeze to death last December,” Bradley’s suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s sitting on your bed, alone in your room. Your face twists in confusion. He’s not done yet. “And the only reason you didn’t freeze to death was because I hauled your ass into my truck and drove you to your parents’ house.”

He’s expecting to have to elaborate further, but you know exactly which night he was talking about. You remember the three days after blacking out that Malcolm wouldn’t so much as answer the phone to you.

“No you didn’t.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows at you. He wishes there was something he could show you, some way he could prove to you how fucked up you had been when he had found you on that curb.

“You were wearing a blue dress with sparkly shit on it,” Bradley says, his voice too calm. You were. You woke up still in it the next morning. “Open-toed heels.”

What the fuck were you thinking? — In the middle of December?

“Your parents live at the end of a long street with a bunch of Oak trees on it,” They do. Last house on the left. You stare at him, unblinking. “Your room is on the second floor, at the back of the house. Your window overlooks the swimming pool. I called your fiancé from that stupid fucking pink phone on your nightstand eight times before he picked up.”

Your chest shudders with the next slow breath that you draw in. He sits there, watching you try to rationalize what he’s telling you. There’s too much information for it to be a lie. The look on his face tells you that he isn’t lying.

“You… spoke to Malcolm that night? — What did he say?”

Bradley makes a face, then turns his chin towards the ceiling and sighs. He looks down and rubs his rough palm over his jaw, shaking his head at you. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he left you in the fucking snow, unconscious.”

The air conditioning unit rattles behind you, making you all the more aware of the sweat starting to bead on the nape of your neck. You swallow softly and look down at the textbook between the two of you.

“We were fighting that night, but he — I think I — I think I ran off…” Your memories of that night are fuzzy. Truthfully, you can’t even remember what the two of you had been arguing about, much less what happened for him to be so angry even days later. “Whatever happened wasn’t his fault—“

“No?” Bradley interrupts, a level louder than he had been previously. You pull back from him subconsciously, bracing yourself on the bed behind you, trying to find purchase in the sheets. “It wasn’t his fault? — Anything could have happened to you, you know that? — What kind of man lets someone that they love put themselves at risk like that?”

“He probably didn’t realize. I’m sure he thought that I got a cab. Wait, Bradley, what did you say to him?”

Wait, Bradley, what did you say to him? — He’s looking at you, but he’s had this conversation before with Natasha. All those years ago. Seconds before he had answered her and watched any love she had had for him ebb away.

“We had a conversation.” Bradley answers you dryly. Your brows knit together, leaning just slightly closer. “I asked him where he was. If he knew where you were. He asked me if you were still sulking on the curb outside of the quad. He knew exactly where you were.”

Finally, he renders you speechless. For the first time, maybe ever, you’re left without something to say to him. There’s a brief silence between the two of you before he speaks again.

“What were the two of you arguing about that night?” Bradley presses.

“I — I can’t remember. Something stu—“

“Why did you kiss me?”

Your eyes go round, widening incredulously at the man sitting on the other side of your bed. The man that you’ve spent the last week and a half screaming at. The smug, over-confident man ten years older than you who refuses to dress his age or pay grade. The man who threatened your fiancé back in December.

“What?” You shriek, pushing up onto your knees and scrunching your face up at him.

“You sat in my car and begged me not to take you into your parents’ house. You kissed me. I dragged you out of the truck and put you to bed.” Bradley says it so calmly — you wonder how often he has thought about this moment to be able to recount it so easily.

You look him over. There’s no more distance between the two of you than there would be between a driver’s seat and a passenger seat. Obviously you were out of your mind that night, running away from Malcolm and not kicking and screaming when this oaf had put you in his car. But there’s not a chance in hell that you would have kissed him. You can’t stand him.

Still, here with just the two of you, you’re not sure how it would benefit him to be lying about this.

So, you take a deep breath and try to ignore the heartbeat thudding in your ears. You stare at him. His hair is neat enough. Short at the back and sides, curly on top. It would have been shorter when he was in the Navy, but you remember it being longer at the beginning of the year. You hadn’t shown up to many of his classes, so you can only guess at what he wore during the winter. Vaguely, you’ve got a memory of him in grey slacks and a navy sweater. Still not wearing a tie.

If he had come straight from his office, he would be in his work clothes. You would be sitting in the passenger side of his truck. It was snowing out, so you know he would have been cold. The sun-kissed pink hue on his cheeks was probably still there, just frost-chilled in variety this time. His facial hair is always neat. Everything tidily shaved, his moustache always trimmed. He’s certainly not ugly.

Long lashes. A slight bump in his nose, like he might have broken it once, but it suits him. Slightly raised scar tissue on his cheek, his throat. Lashes that touch the bone of his eye socket when he closes his eyes. Freckles dotting his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Eyes that can’t quite decide whether they’re brown, black, amber or hazel. Pink, plush lips.

Ah. That’s where your attention catches. You practically take a mental snapshot of the place where your eyes land. The hollows of his cheeks, the scars on his left side. His strong jaw, usually clenched when he’s looking at you. The thick length of his neck, his protruding adam’s apple, the gold chain usually visible just inside of his collar. Those thick, reddish pink lips.

Pushing up on your knees, you lift your gaze and find him already staring. He knows exactly what you’re about to do. His hand finds your hip and grabs at it roughly as you put one knee in front of the other and crawl to him. He guides you where he wants you and lifts his other hand, cupping your jaw.

His rough palm sits against your jaw bone. Tenderly touching your cheek, just slightly grazing your throat. Eclipsing the side of your face with the magnitude of his hand size. Even up close, you’ve still got no clue of why you would kiss him. Well, nothing that you can rationalize. No explanation that would make any kind of sense to you on any regular day.

But, if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s because you know that there is no rationalizing this. The want that you feel for him just doesn’t make sense. His fingers curled around your hipbone, pressing roughly into the denim there — it doesn’t make sense.

And yet, when the strong hand on the side of your jaw pulls you forwards, you’re all too willing to lean all the way into him and kiss him. Softly, slowly. Your bottom lip between his, controlled even though all he wants to do is throw you down on his bed and kiss you like he means it.

Bradley figures that’s a bad thing, that he’s in control of the situation enough to be gentle with you, but not to stop himself from making this mistake. His tongue swipes softly against your lip at the same time his hand tugs at your hip. You wobble forwards, he parts his thighs and tugs again making you land unceremoniously against his legs.

You can feel the abandoned textbook digging into your ankle. Its glossed pages, open and forgotten.

His hand trails from your jaw, around to the back of your neck. He feels you tense against him as he pulls you close by your neck and your waist, lifting, and then planting you on your back. The second that your spine touches the sheets, you tear your mouth away from his with a gasp.

He stills, kneeling between your parted thighs, staring down at you. You glance down. He watches your brows knit together and follows your gaze down to the necklace that has slipped from his shirt. You lift your stiff hand from your side and reach out for it. He swallows as the delicate tips of your fingers graze the gold cross. You wonder where his dog tags are. Why he’s wearing this today. If he just wore the tags for Natasha’s benefit, maybe.

“I didn’t know you’re religious.” You breathe out. He’s just close enough to be able to hear you. His hands flex around the pits of your knees, skimming down your calves.

“I’m not,” He answers you quietly. “It belonged to my dad.”

You breathe out hard, but it doesn’t make that weird feeling in your chest go away. You just keep on staring at that dangling necklace. Something keeps you from looking him in the eye. Fear, shame — lust — you’re not sure exactly what it is.

Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of his flexing forearm, planted beside your head. Bradley watches through darkened eyes as you reach out once again, starting at the back of his hand. You trail the vein in his skin from his fist, up along the inside of his forearm, onto his bicep. Stopping at the hem of his white t-shirt sleeve.

Bradley leans down, moving to the side to catch your mouth. This second kiss is different from the first. It’s all him. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you’ve got the sense to press into him, to open your mouth. Both of you are surely aware of how dead still you’re laying, the way your hands are balled in the sheets at your sides.

But, you lift your chin and chase his kiss like he’s got your next breath. He pushes harder against you, his tongue pressing forwards and grazing yours. Suddenly, your hands aren’t so still any more. They’re up and shoving at his chest.

“What are you doing?” You gasp, horrified.

He sits back on his knees and stares at you. You’re right. What the fuck is he doing? — You’re one of his students, and fuck, your father would never let this go. Your fiancé too. Fuck, your fiancé.

“Keep your tongue in your mouth, what is the matter with you?” You snap at him, sitting up swiftly and hitting his chest with another hard shove. Bradley stares at you. Never in a million years was he expecting your issue here to be with the fact that he’d barely grazed your tongue with his.

“Excuse me?”

“Your tongue, you animal! — What do you think you’re doing?” You pull your legs out from between his thighs and shift away from him, leaping off of the bed. His jaw falls slack, staring at the way you’re glaring at him from the bottom of the bed.

“Kissing! — What? — Are you telling me that you’ve never—“ He shakes his head, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. He knew you were inexperienced but french kissing has been popular in the US for a lot longer than you’ve even been alive.

“No, I haven’t! — What kind of girl—“

“Alright, stop yelling, stop yelling!” Bradley stands up swiftly and catches hold of both of your biceps. Quieting, you crane your neck back to look at him. He looks down at you and exhales. “That was a mistake. Right?”

His thumbs brush gently along the backs of your arms. You’re silent, just staring up at him, but he gives a quick nod anyway. That’s good enough. Squeezing your arm, he lets you go and then moves.

“Fuck. Okay,” He runs a hand over his jaw and turns, dizzily trying to collect his things. “We’re good. We just need to not get in each other’s way, get you a C — and then we’re out of each other’s hair.”

There are so many things you want to say. Even more that you want to ask him. But, you don’t. You just nod silently at him and tuck your hands behind your back. Then, you make the mistake of glancing downwards. The khaki colouring of his shorts has never looked as indecent as it does now.

Bradley doesn’t need to follow your gaze to know what you’re staring at. He knows all too well that he has been rock hard since he first grabbed at your hip. The little squeak you had made had sent every red blood cell in his body rushing south, and the way you’re staring at his straining dick now doesn’t help.

You make it worse too. There’s no shock on your face, you’re not saying anything. You’re just staring at the way his thick length is pressing against the fabric of the shorts, hard, and because of you. Natasha, that you had understood. She had been touching him and she was undeniably gorgeous. And they had history.

“Stop —“ Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and dips a hand into his shorts to adjust himself with the other. That still doesn’t stop you from staring. He frowns at you. First you don’t know how to kiss, and now he’s realizing that you’ve probably never seen a dick either. “For fucks’ sake.

Your eyes finally go wide as he grabs the textbook, turns on his heel and leaves the room with a slam of the door. You flinch at the sound, suddenly completely alone in your room, reeling. Ashamedly, your first instinct is to call Matthew.

Bradley walks down the hall, takes the stairs, and into his own room. It’s empty, meaning that Luke’s probably in Robin’s room. Bradley should be an adult and go and lecture them both. Instead, he slams the door to their bathroom and twists the lock. Cold water probably would have been the best thing to do. Instead, letting the warm stream soak his body, his clothes ditched on the floor, he feels like he can finally breathe.

Truthfully, your fiancé is the furthest thing from his mind. The fact that you’re his student has never felt as minuscule as it did when he was kneeling between your thighs and watching your delicate fingers toy with his necklace. You’re graduating. This is just extra credit. If you had passed the first time, you’d be out of his class already.

All the excuses in the world doesn’t make it okay that he has kissed you twice now. But, that doesn’t stop him from trailing his palm along his toned stomach, wrapping a hand loosely around the base of his cock and planting his free palm on the tile in front of him.

Upstairs and three doors to the right, you’re sitting criss-crossed on the same bed that you had just kissed your professor in with an old plastic phone pressed to your ear. The line rings, and rings until it feels like you’re about to burst into tears until finally his voice comes through on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I need to ask you something and I need you to please answer me honestly. Okay?”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @wkndwlff @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @cherrycola27 @sugarcoated-lame

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #jake seresin #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #Bradley Bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley Bradshaw fic #the odyssey

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rosedpetal · 1 year ago

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Fandom Leap - Chapter 8

Series Masterlist

Word count: 1.8k

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries

A/N: My contribution is finally here! Just wanna say I'm flattered to be in this project with such wonderful authors! @nickfowlerrr @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @crazyunsexycool @swiftlymoniquesblog @missvelvetsstuff @vibraniumarm06-bucket @rosedpetal @imyourbratzdoll @herdreamywasteland @jamneuromain @potterhead2207@supraveng

Previous chapter || You can both feel a shift in the air around you. Sitting in each other's presence the feeling begins to come over you, “Buck, I don’t wanna go” You whisper softly gripping his hand tight. “Please don’t leave me, Doll” his voice trembling in fear, You can’t help but shed some tears because You don’t want to go either, but You have no control over this. “Come back to me baby, please” He whispers holding you close to him, his please sounds absolutely broken which makes your heart heavier. “I love y-,” as the shift overtakes You, You can still feel his presence. Shedding a few tears your heart feels heavy and You hope that where you end up next is a place in which you will be safe and protected like how You were with Bucky.

There was a pounding in your head. Your eyelids were heavy when you opened them, and by the way your stomach rumbled, you knew you had to eat something rather sooner than later.

You looked at your surroundings. You were lying in a queen-sized bed with a cherry print bedding set, a nightstand to your left that had a pink alarm clock that seemed to be broken by having been beaten against the wall too many times.

"Wakey-wakey."

You screamed. You finally acknowledged the pretty blonde that was lying next to you.

"Caroline Forbes?"

It really was her. Her perfect golden locks were around her head like a halo, and her shiny green eyes had smudged mascara around them.

She was as stunning as a beauty queen, all the same.

"Are we on a full-name basis now, Y/N L/N?" She teased you, and yawned, stretching her arms and sitting up in the bed.

"What happened last night?" You asked, the memories all blurred and confusing in your head.

She grinned at you. "Before or after you confessed to Elijah Mikaelson that he was the hottest man on earth?"

Oh. My. God.

"I need context, Care."

She squinted her eyes at you.

"I knew we shouldn't have let you get in a drinking contest with Damon."

"Damon Salvatore?"

"Who else would it be? You're so weird this morning, jeez."

Of course. You were in The Vampire Diaries universe. You didn't know where this left you, or why you had a previous life here. Maybe it was a pattern. The first two times you didn't belong. The third, you did. In other universes, you were an anomaly. A version of you probably didn't exist in those places.

Here, you could see by the memory board in the wall with pictures of you with Bonnie Bennett, Elena Gilbert, Tyler Lockwood, Matt Donovan and the Salvatore siblings that you actually belonged here.

Hell, there even was a polaroid taken by you of Rebekah Mikaelson flipping the camera (you) off, the caption "Barbie Klaus" written with permanent marker under the picture.

Like everything was right.

Except, something was missing.

As your mind drifted to Bucky's lovingly gaze on you and the feel of his hand in your strong grip, the way you were holding on for dear life when you shifted again...

You got up too fast, almost falling in the process, and ran to the toilet. Caroline was behind you next, holding your hair while you threw up.

You had tears in your eyes when she turned the shower on and helped you out of your clothes, washing your hair without another word as you sobbed uncontrollably.

Caroline held you in her arms when you couldn't formulate words, brushing your hair and getting you into something comfortable.

"Do you want to lay down?"

You nodded your head negatively.

"I need to tell you something, Care."

"What is it?" Her voice was soft but you knew she was worried about you. She was your best friend in the whole world.

This world, at least.

"I'm not Y/N. Well, not the Y/N you grew up with, at least. I'm from another universe, and I'm scared to death because I want to go back to my fiancé, but I don't belong there either."

You told her the whole story, from how you were just struggling with too much work and had nothing going on in your life, to the Comic Con event and how you just woke up the next day to find yourself in Bucky's universe. How you jumped through dimensions, finding your favorite characters and bonding with them.

You left out the part that you were obsessed with The Vampire Diaries in your teens. You were not about to tell Caroline she was a character in a show and all the shit that was about to happen to her and each one of your friends in Mystic Falls.

After you finished, Caroline stared at you with wide eyes. "We can't seem to catch a break, can we?"

"What do I do now, Care?"

"Babe, you're friends with vampires, witches, a werewolf and the originals. You have Matt too, but he's human like you so he's useless about anything involving the supernatural. No offense. We'll find a way."

You sniffed, hugging her. "Thank you, Care. Now tell me what the hell was last night about!"

She laughed.

"We threw you a birthday party. Bonnie casted a spell on you so you wouldn't get too drunk when you and Damon started taking shots."

"Oh, crap. And why Elijah was there? Doesn't seem like his type of fun."

"It's not." She snorted. "But he came anyway because he adores you."

It felt weird when she said that, the thought of you with another man making you sick. There was a little flirting now and then, but you couldn't forget that you were about to get married.

Why did it hurt so fucking much?

"Now get up! We're doing research before you leave us too." Caroline laughed humorlessly. Deep down, you knew she was just as afraid as you.

"So, you've made all of us come here, and not that I want to bitch about it, but I had to change shifts last minute, just for you to come with this nonsense story when in reality Y/N could just be losing her shit?"

"Matt!" Elena glared at him.

"I'm not blaming her! I'm just saying, with all the things we have to go through because of you guys, maybe she's just so stressed that her mind is finally shattering?"

"For the love of Taylor Swift, shut up." Damon rolled his eyes at Matt. "Don't worry, kid. We all believe you and we know you're not crazy."

"Not that I'm condoning with that asshole, but what if Y/N is really going insane?"

"Tyler, I'm right here!" You crossed your arms, outraged. "I didn't give you this shit when I found out you were a werewolf." You complained.

Caroline called everyone to the Salvatore's boarding house, just so you didn't have to repeat the same story over and over again. That's why she had the Mikaelson siblings on the speakerphone too.

"Bon, what do you think?" Elena turned to the witch, who had a serious look on her face.

"I don't know. Granny never had the chance to explain to me about multiple simultaneous lives. Let alone the multiverse jumping. All I know is that is possible, but I don't play with this kind of magic. It bends all the rules we know of."

"I'd ask my mother if she wasn't dead." Klaus finally spoke on the other side, and you almost smiled at his words. "The best I can do to help sweet Y/N is get Freya to do some research."

"Thank you so much, Klaus." You sighed, feeling a little bit better.

"In the meanwhile, what can we do?" Stefan asked.

"If there's nothing we can do, we can put her in a straitjacket."

"Too soon, Damon." You murmured, sending him a death glare.

Caroline took on a mission to distract you from your distress. She dressed you up and took you to the Mystic Grill, ordered pancakes and soda for you both, and took you to see the most important spots in the city.

"That's Elena's house. We tried to smoke cigarettes in her room when we were fifth graders and we spent a whole bottle of her mother's perfume to mask the tobacco scent. There's a spot under her rug where we put them out."

"In Bonnie's place, she finally told you she was a witch."

"Damon and you were playing stupid games as always, and he dared you to go to the forest on a full moon, that's when Tyler almost bit you. I tried to save you and he bit me instead, so Klaus had to come here and cure me."

"Matt, Vicky and you used to play hide and seek in the church when you guys were little."

"Oh! You're gonna love this one! Elijah gave you a daylight ring right there in the gazebo! He told that if you ever transitioned you'd need one and it would be nice if that was already taken care of."

The memories were permanently imprinted on you. How you and Caroline always teamed up against Bonnie and Elena when the four of you fought, how angry you were at Matt when he couldn't let Elena move on, how heartbroken you became at Vicky's funeral.

And the day Elijah gave you the daylight ring, you were so touched by his gesture that you spilled "I love you." in a serious tone before hugging him. He was taken back by your reaction, but he hugged you back.

The sun was setting in the horizon, when Caroline received a call. She smiled at you in a cryptic way.

"Okay, I'm taking her."

The whole drive back to the Salvatore's board house was silent. You suddenly had a feeling your time in Mystic Falls was ending.

Caroline pulled over and walked you to the front door. She sighed.

"This is my cue. I hope you find what you're looking for, Y/N. And I just want you to know that you are my best friend and you are loved in every universe you exist. Please, never forget me."

You sniffed, and hugged her tight. Caroline's delicate form embraced you.

"Thank you, Care. I love you to the moon and back. And hopefully, in a few hours, you'll have your Y/N version back."

Caroline took off full vampire speed, leaving you alone on the Salvatore doorstep. The door opened, and a gasp left your lips.

"Elijah?"

"Whenever you say "I love you", you always say "to the moon and back" too. Must've been too much on her."

You looked over your shoulder, grateful for everything Caroline has done for you in the last hours. She let you go without putting up a fight, just so you didn't have to worry about her too.

"I guess we are alone?" You raised your brow, and Elijah's lip curled upwards.

He offered you his hand and as you took it in your own, he guided you to the living room.

"Freya and Bonnie crafted this." He took a little bottle of his pocket, the content a red liquid that resembled blood. "You just have to drink it, and you'll be off again. I guess you'd like to finally do this in your own terms."

"I don't know what to say."

"Then allow me, Y/N. You are a kind soul. You told me once that I deserved to have a life of my own and pursue my own dreams instead of always taking care of Niklaus. You were the one who confronted him when everyone was walking on eggshells around him, and you captivated all of us. You deserve to have a life of your own too, Y/N, and I know it's gonna be brilliant."

As he spoke, Elijah brought the bottle to your lips, and you drank its rich liquid. As you felt the ground swirl under your feet and Elijah becoming more and more distant, all you could keep was an opal daylight ring.

#the vampire diaries #fandom collab #elijah x reader #caroline x reader #caroline forbes #elijah mikaelson #elena gilbert #klaus mikaelson #bonnie bennett #the vampire diaries x reader

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hyperfixation-train-station · 4 months ago

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Chapter One

✧ Word Count: 1908 words

✧ Author’s Note: This starts at the choosing ceremony after the test has already been done. Four and Eric are also actually friends in this because I think that is a funnier dynamic then them hating each other.

✧ Summary: After making her decision to join Dauntless, Wyn runs into a familiar face on the rooftop of the Dauntless building, she was not expecting to see him so soon, will he remember her? Will he hinder her chances at succeeding at Dauntless?

✧ Warnings: foul language

Everything before this moment will be forgotten, I declare. Anything before the sound of my blood burning on the dauntless coals at the choosing ceremony will no longer exist. I escaped them, they won’t be able to use me anymore. This is my new life and I intend to leave every part of my past in Candour behind, for good.

I don’t turn back to see the looks on my faction's face, I won’t give them the satisfaction. Instead I turn and walk to my new cheering faction with my head held high, for the first time in years I smile and let excitement overtake me.

The rest of the ceremony is a blur, filled with loud sobbing from parents and cheers from the faction chosen. I didn’t pay all that much attention after my turn at the bowls. When the ceremony finally comes to an end I rise with my new faction… no, that's wrong, it is just my faction now, I have always belonged here despite not being born in Dauntless, I was born a Dauntless.

Once out of the building we all start running, I follow along making sure to keep up with the Dauntless born, I am already starting at a disadvantage to them, so I want to stick close and observe them the best I can. I already know we are heading to the train tracks. I started observing the Dauntless years ago to prepare for this day, I didn’t need the test to tell me where I belonged, that was set in stone since birth. I follow behind one of the Dauntless born, watching her black ponytail swing back and forth as I follow her up the bridges column to the train tracks. She has quite a few tattoos already that I admire. Once at the tracks we wait for the tell tale sign of the rumbling of the train to know it is coming.

“Get ready” the Dauntless girl I followed yelled to the others, I turned and saw the train approaching and started running behind the girl again. I feel the rush of wind from the train as it speeds beside me, she jumps, grabs the handle on the outside of the train car and hits the button to open the train car door before disappearing inside the train car. I copy her movements and make it into the train with the same amount of efficiency as the girl. That was a lot easier than I thought it would be. I look around the train car and only see the black clothing of the Dauntless born around me. I seem to be the only transfer that made it into the first train car.

“Hey Candour” the girl with the black ponytail says “what’s your name?”

“Wyn” I reply, rolling my eyes at the use of my old Factions name, but I don’t fault her, as I would call her Dauntless in the same context “and yours?

“Rory” she says “it’s pretty impressive that you kept up with us and made it into this car, I have high hopes that I will see you around the compound for… well the rest of our lives I guess”

“Is that your way of saying you think I will pass initiation, which I know I will, and that you want to be friends?” I say with a smirk, enjoying her shocked expression at my blatant statement.

“You know what yeah, I like you” she says and turns to the rest of the Dauntless born “I call dibs on this transfer being my adoptive Dauntless” I hear many groans and comments about that being unfair from the other Dauntless borns and can’t help but laugh at their antics

“Alright Wyn get ready” Rory states

“Ready for?” I say, but I get my answer when they start jumping onto the building roof our car is currently in front of. I don’t have time to think before I leap out of the car myself to make sure I am not left behind. I manage to land on my feet and scowl at Rory

“couldn’t have given me a bit more of a warning asshole” she just laughs and shrugs with a massive grin on her face

“Where is the fun in that” she says, I huff and turn to watch the others jump out onto the roof, I notice some who refuse to jump and stay in the train cars. I nudge Rory with my elbow and ask

“What happens to the ones who didn’t jump? The trains don’t stop, how are they expecting to get off?”

“Well they become factionless, but I think a patrol is sent out and they essentially throw them off the train” I raise my eyebrow at her response “Like throw them off onto a roof like this” she clarifies and I nod.

I continue to look around at my surroundings when my eyes halt on a familiar set of eyes. I feel like it was a lifetime ago when I first saw the dauntless boy's—well, man's now—face in front of me. He's grown a lot since that fateful day a little over a year ago, gaining more muscle and tattoos, but those piercing eyes will always be seared in my memory. Nobody could ever forget eyes that reach as deeply into the soul as his do. My knight, clad in his faction's colour black instead of armour, looming ominously at the edge of the rooftop, his arms crossed, casting his gaze on my fellow initiates, taking in every detail he can, as he always seems to do. His demeanour makes it quite evident that he is a valued and significant member of Dauntless. Will his memory of me help or hinder my time as an initiate? I never imagined I'd see him in such a short time. The memories of that day flow through my mind again, and I can feel anxiety rising in my throat. I felt his eyes linger on me as he scanned the crowd. I inhaled slowly and met his gaze yet again. I only needed to glance into his eyes to know that he remembers me precisely as I remember him. I attempted to shrink into myself to escape from those eyes, wrapping my arms around myself - feeling vulnerable in his gaze. Then it all clicks into place. This is why I'm here: to put an end to hiding and living in fear. I force myself to keep my arms by my sides and maintain eye contact with him while the realisation races through my head. A part of me wants to look down and submit like I've always been instructed to, but another part of me tells me that this time, I won't be the scared girl he had to save; instead, I'm dauntless and I'll prove to him and everyone else that fear can no longer control me and that fear should be afraid of me.

We break eye contact as he begins to speak,

"All right, listen up!" his voice filled with authority that instantly silences the crowd

"I'm Eric. I'm one of your leaders. If you want to enter Dauntless, this is the way in." He motions off the side of the building we are on. I feel a wave of unease and confusion run through the group of us. Does he mean we have to jump off the side of a building just to enter Dauntless every time? Seems a little inefficient to me.

"And if you don't have the guts to jump..." he pauses, looking around the crowd once again "then you don't belong in Dauntless."

"Is there water at the bottom, or something?" a loud mouth Candour boy asks. I scoff, of course leave it to Candour to not be able to shut up for longer than 30 minutes.

"I guess you'll find out." Eric responds, giving the boy a once over "Or not." he shrugs. I quietly chuckle, finding it amusing how easily Eric put the boy in his place. I see Eric’s eyes dart to me for a second before looking away.

“Well who wants to go first” Eric says crossing his arms

“Me” I say without thinking, I take a breath and walk towards the edge of the roof beside Eric, I stand up on the ledge and look at Eric, we make eye contact for a second before I break it and look down and see there is a hole in the roof of the building about 30 ft below us, but through the hole it is just black, so I have no idea what is down there, but there has to be something. They can’t kill us all on the first day, that wouldn’t make sense. I am about to step off the ledge when I see a streak of blue that crashes into Eric, sending Erich crashing into me. All I hear as the two of us fall off the edge is an unfamiliar voice yell

“Wait no I want to go first”

I feel the air flowing around me, I’m falling, it is honestly quiet peaceful, I start to let my mind drift, enjoying the air flowing through my fingers, it felt like I was falling for hours before I hear Eric mutter “oh fuck” I feel him grab my arm and pull me into his chest so that he is under me, then we hit a net, bounce once, twice, smack, my head bounces off of his. Ow that hurt like a bitch, when we are finally flat on the net I groan and look up at Eric

“Why the fuck is your head so goddamn hard” I ask already feeling kind of dizzy, I hear Eric chuckle and then a new voice say

“Um Eric? And a new person? Why did you guys jump together?”

“Obviously we didn’t do this on purpose Four, some idiot Erudite boy ran at her so he could be the first jumper instead, but knocked me off and well I accidentally hit her and took her down with me” Eric grumbles, handing me to Four who lifted me off the net while Eric climbed off the net himself

“Are you hurt?” Four askes, I look up at him and giggle seeing four of him spinning around, how ironic,

“Ha ha there are four of you spinning around just like the number and your name” I tell him with laughing, Four just gives Eric a look

“I think she is concussed” He said

“Yeah she smacked her forehead against mine when we landed, I’ll take her to the infirmary while you and Lauren deal with the rest of them” Eric says, then turning to me “What’s your name?” Eric asks me

“Wyn” I say, “But like spelt W-Y-N… I’m pretty sure” I say rubbing my head

“Okay, First jumper Wyn” Four yells to the others.

“Alright ready to go” Eric asks, before I answer he picks me up bridal style to carry me to the infirmary

“I could walk” I say

“You could, but this is easier, I don’t need you getting lost on the way and I have to come back and find you anyway” He says, I huff and cross my arms

“Whatever you’re lucky i’m tired anyway” I say while leaning on his shoulder and closing my eyes

“Wait no don’t sleep… shit” is all I hear Eric say before I fall asleep.

#divergent #dauntless #eric coulter smut #you're a little tragedy #eric coulter x oc #eric coulter #tobias eation #wyn odessa #oc wyn odessa

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mysteriouslikeness · 11 months ago

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I don’t know how to format on tumblr but uh-

Hi I’m dumping my Drabble from Elesa fall au

For some context of This AU:

Ingo fell to Hisui , has been gon a good two years. Then elesa fell when it was trying to get Emmet, leading Emmet down a rabbit hole to try and find them both knowing now what actually happened to his brother (he assumes after Elesa got taken that way) Elesa has memories, ends up in Diamond clan. Meets Ingo by chance and he can’t remember her but thinks she’s his lover (this is Elesa x Ingo and he never actually confessed before he fell) they both rekindle that love and try and find a way back to Emmet. Unfortunately they had a little too much rekindling and now have a baby on the way so all attempts to figure out how to go back stopped (especially after Ingo got desperate and hurt himself in his desperation).

This Drabble is from my OCs perspective. Feivel is who nursed Ingo back to health and was his friend through thick and thin. He was the only one told they they are from the future. He is Calabas apprentice of sorts but mostly travels to keep supplies flowing into Pearl clan.

>>>>>>>>>>>The Unseen Stars<<<<<<<<<<

It was raining in the Feildlands, the sky was covered in a soft blanket of grey. It was a light shower but it had gone on for several hours. There was plenty of mud on his boots as the ground beneath him tried to suction him there, damp with mud from a constant traveled path. The warm air despite the rain spelled for storms, the quiet rumble of a distant anger echoed across the land, faded to a soft hush by the time it reached Jubilife village. Feivel had made it to the village safe and sound, he’d gotten rather wet, the moisture was starting to soak in deeper to the under layers of his Pearl clan attire.

The River that flowed through the village was rising and active as he passed the bridge to the houses. In years past he would find his way to the other side, welcomed by uncaring eyes or not at all. He stopped at the door and paused to pet the wet fur of his companion. “Go find someplace dry.” He whispered to the Wyrdeer. The beast let out soft huffs as her dark eyes gazed at him before turning to leave, she was a welcome help in guarding the town, the little walls that had a roof made for perfect cover for a storm. The moisture mostly slid off her fur anyways, so Feivel wasn’t too concerned about her out in the rain.

With his final goodbyes he slid open the door to the house. It was quiet, he’d missed dinner it would seem. Time was hard to tell when there was no sun or stars for guidance. The only indication of time he has was the dying embers of the hearth in the dim room. He sighed softly as he slid the door closed behind him. He took his shoes off and set his things down, dusting off some rain that was still on his garbs to let it drip away in the area before the house began.

After a moment he stepped up into the house, the soft sound of socks on wood and creaking floorboards filled the air accompanied by the pitter patter of rain on the roof. He walked past the kitchen into the bedroom, tired silver eyes met his. Ingo was holding tightly to Elesa, who was fast asleep in his arms, woken by the sound of Feivel entering. He’d become much lighter of a sleeper recently with Elesa expecting their child at any time. There was a pause of quiet acknowledgment before Ingo closed his eyes again and nuzzled his face back into Elesa’s hair. Now that Ingo knew he’d arrived he went from their room to go start the fire back up, gently giving it a log to last a short time before he too fell asleep. As quietly as he could he got the wood burning, striping off his outer layers and setting them out to dry. He sniffled softly as he sat down cross legged and watched the small flame dance, the distant thunder creeping closer.

In the morning he’d make them breakfast, check on Fujie, and buy them some more firewood… after that just process the herbs he’d gathered on the way. A simple day for a simple man. Feivel smiled a bit, he’d walked into a dark house many times before, built fires and cooked food for an uncaring man who supposedly was his father…. It had felt empty. It was nights where the darkness would consume him regardless of how bright he made the hearths fire. The brightness was never the light he needed, but a rage that burned and lashed out trying to consume, just as the darkness was. The room in his fathers house was the predator and he was the poor prey caught in the jaws of mediocrity. Lifeless. A home with no soul and only judgements. He can hear his father say in the back of his mind not to get the floor wet. The task of course was impossible, little drops had followed him through the house…. Not a peep from Ingo. He’d not said a word but with the look in his eye, the bother to check, he knew if something was wrong Ingo would have gotten up. He was acknowledged. No words needed to be spoken between the two men after all. They had held each others lives in their hands. On the mountain in the Icelands so many years ago, in youths haze of memories, he knew his father didn’t run to look for him in the snows that fell in the avalanche. He wondered if that was the weight he felt in the air when he’d gone to stay at his fathers house, the weight of the snow.

A dash of light caught Feivels attention looking at the door, a rumble soon followed. The house he was in now carried no weight. There was no darkness, angry fires or invisible snow. Just the soft bubble of anticipation. The room wasn’t dark, and the fires were gentle, Soon there would be a new life and a cry filling the air of the house. A family would say it’s first hellos to a baby. Ingo and Elesa had come a long way, and as a healer he wanted to be there for them. He shifted to lay down on the floor next to the hearth watching the fire dance and eat the log for nourishment. Waving little hellos and getting excited to find more parts to cling onto.

This house, was undeniably, a home. Full of life. Full of love. As he closed his eyes he could see Elesas smile and ingos bright eyes as he greeted them in the morning, like he’d done since they first welcomed him to stay in their house after it was built. The house was so welcoming and warm…. But he knew it wasn’t home for them. They had fallen through space and time to get here. What did their home feel like, he wondered. Did it feel like he felt with them? He knew they searched as best they could, rushing into danger trying to find a way back home…. It wasn’t till Elesa fell with child that they stopped and settled into building some life here. They Grounded themselves to a home in Jubilife. If they found a way back, would the house feel so warm? The thought left him feeling empty. Would he return to that darkness he knew all too well? He’d never thought much about his future up until recently. He wanted to know the warmth they longed for…. He wanted to know and follow them to whatever embrace it was that was on the other side. He wanted to step into the other side from a time far in the future, even if he was to turn to dust the moment he did. He could scatter himself in the winds of the world they called home and settle peacefully in the lands that gave life to Ingo and Elesa. He’d be happy just to nourish the flowers on the hill for one spring in their time.

The fire shifted and fell, the ash dotting out parts of the fire that once were stronger. He felt a bit cold as he drifted to sleep on the floor, wishing on stars he couldn’t see that there would always be warmth for Ingo, Elesa and the child they were to have.

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inspector-montoya-fox · 1 year ago

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i was thinking in the shower about how things would have turned out had Bentley managed to break into the Cooper Vault without needing to recruit anyone. for starters, there wouldn't be a Sly 3 lol... i mean Sly and Bentley would definitely have gone after Murray so An Opera of Fear and Rumble Down Under would have happened i guess but for the sake of the post let's say they wouldn't have asked the Guru to join the gang. so no Netherlands and no China meaning no Penelope and no Panda King, and by extent no Dimitri because of no deal in Netherlands.

removing Sly 3's secondary characters kinda puts things into perspective in terms of character development. in Sly 1 we collected Thievius Racconus pages as we got closer to the truth and Sly learned new tricks and honed his skills in preparation for his encounter with Clockwerk. Sly 2 was just a traumatic trainwreck altogether like SP really put the gang through the wringer idk how they survived.

in Sly 3 this development is brought about through the secondary characters and their relationships with the protagonists. Penelope drives a wedge between Sly and Bentley forcing the latter to muster up the courage and step outside of Sly's shadow for a minute; Panda King's return demands Sly to mature and let go of the past; Dimitri tests the gang's patience; both Penelope and Panda King contribute to the Murray van storyline which kinda exhibited that yea! in the long run, Murray might be the dummy of the group as Dr Michael chastises at the end but he is definitely the heart of the gang.

but if all this never happened then how would Honour Among Thieves play out? funny thing is, even if they recruited the extended gang, shit hit the fan almost immediately upon arrival so i'm assuming the same would apply if the original trio had tried to pull it off on their own? no? as a sidenote: i'm also thinking that Sly 2 is the only game in the series that kinda had like the aspect of urgency if you think about it. someone stole the Clockwerk parts and they were going to rebuild him so tick tock bitch. Sly 1 and 3 however don't really have that sense of time pressure. the Fiendish Five were sitting on their asses for literally a decade before Sly popped up for the pages and don't even get me started on the possibility of Dr Michael managing to crack the Cooper Vault open like what a loser lmao. with this in mind, Bentley would have the time to develop his tech in order to do the tasks that the extended gang members would have done. i mean if he managed to build a time machine surely he could make his tech waterproof ?

so the entire heist goes according to plan with the possibility of them tripping that stupid alarm still at play. i never intended to do a full play by play "what if...?" of Honour Among Thieves but suffice to say Carmelita would 100% show up to save the day even with the change of context. i think the most important change would be that Bentley's run-in with Dr Michael would go down very differently. i don't think he'd defend Sly; i actually think Dr Michael would get to him even without Penelope's introduction because she only brought out feelings that were brewing deep in Bentley's subconscious (especially after the end of Sly 2, becoming disabled for a cause that was never his and that dedication arguably never being reciprocated). he might not have shown it in the moment but i think that conversation would significantly shape Bentley's character and if Sly got out of the episode unscathed, the gang would probably split. leaving the Guru behind would also give Murray the motive to go his own way.

it's clear that Sly 3's secondary characters helped the gang get over some unspoken issues they had between them, even if they got resolved behind each other's backs (because Bentley only vents to Penelope about his feelings and doesn't go straight to Sly, who, in turn, doesn't even know there's an issue to begin with). personally, and i feel kinda stupid for suggesting something so simplistic in relation to how this game would be better like 7-8 years after being on this godforsaken website and analysing it to the point where it feels like the bible, i feel like one more episode would help really flesh out the problems the gang had. we never get direct acknowledgment or accountability from Sly and it feels like he's too focused on entering the Vault to care about Bentley's feelings, or anyone else's for that matter (there's like 7 anon asks gathering dust in my inbox about why i have anti-Sly sentiment and that number better not go up). all it takes is a 'you know what guys? you should enter the vault with me after literally sticking by me since childhood and risking your lives fighting my own battles' and they shoot up the van like it's a guest on Wendy.

Sly 2's ending proved that the protagonists aren't Riverdale characters who just go through weekly life-threatening events without any guilt, trauma and anxiety; and then in Sly 3 we get high-stake situations akin to the ClockLa saga, like the Dragon snatching Penelope, but because it's crammed between episodes instead of games, the characters come out of it seemingly unfazed. the complete lack of recognition for all of this makes it seem like Sly is an awful leader for the gang. like i think Penelope would genuinely snap when she got taken hostage by LeFwee after the dragon thing.

i think the internal politics of the gang could have been explored way better but i understand that juggling that and the introduction of one new character per episode would be impossible. i'd love to see Bentley confronting Sly, Murray realising that he's getting more support about what matters to him (the van, the Guru's wellbeing) from the literal strangers they've recruited than his best friends, Sly realising that his lack of involvement in the gang's friendship is what turned Dr Michael against ConnEr. maybe Honour Among Thieves could have been a two-parter honestly. maybe the Dimitri Dr Michael piranha hybrid bossfight should have never made the cut.

#kings of fucking subtlety pulling up to a months-in-the-works heist in a pirate ship #i love these games #sly cooper #it's been so long since i've posted an essay post omfg #this one's chunky too like loads to discuss babes #other notes:#it's not like Sly learned how to fly a plane because of Penelope so he could still disable Kaine island's security right?#and also:#it feels like Bentley could have easily found someone other than Panda King but he just did it out of spite like out of pure pettiness #and that's just so deeply rotten like what was even the thought process behind that?#steal the girl that doesn't even know i exist? i'll force you to reconcile with the guy who killed your dad #wtf bentley

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lifeofkaze · 1 year ago

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Say No to This

A/N: This story can be read as a standalone short, or in context with this story here. This was written for the June prompt of the @hp-12monthsofmagic challenge, which I took a little more liberally in my interpretation this time. Warning: Horrid abuse of the French language. It's been a while.

“Quite the show out there, isn’t it?”

“It’s impressive,” Dana nodded, turning away from the rumble of voices filling the arena. She had never before seen a duelling ground this packed, the benches filled up to the top with witches and wizards from all across Europe. It was the opening tournament of the international season, and everyone had come to see the show. “Is it always this full?”

“It’ll be even fuller once the round is in full swing,” Michaela Morrison, coach of the Scottish National team, replied, “what with the World Cup just around the corner and all that.”

The World Cup. Dana let the word sit on the tip of her tongue for a moment. She had dreamed of attending them since she’d been a student at Hogwarts, and now she was courted by both the English and the Scottish teams, vying for her allegiance. The Scots had gone as far as taking her backstage with them as their guest, which was exactly where Dana was at.

“Technically, the season has already started,” Michaela broke Dana from her thoughts, “but there’s still one name left I can call up for my line-up. You know that, don’t you?”

Dana tensed. Of course she knew; it was all everyone had been telling her for weeks.

“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll think about it.”

“I will need your answer soon,” Michaela said gravely. “You’re not the only witch who can pack a punch. Others would chop their arm off for an offer like that.”

“I said, I’ll think about it,” Dana repeated, sharply.

“Think quickly, then.”

With a bell ringing to signal the beginning of the tournament, Michaela left to be with her team. Dana was glad for her leaving; she was sick of being pushed to decide. The coach of the English team had stood on her doorstep not even a week after she’d won the national championship, much quicker than his Scottish rival, but Michaela had turned out to be the more insistent of the two. They’d been in contact every day since, the letters stacking up on her desk too many for Dana to count.

The competing teams were lined up at the entrance to the duelling ground. Members of the Scottish team gave Dana a smile, which she politely returned before dropping her eyes. They had been exceptionally welcoming to her, and leaving them in the balance made her feel more guilty than she cared to admit.

As the duellists entered the arena to the thundering applause of the spectators, Dana quietly left and found her seat. She had a stellar view of the stage but it was the ranks surrounding her that drew her attention. With a sinking feeling, she realised that she seemed to be the only person who had come alone. Her eyes settled on a couple sitting close to her. They looked happy, very much in love. The feeling of loneliness hovering on the edge of her mind increased as the dark-haired young wizard put an arm around his girlfriend and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, and she quickly looked away.

She was here to learn something, after all. Her next step, a privilege. She’d better pay attention to what actually mattered.

***

The afterparty took place at a pub adjacent to the duelling grounds, reserved for the national teams and their entourage entirely. A plethora of different languages and accents filled the air, and there was food, drinks, and the promise of good company.

Dana had been reluctant to rejoin the Scottish team after the tournament had ended but hadn’t found a reason to decline their invitation either. She soon regretted her decision; she felt even more alone than she had sitting in the stands, the champagne in her hand tasting sour and making her head throb as the conversations brushed her by.

She had just left a group of Italian witches to their devices when she spotted Michaela pushing through the crowd in her direction. Hastily, Dana emptied her champagne in one big swig that made her shudder and started towards the exit in such a hurry that she didn’t see the person crossing her path until it was too late. She staggered backwards as the two of them collided, the other person letting out a strangled-sounding “Oof!” as they fell to the ground.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you at all!” Dana exclaimed, rushing to help the young man to his feet. “Are you alright?”

“It’s no bother,” he answered with a soft accent. “What you did to that champagne just now, though… that was a crime.”

Dana stared. His dark skin and curly hair were familiar to her, somehow, but it took another moment for the Sickle to drop on her.

“You’re from the French team!” she called out. “You were in the tournament earlier.”

“I believe that applies to most people here.”

“Of course.” Colour rose to Dana’s cheeks. “Your dancing charm was incredible. I’ve never seen anyone go down with such an impressive tango.”

“I like to finish my opponents off with style,” the French wizard laughed. He extended his hand. “I’m Louis de la Fayette.”

“Nice to meet you, Louis de la Fayette,” Dana smiled. “I’m Dana. Dana Parkin.”

“Parkin?” Louis’ eyes widened. “As in, Parkin Parkin?”

Dana tensed involuntarily. Her apprehension dissolved, however, when Louis whistled lowly.

“The Dana Parkin, qui l'aurait cru. Your championship duel last season was the talk of the team, even at home in Paris. Why didn’t I see you in the ring?”

“I didn’t duel today,” Dana shook her head. “I was up in the stands.”

“What would someone like you be doing on the sidelines, instead of down with us where you belong?”

His question bothered her considerably less than when Dana had asked herself the same thing. “Learning to hex someone into tangoing themselves to defeat, I guess.”

Her intention of leaving the party entirely forgotten, Louis and Dana moved to the bar, where Louis declined Dana’s offer of getting him a proper Scottish lager as a means of apology and returned with two glasses of red wine instead. Their conversation came easily, switching between English and French. Dana hadn’t spoken it in years but found she enjoyed dusting off her language skills, immensely. With every sip of wine she became more fluent, Louis’ jokes funnier, and the nagging feeling of isolation less bit by bit.

When they had emptied their glasses they moved on to the next, and when those were empty, too, and Louis made to get them new ones, Dana placed a hand on his arm and smiled.

“Laisse-moi, s’il te plaît.”

She slid off her bar stool, maybe a little bit too quickly. The room suddenly spinning, she took a step forward, the grip on Louis’ arm tightening. Her cheeks flushed, Dana leaned her head against his shoulder and laughed.

“Wow, I don’t know where that came from.”

“Je le sais,” Louis snorted, but not unkindly. “You Brits can’t handle your wine.”

Dana straightened up but didn’t move away. She giggled. “I’m Scottish, for the record.”

“Then, Scottish girl, you can’t handle your wine.”

“Sounds like I need more practice, then.”

“That could be arranged.”

The smile on Louis’ face changed. He was so close that Dana could have counted his ludicrously long lashes, should she have wished so. Before she knew it, he leaned in, pressing his lips against hers in a kiss that tasted of rich wine. For just a moment, Dana kissed him back, his hands resting on her waist and pulling her in.

Abruptly, she came back to her senses. The pressure of her hands on Louis’ chest increased, pushing him away. Horrified, Dana staggered backwards, clasping her hand in front of her mouth.

“Dana?” Louis asked, his voice sounding far away. “What’s wrong?”

Eyes wide, Dana took another step back and away from him, wheeling around and pushing through the crowd toward the exit as fast as she could. She burst through the door, gulping down the cool night air. Quick steps took her away from the light and the noise spilling from the pub. Rounding a corner, she leaned against the wall and covered her face with her hands.

What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?!

With shaking hands, Dana took out her wand. She had to talk to Dylan, now. She had to tell him. She had never meant to cheat on him. Never, never–

She cast her spell, but instead of a happy little hedgehog, only a quivering band of silver mist appeared, disbanding into nothingness only moments after. Defeated, Dana stared at where it had vanished.

All she wanted was to go home.

She returned to the pub to go and get her things when the door opened and a group of witches stepped outside, Michaela Morrison among them.

“Dana,” she smiled and waved as soon as she spotted her. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Dana swallowed heavily. “Not now, okay?”

“You can’t keep avoiding me forever,” Michaela said, stepping sideways to block Dana’s way to the door. “I only want what’s best for you. You’re wasting away your potential.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. If you stop pushing yourself, you’re going to lose your edge. Talent only gets you so far - it’s dedication that really gets you places. You want to go places, don’t you, Dana?”

“Listen, Michaela…”

“Don’t you?”

“I do,” Dana snapped. “But now is not a good time. Next year –”

“– will be too late for you. Your star is on the rise now.” Her face softened. “Think about how many people can only dream of being where you are now. This is your shot, girl. Your chance to step from your family’s shadow. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

“I guess so.” Dana pressed her lips together. “I’ll think about it. For real, this time.”

Considering her, Michaela inclined her head and caught up to her friends. Dana looked after her, stony-faced. She thought about Michaela’s words. She felt nothing.

“Dana?”

She jumped, so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Louis approaching. He must have taken her reaction wrongly because he stopped a couple of feet from her and raised his hands, palms facing her.

“I only wanted to see if you’re okay.”

“Yes,” Dana nodded, immediately after shaking her head. “No. No, I’m actually not okay at all.”

“If this is about me kissing you, I never meant to –”

“I have a boyfriend,” Dana blurted out, the shame at both the thought of Dylan and the look on Louis’s face making her cheeks burn. “I should have told you straightaway. I never should have kissed you. I’m so very, very sorry.”

Blowing out his cheeks, Louis ran his hand over his hair. “Just my luck. Why are the good ones always taken?”

Dana’s eyes dropped to her bright red Converse. The left one had a tiny doodle of a penguin on its side, which Dylan had drawn. It was so old that it had all but faded, but Dana knew that it was there, regardless.

“I’m honestly sorry.”

“What for? I kissed you, after all.”

“Yes, but –”

“I’m not holding it against you, really.” He tilted his head, a wry smile crossing his face. “Whoever your boyfriend is, he must be very lucky to have scored a girl like you.”

It was too much for Dana. The first tear fell, followed by more and more as the reality of how long she hadn’t seen Dylan crashed over her. She let Louis draw her into a hug, the gesture nothing but kindness.

Sobbing, she told him about Dylan - how they’d known each other, loved each other, and how terribly she missed him every moment of every day they weren’t together. How he was out there living his dream while she was here living hers. When all her tears and her frustration had eventually been spilt, she wiped her eyes and let go of Louis, feeling more tired than ever before.

“I’m sorry,” she smiled shakily and hiccoughed. “I’m usually not much of a whiner.”

Louis made a clicking sound with his tongue. “What to say? Les plus grandes douceurs et l’infortunes, c’est l’amour.”

“It’s been more pain than sweetness, lately,” said Dana sadly. “Dylan barely gets to come home as it is, but at least I’m here when he does. If I take Michaela’s offer, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to match our schedules.”

“I think you must make up your mind,” Louis hummed. “How do you Brits say? Have your cake and eat?”

“I’m Scottish. And not quite.”

“In that case, do what makes you happy, Scottish girl.” He tapped his forefinger to his nose. “Trust me, I know all about cakes. I’m French.”

His joke made Dana laugh, if only for a bit. “What if I don’t know what I want to do with my cake, though?”

“Ah, but I think you do,” Louis said with a twinkle to his eye. He pointed at his chest, right above his heart. “If you listen to this, I promise you, you can’t go wrong.”

#dana parkin #hp12mom #twelve months of magic #better late than never

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jaywhere · 3 months ago

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hello i thought this would be like 3k and it's not so pls have 8.5k of post-x3 rogue/logan about wanting to fuck b4 u die and having literally one option and it's like, super fucking weird actually.

this would probably be the first chapter of 2, idk ill see what im able to finish today ??? pls enjoy the like optimistically 1-2 of u who decide to click on this lmfao

After three months, Rogue eventually finds him washed up in a storm drain.

The sight of Logan with his head slotted into a gutter would be hilarious if the circumstances weren’t so bleak. A few years ago, she would’ve laughed and taken a photo. The sight may have cracked a smile out of her if she hadn’t been so tired, or even if he hadn’t been so damn hard to track down.

Tragically, Rogue doesn’t have the luxury of smiling. Bags tug at her eyes as she stares down at his face. Even under the flickering yellow light of the streetlamp, she can tell his features are completely unchanged, even after five years. His shoulder is bent at an odd angle, white muscle shirt completely soaked through. A thin stream of blood meanders down his temple and into the muddy runoff below.

“Guess that’s to be expected.” Rogue wipes the blood away with leather-gloved fingers.

He’ll wake up soon. The streets are completely deserted at this time of night — almost two in the morning on a Wednesday. No one to call the cops. Beneath the flickering light, the shadows cast by his features appear to lengthen before retreating again.

He’s handsome, at least. Moreso than Rogue remembers, and perhaps far more than deserved given the context. A coil of guilt curls up in her belly.

“Already come this far,” Rogue mutters. With a grunt, she stands, damp ends of her floor-length coat clinging uncomfortably to her ankles. She grabs Logan’s leg above muddy, torn-up boots. His leg hair rustles against her gloved fingers. “No use givin’ up now.”

It’s still drizzling. Ice-cold pricks of rain start to soak her back as she attempts to pull Logan out of the gutter. It seems undignified to leave him there, given what she’s about to ask him to do. Her lower back throbs in protest.

“The hell — whadya weigh, three hundred pounds?” The flickering lights are starting to make her head throb. Runoff trickles past her heeled boots with a soft hiss. When she tugs a final time, her heels slip right out from underneath her.

A frustrated scream leaves her lips before she can stop it. Her ass soaked with muddy rainwater and her hip throbbing from where it’d clipped the curb, she storms back up to Logan’s head and rips off her glove.

His coarse stubble on her fingertips is electrifying. His essence floods her through her along that thin contact of skin on skin. The taste of cheap beer, burn of cigarette smoke in her lungs, knuckles aching after a well-thrown punch, a loneliness that gnaws at the tattered edges of his soul. Virility floods through her.

She counts up to five, taking in slow measured breaths. The glove goes back on as soon as she’s done, leather squeezing tightly at her fingers.

Her back doesn’t hurt.

“Okay, darlin’. Let’s go.” Rogue tosses her hair over her shoulder before scooping Logan up. With her arms under his back and his knees, he’d almost look like a princess — if it weren’t for the way his mouth hung open, head flopping limply over her arm.

Mud and all, she tosses him into the front seat.

“Whew!” Rogue grabs a towel out of the trunk. Wipes off her gloves, her face, and strips off her coat before tossing everything back into the trunk. “I could get used to that. Wow.”

The car’s engine rumbles to life. A thick drizzle coats the windshield. She flips the wipers on and stares out at the little wavering asphalt. The gas station, tattoo shop, and convenience store on this side of the street are all closed. The only sign of life is the bar at the end of the road. Up on the sign, El Apocalipsis is scrawled in yellow neon.

Rogue snorts. “Don’t need a translator to figure out that one, do ya?” She leans over, tapping aggressively at Logan’s cheek. “Wake up, sleepyhead. Gotta tell me where to take ya.”

He doesn’t respond. The seconds tick by. The memory of unfamiliar lips gliding against her own spirals through her mind. She chases it like a feather in the wind — flash of red, the scrape of her stubble against soft cheeks — before it’s gone completely. The windshield is almost completely obscured when she looks back.

“Logan.” She taps his cheek again, harder this time. The sound of leather on skin fills the car. She’d probably stalled his healing when she touched him. A violent frustration fills the empty spaces around her heart. “Wake up.”

This time, dazed eyes flutter open. Pupils the size of saucers stare back at her. Dry lips part. Rogue can’t stop herself from grinning.

“Found ya,” she says. Hadn’t been an easy task, either. Folks a lot smarter than her had been chasing him for years. But Rogue was nothing if not determined. “Where’s home, darlin’?”

Logan blinks. He lurches forward, smashing his hand into the airbag. Rogue shushes him, but doesn’t get too close. Terror, panic, the give of a delicate neck under her broad palms; the sensation of a needle digging into the nook of her elbow. Rogue had learned that one the hard way.

With furrowed eyebrows, Logan’s gaze finally fixes on her. “Kid?”

The smile’s wiped off her face in an instant.

“I’m twenty-six.” She pushes in the clutch and shifts into first with a double thunk. Some part of her hopes Logan notices that she drives stick. “Not a kid.”

Logan stares out the windshield. His chest is heaving with panic. “Where — ?”

“You’re drunk,” Rogue answers. This isn’t going to go well. She can feel it in her bones. But drastic times call for drastic measures. “Pulled you outta the gutter. Where’s home?”

His beard hasn’t been shaved in days. The smell of sweat, beer, and smoke fills up the car. She presses her lips together and tries to cast her own motivations in piecemeal. Sixty percent pathetic desperation, thirty-five percent fear of her own impending death, five percent the nostalgic memory of her schoolgirl crush. Those had been simpler times.

“Truck — “ He wipes at his face, muddy rainwater dripping onto his palm. He turns to look out the back window. “Truck’s about two miles down the road.”

“Cool,” Rogue says. This isn’t going to go over well. It can’t go over well. The car swings in a wide U-turn. At least Logan had been walking in the correct direction when he’d collapsed in the middle of the road.

She drives slow. Logan stares at her, then out the window, then down at his own hands. She wonders if he can feel that she sapped away just a little bit of him. When she reaches, the embers of him are still alive in the back of her mind. A flash of claws sinking through skin, fat, guts, spine shocks her like a jolt of electricity.

And then he’s gone completely.

Silence sets in. Rogue gnaws on her own bottom lip.

“What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Logan had set up in the middle of nowhere. Water clouds the headlights like dust.

“Um,” Rogue says. She’d imagined this a thousand times. Distracted, driving in the rain, while Logan is drunk had never been one of those scenarios. Lying doesn’t sit right with her, either. “Got somethin’ to ask ya.”

More silence. The wheels churn against broken asphalt.

“Okay.” Logan’s staring at her, expectant.

She coughs. “Best wait until — um, until we get there.”

Another long few beats. Rogue’s heartbeat pounds in her ears.

“Get where?” Logan eventually asks. Rogue pulls off the road, tires scuttling over gravel. The trailer sits demurely behind a cluster of trees. “Oh. Right.”

“And you probably need to sober up, first.”

“Right.” Logan pauses. He stares at her. Even damp, his hair still twists up into little points atop his head. His head bobs up and down five times, lips twitching around a few unrecognizable words. “You’re twenty-six.”

Rogue pulls the keys from the ignition. He’s still staring, waiting for a response. “Yeah?”

His tongue on his lips. Sparse mustache stubble gives way to a thicket of beard on his chin. Rogue wonders if it’s rough on his tongue.

“Why’d you get on the train?”

Rogue squints, wrinkling her nose. It takes her a second to realize what Logan’s asking her.

“Oh.” The realization dawns on her quickly. She still has dreams, sometimes — not so much about the metal cutting through her, but about the horror-struck look on Logan’s face as he’d realized what he’d done. And then the way she’d sucked his full brown eyes completely dry. How she’d left him empty and vacant. “I, um — I almost killed you.”

“How.”

The look he gives her is heavy. Rogue can feel her eyes go shiny with unshed tears. This is humiliating. Her fingers tremble as she grips the wheel, but her voice remains steady.

“I was. You stabbed me. I grabbed you.” Her lungs burn when she breathes in, long and slow. “You were havin’ a nightmare.”

Logan’s fingers pry hers off the steering wheel. The warmth doesn’t soak through the leather.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just had to make sure.”

Rogue nods. She wipes at her eyes. It’s not the memory that’s got her tearing up, but the anxiety twisting that twists in her gut. She hasn’t seen Logan in years. No one has — not really. But the memories of him aren’t going to feel the same after this.

With rain pattering against the ceiling, she squeezes back.

“You wanna come in? Not much, but…” He trails off.

It occurs to Rogue that Logan may not love her anymore. Perhaps now, or perhaps after she tells him why she’s there. With a bit of force, she pulls her own hand away.

“Sure,” she says, cracking open the car door. “That’d probably be best.”

—

“I’d always imagined you livin’ in the mountains.” The trailer’s small, one chair, table about the length of her forearm, a few cabinets, and mattress covered in a threadbare gray sheet. “Livin’ in some li’l cabin. Happier than a pig in poop.”

Logan’s crouched at the edge of the mattress, arms clasped around his knees. “You get more southern since the last time I saw you?”

A smile tugs at the edge of her lips. “I’ve been leanin’ into it. Kinda my thing, now.”

Logan grunts. He pulls out a cigar. “Last one,” he says, shoving it between his lips.

Rogue presses her lips together. “You might,” she starts, as Logan pulls out a lighter. “You might wanna save that.”

His gaze flicks from her, down to the lighter, then back again. “Okay.” He tosses the cigar onto the cluttered countertop next to the sink. “What’re you here for, then?”

His voice is rough. A shiver rattles down Rogue’s spine. She squeezes her own palms between two bony knees, making eye contact with the floor.

“Must be serious.” The tip of his boot taps against the barren floor. It’s not just limited to the floor, Rogue realizes as she tries to look anywhere except at Logan. Dirty plates in the sink, a knife sitting on the windowsill by her arm. Nothing that could be called decoration. It makes her a little sad. “You’ve been followin’ me for a few months.”

Surprise snaps her gaze back up to Logan. “You knew?”

“Knew it was someone.” He leans back onto the heels of his palms. “Didn’t think it’d be you.”

“Oh,” Rogue says. She wonders if he’s happy to see her, or unhappy. If he would’ve stopped if he’d known. If he isn’t thinking anything because he’s still drunk. “Right, yeah. Probably weren’t plannin’ on seein’ me anytime soon.”

Rogue’s heart pounds in her ears. The silence stretches, tugging uncomfortably at her guts.

“You gotta give me somethin’, kid.”

She visibly flinches. “Oh, please don’t call me that.”

Rough leans forward, hiding her face in her hands. From between the cracks in her fingers, she barely catches the way Logan raises his palms up.

“Fine, fine. I get it, you’re not a kid anymore.”

“Just gonna make this harder.”

She breathes out, slow and controlled. She’d been practicing. Same stuff Logan had tried to teach her all those years ago that she’d never taken too seriously. Expectantly, Logan waits.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I’m nervous.”

Rogue had tried this conversation every which way in her mind. Had practiced in front of the mirror. Every intro flips past like a flashcard: I’m sorry I’m asking this, I promise this isn’t about some boy, I’ve missed you, I understand if your answer is no, I can just pretend this never happened if you say no, I know this is inappropriate, but…

What comes out of her mouth is, “The world is looking really not good, Logan.”

She stares at him. Scruffy, handsome, unspeakably sad. When he sighs, bowing his head, she catches a glimpse of the nightstand behind him. A pair of glasses and a little bird sit under the lamp, both cast in red. Her heart aches.

“I’m not fightin’ anyone,” Logan sighs. “I love ya. But I’m done with that. As much as I can be.”

Rogue’s mouth goes dry. “No, no, um. It’s more. It’s personal.” Heart racing, sweat squeezing out of her pores. “Can you just — I just want ya to know I’m sorry that I’m even bringin’ this up. I know — I know that you just wanna be left alone. Which is fine. And I’m honestly feelin’ like a complete yellow-belly right about now, but I came all this way, so I guess I can’t just not ask, or — I mean I could, but…”

The knot in her throat swells up. She wants to cry. Logan growls in annoyance.

“Spit it out.”

Rogue bites into her lower lip. She stares down at her own black boots, scuffed at the tip. The visions that she’d played with, alone in bed in the dead of night, wherein Logan holds her hand, squeezes her shoulders, and lets her rest her head on his chest, feel ridiculous in hindsight. The fantasy that he might even like what she’s about to ask him feels completely childish.

“Um,” Rogue says. Stubbornly, she forces herself to look him in the eye. “I wanna have sex before I die.”

Rain drizzles onto the window. The seconds tick by. Logan stares at her, confused. It takes Rogue a long moment to realize that the complete lack of response means he probably hadn’t understood her in the first place. Humiliation flushes her cheeks bright red.

“Okay,” Logan says. He stands up and digs a plastic cup out of one of the cabinets. “And what, you need my permission?”

Logan turns to her, raising an eyebrow as he holds out the cup. Rogue shakes her head no.

The tap twists on. Rogue watches as he fills the cup, the bare remnants of a logo nearly scratched off the sides. His throat bobs as he swallows, a thin stream of water meandering from the corner of his lip and into unkempt facial hair. Rogue’s jaw flops up and down like a fish.

“No, I mean — with you.”

He chokes. Water backsplashes into the cup. More spills from his mouth, dribbling onto his already-damp shirt. Rogue can’t help but flinch.

“Ha. Ha.” He slams the cup down on his counter. The look he shoots her is genuinely terrifying. “Very funny.”

This may be the worst decision Rogue has ever made.

“I’m not joking?” She doesn’t mean for the words to upturn with hesitation. Biting into her own tongue, she wishes she’d gone for sarcastic, instead. Sitting there quietly, silently begging for his approval, can’t possibly be helping. She leans back, squares her shoulders, and tries again. “I’m not joking.”

Logan’s staring at her like she’s grown a second head.

Raindrops tap on the window. Rogue bites into her own lip, tilting her chin up as she holds Logan’s befuddled gaze. No going back now.

“Why?” Logan asks. His gaze flicks down to Rogue’s gloved hands, her turtleneck, down the length of her gloved legs. “I thought you…”

Lips pressed into a thin line, Rogue nods. “The cure. Yeah. Got about three months outta that.” She laughs, the sound dry and humorless. The look Logan gives her is unreadable. “Hell in a damn handbasket, that was. Don’t know about the others, but when my powers came back — it was like I was a teenager again. Lost all the progress I’d made before.”

She remembers the way Bobby’s lips had gone stiff under hers. The agonizing seconds that had ticked by, chills running down her spine, before she’d realized what was happening. Sobbing uncontrollably over his bed in the basement infirmary. By the time he’d woken up, nearly two months later, the last vestiges of him had finally been fading from her mind.

Rogue had been the one to break up with him. At least another month of crying had followed. The conversation had barely even been necessary — just formalizing what they both had already known.

“I’m sorry,” Logan says.

She’s staring at the floor again. Logan’s wet shoes stare back at her. She had never spoken aloud any of the things she’d learned about Bobby from the facsimile of his consciousness floating in the back of her mind. She’d kept it to herself, even when he started dating Kitty a few months later. The secrets tucked away in the corners of Bobby’s mind weren’t things she was ever supposed to know. They were just a few unspoken bullet points at the end of a long list of Rogue’s regrets.

“Thanks,” Rogue says. “It’s not — it’s not fine, but I’ve made my peace with it.”

Slowly, he crouches down. Ever so slowly, he’s dripping onto the floor.

“Marie,” he says. His voice is rough and steady, painfully serious. Once again, Rogue flinches.

“No, don’t call me that.”

A laugh. “Okay, Rogue.” He holds his hand out. Gently, she places her fingers into his. The leather of her gloves squeaks as he squeezes her. “I hear what you’re saying. And I get what it’s like to be lonely.”

Guilt bubbles up in the pit of Rogue’s gut. He doesn’t need to say that part.

“But you’re young. You’re gonna find someone. You don’t need — ”

Silently, she shakes her head. “It’s not about finding someone, Logan. I’ve found plenty of guys. It’s about not killing ‘em.”

More silence follows. Rogue’s hand is shaking in his.

“I mean. You don’t have to touch someone to — “

Her gaze snaps up to his. Sarcasm spills out of her. “Logan,” she says. At least he has the decency to look sheepish. “Don’t gimme that. It’s not the same. And you know it.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

Frustration overtakes her. “You think I don’t know that? Logan, this is fucking humiliating!” She rips her fingers out of his, scowling at the look of surprise that flashes across his face. “I’m an adult. I say fuck now. Don’t act so shocked.”

The corners of Logan’s lips twitch as if resisting a smile. “You were an adult the last time I saw you, too.”

She remembers. Logan had stood with her at the entrance. She’d almost wanted him to tell her to stay, to tell her how to think. Instead, he’d trusted her to make her own decision.

“I know,” she says. Abruptly, she stands up. Squished up against the cabinets behind him, Logan quickly follows suit. “I’m an adult. So I can make my own decision. And you can say no, if you want. But I’m asking.”

He’s over a head taller than her. Chest to chest, Rogue finds herself tracing out the throb of his pulse as it wanders up his throat. Logan doesn’t say anything.

“Which is — I wanna have sex. With you.” When Rogue’s gaze flicks up, Logan’s peering down at her like a hawk would a mouse. She quickly averts her gaze. “So I don’t die a virgin.”

“You’re not gonna die,” Logan growls. His hands jerk up like he’s going to grab her by the shoulders. Then they stop, falling back to his sides. “Soon. You got time.”

Rogue snorts. “Dunno how much you’ve been payin’ attention, bud, but things aren’t goin’ too well out there. People die every day.”

At the Professor’s funeral, she’d never imagined the following years of her life would be characterized primarily by a series of battles. His headstone had been accompanied in quick succession by Scott’s, and Jean’s. She’d thought the whole affair had been a life-shattering low point. In reality, it had just been foreshadowing.

“I’m not comin’ back,” Logan hisses.

Rogue scowls. She crowds into him, two hands pushing hard on his chest until the cabinets behind him stop the movement. “I’m not asking you to.”

He won’t look at her. She doesn’t know it’s guilt or shame or just plain embarrassment, but in the moment she doesn’t particularly care. A rabid sort of desperation knots her fingers up in the damp fabric of his shirt.

“I just want you to fuck me.” Up on her toes, her mouth hovers only an inch from his chin. So close, but not yet touching. “So I don’t die without knowing what it feels like.”

The warmth of his palms soaks through the thin fabric of her sleeves. To Rogue’s chagrin, he only pushes her away.

“Listen to me,” Logan says. He looks her dead in the eye. Shame makes Rogue’s shoulders curl in on themselves. She’d thought that this many years later, with the curse of an even more extensive library of hurt and grief behind her, Logan wouldn’t make her feel so small anymore. “You do not want that.”

A flash of anger sends Rogue’s fist thumping lightly into his chest. He looks down at her leather-gloved hand, confused.

“Fuck you,” she hisses. She’d been able to taste Remy’s fear every time they kissed, counting down from ten like some perverted version of stop-and-go. “You don’t know what the hell I want.”

Deadpan, Logan meets her eyes. He even bends down just a little so they’re closer to eye level. Rogue wants to slap him.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

He squeezes her shoulders tightly. She bites her tongue, clenches her fists, and tries to keep her anger in check. It isn’t until she does that it finally occurs to her: at no point during this conversation had he said no.

“Stop trying to convince me to back off.” A strand of white hair swings between them on a pendulum. “I left the others for this. For three months. Dunno how many of my friends are dead now, or if I could’ve saved them if I wasn’t here. I knew that, and I know that now, and I’m here anyways. Because I want this once before I die. So just tell me yes or no.”

Logan is silent. Rogue wants to kill him — as if that’s even really possible.

“Or ask me a fuckin’ question or something. Anything.”

A sigh. “I dunno.”

It’s strange, the way her lips quirk into a grin. “That’s not a no,” she points out.

Logan says nothing. He looks conflicted. Later, she’ll feel guilty — but for the moment, she has to fight not to stamp her feet in glee.

“I’ll just — m’gonna sleep on it.”

He leans forward. It’s just an inch or so, but enough for Rogue to understand that he wants her to step back.

She doesn’t. Instead, she wraps her arms around his chest and squeezes him. He’s damp and warm, chest expanding beneath her cheek as she breathes in. “Thank you,” she says. “For thinking about it.”

“You’re — I’m not gonna say you’re welcome.” Slowly, Logan hugs her back. He smells like sweat. “This is weird.”

With a grin, Rogue replies, “Don’t care.”

—

The next morning, she wakes up to the sound of metal clinking and whispered swearing.

Humidity sticks to her cheeks. The stale, earthy smell of smoke clogs her sinuses. Pinpricks of light shine through a canvass of burgundy. Her back aches from the sunken spot in the middle of the mattress where the springs had long since collapsed.

In one swift motion, she sits up. Long strands of dark hair tickle her shoulders. The blankets fall from around her face, caress the bare skin of her arms, and finally pool in her lap. Logan’s already staring at her, tin mug clutched in his hand. The coffee pot spits and bubbles.

“Sorry. Was tryna…” He pauses, gaze flicking down from Rogue’s face. He turns back to the counter and clears his throat. “Was tryna be quiet.”

Her brain still fuzzy with sleep, Rogue absentmindedly digs her fingers into the stiff muscles in her shoulder. Her palm drops a moment later, tip of one finger catching in the hem of her sports bra. She blinks, remembering all at once that she’d slept in her underwear last night. Her wet clothes are hanging in the shower.

Logan still won’t look at her. When she glances down at herself, her nipples are visible through the thin fabric. She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

With a yawn, Rogue stretches. “Logan?” she asks.

“Hm?” He’s staring at the counter. Trying and failing to act normal. It pisses her off — just a little. It’s hard to imagine Logan acting this way with any other woman. Maybe his mother, or his sister. If he even has either of those.

“Could you grab my duffel? Should be in the backseat.”

Rogue stands, stretching. She turns her back to Logan and spends a long, leisurely moment with her back arched and arms stretched above her head. Trying to give him permission to look. Perhaps it’s selfish of her, but she wants him to think she’s beautiful. More than that, she wants to be able to tempt him.

When she finally bends to pick up her keys from the bedside table, she’s careful not to disturb the shades or the little bird. She turns quickly, lobbing the fob in Logan’s direction. He catches them in the center of his palm even though his gaze stays fixed on the countertop.

Rogue tilts her head. She wonders how good his peripheral vision really is.

“Got it.”

He practically runs out the door. Maybe she should lay off. Give him some space. She had been his student. They’d met when she was seventeen. He’d done his best, for at least a couple of years, to step into the gaping hole the separation from her parents had left. That’s not the kind of relationship that time or distance washes away. Rogue knows, as much as she might want to, she can’t just wish it away.

Crouching down next to the side table, she fixes Logan’s mementos in her sight. If she’s being honest, she doesn’t want her relationship with Logan to change. Suspects he doesn’t want that, either. The sun reflects off red lenses. She knows they aren’t Scott’s real glasses — the coating isn’t nearly opaque enough, and the Ray-Ban logo on the side is an obvious giveaway. And the little red bird — a Robin, Rogue thinks — doesn’t seem like something Jean would ever have owned. They’re just tokens. Reminders.

Logan doesn’t want to forget. She understands.

The door creaks open, followed closely by the thump of her bag onto the floor. Rogue turns. Logan’s pulling the carafe out from the machine.

“Coffee?” he asks. “Black’s the only option.”

The smell makes Rogue’s mouth water. She unzips her bag. “Yes, please.”

Logan had insisted that she take the little twin mattress and Logan would sleep in the truck. Rogue had protested — she could sleep in her car, or curl up in the little chair by the table if that was too cold. Logan had muttered that he wasn’t gonna be sleepin’ much, anyway, before leaving the camper. The door had slammed behind him.

The process of getting dressed is always somewhat elaborate for Rogue. Briefly, she considers changing her underwear, but — Logan would probably just book it again.

Her shirt goes on first, thumbs hooked through the holes at the end. Collar rolled up to her jaw. Thin tights from her toes up to her knees, then jeans over that. The billowy ends of her shirt get tucked in. Tighten her belt to keep everything together. She pulls on a pair of ankle socks. Then, finally, she slides on her gloves.

Logan is watching her now. He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee. She re-packs her bag until only her clear makeup bag is left. It sits in her lap for a moment before she raises it up to her chest.

“Am I using this?” she asks.

Logan stares. “Huh?”

She huffs. “It’s makeup, darlin’.”

“I know what it is.”

Rogue puts a hand on her hip. “Great. So, am I wearin’ some?” When she doesn’t immediately receive a response, she continues. “Because I don’t need to get dolled up to enjoy the company of my Honda Civic.”

Logan’s jaw is tight. He continues sipping at his coffee anyways. “You don’t need to do anything on my account.”

“Logan.” Rogue glares. She snatches up her hairbrush, running it through the length of her hair a few times. It feels like he’s playing games with her. “Are we fucking or not?”

He manages to keep the drink in his mouth this time. Only coughs, setting the mug down onto the countertop. This time, Rogue actually allows herself a quiet snicker.

“Just — “ Logan sighs, rubbing at his face. He points at the chair. “Come sit down.”

She does, but not before grabbing her coffee cup. She lets her shoulder brush up against him and swears she feels him shiver.

The single chair creaks underneath her. She stares up at Logan and tries to hold onto her own confidence. This is going to work, she tells herself. There’s no way she came all this way for nothing. Logan had always been a softie.

“This isn’t because of some boy.”

The question makes Rogue laugh. It isn’t even phrased as a question, she realizes, but it sounds just like something Logan would’ve said to her years ago. “No,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I haven’t been with anyone in three years.”

Logan nods. “The cure,” he starts. It occurs to Rogue that he’d probably spent last night coming up with the questions, preparing to rattle down the list. The thought makes her want to roll her eyes. “Know it’s hard to get now, but you could — “

“It only works once,” Rogue says. The coffee is so acidic it makes her salivary glands seize up. She swallows anyways. “I’ve tried. And don’t even think of saying anything about the fact that I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity. I know.”

In fact, she’d tried. She’d held hands with Bobby every day, kissed him at every opportunity, told him she was ready. Rogue had wanted to live her life. At the time, she’d attributed Bobby’s reluctance to the fact that they had all the time in the world. Rogue had thought that she was rushing things. She wouldn’t find out otherwise until she nearly killed him.

Logan hesitates before delivering the next question. Rogue is grateful for the moment to try and counsel herself out of her own bitterness. It’s not like Bobby had known those few months would be her only chance.

“Have you actually tried to make this work. With some guy who’s not…” Logan trails off, gesturing wordlessly.

Rogue fills in the blanks. Somehow, leaving it unspoken is worse. “My former teacher? And lowkey father figure?”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she immediately changes her mind.

Logan defates like a balloon. His lips form a thin line. “Yeah?” he says.

Buying time, Rogue takes another sip of her coffee. She pretends, desperately, that this isn’t weird. “What do you mean, make it work?”

Logan’s face is red. From his nose to the tips of his ears. It won’t be until a long while later that she’ll recall this moment and understands the way Logan forges ahead as a testament to how much he loves her. In the moment, she’s just mortified.

“You understand that you can. Like the — Jesus fuckin’ Christ. You know what a condom is, right?”

Initially, Rogue wants to ask Logan if he’s stupid. Instead, she lets the question hang for a long moment. Takes another sip of bitter coffee. “They never let you teach sex ed, did they?”

“God, no.”

More coffee. It almost overpowers her own bitterness.

“That’s good. Yes, Logan. I know what a condom is. It doesn’t work like that.” Briefly, she considers going into detail: exactly what parts of a man’s body covers, the humiliation of attempting to expose only the most intimate parts of herself, the way fabric or latex would shift between two moving bodies. She keeps her mouth shut and spares both of them. “Are we done with the fifth degree, now?”

Embarrassment stains her cheeks. Logan isn’t faring much better.

“I just — I need to ask. I know you’re smart. You just gotta let me ask.”

His knuckles are white where he grips the countertop. She tries to keep a lid on her own excitement as she processes Logan’s words. Briefly, she imagines what it would feel like to have those broad palms wrapped tightly around her hips.

“Fine,” she says. Another sip of coffee. Logan seems to have completely given up on his.

He takes in a deep breath. “This isn’t some — “ he starts, before giving up. She’s can’t recall ever seeing him look this nervous. “If we do this. After, we’re gonna pretend it never happened.”

The if is spoken quietly. Rogue feels her pulse quicken. “Obviously.”

Logan’s tongue is pink on his lips. “You can’t come back with feelings later.”

Rogue narrows her eyes. The mug sits defensively in front of her mouth. “You can’t come back with feelings later.”

Silently, Logan’s thick eyebrows furrow in doubt.

“Now you see how ridiculous that sounds.”

This is not, apparently, the response that Logan is hoping for. He crosses his arms, expression shifting from an open anxiety to stern disapproval. The kind of look a teacher gives a student. Rogue’s heart drops into her ass.

“I’m not an idiot. I know you had a crush on me.”

She bites her lip. “When I was eighteen. You were my — you saved my life. Multiple times, depending on how you look at it. And even without that, it would’ve been normal. At that age.”

She sounds defensive. Panic snakes through her veins.

“And that’s not why you’re doing this now.”

She sets the half-empty mug down on the table. A fat drop of coffee sloshes over the edge and streams down the side. Embarrassing honesty time, she supposes.

“Logan,” Rogue says. “I’m a person. I know you’re hot. And obviously the fact that you saved my life, and were nice to me, and looked out for me, and gave a shit about me when I was a kid makes me like you more. But it also makes this exponentially more weird. This is weird. I’m embarrassed. If I had literally any other options, I would take them.”

The urge to cry takes her by surprise. She wants to whisper to herself that it’s not a big deal. She wants to walk out the door of Logan’s little trailer, get in her car, and never come back. She wants for the first time she runs into him to be a few years from now, when mutants can live safely, when he’s come to terms with the state of the world, when she’s unlocked the key to controlling her abilities that the Professor had always assured her must be locked away inside her somewhere.

Rogue wants that future. The one where she could hug him and thank him for always believing in her. They could drink a beer and remember the good old days. But she knows by even asking, she’s ruined that — let alone if she actually survives the next few years.

“It’s like — it’s not the romance. Or the loneliness.“ She starts talking without Logan even asking for more. She doesn’t even look at him. “Like, I’ve had romance. It’s nice, you know, but it’s kind of hard to lose yourself in that when you know they’re always afraid you’re gonna kill ‘em. And then, like, you’d think it was about the orgasms, at least, but — “

Tears cling to leather-tipped fingers as she swipes them under her eyes. As mortified as she feels, Logan stays serious. She laughs.

“I know how to get myself off. Very well, thank you. It’s literally just the experience. Like, I don’t feel like I have to. I don’t feel like I’m incomplete without it.” She sniffs, loudly. All at once, she’s grateful she hadn’t put any makeup on. “Life just fucking sucks, you know? I just wanna get laid once before I die. Without bein’ afraid I’m gonna send some poor fuck to an early grave.”

Rogue feels sick. She stares down at the table, unable to bring herself to look at Logan. She’d managed to hold it together last night. It’s mortifying, how much she cares about this. It feels almost like she’s guilt-tripping Logan, one of the only people in the world who could ever give her this, except for the fact that the tears that fall down her cheeks are completely genuine.

She’d given up on casual intimacy, then on dating entirely. Giving up on having sex shouldn’t be the hardest part. Perhaps it’s that part of her feels like Bobby stole her one opportunity to have this. Or perhaps it’s just symbolic — one last sacrifice in a long line of sacrifices.

Pathetically, Rogue sniffles. Logan remains silent. She wipes at her own tears. Logan must think of her as even more of a child, now. Crying over the idea of being rejected. Unable to deal with the reality of disappointment. A sharp flare of indignation lashes at her tongue.

“Dude, if you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to search for some excuse!” When she finally glances up, Logan’s expression is much softer than she had imagined it would be. A sage kind of sadness crinkles the corners of his eyes. “You can just say if you don’t want to. I get if it’s too weird, or you’re not attracted to me, or taking some sad girl’s virginity just — sounds like a bummer! It’s fine. Just tell me — “

“Stop.”

Rogue does.

Logan drops to his knees in front of her. He pulls her hands away from her face. A protest rises and quickly dies when she sees his thumb approaching. Muddy, unrefined empathy sloshes across the open connection between them. The dull ache in her back fades.

His presence lingers even as he pulls his thumb away, slick with her tears.

“Not good with words,” he says. The warmth of his fondness radiates through her like a hug. As it fades, Rogue squeezes her own elbows, desperate for more. “You get it?”

She nods.

Logan’s thumbs are damp on the inside of her knees. “There are conditions,” he says. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it my way.”

Rogue sniffles. Logan reaches over her and places a small stack of napkins next to her elbow. Humiliated, she blows her nose.

“Kinda selfish, isn’t it?” She’s trying to joke.

Logan glares at her.

“I mean, how many times have you had sex? A few hundred?”

His eyebrows raise, lips quirking up. “Try thousands.”

It’s funny, at least a little. Rogue doesn’t know why, but the thought makes another sob shake through her. “You motherfucker,” she hisses, laughing at herself even as tears spill over her lashline. “I should call you a slut or somethin’, but hell if I’m not jealous.”

Logan actually laughs this time. His thumb traces out little circles on the inside of her knee. “Just means I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, regular cock in the henhouse.” Rogue rolls her eyes and ignores the confused look Logan gives her. She wipes her nose again. “What’re the conditions?”

Logan clears his throat. “Well, I gotta be gone by tomorrow morning. So we’re gonna do it today.” He leans back, scratching at the back of his neck. There’s something strangely endearing about how hard he’s thinking. “I can’t really take you anywhere.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Rogue already knows. Mutants are safe these days, and Rogue doesn’t quite blend in. Instead, she asks, “Why would you need to take me anywhere.”

A flicker of frustration flashes in the quirk of Logan’s lips. “It’s your first time. Gonna feed you first. At bare minimum.”

Rogue can’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, what happened to no romance?” Logan looks at her like she’s stupid. Maybe she is. Blithely, she decides she doesn’t care. “Or do you always take your floozies out to dinner before you let ‘em take a ride?”

She keeps cackling even as Logan continues to glare at her. “‘S’not romance. It’s common decency.”

“Whatever you say, sugar.” She raises her hands. “Your choice. I don’t care ‘bout that part.”

“What part do you care about?” Rogue frowns in confusion. “What — I mean, is there anything that you wanna do?”

“Oh,” Rogue says. Logan’s sitting on the floor now, embracing the absurdity of the situation. She lets herself admire him. The curvature of his chest, bulge of his arm muscles, way his waist narrows down so thin it almost looks delicate. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t attracted to him. Hadn’t thought about it, plenty of times before. She wouldn’t be here, otherwise. “I want you to be on top.”

Logan’s jaw drops. It only takes him a second to get his composure back, teeth clicking shut, but the initial shock had been impossible to miss. “That is not a good idea.”

She frowns. “Why not? That’s, like, the most normal way to have sex. The guy goes on top.”

Rogue knows this because she’s seen it in movies, primarily. She only realizes the words sound ridiculously uncouth as they come out of her mouth. Thankfully, Logan completely ignores that. “Because if I pass out, I weigh three hundred pounds. You’re not gonna be able to get me off.”

“I will,” Rogue laughs. She watches the gears turn in Logan’s head. “Get your mind outta the gutter. You forgot how my powers work. How do you think I got you in my car?”

Logan freezes. “Oh,” he says. “That does — yeah, that does make sense. Okay.” He stands, remarking almost absentmindedly to himself, “I mean, you’re only gonna do it once, might as well do it every which way, right?”

The comment catches her completely off-guard. Rogue imagines herself perched atop Logan’s lap, bent over like a dog in front of him, her back pressed up against the windows, her legs wrapped around his hips while he —

A broad, bare palm in front of her face. “Touch me.”

“Huh?” Rogue asks.

Logan wiggles his fingers. “Gotta know how much I can take. Come on.”

“Oh,” she says. She starts to peel off her glove. “Most people can take about twenty seconds before they pass out. Thirty seconds before they — well. It’s bad.”

She hesitates. Her fingers hover over his.

“I’m not most people.”

Logan doesn’t hesitate as he interlocks their fingers. He barely even reacts, the veins on his forehead throbbing as the connection flies open like a floodgate. She sees herself through Logan’s eyes, feels herself try to focus on the counter backsplash only to find her attention drawn right back to the one place she’s trying to avoid. The fabric of her green sports bra stretches over her chest as she arches, replaced by her own narrow waist, long legs, heart-shaped ass when she turns. She bites into her lip, cock twitching as she tears her gaze away.

A smile cracks across Rogue’s lips. With Logan flooding her mind, she dives deeper.

In the recesses between her blinks, she sees visions of herself. Beneath him, on top of him, beside him, feels the disembodied sensation of a woman stretching around his cock, all echoed through the walls of memory and imagination. The guilt comes in secondary. The details are fuzzy, staring down at the top of her little green hood with a younger version of herself curled up against her chest. The memory of the child she had been throbs painfully in her mind like an open wound, protectiveness and arousal and the insidious gnawing of self-hate —

Breathless, Rogue’s gaze flicks up to Logan. A thin stream of sweat meanders down his temple. Other than that, he looks fine.

“Have you been keeping count?” she asks.

“Three minutes,” he says. His voice is a little rough. “Thought you said you got stronger.”

She can’t help but laugh. He grins back. The connection swings open wide, the essence of Logan trickling over her skin, her muscles, her bones. She breathes in and hears the wind rocking between the trees outside, feels the camper sway side to side, smells the earth dried in the treads of Logan’s boots.

“I’ve been practicing.” Carefully, she stands up. She squeezes Logan’s hand like a vice. The acrid, bitter aftertaste of the coffee suffuses her mouth. She wrinkles her nose. “Can’t believe you drink that stuff with super taste.”

Logan squeezes her hand back. More firm than he ever has before, Rogue thinks, but the pressure doesn’t even approach the point of pain. “I got super taste?”

Surprised, Rogue laughs. “Guess you’d never know any different, would you?” She inches closer in the narrow space, pressing the back of Logan’s hand between her breasts. “Think about me?”

She’d only ever received flashes before. The impression of herself through Bobby’s eyes, the itch in Remy’s fingers to touch her. But Logan’s thoughts are almost perfectly crystallized as they shudder from his body and into hers. She can match them to the movements of his eyes: a fierce rush of protectiveness as their eyes meet, just a favor as he stares at her mouth, a whispered but that dissolves into dogged arousal as his gaze skates over the line of her shoulder.

A soft noise of pleasure threatens to rise in the back of Rogue’s throat. Her heart is pounding as she leans forward and nuzzles her cheek into Logan’s chest.

He wants her. Rogue’s free hand twists into the fabric of his shirt. His arousal reverberates clearly through the caverns of her mind, touching even the deepest parts of her as she soaks him up like a sponge. The pangs of guilt and uncertainty only make it feel that much more real.

“Logan.” She speaks into the fabric of his shirt. It isn’t until the words reach her ears that she realizes how desperate she sounds.

The arm that wraps tightly around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, is more than enough reassurance that she’s fine.

“Feels good,” Rogue mutters. She could lose herself in this. Imagines standing there forever. She could linger in the warmth of Logan’s arms, the safety of being protected, the satisfaction of being wanted.

“‘Sposed to.” Logan’s lips are warm against her scalp.

It isn’t until a gnawing pain starts to rattle down the connection that she snaps back to reality.

Rogue jumps back, and the connection connection slams shut like a door slammed in her face. Her back hits the chair with enough force to send the whole camper rocking.

“Why’d you stop?” Logan asks. He’s sweating.

Rogue’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Logan’s still inside of her. Might be forever, with that amount of contact. She has no idea if it’s a function of time or the life force or something else entirely — the soul. Memories of herself flicker across her mind’s eye, crystal clear.

“You were hurting.”

Much less defined, a flash of red. A smile. The fierce burning of love in the pit of her stomach. An ache that rattles her bones.

The silver of Logan’s claws flashes in the morning light. “I’m always hurting.”

Breath knocked from her lungs, Rogue can only stare. She watches Logan’s veins retreat back into his arms, pallor quickly following suit. She hadn’t absorbed as much of him as she would’ve someone else. The memories are easy to push to the back of her mind.

“You get people’s memories, too, right?”

It isn’t until Logan speaks that Rogue realizes she’s been staring off into space. Logan’s still settling inside of her.

“Kind of,” she says. “Usually it’s — they’re more like feelings. And I can ignore it if I need to. Like a voice in the back of my head.”

Logan nods. His claws are the last to retreat, slotting back into his knuckles. She searches for the memory and, for a split-second, feels the fullness of her own forearm. Her eyes go wide.

“You okay?” he asks.

She laughs. “I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine. I could go longer.” Logan shakes his head. “Try again in a second.”

Rogue nods. The phantom sensation of her knuckles splitting open slices down her arm — very deliberately, she pushes the thought away. She thinks about herself, instead. Logan’s palms on her knees. Wiping away her tears.

“How long does it stay?” Logan asks.

“Huh?”

He crouches down on the floor in front of her. “Me.”

“Oh,” she says. The warmth of him pulses in the back of her mind. Skin to skin, she wants to touch him again. Arousal throbs low in her stomach. “Depends, but — usually for a while.”

“Anything you see — “

She looks down at her own knees. “I know. I won’t tell anymore, or — ask you about it.”

Logan exhales sharply through his nose. She can feel the way the air moves across her bare hand. “You might see some bad shit. Things you can’t handle. Don’t go lookin’ for it. And if — “

“I’ll tell you to stop,” Rogue says. “If I need.”

Silence hangs. “Good,” Logan says eventually. “Yeah. Good.”

Rogue watches his face. Chapped lips pursed in a frown, crow’s feet pinched in worry, eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers. The old, broken essence of him settles into the back of her mind.

“Try again?” he asks, extending his bare palm to hers.

Rogue hesitates. She bites her lip, then asks, “Kiss me?”

Quietly, Logan snorts. Rogue almost feels embarrassed, wondering if the request is too romantic. His fingers run through her hair, then brush the shell of her ear before curling around the nape of her neck. Rogue’s anxiety settles like sand on the beach.

Once again, it’s Logan’s touch — dry lips against her own — that reassures her. Everything is fine.

#rogue x logan #idk im sorry i don't think there's a shipname for this bc it's objectively cursed #😬#the idea that rogue never gets control of her powers as a direct result of xavier getting fucking xplodded is like deeply hilarious to me #also like just extremely enthralled with the sad boy grief logan whose jean and scott are dead #love that guy #im here to have him destroy himself a little bit for the sake of others and nothing else

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emulation-0 · 10 months ago

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@cursedvibes ty for tagging me ik it was a while ago 😭

20 Questions for Fic Writers

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

on my profile 32, i think? (but actually 35)

2. Whats your total word count?

59,890 tho i do have like 56000 more words in orphaned works

3. What fandoms do you write for?

primarily Jujutsu Kaisen, i had some ideas for other fandoms but those remain as wips... honestly after this tsumiki one im not sure i will be writing for a while siebjfneofneod

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

there's a fire in my brain and im burning up (itadori)

this tired old machine is a-rumbling (higuruma)

the devil's after both of us (itafushi)

oh, lay my curses out to rest (tokyo students + shoko)

oh, ashes ashes dust to dust (nobamaki)

(this makes me upset im not gonna lie cuz looking back and reading these im struck by how mid they are but sjdbdkneodks its whatever)

5. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

i do for the most part !! i love receiving comments and i want people to know how much i appreciate it :) i also love when ppl reply to comments i leave on their fics so i want to do the same

6. what's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

ummm my Curses series was more one-shots without actual plot.. and as many of those were shibuya or post shibuya they were all pretty angsty beifbekdjeodk. i wouldnt say any have this kind of ending because then there would have to be a story. but i would say the saddest one ive written is 'keep running for the sink but the well is dry'

7. what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

'light of a new morning' for sure. this one actually had some kind of development i would say. also i have bias because this is one of the only three ive written that dont totally suck. though the tsumiki wip im working on for sure will have an even happier ending

8. do you get hate on fic?

im not popular enough for that lol

9. do you write smut?

10. do you write crossovers?

i had one in mind a while ago but it escaped me... i never have before but that doesnt mean i never will, even if it is unlikely

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

i dont think so

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

no but id be honored if so. especially if it was one im proud of

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

no, but im open to the idea

14. whats your all-time favorite ship?

i go through phases so i cant really answer this lol. my interest waxes and wanes. rn though im really obsessed with uroyuki and in a satosugu phase

15. whats a wip you want to finish but probably won't?

there is a shokohime wip i started two or so years ago about shoko's backstory and the developing of their relationship up until the present but at some point there was a research aspect to it and i thought 'ill do it later'. and then i never did 💀 id like to continue it but i still lowk think it will sit there.. i dont have enough motivation to do research ekdbfkenfkdk

there is also a trigun one i started, it was kind of plotless, just vibes, but i wasnt able to get their dialogue right and idk. maybe when i get into a trigun phase again ill find inspiration and continue

16. what are your writing strengths?

i think im good at describing a scene and emotions. im good at making this kind of poetry

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

im soooo shit at dialogue and even when im not shit at it i keep overthinking it and ruin it anyway lol

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i mean ive done it (but i orphaned those... lol) and im doing it now for the tsumiki wip so its fine i guess. but id only do it for languages that i know and if not, after profuse grammar checking. also ofc it has to make sense within the context of the story

19. first fandom you wrote for?

septimus heap eiebdkwbdkebd it was so bad

20. favorite fic you've written?

ill do you one better and say three... and these are the not-mid ones

light of a new morning (tsumiki and itadori)

after hours (mob and reigen)

before-the-storm bloom (uroyuki)

my writing style changed a lot and i think these ones emulate the way it is now the best

idk 20 writers but tagging @that-was-anticlimactic @zukkaoru @blackhallow and anyone else who wants !!

#between drawing and writing and like. my life. time gets a little stretched thin so i dont write as much as id like 😭 anyway #ty for tagging me!! and sorry again jjdjdfjdnfodnfod #tag game #hanancouldyounot

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an-android-in-a-tutu · 2 years ago

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The answer to that question, it turns out, is "steal a car."

The road they landed on is gently winding and wooded on either side. It's not wilderness, the road is well-maintained, and you can catch glimpses of openness through the trees where it's been clear-cut, the loggers leaving just enough of a strip of greenery to prevent people in passing cars from seeing the ugly barrenness left behind. At least, that's what Claire's mom told her, once, in the back of the car driving down a road just like this one, and she never questioned it then.

She's learned since that parents aren't as infallible as they seem when you're twelve.

(She still doesn't know what happened to her mom. Now she never will.)

The point is that it's not a busy road and it's not studded with helpful landmarks that'll tell them where they've landed, so they've got no way of knowing how long it'll take them to get anywhere by following it.

They need transportation.

Of course, their ability to procure it relies on a car actually turning up, and it takes a solid half hour of walking down the side of the road before they hear the approaching rumble of an engine cutting through the quiet night. Claire sticks out her thumb, and Cas slides back down into the ditch out of sight.

The car that ends up slowing to a stop next to her is a blue prius, and the guy at the wheel looks like a total soccer dad. He's got laugh lines for fuck's sake, and the first thing out of his mouth when she cautiously approaches the window is "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just looking for a ride." She mumbles.

"What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" He asks, all fatherly concern.

"Trying to get back to town." She replies vaguely. "Do you know how far it is?"

"About another twenty minutes, if you'll let me give you a ride." He smiles at her. "A lot longer if you keep on walking."

Claire hesitates, wavering on the spot.

"Do you?" He asks, smile fading. "Want a ride, I mean."

"Yeah, that's kind of what the whole sticking out my thumb thing was about." She replies, but she still doesn't move.

His expression softens. "Hey, it's okay, I promise. Why don't you hop in the back? I'll take you wherever you want to go, no strings attached, I swear."

"Shit." Claire grimaces. "I was kinda hoping you'd be a creep or something."

"What? Why?" He exclaims.

The driver's side door gets yanked open and he turns around to come face to face with the barrel of an assault rifle.

"Get out of the car." Castiel orders, voice about as rough as it always is, but in context it's probably especially intimidating. To Claire, he adds: "Not every car theft is going to function as karmic retribution, sometimes you have to go with the convenient option."

"Oh god. Oh god, please don't shoot me." Says the guy, putting his hands up and staring wide eyed at the gun."

"I know that I'm just saying I'd feel better about it if he'd been at least a little bit skeezy." She rebuts, pulling open the passenger side door as well. "I'm young and pretty and I've got nowhere to go, it wouldn't be that hard for some guy to get ideas."

The guy in the driver's seat hasn't moved, and he looks about ready to wet himself.

"Out." Cas repeats, gesturing with his gun. The guy whimpers a little, and Claire winces. "It's not as though people never pick up hitchhikers with altruistic intentions, this was as likely as any other outcome. Maybe more so."

"Yeah, whatever." She rolls her eyes. "Dude, you gotta get out of the car."

He jerks up in his seat, finally startled into motion, and immediately gets caught on his seat-belt.

"You have to unbuckle yourself first." Castiel informs him helpfully, gun never wavering an inch. The guy starts scrabbling at the buckle frantically, not looking at what he's doing and making about zero progress.

"Please- please don't kill me." He begs, voice cracking. "I have a family."

"Congratulations." Castiel replies, bored. "Most humans do."

Claire makes a face. Castiel sees her making the face. He sighs.

"Claire." He says, disapproving.

She puts up her hands. "I feel bad!"

"We need transportation, Claire."

"He says it's not that far, we could probably make it to town on our own and just steal a car there." She points out. Not that either of them are great at hot-wiring vehicles, but they could probably manage, between the two of them, right?

"My feet hurt." Castiel declares, like it's the worst thing in the world and a totally reasonable reason to steel a car from a perfectly nice man instead of walking for an hour or two.

"Point." Claire says, sliding into the car and reaching over to unbuckle the guy's belt for him. Because, well, Cas' feet hurt. What can you do? "Sorry buddy, them's the breaks."

The guy lurches out of the car to get away from her, and then veers aside to give Cas as wide a birth as he can, hands coming up again. Cas keeps the gun trained lazily on him.

"You'll- you'll let me go now, right?" He asks.

"Mhm." Cas shrugs, gestures dismissively with one hand. "You need anything?"

"What?" The guy sounds like he's about to start crying.

"From your car." Cas clarifies, looking unimpressed. "Do you need anything?"

For a long minute the guy just stares at him.

"... Can I have my briefcase?"

Cas looks to Claire, and she twists around to look in the back.

"It's under the seat." The guy says, helpfully, and she contorts herself around over the centre console to grope blindly for it.

"You could just get out and go around." Castiel points out.

"I got it." Claire snaps back, feeling her fingertips brushing leather. She heaves herself forward a little more and manages to grasp the handle, yanking it up with her when she pulls back. "HA!"

She passes it through the open door to Castiel, who tosses it to the guy, who fumbles to catch it with numb fingertips and clutches it to his chest.

"Anything else?" Castiel asks.

"I think I left my cellphone on the passenger seat?" The guy replies tentatively. Claire turns around to look for it.

"I'm not seeing a cellphone." She says.

"Are you sitting on it?"

"I think I'd know if I was sitting on it, Cas-"

"What?"

"...Found it."

"Were you sitting on it?"

"Shut up." She tosses him the phone, which is a lot clunkier than she remembers cellphones being when she was a kid. She didn't actually ask how far back they ended up, if that's even something Cas can tell. Has she even been born yet? There's no way they're that far back in time. For one thing, the guy in the car is dressed basically normal. For another, there are cellphones. Cellphones aren't that old, are they?

Cas catches the thing, and instead of passing it along, he flips it open, looking at the little screen.

"Is this the date?" He asks, turning it to face the guy.

"Um... yeah? Wait, no-" He stutters, sweating under Cas' bland scrutiny. "The damn thing kept resetting on me and it's always such a hassle to change it so I just leave it... like that..."

He trails off, withering as Castiel stares at him.

"What is the date."

"October tenth?"

"Year."

"2005." He supplies promptly, clearly too terrified to comment.

"Thanks." Cas says, slinging his gun back over his shoulder, he tosses the phone over, underhand, and gets in the driver's seat. "Call someone for a ride."

"Our other car is in the shop-" The guy starts to say, but Cas slams the door and starts the engine, and he skitters back to the edge of the road like they're gonna swerve and hit him as they pull away.

"See? He'll be fine." Cas says. "He has another car and everything."

"Yeah but it's in the shop, Cas." Claire counters, waving at the guy in the rear-view as he stands there watching them, clutching his phone and briefcase to his chest. "Who's gonna drive his kids to soccer practice, now?"

"Soccer practice?" Castiel asks, amused.

"Well not in this car, obviously. This car is a sensible hybrid he takes on business trips. His wife drives a station wagon- ooh or a minivan- to cart their five kids to their various extracurriculars." She informs him, tilting her seat back and putting her feat up. "Soccer and baseball for the boys, ballet for the girls. Violin for their youngest who's the sensitive type. His names Jeremy. But now with no transportation, they won't get their required enrichment, driving their mother up the wall and putting a strain on their parents' marriage, leading to a messy divorce, and the stress will put Jeremy onto a dark path that leads him to abandon his passion for music." She shakes her head sadly. "He'll never play Carnegie hall, now."

"Claire, you never told me you were such a talented psychic." Castiel says mildly. "If you'd said something, perhaps I would have spared him. Also, put your seat-belt on."

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes, snorting, but she complies, not even bothering to point out that he's not wearing his, the hypocrite.

"We'll switch cars when we get to town," Cas says after a moment, "he'll get it back in a day or two, tops."

"We should," Claire points out, "because he is definitely going to call the cops on us. Kind of a bonehead move, giving him his cell back. You looking to get into a police chase?"

"Not yet, he won't." Castiel informs her. "He didn't have any bars."

"Sure," Claire says, "you couldn't help it could you."

Castiel keeps driving in silence.

"He was just... so pathetic." He says, finally. "Like a sad, wet dog."

Claire barks out a laugh.

"Mean!" She says, punching him in the shoulder, and he smiles back at her, pleased with himself.

"Where are we headed, anyway?" She asks. "You got a plan?"

Castiel hums thoughtfully.

"It's October tenth," he says, "on November second, in Palo Alto, California, Sam Winchester's girlfriend is murdered by a demon, sending him and his brother down the path that will eventually lead them to starting the apocalypse.

"It's not the first or the last domino, but it seems like as good a place to intervene as any."

"Plus, you know, sucks for her," Claire says. "Dying and all."

"Yes, sucks for her," Castiel muses. "Best if we can prevent it."

"So we're headed to California then?" Claire asks. "That'll be cool. Hey, we've got like three weeks, maybe we can hit the beach."

Castiel doesn't reply.

"Cas?"

"We have another stop, first." He doesn't look at her.

"Where?" She asks, uncertain.

"Pontiac." He says. "First, we're going to Pontiac."

They don't talk for the rest of the drive.

I HAVE. A self indulgent AU that I'm not sure I've ever discussed here but I'm too lazy to check. It's about endverse Cas travelling in time back to season one to stop the apocalypse, which has been done and done very well, but the twist is. Endverse Claire.

#spn #supernatural #long post #endverse #spn au #I DID IT

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peregrineggsandham · 2 years ago

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[Now on YouTube!]

The full version of my interpretation of Myla's song ("Bury my mother, pale and slight..."), based on the tune she hums. Sung by me (at 2am) (with a cold). I'm… actually pretty proud of how this turned out!

Context: When the city was condemned, were the miners still in Crystal Peak left outside? Did they wonder what happened to their families left within? Did they sing for them? For the knight and dreamers whose memorial they may once have seen? For the desperate hope for a brighter future? Even just a chance to mourn?

Additional Context: The really fun thing about rounds is how one by one the voices inevitably die off until there is only one remaining. :)

(I really didn't expect so many people to want to hear the whole thing! Many thanks to The Embraced One and Camellia Flingert on Youtube, whose recordings of Crystal Peak ambience provided the perfect background noise/pickaxes/ominous rumbling.)

Full lyrics under the cut.

Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, yo-na-la (Ke-ti-ya) ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ye-le-ki, ye-la-ka, no-na-na ye-le-ko

[Chorus:] None shall enter, none shall leave, the king has sealed our kin. But we yet breathe, unite and grieve and sing for those within. Gates will open; we take hope and mourn ‘till morning comes. Soon the knight will bring the day – it’s this the crystal hums!

Oh, bury my mother, pale and slight, Bury my father with his eyes shut tight, Bury my sisters two by two, And then when you're done, let's bury me too!

Oh, bury the knight with her broken nail, Bury the lady, lovely and pale, Bury the priest in his tattered gown, Then bury the beggar with his shining crown!

[Chorus]

Oh, bury the traitor marred by pride, Bury his daughter at her lover’s side, Bury the sage and his sons all three, But save by their grave a space for me!

Oh, bury the smith and his blood-soaked art, Bury the writer with a broken heart, Bury the fool with their shield stained red, But ask them thrice to be sure that they are dead!

[Chorus]

[As a round] Oh, bury the teacher in her hallowed hall, Bury the watcher in his tower tall, Bury the beast in her silken cave, Then bury the one who dug their graves.

Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, yo-na-la (Ke-ti-ya) ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ye-le-ki, ye-la-ka, no-na-na ye-le-ko

...

This started as a ditty to sing while chopping wood and ended with three separate ambience loops, boss scream cameos from the Radiance and the Crystal Guardian, and the realization that the official soundtrack has a perfectly good cover of someone going na-na-na to the tune of the main theme already, why not throw that into the chorus somewhere quietly while we're at it…

#hollow knight #sam does stuff sometimes #and is pretty happy with it!#I am honestly amazed anyone wanted to hear this whole thing #but it's as good a time as any to be get less self-conscious about my voice

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shurisneakers · 4 years ago

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harmless (v)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, ghosts, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, rats

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: why did i like this chapter sm someone explain. anyway!! y’all are so passionate about these two i love it mwah

if you have any ideas for future inventions/evil plans, lemme know! i might actually end up using them

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

He dislikes the subway.

Other than his other valid reason to have disdain for trains, the subway is dark, it’s shady and he’s sure he’s seen rodents fight to the death here on several occasions.

Still, he’s following you down the stairs of the station, watching as you whistle along to the song blasting through your headphones. There’s a backpack swung over your shoulders, hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie and converse doing a skip every now and then. There’s a bandana that’s tied across your face, acting as a mask to hide your identity.

He realises that you’re dressed like a commuter. Were you going to dress the part every single time?

You walk along with the crowd. He follows, a few feet away.

Until you stop. He abruptly stops too, leading someone to walk right into him.

“Watch it, dumbass,” they hiss with the courage of someone who has no idea who he is. He ignores them.

He looks on as you dig around your backpack and pull out a roll of paper. A poster, he realises soon when you peel off a layer from the back and press it to the wall.

Was it legal to put up posters in the subway? He wasn’t quite sure.

He observes as you turn around and continue down the path. He waits a few seconds before trailing up to the poster.

Volunteers needed!

If you’re interested in being turned into a ghost for a couple of hours, this is your chance! Should be okay with being on camera so that we can make money off of taped paranormal sightings.

Paid opportunity. You get to pick your outfit. Randos don’t apply.

He yanks the poster of the wall before continuing down the same place you did.

He finds another poster along the way. He doesn’t hesitate in pulling it down. You were advocating to kill people.

He knows he’s going in the right direction because more posters creep up along the wall.

The both of you are on the platform by now but to him, something changes about the placement of the posters. They were growing in frequency, the distance between them decreasing as they were situated close to each other.

He pauses in front of the next one, hand hovering over the paper.

All it reads is ‘STOP’.

He furrows his eyebrow, pulling it down before peering over at the next one.

‘TAKING’, is all that it says.

It doesn’t take him very long to make his way through all the posters in the hallway.

‘THESE’

‘DOWN’

The train’s arrived by now but a quick scan over the crowd and he knows that you haven’t entered. That, and he knew that you were too dramatic to leave without a trace or a small conversation with him.

‘DICKHEAD’

Tasteful, he thinks.

“It took effort to make them, stop ruining it,” you whine from the end of the hallway. It’s empty, given that rush hour was over a while ago.

Even though the mask covers half your face, it’s obvious that there is mischief etched under it. The twinkle in your eye is telling.

“You’re literally killing people.” He holds up the poster. Not the ‘dickhead’ one. He pockets that for later.

He knows there are a few minutes before the next train arrives and more people flood the station. The eccentricity of today lay in the lighting from the incandescent lamps and acoustics of the platform. It made his voice echo like a movie scene.

“I very much am not,” you huff.

“You’re turning them into ghosts. That’s what a murderer does,” he says pointedly.

“Well, only if you keep saying it like that. You’re making me look bad.” You cross your arms across your chest. “What are you, Fox News?”

A scurry next to him earns his attention. Two rats nibble at a piece of fallen food. He wonders when they’ll starting brawling.

“Explain this.” He waves the poster around. He isn’t taking it too lightly he hopes. If it’s actual murder then it’s going to be an issue.

You pull out a black cylinder, slightly bigger than a pen. He can’t really see any more details, but you hold onto it like a wand.

“I’m turning them into ghosts. I’ll post videos of them doing stupid shit. I get famous and then boom, cash money.” You rub your index finger and thumb together. “I’ll give you a share if you volunteer.”

“You’re not explaining the death part.”

He can feel it. You’re about to start derailing.

“Winter Soldier, the ghost story. Literally.” You grin, yanking down the mask from your face to prove it. It pools around your neck. “That’s so funny, c’mon, it’d be amazing.”

It’s been years since he’s heard that. Never in this context.

“No,” he says sternly, “and I’m going to have to bring you in if you’re going to kill people.”

The rats were ignoring everything that was going down like the hardened criminals that they were. They had probably seen worse. He can’t stop paying attention to them.

“I’m not killing them, bro.” You raise your hands in exclamation. “I’m just moving some molecules around, some frequency shit. They’re alive, just ghosts.”

He’s always been one for science. Straight As throughout high school, attended science conventions as a hobby, alive even at 100 through some mad experimentation, definitely seen some weird shit during his lifetime.

But this doesn’t make sense.

“No,” he repeats. “Give me the thing.”

“Fine, I’ll show you.” You roll your eyes. “Since you have absolutely no faith in me.”

He does a quick review of his surroundings.

No one’s around, which is good.

But that just leaves him in front of you, which is bad.

“Don’t you even thin-” he starts, muscles tensing as he shifts into a defensive stance.

You whip out the little pen thing from beside you but before he can react you turn around and duck.

The click of a button releases a bright light, small but intensely stronger than the fluorescents in the station.

He reels back, feet carrying him away from where you’re crouched. His eyes quickly look down at his body.

Nothing’s changed.

He lifts his hand to check, runs it over his face. Still alive. He thinks.

“Behold,” you declare, “Ghost rat.”

He looks to where you’re pointing. The two rats from earlier were still nibbling on their food but something was off about them.

He could see the faint outline of the tiles on the wall behind them, almost like they were... translucent.

You aimed at the rats, not him. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed at the fake threat.

He watches as they move. They don’t look hurt or injured.

“Cool, huh?” you say smugly.

He can’t stop staring at them.

“Bring them back.”

“They’re fine, look how abstract it is.”

“Bring back the rats.” He can’t believe this is what his life has come to.

Bucky Barnes, Rodent Protector.

You aren’t fazed by his indifference, instead wonder filled eyes gaze at the animals. “Astral mice, sarge. Embrace the miracle of modern science.”

“You killed them.”

“They’re alive, they’re just ghosts.” You raise a finger to point. “Look, they’re still eating. Biological functions are still taking place.”

Which was true. But still. He doesn’t know what is going on.

“Bring them back to... non-ghost alive.”

“You sure you don’t want one? That one kinda looks like you.” One hardened glare after you realise the answer. “Jeez, alright then.”

You dig through your bag before pulling out a matte black replica of your current invention.

“Sexy colours, right?” You hold them up. “I modelled them after your arm.”

He looks down. Sure enough the gold and black matched his cybernetic limb. It was oddly flattering.

“Say thank you, Y/N, for letting me be your muse-”

“Un-ghost the rats.”

“Ungrateful,” you narrow your eyes at him.

Still, you comply with his demands, ducking down to their level again.

A click of the button, a bright light and the rats are back to normal. Non-transparent normal.

“Okay, give me that.” He takes a step towards you.

“Nuh uh.” You pull your arm back. His mouth twitches at your response; what are you, five?

The black one is stuffed back into your bag but you wave around the gold like a threat.

He sighs, making a pass for it. In a second his arm is twisted and shoved against his back, forcing him to spin so that he’s facing away from you. His eyes widen.

What the fuck?

“Now we’re having a good time,” you whisper into this ear.

He swiftly turns around, grabbing your wrist to rotate his own out of your grip.

“Since when can you fight?” he asks.

“Are we getting to know each other now?” You raise your leg to give him a semi gentle kick in the side, using his momentary distraction in blocking it to give him a knock on the head with your free hand. “This is so romantic, sarge.”

There’s a low rumble in the distance and he knows the train would soon start pulling into the station. It was still a distance away, but his heightened senses warned him that it wouldn’t take much time.

He groans. How much longer would he have to go at this?

He could easily win this fight and he knew it. But something in him itched, pulled him back from doing it.

He blocks another attempt at his head. “Stop that.”

You grin. “You know what’d be fun?”

He knows you’d reply even if he didn’t encourage it. The lights from the train light up the tunnel around the corner.

“This.” You don’t give him a second to recover before you flick your wrist away from him.

The device flies out of your hand and right onto the track. The both of you watch, you in glee, he in horror, as the train runs right over it, unleashing the brightest light he had ever seen. His eyes shut instinctively before it blinds him.

He forces himself to pry open his eyelids, look at the damage caused.

The train, sure enough, is translucent. He can see the posters on the other side of the platform through the carriage, through various people holding onto the poles for support or seated on the seats.

“Ghost train!” you cheer. He’s mortified.

“Fuck no,” he mumbles, yanking the backpack off your shoulder. He rummages through it, looking for the gold version.

“You lookin’ for this?” you ask nonchalantly, holding it up in your hand like it isn’t the solution to stopping a bunch of ghosts from wandering around New York.

“Turn them back.” He gives you a chance.

“Do it yourself, coward.” You grin, holding it above your head. The train is going to stop and he needs everyone to be alive and non-ghost before they leave.

He doesn’t wait this time, instead turning to you. The thing is still held in your grip above your head. He rolls his eyes, doing a quick assessment before grabbing your free hand, tugging you closer and plucking the device out of your hand before you have the opportunity to retract it.

“Great, now figure out which button to press.” You’re dangerously close to him. He can feel your hoodie brush against his tactical jacket. “Also if you wanted to be all pressed up against me, you could have just asked.”

He furrows his eyebrows, letting go of you as you give a loud laugh. He looks down at the device. It has several buttons, littering up and down the side. Each look the same.

The train’s slowing down.

“They’re both the same device; this version is not a magical solution to the other one. If you press the wrong button then both of us are going to be fucked.”

The last carriage is getting closer.

“Say I win this round and I’ll fix it.”

There’s a gleam in your eye. He knew this was exactly what you wanted.

He wishes he was as stubborn as Steve, just run through each button until the right one worked.

“You win this one.” He hands it back. He wasn’t like Steve and judging by the number of items the idiot jumped out of planes without a parachute on a daily basis, Bucky was glad about it. At least Bucky did it sporadically.

“Yay, two each for the both of us, then,” you say, taking it from him and twisting, eyes running down the sides. “Close your eyes, old man, or else your cataract’s gonna get worse.”

Right as the train pulls to a stop, you press down on the button before throwing it and the blinding light that emanates from it. It lands on the top of the train right as the doors open.

The passengers start stepping out. Some of them are looking at their hands and legs in a little disbelief, most just push through the crowd to leave.

He can’t see through them. It’s a good sign.

He turns to look at you but you’re not there. Instead, the weight of the small device weighs down in his pocket.

The sound of a thud on glass draws his attention.

He looks up at the train. The window of the carriage in front of him has a bit of fog on it. You trace a heart in the condensation and blow him a kiss before pulling your mask back on.

The train starts moving, leaving him alone in the platform again with your invention.

He lets out an exhale, wandering outside to grab a sandwich before waiting to catch the next train to go home.

Later in the evening, he catches hold of a bit of tape and the ‘Dickhead’ poster finds a place on Sam’s door.

He doesn’t appreciate it.

So now it’s tucked away in the shelf of Bucky’s bedside table along with a freeze ray, a ghost-inator, and some discount Pym Particles.

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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egoludes · 4 years ago

Text

satisfaction guaranteed.

summary: your super soldiers hear there’s a new contender in the bedroom; they intend to learn all about it.

pairing: stucky x reader.

notes: ok, i’ll admit it - this is so outrageously self-indulgent and fully inspired by a recent, um, purchase. i was hoping to get it out in time for valentine’s day, but then work kicked my ass - so consider it a delayed love letter to y’all heh. my apologies in advance to the manufacturers of the sex toy featured here; please don’t sue me? borders from deathlyrph!

warnings: nsfw / 18+, threesome, sex toy, implied & light overstimulation

He doesn’t mean to listen in - scout’s honor.

There just isn’t much that Bucky’s super soldier hearing misses and the raving of some very giddy --- and very drunk --- Avengers is nowhere near that list. He’s actually pleased to hear the way you, Natasha, and Wanda are carrying on when he rounds the corner. Missions have been taking a toll lately, keeping everyone on the team on edge and up late. You, in particular, have been distant, putting on a facade that never quite reaches your eyes, and he and Steve have been on wit’s end trying to perk you up.

The ladies, it seems, have it all figured out. You’re laughing freely for the first time in weeks, and Bucky’s grateful that no one (particularly Sam) can see the way the sound makes him utterly lovesick. His adoration keeps him still a few seconds longer, basking in how free you seem, but he doesn’t intend to stay much past that. In fact, he’s a half-step into leaving when he hears it:

“So, wait -- have you tried it yet? The Satisfyer?”

Confusion brings him to a full stop. Satisfyer?

That feeling only grows, knitting his eyebrows, when you’re the one to answer with an emphatic, and damn near dreamy “Yes.”

Bucky’s an intelligent man and the name alone is a pretty effective context clue. Still, he doesn’t really put it together until Wanda squeals and Nat (who he can see in his mind’s eye, clear as day, leaning into you with that cheeky smirk) pushes you for more.

“It’s kind of...overwhelming,” you continue, pausing to refill your glass, “but in the best way. Like in a ‘How did I ever masturbate before this’ kind of way. My knees literally buckled when I got up after. Can you believe that? Buckled! I was fuckin’ woozy! ” He can tell you’re animated just by the way your volume starts to rise and whatever you’re doing must be endearing because even Natasha is chuckling.

Bucky still loves it, don’t get him wrong. In fact, he adores you excited like this, especially after all the darkness lately. But, there’s something genuinely puzzling about so much excitement around a sex toy. He hadn’t even known you’d bought something new. When had you tried it? Where were he and Steve?

His thoughts start to swirl, intrigue and curiosity mounting in a wave that he pushes past with a step, then another, as he reminds himself that he has somewhere to be.

No chance he’ll be forgetting about this, though.

Steve hears about it from Bucky.

Secondhand stories can be tricky; full of exaggerations and misunderstanding. But, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe it. He just doesn’t comprehend the implications of it until he experiences it for himself.

That happens on a Saturday afternoon.

You’d been tense in training, taking hits you’ve dodged a thousand times and fumbling moves you’ve done twice that. A bad bout typically doesn’t do you in, but Steve can tell by the way your attacks grow more and more stilted, that you’re overextending just to make blows meet.

It gets so bad that he breaks one of his few cardinal rules -- never pulling rank with you or Bucky outside of missions -- to get you out of the spar, and your frustration with it is as clear as the exhaustion that sags your limbs. You’re out the door before he can apologize, or explain.

An hour later, he’s showered and changed, seeking you out in your corner of the compound with peace offerings at the ready. This time, they come in the form of your favorite snack and a promise to spar with you himself the next time you’re scheduled - no holds barred.

But, when you pull open the door at his knock, he’s surprised to see that he may not need them.

You’re completely...sated. The tension you’d had in your shoulders when you left the gym is nowhere to be found and in its place is a sheen of satisfaction. It’s all over you: in a dopey smile, lidded eyes, and the faint whiff of your cunt he gets when he leans into you.

In an instant, he puts two and two together, and Steve feels his body warm at the realization that you’ve just finished touching yourself. And not just that: it had been so good that your entire mood’s flipped and you’re beaming at him, no walls or reservations.

He makes his apology all the same, though, and your smile widens as you reach for him and the snack in a tease: “Better not back out on that fight, Captain.”

He grins back, pleased you’re feeling better, but making a mental note to speak to Bucky as soon as you let him go.

I think we need to check out this ‘Satisfyer’.

They ask you about it on Valentine’s Day.

You’re running on the high of a beautiful evening: dinner in DUMBO and drinks in Brooklyn Heights. The latter -- a couple cocktails for you, white wine for your boys -- finds you buzzing as you let them into your room back at the compound. You feel eyes on your hips from behind, heavy gazes that sear the curves, and you sway pointedly, smiling at the sharp breaths that follow.

You know where the night is going ---- know the way a good date makes them handsy. So the attention is no surprise. Neither is the cool press of metal to your back and the kiss to that spot under your ear. “Bed, pretty girl,” Bucky drawls against your skin, intent pressing -- and growing -- against your hip as he settles against you.

Steve rounds you from the other side, not touching but so close you can feel the rise of heat from his body. You look up just in time to catch him watching you back, blue eyes darkening with each step into your bedroom.

Your dress is easy work, pooling at your ankles with a few good pulls, But, Steve and Bucky take their time with everything else. You’re in something special, after all --- pretty lace and dewey colors that deserve an extra look, an extra touch. They’re on you the moment it’s revealed to them, thumbing the fabric with murmured praise through the lips all over your skin.

The daze it sets follows you all the way to the mattress where you lay back against Steve’s chest (still clothed, to your chagrin) with his arms settled around you. His hands end up bracing your thighs, naturally at first, then deliberately as Bucky starts to kiss trails up and over your calf. With the latest string of missions, you can’t remember the last time you had their mouths on you and the anticipation as Bucky’s creeps closer is almost crippling. Your body tenses with each point of contact, eyes lidding as they watch him rise, inch by tortuous inch.

“Sweetheart.” Steve’s voice pulls you out of your focus with a rumble you can feel in your back. “We wanna try something new with you tonight.” You turn just enough to watch him, answering with a hum to urge him on. “Can you tell Buck,” he continues, dipping to run his nose along yours. You feel tiny when he bears down on you like this, and he can see the way it affects you just in the flutter of your lashes. “--where you keep your ‘Satisfyer’?”

What?

In a split second, you’re sobered up, no hint of the lust or buzz that’d been following you for most of the night. Bringing toys to bed isn’t new by any means, but they have never, ever referred to one by name like that. Nor requested it specifically. It’s so startling that you don’t know what to say for a moment, mind utterly blank until you feel Bucky’s hand tighten around your thigh to bring you back. “You -- my what?”

“Satisfyer,” Steve echoes, hand resting on your tummy. From below, you can feel Bucky’s eyes burning into the side of your face, expectant. “Buck’s heard you mention it before, and we’d like to know what all the fuss is about. ---- If you’re willing, that is.”

You look back and forth between them, mouth gaping for a second before you swallow your shock down whole. Two super soldiers can be a lot to manage on their own -- adding a toy that’s knocked you on your ass a few times over now seems like a very dangerous game. But, you can feel Steve hardening against your back and can’t deny the slick that’s seeping through your panties at the thought alone. So you nod, lip pulled between your teeth, and direct Bucky to the left side of your bottom drawer.

When he’s back between your legs, it’s with the rose gold toy in hand. The mere sight of it makes you clench; something he doesn’t miss when he’s that close to your core. “Someone’s excited,” Bucky muses, brow arching before his gaze returns to his hand. The Satisfyer is unlike any toy he’s ever seen, shaped more like some alien gadget than a vibrator, and no amount of Google sleuthing could’ve prepared him for what it feels like in person. The smoothness of it in his hand, the unique curves along his palm. You bite back a giggle at how intently he inspects it, turning it over this way and that to get used to its weight.

“Hmm.. that’s definitely different,” Steve chimes in, as focused on the toy as Bucky is. It isn’t hard to work out how it’s used from the design alone, but what they’re still itching to know is what it does. How it unravels you so well, until your knees buckle even. And it doesn’t take long for that anticipation to trump their curiosity and you’re brought back to the moment when Steve ducks his head to your shoulder, pressing kisses to the skin there as he smooths hands down your inner thighs. He draws his palms back and forth a few times until they suddenly still, and he’s holding your legs -- and you -- wide open. “How about we give it a go, pal?”

Bucky says nothing in return, but he probably doesn’t have to. The toy clicking to life is enough, a rhythm that fills the room with anticipation. Your tummy tightens at the sound -- another reaction neither man misses -- and the tension stays put, coiled tight until the Satisfyer closes over your clit.

The first pulse knocks air out of you that you hadn’t realized you were holding. The ones that follow unfurl you, melting your anticipation in favor of a soft, thrumming pleasure that coats you head to toe. It’s odd, having someone else use it on you, but in a good way. The best way.

You surrender to it, relaxing into Steve’s hold as Bucky holds you open with two fingers. So far, that’s no different than normal --- you’re always this pliant for them, putty beneath their fingers once they get to work. But, tonight, they’re greedy. Tonight, they want more from you; want whatever this toy has been able to draw out in their absence.

Bucky kicks things up a notch, turning the pulse up two speeds. The change is subtle to them, clicks coming just a smidgen faster and louder. For you, it seems to make all the difference. Immediately, you react, back arching up from its place against Steve’s chest with a sound that makes the Captain purr behind you.

“Mm...must feel good,” he notes, a hand gliding along your tummy until he can palm your breast. “Can you tell us, sweetheart?” He punctuates the question with fingers around your nipple, tweaking lightly.

Your lips part, but no words follow; not at first. It’s like your body and mind are disconnected, static in the places where they usually go together. The fuzziness is welcome, but hard to speak through, and it’s all you can do just to whine when Steve gives your nipple an urgent pinch. Bucky joins in with a cool finger pressing at your cunt, the light whirring from his arm giving you something concrete enough to focus on. ‘S good,” you finally pant, twisting to tuck your head into Steve, “so good.”

Bucky huffs out a chuckle and your entire body goes tight; with his face so close, you can feel every breath. “That mean you’re gonna let us finish you up, just like this?”

It’s a rhetorical question --- has to be, the way he presses the toy tighter to your clit. Still, you answer with an eager nod, legs widening some as if to give him the go ahead. “Please, Buck, ‘m close already, it -- right there, I-I’ll--” Your pleas are pretty, a desperate melody, and they appease every base instinct Bucky has. He’d wanted to keep you on edge a little longer to explore the toy more, but he’s a sucker for his girl; always has been. You win him over without even trying.

Steve isn’t far behind, cock leaking in his dress pants seeing you so desperate. He hasn’t gotten his hand on the toy yet, but even he seems to feel its effect. The hand that isn’t cupping your breast spreads over your tummy, delighting in the way the flesh underneath tightens and spreads. You’re certainly close --- he knows your body as well as you do. And the thought of it makes him hungry, makes him press teeth into the skin behind your ear as he urges you on: “Go on, honey -- make a mess for us.”

Your peak comes fast after that, punching you in the gut with its intensity. The first wave of orgasm runs right through you, leaving a tremble in its wake, and your hips twist instinctively to escape the toy. Bucky, however, isn’t so forgiving, metal curling around your hip in a vice. Ride it out, he seems to say with a dark, lidded glance from between your legs.

You whimper in response, head tipping back against Steve’s chest as you fumble for purchase in the warmth of Bucky’s free hand.

Something tells you this will be a long night.

Forty minutes later, you can’t see straight.

Your first orgasm had been gradual, as tentative as the men watching this new toy work you. But, after that, it’s like a flip switches in Bucky and Steve, making them greedy for as many more as they can get.

The second one isn’t long after the first. Bucky turns the Satisfyer up to the highest setting, the other end of the spectrum that you hadn’t even gotten a chance to try on your own yet. The first contact lights fire through your sensitive body and you’re on the brink in just minutes. Toes stretching and curling into the sheets by Bucky’s hips, you’re practically squirming with need and it only takes one good twist of the toy for you to crumble all over again. They give you a break after that, but most of it is spent kissing you too long for you to catch your breath.

You don’t mind that too much, though.

The third orgasm is Steve’s fault. Ever the strategist, he starts thinking through the ways they can play with frequency and angle to make you cum again. You don’t notice it in your foggy comedown, but he’s fished his phone out and flicked through to a page he’s looked over more times that he cares to admit. And when Bucky settles between your legs to get you going again, he finally speaks up. “Buck, I found this review online---” Both you and Bucky turn to him, curiosity in the way you gape, but he’s making a face back that’s loud and clear: ‘do not ask’. “---that said they were able to cum in a couple minutes with this alone. Had some interestin’ suggestions about how, too.” He grins around a Brooklyn drawl, that handsome face stirring something in you when it looks so devious. “You think we can get our girl finished faster than that?”

They pull it off -- embarrassingly easily at that -- and it’s in the pale of that third climax that they finally, finally press inside you.

Your cunt is soaked, supple and warm around Steve as he sits you down over his cock. After so much play, the stretch is nothing, a pleasant burn in the pit of your belly that makes your eyes flutter closed.

“Tell us how you feel,” Steve asks for the second time that night, his voice strained around the effort to keep from fucking you. Even if you’re taking him well -- easier than ever before, in fact -- he’s cautious not to lose his head, no matter how much he wants to.

No matter how much the urge to plow you into your mattress dizzies him.

Your eyes are still closed when you respond, tongue over your dry lips as you part them with a needy sound. “S-Still good…,” you sigh, mind swimming. You want to move, start to move in a mindless search for some friction. But, the rocking doesn’t last long, stuttering to a stop when you hear the toy click to life and try to focus through the haze of your pleasure with eyes darting for answers.

You find them in the smug grin on Bucky’s face as he palms the Satisfyer in one hand and works his cock out of his pants with the other. “What,” he purrs, voice lilted in a taunt, “you didn’t think we were done with this yet, did you?”

Oh yeah --- this’ll definitely be a long night.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x you #bucky barnes x you #steve rogers x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #steve rogers smut #bucky barnes smut #tags will come after work!

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legguk · 3 years ago

Text

Hi!! So,

it's my ( literal ) first time writing fanfiction, so I'm pretty new at this stuff, but Lady Dimitrescu is all I was able to think about for weeks and I >needed< to do something about it.

( If you want some context, I wrote this thinking “what if Alcina survived?” - Alcina's pov )

———

The fall,

The end of everything you once loved

Ethan Winters.

You woke up... somehow, you woke up. The frigid air hitting your fresh wounds felt like a jolt send by reality, as if one says "you're still alive" -

- and oh how you were starting to hate that feeling.

Laying on the demolished floor of your castle, muscles twitching in pain, mouth open gasping for air... that's how you are, how you will remember yourself from now on. A defeated dragon, a crushed woman, a dead mother.

You should get up, you should let go of your carcass and crawl your way back into the warmth of your home, you should—

—you should be dead, actually. Resting on death's cold embrace along with your daughters.

Daughters.

God, your daughters.

The memories flood your mind with a painful, unbearable reminder; they're gone, dead, crystalized - gone. They're gone. Your lovely daughters, your pride and joy, the main reason you'd open up your eyes in the morning...

...Bela,

Cassandra,

Daniela....

Their names are long cold, not yet forgotten - no, never forgotten - but somewhere else, as they don't belong here anymore; not on your arms, tucking them to bed. Not on your hands, caressing their faces. Not on your lips, kissing their foreheads. Not on your tongue, as you say them.

A raspy scream leaves your throat, it sounds disturbing.

You sob, hot tears trailing down your cheeks and neck, small cries for help find their way into the wind, disappearing with less importance then when they materialized.

You cannot recall for how long you stayed at that very same position, perhaps some hours, perhaps a day, but you are certain that at some point you were overcame by tiredness and collapsed - probably the best to do for now.

xxx

And so, rises the moon and the stars watch upon your limp body, the night howling a merciful wind and singing a melodic song. Grunting, you push yourself up with your elbows, sitting up and facing the sky through the hole you've made on the roof... and the levels above...

A huge carcass sits besides you, it's wings bended on itself and it's big mouth open to whoever would like to have a peek; you probably changed back into your normal body while unconscious... Now that you can see it clearly, you notice the damage that man-thing did to you... by heavens, how were you still alive and...

Oh. The castle. You look forward, taking in the horizon - the stars look exclusively shiny tonight - you breath in, the dusty air causes you to chough a few times. Stretching your neck a bit to see your whole house, you tell yourself it looks.. fine, actually, ignoring the broken windows. The broken windows.

It's cold. You shiver harshly, panting as the air meets your bare back and rumbles through your lungs, making you hug yourself, - you're naked, you just realized - the winter in Romania is truly kind to no one.

Your legs tremble with just the thought of trying to stand on your feet. You don't rush to do it either, let the wintry breeze take in your wounds, make it sting, burn it, freeze it; freeze your body along.

“To die. To die is to live. To live without them, that's torture. To live without their presence, absent of their scents, to not hear them, nor see their faces again, that's worse than death; far, far worse. How could I ever walk into that damned house without the heavenly sounds of their laughs, the tapping of their feet as they walk free, the steadiness of their heartbeats, reminding me that my own still beats.

Beats for them. For them only.

And they're gone.

So who shall my heart beat for? Myself? No, that wouldn't do. I will rip it out from my chest if I must, sacrifice it to any god who may hear me, all so I could spend five more minutes with them. Then I'd die in peace and find them at my arms again at whatever comes after this poor life.

But I'm here.”

You still hold yourself as you stare at a castle's - broken - window, new warm tears hanging the same trail the old and now dry ones did, a silent cry.

Your intrusive thoughts were abruptly cut by a loud noise from the inside of the castle, making you jump up, gathering all your last strengths to stand and walk a few shaky steps closer to home. The more you walked, the louder the noises got; a little rustle became a bang, and your tiptoing became a sprint, you hold yourself as tight as you can, ignoring the bleeding, the cold air spiking your lungs, how insanely fast you heartbeat was. You need to get there, protect the last remnant of them you still have.

The gates felt heavy now, even for you, who would open them with one hand. Where is your strength now? The fearless dragon who'd do anything to protect her house? Perhaps she died on that fall, and now all there's left is a shadow of what you were one day.

With much pain, you open the big doors, leading to the comfort of your house; you don't get in, you throw yourself in. The warm atmosphere engulfed you like a summer kiss on a winter storm, all you needed to ground yourself to reality for now. Grabbing some sheets laying over an old counter, you wrap yourself in it – oh, that's gonna get soaked in blood, but that's not of your concern now – moving incredibly fast for someone as hurt as yourself, you follow the continuous sounds that could not mean something good. The main doors are open, the cellar is unlocked as well, that idiotic man-thing couldn't even close the doors once he finished slaughtering your home? Imbecile.

You stand at the library's door now, suddenly frozen; you know what happened in there... do you really want to get in? Are you truly ready to face it again? Maybe you should take a step back and walk away, it would be the most logical decision to take now.

But what is logic when the heart screams? What is the brain for once your emotions take the best of you? You can't walk away. Put some honor on your name. Save the last bit of your daughter that fate is still conceiving you. Your chest rises and falls completely out of coordination, your fists close around the fabric involving your body; get ready, you're going in; gather the last bit of courage you have inside yourself and blast these doors.

And so you do.

You bring those pieces of wood to the ground, the only barrier between you and the reality you couldn't accept; a guttural growl forms in your chest as you see a lycan approach your child's crystalized body; you're blind with ire, sorrow, protectorship - you name it - and it makes you shout at the top of your lungs as you dilacerate the filthy beasts you'd bat your eye at. A bloody trail of corpses marks your way through the castle grounds, your claws dripping with fresh sanguine fluid - which you can't tell if it's from the creatures or from yourself - the crimson path follows you all the way to the other wing of mansion like a spirit who must haunt you for eternity.

You scream like a feral animal, blood soaking the once white cloth around your form; the scream becomes a shriek, which descends to a yelp, ending as a furious cry. You can feel the anger leaving you, like the waters of a waterfall; explosive, big portions of water falling into a numb, deaden lake. Hopefully those waters will carry you with them, you shall fall and sink at a anesthetizing lagoon.

You kneel, eyes closed, eyebrows frowned; a loud sigh fills the deafening silence in the air, your mind is blank – better, your mind is red, scarlet red mixed with black, ire and grief. Slowly, your head lower itself so you're facing the floor.

The big Lady Dimitrescu,

kneeling on a pool of blood, defeated.

•

“Lady Dimitrescu!”

Who..? The voice was so far yet so close, you try your best to focus on the direction of the calls but your nerves just won't cooperate.

“Lady!”

Who would be calling for you? Is your mind playing tricks on you now? And since when you were laying on the floor? Too many questions for too little answers. You try to stand up, but a sharp pain on your side made you cry out and fall on your back, face knotted in pain – perhaps your adrenaline rush was keeping you from feeling what was really happening with your body, and now you feel like you're betraying yourself for that.

A small figure approaches you in a fast pace, causing you to unleash your claws one more time and snarl at the not-so-possible threat; you were hurt. Vulnerable. Letting someone close was the last thing you wanted now. The humanoid thing backs away a few steps with your aggressive reaction, hands on their chest, visibly afraid – even though your vision is quite blurry, you identify their expression: scared, desperate, sorrowful – they call out once more, almost shouting.

“Please, Lady Dimitrescu, let me help!”

Ah... Help... The now clearer feminine voice washes over you - a wave of compassion - as if hope has found its way to your house again. Well, it better go away again, or you'll drag it out yourself.

“Out.” was all that left your lips, your intense gaze locking with hers, a silent yet not so discrete warning; although you had only said one word, it was well understood by the woman, who stepped away, eyes still meeting yours, a dreadful cast hang on her face.

Still, she didn't left.

Is that girl testing her luck? It can only be. Once again you warn her: “Leave. I will not repeat myself.”

Her posture stiffens, after a moment of silence she looks at the door, truly wondering about leaving or not; her body turns around, her knuckles going white from how hard she was grabbing the fabric on her chest – she's conflicted. But why? Who is she, after all? – A long, defeated sigh leaves her, as if she knows there is no choice left.

“Allow me to help.” A failed effort on trying to sound confident; her voice is full of tears and her tone is oscillating – it makes you wonder if she has been crying – The human walks towards you, trying not to make any eye contact; you can't stand on your feet, you left hand is pressed on your injured side, the other is open and directing your now extended nails towards her.

Oh how funny it is, no?

The predator being cornered by the prey. The dragon being trapped by the rabbit. How ridiculous it is.

Her extremely shaky hands hang in front of her, trying to say she won't hurt you – oh if she only knew it's going to be the other way round. – One step closer.. Her lips and chin tremble; Another. Your claws grow bigger, eyes peering through her soul; another step, your eyebrows frown, her eyes are teary. The last step - your blood is boiling hot, your nerves on edge; you are still the predator. - a slicing sound and a half-scream saturate the air for a millisecond, just for silence to overfill it once more. Red splashes over the room again, on your face, on your chest, but mostly on the floor, where the girl was thrown at.

An agonizing scream leaves her throat - what a miracle, she remains alive - both of her hands cover her face, blood spilling all over her; what a sight, you would most definitely enjoy this very much on another situation. She cries out in despair, making you face the ceiling and close your eyes, a tired look on your face – you just want all this to end, you don't have any more patience for this. You want to crawl back into your bed and starve, you want to destroy this place, make it abandoned ruins of what one day was a home; you want to kill that damned sickening man-thing, kill this foolish girl for perturbing your grieving, and then yourself.

The woman captures your attention once again, she is kneeling, her body facing yours, her right hand presses her ripped face, the other makes its slow way up to you, although she is trembling, she manages to keep her hand steady enough to hand you a little green flask with a yellow-y label; You look closer, 'treatment disinfectant' it says... Oh you can only be joking. You feel like slaughtering the girl right this instant, but takes in a deep breath and holds the flask, her hand immediately falling along with her body. Is she dead? No, her slow yet consistent breathing exclaims that she is still alive – you honestly find it a bit offensive – You should, but you cannot bring yourself to finish the human; you should end her suffering, but now she caught your attention; and besides, she wants to help, doesn't she? then the price she'll pay is staying alive.

———

hahaaa I'm so nervous about posting this,,, ,

and yes! It is a alcina x maiden fic! I do plan it to be slow burn, and if some you liked it and read it till here, please like and/or reblog and I'll post chapter 2!

( posted on Ao3! Name: “The woman in your castle” )

( chapter 2 posted!! )

#lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #help idk what im doing

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