#and he never takes that mask off even if it kills him

[nullen-void]

For a long time I wondered if the final TF2 comic would ever come out. For a longer time I wondered if I wanted it to. They built it up so much, hyped the Administrator's big plan so high, and then waited so long, could they possibly ever meet expectations?

I don't know if what they did was what they originally planned, or if there even was a plan, but I think they knocked it out of the park. It feels... right.

And it cemented the Administrator as one of the most terrifying villains in history. But before I discuss that, SPOILERS:

It was all pointless. None of it ever mattered.

The Gravel Wars, the fighting, the Australium, the deaths, the Classic Mercs, none of it mattered at all. Because Helen or whatever her name is just an addict getting her fix.

She kept a man alive for near enough two hundred years, trapped in the moment just before death by a thousand diseases, because she dedicated her life so thoroughly to ending him that when he finally croaked, she had nothing left. So she brought him back to suffer more. And then extended her OWN life so she could keep making him suffer.

And she doesn't even remember why. She was a child when Zepheniah Mann killed her parents, and she's something like a hundred and seventy years old now. It's been three normal lifetimes since then, and she's forgotten. But she never forgot the hate.

She sabotaged two infant's futures by raising them to be bafoons just to hurt their father. She orchestrated a forever war to spite a single man. She was prepared to keep this going until the heat death of the universe.

Do you know what would have happened if Pauling had lost her nerve and admitted they found a new stash of magic metal? With all three Mann brothers dead, she probably would have gone after Olivia. The last Mann standing, and a girl who at the time was only seven and had barely any connection to the Mann legacy at all, and probably didn't know her grandfather's name! And Helen would have gone after her and ruined her life just to make Zepheniah watch as yet another generation of Mann was ruined.

What a pointless, misspent life. What a waste of time. What an ending.

It makes what comes next all the greater. Scout and Soldier are dads with happy children, Spy still can't admit their relation but gets to be part of his grandkids' lives and he and Jeremy trust each other enough that Scout doesn't blink when he takes his mask off. Team Fortress is happy. They moved on. Found new lives.

Helen couldn't. She had all the time in the world and then some, and she just couldn't move on.

What a waste.

[thelordofgifs]

Part 37! In which several people fuck up.

"You are not easy to find, Curvo," Amras says thoughtfully, dismounting. "But I had my suspicions I would find you skulking around the Girdle eventually."

"I'm here, too," Celebrimbor says pointedly. "Much to my regret."

No one pays any attention to this. "Well, this is a surprise, Pityo," Curufin says, looking his brother in the eye. "I did not see you come rushing to our aid when Morgoth's forces overwhelmed the Eastmarch, nor indeed when Himring fell. But I am glad to see you can be drawn out of your fortress eventually, with sufficient... inducement."

"I am impressed you dare speak of the fall of Himring," Amras says, his voice very light and casual. "But then you never did have any shame, I suppose."

Curufin laughs loudly. A bird in a nearby tree takes off in fright. "So you have come to scold me, I see!" he says. "Well, I am afraid yours will have been a wasted trip in that case, Pityo. Have you not heard that I am beyond any sort of redemption now?" He casts Celebrimbor a swift bitter look.

How quickly the mask slips, Celebrimbor reflects, trying not to care. Not five minutes ago was Curufin trying to convince him that he was yet a devoted father.

"You did not need to tell me that," Amras says. "In Nelyo's place I would have disavowed you long ago."

"Oh, so it is Nelyo who sent you," Curufin says; "well, you might tell him that I am of no mind to come flying back to his shoulder like some tame songbird, and he should give up searching for me."

"He is missing," Amras hisses, his eyes bright with sudden anger; "I suppose no-one would have informed you of it while you have been cringing in the forests like the coward you are – he has disappeared from Barad Eithel, they have heard nothing of him for weeks. And you have the nerve yet to speak his name, after what you did to him!"

"This is all very interesting and important," Celebrimbor interjects, "but might you mind having this conversation somewhere else? You could both leave. Without me, even."

"What have you come for, then, little brother?" Curufin says coldly, ignoring Celebrimbor again. "I should imagine you were happier thinking me lost. Yet you have gone to all this effort to seek me out. One might even believe you missed me."

Amras gives him a thin-lipped smile. "Not that, exactly," he says; and then he twitches aside his cloak to reveal the bright dagger gleaming at his hip. "I just think it might be about time I finished some things that had been left undone."

Curufin laughs again. "So little Pityo has decided to assert his claim to relevance!" he says. "Shall you kill me, then – and doom me to the Everlasting Darkness with my Oath yet unfulfilled?"

Amras shrugs. "Why not? If it was good enough for Tyelko, and for – for Telvo, I see no reason why you should yet linger here, when all your machinations but serve to keep the Silmarils in the grasp of others, and condemn all Beleriand to Morgoth's dominion meanwhile."

"Do not speak of him," says Curufin, white-lipped in an instant, "you do not know—"

"You can expect no pity from me, Curvo," Amras says coldly, "you who yet honour our father's name after Losgar." He glances past Curufin at Celebrimbor. "Even to the shame of your own son. Tyelko is dead – and I am glad of it, glad he died when he did rather than fall any further from grace – and it is more than time you followed him, I think."

"You have not the courage," says Curufin, his eyes very bright, "you will not do it."

"Will you try to fight me, then?" Amras asks softly. He nods at the burn on Curufin's hand. "I do not think you will get very far, with that."

Curufin is silent.

"Give me a reason," Amras says very slowly, gripping his dagger-hilt. "One reason only that I should spare you." He meets Celebrimbor's gaze again. "Have you too nothing to say in your father's defence, Tyelpë?"

"Have you not heard?" says Curufin, lifting his chin. "I am not his father any more, he claims."

"I am glad to hear one person in this family has sense, at least," Amras says. He comes to stand before Curufin, who watches him through slitted eyes, and does not move, even when Amras rests the tip of his dagger very lightly at the base of his throat.

"Not a word more to spare yourself, Curvo?" Amras says softly. "I thought your slippery tongue would have more to do in your favour."

Curufin manages, marvellously, to smile. "If only Telvo could have boasted one such tongue," he says, "or Nelyo, for that matter, when he quarrelled with our father about the ships – why, he might not have burned at all."

Not a very witty comeback, thinks Celebrimbor, who has faced the cutting edge of that selfsame tongue more than once. Indeed it seems to him almost as though Curufin is goading Amras deliberately – and even that clumsy jibe seems to have worked, for Amras' eyes are black with rage, and Curufin is still making no move to step away – and then he glances quickly at Celebrimbor and all at once Celebrimbor understands—

Oh, the cowardice of it all! Curufin wants Amras to kill him. He is counting on it, after Celebrimbor's new rejection – thinks it perhaps an honourable ending, as though to scrub out the stains of his ill deeds with his own red life-blood – how much easier, after all, to die simply and tragically than work to fix your own mistakes.

Celebrimbor has always understood his father far better than he wanted to.

He is so angry that he is tempted, for a moment, to say nothing – let Curufin meet his end here at his own brother's hands, it is no more than he deserves – but then he cannot bear either to think of Curufin getting what he wants one last time.

"Stop," he says clearly. "Uncle, stop."

Amras does not seem at first to hear him; he presses the dagger against Curufin's throat again, drawing a bright little bead of blood, and smiles icily.

Curufin's eyes are closed.

"Stop," Celebrimbor says again, and he comes forward to put his hand on Amras' arm, and draws it away from Curufin's throat.

It takes Amras a moment to register that his blade has been moved. He blinks dazedly at his hand, and then at Celebrimbor, and then says slowly, "So you are your father's son after all, I see? He will not love you better for it, you know."

"I care not whether he loves me," Celebrimbor says coldly. "Only that I will not stand by and watch a Kinslaying take place before my very eyes. You ought to want better for yourself, uncle."

Amras smiles again, a flash of teeth. "So you set yourself up as the best of us!" he says. "You forget, Tyelpë, that the House of Fëanor has never had much compunction in spilling its own blood."

Curufin has opened his eyes. He is gaping at Celebrimbor in unbridled awe, his eyes very bright.

Celebrimbor manages a laugh. "For all your disdain, uncle, it seems yet to matter a great deal to you that you belong to that selfsame House."

Amras lifts his chin proudly, stung.

"Tyelpë," Curufin breathes, his voice shaky. "Tyelpë – I knew you did care—"

Don't, Celebrimbor wants to say, disgusted, don't thank me, don't even look at me, I wish you had died after all— But he cannot quite manage the words.

As he is trying best to formulate some scathing remark – wrapping together contempt and anger and exasperation all at once – he hears a voice calling for him through the trees.

"Tyelpë? Tyelpë, is all well?"

"Who is that?" Curufin asks swiftly.

Celebrimbor cannot move.

"There you are, cousin," Finduilas says cheerfully, coming into the clearing, and then she stops short.

Meanwhile in Dor-lómin:

Lúthien is wandering listlessly through the fields.

Departing her father's realm was a relief, but still she cannot deny that this land – which she once looked to with such girlish enthusiasm – can never truly be a home for her.

Beren, at least, is happier here than he had been in Doriath. He speaks little and smiles less, but there is at least now no fine line of strain between his eyes.

Is this what I died for? Lúthien wonders. Is this all that I could ever have hoped for?

In the distance she sees a stooped figure making her way back up to the great house from the well.

Morwen has serving-women to carry her buckets for her, Lúthien knows. She imagines it is some stubborn impulse that has driven her today to fetch her water herself, even now that her belly is beginning to weigh her down, and resolves to do nothing.

Morwen has made it clear enough, time and again, that she does not want Lúthien's help.

Still that reasoning cannot sway her when she sees the other woman stop suddenly, swaying under her burden, and then crumple to her knees.

Lúthien cries out and is by Morwen's side in a moment. "Are you well? I can fetch one of your women – or Rían if you would prefer—"

But Morwen looks more winded than truly hurt. "No," she gasps out, struggling back to her feet. "And especially not Rían, do not trouble her." She stoops to pick up the bucket again.

"I doubt very much she would consider it any trouble," Lúthien says lowly, "to care for one whom she loves."

Morwen merely looks silently at her, and does not answer. She grasps the handle of the bucket and a tiny wince flashes across her face, so swiftly that no mortal vision could have caught it.

"At least allow me to help you with that," Lúthien says, unhappily conscious that she is overstepping; but to her relief Morwen says nothing, and inclines her head with what might be gratitude.

The bucket is weightier than Lúthien was expecting. Her limbs have been heavy these past few days, as though some of the treacly stillness of Doriath's air yet clings to her in the chilly north.

But she manages a smile and sets her course up to Morwen's house.

Morwen rarely feels any inclination to fill a silence. Lúthien had forgotten that in the weeks since she last spoke with the other woman; now her lips keep twitching, stirred by impulses alternately to comment inanely on the weather or to ask, Did I really make you hate me so much that even Beren your cousin is not welcome in your house?

"I do not hate you," Morwen says quietly, with one of those strange flashes of not-quite-mortal insight. "Think you I of all people have no pity in my heart for those exiles of Beleriand, without even a hearth to name their own? I wished you and Beren only good when first you came here. But there is no use in trying to make a barren land bear fruit."

"No land is truly barren," Lúthien breathes. "I cannot be made to believe so."

Morwen gives her a look she cannot quite decipher. "Perhaps not."

"Beren deserves a home, after all he has suffered," Lúthien says. "And I may not rest until I have found him one."

"It is not here," Morwen says bluntly. "You know that. So what are you going to do?"

Again that impossible heaviness deep within Lúthien, an ache blooming at the base of her spine. "I don't know," she says (although she does).

Morwen gives her a level, assessing look. "You will have to decide soon," she says, cryptic again.

They have reached her house. She takes the bucket back from Lúthien and says, all politeness, "I thank you for your kind assistance," and then goes in.

Back in Doriath:

Finduilas is pale, but she keeps her composure admirably, casting Celebrimbor naught but one nervous glance.

Celebrimbor brushes his mind against hers, a fumbling attempt at reassurance, but he knows not what to say. It's all right? Run?

"Who is that?" asks Amras, who does not often leave Amon Ereb, has no interest in feasts and gatherings, and likely last saw Finduilas as a babe in arms.

"Orodreth's daughter," Curufin says slowly. He glances at Celebrimbor. "So you have kept up a friendship with your cousin, I see, Tyelpë. What is she doing here?"

"As if I am likely to tell you that," Celebrimbor says sharply, his hand going to his sword-hilt. "If you have any sense at all you will leave without sparing her another glance – both of you."

Amras bristles. "Think you to tar me with the same brush as your father? I have no record of abducting maidens in the woods."

At the same moment Curufin says, "She comes from within the Girdle, does she not?"

Finduilas has been listening to the back-and-forth Quenya with an uncomprehending frown. Now she bursts out, "Kinsmen, some may consider it discourteous, to guard your thoughts in a tongue not all present can follow."

Amras looks puzzled. "A princess of the Noldor has no knowledge of the language of her own people?"

"It was never spoken in Felagund's halls," Curufin says in Quenya, with a shrug. "The girl ought to have applied herself to studying it if she wished to eavesdrop on the conversations of her elders."

"It is a tongue best-suited to treachery," Celebrimbor says in icy Sindarin, "and you will not hear another word of it out of my mouth."

Curufin's face goes very rapidly from white to red to even whiter, which is what Celebrimbor was hoping his words achieve. The satisfaction is hollow even so, tempered as it is by unease.

Curufin is so inconveniently clever sometimes.

Case in point: he turns to Finduilas with a smile that attempts at avuncularity, and says, "So you were visiting the halls of Thingol, little niece? I did not know that Nargothrond yet maintained relations with the Dark-elf."

Finduilas regards him with unalloyed suspicion, but, remembering her failure, she cannot quite school her expression in time. "It does not," she says, trying to be terse.

"Finduilas," Celebrimbor says quietly, but the rest of the warning freezes at his lips.

"And yet you leave Menegroth alone, not escorted by any armed Iathren force," Curufin observes. "Your uncle yet remembers your kinship, I'll wager."

"Bold indeed for you to speak to me of kinship," Finduilas retorts. "I have nothing to say to you."

"No, indeed," Curufin says softly, reverting to Quenya. "But there is something you could bring me even so."

Amras looks at him with narrowed eyes. "Speak plainly, if you will."

"Do not dare," Celebrimbor says in Sindarin, gritting his teeth.

But Curufin smiles and says, "Thingol of Doriath wrested our father's Silmaril from Káno's very hands as he slept. Perhaps our little niece here will help right that injustice."

Finduilas, catching the word Silmaril in amongst the blur of Quenya, purses her lips. "I have no part in your foolish Oath," she says, "and will offer you no help in it. Do not presume to ask it of me."

"I am not asking," Curufin breathes.

Amras, behind him, has shifted the banked hungry fire of his gaze to Finduilas, too.

Celebrimbor steps in front of her and draws his sword again. "By treason of kin unto kin shall you be hindered," he says quietly. "Mandos spoke truly: I will slay you if you touch her."

"You would not," Curufin says, "mere minutes after sparing me. In truth you do know from where your own blood springs, Tyelpë."

"Is it true?" Amras asks urgently. "Does Thingol yet allow those of the House of Arafinwë past the Girdle?"

The indignity of it, thinks Finduilas with a flash of fury, to be turned away in disgrace from Thingol's halls only for the sons of Fëanor now to see the value in the connection!

"I do not run and fetch on your command," she says, moving to stand by Celebrimbor's side again. "There is nothing that will compel me to steal from my uncle for the sake of a usurper and a murderer."

"Nothing?" asks Amras, wetting his lips a little. He casts a glance, almost imperceptibly swift, at his nephew.

Celebrimbor laughs. "Here, then, is all your righteous outrage!" he cries. "What difference, in the end, between a father who would slay his son and an uncle who would slay his nephew? How swiftly the mask falls, when a Silmaril comes into play once more. But I say to you now that you will never lay a hand on the one in Thingol's halls, either of you."

"Tyelpë," Curufin says, his voice low, "be reasonable—"

"Is it reason that moves you now?" Celebrimbor demands. "Scarce hours ago you were doing all that was in your power to convince me you had changed, and I ought to forgive you – forgive you, as though I am the one you wronged! But one breath of a mention of the damned Silmarils and your true nature comes through in an instant." He casts a disgusted look at Amras. "You are all the same, every one of you, for all your high-minded speeches about justice and shamelessness—"

"Do not speak of that you do not understand," Amras hisses. "I am nothing like your father."

"I have no father," Celebrimbor declares, his eyes bright. "And yet you bear more than a passing resemblance to this pitiful creature before me. Do you claim now that to abduct a maiden in the woods is so very far below you?" He glances at Finduilas, pointedly. "Or else to spill the blood of your own kin, after the threats you have made today? No, uncle, if you are true-hearted in your quest for vengeance you will turn your blade first of all upon yourself – and until then know that you carry on the House of Fëanor's fine tradition of hypocrisy perfectly well."

"Tyelpë," Curufin breathes.

"Come, cousin," Celebrimbor says firmly, taking Finduilas' hand in his. "With luck we will run into one of your father's search parties sooner or later, and then you will be home safe again."

"But will you?" Curufin asks.

Celebrimbor meets his eyes. "Better than I would anywhere else," he says. He pauses, and then adds, "I really might have given you a chance, you know."

Curufin looks after him, silenced, as he leads Finduilas away to where she left her mount.

[his own horse was um. well there were a lot of wolves ok. sadly it is no longer true that no horses were harmed in the making of this fic]

"We can still go after them," Amras says.

"He was right about you, you know," Curufin says wearily.

"He was right about you," Amras counters.

As a child Amras never really squabbled. He and Amrod were so perfectly wrapped up in each other that they had very little inclination for quarrelling with their elder brothers, even Curufin who was not quite out of adolescence when they were born.

Strange now to hear his bickering, and stranger still when it falls so dreadfully flat.

"What now, then?" Curufin asks.

He supposes Amras might still decide to kill him, without Celebrimbor to stay his hand.

Without, without, without – it is over, he is gone for good, another casualty on Curufin's endless blundering trail of destruction—

But his brother shrugs.

"You will see me again," Curufin says in a low voice. "Whatever you proclaim. All five of us living are bound by ties deeper than blood."

"Think you I do not regret that daily?" Amras asks. "Were it not for your foolish scheming the Oath would not be burning in my blood each dawn when I awake. Were it not for our father and his madness Telvo would have at the very least died free."

Despite himself Curufin bristles. "Do not."

"All right, Curvo," Amras says flatly. He manages a wan half-smile, very different from the sharp glinting grin he wore upon first coming across them. "See you then." And he saddles up his mare again and makes ready to leave.

"That's it?" Curufin asks dully. And then, because Amras' icy fury was the most alive he has felt in many months, "I knew you had not the courage to slay me."

"You could call it that," Amras says, without turning to look at him. "Farewell, Curvo."

He is gone before Curufin can think of a response.

For a long moment he stands frozen in the empty clearing, wanting to shout, wanting to beg, Do not turn your back on me now—

He is still there when the call comes.

Meanwhile in Dorthonion:

"I have been thinking, Maitimo," says Sauron, coming suddenly into the cave after days – weeks, perhaps – of darkness.

No games today, at least. There is that to be thankful for. He wears his usual guise, fair-haired and flame-eyed, robed all in white.

Maedhros blinks at him, and says nothing.

(He could not speak even if he wished to – his mouth is bone-dry, his throat parched and stinging.)

Sauron kneels before him, caresses his forehead with burning fingers. "My poor sweet one," he says, his voice tinged with regret. "I would not have to keep you bound were you only a little more – stable."

You made me so, Maedhros wants to cry out. It is good, in a way, that his thirst has gagged him so: he does not want to give Sauron the satisfaction of an answer.

It will not last for ever; soon enough Sauron will grow bored with this dull-eyed silence, he knows.

"But answer me this, Maitimo," Sauron says, his voice soft and thoughtful, "your conscience held you back when last you entered Menegroth, did it not? What makes you so very certain that you will have the mettle to take the Silmaril from Thingol this time?"

It is not that any of this will have occurred to him just now, Maedhros knows. Likely all these arguments and counter-arguments were clear to him in the moment they first struck their bargain; and now, while they wait for Morgoth's answer and the Silmaril from Angband, the Silmaril Maedhros will not be able to touch, Sauron seeks to amusing himself by toying with him.

Well, he will keep his silence.

Sauron shifts so that all his weight – and he can make himself impossibly heavy for all that his form is so slender, as though the mass of all the rocks in the cavern is concentrated in him – rests upon one of Maedhros' shattered legs. "I asked you a question, Maitimo."

His breath on Maedhros' lips is hot and dry, like a desert wind.

O for the gift of Míriel, for her endless, peaceful slumber!

But Maedhros spent long enough yearning for death on the mountain to know it cannot be that easy.

He takes his tongue between his teeth and bites down hard, hard enough that his mouth is filled with hot metallic blood and he can at last wet his lips a little.

"What answer will satisfy you?" he manages to rasp. "That I have faith in myself, or that I do not? Your decision is made either way."

"Still I wish to know," Sauron says silkily. He cups Maedhros' cheek with one hand, and Maedhros leans into the touch despite himself. "You ask me to depend upon you a great deal."

He should not play the game. He should hold his tongue and take whatever beating Sauron metes out in response; it will make no difference either way, the Silmaril is coming regardless.

But Maedhros does so like to be clever.

"Depend instead upon my Oath," he says, "for it compels me to deal death to him who witholds a Silmaril from me. Thingol has bound himself to his fate."

"And yet you walked away from Menegroth, leaving a Silmaril in his power," Sauron points out. "That is not the behaviour of one driven solely by his Oath to reclaim the jewels."

"It was in my brother's possession when I left Thingol's halls in search of the other," Maedhros says. This much at least is true – though he does not like to speak of Maglor in Sauron's presence, does not like to remember that they two both exist in the selfsame world. "I was foolish enough to trust that he would not surrender it. I will not make the same mistake twice." There, that is scorn enough in his voice to fool anyone.

"And yet you trust him now to hold the one in Barad Eithel," Sauron muses. "Do you not claim the jewel for your own, Fëanor's eldest son? You were unkind enough to shine it in my eyes on the battlefield."

"He will guard it with care," says Maedhros, "and it is his by right as much as mine – more, even, for he suffered for it during the fall of Himring, and besides—" He pauses.

Sauron leans in and presses his hot lips to Maedhros', licking clean the last droplets of blood clinging to his cracked skin.

"Besides?" he prompts.

Bile rises in Maedhros' throat. He shudders, but Sauron holds his jaw closed tight, forcing him to swallow it rather than retch.

"I'm waiting, Maitimo," Sauron says softly.

Maedhros spits blood in his face, which seems only to amuse him. "Besides he is better than you," he hisses, "and better than me, and it will never burn him as long as he lives—"

The pressure on his leg vanishes abruptly, leaving him oddly light-headed.

"So it will burn you, my sweet?" Sauron says softly.

His voice now comes from far above Maedhros' head. He tries to tilt his head back to see – long experience has taught him to keep his eyes on Sauron as much as possible – but the cold wall of the cave arrests his motion.

"You and I were always more alike than you wished to admit, my little liar," Sauron murmurs. He reaches down to tousle Maedhros' matted hair. "You will never be able to pass through the Girdle, will you, Silmaril or not? Well, then."

"Are you going to kill me, now?" Maedhros asks, the faint flicker of what may be relief in his chest. "I can be of no use to you after all."

"I keep my promises, Maitimo," Sauron says briskly, "even to those as faithless as you." And with a swish of his robes he is gone.

That is a bad thing – he is sure that is a bad thing – what was it Sauron promised?

But he is so, so tired, and he cannot remember, and now that Sauron is gone he is alone once more with his thoughts, and all he wants to do is sleep until the breaking of the world.

But he cannot – just yet. For Maglor's sake.

For the first time since he came here he opens up his mind, just the tiniest of cracks, and reaches out.

Are you there? I need help.

(to be continued)

the fairest stars: post vii

Yet more of the "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" AU! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr and AO3 here.

Part 35: on stories, and the ways they repeat themselves.

Finrod goes to Mandos' throne room, and kneels – such as it is – in supplication before the Vala.

"Son of Arafinwë," says Mandos. "Having turned down our boon, have you come to ask another?"

"Not for myself," says Finrod. "But for my cousin."

"Whatever vow you have made," says Mandos, "Turkafinwë Fëanárion is not ready to be released from my Halls, even were he willing."

"Not – not Celegorm," says Finrod, "but Amrod his brother. Has no judgement been passed on him? It is many centuries now since he burned to death at his father's hands."

"The judgement was passed," says Mandos, "when he swore his Oath, and bound himself to violence. No one compelled by such a force can be released into the peace of Aman."

"But he regretted it," Finrod argues. "He meant to turn back as my own father did, and beg pardon of the Valar. He would be free of it, if he could."

"But he is not," says Mandos, implacable.

Finrod is good, and pious, and faithful. Finrod is not going to lose his temper with a Vala.

"Is there no pity in these Halls?" he asks. "Is there no way to set him free of a bond he does not want?"

"Lúthien your cousin asked a similar thing when she came before me," Mandos says. "And I will tell you what I told her: it is beyond my power to undo an Oath sworn in the name of the All-father. The Valar are not gaolers, child. Telufinwë's chains were of his own making."

"It wasn't his fault," Finrod says tightly, "it was his father who bound him—"

"I cannot give you what you want," Mandos says, interrupting him.

"Then pass the boon you have given me onto him," Finrod says; "transfer it away from me, I do not want it. Grant him his release, he has lingered here long enough."

"That is not how it works," Mandos says. "You are free to leave these Halls whenever you desire. It is not my way to retract mercy once it has been offered."

Do you call this mercy? Finrod does not say. He takes his leave instead.

“You did not need to do that,” Amrod says, when he returns.

Finrod is in no mood for Fëanorian self-pity. “Do you want to rot here forever, then?” he asks sharply.

“So it was decreed,” Amrod says, “and I told you already that I never expected any mercy for myself.”

“Yet you would have me extend it to your brother,” Finrod says.

“That,” says Amrod, “is not precisely what I said.” He makes some spirit-approximation of a shrug. “You know Tyelko as he is now better than I do. Is he past saving? Perhaps. But it is for your own sake that you are trying anyway, I think.”

“But if even you are condemned to remain here forever—” Finrod says, unable to keep himself from bitterness.

“I’ve killed people, Ingoldo,” Amrod reminds him. “Three of them, in fact.” He shudders briefly. “Why me? Why Tyelko, for that matter? There are many worthier souls in these Halls to demand your attention. After the Dagor Bragollach the Exiles came pouring in here in their thousands, and every one of them lies under the Doom of Mandos – all except for you. You could be pleading for any one of them, instead of your Kinslaying cousins, who are anyway bound by a greater chain.”

“Because,” Finrod says, irritable, “chains can be broken. And I cannot bear to see you deny that, again and again – you as well as your brother! Forever need not always mean forever. There are brighter things in store for you, for all of us, than to mourn here for eternity in the dark. Valar help me, I did not fully realise it, until Lúthien showed me it was so – and yet—” He stops suddenly.

Amrod looks at him with sympathy. "It is not only us you are angry with," he says.

"I do not want to be angry at all," Finrod says wearily. "I want to find a way out, I want to believe that there is hope for all of us – for you and me and your brother and my Ten and those we lost on the Ice and all the doomed and damned and grieving Noldor – can it be so? Or is it always the same story over and over again, all of us trapped in our roles until the end of the time? The Ainulindalë had space in it for new themes, did it not? So why must we condemn ourselves over-hastily, name these chains unbreakable for ever?"

"Perhaps they are," says Amrod, "for the rest of us, if not for you."

"I do not believe that any more," says Finrod. "And I am going to speak to my brother."

Back in Middle-earth:

Finduilas and Celebrimbor have ridden swiftly, their journey uneventful. They are coming now to the borders of the Girdle of Melian.

Finduilas smiles at Celebrimbor, more bravely than she really feels. "This is where we part ways."

To her eyes the Girdle is clearly visible, a sharply demarcated shimmering in the air, whereas all Celebrimbor can make out is a blurred sort of wrongness, as though the world itself is bending around Doriath's border.

"It isn't too late to change your mind," Celebrimbor tells her. "We can go back to Nargothrond, we can tell your father we only got lost in the mists—"

"It has been too late for that for a long time," Finduilas says, decisive. She smiles again. "Don't fret, Tyelpë! The worst Thingol can do to me is speak harshly. I am not the one in danger."

"I will be fine," Celebrimbor tells her. "It is the northern stretch of the Girdle where danger lies thick." He thinks of the desperate flight from Himlad after the Dagor Bragollach, and shivers a little. "You had better not tell Thingol that I am here, not after what my – my father tried."

"You aren't your father, Tyelpë," Finduilas says softly. She leans over to kiss his cheek. "Take heart! With any luck my errand will not be a long one, and we will have an escort of Iathren marchwardens to take us home."

Celebrimbor thinks that is overly optimistic, but he only says, "I will be here when you return – and good luck, coz."

He watches as she rides away from him, through the Girdle and then into the darkness of whatever lies beyond it.

It is a perfectly nice clearing they have chosen for their meeting-place, and he spends some time the next day setting up camp; then he gets bored, and invents a better mechanism for collecting rainwater for drinking, and then makes himself a makeshift chemistry lab out of the weird plants growing near the Girdle; and then he carves every fallen stick in a mile's radius into a miniature wooden animal, and ends up with a host of Eagles and an army of bears and No Dogs At All; and then and then and then

He's really bored tbh.

In Barad Eithel:

One thing about Maglor is that he needs a Job or he will go a little mad.

He is like Maedhros in that, Fingon reflects, and tries not to indulge the stab of the thought.

Unfair, to blame unhappy Maglor for not being his brother, for not having Maedhros' smile and Maedhros' bright thoughtful eyes and Maedhros' commanding presence—

Anyway: usually this does not pose much of an issue, because Maglor has made Maedhros his Job and attends to him both capably and contentedly.

Now, on the other hand, he is restless, and when Maglor is restless he hovers.

Fingon does not mind this most of the time. He likes his cousin's company, despite everything, and also Maglor is a better and more sensible advisor than most would give him credit for.

But there is really not that much for him to do today, and he is maybe driving Fingon a little crazy.

"Makalaurë," he says, "you might go down to the armoury."

Maglor smiles drily at him. "Trying to get rid of me?"

"No," Fingon lies, "only it occurred to me that you are certainly the most skilled person here at testing the metal for minute flaws – the same way you use its resonance in swordplay. And it would be good to make sure everything is in good shape while Morgoth seems to be unwiling to attack again."

“You are trying to get rid of me,” says Maglor, not really offended.

An hour later finds him in the armoury, sorting swords that need mending from those whose metal sings cleanly; he is so absorbed in the work that he does not at first notice there is someone else in the room, until Maeglin comes to stand before him.

“I did not know you had any interest in metalwork,” Maeglin says, in lieu of any other greeting.

“Not particularly,” Maglor says mildly, “but my father was the greatest smith of the Noldor, even so.”

Maeglin’s expression seems to imply that he intends to change that.

Maglor decides he might as well try to be friendly. “We have spoken little since you came to Barad Eithel,” he says; “forgive me, I have been too absorbed in my own affairs to greet you with the courtesy due so close a kinsman. But I am glad to meet Írissë’s son at last.”

Maeglin says, “Were you close to my mother?”

“Not as much as my younger brothers,” Maglor admits, “but even so I thought her fearless, and kind, and never reluctant to speak her own mind.”

“She was different,” Maeglin says in a low voice, “when I knew her.”

Maybe it would be good to change the subject.

"How well do you like Barad Eithel?" Maglor asks. "You have made friends among the lords of the Noldor already, I am glad to see."

Maeglin is looking at him guardedly. "Everyone has been very kind," he says, his voice neutral. "Although my uncle has had less time for me than I hoped."

Maglor bites his lip. "He has much to trouble him at present, too," he says, as evenly as he can. "But you should know he speaks highly of you."

"I am glad to hear it," Maeglin says. He looks at Maglor in silence for a little while, and then says, "You are close in his counsel, I think."

Maglor is kind of regretting his decision to be friendly.

"We have been friends for a long time," is all he says.

"But not as close as he was to your brother," Maeglin says, watching Maglor very carefully as he speaks.

"You were on the field after the battle," Maglor says, trying to keep his patience. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"Forgive me," Maeglin says then, and flashes Maglor a quick rueful smile. "You are all names I have only ever heard in half-complete stories. There is a great deal I must learn. And nobody had ever told me that the High King was wed to his cousin."

"They are not wed," Maglor says automatically, Maedhros' customary rebuttal; then he wonders why he is still making Maedhros' arguments for him, still playing the lieutenant when the war is long since over, and the weight of his loss seizes him around the throat anew.

Belatedly he realises Maeglin is speaking. "Turgon my uncle was not happy to learn of it," he says. "But perhaps it does not matter so much now, since your brother is – well." He has the grace to look vaguely sympathetic, at least. "Some of the other lords are beginning to say that it would be wise for the King to take a wife, now that he is free of any other attachment. But that seems to me unkind."

"Unkind," Maglor asks, "or just contrary to your own hopes, which rather depend on his remaining unwed and heirless?" He raises an eyebrow.

Maeglin tenses. Maglor's eyes rest on him the way Idril's used to, as though seeing some ugly nub inside him, invisible to Maeglin himself.

Maeglin does not want to think about Idril.

"I have told them it would be cruel," he says, "to raise the matter to him while he has so many troubles."

"I see," Maglor says, and some of the pressure of his gaze relents. "Since they seem to listen to you, you might tell them that Fingon loves my brother, and is not so faithless as to waver in his affection now." He manages the flicker of a smile. "Or perhaps it would be wisest if you do not say that: they might like you less, then, after all."

"You are determined to mistrust me, I see," Maeglin says stiffly. "Strange, when half the court thinks you a spy for the Enemy, and your brother his puppet."

"Those accusations," Maglor says, "are older than you by many centuries, and have lost much of their sting. I am not a spy, and Fingon knows that. But you mistake me, Maeglin. I am not determined to mistrust you. I am only worried – for you, not just because of you." He looks directly at Maeglin again. "You are very lonely, I think."

Maeglin lifts his chin. "I am perfectly content," he says, his voice clipped, "and have very little need for your concern, thank you."

Maglor decides to take a risk. "You are not the only one," he says softly, "who knows what it is to drag the weight of a father's madness behind you. I too understand a little of that grief – it is a heavy thing, and solitary. But I am here if you wish to share some of the burden."

But Maeglin bristles. "What do you know of my burdens and my griefs?" he asks, scornful. "Spare me your pity, please. I do not need it – least of all from one cast so low as you. What now is the House of Fëanor but a set of traitors and invalids, clinging to glory they have long-since lost? In truth I think you envy me – envy that the High King trusts me, and gives me duties the likes of which you cannot imagine."

Maglor cannot stifle a laugh at this speech. "Yes," he says, "that must be it."

Maeglin glares at him and then storms out.

"At least you tried," Fingon says later, when Maglor relates the story.

(Some of it, at least. He does not think Fingon will take kindly to hearing about the speculation on his taking a wife; and Fingon is already rather too prone to lashing out at his lords at the moment.)

"You ought to spend more time with him," is all he says. "For your sake as much as his. He is rather too invested in who shall be named your heir, I think."

Fingon smiles drily. "Well, at least someone is looking to the matter of the succession," he says; and when Maglor gives him a Look, he throws his hands in the air and adds, "he's barely out of childhood, Makalaurë! Do you really think he's sneaking about plotting to poison me in my bed? My brother trusted him, clearly."

"Everyone trusted Curvo, too," Maglor mutters, "and look where that got us."

But when Fingon glances sharply at him he subsides. He does not have the appetite to argue with Fingon.

Fingon changes the subject. "I have not heard you speak so of your father before," he says quietly.

Maglor's ears twitch uncomfortably. "How unthinkingly we bound ourselves," he says, "gave up our freedom and our will and our innocence because he asked it of us – and how could we ever do otherwise? He was our father and we would have done anything for him." He draws a shaky breath.

Fingon has his own complicated feelings about his father, but he is simply Not Engaging With Them. "He has been dead a long time, Makalaurë," he says after a moment.

"I know!" Maglor says, bitterly. "I know: and we are still not free. I am tired of it."

Maedhros' name hovers in the air between them. Neither of them speaks it.

"You know my thoughts on your Oath," Fingon murmurs instead. "Chains can be broken, Makalaurë. Just because you have done evil before does not mean you are obliged to do it again." He gives Maglor a sympathetic look. "I am a Kinslayer too, you know."

"Did you tell Nelyo that?" Maglor asks, breaking their unspoken pact, and Fingon flinches.

[this is known as failing the Maedhros Bechdel Test]

After a moment, Maglor says, "I used to think – to hope, even – that maybe you were right, that Lúthien was right to tell me I need not lament forever. But here we are! Five hundred years have passed and the Oath still binds us tightly as ever it did, and he is gone, it has taken him from me once more – must it always be the same story over and over again? Shall I never be singing anything but the Noldolantë – must its themes echo through time for ever? I am tired, Finno."

"I know," says Fingon, "I know," and he puts his arms around Maglor, and Maglor leans shivering into the embrace, but it is not enough.

In Doriath:

Finduilas' entry into Menegroth has gone smoothly, and she is privately beginning to believe that Celebrimbor's fearmongering was just that.

Nobody has stopped her on recognising her (for she came here often, with her father, in the peaceful days of her youth before the Sudden Flame).

Nor does Thingol turn her away when she goes formally to her knees before him in his great throne room, and says, "I have come as an ambassador from Nargothrond, in the name of Orodreth my father."

"Little niece," says Thingol, with a flicker of humour at the corners of his mouth, "strange are the days when you whom I dandled on my knee not so many years ago now come to treat with me as a foreign king. But you will always be welcome in Menegroth, child."

Finduilas beams at him, and feels her confidence wax – until she hears footsteps behind her, which halt abruptly.

"What's this?" Lúthien asks sharply.

Finduilas spins around to face her.

Lúthien looks – good. Flourishing, even. Mortality suits her, adds some shimmering quality of transience to her loveliness, as if some light beyond the circles of this world is already shining through her skin.

A far cry from how she was when Finduilas last saw her, her face blotchy with tears, her nails ragged and torn – help me, cousin, please, let me out—

"Cousin," Finduilas says, summoning up a smile. "I am glad to see you again."

Lúthien ignores the greeting, looking past her to Thingol. "What is the meaning of this, Father?" she demands. "Why have you allowed her past the Girdle?"

Thingol looks troubled. He does not think he has ever seen Lúthien speak with such untempered anger. "The kin of Olwë my brother have always been welcome here, Lúthien," he says.

"Kin," Lúthien repeats. She looks at Finduilas now, her eyes hard. "That is one word for the way they treated me, certainly."

"I am sorry, cousin," Finduilas breathes. "I did not look to find you here, or else I would have come prepared with some gift of apology for you: but it is for that reason that I have come to plead Nargothrond's case with your father, because I am ashamed of how things happened, we are all ashamed – and my father has cast the sons of Fëanor out of the city—"

"I know that," says Lúthien, "they tried to kill me after he did so, you know."

Finduilas bites her lip. This is not going at all how she pictured it.

Lúthien makes a disgusted sound. "I can't do this," she says, and turns to her father again. "Either she leaves or I do," she says; "you know ultimatums are not my habit, Father, but I will not dwell under the same roof as she again."

She walks out.

Once she is gone Finduilas falls to her knees again. "Uncle," she says, "uncle, please. I have come for the sake of both our realms – please, give me another chance."

Thingol's eyes are colder now. "It is not my intention," he says, "to go against my daughter's wishes again."

"Let me make it right with her," Finduilas pleads, "she has every right to be angry, but I would see our old friendship renewed, if I can."

Thingol hesitates a moment, and Finduilas holds her breath. If he turns her away now, it will all have been in vain—

But at last he nods, and Finduilas is directed to Lúthien's favourite haunt, a clearing aboveground (for Lúthien above all other Elves cannot bear to be caged out of sight of the sky).

She stiffens when Finduilas comes across her. "Still here?"

"I know you are angry," Finduilas says, in a low voice, "and I have come to apologise. I should have protested harder when Celegorm sought to imprison you – I should have found some way to set you free – forgive me, cousin. It was not what I wanted: and I was not brave enough to speak against them."

Lúthien makes no indication that she accepts the apology. "Why have you come here, Finduilas?" she asks. "You were never the sort to pay much attention to politics."

Finduilas chews at her lip. "Nargothrond is weakened," she admits. "My father does his best, but after what the sons of Fëanor did – our unity is failing. Nor is he willing to ally with the High King in the north. I would not have us lose all the friends we once had."

"The friends you had," Lúthien says casually, "when Finrod was your King."

Finduilas does not want to agree, does not want to acknowledge that her father is not the king his brother was. But perhaps her silence is agreement enough.

"So you are here to win back Doriath's might," Lúthien muses, "afraid, perhaps, of the prospect of it mustered against you."

Finduilas feels hot with embarassment. "No – no, you mistake me, cousin," she says. "I want to make things right. Nargothrond grieves what was done to you."

"Nargothrond," Lúthien says, her voice now very sharp, "was complicit in it, every single one of you who were too afraid to do what you knew you be right, too cowed by the sons of Fëanor of all people – two cowards who were bested by Beren and a dog, a dog who had more courage in his heart than your whole rotten city put together—" She draws a furious breath.

Finduilas blinks back tears. "I am ashamed of it," she says unhappily.

"But you still do not think you are really to blame," Lúthien says. "Dear little Finduilas, o best-loved niece and least-noticed daughter, the last princess of the Noldor: who could ever fault you for anything? Why do you think my father allowed you to stay? He too holds you blameless in all Nargothrond's failings, naught but a pretty spectator." She looks coldly at Finduilas. "I do not. You should have done better. You should have helped me." She pauses, as if gathering her strength for the blow, and then adds, "Finrod would have lived, had you helped me."

Finduilas draws a breath.

"I was only hours too late for him," Lúthien says, very softly, her eyes distant. "Had I come sooner, he would have been saved." She shudders, and then looks at Finduilas again. "So do not speak to me now of Nargothrond's troubles. They are of their own making."

Finduilas' eyes are stinging again. "Tales are told of your friendship with the eldest sons of Fëanor," she says angrily, "and yet you will not spare so much as a sliver of pity for your own kin?"

Lúthien shrugs, undeterred by the barb. "Call it selfishness, perhaps," she says. "Darling little cousin, did you think to take me for your model, to come here and win my father's quarter with your smile, and carry home some great boon? Give it up. You are not me."

"Does it mean nothing that I am sorry?" Finduilas cries. "Perhaps I am not brave like you, or clever like you, or so well-favoured by the Valar: but I grieve what was done to you! Does that not count for anything?"

"Not really," says Lúthien; "not until you are willing to realise the part you played in it." She looks at Finduilas then and manages a smile, a real one. "You are part of this world too, coz, a strand of the Great Music just as much as all these great lords and princes. Own it: and once you have done so perhaps we might reach some sort of understanding. But for now there is little I can say to you."

Finduilas walks away at that, and Lúthien manages to exhale.

She was harsh, she knows. Unfair, to blame Finduilas for all Nargothrond's crimes, to think of the blood underneath Lúthien's own ragged fingernails as she clawed desperately at the door and pin it all on her little cousin as though she was Lúthien's sole gaoler.

It was Sauron, Lúthien reminds herself, who killed Finrod.

Still she cannot keep the hot tears of guilt from her eyes.

Back outside the Girdle:

Celebrimbor is still Bored.

He is also quite worried about how angry Orodreth is going to be with him for absconding to Doriath with Finduilas.

It would have been easier, he thinks sometimes, had he left Nargothrond with his father and uncle.

Not better. Not right. But easier, maybe.

If Finrod had lived, if he had been the king Celebrimbor had thrown his allegiance behind, it would have been better received, he is sure.

But he could not have gone with his father either, he reasons to himself. Look what became of Curufin! Nobody even knows where he is; but the stain of his deeds marks all Beleriand yet.

Perhaps Celebrimbor might have stopped him and Celegorm from attacking Beren and Lúthien, had he been there.

Perhaps Huan would have stayed – would have lived, if Celebrimbor had been there.

Easy to fantasise. But Celebrimbor did nothing when he had the chance, did not speak against his father and Celegorm until it was too late to mean anything, left Lúthien sobbing in her lonely gaol instead of working to free her.

Lost in these unhappy musings, he does not at first notice how quiet the forest has grown: but there are no birds singing, suddenly, and the rustle of small mammals through the undergrowth has stilled.

It might be the Girdle, and the strange effects of Melian's magic, Celebrimbor reasons to himself.

Then he hears the growl.

The problem is – for just one crucial moment – his traitorous heart stills – and he thinks, Huan is here, he is come back for me as he always did—

The wolf-pack is lining the clearing by the time he realises his mistake, cutting off his chance of running.

Ah.

Celebrimbor has seen true wolves before, as a child in Valinor.

Once his father took him on a hunting-trip in the wilds near Formenos, just the two of them, and bade him be very quiet when they came to the sparse northern plains; and then he whispered in Celebrimbor's ear, Look! and, looking, Celebrimbor caught sight of an animal nearly bigger than Huan and snow-white all over, with a fine thick tail and a proud snout.

Typical, he thinks now, that Sauron could have perverted even so noble a beast: for the werewolves surrounding him now are mangy and thin, their frames twisted in the same painful way orcs are built, their eyes like dull hungry flames flickering in their heads.

It is not fair, a childish part of him wants to cry out, Tol-in-Gaurhoth was cast down, there should be no wolves roaming these lands now—

But Celebrimbor is a Scientist. He knows better than to trust what he believes over what he sees.

He scales a tree.

The wolves close in around its base, snarling up at him.

No Carcharoths, these, only relics of Sauron's experiments: but that will not matter, when their teeth sink into him.

Everything about you is derivative, some ugly voice seems to whisper to Celebrimbor, its sibilance woven into the wolves' growls; Celegorm your uncle was slain by a greater beast than these poor prototypes, and Finrod Felagund whom you loved at least saved another before they killed him, but you are going to die here, alone and forgotten and unmourned—

Celebrimbor grits his teeth, and ignores it.

He is not going to jump out of the tree to some foolish death. He is going to live forever, and leave a greater mark on the world than that of his father the traitor – he will not end like this—

Besides, Finduilas is expecting him to wait for her.

He leans against the trunk of the tree and settles in for a long night.

By the morning things are rather more dire.

The wolves have not tired; Celebrimbor, on the other hand, is very thirsty, and also growing worried for a new reason.

Finduilas is expecting him to wait for her.

If she comes back to the clearing where she left him, and the wolves decide she is an easier target—

She could perhaps run back to the safety of the Girdle in time – but the wolves are fast, and hungry.

Celebrimbor briefly imagines riding alone back to Nargothrond to inform Orodreth that his daughter is dead.

No: he will have to find a way to drive the wolves away, and quickly, for he does not know how much longer his cousin will be.

He grips his sword-hilt and then hesitates.

There is a pressure on the back of his neck, an oddly disapproving one, as though to say, Don't even think about it, child.

"I am not a child," Celebrimbor says aloud, and the wolves look up at him, snarling as though in agreement.

Finduilas is in danger, Celebrimbor reminds himself, and then he draws his sword and jumps down from his branch.

The wolves are upon him almost instantly. There are many of them, but Celebrimbor is quick, and moreover learned to fight wrestling with Huan long before he was ever given a sword.

He ducks and weaves and rolls, slashing with his sword as best as he can; but then one wolf lands a lucky blow with his claws on his thigh, and another collides with him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the ground—

Celebrimbor closes his eyes, and does not bother to cry out, for nobody will hear him.

Then he has the brief muddled impression of a thud, and sudden pressure on his chest, and then before he can catch his breath or work out what is going on the weight on his legs is lifted, and someone is snapping at him, "Get up, Tyelpë!" and his sword is suddenly back in his hand—

Celebrimbor knows that voice. He scrambles to his feet.

Standing before him, currently locked in a struggle with one of the last few wolves, dishevelled and bloodied but very much alive, is his father.

(to be continued)

[motelroomjesus]

whooo I finished ep 4 and 5 of The Heart Killers

I still don't like Kant, I'm warming up to Bison, still obsessed with FadelStyle, and I want Style carnally.

I'm also really interested in how they're using the music and soundtrack to emphasize the emotions of some scenes.

This post is about to be longer than my usual since it's covering two eps but anyway

Spoilers under the cut !

Me when I overanalyze my BL:

First and foremost, that pat down scene in ep 4 where Fadel maintained eye contact with Kant as he searched him... How do u put that there and expect ppl to not imagine things, Jojo..... 😫 Even the goofy music in the background couldn't dissuade me from thinking they should hate fuck ☝️ but anyway

It's very obvious that while Style isn't fully committed and his feelings for Fadel are just starting to bloom, he definitely wants that man. Atp where we are in ep 4 he's obviously lusting after that man (face economy, body tea). I mean he gave him, apparently, the best sex of his life in a grief meeting storage room. He let the man cut his little crop top off. The lust of it all is so real. But I think now, after the chase, after spending more time with him, especially after hearing how Fadel was asking where he was, he's pursuing Fadel with more sincere intentions and I think he truly wants to know Fadel more. And lord have mercy, that scene in the woods.

That scene in the abandoned warehouse in the woods, aside from the iconic "I don't like that I miss you", is when I first noticed the soundtrack specifically highlighting the emotions. Now, I know soundtracks are meant to do that but I think they're doing it in a really fun way IDK They put a lighthearted cute, and low-key hopeful, little tune over a heated make out and handjob. It felt like it reflected their emotions in that moment really well and how the audience is meant to see the scene. It's not just a hot and heavy make out session because yay official, it's an indicator of a turning page, especially for Fadel. It's a signal that he can get butterflies in his stomach too, even with his enormous walls and stoic mask (defense mechanism), and I'm sticking to that interpretation. I love u my emotionally and sexually repressed little hitman.

And then Kant came in and decided NOW is the perfect time to finally tell his friend that oh yeah ur new bf is a hitman. It's not even that part that actually annoyed me, it's the little quip when Style says gunman instead of hitman. Like I'll kill u with a gun Kant. 😭

I fear I may never truly warm up to him, he is so annoying to me. 😔

Okay so ep 5, I kind of warmed up to Bison. He's cute he's fun, he's totally ignoring his instincts about Kant even tho he knows better. He seems less than helpful in most scenarios though, but whatever

There were two scenes that caught my attention and they were obviously meant to:

1) Kant and Bison post coital cuddles

2) Style and Fadel's intimacy towards the end of the ep

I'm mostly talking about the music again and the intentional use (or absence) of it. During the KantBison scene, when Bison is being so gentle with his kisses and telling Kant tender words, the music reaches a subtle crescendo once Bison says he feels like his life is changing since he met Kant and the camera lands right in Kant's distressed face. It was a great way to signal that Kant is gonna face the music very soon. I found that fun and I had to rewind a couple times just to make sure I wasn't making it up in my head. Could just be a transition sound choice, but I'm reading into it.

The KantBison scene felt like a big contrast next to the FadelStyle scene to me. At this point I think they're both feeling more than they're letting on for each other. Fadel and Style's night is, mostly, quiet. There's no backtrack for the most part. Fadel is splayed out in the bed just watching Style take his shirt off, exposing himself more than Fadel, and caging Fadel in by crawling on top of him. Style is on top of him kissing him, doing what he wants to, and Fadel is letting him. Style is telling Fadel that he wants to be trusted, he wants more from Fadel and he's willing to wait for him to be ready. He means it. And I know there's the component of this all starting for some car and Style now being aware of the reality of the situation but I think that's the point. That's the point of doing this specific scene with the absence of a backtrack until Style starts getting actually frisky. When Style is saying all of this and kissing Fadel's scar, we only listen to his words, their breathing, and their kisses. It's bare bones, but that's the point. To bare it all.

Did I read into that too much? Maybe! but idgaaaaffff. I'm eating this shit up and having fun dissecting things that maybe don't need dissecting. :P

I think it's obvious I'm more invested in FadelStyle than KantBison.... zorry! They put me-targeted drugs in FadelStyle. It's not my fault. 🧍

[dismas-n-dismay]

I'm not fucking joking when I tell you I saw this panel and literally started sobbing and crying over seeing my babygirl buying chocolate with just fucking quarters. This is the people's jason todd for real, thank you Juni Ba

[starrysharks]

reassassination's resident yuri devil

[tonycries]

Golden Boy - G.S.

Synopsis. Falling right back in love with the cult leader you’re supposed to kíll? Happens more often than you’d think.

Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader 

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, friends/lovers to enemies to lovers, oral (fem receiving), facesítting, creampíe, slight Gojo x Reader, running away from it, Suguru is so SOOO in love still, unprotected, spítting, kinda angsty, hurt/comfort, mentions of bIood and kníves, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.4k

A/N. I was listening to fantasmas while writing this so take that how you will LMAO.

The difficult part, surprisingly, wasn’t infiltrating Geto Suguru’s Time Vessel Association. No, a few faux tears, a decoy curse, and you were in - stepping through his grandiose hideout. The difficult part was convincing yourself that you were here to kill him. 

Something that utterly foolish little part of yourself still had trouble believing - even when you had a knife to his throat. 

“Any last words?” you spit, muffled through your mask, thankful for the way it covers up just how much your voice shakes. Maybe because of the way his lips curl into a familiar smile, maybe from his cool dagger pressing against the back of your neck.

Seconds away from a bloodbath. 

You don’t know if you’re breathing - or if he is either. Eyes locked on the way Sugur- your target only raises his hand up, up, up - getting ready to strike. To kill. Only you’d get him first and-

Snip!

You’re not dead. But you might as well have been, because your mask falls onto the tatami mat with a deafening clatter. 

“You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

It’s hard not to remember. 

“You don’t have any right to say that.” your knees tighten around where you had him straddled to the ground. Your hand pinning one of his down, blade digging deeper into Suguru’s pale neck - eyeing the slow, steady drop of blood that beads down it. “Didn’t think you’d remember me, either.”

With your mask now no longer on your face, you could traitorously take in that relaxed grin - as if your life wasn’t in his hands right now. As if he didn’t care. 

Suguru’s hair was much longer now, splayed out across the floor inkily. Circling around his broad shoulders, around the eyes that were just a bit harder than they were ten years ago. And yet, you catch the way they flicker briefly with something so raw as he whispers gently, “How could I ever forget my first love?”

So quiet that you could’ve blamed it on your imagination - and you wish you did. 

It’s so unfair. 

Unfair how you let out a gasp, despite yourself. Unfair how you were the best sword wielder that Jujutsu had to offer, yet your fingers tremble on your knife. Heart stuttering at the mere sight of the way his eyes crinkle with the beginnings of a smile. Pleading, like all he could see was you from what felt like a thousand lifetimes ago. 

Those golden years. Back when rare Susanoomon cards were what you’d fight over, and the only stains he’d wipe off were from the grassy grounds of Jujutsu High, still faint underneath the encrusted blood on that uniform nestled away deep in his wardrobe.

You manage to grit out, “Shut up. You left me- us.”

“I did.”

Like it was all he wanted to see. 

“You never loved me.”

“I do.”

Your voice is shrill at this point, words stumbling over each other. “You’ve massacred more people than you’ve saved.”

Suguru wastes no time denying - or in any niceties. Looking right into your absolutely crazed eyes as he answers, “I have.” And his answer rings so hollow and emotionless in your ears, cold-blooded. Absolutely nothing like the boy you remembered. The one that would laugh and steal you away to take you around campus on his bicycle, all because the next class was “too far”.

“I- fuck.” You place both hands on the hilt of your blade, distantly registering the way that Suguru lets his own drop onto the floor. “I should kill you- I should kill you right now.”

Just one flick of your wrist. Fast and simple. 

In and out - exactly like you’d been ordered to. 

“And to die by your hand would be a death that someone like me doesn’t deserve.”

You both jolt when your knife hits the ground - as if neither of you were expecting it. And before you can stop yourself, you’re fisting his thick robes, pulling Suguru’s face up closer to yours. Mere inches away. 

“Then- then I’ll-” you choke, a hand coming up to dig into the sides of his milky neck, leaving neat, red indents on his skin. “I’ll kill you with my own hands, Suguru.”

And he’s known you for years - would never admit it, but was by your side for only half as long as he’d watched over you. 

Saw - only from a distance -  those big fat tears you cried at graduation, the curve of your lips as you pulled a very reluctant Nanami into a hug outside his new office building. The steely look in your eyes meeting Satoru’s much softer one, telling him first how you’re going into teaching. And the smile on your face when you thought of who else might have, too. If he’d gotten the chance.

Always hidden.

Never so close to this frenzied glint in your gaze, a tiny sob threatening to escape your lips. Never like this - and yet, he never thinks you’ve looked so beautiful. 

But what would someone like him know about beauty, anyway?

You flinch as Suguru reaches a hand up to thumb away the furrow between your brows, catching on the single, stray tear sitting at your cheekbone. Whispering - so low that you involuntarily crane your head closer to hear - “Still such a crybaby.”

“And you’re still going to be the death of me.”

Soft - Suguru’s lips are as soft as you imagined. And it’s not exactly the tender, picture-perfectly romantic first kiss his teenage self dreamt up with you, but fuck if he wasn’t going to remember this like it was. 

Perfect. 

Pretty lips smothering yours, all slow and sensual. Drinking in those deliciously breathless gasps of yours as he sucks on your candied lips. 

You gasp, “Suguru.” and it comes out teary. Making you finally register the wetness rolling down your cheeks, glistening against the dim lighting. You tighten your grip around his neck, “This won’t fix-”

“I know.” Fuck, does he know better than anyone else. 

A hand slides up your forearm, the other cupping your face to pull you closer. He’s running his hot tongue along your cheek, pooling your salty tears on his lips. “But let me make you forget - if just for tonight. Please.”

The only answer Suguru gets is your fingers leaving his neck, dancing feather-light across his sculpted shoulders to slide under his robe. Feeling the smooth plane of his pecs underneath your palm, that traitorously thundering heartbeat he wishes he could slow down. “Kiss me.”

“Fuck.” he pants into your open mouth. The sight of your glossy, slightly puffy lips having him surge forward to reattach his with yours with a pained grunt. “God- jus’ a bit more, my love.”

Again. And again and again- like he was addicted. 

He’d always been, with you, anyway.

You let out a sinful sound of his name when Suguru kisses down your neck, lips slotting over your racing pulse. Throbbing and so real under his lips, remembering how he used to feel this song under his arms long before. 

“Oh- shit.” you moan, when his now rougher - larger - hands sneak underneath your crumpled shirt, deftly unbuttoning. Unbuckling. Impatient. “Sugu-”

A hoarse groan leaves him, only spurring him to all but rip the rest of your uniform off your body faster. 

And at the first sight of you clad in nothing but your panties, Suguru’s kiss-bitten lips are falling slack. Brows shooting up into the dark strands of hair sticking to his forehead now, “Been missing out, hm?” He’s dipping a hand down to run the back of his index along your clothed, puffy folds. Up and down. “Really been-” Heart clenching when he remembers the way Satoru now looks at you with a familiar glint. One he knew all too well. “-missing out, my love.”

You’re only trailing your fingers along his cheek - his neck, grazing over that little mark from your blade. He groans - maybe from your touch, probably from the way you’re dragging your cunt across that massive bulge underneath you. “Please, Suguru. Wan’ you.” 

And if Geto Suguru has spent ten years denying himself, surely he could sacrifice it for the way he lifts your stuttering, sloppy hips up so easily. All the way up until they were hovering over his mouth, hot breath hitting your clothed cunt. 

“Wanna taste you.” he groans, spying on the way your slick beads through your panties. “Wan’ see if you’re as hah- sweet as I imagined. Please.”

And he’s obsessed with the way you’re sinking yourself down so gently, cock jumping at the thought of you afraid you’d suffocate him - as if you didn’t have your blade at his throat just minutes ago.

“Fuuuck, don’t worry, pretty.” he groans, soft darting to lick at the juices smeared across your inner thighs. “Some more now. Put it all on me, I can take it- fuck-”

Your syrupy sweet cunt has Geto losing whatever’s left of his fucking restraint, dark eyes rolling to the back of his head because you were so sweet. So pretty looking down at him with your glassy eyes. So addictive. He moans, chest heaving as he breathes in your essence. “What happened to that feist from earlier? Gonna hafta do a lil’ more than that now.”

“B-but-”

It’s at this moment you realize that at any given moment Suguru could’ve easily taken the upper hand. A hand of his pulls down your hesitant hips, swollen lips against your covered ones in such a filthy kiss. 

He hums into your folds, bunching your panties between them. “Mmm. Shit- jus’ like I imagined.” Hot tongue dipping just underneath the flimsy fabric to feel out your sloppy entrance, “Better, even. Jus’ look how well you’re taking me, pretty.”

But you don’t - too scared to find out that you’d like the sight more than you should. How you wished you could go back to the golden days where it didn’t matter - wasn’t a matter of life and death. And something else entirely. 

And this dilemma has Suguru’s brows furrowing, sharp canines lightly nipping at one of your swollen folds. Wanting to see how it’s him - despite everything, it’s still him making you feel this way. “None of that now.”

RIP!

With this you have to look down, a desperate whine leaving your stupid mouth at the fucking sinful sight down below. Your panties now a tattered excuse in between Suguru’s teeth, baring them with such a devilish grin right up at you. 

“See?” he spits out the fabric onto the floor beside him, half-lidded eyes peering up at you so sultry. Looking right at you as his tongue lolls out, spreading your bare, needy folds shamefully. “Isn’t this much better?”

“Hngh- fuck, yes-” you slide your fingers through his now-messy hair, falling out of that half-bun. Jolting on top with each push of his tongue past that feeble ring of resistance, the lewd squelches leaving you with each graze of the wet muscle against your walls. “Shit- Suguru it feels too good. So deep ngh-”

He swats a hand against your ass, making you sit your slutty hips down deeper, all the way till Suguru’s jaw was grinding so greedily against your cunt. Tongue bullying past your folds in and out in and out in and-

“God- hah-” he’s pulling away to gasp deep lungfuls of air - secondary, to the way he was back immediately to making out so hotly with your tight pussy. “Mmm fuck. This cute lil cunt is so needy. S’like you’re trynna suck my tongue off.” Thumb reaching up to draw slow, languid circles that have you throwing your head back. “So perfect.”

Your delirious mouth is dropping open, body moving before your mind as you strain to reach your hand behind. Trembling. Shaky when you manage to cup Suguru’s aching erection. 

“G-guess m’not the only one ah- needy, hm?” you smirk, having him bucking and spitting out harsh little profanities with each rub of your palm down his drenched length. 

Suguru doesn’t give you a response - because his fingers are speaking on his behalf. Dipping into your sloppy hole, locating your g-spot, as if on instinct. He’s milking your pretty cunt while he roams for those sweet spots. Lips muffling around your throbbing clit, “You’re always right, my love. You always were.”

And his words are so gentle - mouth so sloppy. Squelches so obscene. 

Nose pressing up at the top of your abdomen, cheeks hollowing wetly around the sensitive nub. Letting your juices drip all the way down his chin, his jaw, dangerously close to that cut on his neck. 

The hand sliding back and forth across the swollen outline of his cock had Suguru get more frenzied. Faster. Like it was his personal mission to make you cum on his tongue before he fucking passed out. 

Penetrating your gummy hole with both his fingers and his tongue, spreading it open more. And it’s all you can do to keen, “Oh- oh my god.” Riding Suguru’s pretty face harder. “Shit- m’close, Suguru.”

“Always right.” he gasps, swiping his tongue faster across your clit. “Always perfect” Alternating between squeezing back into your hole, your sweet spots. Stretching out your gummy walls as far as they’d go. “Always made f’me.” Assaulting it with both his fingers and his tongue. Again. And again and again and- “Jus’ wish I got to have you sooner.”

His words make you snap your eyes up from his mean mouth to meet his gaze, devouring you as greedily and depraved as his tongue. They make your thighs burn with the effort to drag your sloppy pussy faster.

They make you cum - shaking, crying out little mewls of “Ngh- fuck. M’cumming m’cumming m’cumming.”

The way your voice is breaking at the end of each moan has Suguru’s cock straining so painfully against his trousers. One hand firmly on your waist, arching you deeper to tongue you through your high in ways he’s only ever dared to imagine. 

Ways he’s selfishly hoped only he could - even after all these years, the sight of any other man looking at you wrong having his irritation flaring. 

“S’right.” his voice is sending stars bursting behind your lids, tongue even worse. Having you pleading and so sensitive. “I got you, my love. Give it t’me.” Messy - not as forgiving as he’d like to be. “Give it alllll to me.”

And you do - all but smothering Suguru’s eager tongue with all your sweet juices. Ones he’s lapping up happily, tilting his head back as far as it’d go on the floor, letting your heady slick fill up his throat. His pussydrunk lips let out a hiss, both at the burn of that cut on his neck, and the way you’re desperately pulling your hips back. 

Too overstimulated. Too fucking sensitive. Too much - but it would never be enough for Suguru. 

“Please, Suguru.” you sob at the way your limp hips are being pulled back by a needy Suguru. “M’too sensitive. I- fuck-” He’s only lapping at your quivering cunt leisurely, smirk prominent against your swollen folds. 

And it’s all you can do to deliriously slip a hand underneath his robes, a desperate attempt to keep whatever shred of sanity you have left. Fingers feeling down his unfairly toned abs, the tufts of hair at his pelvis, reaching-

“Oh fuck!” Your heavy eyes admire the way Suguru arches into your touch in surprise - like he couldn’t help himself. Eyes flying open, glossy, plump lips curling into a disbelieving grin, “Ya really are made f’me, huh?” 

That’s all it takes for Suguru to head to your lewd whims, bruising fingers on your hips finally loosening to let you sit your sloppy cunt back down on his lap - except, this time, you were seated directly on his rock-hard cock. Pussy lips spreading around his length to just soak him. 

“Oh, my love.” He sits up, splaying you out so prettily on his lap. “How I’ve missed you.”

You don’t even register the way you’re raising your head up to meet Suguru’s - not until he spits. Once. Twice. Straight onto your awaiting tongue that you didn’t even realize you were sticking out, saccharine sweet saliva making such a mess when he’s crashing his lips into yours. 

“Yeahh, like that. Kiss me like that.” he slurs against your mouth, drunk off both sets of your sweet lips. Getting out through wet, sloppy pecks. “How I wish I had you sooner.”

You can feel your heart thumping so wildly against your ribcage, matching the needy, needy staccato of Suguru’s cock throbbing between your puffy folds. And, well, you really can’t be blamed for the way you break the kiss to look down and oh-

Oh Suguru notices that furrow between your brows, kissing away the nervous little wobble in your lower lips as he grunts, “God, you’re killin’ me.” 

Fuck. Killing him?

You were the one sent in for the kill, but it seems you won’t be making it out here alive. 

Because Suguru was so big, girth rubbing up against your thighs. So angry and heavy, smearing hot precum over his abs, your cunt, adding to add to the absolute mess. Long enough that you knew you wouldn’t be able to walk out of here - which, honestly, Suguru would’ve preferred. To keep you with him forever. 

To have you always mewling so prettily when he’s dragging his fat head down your sensitive slit. To have his name - and only his name - leave your bruised lips when he’s asking, “Who’s got you this wet?” 

You’re so cockdrunk already that you’re groaning mindlessly, “You- Suguru-”

“No, that’s not what you call me.” 

And it takes you a few, long seconds to understand what he’s saying, all the while trying to focus with the leaky tip being pressed past your swollen folds. Slow. Torturous. Hitting you so violently at the same time he slips past that first, slutty ring of muscle. 

“Sugu!”

A blinding grin splits across Suguru’s absolutely fucked-out face, brows furrowing together in ecstasy. “That’s more hah- like it.” Not having heard that familiar little nickname - one of your many - fall from your lips since high school - one that makes a heart he forgot he had grow five sizes too large. “Now, just take me-” Hips bucking up, so strong and ruthless. “-like I know you can, okay?”

Over and over. 

You can’t let out anything but barely-lucid whines at this point, letting Suguru sink in inch by fucking inch. Your walls stretched out so perfectly to take his sheer size. But the stretch- oh, the stretch.

Fuck, it has you clawing at Suguru’s exposed shoulders, fingers leaving angry, red marks down the muscles. An obscene ah! ah! ah! leaving your lips with each time he reels his hips back, only to bully his aching cock inside until he physically couldn’t.

“Hngh- Sugu, s’too big-” You buck your hips down in shallow, tentative grinds to meet his filthy method of fitting in. “Too- much. Didn’t expect you to be so mean-”

“The sorcerer that hah- held a knife to the infamous Geto Suguru’s neck-” he groans, hands groping your ass to move you further down his massive cock. To watch the way your sloppy entrance was stretching out so much to suck him up. “-can take this too, right? I know you can.” He reaches a deft thumb around to toy with your pretty clit, making your cunt relax like the good girl she is. Fucking up deeper, just a bit more mean. “You- can-”

Several things happen at the tail end of Suguru’s sentence - he’s finally fitting in all in one go. With a calculated, harsh thrust up into your poor cunt, your ass is kissing his heavy balls, pussy rubbing against the hair at his hilt. So full and so much.

And Suguru knows he just might not see heaven - but shit, does he feel like he’s there right now. The feeling so good that both of you letting out mingling gasps of pleasure. 

Your back falling onto the now soiled mats like such animals, the other not far behind.

“You alright, my love?” Suguru hums against your throat when you’re managing to adjust somewhat to the stretch, aware enough to kiss the palm resting protectively underneath your head - making sure you don’t hurt yourself.

You bat your teary lashes, “Never been better, Sugu.”

And something about that makes him remember. 

Remember the way you’d tell him the exact same thing when you fought with curses too strong for you - coming back to the dorms all battered and bruised, but alive. Flashing him that addictive grin, and a crooked thumbs up, “Never been better, Sugu. Gold, actually.”

His golden girl.

Shaking away the tightness at his throat, Suguru instead focuses on wrapping your trembling legs around his toned waist. Tight.

“Sh-shit- you’re milkin’ me so good, fuck-”

Abs burning as he just drags his cock along your plushy walls, keeping your legs held wide open for him. So tight - like you were sucking the fucking soul out of him. Making sure to angle his hips in just the way that’ll have your eyes tearing at the way he was massaging all your sweet spots. 

And sure enough - “O-oh my god-” you breathe, and shit, it was so hard to speak. Suguru’s cock too big, too depraved. Speeding up with every ram of his hips into a steady, mean pace. “Jus’ like that, fuck-”

“Mhm?”

You paw at his free hand settled by the side of your neck, trailing it down, down, down - rings and all - to the part of your stomach you could feel his thick tip hitting. A slight bulge, abusing your cervix over and over, “Here-”

“-s’where I belong.”

Your brows raise at his interjection, and you swipe away the long locks of hair partially covering Suguru’s face, legs tightening around his hips as you take a long, hard look. He repeats, “S’where I belong. Where ngh- you belong.”

Like some deep, dark part of him was trying to fuck out any and every doubt about this out of you - as if you’d have any - Suguru’s rolling his hips harder into yours. All the way until it almost hurt - until the sting of his twitching balls against your ass felt permanent, fingerpads pressing down so hard on your stomach. 

Lips searing against yours, punctuating each word with a jagged, rough thrust. “Because you sh-shouldn’t be ah- here. You shouldn’t be-” He drags you deeper onto his dick like some ragdoll, fingers frenzying on your clit. “-with me.”

Words slurring and as sloppy as his hips now. 

“Wh-why fuck- why wouldn’t I be?”

“Heh, you forgot?” Suguru spits out a chuckle, pushing you further and further up the mat with how bruising his hips were hitting yours. Alternating between marking your cervix - your g-spot - your gummy walls. “Forgot how I told ya to live a better life than this?” Everything and anything. Hips smacking so loud, echoing in symphony with those melancholy words he parted with so long ago. “How I told you to hngh- find a-another? Live a long life? To be happy?”

Now that Suguru was talking, it was like he couldn’t stop. Like a damn had been broken - both with his words and his movements. The curve of his dick drives you wild, veins molding your cunt into their shape. 

Gritting his teeth to hold back the way his drenched balls squeeze so painfully, biting down on your lower lip. “You’re s-supposed to kill me.” A drop of sweat splashing down on your cheek, “To kill me and maybe you’ll be hah- fuck mine in another universe. But not this one.” It’s like he’s out of control now, “Never this one. You can have anybody else.”

And suddenly you’re having a flashback to just a week prior, to an uncharacteristically solemn Satoru telling you words you should’ve been happy to hear. Quiet, and unassuming. Ones you knew that had you heard them before knowing Suguru, you’d have jumped into his arms - exactly how he hoped you would, the day of his departure. 

Chuckling at you being such a “crybaby” about him leaving. After all, this was just meant to be, right?

But no.

Instead, you’re here. Bunching Suguru’s beautiful, glossy hair curtaining the sides of your head, into a ponytail. Difficult - with how he was getting faster. Harder. Just ravaging your hole until you were gaping and breathless.

And yet, arms trembling and limp, you still manage to reveal the boy you fell in love with - the one you could never forget. From the flush on his pretty face, to the twisted, sad curve of his mouth. And the eyes that bore into yours like they were searching for the same thing. Smiling, for the first time since you entered this place, “How could I ever want anyone else, Sugu?”

The hand on your stomach is cupping your adorable face so softly - and it’s hard to believe those hands have killed. Betrayed.

Like they were capable of doing anything but as Suguru swipes the single tear glistening down your cheek, “Still a crybaby, huh, my love?”

And then you cum - and Suguru isn’t too far behind. 

It’s just a flash of hot white, tingles running down your spine - all the way to the thick, creamy base soon forming around his wildly twitching cock. 

And it’s so good. Too good that all you can do it scream out his name, letting him do anything - and you were glad all he did was fuck you so mercilessly through your high. So violent. Addictive. 

Vision blurry, mouth sagging open for Suguru to press intimate little kisses along the corners of your mouth. Whispering sweet praises as your cunt sucks him up so good. So sinfully milking him for everything he’s worth. 

Taking in rope after rope of thick cum that warms your gummy walls from the inside, overfilling just enough for it to dribble down into the mat below in an obscene little pool. Smearing down your thighs, his balls. Heavenly. 

His heaven.

And in the haze of it all, Suguru imagines that you’ll reach for your knife again, press it back against the curve of his exposed neck. He imagines you’ll laugh in his face, tell him what a great whim this was but you had to get back to your job, turning your back on him as he has done before. He imagines.

But what he gets is your strained, fucked-out little voice, “I missed you, my golden boy.”

A/N. Yes, That Line was inspired by HTTYD. If I had to be hurt, y’all do, too. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Tag Team (Deadpool/Wolverine)

Description: Wade is distracted during a mission so afterwards all 3 of them fuck in the Honda.

Warning: Smut

Word Count: 1,773k

Request:

IM OBSESSED WITH WADE AND LOGAN AS A TEAM... May I request a smut where both of them fuck fem!Reader?

Idk reader could also be a hero and it happens during a mission, I trust your writing!!!

Wade had been distracted the entire mission. It was to the point that Logan was getting annoyed with him even more than usual. Y/N had no clue what they were fighting about but was also annoyed with both of them. “Can you guys shut the fuck up?” She growled at them. They both stopped arguing and looked at her, “Can you stop being so hot?” Wade asked. She rolled her eyes and put her finger to her mouth to shush him. “Yes mommy.” Logan looked at him with disgust.

Wade was a kinky son of a bitch but Logan never got used to it. They were trying to kill bad guys but Wade was about to ruin it. Y/N had been so into the mission she had failed to see both of them checking her out. She did have blood all over her but what was new? Wade and Logan both had it bad for the girl but Y/N was oblivious. Before Wade could say anything else the bad guys appeared and they had to kill.

Y/N shot at them, never missing. Logan clawed them up and managed to get more blood on them than before. Wade? Well he was still distracted and barely did anything, “WHAT THE FUCK, WADE?” Y/N yelled at him. She pulled him right out of his dirty thoughts. “Y/N and I just did all the work.” Logan added. “Well my bad that I can’t stop thinking about taking you both to a whole new world of pleasure.” Y/N stared at him with a blank look.

She was really tired of him acting like this, especially on a mission. “Well next time don’t come.” She said and walked away from him. Logan followed but not before growling at him. “Oh come on! You guys act like this isn’t hot as fuck.” He whined, catching up to them. “What’s hot about killing people, Wade?” “EVERYTHING!!” Y/N sighed and stopped walking. “Wade, I’m very flattered but now is not the time.” She said to him. “Wait so there’s a time?” He asked. She sighed and started walking again. 

The Honda Odyssey was the only “bed” that they had which sucked ass but it had to work. They all reeked of blood and guts but Wade couldn’t stop thinking about fucking Y/N in it. “So about earlier, is now the time?” He asked. Logan rolled his eyes and Y/N sighed. She sat up in the backseat and stared at him.

He was still wearing his mask and Logan took his off. “Wade, don’t you wanna fuck in a bed?” She asked, looking around the car. “Honey, I would fuck you in a volcano.” Yeah cuz that was a turn on. She looked at Logan, “What about you?” She asked him. He opened his eyes to look at her, “I wouldn’t fuck you in a volcano but this is all we have.” She laughed at his words and put her weapons on the floor.

“Alright guys. Let’s have some fun.” Wade was out of the car and to the backseat before she could finish her sentence. Logan got on the other side of her and she looked between them, “I’m not sure how this will wo-” Both of them attached their mouths to her neck. She gasped at the sudden action of them and she never noticed that Wade lifted his mask. Their lips moved sloppily on her neck, leaving marks. She gripped both of their necks and pulled them closer. They both placed a hand on her upper thigh and she leaned back against the seat, taking them with her.

Her eyes were closed as they marked her neck until she had purple spots. Logan moved down to her cleavage and Wade’s hand brushed against her pussy. She gasped at the feeling of both of them. Logan kissed and sucked the top of boob while Wade managed to get his fingers in her body suit to her bare pussy, “Holy shit.” She breathed out and he chuckled. “Ya like that princess?” Wade asked as his fingers rubbed her clit.

She was soaked and had been for a few hours now. Logan moved from her tit to the floor and spread her legs. “Move your fingers you Merc.” Logan said to Wade. Wade whined but did anyway so Logan could feast on her pussy. “Take this off.” He demanded her. She undid her body suit and Logan helped her get it off until she was fully naked in nothing but gloves and her boots. Logan chuckled as he looked at her wet pussy.

He sniffed her and sighed, “Fuck darling you smell delicious.” He told her and licked up her clit. She threw her head back and moaned. Wade watched as Logan ate her out and got even harder. He looked at Y/N who had her eyes closed and her breathing was harder. He leaned back too and turned her head towards him and kissed her. She weakly kissed back and moaned into his mouth. Logan was eating her out like an animal eating its first meal.

It was everything. Her hands gripped his hair making him moan into her pussy. The vibration made her whine and Wade stuck his tongue in her mouth. She let his tongue explore her mouth and Logan’s explored her pussy. Her hips bucked into his mouth and she shuddered at how close she was, “I’m gonna cum!” She whined into the kiss. “Cum on his beautiful face.” Wade told her and that did it. She fucked her hips up into his face and came all over. Wade praised her as she rode her sweet orgasm.

Logan flattened his tongue as she did all the work until the pleasure was gone. He pulled away from her pussy and smirked at her. She loved the sight of him covered in her cum. Wade did as well, “Damn wish that was me.” Logan got back onto the seat next to her and kissed her, giving her a taste. She moaned into his mouth. “Fuck that’s so hot.” Wade said. Y/N pulled away from the kiss and moved to kiss Wade giving him a taste as well. While they were kissing she took his mask off and threw it on the ground. Wade was never insecure around them.

They made him feel loved. She broke the kiss and moved in between his legs. He looked down in shock as she pulled out his dick. “Kiss.” She told them and without protest they did. She smirked as she watched for a second before running her pretty fingers over Wade’s cock. He gasped into the kiss. She wrapped her hand around him and jerked him off a few times before taking him into her mouth. Her mouth was the best thing to fuck.

It was wet and warm and felt so good. She placed her hands on his thighs and gave him the best blow job of his life. Wade was the loudest one out of the three of them. He fucked up into her mouth as the car rocked. The windows steamed up as they kissed and she gave him the best blow job ever. “Fuck. Your mouth is amazing, baby.” He moaned.

Logan watched as his dick went in and out of her mouth. Sure her mouth was good but her pussy was even better. Logan and Wade stopped kissing once Wade got really close. He threw his head back and cried out as he came in her throat. She pulled off of him and pulled Logan down for a kiss. She let Wade’s cum travel into Logan’s mouth and he swallowed. Wade gasped as he had never seen anything like that before.

Y/N smirked at him and got back in between them. “So I want all or nothing. You both have to be inside of me at the same time.” She says and they both nod before getting naked. She got on the center console of the car and they both managed to get their dicks in her at the same time. Their car was small but it managed to work. Y/N gasped at both of them penetrating her at the same time. Logan tried to let her adjust to the size but Wade didn’t care and started thrusting.

Her moans were loud inside the car and it felt very hot. Her jaw was dropped and her bloody hair was wet with sweat as well. Wade laid his head on the head of the carseat and groaned out. Logan who had more stanamia than both of them was fucking her fast and hard. Wade tried to keep up but it felt better this way.

“Shit you both are so fucking good.” She whined as one dick would hit her spot and then the other would right after. “You’re one to talk princess, your pussy is so perfect.” Wade groaned. Her moans turned to screams as she started thrusting back on them. The perfect rhythm began and all 3 of them were making loud noises. The heat of the car made things more intense.

Logan’s hand that was gripping one side of her hip was squeezing to the point of bruises. Y/N wished more than anything that she could see how fucked out they both looked but that was the con with doggy style. Especially in a small car. Wade groaned as he felt her pussy squeeze them, “Fuck princess, I’m about to cum.” He announced.

Y/N smirked before moaning as she squeezed them tighter cuz a loud moan to release from Logan. He barely moaned but when he did it was amazing and hot. “Fuck sweetheart, If you do that again I’m gonna cum too.” “That’s the plan.” She whimpered and squeezed them. “Where do ya want it, pretty girl?” “Inside of me. Both of you.” She cried as she too felt closer to the edge.

Wade groaned loudly as he came hard inside of her pretty pussy. Logan was a few seconds later and stilled behind her as he came. Y/N helped them ride it out as she came next screaming their names. The car smelled of sweat and sex as they both pulled out of her. Wade collapsed back against the seat and sighed, “Man I do love a good tag team after a crazy mission.” He said. Logan glared at him, “You didn’t even help.” Y/N turned around to look at the two. “Boys don’t start.” She warned and got in the middle of them. “Maybe if you guys are good we can go for round 2.” She smirked and brought them both in for a kiss.

[robo-writing]

Logan with a virgin reader, expecting her to be this shy nervous little thing only to be met with a woman who’s spent too much of her life with only her imagination to keep her company. Suddenly he’s the one nervous because you’re so eager to fuck him and you’re begging him so nicely that it’s hard for him to remember you’ve never actually done this and he has to be responsible. You whine the entire time he’s stretching you out with his fingers, hands grabbing at him and pleading with him to replace his fingers with his cock and god damn it, you’re making it really fucking hard for him to focus.

You’re both bare, losing your clothes somewhere between the living room and the kitchen. The feeling of skin against skin drives you wild, makes you plead for the cock that’s throbbing against your thigh. You know he wants this just as bad as you do, you can feel how bad he wants this, but he settles for spreading you apart on his fingers.

You know you’re testing his patience but you don’t care; not when you grind against him, not when his cock glides against your bare pussy, not when he pins you to the bed as your back arches off it.

“Stop moving,” he begs, over and over. “Stop it, stop—stop fucking moving.”

You’re killing him; every time you look at him with those darling little doe eyes he can feel what little self-restraint he has left crumbling apart, every whine and moan and please Logan, gimme more testing his resolve.

“You need to stop,” he begs, head falling forward as your cunt wets his dick, sliding against his length but refusing to push forward and take you. You shake your head, pull him in for a kiss that’s anything but demure, lust pouring from your tongue as you lick at his mouth.

“Don’t wanna,” you gasp, pulling him closer by his shoulders. Between each kiss you see his control waning, feel his hands bruised your skin, taste the depravity between his teeth. Slowly but surely you see his mask slipping away, a beast in disguise of a man, one that desperately wants to claim you as his.

A sick part of you wants that; to submit yourself, bare your neck against its fangs and beg for more when its teeth pierce your skin. You want to give yourself to Logan—all of him, even the parts that he himself doesn’t want to show you. You want your first time to be just as enjoyable for him as it is for you—which is why you bring his hand to your stomach, to where his dick would leave an outline. You hold his hand firm as he stares with lust-blown eyes just imagining how full of him you’d be, in awe at just how willing you are to submit.

“I can handle it, you whimper, voice sweet like sin. “Fuck me, please.”

And like that, you’re no longer faced with your loving boyfriend. You’re now face to face with the Wolverine.

He pushes inside your velvet walls, still conscious enough to give you a moment to adjust. The feeling is new, full. Your voice wobbles when his thumb reaches down to circle your clit, just enough to get you to relax as he feeds your greedy pussy inch after inch.

“Y’gotta breathe for me baby,” he rasps into the side of your neck, releasing a breath you never knew you were holding. He rewards your obedience with more of his dick, slowly rocking against you as you start to adjust to the feeling.

“Feels good,” you whisper, stroking his hair. Your eyes are locked with his, lost in his pretty emerald eyes. “You can move.”

“Are you sure?” He asks. “Not sure I’ll be able to stop once I do.”

You know he’s telling the truth, it’s written all over his face. A need to possess you in body and soul, his eyes glued to where you’re both connected with a sickening fascination. You know the actual question he's asking, even if he can't bring himself to say it. Are you sure you want me? You realize he's just as vulnerable as you are, unsure of himself. It's a rarity that Logan ever talks about himself, always focused on you above all. You want to give him a break, want to make him feel as good as he makes you feel, want him to finally stop holding back and let go. So you kiss him, long and deep, and hope that gets the message across. His answer comes in the form of hands on your hips, the deep timbre of his voice radiating from his broad chest. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

[nezuscribe]

gojo is used to strange people with strange requests. he gets paid for doing people’s dirty work, things they’d never do themselves, so this is pretty standard in his line of work.

he had to survive somehow, and if becoming the bidder of bad tidings was what made him coin, then he wasn’t one to complain.

another thing that gojo had gotten especially good at is knowing when somebody is looking for him. it’s usually scurried glances and sweaty palms that give them away. which is why now, as he’s resting an ale in hand at the back of the tavern, does he feel this sense go off.

he sits alone, not looking up from his drink as he feels a set of eyes on him. tonight was his night of rest, his horse was sleeping outside, and he had booked a room just for himself. he didn’t care what they gave him. he was checked out for the night.

the room is crowded, with loud and boisterous laughter filling any gaps of silence. people are taking and shouting, but it doesn’t mask the set of footsteps getting near to where he was trying to hide away from everybody else.

gojo keeps his head down, his nose wrinkling in annoyance when timid hands set a pouch in front of him. filled to the brim with gold, most likely.

“i need your help,” a voice, frightful and cracking, says.

gojo rolls his eyes. this isn’t the first time a girl has run away from his rich family and begs him for a chance away. but he’s done that too many times, gone through too much. he’d rather just kill the parents. he takes a sip of his drink, resting his back on the wall.

he knows how this usually goes. a girl wants to run away, she finds him, they end up running away, only for the girl to feel guilty and beg him to take her back home. either that or she has no plan in mind and forces him on an endless chase to somewhere she doesn’t even know.

judging by the tone of your voice, he’s betting you’re a mix of both right now.

“i’m not offering any help right now,” he says, twisting a ring back and forth on his fingers, one he had stollen a while ago.

“i have more gold,” you beg, “i need your help… please. i heard you’re the only person who’s made it through the north alive.”

gojo glances up at you briefly, taking in your bruised and cut face, most likely from running away, at your eyes filled with tears, and at the way your lips trembled.

his eyes flit away momentarily, not expecting you to take him by surprise. you look more roughed up than the other girls he’s seen so far, a certain heaviness in your stare.

“no.” he says bluntly and your gaze seems to waver just slightly. you gnaw on your lips, wondering how you could change your speech to change his mind.

“my father wants me to marry this man. he’s,” you shudder a little bit at the thought, “inhuman. if i don’t get away soon his men will find me. i,” your breathing shudders, “i can’t let them find me.”

gojo sighs deeply though his nose. so much for a relaxful evening.

his eyes search yours again, and he feels a different urgency that he’s never felt before. something that tells him that this is different, that if he doesn’t help you it’s going to be more than a simple punishment of your father taking away your allowance.

“where’s the rest of your gold?” he looks to your empty hands and then back up to your face.

you sputter, looking at him in shock.

“i-in my satchel,” you swallow thickly, “i left it near your horse.”

his mouth almost quirked upwards.

“where do you want to go?” he asks, watching as your posture straightens up a bit.

“to the shore,” you say, “i’ll get the soonest ship out.”

gojo stares at you and you stare at him. he surveys the pouch of gold, knowing it’s more than he’s ever made in months, something he desperately needs.

he rubs a hand across his face, squeezing his eyes shut as he thinks.

“when do you need to leave?” he asks although gojo already mows the wretched answer.

you look bashful as you duck your head down.

“n-now, if possible.”

gojo stares at your pouch a little bit longer. he downs the rest of his drink as he stands up, eyes raking over your features. if it weren’t for time and place he might’ve asked you to accompany him back to his room.

you stare back at him silently and he quirks his silver brow.

“what?” he grumbles, “get your things. we’re leaving.” a small smile breaks its way into your face as you collect your measly bag and your satchel of gold.

gojo knows he shouldn’t have said yes the moment he saw you grin, knowing that you weren’t an ordinary girl and this wasn’t an ordinary request. but he didn’t find it in himself to care.

at least for now, he didn’t.

[bi-writes]

can't stop thinking about dark!simon with a sunshine!curvy!fem!reader, it's gnawing at my brain. (18+)

greeting him when he comes home in a little apron with dough smeared across your cheeks. you're bouncing in the kitchen, giggling as you wrap your arms around his neck. one burly arm hooks around your waist as he palms one side of your ass, and you kiss his lips over his blood-soaked mask again and again as you coo, "missed you so much, made you chocolate chip..."

you talk and talk and talk and talk. you're always talking. you're always whispering in his ear and chattering as he drives and telling him some story about something he missed while he was gone as you tidy up the flat. you never stop talking, never run out of things to tell him, and despite the monotone voice and the lack of response, he hears every single word that you say, and he forgets nothing. when he makes his way back on base, johnny is waiting, eager to hear an update about the receptionist at your work and if she is actually sleeping with your manager.

you wash his clothes without even blinking. you're at the sink, a bucket of cold, suddy water there as you scrub at his shirt. there's peroxide at the side, and you use a delicate hand as you scrub at the stains on it. ghost watches from the doorway as you hum to yourself, in a little pair of shorts with your hair tied up as you rinse the shirt clean. blood runs down the drain, and his shirt is clean as new.

you always find some kind of weapon around the house. you bend down to brush crumbs off the kitchen chairs, and you scold simon with a glossy pout because he left a bloody knife taped under the table. you whine when you find a grenade sitting in the same drawer you keep your tampons in. you complain when you take out the jar of rice to make dinner, and there's a small handgun hidden between the grains. but your face always softens when he cups your cheeks with two big hands, kissing you warmly, muttering, "gotta keep y'safe, luvvie...know there's a bloody line waitin' for a taste of y'r cunny, baby."

you visit him on base once in light wash denim and a white tshirt, sneakers hitting the linoleum and purse swinging as you wave at him. he's standing in front of a line of privates, watching them do jumping jacks, and his eyes light up a little when he sees you waving at him enthusiastically. when he finally makes it to you, he shoves you into the nearest supply closet and tugs your jeans down just enough to fit his cock between your thighs. when he's walking you out, the boys watch as you cling to simon's arm, a lovesick grin on your sweaty face as you flutter your lashes up at him.

he loves when your manicured hands touch him. scratching along his scalp, tracing the edge of his jaw, cupping the bulge in his pants. you're so sweet, the most giggly girl, and he loves tasting the strawberry of your gloss as you make him cum with your hand, cooing against his lips about how strong he is, how much you love him, how you would do anything for him.

he loves it most when you see him for what he really is. when he comes home battered and bruised, bloody clothes sticking to him, a snarl to his voice and the adrenaline of an op still pumping through his veins. he loves that nothing about him scares you. that even like this, you lean up on your toes and kiss him softly, that you get some of the blood and dirt smudges on the pink of your pajama pants, and you don't care, that he strangled a man with these very hands only hours ago, and you still want him to touch you.

he loves that you love him. that when he feeds his cock into you that night, in nothing but your baby pink lingerie, that you barely need any prep at all from how wet you are. thick thighs spreading apart, sticky slick shining on your skin, cunt nice and ready for him because you have missed him that much. he loves that no matter how ugly he feels, you always find him attractive, that no matter how many people he tells you that he killed tonight, all you do is smile and pucker your lips, and tell him, "it's okay, teddy bear, they deserved it, didn't they?" and yeah, they did, cause it is kill or be killed, and there is no universe where ghost does not fight to get back here, to get back to this pretty pussy, to get back to the bed he shares with you so he can watch those pretty tits bounce every time he fucks his cock into you.

ghost loves his pretty girl. all smiles. all soft, so cute, just perfect. ghost casts a shadow over the room, and you just brighten it right back up. ghost tracks blood into the house, and there you are to cover it all up with citrus and soap.

yeah. always just sunshine and smiles at home.

[wttcsms]

yakuza boss’s daughter!reader who lives as nothing more than your father’s bargaining chip. beautiful, young, and with a powerful family name, he wants to marry you off to the highest bidder. however, there’s a “curse” that seems to follow you.

on the night of your first wedding and every wedding after that, the groom ends up murdered. you don’t know who’s behind the murders or why; all you know is that this harbinger of death might unknowingly be your guardian angel.

when a young, bold new boss takes over an established group, this cocky newcomer wants to prove that he doesn’t shy away from challenges. it’s why he proposes to you, and more than happy to get rid of you, your father agrees. either this new kid gets killed or you finally become some other man’s problem. it’s a win-win.

tired of this life and the men in it, no one knows that you’ve been secretly finding ways to reach out to your husband-to-be’s assassin. on the night of your wedding, the hitman’s coming. this time, he’s taking you out.

only, the masked man who breaks into your room on the night before your wedding doesn’t come to kill you like you’ve planned. instead, he’s got you frozen in fear and anticipation on your bed as he stalks closer and closer to you, his steps slow and deliberate.

“i didn’t save your life all those times just for you to request for me to come kill you.” the deep timber of his voice sounds familiar. sounds like the voice you’ve heard negotiating with your father over the speaker of his phone…

he’s removing his mask as the bed creaks below the two of you; his knees sink into the mattress, his body above yours. even in the dark, even after all these years, you recognize him. it’s character, the young orphan boy you remember seeing in the halls, taken under some underboss’s wing. the two of you used to play together. he had been frail and starved, beaten and scarred. you had been dragged away from him and forbidden to see him ever again when you were caught with him, and ever since that day, you never saw him again. but it’s him, you know it’s him. he has the same kind eyes.

you whisper his name curiously, and he smiles.

“so you do remember me.” and he leans down, his face so close to yours. “surely death couldn’t be better than marrying me, right? after all, everything i’ve done so far was all for you.”

[mssalo]

debt

Joel saved you - since that day, you’ve stuck to him, unable to survive on your own. But another mistake pushes him over the edge—this time, his patience snaps. Now, he wants you to pay him back for every time he’s saved you, using your body as the price.

After all, you owe him, and he’s come to collect.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Dark themes, dubious consent/non-consensual themes, explicit sexual content (penetrative sex, oral sex - female receiving), graphic violence, psychological manipulation, dark Joel (possessive, dominant), 5k.

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

You had been traveling with Joel for what felt like an eternity.

Time had lost all meaning in this world; days bled into nights, and weeks into months, marked only by the changing light in the sky and the constant push to keep moving, to survive.

Everything blurred into one long, desperate journey, and the only constant was Joel. You and Joel had fallen into an unspoken rhythm—walking, scavenging, finding shelter when the sun dipped below the horizon. He was your protector, the reason you were still alive. You wouldn’t have made it this far without him. In fact, you wouldn’t have lasted a week.

Joel was unlike anyone you’d ever met. He was older, rougher, with edges worn sharp by years of survival. He didn’t talk much, and when he did, his words were clipped and to the point, always with the hint of a warning behind them.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t help but fill the silences, rambling on nervously, hoping to break the tension that seemed to follow you both like a shadow. You knew you weren’t the smartest, or the strongest. You weren’t a fighter, and your instincts weren’t sharp like his. But Joel had kept you alive despite all of that, and for reasons you didn’t quite understand, he hadn’t left you behind.

That’s why you stuck close to him—because, deep down, you knew that without him, you were as good as dead.

It had all started when Joel saved you for the first time. You hadn’t been prepared for the kind of dangers that came with living outside the walls, beyond the safety of any remaining settlements. You were clueless, naïve—wandering off into the wilderness with nothing more than a backpack and a vague hope of finding food. You hadn’t thought it through. You never did. The moment you left, you were as good as lost.

You didn’t even hear them coming, the raiders. They crept out of nowhere, brutal and fast. By the time you realized what was happening, it was too late. You were surrounded, their eyes filled with malice as they circled you like predators closing in on prey. You were frozen, paralyzed with fear, your mind spinning as you tried to come up with some way out. But there was no way out. They were going to take everything from you—your supplies, your life—and you could feel their intentions burning into your skin, the dark edge of something even worse.

And then Joel appeared.

He moved through them like a shadow, silent and efficient. You barely had time to register what was happening before one of the men fell to the ground, Joel’s knife buried deep in his chest.

The others turned on him, but it didn’t matter. Joel was faster, stronger, and brutal in a way that made your stomach turn. You watched in shock as he killed them all, one after another, without hesitation, without mercy. He didn’t flinch, didn’t waver—his face a mask of cold focus as he wiped the blood from his knife.

When the last of the raiders fell, Joel looked at you, his dark eyes unreadable. You had been trembling, still too stunned to speak, too scared to move. You were supposed to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was stare, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to make sense of the man standing in front of you.

“Come on,” he’d said, his voice low and rough, as if saving you had been an inconvenience. “You’re not safe out here on your own.”

And just like that, you followed him. You didn’t even think about it. You just knew that Joel was your best chance, maybe your only chance, at survival. He was dangerous, but that danger was your shield. He was protection in its most brutal form.

Since then, you hadn’t left his side. Traveling with Joel was a balancing act—one that required you to keep up and stay out of trouble, though you often failed at both. He kept a tight pace, his long strides carrying him forward with purpose, while you struggled to match his speed, constantly lagging behind.

He never said it, but you could feel his frustration simmering beneath the surface, especially when you slowed him down.

Joel was patient, to a point. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched when you talked too much, filling the silence with nervous chatter.

He never asked for details about your past, and you had learned quickly that asking him about his wasn’t wise either. You were opposites in so many ways. Where Joel was quiet and calculating, you were naive, overly optimistic at times, always hoping things would get better.

You talked to fill the space between you, trying to ignore the constant danger that lurked just beyond the edges of your awareness.

But Joel wasn’t one for talking. He had no time for distractions, no tolerance for mistakes. His patience had limits, and you had pushed those limits more times than you could count.

You saw it in his eyes—how they darkened when you slowed him down or when you clumsily fumbled with your supplies. There was a tension between you that you didn’t fully understand, but you could feel it simmering like a storm about to break.

Sometimes, you’d catch Joel watching you. His gaze would linger longer than it should, his expression unreadable. There was something in the way he looked at you that made your heart race—not just from fear, but from something else. Something you didn’t dare name. Joel was magnetic in a way that frightened you, in a way that made it impossible to pull away.

You knew you weren’t the smartest or the most capable, and that knowledge left you vulnerable. You tried to make up for it by being helpful, offering to do the little things—fetching water, setting up camp—but more often than not, you were in Joel’s way.

You relied on him for everything—your safety, your survival—and he knew it. But something was shifting. There was a heat between you that you didn’t fully understand, a simmering undercurrent that felt like it was building toward something inevitable.

You weren’t sure what it was, but every time you caught Joel’s eyes on you, lingering just a little too long, you felt it. The storm was coming. And you didn’t know if you were ready for it.

· · ───

It had been a long day. Hours of walking left your legs aching, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and exhaustion weighed heavy on your shoulders. The two of you had made it through the outskirts of a city, avoiding trouble as best you could. But trouble always seemed to find you.

You’d been scavenging through a dusty old shop, wandering farther than you should have. That’s when you heard it. The unmistakable clicking noise that sent a spike of terror through your veins.

Your body froze, breath caught in your throat as the sound drew nearer. It was the wet, choking clicker sound—a noise you’d come to know all too well.

Before you could react, it was on you—a grotesque, twisted figure lurching toward you with inhuman speed. Your body refused to move, fear locking you in place.

Then, just as the creature lunged for you, Joel’s hand yanked you back. His knife flashed, slicing clean through the clicker’s neck, and it collapsed to the ground, twitching and gurgling before going still.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You gasped, your body trembling from the adrenaline, your heart pounding in your chest as you looked up at Joel. 

His face was hard, jaw clenched, and his eyes burned with fury—fury directed entirely at you.

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?” he snapped, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

His hand was still wrapped around your arm, tight and unyielding, pulling you closer to him. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

“I—I wasn’t—” you stammered, but your voice was barely a whisper.

“Shut up,” Joel barked, cutting you off. His grip tightened painfully, his face inches from yours, his voice seething with anger. “You don’t listen. You never fuckin’ listen.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, his words cutting deep. You knew he was right.

You’d messed up—again. You’d wandered off like he told you not to, and it had almost cost you everything.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, but Joel wasn’t having it.

“Sorry ain’t good enough,” he muttered darkly, his voice a low, menacing growl.

His eyes bored into yours, filled with a fury that made your heart race. “Do you even understand how close you were to dyin’?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for the first time, you saw it clearly—the tension that had been building between you for weeks, months. It wasn’t just anger.

There was something darker, something raw and primal in the way Joel looked at you now. His breathing was heavy, his jaw tight, and his eyes… His eyes were filled with something dangerous.

“You wanna keep playin’ games?” Joel’s voice dropped lower, almost a growl, as he stepped closer, his grip on your arm pulling you toward him until your bodies were nearly touching. “You think I’ll just keep savin’ you every damn time?”

“Joel, I—” you began, but his hand shot up, gripping your chin roughly, forcing you to look into his dark, burning eyes.

“Shut up,” he snarled, his voice tight with barely contained rage. “You don’t get to speak right now. I’m talkin’.”

The world around you seemed to narrow, the only thing you could focus on was Joel—the heat of his body, the tension radiating off him, the way his breath brushed against your skin.

You felt your pulse race, fear and something else tangling together in your chest.

He didn’t let go as he dragged you out of the store, his hand still tight around your wrist, practically pulling you through the darkened streets.

The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the air had turned cool, but the heat from Joel’s anger burned hot between you. He moved fast, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed straight ahead, and you stumbled to keep up with his brutal pace.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, he led you into the trees. The abandoned streets gave way to a dense forest, and hidden within the thick canopy of trees was a small, dilapidated cottage.

It was old and crumbling, but it was shelter. Joel didn’t hesitate as he shoved open the door, dragging you inside with him.

The moment the door slammed shut, the air between you shifted. The tension thickened, suffocating and inescapable. Joel let go of your arm, but you could feel the heat of his gaze on your back, and when you turned to face him, his expression had darkened even more.

His eyes were wild now, filled with something you didn’t recognize—something that made your stomach twist in knots. He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate, his presence looming and suffocating.

“You think this is a fuckin’ joke?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I keep you alive, I protect you, and you don’t even listen.”

You swallowed hard, backing up instinctively, but Joel followed, his body closing the distance between you in an instant. His hand shot out, grabbing your arm again, yanking you toward him until your chest collided with his. The force of it made you gasp, but you didn’t pull away.

“Do you understand what it’s like for me?” he hissed, his breath hot against your ear, his grip unrelenting. “Every goddamn day, I’m watching over you, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself killed. And for what?”

His fingers dug into your skin, but it wasn’t the pain that made your heart race—it was the raw intensity in his voice, the way he looked at you as if you were both a burden and something he couldn’t let go of.

His breathing was ragged, and his body was so close that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You’re mine to protect,” Joel muttered darkly, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. 

“And you don’t get to fuck around like this is a game. You don’t get to make mistakes.”

Joel’s eyes flashed, and before you could react, he pulled you closer, his hand sliding up your arm, gripping your waist.

His touch was rough, possessive, and it sent a jolt of something through you—something that made your heart race even faster. His gaze was intense, his breathing ragged, and you could feel the tension radiating off him like a heatwave.

Joel’s grip on you was firm, his hand pressing against your waist, keeping you pinned close to him. 

You could feel the tension radiating off him, his body tight with barely-contained anger and something else—something darker, more possessive. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched as he stared down at you, his fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to hold himself back.

But he wasn’t holding back anymore.

“You have no idea, do you?” Joel muttered, his voice rough and low as his eyes raked over you. “ Walkin’ around, gettin’ too close, thinkin’ I’m just gonna keep savin’ your ass without takin’ anything in return.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest as his words sunk in.

You’d always known Joel was different, but this… this was something else entirely. His eyes were burning with an intensity you hadn’t seen before, and the way he looked at you, the way he held you, sent a shiver down your spine.

“I can’t fuckin’ hold back no more,” Joel growled, his hand sliding up your side, rough and possessive as his fingers traced your skin under your shirt. “Every time I save you, every damn time, you get closer. You think I don’t notice?”

You blinked up at him, your pulse racing. “I didn’t—”

“Shut up,” Joel snapped, his hand moving to grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “You’ve been pushin’ me. You’ve been drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy, actin’ all innocent, like you don’t know what you’re doin’.” His thumb brushed over your lips, rough and demanding.

“You owe me, darlin’. You owe me for every time I’ve kept you alive.”

Your breath came in shaky gasps, your body trembling under his touch as you stared up at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re mine now - my responsibility,” Joel growled, his voice low and rough as his hand slipped lower, his fingers trailing down your body with deliberate intent.

“You understand that? You owe me, and it’s time you start payin’ me back.”

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning as Joel’s words sank in. The way he spoke, the way his body pressed against yours, left no room for doubt. Joel wasn’t asking anymore.

He was taking, and there was nothing you could do to stop him.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck as his fingers tightened around your waist, his voice a low, dangerous murmur.

“You’re too fuckin’ pretty and sweet to keep walkin’ around like you don’t know what you do to me. You need to learn, and I’m gonna teach you.”

His words sent a jolt through you, your heart racing as his hands moved over your body. 

You could feel the heat of him, the raw power in the way he held you, and it made your head spin. You didn’t know what to do—didn’t know if you should fight him or let him take what he wanted. But the way he touched you, the way he looked at you like you were his, made it impossible to resist.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy,” Joel growled, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low rasp. “I’ve been watchin’ you, waitin’, but I ain’t waitin’ anymore. You’re mine now, and you’re gonna thank me the way I deserve.”

Your breath hitched as his hand moved lower, his grip tightening as he held you against him, his voice dark and commanding. “You’re gonna give me what I want, and you’re gonna like it.”

His words hung in the air, thick with tension and promise, and you felt a shiver run down your spine as Joel’s hand slid down to your hips, fingers gripping you tightly.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve been wanting this,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck, sending waves of heat through your body. “Every time I save you, I think about what I could do to you. What I want to take from you.”

You swallowed hard, the way he spoke igniting something deep within you. “Joel, I—” but he silenced you with a fierce kiss, his mouth capturing yours with a possessiveness that made your head spin.

You melted against him, feeling the heat radiating off his body, the raw intensity of his desire overwhelming your senses.

“You feel my cock, baby?” he growled, pressing his hard bulge against you, his hands roaming over your skin, exploring every curve and contour.

“That’s what you do to me. You think I can just keep saving your ass without gettin’ something in return? I need something to stay motivated.”

His fingers found the waistband of your pants again, tugging them down your legs with a firm yank. You gasped, a rush of air escaping your lips as he tossed them aside, leaving you exposed and vulnerable before him.

“You owe me for every damn time,” he said, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you, bare and trembling. “And I’m gonna collect.”

He knelt before you, his gaze locked onto your slick folds - all spread open with your little clit twitching - and you felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks.

“Finally gettin’ to see this sweet little pussy up close,” he growled, his voice low and dripping with desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you.”

Before you could utter a word, his mouth was on you, devouring you with a fervor that made your body jerk in response.

His tongue slid over your folds with slow, deliberate strokes, dragging across your wetness, tasting you as if he had been starved for this moment. 

The pressure of his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently at first, before increasing his intensity, pulling a helpless gasp from your lips.

"Shh," he murmured against you, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "Just take it. This is what you’re here for. This is my payment."

His tongue began to circle your clit, his movements slow and purposeful, as if savoring every second. The wet heat of his mouth sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, and the rough texture of his tongue made your legs tremble uncontrollably.

His lips closed around your swollen bud again, sucking harder now, each pull dragging you deeper into the haze of pleasure he was building within you.

“Look at you,” he muttered darkly, his voice a growl vibrating against your core. “This little cunt… soaking for me. My good little girl - can’t think for herself, hm?”

His fingers joined the rhythm, sliding through your wet folds, teasing your entrance but never giving you exactly what you craved.

He kept you on edge, his fingers barely entering, only to pull back, his tongue working in perfect sync as he sucked harder on your clit, then flicked it mercilessly. You could feel the pressure building inside you, every nerve alight with need, but he was in no rush. He wanted to enjoy this, to savor the control he had over you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice filled with satisfaction as he pulled back just enough to speak. “This is my pussy. Look at how wet you are for me. I’m the only one who gets to do this to you, the only one who’s gonna make you fall apart like this.”

Without warning, he sucked your clit hard, his teeth grazing over it ever so slightly, biting your sweet pulsing clit - making your body jolt with a mix of pleasure and pain that left you gasping.

The bite was just enough to send a shock through you, but before you could fully react, his tongue was back, flicking fast over your sensitive bud, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice low and full of dark possessiveness. “This little pussy is mine to use whenever I want. You’re gonna take it and keep quiet.”

His fingers slid inside you then, filling you with a firm, confident thrust. He moved them in and out slowly, deliberately, matching the rhythm of his tongue as it continued its assault on your clit. The combined sensation of his fingers stretching you and his mouth working your swollen bud had your body trembling, the tension building impossibly high.

He sucked hard again, his lips sealing around your clit, tongue swirling over it as he thrust his fingers deeper. His possessive growls vibrated against your skin, adding to the overwhelming sensations flooding your body. He bit down gently once more, his teeth grazing your sensitive clit, and the shock of it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Take it,” he commanded, his voice rough, his breath hot against your core. “I’m not letting up until I’ve gotten everything.”

Your body was on fire, the relentless teasing and flicking of his tongue pushing you higher, the pressure in your core coiling tighter with every thrust of his fingers.

You were close—so close—but he wasn’t going to let you have it easily. He pulled back for a moment, admiring the way you writhed, utterly helpless against the pleasure he was giving you.

“You’re not gonna forget this,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours with a dark intensity. “Every time you take a step, you’re gonna remember who this fuckin’ pussy belongs to.”

Then, without warning, his mouth was back on you, sucking hard, his fingers moving faster, more demanding.

He thrust them deeper inside you, curling them just right as his tongue flicked over your clit again and again, the relentless pressure pushing you right to the edge.

Your body tensed, every muscle tight as the wave built inside you, ready to break. “Cum for me, little girl,” he growled against your skin, his voice thick with dominance. “Cum for me, and don’t you dare hold back.”

And with one last powerful flick of his tongue, you shattered, the wave crashing over you as your body convulsed under the intensity of your orgasm.

The pleasure hit you in crashing waves, your body trembling uncontrollably as he continued to lick and suck, drawing out every last bit of your release. His fingers didn’t stop, thrusting slowly as your walls clenched around him, your cries filling the room as he took everything from you.

He pulled back, his lips glistening with your wetness as he looked up at you, his eyes filled with dark satisfaction. “That’s it,” he said softly, his voice still rough. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine.”

As you were there, breathless, your body still trembling from the aftershocks, he leaned down again, his lips grazing over your inner thigh - his voice low and possessive. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He loomed over you, every inch of him radiating raw, unrestrained control. His hands slid over your thighs, spreading you wide beneath him as his gaze locked on your slick folds, his eyes filled with possessive hunger. 

He moved up - his cock pressed against you, thick and hard, teasing your entrance but not giving you what you so desperately craved.

His control over you was absolute, and he loved every second of it.

“My sweet little girl,” he growled, his voice low and full of dark intent. His fingers traced along your wetness, teasing your sensitive skin, the heat of him pressing harder against your entrance, but still not pushing inside. 

“You don’t even know how much you need me, do you? You think you can take care of yourself? No, baby. I do that for you. I keep you safe, I protect you, and you’ll give me what I deserve in return.”

He thrust forward suddenly, filling you with one hard stroke, making you gasp as he stretched you to the limit.

His cock pulsed inside you, thick and unrelenting, and your body tightened around him instinctively. “That’s it,” he growled, his hips grinding against yours. “You feel that? That’s me taking what’s mine.”

His pace was slow at first, each thrust deliberate, as if he was savoring the feeling of you wrapped around him. 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you harder against him as he began to move faster, driving into you with more force. “This pussy belongs to me, and I’ll keep you safe, baby. You’ll never have to worry about anything… as long as you let me take care of you like this. As long as you give me this tight cunt to fuck.”

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as his hips moved against yours, his voice low and rough. His cock now pushing deeper into your gripping cunt.

“You don’t have to think, baby. I’ve got you. You don’t need to worry about a thing. I make the decisions now, you just let me take what I need from you. Yeah?”

Each word sent a shiver through you, the possessiveness in his tone making the heat between you burn even hotter. His cock drove into you harder now, each thrust hitting deeper, as if he was determined to claim every part of you. 

His hand slid up to your throat, gripping lightly, just enough to remind you who was in control. “You don’t need to think. You don’t need to decide. I do that for you. I keep you safe, baby. That’s what I’m here for.”

His pace quickened, each thrust harder and more demanding, the sound of your bodies meeting filling the room.

His grip tightened on your throat, his thumb pressing gently on your pulse as his hips slammed into yours with relentless force. “You like that?” he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Me taking care of you? You’ll never feel pain, never be unsafe, as long as you’re mine.”

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he whispered against your skin.

“You couldn’t survive without me. You need me to protect you… and this is what you give me in return. This sweet fuckin’ pussy, all mine. I can feel how much she needs me, how tight she’s squeezing me.”

His thrusts became erratic, more desperate as the pleasure built between you. His cock filled you perfectly, his hands gripping you tightly as he pounded into you, the force of his thrusts pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m the only one who gets to fuck you like this,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “The only one who makes you come. You don’t need to think, baby. I do that for you.”

The pressure inside you built higher, your body tightening around him as he drove you toward the breaking point. His hands moved down your body, gripping your hips harder, pulling you against him with each powerful thrust. “You’re mine to protect, mine to fuck, mine to keep safe. And I’ll keep doing it as long as you keep giving me this pussy.”

His words were pushing you closer and closer, the raw intensity of his voice mixing with the physical sensation of him inside you.

His hips moved faster, harder, as he took you completely, the rhythm of his thrusts relentless and commanding.

“Come for me, baby,” he growled, his voice thick with dominance.

“I want to feel this cunt squeeze my cock. I want to feel you give me everything. That’s what you’re here for, hm? To make me feel good. To keep me happy.”

His words sent you over the edge, your body tightening around him as the wave of pleasure crashed through you. You cried out, your voice breaking as your orgasm tore through you, your body trembling beneath him as he kept thrusting, driving you through every wave of release.

“That’s it,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. “You’re perfect for me. I’m the only one who gets this, the only one who makes you feel like this.”

His body trembled as he came, his groans mixing with your gasps, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he filled you completely.

The weight of him stayed pressed against you, his breath heavy and ragged, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed right there, still buried deep inside you, his cock warm and hard within you, as though he couldn’t bear to lose the connection between your bodies.

For a long, quiet moment, the world seemed to stop. His chest rose and fell against yours, your heartbeats gradually slowing, but his cock remained where it was, still throbbing slightly, refusing to let go. His hands moved down your sides, gentle but possessive, his touch tracing over your skin as though reminding you exactly who you belonged to.

“Imma stay inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough in your ear. His lips brushed against your neck, planting soft, possessive kisses along your skin. “You feel too good, baby. I’m not ready to leave yet.”

He shifted slightly, his body still pressed firmly against yours, his cock still resting deep within you, a steady warmth radiating between your bodies.

His fingers moved slowly, lazily, slipping between your legs to where you were still slick with your combined release. His fingertips grazed your swollen clit, making your body jolt, even in the soft afterglow of what had just happened. 

“You’re still so sensitive,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers continued their slow, teasing exploration. 

He barely touched you, just enough to keep the sensation alive, his cock twitching slightly inside you as he shifted his hips ever so gently. “But you can handle it, can’t you, baby? Just let me stay right here, let me keep feeling you.”

The slow circling of his fingers, combined with the fullness of him still inside you, kept your senses buzzing, every nerve in your body still on edge. His hand moved with the lightest touch, but it was enough to keep the heat simmering just beneath the surface.

You felt the weight of his possessiveness in his every movement, his control over you still present, even in the gentleness of his touch.

He lifted his head slightly, his lips brushing your cheek, his voice softer but still filled with that dark promise.

“You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ve got you. You just stay right here… under me, with my cock still inside you. This is where you belong. Can’t do nothin’ wrong here.”

His words made your body shiver, even as his fingers continued their lazy circling, barely touching but enough to keep you sensitive, aware of him.

Your breath hitched, your mind spinning with the intensity of the connection you shared. The control he had over you, even in this moment of softness, was undeniable, and a question formed on your lips—tentative, but needing to be asked.

“So you’ll keep me safe?” you whispered, your voice breathless, a mix of need and vulnerability. “You won’t leave me now… and ever?”

For the first time, you spoke, and the words seemed to hang in the air between you. His gaze softened slightly as he looked down at you, but the possessiveness in his eyes remained.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, slow kiss, his hand still resting on your thigh, fingers still gently teasing you.

“I’ll never leave you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice warm but full of that same commanding promise. “You’re mine, baby. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll protect you from everything. You’ll never have to think for yourself again… not when I’m here to take care of you.”

His fingers slowed, his touch even lighter now, more like a reminder of the control he held over your body.

His cock was still inside you, the warmth of him filling you completely as he spoke, each word laced with dark satisfaction. “This is where you belong, with me inside you. I’m the only one who can keep you safe… the only one who gets to touch you like this.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, his lips soft but possessive. His hand moved up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin as if to reassure you of the promise he was making.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he whispered, his breath mingling with yours. “I’ll always protect you… as long as you keep giving me everything.”

He stayed there, his body still pressed against yours, his cock still warm inside you, the closeness between you tangible and intense. His kisses grew softer, lingering, his fingers still gently teasing at your oversensitive skin, keeping you connected, keeping you grounded in the possessive warmth of his embrace.

“And remember,” he said softly, a hint of menace in his tone, “there’s no turning back now.”

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

[oceantornadoo]

two lieutenants.

(simon riley x f!reader, all fluff)

two lieutenants🌪️masterlist

not supposed to happen, not really. but the higher ups are finding their morality (where was it all these years ago?) and want to pat themselves on the back for adding a woman to the team.

simon is prepared to hate you, someone taking his spot. this one thing he's done in his life well, the one family he can protect. it itches him in a place he can't shake, the thought of change, of a new person. someone who will stare at his skeleton ways and his gruff voice, someone who will judge but not understand.

but then he meets you, tinkling laugh with doe eyes. calculating in your military knowledge, respectful of the 141's history. never overstepping, never trying to take his place, simply wanting to learn. he tries to hate you, tries to dump sugar in your tea and hide your eye black, but you just laugh and make a face at the sweetness, drawing an extra makeup stick out of your cargoes.

he needs to hate you, but you wash his extra masks without asking on the days he can't touch them for the blood that's laced into the seams. you include his cigarettes on base grocery runs and pour over tactical maps with him until the wee hours, understanding his fundamental need to know everything, more than what's in the briefing papers.

you are prepared to be intimidated by the ghost, the killing machine without a name. you know you're the only woman on an all-male team, but even you can't work friendship miracles. then you meet him and he cocks his head and sizes you up, seeing you as a threat instead of a piece of meat. someone worth considering, not a sideshow, not eye candy.

you try to be scared of him, but how could you when he always leaves an extra tea bag in the almost-empty box? when he keeps hair ties in his front pocket because yours always seem to break in between missions. he listens to your stories and nods thoughtfully, not needing to preen and puff his status like men you've met before.

you need to stay away, but he takes off his gloves in front of you that first time and suddenly you can't. he tells you to call him simon and that he likes the way you say his name, your dissimilar accent coming through. he brushes stray hair from the nape of your neck during a desert mission, tucking it back into your bandana, and you can't remember why you ever intimidated by this man who makes you earn his comfort and care, but who gives it endlessly once you've got it. he's your simon and you're his partner in crime, and suddenly you two could never imagine a team without two lieutenants.

--

im not always into power/rank play i want to be RESPECTED

(don't get me wrong it still eats sometimes)

[loonylupinblack3]

Jealous

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: swearing, suggestive content, slight violence

Summary: Logan see's a guy flirting with you and gets jealous

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: this was written while i was sleep deprived and had no idea where tf it was going so enjoy

Logan wasn’t a very jealous person. He never had reason to be; everyone knew you were his and he didn’t feel the need to scare anyone off. He knew you only had eyes for him, and he didn’t feel threatened by anyone else.

Usually.

Yet as he was watching you laughing with that guy at the bar, like he was somehow the most hilarious fucking person on this planet, all he wanted to do was walk over there and punch the guy square in the jaw.

He didn’t though, because he’d learnt from the past you were not a fan of his outbursts but fuck he wanted to. He could feel his claws itching to extend, to rip through his flesh and proceed to rip out that guy’s flesh. He knew you were dating Logan, he’d have to. He was a new mutant to the school sure but he’d been here for about a week. It was common knowledge you and Logan were in a serious relationship; he’d have to have heard about it by now.

So he was flirting with you knowing you were taken. He might as well have been flirting with death.

“Calm down there mate.”

Scott’s voice took Logan out of his stewing. He glanced at his friend, who had noticed his jealousy and was staring at him with an amused look on his face.

“Shut up,” was Logan’s gruff response, eyes going back to your smiling face, resisting the urge to walk over there and claim you as his right in front of the bastard.

He was also miffed with you, however. Surely you weren’t that dumb. Surely you could see the blatant attraction the man held for you. Yet you did nothing to diffuse the tension or let him know you weren’t interested.

“Dude, you’d think you had my laser eyes with the way you’re glaring at that guy,” Scott said, not helping Logan in the slightest. He wished he did have Scott’s lazer eyes so he could get rid of this irritating problem. 

Jean decided to walk up at that moment, casting Logan a weary glance. “I’m not sure how long he can take before he snaps.”

“I can hear you y’know,” Logan said through gritted teeth, though Jean wasn’t entirely wrong.

It was when the guy laid his hands on you, squeezing your arm the way Logan did, that he finally ‘snapped’ as Jean had called it.

His friends didn’t even try to stop him as he stalked towards you, knowing it’d be no use. Logan was ready to rip that man’s arm off his body if he kept touching what was Logan’s, and he wouldn’t even feel bad about it. He’d enjoy it. 

You turned towards him when he arrived, shining him a bright smile. God, you really were that naive when it came to other men. Logan knew he should be grateful, knew this obliviousness came from a place of love, where you simply didn’t see any other man that way so you didn’t pick up on the obvious cues, but right now it was doing nothing but irk him, seeing another man flirt with you and seeing you do nothing about it.

“Logan,” you greeted warmly, wrapping both your arms around one of his, and shaking the other man’s hand off in the process. A bolt of satisfaction struck him at the action, but it wasn’t enough to quench his overwhelming jealousy.

He tugged you closer, feeling a deep sense of contentment when you eagerly complied, and his irritation towards you lessened slightly. Noticing the man’s narrowed gaze as he watched the two of you however only increased it.

He raised an eyebrow at the man. “Something wrong?”

He tried and failed to mask his face, Logan seeing the twisted jealousy lurking beneath the surface. It was so similar to his own it caught Logan off guard for a second, and his own anger towards the man wavered.

That was until he opened his mouth. 

“Just the fact you can’t give your girlfriend more than five minutes of space before you’re crowding her again.”

Logan was going to kill this man.

You seemed to realise that too as your hold got a tad tighter, as if to hold him back. If you weren’t wrapped around his arm his claws would already be out, yet you knew exactly how to stop him, and had it so Logan couldn’t attack this son of a bitch.

“Excuse me?” was his response again, and the people around them quietened, as if sensing the danger.

He felt rather than saw Scott and Jean move closer, to protect Logan or the man he wasn’t sure.

The man scoffed, glancing at you who was certainly not smiling at him anymore. “You see her chatting to me and you have to barge in. It’s like you’re scared if she talks to another guy she’ll realise you’re not all that and fuck off while she has the chance.”

Yep, this man was dead. He couldn’t just run his mouth like that, in front of you, and expect Logan not to pummel him into the ground. He was going to make sure the man’s death was painful and slow, that he felt every cut and bone breaking.

Yet before he could do a single thing you stepped forward and gave the guy a glare so dirty Logan was relieved not to be on the receiving end of it.

“You speak about my relationship with Logan like you have any idea of what goes on between us again and I’ll fuck your shit up.”

The man looked so stunned he couldn’t even formulate a proper sentence. “But you- but he-”

“Did you ever think maybe I like having him around? That maybe spending time with my boyfriend is what I want? And even if I didn’t, did you really think I’d prefer you instead? A man who barely knows me yet tries to speak for me and insults the people I love?”

Logan was staring at you in awe. The way you kept going, stripping this man of his arrogance and self assuredness, ripping him to shreds verbally the way Logan would have physically, well, it turned him on. You matched each other so well he couldn’t help the smug smile tugging at his lips as he turned back to the now humiliated man.

“I think she said it all.”

He sent Logan one last glare, and he thought that would be the end of it when he caught the muttered “bitch,” the man sent your way.

Immediately Logan’s fist was in his face, slamming into his jaw, his nose, any piece of flesh he could find. He was barely aware of the gasps around him and you’re incessant tugging of his shirt as he grabbed the man by the neck and looked him in the eye.

“If you so much as look at her in any disrespectful way again, I’ll tear you to shreds.”

Then he dropped the man, watching him scramble upright and swear profusely at him- though not a single word or glance was directed at you- before getting the hell out of there.

Satisfied, he turned to find you glaring at him, hands on your hips with a stern look on your face.

Logan held out both his hands in defence. “What?”

“I had that handled.”

Logan grabbed you by the waist and tugged you close, and though you weren’t exactly happy with him you weren’t completely mad either, because the man had been a dick, and let him reel you in.

“I know Bub, I just couldn’t let him get away with calling you that.”

You sighed but pressed your head into his chest and Logan knew he was victorious. “Let’s just get out of here, yeah?”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Yeah?”

You smirked, “I want to see how wild you get when you’re jealous.”

Logan grinned a purely animalistic smile as he brought you close, pressing his lips against your ear as he whispered roughly, “oh just you wait Sweetheart.”

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

55 / 1.2k / first time meeting Ghost for medic reader

...

"Don't expect to be treated special," the skull-faced man tells you. " if someone needs patching, which is unlikely, don’t expect them to be a grateful patient." Ghost leads you through the halls, your medical bag slung over his shoulder. "And we don't care for small talk. Nor do we care how you do your job. Just do it. We don't care if you like us or not. Actually, I prefer you don't get any funny ideas about befriending me."

Is that all. Twenty minutes ago you arrived and already the Simon Riley so graciously rolls out the welcome wagon. You take it by the way he hefts your bag down that he's finished with his talk and you can get to work.

"That's perfectly fine," you tell him. Mildly, as if he didn't just tell you to mind your own fucking business in so many words. "Thank you. If you'll excuse me."

"I won't," he says. "The Captain tasked me with keeping an eye on you. Can't really do that if you walk away."

You halt and turn to peer at him. "I'm sorry?"

He doesn't even look at you. Instead, he begins casually cleaning an already shining knife. "Price told me to make sure you get nice and settled in. So I'm keeping watch."

Your jaw flexes. "Tell Captain Price I don't need a babysitter. You're dismissed."

He pauses The stare he gives you from behind that mask is halting. "You should really learn to be a bit more polite to your superiors. I don't take orders from you. If Price says you need supervision, I'm supervising."

"You're not my superior," you tell him. "And I'm not your recruit. I'm a contractor."

"Let me make one thing clear, medic," he growls. "Everyone on this base follows a chain of command, and that includes you. You might have a contract, you might not be a recruit, but on this team, you answer to the boss. And right now, he said I'm keeping an eye on you. So if you want to have words with me..."

He takes a step closer, leaning down to your eye level.

"I'd suggest you swallow them."

Even without the height difference, his gaze is like a physical weight. You stare back for a long moment. There's a challenge in those dark eyes, daring you to push him. He's looking for an excuse to put you in your place, and you know it.

You refuse to take the bait. Without saying a word, You turn your back and walk away, making your way toward the medical offices. He follows you, humming a tune and flipping the knife tip-first between his fingers.

If he wants to babysit, fine. It won't stop you from doing your goddamn job.

Days later, you're hard at work. It's near midnight. You've been on your feet for around 30 hours.

The door to the medical office slides open and Ghost walks in. It's clear from one look at him that he hadn't gotten any sleep either. He's been on a series of missions back to back for two days straight. With a deep sigh, he leans against the counter, arms folded over his chest.

"You're still awake?" he asks.

You glance at him. "You look like hell."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." His eyes sweep over you. He takes note of the dark circles under your eyes, the exhaustion clear on your face. It's obvious that you're just as tired as he is. "You've been at this too long. How long since you took a break?"

You look back down at your work. "Doesn't matter. There's still work to do."

He pushes himself off the counter and walks over to you. His footsteps are heavy on the floor. "This how you take care of yourself? Work until you pass out?"

"What's it to you? I do my job."

"You work yourself to exhaustion, you won't be able to do jack shit." He's now standing directly behind you. He looks down to see you're doing inventory of the medical supplies. He glances at how fast your fingers move, how you never stop. It's obvious that you're pushing yourself.

"I know what I'm doing."

"You're going to goddamn kill someone."

As you scan the list, you notice the tremors in your hands. Damn it.

"You have no room to talk." You turn around to stare him down so you don't have to keep seeing your own hands shake. Up close, he looks even worse. Christ, is that blood?

"Sit down," you command. "You're bleeding. You need a checkover."

He gives a deep sigh, tired. "S'not necessary."

He's downplaying the situation. Typical. But he does as he's told, sitting down on the exam table in front of you. There's no use trying to hide injuries from a medic.

You lift up the underside of his t-shirt to find the long cut stretching across his chest underneath. It was bandaged--though not well, and it's bleeding through. It isn't a life-threatening situation, but it'll need stitches, and it's definitely not the nothing he made it out to be.

"Hold this," you tell him, putting his shirt hem in his hand. "Keep still."

He winces. Despite his best efforts to hide the pain and discomfort, it's clear that it's more than a minor injury. He takes the shirt as instructed, holding it out of the way. He watches you in silence as you work, studying your focused expression and the methodical way you tend to his wound. You're not gentle by any means. But you're efficient. Even if it is annoying to have you fussing over him.

Though your work is hampered by your shaking hands and you're obviously frustrated about it. Your movements aren't as deft as they should be--not as quick as your eyes.

"Stay still," you snap.

"I'm not moving," he responds through gritted teeth.

Despite his best efforts to stay stoic, he frowns under his mask. Being patched up, sitting still and letting himself be tended to isn't something he's used to. Still, you're clearly in worse shape than he is. Somehow. His eyes dart from the sutures in his chest to your face.

You finish as quickly as you can. You know you've caused him unnecessary pain with this repair. But he shouldn't have gotten himself hurt in the first place. The cure should be more bitter than the cut, as far as you're concerned.

When you've snipped away the excess thread, you take a deep, slow breath, and it feels like whatever energy you had left escapes with it. You touch the stitches stretching across his pectoral muscle lightly. It jumps with the sudden tenderness. Then you apply a new bandage.

"There," you mutter. "Don't let it happen again."

"I don't plan on it." He scrutinizes your face again. Exhaustion and fatigue are etched into every feature. You're running on fumes. "You'd better go rest."

"Whatever happened to not caring about how I do my job?"

"Medic," he warns.

"I'm going," you mutter. "Don't you report this to Price again. I'm going."

"That's what I thought." He smooths his shirt down. He hides a smirk and rubs the aching stitches. "Don't let it happen again."

...

more Ghost / masterlist tag

[gottalovesatoru]

“Hey,” Satoru breathes, nuzzling his face into your neck, soft white hair tickling your skin. 

“Hmm.” you hum, running your fingers through his soft locks, your other hand rubbing along his back, feeling the smooth material of his cotton shirt, lingering on the muscles you can feel under it. His arms tighten around you, pulling you even more into his lap so that your chests are as close as they could be, your bodies melded together. You feel his nose press into you and the rise and fall of his body as he releases a breath when you place a delicate kiss on his shoulder. 

“You know you’re beautiful, right?” 

“Satoru…” you do your half-awkward laugh, half-breathing out thing that you always do whenever someone compliments you, now burying your own face into his neck as heat crawls up your skin. 

“You are. You truly are,” he says, pulling away from you and holding you by your waist, looking straight into your eyes with that unwavering gaze that never fails to let you know he’s being genuine. You take him in as his silver eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones, framing his azure eyes that are intensely staring back at you. His glasses are always off around you. He claims that he wants to fully see you as best as he can. 

Awkwardly smiling, you hold eye contact for a few seconds before nervously glancing away from his eyes. At times like this you can’t help but wonder, how does he see you as that? As beautiful. Doesn’t he know that he’s the beautiful one? That he’s the one that makes you stop in place multiple times a day just to think, wow. It's hard to believe him sometimes, when he says things like this. He says it so freely too, with no hesitation, no reluctance, simply opening his heart for you to look inside and do whatever you want with it. It makes you grateful that he chose you, of all people. It makes you scared, because what will you do when it's over? When it doesn't last? 

“We all know you’re the beautiful one, Satoru,” you respond, looking over his shoulder. When you’re met with silence, you glance back at him only to see his eyebrows furrowed, a pout on his lips, and without thinking you smooth your thumb over his bottom lip, smiling softly when he only pouts even more like a petulant child. 

He cups your face with his large hand, frown softening but still there when your eyes flutter and you rub your cheek into him. “Why do you always do that? Why don’t you ever believe me?” 

You keep your eyes closed. “You know why, Satoru…” You bring your front to his again, burying your face in his neck and holding him close as if he might disappear from under your fingers. 

“I’m yours forever, you know? There’s no getting rid of me. No matter how hard you try. You’re stuck with me, baby.”

“So you’ve said.” You hate when you’re not able to respond with the same thing, hate the hurt he tries to mask but fails around you when you don’t tell him how you truly feel, but you know he knows. You just need to work up the nerve to let it out.

He lets you avoid, Satoru can never deny you. Instead, you breathe him in, inhaling the comforting smell of his cologne and detergent, and he rubs soft shapes into your back, deft fingers bringing you to the edges of sleep. It's like this for a few minutes, the soft sounds of your breaths the only thing you can hear on the couch, but then he speaks again. 

“I’ll make sure to keep telling you until you believe me.” 

You sigh, “Will you now?”

You feel the jerk of his head against your neck as he nods, determined, and you smile to yourself. You can’t ever let him go. 

“I will, every single day.” You don’t mention that he already does. “You’re so incredibly beautiful, love. It kills me. I love it.”

You laugh, and he pulls away again to see the action, eyes crinkling with his own smile, dimples forming in his cheeks as his eyes sweep over your face.  

“Alright, Sa- Oh!” You’re cut off when he lifts you up with one arm, wrapping your legs around his waist and strolling over to the bedroom. “Satoru!” 

He winks at you, patting your ass. “I know a few other ways I can show you that I think you’re beautiful.”