#canon typical smoking

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 110: April 2018

Martin was usually up before Jon in the mornings. He’d been assuming that it was the Archives themselves waking him up, or maybe just an internal clock telling him he had to get things ready before his people came in, but they’d spent the night at his—their—flat, and here he was, up before the dawn and presiding over the stove as he made breakfast for his boyfriend. Nothing fancy, just a simple, basic spread, but since he wasn’t in the Archives, he needed something else to do with his hands while he cataloged, and he wasn’t the type to linger in the shower.

It was one part reassurance, one part prediction, like walking the rows of shelves and looking for files out of place. Martin knew every dream by now, knew the shape of the fear, knew the course each one took, knew the exact likelihood of his being spotted in them, knew what the door to the room of each dream looked like and where in the room he was likely to find the next one. But they didn’t always appear in the same order, and he used this early morning time to himself to sort out what dreams he’d seen when and what that meant.

It didn’t have to mean anything, and he knew that, but if Gerry’s flashbacks could telegraph what was likely on its way—what was likely to be the death of them, Martin had realized after the last one—why couldn’t Martin’s be leading him to a truth? The Eye wasn’t one for predicting the future, but it could See the present, which was infinitely harder, if you asked him. Easy to make guesses at what might be coming, harder to see what was right under your nose. All he had to do was put the pieces together…right?

The dreams were only of the live statements. At first it had only been the live statements Martin himself had been present for, but now every tape of a live statement he’d listened to had a corresponding door. Well, almost. He’d listened to three live statements Gertrude had recorded, and only one had made it into his dreams—the woman who’d been present when Gertrude disrupted the Flesh’s ritual, apparently. He didn’t dream about the man who’d encountered the ancient Archivist beneath the streets of Alexandria, nor, thankfully, did he dream about Mary Keay. Melanie had also never turned up, but the reason for that wasn’t hard to figure out; he hadn’t started having the dreams until he’d been kidnapped by Breekon and Hope—until he’d begun taking Jon’s place—and both of them had been employed by the Institute by then. The crew of the Archives were exempt from the nightly voyeurism, presumably because the Ceaseless Watcher could see them any time it wanted.

The other two…well, he was fairly certain the reason that he never saw them was because they were no longer in a fit state to dream.

He’d learned the rules of the dreamscape, too. He would find himself standing in front of a closed door. If it was a familiar door, it was almost always the one that led to a cemetery full of fog and empty graves, and all he had to do was touch the knob for it to swing open with a dread creak. If it was unfamiliar, though, he knew to reach for the ring of keys clipped to his belt to find the one that matched the lock. Each lock, each door, each key was—somehow—completely unique, and it was easy to match. There were doors he Knew led to Melanie’s fears, or Basira’s, or Tim’s, or even Jon’s, but there was no key to match on the ring and they remained resolutely shut. On those occasions when he had listened to a tape someone else had recorded and was confronted with a new door, he would be approached by the spectral form of whomever had taken the statement, who would place the key into his hand. They always seemed to be sleepwalking, like they weren’t truly there, and faded away immediately after completing their errand. Whatever the case, once he unlocked the door, while the key remained on his belt, the door stayed unlocked.

Usually.

Martin hummed under his breath as he traced his path in his mind. He’d started with Naomi Hearne as usual—she hadn’t seen him tonight, which was a pity in the waking world but a boon in the Eye’s realm—and then gone through all the other Lonely statements in rapid succession; obviously the Beholding just wanted to get them out of the way. He’d long suspected that the reason Naomi was always first was precisely because she and Martin had known each other through Evan, so it was less likely to be particularly fulfilling, especially if it was a night where she could see him; the nature of the Lonely was such that knowing another person was present took a lot of the fear out of it, and he was pretty sure the only reason the door was still there was that it had to be.

Once the Lonely rooms were over, he’d stepped into a hospital morgue and watched as a corpse rose to address a young woman. This, too, was always largely unsatisfying to the Ceaseless Watcher. Georgie’s lack of ability to feel fear meant that anything he got out of the dream was residual, and on the nights she noticed he was there, she just glared at him. The door on the other side of that one had led to a slowly collapsing train on the London Underground, and despite Karolina Gorka’s apparent lack of fear, she’d been concerned enough to make a statement of her own volition, so it was a little better. Martin wondered, in the daylight hours, how he didn’t have a worse time himself in there, considering there had never been any denying it was the Buried, but he supposed it was because these weren’t really about him. He was only there to observe; the Fears, or the memories of them at least, couldn’t touch him. He wasn’t a god, but he was probably the closest thing there was to it in the dreams.

Things had escalated from there, as they usually did, and Martin laid them out methodically in his mind like a tarot spread. Last night’s path had been largely grouped by which Fear had touched the victim, with an added increase in how much terror they still inspired. The office building had actually been occupied—it wasn’t always, the Hunters kept to odd hours and were half a world away anyway—and the door at the other side of it had been the pale, unvarnished oak with the silver padlock that led to Daisy’s months in the Buried.

Except…except last night, when he had touched the door, it hadn’t budged.

Martin turned the bacon over carefully. He’d been…unconcerned really. Emotions didn’t really factor into the dreams for him. He’d simply reached for the keys on his belt. But when he’d gone through every single key on the ring, looking for the one he Knew matched the padlock, it was simply gone. That was…unusual. Something wasn’t right about it.

There’d been another door right next to it, as there usually was when he encountered a door he wasn’t allowed to access, and he had gone through and lost himself in witnessing Gerry’s spectral form tremble and flicker as the Book burned, which meant Gerry had been asleep, which meant there was probably a flashback to discuss. Martin wondered if it would overlap with wherever his own dreams had been leading him. Gerry’s dream had been one of the last ones; the only one after that had been Web-related, so either there was that to look forward to or that was just the one that drew out the most terror. The guy on the tape had still sounded pretty terrified while Melanie tried to calm him down, but that could easily have also been due to Melanie’s expression.

In his dreams, he’d quickly put the matter of Daisy’s door out of his mind and focused on drinking in the terror of the next room, especially Gerry’s—the Eye got a lot of satisfaction from feeding off another avatar—but in the grey light of pre-dawn, he kept coming back to it again and again. Worry gnawed at him. Could something have happened to her? He didn’t think her falling back into the Hunt would block her door up like that, and he’d learned, first from his round-the-world trip and later from taking Trevor and Julia’s statement, that if whoever’s statement he was wandering through wasn’t asleep at the same time he was, the room would just be vacant, not locked. This had to be something more serious.

But reversible, he reminded himself. The doors being present meant there was a way for him to get to the other side of them…not that he wanted to, really, but they were there. He didn’t know if it was in case they ever distanced themselves from the Beholding or if it was in case everybody else was asleep and the Beholding was willing to settle for crumbs.

Was that it? Martin paused, chasing a nascent thought. The Archives crew were exempt from nightly viewings of their traumas, by virtue of being allied to the Eye, and he suspected it went with anyone who was in some way bound to the Eye. Had Daisy—

The sound of footsteps behind him broke his train of thought, and he turned around with a warm smile. “Morning, Jon. Sleep okay?”

“Hmm? Fine, fine.” Jon seemed…grumpy was the only word Martin could come up with. Despite his claims, he didn’t seem like he’d actually had a good night’s sleep. His hair was a bit disheveled, as though he hadn’t bothered running a brush or comb through it, which was probable—he and Melanie had had a few go-rounds about him not taking proper care of hair as long and thick as his was, and if Martin didn’t brush and style it for him, he often just pulled it back into an absent, messy ponytail or topknot screwed in place with a rubber band, a few of which Martin had had to cut out of his hair in the end—and he hadn’t shaved. There was something off about his clothing, and he was stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest.

He also, Martin couldn’t help but notice, hadn’t asked about his sleep.

“Oh. Good.” He had to fight to keep his smile in place. “Breakfast is almost done. Could you grab the plates, please?”

Wordlessly, Jon came into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and yanked down two plates. Martin eyed him, but decided not to ask about it yet. Jon was obviously thinking over something that was upsetting him, but if Martin asked too early, he’d clam up. Better to either let him decide for himself that he wanted to bring it up or wait until he burned off some of his agitation. Meanwhile, he focused on not burning the bacon.

He served up the food, fetched the silverware, and made tea, then set a mug in front of Jon and sat down. They didn’t often have time for a leisurely meal in the morning, just something quick thrown together in the break room or something Melanie or Tim brought in with them, and even when they spent a night at the flat, Martin’s anxiousness to get back usually meant they didn’t linger. But he’d needed to think, and besides, he wanted to spend time with his boyfriend doing something normal every once in a while. Like eating bacon and eggs and fried bread.

“I think the bread might be starting to go,” he mused, prodding at one of the pieces with his fork. “Not moldy, but a bit stale. Still, nothing a bit of butter can’t cure, right?”

Jon grunted. He was shoving his eggs halfheartedly around his plate without seeming very interested in eating them. He hadn’t made eye contact with Martin since waking up, either, and it wasn’t the comfortable kind of loose attention he usually paid when he was sleepy or overstimulated and just couldn’t have too deep a connection with individual people. It was like he was deliberately not looking at Martin. He was also sitting on the opposite side of the table instead of next to Martin, he’d only got the plates, not the silverware, and—that was what was off about his appearance. He was wearing a crisp, stiff olive green cardigan, which wasn’t unusual in and of itself—Jon was fond of earth tones—but it was a machine knit, commercially produced cardigan rather than one Martin had made (and Jon had mostly appropriated). He hadn’t worn one of those since Jane Prentiss had attacked the Institute.

Martin told himself he was reading too much into it, just being paranoid. Jon could wear whatever he wanted, obviously. He probably had just grabbed the first thing he found, not worrying about whether it was one Martin had made or not, and really, it didn’t matter if he did. They were past the stage where Martin got a weird, fluttery feeling he couldn’t explain when Jon wrapped himself in one of his jumpers without thinking about it. They’d spent the night curled up together, for God’s sake, he knew Jon loved him.

That didn’t mean Jon wasn’t mad at him for something, though.

Part of him—most of him—wanted to avoid the topic, let Jon bring it up in his own time. Apart from his earlier assessment that Jon would be less likely to tell him what was wrong if he asked too early, he wasn’t going to ask are you mad at me like a child. His mum had been like that, refused to actually say when she was upset with him—which, honestly, was most of the time—and would play the passive-aggressive game until he cracked and begged forgiveness for unspecified crimes. Asking what he’d done had never ended well.

The tiny, rational, adult part of him pointed out that, as he had just been telling himself, Jon, unlike his mother, actually loved him. Putting Liliana Blackwood’s motives on Jon without provocation was just cruel, to both of them. And they were trying to communicate. Maybe Jon was trying to conceal his irritation, but surely he’d realize that Martin was only calling him out on it because he cared.

Right?

“Jon?” he ventured, laying down his fork. “Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” Jon repeated, and oh, boy, Martin knew that tone of voice. He cast an involuntary glance towards the hallway, and it was only when the Knowledge that all of the closets in the flat had knobs on the inside and none of them locked popped into his head that he realized what he was doing in his panic.

He started to swallow the surge of irritation, but that rational adult part of him whispered, No, actually, that’s justified, go for it.

“Yeah, Jon. I’m not a mind reader,” Martin snapped. He paused, then added, “Okay, I am, kind of, but I’m trying very hard not to do that to any of you, and especially not you. It’s really easy to see that you’re upset, but I don’t know why, and if it’s something I can help with, I’d like to know.”

“And if it’s not something you can help with?” Jon said, a bit acidly.

“Then I’d still like to know. Even if I can’t fix it, I’d like to at least know what’s bothering you.”

“Bothering me,” Jon repeated.

That did not serve to make Martin any less irritated. “Are you going to tell me, or are you just going to treat me like I’m the stupidest being on the planet?”

As ways to diffuse the situation, that was probably one of the worst things Martin could have said. As a means of getting Jon to look at him, it was highly effective, even if the shock in his eyes quickly gave way to a look Martin hadn’t seen leveled at him since that stupid dog slipped past him his very first day in the Archives.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin,” he said, his voice cold and brittle with sarcasm. “Of course you’re not the stupidest being on the planet. Far from it. That would be the rest of us, wouldn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” Martin demanded, both bewildered and angry now. “When have I ever said any of you were stupid?”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s obvious in everything you do. Or don’t do, as the case may be. Your knowledge surpasses ours and we all know it.” Jon pushed away from the table, leaving his breakfast—and, Martin couldn’t help but notice with a twist of pain, his tea—untouched. “I’m off to work. If you think there’s anything there I can be of use for.”

“Jon—” Martin began, then changed his mind. He’d fucked it up, as—no, not as usual, he told himself firmly. Yes, he’d suspected that Jon would be upset if he tried to ask what was going on before he was ready to share, but he hadn’t known. He’d made a judgment call and been wrong, that was all. It happened to the best of them. At least it was something fairly low stakes. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

It didn’t feel low stakes, though. This was their first real fight since becoming a couple…if you could call it a fight…and deep down, Martin was both miserable and terrified over it. Few of his relationships had ended well, and all of them had fallen apart at the first serious disagreement. While those had mostly been over things like sex and Martin’s loyalty to his siblings—things Jon was, in theory anyway, completely on board with—he didn’t need the Beholding to know that Jon was it for him, that he would never love another man in his life. He’d been afraid for a while of losing Jon to an Entity or an avatar. He’d never considered the possibility of losing him to a breakup. He was probably catastrophizing a bit, but the fear was real and he didn’t know how to handle it.

Especially when they rode the entire way to the Institute in silence.

He wasn’t surprised when they arrived before Melanie and Sasha, Tim and Gerry having taken a turn spending the night. He also wasn’t surprised when Tim took one look at him and came over to give him a hug.

“Rough night?” he asked sympathetically.

“Rough morning,” Martin mumbled, hugging him back. He was still a little angry at Jon, but he was more scared than anything, and a Tim hug was doing him a world of good. “You?”

“Not pleasant.” Tim let go and glanced over at Gerry.

Gerry set down his mug and came over to hug Martin as well. As usual, he was colder than an ordinary human being, but at least he wasn’t burn-your-skin cold. “We can talk about it when everyone’s together. I, uh, had another flashback last night.”

“Figured. You were in one of my dreams last night.” Tim gave a fake dramatic gasp, putting his hand to his chest, and Martin narrowed his eyes at him. It was only partially in jest. “Not like that. Just…statement dream. If you’re not sleeping, the shack is empty.”

“Wait, you dream about that?” Tim asked, sounding startled. “I thought you just dreamed about the statements.”

“Gerry gave a statement,” Martin reminded him, letting go of his brother. “A couple days before Jon and Melanie left for Sheffield, remember?”

“Yeah, but not to you. And besides, you don’t dream about the rest of us, do you?” Tim frowned. “At least I don’t…I haven’t had any nightmares about…Danny since I made my statement.”

Martin shook his head. “You’re all bound to the Eye, I can’t see your dreams. The, the doors or whatever are there, but I can’t get through them. Gerry isn’t.” A sudden thought struck him. “By the way, where’s Daisy?”

“Right here.” Daisy’s voice floated from the direction the shelves. Martin turned to see her looking…remarkably better than she had in a while, actually. At least like she’d got a good night’s sleep. Her hair was slightly damp, like she’d just got out of the shower, and she was holding a cup of something hot and steaming. She saluted him with it, a dry smile playing about her lips. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Martin did manage to smile back at her. He was honestly relieved to see her. “Sleep okay?”

Daisy shrugged. She looked faintly pleased with herself. “Eventually, yeah.”

Before Martin could inquire about it further, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him and turned to see Sasha coming towards them, her usual cup of coffee in one hand and her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. Most of them didn’t bother dressing professionally these days, and usually Sasha was no exception, but today she was wearing a pant suit, pumps, and makeup. With her hair in a loose braid slung over one shoulder, it crossed Martin’s mind that she was dressed exactly the way she’d done on their first day in the Archives.

Daisy raised an eyebrow at her. “Job interview, Miss James?”

“No, just reminding myself I’m a grown woman with a job. Morning, all,” Sasha added, slinging her bag off her shoulder and setting it on her chair.

“Morning. Where’s Melanie?” Martin looked over Sasha’s shoulder, but there was no sign of his sister, which was unusual; she was normally in the lead, or glued to Sasha’s side.

“Outside. Jon passed us on the way in heading out to the courtyard, and we got about halfway across the floor before she decided to turn around and follow him so he didn’t have something happen to him.” Sasha set her coffee on her desk and began unpacking her laptop. “I’m guessing he had a rough night, too. He looked unsettled.”

“We’re…fighting. I think,” Martin added uncertainly. “He’s pissed at me, anyway.”

Tim raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, what did you do?”

“I don’t know, that’s the thing. I asked him about what was bothering him and—he didn’t really answer? He was kind of passive-aggressive about it, actually. Something about me treating everyone like you’re stupid?”

Tim’s eyebrows, impossibly, rose higher. “Jon said that?”

“You mean like how he was treating you when he first got the job down here?” Sasha asked. “Like you were stupid. Not like you thought everyone else was stupid.”

“He never thought I was stupid. Just incompetent,” Martin muttered. He rubbed his forehead. “I—have I been acting that way? I don’t mean to, and if I’d known…”

“No?” Sasha sounded incredulous. “Unless you’re complaining about us behind our backs on the tapes when you think we can’t hear them. You know, like Jon did about you those first few months.”

Martin felt the beginning of a headache forming between his eyes. “Sasha, I’m really not in the mood for any more guessing games today. Are you trying to make me angry at Jon back, or are you trying to subtly call him out as a hypocrite?” He froze as the words he’d just said, and the tone he’d said them in, replayed in his head. “Christ. Is that how I always talk to you guys?”

“No, you’re usually a lot more soft-spoken and polite about it when Sasha or Jon are being cagey like they won’t say what’s on their minds if you don’t compel them, and the rest of us don’t do that to you,” Tim said bluntly. “You really need to quit that shit out, Sash, it’s not fair and it’s not funny. We’re supposed to be communicating, remember? If you don’t want to talk about something, just say that.”

Sasha froze, then looked up at Martin with an expression of genuine contriteness. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t actually realize I was doing that. I guess I was trying to get you angry back at Jon—maybe so you’d force him to tell you what’s on his mind, I don’t know. But I wasn’t…I don’t think I was doing it on purpose.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I had a nightmare last night that I haven’t had in years and I guess it upset me more than I thought.”

“About the funfair?” Daisy asked, startling Martin.

Sasha whipped her head around to stare at Daisy, eyes wide with shock. “The—? How’d you know about that?”

“We indoctrinated Daisy into the family proper last night,” Tim said dryly. “She got to witness her first flashback.”

“Maybe that’s why Jon’s so upset. He’s the only one that hasn’t, then.” Sasha rubbed her chest. “But that—that didn’t actually…happen, did it?”

“Must have. I don’t flash back to imaginary events,” Gerry said quietly. “I get it. Easy to convince yourself something like that wasn’t real, especially when you’re a bit older…if you don’t know this sort of thing is real, it’s harder to believe it. And Martin did say you’d been Marked by the Web before Prentiss attacked. I didn’t think that spider biting you in the boiler room was enough to do that if your encounter with the Distortion wasn’t.”

Martin’s stomach lurched. He honestly hadn’t thought about that since the night he’d Looked at everyone, and since Sasha had never asked to make a statement, he’d continued to not think about it. That she didn’t even remember being Marked had never occurred to him, even though he and Melanie had both forgotten their first Marks…

“It wasn’t…that bad, as some of these things go,” Sasha said, a bit uncertainly. “I mean, anyone would have been scared of almost falling off the top of a funfair wheel in the dark.”

“Yeah, but the ringmaster climbing after you with too many limbs, not exactly normal,” Gerry said. “And you were ten.”

“Near enough eleven,” Tim and Daisy said in unison. Despite himself, Martin smiled.

Sasha laughed, but it sounded a bit forced. “I guess I should give you a statement about that later, Martin. Are you up for it today?”

“Yeah, sure. If you are.” Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “And only if you’re sure you really want to.”

“I do. You deserve to know about it, and at least this way it’s my choice.” Sasha sucked in a sharp breath. “I mean, not that you’ve ever forced one of us to tell you anything we weren’t ready for. That’s not what I’m saying at all! I just mean that I’d rather you hear the details from me rather than accidentally. Besides, you probably haven’t had a good live statement in a while, you’ve got to be hungry, and it’s better to have…farm-raised than wild-caught, I guess. Want to do it now, before Jon gets back in?”

“No. I want to do it later, after you’ve had a chance to tell Jon what we’re doing,” Martin said pointedly. “Last thing I want is for him to think I’m sneaking around keeping secrets from him. Or that I’m, I don’t know, making you tell me.”

“You’ve never done that,” Sasha said. “And I could see how hard it was for you not to ask Tim about his Stranger Mark all the way back at the beginning. You’re a good man, Martin Blackwood, and don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”

Martin smiled weakly. He’d been really worried about Tim’s Mark. Now that he knew the truth about Danny, of course, he could understand why he’d seen the intense indigo glow that looked like the Stranger had physically reached into his chest cavity and ripped his heart out—because, metaphorically speaking, it had. Still worrying and upsetting, but at least not in a something in you has been replaced kind of way.

“Have you ever thought about tracking down the people he flashes back to?” Daisy asked. “Getting their statements?”

Gerry shook his head. “I don’t ever know who I’m flashing back as—to me, it’s always just, well, me. Tim can usually guess when it’s not me—”

“Pretty sure your mum wouldn’t have let you wear pinafores and bows,” Tim interjected.

“—but if it’s not one of you lot, or someone he knows, that’s about all he gets,” Gerry completed. “Even when it is someone he knows…”

Tim nodded. “Honestly, if Sasha hadn’t introduced herself to…uh…Mister Seymour at the funfair, I might not have clued in that it was her. I guess we could maybe start recording them and giving them to Martin so he can Know who it’s about and go find them, but—”

“Can we not?” Martin begged. “I really don’t want to start getting into that habit. The only reason I’m taking Sasha’s is because it’ll keep her from dreaming about it again, but I can’t guarantee that with the other people who give live statements.” He turned to Daisy as a thought he’d had earlier came back to him. “Speaking of, I—”

A door banged hard from the other side of the Archives, cutting him off. “MARTIN!”

Melanie’s voice, equal parts angry and panicked, sent all other thoughts flying out of Martin’s head. She’d been outside—outside with Jon, who was upset and angry and liable to do something stupid. Nothing had attacked them in the Archives in ages, and he Knew that was to do with Basira and Peter Lukas somehow but couldn’t see the shape of it yet, but that might not extend to outside the building, and if they’d left the grounds anything could have happened, and all he could think of was that Jon had been kidnapped, or worse…

He started towards the door leading to the courtyard and halted, drawing in a sharp breath of relief, as Melanie burst into the open part of the Archives, dragging a both startled and annoyed-looking Jon after her. She thrust him into the center of the group and stabbed a finger at him. “Look at him!”

Bewildered, Martin did. He looked both startled and irritated, although the irritation was clearly winning out as he adjusted his cardigan with a jerk. His hair had started falling out of the half-knot he’d pulled it back into, and while from the shoulders down he looked crisply professional, from the neck up he looked like he had just rolled out of bed. And into the path of a backfiring Hoover.

“I don’t know—” he began, not even sure where he was going to end that sentence.

“No, Martin, Look at him,” Melanie said again, and this time he could hear the capital L on Look that had nothing to do with it being at the beginning of the sentence. “We were talking, and I was telling him to stop stressing so much because it’s giving him more grey hairs than before and ran my hand through it to show him and—” She held up her hand, which had a couple strands tangled around it.

They weren’t hair. Jon’s hair was glossy, and even the grey strands were darker than those. It also wasn’t sticky.

Martin stood frozen, staring at the strands of web Melanie had apparently brushed out of Jon’s hair. Several things—Jon’s attitude towards certain things, seemingly innocuous conversations, Tim’s comment about how Sasha and Jon tended to act—suddenly slotted themselves into a picture that made horrific sense. The Eye buzzed excitedly in the back of Martin’s mind, and he had a hard job pushing it away.

Slowly, he turned to look at Jon, who also seemed stunned and frozen as he stared at Melanie’s hand. The expression could have been feigned—and Martin hated that he was thinking like that about his boyfriend—but somehow, it didn’t seem that way. And when he turned to look up at Martin, the horror in his eyes was not something that could be faked.

“Jon?” Martin said, as quietly as he could. It took almost all of his strength to keep the Eye out of his voice as he asked the next question. “May I?”

“Yes,” Jon whispered. His lips barely moved.

Martin…blinked.

The glasses didn’t do much to stop him from Seeing things these days; it was almost entirely by force of will that he didn’t walk around viewing the evidence of the Fourteen on everything he encountered. Without his glasses on, he couldn’t stop it, another reason he was thankful he woke up before Jon and could avoid seeing him before he could get them on, but he didn’t need to take them off to See things clearly. All he did was relax his hold a little, and the Beholding eagerly rushed in to take what it could.

Jon’s Marks nearly stole the air from his lungs. The bright green glow of his eyes and lips had faded a bit, or maybe it just seemed that way, as had the pus-colored glow that still clung to the worm scars dotting his face and neck. There was a bright red slash at his shoulder, splintering into bright blue forks of lightning that seemed to reach his lungs, where it tangled with the brownish-tan that had settled there, and a red-orange line across his throat. There was a flash of yellow in his abdomen where the Distortion had stabbed him, just on the edge of where Martin was looking.

All of that he had expected.

Martin had gone to a Mechanisms concert with Melanie once, just after Gerry had left London with Gertrude for the last time. He remembered the lead singer, Jonny D’Ville, and his delighted, feral grin as he’d sung into the microphone; more particularly, he remembered the makeup on his face, like cracks mazing and emanating from his eyes and spreading across his face. The Web Mark spreading across Jon’s face made that look like a drag queen’s eyeliner. It sparked out from his eyes in long, jagged lines, up into his hairline, into his ears, into his mouth. One particularly long spar traveled in a meandering, unbroken, but still direct line from his eye to his heart—the only part of the Mark that had been there the last time Martin had Looked at Jon, almost two years ago now.

God, how had it gotten so bad so fast?

Slowly, Martin raised a trembling hand and touched Jon’s face, tracing the scars only he could see. Jon wasn’t an Avatar of the Web. Far from it. But it had been slowly taking him over, poisoning his sight, his hearing, his words, even his heart. And Martin hadn’t noticed.

“Jon,” he whispered, penitent and hurting. “I’m so sorry. I should have noticed.”

Jon made a noise he’d only made once or twice before—a tiny whimper of pain, like he’d done when Martin had first Looked at him. The static died abruptly as he threw himself at Martin and jolted him back to the present, throwing his arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Jon gasped out, clinging to him tightly. “I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t know, I didn’t—I-I shouldn’t have let it get this bad, I—”

“Jon, no, it’s—” Martin stopped himself as he pulled Jon into his arms and held him just as tightly. He couldn’t say it’s not your fault. It…kind of was his fault. At least partly. He took a deep breath and tried again. “I shouldn’t have let it get this bad, either. I was too focused on that…compulsion thing you were doing, and I didn’t realize that was the Web either. I never thought about…the paranoia.”

“It’s not just you. I, I talked Tim into letting me go into the Buried, I—” Jon took a deep breath and buried his face in Martin’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’ll, I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.”

Martin pressed a kiss to the top of Jon’s head. A too-familiar smell hit him, and he wrinkled his nose. “Did you start smoking again?”

“Last week,” Jon admitted, his voice muffled by Martin’s jumper.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Martin scolded automatically.

To his mild surprise, Jon actually laughed—a bit brokenly, but genuinely. He pulled back and looked up at Martin with genuine warmth and affection in his slightly wet eyes. “I know. I’ll stop. I promise.” He wiped his cheeks and turned to Melanie. “Thank you. For…noticing.”

Melanie shrugged, a bit awkwardly. “You noticed the Slaughter bullet. One good turn deserves another. Thank you for not breaking my wrist when I went to mess with your hair. Speaking of, want to borrow my brush? You look like a horse’s ass.”

That got a round of chuckles, albeit weak ones, from the rest of the Archives crew. Martin looked around at all of them seriously. “I—I’m sorry about that. Is everyone okay?”

“We’re fine, Martin,” Sasha assured him. She looked a bit uncomfortable as well. “I, ah, I won’t ask you to Look and see how bad mine’s got, but I can guess. Anyway, I do really want to give you my statement about Mister Seymour’s Wondrous Entertainment Ballyhoo.”

“Mister what?” Melanie sputtered.

Martin closed his eyes briefly. “Was it seriously called that? Jesus. Let it never be said the Mother of Puppets and her ilk are subtle.”

“Huh?” Sasha blinked, then suddenly smacked herself in the forehead. “Seriously? How did I not get that?”

Daisy actually laughed. Martin didn’t think he’d ever heard her laugh before. Jon looked a bit bewildered. “What’s going on?”

“Gerry had a flashback last night,” Tim explained. “It was how Sasha got Marked by the Web. Sasha’s going to give Martin a statement about it so he can get some energy back, especially after what he just did, and also so she doesn’t have to dream about it again.”

Martin took a deep breath and turned to Daisy. “While we’re, uh, getting things out in the open—I, uh, I couldn’t get into your dreams last night.”

“What?” Melanie frowned.

“I don’t remember how much I’ve told you about the dreams.” Martin, reluctantly, let go of Jon and leaned against the edge of the nearest desk; Jon, unprompted, seated himself on the desktop and leaned against his side, which felt a lot like forgiveness to him. “It’s like I’m walking through a series of rooms, and there are…doors. I’ve got a ring of keys on my belt, but the doors are all unlocked. And if I come across a new one, there’s usually a matching key on my belt to unlock it. There are a few I walk past that I Know are, um, yours, but there’s no key on my belt for them, so I can’t witness those. I know all the doors by sight.” He turned to look at Daisy. “Last night, I came up to yours—well, one of them, anyway, the one that leads—led—to the Buried—but it was shut, and the key wasn’t on my ring anymore. I, uh, I got a little worried. Usually if whoever’s dream I’m in isn’t asleep, I just don’t see them, but…this was different. I couldn’t get into it anymore, and…I don’t know, I thought something might have happened to you.”

Daisy shrugged. “I joined the Institute.”

Tim coughed. “Sorry, what?”

“Remembered Basira saying something once, about how she hadn’t dreamed about anything since Elias recruited her,” Daisy said. “And I remembered the first night Martin turned up to watch me watching Masters climb into that coffin, and the first night he turned up without Jon. Couple nights ago I couldn’t sleep and listened to the tape we all made right before the Unknowing…” Something flickered across her face briefly, and she swallowed hard, then rallied and continued. “Anyway, Melanie said something about maybe making a statement about something so she’d stop dreaming about it and…I dunno. Wondered if it would work. So last night after Gerry passed out and you fell asleep on top of him, I nipped upstairs and broke into Bouchard’s old office. Forced the lock. Found where he was keeping the employment forms and just…filled one out.” She shrugged again, seemingly unconcerned, but there was a glint of pride in her eye. “Seemed to work just fine.”

Martin stared at her for a long moment. Worry for what she’d done to herself warred with pleasure that she’d found a solution, and there was a tiny bit of malicious satisfaction at having stolen a servitor of another Fear that he attributed exclusively to the Beholding and ruthlessly told to get fucked.

He smiled. “Well. Welcome to the family, then.”

[venomnyx]

HOUSE IN NEBRASKA — Logan "Worst Wolverine" Howlett x Mutant!Reader AO3 version Spotify Playlist

WORD COUNT — 15.4k SUMMARY — Reader gets roped into saving the timeline with ex-best friend Deadpool, coming face-to-face with a variant of Logan that uproots memories she'd long suppressed, only to find that this version of him lost her in his universe, too. TAGS/WARNINGS — she/her pronouns (minimal usage), female anatomy, flashbacks in italics, angst, enemies to lovers, alcoholism, smoking, arguments, canon typical violence, cursing/bad language, Deadpool breaks the fourth wall like twice, canon behaviour worst wolverine, religious trauma, honda odyssey scene self-insert, eventual smut, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, dirty nasty talk (logan has a filthy mouth), mentions of cocaine literally once. smut is marked after last divider if you want to skip plot but i'll kiss you if you don't!

You’re smoking a cigarette on your porch when the snowfall happens. It would be normal, you think, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s dead in the middle of July. A group of nanas, elbow-deep in the community garden soil, glance up to the sky and begin muttering prayers amongst themselves.

You’ve lived in this safe house for a while now, up in the mid-west of the Appalachian mountains, surrounded by thickets of pine and opposite a bubbling creek. You grew up somewhere near here and the locals welcomed you back with open arms and a plateful of hot food when the humans started the culling— when the X-men fell apart.

It has plenty of benefits. The smell of lavender, for one, and your cat, Kevin, loves chasing the pigeons, even if he’s not the most successful hunter. The locally sourced produce means you can avoid the poisoned food they’re distributing in supermarkets.

But, most importantly, the humans can’t find you out here. You’re lucky the gossip of your… genetics, so to speak, doesn’t leave Sunday morning church.

Things have been different, lately. The trees are shedding down to dust, people are disappearing at an exponential rate, and there was a time when you’d be on the front lines helping them. You’re on the edge of your seat waiting for the call — a learned habit — but it’s never coming. Charles is dead. Logan is dead. The X-men are dead.

The snow is warm when it lands on your skin. It feels like rot, and your solitude suddenly feels lonelier and more daunting than ever.

You reach to take a sip of your steaming coffee when you hear movement. A zipping strobe light crosses your vision and you flinch against the intrusion, but you’re not afraid. You’ve surely survived worse.

Stryker worse.

A comical and confused looking figure pops out from an orange portal, scratching the crown of his head over the red and black mask on his face. You sip your coffee as you observe him nonchalantly.

He notices you and approaches with a dainty point of his finger.

“Um, excuse me, ma’am.”

“Well, well well,” you suck on your cigarette with a frown. “Look what the cat dragged in. Got a new suit, Red?”

“What, aren’t you happy to see lil’ old me?”

“You’re on my property,” you say matter-of-factually. You had a shotgun stowed away inside for emergencies, but frankly, you never had to use it. You were enough of a weapon yourself. Consider it insurance, if the corn-syrup they’re poisoning ever finally makes it way to you.

You glance sidelong at the old ladies in their aprons, clutching one another with stern gazes in your direction. The deal was that you didn’t bring trouble their way — but it looks like trouble found you. You narrow your eyes and silently hope that this doesn’t turn messy, as it so usually does where he’s concerned.

He sighs heavily and continues approaching regardless. You analyse his stature and take notes of the weapons on his holsters and back. You reckon you could take him if it came down to it, but he didn’t seem threatening.

You and Wade used to be friends, but after isolating yourself from grief, you don’t necessarily consider yourselves to have a close relationship. More often than not he brought trouble; hence your defensive response.

“Listen, ants in your pants, I’ve done this about a hundred times,” he huffs and places a hand on his hip, waving the device around in his hand. You take another drag of your cigarette and perk your brows before rising to your feet.

“I’ve had my spleen shattered by the Hulk, about eighty stab wounds…”

He rambles on about his collection of injuries and you tilt your head with amusement. Must be another one of his famous mental breakdowns. This might be entertaining, at the very least.

“…You’ve even killed me a few times in different universes!” He claps his hands together. “And frankly, I was just going to let you die here. You’re not even canon, so you won’t be missed, but you appear to be of use to me. So I need you to come with me. Now. Please.”

What on Earth was he talking about? What on Earth was he ever talking about?

You bark a laugh. “I ain’t going anywhere with you, Red and Black.”

“Will it change your mind if I add a cherry on top?” He asks with a dry laugh before nodding enthusiastically. Manically. “You’re coming. Kevin’s life depends on it.”

“What are you talkin’ about? Are you threatenin’ my cat? That’s a new low, Wade.”

“Is it? Is it really? I am certain that I can go unfathomably lower.”

You roll your eyes, half-way through turning your back on him.

“You see this?” He holds out a gloved hand and catches some snowflakes. He rubs them between his fingers and they spark and fizzle before dusting away. “That’s not snow. That’s time death. Our universe is dying, womp womp. Stay here, sure! By all means, but—”

Your cat launches out of the door behind you, chirping and meowing to himself before promptly dashing through the portal and disappearing into the blurry void on the other side.

“Well. Looks like he made his choice.”

He sighs and lets you process. You take the final swig of your coffee and huff a breath.

“You literally have nothing left to lose. Trust me. I know. I’ve seen all kinds of you and, believe me when I say this, even though I love and cherish this version of you, this—” he points two fingers at you and gestures towards you judgmentally. “— isn’t the best look on you, honey.”

You want to dismiss him. You want to turn him away, to tell him to get lost. Grief swallowed your heroism whole, turning it into a barren wasteland of bitter indifference. You used to be bright, full of light, love, and hope.

Fucking hope. It’s the reason Logan left you to help Charles in the first place. You just wanted to settle down and disappear, to live a normal life. You lost an intrinsic part of your being when he died; you remember feeling it before you heard the news. Fucking hope.

Hope, hope, hope. Nana Rose chants on about it when she clasps your hands with her wrinkly ones, dragging you to church in spite of your atheism.

“And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts,” she chants, basket of flowers on her hip. “Romans 5:5. You’d do well to do your readin’, tulip.”

You didn’t and don’t ever usually believe a word she says, but you can feel her faith. It’s solid as steel, pouring out of her like blotting light through the gaps in the trees. Undying. And you’ll be damned if you let anything happen to her.

A flicker remains. You imagine what Charles would say to you now, how you’d hang onto his every word and he’d bring out the better of you. You truly do have nothing left to lose, except maybe your cat. Over your dead body.

“Come ooon,” he pokes his fingers together. “Fancy being a hero? One last time?”

You take the final drag before stubbing the cigarette out on your railing. “Alright, Red. I’ll bite.”

“Then suit up.”

Your friendship with Deadpool was a rocky one. There was a time you told him you’d be there for him through everything, and you technically owed him one for saving your life that one time even though your ego insists that, to this day, you could’ve taken the fight. That’s what heightened cellular control of your body is for, right? Accelerated healing? Empathetic abilities? Faster reactions, enhanced strength— you get the point.

Though you didn’t realise that returning the favour meant following him through space, time and alternate dimensions, you were a person who stayed true to their word, and you hated being indebted to someone.

So, here you were, waking up in the middle of a barren wasteland that was seconded as a cocktail soup of abandoned universal relics and heroes ripped from their worlds, accompanying your ex-best friend to restore your timeline.

But, one thing about paying someone back, it doesn’t technically count if they lie to you about the terms and conditions of the agreement. Only a few mere moments after you come to, dazed by the impact and the blaring wobbly heat of the sun, you rise to watch as Deadpool takes six blades of Wolverine to the chest.

You’re still a little dizzy when you stagger to your feet, head throbbing, as you’re trying to process if, yes, that’s exactly what you were witnessing.

“Let’s see you grow your fuckin’ head back!” Wolverine growls.

Deadpool holds his hands up in surrender. “Wait, wait, wait! I can fix it! I can fix it!”

The man in yellow hesitates. “Fix what?”

“Whatever it is that you did, whatever made you so bad—” Wade pants, catching his breath. “Those pricks at the TVA, you heard ‘em. They have the power to end my universe, but they also have the power to change yours. We get back there, and we can fix your world! Together. I promise.”

You stumble from around a pile of debris, clutching your side as a rib pops back into place. Wolverine sniffs the air, face blanching as he snaps to look in your direction.

When you first make eye contact with him, it feels as though you’re resurfacing from water after being on the precipice of drowning. Your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline boils your veins and your lungs burst with relief of breathing.

“Troubles always gonna find you, baby,” Logan murmurs, kissing his way up from the pulse in your throat as he rocks against you. “But so am I.”

You’ve never loved him more, you think, than when he fucks you slow like this. A snowstorm rages outside the cabin, howling full of glass and needles and rattling the window frames. His skin against yours burns a fire within you, warming you to the bone. He sweeps hair away from your face before capturing your mouth in his, swallowing the sounds of your pants, threading his fingers between yours.

You could stay here forever, you think.

Your fingers shake from the whiplash of the memory. You instinctively reach towards him but you catch yourself. This was the husk of him, not your Logan. The realisation feels akin to ripping open a haphazardly sewn wound right down to the fatty yellow flesh, raw and needling and sore.

He’s broader than you remember. Hair a little darker, wrinkles a little deeper. He smells of alcohol and cigars — that much is familiar. That’s him, flesh and adamantium bone, living, breathing. Alive. The physical shell of him prods alive parts of your inner circuitry that you weren’t aware had fallen asleep, like intrinsic nerves untangling within you.

You can sense that he knows you, too, based on his emotional response. His noise is extremely loud, spilling out of the cracks of whatever wall he thought he’d successfully built up. This version of Logan certainly had a lot of secrets.

“You,” he whisper-growls. It’s almost intangible, leaving him like a breath. He pulls his blades promptly from Deadpool’s chest and kicks him backwards.

You’re starting to understand that faith thing that Nana Rose was knocking on about when he strides towards you, large and tall. You certainly weren’t a believer by any means but you’re sure you’d be the picture of unbridled worship for the way you’d fall to your knees for him.

Your empathetic power lurches for him, seeking him out as you used to — like a flower to the sun — but it physically recoils from the aura that it touches. It was all your Logan but not in a familiar way. It’s tainted, dark, and it tastes like copper and screams.

All colour melts from his face and his body shuffles in a way that indicates discomfort; a dry swallow, tense shoulders and flicking eyes that refuse to meet your gaze. He omits feelings of guilt and shame that linger on the tendrils of your empathetic powers where you connect with him.

You try to zone Wade out, squinting as you attempt to navigate through his cobweb of emotions (seriously, this guy’s aura could do with a cleanup) but it’s like wading through black-tar syrup, feelings negated by years of alcohol-abuse and avoidance. Eventually, you feel something that makes your guts twist and your legs shake: a version of romantic attraction and recognition so carnal and raw that you begin to blush, a warmth that creeps its way up from your belly. A breath escapes you like a punch.

“Well. This feels awkward.” Wade glances between you both and places his hands on his hips. “Why do you both look like you’ve seen a ghost? Do I need to call Egon Splegler and tell him to bring his ghost sucky-sucky vacuum? Oh my god—” He slaps his hands to his face and gasps sharply. “Cross-Universal lovers?”

As inappropriately timed and tone-deaf his one-liners could be, you’d never been more appreciative of an icebreaker. You think you could’ve stood there for an hour, frozen in silence, staring at a reanimated corpse, basking in the noise of his emotional frequency like an addict finally getting another hit.

But then the noise stops, swallowed up like a heaving black hole had split and atomised the tension whole with its unforgiving jaws. He closes himself off from you. Connection severed. You reach out and feel a cold nothingness similar to how, on particularly rough nights, you’d try to reach out to him after his passing. You’d clung onto his plaid shirts until the smell and emotional residue wore off of them.

“You with the mouth? To fix things?”

You nod tightly. You don’t think you can find your voice in front of him.

“Let’s just keep moving. And stay out of my head,” Logan grumbles, crossing you with a cold shoulder and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. When he’s made enough distance, you turn to your old friend with a cold glare.

“Ooh, brr. Anybody else feel a chill?”

“Wade.”

He twists towards you comically slow.

“You. Motherfucker.” You begin approaching him. He backs up slowly and holds his hands up.

“I knew if I told you the plan you wouldn’t have gone along with it!”

“Are you insane? You think multiversally grave-robbing my fucking dead ex-boyfriend is going to save our timelines?!” You yell.

“Technically he’s not dead—”

You push him. “He should be! He- he was— he is!”

“Well, this one isn’t!” He pushes back. “And I’m not sorry for finding a loophole in the plan to fry — not just mine, mind you — but both of our timelines! Did you happen to forget that? No multi-dimensional depressed Logan? Alright then! No more Kevin!”

He’s talking about your cat. Anger flares.

“Don’t you dare bring Kevin into this.”

“You forced my hand!” He yells, mouth moving alien-like behind the mask on his face. “Besides, I’m not doing this for me—”

You blink your eyes closed. You might reach the end of your tether if he said her name one more time. You’ve been in his company for approximately an hour, and he’s already drilled a hole into your brain with his incessant yapping about the “love of his life”.

“Wade, you need to move on. She clearly has.”

“I will not move on from the only people I love in this fucked up dimension. This isn’t just for Vanessa.” He shoves a glossy photograph in your face. “This is for you and blind Al and even that shit-head teenager and her pinkie-pie girlfriend! They deserve their timeline!”

“I literally don’t care about any of those people!”

Even yourself?

“Well, I do! I have people I care about! Aren’t you supposed to be a hero? God, all of you X-men are so depressing. Is it the suits they make you wear? Is that it? Can’t breathe in that thing?” He continues poking at you. “Loosen up a little!”

You straighten your posture and the black leather of your suit crackles. You swat his hands away as he continues poking. “Alright! Cut it out!”

“Think of Nana Rose.” He draws a heart with two fingers. “Little old ladies like her deserve a chance, don’t they?”

And even though humans had done nothing but wage war on your kind for simply existing, you still felt obliged to help them. Besides, the thought of other mutants — kid mutants — dying when you hold the chance to save them in the palm of your hand? You were hardly managing as you were now. You’re not sure you’d be able to live with yourself if you kept going like this.

“Alright, alright!” You huff, heart pounding in your chest. You look over at where Wolverine kicks at rocks in the distance. “Fucking hell, Red. Holy fuck.”

You say it again, only this time you scream it into your hands.

“You should’ve warned me.”

“Are we good?”

“Are we go—” You scoff. You kick his ankle, feel the bones shatter and crunch beneath your foot. He lets out a short, high-pitched yelp. “You deserved that.”

“Motherfuckermotherfucker… oh you’re lucky I feel bad about lying to you or I would’ve twisted your milk bags off for that I swear to God.” He sucks in a breath. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, walking forward. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

He limps after you, floppy ankle dragging a line in the sandy dirt. “I’ll be dead before you ever get one of those out of me! And too bad I can’t fucking die!”

The difference between this Logan and your Logan is stark, minus the uncanny resemblance. Your Logan was soft and gentle, but this version is sharper and blade-edged, and your fingers bleed when you try to touch him.

Staring at him feels like throwing up a mirror and analysing yourself, a picture of what happens to a person when they make all of the wrong choices. You’re embarrassed, almost. This isn’t a version of you that you ever want him to know, but at least you can say you’re trying.

Him, on the other hand…

“Are we going to keep up the awkward silence?” You snip, awkwardly adjusting the restraints on your wrist.

You’ve been in Logan’s company for all of an hour, and yet accompanying one another through literal time purgatory didn’t seem to irk any feelings of obligation from his end. He’d been cold-shouldering and ignoring you the entire time, even though you kept catching him staring.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he spits, wriggling uncomfortably against a very unconscious Deadpool. “You got us into this mess.”

You frown, small. You can feel hatred pouring out from him, leaving a sickly bile taste in the back of your throat. You’ve lived through enough hate for being a mutant in your lifetime, enough that you’d become accustomed to tuning it out of your radio channel, so to speak, but something about it coming from the man you loved makes it a little harder to swallow.

You’re quiet when you next speak. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

He shoots you an indistinguishable look and grunts to himself. Such a Libra.

“So, what’s the story here?” Johnny asks with a sly grin. He turns to you with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “You two know each other?”

You cringe. “Sort of. Last I remember, he wasn’t this much of a prick.”

“Oh, trouble in paradise, huh?” His grin grows. “That’s a shame. Not often we get girls like you in the void.”

“Seriously?” You say with a side-eye.

He shrugs, all blue-spandex biceps and charming smile. “No harm in trying.”

Your breath hitches as Cassandra approaches, wide eyes and tilted head aiming for you purposefully. Logan swiftly angles his body so that he’s standing in front of you and she halts as a delighted, implicating smile stretches across her face. Your chest constricts, tendrils of yearning coiling tighter. It appeared to be muscle memory: his instinctual, protective flinch. Just like your Logan used to, despite how capable he knew you were.

“Now, I’ve always wanted a Wolverine.” Her finger moves along the crowd. “Knew I’d get one eventually. But I never even dreamed of having you.”

Cassandra zips behind you and her slender fingers delve into the crevices and valleys of your brain, lips intimately close to your neck and ear. Wolverine snarls territoriality, but he’s unable to move. The urge to reach for him is overwhelming.

“Do you know that there are so few universes where you exist?” She whispers, caressing your deepest memories. “I even asked the TVA about you, in exchange for keeping the peace. I was disheartened when I found out one of you died. But you’re here! Now, I don’t believe in fate, but this almost feels like it was meant to be.”

You flinch when she uncovers a particularly fond memory, one you hadn’t been aware was so prominently in the forefront.

In the back of his truck, a cigar between his teeth, hands sliding under your shirt. In another world, he would’ve taken the time to do this properly, but living in a school didn’t exactly grant two consenting adults any privacy.

“Waited long enough for this.”

He kisses up from your bare foot to the sensitive skin of your inner knee, lips scorching against your skin.

“Logan…”

“Easy,” he murmurs, leaning away for a moment to remove his plaid overshirt, leaving himself in that white vest you could eat him alive in. “Still wanna take my time with you.”

You’re desperate, he can tell— can probably smell it, too, but you’re far too humiliated to ask him if he can.

Logan wasn’t your first by any means, but with the way you were near trembling for him truly felt like you’d be losing all of your innocence in the back seat. You’re shy and quiet, everything he isn’t. You’re infatuated with him — have been since he burst out of the lab in his grey hoodie — and have daydreamed about what it would be like to have him. You certainly didn’t let him know that right away, and with whatever shred of composure remained around his relentless flirting and teasing remarks, you tried to play hard to get.

Until you couldn’t. Because you weren’t. He had you, and with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to.

She pulls her hands from your brain with a shlick sound, rubbing her fingers together as if relishing in the produce of your memories. She grabs a rag from her pocket and smirks knowingly.

“You’re thinking of that at a time like this?” She laughs all witch-like. “Worry not; your secret’s safe with me, naughty girl.”

Wade lowers his voice and leans towards Logan. “She was thinking of me.”

“I can read between the lines, darling,” she potters on. “This isn’t about a sexual fantasy. Deep down, you just want to be wanted. To be loved.”

She steps back and extends her arms. “After all, you’ll never amount to anything in your world. It’s such a shame that your Logan left you so abruptly. Did he break your heart?” She giggles. “Why suppress your powers in his name? For a level-five mutant, you certainly don’t act like one. You can do that, here. Freely!”

Your worn thin tether creaks with exhaustion like a dilapidated bridge under pressure. There isn’t a singular fibre of your being that desires to be stuck here, but the small, angry teenage voice in your head would love nothing more than to just let go. You’d been containing your powers for as far as you can remember, and they'd always been as irresistible as the promise of Pandora's box.

But you know how that story ends.

You take a moment’s pause. “I have no interest in livin’ in a garbage dump.”

She tilts her head and neatly clasps her hands behind her back. “Do you forget where you come from? I think we both know who lives in a garbage dump.”

“You motherf—”

You’d just managed to escape Cassandra’s lair with Alioth’s foggy storm fangs nipping at your ankles when you ran across the abandoned diner.

You’re ravenous, wrist aching from how you dig at the freezer-burned ice cream. It’s your least favourite flavour but you’ve been running on fumes for the past day or so, so you’ll take what you can get, though you begin to lose your appetite when you remember Johnny, and how Cassandra had zipped the skin from him like popping a blood-filled water balloon.

Something is rumbling beneath your surface. A distinct, constant buzzing, like two atoms slowly building up radioactive energy. You’d asked for none of this, and would certainly give Wade a talking to when the time called for it, but, for now, you’re trying your hardest to make this as easy a process as possible.

Your male counterpart, however, was doing exactly what men generally do. He was making this fucking unbearable.

Logan sits across from you, brooding, fingers gripping the medicinal bottle as if it’s anywhere near appropriate to be drinking. He throws you a particularly lingering glare when he notices you staring, but refuses to maintain eye contact when you look back at him

You toss the tub and spoon across the table with a sharp clatter, your patience collapsing.

“What? Can’t even look at me?” You snap. His eyes look exhausted when they finally meet yours. Wade, being the characteristic little fucker he is, pulls a delighted, shit-stirring grin as he glances between the two of you as if watching a tennis match.

Logan gasps as he finishes taking a drink. “Not much to look at,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth.

The words twist like a fist in your gut. For a moment, you’re rendered too stunned to respond, like he’d tossed a flash-bang toward you. His casual cruelty digs deeper than you care to admit— but you’ve had far too much therapy, too much psychological training, to know he’s deflecting.

But you wouldn’t doubt for a second that there was a more beautiful version of you somewhere.

“What, you comparin’ me to someone?” You ask. You can tell you’ve struck a nerve by the way he goes for another sip. “That it?”

He grimaces.

“Do I make you feel sick? Am I making you feel sick?”

He stares at you hard, but silently. He takes a long swig of the rubbing alcohol and you cringe as his throat bobs. His silence and feigned indifference light a fire of indignation.

“You know, you’re not the only person who’s suffered. Who’s lost people.”

He laughs like what you’re saying is funny. “Yeah, right, bub, you have got no idea what loss is.”

“Oh, you are such a fucking cunt,” you spit, slamming your hands on the table as you rise to your feet. “You know what, Wade? You’re right. I can’t do this. So fuck you and fuck his timeline and fuck every timeline that had anything to do with it! I’m done.”

A wave of uncontrolled psionic energy born from your anger blasts from you upon your final words, slamming them back into their seats and sending the cutlery, nearby debris and weapons flying. The neighbouring windows smash, shattering explosively and sprinkling outside of the diner.

The simmering stops, replaced by a stifling emptiness.

“I wasn’t finished with that!” Wade cries, crouching down to scoop up what remains of the gelatinous spam.

You pause for a moment, glance at your hands, and then grab your jacket in an aggressive fit.

Wade whines your name, halfway through gagging down a forkful of cold spam off of the floor (one of which resonates with a particularly distinct crunch, but you don’t stay to find out whether or not he just truly ate glass), and he doesn’t attempt to get up and follow you as you storm off.

You take a heaving breath of hot desert air when you leave the diner. The sandy breeze tousles your hair, and with the prickly energy of an incoming nervous breakdown, your legs kick and you’re running.

“Stryker got you, too?” Logan asks, eyebrows flicking up.

You don’t look him in the eye when you nod. You cross your arms and slouch a little, caging your heart in. Stryker — the ex-militant with a fetish for experimenting on mutants — had held you captive for several years. He’d brainwashed you into using your empathetic abilities for nefarious purposes, like seducing other mutants, and sometimes important political and militant figures.

“You like me?” He questions, quieter this time.

“No… no, not like you,” you reply. “I don’t have the fancy bones. I heal fast, but I wouldn’t survive that kinda procedure.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. Feelings, mostly. Nightmares,” you explain. He nods understandingly. “I’m always on edge.”

“You always seem so calm,” he observes. “Nothing seems to phase you.”

“I have to be. It took a lot of pain and damage to get this level-headed,” you respond quickly. “If I don’t manage my emotions, all the emotions that I receive, touch— it all comes out. Explosively. It has to come out somehow. I could hurt people.”

“Funny. School therapist ‘n’ you’ve got the most issues,” he teases light-heartedly.

“You got no idea, lumberjack.”

You hated killing.

You’re on your knees, arms and hands and chest soaked crimson, sobbing. They’d come out of nowhere, the raiders, and they were hungry for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. All you know is that you felt their need, their desperation, their willingness to do anything to get it.

The flash of harrowing horror someone feels before they die isn’t a unique experience. It simply varies in strength — sometimes it’s a feather-like touch that careens over you, a shuddering realisation that they’re taking their last breath, and sometimes it’s like a crack of lightning. Bloodied hands gripping your biceps with fear in a final attempt to survive. They’d rather cling to you than die alone.

You hate killing. Especially this up close.

You don’t cry for them. You don’t even cry for yourself. It’s a small emotional space where they cry vicariously through you.

You were black-out when it happened, you tell yourself, and suddenly regress to the student you used to be, sobbing on your knees in front of Charles as he tries to teach you serenity and control after an outburst had caused you to kill a nest of birds. He’d done it for Magneto, he said— so he could certainly do it for you.

You should have meditated more.

The sound of a car gurgles somewhere behind you, but you haven’t the energy to look or use your powers to seek out who’s approaching and what their intent is. You’re exhausted enough that whatever they wish to do with you — turn you to processed dog kibble, send you back into the jaws of Cassandra’s lair, kill you — whatever. Just let it happen.

A slamming car door and then the crunching of boots on gravel.

“You’re easy to track.” A pause. “You look pathetic. You done throwing your tantrum?”

Logan. Of course, it’s him.

“Leave me alone, prick.”

“As much as I’d like to, you and the Mouth still have to hold up your end of the bargain,” he quips, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Now get up.”

You glare up at him and his arms unfurl as he notices your tear-streaked face. His expression drops, softens, before it quickly ticks back up into an incredulous, irritated look.

“Are you crying?” He asks with a scoff. He pauses before dragging his hand down his face and rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Jesus Christ. Get up. Get in the car.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ around, Logan. Piss. Off.”

He mumbles a string of incoherent curses and turns on his heel. You think, for a moment and a breath of relief, that he’s truly going to give up on you and leave. He could finish this without you. It’s easier this way.

Instead, a thick bicep wraps around your middle and you’re flung over his shoulder with a yelp.

“Quit your squirmin’.”

“Then put me down!” You yell, thrashing in his grasp. He promptly ignores you, unphased by the jabs you strike at his back. You quickly unsheath the small knife from your jacket sleeve, winding up your arm before you drive it into the muscly pocket by his kidneys.

“Ow! Cheap shot, you little fucker!”

Wade sighs and clutches his hands in front of his chest romantically. “Oh, the newlyweds.”

Logan dumps you into the front seat of the car carelessly, grumbling something as he slams the door shut and applies the child locks. Petty motherfucker.

You rub the sore spot on your tailbone where you landed on a seat buckle funny. You want to bite your tongue but you’re flared up.

“We should switch places. I’m a better driver than you are.”

Logan doesn’t bother looking at you as he starts up the ignition. “Just shut up.”

“You can go on ahead and smoke a cat turd in hell, then.”

“So fuckin’ immature. Grow up.”

“Mom and Dad can you please stop fighting!” Deadpool cries out from the backseats.

You just roll your eyes, resigning into your chair and folding your arms.

At some point along the ride, Wade falls asleep, snoring soundly to himself. You’re silent in the front, drumming a beat on your knees, awkwardly thinking of something to say. You have the impulsive need to fill the silence, even if you were trapped in a crappy car with a man who had made it vehemently clear that he irrevocably hated you.

“So, if they can fix your world, what’s the first thing you’ll do?”

Logan rips his eyes towards you. “What did you say?”

“I said when you get back, what’s the first thing—”

“No, no, no— before that.”

You hesitate, wondering if you’d landed yourself in a trap based on the sharpness of his tone and the way that anger crackles off of him like static lightning.

“If… they can fix your world?”

He slams his foot on the brake and you just about catch yourself before your nose goes flying into the dashboard. Wade is thrust out of the front window, smashing through and promptly falling unconscious underneath a tree, neck broken at an awkward angle.

Your eyes widen.

“What do you mean: if?”

“That’s what Wade said—”

“I don’t give a fuck who said what. He promised me he would fix things—”

“Well, I didn’t promise you shit!”

He laughs, low and devoid of humour. “You don’t have a clue if they can fix things, do you?”

Well, no. You’ve been operating on a hunch the entire time and had half come to accept that you might be stuck in the TVA void forever. Who knows how much time has passed elsewhere?

Regardless of the fact you truly had nothing to do with whatever came out of Wade’s mouth, you weren’t about to let Mr. Worst Wolverine shit all over him and his plan to save his friends.

“Is it really that far-fetched? We made an educated wish!”

Something dark flashes across his face. You can feel hate pulsing off of him in dizzying waves, doubling with each passing moment.

“You made… an educated fucking wish?”

“What’s your problem with me, huh? Got a stick up your ass?” You reach for the car door handle, but he snaps up your wrist, holding it high. “You better let go of me right now, old man—”

“Or what, huh? Gonna run away again?” He threatens.

“You geriatric, alcoholic motherfucker. I’ve done nothin’ but try and be civil with you and you treat me like I’m the one who ruined your life! I don’t know what version of me you knew but you need to stop actin’ like I ain’t worthy of being here because of what you did!”

“Listen, I’ll tell you what my problem is with you—” he leans closer, eyes roving over you with a disgusted look on his face. “I mean, you are a ridiculous, emotional, immature crybaby. I have never met a sadder, more attention-seeking, foul-mouthed little bitch in my entire life and that says a lot because I’ve been alive for more than two hundred fuckin’ years.”

“And I’ll tell you, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never amount to anything. You’ll never save the world. You couldn’t even save a relationship with me. I’d say you should’ve died alone but it’s one of God’s best jokes that in this universe you didn’t seem to fuckin’ die, except that ones on the rest of all of us!”

He breathes heavily when his rant finishes. You’re taken aback, jaw slack, eyes warm with the onset of tears born from shock.

“What, you got nothin’ to say, empath?”

You suck in a deep breath, blinking slowly as you flick the emotional switch off in your head.

“I’m going to hurt you now.”

He snorts. “Oh, are you?”

In a swift manoeuvre, you raise your slap him around the face. You knew better than to punch a metal skull, but you still wanted him to sting. His eyes slit, nostrils flaring in challenge.

“That all you got?”

“Not even close,” you snap back, knuckles whitening from the way you curl your fingers into your palm. “You want to play this game, Logan? Fine— but I’m not gonna sit here and keep on provin’ myself to you. I’ve had enough of your Christ-born-again superiority complex. Did you forget that you’re the worst Wolverine?”

“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I’m honest about who I am. Look at you— you’re a fuckin’ joke, pretending to be some hero in a suit made for a dead team,” he barks back, voice rising with each word. “I don’t need your bullshit “wishes”— you should know, I’ve buried people for less.”

“Yeah, because you’re so perfect, ain’t that right?” You yell, voice cracking from the power of your anger. “The almighty Wolverine— the unkillable bastard who can’t seem to hold onto anythin’ good in his life! You’ve had centuries to get your shit together, and look at you—” You look him up and down with disgust. “—still just a bitter, lonely, broken man, takin’ it out on everyone else and a goddamn bottle.”

His eyes narrow, muscles in his jaw twitching as he appears to fight and keep his temper in check, but there’s an obvious crack forming, the dam of his unbridled rage near overflowing.

“You think you know me, huh?” He murmurs, voice a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I’ve been through. You’re nothing but a lost woman playing make-believe and hiding in the shadow of a fuckin’ merc. You’re pathetic.”

Something inside of you breaks. “I’m pathetic? Look at yourself! You’re so goddamn desperate to feel anythin’ that you’ll lash out at everyone around you for some semblance of warmth. There’s a fine line between hate and love, after all! You think you’re so strong because you can heal, because you’ve lived forever? Yeah, right— you’re the weakest, most cowardly man I’ve met in a loong time.”

The blades between his knuckles shoot out with a shink! For a moment, you think that he’s going to attack you. Hell— you even hope that he will, just to diminish some of the unbearable, stifling tension. Instead, the blades retract with a deep breath, and he grabs you forcefully by the collar of your suit, yanking you so close that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

His voice is low and rough, each word dripping with venom. “Go on, keep psychoanalysing me. You wanna talk about cowardice? How about leaving people who need you, just because it’s easier to run? Better yet, how about the fact that you abandoned the X-men to hide away in the mountains, huh?”

Your eyes widen with recognition.

“Yeah… Wade’s got a big mouth. Told me everythin’. You’re no hero. Hell, you’re just a selfish, reckless hillbilly who failed at pretending to be human.”

Your heart palpitates in your chest, each word coiling and slicing like blades in your intestines, but you refuse to let him see how much it hurts. Instead, your lips curl into a cold, bitter smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“And you’re just a sad, angry old man who can’t handle the fact that he’s lost everythin’. Go ahead: keep pushing people away! Keep hidin’ behind that anger o’ yours! It’s got you this far, ain’t it?! I’ve treated kids with trauma worth double yours and they were nothin’ but kind and selfless. I won’t let you project your failures onto me. I’m done with this.”

“Yeah, why don’t you walk away!”

The argument reaches a fever pitch, tension sizzling in the air between you. You���re so close, glaring at each other with so much anger, so much resonating heat, that it feels like something’s going to break. And then, suddenly, it does.

Before either of you can think, you close the gap between you, lips crashing against his. It’s not gentle, it’s not soft— the kiss is rough, violent, a clash of lips and fury. His grip on your collar tightens, and for a moment, you’re both frozen, caught in the shock of what’s happening.

But then something more fiery in nature than anger ignites, and he kisses you back just as fiercely, and maybe a little more desperate— like he’s trying to pour out all of his pain and resentment, into this one moment. Your tongues slide against each other and his teeth catch against yours as he groans into your mouth. Your hands thread through his hair, yanking him closer as if trying to hold onto something real and tangible in the chaos of the kiss, reeling from the sudden spinning in your head. It’s angry, raw, filled with all the things you’re not capable of verbalising: grief, love, yearning, reconciliation.

The result of a painful reunion.

The world falls away and all that’s left is the taste of him, the feel of his lips against yours, rough and demanding. You hate him right now— hate him so much that you can’t help but want him. The sheer intensity of it all overwhelms you and makes your fingers shake against the nape of his neck, but you can’t pull away— not now, not when you’ve tasted the wine. You’re too far gone, caught up in the storm of his intoxication, fantasising about ripping that yellow and blue suit off of him and riding him until there’s nothing left for him to regenerate.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the bubble of the moment bursts with the sound of slow clapping coming from outside the car. You jerk back from Logan, breath coming in ragged gasps. Logan is equally as stunned, still tight-gripping your collar as if he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

You both see Wade sitting up, hands together, eyes wide as saucers as he takes in the scene.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I just wake up in a telenovela?” His voice is laced with amusement. “I mean, I know you two clearly had some unresolved sexual tension— but this? Oh, this is gold. Please don’t stop on my account, just let me get the camcorder first!”

You’re too stun-locked to respond, lips parting and closing as your brain scrambles to formulate a response as you’re still reeling from what just happened. Logan (for once) seems equally as lost for words, his typical scowl replaced with a look of confusion.

“Shut up, Mouth,” Logan barks, but there’s no real heat behind it. There can’t be, really, not when you’ve both been caught red-handed. He releases your collar at once.

Wade, however, is having none of it. “Oh, no, no, no! You don’t just get to brush this off like it’s nothing! That was a full-on makeout session! I only interrupted because I thought you were about to rip each other’s clothes off.” He sighs wistfully and crosses his legs. “Here I was thinking that you two hated each other— but I guess all that anger was just foreplay, huh?”

Your face burns with a mixture of shame and something else you’re not quite ready to admit. “Wade— cut it out.”

He grins, not deterred in the least. “Oh, but I’m loving this. All that pent-up aggression finally coming to fruition. It’s beautiful, truly.”

Logan shoots him a look that could melt iron, but Wade just simply shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Everyone being me.”

“Wade,” you warn through gritted teeth.

“Well, unless you want me to watch (which I am not opposed to, by the way) maybe next time the two of you should get a room,” he tilts his head. “Or, you know, a couples therapist.”

He then turns to address Logan directly.

“And I must’ve missed the AO3 tags because I did not peg you for the enemies-to-lovers type, Mister. Who knew all it took was a bit of hate-kissing to get the sparks flying? Don’t look so ashamed! I’m just jealous I didn’t get to you first.”

He stumbles towards the car and collapses into the back seat. “Next time you wanna bump uglies, just ask for some privacy! You can save me the broken neck!” He gets himself comfortable, man-spreading and laying his hands on both of your shoulders as you stare dead-forwards, unable to look at each other.

“Gosh, you’re both so tense.” He begins massaging. “Look— props to you both for not letting all that angst go to waste. This is a safe space, and there’s no shame in a little hormone-induced—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Logan interrupts, revving the car back to life and shoving his prodding hands away. “Just be quiet back there.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep the commentary to myself. But just so you know— got that bad boy playing on repeat, right here.” He says, tapping the side of his head.

You bury your face in your hands. This was going to be a long car ride.

As the car starts moving again, you muster the bravery to risk a glance at Logan. His expression is hard to read but his energy thrums with uncertainty. The boiling hatred seems to have dialled down to a gentle simmer, mostly redirected towards himself rather than you. There’s something else— something that wasn’t there before. You rip your eyes away quickly, mind racing.

For somebody so in tune with emotions and the literal ability to manipulate them if you so desired, you were horrendous at navigating your own. You don’t know what this kiss meant, or if it even meant anything at all.

If there’s anyone you didn’t expect to come across in the void, it’s X-23— Laura. She’s taller, now, with hair down her back, but she’s still got that stern, mean look on her face that intimidated you the first time you met her.

The weak front door squeaks when you open it a crack. A girl, maybe in her small teen years, blinks up at you.

“Can I help you?” You ask, wiping your flour-dusty hands down on the front of your cooking apron.

“Are you—” she says your name.

You attempt to swing the door shut, but she jams it with her boot. You flick your eyes up, glance around for any signs of threats, and then lower your gaze to her. You wrap your cardigan around your mid-section.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. Who the Hell are you, kid, and what do you want?”

“I’m here about Logan,” she says, matter-of-factly.

Logan. A name followed by your own, both of which you hadn’t heard in years.

“He’s not here, kid. He died years ago.”

“I know,” she answers, unwavering. “I was there when it happened. Your name was the last thing he said.”

You’d let her in for a glass of sugary sweet tea that day, but once stories were exchanged you told her not to come back. She respected your wishes— she said she simply wanted to put a name to the face, to get closure, but you’d felt her desperation. Perhaps she was seeking out respite, or family, but you were in no position to be sharing your space with someone who could put another target on your back.

After introductions were made with the others who had been ripped from their timelines (Elektra, Blade and oh my god a Gambit variant with muscles so huge he could pop your head between his biceps) you excused yourself to sit outside. The buzzing emotional energy made your collar feel a little tight around the neck, your head a little fuzzy with noise, so you decided to reignite the small campfire a few yards away from the safe-house and rest there, instead.

You hadn’t realised you were being followed.

“It’s not safe here.”

“It’s not safe anywhere, Logan.”

He looks defeated, raising and clasping his hands behind his head.

“I gotta leave, baby.”

“If you leave, I ain’t lettin’ you back,” you whisper. “You don’t heal the same anymore, Logan, and you promised me—”

“I know what I promised,” he rebuts, but not angrily. You can already see on his face that he’s made his choice. He’s not coming to you to discuss it. “But I owe it to him. To Charles. He gave me everything.”

“So then what did I give you?” You ask. “Not a home, not my love, not everything?” You slam the tea towel down and turn away from him as the tears form. He’s quiet, perhaps processing everything, but you’re too impatient.

“If you’re just gon’ get up and leave, do it now. I won’t beg you to stay, Jimmy.”

“I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

You wake up with a start, damp clinging to your forehead. You immediately sense another presence and glance over to see Logan watching you with a steady gaze. His expression is soft and almost reverent at first, but his facade hardens with a quick tick of his jaw.

“You talk in your sleep.” The bottle in his hand sloshes as he takes a drink. “Nightmare?”

You sigh frustratedly when you realise it’s him. Of course, it’s him — his energy reeks of whiskey and self-loathing. You prop yourself on your elbows, massaging the sore spots on your temples where sleep fog forms.

“I can’t even get some rest without you botherin’ me? You’re leakin’ self-hatred everywhere.”

“Quit hogging the fire then.”

“Fuck you,” you murmur, but it’s without bite.

A moment passes before he fills the silence again. “What are you even doing out here, alone? Trying to get yourself killed? Pretty stupid.”

“Do you know how hard it is to sleep when nobody shuts up?”

His brows knit. “They’re all dead asleep.”

His hand runs up and down your back.

“Can’t settle?” He asks after you sigh.

“No.” You turn so you’re lying on your back, shoulder touching his, staring up at the ceiling. “Everyone is feeling so loud. It’s like a frequency I can’t turn off.”

He hums. “They’re grieving, I s’pose.”

“Even you and you always said you hated the guy.” You shuffle to lie on your side, facing him. You place a hand on his bare chest. “I can feel it, you know.”

“I didn’t hate Scott. Just found him… obnoxiously irritating.”

“Tough guy.” You giggle and stroke his cheek. “You’re turnin’ soft, old man.”

He pulls you flush against him and presses a kiss to your hairline. You lay in verbal silence for a while, soaking up his presence (god, you were so in love), but you’re interrupted when he abruptly sits up and grabs the white vest he discarded somewhere near the bed.

You lean on your elbows. “Where you goin’?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“What?”

“You can’t sleep here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“But Charles said—”

“Screw Charles. You comin’ or what?”

He hadn’t told you he loved you yet, but at that moment you felt it.

And so you do, clinging to his mid-section on his motorcycle, head stuffed into the helmet he affectionately forces you to wear. It’s a warm night in New York, soupy with heat, but the further you get away from the compound with him by your side the more you feel you can breathe.

“’Course, you don’t understand.”

You reach for the small pouch on your hip and retrieve a cigarette. You light it between your lips, taking a seat a few paces away from him, hands still shaking a little with the aftershocks of the night terror.

“Since when did you start smoking?”

You perk a brow. “I’ve always smoked.”

He seems to realise something and simply shakes his head before returning to the vice in his fist.

“Right.”

You stare at him for a long, passing moment, before pulling out your lighter again and offering it towards him. He perks a brow.

“I know you got a cigar in there somewhere,” you say. He pauses, sighs, and then retrieves a thick cigar from one of the pouches on his suit. You lean closer, flick the lighter, and cup your hand to protect it from the breeze, shamelessly glancing at the dancing glow that bathes his face amid the firelight. You feel the urge to kiss him again, and when his eyes flick up to yours, you think for the briefest second that he wants to kiss you, too.

Swallowing, you collapse your lighter and clear your throat. You sit quietly, smoking and drinking in a silence only negated by the distant sound of chittering bugs around you. Once you’re finished with your cigarette, you toss the butt into the fire.

“We’re infiltrating tomorrow morning.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Your lips tighten into a thin line. “We won’t make it without you.”

“Sure you will. I’m not him, you know,” Wolverine grumbles, slugging another shot of alcohol.

You scrutinise him from across the log. You wonder if he feels as pathetic as he looks.

“No— you got that right,” you answer. You pry the liquor from his hands but the grip he releases from the neck of the bottle must have been a mercy on his part because you knew he was extraordinarily stronger than you. “He was much braver than you.”

His eyes flicker from the flames to you as you take a long swig.

“Although probably just as stupid.”

A pause. Crackling and popping firewood fills the silence.

“But, he was a hero. And so are you.”

A beat before he spits a dry laugh, “what gave you that idea?”

You give him a once over and offer a half-smile. “That suit, for starters.”

He looks down at himself like he’d forgotten he was wearing it and wipes away a stray speck of blood from the bright material that you’re sure you might be responsible for.

“What, you like it?” He grunts.

You can’t help but smile. “Yellow suits you.”

“This is all I had left to remember you— them by,” he says, tone turning more sombre as he reminisces.

You decide it’s not the time to make another jab, so, instead, you play back and forth with the bottle for a while until the alcohol stops stinging your throat.

Something small shatters inside of you when you watch him muster the strength to look into your eyes, and his look a little glassy.

“Did you love him?”

Woof, that needed a healthy drink of courage to answer. When you hold his gaze, there’s a hollowness to his expression— an unasked question. Was there truly a version of him worth loving?

“Yeah.” You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth to cover the crack in your voice. “Yeah, I did.”

He’d insisted he hadn’t wanted you around yet he’d kissed you and now followed you to where you’d been sleeping. That had to count for something, so you extend your arm and gesture the bottle towards him— an olive branch in the form of shitty Jack Daniels. Your fingers touch when he accepts it and the brief glimmer of eye contact you share sends shivery energy zipping between you.

“I loved him,” you repeat, as if convincing yourself. A repeated balm to soothe the pain of letting him leave.

“He’s an idiot for leaving you.”

You bite back a sob-laugh, imagination caught somewhere between wondering who you’d rather beat up more: him, or yourself.

“Maybe I’m an idiot for not followin’ him.” You sniff deeply to push back the incoming sob-induced mess. “Not that he woulda let me.”

He hums resignedly.

Clearing your throat, you tuck your hands between your thighs. Swiftly moving on. “What was I— she like?”

He takes a long drink and sighs thickly when he comes up for air. He looks down at his hands when he talks as if choosing his words thoughtfully and carefully.

“Strong, smart. Stubborn. Far too fuckin’ stubborn.”

You force a smile over the flinch of pain in your chest. “Guess we got that in common.”

You reach up and twist the dog tag around your neck, feeling for the ring you’d slipped around the chain. You were never married legally but were in all the ways that mattered. Your heart aches for the brief moment of domesticity you shared with him. You expect him to be finished, but he once laughs, a smile cracking on his face.

“She loved kids— had a soft spot for the weird ones.” He squints and rubs at the flesh between his knuckles where the blades typically protrude. “Put me in my place. Stood up for what was right.”

His words strike a chord in your heart, playing the familiar tune of yearning and guilt and grief. A swelling sensation rises from your stomach and you’re not sure if you’re going to scream, cry or throw up.

“Were you—?”

“In love with her? What, like you can’t tell?” He interrupts, face hardening. Another drink. “It doesn’t matter. We argued one night and I refused to follow her back to the school, ‘bout the same time the humans went mutant hunting.”

Logan takes a moment to catch himself.

“When I came back, shit-faced from the bar, I realised I’d gotten my version of you murdered, along with the rest of them. Laid up like a fucking log pile. That’s what loving me got you.”

The gruesome imagery sours the liquor in your stomach. You push the nausea down with a hard swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wh—” He jolts back, face pinched. “I got you killed, and you’re fuckin’ sorry?”

“There’s a world where you didn’t make that choice. You know, I’m not proud of who I am, either,” you answer, softly. “After you left and I lost you… I got bitter, stopped pulling my punches.”

“You never liked hurting people.”

“I didn’t.” You take a deep breath, willing away the warmth that pools behind your eyes. You quickly regain composure with a short cough. “Whatever woman you’re comparing me to, I stopped being her a long time ago. Like you told me— I’m no hero.”

He grunts, looking like he regrets saying that now. Checkmate. You’re not what either of you expected or yearned for in one another, but maybe you’re exactly what you both need.

“You know, your accents thicker.”

He says it as if to draw a line of separation, but you take it as an invitation. Your head swims from the alcohol, and against what probably is your better judgement, you inch closer to him until your knees bump against each other.

“That’s what I get for hidin’ in the mountains. Got adopted by a scary old lady and her church friends. I reckon she rubbed off on me. You’d like her, I think,” you tell him fondly. There’s something wistful about it, imagining a life with him. You grieve a life you never had but somehow, in his company, the melancholy loosens its grip.

“Maybe we got lucky,” you add flatly.

He lifts the bottle with a dry laugh. “You have a very funny idea of what lucky means, bub.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. Y’see, they didn’t get lucky. They died, ‘n’ we lost each other,” you explain, glancing up at the stars as if either version of you would ever be in heaven, as if it was as loving enough as a mother’s womb to stretch wide enough to allow space for mutants.

God probably hated you just as much as they did down here.

You lower your head onto his shoulder. “But, we’re still here. Maybe there was always space in my universe for you.”

“You’re drunk,” he observes flatly, but he doesn’t move.

“A little.” You get more comfortable against his tense bicep and close your eyes. “Humour me, why don’t you?”

He sighs, but it’s gentle. “Just for a while.”

“Good, because you’re not very good at keeping your feelings quiet. I know you like this.”

“Keep that to yourself.”

You sigh, eyes remaining closed. “We ain’t gonna talk about it, are we?” You ask, in reference to the kiss.

“Nope.”

A high-pitched whine resonates in your ears, vision blurring as if lying underneath a rippling river current. Paradox has just explained the stakes to you — to stop Cassandra, somebody would have to lay down on the wire and make the sacrifice play. This wasn’t a matter of regeneration anymore— it was being ripped apart from the seams, atomised.

It just so happens that your cat, Kevin, has been loving his little journey around the TVA. Cheater.

“You won’t survive it,” is what you say in response to Logan offering himself up for the job. What you really meant was: I don’t think I can survive losing you again.

“I know,” Logan answers. His eyes drip to where you palm at the slow-healing wound on your side, courtesy of the Lady Deadpool variant. You’re winded, running on fumes, and know you’re in no position to start throwing yourself out there as a suicide volunteer. You’d never make the journey, let alone succeed in your venture.

“That’s why it’s gotta be me,” Deadpool interrupts, peeling the mask from his face to address you both. “Neither of you asked for any of this. You were right. I lied. I lied right to both of your faces — just to get you to help me, and you did.”

“You didn’t lie,” Logan replies, throwing you a glance. “You made an educated wish.”

He reaches into his pocket and slaps the bloodied Polaroid of Deadpool’s friends against Wade’s chest. The gesture is a final, silent acknowledgement of why any of you are here in the first place, and everything that’s led to this moment.

“I got nothin’ back in my world,” he explains, the sharp arrow of his words striking a sting straight through your heart. “Let me do this. For you.”

You could see that this meant more to him, that he would only deem himself worthy and die a peaceful death if he could do it knowing he saved at least one variant of you. This is more than just a mission. This is his only chance to redeem himself, and you know you’re in no position to start trying to convince him that you’d have him either way. Fuck redemption.

You’re parallel from one another, standing just outside of touching distance. It was a cruel existence— reaching out and never quite being able to hold on. It’s inevitable, the pull you feel. You’re dictated by his gravity but cursed by the narrative.

Your chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths as you attempt to process what’s happening, what he’s asking you to let him do. The pain in your side ebbs only from the comparative pain of watching another version of the man you love sacrifice himself for you.

His voice is a quiet whisper. “Give me this.”

But I love you. The words are there, hiding behind your clenched teeth, gnawing at the bars like a feral animal caged in the reminder that this isn’t — shouldn’t be — the man that you love.

Something shifts and as you’re running on the delirium of your battery running low, healing resources drained, you decide that you don’t actually care to make the distinction any more.

You’re in no condition to fight; you barely had the energy to argue with him, let alone stop him. But you can’t just let him go.

One wobbly step forward. You poke his chest, mustering whatever energy remains to express your feelings in the only true way you know how. “I…” you stammer, but you suddenly can’t find the words.

His hand reaches up and he splays yours flat against his chest. Faintly, buried deep behind the armoured layer of his suit, you feel the distinct thunk, thunk of his heart. He exhales deeply when your empathetic energy transmission reaches the other side. Your eyes connect, and even through the sharp whites of his mask, you can feel the psionic pulse resonating between you two— strong enough that the wound on your side begins to sew itself together.

“I know,” he whispers.

And you believe that he does.

He nods shortly, releases your hand, and turns on his heel. You collapse against the control centre, eyes needling through the camera footage, desperate to watch the final moments and know that his sacrifice was worth it.

It’s about the same time that Deadpool yanks his mask back on and barrels down the hallway after him.

“Wade!”

You glance back at the party as you creep towards the apartment door to leave. Your consciousness has only recently slipped back into place, having hovered somewhere above your body for the entire time you witnessed your friends atomically ripped apart, only for them to return mere moments later.

You think it might’ve been witnessing Wolverine sweaty and shirtless that was finally the last straw for you. You’re not sure you’ve recovered since.

You thought you were being sneaky about your departure, but a flat hand reaches from out of view, splays and then holds the door closed.

“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” Logan asks, voice slow and tentative.

“I ain’t runnin’ this time, I promise,” you answer. He rests his arm on the beam above him, making him appear even taller and maybe even more imposing. Your pulse quickens as you look up at him, trying to find the right words, ones that you hope won’t give you away. You nearly squeak. “I um— just—”

He arches a brow, a hint of a micro-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He shifts, getting closer by just a fraction. “Yeah?”

Trying to keep your distance is proving to be immensely hard when he’s gotten himself this deliciously close. His energy tastes of confidence, a stark contrast to the self-loathing only a mere few days prior. It’s magnetic. If you make eye contact now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to control yourself.

The atmosphere crackles with tension, like the static energy right before lightning strikes. His gaze is intense when you look at him, and with the way his eyes glance purposefully down at your parted lips—

Jesus. Pull yourself together.

You gently pull away from him and feel the spell of the moment dissolve. “I just… need time.”

Recognition flashes on his face, as well as a tick of disappointment, but he seems to understand.

A beat, then he taps the door before stepping aside. “Alright. Don’t be a stranger.”

Wade bursts around the corner, arms wide and voice booming. Vanessa hangs off of his arm, white teeth gleaming with mischievous joy.

“Whoa, hey there, lovebirds! What’s going on here— a secret rendezvous? Looking for somewhere to sneak off? Should I cue the romantic music or just give you two some privacy?”

You jump in surprise at his sudden entrance, flinching away from Logan as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Logan’s expression shifts from whatever tender moment was brewing, spell broken, to a mix of exasperation and resignation, jaw tightening.

“Wade,” he grumbles, voice sharp, but you can acknowledge there’s a level of begrudging affection beneath the steely surface. “Timing, as usual, is impeccable.”

“Um, actually, I was just leavin’,” you answer, tugging on your bag.

“WHAT!” Wade exclaims, face dropping. “We haven’t even gotten to our favourite part yet!”

You tick a brow. “Our favourite part?”

“The cocaine part,” he says, matter-of-factually.

“Wade, that was one time,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry. Thank you for inviting me. I just can’t miss my flight.”

Dogpool jumps at your ankles, whimpering and chewing on the hem of your jeans. You give her a gentle scratch on her head, deftly avoiding the lick of her impressive tongue. Wade scoops her up, holding her against his shoulder and kissing her affectionately on her wet nose.

“You, ah, need a ride?” Logan offers.

Your heart stutters at his chivalrous attempt. “Oh, um. That’s okay— I called a cab. So.”

That was a lie. You hadn’t— not yet. You just weren’t sure if you were going to make the right decisions if you were alone in his company for an hour. Probably wouldn’t make it to the airport without fighting or crying or making stupid choices.

He rubs his jaw. “Right.”

“I’ll… see you around?”

“I better!” Wade yells, using two fingers to gesture that he’s keeping his eye on you as Vanessa yanks him around the corner gleefully.

A magnetic tether — or red string, whatever you want to call it — seems to strain when you walk away from Logan. You feel the pull in your chest, a fluttering of electricity, but you swallow the urges and ignore the way they scratch like glass on the way down.

You call an Uber, squeezing your bag tightly for a source of comfort as you crowd yourself into the back seat. You spare one last glance at the apartment and think for a brief moment you see a silhouette of someone watching you from the balcony, but they slip away into the light before you can discern it.

You know, though. Of course, you know.

You expected relief when you arrived home, but, instead, the aching, gnawing black hole in your chest seems to grow exponentially. You go through the motions— feed your cat, tend to the garden, eat the food with no appetite, go to Church.

The fixture of Jesus pinned to the cross gives you pause for the first time. You wonder if he was a mutant.

You weren’t sure how much of this “time” thing you were going to need to heal or make a decision on where you and Logan stood after everything, but only after your second night, sleepless and alone, do you start to doubt that this will be an easy process. You communicate like you know what you’re doing, but you haven’t stopped shaking since he kissed you, like a newborn foal traversing ice.

You want to do things right. You’re not trying to replace any missing pieces or live up to any expectations he might have of you. The girl he knew seemed to be a softer, sweeter (less traumatised) version of you, and you worry that you’d be constantly comparing him to a ghost of himself.

The rain lulls you as it patters on the window by your bed, but sleep doesn’t take you.

You hear thunder, you think, and wonder if the chickens are frightened in their coops. However, the distant grumble continues to grow, reverberating through the floorboards of your rickety cabin. As it creeps closer you discern that it’s not a brewing storm— but the growling engine of a motorcycle.

Awash with a deep sense of knowing, you throw yourself out of bed and knot a silk robe around your middle. The sound of the engine dissipates, replaced only by the hammering rain and the rushing pulse in your ears when you tear your door open.

You see him— all leather jacket slick with rainwater and tight jeans, brows pinched against the onslaught of the weather as he dismounts his bike.

Logan.

When your eyes meet, there’s a palpable shift in the air, and the storm, angry as a howling spirit, mirrors the turbulent emotions within you. You don’t speak, you don’t think, you just act.

Barefoot, dressed in your slip of a robe, you race down the short path and meet him halfway.

“Logan? Logan?” You call out. “What are you doin’ here?!”

“Had to see you,” he calls out between strides, voice nonchalant as if what he’s said was obvious.

You’re closing the distance. “That’s a day’s ride, and the weather—”

Instead of letting you finish, he grasps your face, kissing you suddenly and with a reverence so sincere that your knees feel gelatinous and weak. His thumbs brush away the raindrops— tears? —that drip over your crystallised lashes. His touch is both grounding and electrifying; the warmth of him pressed against you is a stark contrast to the chilling downpour.

Your fingers curl against the front of his jacket, clinging with equal fervour as if it’s the only thing keeping you anchored from floating someplace else. The strength of his body crowds over you, arm sliding down to capture you by your waist as you lean into him, syrupy-decadent and entirely reliant on him to keep you upright.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding over yours tasting both bittersweet and intoxicating in equal measures, like cigar smoke and peppermint gum. There’s a distinct sharpness of liqour and you wonder if he had a shot (or bottle) of courage before coming here. You breathe deeply against his skin, smelling rainwater, musk and gunpowder; your senses are completely overwhelmed by him and you’re not sure that anything could pull you away.

The red string knots.

When you both eventually take pause, gasping for air as the rain continues to pelt, his eyes lock with yours. He radiates relief, desire, and a raw vulnerability that makes your heart ache.

“You’re freezin’,” he murmurs, peppering kisses against your lips, your cold nose, and pulling one of your hands to his face to peck along your palm. You feel dizzy in his embrace, drunk on his lips.

“You should come inside,” you whisper, “before the neighbours start askin’ questions.”

He quietly nods, kissing your fingers before following you inside and ducking away from the rain.

Once inside, he shakes the rain from his hair with a flick, eyes immediately roaming around the innards of your respectable (tiny) house, the size of him immediately proportionally shrinking the interior. He absorbs your surroundings, chivalrously pretending like he can’t see every curve of you in that wet material.

You lead him towards the heath, lighting a small fire to help dry you both off. You leave, pottering around to gather some towels for your hair, and arrive back to see he’s peeled off the top layer of his clothes, leaving him half-exposed, his back an impressive marvel of rippling muscle. He glances at you over his shoulder.

You’re lost for words, but can’t just stand there ogling him. “Um, I don’t think I have any spare clothes that’ll… fit…”

When he turns to face you, his rain-slick torso shines in the firelight, skin glistening on the taught muscles of his biceps as he accepts a towel from you. Your words lag, entirely distracted by the realisation of one thing when you glance down at his v-line and dark, coiling hair that creeps down into his jeans: you’re absolutely going to have sex with this man.

You might’ve decided that when you watched the way his jeans clung to him when he dismounted his motorcycle, but that’s beside the point.

“That’s alright,” he answers, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes roving shamelessly over the damp, silky robe that clings to your silhouette effortlessly. “Don’t need ‘em.”

Your mouth dries when he steps closer to you, head angled, lips centimetres apart.

“Logan…” you breathe, tone edging toward a warning.

He presses against you, tilting you back. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I’ll get back on that bike and I’ll leave.”

You creep further away, trying to catch your breath. “I—”

The words don’t manifest, simply because you don’t have it in you to lie— to deny yourself of this.

He cages you in against the wall, shrinking you underneath his frame, eyes narrowed and dark as they search for yours through lowered lashes. “Tell me you don’t feel somethin’, and I’ll walk away. You won’t see me again.”

His bare-chested proximity was overwhelming you. You’re acutely aware of every inch of his skin that touches yours, pebbled nipples hard against his warm flesh, stubbled jaw nuzzling against your neck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel like a teenager again, anxious and hormonal, a ball of puppy fat and unrequited crushes. The space between your thighs positively aches with heat, throbbing like a second heartbeat.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you that I feel something.”

He leans back, lips quirked with a flash of disappointment.

You blink up at him. “Let me show you instead.”

He ticks an eyebrow.

You use your empathetic influence to decrease his heartbeat, relaxing him down to the bone. He sighs, nosing against your shoulder, arms flexing as he holds himself up against you.

“Just with a little influence…” you stroke your way up from the slow pulse in his neck to his jaw, capturing him swiftly. You use your mutation to increase his heart rate this time, hiking it up to an excitable level. His cheeks begin to flush, pupils dilated, lips parted with the anticipation of your kiss. His eyes darken with something intrinsically primal and hungry.

“Does it excite you?” You ask, innocently.

He shakes his head all dog-like as if to regain control, canine showing as his lips curl into a wolfish grin.

“You’re not the only one with… tricks. I can do that, too— in other ways,” he says, tone low and suggestive. He lifts a hand, tracing a knuckle over your exposed collarbone, shifting the soft material of your robe just an inch. Your breath hitches.

“You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?”

You blush. You hadn’t known that.

You challenge his eye contact, feigning self-control and authority. The stare-down has your pulse spiking, arousal ricocheting down your spine and sitting low and syrupy in your belly.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast, too.”

Oh, Hell. He’s got you melted like butter in a pan.

You rest your head against the wall, breath quickening. “If we do this, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Good,” he growls. “I don’t like to stop.”

The teasing back-and-forth game of teetering towards nearly touching finally gets the better of you. You’re weak, as malleable as soft dough, so you invite him against your mouth with a sigh-wine and a tug on the nape of his neck.

He positively devours you, a hand palming at your breast as you kiss desperately and feverishly. The shoulder of your robe slips and you’re half-exposed, the slip barely holding itself together by the loose knot on your waist. He pulls you impossibly closer, the skin of his chest flush against yours as he reaches and digs fingers into the globe of your ass, hips twitching together.

You fumble between your bodies, yanking on his belt buckle and zipper impatiently. He pulls backwards, a wet string of spit snapping between your lips as you separate, helping you with steadier fingers to remove his jeans. With equal passion, he swiftly tugs on the waist-tie of your robe and discards it somewhere on the floor.

When you’re both bare, nude silhouettes sharp and soft in the firelight, he stumbles you over to the plush rug in the centre of the room. He nods to the couch.

“Legs up.”

You obey without hesitation, taking your seat and spreading decadently for him. He kneels below you of you, hips between your ankles, and gazes at you like a hungry, stalking animal. You feel impossibly sexy and dangerous.

He peppers kisses along the bone of your ankle first, foot hiked up onto his shoulder, only breaking eye contact to flutter his eyes closed. He moves along the inner length of your leg, pausing keenly against the sensitive parts— the thin stretch behind your knee, the soft plush of your thigh. He lowers himself, scruff tickling between your legs, and then licks a molten stroke between your folds, parting you with his tongue and burying his face deeper.

You clench around his skull, mindfulness of your heightened mutant abilities long forgotten. You can’t crush metal between your thighs. Or can you?

He groans into you, varying suckling and kissing you on your clit with long strokes on the blade of his tongue to your hole, lapping up the nectar of your arousal, fingers digging bruisingly into your hips. The sting of his grip and the relentless lave of his tongue entice moans from you, fingers raking into his hair for some semblance of reality grounding in your pleasure-lapsed consciousness.

Jesus. With as filthy as his mouth was, you should’ve known he would be this good at eating pussy.

You come quick, orgasm pulsing on his lips. The burn of overstimulation seizes your muscles, writhing against his onslaught, but he shoves your hips down.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs possessively, leaning back to wipe his chin. “On all fours.”

You bite your lower lip, suppressing the humiliation of the intimacy (vulgarity) of it. You turn, belly still clenching with the aftershocks, arching with the anticipation, whining moments later when his mouth reconnects with you. His hands palm at your ass, spreading you wider, tongue slipping dangerously close to the tight ring of muscle.

He slides a finger knuckle-deep, miming fucking you in a rhythmic pulse. His other hand massages you, thumb sliding down until you jerk sensitively against his nudging intrusion.

You feel impossibly full and tingly, clenching around the burn of his thumb and the velvet of his finger, second orgasm surging and bubbling over with your face pressed against the couch cushion, lips agape. You’re slick, drip-dropping onto his cupping palm, every nerve in your body burning raw as his wrist works you through the pulses.

You turn over, relishing in the sight of his scruff glistening with the aftermath of your orgasm, his eyes dark with lust— a hellish man, seraphic on his knees for you. Your insides clench at the sight as he quite literally shatters and redefines what worship means to you.

“Tired already?” He hums, massaging your hips.

You perk a challenging brow. “That was just the warm-up, old man.”

“Alright,” he seethes, sucking on his lower lip as he lifts himself up to your level. “Show me what you got then, baby.”

When you kiss, his mouth slides against yours, drenched with the taste of yourself. His cock steels against your belly when you pull him close, tip pearl-smooth with precum when you reach down and grasp him with a hollowed fist. The feel of him, heavy and warm in your grip, fans to life the flames of your briefly quenched arousal, and you hungrily pull him down onto the couch beside you.

Moisture pools on your tongue as you rub him. You spit on your hand before stroking him from the base to tip, lathering him silky with your drool. You tuck your hair behind your ears, narrowing your cheeks as you slide your mouth up and down his length, fisting the inches that remain.

“Christ.” He twitches in your mouth as you gently massage the warm weight of his sac, lewd sounds emanating from where your lips and tongue meet him. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, gripping your hair in a fist at the crown of your head. Your engine purrs with his encouragement, revving with newfound enthusiasm.

You always gave as good as you got, after all, and you’re certainly not one to back away from a challenge.

His head lolls onto the back of the couch, thighs tense beneath you, cock hot and hard on your tongue. He growls when he comes, pulsing strongly in your mouth as you lap up the produce of his orgasm, salty and molten down your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Put those regenerative powers to good use, why don’t you?” You ask, working him through the over-sensitivity with your wrist. His eyes don’t once leave yours, even as they glaze over and flinch from the pleasure burn. There’s a sharp look of challenging determination on his face— a grit of his teeth, the furrow in his brow. He remains hard in your hands and you perk an impressed brow. Not bad for an old man.

There’s a sweet moment of vulnerability when you crawl over him, a brief sobering in the cloud of lust, a clarity of two not-quite strangers and their shared grief and yearning.

You’re not sure where this moment will take you, but the love of somebody scraping together the shards of a shattered heart for a brief time, even as it cuts their hands, holds you with a semblance of human connection so sincere that you’ll carry it with you for a lifetime.

His thighs spread to accommodate you. You hold your fingers against the thick chords in his neck for support as you fumble between your bodies, slotting him against the catch in your cunt before lowering yourself entirely.

You hiss against the intrusion and he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You laugh-moan, laying your palms against the coils of hair on his sweat-shimmering chest.

“I can take it.”

The fire, intended to help dry you off, creates a heated environment that beads sweat on his temple. The only brain cells that remain coherent bounce around on lust in your skull — so you lean forward, lick the salty droplet clean, and sigh-whine as you begin rocking against him.

You fall into sync quickly, a desperate rhythm of desperate bodies. The delicious ache of him inside you is a masochistic thrill, similar to the irresistible press on a day-old bruise. The squelching shlick between your bodies is an animalistic reminder of your flesh and blood as you chase the pleasure, bouncing with vigour.

“Christ— I can feel you…” his jaw clenches with resolve, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. “…dripping all over me. You wanted this bad, huh?”

“Wanted to ride you in that fuckin’ Honda,” you straighten your posture, leaning away from him to hold your breasts, panting words between bated breaths. “Thought it might shut you up.”

His hand snaps up and grabs you roughly by the chin. “Mm… mouthy, aren’t ya?”

You grin. “You got no idea, lumberjack.”

He pulls your face against him, meeting your mouth halfway in a sloppier, fever-driven kiss that shoots arousal to your core like a shot of his favourite whiskey. Something feral stirs within you: a primal, cellular-deep need to connect with him further. Your empathetic power roils off of you like steam on a hot spring, surging into and merging with him until there’s nothing but one feeling, a black hole of unquenchable desire.

You suddenly feel as though you are him: navel-deep, a throbbing muscle with an aching desire to dive further into the serpent-clutch of your cunt, gliding through tingly, honey-silk velvet, blades hanging onto a tether of self-control as they threaten to slide out of your knuckles in ecstasy.

Well. This was certainly new. Add “voodoo sex doll” to your list of mutations.

You gasp, ripping away from the kiss, your powers recoiling back into you at whip-lash speed, dizzying in its ferocity. His eyes meet yours with darkened curiosity.

“Did you—”

“I felt that,” he grunts, tongue darting out to roll over his lips. “It always like that for you? Feelin’ so fuckin’ full?”

You half-laugh blissfully. “Only the good times.”

“I’ll show you a good time, alright.”

He isn’t gentle when he manhandles you, forcing you into an arch as he repositions and aligns himself behind your thighs, one foot planted firmly on the floor, the other bent to accommodate the new angle. He reinserts himself inside of you with ease, hands palming your hips and ass.

You feel him nudging cervix-deep and you reach out, clawing at the couch to hold your jerking body steady against the relentless slap of his hips. There’s no need to tell him faster or harder when you feel the metal plate of his adamantium hips pressing against your ass, pounding and vulgar with the sound of sweat-damp skin-on-skin.

It’s involuntary, the way you pant and cry out, intoxicated by the relentless drag and pull of his cock. He says something to you but you either don’t hear him or have enough conscious space in your sex-drunk fog to process words and respond. He slides a hand down your spine and pulls on your hair until you’re upright, breath hot when it fans against your neck.

“Where’s that mouth gone?”

You lick the drool from your lip, throwing him a glance over your shoulder. “Fuck you.”

The half-lidded up-and-down look he gives you as satisfaction grows slowly on his lips turns your bones to jelly. “There she is,” he growls back, offering a sharp slap of encouragement on your ass as he drops you back onto your front. You involuntarily grip around him, puffy clit throbbing with the almost-but-not-quite-there anticipatory build. “You gonna come for me? Yeah? I can fuckin’ feel it.”

You slide a hand underneath yourself, reaching for the swollen nub with two fingers. You’re overwhelmed with kinetic energy akin to a fizzy champagne bottle— two more shakes until you’re ready to pop.

You hear a Snikt! behind you, accompanied by a throat-caught groan, and then the distinct ripping shred of blades impaling your couch. You finally come, hard, when you feel him throbbing inside of you, followed by the decadent syrupy flood of his orgasm filling you up. He ruts into you one, two three more final times, milking himself dry, before collapsing over your body in a sweaty heap, sparing you the weight of his metal bones with a forearm propped next to you.

Shared fluids drip to the couch when he eventually pulls out of you, blades retreating into his clenched fists. The fluffy innards of the chair spill out beside you, and, while you were in no financial position to afford another, the sight entices a humoured smile from you.

“Sorry,” he says with a wince, helping you sit up when your unreliable legs shake beneath you.

“That’s alright. It’ll make for an interestin’ story,” you retort, fanning yourself with a hand. You both let out a shared laugh, mostly from the relieved delirium of it all. After a beat, you lean into him, massaging a hand across his belly. “So. We really doin’ this?”

His face softens. “If you’ll have me.”

You cup his face and kiss his cheek. “I’d take any version of you I could get.”

divider credits: @/vysleix and @/cafekitsune tag list: @bearwithegg, @uhlunaro, @sseleniaa, @jxssimae, @autumnsymphony

[theorist-fox]

In The Walls

Or; Simon f*cks his Sergeant until he's not sure whether it's sex or love

Un-evil 18+ (2k) CW: smut, imperceptible ending fluff Simon f*cks you stupid. He's not sorry, and neither are you.

Hesitate 18+ (6k) CW: smut, angst, fluff, minor injuries, mentions of blood, canon violence Simon loses sight of you for far too long and realizes he can't go a day without having you within reach. When you return, he tells you in the only way he knows.

Promise rings 18+ (5k) CW: smut, humiliation kink, semi-public Simon fingers you in the rec room and you give him a promise ring. Or two—depending on how many fingers he's used.

Paint 18+ (5.3k) CW: non-explicit smut, lots of kissing, smoking You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

Good Luck 18+ (5.2k) CW: angst, canon typical violence, a bit of smut There’s only so much you can endure for love. Simon’s avoidance takes him one step too far, and this time, there’s no turning back.

Interlude (the aftermath) 18+ (1.6k) CW: brief angst, hurt/comfort, emotional healing You and Simon grow apart, and then together. Only, something's different this time.

Humvee 18+ (6.8k) CW: fluff, smut, car sex You do your best to heal, while Simon follows his own path—until life, in its strange way, brings you back together, with Simon stepping right back in.

Compass 18+ (5.2k) CW: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff Where Simon finally gets it.

Final Part

Masterlist 🦊

[mandoalorian]

sweet like plums [bucky barnes x reader]

Pairing: Civil War!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis: In the heart of Bucharest, a quiet fruit stall holds the key to Bucky Barnes’ fragile peace. Beneath the surface of his daily visits, a connection begins to form with the stall’s owner, someone who unknowingly becomes his anchor. But when danger strikes, Bucky’s protective instincts—and a hunger deeper than he realises—unleash.

Word Count: 4000

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content, p in v, f recieving oral, overstimulation, Bucky is rough and touch-starved, Bucky goes between speaking English and Russian (but everything is translated), canon-typical violence, set pre-Civil War.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥Masterlist

The city always woke before you did.

Vendors lifted their tarps with cold-stiff fingers, breath curling in clouds as they arranged their wares — crates of oranges gleaming under dusted frost, tomatoes nestled in cloth, fish still slick from the morning catch. The scent of bread from the bakery down the street mixed with the tang of damp stone and cigarette smoke. Voices echoed off the crumbling concrete of apartment blocks, and the sound of passing trams rumbled like thunder in the distance. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.

You arranged your fruit with care, lining up the apples and pears, brushing each plum until it gleamed like glass in the weak morning light. You were halfway through stacking crates when you felt him.

Same as always.

He never made a sound, but you knew the moment he arrived.

He kept to the edges. You didn’t know his name. Didn’t know anything about him, really—except that he came nearly every morning, sometimes twice, always quiet, always alone.

He wore the same outfits most days. Black cargos or muddy, worn-in jeans or sometimes grey sweatpants that looked just a bit too small on him. Today he was wearing a red henley under a gray coat, the sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the edges of a glove on his left hand. His hair was dark and long, tucked under a black cap, and his jaw was always dusted with stubble, like shaving wasn’t worth the trouble. He looked tired, but strong. Solid.

He always stood a few paces away from your stall at first, like he needed to ease into it.

Like he was afraid.

You offered him a smile, same as you did every day. Not too much—just enough to show you noticed him. That you didn’t mind.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He gave a single nod in return.

That was how it always started.

He never asked for anything. Just hovered near the plums until you held out a paper bag filled with the best ones. You always made sure to pick them just right—ripe but firm, slightly cool from the early air.

You held the bag out to him now. “First of the season. They’re a little tart still.”

He took the bag from your hand with surprising care, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment.

You felt it.

So did he.

“They help me remember things,” he said quietly, almost like it slipped out before he could catch it.

You looked up at him. That was the most he’d ever said to you.

“Plums do?” you asked gently.

He nodded, not meeting your eyes. “Sometimes.”

It was something about the sugar, the juice, the bite — they grounded him. Sometimes they sparked a memory. A flash of summer at Coney Island. His sister grinning with purple juice staining her chin. A paper bag splitting down the middle and the laughter that followed. He held onto moments like that the way a drowning man held onto rope.

You wanted to ask more, but something about the way he stood—shoulders tense, jaw clenched—made you hold your tongue. This wasn’t a man used to being asked questions. This was a man used to disappearing.

Still, you offered him a real smile. “Then I’ll make sure I keep the good ones aside for you.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, just for a second.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

You watched as he turned away, crossing the square. He didn’t leave, though. Not completely. He stopped near the edge of a tall stone pillar, pretending to study the tram schedule posted beside it.

But you knew better.

He was watching you.

He always did that. Stuck around just long enough to make it obvious. Long enough to make your skin prickle and your heart beat a little faster.

And still—he never said more. Never lingered at your stall. Never asked your name.

Sometimes you wondered if he even knew how to.

It had been a quiet morning. You had greeted a few of your regulars and started making a shipment list to your supplier. The sun was golden and you basked in the warmth. You were open to spring-time heat, especially coming out of one of the coldest winters. 

You were organising a box of apples when the shouting started.

A loud bang. The scrape of boots against pavement. Then a voice—sharp and angry.

“Hey! Open the drawer!”

You looked up just in time to see three men rush your stall. One of them slammed a hand against the side of the table, knocking over a box of fruit. Another pulled a gun.

People screamed. Someone ran. Your chest locked up.

One of them grabbed your wrist.

And then—

He was there.

The man in the red henley.

Moving so fast, he didn’t seem human.

The man’s fingers dug into your wrist, nails scraping over your glove as he yanked you forward, hard enough to send your hip crashing into the stall. Apples and plums spilled onto the pavement, rolling beneath boots. The crate hit the ground with a loud crack, and your breath hitched.

“Open the drawer,” he snapped, his accent thick. He shoved the barrel of the gun toward your ribs. “Now.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs from the inside.

You barely even noticed the crowd disappearing. They always did. The moment a weapon came out, people vanished like smoke, like survival instinct was stronger than loyalty. You didn’t blame them.

But you didn’t expect him to stay.

He had been watching the whole time.

The moment the first shout pierced the air, his body reacted faster than his mind. Muscle memory. Instinct. Violence uncoiling in his blood like something old and familiar.

He saw the way the man gripped your arm.

Saw the flash of fear in your eyes.

That was enough.

The paper bag hit the ground, forgotten.

He moved without thinking. Quiet as a ghost.

The first robber never saw him coming.

His shoulder slammed into the thief from the side, knocking the gun clean from his hand. It skittered across the stone. Before the others could react, the man had already turned, grabbing the second one by the front of his coat and lifting him off his feet.

He didn’t punch him.

He threw him.

Straight into a fruit cart.

Wood splintered. Oranges scattered.

The last one came at him with a knife.

The man caught his wrist, twisted—something popped—and the thief screamed. The knife clattered to the ground.

“Run,” He growled.

The thief didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled away, limping, clutching his wrist. The others followed, leaving behind the wreckage of your stall and a trail of bruises.

You stood frozen.

The gun was still lying on the pavement, a few feet from your boot.

The man in the red henley stood there, chest heaving, shoulders squared like he was still in the middle of a fight. His eyes were wild—too blue, too sharp—and his gloved hand was clenched tight at his side.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the quiet man who bought plums.

He looked like something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

But then he looked at you—really looked—and his expression cracked.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice rough.

You blinked. It took a second for your body to catch up. Your heart was still racing.

“No,” you said quietly. “You—” Your voice caught. “You saved me.”

His gaze dropped to your arm, the one the man had grabbed. “He hurt you.”

“Just bruises,” you said. “I’m okay.”

He stepped back, jaw tight like he wasn’t sure what to do now. Like maybe he’d scared you.

“Wait,” you said, reaching out before you could stop yourself. Your fingers brushed his sleeve. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, silent.

Of course he wasn’t.

Of course nothing touched him.

He’d fought like a soldier. Like someone who’d done this before. A hundred times.

You glanced down at the mess—fruit everywhere, your crate broken, the drawer yanked open and empty.

“What’s your name?” You asked, stepping closer to the man, breaking the distance. The empty streets began to fill again, with people who had only just bolted away. The man looked away from you shyly. You offered him your name, and you saw the tension leave his body.

“My name is James, but people used to call me Bucky.” He said slowly, like he really had to think about it.

“Can I call you Bucky?” You asked softly, tilting your head to catch his gaze again. The man nodded ‘yes’. “Let me thank you,” you said, quieter now. “Come upstairs. I have something to drink. It’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. You could see the war behind his eyes—this wasn’t something he was used to. Being invited. Being wanted.

But finally, he gave a slow, stiff nod.

“Okay.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

The hallway was narrow and cold, the steps creaking under your boots as you led him up to the second floor. The whole building smelled faintly of metal and cigarette smoke—old plumbing, older neighbors. You’d lived here long enough not to notice anymore.

Bucky followed you silently, his footsteps slow and heavy like he was waiting for something—like maybe this was a trap. Like at any moment, someone might step out from behind a door and drag him back into the shadows.

You unlocked your door and stepped inside first.

“It’s small,” you said over your shoulder. “But it’s safe.”

He paused on the threshold, his frame tense, wide shoulders filling the doorway. His eyes moved across the space—your tiny kitchenette, the sofa with the fraying throw blanket, the open window letting in cool air. His gaze lingered on the plum-scented candle flickering on the table.

He stepped in.

You closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Sit,” you said gently, pointing to the couch. “Please.”

He didn’t sit right away. He stood near the window, head turning just slightly as if listening for footsteps in the street below. The war hadn’t left him, not really. You could see it in every twitch of his jaw.

You moved into the kitchen, filling two mismatched glasses—one with water, the other with a little vodka you kept stashed behind the tea tins. You handed the latter to him.

“Strong stuff,” you warned.

He took it from you without a word. His fingers brushed yours again—just barely—but it still made your breath catch.

Bucky sat down slowly, his massive frame sinking into the couch like he didn’t trust it to hold him. He kept the glass in both hands, staring at the clear liquid for a moment before finally taking a small sip.

“Not poisoned,” you joked softly.

A flicker of something—maybe a smile, maybe just relief—touched the corners of his mouth.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said after a beat.

His head turned sharply. “What?”

“Back there. With the men.”

His brows pulled together, like he was expecting a reprimand. A punishment. 

You crossed your arms and leaned against the wall. “You could’ve been shot.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You believed that. God, did you believe that.

“But still,” you said. “It means something. That you helped me.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared down into his glass again, his expression unreadable.

“Why did you help me?”

A long pause.

Finally, in a voice so quiet you almost missed it: “Because it felt like the right thing to do.”

“Oh, Bucky.”

He glanced up. There was something in his eyes now—wary, but soft. Open. Like hearing his name in your voice cracked something loose in his chest.

You moved slowly toward the couch, sitting beside him. Not too close.

Not yet.

“You always came for plums,” you said. “Every day. Sometimes twice.”

He nodded.

“They really help your memory?”

“Sometimes,” he said again. A quiet, familiar echo.

“But that’s not why you came.”

It wasn’t a question.

His breath caught—just a little.

“I saw you,” you said, voice low. “I saw how you looked at me. You don’t talk much, but... I’m not blind.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and intimate.

His voice came out rough. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you said.

His eyes searched yours. Deep blue, guarded, hungry.

“You don’t scare me, Bucky.”

He blinked like he didn’t quite believe you.

Your hand brushed his arm, deliberate this time. He didn’t pull away. His breath hitched. His grip on the glass tightened. You saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed hard.

You leaned in.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything.

But his eyes dropped to your mouth—and stayed there.

You didn’t kiss him first. You just leaned in, lips parting slightly, waiting—offering.

Bucky froze.

His breathing changed—deeper, more ragged. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your eyes, searching for hesitation. For regret.

There wasn’t any.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative.

It wasn’t careful.

His mouth crashed into yours like a dam breaking. Like something inside him had snapped free and couldn’t be held back anymore.

He kissed you like it hurt not to.

And God, he was hungry.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers shaking just barely. You felt the cool press of his metal palm at your waist—gentle, hesitant—like he was afraid you might flinch. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, into the kiss, into the heat of him.

He groaned softly, like the sound escaped without permission. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.

You could taste the vodka on his tongue—sharp and clean—and something else. Something lonely.

When you pulled back to breathe, his eyes were wild. He looked stricken, almost.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You tilted your head. “Then tell me.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less intense.

“I haven’t—” he started, voice breaking. He swallowed hard. “It’s been a long time.”

You cupped his face. His stubble scratched your palm. “Then let me take care of you.”

His eyes closed, lashes dark against his cheek. And then—barely audible—he whispered, “Ты моя.”

Your heart stuttered.

“What does that mean?”

He opened his eyes. “You’re mine.”

A beat.

Then—

“Скажи мне, что это не мечта.” (“Tell me this isn’t a dream.”)

You kissed him again instead of answering. You pressed closer, climbed onto his lap without thinking. He gasped when you straddled him, hands automatically finding your hips. His metal one clenched like he didn’t trust it—like it might break you.

“I’m real,” you said softly. “I’m here.”

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“Позволь мне.” he whispered. (“Let me.”)

Then his hands gripped you tight, dragging you against him. And there was nothing hesitant about it now.

He moved like a man starved.

Like someone who hadn’t touched softness in years, who didn’t know if he deserved it. And yet couldn’t stop taking it.

Your shirt was the first to go—lifted over your head and tossed somewhere to the floor. His mouth found your neck, trailing kisses like worship, like apology, like punishment.

You felt the bite of teeth. The graze of stubble. The hiss of air between his lips.

“Такая мягкая.” he groaned into your skin. (“So soft.”)

He tugged his red henley over his head with one sharp pull, revealing the scarred expanse of muscle and shadow. The sight of him—strong, beautiful, broken—took your breath away.

You ran your hands over his chest, pausing over the star near his shoulder. He flinched.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked.

His voice cracked. “No. Don’t stop. Please.”

That please—it ruined you.

You kissed down his chest, tracing the scars, the stories he couldn’t say aloud. And when you reached his belt buckle, he let out a sound so low and wrecked it barely sounded human.

Then he said your name like a prayer.

Like a warning.

Like he wouldn’t survive this and didn’t care.

Bucky stood up and let you pull down his jeans, kicking off his shoes haphazardly and letting his discarded clothes pool on the floor, along with yours. His mouth was on yours in the next heartbeat, and you barely remembered backing toward the bed. You felt the firm weight of him, the unrelenting heat of his body as he walked you down until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. His fingers curled under your thighs, and he lifted you—lifted you like you weighed nothing—settling you in the centre of the bed as if you were something precious.

He stood above you for a moment, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding back for years. His hair was a mess from your fingers, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Ждал этого…” he murmured. (“I’ve waited for this…”)

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed.

Your breath caught. “What are you doing—?”

He dragged your pants and underwear down in one motion, slow but hungry, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me taste you,” he rasped. He wasn’t asking.

Your heart stuttered. And then—

His mouth was on you.

He moaned into it, like he’d found salvation between your thighs. His tongue was unrelenting—broad strokes, then precise flicks that made your back arch and your fists twist in the sheets.

“Fuck—Bucky!”

He groaned, like the sound of his name on your lips made him even hungrier. His metal hand pinned your hips in place, holding you exactly where he wanted you while his other hand slid up your stomach, across your ribs, between your breasts.

“Такая сладкая…” (“So sweet…”)

Your legs trembled, your thighs clenching around his head, and he loved it—let you grind against his face like it was the only purpose he’d ever had.

You came hard—stars bursting behind your eyes, your hands tangled in his hair, thighs shaking around him.

But he didn’t stop.

“Too much,” you whimpered.

He looked up, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “No. Not yet.”

And then he climbed up your body, kissing every inch—your stomach, the underside of your breast, your neck, your jaw—until he reached your mouth again.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, and the filthy thrill of it made your head spin.

“Bucky,” you whispered like it was a plea. “I need you. Now.”

He tugged his boxers down, and your breath caught at the sight of him—thick, flushed, aching.

He paused, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

“It’s been so long,” he admitted, voice rough and raw. “I don’t know if I can—if I’ll be gentle.”

You reached down, stroking him softly. “Then don’t be.”

That snapped something in him.

He hooked your legs over his arms and buried himself inside you in one long, unrelenting thrust.

You gasped—he was so big, and the stretch was almost too much, but your body opened around him like it was made to.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched. “Squeeze me just right…”

He started to move—slow at first, then deeper, faster, harder.

Your bodies slapped together in a filthy rhythm, the bed creaking beneath you, the sounds of your moans filling the room.

“You feel so good,” you whimpered. “So fucking good—”

He growled low in your ear, his voice guttural.

“Я буду разрушать тебя каждую ночь…” (“I’ll ruin you every night…”)

You whimpered, clinging to him, your nails digging into his back.

“Please—don’t stop—”

“Никогда.” he groaned. (“Never.”)

He shifted your legs higher, hitting a new angle that made your vision go white.

You cried out, and he grunted, eyes wild. “That’s it. That’s the spot. Take it, Звезда моя…” (“My star…”)

You were both close—you could feel it, the way he trembled, the way your core clenched around him with every thrust.

“I want you to come with me,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “Come with me, baby. I need to feel you—please—”

You shattered.

Your whole body arched off the bed, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. Bucky followed with a loud, broken moan, burying himself deep, shaking with the force of it.

He collapsed against you, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling, tangled in each other like there was nothing else in the world but this.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Just lay there, half on top of you, breath slowing, arms trembling as they wrapped around your waist. His cheek rested on your chest. You felt his heart pounding—still erratic. Like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real.

You carded your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. He shivered under your touch.

Neither of you said anything.

Not at first.

Then, after several minutes, he finally spoke—voice low, muffled.

“Did I hurt you?”

You blinked down at him. “What? No. Bucky, you—”

He shifted just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Frightened, even.

“I’ve never… done that. Not since—before.”

Before Hydra. Before the Winter Soldier. Before everything.

Your chest ached. You pulled him closer. “You didn’t hurt me. You were gentle. You were perfect.”

He breathed out slowly like you’d just released some tension he’d been holding onto for years.

Still, his eyes searched your face. “It was too much. I was too—”

“You were human,” you said firmly. “You needed it. I needed it too.”

He stared at you for a beat, then nodded—barely. His gaze dropped to your bare chest, his fingers brushing your side with careful reverence.

You pulled the blanket up and over both of you. He shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into his chest like it was instinct like he needed to. You felt the soft press of his lips to your forehead.

And then, softly—

“I didn’t come back for the plums.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

His lips twitched, barely a smile. “At the market. I kept saying I needed plums. That I liked them. But…”

“But?”

He hesitated, then whispered, “They help with memory. That part’s true. But I came back because of you.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I didn’t think I should. But you were kind. And soft. And every time I saw you smile at me… I felt like I wasn’t a monster.”

You reached up, cupping his face. His metal arm tensed at your waist, then softened.

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t believe it, but wanted to.

You laid there for a long time, tangled together, the city quiet around you. His breathing slowed. So did yours. Eventually, he fell asleep—arm heavy around you, face pressed into your neck like he didn’t want to let go even in his dreams.

The morning came in again, soft and gold, light slipping through the sheer curtain beside your bed.

You were still tangled up in him—his leg hooked around yours, his arms holding you like a shield against the world. His hair was messy, his face unguarded in sleep.

You just stared.

Because somehow, this man—this ghost, this soldier, this stranger—had carved a space into your life overnight. And you weren’t sure you wanted him to leave.

He stirred a little when you shifted.

His voice came, low and rough. “Still here?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Still here.”

He blinked at you, barely awake, and for the first time, he looked peaceful.

“Good,” he said.

Then he kissed you—soft and slow this time, without hunger. Just need.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

[fluff-n-cookies]

Dabi simply adores you, his precious daughter. But he didn’t always love you.

Part 2

Warnings: attempted murder (failed), canon typical violence, robberies, alcohol+drugs, references to child neglect, implied pedophilia (nothing graphic, and not towards reader), teenage parenthood, minor swearing.

reader has blue eyes like Dabi's.

let me know if you spot anymore.

note: I swear, it's not that bad, just fluff with kinda angsty undertones, cuz' it's Dabi! what do you want

I mean, he was only a teenager when he had you, fresh to the villain business at the wonderful age of 16 and a half. He decided it’d be a wonderful time to drink his sorrows away one night, one horrid, awful night. He ended up fucking a woman he did not know, who was surely much older than he, in the back alley of a bar in the worse parts of town. Amidst the filth of the nearby dumpster, it was here that he would make the single worst decision of his life, either that, or the best. He really doesn’t know.

but alas, he ended up with a little swaddled baby 9 months later when the same woman angrily shoved you into his arms, declaring something unintelligible before storming out of the bar again. Dabi, who at the time was drunk and higher than a kite. didn't react. when you started crying, he didn't react. when you cried louder, thrashing around in his hold he still didn't react. he was in his own world at that moment, shutting out everything except the burn of the cheep beer going down his throat. it wasn't until he was kicked out of the bar along with you for being too disruptive and he fell asleep in one of the abandoned buildings nearby only to wake up hung over and disoriented did he realize what he had done; when he saw a quite malnourished baby laying down on his jacket that he chucked on the floor last night. your swaddle all dirty by now.

he did nothing but stare at you for a while, the pounding in his head as well as the harsh rays of the mid day sun didn't help much. He was still just a kid, a villain too, and homeless. he wasn't ready to have a child. for a split second he thought of leaving you there, God, you looked just like Fuyumi when she was a baby. but you looked worse, like you were barely living. had you... had you died during the night? he stumbled to your side of the room, trying his best to avoid the rumble of the deteriorating building. it would truly have been a miracle if you happened to survive in such conditions.

carefully, he flipped you onto your back, putting a warm hand on your chest. god. you were barely breathing. barely responding too. Dabi's breath hitched, had he nearly killed his own child? he stayed like there for a few moments. looking right at you. he really had no idea what to do. you're already on the verge of death, if you died right now, would it really matter? you've been on this earth for only a few days it seems, your mother left you with a villainous teenage father who could let you wither away in an abandoned building.

if you were to die right now. he could spare you the pain of having to live with him, you'd never have to know the horrors of life.

he could just light one flame,

let it fill the room with smoke,

and watch as your lungs give up

and you simply stop breathing.

...

you'd just be another person who never got to see their future.

Gently, he stroked your tiny chubby cheek with a warm finger.

he nearly laughed at the thought, killing his first child, just like his own father had done with him. he pulled you into his arms, preparing to hold a small flame right up to your face until your fragile little body couldn't take it anymore. then he'd leave your body here as he burns down the rest of the building. a fitting memorial. but before he could do anything,

he paused - you - you squirmed in his hold. cracking open your eyes to stare at him with soulless blue eyes that mirrored his own, tried and scared. an expression that surely should never be on the face of a child.

Dabi truly can't quite recall what happened in that moment when he held you in his arms. all he remembers is a clenching in his heart. maybe it was the alcohol and the drugs. but he felt the emptiness and the pain. the gut wrenching, soul crushing pain, the type that he felt whenever his father would ignore him, again and again. he pain he felt when he saw his childhood home again after so many years, only to find that nothing had changed; he was forever gone and no body gave a fuck.

but- you. just you. you were just like him. you wanted nothing more than a little bit of love. would it truly be so bad if he gave it to you? he'd keep you around, for a while at least.

that's what he told himself as he found himself stealing diapers and baby powder and formula and what not from a convenience store, only to fuck up making formula and changing a baby. he did a little victory dance with you in his arms when he finally figured it out.

but that's only after he managed to get some midwife or other doctor to do a lil' check up on you. (only to knock them out for the police to find their body hours later.) anxiously analyzing everything the doctor was doing, making mental notes to himself to have you try and eat better.

he tended to do more robberies and muggings these days, only to spend it all on a shabby little one bedroom condo in one of the cheaper (and by proxy, crime ridden) parts of the city. it was better than being a single parent living on the streets I guess.

he ended up turning the bedroom into your nursery, if you would call a room that could barely hold a twin sized bed, full of nothing but a crib, a small closet full of dirty clothes, and a big stack of baby products in one corner; a nursery. he instead slept on the couch most nights. but he would forever find himself running back into your room whenever you would cry, he almost always ended up letting you sleep on his chest on the couch. both arms slung over your tiny body so there would never be a chance you'd fall out of his grip.

but life got better with time it seems. he started taking bigger jobs, bank robberies, sometimes murders every now and then. he built a good reputation for himself. and you. you grew on him. who was once a fragile little thing, right to death's doorstep. now, when you smiled, he felt ever so full of life.

he liked how you would always wait by the door after he went out to run an "errand", always being right where he left you and babbling happily when he came back. making a little gesture to be picked up and carried.

he liked how you tended to boss him around most of the time. you could point to where you wanted to go and he would happily carry you there. he isn't even aware of what he's doing, you could yell at him (as best as a baby can anyways) and he'd meet your demands near instantly without much complaint. someone else would have to point it out for him to notice.

he especially liked how you would stare at him with wide eyes as he would smoke on the balcony with the glass door shut. every night, it was a routine, just after dinner, Dabi would snag a pack of cigarettes, and sit outside on the balcony to smoke, occasionally looking back inside through the glass door to see what you were doing. he would put on a little cartoon or set out some toys for you. and while that'd keep you entertained for a while, you'd still drift towards him, looking back at him through the glass to try and get his attention. his smoke breaks kept getting shorter and shorter because of that.

he liked how every time he woke up, you would always be with him. looking up at him with those big blue eyes that he gave you. especially the way you'd always look at him with nothing but love and joy.

the same eyes that he used to look at his own father with disdain and fury.

he'll joke around that you're too clingy, always following him, attached to the hip, quite literally with how often he holds you on his hip. But deep down he knows he'd be torn apart if you were gone from him for even one hour. he can't live without your little hugs and giggles and stupid playtime's and everything. please, your love means the world to him.

but he was still only ever a boy, a boy who never quite got to grow up the way he was meant to. but you will forever be the reason he'd try and be a man. for his little girl. he remembers how he'd make more frequent trips to the grocery store, how he'd stock up on medicine for kids, how he'd buy cleaning supplies to somehow make the rinky dinky condo you both live in a tad bit more suitable for a child.

you're the reason he even joined the league. this world has already killed him, and while he was given a second chance as Dabi will it really ever be the same?

but you. you are so full of life, so perfect, awaiting a future unknown. he'll sculpt this world with the second chance he's been given. for your father, Touya, may be dead, but Dabi is not, and he is very much ready to give you what he never had, even if he dies again in the process.

but with the league comes responsibility, a time consuming responsibility. gone are the days when he'd lounge around at home all day and only leave to take you to the playground or grocery shopping, and the occasional robbery when he was low on cash. now he was busy! can you believe it? now Dabi may have skipped nearly all of high school but he wasn't that stupid enough to leave a child home alone for hours on end. hence, he came to the conclusion of daycare. the horrid, horrid daycare.

he nearly cried when he realized his little girl was growing up so fast, it seemed like just last week he was holding you on his hip as he heated up a bottle of formula in his hand to finally get you to shut up and sleep. that only a couple days ago you walked your first ever steps after he came home early with your favorite snacks. he wasn't even able to record it he was too busy sobbing as you held onto his legs to steady yourself waiting for him to pick you up. it literally felt like yesterday you said your first words, "baba" after he jokingly started calling you cry baby.

this actually led to quite a lot of problematic nicknames, cry baby became Babs and Babs became bun and bun became bunny and bunny---- (i'm losing it as I write this.)

but nonetheless, it hurts. so every morning he'll wake up at the crack of dawn to haul you out of bed and get you all pretty and dolled up for the day. he lets you choose your shirt and pants and bows and what not. tying up your little baby sized shoes to take you to the next district over. now, he would've enrolled you into a daycare much closer to home but he really wants you to be safe, and unfortunately anything and everything in your neighborhood without his supervision is not and never will be, considered safe. so he'd much rather escort you via public transport to the richer neighborhoods every single morning than have you be in danger of any kind. sure, you're a little out of place, with thrifted clothes and frizzled up hair from only ever using your dad's 4-in-1 shampoo. and he's definitely out place. hence why he never quite shows his face to the teachers. always ushering you into the daycare building before leaving as fast as he came. The teachers think that he's your older goth brother who's being forced to take you to school by his parents. is it exhausting? yes, very much so. will he do it on repeat for the rest of his life if that means ensuring your happiness and safety? most certainly yes.

---

PART 2 IS HERE

that'll be all. I might do a part 2. tried something different with my writing this time and hope it's better than the rest of my works.

my stuff is right here: Bnha master list, rules for requesting, ask box

send me an ask, I fucking love hearing from you guys.

edit, 4 hours after posting: I'm very disappointed that I still have no new asks. very disappointed in you all.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: eldest daughter of otto hightower, ser harwin strong is your sworn shield — but what happens when talk of betrothals evokes longstanding sentiments from your protector?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: harwin strong x fem!hightower!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 12.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), canon-typical misogyny, threats of violence, loss of virginity, inexperienced reader, religious guilt, forbidden romance / relationship, ungodly levels of pining, a hint of dirty talk, praise kink, hair pulling, size kink / size difference, making out, begging, fingering (fem!rec), excessive use of princess as a title, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position, breeding kink if you squint, soft ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for harwin so please be gentle 🫶 I tried to give him more of his own personality since we don’t get to see much of it but BOY did I have so much fun writing this !! I hope you all love it too!

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞.

Within the blossoming, emerald grove of the Kingswood, the celebratory nature of the encampment seemed alight with glee. Having traveled at the first light of dawn to make it here, your bones still groaned with the breath of slumber.

It was Prince Aegon II’s second name day, the noble caravan buzzing with delight in regards to your pale-headed nephew. Excitement permeated the air, but it was your concern for Alicent that triumphed above all else.

The unorthodox union between your younger sister and King Viserys was something that had torn a rift through your family, sowing seeds of bitter resentment towards your father, Otto Hightower. His continuous grasp at power at the expense of your kin had made you full of a constant anguish.

With little desire to engage with your father on any political matter, you had distanced yourself from the current feast, sitting soundly along the fringes of the forest. A whistling wind blanketed your tepid features, undeniably stuffy within the confines of your olive-hued gown.

A twinge of campfire smoke fell upon the breeze, accompanied by a delectable myriad of foodstuffs — cooked venison, seared elk, a variety of spices. A gurgle lurched within your stomach, the stirring of hunger biting at you.

As your gaze fell upon Alicent, belly swollen with her second child, Aegon squirming within her grasp, you knew that your time was running short. There were whispers, rumors that you were condemned to the life of a spinster if you were to continue to remain unmarried.

The sister of a Queen, of the Queen, a princess — proposals had made their way to Otto Hightower’s desk, scion of the Hand of the King. Advantageous matches were sure to follow, and you grew despondent at the thought of being shackled to some pompous nobleman.

Marrying for love was always something you sought, the desire to have such affections blossom, to be courted — not thrust into something unwanted. Nevertheless, you resigned yourself to such a miserable existence, counting down the days until your father would break the news to you.

“Sullenness does not suit you, Princess.”

The bemused cadence of Harwin Strong shattered your forlorn contemplation, his timbre disarmingly gentle as he stood a few feet away. One palm rests atop the pommel of his shortsword, clad in lighter armor, tabard bearing the sigil of House Strong.

Becoming your sworn shield was a great honor for his House — his father served as Master of Laws for King Viserys, and he was assigned to safeguard the Hand’s eldest daughter. Harwin had proved a spot of light within the dull, cloudy haze of your life, something that you were grateful for.

Only four name-days your senior, Harwin had become something of a friend, if such bonds were even considered appropriate. Nearly a year had passed since this assignment, and you couldn’t have been any more grateful.

Harwin was incredibly resilient, a man of honor and a Knight of the realm with a sensible streak of humor. He also proved to be a talented listener; you were lucky in that regard. It wasn’t often that one could confide in their protection.

He lacked his usual coat of arms, dressed for the tepid weather, broad shoulders concealed with an azure cloak. The Knight’s mane of brunette curls had been pulled into a half-bun, visage shrouded by a rugged beard.

His gaze followed yours, drawn to the woodlands, a sea of trees with pale bark and lush leaves, stricken by the first lick of autumn. Despondency weighed heavy within your shoulders, a position indicative of self-imposed loneliness.

“It does not,” In agreement, you canted your head, squinting at the angle of sunlight that pooled upon your visage. “Do you intend to join the hunt, Ser Harwin?” You inquired, cupping one hand around your brow.

“Aye, Princess. My father requested my presence, I should do well to heed his wishes,” Harwin stepped closer, coming to stand beside you, staring into the forest you seemed so enamored with. “I should not be gone for very long.”

With a lazy shrug of your shoulders, you idly twisted at a stray thread that hung from your sleeve, tresses roused by the passing gale. “The thought of slaying a helpless animal does not exactly fill me with joy,” You sighed. “Ladies are not permitted to join, as it stands.”

Harwin bristled, jaw tensing for a fraction of a second. It was your heart that had beguiled him so, one of tenderness, innocence; a penchant for kindness to all things, even lowly creatures. With your station, you were often bound to duty, to the whims of those greater than yourself.

As your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, you envisioned laying within sun-warmed meadows, cushioned by verdant grass, surrounded by wildflowers. One could smell the petrichor, the thick scent of a waning midsummer.

“It is tradition, Princess — I take no pleasure in claiming a life, I assure you,” Harwin reassured, broad shoulders heaving with a steady exhale. Breakbones; aptly named for a man of his herculean stature. “Do you not wish to join your Father?”

Mere mention of your callous patriarch had set your nerves ablaze with a flurry of anger, brows furrowing together as you shook your head. “I do not,” Mustering up a threadbare smile, your gaze drifted to your stalwart protector. “He has Alicent and his grandchild to keep him company.”

Otto Hightower was a complicated man — calculating, cunning, and enigmatic. Some time ago, your relationship hadn’t been so horribly frayed; now, it seemed lost forever.

The ruthless desire for power he often exuded had never sat well with you, especially as you blossomed into womanhood. His manipulation of Alicent, constant scheming, the cold shroud he wrapped himself in after your mother’s passing.

Harwin was privy to some of the more intimate details between yourself and Otto — it made him fester with some lingering distaste for the elder Hightower. Nevertheless, it was not his place to interfere in such business, but he knew enough.

“You’ve yet to eat,” A chiding lilt permeated his soothing baritone, palm rolling over the pommel, blade snug within its scabbard. “Must I forcibly escort you to the feast?” His question was indiscernible, dancing between humor and stoicism.

“I am not hungry,” Your protest was noticeably weak, betraying your true nature. Harwin’s gaze narrowed as he jerked his head back in the direction of the numerous tables, piled with heapings of foodstuffs. “Must we?”

“I will shield you from your Father if it means you sate your hunger, my Lady.” Humor tugged at his voice as he extended one hand to you, politely helping you from the stone you perched upon. As you stood, he had allowed his touch to linger, longer than propriety permitted.

Something stirred within your heart; calloused, sword-worn palms handled you with a disarming tenderness. For a moment, you nearly envisioned yourself with Harwin, beyond mere bond of a sworn protector and their charge.

It was abhorrently sinful, you knew this — and yet, you could not help but allow the fantasy to gallop within your mind’s eye, even for a second. Harwin was one of the few constants within your existence, one that did not seek to bring you misery.

Once you stood upright, you nearly tore your hand away as if you’d been kissed by fire. Harwin pretended not to notice your sharp recoil, dark brows furrowing together as he moved to follow at your side, keeping a comfortable distance.

Part of him detested this arrangement for one single-minded reason — he was unable to be with you.

If he were not sworn to your side, perhaps he would be one of the eligible courtiers stacked upon Otto Hightower’s desk. Honor demanded that he keep his head about him, treat you with a stoic amicability, but you made it so difficult.

The more he grew to know you, your heart, the harder it became to execute such restraint, to become an observer to the inevitable match your father would find. Harwin prayed to the merciful Gods that this affection would fade with the passage of time.

So far, he was exceedingly unlucky.

Touched by a forlornly disposition that betrayed your jubilant nature, Harwin loathed seeing you this way, your wings clipped. As you walked beside him toward the nearest table, he could feel the hawkish glower of Otto Hightower from across the way.

Lord Lucan Mullendore had attended the nameday festivities with the intention to propose a marriage pact between his House and yours, and if you were not careful, he would get his wish.

Harwin found the elder Lord to be somewhat reprehensible — withered and dull. He was not a foul man, but what young maiden desired a marriage with someone nearly thrice their age? He could not think of one.

It was the opposite of what you deserved, and he knew that he had no say in the matter. Lowering yourself onto the wooden bench, back turned to your Father, Harwin sat across from you, keeping a vigilant watch of your surroundings.

Retrieving a silver platter, you ensured to heap it full with basted chicken and helpings of fruit, plucking a grape into your mouth. “You needn’t spend all of your time with me, Ser Harwin. Your family is in attendance, too.”

A scoff escaped him, lips flashing with a brief grin as he took a swig of frothy ale. “My brother is as grim as he is odd,” He uttered, shoulders rolling in a brief shrug. “Trust me, I would rather remain by your side. You are cheerful company.”

“You called me sullen some time ago,” Unable to withhold a smile, the remark brought a brief laugh to your lips, and Harwin appeared triumphant. “You’ve changed your mind rather swiftly on the matter.”

Tucking one hand beneath your chin, you seemed far more relaxed than you had when he found you ruminating. “I changed yours.” He countered, earning a laugh from the both of you as you continued to eat.

The gnaw of hunger began to dissipate, warmed beneath the midsummer’s sun. It was not a horribly hot day, temperate enough to allow for some reprieve from the heat. The rich, juniper velvet of your gown did little to ease the weather’s sting, however.

“How fares your father, Ser Harwin? I’ve heard that he has excelled as Master of Laws,” Ser Lyonel was a good man, one that seemed to curry favor amongst the Small Council. “My Father speaks highly of his integrity.”

Harwin chortled, halfway through a hearty helping of chicken, eyes shimmering with amusement. “I did not know your Father spoke highly of anyone at all,” He mused, and decided to correct himself. “My apologies, Princess — that was untoward.”

Dismissive of his jab, you seemed to find some humor in it, a smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. “It is exceedingly rare that he does,” You admitted, twirling your fork betwixt your fingers. “Do not apologize, Ser Harwin.”

With a mere nod, the Knight continued, allowing a bout of silence to linger. Hues of aegean fluttered toward your lips, in the midst of biting into a grape, a droplet of juice tumbling down your chin.

It was wildly crass of him to be watching you this way, in all of your resplendence; besmirching your honor through gaze alone. Harwin was often vexed by your beauty and subdued charm, fixated upon you as you continued to feast, his ogling going blissfully unnoticed.

If it weren’t for the locale, he might’ve permitted himself to admire your features for a moment longer. Prying his eyes away, he cleared his throat, a grunt stirring within his chest.

“What will you do while we hunt?” It was an innocuous question, meant to distract himself from the maelstrom of thoughts that raged within his head. He suspected that you would remain by your sister’s side, if allowed.

From over your shoulder, Harwin’s gaze fell across the misshapen form of Lord Mullendore and the taller shape of Lord Wylde, brows creasing together. Both of them were whispering in your father’s ear, conspiring — it was easy to discern what exactly they spoke about.

“Entertain my nephew, if my sister is agreeable to it,” Handling children amidst this setting was likely grueling, especially if handmaidens weren’t available. “If not that, I would like to walk — I so adore nature, and this is an ample opportunity to be amongst it.”

Between your sweet cadence and the conniving Lords, Harwin’s attention centered itself upon you once more. The irritation, however, was not as easy to conceal as he thought. “I can escort you once the hunt has concluded.” He did not fully enjoy the thought of you alone in a forest.

A polite giggle slipped from your mouth, nose beginning to wrinkle with wry amusement. “I do not need your assistance to pick wildflowers, Ser Harwin.” You mused, gaze picking apart his dour countenance, wondering what had angered him.

Adjusting his position, the wood of the bench groaned beneath his weight. The Knight remained eerily quiet for a few beats, allowing himself a threadbare smile to placate your curiosity. “You do not, but the woods are not safe alone.”

“You look agitated,” The soft hush of your voice had barely registered with Harwin, who had busied himself with picking apart the pair of older men from afar. “Whatever is the matter?” As the inquiry fell from your lips, your head began to crane, chasing after his stare.

The sight of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde hovering around your father made your stomach plunge, exhale trembling as you turned back around. Harwin took note of your glaring discontent, seemingly sympathetic of your predicament.

A sigh of dismay tore past your parted lips, and you attempted to focus on cleaning your plate, belly screaming with anxiousness. “I prayed to the Seven that he would let this matter rest for today.” Your utterance seemed wrought with discouragement.

Before he could interject with a kind, comforting word, a guard bearing the Targaryen crest approached your table. “The Lord-Hand requests your presence, Princess.” He huffed, shrinking beneath the pointed stare of Ser Strong.

“Of course, Ser — thank you.” Swallowing the bile that began to stir within your throat, you gathered your skirts, skittering from the bench. Your gaze shifted towards Harwin, silently pleading for him to come with you.

As Breakbones began to rise from his seat, wiping his hands against a dirtied handkerchief, the guard abruptly cleared his throat. “Just the Princess, Ser.” He uttered, somewhat fearful of upsetting the hulking Knight.

“Your Lord-Hand can tell me himself.” Harwin grunted, moving to push past the courier with a brief scowl. Caring little for whatever consequences it wrought, he made sure to escort you the few feet it took to make it to the royal table.

Ensuring that his disdainful visage remained hidden, he straightened up, more concerned for you and how you would fare amongst the vultures. Any intelligent man might’ve not gotten so attached to their charge — Harwin did not always consider himself sharp.

The pace of both yourself and Harwin were intentionally sluggish, crawling at a snail’s pace as the two of you made your way toward the King’s table. He stole a glance at you, and he wished to steal you away at that moment.

“Ser Harwin, you needn’t draw the ire of my father,” Beneath your breath, your utterance felt light, somewhat conspiratorial. “Do not get yourself into trouble on my behalf.”

“Isn’t that what I’m best at, Princess?” Harwin remarked, suppressing the urge to grin, lips quirking into the ghost of a smirk. “You cannot dissuade me now — we are nearly there.” He murmured, shifting to stand a pace behind you, casting you in the shadow of his silhouette.

As you stopped before the sprawling table, adorned in a pale cloth and surrounded by members of the Small Council, your eyes found your Father’s staunch expression. “Father.” You greeted, dipping into a curtsy.

The Hand appeared perplexed by Harwin’s presence, lofting a brow at the unexpected intrusion. “You may leave us, Ser Harwin.” Otto uttered, preferring this conversation occur without the additional ears of your sworn shield.

Harwin’s feet felt like weighty stone, anchored to his place beside you, grip upon his pommel becoming unnaturally snug. He did not like leaving you this way, but it was his own Father’s sharp cough that drew him away.

“As you wish, Lord-Hand.”

As Harwin took his leave, you nearly wanted to crawl away with him, flesh yielding to the hawkish glares of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde. Both men were twice your age, Lord Mullendore nearly thrice, making your stomach turn with contempt.

“This is my daughter.” Otto presented you with a wave of his hand, and you forced yourself to look elsewhere — at Alicent. The shrewd gaze of your younger sister seemed to hold a sliver of pity, of understanding.

Lord Wylde surged forth first, taking ahold of your hand as he pressed a kiss upon your knuckles. The gesture might’ve been amiable if it weren’t for the lecherous stare he gave you. “Lord Jasper Wylde, Lord of the Rain House.”

“An honor, my Lord.” Unwilling to forget your manners, you decided to placate your Father with pleasantries, bowing before him. You did not say much else, save for one crucial inquiry. “Will you be joining the King’s Hunt this afternoon?”

From a nearby table, Harwin observed with a thinly-veiled agitation, jaw tense as he attempted to bottle his anguish. It would’ve been questionable to many had he allowed himself to be temperamental regarding your situation.

“Of course. It will be a thrilling hunt, that much is for certain,” Lord Wylde mused, straightening his overcoat with a huff. “May the King’s aim be true — slaying a stag isn’t easy work.”

“I am deeply sorry to hear of your third wife’s passing, Lord Wylde — please accept my condolences. I understand she meant a great deal to you.” Made to be some subtle stab towards the Stormlander, you gained some satisfaction in watching him become rather flustered.

Three wives and twenty-five children — Lord Wylde was full of a darkened lust, one that chafed at you the more you glanced at him. It was pitiful, and you did not make an attempt to speak again, hands briefly fisting themselves into your velveteen skirts.

Lord Mullendore stepped forth into the fray, seizing the opportunity to bow before you, attempting to grab your hand. You nimbly evaded the gesture by sidestepping to make way for a servant, carrying hearty pitchers of Arbor Red.

“Lord Lucan Mullendore — a pleasure, Princess.” Amusingly enough, you would’ve rather taken Lord Mullendore over Lord Wylde. The elder man seemed more akin to a kindly grandsire than true a deviant — but the competition was horrid.

“Likewise, my Lord.” With another courteous curtsy, you felt the penetrating glower of your Father pierce through you, brows furrowed together. It was difficult to discern if he was angry or simply indifferent to all of this frivolity.

“The hunt is soon to begin — we should prepare to caravan with the King,” Otto intercepted, knowing that you had played nice for him — for now. Disdain often shimmered within your eyes whenever you looked at him. Perhaps one day, you would shed your naivety. “Daughter.”

As the men rallied the horses and their tracking hounds, you felt your Father’s hand brush over your shoulder in a brief pat. It was rare, the gesture — and you thought little of it.

Lord Wylde and Lord Mullendore reconvened with their respective houses, mounting up to join the King’s hunting party. A semblance of relief rippled through you, knowing that you’d be free of those men for the foreseeable future.

In the midst of the clamor and excitement, Harwin had found you, saddling his horse, a gelding that was of a black coat, dappled with flecks of gray along his muzzle. He had made himself scarce once the Lords departed.

He loathed the scene of Jasper Wylde’s lips against your flesh — unworthy, uncouth. Harwin envisioned knocking the man’s teeth in, not wanting to imagine what he thought of, being in such close proximity to you. His blood ran hot in the aftermath, and this proved to be a worthy distraction.

“Ser Harwin,” Akin to a bird’s song, your soft cadence derailed his current string of thoughts. He turned, a semblance of relief flooding through him, knowing that you didn’t seem too put-off by your former company. “Must you go?”

If it weren’t for the demand of his Father and the upkeep of appearances, he would’ve gladly stayed by your side, content to stroll with you through the wilderness. “I shall return soon enough, Princess. You’ll have to thank me later — you might not see Lord Wylde again.”

A gasp escaped your parted lips, one of obvious shock. “You wouldn’t dare,” You nearly thought he was serious, the way his gaze had narrowed when the word Wylde left his mouth. Harwin chuckled, a grin spreading across his grizzled features. “You should not jest about such things!”

“A man of his inexperience might tumble from his horse, or trip over the undergrowth,” Continuing to tease with thinly-veiled threats, Harwin had half a mind to act; men stumbled often, all he needed to do was push. “I apologize, Princess.”

As a soft huff rippled through your diaphragm, you couldn’t help but let your amusement show. Harwin was notorious for his strength — indomitable, a fury that put others to shame. You did not want to imagine what it would be like if he chose to act upon such urges.

“If those are my choices, I might be better suited for Lord Mullendore.” Despite the lilt of humor that sank into your words, your tone still carried a sense of despondency, of frustration. A disparaging sigh unfurled from you, then.

Harwin bristled, brows drawing together as he sensed your melancholy. He wished that he could rip it all away if he could. The Knight turned fully to you, visibly empathetic towards your plight. “If I may speak plainly, Princess, neither are deserving of you. You deserve someone better.”

Some strange stirring gripped your heart, a surge of elation that you hadn’t quite experienced before. It made your nerves burn, belly churning with a tumultuous fire. Gooseflesh began to crawl along your spine like creeping ivy.

It was the way he looked at you — protective, reassuring, as if you were the sun itself.

No man had gazed upon you with such fierce intensity, and Harwin exuded overprotection, as if he were a stone wall, made to safeguard you from the outside world. As he spoke of you deserving someone better, your mind had leapt to him — Ser Harwin Strong, your sworn protector.

Inklings of sin blossomed within your heart, knowing how wrong it was of you to want him, to desire his company in a way that transcended dignified honor. A peculiar heat slithered over your body like a tepid haze, threatening to smother you from within.

“You have my gratitude, Ser Harwin. I should hope that such a man exists for me — though I fear if he does, it may be too late,” With a wisp of a smile, you folded your hands together. “I am resigned to this fate — it seems futile to flee.”

Gods, he burned for you — the air within his lungs stung, his body incinerated by a fever beset by you, tender hues drawing themselves toward the ground. Harwin dared not touch you, grip ironclad upon his pommel to keep from cupping your chin.

“It is not yet set in stone, Princess.” Despite his insistence and reassurance, you had started to lose faith in it, but you appreciated his attempts, nonetheless. Silence drifted between you both, your countenance one of a subdued sadness.

As the horns of the hunting party began to split the skies, he sighed, a heavy noise that carried more than just concern. Averting your gaze, you peered toward the royal tent, unable to find your sister amongst the group seeing the men off.

“Do not let me keep you, Ser Harwin. I should hope that the hunt proves fruitful for you and the King.” Stepping aside, you kept a comfortable berth as he walked his horse from the makeshift stables, wishing that you could come with him.

With a kindly smile, Harwin nodded, wondering if there was more he could’ve done to comfort you. “You have my thanks,” His chest heaved with a hearty sigh, brows drawing together. “Once I return, we can take a turn about the Kingswood.”

That seemed to make you happy, the promise of a woodland stroll. With a jubilant nod, you watched as he mounted his horse, giving the steed a swift nudge to its flank. As Harwin joined the hunting party, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight of him riding alongside Lord Wylde.

At the conclusion of the hunt, the caravan had at-last found their prey — at the expense of the day, however. It had taken them some time to track down their pale stag, a beast of fur as white as winter’s snow that seemed to evade them at every turn. Instead, they settled for a fawn-colored buck.

Much of your late afternoon was spent alongside your sister and nephew, a welcome respite from the peacocking lords you’d met earlier in the day. It simultaneously kept you from the ire of your father, even moreso.

The woodland promenade that Harwin had offered was no longer a viable option. Upon their return, a bleeding sun painted the horizon in rays of a vibrant orange with twilight encroaching, signaling an end to the festivities.

Returning to King’s Landing alongside your father had proven a strenuous task, with much of your carriage ride spent in a heated spat in regards to being wed. In the end, you resigned yourself to embittered silence.

“You must perform your duty to our House, as your sister has. I will expect your answer in a sennight — should you refuse, the choice will be made for you.”

Otto’s words continued to worm their way into your mind, with a scathing cadence and scornful glare that had made you feel so incredibly small. You should’ve been thankful, with the option of Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore available to you.

Instead, you were left anguished and bitter by the end of the evening, storming to your chambers without so much as a single utterance. Harwin had been with his Father — he hadn’t seen you since the hunt’s conclusion, save for a brief smile in-passing.

As dusk blanketed the skies above King’s Landing, the glow of the heavens concealed beneath wisps of veiled cloud, you stood beside your window, curtains drawn apart. Anger rippled through you in hot waves, as if you’d been kissed by the fire of some inexhaustible wrath.

Harwin dutifully returned to his station, posted in the corridor that stretched toward the chambers of other nobles, including some of the Small Council. Tucked within the chainmail beneath his breastplate, a clutch of wildflowers resided there, ones he’d picked for you.

Oftentimes, you would greet him each morning and bid him farewell with the approach of dusk, but not this time. It was unusual for him not to see you, and concern began to blister through him. He wondered if it had anything to do with the predicament from earlier in the day.

It would’ve been inappropriate for him to intrude upon your business, but the longer he waited within the eerie silence of the corridor, the more his heart began to lurch. Braziers flickered throughout ornate hallways, dancing shadows falling across his armored frame.

The Knight nearly leaped when the door had opened, accompanied by an unsightly groan that reverberated throughout the corridor. There you stood, fresh-faced and clad in a nightgown of a rich, violet velvet. Your eyes swam with crimson, as if you’d spent ample time sobbing.

Harwin steeled himself, grizzled jaw beginning to tighten at the sight of you, the very picture of such breathtaking beauty. He was reduced to boyish nerves in your presence. His grip upon the pommel of his shortsword became snug, leather grinding against the hilt.

“Princess,” He greeted, baritone smooth and disarmingly gentle, tone betraying his intimidating appearance. “Is something the matter?” From a mere glimpse, Harwin could detect that you were distraught, dismay scrawled into your features.

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, like some weight that prevented you from speaking. Tears began to glitter within your gaze, disdainful and forlorn as you shook your head.

“Nothing is the matter, Ser Harwin. I only wished to bid you goodnight before retiring.” With a trembling exhale, you swiftly rid yourself of the tears that lingered upon the fringes of your eyes. As you attempted to compose yourself, Harwin remained unconvinced.

“You’re a rather poor liar, my Lady.” Harwin rumbled, brows furrowing together as you let out a mirthless laugh. His thick mane of curls tumbled toward his shoulders, unbound from the bun he’d had it in earlier that afternoon, armor glinting through the brazier’s haze.

“I do not wish to spill my woes onto you,” Admittedly, you wanted to forget about it all for the time being, if you could. “Though I do wish for company, at the very least.” It was an invitation you posed, for Harwin to speak with you in the sanctity of your chambers.

A sliver of him felt it wrong, untoward to join you in your quarters, even if it was merely conversation. He knew what burned within his heart, what arduous flame had seared his bones. His sentiments for you were overwhelmingly powerful, like a maelstrom coming to swallow him whole.

It was the hour of the bat, well into the night; stealing a glance, he found his surroundings to be devoid of any onlookers.

“As you wish, Princess.” Maintaining a courtly demeanor, you stepped aside, allowing him to cross the threshold into your chambers. It all felt so vastly daunting, his feelings suffocating him the closer he was to you, the proximity growing slim.

Harwin had been inside numerous times before, but never to this degree, harboring such a strong adoration for you. The Knight appeared somewhat rigid, gaze trailing after you as you moved to sit atop a velvet-laden settee.

“I have one week to deliver my choice of husband to my Father,” Speaking plainly, your sudden confession seemed to ensnare his attention, and yet he masked his anger well. “Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore — at least he offered me a choice instead of stripping it from me.”

The thought of you wed to some lecherous slime or a boring elder made Harwin’s blood boil for reasons both wretched and divine. Jealousy gnawed at him with such ugliness, and yet he wondered if this was for the best — not having you.

It would cause a scandal, if he were to act upon his feelings — a besmirch upon your honor. That was something that Harwin couldn’t bear, as you had been defiled enough already, being offered to two men completely unworthy of you.

Gritting his teeth together, he bit his tongue, electing to merely move the conversation along. “I apologize, Princess — you have my sympathies.” It was all he could muster without becoming unhinged, or worse, letting his confession spill from his lips.

It was uncharacteristic of Harwin to be so aloof, standing with such rigidity before your door, hand clenched at his side. A wave of discontent gripped you then, as if something was amiss.

Harwin’s cadence held an unexpected bite, as if each syllable was uttered through gritted teeth. His countenance bristled with a thinly-veiled frustration, as if he did very little to mask his true demeanor. A steady exhale escaped him as he attempted to stave his fury away.

“You seem angry,” A part of you assumed that it was merely concern, born from that of a stalwart Knight; the other sliver detected disdain from that of a trusted friend. “This is the hand that I was dealt — I suppose my only choice is to bend to it.”

Knowing that even you could see through his threadbare facade, Harwin’s head hung, thick curls framing his visage. He didn’t want you to pry or ask questions, but he wasn’t exactly making this easy on himself whatsoever.

As you spoke of simply bending to the whims of your father, the Knight nearly protested, but instead, he remained trapped within a reluctant silence. Harwin grappled with his feelings for you, wrestling with them in all his ferocity, wishing to bury them as deep as he could.

It simply wasn’t possible.

In a valiant attempt to change the subject, he reached into his tabard, removing the now-disheveled bouquet of wildflowers he had smuggled away for you. “I wanted to ensure that you still obtained a fragment of nature from the day.”

Presenting you with a handful of vibrant blossoms, your heart violently lurched at the kind gesture. If it weren’t for his station, you would’ve nearly considered it an action taken in courtship — and then, your gaze flickered to his.

Smoldering, intimate, wanting; something lingered there, a tension that had grown into a flickering fire, soon to rage. Harwin gazed at you as if you had moved mountains, pulled the stars from the heavens, and then you came to the sudden realization.

It was an anger born of jealousy.

As your fingers closed around the stems, you were barely able to express your gratitude, involuntarily stepping closer to him of your own accord. The Knight’s breath hitched, praying to whatever Gods that would listen for you to move away.

“Ser Harwin …” With his name rolling from your tongue with such reverence, such exhilaration, Harwin felt his barrier begin to crumble away. Doe-eyed hues shifted to hold his gaze, one that made your belly swirl with a tide of molten heat.

“I do not want you to marry some old Lord,” A husky rasp clung to his tone, as if he said it through sealed lips. Once the confession floated into the slim space between you, he knew that he had reached the point of no return. “The thought alone fills me with such immeasurable fury.”

Breakbones spoke through him, the avatar of his wrath, his ire, his strength — he imagined knocking in Lord Wylde’s teeth numerous times throughout the afternoon. Yet, he clung to honor, even still.

Bewilderment consumed you, accompanied with that of yearning, a want so brazenly powerful that it threatened to swallow you whole. All bonds of propriety were on the precipice of destruction, and yet you openly entertained it with a subdued enthusiasm.

You wanted Harwin Strong.

Desire seemed so unorthodox, a sin that tarnished anyone who dared seek it for themselves, and yet, it was not only desire you sought. His heart was the greatest thing of all, and you realized that you wanted him in all ways — love, above all.

Silence festered between you, and Harwin immediately realized the gravity of his words, the grave error he’d made. His eyes fluttered shut, accompanied by a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, Princess — I should return to my post.”

Before he could flee from his place, he felt your hand seize his forearm, as if quietly demanding that he stay. “What do you mean?” The heaviness of your inquiry could not be mistaken — you wished to know the true meaning of his words, why it filled him with such contempt.

Slightly pained, Harwin feared making his sentiments known, afraid to startle you or worse, turn you away from him. “It is untoward for me to discuss these things with you, my Lady. I should not have spoken of it.” He murmured, but his answer proved to be unsatisfactory.

“What if I told you that I did not want to marry some old Lord either, and that …” A brief pause; gooseflesh flourished along your spine. “That I wanted you?” As the breathy confession slipped from your mouth, Harwin felt the ground beneath him shift.

“Princess …” He began, knowing that all of this seemed completely wrong. If anyone were to know of this, he would be put to the executioner’s block, and you would be disavowed from your House. “I wouldn’t dare besmirch your honor, that I promise.” Harwin murmured.

“I wish for transparency — I wish to know how you truly feel, damn honor. I beg of you, Ser Harwin.” Gods, the temptation — Harwin could no longer resist, his resilience thin in the wake of your words, turning him to nothing more than ash. As you inched closer, the distance between bodies became dangerously slim.

Steeling himself, Harwin felt what resolve he had disappear entirely, nonexistent as he peered down at you, doe-eyed and wanting. The Knight tentatively reached to cup your cheek, brows furrowing together as he spoke with such conviction.

“What I truly feel is not enough,” He murmured, thumb gently tracing circles near your jaw. “I’ve burned for you, wanted you — everything you are captivates me, Princess. Were I not sworn to you, I would’ve asked for your hand.” Harwin uttered, able to hear the hitch in your breath.

Keening into his embrace, your delicate fingers folded over his armored wrist, drawing him closer, closer still until your lips met his own. The kiss was a tentative one, more exploratory in-nature given your own inexperience.

Harwin dared not coerce you into anything, allowing you to withdraw whenever you pleased. The sweetness of your mouth was something he’d unknowingly craved, heat simmering beneath his flesh as he fought against baser instincts. He would not lose himself — not with you.

“I would ask for your hand, even still.” He uttered, watching in silent rapture as you moved to press against him, bosom brushing against his chest. If it weren’t for the layers of armor, he might’ve been driven to the brink of madness.

“I am yours,” You were toying with fire, letting such a declaration out into the open, but you were entirely genuine. “You’ve no idea how much you mean to me, how long I’ve toiled in fantasy, imagining what this might be like, to belong to you.”

Through a tensed jaw, he wanted nothing more than to kiss you again until your lips were swollen, but he ensured restraint, allowing himself to drape an arm around your hips. The leather of his gauntlet gently caressed into your waist, sweeping over the thin fabric of your shift.

At last, you permitted yourself to touch him, palms tentatively coming to perch atop his chest, fingertips tracing idle circles into his tabard. Harwin inhaled your scent, freshened and crisp like that of jasmine and honey, a sweetness that he had grown accustomed to.

The Knight planted a kiss against your crown, cupping your cheek as he sought your gaze. “You are safe with me, I promise you that. Do not feel as if we must act on our desires.” He assured, though your longing stare said otherwise.

“Have you laid with someone before?” The innocuous tone of your question came across as naive, but you knew enough of what went into consummation. You still retained your maidenhead, willing to relinquish it to Harwin, if he chose.

Harwin did not want to lie to you, though the inquiry itself had surprised him. “I have,” Hoping that it wouldn’t ruin things, you seemed perplexed, features warming from embarrassment. “It is not as daunting as it seems.”

Without hesitation, you replied, “I want to try — with you,” As you spoke, his countenance appeared more bewildered and concerned than anything else. He did not want you to feel obligated; your virtue was in his hands, and it was something precious to him. “Is that alright?”

“Princess,” For a moment, you feared you’d offended him, his tone seemingly one of uncertainty. “Are you certain?” For his own sake, he desired your consent thrice over, if necessary. Harwin did not want to seem like some lecher.

A pang of anxiousness settled into your stomach, evoking butterflies from within as you nodded. It was intimidating, the idea of the act itself — yet, you knew that he would take care of you. “More certain than I’ve ever been before.” With a hushed whisper, you gazed at him, stars in your eyes.

Despite your piety, Harwin found himself crumbling in the wake of your stare, as if he’d been scorched by the heat of a thousand suns. His lips parted briefly, gingerly caressing your cheek before he bent to kiss you, ensuring that he was gentle with you.

Mouths tangled in a tender dance, your sheepishness bleeding through, an initial hesitation blossoming into enthusiasm. He cradled you as if you were forged of precious jewels, armored physique pressed snug to yours.

Finding your purchase against his chest, your digits lightly curled into his tabard, stomach churning with a volatile heat. Harwin’s palm idly caressed circles against the small of your back, sending shockwaves throughout your spine. He was endlessly warm, lips coming to claim yours with a disarming gentleness.

The hearth provided a soothing ambiance, crackling in the background, accompanied by the hum of dusk. Moonlight poured in through your scaling window, curtains drawn to reveal pooling silver, gathering across your chamber floor.

As Harwin withdrew, he allowed himself to abandon his guilt, even if it continued to gnaw away at him. “Should you wish to stop, merely tell me.” He murmured, watching as your head bobbed in agreement. Your hands fluttered to his gauntlets, preparing to assist in their removal.

Leather buckles and fastened straps proved to be something of an obstacle as you went about removing it all with his assistance. Slipping his tabard off, you happened to let your gaze linger, flustered when he’d caught you ogling him.

“You are wonderfully handsome, Ser Harwin,” The sweetness of your cadence was unmatched, earning you a genuine smile as the Knight chuckled. “What is it?”

“We do not need to use formalities here — no more ‘Ser’,” It dissolved a bit of your nervousness, tendrils of anxiousness unfurling from your frame. Lifting his breastplate off, he placed the growing pile of armor atop a spacious table. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon, as is your heart.”

The warm husk of his voice made you shiver with delight, feeling his calloused palm slip beneath your jaw once more, splayed aside your throat. Harwin kissed you with a fervent passion this time, still clad in his chainmail as he let his arms cage you in against him.

A breathy exhale tore past your lips, blinded by the heated kiss, allowing your entanglement to grow in intensity. Clamoring hands found his broad shoulders, able to feel the muscle that rest beneath, nearly rocking up upon your toes to reach him.

It was then that he picked you up, your dress proving to be more of a hindrance than he thought possible. Nevertheless, he used one arm to support you, the other pressed into the small of your back as he traversed your chambers, making for your bed.

The structure itself was grandeur, four columns of rich mahogany, draped in tapestries of gossamer and thick, verdant velvet. Harwin stopped at the mattress’s edge, your back kissing the sheet-clad feathers as he let you stand.

Mouths continued to dance, deepening your entanglement, heat festering like a sweltering wave between bodies. With haste, your palms had relocated from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, fingers threading within the curls there.

His stature engulfed you — large, imposing, and endlessly warm. Harwin’s presence blanketed you, able to feel the sharp cracks of desire as they wafted from him. Calloused hands kneaded into your curves, molding themselves to your form.

Lips parted, a shaky sigh tumbling from your mouth as you attempted to regain even a shred of your composure. Harwin pressed a kiss to your jaw, still hovering around you, a salacious inquiry dancing upon the tip of his tongue.

“Have you touched yourself before, Princess?” His husky, coarse lull made your belly surge with butterflies, thighs absentmindedly shifting together. A coil of tension slowly began to form within you, pulled taut with a deep-seated repression.

Embarrassed, you gave a shrug of your shoulders, smitten beneath his incendiary gaze. “Somewhat,” You always thought it to be sinful, as if the eyes of the Seven were boring down upon you. “Gods, you must think me to be some prude.”

With a gentle shake of his head, Harwin cupped your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw. “I do not,” He replied, reassuring as ever as he pressed a kiss against your brow. “May I remove this?” He questioned, giving your gown a gentle tug.

A brief hitch inhabited your throat, lips parting enough to make way for a subtle gasp. Instead of answering verbally, you nodded, hands untangling themselves from his nape. Sluggishly, you turned around, facing the bed as his deft, calloused digits found the numerous laces along your spine.

Unraveling you from such tight fabric, a brief exhale tore past your lips, gown beginning to loosen. The velvet-and-silk sagged upon your form, leaving you in naught but a simple shift, tantalizingly transparent. Stepping from your nightgown, you shivered as Harwin’s palm graced your hip.

Slowly, he planted a kiss atop your shoulder, the scratch of his beard a most pleasant sensation. A charged silence loomed between you both, the only ambience that of the smoldering hearth, a wisp of wind passing by your window.

Each breath he took seemed taut with heaviness, an exhilaration that you shared in. Showering your flesh in kisses, he continued along the hollow between throat and shoulder, fingers flexing against the ties of your silken shift.

“Harwin,” A tremulous exhale slipped past your lips, reveling in the feeling of his mouth peppering against you. His other arm slipped around you, his large palm coming to cup one of your breasts, kneading into the soft, pliant mount. “Gods.” You gasped.

It was a sound that he had dreamt of for so long — your voice, charmed and wanton beneath his kiss, within his grasp. Harwin felt you lean against his sturdy musculature, even if the chainmail happened to chafe against your back. As his name fell from your tongue, he was beguiled.

Desiring to see him fully, you sluggishly turned within his embrace, digits toying with the remnants of his armor. Wordlessly, your hands drifted to the remaining straps and buckles, wishing to peel it from him, see him completely.

As his chainmail loosened, vambraces and leather tunic following suit, he deposited all somewhere by the wayside.

Bare above his waist, you marveled at the sight of him — taut muscle, as thick as tree trunks, chest covered in a light layer of brunette hair. His flesh was sunkissed, a scar or two embedded into his skin.

Bluish hues bored into you, gentle yet instilled with the flame of ardor, large hands moving to smooth over your hips. Silent, he bent to kiss you, able to hear the brief tremble of your exhale, your hands clamoring to grasp at his biceps, muscle firm beneath your palms.

Flesh to flesh, heart to heart, you felt the stirring of something wicked between your legs, arousal beginning to coalesce as his kisses deepened. Mouths clamored for one another, each kiss charged with a longing, nearly stealing every wisp of air from your lungs.

Harwin’s throat reverberated with a low growl, beard scratching against your silken flesh with every fervent clash of lips. One hand dared to explore, caressing over your hip and derrière, until he gathered the hem of your shift within his fist.

An excitable shiver slithered over your spine, able to feel the slight draft dance across your thighs, fabric being eased up; further, and further still. It was then that you felt his hand beneath the silk, traveling further until he found the warmth lingering between your legs.

Nails dug crescents into his thick biceps, a stutter forming as you parted, foreheads still flush together, hot sighs passing through. Harwin’s calloused digits sluggishly glided over your slick petals, searching for any signs of discomfort that might’ve appeared.

“H—Harwin …” A stifled whimper tore past your mouth, now parted completely as you pressed yourself against him. Perched atop the mattress’s edge, it allowed him to stand between, spreading your legs apart with his physique.

“Hm,” He rumbled, pressing kisses along the side of your face, over the curve of your jaw. “Is that pleasurable, Princess?” Gods, his voice — it was deliciously husky, his timbre akin to the gentle shaking of thunder before an encroaching tempest.

His usage of your title made your stomach contort, that coil of heat now pulled as tight as a bowstring. With a soft moan, your hips lurched forward, seeking the friction of his practiced digits. With a twinge of vigor, he began to let his fingers stroke along your cunt.

“Yes — Gods, yes,” A wanton sigh fluttered into the air, a breathy incantation that filled your mind with some lovestruck haze. “Do not stop.” His lips continued to press a trail of kisses along your throat and what flesh of your collar was exposed.

Reverence seeped into each ministration, each touch echoing with devotion. Harwin’s gaze glittered with a thinly-veiled adoration, covetousness stirring within his heart. As his fingers found a rather pleasing rhythm, he shuddered at the sound of your numerous moans.

With gentle coaxing, you clamored for his mouth once more, lips melding together in a furious passion. Moans escaped you, dancing between heated kisses and wanton sighs, your countenance contorting into an expression of bliss.

Hips surged forward with incessant want, rocking into his hand to gain any scrap of friction. He provided it to you freely, his willingness to please a trait that you were wholly unaccustomed to. His name emerged as an affectionate sigh from your mouth.

“I wish — I wish to touch you,” The hushed cadence of your plea had made Harwin shudder, bones screaming for you in every way imaginable. He had little desire to seek his own pleasure in this matter, preferring his concentration to rest on you. “Please, Harwin.”

Lips ghosted above one another, connecting once more in a fusion of heat, a passion so blistering that it consumed him just as it did you. Harwin grunted into your mouth, clashing again and again, your mouth parting to make way for a thinly-veiled moan.

A sliver of hesitance passed through him, teeth briefly grazing your lower lip, the gesture sudden enough to make you whine. His kiss had evoked such yearning from within, sentiments long suppressed in the wake of your faith, freed from the shackles of sin.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle the pearl of your cunt. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, visage displaying complete and utter bliss as a shockwave of pleasure stabbed at your nethers.

Harwin’s husked voice echoed your name, hot breath fanning beside your ear as he kissed the flesh beneath it. “Where do you need me, Princess?” He murmured, low and lascivious, cadence alone enough to make your thighs shift together to alleviate some tension.

“There,” Accompanied by another flick of his thumb over your pearl, your head jostled in a hasty nod, teeth briefly sinking into your bottom lip. “Gods, Harwin, please!” Desperate pleas escaped into the tenuous heat between you, foreheads nestled together as he toyed with your clit.

The sound of his name upon your tongue was a maddening noise, each syllable drawn-out with ardor. Harwin felt his cock throb incessantly within his trousers, straining with desperation against the leather, begging to be inside of you.

As your countenance unfurled with a carnal delight, he nearly thought of tasting you — throwing himself onto his knees and pleasuring you upon his tongue. As much as he craved it, he did not want to overwhelm you with it all this evening, intending to propose a future opportunity.

A grunt stirred from his chest, noses grazing over one another, kisses of heat peppering flesh as he held you flush against him. Lips clawed for one another, an entanglement charged with a vein of desperation. Hands clasped against his nape, silken fingers carding through thick curls.

It was then that his digits gingerly prodded against your entrance, feeling your breath halt, hips stuttering in surprise. Through a prurient gaze, enraptured, Harwin carefully surveyed your visage for any inkling of discomfort, pressing a kiss against your jaw.

“Ha—Harwin.” With a startled croak, a churning of anxiety swarmed your belly, and yet he soothed you, mouth smoothing over your temples. Wordlessly, he did not continue further until you did, rutting your hips against his hand as if to cement your answer.

“I have you, Princess.” Through a tender baritone, you allowed yourself to relax, trusting in his proficiency. At a snail’s pace, two digits sank forward, invading your cunt with a disarming gentleness, allowing you to grow accustomed to the foreign sensation.

Gripping him with an ironclad hold, you gasped, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his neck, teeth piercing your bottom lip. It was unusual, but certainly not unwelcome — instead, he began a rather lackadaisical rhythm, accompanied by the roll of his thumb over your pearl.

If it weren’t for his arm keeping you aloft, you might’ve collapsed beneath his touch, melting away into wisps of ash. Each sigh was rapturous, wanton moans inhabiting the space between bodies, a feverish warmth crawling over your spine.

This all felt like some distant dream, a mere fantasy that had dug its talons into his mind, now made into blissful reality; he could scarcely believe it. Harwin did not want to forget this moment, lamenting over your flesh, silk and satin beneath his calloused palms.

Halcyon hues surveyed your countenance, enthralled by the delight that had washed over your features, contorted into an expression of ecstasy. Arousal gnawed at his bones, visceral and raw as he urged his digits into your cunt, easing them backward in rhythmic strokes.

His name spilled from your lips with such glee, doing little to veil your pleasure, wanting to sob from it all. You had not yet experienced a release in all of its blistering ferocity, somewhat unfamiliar with your own body; Harwin desired to study it as he would a map, committing all of you to memory.

Mouths seamlessly mold together, as if intended to fit, destined; his frame serves as a warm pillar, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, his alone. Each kiss is instilled with a fierce vigor, a brand scorched upon your swollen lips, and yet, you starve even still.

Through tortuous strokes of his fingers, heat unfurls from within your belly, a sudden and volatile thing, enough for you to nearly pierce his lip with your teeth. Harwin huffs; a low, triumphant sound, tinged with a silent elation as he brings about your undoing, thumb circling your pearl.

A shudder passes through you, tangling like ivy as it creeps up your spine before bliss pools forth, a slick nectar coalescing between your legs. Stifled moans are consumed by his mouth, kisses crawling to lingering bouts of passion, careworn palm soothingly tracing over your thigh.

Again, his name flutters from your maw, an enchanting sound that bewitches Harwin like that of a siren’s lull, coaxing him into deep waters. For you, he would’ve drowned a thousand times over — filled his lungs with saltwater to merely glimpse upon your visage.

Clawing for him as if you were being torn asunder, your muscles twitch and spasm in the aftermath, ecstasy oozing from every pore. Shallow breaths burn with wanton desire, hoarse yet exhilarated, gazes interlocking as he inspects you carefully.

“Are you well?” Innocuous, Harwin finds the sheen of perspiration that clings to your flesh to be tantalizing, irises akin to that of a doe’s. Warm and composing yourself, limbs begin to fall slack, head bobbing in a sluggish nod.

“I am,” Your answer is marked by a girlish giddiness, basking within a blissful afterglow as you trace your fingertips across his rugged jaw. The Knight smiles; summertime awakens within your bones, and you feel his grin as you would a kiss. “I am perfectly happy.”

Breakbones, they whisper; and yet, your beloved shield is as gentle as the first breath of spring, as tender as a consoling hand. An ebullient giggle tumbles from your lips, as if incredulity is beginning to truly sink in — Harwin cradles your heart within his palm.

It is the first inkling of joy you’ve felt in some time, misery’s dour haze beginning to dissipate, pierced by this spear of ardor that he wields so passionately. Mouths gingerly press against one another, feeling a low rumble stir within his diaphragm, a noise of elation.

“I’ve dreamt of this, against my better judgment,” Harwin’s softened baritone ushers against your lips in a warm wisp, beard causing ripe friction against satiny flesh. “My heart calls your name.”

A dazzling awe paints your features, blossoming with a girlish glee as you continue to brush your fingertips over his visage, dipping toward his throat. Dying embers blanket Harwin in their resplendence, his breath catching within his throat as your digits card through his curls.

“Where is your judgment presently, Harwin?” The inquiry is genuine, steeped in a dreamlike lament as you cradle his visage within one palm. It is a hunger revealing itself within you, one you thought incapable of feeling; you wonder if he feels it too, in all of its rawness.

Regret does not tarry within his heart as it should’ve — instead, he feels joy, bones resolute with protectiveness, the desire to tether himself to your ribs. “That I belong to you, Princess,” No other would dare tempt his heart in the way that you had. “I would refuse to know another.”

Your throat, thick with a swell of vivification, words melting upon your tongue; you feel the very same. “As I am yours.” It is a hushed sigh, pluming over his shoulder as you plant a kiss over corded muscle.

Burly arms cage you against his chest, the plane of a warm musculature that blankets you with a sense of comfort, gently depositing you onto your mattress fully. Reluctant to slip from his hold, you do not expect to abandon it for long.

With your weight redistributed atop cushions of sheet-swathed feathers and silken duvets, your fingers thread through the laces that hold your shift together. Harwin stands with bated breath, gaze incendiary as his silhouette swallows you whole, eyes ardently drinking you in.

In hasty tugs of his digits, the Knight unburdens himself of his tassets, freeing himself from the tedious confines of armor. He prefers it, but not now, not while you lay atop emerald satin, bare flesh akin to a diamond amongst the rubble.

Sheepishness becomes you, feathering over your features as you shyly sink into the pillows, gaze roving over Harwin as he continues to disrobe. To your carnal delight, his body is the very same, muscle upon muscle, sunkissed and labored, effortlessly handsome.

Stepping forth, the Knight joins you within your bed, an act that, if unraveled, would cost him his head — he cares very little for it. Even when stripped from his garb, he is impressively statuesque, dwarfing you in stature as he makes residence between your legs, the strain slight.

His cock intimidates you instantaneously, a tide of anxiety surging within your belly as it strains against your thigh. Swallowing fear, palms grace taut forearms, dancing upward until you trace his biceps, searching his gaze for any inkling of uncertainty; and there is none, save for devotion.

Careworn fingers languidly drag over your leg, from the crook of your knee to your thigh, thumb rubbing circles against your flesh. It is soothing, intended to alleviate the constant ache of nerves that bloom within your stomach, but it does little to ease your racing thoughts.

“I wouldn’t dare hurt you,” Lips seal themselves to your temples, an oath whispered from the Knight’s own mouth, warm breath billowing over your countenance. Leather and steel cling to him, an amalgamation of scents that burn themselves into your senses. “I promise.”

Pain is to be expected from salacious acts, you know this; and yet it doesn’t sting any less. His indomitable physique settles betwixt your thighs, keeping you spread apart without an ounce of force, knees brushing across his hips.

Embers quiet, glow dimming throughout your chambers, guided only by moonlight which pools through drawn curtains. Holding himself aloft, his hands root themselves by either side of your head, shoulders furled with a tension that screams for some sliver of relief.

Harwin’s head descends, mouth planting several kisses along your throat, gliding over satiny flesh beneath, as saccharine as a honeyed stout. He is deliberate, passion oozing forth as he attempts to quell the nervousness that still dances within your eyes, kneading into your haunch.

“I trust you, Harwin,” Words flutter forth with such tenderness, a solemn vow from you, knowing that he would not impose upon your comfort. A low hum emerges, body rumbling beneath your palms as you hold him close, moaning as he kisses the pulse point of your jaw. “Completely.”

Afforded an honor that few possessed, he took your words to heart, cherishing them with such sacredness, lips stilling along your cheek. Foreheads ghosted against the other, tepid sighs inhabiting the thin space between bodies, soul bared to soul; your fingertips traced his jaw.

Adjusting his body against yours, limbs tangled and muscles taut with excitement. A gasp ripped through your diaphragm, his cock gingerly pressing flush to slick petals, teeth daring to pierce the inside of your cheek.

Eyes seek another, his own pupils eclipsed by desire, a loyalty shown through lips. He envelopes you entirely, so large, so perfect; you tremble beneath him, an involuntary tick marked by your own mounting arousal.

Wordlessly, your Knight begins to shift, ensuring that you are equally as comfortable, length incessantly nudging against your nethers, eliciting a wanton whine from your mouth. Hearts beat in-tandem, a furious pace that looses a grunt from him, gazing down upon you.

“Gently then, Princess.” Harwin rumbles, his own restraint rather threadbare, but he maintains propriety for your sake, intending to take your maidenhead with gentleness. He does just that, hips sluggishly urging forward, cock beginning to sheathe inside of you, inch by inch.

Gooseflesh ices your spine, coupled with a feverish heat that turns your bones to ash, nails digging crescents into his biceps. The stretch is bewildering, and you wonder how this all intends to fit, and yet it does.

Flickers of pain furrow over brow, visage contorting with intermingled bliss and discomfort.

Hips still, allowing you ample time to acclimate yourself to him, and yet you seem eager to continue, back arching into his embrace. His name unfurls from your tongue, a kiss of warmth murmured against his countenance as he caresses along your thigh.

His concern for you is thinly-veiled, worn upon his features through a creased brow, and yet you coax him to continue. “Do not stop, Harwin.” Breathy pleas tumble from your parted lips and he is lost, succumbing to a shred of baser instincts, continuing to urge forward once more.

A choked whimper erupts from your throat, clinging to him as if you were swept away in some tidal surge, visage pressed near his shoulder. A low, thunderous grunt shakes his frame, reveling in the sensation of your cunt tightening around him, taking him so very well.

As your maidenhead breaks upon his cock, he is exceedingly tender, handling you with such fidelity, ensuring that he does not cause you agony. Bliss blossoms over your countenance, flesh screaming with an arduous heat, belly nothing more than molten liquid.

Ceaseless, Harwin heeds your command, cock continuing to sink into you, a blade within its scabbard, sheathing himself until there is nowhere left for him to go. A delighted moan plumes from your mouth, babbling his praises, hitching one leg around his hips.

Furthering the friction, this newfound angle evokes a yearning from him, cock twitching within you. With a brief huff, Harwin knows he treads on unsteady ground, wanting to move with such force, yet he continues to walk the line of restraint.

“Gods, look at you,” Harwin’s voice clouds your mind, like warm tendrils entangling themselves into every thought. The rougher cadence of his tone sends shockwaves through your belly, heat pooling between your thighs. “You are doing well, Princess.”

Such heady praise looses a moan from your lips, bristling with warmth beneath his incendiary words, a fire igniting within you. A shiver courses through your spine, a tremor that snakes over your body, prompting you to clutch him closer.

Bodies urge against one another, friction a delicious feeling, one that yielded to the fervor of the moment. The pebbled peaks of your breasts brush over his muscled chest, hand tangled at his nape, the other digging into his shoulder as his thrusts begin to truly take shape.

Maintaining this element of gallantry, he is gentle still, actions that of lovemaking over entertaining any rougher pursuits. Pleasure unfurls from within you, consuming every fiber of your being, simmering within your blood.

Mouths clamor for one another, lips colliding in a fervent kiss, passion unbridled as he rolls his hips forward, creating a steady rhythm that does not seek to overwhelm you. Harwin savors every shred of heat, every whimper and moan that besmirches your lips, each look of ardor.

Love is unmistakable, the sentiment as crystalline as a midsummer’s sky, hanging heavy within your doe-like stare, hearts grasping; intertwined.

Each thrust is born of urgency as you begin to feel yourself stretched further, his cock gently burying itself into the warmth of your cunt. His muscle becomes your anchor, a hardened plane to sink your fingers into, hold vicelike.

Whimpers emerge, choked from your throat as tongues and teeth dance, cock gently battering away at your nethers, belly pulled taut like a bowstring. Perspiration glitters upon his brow, even if this exertion is fleeting, nonexistent for him.

“Harwin,” Laced with the rasp of desire, his name falls ardently from your lips, body succumbing to ecstasy, arched against him. “Pl—Please, do not stop!” It is nothing more than a mewl, wantonly echoing within his ear as his ministrations become a touch invigorated.

Surrounded by him on all sides, all-encapsulating, your legs begin to squeeze and tighten around his hips, rough hand kneading into your thigh. He fists at the sheets beside your crown, held aloft by an arm furled with rippling muscle.

Beneath you, the bedframe groaned in protest, ancient wood becoming malleable, rattled by the weight of joined bodies. Harwin’s rumbling grunts resonated beside your ear, groans akin to the deep lull of thunder, beard ghosting across silken flesh as you clung to him.

Arousal mounted within him like an encroaching tide, preparing to shatter upon the rock, cock throbbing within you. Ripples of bliss flooded your insides in a rabid heat, the tip of his length kissing your womb, frame shuddering within your grasp.

Pearlescent teeth scraped over the flesh beneath your ear, hot huffs of wanton breaths pluming over your features, prompting you to crane forward. Flush, flesh upon flesh, your body took him well, intended for another, nails crawling past his shoulder.

Even still, his pace did not waver, melding into something vigorous, maintaining every shred of adoration he had for you, poured into each thrust. Friction continued to smolder, a fire growing to immeasurable heights, causing you to let out a strangled moan.

He met every brush of your hips with a bruising thrust, urging forward, allowing you to feel it all, everything; Harwin’s mouth fell into the hollow between throat and collar, kisses warped with lascivious intent. “My Lady.” A low, baritone purr lavished your skin.

With restraint dissolving to naught but ash, the Knight grunted once more, hips rolling forward as he sought to spill his seed, weight bearing down upon you. Greedily, you welcomed it with unrestrained need, encouraging him with babbled pleas of desire.

Harwin’s fantasy had floated through then and there, envisioning his seed taking root within you, giving you every ounce of him. Perhaps then, you would be wed, hands bound, hearts rooted together like ancient trees within a forest.

“Stay,” A whimper tore past your throat, beseeching him to remain sheathed within you, and that was enough for Harwin Strong to crumble. Caging him in against you with vicelike legs, the Knight’s groan sent shivers through you. “Gods, Harwin.”

Gazes interlocked fleetingly, and he succumbed to you, cock battering away within your cunt a moment longer, spilling himself within you. With a spasmodic shudder, his hips urged forward with a sense of finality, warm spent painted your insides, evoking a soft gasp from your lips.

A stickiness clung to your nethers, a foreign sensation that had made you flush, a peculiar heat permeating your features. Harwin’s chest reverberated with a soft huff, stilling within you as he soothingly stroked your thigh.

Muscles burned with the sting of exertion, ragged breathing climbing down from such a pinnacle, heartbeat beginning to steady. A gentle hush filled your chambers, limbs intertwined, his weight no longer blanketing you as it had before.

The pad of his thumb traced your temples, where disheveled tresses kissed warm flesh, caressing over your cheekbone. He dipped forward, planting a disarmingly tender kiss to your mouth, beard prickling your lips as your palm kneaded into his shoulder.

It was then that he pulled himself from you, calmly retreating from your bed to clamor about your chambers, retrieving a cloth from your vanity. Dying embers painted him in such beauty, appearing as some mesomorphic god, tousled curls framing his handsome visage.

Adjusting yourself, you knew that he could not stay — not in the way you wanted him to. Despite this ungodly hour, prying eyes would be waiting in the shadows, knowing that the Knight could not leave your chambers unguarded until dawn.

Returning to you, Harwin did not hesitate to draw you close, desiring to hold you, even if it would not be for very long. “You are so beautiful,” He murmured, brows knitting together as he regarded you with such amity, caressing along your ribcage. “I wish that I could stay.”

“I understand,” A singular digit danced across his collar, neatly smoothing toward his chest. “I … I hope that this is not the end for us, Harwin.” Worry festered within your belly, a growing ache that he would let things die hereafter.

A glint of amusement settled within halcyon hues, his large hand cupping your chin, cradling your countenance within a calloused palm. “Did you think I would act on such desires if I only wanted one night with you, Princess?” His thumb traced your lower lip.

No longer did you feel shackled to sin, but you knew what path you now tread would be fraught with danger, a slope of secrecy. “I do not want you to be my secret,” If it were of your own choosing, you would’ve chosen Harwin. “I want you here, always.” Careening into his embrace, you planted a kiss to his thumb.

Harwin found your sentiment to be heartwarming, and he knew your intentions were entirely pious. As much as he desired to be with you freely, he had already trudged upon innumerable boundaries, propriety withered away to nothing.

“I will never be very far,” Solemn, the Knight nearly shivered as silken digits encircled his wrist, gliding along his forearm. Bodies became flush, distance dissolved, allowing a saccharine heat to blossom forth. “I meant what I said — I belong to you.” For an eternity, if that was what you wanted.

“My heart is yours.” It always would be — from this day, until your last day. “Stay a moment longer.” Through a whispered plea, you beseeched Harwin to linger beside you, desiring his warmth, his heart. With a kiss, you felt him smile against your mouth, drawing you to his chest as he reclined into your pillows.

“As you wish, Princess.”

[aurorawritestoescape]

CHERRY LIPS

Clint Flood x f!reader || 4,5 k

Summary: Clint and you have a simple relationship - you fuck each other and go on with your lives. Can it stay that way? What if one night changes everything?

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, age gap (the size is up to you bb), stripper!reader, Cherry is her stage name (mentioned once), Clint is in love, protective!Clint, canon typical violence (not towards reader), bratty reader, lots of banter, praise kink, FEELINGS, mention of m!oral, unprotected piv, creampie, dirty talk, pet names, swearing, alcohol consumption (Clint has a beer). Reader has hair.

A/n: this started as a pwp but as usual turned into something else. I hope you’ll enjoy it❤️ Sweet kisses to @milla-frenchy for coming up with the title (inspired by the song Cherry Lips - Garbage) and for beta-ing! ILYSM!😘 Dividers by @huraxy

MASTERLIST || more Clint

You walk out of the club late at night after your shift and take a deep breath, filling your lungs with crisp air. It’s a little cold outside and a shiver runs down your spine, your skin erupts with goosebumps, but after heavy cigarette smoke of the club you relish the freshness of the night. Besides, you don’t have time to get really cold - a hot flash burns your insides when you see him waiting for you.

Clint is leaning against his blue Chevy, huge arms crossed in front of his chest, broad shoulders straining a black leather jacket. His glare tells everyone to ’fuck off’ and only to you it whispers ‘C’mere’. You bite your lip at the sight, your desire pulling you to him like a magnet.

“Hey, Cherry! How much for a bj?”

You roll your eyes, hearing some asshole shout behind you. Of fucking course. The motherfucker had the pleasure of seeing your tits, so now he feels entitled to trying the other goods out.

“I’m not a hooker, asshat. I’m a dancer,” you throw at him, not turning back, heading to the man you would give a hundred bj’s for free.

Clint’s scowl turns extra threatening when he hears the guy talk to you.

“Hey, Cowboy,” you purr, reaching the car, and Clint opens the door for you to get in, but his eyes are set on the man following you from the club.

“Are you her pimp?” the fucker asks, coming up to the car and getting into Clint’s face.

“Big mistake,” you mumble under your breath, already in the passenger seat. Through the window you watch him show Clint his index and middle fingers and yap,

“Your bitch owes me two lap dances.”

“Don’t call her that,” you hear Clint’s growl, quickly followed by a crunch of bones.

You look away in disgust and then see Clint walking around the car to the driver’s seat. The asshole is squealing on the ground, cradling his broken fingers, and you pop your head out of the window to smirk into his crying face, before Clint drives you off.

“How’s work, baby?” Clint asks as if nothing has happened, giving you a quick up and down look. After watching him stand up for you, there’s a risk of you sliding off the leather seat, but no way you’d show him how much his protection turns you on — you’re a strong independent woman after all.

“Uneventful,” you reply, grabbing a cassette tape from the glove compartment and sliding it into the player. “Well. Until you broke my client’s fingers.”

A song you love starts playing and you bob your head to the beat, humming under your nose. Clint seems to be focused on the road ahead but then he asks,

“Should I apologise?”

“No, he deserved it,” you reply with a shrug. “And I loveeeee when you’re protective of me.”

“Don’t say this word.”

“What? ‘Love’?” You furrow your brows, hearing his growl. “C’mon Cowboy, you said it, I didn’t, what’s the big deal?”

Clint doesn’t reply and keeps silently driving you through the empty streets, but electricity in the air is palpable.

Familiar feeling crawls into your chest - a mixture of guilt and anger, and as soon as it pangs your heart, you get defensive.

“Quit working for the mob and maybe I’ll change my mind. Your life's too messy for me.”

“Messy,” he repeats slowly, his thumb drumming against the steering wheel. ”Yours isn’t? That dick coulda attacked you.”

“I doubt it. But if he had, I would’ve used a pepper spray. And the mess you’re in—,” you pause, pointing a finger at the man, ”no amount of pepper spray would help with that.”

Clint chuckles bitterly, glancing your way.

”You’re too wise for your age, you know that?”

You smirk and turn to him in your seat.

“Oh, I bet you’d want me to be a lil bimbo, huh?” You make your voice higher and squeeze your breasts together between your arms, pushing them out, as you blabber, “Big clever man, please, teach me life, while I’m sucking your fat cock!”

Clint chuckles, shaking his head, but his paw darts down to adjust a prominent bulge in his jeans.

“You’re funny.”

“So what am I? Wise or funny?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Ok. Whatever you say, handsome,” you shrug and throw your shoes off. You put your feet on Clint’s lap and he rests his free hand on your ankle. His warm touch makes you purr like a cat and you melt against the seat.

You two are driving in silence, only music filling the car, both in your own thoughts, until you see his house.

Clint’s place is simply decorated, clean and always dimly lit. You love it- after strobing lights of the club your eyes and mind can finally rest, your soul feels at peace. There you’re always on high alert, your guard is constantly up - half naked, glitter on your skin and in your hair, you can’t help but feel like a prey that’s inviting a predator, grinding on some guy who would have happily taken you by force if not for the security.

At Clint’s house you unwind, relax, take a deep breath of his scent and feel yourself protected, cared for, loved.

‘Loved’.

Clint never says it now, the word alone makes his chest rumble with thunder. He did once and your reaction surprised you both. You laughed. Then you got furious.

You’d been seeing each other for a few weeks and his confession was unexpected but also cruel. Those three little words made your relationship complicated and dangerous for you. Like a rope tied around your wrists, bonding you to him. How long till that rope would be around your neck?

Clint always thought that he was invincible, a warrior no one could fuck with. But what about you? You’d seen too much shit happen to girls because of their men and you didn’t want to be one of them. So you fucked him and went on with your life. He fucked you and went on with his.

“Gonna take a shower. Wanna join me?” you purr, pressing your palms to Clint’s strong chest, when you two step into his place.

”I’m good. I’ll wait for you.”

He leans in and kisses your pouty lips. Soon they part and he hums at the taste of cherry, your favorite lip gloss flavor.

You come back soon wearing his band tee, big enough to cover your ass, and a black thong. Clint’s waiting for you on the couch, nursing a beer in his hand, deep in thoughts as usual. His leather jacket discarded, you bite your lip seeing him in a flannel shirt over a grey Hanley. The broadness of his torso, the spread of his thighs make you gush into your fresh panties.

“How was your day, honey?” you trill with a smile, padding to the cassette player on the drawer. Clint sighs and takes a sip of his beer.

“Fine.”

“Sounds like it,” you mumble and slide the cassette you made for him into the deck. You rewind it to the song you sometimes dance to at the club and smile, enjoying the sexy tune. As if by itself your body starts moving and you turn to Clint, seductively swaying your hips, your hands slowly pulling the hem of your tee up, exposing more of your body.

You saunter to the couch and stop between Clint’s legs.

“You don’t have to dance for me,” he utters, but his eyes take in everything you’re giving him.

“I know I don’t have to-,” you smirk, turning around. “I want to.”

With your back to the couch you bend over, showing off your ass, your palms gliding over your naked legs, your skin erupting in goosebumps. You bring your hand to your covered pussy and trace your seam over the wet fabric. A moan falls out of your mouth, loud enough for Clint to hear even through the music. The man growls, his obsidian eyes set on the place that’s throbbing desperately for him.

You straighten up and turn around, facing him again. Clint licks his lips, his Adam apple bobs, and you feel giddy inside seeing how turned on he is because of you. Making people horny is literally your job, but only with Clint you feel a thrill as if you’re dancing for someone for the first time.

To push him further you lift your bare foot, put it on his denim-clad thigh and slowly drag it up, up to his big bulge. When your foot slightly pushes his clothed cock, you take a sharp breath - he’s rock hard under his jeans.

Suddenly Clint grabs your ankle and pulls you to him, making you fall on his lap with a gasp.

“Bad Cowboy,” you scold him, giggling and straddling his thick thighs. Your nails dig into his shoulders as a punishment but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Quit your teasing.”

He sits up, holding you close with one arm wrapped around you, and places the unfinished beer on the side table. His strong body against yours, the way he holds you like a doll, sends a bolt of lightning to your core, and you bite your lip, suppressing a needy whimper.

Clint leans back on the couch and slides his hands under your tee. They’re so big and warm on your hips, that you purr at the feeling.

Then you bring your index finger to his face and trace a line that goes from the bridge of his nose down to his cheekbone.

“When are you gonna tell me how you got this scar?”

Clint scratches the place that you’ve tickled and gruffs,

“When you behave.”

“Never then. ‘k.” Your laughter lightens up the room and Clint shakes his head with a soft smile.

After a few moments of silence you ask,

“Why do you never come see me dance at the club?”

“I don’t go to strip clubs.”

Your brows shoot up as you remind him,

“Didn’t we meet there, Cowboy?”

Clint shifts his jaw and replies,

”Yeah, but I was working. You know it.”

“Oh, yes!” You tilt your head to the side and reminisce, ”You were so cute. Trying not to stare at my tits when I was dancing for your boss.”

You remember that day like it was yesterday. The pull you felt when you saw Clint for the first time - tall and broad, dangerous-looking. A pair of grabby hands were creeping over your body, no one would dare to stop a mob boss from groping a stripper, but you didn’t care. All your attention was focused on his enforcer, standing in the shadows. You weren’t dancing for the asshole in the chair, you were dancing for Clint.

After the lap dance, you managed to sneak a paper with your phone number into his palm and he called you the next day.

A smile tugs at Clint’s lips as he mumbles, looking almost shy,

“‘Cute’. No one ever calls me ‘cute’.”

“That’s because you’re cute only for me.” You slowly lean down and give him a teasing peck on the lips. When your eyes slide down his chest, you see that his bulge has gotten even bigger. God, you want it inside!

You grab the hem of your tee and take it off, freeing your naked breasts, your nipples diamond-hard.

“Oh yeah, baby,” Clint groans and bucks his hips up at the sight.

Your dance continues as you’re moving back and forth on his lap, bringing your tits closer to his face and then pulling away. Your clothed pussy grazes his bulge, whimpers fall from your mouth at the sensation of the rough material against your heat.

Clint’s eyes are dark as he’s watching you, they trail over your naked breasts, your heaving belly, a small triangle of your thong, stuck to your wet folds. You tease yourself with your fingers and press your lips to his thick neck. Your tongue darts out, his skin salty and hot. Suddenly Clint growls and pushes you to sit up.

“What?” you whine, already missing the feel and the taste of him on your tongue.

He is rubbing your arms up and down and says,

“Lemme look at you first.”

“Perv.” You roll your eyes, and Clint huffs a laugh but his gaze is full of longing, his hot palms trail over your skin with a softness only he gives you.

“Don’t look at me like this,” you whisper, feeling a lump in your throat.

“Like what?”

You leave his question hanging in the air, too hard to answer, to say the words out loud.

A corner of Clint’s mouth rises up but his eyes lack humour. His hand slides from your hip to your back and he pulls you closer. He presses an open mouth kiss to your collarbone, making your heart beat so hard and fast, he surely can feel it on his lips, as they trail down to your naked breasts. He kisses a spot just above your nipple and your eyes flutter shut, your body lighting up at the feeling of his soft touch and scruffy facial hair, his big hand keeping you in place.

Clint tilts his head up, his eyes are dark with lust, but there’s something else there, something warm and real. You push him back slightly, clinging to your power, refusing to accept his vulnerability, but your walls crumble when he murmurs three simple words,

“You’re beautiful.” All of a sudden, you stop breathing as he continues, “Do they tell you that?”

“Who?” You croak and clear your throat.

“Assholes you dance for.”

He leans back against the couch while his eyes are staring into your soul.

“Sometimes.” You’re not lying. Some men shower you with praise when you dance, but their words are tasteless, only Clint’s compliments make your heart flutter.

He hums, narrowing his eyes at you.

Your voice is shaky when you tell him, “I’d love to give you a dance at the club. Wanna show you what I can do.”

“You’re showing it now, baby. Doing a damn good job,” Clint smirks, watching you straddle him. He brings his hands to your tits to cup them and grazes your perked up nipples with his thumbs.

“Could I touch you like this in the club?” he asks, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“No, I’d ask you to sit on your hands, bad boy.” You give him a smile but you don’t feel like laughing - the lust sends hot flashes through your core again and again, your pussy aches to be filled.

“Do you want me to sit on my hands?” Clint’s husky voice makes you shudder and goosebumps cover your skin as you shake your head.

Clint hums in approval, his hands now grabbing two handfuls of your ass and squeezing them. A sudden slap follows right away, not hard but strong enough for your asscheek to jiggle.

“Could I do this?”

He’s challenging you, waiting for you to beg him to fuck you.

“No,” you reply, your voice small, barely audible through the music.

He tuts as his hand snakes to your mound and he cups your heat over your panties.

“What about her? Could I touch this little pussy? So wet,” he adds, massaging it with his paw.

The reply gets stuck in your throat, you’re drunk on him, with the way he’s masterfully playing with your body, with his scent enveloping you, his obsidian eyes focused on you. Clint lightly slaps your mound to get your answer.

“Could I?”

“No,” you mumble, “you’d be asked off the premises immediately.”

He smirks, his thumb slides under your thong, and when he swirls your clit, your needy moan rings loudly in the room.

“Why the hell would I go to the club, then? If I couldn’t make my girl happy.”

“I’m not your girl.” Your whimper has just a trace of defiance.

“Keep telling yourself this,” Clint gruffs, taking in every sign of your pleasure. His thumb begins rubbing your puffy clit under your panties, but his touch is feather-light, torturous, up and down, up and down. “Lie all you want but she can’t. Always wet and warm for me, always ready to take me.”

“Huh, bet you want it to be just you and her right now.“

It’s difficult to tease him when he’s working your pussy like this but you can’t help yourself. Clint’s eyes are set on your cunt as he smirks,

“No, I like you.“

“Oh. Only like me?”

“Not only. But…” His hand leaves your heat and he brings it up to glide his thumb over your lower lip. “Sometimes you make me wanna shove something big in this pretty mouth of yours, just to shut you up.”

Clint’s words set your core on fire, the ache getting unbearable. You dart your tongue out and lick the pad of his finger, tasting your own juices on it.

“What’s stopping you, Cowboy?”

“I guess I’m a gentleman, baby.”

“Huh. So that’s why I’ve been grinding against you forever and you still haven’t fucked me? Cos you’re a gentleman?”

A thunder rumbles in Clint’s chest and he tilts his hips up, his bulge poking your centre.

“No, it's just— you always leave as soon as we’re done and…“

“And you wanna keep enjoying my amazing company?“ You finish his sentence with a giggle but he’s not laughing. It seems that you’ve hit the bullseye and the realization makes you melt.

Who has ever wanted you like that? Fully, unconditionally, sincerely?

You feel tears well up in your eyes and, hiding them, quickly push your face into the crease of his neck.

“Fuck me, Clint, please, just… just fuck me.”

Your hips start to grind against his cock bulge, your pride be damned, you need him with every cell of your body.

A fresh surge of wetness floods your core when you hear his belt buckle clank. You lift your hips so Clint could unzip his jeans, tug them down together with his boxers and pull his cock out.

You’d never tell him but he’s got the most beautiful dick you’ve ever had or seen. Long and thick, two veins bulging on the sides, a wet red tip curved upwards for your pleasure - it looks like it was made for you.

You hover over his length, your hands planted on his broad shoulders, and he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your needy pussy.

“Fuck, these are soaked. She’s less stubborn than you, beautiful. Needs me bad,” Clint smirks, brushing your dripping folds with his bruised knuckles. It’s impossible to deny that you are desperate for him, you both see it.

“Yeah, she wants it real bad, Cowboy.”

“She’s gonna get it, beautiful. I’ll give it to you both nice and hard.”

His big hand darts to grab your waist and he pulls you down. When his hot tip notches your tight hole, you brace yourself- taking him is always a challenge. You begin slowly sinking on his length and Clint grunts through his teeth when your pussy starts swallowing his cock inch by inch. When you take all of him, your ass flush with his heavy balls, a moan falls from his parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m so full,” you mewl, sitting pretty on his cock. Clint leans against the couch and thrusts his hips up, making his dick plunge even deeper into you. You cry out, the dull ache making the pleasure extra delicious. Clint’s hot wet breath fans your tits as he shudders and twitches inside you, his thick fingers digging into your soft hips.

“Haven't had any since our last date, Cowboy?” you gloat, giddy with the idea that you’re the only girl he’s fucking.

Clint retorts through heavy breaths,

“You sucked my dick at the backseat, baby. You calling it a date?”

“Fuck you,” you bite back and, feeling spiteful, rock your hips, massaging his cock with your walls, making him lose his mind.

“Easy, tiger,” he growls but how can you stop now? “Little minx…” Clint gruffs, when you start enthusiastically riding him. He pulls you flush against his chest, wraps his huge arms around your torso, rendering you completely helpless, and keeps you still.

“Ya heard me? I’ve had a hard day. Let me get used to her first.”

“Or what? You gonna bust too soon? Guess it’s normal at your age, Cowboy.”

You playfully kiss his neck but your teasing finally pushes the man to the limit. Clint plants his feet wider on the floor, the grip around your torso tightens, and he starts thrusting his cock up into your cunt with fast and rough strokes. His breathing is hot and shaky against your temple, you’re moaning and whimpering while your pussy is being ruined. You feel the stretch like never before, his thickness splitting you in two, and your eyes roll back into your head, thanks to the divine angle of his pounding. His stiff cock is rubbing the pleasure button inside your wet heat, and you rise so high and so fast, that your head starts spinning.

“Take it—take it—take it,” Clint grunts, his voice husky and strained. “ ‘s all you want, uh?— to be fucked hard?—like I don’t give a shit about you— like I don’t love you…”

You freeze in his arms, his hips still moving, his cock still jackhammering your pussy. For a few moments he keeps fucking you until you wiggle out of his iron embrace and sit up.

You’re both panting, blown out eyes locked, and you lean in and kiss him, his scruffy cheeks in your hands, your mouths desperately swallowing each other’s air. Always knowing what you need before you do, Clint begins caressing your body, his fingers writing confessions all over your skin, your tongues licking into each other’s mouths. His lips leave yours for a moment so he could say,

“Ride me, baby. Take what you need, I got you.”

You know he does. He always does. But you need to feel all of him now. So you push the flannel off his shoulders and Clint hastily takes his Hanley off.

You hungrily take his naked torso in and start dancing on his cock, slowly, sensually, gliding your palms over his broad chest, muscular arms, ruffling up his pushed back curls.

Clint’s hands don’t rest either - they start kneading your breasts, palming your hardened nipples, twitching and pulling them. You drop your head and see how perfectly your pussy is stretched by Clint’s thickness. The sight mesmerizes you, your lips part and you moan watching her swallow Clint’s glistening shaft again and again, your pearly cream sits like a ring around his base.

“Hey, keep your pretty eyes on me.“

Clint pinches your chin and tilts your head up to face him. Here it is again. That look of his that tells you volumes without words, that terrifies you, excites you, makes your heart flutter.

You don’t fight it this time. Don’t tease him, don’t throw a joke to dilute the feeling, don’t shut his wordless confession up. You let his gaze take you to your peak, make your thighs shake and pussy quiver.

You come with his name on your lips, not ‘Cowboy’, not a cold ‘handsome’.

“Yes, baby, like that, doing good for me,” Clint encourages you and bounces you on his cock, prolonging your shuddering orgasm. Then he freezes with a moan and begins exploding inside you, painting your walls with his warm load. You cling to his chest and his arms envelop you again but he’s not restraining you now, he’s holding you close, while ecstasy is rippling through your bodies. Your lips meet and you’re making out lazily, getting down from your highs.

Feeling exhausted, still spasming on his cock from time to time, you put your head on his shoulder and close your eyes with a satisfied sigh. Clint’s gentle hands glide over your tingling skin and soon they put you to sleep.

You wake up when the morning sun is peeking through the drapes in his bedroom. Clint’s on his back next to you, his breathing deep and slow. For a few seconds you’re watching him, his dark lashes fluttering, his chest rising and falling. You take a deep breath, overwhelmed by the desire to kiss him, trace his scar with your lips, run your hands over the vast expanse of his body. You want it so much your chest hurts, but you fight it and get up. Not seeing your clothes, you grab Clint’s flannel off the chair and put it on.

“Hittin’ and quittin’ and stealing my favorite shirt,” Clint croaks behind you and you turn around with a smile. “Bad girl.” His lips are slightly curved too, sleepy eyes sliding up and down your half naked body.

“I need to go. I’ll give it back to you, don’t worry.”

Clint hums and then stretches. He spreads his big arms, huge muscles bulging, and a sheet slides off his leg, exposing his thick hairy thigh. A pronounced shape between his legs makes you salivate and you bite your lip.

“Stay,” Clint says softly. “We can go again.. Or just cuddle.“

Your eyebrows shoot up as you giggle,

“You wanna cuddle?”

“I wanna cuddle the shit out of you, baby.”

Your laugh rings loudly in the bedroom, but you’re hesitant. You’ve never stayed till the morning, never made breakfast for you two, never let him pull you too close. Yet something in you has changed tonight, the strong feeling sits warm and heavy in your belly. You crave all of that now.

The flannel shirt falls on the floor and you jump into the bed. Clint wraps you in his arms with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen on him and holds you close. And you let him.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic! Your feedback means the world💜

MASTERLIST || more Clint

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40 @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name

People who were interested in the wip posts (no pressure to read, bbs) @604to647 @toxicanonymity @sawymredfox @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @tateypots

[grimmsbride]

omf umm 🫣 your rex was so good. this is so specific but i feel like our preferences line up p well so im humbly requesting...

douchebag!rex and chubby!reader where rex is constantly teasing her, maybe pinching her side or teasing her for eating sweets or something. but behind the scenes he CANNOT get enough of her, furiously jerks off to the thought of her nightly, gets jealous when other ppl get too close to her.

she gets hit with sex pollen at some point and he gets assigned the job of taking care of her and making sure she doesn't try to fuck everyone she sees. but rex is the one having a hard time keeping it together bc fuck why is she so cute when shes a desperate mess

𝄃𝄀⠀⠀love potions⠀╲ rex sloan ֤ࣨ🫀𖥔 ݁ ˖

summary * 𓈒 you didn’t particularly like rex-splode, and the feeling seemed to be pretty neutral on his end. but a sudden mix of mystery smoke and being quarantined together, brings the two of you far closer then it should have.

tags * 𓈒 rex is extremely ooc. if you are here for a complete canon copy of him, you are at the wrong place— sorry to disappoint. | reader is a witch | typical sex pollen fic only this is my first time ever writing one 😞 | porn with plot(?) | incorrect biology (? maybe??) | sex with complicated feelings | mentions and examples of negging | rex is a dick & douchebag | reader is depicted as chubby / plus size & is a witch | overstimulation | over-exaggerated depictions of sex | raw sex | multiple positions | multiple orgasms | pet names ( pretty, mama, baby, etc etc ) | again hes ooc. | awkward time skips i’m sorryyy

author’s notes * 𓈒 this fic was supposed to be posted like two days ago but i made it way longer then i should have, and i genuinely don’t love how it came out but i still wanted to give my best in fulfilling your request— ty for requesting by the way 🫶🏾. the smut is towards the end if you don’t want to completely read the plot and as always please excuse any typos. i hope you enjoy this fic.

Had you broken your promise to Cecil? Your bold vow that you would never hex any of your teammates, no matter how much they pissed you off? Rex Sloan simply couldn’t wrap his head around it, brain nearly emitting smoke from how much his gears were turning.

It.. had to be a hex, right? Some spell in a fancy language he couldn’t identify, written right in those dingy pages of that grimoire you held so dear. He wondered how you did it, if you stood over him while he slept— whispering saccharine words and giggles, slipping in and out while he was none the wiser.

Only for Rex to wake with nothing but you, on his mind.

It was comical really, how much the outside body covers. One would think Rex hated your guts. And his mouth surely didn’t help. Releasing random remarks about your clothes clinging to your skin, how you should put down that donut once in a while, even going as far as pinching your sides — which always resulted in a quick slap, but still — if anyone on The Guardians were ever asked what relationship the two of you had it could always be described as borderline hostile.

However, appearances can be deceiving. It wasn’t that Rex hated you, or your body for that matter. Quite the opposite actually. The man couldn’t count on two hands how many times his eyes have trailed to your ass whenever you walked by or how he could nearly tremble whenever your form brushed up against him. You consumed him entirely; smell, face, everything about you was intoxicating to the point he simply could not get you out of his mind.

Working out? Rex was wondering if he would be able to lift you at his current rep. How his fingers would probably sink into your warm flesh as he tugged you closer by the hips, maybe you would even whine about being heavy— only for him to prove you wrong.

In the shower? All that steam surrounding him? Oh, the man could only imagine having you right beside him, suds sliding down your body like the stretch marks etched into your skin; the man would be steady wondering how hot and heavy the two of you could get— melting into the other until you’re basically forced to get out.

In his bed, under those comfortable blankets was the worst of all. During the day Rex was able to ignore his thoughts and focus on being a dick to everyone — mostly you — and being a superhero. But in his bed with nothing to ground him, his mind went wild.

Wild enough that it affected the rest of his body.

Most nights were spent rather sinfully, a hand wrapped tightly around his dick whilst arousal dripped from his angry red tip. Rex’s free hand was always on his face, as if shameful for what he was doing. And technically he was.

He was Rex Sloan, basically resident fuck-boy; meaning, jerking off should be really be at the bottom of the list. But when it came to you, any thought of approaching you for such a thing, for something other than random insults and remarks— the man was suddenly mute.

“Rex. Are you listening?”

The mechanical voice cut through the flood of thoughts swarming the man’s mind, snapping his eyes from the random buildings passing by to the machine currently driving the vehicle that soared through the air. And to the side was you, sitting so prim and perfectly in your dark clothes; hand currently occupied by a mirror to which your free hand plucked and fluffed your hair. In the midst your hand dragged down towards your chubby cheek and lower, fingers resting upon your lips to which you gently smoothed— probably assuring they were free of anything.

Rex couldn’t help but stare, throughly entranced with it all— suddenly feeling very jealous of your finger tips.

Were your lips as soft as they looked? He wondered how you would taste, he could just imagine them wrapped around his di—

“Rex?”

The moment his name was spoken again your eyes suddenly snapped to his through the mirror, causing the man to quickly look away, nearly glaring daggers into the back of Robot’s head.

“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.” He waved it off, forcing a nonchalant facade. “We go to some greenhouse, blow up some freakish plant monster— and then get on with the day.”

Rex then allowed his gaze to tilt back to you, a rather stupid grin suddenly crossing his features.

“But what’s Ms. Sabrina the Witch doing here? You and I could handle this job no problem without the extra weight.”

Your eyebrow twitched, slamming your compact mirror closed as you turned to glare at the man.

“You think you’re so funny.. Maybe I should call Amanda to whoop your ass again.”

“What, you need a little girl to fight your battles?”

“Rex, you aren’t even worth a single spell in my book.. Though,” Your eyes trailed away from the man, suddenly looking deep in thought as your arms crossed over your bosom; “— Maybe I could turn you into a toad.. I’m not sure you would look any different, however.”

Rex couldn’t help but scoff, feeling far too many emotions swarm his stomach the moment he noticed those perfect lips lift into a simper. His own parted, ready to release some fast remark when Robot interrupted;

“From the information gathered by Cecil, there seems to be magical forces at play; explaining the sudden behavior of the plant. Both of you are needed for this mission, and you two are expected to act as a team.”

Those final words were spoken, the tense atmosphere quickly delving into silence. Like teenagers ridiculed the two of you crossed your arms, leaning back into your seats and waiting silently for this damned mission to begin.

Moments passed before the vehicle suddenly stopped, lowering to the ground before a large greenhouse. The windows were frosted, yet large shadows seemed to be pressed against the glass.

With ease you slipped out of the car, tucking your spellbook close and inspecting the outside carefully. What Robot said was right, there seemed to be some type of magical presence; strong enough you felt it from the outside.

You turned, hearing your other teammates exit the vehicle— Robot stepping to stand beside you. His metallic hand rose to the handle of the building, giving the two of you a single glance;

“Are you ready t—“

“Let’s get this over with already!”

. . .

Minutes, possibly even hours passed with the three of you attacking the plant that had taken over the building. With each vine Rex seemed to explode, another grew; dwindling all your progress to zero.

Finally in a sudden turn of events you found the perfect spell, reciting the olden language as a dark spiraled glyph etched into the ground below the plant.

Light sprung from your magic, incinerating the monster from within.

In the midst of this however, a sudden pinkish hue entered the air in the form of smoke, chasing towards you desperately as the plant breathed its final moments. You quickly flung an arm around your face, but it was far too late; feeling the foreign air run up your nose in a painful burn. It trickled down to your throat, clogging so much you began to cough; body shaking from the excursion. You fell to your knees, struggling to catch your breath, as sloppy wet coughs escaped your chest.

“[Name]!”

You didn’t know whether it was Rex or Robot speaking, deciding to focus on your breathing instead. Your eyes shut close, sucking in harshly to hopefully fill your lungs with fresh air and not whatever that mysterious smoke was. It took a couple of tries but you eventually succeeded, feeling your rushing heart relax the moment you could breathe again.

You slowly lifted from your hunched position, noting the way Robot stood close to you whilst Rex stood off to the side, gaze settled upon you with an unreadable expression.

“What the hell was that, Robot?! Did it just piss on her?”

“You’re..” You huffed softly, slowly rising to your feet, tucking your book close to your body. “— so immature.”

“I’m asking a serious question!”

You shook your head, switching your gaze over to the still machine, waiting for some type of answer. You secretly prayed Rex was wrong, knowing you would probably gag if it truly was magical monster plant pee.

“It wasn’t urine, Rex; the plant released a pheromone as a response to [Name] killing it. “ Rex explained slowly, stepping a tad bit closer to you, clearly scanning your form. “It’s current effects are unknown to me, however you seemed to have inhaled most of it and absorbed it through your skin.”

“What?” You hissed in concern, eyes falling to your body as if searching for some type of answer. You even went as far as swiping your skin, truly desperate to get whatever the hell it was off you.

“That won’t work.”

“Yeah, no shit Robot—“ Rex stepped in, eyebrows furrowed for a moment as he glanced down at you before switching his gaze back to his other teammate. “What are you gonna do?”

All was silent for a moment as Robot thought it over, possibly doing millions of calculations for an answer. You stood quietly, attempting to swallow your fear. This so called pheromone couldn’t be that bad.. right? Maybe it was like a skunk thing?

Okay, that did sound pretty bad.

Robot stole you from your thoughts the moment he spoke again, your eyes flicking to him and noticing his own head switched towards Rex.

“For now, while I assess the effects the two of you will be quarantined together.”

“What?”

“There’s no way in he—“

“You could possibly infect the others through contact and given Rex was nearby during the event, there’s a possibility the pheromones hit him as well.” Robot cut through your childish remarks with ease, watching your mouths clamp shut in response.

“This is only temporary. I will figure out an answer soon. For now, please work with me.”

. . .

You wanted to work with Robot, or more like needed to. So you were pretty silent on the ride back to headquarters albeit the little groans of irritation that escaped you each time you shifted, suddenly feeling every bit of fabric clinging to your skin.

It was a blur making it to the quarantine area— or rather your bedroom. You didn’t love having your biggest enemy in your safe haven, but you would have to make do.

“Feel any different?”

“You asked that three minutes ago, Rex.” You murmured softly, eyes closed as you laid amongst your soft blankets. You had taken a shower the moment you got back, something Robot recommended and something you definitely needed. Removing your clothes to relish under the hot water was pure bliss, you would have stayed under there for hours if you could. After which you dried and dressed in a simple shirt and shorts, baggy to combat the sudden suffocating sensation surrounding you.

You turned from lying on your back to your side, allowing your eyes to open and focus on the man across the room. He was seated on your vanity chair, dressed in a simple white tank and his super-suit pants. The man’s hair was done up in a messy bun, a few strands framing his face. You began to stare longer than you should have, only realizing the moment his eyebrow twitched up, clearly questioning your sudden interest on his face.

You breathed softly, “I don’t feel any different.. just, hot.”

“Hot?”

You gave a little nod, rolling onto your stomach as your face smushed into the blankets and pillows below you. “Hot.” You repeated softly, eyes closing for a moment. Hot, was an understatement. While your shower helped cool you down in the moment, it felt as if your temperature was slowly rising and rising— with no end in sight. It explained why you suddenly felt so suffocated; the fabric you wore clinging to your body as you began to sweat.

Along with this, you felt dizzy as if developing the worst super powered vertigo known to man. The only remedy was shutting your eyes tightly, even going as far as shoving your face into your bed to help.

“Really.. hot.” You murmured more to yourself rather than the man, but he heard regardless.

Rex couldn’t help the tinge of worry invading his body as he looked at you. He could hear the way you basically panted, as well as see your body rise and fall with every breath. He sucked in his own, rising to his feet and crossing the bedroom quickly.

“You’re not gonna be able to breathe like that, c’mon—“ he leaned upon your bed with a single hand whilst the other went for your arm, gently pushing you, however hissing the moment his palm made contact with your skin.

“Fuck, you’re boiling [Name].” Rex murmured, eyes casing down your front the moment you rested on your back. He immediately noticed the sweat presented on your skin, shining underneath your overhead light and trickling down your body. With each huff your chest was rising, hands clenching the shirt you wore as if to ground you.

“I’m.. starting to feel weird.” Your voice came out in a croak, as like it burned to speak; eyes blinking open to stare up at the man before you, which proved difficult given how you could barely focus.

Rex sucked in a breath, his hand gliding from your arm to instead maneuver towards your forehead. From the heat radiating against his palm it was clear you had a fever, terrible enough that it seemed to incapacitate you completely. Such a thought caused the man to worry, something he didn’t typically like doing but he couldn’t help it at this point.

“Are you in pain anywhere?”

You slowly shook your head, causing the man’s hand to glide lower, coming into contact with your cheek. The moment it did, you shivered, eyes shutting close and seemingly leaning into his touch. It felt cooling compared to the rest of your body, a funny thought given his entire power was exploding shit.

Still, it seemed like the remedy to your situation, causing you to basically sink into his touch; a sigh gliding through your nostrils.

This took Rex by surprise, eyes widening slowly at the display. You, the woman he was oh so sure hated him, was leaning into his touch? It truly must be winter in hell for such a thing to happen.

“[Name]..?” He called on hushed breath, throughly confused by the situation. You didn’t respond, at first; seemingly content with your cheek in his hand. But the moment Rex moved your eyes were flying open, reaching over to lock your fingers around his wrist.

“Don’t.. move. Please don’t move.”

You murmured softly, borderline whimpering as you turned to place the full weight of your head into his palm. Your fingers dragged down his wrist to his arm, coaxing him to stay just where you wanted— needed him to be. Your entire body was overheating at this point, your clothes feeling far too restricting as if you were ready to burst out the seams. You released a shuddering breath, shifting once more and allowing your lips to graze his skin, nose pressed up against his wrist in turn.

The moment his smell hit you, you were murmuring a soft swear; nails dragging against his skin as desperation began to fill your entirety.

Rex couldn’t do a thing but sit there and gape, attempting to stay composed despite what was unfolding before him. His fingers twitched as they glided close to you hair, feeling something else twitch as your lips traced his skin— fuck, what were you doing? The man wanted nothing more than to ask just that, tearing his hand away in the process.

But he couldn’t, not with the way those pretty eyes were fluttering at him, clearly so desperate for his touch. Rex’s tongue slipped out to glide across his bottom lip nervously, nearly convulsing as he watched your gaze fall to the simple action.

Everything was growing so hot around the two of you, as if the pheromones had seeped out completely and covered every inch of your room. Silence carried before your lips parted to speak a sweet,

“Rex..”

It took a moment for the man to reply with how his name tasted on your tongue. You had abandoned that usual hint of annoyance and frustration crafted specifically for him, instead choosing something so soft, and downright irresistible it was causing his mind to go wild.

His teeth dragged across his cheek, finally releasing a simple; “What is it? Do you.. want me to go get Robot?”

You couldn’t have shaken your head any faster, hand even tightening around his arm— as if truly scared his touch would leave. You brought your body closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him; eyes carrying down his form as soft huffs pushed through pouted lips.

“No..— please, please stay. I need you to stay, Rex.” A drawn out beg escaped you quickly, Rex sucking in air at your words. Stay? He had no choice but to. The two of you were quarantined after all.

But something told him that wasn’t what you were only entailing. Something, like how your gaze simply couldn’t focus on a single spot; trailing from his face down to his legs— lingering there for a moment before returning back to his features.

“Then wha—“

“I need,” You begun slowly, struggling to find the words as hurried breaths escaped. The feeling running through you was completely foreign, sensations, senses, all of it; cranked up completely to one hundred. Fear of the unknown pooled deep in your stomach, followed by something else entirely the longer you looked at the man before you.

Finally you seemed to find what you wanted, fingers dragging against his skin once more, it pricking with each touch.

“You. I need you, Rex. I need to feel you..���

You were lying. This was a trick to fuck with him right? There’s no way you, wanted him in that way. It was all some ploy to admit something he didn’t want to, right? It had to be..

Rex wanted to open his mouth to refuse you, brain screaming at him to push you away. Push her, push her, push her— it thundered in his head as if the only plausible answer to the situation.

But the moment a single please escaped those pretty lips, the only thought in Rex’s head was;

Fuck this.

The hand upon you gripped your cheek with purpose, the man leaning to snatch your lips in a heated kiss. The moment the two of you connected, a soft whine escaped right into his mouth— your free hand latching onto his body quickly. Your lips moved in such a perfect rhythm, igniting your already hot body to basically boil over. You couldn’t help how desperate your lips were getting, whimpering and whining; practically begging for more out of the man.

The two of you parted, Rex watching the way you attempted to chase his lips, eyelids coming to hang low over green eyes that took you in so intently.

“Rex, please..”

“I hear you.” His words broke through the fog slowly clouding your mind, you completely focused on him and only him. The way he breathed, stared, how he ever so slowly lifted himself to hover over your sweltering body; bringing himself to rest on his forearm whilst the other hand continued to hold your face.

“I got you mama, shit..” Rex dragged softly as he pressed another kiss to your lips, leading his own down to your chin, neck, before stamping kisses right against your collarbone. Your taste was a perfect swirl of salty and sweet, curtesy of your sweat and the body wash you had previously used. The man released your face to instead carry his hand downwards, soon reaching the edge of your shirt; breaching the clothing to spread his hand across your stomach.

Rex could nearly groan the moment his fingers clenched, delighted by the way his digits sunk into your plump flesh— hot against his hand and completely perfect despite what he claimed. His eyes took you in searching for something, anything that would tell him to stop— that you didn’t want this at all. But the man only received a pout, and eyes filled to the brim with want.

For him, and only him.

Such a look had him shuddering, leaning close and muttering a quick so desperate for me right upon your lips— such words causing you to keen and melt into him completely. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, never wishing to let go as you felt his comforting hand crossing from your warm stomach and up, the cool air gliding across your skin the more exposed it got.

You gasped as Rex’s fingers traced your breast for a moment, simply playing with you before allowing two of them to enclose a hardened nipple; stimulating the peak so perfectly that sparks were emitting between your thighs. You couldn’t help but lift your hips up, finding what you wanted — his thigh — and dragging yourself up and down slowly.

The stimulation caused you to pant into him, sounds overtaken the moment his tongue intruded your mouth; licking into the dark space with such interest. With a twirl of your two wet, appendages you were moaning softly, feeling the combined spit trickle down your chin the longer you kissed.

You were already dizzy before but with his mouth, fingers, and thigh; you could only describe your mind being a spiral with no end in sight.

As he pulled away you panted, grinding against his thigh like some pathetic dog in heat— clearly desperate for friction to ease the ache between your legs.

Rex took you in greedily, rising up to his haunches, continuing to tweak your breast whilst his other hand carried from your bed and to your body, dragging across your covered sex. Your shorts were soaked, basically ruined; arousal seeping through the fabric easily. He watched as you practically withered at his touch, not so secretly rising your hips to his hand once again.

With another drag of his hand you were whining, peeking up at the man;

“Rex.. don’t tease, please don’t tease me.”

You were palpable, shaking, wanting, needing— everything and anything Rex could have ever wanted. The last thing on his mind was teasing you again.

He was practically tearing your pants and panties off, tossing them to some corner you could worry about later. Your thighs parted, exposing the way a glossy, slick coated your aching cunt; clit swollen, begging for attention as your hole fluttered. Rex couldn’t help but drool, dipping his fingers to coat in your essence, watching the way you practically shook from the naked touch.

“Fuck.. you’re soaked.” Rex whispered, dragging a finger along before finding your little button, circling it carefully. He watched the way your face screwed up in pleasure, how your thighs twitched, slowly enclosing his hand— refusing to let him go where you needed him most.

Your eyes glossy, a film of pure lust covering the pretty gaze; such a look had the man basically huffing, feeling all inhibitions leave his body in a single trickle. Rex continued to circle your swollen clit, feeling the way you so desperately rose into his hand, he knew this was the most sensitive part of a woman, but god— the way you withered was otherworldly.

“Rex, Rex, Rex..” You were whining his name so pathetically, fingers tugging at your blankets as your hips swiveled in the direction of his finger. The ache inside of you only seemed to grow, the pressure building up in your stomach and threatening to spill over. You could feel the way globs of arousal basically pooled from within you, trickling down to your taint and surely staining the bedsheets.

“Fuck… why do you look so pretty like this?”

The question was spoke out loud, yet truthfully not for you to answer. Rex racked his brain on why exactly he waited so long to have you like this. He was such a dick, truly and utterly— to you, and to himself.

The man’s eyes flicked from your pretty pussy back to your even prettier features, gliding his fingers lower to prod at your weeping entrance; easily pushing two digits in to which your velvety walls basically sucked in.

He wasted no time in thrusting the appendages in and out, enjoying the way your moans pitched so perfectly; hitting every inch of his brain in the best symphony. He scissored and curled, brushing up against that spongy spot you; yourself, have never been able to reach with your own fingers.

And the moment Rex’s thumb rose, sweeping across your sensitive button; you were truly done for.

Your hand flew down to his wrist, gripping, refusing to let him go as rushed cries quickly turned into sharp bellows of his name the longer he ruined you with his fingers. It shouldn’t feel this damn good at all. Not simply because it was his fingers but also because it was Rex himself.

The idiot that always looked at you with such disdain, always treated you oddly, mocking you— the whole nine yards like some little bully. Yet here he was, staring at you so sweetly while easing that desperate ache that only he could solve. Only him.

You would slap yourself later. When your mind wasn’t so warped. For now, you wanted nothing more than to be ruined and built right back up by the man you claimed to hate.

Your nails scratched at his skin, thighs closing in around his arm as that pressure thundered deep in your stomach— ready to burst at any time. You couldn’t help the way tears pricked at your eyes, spilling over with each of your quick blinks.

In your daze you heard Rex coo, maybe whisper; soon feeling him move towards your side, face hovering close to your own whilst his fingers continued that perfect rhythm inside of you.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing you like this,” Awe clung to his words, heavy lidded eyes dedicating each pleasure stricken feature to memory; refusing to let it go. “So fucking perfect like this.. I’m such a dick, fuck—“ Rex wondered if he was suddenly getting infected, given the way you so easily took over every sense of his. He felt, smelt, saw, and tasted just about every inch of your presence; a concoction that even the best bartender couldn’t even begin to replicate.

“—Mm close! Fuck.. Rex, please..!”

Your walls clung to his fingers, peak rising so quickly only to crash even faster. The tears spilled over, coating your cheeks whilst your arousal coated his fingers, and your bedsheets. You shook from the aftershocks, desperately trying to catch your breath; whining the moment you felt Rex remove his fingers.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but you moved much faster, reaching out to plant your hands onto his shoulders. You rose, pressing your lips to his own whilst pushing at his body; affectively getting him to lay onto his back whilst you crawled over his body.

Rex could nearly cum in his pants the moment you laid out amongst him, his hands immediately falling to your plush thighs, tugging them; eyes rolling back at how soft you felt against his skin. And the moment he realized you were dragging your hips, smearing your messy pussy across his covered bulge; the man pulled back to groan, shuddering breaths escaping his chest.

“Fuck, fuck— wait, don’t you need to, recover— [Name]?”

“Nnn.. no, no..”

He watched as you rose to sit in his lap, hips still bucking, still grinding and rolling like some machine that refused to turn off. You looked like a fucking goddess above him, hair a mess yet framing your features perfectly, eyes glossy, lips shining with your combined saliva; Rex wondered what he did he do to deserve such a display.

“Need more.. fuck I need it Rex, please!” With a particularly long drag of your hips you were shaking, hands pressed against his chest, crumpling the shirt he wore within your palms. It was like your body didn’t care you had finished just a second ago, still completely aching in desperation as if you were completely untouched.

Your sweet whines did something to Rex, the man swearing under his breath, the previous worry he held for you no longer present. Wasting no time, he allowed his hands to fall from your body to instead find the waistband of his pants, resting his feet onto the bed to shimmy his garments down to his thighs.

His length sprung from its confinements, tip flushed with pearly globs of white slipping from its slit. You brushed close, sweltering center dragging across it so perfectly the both of you could only groan.

Rex’s hands found your hips again, squeezing the flesh within his fingers as his own hips rose to buck into you. “C’mon mama, it’s all yours.. don’t tease.” His head tilted, eyes fluttering closed the moment you ground against him once again. His tip bumped against your swollen button, dragging to your fluttering hole; prodding there for a moment before slowly pushing past the ring of muscle.

The man downright shivered, sparks running down his spine the way your wet walls clung to his dick, shaping around it so perfectly he swore you were made just for him. You weren’t any better, nearly falling apart as you enveloped him completely— ass rested on his legs, seated so perfectly. The stretch should have burned, but you only felt pure bliss with every inch pushed into you. Filled to the brim, his dick basically throbbing inside you, veins brushing against your walls; hitting places you didn’t even know existed.

You didn’t wait to adjust, to allow air to even fully expand your lungs before you were lifting yourself until only the tip remained inside— dropping down in one full motion. The moan released you was pure sickeningly sweet honey, clutching the man so desperately as more hurried drops of your hips followed.

Rex clung to your hips for dear life, barely being able to keep himself together. The single thought of don’t come, don’t come, swirled inside his mind; proving more difficult the longer you rode him. His body shook with each heavy pant he released, nails digging into your plush skin as his eyes nearly met his skull.

“Jus… ha— just like that baby, fucking use me—“ His feet suddenly planted firmly upon your bed, meeting each of your ruts with his own thrusts, tip striking your g-spot so perfectly.

Stars invaded your vision, body sweltering, sweat trickling down every single part of your body— but you refused to stop, you couldn’t. You felt as if you could die without this. And they may have been true, with how you were clinging to the man like he was some kind of anchor.

You lowered yourself, quick breaths fanning across his exposed skin; whining the moment you felt his arms wrap tightly around your waist, feeling him drill into you without a care.

“Rex, o—oh god, fuck!” You shoved your face into his neck, sniffling and sobbing as that ache swelled. You weren’t even thinking properly nor making sense, incoherent words that sounded like some jumbled prayer of his name slipping off your tongue far too quickly.

Before you could even breathe the man was suddenly flipping your positions, hands going for your thighs and spreading you open— fucking into you so deeply, you could have sworn he was in your cervix at this point.

“So perfect.. fucking perfect, fuck, fuck..” His words came out in a drawn fashion, eyes glued to your body. He pushed your thighs, watching the way your stomach rolled up in response; Rex swearing he was getting hard all over again. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, ass rippling each time his hips made contact.

Far too quickly you were coming undone, coil snapping without warning leaving you a shaking mess that could only gasp and cry. Your slick escaped, coating his dick; creating a creamy ring around the base as he simply would not, stop, moving. Instead the man lowered, coming closer and sliding your legs to his shoulders.

Through shallow thrusts Rex spoke, “Been so fucking mean to you. You forgive me baby, huh?” All while planting the sweetest kisses against your skin, as if he wasn’t utterly wrecking you.

You could only whine, hands sliding to his back, dragging your nails against him as you shook your head far too fast— making yourself even more delirious then before.

But that wasn’t enough for the man, no, that wasn’t what he wanted, needed.

A hand came between the two of you, easily finding your messy clit and rubbing circles into the bud. You shook, overstimulation biting at your body to the point you were keening.

“Wanna hear you say it, pretty…” Rex spoke in-between sharp thrusts and shaky exhales. “—I was a fucking ass..asshole, and liar; every inch of you is perfect.. shit, you have me obsessed [Name].”

It was clear the man wasn’t thinking straight from how easily the confession swept from his lips, some type of metaphorical weight being lifted off his shoulders the moment it was uttered however. Rex took in the way you struggled to keep your eyes on him, and with how you were tossing back and forth between ecstasy he was sure you hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Still, the pace of both his fingers and hips quickened, moving much closer to kiss you, soft cooes of forgive me, being pushed into your mouth.

Your hands trailed to his hair, bun long forgotten as the strands peeked and slid between the gaps of your fingers. Rex swallowed your last bellow, your entire body jerking as you squirted, making a complete mess of him, yourself, and your bed.

He wasn’t too far behind, groaning into you as he drove himself deeper, gripping your skin as he flooded you with his come; adding to the mess the moment it began to trickle out.

Rex’s hips finally stilled, hand even moving away from your pretty cunt yet his lips remained on you, still kissing you so sloppily yet gingerly. Moments passed of this lip locking before he pulled away for air, forehead resting against your own as he greedily sucked it up.

You panted as well, that once unquenchable ache now very dull compared to before. You melted into the bed, sighing heavily as your hands dragged from his hair to his cheeks, collecting them in your palms.

“I forgive you.” You whispered, watching recollection cross his features, causing your lips to curl into a little grin. “But yeah, you’re a dick.”

Rex couldn’t help the little grin pulling his lips, “I know. But hey, I helped you get rid of that monster plant piss— just had to sweat it out.”

You groaned softly, pushing at his body to which the man laughed, refusing to break away.

“You ruin everything.”

[underratedbreadcrust]

Chance Equals Fortune — Prologue

Squid Game | The Salesman x F!Reader

Summary: parasites. that is the only thing he thinks of when he meets the players he is meant to recruit. but what happens when he meets you and you are nothing of what he expects.

an au where the salesman lives and becomes a player.

Warnings: swearing and classist thinking. in the future there will probably be canon-typical violence and i'm still debating on smut.

a/n: happy new years! i'm sorry i couldn't upload this earlier i had to deal with some long distant relatives. however, due to popular demand here is the gong yoo fic as promised. this was originally supposed to be under 1k words...

Words: 2.1k

next part>>

Click. Click. Click

Those are the sounds of pristine perfectly polished black shoes on concrete. The soles of the shoes worn by a handsome-looking businessman echoed loudly, causing the sounds to reverberate into the jet-black sky. As he walked beneath the faint luminescence of street lights, case in hand and his head held high, his eyes searched for the next prey to fall victim to his silver tongue. The same mouth that twisted dark truths into sweet promises others couldn't dare reject. Never once has his articulate way of speaking failed to deliver the precise words necessary to provide his superiors with a new batch of fresh meat to satisfy their sadistic tendencies. To him, it was all the same. One less piece of vermin in the world, and more importantly, one less leech to drain the well-oiled machine that is society.

Today was no different as he strolled along the sidewalk of a small park near the outskirts of Seoul. While he walked, he felt indifferent towards the small details, like the light breeze swaying the tree branches above or the faint smell of dog shit wafting through the air. Having trained himself to ignore anything and everything that could be a possible distraction from his mission. What was his mission again? Ah yes, currently that would be you.

His steps immediately halted as he spotted your figure in the distance, a dark shadow looming over a bed of flowers and a trail of smoke emitting from the cigarette between your fingers. There you are. He squared his shoulders as he fixed his expression into one of casual ease. Now, all he had left to do was to convince you all of the problems that have stemmed from your pathetic life could be solved in the blink of an eye. That your worries could dissolve as quickly as skin in acid.

He began to move again, taking long strides to where you were standing. In the time he took to reach you, he jotted some quick mental notes.

One. Your relaxed stance oozed confidence and uninterest despite being a young lady positioned in one of the most crime-infested spots of the city in the dead of night. Meaning you either had a weapon on you or had sufficient defense skills, possibly both. He must tread carefully.

Two. You were positioned next to a tall fountain, atop stood a small marble figure of a gumiho. The spot infamously known for the shady transactions dealing with drugs and other nefarious crimes. Perhaps you were waiting for someone? He'd have to keep an eye out for any newcomers that could interrupt his process.

Three. Your mouth was...moving?

His steps faltered. There was no other person around within a 3-mile radius whom you could be conversing with, nor did you have a phone in hand. How odd. In his time as a recruiter, he has encountered all kinds of people. Drug addicts, the mentally ill, and one memorable case a delirious man on the brink of death, hallucinating from hunger. You, however, seemed perfectly sane. Keyword…seemed. He shook his head, quickly putting a halt to his thoughts. He had no time to ponder over whatever weird traits you may have, he came here to do one job. He resumed his trek towards you and was soon standing mere feet from you.

Show time.

“Excuse me miss, may I have a minute of your time?”

You remain standing still, making no indication that you had noticed him. Your eyes were distant while you continued to murmur but no sound came out. He wasn’t sure if you were ignoring him or if you really were that unaware of your surroundings. Now that won’t do.

“Miss?” He tried again tentatively, his head tilting curiously as he stepped in your line of sight. “Are you alright?”

Finally, your eyes shifted into focus, taking a moment to adjust. For a brief moment, it appeared as if you were lost. However, that moment soon passed and your eyes narrowed, annoyance filling your features.

“Why did you interrupt me?”

The bite in your tone was enough to make him raise an eyebrow. Perhaps you really weren’t in the right state of mind after all. “Interrupt?”

You scoffed, ignoring the question you brought the cigarette back to your lips. Taking in a long drag before you released the smoke right in his face. His mouth turned downward in displeasure.

“Do you need something?” You snapped, your jaw clenching as you slid your free hand in your pocket. He caught the way your finger twitched as you did so. Weapon it is then.

His face instantly changed back to that previous pleasant expression, his lips curving into a kind smile though with a lack of warmth in his eyes. Instead replaced by an empty, clinical look.

”I don’t mean to be a bother ma’am, but I’m here to offer you a proposal you’re sure to like,” he states in a neutral tone, having uttered a variation of those words dozens of times. “A way to better improve your current economic situation.”

Your body tenses as your eyes dart over his figure eyeing the suitcase, no doubt analyzing him as a threat. “Look I already said I’d pay him back!” He watches as you chuck the cigarette to the ground and stomp on it. “If he keeps rushing me like this then don’t expect to get a single won out of me! I don’t give a shit who he is!” Your volume rises as you take a step back, ready to sprint if needed.

He raises his arm in surrender. “That’s not what I’m here for. As I’ve stated, I only want to help.” His mind is conjuring up the best way to ease the tension.

He hesitantly takes a step forward.

Your eyes immediately look back down. “What’s in the case?”

Another step.

“I work for a group of people whose only interest is to help those who are struggling. Our objective being to ease the burden of the majority.” He swiftly places the case at the base of the fountain, unlocking the latch but leaving it closed. “See for yourself.”

You were the one to take the final step, closing the gap between the two of you. You gave him one more skeptical look before you focused all of your attention on what was in front of you. Slowly, both hands reached out and flipped the top wide open. Your eyes widened as you took in the contents of what was inside, or more specifically, the big wads of cash.

You remained silent, frozen as a statue as you simply stared. In an instant, you whipped your head in his direction. You took the time to study him, your mouth slightly agape and a certain look in your eye he couldn't quite place. A couple of seconds passed, you clamped your mouth shut and swallowed thickly, licking your lips before you finally managed to whisper, "What do you want?"

His mouth quirked upward in a smirk. Got you. "I'd like to play a game."

You belted out a high-pitched, contorted laugh. A childlike glee completely overcoming you. "Ab-so-fucking-lutely," you grinned from ear to ear, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

It dawned on him what that look in your gaze was...

Unstable.

A jolt of thrill shoots down his spine. "I'm sure you're familiar with the game ddakji," he reaches until he grabs the two colorful squares, carefully placing the red one on the ground, "for every time your square manages to flip mine, I will pay you 100,000 won."

You nod enthusiastically, your hand shooting out as he draws his hand in at the same time. "However, if you lose...you must pay me back the same amount."

You snatched the piece from him. “Deal.” You don't waste a single moment in hurling it, the force of the impact causing the sound to ricochet like a gunshot. The square goes flying, becoming a red blur. It stays in the air for a couple of seconds, but that time is enough for the experienced recruiter to know that you've already won. By the time it hits the ground, he doesn't even have to look to know it's flipped.

You look up expectantly at him.

He glances at her, jaw clenching. Well, this isn't how it usually goes. Before he can move to pay you, your voice cuts through the silence. "From the look on your face, you didn't want me to win, correct?" The lack of response on his part encourages you to continue. "How about, instead of doing whatever the hell you were thinking, I propose a new rule," you lean forward, your eyes sparkling with mirth, "we both keep throwing until one of us loses. If I win...you give me everything that's in that case."

"And what if I win?"

Your mouth twists into a devilish smirk. "Don't worry, you won't."

His eyes look you up and down, scanning you. His hands twitch in anticipation at the challenge, adrenaline manifesting itself as electricity in his veins. His bruised ego from losing the first round combined with his competitive nature was enough to make him agree. This was not part of the plan. He could just give you the money, the card, and go about his day like he has so many times before. He has no reason to play along other than he just wants to beat you.

"Alright," his previously fabricated smile now becoming genuine, "my turn."

With renewed vigor, he launches his square and as expected, it flips. He lets out an arrogant chuckle as he fixes his suit and stands up straight, his lips stretching into a satisfied smile.

This cycle continued for multiple rounds, the money long forgotten. The need to succeed fueled the violent fire between the two of you. After a while, he lost all track of time, fixating all of his attention solely on the game.

By now, his hair was disheveled and sweat dripped down his forehead. He panted as he recovered, his arm muscles aching from the consistent use. It was taking more energy than he was willing to admit in order to keep going but like hell if he'd let exhaustion be the cause of failing.

On his turn, he prepared himself to once again launch the disc. He readied himself, drawing his arm back and—

His eyes suddenly flickered to your lips, where your tongue darted out lick them. He watches intensely at your now damp, chapped lips, mouth slightly parted as you breathe heavily from fatigue.

In his moment of distraction, the square slips from his hand. He scrambles quickly to catch it but it's too late...

He's lost.

There is a long pause of silence, before your high-pitched cackle cuts through the air. His eyes widen in shock, the realization slowly setting in.

How...

He breathes out deeply through his nose, trying his best to compose himself. What the hell was that? How on earth could he have lost? He Never. Loses. He doesn't have any longer to dwell on the fact as you practically skip in joy to the case, already counting the amount. All of this because you managed to distract him.

Your voice soon interrupts his thoughts. "Maybe the next time you want to win, you might try not to let your eyes stray so far..." you say as you wink.

How did you even notice? Wait...was that on purpose? He clenches his fists until they turn white, the thought making his blood boil. He has half the mind to kill you and call it an accident just to quell his anger.

He closes his eyes in frustration. No, I can't ruin the games.

He takes in a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Once he knows that his voice won't betray any conflict he feels, he speaks again, "you know, there are other games such as the one we just played. And for much larger prizes as well."

He's back in his element, his persuasive tone of voice exuding reliability. He hands you the card, explaining how it works, how to enlist, and so on.

By the time he finishes his speech, you look mostly convinced. After inspecting the card more closely, your stare finds his, "I appreciate what you have done and thank you for the opportunity. I will consider your offer. If I do accept know it will only be due to a singular fact," your head leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper and your breath fanning over his, "I never lose"

On that note, you step back and walk away, never once turning to glance back at him. You soon disappear into the dark Seoul night, shadows blending with that of buildings and trees.

He lets out a small huff in amusement. If that is true, then he's excited to see how you'll fare in the games.

please don't be a silent reader i love reading comments and hearing your thoughts.

[hatsbuckets]

Ghoap, except it's Soap hauling Ghost.

This started as a small idea and spiraled, based on many people's recent need for Ghost to get taken care of by Soap. This is my midnight o'clock take. WC: longer than I meant to for one sitting, oops. Tw: Canon typical violence, probably some medical inaccuracies

Everything went to shit in seconds.

The C4 wasn’t supposed to blow yet. The plan was simple—sweep the compound, secure the intel, get out. But somehow, somewhere, Soap had fucked it up and the timing went off.

And now the entire fucking building was coming down around them.

Soap barely had time to turn before the blast hit.

A wall of heat and force slammed into him from behind, a deafening roar swallowing the world whole. His ears rang, vision whiting out as he was thrown forward, weightless for half a second before the ground came up to meet him—

Hard.

Everything spun. The sharp sting of concrete scraped against his arms, his ribs aching from the impact. He tried to push himself up, but his limbs weren’t working right, his head a mess of static.

A hand on his vest, gripping tight moved him. "On your feet, Johnny," a voice gritted out, rough and commanding.

Soap barely registered Ghost hauling him up, dragging him onto shaking legs just as another explosion ripped through the hallway behind them.

"Move!" Ghost barked, shoving Soap forward just as debris rained down where they’d been seconds ago.

Soap’s body acted on instinct, legs pumping despite the roaring in his skull. His head still rang like a church bell, but there was no time to think, no time to breathe—just run.

They bolted down the corridor, the walls trembling, the ceiling cracking apart. Smoke burned in Soap’s lungs, dust clogging the air as they weaved past fallen beams and crumbling debris. The sharp staccato of gunfire still echoed through the compound, but the screams had faded—either their team was already clear, or everyone else was dead.

The exit was up ahead. Not far.

Soap stumbled, boots slipping on the dust-coated floor. He felt himself tilting, his balance still fucked from the blast.

Ghost caught him. Again. A strong grip yanked him upright before he could hit the ground.

Soap barely had time to get his bearings before Ghost grabbed the back of his vest and shoved him forward, harder.

"Go, Johnny!"

Soap didn’t argue.

They burst through the exit just as another blast ripped through the structure, sending out a shockwave that nearly knocked them both off their feet. Heat licked at their backs, fire crawling up what was left of the building.

But they were out.

They kept running—across the open dirt lot, through the perimeter, straight into the dense treeline beyond. The night swallowed them whole, the branches tearing at their gear, the distant shouts of surviving hostiles echoing behind them.

They ran until their lungs burned, until the gunfire faded, until all that was left was the sound of their own ragged breathing.

They didn’t stop running.

Not when the gunfire faded behind them. Not when the compound’s burning wreckage was just a distant glow against the night sky, sending plumes of smoke curling into the stars. Not when their lungs burned, their legs screamed, and their bodies protested every step.

Because stopping wasn’t an option. Plan brunt to hell, there was no safe house waiting for them, no extraction team inbound, and no fuckin comms, Soap realized two kilometers ago. Just acres of land, endless trees, rocky hills, and God knows how much more ground to cover before they could even think about resting.

Soap’s boots thudded against the dirt, every step harder than the last. The terrain was uneven, riddled with loose stones and gnarled roots, but he forced his legs to move, to keep up with the silent force of nature ahead of him.

Ghost was still running, his stride unrelenting, his breath low and measured. He hadn’t said a word since they’d started moving, hadn’t glanced back once.

Soap barely noticed the signs at first.

The way Ghost’s steps were just a fraction too heavy. The way his shoulders were set too stiff, his posture tightening instead of loosening now that they had some distance. The way his breath was coming just a little too fast.

Then the run slowed into a jog, slowed into a trot, slowed into a walk.

The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by their footsteps and the rustling of the wind through the trees.

Soap flexed his fingers, trying to shake some life back into them. His whole body ached, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his awareness. He was tired—dead tired—but something about the way Ghost was moving was off.

Soap turned his head, about to say something.

Ghost’s foot caught on a loose rock. His balance wavered.

Soap frowned, slowing. "Ghost—?"

Ghost didn’t answer. He swayed again. And then, just like that his knees buckled.

Soap lunged, catching him just as he collapsed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—" Soap gritted his teeth, stumbling under Ghost’s weight. Jesus, he was heavy.

For a terrifying second, Soap thought they were both going down, but he braced himself, digging his boots into the dirt as he lowered them both to the ground. Ghost’s full weight sagged against him, dead weight, his head tipping forward as his breath hitched unevenly.

Soap’s pulse spiked.

"Ghost—hey!" Soap shifted, gripping Ghost’s arms, shaking him. "Come on, Lt., look at me!"

Ghost made a sound, weak and breathy, but it wasn’t a real response. His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab onto something, but they slipped away, his body slumping further against Soap’s hold.

Soap’s chest squeezed tight. This was bad. Ghost hadn’t just run himself to exhaustion—he was crashing.

Soap’s hands moved on autopilot, yanking at the straps of Ghost’s vest, trying to get a look at the damage. His fingers shook, fumbling at the buckles. Got it open with a yank.

Ghost flinched violently, a harsh, guttural noise ripping from his throat as his whole body seized up.

Soap froze.

Ghost’s back arched off the ground, his hands twitching at his sides like he was trying to push away pain that wasn’t stopping.

Then, slowly—too slowly—he slumped back against the dirt, his breath shuddering out of him in uneven gasps.

Soap’s stomach twisted. "Shit—Ghost—"

Ghost’s breath hitched, his body trembling hard now.

Soap barely took a second to look—didn’t need to. His hands pressed down hard against Ghost’s ribs, against the wound that should’ve killed him half a forest ago.

And Ghost groaned. It was a soft, choked noise, barely a sound, but it was wrong. Ghost didn’t make noises like that.

Soap’s hands faltered.

"Jesus, mate…" His voice wavered, but his hands stayed firm. "You were running like this?"

Ghost let out something that was almost a chuckle, but it was too weak, too breathless to be anything real. "Didn’t notice," he murmured.

Soap gritted his teeth. "Yeah? That why you’re shakin’ like a leaf?" He pressed harder, ignoring the full-body flinch it pulled from Ghost. "What, were you just gonna stitch yourself up with barbed wire when you got somewhere safe?"

Ghost let out a weak, broken chuckle. "Only if I had to."

Soap swallowed hard, forcing his hands to stay steady.

"Yeah, well... stupid," he muttered, voice tight. "Hold still and let me fix you up before you bleed out in the middle of nowhere."

Ghost let out a slow, shaky exhale, his body flinching slightly inward as another wave of pain hit him. His hand grabbed Soap's wrist quick, tight.

"Johnny—"

Soap winced, his heart slamming against his ribs. "I know, I know, Si. Just—stay with me."

Ghost’s breath stuttered.

Then, softer, "'s fuckin' cold."

"That’s ‘cause you’re leakin’ all over the damn place, ya big baby." His voice was tight, trying for light but coming up short. "We fix that, yeah?"

Ghost didn’t respond.

Soap’s chest tightened. "Oi—Simon." His hands pressed harder, blood already coating his fingers. "Eyes on me."

A sharp, shaky inhale. Then Ghost’s head tipped just slightly, like it took everything in him to listen.

Soap’s throat felt like it was closing up. "Stay awake, Lt.," he murmured, voice low, steady. "You die on me, and I swear on my gran’s grave, I’ll bring you back just to kick your arse."

Ghost let out something between a huff and a pained laugh, barely there. "Noted," he whispered.

Soap worked faster, his hands moving, even though his mind was screaming at him. He silently thanked Price for forcing them all to attend the emergency field medicine training a few weeks ago.

By the time the wound was helped best it could be, by the time Ghost was bandaged up, pressing every ounce of warmth he could into him, Ghost was still breathing.

It was shaky, weaker, but steady.

Soap sat back, exhaling sharply. "Jesus," he muttered.

Ghost hummed low, barely awake. "Told you…"

Soap side-eyed him. "Told me what? That you’re a stubborn bastard?"

Ghost made a sound that might’ve been agreement. Or just exhaustion.

"Shoulda lightened tha' las' 'splosive."

Soap sighed, rubbing a bloody hand down his face. "You shoulda told me you were bleedin' out. You ever do this again," he muttered, voice quieter now, "and I swear to God—"

Ghost’s head tilted slightly toward him. "…You’ll what?"

Soap stared at him. At the barely-there smirk under the mask. At the way even now, even after all this, Ghost was still Ghost.

Soap shook his head.

"I dunno," he admitted. "Just don’t do it again, yeah?"

A pause. Then, so soft Soap almost didn’t hear it—

"Aye."

Soap swallowed hard. They still had a way to go.

...

Ghost was too heavy for Soap to carry outright, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

Soap gritted his teeth, hauling Ghost up as best he could, slinging one of Ghost’s arms over his shoulders and bracing a hand around his waist. Ghost was barely holding himself upright, his legs dragging more than walking, his breath a thin, uneven rasp in Soap’s ear.

Soap’s knees burned, his muscles screamed with every step, but stopping wasn’t an option. They had to get somewhere. Somewhere else. Anywhere. He tightened his grip, forcing them forward, half dragging, half lifting Ghost across the uneven ground.

"We’re almost there," Soap muttered, though he had no fucking clue if that was true. "Just stay with me, Lt."

Ghost made a low sound—somewhere between a grunt and a breathless chuckle. "Dunno if…you noticed, Johnny," he murmured, voice so faint that Soap barely heard him over the wind, "but I don’t 'ave much of a choice."

Soap huffed. "Aye, well. Just makin’ sure you don’t get any ideas about quittin’ on me."

Ghost exhaled sharply—not quite a laugh, but close.

Soap risked a glance at his comm, his hand fumbling at the radio clipped to his vest. He’d been checking for hours, but it was always the same. Static, nothing, silence.

His throat was dry. He tried anyway.

"Bravo 0-6, this is Soap, do you copy?" His own voice was raw, barely above a rasp, but steady. He was not going to let it shake, no matter how bad this was getting.

Ghost stumbled again, and Soap nearly went down with him.

"Shit—" He tightened his grip, adjusting his hold, all but hauling Ghost upright again.

Ghost let out a sharp, ragged breath, but didn’t complain.

Soap grimaced, pressing the comm again. "Price, this is Soap. Ghost is down. We are mobile, but barely. If anyone can hear me, I need—"

A burst of static.

Soap held his breath.

Then—

"Soap."

Soap staggered mid-step, his breath catching.

Price.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ, finally—" Soap almost laughed, relief crashing through him so hard he felt weak. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself back into focus. "Ghost is hit bad, Cap. We’re a few clicks west of the facility, still moving, but he’s barely on his feet."

"I know. I’ve got you on GPS, went dark there for a bit in a valley." Price’s voice was steady, solid, the sound of it something Soap could hold onto. "You’re close, Soap. There’s an abandoned town just ahead—old mining site, should be about a click out. You make it there, and I’ll take care of the rest."

Soap exhaled hard, his grip tightening on Ghost.

"You hear that, Ghost?" he muttered, adjusting his hold. "We just gotta make it a little further. You with me?"

Ghost’s head lolled slightly, his masked face turned toward Soap.

"Not goin’ anywhere," he mumbled.

Soap let out a sharp breath, half a laugh. "Good. ‘Cause I didn’t fancy carrying your heavy arse the rest of the way."

Ghost didn’t answer.

Soap’s stomach twisted.

He risked another glance down, trying to assess—but the darkness made it impossible to see how bad it was. He could feel the warmth of Ghost against his side, could hear the way Ghost’s breathing was getting worse, thinner, fading in and out.

Soap’s jaw locked.

"Price, we need exfil fast. I don’t know how long he’s gonna last."

"I know. Just keep moving. I’ve got you."

Soap clenched his jaw, nodded to himself. Right. Keep moving. The town wasn’t far now. Soap set his teeth, tightened his grip on Ghost, and kept walking.

...

Every step was harder than the last. Soap’s knees felt like lead, his arms aching from keeping Ghost upright. His muscles screamed, his head pounded, and his vision blurred at the edges, but he kept moving. One more step.

And another.

The abandoned town finally came into view—a collection of crumbling structures, rusted-out vehicles, and shattered windows, the remnants of a long-dead mining site. The place was eerie, bathed in the faint silver glow of the moon, but to Soap it was a lifeline.

Ghost’s legs buckled again, and Soap nearly lost his footing trying to keep them both upright.

"Almost there, Lt.," he gritted out, adjusting his grip, his fingers digging into Ghost’s gear as he hauled him forward. "Just a little further, Simon. You with me?"

Ghost’s head tilted sideways slightly, his breathing shallow, sluggish, but, "Still here," he murmured.

Soap let out a sharp breath. "Atta man. Price would kill me if I had to leave you."

Ghost let out a breathy, half-there chuckle, but it barely held any strength. Soap didn’t let himself dwell on that.

They made it into the town, staggering between the ruins of buildings that had been abandoned for decades. Soap’s boots crunched against broken asphalt, his own breath ragged, the wind howling through empty streets. It was quiet. Silent. No voices. No distant gunfire. No sound of enemy vehicles chasing them down.

Just nothing.

For a long moment, Soap’s heart pounded in his ears, the quiet so thick it felt suffocating. He felt like he was holding Ghost above water, like the second he stopped, the second he let go—

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Instead, he took another step forward, Ghost’s weight pressing heavily into him, his pulse a sluggish, uneven thing beneath Soap’s grip.

Then a distant thump. Faint at first. Then stronger. Then closer. Soap’s head snapped up, his heart hammering as the deep, unmistakable whump-whump-whump of rotor blades filled the night.

A helicopter. Soap exhaled so hard it was nearly a sob.

A gust of wind kicked up dust and loose debris, the chopper swooping in low over the town, sending the dry earth swirling. Soap tightened his grip on Ghost, adjusting his stance as the aircraft’s floodlights swept over them, illuminating them in a harsh, artificial glow.

The second the wheels touched down, the side door slammed open and two figures came barreling out.

"Soap!"

Gaz was the first one off the bird, his rifle slung across his chest, moving like a damn bullet straight toward them.

Price was right behind him, his boots hitting the dirt hard, his face set in grim determination.

Soap barely had time to brace himself before Gaz reached him, sliding under Ghost’s other arm without hesitation, taking some of the weight off Soap’s straining shoulders.

"Fucking hell, Tav." Gaz’s voice was tight, his hands gripping Ghost’s gear as he adjusted his stance. "How long has he been like this?"

"Too long," Soap gritted out, his legs nearly giving out in relief now that someone else was helping. "We had to run, got a little out of sorts. He pushed through it ‘til he couldn’t anymore."

Price stepped in next, his face dark with something close to fury as he took one good look at Ghost, at the sluggish way his head lolled, at the blood still soaking through his bandages.

Price swore under his breath, then reached out, gripping Ghost’s jaw gently but firmly, tilting his face toward him.

"Ghost," he barked, low and sharp.

Ghost made a faint noise, barely a sound, but his eyes didn’t fully open.

Price’s grip tightened. "Look at me, Simon."

Ghost’s eyes slit open just a fraction. Just enough to see.

Price exhaled, his jaw clenching, but when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "That’s it," he murmured.

Ghost’s head tilted slightly toward him, his breathing still too shallow, but still, "Not goin’ anywhere, sir," he mumbled.

Price huffed, a wry, tight breath of laughter, shaking his head. "Damn right, you’re not."

He slipped in under Ghost, taking Soap's spot. Soap damn near collapsed right there.

"Come on," Gaz said, adjusting his grip. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

Soap nodded sharply, ignoring the way his own exhaustion was creeping in, pushing it down. "Aye. Let’s move."

With Gaz supporting one side and Price on the other, they hauled Ghost toward the bird, Soap achingly climbing in behind them, Nik's hand shooting out, pulling Soap in.

Soap didn't bother sitting up in a seat as Nik closed the door.

Thanks for reading. midnight am blurb turned fic... should I continue? It has been continued here!

[noahsresources]

DETAILS ABOUT OCS !

send an emoji/description of emoji to learn more about a writer's oc! many of these are taken from my munday asks meme, because i thought it would be fun to make a version for characters too! the prompts are categorized by emoji type and given descriptions in case anyone can't see the symbols. can be used for roleplayers and any general writers alike! for roleplayers, these can also be used for your interpretations of canon characters if you so desire as well!

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒. 💭 THOUGHT BALLOON — what is your oc's MBTI, enneagram, and/or other personality aspects (if known/interested in)? 🚗 CAR — does your oc have a driver's license? can they drive/operate any automobiles/machinery besides cars? ✈️ AIRPLANE — does your oc like traveling, or do they consider themselves a more homey person? 🎮 VIDEO GAME CONTROLLER — what are three of your oc's favorite hobbies? 💍 RING — does your oc have any piercings? do they want any (more) piercings? 🖊️ BALLPOINT PEN — does your oc have any tattoos? do they want any (more) tattoos? 📚 BOOKS — what level of education has your oc most recently completed/is currently in (GED, undergraduate, grad school, phd, etc)? 🎻 VIOLIN — does your oc play any instruments? what is their skill level (beginner/intermediate/advanced/virtuoso/etc)? 🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities? 🩸 DROP OF BLOOD — what is your oc's blood type?

𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐒. 🎶 MUSICAL NOTES — what type of music does your oc like? do they listen to music very often? 💯 HUNDRED POINTS SYMBOL — share three random facts about your oc that others may not know. 💤 SLEEPING SIGN — is your oc a light sleeper or a heavy sleeper? how are their sleeping habits? 🔱 TRIDENT EMBLEM — can your oc swim? do they enjoy swimming? 🔺 RED TRIANGLE POINTED UP — does your oc know how to use any weapons? 🔶 LARGE ORANGE DIAMOND — does your oc know cpr? do they have any other medical expertise? 🚫 PROHIBITED — does your oc drink/smoke? do they do it regularly, or is it more on occasion or for special events?

𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄. 🌈 RAINBOW — what is your oc's sexual orientation/gender identity? what pronouns do they use? 🎄 CHRISTMAS TREE — what is your oc's favorite holiday? 🐶 DOG FACE — does your oc have any pets? 🐈 CAT — does your oc prefer a wide circle of friends or a few close friends? 🐷 PIG FACE — what is your oc's favorite animal? 🐉 DRAGON — what is your oc's favorite mythical creature? 🍃 LEAVES FLUTTERING IN WIND — what is/was your oc's favorite subject in school? 🌴 PALM TREE — does your oc have a green thumb? do they enjoy gardening? 🍎 RED APPLE — where was your oc born? do they still live in/around their place of birth or do they live somewhere else? how do they feel about their birthplace?

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒. ❤️ RED HEART — what are three of your oc's positive traits? 🤍 WHITE HEART — what are three of your oc's neutral/questionable traits? 💔 BROKEN HEART — what are three of your oc's negative traits? 💘 HEART WITH ARROW — what and/or who do(es) your oc consider the most important to them? 🧡 ORANGE HEART — does your oc tend to prioritize family or friends? 💛 YELLOW HEART — how many languages does your oc speak? what language(s) are they learning, if any? 💚 GREEN HEART — does your oc prefer being inside or outside? 💙 BLUE HEART — does your oc have any cool/special powers and/or abilities? how are they with magic, if it exists in their world? 💜 PURPLE HEART — what is your oc's ancestry/genetic background? 🖤 BLACK HEART — has your oc killed or seriously wounded anyone before? have they broken someone's heart and/or broken someone's trust?

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒. 🎂 BIRTHDAY CAKE — when is your oc's birthday? how old are they? what are their sun, moon, & rising signs (if known)? what about their tarot card, ruling planet, & ruling number (if known)? do they fit the typical traits of these sun, moon, & rising signs? 🍝 SPAGHETTI — what is/are your oc's favorite food(s)? 🍰 SHORTCAKE — what is/are your oc's favorite sweet(s)/dessert(s)? 🍦 SOFT ICE CREAM — what is/are your oc's favorite ice cream flavor(s)? 🍔 HAMBURGER — is your oc good at cooking? are they good at baking? which one do they prefer? 🥯 BAGEL — what does your oc's typical breakfast look like? do they usually eat breakfast? 🥪 SANDWICH — what does your oc's typical lunch look like? do they usually eat lunch? 🍛 CURRY AND RICE — what does your oc's typical dinner look like? do they usually eat dinner? 🍸 COCKTAIL GLASS — what is your oc's favorite alcoholic drink, if they can drink? ☕️ HOT BEVERAGE — does your oc prefer coffee, tea, hot chocolate, milk, water, or some other drink? how do they like to take this drink (ex. coffee with milk, hot chocolate with whipped cream, a specific kind of tea, etc)?

𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄. 😊 SMILING FACE WITH SMILING EYES — what are your oc's career/general life desires? what do they want to get the most out of life? 😖 CONFOUNDED FACE — is your oc an introvert, an extrovert, or an ambivert? do they let people in easily, or are they more reserved? 🤔 THINKING FACE — what are some of your oc's quirks/mannerisms? 🧐 FACE WITH MONOCLE — is your oc more logical or emotional? 🤓 SMILING FACE WITH GLASSES — is your oc chatty or quiet? are they at ease in social situations, or are they more shy? 🤩 FACE WITH STARRY EYES — is your oc a planner, or are they more spontaneous in their actions? 😥 SAD BUT RELIEVED FACE — is your oc prone to getting stressed out, or is it easy for them to keep their cool? 😓 DOWNCAST FACE WITH SWEAT — is your oc open-minded or stubborn? are they inquisitive or do they prefer to keep to their bubble of knowledge? 😞 DISAPPOINTED FACE — does your oc attract others, or do they tend to be left alone? 🤒 FACE WITH THERMOMETER — does your oc get sick easily? 👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 FAMILY WITH MOTHER, FATHER, SON AND DAUGHTER — how many people are in your oc's immediate family? how many people are in your oc's extended family? do they have aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, etc? who in their family are they closest with? are they close with their birth family, or do they have a found family?

[rose-gold-bullet]

[𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤] Star-Lord x Reader

Summary: You're sent on a mission to another planet and catch the attention of your ally. This takes place in the Marvel Rivals Universe; this Star-Lord might vary from the MCU!

warnings: brief 'love interest protects you from a creep' trope, canon-typical violence in the beginning, chronic use of (Y/N) in this bad boy

Your vision is clouded by thick smoke as buildings come crashing down around you. In this war-torn city, there's nothing to count on but your instincts, your weapons-

"Woo-hoo! Two points for the Star-Lord!"

Oh, and your idiot ally who's somersaulting through the air. The two of you and four others were called here on a mission to transport something to somewhere; frankly, neither of you read the brief, but it doesn't seem like you needed to.

Your new friend, Star-Lord you think you heard him say, lands right in front you. With the area quiet and the haze finally dissipating, you both lower your weapons and check your surroundings. Though it's out of sight and being watched over by the rest of your team, you're sure the objective has just about reached its destination. You watch as he removes his mask to say something, and he's so pretty you almost miss the enemy movement coming from behind him.

"Hah! did you see tha-"

"Duck."

"Goose?" you groan and shove him to the floor for his protection as you raise your gun, knocking out the Psylocke who was racing to get you when your defenses were low.

"Ohh, Nice one! She's so quiet!" He cheers you on from the ground as you extend your arm to help him up, rolling your eyes but smiling at the flattery. Once he’s up, neither of you let go of each others arms for a moment. It takes you a second to realize you’ve stared at him for just a bit too long, and once you do you jerk your hand off him as though you’ve been burned and clear your throat. Just as you let go of each other, you hear Captain America shouting your names from a few streets over.

Once you're all grouped up, you're notified there's been no known casualties on either side and that the mission was a success. With that, you're all free to go, and you want nothing more than a peaceful, quiet walk on the way to the hotel you've booked for the night. With all this multiverse bullshit going on, it's been over a month since you were given approval to head back to Earth where you belonged. Travelling the universe has been exciting and all, but you can't help but miss home; the closest you've been able to find to it is a room for one built in a style you could maybe find somewhere on your planet.

"Hey! You!" you hear the sputtering of fuel behind you followed by a thump as your friendly pursuer lands as gracefully as he can beside you, "I never got your hero name!" Maybe this walk won't be as peaceful as you hoped.

You've seen him around before during missions, and he's even tried speaking to you a couple times, but you've just been so inside your head lately you've shut out just about everyone. As annoying as he might be, part of you is glad he's not the type to give up.

"I don't have one. (Y/N) is fine." You look up at him and catch the most upset look he could muster.

"(Y/N)? Fine normal name, I guess. But that can't be your hero name! I saw you out there, you were awesome!" You can't help but giggle at his enthusiasm, and his smile widens even more, "Tell you what, I'll come up with one for you."

Your giggle grows into a laugh, "Absolutely not, Star-Lord."

"What's wrong with Star-Lord? It's badass!" You want to say what you really think, that his name is both bad and ass, but it'd feel like kicking a friendly dog, so you swallow your jab.

"I guess it's a hero-name of some kind, which might be better than nothing." You humour him.

"So you'll let me pick?"

"I'll let you come up with ideas."

He proceeds to spitball the worst names you have ever heard in your entire life, which eventually spiral into any noun he can think of followed by 'lord'. You can tell that at a certain point he stopped trying and is just trying to make you laugh, but that doesn't mean it's not working.

"Gun-Lord?"

"Be- Because you saw me with a gun?" You can barely contain your giggles enough to answer.

"Too on the nose, huh?" He grins down at you, but you don't catch the adoration in his eyes.

Eventually you calm yourself down, "These suggestions have been so helpful, don't get me wrong, but I don't think we've found the winner quite yet."

"Give me a bit, maybe I'll come back tomorrow with some more heavy-hitters. We'll get you that name eventually. Where are we headed, by the way?" He looks around and notices you've reached the untouched part of the city, though the citizens are still, understandably, in a bit of a panic.

"I'm headed to my hotel. Where are you staying?"

"Pff, lame. I stay in a ship with my crew, you can stay there if you want!"

"Your... crew?"

"You haven't heard of us? The Guardians of the Galaxy?"

"Uhh, I might've heard that cute armed raccoon mention something like that? You know him?"

He laughs, "Don't call him that in front of him, he's a bit feral. But yeah, He works with me. So does Mantis and Groot."

"Weird crew you've got going on."

"You'd fit right in!" You can tell he definitely didn't mean it as an insult, "I'd have to get to know you a little better, but I think we could use someone like you, you know." You laugh again, but this time it's in disbelief. He can't be serious.

"I... I kind of have a life on Earth, I think. As tempting as it is to fuck off into space and do... space things together. I don't even know your name."

"I prefer Star-Lord, but Peter works too. And I think you're underestimating how cool the space things are. Come on, you're curious aren't you? Let me show you my ship."

You pause for a moment and think it over. You'd never join his crew, but there's just something about him that makes the thought of seeing him again so exciting. You wonder if other people find him so charming or just paint him as egotistical.

"Sure. Yeah. Meet me sometime tomorrow, maybe?"

"Your hotel, 10:00 AM?"

"Done."

You spend the rest of the walk talking mostly about Peter. You love asking the questions and he loves answering even more. You learn about his life in space, that he's not totally human like you thought, and you even get into discussing music by the time you've reached the lobby.

"I guess that's it for today." You try to hide your disappointment as you both stand a few feet from the front desk—you already know him well enough to sense he doesn't need more of an ego boost.

"Yeah. It was great running into you, you kicked ass on the field."

"You too," you look up at him but suddenly have the urge to avoid eye contact, "Thanks for walking me back."

"Anytime."

***

Your night at the hotel felt longer than usual and you couldn't quite make out why. Maybe the room just wasn't as comforting as it looked in the pictures. Maybe you didn't get as much sleep as you wanted because you were too excited to see this spaceship you've heard so much about. Whatever the case, 10:00AM couldn't come fast enough, and by 9:30, you were already sitting in the hotel lobby, your leg bouncing with excitement. You feverishly check your watch and sneak glances out the tall, sunlit windows hoping you'd see your talkative new friend. 'Relax. You're never this antsy over a man,' You try to tell yourself. You sigh and close your eyes to ground yourself a little more.

"Stood up?" A gravelly, unfamiliar voice asks you.

"Huh?" Your eyes shoot open and dart towards the stranger in front of you. He's older, lean, and a bit too close for comfort. You stand up and take a step back. He takes a step forward.

"I asked if you got stood up. A pretty lady like you shouldn't be all alone." You can smell the alcohol; he's probably from the hotel bar. 'This early? Gross.'

"No, I'm just a bit early. Thanks for your concern, but you can head back to the bar."

"You should join me. You'd have more fun with my buddies and I." You're not sure if you should knock his lights out now or try to get someone's attention; you absolutely hate making a scene, and you can't tell what would cause less of a disturbance to the otherwise empty lobby.

"This guy bothering you?" You feel a hand on your waist, and you hate to admit it, but it provides a sense of comfort. You fight your instinct to roll your eyes—of course he of all people would love to save the damsel in distress; he's probably practiced that line in the mirror.

Nevertheless, you lean into him to sell your relationship a bit more, "I think we're fine. He was just leaving."

The creep goes pale; Peter is large. Even when drunk, he knows there's no way in hell he was going to beat him in a fight.

"Uhh. That's right. Have a great day, you two." He stumbles back towards wherever he came from, and you quickly turn to face your saviour.

"My hero." Sarcasm drips from your voice, "Thank you for saving me, Star-Lord." You roll your eyes and everything, but after saying hero, nothing else could penetrate his skull.

He smiles widely and his face tints red at the use of his name, clearly oblivious to your mockery, "No problem! It's expected of a Guardian like me." You can't help but laugh; He's just so dumb.

On the way out of the lobby, you quickly check your watch—‘9:43; he’s early, too.’ You smile to yourself, trying to keep it subtle.

You sharply inhale the strange, almost Earth-like air as he leads you in the direction of the aircraft dock near the edge of the city.

"It's still strange to me that ship docks even exist," You try to break the silence, "We've never had a need on Earth."

"Yeah, it's mostly a No-Fly zone for the other planets. Doesn't help that there's not much there anyway."

"Earth has a lot of problems, but it's not bad, I think. Maybe you should visit sometime. I've only just left and I'm already pretty homesick." It's only a half-truth; You've felt this way since you've left your family for S.H.I.E.L.D—it's a lonely life, being a hero.

"... Maybe. I don't know. My home's on that ship now. I'm not even sure what family I've got left there on Terra." You can tell he's got mixed feelings about his life back on Earth. You know better than to pry.

You only notice now that his hand is still on your waist from the lobby once he sighs and tightens his grip around you a little. You're farther from Earth than you've ever been, but you notice that the closer you are to Peter, the less you feel that pit in your stomach telling you to come home. And it’s probably wishful thinking, but you hope that maybe he feels the same way around you.

***

"Who the flark is this?" You separate from Peter only to use him as a shield from the talking raccoon,

"Uh, we've been on missions together before? I'm the gun girl?" you squeak out from behind him. You wanted to make a good impression, but it's a little hard to do when you're the only one on the ship with manners.

He squints, "... Widow?"

"No, the other one."

"Oh." He completely loses interest in you and goes back to working on whatever death machine he's tinkering with. You're not sure whether to be relieved or take offence.

"Yeah, that's Rocket. He's a real sweetheart." Peter takes to holding your hand as he guides you through the ship, meeting the rest of his crew one by one. It's an interesting group on a near dysfunctional aircraft, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't see the appeal.

Eventually, Peter leads you to the cockpit. Your eyes widen as you step towards the control panel.

"You can actually fly this thing?" You ask in awe, with one hand still holding his and the other tracing over the dashboard. You don't need to look at him to hear the smugness in his voice,

"Yup. Pretty cool, right? We'd have to get a seat added for you if you stay with us long enough, but it shouldn't take long to install."

"And where would I sleep if I were to ditch my hotel like you mentioned?" Again, you're definitely not considering joining his crew. You just want out of that hotel and you have a healthy curiosity.

"Uh... There's always my room?" Your head jolts to Peter who's shooting you his best flirtatious grin. It's goofy.

You giggle, "Only if you're fine with sleeping on the floor." Truth be told, staying with him does sound a lot better than a dingy hotel with a lobby that serves alcohol at 9:00AM. But you're not the type to sleep with someone you've only just met, even if you really want to, and even if it's only in the literal sense. Besides, you like Peter, but it’s hard to know just how many cute girls received the same treatment before you.

"Fair enough," He sighs, "There's a spare bedroom that's all yours if you want it."

"I might just take you up on it. Did you know S.H.I.E.L.D isn't even covering my room costs? total bullshit." You tactically leave out that you can more than afford it and you just want to spend more time with him (and maybe Mantis, who seemed absolutely lovely).

"Sounds good, we'll both be here for a couple weeks anyway until we're given the go-ahead to... what was it? 'Fuck off and do space things?'"

"That's right."

"Right. So yeah, My ship is your ship or whatever. But not really." You giggle and note the possessiveness he has over the Milano, "Welcome aboard... Earth-Woman?"

"Absolutely not."

This time it's his turn to laugh, "The next one is gonna be killer though, Trust me."

You smile at him before gently squeezing his hand then letting go to fully face the cockpits windows. You can only imagine the stars and planets this ship has seen, captained by someone who, in your eyes, might be even prettier than the galaxy itself. Not that you'd ever say that to his face, of course.

***

As you tuck yourself into the spare bedroom you had to spend the day cleaning out (it was unknowingly used as a storage room for Rocket's stolen garbage), you notice that your typical sense of loneliness and dread is nowhere to be found. That homesickness you've been carrying for much longer than you'd left Earth has vanished completely, and you can't help but think it might have something to do with that handsome, snoring idiot who's in the room across from yours.

Notes: -2303 words

- please check out my ko-fi if u liked this! i’m a broke college student working full time, it’s hard to find the time to make these D:

-i'd love to make a sequel but its heavily dependent on how this first part performs! (that means you should like or reblog if u liked this ;)), without a part two this ones cute but on the underwhelming side imho -could be heavily out of character, I'm going almost exclusively off his voice lines in the game! feel free to shoot an ask recommending changes to the shot :) -nothing else to say, i love him so much <3

[softfem-dom]

look at me, I'm sandra dee the outsiders headcanons

synopsis :

what would happen if Ponyboy Curtis had a twin sister? with her curling iron, checkered dresses, baking recipes and nail polish.. how would the gang deal with a sandy olson bloke?

or headcanons for being the only Curtis' sister.

worcount : 1,4k — masterlist 𝜗𝜚 navigation post

tags/warnings : third person pov, cuss words, canon-violence, typical sexist female steryotipes, 60's view in feminity, the gang (*cough**cough* Dallas and Steve *cough**cough*) bullying her in a friendly manner, the reader is kinda like sandy from grease.

The whole gang was sitting on the couch of the Curtis' living room, the TV playing Mickey Mouse. It was silent except for the sound of Darry cooking in the kitchen. Or that was until.. "DALLAS WINSTON!!!" your voice boomed across the whole house, just as all the greasers in the living room snapped their heads in the direction of your room Dallas came running through the hall while laughing his ass off. He was holding your curling iron in one of his hands, the cable pretty much flying behind him with how quick he was running. "I don't know no Dallas Winston, princess!" was his yelled out reply before he disappeared into the kitchen. It wasn't even two seconds before they saw you running hot on his trail, half of your hair neatly done and the other still without styling. "hey!" that was Darry's voice. "what the hell are you two gooses doing?!?"

⮞ to say you're shielded would be an understatement.

⮞ ever since you were born, as the only babygirl in the household, both your brothers and your parents have taken care of you.

⮞ yeah, you fought with Ponyboy a lot in your toddler years —especially about your toys, but you all cared for each other.

⮞ and now that you're in the gang, it's like the protectiveness has multiplied enormously.

⮞ as the only girl in the group, you're the designated babysitter for Two-Bit's little sister if he ever has to bring her along. ^you'll both be in your room, doing her hair or painting her nails. ^she adores you.

⮞ the gang bullies you in a friendly way, and I mean that Dallas likes to make fun of your girly things (nail polish, curlers, plushies, etc)

⮞ Darry does all the cooking in the house, but you do the baking.

⮞ Steve loves you.

⮞ like he loves you a lot.

⮞ whenever the gang comes by to hang out at the house, you've baked or are baking something sweet for all of them to eat and he devours your chocolate cake like a fucking animal.

⮞ they all smoke like two packs of cancer sticks a day, but god forbid you ever touch one of those Darry'll cut your hand off.

⮞ you're not allowed to smoke or drink. ^Dallas has sneaked you a few cans of beer sometimes.

⮞ one time Dallas made fun of you for the faces you pulled while putting on mascara and the next second he had Steve and Soda holding him down forcefully as you put mascara on him. ^he was full on kicking and squirming around like the girl in the exorcist and screaming as if you were burning him 💀

⮞ since then he keeps his traps shut about you and your make-up.

⮞ you're actually Johnny's favourite out of the whole gang btw.

⮞ you're calm, and giggly and spend your time doing unharmful and enjoyable things that he'd take over fighting anyday.

⮞ he likes to sit on your bed, reading one of your books, while you curl your hair or put on make-up.

⮞ Ponyboy is your forced and reluctant fashion man that will tell you "yeah, it looks good, like the one before" when you show him an outfit.

⮞ Soda's your biggest hypeman though, he'll actually tell you some pretty good advice on what looks better on you.

⮞ Darry won't admit it, but when you dress in something frilly or pink it gives him nostalgia of when you were a 6 year-old toddler running around on your glittery pink princess dresses.

⮞ We all know Soda is the middle man between Darry and Pony all the time. You, on the other hand, are never taken into account in their discussions.

⮞ Sad but true, they don't really hold your opinions as that important because you "don't know how the world works"

⮞ Steve and Dallas are always teasing you like those annoying gossip aunts in the Christmas dinner asking about a boyfriend.

⮞ they don't know you're staying clear of boys for your eldest brother's sake. Darry really doesn't need the additional stress of you being with some boy he doesn't know that well.

⮞ Anytime Tim comes to the house for whatever he'll give you clothes from his sister or stuff that she's grown out like a specific colour of nail polish or whatever.

⮞ you're not allowed to go to the rumbles, firstly because Ponyboy isn't either due to age and because you're a girl.

⮞ greasers don't pick fights with society girls, but society boys do pick fights with greaser girls.

⮞ you've got a curfew, and Darry will get even more worried than when he did with Pony if you ever get late.

⮞ you've got princess treatment from Soda and Steve whenever you drop by at the gas station to keep them company.

⮞ they tell you to just 'sit there and be pretty' (referring to the counter) whenever one of them has to go attend a customer.

⮞ you've actually, embarassingly so, when you were

younger had a huge crush on Dallas.

⮞ you were 10 and he was the handsome bad boy that tugged on your ponytails, what were you supposed to do?

⮞ he found out three years later, once you no longer where crushing on him, because Two-Bit ran his mouth too much and now he mocks you on it and calls you all kinds of nicknames just for funsies.

⮞ god forbid any of the boys hurts you with an insensitive comment because Darry will knock their teeth out of their mouths without hesitation.

⮞ one time Two-Bit said that your dress looked dumb while he was drunk and Darry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and forced him to apologise to you and tell you that your dress was really pretty.

⮞ talking about dresses and Darry, he always measures that your skirt goes at least two fingers over your knee before letting you go out lol.

⮞ overall they just act like a bunch of overprotective —and idiotic— older brothers.

softfem-dom© do not repost!!

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment.

Want more to read? Check out my masterlists.

[colouredbyd]

"Tell Me I didn’t Lose You"

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: After your vision reveals the traitor, you’re caught between clinging to what once was and the heartbreak that follows. The people you love are trying to hold you together—but healing only comes when you let yourself feel the pain first.

wc: 3.3k

warnings: themes of prophetic trauma, visions, emotional distress, and betrayal by a close friend. canon-typical violence, grief, and angsty angst but with fluffy fluff. hurt/comfort, mild language, happy ending

authors note: AHHH finally part part 2. i wasnt planning on writing it but many insisted in my dms. so sorry if its messy, tw: not proofread

part 1

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as your body jolted upright, lungs burning as if you’d surfaced from drowning. Cold stone pressed into your spine, grounding you in a reality that felt almost as violent as the vision you had just escaped. Around you, a circle of faces swam into focus—James, pale and wide-eyed, mouth parted in quiet panic; Remus, kneeling beside you with hands trembling just inches from your skin; and Sirius—his grip on your wrist iron-tight, like if he let go, you’d vanish into the void that had just swallowed you whole.

Your heart was racing, throat raw, ears ringing with echoes that hadn’t even happened yet.

Blood. Screams. Smoke.

James falling, crying your name with his last breath.

Remus, voice breaking through sobs as he fought to hold the line.

Sirius, shaking, begging, clinging to your body like he could stop it from going cold.

You’d seen it all.

Death.

Betrayal.

And now you knew.

Your breath hitched as you forced yourself upright, ignoring the dizziness that tilted the room. Your fingers dug into the stone floor to keep you steady.

“She saw something,” James said hoarsely, his voice cracking around the words.

Remus nodded grimly, his gaze locked on yours like he was trying to pull the vision from your eyes. “What did you see?”

You didn’t answer.

Your eyes drifted over each of them—your boys, your lovers. James, still gripping the map like it might fix this. Remus, steady despite the panic hiding just beneath his skin. Sirius, closer than all of them, his hand warm on your wrist, his voice shaking with restrained desperation.

And then… him.

Your best friend. Peter.

Hovering near the back, half-obscured by shadow, hands tucked deep into his robes, fingers twitching. His eyes darted away when yours met his. Not with concern. Not with fear. But with something else.

Guilt.

Shame.

Recognition.

He wasn’t shocked by your collapse. He wasn’t surprised by your silence. He was waiting. Hoping you wouldn’t say it. Your heart thudded in your chest. A sickening weight settled in your stomach.

“Say something, love,” Sirius whispered beside you. “You’re scaring us.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “I saw it,” you whispered, voice paper-thin. “I saw what’s coming. What we’re walking straight into.” The room went still. The kind of stillness that comes before a storm.

James shifted uneasily. “What did you see?”

You looked right at him. “I saw it happen, Jamie,” you breathed, your voice cracking. “You die. Remus gets left behind. Sirius…” Your voice broke again. “I’m taken. And I know—I know—who leads them to us. Who betrays us.”

The silence that followed was worse than any scream.It clawed at the walls, thick and heavy and suffocating. Your eyes burned as they locked onto Peter again. And then, the words ripped from you like a wound bursting open:

“It’s Peter.”

The room freezes.

There’s no sound now. No breath. The world stops.

James’s face pales. Sirius stiffens, his hand twitching by his side, but he doesn’t move. Remus’s expression flickers between confusion and something darker—suspicion? Denial?

Peter, behind Sirius, looks… nervous. But that’s it. Just the faintest shift in his posture, like a man who’s just been caught in a lie.

“No,” Peter says, and the word is thin, a tremor of uncertainty beneath it. He looks to Sirius, to Remus, pleading silently with his eyes. “That’s—no, it can’t be. You’re wrong.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as if it’s trying to beat itself out of your body. You can feel the air crackling with tension, every breath more difficult than the last. You stand shakily, your legs weak beneath you, but the truth won’t leave you. It claws at you, dragging you up with it.

“I saw it,” you repeat, your voice sharper now, filled with something darker. “He’s the one who tells Voldemort about James. He’s the one who lets them in. He’s the reason James dies, why you run, Sirius, why I’m left behind.”

Peter’s face twists then, a faint flicker of panic crossing his features. He laughs, but it’s a strained, hollow sound. “That’s insane. This—this is just a dream. A bad one. You’ve been working yourself too hard, Y/N. Your powers are messing with your head.”

But you can’t let him dismiss you. Not this time. You step forward, pushing through the pounding in your skull, the weight of the truth grinding against your ribs.

“Don’t patronize me.”

Your voice is cold, cold enough to freeze the very air between you. You can feel your blood rushing in your ears, your hands trembling with fury.

“I felt it. I lived it. It was real. Everything I saw—it happened.”

James’s gaze shifts, his eyes glancing between you and Peter, then back to you. He’s searching. Looking for something that could make this make sense. “How do you know it’s him? How do you know it wasn’t just—just symbolic?”

The question hits you like a slap. The doubt in his voice, the way it hangs in the air, makes your throat close up. You want to scream, to tear this all apart and make him see. But you can’t. You can only show him the truth. Let him feel it.

But you can’t. Not with his eyes locked onto you like that. Not with Peter’s guilt weighing down on you like a shadow that’s been cast too long.

“Because I saw it,” you shout, the words burning in your throat, searing everything around them. “Because I saw you scream my name while they dragged me away. I saw Remus fighting. I saw you, Siri, running from me. You—” You stop, gasping, your voice shaking like a blade that’s lost its edge. “You left me.”

Sirius flinches as if you’ve struck him. His face crumbles in agony, and for a moment, you see the heart of him—the pieces of him that are still soft and vulnerable.

“I would never leave you princess.” he says, his voice cracking, desperate, like he’s trying to put the shattered pieces of his soul back together with words. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t make me believe I could.”

“You did,” you say, and the word feels like it’s made of shards of glass. It’s so final. So heavy. You wish you could take it back, but you know you can’t. It’s the truth, and it’s already carved into the air between you.

Peter’s breath hitches, his face contorting with panic, but you don’t look away from him. You won’t.

“I never—” Peter starts to say, but the words fall apart before they reach the air. His chest heaves with an almost sickening desperation. “I never meant to—Moony, please! You know me! I’d never—”

But Remus doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, his gaze colder than you’ve ever seen it. He doesn’t even look at Peter.

Sirius, though—Sirius can’t hold it in anymore. He steps forward, his voice low, shaking, filled with a rage that’s been building for far too long. “If I find out that even one part of her vision is true,” he growls, his eyes hardening like ice, “I swear to fucking Merlin, Peter—you will wish Voldemort had gotten to you first because i will burn you to death.”

Peter crumples. He falls to his knees, his body shaking uncontrollably now, but there’s no more argument, no more defense. He can’t even speak through the sobs.

James is silent. His eyes dart between you and Peter, like he’s drowning. He doesn’t know who to believe. His face is twisted in agony, torn between trust and fear.

And then, finally, the dam breaks.

You scream, your voice tearing through the air, your lungs raw with it: “Do you think I’m lying about watching you all die?”

Sirius punches the wall. The crack of bone against stone is the only thing that cuts through the chaos. His knuckles break on impact, but he doesn’t stop. Blood drips, forgotten. He’s a storm, and nothing can hold him back anymore.

James collapses into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He doesn’t know what to do anymore. Everything is wrong, and there’s nothing left to save.

“You were never meant to know,” you sob, your voice breaking. “You were never supposed to believe me. That’s why I saw it. So I could change it. So you didn’t have to die.”

Peter doesn’t move. He sits there, trembling, on the edge of something irreparable.

And that’s when Remus snaps.

He grabs Peter by the throat, slamming him against the wall with a growl you’ve never heard before. The world explodes in chaos as Remus’s wand presses into Peter’s skin, the force of it enough to choke the air from his lungs.

“Let me go!” Peter gasps, his hands scrabbling at the wall, desperate for freedom, but it’s too late. Remus doesn’t hear him.

The room spins into madness, voices shouting, accusations flying, betrayal hanging thick in the air. The Marauders—broken, shattered—surround Peter, and he crumbles further under the weight of everything he’s done.

Sirius pulls Remus back, but even as they separate, it’s clear nothing can fix this.

And in the center of the destruction stands Peter Pettigrew. A man who was once a brother. A best friend. A marauder.

Now, he’s just a traitor.

A ghost in the ruins of your world.

The Marauders were once legends.

Now, they are just ghosts waiting to happen.

It’s been 62 days and two full moons since the incident.

Since the night truth shattered like glass and cut everyone it touched. Since the vision turned into revelation, and revelation turned into war. Since Peter ran away and fled to merlin knows where. Since Peter's trembling confession cracked the world open—left it bleeding, howling, wrong.

Since everything changed.

James hasn’t smiled the same since. He still jokes, still acts like the golden boy with the unshakable heart—but it’s thinner now. His laugh always comes a second too late, his eyes always look like they’re scanning for something just out of reach. Sometimes you catch him staring into the fire, as if he’s waiting to see his future burn before it happens.

He hasn’t touched his broom since too. It leans in the corner of the dormitory, gathering more dust than any magical object should. He still walks the corridors with that same messy hair and tired smirk, but there’s a hollowness behind his eyes, like the vision you showed him is still playing behind them. He pretends for everyone else, but not for you.

Not when you find him sitting alone at the top of the Astronomy Tower at dawn, robes tugged tight around his chest like armor, hands buried in his hair.

“I wasn’t supposed to survive that, was I baby?” he murmurs without looking up.

You sit beside him in silence for a moment. Then laugh softly: “You still might not. The future changes prongs, who knows you might die at my hands”

James lets out a hollow laugh. “That’s comforting.”

You nudge his shoulder gently. “You’re still here.”

He looks at you then, eyes glassy but oh so full of love, in a way only James Potter could have  “Only because you saw it first.” 

he kisses you, full of love and adoration. For the first time in 62 days , but oh who's counting anyways?

And then there’s Sirius.

Sirius, who hasn’t stopped moving in 63 days. He throws himself into anything. He paces the dormitory late at night, spells muttered under his breath, wand clenched so tight his knuckles are white. He’s put a crack in the boys’ dormitory mirror from throwing a textbook at it. Professor McGonagall hasn’t said a word about the new dents in the walls near the staircases—maybe she knows. Maybe she heard him whispering your name like an apology outside the Fat Lady’s portrait. Like a vow. If he stops moving, he starts thinking. And if he starts thinking, he remembers. Remembers that he left. That he was taken. That in your vision, James died, and you screamed his name, and he couldn't come back for you.

Sometimes, when he thinks no one’s watching, he kneels by your bedroom door with his head bowed like he’s praying. Or confessing. Or both.

“Say it again, please.” he begged you once, fists clenched. “Say you’re here. Tell me I didn’t lose you.”

“You didn’t,” you promised, pulling his hands to your chest. “You didn’t lose me, Siri.”

He kissed your forehead that night like it was sacred. “ I love you.”

he whispered it for the first time in 63 days, but oh who's counting anyways?

Still, you hear him sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep—soft and broken: “I left her. I left her.”

Remus… Remus is the one who’s changed the least—at least on the outside. He still sits with you in the library, quietly sliding a new stack of books toward you with a soft smile and tired eyes. Still takes his tea with a drop of honey. Still folds his robes neatly and corrects James’s essays when he’s too exhausted to think. He is quieter than usual, but steady—always steady. He doesn’t speak of the night it happened, but you know he hasn’t let it go. You see it in the tightness of his jaw when James mentions plans, in the way his gaze lingers on Sirius when they think you’re asleep. He’s the glue holding the pieces of this fractured relationship together. And he’s tired.

But there’s a weight in his eyes now. Like every syllable of your visions lives behind them.

“I should’ve believed you, dove” he says quietly one afternoon, fingers ghosting over the spine of a Defense textbook.

“You did,” you say.

“No, not soon enough.”

But something’s colder now. Like he’s holding himself in check. Like there’s a wolf beneath his skin, pacing, waiting. You think he hasn’t forgiven himself—for not seeing it sooner. For not trusting your visions. For needing the truth to bleed out before he believed it. For doubt–

–“Remmy, as long as we all are okay then that's enough, believe me moony” you held his face and whispered. And for the first time in 65 days Remus Lupin believed it, but oh who's counting anyways?

You all are.

The Gryffindor Tower feels different now.

The fire still burns, the armchairs still sink under your weight, the portraits still gossip among themselves—but the warmth is thinner. The laughter is quieter. Sometimes, late at night, you catch first-years watching the four of you from across the room, whispering to each other.

As if they know something’s been broken. Something sacred.

Peter’s his name isn’t spoken anymore.

Not out of forgiveness. Not out of fear. Just… because no one can bear to taste the bitterness of it again. It sticks in the throat. It reopens wounds. His absence is a presence all its own—hanging in the corners of the house like cobwebs no one wants to clean, lest they find something worse underneath.

Sometimes, when you’re walking past the black lake, you swear you see his reflection in the water. Like a ghost. Like a warning.

And yet… amid the wreckage, something gentle still lingers.

Hope.

You’ve counted each of those — now 67 days — in silence. And with every one, the scar in your heart aches a little less—but it never really stops.

Because you remember.

You remember Sirius holding your wrist like it was the only thread connecting him to reality. James breaking down in your arms. Remus’s hollow voice when he said, “We should have believed you.”

And you remember what it cost for the truth to come out. What it nearly cost all of you.

But even now, beneath all the sorrow, there’s still something that lives in the quiet.

It’s fragile. Flickering. But it’s there.

It’s in the way James slips an extra chocolate frog into your bag without a word.

“Don’t say I never spoil you,” he smirks, and when you raise a brow, he adds, “Oh baby, don’t read into it too much.”

You already have.

In the way Sirius grips your hand a little too tight as you walk through the corridors.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he mutters. “Don’t. I’m not losing you again.”

In the way Remus hovers in the doorway of the common room each night, just long enough to make sure you’re safe.

“Sleep well, my girl” he whispers every night, even when you’ve already shut your eyes.

And then—two weeks ago, a rare Hogsmeade afternoon.

Just the four of you. No purpose. No heavy silences. Just wool scarves, cold noses, stolen sweets. Sirius dared James to try firewhisky-taffy. James choked. Sirius laughed so hard he fell into a snowbank. Remus shook his head, but he smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in weeks.

You were sitting on the hill behind the Shrieking Shack, James beside you, Sirius tossing Exploding Snap cards into the wind, Remus pouring spiced cocoa into conjured mugs.

And then—

The world shifted.

The vision came like a soft breeze. No pain. No scream. Just warmth.

-

-

A house. Sunlight through old windows. James lifting a small boy into the air, laughter echoing off wood beams. Sirius in the kitchen with flour all over his apron and cheeks, a toddler tangled in his arms. Remus reading aloud with a girl curled up at his side. You stood in the hallway, watching them all, hand on your heart. Safe. Loved.

Home.

-

-

When you came back to yourself, they were already watching.

“Y/N?” James asked. “You alright baby?”

You nodded slowly, eyes full. “I saw something.”

Sirius tensed immediately. “Bad?”

You shook your head. “No. Good. For once… it was good.”

Remus exhaled, something quiet and reverent. James’s fingers found yours.

“Tell us,” Sirius said, his voice barely a whisper.

You looked at each of them. “We were older. Happy. Together. There was sunlight. And kids. And no war.”

Silence.

Then, James chuckled softly. “About bloody time you saw something good.”

Sirius laughed, too—wet around the edges. “Did I look hot as fuck?”

“You were covered in flour and biscuit crumbs,” you teased.

“Sounds right,” Remus murmured. “We’ll get there.”

And maybe—for a moment—you all believed it.

Because even now, after the betrayal and the bleeding truth, you still come back to each other.

Because love came before the fall.

And somehow, against all odds, it’s still there.

taglist: @theysaidhush @aelinwya @musiclover50 @lunavelhaha

[bisexualiteaa]

could you do a rough and dirty writing with silco x f!reader? maybe hate fucking? if that’s too much to ask for 🙏

I’m busy

AN: hello dear! It’s never too much to ask for! I love taking requests, they give me a reason to write! 🥰♥️ My apologies that it took a few days, it’s been a hectic week but I wanted to ensure this was good before posting! So I hope you enjoy and that I’ve done your ask justice! 🥺🫶

Synopsis: it’s been a long and grueling past few weeks for the eye of Zaun, when a moment of privacy between you gets interrupted he finds a way to correct such action from happening again.

CW: established relationship, mentions of canon typical violence, brief mentions of smoking, cursing, power dynamic, slight vöyeuristic/ëxhibitionist themes, 0ral (male receiving), fïngering, reader has hair, hair pülling, no use of y/n, r0ugh seggs, d0ggy, unprotected seggs, cream 🥧, name calling, dëgredation, bïting, spänking, aftercare, possible spelling/grammar errors

Normally, people knew better than to barge in the door of Silco’s office when it was shut, typically being enough evidence that he wasn’t taking any visits. They knew especially not to do so without an extremely good reason for being there.

Well apparently, almost everyone did.

So it came as quite a shock to you both to hear his door open, without even so much as a knock, as you sat before him on the floor. Your knees were red and sore from leaning on them for so long, his hand grasping your hair in a messy ponytail to keep it from your face as you were sucking him off. Thank the gods his chair was turned away from the entrance and big enough to conceal you both, effectively shielding you from the sights of whoever was ignorant enough to walk in unwarranted and unwelcome to interrupt your rather intimate moment. They were already few and far between as of late. “I’m busy” Silco simply stated, the deep rasp in his voice a little more strained from trying to not only hide his pleasure, but from the frustration of his orgasm slowly inching away from him now upon the intrusion. “We are overdue for a meeting, Silco” spoke the familiar voice of Finn, making you both roll your eyes in unison as a frustrated sigh left Silco’s lips.

Of all people, it just had to be him.

You should have known it was, no one else would be foolish enough to act out in such a way. The man truly never knew when to leave shit alone, and when he wanted something done he wasn’t above acting like a spoiled brat to get it. He annoyed you particularly to no end, and you swore up and down if you heard him click his fucking lighter one more damn time, it would break into an all out brawl between you two. “We’re due for a meeting when I say we’re due, right now I’m busy. Get out” he asserted, the underlying threat in his tone making the throbbing ache between your legs only continue to worsen as you listened to him scold the younger man. It was an interesting predicament to be in for sure. Your lover’s cock throbbing in your hand as you gently rubbed it up and down, making up for the absence of your mouth, whilst he barks orders at someone. It was quite the sight. “And just what is it that you are too “busy” doing to discuss important business?” Finn asked impatiently as you, unbeknownst to him, brought your mouth to Silco’s length once more, listening as he was not only blatantly overstepping his boundaries where he had absolutely no business in doing so, but also annoying you both in the process with his whining and bitching. Was it too much to ask for a moment of privacy with the man anymore? You had needs too, damn it.

“That is none of your concern. What is it that you think is so important that it demands my immediate attention?” He asked, growing more and more impatient by the second as his dick throbbed angrily in your mouth, watching as you continued to work him, only at a slower, quieter pace to hide what was truly going on. You’d be a bold-faced liar if you said the thought hadn’t crossed your mind to continue despite someone else being in the room. “Trade with topside has plummeted-“ Finn started to say, but Silco was already having none of it. That’s what he came here to talk about? That was what was so important? What a fool. The man was already annoying enough to begin with, but for him to have the audacity to have barged in, disrespected his privacy and ruined the orgasm you were so close to giving him, was an entirely different crime of its own. “You wish to interrupt and invade my privacy to talk trade?” He asked rhetorically, a beat of tense silence hanging heavily in the air. “Leave. Now. Before I lose my patience” He followed up with, anger lingering in his tone as a warning.

All he wanted was a moment alone. A moment to feel something other than anger, other than stress. Hell, even a place to funnel it into for just a moment’s reprieve would be nice yet it seemed he couldn’t even have that. “What is it you’re so busy with, huh? Too scared to look at me, old man? Because you know I’m right?” Finn asked once more and that was the final straw, his last shred of self-restraint. You watched as Silco leaned back, now resting against the padded backing of his chair, as an eerie sense of calm washed over him that left the air even more tense than it was before. “You really wish to know what it is I’m busy with, Finn?” He asked, speaking the man’s name in near disgust before looking down at you, watching as you looked him in the eyes while licking a fat stripe up along the underside of his length, earning a pleased hiss in response. “Would love to know what’s so important you can’t even look at me when I speak to you” Finn responded, acting all big and bad, but you could tell by that look in Silco’s eyes that he had a plan to utterly decimate that attitude problem of his, to show him he had nowhere near the upper hand in this situation. After all, he was in someone else’s territory. Merely a guppy in the den of a shark; he had no power here, and he certainly had no power over the man whose pleasure sat before you in your hands. It excited you to no end. “Would you? How about you listen close then and you’ll find out” he said, looking down at you as you grinned mischievously, knowing exactly what you were to do.

You gave a devious little giggle that was just loud enough for Finn to overhear, leaving him to furrow his brows with confusion. He hadn’t realized that someone else was in here too. That you were in here with him. Your body coursed with fiery excitement before taking Silco’s cock back into your mouth, your tongue swirling around his tip before sucking sloppily to make it painstakingly clear what was going on. You moaned lasciviously as his fingers pulled your hair, controlling the pace in which you’d bob your head up and down on his length, listening as you would gag on occasion when he would thrust up into your mouth and go too far down your throat. You knew well that this should not be doing all the things that it was doing to you right now, but you couldn’t help it. Something about it was just so incredibly hot. Between the vexed assertiveness of his tone with Finn, paired with the contrast of the desperation of him using your mouth the way he was, all mixed together with the thought of knowing that Finn was hearing it all and able to put the pieces together on what was happening. It was thrilling and it drove you mad with lust. It’s been weeks since the last time you had a chance alone with the man, let alone the chance to be intimate in some capacity and you were both aching. You watched him lean his head back with pleasure, a deep, raspy moan morphed into a chuckle escaping him that had you absolutely soaked. “What the…you sick fuck” was all Finn could reply with in disgust as you continued, the both of you acting as if he wasn’t even in the room with you anymore, your unspoken plan to make him uncomfortable working absolute wonders. “Then perhaps think twice the next time you decide to barge in. Leave, now. I will not tell you again” he barked, leaving Finn to scoff in disgust and annoyance as he turned heel and left, shutting the door behind him with a loud slam. Finally, some peace.

“Filthy girl” Silco spoke condescendingly, making you moan around his dick as he talked down to you, pulling your hair again as he yanked you off of it to get you to look up at him as he spoke. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” He asked, a lopsided grin resting on his lips as he looked you over. He couldn’t help but to think you looked marvelous like this. Streaks of mascara running down your face, your soft plush lips all swollen, red and covered in saliva from sucking him off. Perhaps he should have you like this more often, whether it be at home or in his office.

The growing flush across your cheeks was a rising suspicion that he was correct in assuming, watching as you shook your head yes in response. He gave a hum with intrigue at your answer, unsure whether he was surprised that you would enjoy such a thing, or delighted. Maybe a healthy bit of both. “So desperate for me that you would go as far as to pleasure me in front of my associates? Quite bold of you” he replied, making you only flush darker as your gaze broke, watching your eyes cascade down to look at his length again with such lust and desperation in your eyes. Gods how you craved him.

You felt his fingers tilt your chin up, forcing your flustered gaze to meet his again. You felt ever so small before him like this, so powerless. So submissive. Yet it never failed to stoke the fire burning in your core, because you knew if you were good for him, he’d be good to you in return. “What if he saw you like this, hmm? Would you have still continued?” he asked curiously, making you bite your lip as you rubbed your thighs together, desperate for any sort of friction to relieve the ache. “If you’d have let me, yes. I would” you answered honestly, making him groan at the thought. Nothing says power quite like establishing your territory, and being so unphased by someone else’s presence as to continue pleasuring the person before you. That was the ultimate power play. Perhaps that would have worked much better, chased him away much sooner. He’d keep it in mind for the future should such a foolish stunt be attempted again. “My, aren’t you just full of surprises darling” he replied, his tone full of intrigue and delight. He’d never known you to be into such acts of depravity, to be so brazen and bold outside of the sanctity of your shared bedroom. He liked when you were bold. Perhaps liked wasn’t the word.

He adored when you were bold.

“He’s insufferable, the fool” you spoke plainly, your words not only honest but truthful. Truth be told, you hated Finn, he’s been the biggest thorn in Silco’s side for too long now and there had been too many a times you dreamt of him getting put in his place. “He wished to barge in, disrespect your boundaries, and question your authority. He was a fool to not have expected it to have consequences. About time he’s been put in his place if you ask me” you replied, making him hum once more at your answer. “And besides, it’s been far too long since the last time we had some time together. Surely you can’t blame a girl for going after what she wants, can you?” you asked, flashing those big doe eyes up at him as his hand let up in your hair just enough to allow you to lean back down, tongue circling his tip, making him chuckle and groan. You were right, a man such as himself couldn’t hold it against you for having the nerve to go after what you wanted. In fact, he encouraged it.

“You did well to scare him away” he stated, making you hum around him. “He should be killed for ruining my hard work” you responded so seriously, releasing his tip from between your lips with an audible pop before laving your tongue up along the underside of him once more. Your anger fueled words only made him chuckle, oh if only you knew how many times he’d thought about it, especially when he had the audacity to look upon you lustfully in the past. To admire you as if he hadn’t known you were Silco’s girl. Everyone knew, it was laughable to think he could consider himself big enough to be a danger to your relationship, or a threat to Silco of all people. “His luck will run out eventually” he replied, almost reassuringly, merely thankful the man’s voice was no longer poisoning his ears and stealing his oxygen. Now he could return his focus on you, and that’s truly all he wanted. “But now that we’re alone again…shall we continue?” You asked with a look of anticipation and a grin stretching to your lips. “Yes, I think we will” he replied, leaving your heart thrumming with excitement. “Up, over the desk” he ordered, leaving you to do exactly as he said. He watched you lean over it, arching your back perfectly to give him a stellar view of your ass. His hand smoothed across it before coming down harshly against one cheek, leaving you to yelp in surprise from the sensation. You worried your bottom lip between your teeth as you felt him press two fingers against the wet spot that accumulated in your panties. “All of this for me? Pleasuring me gets you that excited, does it?” He asked, making you shake your head yes in response, but that wasn’t good enough. Slap! came another hand across your ass. “Speak. You know better” he scolded. “Yes! Yes, all for you. Love making you feel good” you babbled out, feeling him smooth his hand across the angry skin. “Was it just from pleasuring me? Or was it from pleasuring me while someone else was present?” He asked, making you whine with embarrassment as you sought to cover your heated face by letting your head drop to his desk.

He wasn’t a fan of this however, because it wasn’t long before you felt his fingers work their way into your hair once more, pulling on it to pull you up. “Answer me. You know I like being rough with you love, but don’t make me be mean” he warned, if only it did anything other than excite you. “Or is that what you want?” He asked, pressing his hips against your ass, feeling his cock throb against your panty clad cunt. “Yes!” You answered eagerly, making him chuckle deeply as he leaned forward. “Careful what you wish for” he threatened by your ear, making your pussy clench around nothing, desperately soaked and aching for attention.

You felt his fingers loop into the waistband of your panties, finally pulling them down and exposing your heated core to the cool air. You could feel the slick that spread all the way down to your thighs, watching as your underwear hit the floor, still looped around your ankles. “Won’t be needing those” he said before bringing his fingers to slide along your slit, collecting as much of your slick on his fingers as he could before rubbing your clit, finally paying it the attention it’s been craving. You melted beneath him in an instant as he did, ass pressing against him even more as you twitched and writhed against his skilled fingers. “Desperate little thing. It’s pathetic how soaked you are for me. Get one taste of my cock and it already has you mindless” he spoke with a click of his tongue and such condescension in his tone, but fuck if it didn’t make you even more wet for him.

He was right, all it took was one touch, one taste and you could be reduced to mush in his hold. Like putty in his hands, he could do anything with you that he pleased and you’d take it. You trusted him, and he’s gone out of his way to show you he would never hurt you.

You moaned without a care for who could hear, finding yourself unable to stay quiet. How could you when it just felt so damn good? You felt as his fingers traveled down to your entrance, feeling one of his nimble fingers slip past your tight ring and inside before working another in with ease. He loved the sight of your cunt stretched around his fingers almost as much as the sight of it wrapped around his cock. You writhed and moaned as he curled his fingers within you, finding all of those spots that made your every nerve ending feel as if it were about to explode. Your body hot, a slight sheen of sweat collecting against your forehead as you panted and moaned desperately, rolling your hips against his fingers. Then like that, you were empty again, leaving you to whine and mourn the loss of his touch as he brought his fingers up to his mouth. You watched in lustful awe from over your shoulder as he licked your essence from his fingers sinfully, wishing for it to be you, finding yourself in such terrible need of him. “Please…need you” you begged, making him chuckle as he lined himself up to your entrance. “Listen to yourself, begging for me like the good little slut you are” he replied as he slowly inched his way in, groaning at the feel of your warm, velvety walls inviting him in, stretching to accommodate even after all this time.

“Perhaps we should show everyone what I’m busy with, hmm? That way there’s no more interruptions” he finished as he sat there pulsing from deep within you, cock fully sheathed inside of your snug cunt as one hand sat around your throat. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment as a warm tingle spread through you, leaving him to hum with intrigue after feeling you clench around him. Clearly you liked that thought, liked the idea of others knowing what was going on. His tip was already nudging the apex to your cervix and the tight grip he had on your hip, paired with the hand wrapped around your neck, warned you that he wasn’t going to be forgiving tonight. That his intent was to fuck you. Mercilessly. It had been too long, with too much stress accumulating over these past few weeks, too much anger. It had been nearing a month and he needed a release, luckily you were just the thing for him. What better way than to pound your aching hole into oblivion? You needed him, he needed you, it was the perfect exchange. He tested a thrust into you, deep and harsh that had you keening up from the desk with a loud pornographic moan. “Gods, yes!” You let out as he began to set a harsh pace, pounding into you hard and deep. The drag of his heavy cock hitting all those sweet spots from within you drove you absolutely crazy, your muscles weak, bones left feeling like jelly as you lay beneath him. “Fuck it’s been too long…” he let out, hips slamming against your ass with an audible clap, his desk creaking and even inching forward slightly with his harsher thrusts. “Such a filthy girl, letting me use you like a whore for everyone to hear” he chastised, but your pleasure-idled mind had already begun to melt into mush. It felt too good to care if others were listening, or to care what they thought of you for this. To you, it was thrilling.

Your chest heaved with every breath, back nearly aching from the harsh arch you were holding yourself up in. You cried out as you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder, a pleasurable pain sending your nerves alight as your eyes rolled beneath heavy lids. “A slut for pain, are you?” He asked, hand tangling in your hair once more, pulling your head back to allow him more access to your neck and shoulder as he laved his tongue over the angry bite mark. “Mhmm!” You managed to get out, feeling him pepper kisses up along your neck as he fucked your brains out. You hadn’t known you needed it like this, unsure of whether you could handle an angrier, rougher side of him but you loved it. Knowing you would leave here with bruises that claimed you as his, that you would come home and see marks from his hands, lips and teeth that blossomed from passion. Knowing you would wake up tomorrow and they would likely still be there as a reminder of what transpired. It excited you. Your only regret was having not tried it all so much sooner. “Fuck, yes! Oh gods, don’t stop!” You begged, feeling that familiar sensation of tightness in your core beginning to make its presence known. His name left your lips like a mantra to a fallen god, your fingers gripping the edges of the desk tightly to the point your knuckles were turning white. You watched papers fly everywhere, scattering the floor in various places with the way he fucked you so recklessly into the wooden desk. At this rate it wouldn’t have shocked either of you if all of Zaun heard your cries of his name, your moans of pleasure or the obscene sounds of your bodies rhythmically joining together. The smell of sex hung heavily in the air, mixing with the scent of tobacco and smoke from his cigar that had been put out a while ago, mingling together and morphing into something truly unique.

It was as his hand descended between your legs, fingers circling your clit that you were sent over the edge into bliss. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum! Silco!” You let out in warning before it washed over you like a tidal wave and consumed you whole. Your body gave way as you twitched and writhed with each shocking pulse that fell over you, mouth opened wide as you nearly screamed upon your release. You could tell from the way his movements no longer held rhythm that he wasn’t too far behind. Your walls clenched around him, making him lean forward as he bit your shoulder once more, a feral growl leaving him as he emptied himself inside of you. You bit your lip and moaned at the feel of his cock throbbing within you, painting your walls with his seed, filling you to the brim. You both remained like that for a moment, fighting to catch your breath as the after glow set in. You could hear the sound of a lighter from behind you, watching from over your shoulder as he tilted his head back and exhaled a puff of smoke from the cigar he had earlier that now sat between his nimble fingers. You couldn’t help but to give a giggle in response as you felt his free hand trace your spine and travel along the marks left against your skin. “You are quite the treasure trove of surprises, darling” he said, making you grin and hum. “Are you alright?” He asked, seeking you in such a weak state, and seeing all of the marks he’d left on you had him a little worried that perhaps he’d been too rough with you. “I’m great” you answered, making him chuckle as he took another drag of his cigar before carefully pulling himself out with a hiss from the sensitivity. “Good. You did well for me” he replied, helping you get cleaned up and dressed before redressing himself. He couldn’t help but smile as he saw you sat there on his desk, a hand grazing your cheek before kissing you softly. “Thank you, I wasn’t aware of just how much I’d been needing that. Or rather how much I’d been missing out on” he admitted softly, making you smile as you gently pressed your forehead against his. “No need to thank me love, I’m glad I could be of some help. Happy to remind you of how lucky you are” you said with a cheeky grin, earning a laugh from the both of you. “I am rather lucky, aren’t I?” He asked, making you hum as you pulled away to look at him, a far more joyful look on his face and a softness in his eyes compared to the harsh scowl that sat there before. “Quite. Though I’m lucky too” you responded sweetly, with a smile to match as you leaned your head against his chest, making his heart feel so full. What would he ever do without you?