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moondirti · 6 months ago

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ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH [ john price x f! reader ]

: he sees you when his vices take hold. little love, invented. chimeric, he assumed - until you're not.

mdni. noncon; addiction (nicotine and alcohol); SSRIs; intoxication; breeding kink; daddy kink; hallucinations; kidnapping; drugging; objectification; slut-shaming; sexual harassment; violence; bondage; vomiting; guns; suicide, murder, pregnancy, spanking and branding mentions. 7k.

a/n: have yall seen ruby sparks? yeah imagine that but worse

John's always had his fixes.

He remembers the hysterics. Five and wet behind the ears, lungs scoured raw of anguish when his mum hadn't let him sup the vanilla extract. It's not what you'd expect, hun. But the child-sized idée fixe, destructive in its naivety, turned its head at the implication. He stuck his nose to the bottle's cap, got a whiff of it unfiltered, and revolted; how could it taste like anything but the ambrosia it promised?

Or, who was she to deny he try?

(His resistance to authority can be spoored there. A miasmic trail back to youth, stinking something foul. It had been a Sisyphean effort, pyrrhic, when he enlisted. Burnishing odour only to find, without it, there was nothing left for them to make use of.)

So – red-faced, tousled pyjamas at 2200, balanced atop a chair as his parents snored soundly on the couch – he snuck a teaspoon for himself.

It was foul, of course. A calcine irritation that clawed on its way down his throat, baring raw tissue in its wake. He hid his coughs behind his sleeves, vision cloudy with tears as he put everything back where it belonged – not disappointed so much as he was committed, he thinks. Because the very next night, he came back to try it again.

And again, and again.

Like clockwork, he tipped the small vial up onto his tongue and hoped it would pass into something different. Obsessive. Ruinous monomania. His dreams sprung into caliginous visions that detailed nothing but the phantom touch of it to his tongue; this taste, syrupy sweet like nothing he would find in comfits and puddings and pies.

(In hindsight, all it did was teach him how to embrace the burn.)

It only stopped when his mum woke to him voiding his guts in an old popcorn bowl. Poison control, buoyant levity clipped over the rotary phone, told her that it happens all the time. Kids go looking for a midnight snack and think vanilla will hit the spot. Our suggestion is to settle for alternatives until he's old enough to know better. Hydrate in the meanwhile.

– know better.

It's hard to say he does.

His wants still have wants, have asinine wants, that which keep him so late into the night that it's dawn before he falls comatose. Sunk into a leather wingback, the space of his parlour more smoke than it is air, contemplating keeping a warm body in these hinterlands. Helplessly soft, pretty. Fixated on that faceless something, burrowed beneath his sweet tooth again.

But on the wrong side of forty, he's honed prudence like a well-oiled firearm. Custom so things run smoothly, though not one he finds necessary if it weren't for convention. He knows his job would cut in on the upkeep, month long absences like a disease to whoever he manages to snare. It'll kill them, slowly, holed up in this home alone.

(When his parents did away with the extract, he tore the curtains and scribbled on their walls. A boy's green version of withdrawal, deprived of his favourite vice. He's never considered sobriety for that very reason – he's bad even with a maduro in hand.

And the thing about people, they're never so easy to replenish.)

Age besets everything. Counters them, grown as he is. Pragmatic.

Still. To say he knows better is... faulty, flawed. Not when he fists his cock to those fantasies and stirs on all the ways he can bring them to light. Early retirement (a prompt no; he's just as dependant on the field), or multiple little loves to keep each other company, his house turned an Arcadia of nymphs (though he tires to think of wrangling more than one, and the idea diffuses like sugar steeped in tea.)

It's on his fourth- fifth iteration that John starts to see it for what it really is. That this – a darling wife to curl between his legs – is like the imagined taste of vanilla extract. Too good to ever be made true. At least for a man of his ilk, whose bloody hands slip around nirvana. Unearned. Chained to purgatory so long as he weighs sins against the greater good. He wasn't meant for the finer things in life.

So he sticks to what he has. Old familiars. Noxious inhibitors, palmed for upwards of ten pounds, crafted for old dodgers like himself. Tobacco, dry whiskey. Nicotine to spout fire to his hindbrain. Cheap, easy accesses that sate the itch behind his eyes, so long as he lights another.

Ouroboros. It feeds itself and lasts.

(Until you come off the tail end that is, and sever the loop with your own, clever little hands.)

You pose a different kind of problem.

It starts after Serbia. Hounding across the Carpathian mountains for the better part of a winter has detrimental effects, see. And though he eventually locates the bunker Laswell's informants alerted them to, he comes out of it changed – head fixed the wrong way around, skin flaking over off a mulish swell of anger. Going back home is an ordeal when his body acclimatised to find warmth in the frost, talking to Stygian shadows like comrades. Necessitated madness revoked.

Because all of a sudden, everything is too comfortable. Vibrant. Nothing hurts enough to match the stress still ricocheting within him, and the imbalance threatens to capsize. The doctors prescribe SSRIs, tell him to keep it separate, Captain, when their eyes skim that part of his file that notes him as a habitual drinker – so he switches from bourbon to Canadian whiskey, like the ABV will make a difference.

(That inveterate defiance, rearing its ugly head once more.)

And really, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about.

The static in his head flatlines, white noise taking its slot. It's the greatest peace he's found since his bunkmate at boarding school stuck a joint between his teeth and told him to suck. Like fog wearing over a hill, his thoughts grow muddied, loose and abandoned once he can't tell which way is up or where the sky ends.

And the wants, the very same he's long since buried, come back with a vengeance. Unchanged, for the most part (he doubts they were ever dead in the first place) yet manifested differently, like they're privy to the scepticism that killed them last.

(Reveries no longer disembodied, shuddering old film onto the backs of his eyes, but projected into the dark corners of his house, instead.)

He hears your laugh, first. It is early March and easter endorsements already shade the telly in garish joie de vivre, corporations fighting for a foot in your spring celebrations! Buy an egg-dying kit and get one free, hurry before it's too late! John doesn't remember turning it on, can hardly feel the remote in his hands, but that acedia ebbs once the sound of it meets his ears. The sound of you–

Jingle-bell mischievous, he knows it has no place amidst the foolish ditties of spring. He turns the T.V. off, sitting upright in his chair, ears piqued in every direction as he waits for it again.

From the kitchen: another breathless titter, tapped from a chest too delicate to be mistaken for the howling winds outside. When he rises to inspect the source, he swipes the spare gun he uses to foot a broken table, trigger finger dangling bonelessly by the grip. Good to have it there, just in case, though he's confident he won't need to resort to such measures to neutralise you – not if you equal the Zephyr-like quality of your voice.

(Paranoia, it seems, is another effect of downing his meds with Crown Royal. Had he been less inebriated, he would have remembered that his doors are double bolted, and that there's no one out for miles.)

But what he expects to find, luminous between the birch cupboard rows, is not there. His kitchen is as empty as it's always been.

So, they might have warned him about it. He might have avoided this whole thing had he listened. But things snowball when he grasps what's happening. Calamitous uptake; it invades his dreams again, and his dreams invade reality.

(If he cannot have what he wants within the provident constrictions of life, then what's the harm in indulging himself, if only a little.)

Soon enough, he sees glimpses of you wherever he looks.

Sylphic figure come to haunt him. Light bounces through you, your flesh gossamer-like. Diaphanous. He thinks you cannot be crafted that way if not to accent the dark, wet rims of your eyes. The lightning-branched veins etched to all four extremities. Nipples like petals, touched alluringly to your breasts. He thinks you cannot be fictitious – he's never been an inventive man, and the impish flick of your lips reads as familiar, somehow. Dancing on the tip of his tongue, or a song he's heard once and never again. Like he's taken to it before–

His memory swishes like watered nectar in this state. It's impossible to place.

Still–

So long as you continue to appear as fine mist does, chasing the throttles of his high, John's a happy man. He need not tell you anything; you already know his name, what it is he likes. You sway to imagined tunes (later, he couples it to the erratic drumming of his heart) and jump nimbly around his legs, winding and tangling and falling right through them when he wishes to see you stumble.

You don't talk much, either. He has yet to whet the finer points of your being, work out what makes you tick or how you'd enunciate your words. It's an eggshell process. Fragile. Some nights, he'll imagine you with a cadence that doesn't quite fit, and you'll stutter like a faulty motor before shattering from view. To avoid disillusionment, he has to be careful. Extend a platter of properties for you to choose from, picky thing, and watch as you notch them on your tongue, testing.

You'll get this look on your face as you do. Contemplative, lips pursed for a moment before you shrug and slide down to decorate his feet, arms stretched across his ottoman like willow branches over a creek. It would put him off if it were anyone else, but he's eternally endeared to you.

The first time you speak, it's to call him out on that.

'Naturally.' You giggle, twirling your phantom fingers in the tufts of his leg hair. 'You have to like something in order for me to present it. Or is that not how it works?'

He doesn't think so.

"You tell me, little one. If that were the case, why disappear when I try something you aren't keen on, hm?" His words are slurred, strung together hastily, like his tongue hasn't the strength to articulate each in full. You understand him anyway, of course, scrunching your nose.

'I don't know.'

"Think, then."

You shuffle straighter on your knees.

'Maybe I want to be just right for you, daddy. Not all your ideas are great.'

John jerks his leg admonishingly, the joint of it passing right through you. It causes you to blink out of existence for a second, and his throat twists uncomfortably around the new darkness. Loneliness hurts more, harrows deeper, now that he's unused to it.

But you come back, straddling his hips this time. You always do

(So long as he keeps sipping, the glass in his hand sweating cool condensation into his skin. His cigar slowly smoulders away in a nearby ashtray, waiting for the uptake.)

"Mm, thought I lost ya." And if you were there – really there, he thinks – he'd wrap your hair in a fat fist and angle your head roughly down onto his. His arms lay flat to his sides, however. Restless.

'No.' You don't exhibit the same discretion. You smooth down his bare chest, ironing his scars until he feels brand new again. Whole as a kid. 'Haven't you heard? I have a tongue now, and all I wanna do is talk.'

"Is that right?" He hums, half-lidded eyes watch the space between your knees widen. Like Artemis in her waters, cursing Actaeon to the jowls of his dogs – you love teasing him when you know he cannot do anything about it, destined to be torn apart by his inborn desire.

'Well, what else is there?'

And if not for that one thing, John would be content to live like this forever.

(Two, if you count his prescription quickly running out.)

Routine lasts about a fortnight, if his taking of time is to be trusted.

Staged courting, you call it. A production of how typical romances go. When the sky bruises, opening up like the ripe flesh of a plum, he'll knock back two tablets using the last dregs of his afternoon whiskey and wait for you to come home to him. You look stunning when you arrive; naked, your body soft and creased and effulgent. And while it depends on how his day's been, more often than not, you'll imitate rubbing his feet as he tells you about everything – paperwork and the taskforce and state secrets (does confidentiality count towards figments of his high?) – before he's settled enough to cut to the chase.

Yet he runs out of patience for it as time hauls on. Avidity amasses, tumorigenic need cramping his chest. One day, he stops you from kneeling at all.

"No need for that, sweet thing." He orders with a stiff grunt. There's no justification as to why, though it's clear you sense it already. The fraying strings of his sanity, that which you bat at like a playful kitten, have started to unravel dangerously close to what is holding it all together. "Just do what you do best, hm?"

(The best you can do–)

'Yes, daddy.'

Ever-dutiful, despite the monotony. There are no arguments with you, no taming and fights unless he's in a particularly aggressive mood. The only indication of your disappointment (not yours so much as it is his in himself) is the wet flutter of your lashes, the poking harlequin pout.

Both disappear from view when you turn your back to him and bend at the hip, small hands stretching to dig into your behind. His cock is out in no time – was practically tearing at his pant's seams, really – thrumming painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach when you pull apart either cheek like dough.

Your pussy spreads, glimmering under a matting of wiry hair. Arousal (feigned, imagined, projected–) webs your thighs together, swollen clit budding at the end of your mons. Apple of Eden; his jerks are awkward, uncoordinated, in comparison. Human. There's a twinge in his wrist from working himself almost daily.

His teeth taste like tobacco and spice, sleep clinging to the roof of his mouth. Would you eclipse it with your sweet-sour tang? He pictures taking you; stuffing his nose right below the tight rim of your ass so his tongue can lave over your slit. Working you open with his tongue. You'd soak the hair around his lips, and he'd press harder in response.

John spoils you rotten in his dreams. You know it, too, toes wiggling where you stand a few feet away. How cruel that he shouldn't get the chance to, then – that he has to consume his fixes to stop them from taunting him, and you're God's way of saying that he can't always get what he wants.

Carrot on a fucking stick. He's made an arse of. And worse yet–

He can't cum, no matter how enticingly you stand there. His palms are too calloused, nerves grown bored of their rough drag. Every jerk is a barely-there sensation. Surface level. Shallow. Like a rock skipping across a lake that never manages to sink.

(It never did amount to what you do to him in his head. But it seems as though his body has finally caught on to what the rest of him already knew.

That this – this tragic, autogenous slaking of carnal desire – can not continue on forever.)

He groans, paralysis needling painfully up his neck. It echoes like anger and holds none of the punch.

Breaking position, you twist to assess the newborn tension.

'Shhhh,' You coo. There's no judgement in your glassy eyes, none that can perceive (or wants to see). Rather, it's all pure love, a whisper of distress, and devotion. His little love, so perfect besides this one thing. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

"Not your fault." Hoarse. Broken.

(Who has he become?)

'I'd help you if I could. Let you take whatever you wanted from me, you wouldn't even have to ask.'

He'd been the one to initiate it, but the prospect of his orgasm is long abandoned when you perch on the armrest, laying your head near his. He has nowhere else to put his hands, so he keeps them cupped between his thighs – and if he suspends utilitarianism for long enough, can almost believe that they're yours, instead.

"That's nice, little one."

He imagines your warmth, the soft comfort of your bosom, as sleep encroaches on his periphery. You'd cup the tired weight of his head and lay it on your lap, there to stay until he awakes to birdsong. There in the morning light.

Thus the minutes tick by in quiet melancholy. He's halfway layered in the pelts of hypnagogia before you speak again.

'You should visit town tomorrow. Mail something home for Mother's Day maybe, and stop by the grocer's for eggs. You're all out.'

He hasn't seen greater society for almost a month.

A wicked hangover splits his skull, worming its claws into the soft matter of his brain. John had initially set out to do as you bid him – find a nice present for his mum and stock up for the next few weeks' hibernation – but the throngs of people crowding home goods and the jewellers make his condition worse, so he resolves to call her on the day and heads straight to the market instead.

Eggs, you said. He needs a lot more than that. Water and red meat and perhaps something that leaks grease when fried. Cucumbers, yoghourt, granola, too. Milk or juice, never both because he can't commit to finishing them before their best-by date. Fruit. Cookies.

The list grows exponentially as he surveys the colourful aisles, under eyes tender to the touch. If it weren't for the cart carrying most of his weight, he would have toppled over already, his chest dipped over the handle, wheels barreling forward. The store's empty enough that he doesn't worry about clipping someone's ankles. For now, it's just him.

Always that. Just him, and–

"Ah!"

Fuck.

"Are you alright?" He defaults, lurching to pluck the rolling oranges off the floor. It necessitates far more exertion than he can handle at the moment. The woman he ran into catches what bowls from his reach.

"Oh, yes! So sorry, that one's on me." She laughs, nervous. The nature of it – gentle, shaky like the beat of a butterfly's wing – rouses a near Pavlovian response in him, pleasantries crystallising between his teeth, hard as pearls. He coasts a suspicious look up, but her head stays bowed as she piles everything into her basket, arched baseball cap obscuring her features. "I insist on carrying everything, see, then it gets too much for me and the baskets are the nearest thing, and you know how heavy those can get if you do some serious shopping, don't you?. Honestly, I never learn. How silly."

The wonder shatters. He cringes, eyelids pruning shut to gather his sore thoughts in the sudden clammer. Talks too much, too loud. He finds it hard to tolerate anything but singsong whispers these days.

(On him, he knows.)

Unceremonious, they both stand. John extends the final orange, appraising the products she tucks it between rather than look back up at her. Sugar, butter, eggs, flour. And a hefty heap of citrus, of course. Odd.

She seems to think the same, breaking the awkward lull first.

"Big family?" The question is clearly well-intentioned – posed to the stacked contents of his cart. No well-adjusted man would hoard as many perishables for himself, not with the grocer's as accessible as it is. But John is not well-adjusted in any sense of the word, especially in the past few months. All her prying does, then, is inflame the irritation dusting his throat, kneading salt into the wound.

How incredibly unfortunate timing.

"Gingivitis?" He clips back. His hangover makes regret a hard thing to reach, though given she doesn't take offence to his snipe.

"Ouch, okay." She laughs, more lighthearted than before. It reminds him of you (you, is anything its own thing anymore?) and John feels a fire light his heels. Agitation to get back home. "No, I'm making orange shortbread for the old folks at the nursing home. Needed to replenish a few things. I haven't baked in a while."

"How nice."

"'Tis the season! Erm– I mean. Y'know, with Mother's Day."

(Later, when he's staring at his fingers, sozzled like a cat on cream, he replays this conversation over in his head like he'll be able to change its outcome. Had he been alert, he'd have picked up on it by now. Christmas platitudes in spring – who else did he know with such transgressive peculiarities?

Captain Price wouldn't have missed it. Unfortunately for him, he left that intensity between powdered ice and silver firs.)

"Anyway." She coughs. He didn't realise he was expected to respond, stare lingering on the exit some distance away, keen to see this end. In his periphery, her cap tips down, supply list clutched in fidgety hands as she reads down the line of ingredients. He forces his attention back to the moment, training his eyes on the curve of her skull. "Just one thing left. Um, should be down hereeeee–"

Her head tilts up again, searching for the aisle markers overhead.

And it's–

Painful. Like the rip release of every organ seizes simultaneously, domino discharge down his spine. Ribs flush suddenly into the flaring muscle of his heart, which thrashes wildly against the corral, desperate to see itself out. To reach across this empty space and leech on to the delicate features that come into view. His brain – startled out of its judiciousness – blares I told you so's to the hot rush of blood behind his ears. Marrow melts to oil his joints, unmooring their structural integrity, and his breakfast threatens to disgorge and make for a foul first impression.

(John always thought revelations came kindly, that they blossomed in the neglected forks of life. Like a summer boscage, or the gentle, prying hands of a monarch escaping its cocoon. How can divulgence be anything but soft, and refined? How would the world grapple with them if otherwise?

He sees it now for what it is.

The world would have no choice.)

"Vanilla extract." You shake your list, smiling at him – a vivid, honest smile – before you brush right out of view.

He tells himself this doesn't change things. No matter how you like to argue the opposite.

'I don't see why not, daddy. Don't you want me, too?'

More than he'd like anything else in the world. But it's back again, that reaper of dreams poison control once foretold. Know better. He does, at least to the extent that bringing you here – tying you to his bed posts like he so desperately wants to do – is not the best idea. His age, his job, his incessant fucking wants, all pave their own desire paths; some more practical than others but less tempting as a result.

He knows how loneliness kills. At least he's built for it, but you?

"Work complicates things, little one."

John finds it all unfurling before him, the coffin housing his fears unhinged.

(You, dead by your own hands or worse, made vulnerable to the brutes he works against. Not a possibility when you're linked to him like this, hallucinatory, unreal, but you – the you he saw earlier today – aren't any of those things.)

'You don't really believe that, do you?'

You're never so argumentative. He sucks his teeth, waving a hand through your hips. And it must snub you so, for you disappear like smoke beneath a cloudburst of rain.

No matter. He doesn't need the temptation finding him.

(That is, until an answer finds him first.)

He phones home for Mother's Day, and she asks for updates for any lucky miss he would call his.

In the borders of his vision, you're hunched over the persian rug that was a gift from an associate for a job well done. Your feet cross over each other, fingers working idly at pretending to braid the fringed edge. The sight gets the better of him, adorable, and he briefly considers switching his answer from the usual – wish you'd stop fretting, it's not doing your health any favours – until sense catches on. He wouldn't know how to deal with the questions.

"No."

"What a shame. I know you're busy with that job and all, John," Because his mother never addresses the big risk to her son's life by name. "but you really should work on making me some grandbabies, before I pass on to the earth."

"Please, mum. Don't start with that nonsense–"

"No! It's any day now, you know it as well as I do." She tuts. He remembers her hands – tracing cool patterns onto his scalp that night, back when he was five and only concerned with the best taste his mouth could fathom. He remembers, and thinks of the wrinkled stretch of them now. "Take this as my last word of wisdom! Family will be the one thing you have when those milking tosser's decide to do away with you. Family, John!"

He chokes back a sigh.

"Yeah. So you've said."

Family. So bloody simple, isn't it?

Iron-wrought key, right under his nose this whole time.

His last two pills frown at him from behind their orange confines, two-toned and unassuming. He could get more if he so pleased, but the hope is that they won't be necessary after tonight.

Carried by the bourbon that blazes down his gullet, they go down smoothly. Soon enough, you appear, summoned, as he laces his boots.

"Does it hurt you, sweet thing?" He finally asks, punching an arm through his windbreaker's sleeve. April showers carry bracingly after dusk, weatherproof attire a functional choice.

That is to say, the towel in his pocket isn’t for him.

You gain that elvish look to your face, of the same variety he fell in love with when you first appeared to him. He often forgets how otherworldly you can be; radiant, inhuman vision. Your mirror isn't so... remarkable. Frizzy hair, fleshly, bleeding behind round cheeks. Perhaps that's the appeal.

'F'course not. It is me, after all.'

"Is it?" The front door clicks behind him, new-washed breeze pushing it into place. It feels final, like casting his decision in stone.

'Hmm,' You pretend to think for a long, long while, prancing a solid two paces behind no matter what speed he sets. A new moon blights the fields around his home, sparse raindrops reflecting only your glowing figure. It lights the way until he reaches the skirts of town, when street lamps bleed gold down onto him. Only then do you speak again. 'I should think so, yes. Take a left here.'

John does as you say.

'Though she won't be as receptive to it all. Right.'

He turns right.

'You’ll have to decide how to deal with that.'

"I'd appreciate a few pointers."

'What do you think I'm doing, daddy?' You murmur, materialising before him as he comes up on an avenue known for its nightlife. 'Take a right here and keep going.'

"And you?" He asks, though he already knows the answer.

'I'll be there.'

You are. Though you’re not alone.

Two cretins crowd you into a brick wall, lanky arms anchored by your head to form a flimsy aviary. John hears their badgering a block away; crowing voices, placatory promises they wouldn’t be able to uphold even if they knocked back a viagra each. The wind carries it, works their whispers into fine dust. Powder. Negligible. He’s seen this dance before – this dreadful caper, a little bit of force behind what is otherwise an insipid show – but he’s usually above such drama. The men he keeps know not to ask for what they want. Not when it hazards a bird flapping out of reach.

You’ve got to clip their wings, first.

Though you look like you’d be indebted to any sort of hero. The hem of your dress rides up your thigh, snapping away from restive hands. Shortening what is already… He resolves to admonish you about it later, traipsing closer to the scene. Given your ornament, he can’t blame these men beyond covetous reason, but he won’t topple it onto you either.

Everything flays out before him. Of the bunch, you demand the slyest hand.

“C’mon, love. It isn’t that far of a walk.”

“Yeah. You’re pissed out of yer mind a’ready. Can’t go home now, huh?”

“Would be so cute between us both.”

“The best. Look at those wide eyes.”

“Busy checkin’ out the arse on her, but I’ll get to her eyes in a minute.”

Your face crumbles in on itself. He’s closer now. Can make out the mascara painting black tracks down your cheeks, lips smeared by the rain – or, the alternative, pecking vultures having claimed them already. Either way, a green-eyed serpent seethes in the curls of his gut, blood imbued venom coursing. He feels it wind, poising for attack, strength compressed into a tight ball of anger.

Then, when one of them – ginger, juvenile – snakes a hand between your legs, it strikes.

He rips his gun from the inner lining of his coat. The other kid is shorter, more on edge, so John doesn’t worry about the force it’d take to daunt him. When the cold press of his muzzle fixes to his companion’s temple, he dashes away with a pathetic screech, tripping over the loose ends of his shoelaces. Par for the course. Weasel.

The ginger isn’t so lucky.

“You get off on scaring defenceless girls, lad?” He barks into his ear, one hand gripping both floundering wrists. The boy cringes, fear rattling his throat. Any response he tries to shape turns out a nasally wheeze.

“P-Please-”

“Shut your fucking trap. You’d have a better shot at mercy carving your little cock off.”

“I w-wo– we were just-t having fun. No harm… harm done, right?” The pleas recourse to you. In his periphery, John registers your frown. Half-hearted. Scared still – of both the unfamiliar, violent men. He peels the commotion two steps back to show he means no harm.

(To his narrow definitions, of course. His plans for you constitute harm in anyone else’s book. He’s sure that, if you were wise to them, you’d slip in the other direction.)

“She doesn’t seem to think so.”

“No! No, p-please, p–” He silences the boy with a pistol-whip, blunt end of the gun breaking skin off his jaw. The message couldn’t have been clearer – twice now, he’s demanded silence – but no one seems to listen. His cries peak, out-of-tune in the pitter-patter shower. Tortured, like a mangled cat.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, yeah?” The air flutters around you. He’s trained to tread carefully, like you’ll disappear at any moment. Better make this quick, then. “You’re going to go home, lock your windows, and try to sleep with an eye open tonight. The young lady’s welfare matters more than your fate, but I don’t forget. There will be a time where I come to break every finger off your hand. Enjoy them in the meanwhile.”

Perfunctory, he shoves him to the muddy floor. Blood joins the streams sluicing to the sewers, inky swirls of gore a welcome sight. He hasn’t felt this alive since–

Well, since Serbia.

And the boy must see the predatory gleam in his eyes. The dead, inbred callousness. Shark out of the water. Knows what’s good for him as the fin breaks the surface, rows of teeth just underneath, because he runs off before they can snap around his clumsy legs.

(You, on the other hand, don’t have that instinct. Instead, you blubber, seal on a floating icecap.

And dive headfirst into his jowls.)

“T-Thank you, I can’t thank you enough. I- My friends left me and I didn’t have a ride home and no one was picking up my calls so I thought it would be safe to ask them, but I couldn’t have predicted how nasty they’d be. Really, they seemed like nice guys–”

John censures you with a stare.

“You should know better than to be out at this time.”

He’s gotten good at imagining your responses. He needn’t hear what you have to say next. Before you can even open your mouth, the chloroform-doused towel in his pocket is out and pasted to your pretty face.

There’s a brief pause where he expects you to fall through to the floor. But your body slumps, ragdoll boneless, right into his arms.

That’s what brings him here.

Here: cotton rope hitching your elbows together behind your back, a column of square-knots parallel to both arms. It was what he managed while you were unconscious. Could have managed more – so much more, tick off the beginnings on a cosmic index of all the things he wants to fucking do with you – if it weren’t for patchy effort. He went a little rabid, see. Clipped off the leash, chain to the doghouse broken. Saw the time better spent fondling your supple curves, your body lax beneath his.

Weakened or willing, it doesn’t matter so much as you’re corporeal. That he can.

(A book he bought as a much younger man details seven different ways to harness a chest. If he had a grip, he would have seen to it – your breasts purpling, ensnared in a lattice of his own construction. It’s this new, foul fascination. How many ways can a body bend before it breaks? He’s never been mindful of the line before, on the field, but he’s got one to do with as he pleases, now.)

Little one. New toy, fix. His wife.

You process it all in your own time, sleepy eyes peeling open to find that you’re no longer in some dingy alleyway. Though your hair has yet to dry, he’s made good work of paring the damp dress off your form, the steady warmth of a fireplace making for a gentle come-to. John takes it as encouragement when a tired yawn splits your mouth, lips quirking up. Smiling.

“Look at you.” He hums, thumb working quicker over your clit. With legs notched apart, your cunt’s been made vulnerable, bared to every ministration he couldn’t wait to inflict until after you woke. Thus you’re already weeping a steady stream of slick, folds lacquered in arousal. Leaking down the line of your ass, too. Desperate thing. He scrutinises the sloppy mess of it, doughy and swollen and wet, shoulders flexing over the possessive swell in his throat.

It’s comical, the turnaround. Reality overruns your face, peaky infestation from his carcass to yours. Your eyes well with teary distress as you take him in. What a monster he must make; frothy longing turned savagery, held too long under the blighted mass of his tongue. Festered. Ugly. He sees it himself in the contrast of his skin and yours. Where you’re satin, all incandescent sweat-slicked stretch, he’s 60 grit sandpaper. Sun-hardened leather and crooked scars.

“Hnmphh!”

But he can ignore that. Doesn’t have to concern himself with rejection, not when the bit gag between your teeth renders you mute. Simple knot sandwiched by your molars. Subtle. He doesn’t want it to hurt today – not any more than necessary, at least – but conversation has gotten old. There’s a reason he brought you home. Why thick fingers work your hole, breaking it to house something bigger. He isn’t interested in soft-soaping anymore.

(The two of you have had your honeymoon already.)

No. Purpose, he thinks. His mum laid it all out for him. A family to bear you company during those long weeks he isn’t home. Family, linchpin to making this all work. To crowd this house with not just one, or two, but multiple sweet things that’ll extinguish the lonely flame at its hearth. He celebrates it already – boisterous corners, crowded kitchens, the cable he pays for finally being put to use.

And you–

“Promise I’ll suck that pretty pussy like I promised, little one. Just– fuck- daddy just has to do something first, yeah? You gonna be good for me?” John huffs, shucking his trousers to fish himself out of his pants.

Your muffled protests launch into something else entirely, feral defiance compelling your limbs like electric shock. It’s fusillade, violent devastation. Your legs flail, unhinged, compensating for the lost mobility in your arms. He manages to slip his fingers out of your clutch and tuck a hand under either knee, but not before your heel connects to his jaw. As is true on the field, adrenaline primes a strong kick. Metallic warmth swathes the inside of his cheek, strength waning for a second.

And through it all, you have the audacity to cry.

When he regains his bearings, anger has supplanted care. He hoists your thighs up onto your chest, calves upright in the air, and pushes a knee forcefully into the space exposed. It flattens your cunt with the pressure, clit crushing in on itself. Agony bulges fine lines at your temples, veins bloating as a miserable scream tears from your throat.

“I’ll cane your ass raw if you keep up with this. Strike your hole until all you’ll feel for weeks is your punishment. That what you want, mm? Want the memory of our child’s conception to be filled with pain?”

His nose fits to yours, beard tickling the canyon of your upper lip. It's intense, the proximity. Heat flush between you, sustained fire you can’t pull away from. John watches the hesitancy flit over your eyes, the reluctance of a burn, breaths erratic and shallow. You didn’t breathe, before. Didn’t need to. But he finds that he likes the new rhythm of it. Like watching the life drain from a quarry, game bleeding out into Serbian snow. He never thought he’d miss hunting for survival – not until he had you pressed to his side, lured from those other predators into something much worse.

(And perhaps that’s what’s been absent, all along. You used to come too easy, allowed him to grow permissive and lazy. But this–

His skin fits the moniker again. Captain, revitalised in his bones.)

You shake your head no, just as he rubs his cock along your entrance.

The feeding is effortless. You practically draw him in, needy for it, walls conforming to the fat intrusion until his head nestles against a hard spot. Steel-wool pubes tangles in your own, scratching the sensitive hood of your clit as he adjusts to the balmy suffocation. Tight. So fucking tight, more so than he could have imagined, your struggle working against you as it contracts the muscles around the area.

His teeth knock into yours, borderline bruising kiss closing the gap. Should he give it a moment’s breath, his lips would swell blue. But he keeps you to him, your reluctant mouth slow against his own – impeded by the gag and your own stubbornness, snivels sucked into his gluttonous abyss. It tastes like seawater and vanilla, the wires crossing in his brain.

This, he thinks, is the taste he’s been searching for all his life.

This petty space separating you, a carpet of chest hair laid over our thighs. Breathing one another in, memorising the scars behind your cheeks. Pistoning into your cunt, making room for himself in the years and years to come. He’ll never get enough of you. You’ll never get enough of it – once you learn to embrace the pleasure wrought out of you.

In due time.

He batters parallel to your cervix, plunging deep as he can go. You’re slippery with the effort, wet where you thrum fierce, depravity stringing the oscillating gap of your mons and his pelvis. Binds you to him like gauze on a day-old wound, sticky and raw, and you must be a masochist if the stiffening of your joints is anything to go by. Your pupils roll, stupid, to regard the back of your head. Fucked dumb. Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring.

“Can’t wait to see my seed take, have you grow round and glowing.” He growls, speaking into your cheek. The faint hints of your cologne, long faded under rain and sweat, cram temptingly into his synapses. It’s all he can do not to take a whole bite of you, now that he can. Wants to see the evidence of his ownership mark your skin; violent, a little bloody. Physical. Carnal. Imperfect presence honing in the fact that it is better than none at all.

“Mmmmff,”

“Yeah? Want me to keep you pumped full of my cum? Think that would be nice. Plugging you shut. Maybe suspending you upside down so it’s a sure process. How does that sound, sweet thing? Y’like it?”

Your feet thump weakly on his back.

“Then cum. Go on, be a good girl f’me.”

And with the orchestration of it all; your already tense pelvic floor, the rippling liquid of your eyes, the stifled voicing of your plight–

John can’t tell whether or not you do.

You tire yourself out, eventually.

It’s much later; the rise of a new morning flooding his home in sheer blues, illuminating last night’s mess. Without the orange glow of firelight, it looks a lot less romantic. Torn clothes, cotton fibres. Body fluids matting the pelts he uses to break up the floors. He would have it in him to blanch at the forfeiture of his self-control, cringe a little for appearance sake. He’s grown, now. Should know better.

But there’s no one around. No one. Just him, christening a loveseat instead of his wingback, and–

You, knocked out on his lap, rope burns raw up your arms.

(When you wake again, he’ll make it official. A passing of the torch, so to speak, from one fix to the next. He hasn’t a band, or really any certification to make it legal. But–

The lit end of his cigar should do. Touched, fittingly, to the proximal length of your ring finger.)

John’s always had his fixes.

He finds he’s finally had his fill when you cradle his child close to your breast, and reach out a hand for him, too.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i post / update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

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amurotoorudesu · 17 days ago

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just a sagau genshin abt the newest banner (geo & hydro dragon my love) (the creator is self insert) LOTS OF OOC

a/n : written in rush cuz i randomly think abt this after knewing next phase banner and i hope i got both of them, i was gonna added about how i forgot ayato & childe exist when i planning on which dps from each vision should i pull, but they make no sense so i didnt include it.

"I didnt mean to look down on your choice, Your Grace. But, didnt your cousin says itll be better just to pull me...?"

You look at Zhongli with the most unserious, more like silly face, thinking about hes actually jealous of your choice on pulling for Neuvillette.

While it's true you need his shield and he would be the first Geo 5 star you have, but who wouldnt want a hydro dragon pure water tester PLUS a water machine gun to pew pew those enemies!

And more better? You have an unbuild Furina too!

"But my cousin also says he would comeback to genshin to pull for Nupi!"

If Zhongli able to curse, he will.

when will you also gave him a cute, silly lil nickname to him too?

"But like, Your Grace—"

"Shhsshhh"

You quickly shut him, putting your own finger on his lips, making a small blush creep onto the Geo Archon.

Zhongli can feel the side eye Neuvillette gave him as the Hydro dragon sips on his pure water.

"But, Your—"

Seriously, you never saw this version of him thats cant control his own usual calm demeanor, but the version you see is the impatient and insists that his opinion is the best.

Not like he's wrong though.

You put your own finger on you lips now and did a mewing pose, kinda making those two old dragon sigh.

whats wrong with this generation...

"Zhongli, hear me out. Nupi is a nuke, or else should i say Nukelet? Thats suit you isnt it?"

Neuvillette sighed again, but he didnt hide his chuckle about his Creator giving him more silly nickname.

"Pardon me, Your Grace. While it doesn't matter to me that you call me that, but I'm a dragon, not a nuke. I dont boom myself"

"But youre a boomer."

"Was that supposed to be a joke?"

"No."

Back to Zhongli. Hes still thinking countless reason about why you should pull for him.

I mean, his material is easier to get (even if youre the Creator and couldve just easily get everything you want), his talent is useful (SHIELD??? BIG PILLARS???? THROWING BIG ROCKS TO THE ENEMIES?????), he got many fans (BUT ITLL BE USELESS IF HIS CREATOR DIDNT WANT TO PULL HIM), he got many fanfics (HE KNEW YOU LIKE TO READ THEM AND HE WILL HACK THE TUMBLR TO SHOWS UP MANY FANFICS ABOUT HIM ON YOUR DASHBOARD BUT EXCLUDING THE HURT/NO COMFORT BCS HE KNEW YOU DESPISE THEM)

But then he come to a conclusion, as he clapped his hand.

"Your Grace, if Sir Neuvillette have Furina on your team, what about Xiao?"

Fuck he was right. WHAT ABOUT YOUR XIAO????? HE NEED HIS FATHER FIGURE!!!!

"Youve got a point..." you pose like the trade offer meme.

"So, who should i choose now? is it you, Sir Zhongli, or is it you, Monsieur Neuvillette?"

"Uhm, pardon me but, why dont you just get us?" ask Neuvillette, putting his cup on the table.

"Dont you think itll be better, Your Grace? You get two dragons and you also have their companions on your team."

"Monsieur, i dont have that kind of money. Im still in high school, heck, a boarding school! Even if i have guaranteed now, i dont think i can."

"But our banner started on your holidays..."

"Ok now you got another point"

"So, what you gonna do?"

"I'll take two dragon, please"

Perhaps Zhongli should thank Neuvillette for his suggestion.

------------------------------------------------------

another a/n : i post this cuz im at my home, suffering from another sudden sickness (i keep getting nauseous and vomiting plus a bad fever & headache but idk what causes them can anyone tell me 😭) also i have a tooth extraction scheduled on Monday so yeah... wished my future self a good luck

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dreamofjoys · 2 years ago

Note

Thinking about Mal with a size kink because he's SO FUCKING TALL there's no way you wouldn't look tiny under him. He can't help but find it enticing how small you are compared to him. It also awakens a protective instinct in him, and he gets a bit possessive. He needs to make you his in mind and body. And who better to take care of you than a prince, soon to be king, also the 5th most powerful magic user.

Just some brain rot

-ET

— cw: fem reader, smut, virgin loss, belly bulge, breeding kink, possessive, creampie, unprotected sex, overstimulation, praising, cock warming, size kink

— a/n: how dare you send this ask at 6am in the morning (in my timezone) ??????? I NEED AT LEAST 10 PAGE OF YOUR MALLEUS BRAIN ROT // this took long cause I just finished tooth extraction… and I had to rewrite cause I accidentally closed the page and didn’t save😭

you are right, he is fucking tall (if you are as tall as malleus, may i please know what’s your lifestyle diet because im only 160-161cm)

this guy has a size kink, but how did it came about/how did he discover about this kink of his?

it’s honestly quite easy. the both of you were just trying sex out for the first time. initially, he was quite scared to put his dick inside you

child of man, you look so damn small as compared to him. what if he breaks you into half? (malleus we all want that)

but your slutty moans and begging had his blood rushing to his dick, turning him on. so he carefully rub his head on your pink folds, slowly sinking himself in

he groans when he feels your walls gripping onto his dick like a vice, head spinning when he realised how your cute little hole is accepting his thick length

he starts off slow, afraid that if he were too hard, you would get hurt

however, it doesn’t help that you were mewling like a kitten, hands gripping onto the sheets, hips bucking up to thrust yourself into him, begging him for more

that’s when malleus realised a bulge on your stomach. he presses his palm onto it, causes you to squirm as you yelled out a fuck. it’s only then, he realises that it’s his own dick making its presence known from inside

his emerald green eyes widened in shock. was he that big to the point that he could literally mould you to his shape? or were you that small to the point he could just do however he like with you?

it dawned onto him that you were THAT vulnerable. what if people take advantage of you and hurt you?? no no, he would never let anyone lay a finger on you. he’s a powerful figure, surely, people would not dare think about hurting you if they know that you are his, right?

so he starts fucking you harder and faster, folding you into half so that he could reach the deepest depth of you and become one with you. he needs to cum inside, spill all his royal seeds inside you. not just once, but many many times, until he has none left (but lets be real, he has a lot in store) he wants to store all his cum inside, so that people could smell him on you and back away. after all, who would mess with the malleus draconia?

he has a breeding kink but we can talk about this next time

he wants to make the whole world know that you are his. thus, a one time sex is never enough

his lips curled up into a smirk whenever he watches your fucked out state. your body twitches at the smallest touch, both of your mixed fluid drooling out of your stuffed hole; he pushes back in with 2 fingers, not wanting to waste anything

the best part of all was that you could only think about 3 things. malleus, his dick, and his cum

you would grip onto his horns for support, whining to him that it's too much, his too big, you can't cum anymore, he cum too much and you feel too full

malleus only laugh, giving one last powerful thrust. his dick kisses your cervix before spurts of cum fills up your womb again

he pats your head, praising you for being his good girl

he tells you that this is for your own good, for your own protection, no one would harm you if they could smell him on you

he tells you to rely on him. he has great power and status, something that everyone is afraid of. he assures you that he would protect you with everything that he have, so just let him take care of you. all you need to do is to be his alone

too disorientated to process his words, you nod your head like his good little girl, hands reaching out to hug him before passing out from exhaustion

malleus doesn't pull out, he keeps his dick snug inside your hole, cum buried deep inside you as his slender fingers combs through your hair, wishing you a good rest and sweet dreams

he views you as a vulnerable human, something that he has to protect, no matter what

#twisted wonderland #malleus x reader #malleus draconia #twst malleus smut #twst malleus draconia #twst malleus #malleus smut #twst smut #malleus imagine #malleus hcs #malleus x y/n #dreamofjoystwst #tw smut #fem reader

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foxaftershocks · 5 months ago

Note

Hey can you please write where Lars has to take care of y/n after they get an either a tooth extracted or their wisdom teeth taken out.

Please and thank you

I hope you like this one.

“Lars!”

You flung your arms around your favourite person in the whole wide world, not caring that he stiffened, both arms pinned to his sides. You blinked up at him, expectant smile on your face, ignoring the sting you were only vaguely aware of. Right on the outskirt of your perception, something in your mouth pulled, a throbbing that was new and uncomfortable.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, still caught up tight in your embrace.

“Home,” you groaned, “I like home.”

“I know. That’s why I’m going to take you there.”

“You’re coming with me?”

You weren’t sure you’d ever felt such joy as having Lars in your home.

“Just like we agreed,” he said.

He disentangled himself from your hold, ignored your pout as he slipped an arm around your waist, guiding you out the door. You were gazing up at him, caught up in the way sunlight seemed to play over his skin and in his hair. Your heart ached from how beautiful he was.

“Do you know how pretty you are?” you asked, feet clumsy as he guided you across the parking lot.

“Well, I, uh, thank you,’ he said, not quite looking at you. You wished he would. He had such pretty blue eyes.

You were leaning into him, enjoying the way the long lines of his body felt against yours. He was holding you up, fumbling for the door of his old car. You loved that car. Inside it smelt of years gone by, like sunlight and dust and electricity. Chasing storms and chasing dreams. You loved it, more than words could ever express.

He deposited you in the front seat, doing his best to avoid your grasping hands. You wanted to pull him closer and tell him exactly how much you loved his car. To whisper in his ear so no one would hear.

He played your hands in your lap, bent over as he settled you, pulling the seatbelt over your chest and securing it in place. You lent forward, kissing his cheek, feeling the stubble threatening to emerge scratch against your lips.

You ached when you smiled up at his wide eyed expression.

He shut the door on you, hurrying around the back of the car to slide into the driver’s seat. you turned in your seat, head resting against the head rest, watching him closely. He moved fluidly, so much more graceful than you. You reached out, hand knocking his as he changed gear on the car. His eyebrow quirked when he looked at you and you were slow to reach up, tracing the length of his eyebrow. He caught your hand, lowering it back into your lap.

You dragged your eyes away from him, watching as a bicycle stopped beside the car at a red traffic light, keeping your pout to yourself. And yet you heard when he chuckled, indignation rushing through you.

“You’re mean,” you said.

“I’m trying to get you home safe and sound,” he replied, not denying it.

You hunkered down in your seat, refusing to look at him, arms crossed over your chest like a petulant child. He kept to his side of the car and you refused to reach out to him. He didn’t deserve your attention if he was going to be so mean to you.

The car came to an abrupt stop, pulling up on the street outside your apartment building. Struggling with the seatbelt, you tried to leave the car without Lars, not needing his help when he was going to be acting so mean to you. He pulled the door open for you anyway, helping you get out of the seatbelt, an arm still wound around your waist.

He was so warm and so comfortable and you could just burrow into him if he let you. He never let you.

“Okay, stairs,” he said looking at them in the entrance hall, “no lift?”

“It’s broken,” you replied, “it’s always broken.”

He sighed but didn’t falter as he made for the stairs with you. You dragged your heels, too tired to consider climbing four flights of stairs. He sighed again, swinging you up into his arms before you could protest. He was so strong. Sometimes you forgot when all you did was sit in a lab and talk about science all day. He should do this more often. You liked how strong he was. Nice strong arms that could hold you easily.

You rested your head against his shoulder. He always smelt so good, like soap and aftershave and something that was only ever around when Lars was. You pressed your face into his neck, listening to him breathe as he climbed.

“Alright, where’s your key, love?” he asked.

He was slow to put you down, your knees unsteady, like they’d turned to jelly. You rummaged in your bag, finding all kinds of things you didn’t need like bobby pins and lipstick and some mints. None of it was your keys. You dug deeper, fingers scrabbling for the cold metal you knew you’d thrown in there when Lars had picked you up earlier.

His hand steadied your as you inserted the key, guiding it into the keyhole. His hand was so warm, skin brushing skin and a steadying force when you felt so weak. Your tiny apartment was the same as always, a bit messy and very lived in and one of your favourite places in the world. You fell onto your couch, secondhand and overstuffed, comfortable beyond comfort.

“Are you hungry?” Lars asked, shutting the door to keep the rest of the world out, “thirsty?”

There was still an ache in your mouth but a more insistent one in your stomach. Your throat felt scratchy and you hadn’t realised how much the thought of food would make you salivate.

“Yes,” you replied, nodding, considering getting up.

“To which one?” he asked.

“Both,” you said.

He left you there, taking the three steps it took to get to your kitchen. You turned, pushing up for your arms to rest along the back of the couch, chin resting on top as you watched him. He knew your home well enough to be able to begin making something. Fruit and milk and yoghurt and a blender.

“You’re not allowed to have food that needs chewing,” he said.

He passed the glass over to you. It was so cold, like a block of ice in your hands, and you brought it closer to your chest. You looked down into the slightly pink drink and felt tears prickle at the corner of your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You’re so nice to me,” you said.

He took a seat beside you, the sofa cushions dipping until you felt your body tip towards him. He caught your glass before the smoothie could tip out onto you. He passed it back to you once you’d stopped moving. Taking a sip from it you hummed, going back for another one.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you said, licking the froth from your top lip.

“It’s not that good,” he said but you could see the way his lips quirked up into a small smile.

‘Seriously. You’re like a genius. A proper genius. How’d you get so smart?” you asked, shuffling even closer, until your thigh was pressed against his.

“Just lucky, I suppose,” he said, “finish your drink.”

You did as you were told, both hands holding onto the glass. You drank deeply, your empty stomach aching with need. It was like you’d been emptied out, a hollow vessel for smoothies. He took the glass from you when it was empty, setting it down on the floor beside his feet.

“Do you want another one?”

You nodded. He paused, looking down at you and you found yourself leaning into him. He was warm, shoulder encased in a soft sweater beneath your cheek. You brushed against it, enjoying the sensation against your skin.

“Come on, love. You have to let me get up if I’m going to make you another one.”

It was with reluctance that you let him get up again. He took your glass and you listened to the blender again. You lay back on the couch, curling up as you waited, trying to be patient. His fingers stroked over your hair as he passed you the glass again. You sat up, bringing it to your lips.

“Do you need anything for the pain?” he asked.

You shook your head, chugging the smoothie. When you put it down, he immediately picked it back up, taking it into the kitchen. Sitting beside you, you curled up against him again, not able to stop yourself when he was right there.

“Can we watch Bridget Jones?” you asked.

“Whatever you want,” he said.

He jostled you for a moment, grabbing the remote for your old tv, getting the movie playing. He reached for the blanket on the back of the couch, draping it over you. You spread it over his lap too, curling against his side. His arm draped around you, warming you up from the inside out.

Somewhere between the tarts and vicar party and the cheating scandal, your eyes slipped closed. He was so warm and comfortable and all the good things in life. It was easy to relax until you were melting into him.

So when you woke up some time in the middle of the night, draped over his chest, slowly rising and falling with each breath, the blanket curled around you, all you did was snuggle closer to your nurse.

#lars pinfield #lars pinfield imagine #lars pinfield x reader #anon #request

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bloodlessbelmounte · 3 months ago

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Eternity Will Bring You Near - Chapter 2

Masterlist

Summary:

Wade understood that Logan was from a world where Alpha, Beta and Omega were everyday terms, not exclusive to red-pilled incel fuckheads who kept inventing new performative male genders. Wade would’ve been classified as a Beta. Logan, however, was an Alpha - Wade’s read enough fanfiction and yaoi manga to know what that means. Though it doesn’t explain why Logan keeps sniffing him.

Pairing: Alpha!Worst Wolverine/Deadpool Genre: A/B/O, Smut, Domestic-ish Warnings: A/B/O Dynamics, Blood, Lots of Logan Biting, Mutual Masturbation/Frotting, Blow Job

Beginning Note: It's been a hot minute since I last wrote any smut and I can't remember if I've ever written a blow job scene before so I dont feel too confident. Also sorry for any errors. I didn't want to subject my girlfriend to the smut scene.

Cross posted to AO3

Welcome back frienderinos, so many kudos on the first chapter in twelve hours – the author hasn’t experienced that before. The comments are appreciated too, sadly this failed excuse of a human can’t take a compliment and so never knows how to respond. The validation made them quite happy though. How was that vacation by the way?

Well considering that I was working on this in my non-social times, pretty okay. I got a mosasaur tooth and screamed at Poseidon.

Nerd.

Oh fuck off. Don’t make me get the spray bottle.

Okay, okay! Fine.

Wade awoke – still clinging to the offered arm – to a solid mass against his back, an arm slung heavy across his waist and warm steady puffs of air on the back of his neck.

“Oh my God fellas, I’m being spooned by The Wolverine!” Wade whisper-yelled, trying not to wake the sleeping man and ruin the precious moment. In fact, he tried to nestle in closer to the older man and eliminate as much space as possible. Ass to crotch as nature intended. Logan remained blissfully asleep despite the jostling and nuzzled his nose into the nape of Wade’s neck, which sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a fucking boner. There was no way he could jack off in good conscience knowing a minor with fucking super hearing was sharing a roof with him. Oh he’s going to have to sound proof his room once they found a bigger place because fuck that. It was at that moment Logan simultaneously sniffled, groaned and canted his hips into Wade.

“Sweet,” he mumbled, his voice husky – thick with sleep.

Shit.

So much for that valiant effort. Abort mission. Abort mission! Wade extracted himself from Logan’s almost steel grip with a surprising amount of effort as the other man’s hold on him only tightened with his struggle. But Wade prevailed, and fell to the floor very gracefully with a dignified “Oof”. Needless to say Logan woke up rather confused, wiping the sleep from his eyes to better glare at the idiot tangled in sheets on the floor.

“Bub, it is too early in the day to be dealing with y'shit.” His voice still had that sleepy roughness to it. Could this man stop being sexy for even one second?!

“Well maybe don’t hump my ass in your sleep! I’m not into somnophilia and we have a child in the next room!” Wade hissed back, covering his lower half with the blanket he was tangled in, “Last thing I need is her being even more sus about me than she already is.”

Logan had the decency to look embarrassed, averting his gaze from the merc, “Sorry. I’ll sleep on-”

“Hey! I don’t mind the spooning. I love being little spoon. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.” In hindsight it was Wade’s fault as he had snuggled closer. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to take a rather cold shower.”

Logan watched as Wade turned away and bundled the blanket around his waist. God, the merc confused him sometimes. Not a word about the stiffy he had when they were tied together but all modest about his morning wood. Wade escaped into the bathroom leaving Logan alone in the living room. He stretched out on the bed, joints cracking in protest.

He took a moment to lay there starfished as Wade’s scent and warmth clung to the bedding. Logan breathed in deeply. Gunpowder, leather, petrichor, the sour note of cancer and something sweet underlying that. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on but it was familiar and grew stronger when Wade was aroused. Yet that sweetness wasn’t there in the Void. He didn’t taste it in his blood. So maybe it was something about Wade’s universe that brought out the undertones. That sweetness had invaded his dreams, clouded his thoughts as he imagined burying his face into the scarred man’s neck, biting down to give him no escape as he drove his-

Yeah… shouldn’t linger on that.

Logan rolled off the bed and sat on its edge, scrubbing his face like he was physically trying to scrub away the inappropriate thoughts. He got up with a grumble and set to work putting the bed away, placing the bedding in a pile to the side. He had just moved the coffee table into place when the ladies of the house – Mary Puppins included – emerged from their room. Althea had Mary under one arm whilst her other hand wrapped around Laura’s elbow, allowing the teen to help her navigate. Logan laughed softly at how their pyjamas matched. Althea must’ve had spare sets. He briefly wondered how they were matching as he doubted it was Laura’s idea. The mystery would be solved later in the day during idle conversation with the elderly woman, Wade had sewn Braille into the labels so she could identify her clothes. Surprisingly thoughtful for someone who refers to her as ‘Blind Al’.

“Is Wade in here? I heard the shower going so it’s either him or the new guy in there.” Althea asked Laura as the girl deposited her in an armchair.

“Wade’s in the shower,” Logan answered for her, “would anyone like a coffee? Least I can do.”

“The offer itself is a damn sight more than what Wade does on the daily. I’ll take my coffee strong with sugar, no milk.” Althea responded, stroking Mary’s only patch of fur between the ears.

Laura curled her feet up under her and yawned, “I’ll just have a glass of water or juice.”

The bathroom door creaked open and Wade stepped out with nothing but a towel around his waist. Call it paternal instincts or whatever, Logan covered Laura’s eyes immediately. His eyes, however, roved over the merc’s form against his better judgement. Well toned musculature and lean. Built for his style of over-the-top gymnastic violence. If he had been an Omega in Logan’s universe he would have been highly sought-after by other mutant Alphas. Mary barked as her tailed wagged happily, breaking the older mutant out of his revere.

“I heard an offer for coffee?”

“Put some clothes on, Red.”

“I’m not naked. All my clothes are in Blind Al’s room, couldn’t exactly waltz in there and grab a change of clothes.” Wade countered, adjusting his towel ever so slightly, “Anyway, I like my coffee how I like my men: Strong enough to beat the shit out of me. No safewords.”

With that Wade exited into the bedroom and Logan lifted his hand off Laura with a sigh. He walked over to the fridge to find the young mutant her juice. Inside, he noticed a few bits and pieces that could be scraped together to cook enough breakfast for everyone, so he grabbed those too.

I’ll stop you there, dear author, because I know that you don’t know how coffee or tea is made in America since you’re British and have those doodads called ‘Kettles’.

Squirt. Squirt.

Fuck, that burns! What have you got in that bottle? Acid?

Boiled water from my kettle you cunt.

Now that’s just mean.

I told you to fuck off.

Wade re-emerged from the bedroom dressed in jeans, some kinda horse graphic white t-shirt with a red and black cardigan. He was greeted to the smell of freshly made coffee as well as eggs and bacon. Logan was stood over the stove tending to a saucepan and a frying pan while Laura buttered toast and put more pieces of bread in the toaster.

“In the words of that bad bitch Nobara: ‘Rejoice, boys’. For I have returned to save you from the mundanity of Honey Badger’s inner monologue,” Wade joked, taking the only coffee mug on the counter top, which he assumed was for him, and sat down on the sofa. “So what’s the itinerary for today? Jointly sign-up for sobriety programmes? Creating false identities for you’s twos? Booking apartment viewings?”

“We’re taking Laura clothes shopping and, yes: getting the TVA to give us different identities. I don’t need your Logan’s enemies on my ass.” Logan replied with a pointed look, flipping the bacon.

“Oh Snookums, he’s not my Logan. There’s only one Wolverine in my heart and that’s you.” Wade kissed the tips of his pointer fingers and shot them in Logan’s direction.

Logan abruptly turned away grumbling to himself and focused on cooking breakfast.

Look – we need to speed this up because we’re at nearly one-thousand-five-hundred words and I’m not missing out on fucky-fucky action in this chapter. Show don’t tell is going out the window for this bit. So here’s the run down: We have a lovely family breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs (I would say I like mine fertilised but I can’t exactly do that on account of all the cancer ravaging my body) on toast with a side of bacon cooked by GirlDad and DadGirl. Logan threw on some of Blind Al’s dead husband’s clothes. She was a widower, weird I know. Never took her for the type of girl to settle down. Anyway, back on track. The TVA was our closest stop on the day’s list so we paid them a little visit first. Turns out they had already set up bank accounts and identities for the timeline hoppers. Very efficient, very mindful, very demure of them. Logan Howlett was now James Logan – not abundantly imaginative of the author. Laura got to keep her first name and was given Logan as a last name. We then went on a fathers-daughter bonding shopping trip to Hot Topic and some place that sells outdoorsy clothes. And after all of that we sat our asses down to look online at potential apartments until there was a knock at the door.

Thank all that is holy that I’m not having you abducted again.

Why do you hate me so?

Who insulted me in the intro to the previous chapter?

Don’t blame me for your self-deprecating tendencies. You wrote that monologue.

…

Wade opened the door. Outside was, well, everyone. Peter, Vanessa, Colossus, Negasonic, Yukio, Dopinder and the others. They must have arranged it all in the group chat. God, Wade really needed to get a new phone already. It had been three months since the last one got lost on top of a car at the dealership. Peter had a crate of beer in his hands.

“Hi Wade,” Yukio waved with her always bright smile.

“Hi Yukio,” Wade gave her a smile and wave in kind, “Before y’all come barging in here, there’s some people I’d like you to meet. Peter met one of them already. Now they have super hearing so don’t talk all at once in case you spook them.” Wade instructed as he ushered them in.

Negasonic was the first to react, brows furrowed and jaw set, “When the fuck did you get to know Wolverine? He’s meant to be on a mission right now. Are you slacking off, old man?”

Wade stepped in front of her, his face set in a somehow playful scowl, “Cool your jets teen rebellion. This here is my Wolverine,” He stood behind the kitchen chair Logan was sat and patted one of the other man’s nippleoons. He noticed how intently Vanessa watched the interaction, her gaze lingering on his hand.“He’s from a different universe. Me and this fella saved the Marvel Multiverse together.”He gestured to Laura who was seated next to Logan, “And this munchkin here who is about your age and just as spiteful is Laura, your Logan’s biological lab-conceived daughter. But things for her are a little complicated because she’s technically travelled back in time. Last but not least,” Wade bent down and picked the dog up from the floor, “We have Mary Puppins aka Dogpool. In our efforts to save the world she tragically lost her father to… other Deadpools.”

“Shame really, the Deadpool Corps are great,” Peter piped up with a grin.

“Of course they are, they’re all me,” Wade motioned for everyone to find a seat, “That’s the three newest members of our group introduced. Shall we all settle in? Or are we all going to stand around awkwardly?”

Wade took the available seat next to Logan and was somewhat surprised Vanessa came to sit next to him. For the most part they talked to the people around them, Wade was definitely trying to avoid any small talk with her. He still wasn’t used to the new dynamics of their relationship turned friendship. How do you navigate going from engaged and failing to start a family to just friends? Especially when you didn’t start off as friends. There’s no baseline to fall back on. Can’t exactly do the old routine of overtly sexual flirting and trauma bonding when she had a new fella. At some point pizza had been ordered and everyone helped themselves to it.

Logan, apparently, read Wade’s hesitance differently, “Give me the fucking dog, talk to the girl.” He demanded nodding towards Vanessa, his hands already gently grasping Mary and apprehended the pup before turning to Laura who laughed and poked Mary on the nose.

There goes his anchor. His hands gingerly rested on the table now that they were empty. What should he say? What can he say? Was there anything to salvage? Wade glanced over to Vanessa and accidentally made eye-contact which caught her attention.

“Oh, hi,” She said softly, humour in her tone and a gentle smile on her lips, like she thought she’d spook him.

Wade forced a smile, “Hi.” It came out as a wheeze as if the lump he felt in his throat was a physical barrier not a mental hurdle. He cleared his throat to dislodge it.

“You’ve been busy.” She glanced over his shoulder, still grinning.

He nodded. What the fuck should he say? What would she want to hear? Perhaps…

“I did it for you. Even if you don’t want me, I did it for you.”

Her smile dropped briefly, her hand enveloping his with a reassuring squeeze, “You did it for all of us. Can I have a word with you in the hallway?”

“Uh, yeah sure.”

Wade followed her into the hallway outside the front door. She had her arms crossed as she looked up at him, eyebrows pinched together like they always did when she was concerned about him.

“What was that? Seemed like you were masking in there.”

“I’m bad with complicated emotions, we both know that Ness.”

Vanessa snorted, looked to the floor and pinched the bridge of her nose. Oh she was getting frustrated. Not good. “If you’re trying to make your boyfriend jealous, please don’t use me. I don’t need the drama.”

“B-Boyfriend?” Wade choked, utterly blind sided by the statement, “What boyfriend? You’re the only one here with a boyfriend.”

“Right, so that’s not what’s going on then,” She mumbled to herself. She grasped his arm and made him properly look at her, “What’s the situation with Logan then? You were draping yourself all over him when we arrived.”

“Nothing! I like him too much and he hates me but we kissed-”

“You kissed?”

“Yeah, it was after the whole sacrificing ourselves thing and I was afraid he died. Obviously he didn’t but he had been hurt and I was just so relieved he was okay and there was the thrill of surviving against all odds-” Wade quick fire rambled, rubbing the back of his neck while blood rushed to settle across his cheeks.

“You love him.”

“No I-”

“Wade, I know you. When you fall it’s hard and fast-”

“Just like how I fuck.”

“Exactly. The way you look at him is just like how you looked at me in the beginning. Logan looks at you the same way, I’ve seen it at that table. But I’ll let him talk to you about that himself.”

A cough came from the doorway which made Wade startle and jump as Logan stood there, hip cocked and smirking. He hadn’t noticed that Vanessa had left the door ajar.

And how was Logan able to sneak up on me when he had metal bones and weighed at least four hundred pounds?

Wade looked backed to Vanessa for an explanation.

“Super hearing.” She said simply.

“You set me up!” Wade cried in faux outrage.

“I just got the ball rolling,” she shrugged, she patted Logan on the arm as she moved past him back into the apartment, “it’s in your court now big guy.”

The door shut behind her.

“C'mon, let’s go somewhere actually private,” Logan stated, grabbing Wade by the wrist and pulling him down the hallway and up the stairs.

Wade was struggling to keep up, tripping over his own feet and stumbling up the steps as he was dragged behind the older mutant. He had to catch himself on the handrail a couple times to stop himself from defying gravity and falling upwards. How was Logan going so fast?

Was he taking them two at a time?

In nearly no time at all they had made it up onto the roof. The cold evening air welcoming them. As the door slipped shut behind Wade, Logan turned to him and slammed a hand onto the door boxing the younger man in.

Wade turned to the arm caging him in, “Kabedon,” He murmured addressing you readers, “Veteran fans of shojo anime and manga will know what I mean.”

Logan lightly gripped Wade’s chin and made him face forwards, “I know what y'mean, I did live in Japan for a while. I know the language. But I’m not much for words. I prefer action.”

He wasted no time in capturing the merc’s lips, his grip moving to instead cup Wade’s cheek, a calloused thumb tracing over the scarred tissue beneath. If Wade could physically melt into a puddle on the ground, he would have done as tension he had been unconsciously holding seeped out of his muscles. Taking the bull by the horns as it were,his hands rose up to tangle his fingers into Logan’s kitty eared cowlicks trying to deepen the kiss, noses bumping into each other.

He should definitely grow them out, he looked so cute with bigger tufts when he was younger.

Logan nipped at the younger mutant’s bottom lip. One of those little fangs of his nicked it, drawing just a drop as blood that was quickly swept up by a flick of his tongue. Wade’s lips parted in a gasp that Logan took full advantage of. A hand fell onto one of Wade’s hips, pulling him into the other while he was being pressed into the door. Logan rutted into him, his arousal brushing against Wade’s.

Yeowza. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place.

Unfortunately, despite being functionally immortal, both mutants still needed to breathe. The two broke apart, Wade panting and oxygen starved focused on bucking his hips to match Logan’s rhythm. Logan traced mouth along Wade’s jawline and down into his neck where he started to nip and lick at the rough skin, teasing out moans and groans. Wade gave a particularly harsh tug to the hair still in his grip when the bites got hard enough to break skin. Then there was hands working Wade’s jeans open, pushing the offending material along with his boxers down far enough for his cock to spring free.

“I’m not sure you know this Logi, but I’m not a natural bottom – as the readers have seen me say nearly a thousand times already – and I very much doubt you are either, being an Alpha and all that.” Wade babbled. How was he still coherent in this situation? He’s about to have Wolverine’s hand on his dick. “So I don’t know what the procedure is here. How are we going about this?”

Logan tore himself away from where he was futilely trying to litter Wade’s throat with marks that healed far too soon, his pupils blown into molten tar and a faint hint of crimson tinting his lips, “I guess I’ll just have to train ya, Princess.” He growled.

Wade’s brain must have short circuited because in the next instance Logan had freed his own member and had it pressed against Wade’s. It was longer than his by a good few inches, and Wade wasn’t average (nor was he below it). It was thicker too.

Hoe my God! The glimpse I got yesterday through those sweats did not do him justice. That’s a weapon. He wants that in me?!

Logan held up his hand, eyebrow raised expectantly. Wade gathered the saliva in his mouth and gave it the ol’ Huktuh into the waiting palm. Logan wrapped that hand around both their cocks and started stroking them slowly. Wade whined at the glacial, almost teasing pace, one of his own hands reached down to thumb at Logan’s tip which was starting to leak precum. Wade’s, however, was dripping wet which added to the slick glide. He briefly wondered what Logan thought of the texture of his dick against his, of the hand giving attention to his head. But again his mind went blank when Logan picked up the pace and began to thrust up into their hands. Wade’s head fell against the door with a thud, his eyes rolling back. Fuck. The friction felt amazing. Logan grunted lowly as he worked their shafts, his mouth back on Wade’s throat.

“Logan- shit. I imagined something like – ah – this happening when your suit exploded yesterday. Hngh- Dreams really do come true,” Wade groaned, fucking up into Logan’s tightened grip.

Logan huffed out a chortle, raising his head only to rest his forehead against Wade’s, “Here I thought I’d found away to shut y'up, Bub.”

Wade’s gaze darted between the other man’s eyes and lips, his tongue peaking out to wet his own, “Make me then, Honey Badger.”

There was a growl from the mutant, almost primal sounding, followed by hungry searing lips seeking to consume him. And God, did Wade want to be consumed. To let this man take as much as he wanted from him then and there. But it was all getting to be too much, he was getting close. The telltale signs of his balls tightening and the heat pooling low in his stomach. He abandoned his attentions on the other man’s tip to clutch his back.

Wade yanked on Logan’s hair, regrettably pulling the other away, saliva bridged between them, “I’m gonna- fuck! I’m gonna cum,” He whimpered.

Logan readjusted his grip, letting go of his own straining cock to focus solely on Wade’s, “It’s okay. I got y'. That’s a good boy.”

Wade’s vision whited out as he came with a shout. His fingers raking through Logan’s hair and across his clothed back. His back arching like a bow drawn taut while Logan wrapped his hand over the head of Wade’s cock. He slumped against the door, took a moment to catch his breath and cracked his eyes open. When had they shut? Afew seconds later the world came into focus but oh he was not mentally prepared for the sight before his eyes.

There was Logan licking his cum of that glorious hand like it was a fucking treat not to be wasted while his other hand lazily worked his still present hard on.

“I think I must’ve died and gone to heaven,” Wade panted, “Because no way is this real.”

Logan just grunted in acknowledgement. Either he was close or concentrating on getting there.

“Would you like a hand with that? I might not be the Blowjob Queen of Saskatoon but I can give Truthful Timmy a run for his money.” Wade offered, pushing off the door to flip their positions.

“Do y'think y'can take me, Mouth?” Logan teased with a grin.

“As long as you don’t knot my throat and give me a really unfortunate case of lockjaw while we have guests over.”

“Y' don’t have to worry about that Bub, only happens when the person I’m fucking is ovulating.”

Wade dropped to his knees and lifted the material of Logan’s shirt and under-shirt to reveal those Hawaiian rolls, finally running the flat of his tongue up them like he’d been dying to do, “So what you’re telling me is that if I ever wanted to be stuffed like a Twinkie fit to burst, I just need to buy some sort of pheromone or hormone perfume. Noted.” His teeth grazed over one of the muscles.

Gotta love ‘em while they’re still there ‘cause I’m gonna make sure Wolvie is properly hydrated.

Wade nuzzled into the coarse hair of Logan’s groin. He took a deep breath, savouring the heady musky scent as drool pooled in his mouth. He lightly gripped the other’s member with both hands, mouthing along his length, teasing kitten licks and kisses. He paid special attention to lap at the underside of the tip. Logan groaned making Wade glance up at him. His eyes were squeezed shut, fists balled up at his sides.

“You can touch me, you know,” He snickered then swept his tongue from base to tip before enveloping it in the warm wet heat of his mouth.

“Fuck!” Hands shot down to grip his head, thighs twitching in what Wade could only assume was restraint.

This is where I miss having hair at times. Maybe I should alter one of my spare masks to have a mouth hole. That’ll give him some leverage.

Relaxing his throat, he tried to take in as much as he could. His jaw already ached. Damn he was out of practice. But then he’d never had a log quite like this before. Good thing his gag reflex was no longer existent. Wade hollowed his cheeks and began bobbing his head, taking in an inch or two more when he could, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth. He removed his hands and rested one on Logan’s hip, moaning and pulling him forward. The other dropped to massage his balls. A choked gasp came from above him. The grip on his head tightened, holding him in place as Logan began thrusting, shallowly at first but quickly becoming rougher. Wade choked when Logan hit the back of his throat but the whorish outcry from the other made it worth it.

Relax, breathe through the nose.

He tried to swallow and tighten around the thick length, rewarding him with desperate bucks and low growls.

“Shit. Fuck. Can I cum in y'mouth? Would y'do that for me? Swallow everything I give ya, Red.”

Wade moaned, eyelids fluttering as he made himself take Logan down to the base. A few more thrusts and salty bitter spend spilled into Wade’s waiting maw which he eagerly swallowed down. He pulled away, working to clean up whatever lingered. Trembling hands dragged him up onto his feet. Logan wasted no time in drawing him close to lap up the cum that had dribbled down his chin, catching him in a kiss, the taste of both of the mingling. It was messy but brief.

“You nasty. I like that.” Wade heaved when they separated.

Logan gave him a crooked smile, humming in amusement, “We should get back down to the party. They’re there for y'after all.”

“I don’t want our little romp to end though, Wolvie.” The younger pouted.

“There’ll be more to come later. I’ve got to break y'in don’t I?”

Logan shot him a wink and tucked himself back into his pants, Wade doing the same.

“We uh, should probably brush our teeth when we get in. So Laura doesn’t uh… So we don’t make her uncomfortable.” Wade suggested as they made their way back down to the apartment.

“Won’t stop us from smelling like sex, Bubba. Her sense of smell is just as strong as mine.” That response was far too casual.

By the time they had made their way back, the party was winding down. Vanessa smirked, eyeing both men with a knowing look. She had been in conversation with Laura who had turned pale when they entered, her face a mix of abject horror and disgust that comes with the realisation your parent is boning. Poor kid. To give her a small mercy he retreated to the bathroom with Logan hot on his tail. He tossed a bottle of sandalwood body spray to him while he got to work brushing his teeth more thoroughly than he had ever done before in his life. Once he was done they swapped. Most of the evidence of their activities erased. What a shame, he would have loved to brag about it but he didn’t want to traumatise the kid any further.

It wasn’t long before people were calling it a night and saying their goodbyes. Wade gave Vanessa an extra tight hug and a whispered thanks. Really, what would he do without her? Laura had evacuated to the safe space of the bedroom with Al and Mary, which was understandable. Wade and Logan had another beer each then set up the sofa bed. And when they settled in for the night, Logan pulled the merc to rest against his chest.

“In case it wasn’t clear, I like ya. I can’t say it’s love ‘cause I’m honestly not sure. But moments like this and the roof, I could get used to it.”

“So should we be looking for four bed or three bed places. Oh! I should ask Hank if he can invent some sort of sound barrier device for us!”

Logan rolled his eyes, “Dumbass.”

Again the ending with a bedtime scene!

Hey, someone needs to remind the readers to go to bed. Anyway next chapter will take place after a short time skip okay?

Fine! But there better be some penetration or I swear I’ll-

Squirt.

#deadpool and wolverine #deadclaws #poolverine #deadpool

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