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covenofagatha · 3 months ago

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Birthday Girl

On your 21st birthday, your friends drag you to a bar to get wasted when you decide it's a good idea to drunk-call Professor Agatha Harkness.

Word count: 3400+

Warnings: smut, fingering, oral, intoxication, mentions of underage drinking, teacher x student (legal)

“One, two, three!” Wanda chants and you and your friends tap your shot glasses on the bar counter and quickly down them.

You gasp at the burn and they laugh at you. It’s your 21st birthday and your best friends Wanda, Rio, and Natasha had dragged you out to the closest bar to get you wasted. They had all already turned 21 the year before; you were the baby in the group.

“Fuck, that’s disgusting,” you groan.

“Another round, please!” Rio motions to the bartender. He sets down four more tequila shots and one is shoved into your hand.

“Think you can get to 21?” Wanda jokes and the thought of 20 more shots makes you want to gag.

“I might puke after this one,” you say and your friends laugh. You were never a partier in high school or college, always preferring to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. You’d only had some sips of alcohol a few times, but you had never been drunk.

“You deserve this!” Nat shouts in your ear. “Harkness has been working you to the bone!”

You shrug and wave your hand dismissively, suddenly uncomfortable. Agatha Harkness is your History of Witchcraft professor at Westview University. She’s known around campus for being cold to everyone and rarely giving out A’s. She expected nothing short of excellence and would not put up with excuses. Everyone was terrified of her.

Everyone except for you.

Something about the older woman captivated you. You were obsessed with meeting her standards, dreaming of the day she would look at you with pride. You poured over your books for her class, rereading every sentence you wrote thrice, just to try to impress her. It had taken your friends days of begging to convince you to come celebrate your birthday with them because you had a paper for Agatha’s class due in a week and you were already worried about it.

“I don’t know how you’re surviving,” Wanda says. “I had her last semester and got a C in the class. Third highest grade. She’s the worst.”

“She’s not that bad,” you defend, not quite sure why. Something about Agatha getting so much hate for pushing her students rubs you the wrong way.

“Yeah she is,” Rio joins in. “I heard that she’s a real witch.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we please stop talking about her? I thought you guys brought me here to get away from school.” You take the shot that’s still in your hand and it goes down smoother this time.

“Yes, there we go!” Rio whoops.

Two more shots later and your head has gone completely fuzzy. You feel as if you are floating on air and everything around you is happening in slow motion. You get off your stool and immediately stumble, Wanda catching you with her arms.

“I think I’m a little drunk,” you tell her. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

“No shit, y/n, you don’t have to yell!”

You didn’t even realize you had. “We should probably go back to the dorms!” You look around to see Nat chatting with some girl and Rio throwing darts at the board in the corner.

“Not yet,” Wanda says, picking up her rum and coke. You’re not sure how she’s still drinking after she also did four tequila shots. “I’ll get you some water.” She signals to the bartender and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing your vision to go back to normal.

When you open them, you see dark hair in the corner. Is that–? You shift so you can get a better look and feel sorely disappointed when you realize the person is not Agatha. Why are you disappointed? The thought echoes in your head for a second, and then is replaced by a sudden urge to see your professor.

“Drink this,” Wanda orders, pressing a glass of ice water into your hand, but you’re too busy scrolling through your phone. You know she put her number on the syllabus somewhere and you are too far gone to think that this might be a bad idea.

You feel a thrill run through you when you find it. You read the number over and over, like you’re afraid it’s going to change somehow.

“I’ll be back,” you slur to Wanda and then step out the side door into the alley. You type the number into your phone and your finger hesitates over the call button. You know you shouldn’t. But fuck it. You press the button and lift the phone to your ear.

It rings. And then rings again. You’re about to hang up to spare yourself the rejection when the call connects.

“Hello?” It’s actually her.

Your breath catches in your throat and you stand up straighter. “Professor Harkness?”

“Y/n? Is that you?”

“Yeah.” Shit, this was a bad idea. Even with your head still swimming, you know that. You can’t just hang up though.

“Why are you calling me at 10:30 on a Saturday night?”

“Um,” you say, trying to think of something. You’re definitely going to have to drop her class after this. You’ll never be able to face her ever again. “It’s my birthday?” You offer lamely.

Agatha scoffs. “Happy birthday. Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, no, Professor, I just wanted – we’re at a bar – I thought you were – and just wanted to say hi,” you ramble, knowing you’re not making any sense, and you can almost hear her smirk through the phone.

“Y/n, are you drunk right now?” Her voice perks up and it sounds like she’s finally interested.

“No!” you protest. “Well, maybe a little. But I’m 21 now!”

“What bar are you at?”

“Jimmy’s.” It’s a local dive bar that is a popular place for Westview students to hang out at.

“I’ll be there in ten. Wait out front.” There’s a click and then she’s gone. You stare at your phone, dumbfounded. Is Agatha coming to pick you up? Why?

You walk back into the bar and order a Dirty Shirley. The call had sobered you up a bit and if you had already drunk-called your professor, why not get even more hammered. Wanda comes back over to you and giggles when she sees the new drink in your hand.

“Alright, time to party!” she exclaims. You pick up on the fact that she’s a little drunk as well. You stand up, vision blurring for a second.

“I actually called an uber,” you lie, even through your hazy mind knowing that your professor coming to pick you up might sound strange to them.

Wanda pouts and then throws her arms around you. “Happy birthday,” she says into your ear and your arms tighten around her.

“Thank you,” you breathe back. You’re close with Rio and Nat as well, but they don’t have the same bond you and Wanda do. You pull back and then go say goodbye to your other friends.

The wind outside does very little to sober you up and you shiver from the coldness. You’re wearing a purple crop-top and a black mini-skirt, something Nat had found buried deep in your closet. You watch the time on your phone, heartbeat picking up as it gets closer to ten minutes since Agatha had hung up on you.

And then right on the dot, a slick black Range Rover pulls into the parking lot, and you immediately know it’s her. The car stops right in front of you, the passenger window rolling down, and your breath catches.

It’s Professor Harkness, clad in a maroon suit, wavy hair falling over her shoulders.

“Do you need me to open the door for you, too, princess?” Agatha says, sarcasm dripping over the words, when you haven’t moved. You shake your head, partly to answer and partly to clear the fog. You settle into the seat, not missing the way Agatha’s eyes rake over your skimpily clothed body.

“You didn’t have to come get me,” you mutter, putting real effort into not slurring your words.

She glances at you and sees you struggling with your seatbelt. She reaches over and you freeze at her close proximity. Her breath is hot against your cheek and her fingers brush your stomach as she takes the seat belt from your hand and buckles it for you. “Thought I would spare the other people you drunk-called,” she says.

Embarrassment runs through you. “You were the only one,” you say meekly, picking at a scab on your hand. You dare to peek at her, only to find her smirking, one eyebrow quirked.

“Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have called.” This time, it’s harder to keep your words from running together. “We were talking about you and then I thought I saw you and I just wanted to see you.” You need to stop talking, now.

Agatha hums. “Did you, now?” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ears as she shifts the car into drive and you watch her fingers.

“You’re really hot,” you blurt out and then clamp a hand over your mouth. Fuck.

Instead of pulling over and making you get out, like you thought she would, Agatha simply reaches over and pats your leg. “And you’re really drunk, sweetheart.”

The pet name makes you swoon inwardly. “Not that drunk,” you say unconvincingly. “I only had one…two…” You trail off, attempting to count the number of drinks on your fingers. Agatha stifles a chuckle.

“Is this your first time drinking?” She asks, amused.

“No, but it is my first time drinking this much,” you admit. “My friends dragged me out since it’s my birthday. I was going to work on the essay for your class.”

“You were going to spend your 21st birthday doing school work?”

“Your essay’s due in a week. I wanted to make sure I-it was good enough for you.”

She notices your slip of tongue and her smirk sends heat down low in your stomach. “You’re always good for me. Your essays are some of the best I’ve ever read.”

Your heart skips a beat and your face flushes. “I have a B in your class.”

“You have an 88 in my class. That’s the highest I’ve had in years. Can’t make it too easy,” she says with a wink.

“You could make it just a little easier,” you grumble, the alcohol clearly getting rid of any inhibitions.

“You keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart, and it’ll go up, I promise. I’m very impressed with the work you’ve been turning in.”

A hot flash runs through you. “Just wanna be your good girl.” And if it wasn’t clear how you feel about her now, it sure is. But she doesn’t look disgusted or creeped out, only intrigued.

She finally stops the car and you peer out the window, expecting to see your dorm. You haven’t been paying attention to where she’s been driving at all, and you’re quite surprised to see you’ve arrived at a two-story house in a cute, suburban neighborhood.

“This isn’t where I live,” you say dumbly.

“No, it’s not,” she agrees, getting out of the car and walking over to help you. You stumble up the steps to the front door, Agatha’s tight grip on your shoulder keeping you upright. You can feel her fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

She unlocks the front door just as a wave of nausea hits you. “Oh, god,” you say weakly, holding a hand in front of your mouth. Agatha doesn’t even seem phased; she leads you to a bathroom in the hall and leaves, only to re-enter with a glass of water moments later. You gulp it down and feel better.

“You okay?” she asks softly, stroking your cheek, eyes tracing up and down your face. You’ve never seen this side of her and you really like it.

“I think so. Thank you again,” you murmur and you realize that you’ve been staring at her mouth.

“Anything for my favorite student.”

And then, because you’re apparently determined to fuck everything up even more, you lean in and press your lips to hers. Agatha stands still for a second before you pull back, horrified with yourself.

“Professor, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

She draws you back in for a longer kiss this time, tongue licking into your mouth. You let out a long moan and she breaks away.

“You’re drunk,” she tells you again.

You clasp the lapels of her blazer. “I know. But I want you.”

She softly pries your fingers off her suit and smiles. “You need to sleep. And then we can talk about this in the morning.”

You pout and she runs her thumb over your bottom lip, slightly pulling it down. You suck her finger into your mouth, delighting in the way her eyes darken. She steps back.

“Let’s go. You can sleep in the guest room. I’ll find you some pajamas and toiletries.” Her hand on the small of your back guides you up the stairs and to the room on the right. The guest room is simple but cozy and you immediately go to the bed and flop onto it. “Don’t fall asleep yet,” Agatha warns and then leaves the room.

She comes back in a few minutes, an old shirt and sweatpants in one hand and a toothbrush and toothpaste in the other. She pats your legs in an effort to get you up but you can barely move, suddenly weighed down by all the drinks.

“Come on, hon,” Agatha says and helps you stand up. You don’t move as she works to take your shirt and skirt off, your cheeks and upper chest flushing red. You try to cover yourself and she smirks.

“M’sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be. I’m enjoying the view.” You stare at her longingly, silently begging her to fuck you right there and then, but she helps you step into the sweatpants and pull the shirt over your head. She watches you brush your teeth and moves the covers so you can get into bed. “Do you need anything else?”

Your hand grabs hers. “Just you,” you try again hopefully, but she chuckles and wrenches free of your grip.

“Good night, birthday girl,” she whispers and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. And then she turns off the lights and leaves the room.

You fall asleep immediately.

***

Sunlight streams through the blinds, waking you up. It takes you a minute to get your bearings and then the events of last night come back to you.

The bar. Four shots of tequila and half a Dirty Shirley. Calling Agatha and her coming to pick you up and taking you to her house. Kissing her in the downstairs bathroom. Shit.

You groan, head pounding. You see a container of Advil and a glass of water on the nightstand beside you. You take two Advil and drain the glass, heart warming at the thought of Agatha taking such good care of you.

And then you remember that your relationship with her will forever be complicated by your actions.

You solemnly brush your teeth and pull back on the clothes you wore to the bar last night, neatly folding Agatha’s pajamas and placing them on the bed. You hope she hasn’t woken up yet so you can sneak out without her having to tell you how inappropriate you behaved last night.

No such luck. The second you get downstairs, Agatha perks up from where she’s typing on her laptop on the couch.

“Good morning, darling,” she purrs, shutting her computer. You gulp, taking her outfit in. She’s wearing a robe that ends mid-thigh and the neckline drops low.

“Hey,” you say casually, trying to hide how much you’re internally freaking out.

“Do you want something for breakfast? I can cook you something.” She stands up and walks to the kitchen and you follow like a lost puppy. You involuntarily lick your lips at the way her hips are swaying.

“What are my options?” Your voice is raspy, still feeling hungover. She glances back at you and her eyes dart up and down your body.

“I can make eggs. Bacon. I think I have pancake mix in the pantry. What would you like?”

You’re a little confused that she hasn’t scolded you yet. And then you remember something else. She kissed you.

You swallow hard. Whatever else you may have done last night that you can’t remember, she doesn’t hate you for it. She might even want you back.

“Are you on the menu?” It comes out before you can even realize what you’re saying.

Agatha freezes and turns around. You shift your weight nervously, but then you see her pupils blown out. Her eyes are so dark you can barely see any blue. “What?” She asks carefully.

“You kissed me last night,” you say, a little breathless. You have absolutely no idea where this confidence is coming from. “You wouldn’t do anything else cause I was drunk. But I’m not drunk now.”

She steps toward you and roughly grasps your hair. She tilts your head back, exposing your neck just a tad. “No, you’re not.” She regards you for a second. “You know you’re not going to get extra credit for trying to sleep with your professor.”

You laugh. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

She smirks. “Good.” And then she licks a hot stripe up your neck and bites down, sucking a mark on your skin. You gasp loudly and tangle your hands into her hair.

“Professor,” you moan and you drag her into a filthy kiss. She backs you up until your thighs hit the table so she lifts you up onto it. Your legs wrap around her to pull her closer. Agatha pushes up your crop-top and kneads your breast, thumb stroking your nipple, never once breaking your kiss.

Her hand creeps under your skirt and cups your mound over your underwear. Your hips jump on their own at the stimulation.

“Please,” you beg. Her lips curl into a smile.

“What do you want?” Her fingers have pushed your underwear to the side and have started lazily stroking through your folds, spreading your wetness.

“You,” is all you can say before she sinks a finger into your hole.

“Like this?” She asks innocently, thrusting hard.

“Yes,” you pant, quickly untying her robe so you can touch her. She’s completely naked underneath and you lean down so you can take a nipple into your mouth.

“That’s perfect, baby,” she sighs, setting a relentless pace with her fingers after she slips another one in you. “Is this what you hoped would happen when you called me last night?”

“I’ve been hoping for this since the first day of the semester,” you answer, and she falters for a second, thrown off by your honesty.

She pulls out of you and panic runs through you, terrified that you said the wrong thing. But she just pushes you down so your back is resting on the table and she pulls out one of the chairs from the table.

“What are you–” Before you can finish your sentence, she leans forward and sucks your clit into her mouth. Your back arches off the table, hands rushing down to hold her in place. “Fuck, Professor!”

She devours your pussy like she’s a starving woman, pulling all sorts of loud noises from you.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna cum,” you chant, hips grinding on her face, trying to get the last bit of stimulation you need to send you over the edge. She knows what you need and presses her fingers inside you, curling them just right and gives your clit a hard last lick. You cum harder than you ever have before, her name on your lips like a prayer. She helps you ride through the aftershocks and then trails kisses up your body until she can kiss your mouth.

“How was that?” she asks after you pull away to catch your breath.

“That was probably the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” you say, which cracks both of you up. “But I’m not finished.”

Her eyebrow quirks up and she smirks. “Oh?” You stand up, putting your hands on her hips and flipping her around so she’s leaning against the table.

You sink to your knees in front of you, not even bothering with a chair. You slowly push her robe up so it bunches at her waist. “Can I return the favor?”

A glint appears in her eye and she fists one of her hands in your hair preemptively. “I’d like nothing more.”

#agatha smut #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha x reader #agatha harkness smut #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha x you #agatha all along

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hyukascampfire · 19 days ago

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𝓐T 𝓢WA𝓝 𝓛AKE ﹐､﹒ c.bg ˏˋ੭ꠥ ¸ˎ

as both equals and opposites, white swan and black swan, it is paramount that you and choi beomgyu do not touch. the curse of your natures did not even make exception for incidental brushes. that was never an issue for you—not until the day the prince took it upon himself to break every rule you’d ever known. ⋆˛ ˛

⸺ listen to the playlist .ᐟ ‧˚

⸉⋆ ᧔ 🦢᧓ ･ 10.3k

𝒫airings ˒ black swan prince!beomgyu 𝓍 white swan princess!reader

𝒢 ‎⍪ smut ˒ fantasy ˒ forbidden romance

𝒲arnings ˒ smut, angst and longing, unprotected sex, lots of teasing, jealousy…, yearning and yearning, he cums on her, theyre both desperate, pathetically in love!beomgyu, shes all he wants, virgin!reader, loss of innocence, he talks her through it, he gets a little whiny… hmm i can’t remember if i’m missing anything. this is not proofread!! i’m gonna nap first.

✎୭ ashlynn's note @hmusunoo … baby you did your big one with this. i can not explain to you how excited i’ve been for this one. this is absolutely my favorite. it’s just so me, u know me so well and i think we should kiss. THANK U!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

Around you, mist and delicate flurries sit over white, fluffy blankets. Where it sits over the lake, it turns the horizon of the lake’s expanse into an obscured uncertainty. If you hadn’t spent so much time right here, you might think that it goes on forever.

It’s a beautiful, clear winter’s morning. Sparkling air wraps you in sweet and crisp tendrils, every breath to your lungs almost bitingly fresh. But in all its lightness, your chest only feels heavier. You had hoped that coming here would be a little, momentary respite. The air is so free around you, though, the weight doesn’t float away with it—it just leaves nothing but the feeling for you to contend with. No skittish wildlife rustle the foliage, and a thin film holds the crystalline lake from lapping at the bank. It seems that not even the wind moves. Just you.

It’s not your tears that you hide here. Sadness is a soft, gentle thing; an acceptable thing for a Lady like yourself to indulge in. It’s what the people expect of their princess. The demure and always prim White Swan. Always correct, always just how you should be.

Your tears are more like scalding, molten licks of fire than the slow, darling tears that are expected of you, though. They’re angry. It clashes up against the walls you’ve built up within yourself, against the role you’ve assumed.

That’s why you’ve come here. Coarser emotions are unbecoming of you, and it’d be a shame to feel them in front of others. It’s a shame that you’re letting yourself feel it now, even. You summon a thin sigh, funneling up all the tangy bitterness on your tongue to let it fall out into the air before you.

It doesn’t do much for you, really. This—feeling like this, so beyond the reach of your usual ways to shove down ugliness—is unfamiliar. Your entire life has been this, why do you struggle with it now? In the center of you, mingling with that anger, it’s as though a blackness blooms. Like a wretched flowering of some invasive plume, or perhaps the floating of inky black feathers through your bloodstream, you feel painted dark and unpleasant.

Holding the dappled fur of your shawl closer, you decide to watch chunks of crystal white ice float on the water’s surface. Or maybe the on-and-off snowflakes that float down around you. Even tracing the lengths of barren branches, lined with white fluff so still and serene, with your eyes. Anything but delving into what that tainted tug inside is, or what it might mean about you.

Snow crunches, or maybe a branch shifting, beckons your attention. But the foliage isn’t too thick, and trees are sparse around the lake, and there is always some small winged creature fluttering between branches out here. So, you brush it off.

A tingling about your person, some sort of whispering premonition, whisps and tugs just around your form. You straighten up at another thick step crunching in the snow from behind you. This time, you can’t explain it away.

A figure greets you. Dark, raven strands of silken hair fallen over eyes of the same, his skin so stark against it, black shoulder cloak on his shoulder flowing like velvet water against his billowing sleeves all ruffled and enamoring. He glitters like the frost, twinkling silver threads and black crystals sewn in to catch the light and make a show of him. Standing there, looking at you, he doesn’t look caught or frozen.

But you are. Wholly still, all of you like a sculpture of frost, you gawk right at him. You’d never interacted with the prince, the black swan. Never even seen him. It was never in the cards. Fear like ice curls clawed fingers over your heart and grasps it.

All your life, grand warnings of terrible things of him and what might happen should the two of you ever touch fell from the mouths of those around you. It was the constitution of who the two of you are—born to be the balance to each other, never to touch. Just an incidental brushing of fingers meant turning the world’s balance over on its head. They told you that the world would begin to fray at the seams, reality would warp, and that it’d be all your fault. And they also told you plenty about who the prince was as a person, too. Not only do you fear him for the curse of your nature, but also for all the nasty things you’ve heard of him. This, meeting him, was a thing of your deepest-cutting nightmares.

And, there, he stands in front of you.

“What are you doing out here crying?” Beomgyu says, curious eyes darting over your face. Under his gaze, you’re not sure how to feel. But you feel every last bit of it, regardless.

You wipe at your cheek, where he must’ve seen the wet streaks glistening in the light. Summoning some poise up from where you keep it in handy, you say, “It’s no matter. I was just looking out on the snow.” You fix up your hair and your dress.

The prince frowns, studying your face once again. Utterly unconvinced by what he finds there, he gestures toward you. “You’ve been crying, princess,” he says. “I didn’t think that lying was in the cards for you.”

Lying? Not in the cards for you? Lying is all you do. You lie to yourself and to others more than you are honest. “Maybe, but I’m well,” you say, and then you lift the soft skirts of your dress to step without treading it in the snow. “Really, I ought to get home before the snowfall gets heavier. It was lovely seeing you.” You try and make sure to keep a good and proper distance from him as you make for where you arrived here from.

Beomgyu reaches out for you, only pulling back from grabbing your arm at a frighteningly slim realization. “Wait,” he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he realizes what he’d almost just done. “You don’t have to leave. Why is it that you cry?”

He’d almost touched you. That close—you’d come that close to tragedy in only the first moments of your meeting. Your heart pumps out sizzling, frantic energy that has you looking at him wide-eyed and shaken. “I think you and I both are the most aware why it’s best that I leave,” you tell him, keeping it curt. You hold your arms to you.

Strong brows knitting, he shakes his head and takes some big steps back. The snow, sat powdery and calf-high on the ground, creaks beneath them. “I’ll stay back here,” he says. “Just don’t go. Won’t you entertain me? It’s a gentleman’s duty to help a weeping Lady.”

You falter. The words might have you blushing and offering him a modest thank you, but the way he says it—it’s rather taunting. It’s taunting in a way that gets right up under your skin and ruffles your feathers. “And why does it bother you so?” you ask him, arching a dainty brow. You’re not even sure why he’s come out here in the first place. This is the one place that you ordain your own. It seems that not even here can you be totally alone. “They’ll have a fit if they know I was here with you.”

The prince, with his clear, ethereal features cracking into a wicked amusement that you’re not sure how to digest, says, “Perhaps they will.” He tilts his head at you, wispy strands of hair moving over his shadowed eyes with it. “But, princess, that’s the fun in it. That they will admonish you for it. Is that why you’re crying?”

Fun? Nothing about what your people, your parents, might do should they find that you’d not only been near but spoken to the black swan, is fun. You level him wary eyes. And, though sense tugs at your feet and asks you to get going, you do not. You do not know why.

“I think it is.” He’s got an obnoxious tilt to his lips. “I think that’s why you cry.”

A scoff, an abrasive and distasteful sound coming from you, falls out from your mouth. There’s that awful imprudence and temerity that you’ve heard of the black swan—everything you ought not to be. “You seem the type to know everything,” you say.

He laughs, delighted. “Is that snark?”

Pursing your lips as though confused, you spin spiced threads of patronization into your voice. “Not snark,” you say. “Just an observation.”

“Hmm.” Beomgyu slides his hands into his pockets to warm his hands. “Might I make an observation about you, princess?”

There’s interest written all over his face—you know he’s playing some sort of game. You also know that you shouldn’t indulge him in it. Still, you do. A slight raising of your brow, or maybe the interest twinkling in your eyes, too, tells him to go on.

“I think that you are too dutiful for your own good,” he says.

In a slight, testy step, he inches closer. Not so close that you worry, but the two of you are not even supposed to be in the same room. Anything is too close. You mirror it with a step back. “You don’t know me,” you say. Against your better judgement, though, your lips twitch into a soft smile. The kind of smile that is insistent, no matter how you refuse it. “So, I believe your wonderings to be entirely groundless.”

Hair blowing gently in the wisps of a winter wind and his nose and cheeks gone pink, he says, “Oh, princess. Hardly. I think we know a great deal about each other.”

Well, that’s true enough. All your life you heard of him and your curse. You’re sure it was no different for him, no matter your differences. “And what do you know about me?” you ask.

Beomgyu’s laugh falls out in a white puff of curling frost. “I know it’s been arranged that you’ll marry a superior Lord,” he says. He observes you. “Am I right?”

So fast, just with that, lightness falls from your face. You hadn’t wanted to be reminded. Your feet itch to be off, so that you can feel it elsewhere. Not here; not in front of him. Leveling yourself so that your voice doesn’t come out as stilted as you feel, you say, “Yeah. You are.”

With his eyes narrowing on you, he says, “You know, it’s weird. I’ve never seen a girl excited to be wedded look like that when it’s brought up.”

You reign in your face and shake your head. “I am perfectly excited. It’s a blessing to be married into such a family.” As much as you smooth over the furrowing of your brows, or make your expression pleasant, it’s not so easy to tame the picking of your fingers.

Anything other than excited, you might be. But absolutely not that. In fact, you are beyond yourself with anger, and you have nowhere to go with it. It bubbles hot just under your skin and demands a release that you cannot give.

Being who you are, it’s been a truth you’ve known your whole life. Someday, you were going to be offered like a shiny, silver pawn to the highest bidder. And you, as the world’s white swan, are quite the enticing thing to own. You thought you’d banished the hope for a union of love right where you’d left the sense of self behind: years ago. The time’s come now, but you aren’t as at peace with it as you should be. No matter how hard you try, you are more human than you’d like to be, and far too human to be what the world expects you to be.

If you’re going to be frank with yourself: you do not want to marry him. Living as something bought, expected to live forever as this mellowed out, poised version of yourself by the side of some man who you don’t even know or love... Of any fate you might be made to live, you think that this one is the worst.

Beomgyu begins working on taking off his jacket, a white and pretty thing with thick, winter fabric. He offers it to you. “You don’t have to lie to me about it. Maybe them, but not me.”

You look between him and his offering hand—his perfect features that are so elegant, and yet, there’s a wildness to him in those hard black eyes. If you didn’t already know so much about him, you might still be able to see the untamed in him. Who couldn’t? He wears it plainly; without remorse. You’re not sure how to interact with it, but, in a way, you envy him.

Reaching out, you accept the jacket from his hand. Tentatively, with great care so as to avoid touch, but you do.

It’s nice and soft against your frost-kissed shoulders. But it’s not enough to fix the bite against the skin on your face, so you trudge through the snow over to the sparse tree line, where the trunks might protect you better from it than the flat expanse of the lake’s surface. You press your back to a tree, and he mirrors it on the tree opposite to you. Looking over the great lake, so very serene. It twinkles with an ice film like sugar crystals atop its surface. “I guess I’m just... scared,” you say. The words come out soft and uncertain.

He nods. Listening. So, you continue. “I don’t even know him. I haven’t spoken to my betrothed once. Maybe I’ll get to know him, and maybe he won’t be bad, but...”

“But he’s not who you want,” Beomgyu says. “Not who you love.”

Licking your winter-chapped lips, you eye him for a moment. You nod slowly and say, “...Yeah. I suppose it’s selfish, but...”

Ignited, Beomgyu pushes off the tree to say, “Selfish? You give your whole life to being their saint. Maybe they think they do, but they don’t own you.”

You, not us. Frowning, you ask him, “Are you not set for some marriage of convenience?” Marrying is different as a woman, but you don’t doubt that the prince’s family intends to strengthen alliances by offering his marriage up to some optimistic, lesser family with a daughter to bargain the way yours has done with you. Every last girl and boy born as you two have been—destined to a life bigger than yourself, a force in the world as much as you are a person—have lived just the same. All of them. Each incarnation of the white swan, and you’re sure every black swan too. The people of this world paint you as embodiments of balance and life, but use you more like power plays. Even your own parents. You were born from your mother all the same as all your siblings, but as much as it aches to admit it, you are not their child. In the back of your throat, hurt and bare anger wells up thick.

He half laughs, half scoffs. “They could try. It doesn’t matter to me. They’d have to kill me before I do their bidding. Is it our fault that we were born this?” he says. “I’m going to live my life how I want, no matter what.”

You tuck your hands into your sides, where they warm between the jacket and your body heat. His words and how he looks at your lives, it’s everything you’re not. Sense of self and determination to live for more than just your predetermined role—while you’d surrendered it all, he lives thrashing and fighting against it. A product of your mirrored and opposite natures.

“Why?” you say, teeth chattering a bit under the cold’s caress. “You have a girl in mind?”

That sounds nice. Being so hopefully devoted to someone, and them to you, that you might war against destiny for it. The thought only nurses hurt somewhere deep in your chest, though. Not for you. Never for you. You could be the prettiest on this Earth, the kindest, the most disciplined, or the least even. Still, that would never be yours. You know that, so why does it taste so bitter?

A quick look, something new, passes over him. In his eyes, you see it. He looks at you for a long minute, the morning so quiet that nothing but tranquility hangs in the air for a moment, and then finally says, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Entirely intrigued, you ask, “Who? Is she a Lady?”

Beomgyu nods his head, that strange look lingering. “Of sorts,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest to lean back into the bark. “And your betrothed? Some well-off Lord?”

A smile ghosts over your mouth. “Probably. I haven’t a clue who it is; but I’m sure he’s got enough coin to spare, if my parents settled on him.”

The lines of his face gone playful, he says, “Not possibly more well-off than me.”

Your nose crinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you say. A husband with money is nice. You can’t pretend that you don’t think of that, especially that none of your family’s wealth belongs to you, nor will it follow you into your marriage. Your heart revolts regardless.

Shrugging after a few beats of silent considering, he turns his attention on the lake. His face turned like that, you admire the straight slope of his nose and his eyelashes as they flutter with his heavy eyes. Like the rest of him, his side profile is a contradiction. Strong and noble, but elegant like hewn from marble. It’s perfect. With all the talk in your ears, you’d pictured something far off from the youthful, wry man stood before you. Why you’d come to imagine him brutish, you’re not sure; he’s as much swan as you. Different and mirrored all the same.

“I used to come here all the time,” he says.

“Here? To the lake?” You perk up. This had been your hideaway as a girl; where you’d come at times like this when you needed to bury something away. You thought it’d been just yours. “I wonder how we never ran into each other. I used to do the same. I guess, I still do.”

When his eyes fall back on you, they’re softer. More deep brown than black, but maybe it’s because you’re closer now. He says, “Well, I came here once or twice on my own, maybe when I was five. I didn’t really start coming back until I saw you. You were crying, all snotty, and throwing bread out for some ducks.”

Your face twists up, maybe at the memory or maybe with confusion. It seems like if he’d really come here so often, and had even seen you here, you’d have noticed. “You must have thought I was weird,” you say, the words coming out around a shiver.

“Maybe,” he says through a wry smile that’s cracked over his lips. “But mostly, I just wished I could talk to you.”

He’d watched you, because he couldn’t approach you? You were under the impression that the prince had never cared for the rules, not even one so paramount as that. But, it seems that his brashness came to him later. He stands in front of you now, doesn’t he? Maybe it was just that innocent trust that, as children, you levy out to those arounds you. Especially toward adults; and all of those had preached over moments like this. You imagine a young, curious Beomgyu, hiding himself away between bushes, itching to approach or play with you. But he never did; you hadn’t the slightest clue he’d even been there until now. Could you two have been friends, if not for the curse?

“You never came out,” you say. “Or introduced yourself?” It’s all you can really think.

His mouth twitches. “Would you have stayed?”

No. Then, you don’t think you would’ve. Even now, you’re stricken with the innate fear of touching him, no matter how surprised you are at how different he is. Different from what they said he’d be. You think you would’ve darted, should you have known who he was. For some reason, that makes your heart ache. A dark ebbing wave of ache that you are unfamiliar with.

A slight knowing smile danced over his features, eyes gone to sweet crescents that turn them, usually so dark, into something rounded. Not so abrasive. He tilts his head off to one side and says, “You’re freezing. How long have you been out here?”

Cheeks long been numb, you answer, “An hour. Maybe and a half?”

“I’ll walk you home.”

You grimace. Arriving with him by your side, the man you quite literally were not supposed to even speak with, is the very last thing you should do. An awful idea. “I wouldn’t bother you. It’s probably not the best idea to show up after disappearing, with a man by my side. Especially not as a to-be-married woman,” you say. “But, thank you. Really.”

He knows what you really mean, though. A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Alright,” he says. “I suppose we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

As he begins to turn, making for wherever he’d come here from, you call out to him. “Hey, wait. Your jacket.” You pull it off your shoulders and joust it out at him. Against your skin which it had warmed, the air is bitterly cold.

“Keep it, princess,” he says, giving you a parting nod. “Get home warm.”

Today, you are to give your hand to a man that you do not know.

In the air, the rich nuttiness of fire-toasted chestnuts dance and mingle with the roar of chatter. Hundreds of familiar and unfamiliar faces line long tables with runners decorated by platters of plump, sugar-dusted plums and fruit pies. They’ve all come in their winter’s best—whites and reds and luxurious furs lining thick, velvety fabrics or embroidered with sparkling threads and studded with crystals that twinkle in the low firelight. It’s warm and lovely and all just for you.

But, you don’t feel any of that. All you feel is a heavy belly. Each smile you tug over your mouth feels like dead weight. You’re familiar with this—putting on the act. Smiling in faces that you know will turn around and have something else to say about you, pretending like you don’t know that it’s all false sweetness. You’d been trained in noble propriety since you could walk and talk.

But, considering that they’ve all come here to shower you with gifts and lovely words for a marriage in which they could really not care about beyond how they make it a profit, it’s all a bit more sour.

You’ve met your promised. The man you’re supposed to wed and spend the entirety of your life beside. You spoke with him for... what, two minutes? Two very awkward, very awful minutes. What should you have to say to each other? You’re meeting for the first time today. At your engagement feast. It’s a real conscious effort to not take your lip into your mouth and gnaw, or to not fuss over your hair, or honestly anything that might show these people that you are anything but pleased.

So, you relent to their gaudy pleasantries. You listen to them tell you that it’s such a blessing to be married to a man of high society—and a wealthy one, too. They tell you that they knew your marriage would bring a great dowry; that all the white swans have. That they were watching and expecting it. All you hear is the dripping of greed; all you see is hungry eyes and fingers crossed behind backs.

You relent to it until your stomach is sick and wrought with it. And then, the older lady ahead of you singing praises of your beauty, of how she wishes her daughter might catch the eye of a husband as advantageous as yours, does something out of the ordinary. Her eyes drift behind you, her snooty, pinched features twisting up into something new. You follow her gaze.

Dark and beautiful and his eyes trained right on you, the black swan prince stands beside you. He’s lazed, a heavy cup of some thick, spiced and wintery drink in one hand, as he does. In the clear light of morning, he’d looked so out of place. But here, soft and hard planes of his face illustrated by the flickering orange firelight, he looks so right.

You blink. And then blink again. Never once had Beomgyu made any sort of appearance at any hosted thing by your family. You just stand in place for a moment, registering his presence.

“You look lovely, princess,” he says. His eyes fall up and down you. The way he says it—it’s liquid smooth, but it’s taunting in a way. “The perfect image of a bride-to-be.”

He can’t be here. He can’t be here at all. When you look to the side, the woman is already gone. You have no doubt in your mind that she’s whispering in somebody’s ear right now.

“Prince,” you say, gritting your teeth while also dipping into an elegant curtsy.

“Do you feel that way?” He raises his eyebrows at you, his gaze heavy with underlying tension. “A perfect bride? Happy?”

Making the conscious decision to not look around you, because you can already feel the burning interest of the eyes that you’ll find on you, you say, “I do. Isn’t this quite the feast?”

“I told you that you don’t have to lie to me, princess.”

You shouldn’t even be standing here talking to him. They’re all watching. Stepping back to cut conversation with something witty, you stop in the onslaught of a chorus of surrounding gasps.

Beomgyu had reached out to grab you, and only stopped himself short the same way he had the first time you met him. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he brings his hand down, curling the fingers as if to wash away the urge to reach out.

He’s closer now, too. His breath smells sickly sweet with the liqueur he drinks. A sarcastic grin over his lips, he says, “Did he pay for all this?”

You do a dance of give and take. You step back, and he meets it with a step toward you, all the way until you find yourselves in a quieter corner. “He did sponsor the feast, yes.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” he says, voice carrying over the many layered sounds of the gathering. “And that makes you happy? You feel fulfilled by that? Is that the purpose of the lovely white swan?”

You’re not sure what he’s getting at, or why your marriage is any of his business. For some reason, though, despite those rational thoughts, some faraway memory whispers that it makes every bit of sense. “He is a lovely man.”

Barking a laugh, Beomgyu says, “Don’t make me laugh. You don’t believe that, no matter how many times you tell it to yourself.”

You curl your fingers into the obnoxious, glittering material of your dress. “Seriously, what makes you so sure?” you say. “What makes you so sure you know? This is good for me. This is the way things are supposed to go. Not everybody in this world can get away with serving only themselves and doing whatever they want. Maybe it works for you, but not for the rest of us. I’m glad your life is fun, though. Really.”

His face doesn’t sharpen into offence, though you brace for him to. You’ve never spoken to anybody like that. Ever. Shaking his head, raven locks glowing warm around the edges, he says, “Because I know. I know. Are you listening to me? You don’t have to lie to me.”

Balking at him, you don’t know how to answer. That was nowhere near the answer you were expecting from the prince, known and notorious for his chaos and fire.

“I am listening,” you say, keeping your voice measured. Thick emotion slips through the seams. “Honesty has never done me any good. This is going to happen; all honesty is going to do is hurt me. So, I’m sorry.”

His mouth opens to fire something back, but you don’t hear it. Somebody digs their fingers into your upper arm, dragging you without a word away from your conversation. You stumble, letting them take you without a fuss. This was to be expected. You shouldn’t look back. If today was already going to be the last day you ever see him, it certainly is now that you’ve been caught not only in touching distance to him, but making conversation with him.

Tossing a self-betraying glace over your shoulder, you find his figure. Hand in pocket and his lips turned down, he watches you go.

You wish you wouldn’t have. You have no explanation for the emptiness it casts into your chest.

Recently, you’ve been crying so much. You might believe that it’s because you’ve been letting yourself feel freely, but you don’t feel free.

Your palms are soaked against your cheeks, face fallen into them as you shudder with it. Their words pin and scrape in your head, forcing you to contend with them before bouncing off the walls and you hear them again and again until your stomach has gone sick. Your parents had given you an earful. That’s been your whole life; you can handle that. The moment you saw him there, intending to speak to you, you’d prepared for it. Instead, it was their contempt and sneering faces that bleed your heart like this.

In this life, you are alone. Totally, wholly alone. Who you are—your role in life—is not the blessing they claim it to be. Is it selfish to ask to be understood? For somebody to just understand, without your pleading or begging?

Maybe. It feels that way, anyway.

“Why is it that I always find you crying?”

His voice freezes you to where you sit sprawled on your floor. Spinning to him, you say, “What are you doing?”

Beomgyu shrugs, as though he hasn’t snuck his way into your room. “I felt bad for getting you dragged off. Wanted to come see how you’re doing.”

Maybe his insisting on being around you should be annoying, but right now… You think you appreciate the company, even from the forbidden likes of him. “You can’t be here,” you hiss. “How did you get in? They’ll… if they find you here…”

His boots squeak against the polished flooring as he approaches you, and then settles down on the floor with you. The fire flickering behind him, his back to it, casts an orange light around the edges of his figure. He looks terribly inviting, like this: strewn on the floor, no holier or better than you, his face not sickly sweet nor cold and devoid of love, and his eyes curious to know how you feel.

“I don’t care what they’ll do to me. I want to see you.” He tugs his jacket off, letting it fall on the dirty floor. Improper for a prince, but Beomgyu doesn’t care. That’s who he’s always been—that’s the one thing that was entirely true out of all the things you heard about him. “Who the hell cares about their approval? We don’t need it.”

You know what he means by they and we. Only a few days ago, you’d still believed that Beomgyu was other; that he was your total opposite, and that you should fear his darkness for all your lightness. All it’s taken is being around him the once or twice that you’ve been able to for you to realize the falsity that drips from that. When you’re around him, your soul, feathery and wispy in your chest and your veins and all the rest of you that constitutes you beyond what is physical, tugs. It’s impossible to ignore—it consumes you. Where your soul longs for him around the edges, like torn and searching for what’s been lost, you feel stuff that is beyond yourself.

Rather than your opposite, you think that Beomgyu is your other half. You think that they’ve gotten it all wrong.

“How do you do it?” you say, back up against a white, whorling table leg. “How do you not care? I don’t understand.”

Inky eyes shining, he says, “I did. When I was young, I believed everything they told me. It’s hard not to, when it’s all you hear. Them, telling us that our purpose is to surrender ourselves to be something Saint-like. But when you catch one lie, you begin to catch the others, too. I saw their excuses and reasonings peel. Princess, it’s all lies. Everything you know is lies.” He says it with such conviction. Each and every word reaches down into that part of yourself that is missing something. “We’re not their Saints. That’s never been our purpose. I hate that shit; I hate that they’ve made you think that this is all you’re for. Marrying him? Never doing anything, because you’re scared of what it’ll mean for you? It’s not fucking fair.” He pushes himself closer to you. Now, your criss crossed knees are so close that a stray move might mean the world’s end. This time, you don’t panic. There’s no room for that among the swarm of your other thoughts. “So, of course I don’t give a shit about what they tell me to do. I’m going to live this life the way that it’s supposed to be. I wish that you could join me.”

“This life?” you blurt. It’s the one thought that appears clear to you, so it’s what comes out. Frowning, you add, “What lies?”

Deadpanned and as though he’s not delivering something that changes the world’s fabric around you, Beomgyu says, “There is no curse. There’s never been a curse.”

Your room is silent for a few moments, and then you shake your head and laugh. “How would you know that?” you say, nose wrinkling. If you don’t laugh, you’ll begin to actually consider the possibility of that. Just the very surface of the notion makes you nauseous. You couldn’t handle exploring the thought deeper.

Beomgyu doesn’t laugh along with you. “The curse is a lie, and everything that comes with it. All of it is just excuses or justification for the hate for the other people. The whole reason that they ever decided on it was because of their hate. Maybe to the people alive now, it’s not a lie. But that’s what it started as.” His face, dark and soft as he reads your face, twists up. “Of course, we can touch. We are two halves of a whole. There is you in me, and I in you. Do you not feel it? The tug? That’s it. The black swan and the white swan were never meant to be apart and opposite. We are meant to be together. We’re meant to be the only ones that understand each other. It’s us against the world, princess.”

Your ears ring with the pierce of each word cascading out from his mouth. “Beomgyu, I don’t understand. That doesn’t… Make sense. How?” He can’t just make claims about that. Not something like this. It’s not fair.

“I know it’s hard to believe, princess. It’s all you’re ever made to believe. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

Tongue darting out to wet your lips and your fingers stilling where you fuss at the fabric of your chemise, you take a good look at him. Roaming over his features, the contradiction in them and the strange familiarity that constitutes him no matter the fact that you’ve only just met, you consider it. Everything he says is absurd, and it does go against everything you’ve ever known. You should turn your nose up at him for even suggesting it; should suspect that he only has some sort of plan to coax you into bringing the world’s end.

But, you do. You trust him beyond explanation, as though intrinsically.

You nod slowly, holding his eyes in yours. “But I don’t understand,” you say. “How do you know?”

He smiles ruefully. “I saw something—had a dream when I was young. I saw us, in every last lifetime. We have lived again and again, as we are, in so many different ways. But the one thing that was always there was that they couldn’t keep us away from each other.”

The world does a few spins around you. Lightheaded, you try to stay up under the oppressive gravity of that. You want to stick your head in the ground and shake your head and yell no, but that deep tugging that has plagued you beginning the moment you’d met him, and all the emptiness before it, tells you yes.

How poetic is that? How tragic? You, two souls born to be one, made to live apart at the interests of the world around you. Made to do it across every lifetime, and yet, in each you meet. In each, the twinkling thread of fate prevails nevertheless.

“Do they all love?”

That soft smile still playing on his lips, his cheek to his knee as he looks at you with the veneration of somebody who might’ve loved you in a thousand lifetimes before, and perhaps in this one, too. “No. Some of us were secret lovers, but so many of those lived how you do for the entirety of their life. Halved,” he says. “And never did any of them touch.”

Heart fluttering with wings in your chest, you say, “So, how do you know that the curse is a lie? If it’s never been done before?”

“Let me show you,” he says. “That I can touch you.”

All the blood in your body pulls back. You trust him; you do. But is trust enough to risk a touch that could be the end of the world? Is trust enough to be so selfish to do so?

Seeing you blanch, Beomgyu’s eyes go glassy. “Please,” he says, voice breaking as if to touch you might mean more than just proving something to you. As if the weight of everything he’s ever wanted rests on the back of it working—that if this works, and the world does not fall apart around you, then he can love you how he does, and how he had so many times before. Inevitably. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Beomgyu,” you say, looking between his eyes and the twitch of his hand as it itches to touch you. “I don’t… I’m scared.” Your voice drops to nothing more than a whisper.

“It’s okay,” he says, bringing that longing hand up. Your heart jumps when he raises up by your face. “You can be selfish this once. I want to see you do something because you want to, not because it’s what you think others might want.”

Your throat burns and tightens. Every last sparkling bit of your being longs to lean into his touch—to do what you two have wanted to do so many times before, and finally bring your souls back together. “What if it happens?” you ask, your eyes soft and true like an animal turning its soft underbelly to receive affection.

“Then let it,” he says. “At least we would have touched. Just this once.”

Gritting your teeth and swallowing hard, your belly does itself up into knots. You don’t answer him, but your quiet speaks enough. His hand hovers beside your face with the weight of the world in it.

The first touch of the white swan and the black swan happens in a gentle cupping of your cheek. And, the world does fall down around you. The walls melt, air leaves, and the seams of everything that’s even been good or true are ripped out and sewn with something new and beautiful. It’s as explosive and cosmic as you imagined it, but it is not terrifying. It’s lovely.

Your breaths shudder, your lungs trembling as you look into his eyes and realize what this means.

“Fuck,” is all Beomgyu breathes. It looks as though that it’s all he can manage. His touch grows more solid as the both of you realize that the both of you are still very much here, and so is the world. Thumb pad grazing over the softness of your cheek, his throat bobs with a swallow. You think that if you were to press your hand over your chest, you might feel it thudding there to the same thunderous rhythm that yours beats to.

So, you do. Because you can touch him. His heart sings beneath your palm, even through fabric and flesh. You can’t help the wobbling of your lip and the hot tears that spill out past your eyes and roll down your cheeks.

The second touching is the bringing together of your lips. His mouth is soft and hard against yours, contradictory as the rest of him. He brings his other hand up to hold your face into his kiss. It’s not sweet and slow—it’s as ground-rumbling as the kiss between intertwined souls coming together after an eternity of being away. Each nip and lick and clash of teeth are like the claps of thunder of the storm that will end the world, his hand sliding up the back of your neck to card his fingers through the hair at the back of your head like the claws of a beast sent to ensure its end.

And, maybe Beomgyu is the beast that has come to end the world. You wonder how he’d waited so long to bring the truth to you, or if he was torn about ever telling you. What changed things, after so many years of him watching you from afar? Your engagement? Perhaps that’s what that drink in his hand had been: a thing to forget with.

It hadn’t worked. As he kisses you for all the lifetimes in which you couldn’t, you know that he couldn’t have accepted that and moved on. Of all the black swans that have lived and passed, Beomgyu must be the most stubborn and strong-willed. That’s why, out of every single life, this is the first that you touch. He would take the world on, or play with the existence of it, for this. Just for you. All for you—you’d found somebody who will do something just for you. Curling your fingers into the front of his tunic just over his chest, you pour the fire of that revelation into your kiss.

He roams his hands all over you, mapping your shape. You kiss and kiss, lips tugging and twisting against each other, and still it isn’t enough. Bracing a splayed palm over your lower back, he does not stop kissing you even as he lays you back onto the ground. The flooring is cold against your burning body. He supports his weight on one hand beside your head and straddles your hips to do nothing but run his fingers through your hair and just kiss you.

Only when your lungs are too hungry to ignore does he free your mouth. His soft black hair dangles over his starry eyes as he looks down at you with them. Lips swollen and smeared with you, his chest heaves. Bringing his free hand up, he wipes your wet cheek.

“Oh my god,” you say, breathless. “Beomgyu.”

Pressing his forehead to yours, he laughs. “I like when you call me that. I think I want to make you scream it—scream it until they come breaking down your doors and see that we are each other's. Until your fiancé hears it.”

Body bursting at the seams at the prospect, you nod frantically and dip your face into his neck to dust starry kisses there, too. He shudders. “I want it so bad. Can you please?”

“Of course I can. I’m going to make love to you, okay?” He pushes off you, crawling back so that he’s sat squatted just before your knees as you pin them together. “Open your legs, princess. Show me how pretty you are—I’ve waited so long for it.” He pats on the outer side of your knee.

Thrill spiraling up from between your thighs like sparks, you oblige slowly. You let your legs fall open for him, and choke on your own heart as he begins to slowly work your dress up the expanse of your legs, and then your thighs, baring to him the plush and unseen skin there. He eats it up wildly, his eyes gone ravenous and even blacker.

“I’ve never done this before,” you say, voice trill and unsure. “I don’t know what to do.”

A wicked grin cracks over his features. “I know, princess.” The fabric bunches at your thighs, now. You tremble with the stifling anticipation. “I’m going to take care of you. It’s going to feel so good—I’m gonna make you feel so good. I have so many things I want to do to you. Lifetimes of things I want to make you feel.”

Doe-eyed and laying your trust in his hands, your thighs twitch and you nod. He reveals your cunt at last, finally catching the glistening sight of it for the very first time. And, he does not disappoint. The look that washes over his face—the twitching of his lips, the tightening of his jaw in a flickering muscle, and the fire razing your cunt in his eyes—is something so dreamlike, but lucid nonetheless.

“You just lay down and let me help you. Treat you how a princess should be treated.” He works on his pants, silver belt clinking and then loosening, and then he’s just as exposed as you when his length pops free. It’s hard already, tall and pretty like the rest of him, but pink and obscene at the tip. He leaks from the little slit at the top. “Look at you. You look like you want to taste it,” he says, laughing while collecting the liquid to pump himself a few times. “Next time, baby. I’d love to see the proper mouth of the world’s princess choking on my cock.”

The air is cold against the mess between your legs. It sends a chill up your spine—or maybe that was the crudeness of his words. You suppose you should’ve expected nothing less from him. When he goes to climb back over you and line himself up with you, your thighs twitch and try to snap shut.

He pins your hip to the floor. “Don’t be shy, baby. I wanna see that pretty pussy. It’s not fair to hide it from me.”

“Sorry,” you say, cheeks burning.

Taking that hand and sliding it up behind the back of one of your knees, pressing that thigh up to your torso, he laughs a teasing laugh down at you. “Don’t say sorry,” he says. He holds his length adjacent to your slit and then begins to slip up and down the length of it. “Just let me fuck you. I need it so bad.” He hisses in tandem with you. The drags of his length, harder than how you thought a cock might feel, is like undiluted liquor. “I can’t believe this… shit, princess. I’m about to fuck you. I thought I was going to have to sit here and watch you by his side.”

You take your lip into your teeth when he pushes in. It stretches. You bring your hand up to cup the back of his neck and the other to dig into his tunic, mewling softly.

“It’s okay, princess. Hold on to me, you can take it, right? You cunt was built for me. Everything about you was made for me. Your heart, your pretty hands for me to hold, your sex, all of it. Do you feel how I fit right into you? How I was made to?”

You do. When he finally is balls-deep, his cock nestles exactly where it should. Not an inch too deep or an inch too scarce. The two of you were sculpted by something holy, fit just for each other. “Yes,” you breathe.

He can’t even linger sitting still in you. He begins pulling himself out, all the way until the tip of him threatens to pop out lewdly, before shoving back in right up against that spot. He doesn’t even have to search for it. Head falling into your chest, he licks and bites. “The taste of you,” he says. Then, he presses his tall nose right over that spot in your neck where your heart’s gone wild. “The smell of you.” Wincing, he lays into you with more vigor, hips slapping against your skin. “The feel of you. You drive me up the fucking walls. How was I ever supposed to live without this?” he says. “I refuse.”

Your belly begins to tighten in a way that you’ve never known. Tears prick the corner of your ears, clinging to him as he fucks you into the floor like he’ll never have to opportunity to have you like this again. The wood cradles your back and the back of your hips, receiving each of his thrusts. You curl your toes and will back the lewd cries that threaten to spill over with each.

His voice is taut and wobbly. “Feels good, huh? I know. It feels… so good.” Dropping your thigh to cup your face, he says, “Cry. Cry for me. I said I wanted you to scream.”

Face burning and squirming against the hardwood behind you, you shake your head. “I can’t, gyu…”

“Yes you can,” he says, face twitching. “I want you to start letting it out, or I’m gonna stop. Do you want me to stop?”

Covering your face, with the back of a forearm, you grit your teeth through each punctual and yet sloppy grind up into you. Your bodies sweat and meld, and you’re sure that anybody walking by your quarters would know just by the hollow smacks of skin and grunts that you’re fucking a man. You, an engaged woman, are letting the prince turn your brain inside out.

But, there is nothing you want less than for him to stop. So, you let your mouth drop open and allow the sweet mewls to come with each rut.

“There we go. Louder.” He braces himself, digging his feet into the floor, and then he really starts driving into you. Sparks fly in your belly—each yellow and glowing and scalding. “Do I need to fuck you harder? C’mon, louder, princess.”

Thighs squeezing his hips so tight that they ache, you squirm. You struggle against your sounds—turning from sweet moans and mewls, you groan and gasp and your voice breaks. Each collision of your bodies breaks your sounds.

Curling your fingers into his silken hair, you grit out, “H—hoooh fuck, Beomgyu, Beomgyu, I feel… like…”

Bangs sticky and his eyes growing wilder, he knows something you don’t. The knowing, taunting grin on his mouth says enough. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it. Just stay—stay right there, and I’ll give it to you. No running from it; it’s gonna feel so good.” His muscles go taut, and he doubles down on his efforts, panting through his nose and his neck sheened. He drops his head into your chest. “Fuck. Fuckkkk, I love you so much, princess. Thank you—thank you, so much.”

You don’t know why he’s thanking you. You don’t have the cognitive function to worry about that. Your mind has gone to two things: the growls and whines that rumble and tear from his chest, and the frightening tightness that only goes more dangerous. Your chest tightens—it feels as though, if he feeds that hungry beast gnawing deep down in your belly with any more of what he’s doing now, it will snap and take you down in its wake. Warbled cries crawling up your throat, you arch your back up into his chest to try and dig your hips into the floor, away from the bliss and the power of it.

“No,” he says, cursing. “No—don’t run from it. Don’t… Baby, please take what I’m giving you. It’s gonna be alright.”

Pushing back on the dark throes of the tide as it creeps up over your shoulders and sends shocks through your body, the hair on the back of your neck rising with the effort, you choke. Beomgyu takes a hand down the seam of your bodies and rolls your aching clit. They’re succinct and intentional—pressure right on the sensitive underside, sending your belly rippling as he pairs it with a few more sharp, more meaningful thrusts.

You see white. It’s white and hot. You are the sun, beaming and writhing like stardust. You curve off the floor once more, raking nails down the lengths of his back. Are you even making sound? You don’t know; you can’t hear it past the ringing piercing sharp in your ears. You shake beneath him, cunt gripping him frantically with flutters of your walls.

He grunts, voice strained and shaking as he begins to follow his own release. “Holy shit—look at you. You’re so f-filthy. So pretty, cumming on me.”

You bare each brush of his cock against your still twisting walls, trembling as he fucks you through your orgasm. Your thighs jump and your toes curl, and it’s all too much, but not enough. He needs to come tumbling over the edge right along with you—if he comes with you, it doesn’t seem so hard. You chant his name, smooth voice gone hoarse.

Stilling inside you, he whines, “Shi—it.” A war wages behind his eyes for a long second before he slips his cock from you with a wet, squelching pop, strings of your release breaking as he lays his cock on your belly. His stomach goes tight, and with one last slide of his length, slick with your mess and staining your belly, his cock jumps. He shoots all over your skin, pretty glistening spurts like ribbons a milky white.

He sits back on his haunches, slowly rubbing himself off to give you some more and come down. Your room is quiet now, aside from your heaving chests and the buzz of something new in the air. Letting his head fall back, wet strands of spiky black hair dangle around his neck, a bead of sweat catching light as it rolls down it.

“Feel okay?” he says, looking down on you with softened eyes. He pulls cloth from his pocket, unfolding the fine fabric, and he wipes himself off your belly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, leaning into the palm he cups your cheek with. “I’m okay.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “The world didn’t explode, did it?” he says.

You share a stolen laugh with him, feeling every last honey wave receding from the spot between your thighs. The world hadn’t ended, and yet, in every way, it had. Savoring the abated rises and falls of his chest and the content sagging of his shoulders, your belly tightens anew.

What happens now, when everything else has been a lie? When you don’t believe that you can survive that lie for any longer

So many hands work on you. One of your ladies in waiting laces you up in the back, and another works on your hair even while you stand, and one bounces a wintry, snow-kissed rouge over the plush of your cheeks.

Yesterday, your world changed. And today, you’re expected to go on living in it.

When Beomgyu slipped out from your room last night after hours of holding each other under the covers, indulging in your ability to touch, you let your heart crack in two. You shouldn’t have. Why had you let yourself think that it was going to end up anything other than like this? You, getting prettied up to be sent away with your expecting husband, and the dreams you’d let build up to the clouds in the prince’s arms all shattered on the floor at your feet.

What else can you do? Loving Beomgyu freely is out of the question. Your parents would laugh right in your face, or maybe lock you away and make even more sure that you never get to see him again.

You try to burn the image of his eyes into your memory. Black, big and round and cunning all the while. You commit the broadness of his shoulders, and the pretty straight line of his nose in profile, and the pink plushness of his lips, and the little freckles you’d discovered yesterday, and the sound of his voice in your ear, and the feel of his touch on your skin, too.

“We’ll leave you until it’s time to come collect you,” a Lady says, bowing at the waist to you as the others finish up, tying the fastening of your dress up quick and sprinkling their final touches over you before following her out.

Your room goes utterly quiet. More quiet than it’s ever felt.

Dragging your limbs over to your bed, you let yourself fall onto it despite all the care they’d taken to get your skirts right. Resting your cheek to your palm, you let your eyes fall closed as you memorize the feel of your own bed, too.

When you flutter them open, there’s something peeking out from the pillow across from you. You furrow your brows and reach for it.

The paper is folded up with haste, torn from the edge of somewhere else and scribbled on with a quick hand. How long has that been there, without you noticing? Pushing yourself up from the bed, careful to at least maintain the smoothness of your hair, you unfold it.

ℳ𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝓉 𝒮𝑤𝑎𝑛 ℒ𝑎𝑘𝑒.

Your soul comes back to life and seeps through your bloodstream. Sitting there for a few moments, idle at the largeness of what you’re about to do, you loose a breath.

And then, you curl your hand around it, shove yourself up in a flurry of white, crystalline skirts, and you go.

The curious faces of the palace hands you pass do not stop you, nor does the morning’s bite as you find your way outside, nor does the almost-slip over ice, and absolutely nothing else stops you as you run. Is he still going to be there when you make it?

God, please let him be there. Don’t let this be almost.

Fists full of the abrasive fabric of your skirts and darting by barren bushes and trees, you do not stop until you clear the little tree line and the lake stands vast and frosty ahead of you.

When Beomgyu spots you, and you spot his figure against the background of the lake crisp in the morning, the sweet cooing of the birds and the rest of the bustle falls away. None of it compares.

“You came,” he says, dragging his feet through the snow until he’s right in front of you, his features elegant once more in the clear morning haze. “I didn’t think you would.”

You reach up to dust away snowflakes resting on his hair. It’s an excuse to touch him—that’s all you find yourself wanting to do, now. Brows pinching, you say, “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just… was scared.”

“No, no, I came,” you say, feeling now the bare expanse of your arms. You run your hands up and down them. Heart in atrophy all the while feeling full just being here with him, you add, “Why did you want to meet here?”

The world is serene for a few long moments as he just looks at you, his gaze searching. “Don’t marry him. Don’t leave with him.”

You know where he’s going with this already. Letting your dress fall from your hands, the one they’d fashioned you in to do exactly that, you say, “And do what?”

“Be with me. Marry me. Be my wife,” he says, the lines of his face solemn. “Let’s elope and find a corner of the world that’s just ours, so that we will never have to hear another word from them again. Let’s just… be together. Finally.”

Chest swelling with something so hopeful that it’s painful,�� reality comes with its pin point and pop it. “Is that really what you want? You’ll take me, even though I’m promised to somebody else?”

His lip curls as though the thought were detestable. “What the fuck is a dowry to this? To the approval of the fates? The world could try snuff that fact out with whatever they’ll try, and a man could offer your parents a dowry of all its money, and still, you’d be mine. No matter what, our souls belong to each other.” His hand is frozen against your cheek. He’s been out here waiting for you for so long. “I’d take you, promised to another man. I’d take you no matter how you are; in a thousand different lives, I’d have you each time.”

That’s all you need to hear: that you are cherished for more than just your nature, but for yourself. That he loves you unendingly and undyingly, and all you have to do is leave by his side. You’ve already left it all behind—thrown any attachment to the wind, because truly, what is that to this? You don’t know where you’ll go, and you think Beomgyu hasn’t a clue either. But you’ll find that somewhere together.

Together, your half sings. His answers with a thrilling beat.

“This time,” he says, eyes blazing with conviction. You know he feels the tug, too. “We got it right.”

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

✎୭ ashlynn's note MY SHAYLAAAAA. MY SHAYLAAAAAAA!

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deadtired-highkeyenergetic · 27 days ago

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Warm Hugs

So it turned into a fic where the reader just cuddles with Silco, how nice and fluffy. Enjoy it while I cook up more angst :)

You shove your hands into your pockets, trying to ignore the way your body shivers every now and then as you watch the goods being unloaded. It's particularly cold today, and you had come rather unprepared for the weather. Then again no one expected it to suddenly start raining in the middle of the day.

Your fingers feel like ice and the freezing wind howls in your ears, turning your face numb. You wish you had brought your coat along, but it had been left in Silco's office. Scowling at the Piltovians who were taking their own sweet time checking the crates, you play with the lighter in your pocket, wanting nothing more than to bundle up under some shelter and warm yourself a little by the lighter's fire.

With a sigh, you look up at the falling raindrops, wondering what Silco is doing right now. You miss his warmth, the smell of cigar ash and scotch, wanting nothing more than to be next to him right now. You hope that he's at least inside and not stuck in the rain like you are. Your thoughts wander to Jinx, hoping that she too is inside, tinkering with her latest gadgets and ready to surprise you with her latest invention.

Oh how you can't wait to get home. The workers have finally finished unloading when you're on the verge of doing it all yourself. One of the Piltovians silently hands you the log, paper drenched by the rain and you scowl hard at him, causing him to flinch. His hands shake as they leave the log and he mutters something you can't quite catch before scrambling back to Piltover, leaving you, your men and the crates of firearms in the pouring rain.

"We'll move them all to the nearest warehouse first. This rain isn't doing us any favours and we don't have much time left after those preening Piltovians took their sweet time with the late delivery. I'll send a couple to Silco as samples." You rifle through the crates, selecting a few random firearms before patting one of the crates. "Any of these go missing and you'll find yourself missing a couple of body parts here and there too."

The crew scarper off with the crates in tow, leaving you alone in the freezing cold once more. You watch on, ensuring that the crates reached their intended destination before disappearing into the shadows, making your way back to Silco's office.

"Dry yourself up. You're getting water everywhere." Silco doesn't look up from the stack of papers on his desk as you step inside, shivering. You raise an eyebrow, and then spot a towel as well as a change of clothes nicely laid out on the couch. Smiling, you grab the towel and walk over to him.

"Thank you." You press a quick peck to his forehead and he grunts, swatting you away.

"Don't you dare water all over the papers."

You only chuckle, draping the towel over your head and place the newly acquired firearms on the table. "For your perusal."

With that, you head to your shared bedroom to properly dry off and change just as Jinx walks into the office, excited by the new acquisitions.

When you come out, towel hanging around your neck, Jinx has made off with all the firearms but one and Silco looks vaguely annoyed.

"She left one specifically for you." His gaze flicks over you and he gestures for you to come closer. You comply, sitting on his lap and nuzzle into his shoulder happily. He grunts, wrapping his arms around you, paperwork left forgotten and runs his fingers through your now drying hair.

"You didn't dry your hair properly." He frowns, yanking the towel from around your neck.

"Hrm?" You remain snuggled against his chest, liking your current position. He huffs, fussing as he towels your hair, muttering about how you're going to catch a cold. You grin, basking in the attention he lavishes onto you and grab his hands, holding them still long enough to slip a kiss in. He blinks, surprised, but quickly regains his composure and pulls you in for another kiss, this time savouring the moment.

You smile, gently cupping his cheeks, your thumb brushing over his skin and feel him lean into your touch. He feels so warm, so soft, you never want to let him go. You feel the roughness of his scar, feel his hand move to rest on yours, feel him move your hand off his scar and you lean in, pressing a kiss to the rough bumpy skin.

"Don't pull away," you murmur softly. He pauses, looking at you with uncertainty, but lets his hand fall away. You whisper a thank you before tracing over his scar, committing the shape to memory, feeling him flinch slightly when your finger goes near his dead eye but he doesn't pull away. He lets out a deep breath, pulling you into a hug and closes his eye.

You can't help but smile softly, pressing your forehead against his as you soak in his warm embrace. You feel safe, protected, in the arms of The Eye of Zaun, and you want nothing more than to be held by him forever. Silco threads his fingers through your hair, sea foam coloured eye gazing at you fondly as your lips meet again. You drink him in, eagerly devouring the taste that is Silco, the one you love, the one you would burn the whole world for, knowing he would do the same for you.

Silco mouths something when you break away for air and you smile back, committing the sight in front of you to memory. Your finger traces along his jawline and he hums softly, hands resting on your waist, pulling you closer.

"Don't move," he murmurs into your ear and nuzzles your hair, resting his chin on your shoulder. You close your eyes, resting your head against his and feel his breath in your ear. You bask in his embrace, knowing that these moments are hard to come by, especially since he has a reputation to uphold as The Eye of Zaun and happily hug him tightly. You love the way he always makes a noise of surprise when you hug him, the way he pretends not to like it when you cuddle with him, soaking in all the warmth you can, the way he lets you poke his cheeks and get away it, giggling all the while.

You move a hand and slip it into one of his, giving it a gentle squeeze. He squeezes back, raising your intertwined hands to your chest, placing it over your heart. You blink, feeling your heart thundering faster as his other hand reaches up to caress your cheek. You feel the callouses on his hand roughly brushing against your skin, the long slender fingers gliding over the scar that splits your right cheek in two.

"It wasn't your fault," you whisper, taking his hand.

"It was meant for me." His eyebrows furrow and he removes his hand from yours. "You shouldn't have —"

"Nope, no more." You place a finger on his lips, shushing him. "I don't regret it and would do it all over again if given the choice."

He huffs, bringing your palm to his lips. Pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist, he smiles softly at you, "if only everyone else could be as loyal as you."

"Well, then I'd have a lot of competition to fight off, wouldn't I?" You laugh. gazing at him fondly. "I love you, my Silco."

"I love you too." He hums, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "Always."

"Always."

#arcane #arcane x reader #arcane silco #silco #silco x reader #arcane fluff #silco fluff

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poetsblvd · 8 months ago

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BABY WHO? ꪆৎ CS55

“Please Carlos, not Juana!”

You grumble exhausted, two whole hours of bickering about baby names and you’ve gotten no where.

Not even a single clue as to where you could meet at a middle point, with your husband seemingly dead set on giving your unborn daughter a name you’re sure no one’s heard of in years and you ready to take it through a slightly more modern route, you’re seemingly stuck in the middle of nowhere.

So far you’ve heard a variety of names you’re sure won’t suit your princess, or even be to her taste, if she’s anything like you that is.

Alondra, Benita, Biatriz, Martina, Alejandra and nothing!

Nothing feels right and you’re sure you’re at your wits end with discussing baby names.

A whine tumbles out of you, the fear of possibly choosing a bad name for your unborn daughter that could lead to her resenting you forever and ever practically chokes you, causing you push your head into a pillow, shoving the plate full of your current pregnancy obsession of coconut ferrero rochers into Carlos’ chest.

“Mamita no! Estaba bromeando, lo juro!” ( i was joking, i swear! ) Your husband muffles a laugh, placing the plate of treats onto the bedside table next to him, he buries his head near yours.

“She’ll have a beautiful name like her mother, prometo.” ( i promise )

He pushes your hair back from your forehead, the cool of his gold wedding ring pressing itself into you, letting you nuzzle your face into his hand.

You stare at him softly, one hand joining his on the swell of your growing belly. “You promise we won’t name her that? Or…or Benita?”

A deep laugh bursts through him, chest shaking in mirth he pulls you closer to him covering your face in kisses filled with so much love you’re sure you’ll die if ever deprived of them.

“No amorcito, no Benita or Juana.”

You hum frowning slightly, “You’re not upset are you? That I don’t like the names very much, I just want to like them together. And I just don’t see her having such a name to be very honest, I’m sorry if I’m pressuring you.”

You say it so softly it makes his heart clench, he’s aware of the fact that you’re more sensitive than usual with your pregnancy hormones especially with you being in your second trimester, and it upsets him that you’re worried and genuinely fearful about his feelings as though he’s the one growing a whole baby.

“I promise I was joking Amor, swear it. I’m not upset at you at all, never ever ever! And we will like and choose a name together okay? You aren’t pressuring me at all.” He stares at you warmly as though hoping to convey his deep love and reassurance for you, grinning brightly when you nod and relax.

“Okay? Good! Now would you like a glass of water? It’s been a while now and se supone que debes estar bien hidratada, for both you and the princess, hmm? ” ( you’re supposed to be well hydrated. )

Stretching his arm slightly to the table he picks up the crystal glass filled with iced water and a thinly cut slice of lemon to help pit your ever growing nausea.

“Beberse todo.” He mumbles bringing the glass to your lips and tipping it upwards to let you drink, parting it from your mouth only when you hum. ( drink up )

He presses his lips to yours in a noisy peck. “Good job amorcito.”

“Now, about baby names huh?” Smiling at your enthusiastic face, he places the half full glass back down and hums as though deep in thought, tapping his fingers lightly in your belly.

“I’ve always liked Amara, or! Even Estrella? But more so Amara, because you’re mi amor and she’d be mi Amara!”

A breathy laugh bubbles out of you, the joy pillowing through as you filter the lovely name Amara.

You test it on your lips again, “Amara, Amara. Amara Sainz.” It sounds perfect.

It feels perfect, and from the look on the Spaniards face you know he thinks so too.

“Okay.” You giggle, pulling him in closer and letting him breathe you in, trying to entrap you fully in his senses.

“We found her name!”

“We did, amor we did.”

“Thank you, I love you, I love you.” You hold him closer.

“No. thank you, te amo mucho.” He kisses you hard and lovingly, pushing all of his gratitude and deep adoration for you in the kiss, before suddenly pulling away with a dramatic gasp.

“Shit! Lando’s gonna be disappointed.”

Your brows furrow confused and a little dazed from the kiss. “What why?”

“I may or may not have let him think I’d name mi niñita, Landina.”

“Carlos!”

“What? Charles thinks we’re naming her Charlene!”

“…And don’t even get me started on what Fernando thinks we should name her.”

“Dear god Carlos!”

“Fernanada. It’s Fernanda.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

love note , hii thank you sm for requesting !! i absolutely loved writing this it’s such a perfect idea !! i did change it a teeny tiny bit with reader being a bit more emotional and carlos being a bit of a reassuring boyfriend because we love <3 anyways i hope you liked this !! thank you once again for requesting 🫶🏼🫶🏼

#౨ৎ my works #✧. carlos sainz #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz blurbs #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz x fem!reader #carlos sainz blurb #carlos sainz fic #carlos sainz one shot #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz drabble #f1 x reader

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dumbseee · 10 months ago

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oh shit.

pro hero!bakugo who has a crush on you.

pro hero!bakugo katsuki x idol!reader.

genre: fluff

- the first time bakugo agreed to do an interview was because todoroki and izuku were also there. the top three heroes were asked all sorts of questions before the journalist finally asked thee question. "so~ you guys are so private, we don’t really know much about you. so let’s get to know our top three heroes! first question, who is your celebrity crush?" she asked, a smirk on her lips as she looked at the three heroes in front of her. izuku blushed, fumbling with his answer, todoroki crossed his arms on his chest, saying that he had no time for that kind of stuff, and bakugo scoffed, crossing his legs on the small table in front of them. "celebrity crush? do you have other shitty questions or are we done?" he glared at the interviewer who nearly melted on the spot. izuku elbowed his friend and offered an awkward smile to the poor woman. "but aren’t you a big fan of y/n? i heard you sing her songs under the shower, one time." shoto chimed in, face blank. "what?! no! what are you saying ice hot?! i’ll fucking crush your face, come here!" bakugo jumped from his seat and had to be restrained by izuku and a few security guards, meanwhile shoto sat there, wondering what he did wrong this time.

- the interview went viral, with everyone making fun of the mighty dynamight and his little crush on you. he nearly sent shoto to the moon after seeing all those edits of you and him on social media or your fans calling him the president of the fandom. your fans are even shipping you together! and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t like it. he actually made a fake twitter and tiktok account where he’d like and favourite every single edit/tweet about you. he’d be smiling and blushing like a high schooler in the dark of his room.

- he has a locked drawer in his room, where he keeps all your albums and merch. he’d literally set on fire whoever manage to open it and discover his little secret.

- he spent hours in front of his phone, the screen showing your dm page on instagram, he wanted to dm you so bad. make the first move and try to get close to you, but bakugo was a coward, as funny as it sounded, bakugo was very intimidated by you. he ended up throwing his phone away, he’d try again tomorrow.

- one day he got called for an incident involving a woman and someone who tried to break into her house. nothing major so bakugo went alone, imagine his shock when he saw that the victim was you and the man was your stalker who’s been following you and harassing you for months. he immediately saw red and grabbed the man, slammed him to the ground and threatened to shove a bomb down his ass if he moved. "are you okay?" when you saw dynamite arrive from your window, you immediately ran outside, since you felt safe with the hero around. you hugged yourself and nodded, looking down at the shaking man, but bakugo didn’t believe you. soon enough, police arrived to arrest the man and everyone left, leaving you alone with bakugo. "he’ll leave you alone now, i’ll make sure of it." he smiled gently, putting a hand on your shoulder you forced a smile but slowly lost it when you saw him getting ready to leave. you quickly grabbed his hand and looked at him with pleading eyes, the sight made his heart jump. "please, will you stay with me?" how could he say no?

- bakugo couldn’t get rid of the pink color decorating his cheeks. it was the first time he met his celebrity crush and bakugo wished it was different. he wished he came earlier so you wouldn’t even be aware that your stalker was trying to break into your home. you offered him some food and water but he declined everything, you were getting ready for bed when the incident happened so you were exhausted from practice and rehearsal. you also felt bad for keeping him with you when he was clearly busy or tired from patrolling. "i’m so sorry for bothering you, i know he won’t come back, but i’m still terrified." you played with your hand and felt tears burning your eyes. "don’t. you don’t have to be ashamed for feeling scared, but trust me when i say this, this bastard won’t ever come close to you again." he said it in such a low tone, you thought you imagined it. you nodded and hugged him, which surprised him to no end and also made him as red as a tomato. he didn’t know what to do with his hands so he simply put them around your waist, gently patting your back.

- you fell asleep with the light on, bakugo was sitting on the chair next to your bed and kept his eye on you. he stayed with you till the sun woke up. he noticed every detail of your face, the small freckles decorating your beautiful nose, your long and dark lashes, your full and soft lips and overall your beautiful face. you were, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman bakugo had ever seen in his life. while looking at you, he felt a weird sense of possessiveness and protection wash over him. he wanted to protect you and make sure no one would ever hurt you again.

- when you woke up, you saw a small note on your nightstand, "had to leave for work pretty girl, but don’t worry i’ll see you soon. here’s my number: xxx - xxx - xxx" you didn’t know why but you smiled at his note. of course, you immediately registered his number and sent him a lovely text, thanking him again for yesterday and inviting him for dinner some day. you also signed it "your celebrity crush (;" bakugo almost choke on his coffee when he read your text.

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cameronwillow · 8 days ago

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Soulmates.

R.C x fem reader

Your long term boyfriend John B cheats on you with his soulmate, Sarah Cameron. And you decide you need revenge. And what better way than with the man he hates most? Rafe Cameron.

Thank you anon for requested this uploaded again!

C.W: Cheating, oral fem recieving, (I think that’s it)

Being cheated on by your long term boyfriend was hard enough, losing a friend group was another heartbreak. John B and you had been together since you’d graduated high school. After you moved here from a small town in the south during your sophomore year. You stuck out like a sore thumb with your hyper feminine clothing and routine.

You carried around a purse with the essentials, wallet, phone, taser and lipstick. You were a senior in college now, going for law school and you had come to your shared apartment with a gift for John B. Grinning, you opened the door but the box fell out of your hold at the sight of him laying on the floor naked with Sarah Cameron.

Your face dropped and they both scrambled to cover up. You stood in silence for a few seconds before John B began babbling words,

“It just happened, I didn’t know she was my soulmate, it just appeared and I was going to tell you tonight-“

That fucking unfortunate information sent you into a rage. You screamed, threw things, even chased after John B with your purse until you managed to calm down. The tears sprang on but you willed yourself to leave. He offered to move out but you couldn’t accept.

It held too many memories so here you were. Crying while shoving a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth, looking at your old friend group with John B and Sarah Cameron. It was a self destructive path, to doom scroll and torture yourself with the photos of them showing their tattoos.

The soulmate bond was uncontrollable. Once the connection was formed, matching tattoos appeared on your ring fingers. The image itself was the moon cycle when the bond sealed. This phenomenon was ancient. Viewed as old school, disregarded even here in the outer banks. You had been with John B and the Pogues so long, it didn’t matter to you that the official bond didn’t come.

You isolated yourself in your childhood bedroom at your parent’s home. They were on vacation, celebrating their anniversary so you couldn’t even have their comfort during the breakup. Sniffling, you flipped over on your side and curl into a ball.

Fuck him, you thought angrily. He couldn’t have had the decency to break it off. Tell you before betraying the history you had together. Sarah Cameron was the middle child of a family as close to royalty as they came here. She was known to rebel against her Kook father and step mother as she graduated high school years ago. You never were friends, friendly at best if you ran into her after leaving your shift as a barista.

He couldn’t get away with this. Neither could the Pogues choosing his side and excluding you. Your jaw set as you stared at the wall, an idea forming. It was extremely petty. Risky and could lead to a dramatic fall out. However, if it was done right, it would be satisfying.

You felt like a fish out of water. Wearing a light colored dress, makeup applied and hair up as you approached your target. Rafe Cameron.

He was the oldest of the Cameron’s, a few years above you with a bad reputation. Bad temper, abrasive personality and instilled fear into many. However, one thing he was, a smart businessman.

While your parents were Pogues, your grandparents were Kooks. Making your childhood and teenage years a little less harsh than your old friends. You got invited to some parties, had some level of respect that other Pogues didn’t.

This made you feel a little more confident to give Rafe the proposal you had in mind as you strutted forward. He came to an expensive Brunch spot in between meetings with his laptop. Mostly because he wasn’t allowed to yell in a public place without consequences.

You hadn’t seen him in person in a while and he didn’t post a lot of photographs of himself. His buzzcut a new accessory and he wore casual clothes. Rafe typed away, not noticing you until you stopped at his table.

His brows furrowed at your shadow and then his blue eyes lifted. Rafe sat back a little, a ghost of a smirk curling his lip and he scanned you. Openly checking you out and his gaze lingered on your exposed skin.

“Hey,” He said your name with a nod and you cleared your throat. You couldn’t lose your nerve now.

“Hey. Do you have a minute? Can I talk to you?” You ripped the bandaid off and Rafe glanced at his computer.

“Yeah, I can talk for a bit.” He shut the laptop, gesturing expectantly at the chair across from him for you to sit.

You sat down, back straight and set your hands on the table. Fingers splayed and he glanced at them. He noticed the bare skin, no tattoo.

“I’m assuming this is about John B.” Rafe offered and you winced. “Yeah, heard you uh, really freaked out.” he had laughter in his voice and you glared at him.

“He deserved it. So did your little sister.” Rafe didn’t seem to care for that but you pressed on, “And he shouldn’t get away unscathed. Neither of them should.”

Rafe hummed and leaned forward. Elbows on the table and exposing his muscles. He waved his hand, encouraging you to finish. “Well? Spit it out.”

“What if we pretend to date?” You said quickly, “Just to get under their skin. They all dropped me and I want them to see I’m doing good. Better than good. With the person they hate.”

Rafe snorted and then openly laughed. He smoothed his hand over his face and your jaw tightened.

“I’m glad you think this is funny because I don’t. I walked in on the man I love fucking your sister and you think that’s entertaining?” Your voice was raising and Rafe shushed you.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

You perked up, tilting your head but he held up a hand.

“But there’s gonna be conditions.” He declared and you sank into the chair. “Don’t pout. You don’t even know what they are.”

You kept quiet as Rafe assessed you with a hint of curiosity. “Conditions are, this is just pretend, don’t get attached to me,” the roll of your eyes did nothing to halt his sentence, “We don’t embarrass each other and lastly, I’m not doing this as a just a favor.”

You held your breath, waiting and Rafe brushed his nose with the knuckle of his finger.

“I get to taste you. At least one time.”

Sighing, you snorted. “That’s it? You want to kiss me?”

Rafe blinked at you in a condescending way. “No. I don’t kiss someone unless I like them. Maybe. I mean taste your pussy.”

Your glossy lips parted and hackles raised on the back of your neck. You didn’t immediately answer. Was it unreasonable? Not necessarily. It wasn’t like he mentioned actually fucking you. It was rude. But this was Rafe Cameron. You were asking him to help you with ridiculous revenge and if you got to cum once out of it, then you could live with that.

“Why that specifically? I’d expect you to want a blow job.”

Rafe exhaled and for the first time, he lost a glint of confidence but it returned just as quickly. “I like to be in control. And you’d be getting your pussy eaten, so why the hesitation?”

It wasn’t much of an answer but you decided your fate. Extending your hand, fingers decorated with delicate rings and Rafe met your grip. Shaking it firmly.

“Deal.”

“Good. Luck would have it, I could use a guest at the grand opening of a new business tonight. I’ll pick you up at five. We can take a picture together. Post it and all that shit girls do.”You let go of his hand with a gasp. It was already noon.

“What? That’s not enough time to get ready!” Rafe opened his laptop again, continuing whatever he was doing previously. “Better get going then.”

Growling in the back of your throat, you stomped away. You hoped John B and the crew regretted it as soon as possible because you couldn’t deal with the insufferable man long.

You were a half step from throwing a full tantrum when you rushed out of the house. Normally you had days in advance to prepare for an event. It took you almost forty minutes to pick an outfit. You hopped around on one foot as you slipped on a different pair of heels and Rafe opened the passenger door from the inside.

His blue eyes were light with amusement and he gave you an appreciative once over. “It’s a grand reveal of a business. Didn’t know you needed a ballgown for that.”

You snarled and slammed the door shut after landing in a heap in the seat.

“Hey, watch the door. This car was fucking expensive.” Rafe hissed but you rolled your eyes and turned your body away from him.

“I’m sure you have another one,” You looked at your pink polish on manicured fingernails. Rafe reached over and turned up his music. You made a face of distain and he snorted.

“What? What sort of awful pop music do you listen to?”

“Oh? Making assumptions are we?” You perked up and Rafe nodded before handing you his phone.

“Play something then if it keeps you from breaking my car.” You make a face at him and select a song from one of your favorite bands.

Rafe jolted slightly at the sound of explosive metal playing, looking at you with a mixture of surprise and fear. You crossed your legs and sighed in contentment.

“You’re kidding. Bubblegum princess likes screamo?” You nod along and mouth the lyrics, ignoring his little comment. Rafe doesn’t turn it off but keeps driving.

Minutes after a car ride of loud music and awkward tension, Rafe gets out of the car and you gather the material of your dress. He opens the side door, extending a hand while glancing at your heels.

“Shall we?” Accepting, Rafe sets his hand on your lower back, slowing his pace to match you as you enter the modern building. Big windows, clean smells, sharp cut designs and workers carrying trays of small portioned food. Glasses of alcohol and men wearing suits looking skeptical over the shine of the floor.

Everyone turned to look at you both stepping inside. Focusing on his contact on your body but they quickly shifted into greetings. No doubt to keep their positions. You plastered on pleasant listening expressions and let Rafe do all the talking.

You accepted a glass of champagne to keep yourself occupied as the time went on. Rafe knew his work well. You’d never heard him sound so sure of himself.

When he wasn’t occupied, you pulled out your phone. Opening the camera and picking out your favorite filter. Rafe gave his typical selfie face, bending down slightly to meet you more comfortably but you scowled and turned to him.

“If this is gonna work, you have to look like you like me.” Rafe remained still for a few seconds and then dipped down to press a kiss to your cheek. You quickly reached back up to snap the moment and made yourself remain calm as Rafe wrapped his muscular arms around your waist, tugging you close to him.

You took a couple of photos, feeling your skin on fire as he pulled away. His lips faintly covered in blush makeup. “We good?”

You looked at the selfies, mildly impressed at how genuine they looked and you noticed how Rafe had the smallest smile as he kissed your cheek.

“Yeah. Those look good. Thank you. I’m gonna post them.” You began uploading them on instagram and Rafe waited until they finished loading. He set his hand on your phone.

“Time for your end of the deal when this is over and I take you home.” You gulped but resigned. You agreed and fair was fair.

You made yourself keep your phone off until you were safe in your room. Rafe played his ridiculous fuck boy music as he drove you home and you pressed both thighs together tightly. You were nervous. Unsure why though. Rafe was hot and you were fully benefiting from this but it was the idea of eating your pussy was his reward. Sure, John B seemed to like it but never asked for it. You tapped your fingers along the beat of the song as he pulled into the driveway and shut it off.

You opened your legs, pulling up your dress and Rafe seized your knee. Squeezing firmly.

“Hold on. I’m gonna take you inside at least. I’m not a complete asshole.”

“Just get it over with.” You spoke and kept your eyes on the garage door. He caught your chin between his fingers, turning your head towards him.

“Nah, we’re gonna do it my way and it’s the right one. Besides, we wouldn’t be comfortable in my car. I’m too tall.”

“Brag much?” You glanced anywhere but his eyes and Rafe clicked his tongue.

“Don’t act all shy now, sweetheart. Show me inside like you have some manners.”

You carried your heels as you walked ahead, letting Rafe in your childhood home and into your bedroom. He looked around, lifting things up and started to open drawers.

You smacked his hand. “Stop it. Don’t mess anything up.”

Rafe caught your wrist, lightly tossing you to the bed and you squeaked as he mounted you. He had taken off his suit jacket but left everything else on. The look in his eyes held lust and a primal energy that had you breathless. His warm rough palms were heavy as he lifted your dress, admiring the curves of your hips and legs. Rafe ran his fingers along the material of your panties, smirking at the dampness growing in the center and he nudged your legs wider.

“You wanna know why I really wanna do this?” Even though it was a question, you didn’t answer and just stared up at him with wide eyes.

“Because I want you to know what whatever John B did with his cock is pathetic compared to me. I can make you cum harder with just my mouth than anything he ever did.”

Rafe grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed, slapping his hands in your inner thighs and you gasped. Overwhelmed by his words and actions you were too distracted to protest.

He pulled your panties to the side, aggressively pinning your legs down with his forearms but he surprised you with his gentle way of kissing your pelvis. You whimpered, nipples hardening as he worked his way down and opened his mouth when he reached your pussy.

Rafe groaned, inhaling deeply so he could enjoy the smell of you and starting messily making out with your cunt. Your breathing was sharp, hands instinctively reaching for his head as he spread you even further and sucked your clit between his lips.

He wasn’t shy at all, his sharp jawline bumping your ass as Rafe licked the underside of your clit after lightly nipping. Your back arched and you started humping his face.

He curved his mouth so he could press his tongue inside you, moving his head to get every angle and you were closer to the edge faster than ever.

You were moaning, high pitched desperate sounds and the bed shifted under you. Lifting your head, your eyes were glassy as you saw Rafe palming his bulge and thrusting into his hand as he savored your pussy.

You hadn’t been touched like this in a while. Even before walking in to the sight of John B cheating on you, he had neglected you. Not paying attention to the ways you left yourself open for his touch.

Your ex boyfriend was soft whenever you were intimate. Never showing an ounce of roughness or dominance. Unlike Rafe, who was both of those things even when he was on his knees for you.

Your orgasm came like a storm, pulling you into bliss as a wail escaped you. Your hands were scrambling to put his free one on your tit, guiding him to squeeze it as he licked you through it.

Your entire body twitched as he didn’t stop but his own sounds of pleasure echoing through your room as Rafe came in his pants. Your eyes squeezed shut and he slowly lifted his skull. His mouth and chin were dripping with your slick.

Rafe’s eyes were hazy and you prepared for his quick departure but he crawled over you and slammed his lips to yours in a kiss. His fingers held your chin and his soft lips moved with yours. Your legs wrapped around his waist, ankles crossing and your arms around his broad shoulders.

He met your tongue, sucking it into his mouth and then your lower lip. You tasted yourself and Rafe’s hand drifted to your back. He held you close to him with a new level of…tenderness.

Rafe broke away, sucking in gulps of air and brushed his knuckle against your cheek.

You both made a sound of pain and he shifted off of you. It was a pinch, deep to the bone of your ring finger. It ended just as quickly as it came on and you both looked at your hands.

There were matching moons. The cycle of the night.

You felt the air knock out of you. Despite the fucked out appearance of your messed up dress, panties to the side and bruised lips.

Your gazes met each others.

“No fucking way.”

Rafe Cameron was your soulmate.

Dividers by @starkeysprincess and @bloodibambiidoll

Tagging @bloodibambiidoll @cxrrodedcoffin @sturnioloshacker @starkeysprincess @starkeysbabygirl @cameronsprincess @webbluvrsugar @fear-is-truth @marchsfreakshow @oceanblvd111 @oceandriveab @hornyxdreamsx2 @redhead1180 @rafeyscurtainbangs @xxladymjxx

#rafe cameron #rafe smut #rafe cameron smut #rafe x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #rafe imagine #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe #rafe fic #rafe fluff #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x kook!reader #outer banks x y/n #outer banks x you #outer banks smut #outer banks x reader

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nymphoniah · 3 months ago

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Ooh if you're taking requests, Can I request a Logan Howlett x reader smut?, Reader pranks Logan by telling him that she's on her period and that it will last 2 weeks, to which he actually believes her. However Logan eventually catches on to her lie and he goes absolutely feral by ripping her clothes off and punishing her while saying "You kept my pussy away from me, how dare you"

white lie | logan howlett

pairing: old man!logan x afab!reader

AN: ohmygodddd!! someone needs to restrain meee. i can see pussy starved!logan being super selfish when it comes to your cunt. practically abuses it—he does it just to spite you, for making him wait to taste you. chat i NEEED him.

content/tags: NSFW (18+), minors DNI. old man!logan, period comfort, porn with plot, p in v sex, spit as lube, pet names (sweetheart, doll, etc.) a little bit of mean!logan, missionary, doggy style, fingering, daddy kink, breeding kink, creampie

it's been a while since you started taking birth control, almost about a year or so. despite the name of the medication, you initially took the pill to fix your hormonal imbalances. at first, your periods were irregular, and extremely painful, and of course, logan would do anything to help alleviate the pain.

he wasn't really one for domesticity, but that’s something that you changed that about him.

how could he ever refuse to take care of a sweet little thing like you?

logan would pamper you, refuse for you to get out from bed whenever the week of your period came. you wanted a cup of water? don't move, he'll be right back with a glass. you didn't want it with ice? logan profusely apologies, and returns back to your side with lukewarm temperature water.

sure, these things seem menial, but seeing logan's brooding figure rush around the apartment, struggling to find your heating pad that you use for cramps; his brain scrambling over how it was safe to throw something like that in the microwave. it brought a smile to your face, and seeing you happy was the only thing he wanted.

and of course, you didn't mind the additional benefits that came with taking your medication.

the two of you fucked like rabbits. logan absolutely took advantage of the fact that you were on birth control; and though he didn’t admit it, it was clear he had some sort of breeding kink.

and it became apparent when you played a “prank” on him—a lighthearted joke that you made that he took the wrong way

“such a shitty day,” you groan, rubbing your eyes haphazardly. you unbutton your unbearably tight top, slouching into the worn down couch of your tiny apartment.

“what’s wrong, bub?” logan chirps, joining alongside you, his hands working at your thighs. “let me help you, doll.”

you sigh and lean your head further back into the cushions, feeling dizzy even at the slightest movement. “feels like i’m gonna start my period soon…”

his head tilts to the side, his hand now gripping at your legs instead of massaging them. “thought you’re still on it though,” he trails off, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“shit, i forgot to tell you when my period was over,” you answer with genuine concern. “my periods are still irregular, thought you’d already know.”

‘fuck’ logan thought to himself, his hands moving upwards to play with the hem of your pencil skirt. you’re still in your office attire—tights, kitten heels, a lacy tank top hidden underneath your button up, the whole ordeal.

“should’ve told me sooner, sweetheart,” logan growls into your ear, hands roaming your body

and before you know it, you’re bent over the kitchen counter, stripped down to nothing but your skirt, ass up and on display for his viewing pleasure.

with the pop of his claws, he ruins your cute little skirt, ripping it off of your ass with ease, the ripped fabric discarded to the side.

he makes sure to not mess up your panties though, his rough hands pulling the soaked fabric down your legs. he pockets them, shoving them into one of the pockets of his leather jacket.

“naughty girl,” logan chuckles to himself, watching at how your hole twitched around nothing, cunt absolutely soaked with your own arousal. “don’t even ‘hafta get you ready…”

he slips his cock out from his jeans, the flushed head of his tip already leaking; he's been waiting for this, a week too long.

he pumps himself a couple times, smearing the precum over his tip with his thumb. before lining himself up against you, he makes sure to tease you—after all, you did make him wait.

logan harshly slaps his dick against your cunt, making you whimper out his name. "bet you're fuckin' mad at yourself, huh doll?" his voice low, "being so forgetful..."

the shame was too much, all you can do is whine in response. "starved not only me, but yourself of your old man's dick," he lets out a tsk, and without warning, sheathes himself in you.

"shit! logan, im sorry" you cry, feeling yourself clench around him, missing the way he stretched out your cunt.

“gonna stuff you with my cum, darlin’. and you’re taking fuckin’ all. of. it.” he grunted out, emphasizing the last of his words with the deep thrust of his hips.

you could only respond with a feverish whine, “need you so bad, logan”, your fingernails clawing at his back to ground yourself as he pounds into you relentlessly.

“how fuckin’ dare you whine for my cock-,” he hisses out, warm breath tickling the shell of your ear, “you kept this tight little pussy away from me,” he spat out, his voice sounding bitter.

“can’t believe you made me wait for this, darlin’” he spat out with disdain, his thrusts getting sloppier. “you’re gonna have to beg for it.”

your bottom lip is swollen from your constant nibbling—which was considered a bad habit to logan, the tic stifling your moans which he gravely desired to hear.

his hand clenches at your jaw, parting your lips, your cheeks squished together. a small whimper escapes your lips at the action. he inches his face closer to you and his hazel eyes bore into yours.

“gonna stuff you so much, you’re not gonna ‘hafta worry about your period anymore, sweetheart,” he snarls out, his grip getting tighter.

your mind goes fuzzy, and the only thing you could think about is him finishing inside you, painting your velvety walls white.

you were whining at the top of your lungs, babbling incoherently. mouth agape, logan’s hand wrapped tightly around your neck, you can barely manage to let out any words. ‘s-sorry, i know i’ve been bad,’ m’sorry daddy… shouldn’t have lied…’

logan smirks at your moans, recognizing how much of a mess you are. content with your pleading, he releases the grip on your neck, his fingertips now tracing down your torso, making their way down to your hips.

“gonna breed this tight pussy,” he grunts, his rough hands gripping at your love handles, using them as leverage to pound into you deeper.

“she’s gonna keep all my cum in there, right doll?” he asks tantalizingly, his eyes locked onto your cunt, admiring the way your hole twitches perfectly around his dick, gripping him like a vice.

you can only moan in response, breath hitching with every deep thrust of his cock. it’s too much for you to handle, the pain you’re experiencing slowly turning into pleasure.

logan reluctantly slips out of you; manhandling you, he hastily flips you around. he spits directly onto your clit, and it’s a sinful sight—a thin strand saliva connecting from his bottom lip to your clit, and your pupils dilate at the view.

his fingers adeptly working at the swollen bundle of nerves, continuing his rhythmic thrusts—it’s all too much for you.

“feels s’good,” you cry out, your body a twitching mess beneath him. your fingernails dig at his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks against his skin, and soon after, you’re chasing your own release.

your hips move against your own will, attempting to match his pace—but it’s no use. he brutally pistons his hips into yours, intoxicated by your cunt, greedily sucking him in, and how unwilling she was to let his cock go.

“be a good girl n’ take it, baby,” he hisses between gritted teeth, pumping himself a couple more times before he finishes. he lets out a primal growl as thick ropes of cum fill your insides, your gummy walls milking him dry.

he keeps himself sheathed inside of you, ensuring that you were stuffed full of his cum. “need to make sure she takes…” logan murmurs, his thumb lazily rubbing at your clit.

even as his cock resides deep in your cunt. the mixture of your arousal and his manages to slip out. “such a pretty little cunt,” he says in awe, “fuckin’ perfect.”

the schlick of him pulling his cock out filled the room, making you whine in need, already missing how well logan filled you.

before you knew it, he swept you up off your feet, moving you from the kitchen back to the living room couch, placing you down gently knowing how sore you must’ve been—from your period cramps and the onslaught he had on your cunt.

you’re still naked, body out on display for his viewing pleasure. logan hungrily watches as your cunt continues to ooze out with his cum, a smirk forming across his face showing that he’s content with the “work” he’s done.

“took my dick like a champ, kid,” he chuckles out, pressing a kiss to the temple of your head.

“next time, tell me when your period’s over, doll.” he adds, punctuating his words with a playful slap to your ass.

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett smut #deadpool 3 #wolverine x you #drabble #wolverine smut #logan smut #old man logan #oldermen #old man!logan #logan wolverine #the wol #wolverine x oc #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett fanfiction

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s-brant · 1 year ago

Text

Make It Better

my masterlist (gif: @conradfiisher)

After getting into an argument with his brother, Conrad seeks out the comfort of a close friend.

8k (18+)

Warnings: smut, oral sex (fem receiving), p in v, strong language, and slight angst.

For every girl in Cousins, there was something about Conrad Fisher that made them go a little crazy. And for Y/N, a girl who grew up with the Fishers and Conklins next door every summer, it was the fact that he decided to choose her of all people to be with. Even if Belly had him first, it was all worth it to her.

With Conrad, it's all soft-spoken praises, feather light brushes off his fingertips against forbidden places, and sensual kisses. It's all she can see when she closes her eyes to sleep at night or merely blinks during the day. It's hard to keep it a secret when her mind refuses to stop recalling the memories at a constant rate. Still, she has to be on her best behavior seeing that it is the last night they have together before the house is officially sold by Aunt Julia. And to honor their summer house, they collectively decided to throw a goodbye party.

The vibration of the bass thumping within the walls of the house is strong enough to rattle her eardrums as she takes a shot with her arm interlinked with Cam Cameron's. He, of course, is drinking a can of soda, but she was quick to assuage his insecurity when he mentioned it. It was the thought that counted.

She and Cam have been friends since they were in middle school, so, when he joined their circle of friends through Belly last year, it made her happy to have him around in the way Jere, Steven, Conrad, and Belly always were. When he and Belly ended their fling, she was there for both of them. She hugged Cam for a minute straight before letting go and offering to cheer him up with ice cream. For Belly, she told her she did the right thing by not leading him on and told her to follow her heart, wherever it may lead her, as they swam in the pool.

How was Y/N supposed to know it would lead her straight into the arms of the boy she's always loved?

"Okay," Cam rips her from her thoughts as he speaks, shoving his hydroflask filled with ice water into her hands, "You are officially cut off for the night until I see you drink some of this. I think your blood may be fifty percent tequila at this point."

She frowns at him.

"You're no fun, but I appreciate you looking out," she says.

She stays with him to swallow a few generous mouthfuls of water before handing the bottle back to him with a quiet, "Thank you. M'gonna go find Connie and Steven."

The last she checked, the two of them were taking pictures with the Polaroid camera they bought at the store earlier. They called her and Belly over to take turns taking pictures together. One of them all together, one of Y/N and Steven, then Belly and Conrad, and, finally Y/N and Conrad.

It was hard to watch Belly pose with him considering their extensive history together, but he knew that, and when it was her turn to pose with him, he wrapped his hand around her waist and entwined his fingers in hers to give it a reassuring squeeze. This made it extremely difficult for her not to smile too hard as she looked at the camera lens.

After the flash went off, Steven, the only person to know the details of their recent, days-old affair, says, "Wait, one more! One more! You'll thank me later, I swear."

With Belly having skated off, Taylor doing God knows what, and Jere lingering not far from wherever Belly went, they didn't feel too worried when they were directed to hug for the camera. Her cheek squished against his, their chests rising and falling to meet one another like matching puzzle pieces, and the scent of his body wash—the proximity to him was intoxicating.

"Okay, smileee—"

The flash off went off, and they stayed together for a few seconds longer than necessary before reluctantly pulling apart.

Steven handed each of them one of the pictures with a wink before saying, "Alright, Taylor wants me to do shots with her. I'll probably be back soon."

Conrad got the first one and she got the second. They couldn't help how they smiled as they stood side by side to admire them. His was carefully placed in the back pocket of his pants, which then made her realize that she did not have any pockets herself.

"Can you keep it safe for me?" she asked with a bright, moony-eyed expression. Her hands then slid down the front of her dress to feel for any place to store the photograph only to come up empty. "It's my own fault. Shouldn't have worn a dress."

His eyes softened as they looked up and down the length of her body, then settled back on her eyes.

"No," he said before he could stop himself, "it's perfect."

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she was about to open her mouth to speak when Cam and Skye called her name from across the room.

After a second, he spoke again, "I'll catch up with you later, Padme."

When he turned to walk away, he heard her giggle from behind his back at the inside joke shared between the two of them.

As she searches through the house for him now, she smiles to herself at the thought of it. It originated when they were mere children. After finishing a marathon of the Star Wars franchise in release order—the only correct way to watch it according to Susannah and Laurel—one summer, they all became obsessed with playing pretend with sticks as lightsabers. A week later, once it became apparent that it wasn't a fleeting phase, Susannah surprised them with toy lightsabers.

Somehow, they decided amongst themselves who was who, and it just so happened that Y/N was Padme and Conrad was Anakin. Jere and Steven made a deal to take turns playing Obi-Wan Kenobi since they originally both wanted to be him, and Belly, the youngest of the bunch, was so happy to be included that she would play whatever character they wanted her to for the day. The only roles that never changed were Anakin and Padme. Even when they got to the main trilogy in their game of pretend, Conrad played Darth Vader, and Y/N let Belly be Princess Leia while she played as Darth Sidious. One way or another, they were always paired in some way. Fated.

They much preferred playing as the star-crossed lovers as opposed to the pair of evil Sith Lords. It pleased her more than she ever let on that she and Conrad were together, even if it was just pretend. They've always teasingly called each other by those names ever since.

She peeks into every entryway when she walks by in hopes that she'll spot Conrad or Steven, but neither of them appears. It isn't until she steps out onto the front porch after searching the whole lower level of the house that she finds one of them. Well, actually, she hears one of them. Conrad.

"Jere, you know for a fact that I came home every second I could—"

"But it wasn't every day!"

Jeremiah, she notes as she stands with her back against the front door. Neither of them sees her.

"Okay, okay," Conrad retorts. "What do you want? A medal?"

What Jere says next makes her have to look away in the direction of the neighbor's yard, not wanting to see the heartbreak written across his brother's face as he calls him a coward. Her jaw tightens with every vitriolic word spewed at him. It isn't her place to interrupt, but it kills her to stand by and listen.

"You're not someone to look up to. You're not even someone I wanna know."

The universe must have a cruel sense of humor, because the second these words are said, someone trying to swing the door open against her back sends her stumbling forward into their line of vision. The sound of her falling to her hands and knees brings their attention away from one another instantly.

Her eyes meet Jeremiah's first, then they immediately switch to lock eyes with Conrad, and the first thing out of her mouth is, "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or anything. I just came out here cause I couldn't find you guys. I'll go back inside." Despite her anger at what she overheard, she makes sure to look at both of them when she says, "I'm sorry."

She's already on her feet and facing the front door, abandoned by the guy who tried to walk out only to be greeted with this shit-show, when Jeremiah says, his tone harsh, "Don't. I was already leaving."

This makes her stop in her tracks, her hand frozen in place where it grabs the door handle, and, after she listens to Jere's footsteps gradually disappear, she turns back around.

Conrad is closer now than he was a second ago. Rather than remain in the driveway where he and his brother argued, he stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets. The look on his face...it's heartbreaking. His eyes are glassy, his lips downturned into a slight frown he tries to keep at bay, and knows based on the look he gives her alone that he will never forget what Jere said to him tonight.

She says softly, "Connie," unsure of what else to say to him, but that's all it takes to open the floodgates.

Silent tears start to fall down his cheeks as she closes the distance between them to take him into her arms in a comforting embrace. He bends down a little to allow his head to rest on her shoulder. Her hand cups the back of it to cradle his face into the soft crook of her neck, giving him the shelter he needs from the rest of the party to cry it out. The arms wrapped around her waist squeeze tightly enough to push the air from her lungs, but she never complains. To be in his arms is a blessing regardless of the reason and circumstances behind it.

They remain this way for the better half of a minute before he has the courage to break the silence. The hand on the back of his head brushes through his hair in a repetitive motion in hopes that it will soothe him.

"Do you wanna get out of here?" he asks. "I just"—he shakes his head—"I can't think straight right now..."

She nods.

"We can go to my house."

The Fishers and Conklins aren't nearly as familiar with her family's summer house as she is with theirs, but they have been inside a few times. On days when he didn't feel like being around everyone last summer, Conrad would come over and sit in the chair in the corner of her room, blowing the smoke from his joint out of the window while she cleaned, folded laundry, or read whatever book Laurel had recommended to her at the time. It was domestic in a way that made her heart skip a beat. It made her imagine how it would be in the future if they were together. If they truly ended up getting married as they pretended to when they were children while playing as Anakin and Padme.

She reaches down and entwines their fingers in order to lead him away in the direction of the house next door. It's a short walk over the fence gate that connects their yards. That was Susannah's doing. Five years into her friendship with the kids in her house, she and Y/N's parents agreed to install a new fence with a gate between their two properties to allow their children to play without having to leave the yard.

With everyone busy partying, no one should come back to sleep until way later. It wasn't until after they arrived back from their night at the country club that she remembered where her mom kept the spare key, so the others may forget their plans to sleep there. If they do, she'll shoot them a text in the group chat to remind them rather than allow them to sleep on the floor.

The door is already unlocked from when she went inside to shower and get ready with Taylor and Belly before the party, so all it takes is her turning the handle to allow them access.

She drops his hand once the door is kicked shut behind them and looks over her shoulder to say, "I think there's frozen food in the garage freezer if you're hungry," as she walks toward the kitchen. "And there's still my mom's Diet Coke in the fridge. We could always mix it with my dad's whiskey if you wanna keep drinking."

From behind, she can hear his footsteps on the freaking hardwood floor, getting closer and closer until his hand wraps around her arm to spin her around to face him.

"What—"

The question is cut short by his lips crashing against hers.

Kissing Conrad is something she doesn't think she will ever get used to or grow tired of. No matter how many times it happens, which, so far, has been at least three times since the night they spent at the country club, it takes her breath away the same as it had the first time when they were just children playing pretend.

Her arms are thrown around his neck in less than a second to pull him closer, and she doesn't hesitate to kiss him back. Not even for a second. At first, she is too intoxicated with the thrill of having him touching her to remember why they came here in the first place. Every thought revolves around him—the taste of the alcohol on his tongue, the feeling of his chest pressing against hers, and how confidently his hands find their place on her waist.

A second later, the memory of the fight he and Jere had comes back to her, and she forces herself to push him away.

"Wait," she says with her hands flattened against his chest to create some distance between them. "Wait, Connie."

When he opens his eyes, they're overflowing with concern for her. She already knows that he is assuming he made a mistake or that she doesn't truly want to do this with him, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. In fact, she is the one who is concerned for him.

"Are you okay? You and Jere just..." Her expression softens a little. "I don't wanna do this unless I know you're sure you're alright."

The confusion evident on his face disappears by the time she's finished speaking. In his mind, he anticipated something much worse than her wanting to check in on him to make sure he was okay. As the seconds passed between her telling him to wait and him looking at her, he feared she'd take back everything they shared in the past few days. All the secret kisses, gentle touches, and giggles. He wasn't sure he could take losing another one of the girls he grew up with in that way.

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stares at her without saying a word. If it were anyone else, it would be uncomfortable, but it never is with them. That's part of what keeps bringing him back to her. Of course, it can't end well seeing that he dated Belly, she's friends with her, and they had such a messy break-up, but what is he supposed to do? Ignore his feelings? Pretend not to want her when he clearly does? He can't do it. He won't. Now that he's already had a taste of her, he can't resist any it longer.

His chest rises with a deep inhale, then—

"I fucked everything up, and I knew Jere must have resented me for it, but I didn't think it was that bad," Conrad says. "I'm sad and angry, of course, but that doesn't mean you'd be taking advantage." He lets the tip of his nose brush hers with how close he comes. His voice is hardly a push of air when he speaks again. "You make everything feel better. You always have."

She doesn't allow him to kiss her again. Instead, she plays with the hair at the nape of his neck and keeps her eyes on his, not giving in even when their noses bump together and the heat of his exhales cloud on her skin. The kitchen table he has her pressed up against digs into her back, keeping her pinned in place exactly where he needs her.

"So, that's what you want?" she asks in a hushed tone even though they have the house to themselves. Every breath they take is pulled from the little pocket of air between their faces, and they can both smell the liquor on each other's breath every time they exhale. The hands on her waist slowly descend until they settle on her hips. "You want me to make it better?"

The moment she says the words, Conrad seems to melt into her touch. That is all it takes to turn him to putty in her hands, and he nods in response with his face pressed against hers.

"Is that okay?"

In other words, is that what you want? Have you been dying to get your hands on me the way I have been dying to get mine on you? It feels like a lifetime since they first hooked up in a secluded room at the country club, but it hasn't been more than a day.

In lieu of a verbal answer, she closes the inch of distance between them and connects their lips in a tender kiss.

He reciprocates with a passion that ramps up the intensity in a matter of seconds, quickly turning it from its initially timid and gentle nature into something more desperate and needy. Those hands on her hips squeeze hard to keep control and steady her body as he presses her further into the table, making her back arch a little. Her hands wander to explore every part of him now that she knows he wants this again, and she slips them up underneath his shirt to feel his bare skin beneath her palms. But when her hands make contact with his nipples, he shivers.

Their lips disconnect, shining from the saliva they share, for him to murmur, "Cold hands," as explanation before reaching down for the hem of her dress. She helps him shimmy the tight material up from where it gets stuck around her breasts until it is pulled free and tossed somewhere on the kitchen floor behind her, leaving her in only her undergarments. And he is quick to dispose of those too. Nimble fingers fumble with the clasp of her bra for a few seconds, then it finally comes loose around her back.

But, that's the last thing she lets him take off of her before she puts a hand on his chest to stop him.

Without saying a word, she grasps the bottom of his shirt and starts lifting it up to reveal his bare chest to her. He takes the hint without a second of confusion, pulling it the rest of the way off. It drops from his grasp the second it's off his head and abandoned in favor of aiding her in her attempt to undo his pants with those soft, trembling hands.

In a way, it feels similar to their first time. It was against a wall at the country club the other night after they became bored looking for a place to sleep. All they knew was that they needed to make it quick, so they did. His hand disappeared down the front of her panties to help her along, the pressure of his fingertips rubbing her clit bringing a wetness that soaked the cotton fabric concealing her from view, and that was all the preparation they took before it happened. He asked, voice quiet and low, if she'd done it before when she began tugging on his shirt as they made out, so once she said she had, all bets were off.

The thought of it slows him down for a second.

That time, they had to get it over with quickly. If they hadn't, the others likely would have gone looking for them and found out what was going on in the office room they snuck into. It was rough and quick and passionate, and he liked that, he truly did, but recalling that now makes him want to do it differently this time. Especially considering what happened before they came into this house.

"Slower, slower," he murmurs into her mouth.

The adjustment is made instantly, and she allows him to take back full control of the kiss. With his hands pulling her hips flush against his, he surrenders to the urge to rut against her to relieve the aching of his hard cock through the material of his boxer briefs and unzipped pants. He invades her open mouth with his tongue and kisses her slower, deeper than he had the last time. His teeth nip playfully at her lower lip in the second he takes to pull back for air.

His hands cup her face on either side to keep her in place as he dips down to kiss the underside of her jaw. He doesn't dare to leave any marks behind where anyone could see them, but he does take his time and suck gently on the sweet spot on the gentle slope where her shoulder and neck bridge together. Faintly, they can both hear the music from his house next door over the wet sound of his lips on her neck.

The other day, they didn't have the time to do everything he wanted to with her, but tonight they do. Tonight, he has her to himself for the first time in months, and he isn't going to take that opportunity for granted. Everything with her happened too fast for him to process. Last week, he'd been caught up on Belly, and part of him still is, but, then, Y/N came into the picture in a way he never expected. Despite the fear of ruining their lifelong friendship, to be with her felt as natural a process as breathing.

The hands on her face slip down the sides of her neck and down the front of her body until they find the band of the thin little thong she chose tonight for the sake of not having panty lines through her dress. Part of it also had to do with the possibility of this happening again, but she'd never give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

It appears, however, that he already knows when she finds the end of his mouth tipping upwards in a slight smirk as his fingers hook around the fabric. Seeing that they just hooked up yesterday and that these are a decent step up from the boy-short panties patterned with flowers he saw her in before, it isn't too difficult to put together.

Conrad sinks down onto his knees to tug it down her legs, and before her cheeks can begin to burn with embarrassment, she warns him, "Don't even."

This draws a giggle from him, his head tilting back to let him look up at her. Even in the midst of their playfulness and laughter, the sight of him kneeling before her makes her go weak in the knees. The strands of hair hanging in his eyes frame his face with an effortlessness she has envied him for her whole life. His beauty is classic, statuesque, even. He is the specific type of attractive that never falls out of trend or becomes less shocking over time. At least, not for her.

"I didn't say anything."

She counters, still laughing, "You didn't have to!"

At this point, she is grinning from ear to ear, and it's difficult to be self-conscious about being laid bare in his presence when he's looking at her like that. Her left leg is lifted off of the ground for her underwear to slide off of her ankle, but he doesn't put it back down. Instead, he turns his head to kiss her sensitive inner thigh, leaving her with nothing to do except watch while the anticipation of what he plans on doing eats her alive.

Unlike her neck, he has no qualms about marking up her thighs. It may be mildly uncomfortable to forgo wearing shorts in the summer heat, but it's doable. She can wear some of the bottoms she has stored in the dresser upstairs to keep the others from seeing if need be. His other hand grips her right hip to keep her steady while his other has her bent leg propped over his shoulder. Soon, his kisses have made a path up the length of her thigh, and she can't help but breathe heavier when she feels the heat of his exhales at the apex of her thighs.

"Connie..." she breathes out.

This brings his attention up, eyes fluttering open from where they'd been closed as he inched closer and closer to where she wants him most. And when she finds him looking up at her, pupils dilated and lips swollen from kissing, she can hardly breathe.

He asks, "You nervous?"

Words fail her. All she can do is nod.

"Don't be," Conrad whispers, the hand on her hip reaching to take hers in it for the sake of comforting her. "It's just me."

To this, she chuckles a little and tries not to shift in place with the sheer discomfort of the need she feels for him in this moment. No one has ever done this specific sexual act with her before, so the nerves are strong, but not quite as strong as her curiosity or desire.

"That's exactly why I'm nervous."

Her free hand comes down to brush the hair out of his face, and he leans into the touch like a cat brushing up between your legs. His eyes shut again for a second to appreciate the sweet gesture before looking up at her again, a slight grin begging to come to fruition on his face.

"Let me make it better, then," he says softly, in that charming, distinctly Conrad way that could take any girl's breath away with ease.

The first flick of his tongue against her is gentle, a mere glimpse of what's to come, but it stuns her all the same. Never having experienced this before, she is extremely sensitive to anything he does to her, and she finds that she's far more sensitive when it's his mouth pleasuring her as opposed to his fingers. Every soft brush of his lips against her in teasing kisses makes her hips press forward into his face in a silent command to continue without her noticing that she's doing it. He is quick to notice it, though, and he doesn't continue to tease her any longer.

This time, when he spread her open on his tongue, he gives her what she wants.

Sparks of pleasure shoot through her the second she feels him lapping at her aching clit, soft and gentle at first until he feels her grinding herself forward against his face for more. With her soft sighs and stifled moans as encouragement, he dips his head between her legs and eats her like a man starved. The remaining leg she stands on is quickly guided over his other shoulder, and his hand slips out of hers in favor of taking hold of her hips. The supple flesh of her ass is soft where it is squeezed beneath his fingertips and used as leverage to bring her as close as possible.

"Mm," she whines, "Fuck..."

The ability to speak evades her in the heat of the moment, but they both know how much she's enjoying this without her having to come out and say it. If the sounds she's making weren't enough, the hand she has gripping the back of his head to keep his mouth on her would prove it.

She knew from conversations overheard between the boys that Conrad was no stranger to this kind of thing. It may have made her heart sink into the pit of her stomach to hear it back then, but, right now, she's thankful for his experience. Every lick, kiss, and caress is placed exactly where she needs it as though he's able to read her body without having to open his eyes. The pleasure he's giving her far outweighs the jealousy she feels when she remembers that he's done this with other girls, one of them possibly being Belly.

The taste of her arousal, slick on his lips and tongue, has him humming in contentment into her as though he is the one being pleasured by this. In a way, he is. There's something intoxicating about being surrounded by her in every sense like this—her weight on his shoulders, her hands in his hair, and her thighs clamped shut on either side of his face. His dick strains against the fabric of his underwear as well as his unzipped pants, pulsing with the desire to sink into her and find his release.

She cants her hips to grind down on his face in pursuit of something closer, something deeper that they can't manage like this. And it isn't long before she starts to pull gently at his hair, reaching down and trying to pull on his arm to get the message across.

Conrad's lips part from her soaked pussy with a wet sound. When he looks up at her from between her thighs, she can see how his lips and chin are smeared with her arousal. It glistens under the moonlight coming in through the kitchen window. In seconds, the moment is already gone. The hands gripping her hips slide down to take hold of her thighs in order to guide them off of his shoulders, and when he sets her back down onto the ground, her muscles are trembling.

He's standing back up at his full height with his body slotted perfectly between her legs in the time it takes her to blink. Their next kiss is hungrier, much more aggressive in nature, than the last they shared, and she can taste herself on his lips.

In the gaps between their fervent kisses, she says, breathless, "I know you wanted to go slower this time, but I can't." His tongue invades her mouth again, pushing past her soft lips to allow the taste of her lip balm to blend with the semi-sweet taste of her pussy. It's only when his tongue retreats to give him the chance to bite down on her bottom lip that she can speak again. "Please," she whines and juts her hips out until she feels him hard against her. "We can go again after, I just want you now."

This sends him into a bit of a frenzy.

He has had his fair share of hook-ups—not nearly as many as Jere but plenty—yet there's something about her that thrills him in a way few others ever could. No girl has ever said anything like that to him. With Belly, it was her first time, so everything was tender and experimental due to the nature of the situation. With Y/N, it's different in the sense that they cannot be fairly compared. How could anyone compare a gentle, sweet first time with what may end up being the best fuck of his life, surpassing the quickie at the country club that left them both breathless and weary.

Conrad is panting for air when their lips part, their mouths hanging open and brushing as he hefts her up onto the table with little effort. Beneath her hands, she can feel his biceps flex with the quick lift. Taut muscle contracts and pushes back against her fingers before relaxing again once her ass is planted on the tabletop, but if it weren't for her hands gripping his arms for support, she wouldn't have noticed it had any effect on him. It's strangely arousing. She never gave his casual strength much thought until he utilized it in this context for the first time. A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead when he had to keep her lifted against the wall at the country club as he thrust into her, but he didn't struggle.

Please. He hears her whining the word on a loop in his mind as he aids her in shoving his pants and underwear down his lean thighs. We can go again after. She wraps her hand around his length and pumps a few times despite the fact that he's already hard enough for it to ache. All the while, he's still stuck on the things she said. We can go again after. Not only does she want him now, she already knows she'll want him again. I just want you now. That crucial part gave him the answers he'd been seeking for the past twenty-four hours since he pinned her to the wall at the country club and fucked her hard enough to make the framed paintings shake on their hooks. I just want you now. It was life-altering for her too.

As he angles his hips just right to guide the broad tip of his cock into her, his fingers dig into her hips so hard, she'll be shocked if it doesn't bruise by tomorrow.

She uses the legs wrapped around his hips to push him further into her, and they both gasp at the sensation it brings them. Her heels press into the backs of his thighs, urging him to take whatever he wants from her whenever he wants it. It doesn't matter that the stretch she feels the further she urges him inside of her almost makes her have to bite down on her lip to contain a wince. Nothing matters to her except for getting as close to him as physically possible.

He lets out a low, drawn-out, "Oh fuckkk," under his breath as he sinks the rest of the way into her.

Their noses bump with every slight movement made or breath taken in, and she refuses to look away from his eyes. There's something inherently vulnerable about holding unwavering eye contact with him while he is buried in her to the hilt. The hands on his biceps slide up slowly until both of her arms are wrapped behind his neck to keep him from shying away from her at any point. This is the closeness she craved more than anything. Nothing else would do, not even having him on his knees for her.

It's a wonder that he doesn't come right away with how tightly the soft, warm walls of her pussy are squeezing around him. And when she bucks her hips up in a wordless request for him to move, he shakes his head.

Eyes clenched shut, Conrad murmurs, "I just need a second."

He feels her nod against his face, her nose nudging his cheek. For the next thirty or so seconds, he remains as still as possible. It's torture for him to stay this way and resist doing what comes naturally. Although it's for his sake, not hers, he struggles to keep a firm enough hold on his self-control. He keeps his eyes shut because he knows that if he looks at her, he won't stand a chance.

It isn't until the fire that blazed in the pit of his abdomen has calmed that he allows himself to look at her again. When he opens his eyes, she's already watching him. Her fingers twirl strands of his hair absentmindedly, and when she sees him open his eyes again, she closes the gap between their lips again.

This time, as his lips slot against hers, he draws away from her, pulling out until it's only his tip inside of her.

"You don't have to be gentle," she murmurs. "I can take it. I won't break."

His response comes in the form of him snapping his hips into her until he's gone as deep as she can take him. Despite her urging him to get rougher with her, she still gasps at the sudden intrusion and looks up at him with a wide-eyed stare of disbelief. Her past hook-ups were meaningless and unfulfilling. It happened during her freshman year at Trinity College while Conrad and Belly were dating. Considering what was going on at the time, she didn't plan to talk to either of them about it afterward, and, once it was as over, she didn't want to.

It was horrible.

It was the polar opposite of her first time with Conrad. Not only was it with an uncaring frat boy she met at a party her roommate dragged her to, it was uncomfortable. He didn't do anything other than get himself hard and stick it in, and with her nerves being so bad, it was already hard for her to get aroused. But it couldn't be any more different now. It couldn't be any more different with him.

It's rougher than it was initially, yet still slow and sensual. The hands on her hips guide her into a cadence to match his movements each time he thrusts into her, stifling the sound of his own low moans by smearing his mouth against hers. It's a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Their tongues brush, saliva coating their lips, and he makes sure there isn't a single part of her left un-worshiped tonight. Whether it be her neck, her collarbone, or her jaw, he pays every part of her the attention it deserves, partly for her sake and partly because he cannot help himself.

Their lips pull apart with a loud smacking sound, and he keeps his forehead pressed to hers as he looks into her eyes, head tilting just slightly to the side. One of his hands abandons its place at her hip to slide up the length of her torso. Her stomach flinches inward at the contact of his knuckles brushing her skin on the way past, but it's when he lets his hand flatten over her breast that she lets out a shaky exhale, He doesn't spend too much time there, though. After teasing her with a gentle squeeze, his hand wraps around the back of her neck for the sake of having control of where she looks, and, right now, he wants her to look at him as he admits something to her.

"I've dreamt about this," Conrad whispers.

He delights in her slack-mouthed expression when he ruts into her a touch faster and harder for the sake of seeing the expression on her face shift.

Somehow, she finds her voice and manages to stammer out, "I"—she is interrupted by the need to take in a sharp breath of air—"I thought..."

The hand on the back of her neck squeezes harder at the implication of her unfinished statement. It isn't necessary for her to continue the thought, he already knows what it means. I thought you dreamt about Belly. He did. He dreamt of Belly every night last summer, but it was Y/N who he dreamt of first.

She was the one who awakened these feelings within him for the first time. Being the oldest alongside him, she was the first to develop, and he didn't know what to do with the feelings that surfaced the summer she came back looking less like a girl and more like a woman. She was the first person he kissed, albeit for a game they played together, not Belly. Surely, he thought she had to know that it meant something to him too, but when he looks at her now, it's clear that he thought wrong.

His brows pinch together at the sensation of her tightening up around him, but his eyes are soft. Tender. Honest. He shakes his head. Just once.

"You were first," he says it so quickly, she almost misses it. "It was you."

That doesn't mean what he had with Belly meant nothing. In fact, it means the opposite. What he had with Belly was unlike anything he experienced before, but so is this. There is no way for Conrad to compare the two because what he feels for them is so solid yet different.

With Belly, he knew what he meant to her. He knew she put him on a pedestal her whole life and believed every word he said, so it was difficult not to feel an added pressure to live up to that standard. His heart broke when he ruined prom for her, but he did it because he thought he didn't deserve her.

With Y/N, they've always mirrored one another. Both the eldest in their respective families, gifted children, and sensitive in a way that troubled them more than most of their siblings and friends. Where everyone else misunderstood Conrad, she understood him. And it was never something that had to be acknowledged out loud or spoken of. It was a law of existence.

The summer before last, when Conrad got into reading as a result of Laurel gifting him a few of her favorite classics, he ended up insisting that Y/N read Wuthering Heights shortly after he finished it. Never having read for pleasure before, she thought she'd find it difficult to devote herself to it, but she should have known. She should have known that if he wanted her to read it, there were good reasons for it. Belly and the boys were having dinner with their moms when she finally got to his favorite line.

It was underlined in red ink, she noted, not pencil. Never to be erased or undone in any way. When she read it, she knew immediately that he'd done it for her. On the page, it read, "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same," and that was the moment she knew she loved him.

Right now, as he kisses her and reaches down with the same hand that held her neck to rub her clit, it's all she can think of. So, she says it. She takes the vulnerable confession and offers one of her own in return.

"You were first for me too," she says breathlessly.

The contact of his fingertips brushing her most sensitive spot has her jolting against him in equal parts shock and pleasure. It instantly makes the feeling of him rocking into her at a steady pace all the more gratifying. What she said is fuel to the fire for him. It urges him on, chasing the weightless, stirring feeling inside of him with reckless abandon. He decides to trust what she said about being able to handle him not being gentle, because, truth be told, he can't control himself.

Conrad, lost in the haze, starts sucking at her neck after he leans down to kiss it. Everything outside of this house no longer exists to either of them, so it doesn't occur to them that they'll have to answer for the marks left behind on her come morning. No, all he can think of is what he feels for her and how he can possibly show her the full extent of it without telling her. This is the only way, he thinks. When he talks, he fucks everything up, but she has to know how he feels through this. After all, she's always had a sixth sense when it comes to him. Why should it be any different now?

Her fingers card through his hair and tug gently on the soft strands as she tips back her head and arches her body into him, gasping into the dark, empty kitchen. Even when he kisses his way back up to her lips, he remains trapped in the trance she put him under, taking every part of her for himself. It takes her crying out in bliss at the combined sensations of his fingers on her clit and the smooth, wet drag of his cock inside of her for him to meet her gaze again. This time, he doesn't dare look away. Neither does she.

Their eye contact never wavers as she murmurs, face twisted in pleasure, "Fuck, I think—"

Her sentence can't even be finished before she's coming undone from the next caress of his fingers against her.

The arms wrapped around the back of his neck pull him in as her body tenses up with the onset of her climax. Not only does he watch and listen as the euphoria washes over her, he feels it. He can feel her spasming around him, clenching and unclenching, through every powerful wave.

Her jaw has fallen open in a gape that allows every beautiful moan, gasp, and whine to escape into the space between their lips. And it's the sensation of her coming around him that threatens to send him over the edge, but he holds out for as long as he can. Both for the sake of helping her ride it out and prolonging his own orgasm.

He pulls out quickly out of fear of finishing inside and withdraws the fingers that were rubbing her clit to wrap them around his cock, stroking himself once, twice, three times until he comes with a breathy moan. Watching it drip down her trembling stomach heightens the swift pulses of pleasure, and when his body jerks involuntarily from how good it feels, the next rope of cum lands across the hickeys on her inner thighs. It's downright filthy, but he'll be damned if it isn't the most erotic thing he's ever seen in real life.

For a second, time is suspended to allow them both the chance to catch their breath and enjoy the comfort of each other's embrace. Her arms are still linked around him, trapping him in, and he lets his face fall forward onto her shoulder with a tired sigh. It's impossible for either of them to find words in the midst of their post-orgasmic bliss, so they don't bother trying. Much like how it has been for their lives preceding this moment, the silence is comfortable. There is no misunderstanding, awkwardness, or trying to fill the space with meaningless small talk.

Once the rapid rise and fall of their chests have evened out, Conrad pulls away from his cherished spot in the crook of her neck and kisses her one last time before coming back down to earth.

He's already pulling his pants back up before moving to get a few paper towels from the kitchen counter, telling her, "Stay there, I got it."

The sound of the tap turning on reaches her ears, then vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and it isn't long before Conrad is back in front of her. Every swipe of the damp wad of paper towel is gentle on his skin, carefully minding where she's particularly sensitive in the aftermath of what they did. As he wipes his release up from her stomach and thighs, he folds the towel in half to clean her again, then, once he's finished, he leans down with one hand cupped underneath her thigh and presses a kiss to one of the marks he left behind.

Her face burns hot at this, but she tries not to let it rattle her brave face.

"You're lucky I like you so much," she says, tilting her head to show him her neck, "cause this is gonna be impossible to hide."

He can't even stop the smirk from crossing his face at the sight of her freshly bruised skin. Yet, he doesn't answer right away. He simply continues to smile to himself and walks around the island she's perched on, digging in the freezer for something for the next moment or so. When he returns, he's holding up a bag of frozen peas as though it is a coveted trophy.

"This will help," he says and gently presses the cold bag over the spot on her neck. "Thank you, by the way."

She blinks at him.

"For what?"

His shoulders pull up in a shrug as he tries to find the right way to word it without it sounding like he's only talking about the sex.

"For everything." He says softly, rubbing the edge of her jaw with his thumb. "Sometimes, I feel like you don't know what you mean to me."

The room has been plunged into silence since they stopped moaning, panting, and joining their bodies together. All that can be heard over their voices is the music next door, as well as loud voices speaking in the back and front yard. In here, though, it's just them, and he can hear how her breath hitches in her throat at what he said.

"It was confusing last summer, but ever since you underlined that part in the book you gave me, I've known. At least to some extent," she admits. "I knew you did that for me."

He nods.

"I did."

There's a long pause, then—

She breaks her gaze with him and looks down at the floor, smiling like an idiot at the thought of what has transpired in the last forty-eight hours. Seeing her clothes in a pile on the floor prompts her to take the frozen peas from him and jump down from her seat on the counter.

As explanation, she says, holding the bag to her neck, "We should probably get back to the party before anyone notices we're gone."

He casts a quick glance to the counter where they fucked for a second before looking at her again.

"And probably clean that."

A giggle escapes her when he says this.

"Yeah, we definitely should."

Hello! Finally wrote a Conrad fic! If you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear your thoughts. If you want to be added to a tag list for future Conrad fics, let me know as well. Thank you.

#conrad fisher #conrad fisher smut #conrad fisher x reader #tsitp s2 #fanfiction #barely proofread this lmao

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spidehpig · 6 months ago

Text

my fever induced thoughts about bird is horny & ovulating x mean bastard ghost

mostly just rambling, didn’t check for coherency or grammar. i’ve been plagued by these thoughts and just had to get them out sorry.

ghost x reader

mean bastard ghost with a bird who’s been so needy and clingy all day long. he’s not really sure what’s got her panting and gagging for his cock like a whore, must be a cycle thing. either way he doesn’t mind, in fact he finds it amusing. he’s so used to just indulging himself, parting her thighs with his meaty hands and swiping his tongue along her folds as her little squeals and protests fall on deaf ears.

it’s not everyday that he’s the one to wake up to her trying to take what she needs from him. her pretty moans shaking away the last tendrils of sleep from him as the wet cotton of her panties rut against his thigh and her other hand gropes at his cock straining against his boxers. he has half a mind to push the greedy brat onto her belly and just mount her right there. but this unashamed desperation radiating from his bird is a rarity he’ll indulge in.

he feels a little sick satisfaction when her sweet moans break off into a frustrated little cries as his fist clamps around her waist, halting the desperate little grind of her hips. ignores her begging and pleading as he slips from the sheets. leaves her aching and wanting as she trails into the shower after him with a cute little pout.

keeps his face stoic as he pinches and flicks at her swollen nipples, his other hand pawing at her ass. working her up into a frenzy again, makes sure she can feel his heavy cock throb against her thigh as he cups her dripping cunt. thick fingers bullying their way between her lips under the guise of washing her clean. likes the way she shivers and bucks against him when his knuckle brushes across her clit. he quickly twists the rusty shower handle when she reaches for his cock again and huffs out a raspy laugh when she squawks at him as the shower water turns to ice. doesn’t look back as he steps out and tosses a towel at her.

maybe he shouldn’t punish his little bird’s confidence and needy demands. it’s not every day he wakes up to her wet and willing, so eager to milk his cock. but he has the time and patience today. maybe it’s boredom from such a long leave or maybe he’s just a bastard he thinks as he pulls her onto his lap later as he watches the game. fingers sneaking under the fabric of her tank top to pinch and twist at her nipples until she’s squirming in his lap searching for the friction of his hard cock. waits until she’s panting and whining again before pushing her off his lap a grunting at her to go fix dinner. gives his cock a couple of lazy tugs as she shoots him a dirty look and stumbles into the kitchen on unsteady legs.

later ducks his head under the kitchen doorframe to corner her against the counter to paw and grope at her pretty hips, feels the soft skin of her inner thighs are still slick. pulls back the second she sighs and arches back against him. he ignores the way she glares at him across the table as he shovels the dinner she made him into his mouth. and just to be a prick, finishes his game after dinner while she angrily slams the dirty dishes around in the kitchen.

waits until she’s finished until he prowls off into the bedroom and lights a cigarette as he settles against the pillows. sprawled out across the center of the bed, he finally shoves the waistband of his sweats under his balls to let his heavy cock spring free. precum already leaking onto his thigh as he barks at his bird to come take care of this.

can’t help but smirk as she hesitates in the doorway. unsure if this is just another one of his cruel tricks after he had spent all day teasing her. fists his cock and tells her to come take what she needs. almost barks out a laugh as her eyes widen and she quickly wiggles out of her panties and scrambles up onto the bed. licks his lips when he gets a glimpse of her already glistening cunt as she crawls up over his hulking body. has half a mind to stub his smoke out and sit her over his hungry mouth. instead he takes another drag as her thighs stretch wide on either side of his thick waist to hump her slick cunt along the underside of his cock.

he makes no move to touch her as she ruts and humps against his cock, the bed already creaking with her frantic movements. only pausing to grit his teeth as the tip of his cock catches on her warm hole as she rocks backwards again. lights up another smoke as she leans back onto her haunches to bury two fingers into her cunt when it becomes apparent he won’t be doing anything to help satiate her needs. pupils blown as he watches her sloppy cunt swallow her little fingers. not at all enough to prep her for his cock.

she doesn’t seem to care as she lurches forward and her nails dig into the fat of his chest as she rises up onto her knees, reaching back as she pathetically tries to line his leaking cock up with her cunt. her little grunts of frustration are music to his ears as she struggles to catch the tip on her hole again. movements faltering and sputtering a little when he blows smoke in her face. sweat glistening along her brow when she glares at him and finally manages to sink down a few inches.

his eyes roll back with how tight she is, half expects her to stop and beg him to finger her open. instead she grunts in pain and tries to bounce and wiggle her way down onto his prick. barely any leverage with the way she’s already risen so far up onto her knees just to straddle his thick waist, the cushioned mattress does nothing to ease her struggle. and fuck, watching her buck and bounce just to bully his fat cock into her greedy cunt is tearing at the remains of his control.

it’s not until her walls finally relax and she sinks down onto his cock with a yowl that he finally acknowledges her. cooing and taunting her for being such a needy slag, drooling over his cock all day long. watches the way a sob wracks through her body as her hands grip at the fat of his stomach trying to get some leverage to push herself up on his cock. barely manages to rise up a few inches before she’s letting out a frustrated sob and instead just grinds back and forth on his lap with his cock buried in her cunt, so pathetic.

she yelps when he slaps her tit and growls at her to ride him proper. sniveling after his cock all day long and she can’t even take it right? he decides he’ll let her whine and mewl and beg him to just take her as she grinds on top him. she can’t even take what she needs. maybe when she finally collapses from exhaustion will he flip her over and breed her pretty cunt. seems like he’s the only one that can give her what she needs after all.

#i hope yall understand what i mean when i say it’s hard to ride him #like yaknow how if you’re on a squishy bed it’s kinda hard cause you don’t have good leverage and can’t rise up on your knees very well?#well add the absolute BEEF of ghost onto that and it’s like jesus christ you’d probs have to just squat to bounce on it properly #anywhoooo #the fever and antibiotics demons were speaking to me #so i typed it out on my phone #cod #ghost #ghost drabble #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader

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desperate-gay · 11 months ago

Note

LEAH WILLIAMSON SMUT WHERE YOURE DATING ANOTHER FAMOUS MALE FOOTBALLER BUT HES CHEATING ON YOU SO YOU CHEAT WITH HER AND YOU SEND HIM THE TAPE. Is that too much😳😳😳

Sharing Is Caring

Leah Williamson x fem!reader

SMUT 18+

summary: maybe your boyfriend cheated on you and flaunted it all over social media, but you get back at him in the best way with the help of your best friend

Mason Mount spotted kissing new girl down the streets of Manchester

Once Leah saw the photos surfacing on every social media app, she immediately began to text you. Asking if you were okay or needed anything, but you didn’t respond. You still haven’t and it’s already been a day which worries Leah, so she immediately goes to the store, grabs all of your favorite snacks and beverages, and races down to your apartment.

You scoop another spoonful of brownie ice cream and shove it in your mouth, not caring about the coldness on your sensitive teeth, too busy sulking and spacing out at the trashy reality show playing on the TV. Soon you hear someone crash in from the front door, making you turn your head swiftly.

A flustered Leah stands by the doorway with a basket full of items you can’t see from where you’re sitting. You send her a weak smile and turn your attention back to the television. Footsteps begin approaching you and the couch sinks downwards next to you.

“I saw the photos, how are you holding up?” Her tone stays soft but cautious, testing the waters to see how your emotions are at the moment.

All you do is shrug in response while stirring your spoon around in your ice cream, placing your gaze anywhere else but the blonde’s pitiful look. Leah just nods in understanding before sitting back on the sofa, allowing you to talk whenever you’re comfortable.

“I’m not even that brokenhearted about it. Mason’s been pulling away for a while so it was only time until he found someone new” You say, breaking the comfortable silence after a few minutes. The girl beside you moves closer, placing her hand on your criss crossed legs.

“That doesn’t give him any reason to cheat. If he knew it was going nowhere, he should’ve ended it, not find some rando in a crowd who is not even half as pretty as you.” Leah getting slightly irritated at the man for doing something as vile to you. Once again, you just shrug at her truthful statement and compliment.

“I’m kind of happy he did it.” Leah’s eyebrow quirks at your whisper while you let out a shaky sigh before finally looking at the blonde. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely pissed he did and is parading it all over the internet, but I’m not upset he’s not mine anymore.” Your tone slightly shifts from quiet to angry in a millisecond.

“Good because you deserve someone who can cherish you, appreciate you, and show you how beautiful you truly are.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be up for that challenge.” You joke, laughing quietly to yourself but stopping when you don’t hear anything from the girl next to you. As you look up, you see Leah with a stunned look on her face which soon turns into a smug smile.

“The real challenge would be if you could keep up with me or not.” Now it’s your turn to look shocked, noticing the cocky smirk on the woman’s face. She shifts closer to you, placing her hand on your knee while rubbing her thumb against you. “C’mon, baby. Do you think you can handle me?” She teases, moving her face closer to yours, making your eyes switch between her eyes and lips.

Right as Leah's mouth opens to say another taunting comment, you wrap your hand behind her neck and slam your lips against hers. The kiss quickly turns heated when Leah’s tongue enters your mouth, warmth flooding your body in seconds. Her hands grip at your waist and tug you into her lap without breaking the kiss. The sound of your lips colliding together is enough for a pool of arousal to make its way between your legs.

“Are you sure about this?” She mumbles against your lips, holding herself back from jumping right back in.

“I’ve always liked Arsenal more than Manchester United.” You snicker which in turn makes the blonde grin before diving back in.

The show in the background becomes muffled, your focus solely on the girl beneath you. Her hands are placed on the small of your back slightly pushing in to make your back arch and chest push into her. They soon begin to slowly slide down to your bottom as your tongues stroke against each other’s.

“Let’s go to the room, yeah?” Leah insists, breaking the kiss. Her eyes trail your face, admiring your lips swollen and red, eyes hooded, and hair messy.

“Yes.” You pant out, breaking the girl from thought and causing her to smile in anticipation. She hooks her hands under your thighs, easily picking you up as if you only weigh a pound, and hurrying into your now one-person bedroom.

Just as she’s about to drop you, she decides against it and topples down on top of your body. You both giggle at her antics before eagerly connecting your lips again. Leah’s right forearm holds herself up by your head while her other hand roams under your shirt, rubbing and scratching as she trails further up.

“No bra?”

“You wouldn’t be wearing one either if you were lounging around, sulking while eating ice cream.” You huff, impatiently pulling the blonde back in an attempt to reconnect your lips. Leah swiftly sits up on her knees, looking at your disheveled form on the bed.

“You look so pretty for me, love.” Your heart thumps against your chest at the new term of endearment. The blood rushing to your cheeks felt abnormal, never having been this flustered by someone’s gaze.

Leah’s eyes continue to roam your figure while her hand traces absentmindedly. She notices your breath hitch when it sits on your collarbone, inches away from your neck. She rotates her hand so her fingers lie against it, wanting to see your reaction. You squeeze your eyes shut while your fist grips against the sheets.

“Oh, we’re going to have so much fun, angel.” Leah chuckles, leaning down and pressing her lips onto your neck, sucking at your sweet spot. Little whimpers leave your mouth before you tilt your head to the side, allowing her to have more access.

“Lee, please do something.” You whine, feeling her hand under your shirt, palming at your breast.

“Such an impatient girl. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you to behave.” She rasps against your ear, tugging it down with her teeth. Your thighs squeeze together, trying to relieve some tension between your legs.

Leah finally lifts your shirt over your head and throws it mindlessly somewhere in the room. Usually, you’d feel embarrassed as your whole body would cower away but with Leah, it felt different. It felt good. It felt right.

Her head leans down, kissing around your chest before latching onto your nipple. The tension in your body quickly disappears as you sigh in relief. While her warm tongue swirls around you, her free hand trails down your stomach and beneath your shorts and underwear.

Your breath hitches when the pads of her fingers swipe through your folds, collecting all of your arousal and spreading it. Her mouth leaves your chest with a loud plop before she attacks your lips again, swallowing all the little noises you’re making as she rubs tight circles around your clit.

Right as you try to tug off your shorts, Leah’s hand grabs your wrist, restricting any movement. “What do you think you’re doing, love?” She rasps against your neck, continuing to scatter little hickeys around.

“Please.”

“You gotta be more specific on what you’re pleading for, baby.” The defender taunts with a wicked grin, shifting her head over yours so she can witness your pleading.

“Please take off my clothes and fuck me.”

Something in her shifts when she hears those words come out of your mouth. Suddenly she doesn’t want to make you wait because if she makes you, she’ll also have to hold herself back.

Both of her hands grip on each side of your shorts and yank them down aggressively, wanting to waste no time even if there isn’t a limit. You gasp at her change in demeanor but it overall excites you further.

“God you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.” Leah rasps, getting worked up by just the sight of you underneath her, naked and squirming. She moves towards the lower end of the bed, lying down so her face is close to your core.

“Leah, I need you.” You pant, feeling her warm breath against your wetness. Right when you think she’s going to dive in, she tilts her head and begins to kiss your thighs, leaving light bite marks behind. You shake your thighs with a whine which makes the blonde chuckle against your skin.

But soon your whines are replaced by moans when she latches onto your pussy with no warning. She knows exactly what she’s doing and how to do it. Her mouth switches from sucking and flicking your clit with her tongue to dipping her tongue in and out of your dripping hole.

Subconsciously your hips slowly grind against her face for more friction which she figures out quickly. She wraps her arms around your thighs and places both hands down on your pubic bone, pushing you more into the mattress to restrict any movement.

With the amount of people you have been with, no one has eaten you out this good before. She knows exactly when to loosen or tighten her tongue, where you need her, and at what pace makes it more pleasurable.

Moans spew out of your mouth consistently as your hands grip so hard against the sheets your knuckles are white. The blissful sensation shoots through your whole body like a lightning bolt, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Lee, baby. I’m close, so close.”

Leah unwraps one of her arms and reaches up to grasp your neck with her hand, choking you with very little pressure but enough to heighten your senses. While she continues to abuse your clit, she notices your eyes squeeze shut and your hips move up more slowly against her mouth.

When you finally let out a loud squeak and a string of curse words, she knows you’re cumming. Her tongue doesn’t stop lapping around until you twitch away from her touch. She lets go of your neck and kisses her way up your body until she’s face to face with you to which you pull her down, smashing your lips against hers, moaning when her tongue invades your mouth.

“That was so good.” You breathe out with a giddy smile. She sends back a dashing grin before nuzzling her face in your neck and pecking around.

“We’re not done yet. I’m just getting started with you.” Leah smirks, making your eyes widen. Her right-hand drags around your skin, fingertips brushing so lightly it’s almost ticklish. “I want you to squirt all over my fingers, baby.”

“I can’t do that-“

“You will, and we will show your little cheating boy toy just how good I make you feel. I bet he’s never made you squirt before, has he?” She tilts her head, eyes never leaving yours.

“No one has.” You whisper from both embarrassment and shock.

“Mmm, even better.”

She makes no other movement besides her hand continuing to wander around your body, confusing you with the sudden silence. You’re also in your head about how she means you’re going to show him.

Your thoughts are quickly interrupted by two fingers plunging into you. A whine shoots out from your mouth without even trying. Leah is so enticed by how your pussy swallows her fingers so well, almost sucking them in. She isn’t going fast, almost purposefully going so slow to torture you.

You whimper at your body feeling full but not any improvement towards an orgasm. The defender’s thumbs remain against your clit so with each thrust of her hand, she rubs it slowly.

“I thought the point of squirting was also to cum.” You huff impatiently which makes the girl chuckle at your needy state.

“See, baby. I’m going to edge you which will make you more sensitive and make you feel more built up. It might feel like torture for a bit but it will all be worth it.”

Before you can protest, her lips latch onto yours as she speeds up her fingers, causing you to moan into her mouth, allowing her to just swallow them. Her fingers are only halfway in but they move fast along with her thumb rubbing against your bundle of nerves.

She knows immediately when you’re about to come so right when you’re about to tilt off the edge, she pulls away leaving you whining in discomfort. Only after a minute or two, does she dip her fingers back into you and do exactly what she did before.

This repeats 3 or 4 more times, ending with you sobbing in overstimulation and want. You were so so so close each time but she pulled away before you could even realize it.

“Awe, baby, you did so good. Now it’s time to show that jerk what he’s missing, don’t ya think?” Leah tilts her head in fake question before reaching over your head to grab her phone she must have set by you at some time.

Your head finally wraps around what she has been talking about. She wants to record her fucking you and send it to Mason. It’s a very risky move. It’s crazy. It turns you on.

Showing off that you’re getting so deliciously fucked by the English captain. He parades on the internet him kissing some other girl, you parade to him having sex with a very familiar girl.

“Are you okay with this? I don’t want to pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do.” Her dominant persona fades a little into concern. Of course, it would be fun for her to show the idiot what he lost and what she has gained, but she needs you to want to do it too.

“Yes.”

“Yes? Are you sure?”

“Leah, I need you with your fingers inside of me, pounding into me, recording, then making me cum so hard I see stars. I want to show him I upgraded.” You purr against her ear, having sit up slightly to reach her. The defender’s eyes flutter shut with a quiet moan, showing you how much your words have an effect on her.

“Lie down.”

When you don’t comply right away, she shoves you down on the bed, her dominant demeanor returning. Her free hand reaches down, slowly rubbing your clit while her other presses record on her phone. You coincidentally moan right when it starts.

From your nose and lower, your whole body is on display on the camera, showing off the fresh red hickeys scattered around, your very swollen clit under the blonde’s thumb, and your extremely wet pussy.

Without wasting any time, Leah slips her middle and ring finger into you. Unlike before, she goes knuckles deep into you. Your mouth lets out a high-pitched noise along with a string of moans as she drags her fingers in and out, her thumb never leaving your clit.

Once a few seconds have passed she immediately fastens her thrusts, curling her fingers up to brush against your g-spot. Your moans get louder and never stop the faster she goes, and from the constant edging, it’s not going to take much to push you over the edge.

This orgasm feels different though. It feels bigger and more intense coming up. Usually, it approaches and disappears fast, but the pleasure right now leading up to it feels amazing. More amazing than your normal ones.

“Baby, I think I’m getting close.” You gasp before moaning again.

“Say my name.”

You look up at her in confusion only to see her eyes full of lust and her phone held up right next to her. Realizing that it’s to show who she is you don’t complain.

“Leah, please make me cum.”

“Again.”

“Leah.”

“Again.”

She knows you’re extremely close. Each time her fingers thrust into you, your walls squeeze tighter and tighter around her digits. And by the way your nails are digging into her bicep and your eyes are squeezed shut, you’re holding it as much as you can.

“Leah! You’re making me feel so good, Lee. Please let me cum.” You’re basically sobbing at this point so when she mumbles the next words you crumble.

“Cum for me, baby.”

As you let go, you feel liquid run down your thighs along with louder wet noises as Leah’s hand continues to pound into you. Your mouth is wide open in silent pleasure while she carries on pushing you to the end of your orgasm.

Once a pornographic moan finally escapes your lips along with your body spasming, she pulls her fingers out and gently rubs along your clit. Your body jerks away with each swipe of her thumb so she finally stops altogether.

“Such a good girl. My good girl.” Leah praises before ending the recording and lying down next to you.

She wraps her arms around your naked form and pulls you into her. Your head finds its place in her neck while she rubs her hand up and down your arm, soothing you after the very intense moment.

“I didn’t think I could do that and you proved me wrong. You are one of many talents, Miss Leah Williamson.” You jab your finger into her chest teasingly. The defender tilts her head back with a laugh before leaning down and kissing your forehead.

Both of you lay there in comfortable silence, embracing each other’s warmth.

“Should we send it?”

“I will never say no to showing that dweeb what I can do to you and he can’t.”

#leah williamson x reader #leah williamson smut #leah williamson #mason mount #woso x reader #woso fic #woso imagine #woso smut #england #woso

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cosmopretty · 6 months ago

Text

Jealousy Jealousy

Nika Mühl x Fem smut

Synopsis: You and Nika have been hooking up in private without letting any of your friends know. You’ve been away for the past two weeks modeling in Paris and just got back.

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Walking down the street your beautiful hair flowing down your back, you spot your friends waiting for you. You smile and run up to them KK running towards you as you meet her in the middle hugging her, her arms warp around you “Hey miss girl we missed you” she says before letting go of the hug and dragging you to the group.

You greet the rest of the girls and Nika hugs you tightly before letting go and holding your shoulders her eyes softening at the sight of you “I missed you” she whispers low enough for only you to hear. You smile slightly “I missed you too” you admit before looking away your attention going elsewhere.

Paige looks you up and down and wraps her arm around your shoulders “You look good girl. How did Paris treat you?” she asks you subtly staring you down. Not that you would notice, you didn’t really notice when people were into you, but Nika did.

“Paris was great the people were so sweet they all had little French accents I loved it plus the designer loved me he wants me back to model for him some more probably in New York” You tell them all looking up at Paige, not noticing the scowl on Nika’s face at the sight of Paige all over you. The blonde smiles down at you before turning her head smirking at Nika, purposefully trying to get the girl jealous.

Walking back to the girls apartment you tell them all about Paris and what you did there, answering all there questions. You walk inside, Paige holding the door open for you “Thanks P” you smile at the girl Nika rolling her eyes behind the both of you.

To say that Nika was mad was an understatement, she didn’t see you for two weeks and you barely have spoken to her, Paige taking up all of your attention. She hated the way Paige would touch you, look at you, she didn’t even want Paige to breathe near you. Nika wasn’t really a jealous person but with you away she realized how much she really liked you, more than just sexually.

Getting up from the couch, while the rest of team argues over what movie they want to watch you go into the kitchen to grab some water.

Paige slaps Nika’s shoulder “If you don’t go after her I am” the blonde says licking her lips doing her rizz hands. Paige knew Nika liked you and had a whole plan to make her jealous so she would finally admit her feelings to you. The Croatian girl shoves her “Stop flirting with her you know she’s mine Paige” Nika’s says sternly before getting up and leaving the living room to look for you.

She finds you in the kitchen pouting yourself a glass of water, you look up at her and smile “Hey Nika” you whisper as she walks up to you. She didn’t look happy at all, she was mad not at you but at herself and her feelings. She walks towards you causing you to walk back until your back hits the counter, you grab the counter with your hands “Nika what are you doing?” you ask her confused looking back and forth from her face to the girls in the living room.

Her big hand comes to cup your cheek bringing your face up to look at her “I missed you bebo” she admits biting the inside of her cheek. You both can still hear KK and Ice arguing over what movie to watch in the background, Nika turns her head to look at them before grabbing your hand and dragging you to her room without a word.

She shoves you back by your hips and locks the door behind her, you look around her room then back at her “What do you want Nika?” you ask her sitting on her bed while she stands at the door. She shrugs and walks up to you before grabbing you by the face with both her hands and kissing you hard. Nika pushes you back on her bed and crawls on top of you not breaking the kiss, you moan into the kiss as she pulls away from your lips, she bites your bottom lip holding it between her teeth before letting go.

You look up at her a feeling of relief washing over you “Fuck Nika I need you so bad I missed you so much” you whine rubbing your legs together trying to release the tension building up in your stomach.

“Yeah baby how much did you miss me want you to prove it to me” she demands grabbing you by the hips and flipping you both over so your straddling her waist.

You immediately go down to kissing her neck wanting to show the girl how much you missed her while you were away. Leaving soft wet kissing down her neck your hands grab the bottom of her shirt and lift it off her head throwing it across her room. You look at her abs biting your lips as your hands run over them, feeling every bump. Nika coughs “You like them baby?” she asks a suspicious smile on her face.

Of course you like her abs I mean she was the most beautiful girl in your eyes “Yeah Nika so pretty” you respond to her not looking up from her stomach. Her hand moves it easy up your body from your waist lying on your cheek softly, before making your head tilt up to look at her.

Nika looks at you through her lashes and a thought pops in her head “Why don’t you ride them baby” she asks looking at your thighs that lay across her comfortably. Neither of you have done something like that before and before you can respond Nika puts her hands on both your thighs “Come on bebo make yourself feel good” she says softly rubbing your thighs.

You nod and strip your shirt off and throw it before lifting your legs and getting off of Nika, you take your pants off with your panties and stand infront of her naked. She rubs her jaw looking at you not believing your real “Fuck your so beautiful” she says before reaching over and pulling you back on top of her. Nika lays on her back her head propped up on the pillows as you straddle her waist once again. Both of her hands grab your hips and pull you down on her abs. You moan softly as your clit rubs across them sending shocks through your body.

You start grinding across her abs your head falling back, as your back arches. Nika smirks and starts flexing, adding more pressure to your clit. You moan turning your head down to look at her as one of her hands comes to start rubbing your clit. Your stomach tightens feeling your body start to get hot, you lungs tighten as your start breathing faster “Nika I’m close” you tell her moving your hips fast against her abs and hand.

The girl under you nods and starts moving your hips faster with one hand while the other continues to rub circles on your clit “Come for me bebo” she says looking up at you. You moan and release all over her stomach, your hips snap back and forth a few times in after shocks while Nika slows down rubbing on your clit.

Nika smiles at you before lifting you off of her stomach and laying you down next to her on her bed. Your body faces hers and she pulls you in for a kiss, you kiss back your hand coming to the back of her head before you pull away for air.

“You’re so beautiful and I know I tell you that all the time” she tells you once more her accent prominent. You blush looking down at the pillows before back up at her “Thank you baby” you say to her licking your lips.

Both of you lay on her bed for a moment in quiet no words needed to be said between you both. Nika breaks the silence “I really like you and I want more than just sex” she admits looking away from you and to the door of her bedroom.

Smiling you grab her face to make her look at you “I like you too Nika” you say before climbing on top of her and kissing her once more.

You jump down from her and grab her shirt sliding it over your body “I’m going to take you out tomorrow after practice” you state going into the bathroom grabbing a towel wetting it and walking back over to the girl. You wipe down her stomach before pushing down and kissing her, she kisses back her tongue sliding in your mouth as you both fight for dominance. You pull away smiling and grab a shirt for her to wear from her closet.

She grabs the shirt from your hands and raises her brows at you “Yeah okay what time baby?” Nika asks you putting the shirt on while watching you put your clothes back on.

Thinking for a moment you shrug “Around seven ish be hungry” you say grabbing her hand helping her off of the bed. She grabs your hand nodding and she unlocks the door and you both walk back into the living room to see all the girls sitting in silence.

You furrow your brows “What’s wrong? Who died?” you ask jokingly. KK shakes her head “My innocence died today” she says digging her head into Paige’s shoulder. Nika busts out laughing “Oh shit yall heard us?” she asks while you groan feeling embarrassed.

“Yes we heard guess we don’t need to find a movie to watch you both already have us entertainment” Paige says rubbing KK’s back. You shake your head no and walk out of the living room “IM DONE” you yell walking back into Nika’s room while everyone laughs at you both.

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 6 months ago

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New Homes | Platonic Yandere Tweels x Child Reader

“From today on (Y/n), you’ll be hanging out with the Leech family so please…be on your best behavior.”

Your father was always a little timid. Always speaking with a little quake in his voice. His eyes were always wide darting around. His softer hands like to shake as well. Always wavering even when he held you tight.

Your father is timid. which is why he warns you when he leaves you with the Leech family. Babysitters always make him nervous. It must be because there are two this time—two babysitters with lopsided haircuts and smiles filled with sharp daggers for teeth.

“Hello little (Y/n), we’ll be sure to take good care of you.”

“Oi (Y/n), you a swimmer?”

The twins were nice…for teenagers. Other teenagers you knew would sooner shove your head underwater than help you tread it. Other teenagers also didn’t jump at the chance to fight people but that was other teenagers. Not the Leech twins.

“(Y/n), I told you not to look at Floyd when he’s doing that.”

“But that guy is still holding onto our ice cream.”

“We’ll have some at home. Don’t point at him it’s rude.”

Jade is the twin with his bang on the left side of his face. He’s proper and polite, always doing his best to keep you on schedule. Helping you with your homework when he notices you’re struggling or reading to you when it's time to sleep.

“Let me blow your nose.”

“Mmm okay.”

“Good job. Are you ready to go over the edible mushrooms again?”

“Mm okay.”

Floyd is the twin with a yellow left eye and a pitchy voice. He’s loud and silly, always doing fun things that make the day exciting like running in the halls of the manor or playing tickle-monsters when you’ve been working too long.

“I just have to finish these sheets and then I can play!”

“Boooriing! Let’s just play now!”

“B-but Jade said–”

“Jade can make you catch up later! Let’s get our water guns!”

“Yay!”

They were always so much fun to be around, even work wasn’t so bad with them around. They made a place for you in their giant home. Giving you a room as big as your living room back home, which you slowly filled with the larger souvenirs from your days together.

Speaking of home, it was becoming harder to recall. Trying to remember when you thought of your home if the bathroom was to the left of your room or your father’s. It was an odd feeling that sat at the back of your mind when you looked at the glow-in-the-dark ceiling art. Consciousness fading in and out it didn’t stop your brain from planting the seed of curiosity.

“Why…am I at their house so much?”

Usually, the answer would have been simple. Your father worked late so you had babysitters. But you didn’t go to their house usually. They also didn’t feed or play with you as long as they did but that was beside the point.

“(Y/n), you’re playing with your food.”

“Oh sorry Missus Leech.”

You made quick work of the beans on your plate, enthusiastically scarfing down what you could. It didn’t feel right to disappoint Missus Leech, while she never once yelled; there was just this feeling about her. One that called for respect.

“Take your time, (Y/n). I was only worried you’d drift off to sea.”

Looking up at her, tilted your head in confusion.

She let out a giggle. The adult kind that made you feel embarrassed. Looking at Jade, he had an amused smile too, “She means your mind, (Y/n).”

“Oh, I guess a little.”

“What’ya thinkin’ about elver?”

Floyd spoke between bites of food, reminding you to do the same.

“I just think I miss my home a little bit.”

Taking another hefty bite you missed the disdain on someone’s face. A purposeful cough brought your attention up to the patriarch at the head of the table.

“How are those new shoes we bought together?”

Lighting up at the memory of your new shoes, you barely finished chewing.

“So cool! Everyone at school thought they were nice too! And I got so many compliments.”

The older man laughed, nodding his head. “Good. Good. Maybe we should go shopping again soon.”

“Okay!”

Dinner went on like usual with dessert ending your time at the dinner table. Letting Jade and Floyd lead you to your bathroom to begin your nightly routine. You fought off the urge to yawn while Jade helped you brush your teeth, failing when he told you to spit.

“It’s always nice when Mama and Papa come back from trips.”

Floyd spoke with his back lying on the giant bed, filled with stuffed animals and pillows. He was tossing your clowned fish stuffy in the air catching it with ease.

Jade still smiling continued buttoning up your pajamas, “Yes, it seems like the trip went well.”

He looked at you, reminding you to follow him to your bed. “What about you (Y/n)? Did you miss them?”

Your eyelids were feeling heavy. You rubbed them to try to wipe the feeling away.

“Uh yeah.”

Helping Jade shuffle your stuffies around to make a place for you a knock at the door was heard. Floyd must have opened it because by the time you turned Missus Leech was there.

“Mama!”

Rubbing at Floyd’s head she waved to you and Jade.

“Hi there! I was wondering if I could join you for bedtime?”

You couldn’t tell if The question was for you but if it was Jade answered anyway.

“Of course, Mother. We were just about to read their bedtime story.”

Tucked in next to Missus Leech you let yourself lean against her as she flipped through the pages of the book. Letting her words soothe your mind with the familiar words. Jade and Floyd were close by too making you comfy enough to go to sleep.

When the story was done, everyone gave you goodnight kisses before heading for the door. With the last of your energy, you remembered something important.

“Floyd, are you picking me up tomorrow or Daddy?”

________________________________________________________

The teenager was squeezing the fleshy cylinder shape with an intensity strong enough to bend metal. The crunching and squelching of a man’s neck barely brought comfort to Jade as he continued to squeeze his hands.

“There there Jade, these things take time. It was optimistic that they’d forget by now.”

Unfortunately, the words of his father didn’t calm him down. He headed over to his next target, this time allowing them to throw a punch. Dodging the punch he cradled their hand, maneuvering his arm around until it snapped in the opposite direction. The screaming that followed would have curdled blood for most but it was a lesser result to Jade. Who ended it quickly with a firm kick sent backward and into the skull. The crunch that followed and the abrupt cut to the scream allowed the Leech twin to breathe.

“I knew they wouldn’t forget. Despite all the work we’ve done. But they still expect him to come.”

His father stepped forward, avoiding the bodies to place a comforting hand on Jade’s shoulder.

“Perhaps he still does…to them.”

Jade’s eyes widened, the implication bringing a stark realization. He turned to his father, his yellow gaze answering the unspoken question.

To think that with all the work he was saddled with, the sniper still hadn’t abandoned his child. The likelihood was slim but possible. There were quite a few blind spots when it came to the school. Jade had previously ignored them because of the promised security of their contract with the one who wanted him dead. But it seems that wasn’t all they needed to worry about.

“Do you think he plans to take them again?”

“I’d hope not,” entering the warehouse was Fiona Leech having traded out her evening dress for a jumpsuit and shoving a receiver of a baby monitor in her pocket, “our little elver is just about to be settled. It’d be cruel to try moving them again..”

“I don’t think he cares at this point,” Jasper Leech suggested. Pulling out a revolver, he casually aimed and shot the two people tied in the back of the warehouse. He continued, “I hear he’s been getting sloppy with the jobs that one has so graciously allowed him to fix.”

Jade balanced himself wiping his shoe clean with a rag, chiming in himself.

“Now he’s trying to go back on his word. Absolute scum.”

“I’d hate for us to pull them out of school, more change is not what that kid needs.”

“I wouldn’t mind limiting my club activities to partake in homeschooling.”

His mother held his face patting his head fondly as she cooed,” You’re a good boy Jade but you have your new job and all those plans I wouldn’t want you to give that up.”

Jasper sighed, scratching the well-groomed stache on his face. “Guess that means we’re ending our contracts early.”

“Seems so…..Now Jade go on get to bed you have school in the morning.”

“Yes, Mama.”

______________________________________________________________

The shade was nice on sunny days. The coolness that came with the blackened space near the fence was like heaven. The spot was farther away from the plastic playground and the other children running all throughout. Minutes ago, you were just like them running wildly at a more loose game of sharks and minnows.

Past the wood-chipped ground was the back of the school building where the teachers were chatting. Disappearing between the rectangular windows, their attention was on something inside. Distracted enough not to scold you for stepping away from the others. The triumph of your expert timing was the true prize. Relishing in the leaves of the trapezoid-shaped bushes pushing through the fence. Crunchy, tickling, and overgrown the feeling against your back was a minor trait of this sacred place.

There was also the oddly pressing poke of something warm coming through the hole of the fences. Turning to confirm your suspicions, you smiled.

“Hi, Papa.”

“Hello, my Starlight!”

Turning around to mirror his position you laid on your tummy to look him in the eye. His tactical glasses were off and his hair had changed. His longer hair was gone, traded out for a faded cut. Different but still your father. You let his larger gruffer fingers hold your own through the fence, his hands for once not shaking.

“Can I tell you all about my adventures?”

“Of course.”

He let you rant, smiling and nodding all along to all your different adventures. You even took off your shoes and showed him the flickering lights in its soles. He waited until you were out of breath before asking the question again.

“Would you like to come with Papa, this time?”

You hesitated kicking your feet against the wooden chips of the playground.

“Are we going back to our home?”

“...No.”

Tilting your head,” Then are we going to the Jade and Floyd’s?”

The names made him shudder as he hurriedly shook his head.

“W-we’re going someplace new….”

“Where are we going?”

He rubbed at his eyebrows. He was getting annoyed. But you knew you had to ask otherwise you’d be brought somewhere you hated. Like that one time.

“(Y/n) you’re curiosity is great but—”

“Does where we’re going have a bed? Does it have a kitchen? Are we going to be only eating the gas place’s sandwiches?”

He scrunched his hands into his hair, grasping for his non-existent flowing hair. His lips were quivering and his eyes were watering. It made you nervous, sitting up from your tummy and on your knees. You sent a look over your shoulder at the window–the teachers were still occupied. Looking down at your father, you silently sighed as you got into character.

“Hirano wherever you're taking that little Starlight, it better be the best place for a kid. Those Leech’s are makin’ sure they're on time at school, they're well-fed, and I haven’t gotten a call from protective services for a good while.”

“I know! I know Mama but they won’t let me leave. I screwed up! I screwed up really bad! If I don’t do another job for that guy, he’s going to have my head! B-but I want to go back to normal! I want to spend my days helping (Y/n) with homework and coming home and watching those silly cartoons with my Starlight–”

Your heart was aching and your eyes were getting watery. You waved a hand at your eyes and cleared your throat sticking your hand through the hole to hold his.

“Y-you’ve got to get your ducks in order before you take your Starlight back–”

“But Mom!”

“Don’t but me…Starlight is safe. You’ve got to make sure you are too before you take them back.”

“But the debt I owe…it’s so big and their patience is thin. I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back….”

Taking a deep breath, you went back to your original position on your tummy.

“Papa, I’m always going to be here. Safe and waiting for you. So you can go on your work trip I don’t mind.”

He smiled at that reaching through the gate to affectionately bop you on your nose.

“That’s right…I’m just on a work trip. I’ll be back before you even notice. I’m gone!”

He began to scooch away but you stopped him calling for him to come back to the fence. You kissed his forehead and he kissed yours.

“I’ll….see you when you got back Papa….”

“Yup! You know it! If you need anything just ask your grandma, okay?”

“...Okay…”

Like that, he disappeared.

You were left to stare at the disfigured leaves and dying branches. Burning the memory of his face into your mind.

“(Y/n)! Your brother’s here to pick you up.”

It took you a minute before you stood up again. Frantically wiping at the water streaming from your eyes, you waited until your throat was no longer croaky to finally respond.

“Coming!”

It was all a blur, saying goodbye to your friends and packing your backpack. The memories of the sweet older lady you used to spend so much time with. She taught you how to help your father, explaining the work he was in. It made your head hurt. Thinking about it now, you can say that’s why you stay at the Leech’s house so much.

“Ready to go little elver?”

“Yeah,” you stuck your hands up while he brought you up higher supporting you with his arms. You didn’t want to but you let your gaze fall on the disfigured spot in the bushes behind the playground fence.

Floyd glared at the spot.

“What’s over there, (Y/n)?”

Visualizing him one last time. You’re glad you could say goodbye. Curling your head into his uniform’s collar, you blinked your extra tears away.

“Nothing anymore…let’s go home, please.”

You missed the smile on Floyd’s face, laughing to himself as he made his way to the family car.

“As always, little elvie!”

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after-witch · 1 month ago

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Quicksilver Girl [Yandere FF7!Remnant Trio x Reader]

Title: Quicksilver Girl [Remnant Trio x Reader]

Synopsis: You help a silver-haired man and his silver-haired brothers find their way in the city–didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers?

Word count: 11,000ish

Notes: yandere, threats of violence, stalking, mommy issues

It was a solid testament to the bittersweetness of the world’s regrowth that the simple sight of an ice cream truck in the city made you want to cry. But for all the destruction that had rained on the city, that had rained on the world; for the terror that was Sephiroth and the near-destruction of the planet, it was these simple sights that healed (and hurt) the most.

It didn’t help that you had especially tender soft spots for children. Oh, soft spots for anyone, really–and your neighbors, the people you worked with, what was left of your family would attest to that.

When someone said they were hungry, you did your best to feed them. When you overheard someone weeping over a debt, you would lend a coin or an ear or a pen and paper to plot out a way to dig out of a deficit.

People’s troubles troubled you, and it made you feel better to take care of those around you. Friend and stranger alike.

“Soft hearts have no place in this world,” you’d overheard your father tell your mother one night, mumbling, half-drunk.

Maybe he was right. Maybe in a world like this, your soft heart would get you into trouble one day. Or it would be hardened out of you like water grooving its way into a rock, with time and troubles. An inevitable weathering.

But maybe you would be content to be the type of person who smiled and wiped away the edges of tears at the sight of a gaggle of children eagerly buying frozen treats, each running away with a smile–and often, already-melting ice cream–on their lips.

And it wasn’t just the children who wanted to reap the frozen fruits of the ice cream truck’s welcome arrival, you notice–a man, clad in what must be an entirely too-hot black leather outfit, awkwardly making his way to the front of the truck.

He runs his hands through his cropped silver hair–it almost glitters, in the sun–and looks up and down at the time-worn stickers plastered to the front of the truck. One of the children behind him huffs a little and stands on her toes, bending sideways to peer around him.

The truck driver says something, and the man frowns. He points to one of the stickers and waits, expectantly.

You can’t help but overhear the exchange that follows.

“If you don’t have any money, move out of the way. There’s kids that are ready to pay.”

The little girl shoves her hands in her pockets, fingers no doubt touching the precious gil she was able to borrow for the treat.

The man makes a noise, something in between a growl and a whine, as he looks behind him at the growing line of kids–and in front of him, at the unimpressed driver.

“No fair. It doesn’t say anything about money here!” The young man jabs a finger on the truck and–did the truck rock just a bit? No, of course not–and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s almost like a kid himself, you think, and a familiar tugging sensation in your chest creeps in.

You’re already hustling your way up to the truck, fingers digging into your purse for a few coins, when one of the kids in line lets out a barking, sneering laugh.

“Everyone knows ice cream costs money! What’re you, stupid?”

Perhaps if you had been a moment later, it all would have gone wrong here. That kid would have been pulverized by an impulsive, angry punch and any bystanders would have fled screaming and you would’ve known to stay far, far away from this man and his silver hair and anyone else who showed up alongside him.

But you were a moment sooner, and nothing went wrong.

Instead, just as the young man turned towards the sneering kid, a scowl on his face, you were primly handing the truck driver enough coins for an ice cream bar.

“Please, let me,” you say, voice soft but firm–a I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tone, and the tension from the interaction melts as easily as the ice cream inside the truck under the hot sun. The truck driver shrugs and dips away from his window for a moment, before coming back and holding out a fresh chocolate ice cream bar.

The young man stares at it for a moment, then slowly reaches out to take it. The girl behind him doesn’t wait for him to move, bumping past him to get to the front of the line. And if you hadn’t just enabled him to get the creamy frozen treat he’d clearly wanted, maybe it would have bothered him.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. He simply stares at you, brows furrowed, gaze looking all sorts of ways. Surprised. Pleased. Annoyed. It’s an expression you’re a bit familiar with; the sort of mixed-emotions that come with favors you didn’t quite ask for, but wanted, anyway.

You don’t take it to heart. You smile and step back from the truck, and he follows–sticking the ice cream into his mouth before abruptly yanking it out, mouth half-opened, a bit of chocolate dribbling on his chin.

“It’s cold,” he says, shock at the edge of his voice. But the heat of the day and his outfit and the richness of the chocolate must overpower the initial trepidation, because he slowly sticks it back in his mouth, savoring it.

“Have you… never had ice cream?” You ask. You shouldn’t; you should just go, good deed done for the day.

But.

It’s hard not to be curious about him. His outfit is unusual; more like something you’d see in the old days. A roaming thug hired by Shinra, maybe. But they wouldn’t be out in the day, at least not anymore.

But it’s the rest of him that really stands out. Silver hair that, even cropped short, has a shimmery look in the fun. And his eyes are, well. Unusual to say the least. A vibrant sort of green, like a living light.

His eyes glance towards you, then towards the ground. Shame, maybe.

“Of course I have,” he lies, and your heart pangs just a bit. He wouldn’t be the first person in this world to grow up deprived. The soft, stretchy bit your hard pulls towards him, and you look around for anyone that might know him. Might have come here with him, before he got sidetracked with a sidequest for ice cream.

But there’s no one that you can see who might call this strangely dressed young man “theirs.” So you worry at your lip with your teeth, weighing the options, before finally asking–softly, kindly.

“Are you alone?”

“No.” He looks up at you with something like indignity. “I’m with my brothers.”

There’s a bit of good news. You smile. “Oh! I’m sorry…” But when you look around, there’s no sign of anyone that looks like a brother. The silver hair would be a giveaway, wouldn’t it?

He looks around, too, and after a moment, meets your gaze with a lost expression that you can’t help but compare to the kids around you.

“They were supposed to meet me here… at… at…” He huffs out a sigh, and pulls out a cell phone. The sight is surprising–they can be pricey, although they are getting a bit more common. He flips open the top and presses a few buttons with his thumb, before holding it up in your face. “Here.”

Oh. He’s in entirely the wrong spot. And if he’s not from the area, there’s no way he’ll find it alone. That soft, squishy part of you squeezes your chest hard and despite hearing your father’s mumbling disapprovals through the metaphorical wall of your mind, you offer another smile.

“That’s on the opposite side of town. It’s a bit of a confusing way… I could walk you?”

A few emotions cross his face. Surprise. Annoyance. And finally, a sort of mild distrust. Again, so much like the children around you. Children who grew up on or off the streets but in a world where the next day was never a guarantee. It hurts a little to see this expression on a grown man, however young he might be.

“Fine,” he tells you, half-mumbling. “If you want.”

“Well, I do want,” you answer cheerfully, and the surprise on his face doesn’t seem to quite go away even as he begins to follow you, frowning, shoving the rest of his ice cream bar in his mouth.

The stares you get as you escort this strange young man through the city are worth the feeling of accomplishment you get–warm and fuzzy and light–from helping someone out. Especially someone who seems so lost, in more ways than one.

As for the strange young man himself, he’s not much of a conversationalist–but you’ve never minded doing most of the talking. He seems content to listen, mumbling yeses and no’s, or occasionally asking you questions about buildings you pass.

He even tells you his name, after a while: “I’m Loz.”

And if you tell him your name, and he repeats it a bit gruffly, chocolate ice cream on his lips, is it wrong to find it a bit cute?

After all–

It feels good to help someone in need, doesn’t it?

–

There’s no mistaking it: the two men standing in front of an abandoned city hall (ruined, more like; no one had enough money to fix it, so the city hall was now in a repurposed hotel) must be his brothers. The silver hair with the same sort of sheen, and nearly matching black leather outfits. Part of you wonders if you ought to have gotten ice cream for them, but it would have melted anyway.

Neither of them look particularly excited to see you. Well, you can’t blame them. You are a stranger. There’s surprise tinged with a wariness and a not-so-thinly veiled irritation, at least on part of what looks to be his younger brother. Silver hair cut short and slightly uneven, like he hacked it off himself. The other brother looks older, with long silky hair that must, you decide, take forever to comb.

It’s Loz who breaks the tension, stepping forward, running a hand through his short hair. There’s still some chocolate ice cream left on his mouth.

“She uh, showed me the way. I got lost.” The brothers’ gaze roams over you. Loz holds up his ice cream stick. “And she bought me this.” When his brothers merely blink at it, he shoves it closer to them. “There was ice cream on it!”

It is the brother with longer hair who speaks first. Smooth and calm, and you get the image of one of those upper-crust salesmen, the kind who could convince someone to buy a motorbike they couldn’t afford in a thousand years.

“I see.” His gaze turns to you and there’s something in those eyes–the same as Loz, but vaguely different. Whereas Loz felt like a lost dog with a–haha–bone to pick, his gaze feels a bit more intent. Like it could pin you to the floor, if it wanted. “Thank you for assisting our brother,” he says, voice as silky as his hair.

The younger brother scoffs at that. Scowls. Won’t even look at you.

Well–you were never one to outstay your welcome. Clearly they have business here, and it certainly doesn't involve you. So you smile at the brother with the long hair and then turn to Loz, half-grin on your face.

“Well, I’ve got to get going. I’m glad you found your brothers! Bye! Be safe, okay?”

You raise your hand and wave and Loz–to his brothers’ surprise, it’s written on both their faces–waves back.

“Uh… bye.”

As you walk away, you can’t shake the feeling of three pairs of eyes on your back.

–

You never expected to see Loz again. Or his brothers. Yet it is exactly these three people that suddenly walk through the doors of the diner you waitress at, and how could you not notice? The diner itself seemed to freeze as soon as the door swung open, and a trio of young men with matching silver hair and leather outfits walked through.

While everyone else was keen to stare, you were quick to welcome them. It was hard, being the odd one out; well, in this case, the odd trio out.

“Good morning,” you chirp, menus already cradled in your arm by force of habit. “I’m glad to see you!” And you were, a little, in the way you were always happy to see anyone you’d helped again.

Predictably, Loz is the only one who smiles at you. It’s a shy sort of grin that almost seems out of place on his muscular frame.

“Hey,” he says. “Someone said you worked here, so we… uh…”

In hindsight, this was perhaps the only chance you had to sidestep the horror to come; the only chance to realize you were being sought, and that to be sought by three young men with strange clothing and stranger hair was no simple thing.

But hindsight is never there when we want it to be, and instead of taking the phrase for the warning it ought to have been, you let it wash over you.

“Yep! I’ve been working here for a few years now. Why don’t you sit down?”

They follow–the youngest first, you realize, and the other two fall in line as you lead them to a corner booth out of the way. Less stares, you think. But what a very strange family dynamic, indeed. From the friends you knew with siblings, it was the oldest who called the shots. But then, the world wasn’t exactly rightside up anymore, was it? Things changed all the time. Even sibling pecking orders.

You dole out the menus as easily as you dole your smiles. Each brother picks up a menu in turn. The youngest looking at it with something like scorn, Loz furrowing his eyebrows, and the brother with long hair and a smooth voice quickly taking in the fare.

“Do you need any help deciding? We’ve got a bit of everything.”

The brother with the long hair sets down his menu. “May we have three waters?”

You don’t need to jot it down–lots of practice, and all that–so you nod. “Of course! And what can I get you to eat? I’m pretty partial to the sandwiches here myself, but–”

His smile is smoother than his voice, and it’s almost unnerving, almost enough to make you take a step back, when Loz interrupts, mouth pouting, eyes downcast–

“But I’m hungry!” As if on cue, his stomach growls. And not for the first time, you’re struck by how new he seems, despite his appearance and demeanor. And clearly, despite these what-should-be expensive leather outfits, this trio of siblings has fallen on hard times.

Oh, your damned soft heart would get you fired one of these days.

“You know!” Your voice is a bit too high, a bit too chipper. “We actually just had a table return some dishes because I got the order wrong… I was going to have to just throw it out and eat the loss but, if you guys wouldn’t mind taking them?” You smile, a bit crooked. “It would really help me out.”

Loz grins.

The brother with the long hair’s eyes widen, just a fraction, before they return to their serene-like stance. “Thank you,” he says, softly.

The youngest frowns, his lips curling into a bit of a sneer. His brothers look to him, and you’re struck again by the topsy-turvy pecking order you see in them.

Finally, he sighs.

“Fine.”

–

The brother with the long hair, you finally learn, is called Yazoo. And the youngest–his name cannot be pried out of his own mouth, and it is Yazoo that tells you–is Kadaj.

They don’t say much about why they’re in town, and you don’t pry. It must be hard enough with everyone staring at them, whispers slinking over from the other tables. Well. With their silver-shimmer hair and leather outfits, it would be hard not to notice them.

Still. You do your best to put them at ease.

Maybe that’s why, when their meals are finished, Yazoo asks you:

“Do you know of a place to stay in the area? Somewhere… affordable, please.”

Your heart–soft, stupid thing–pangs. There isn’t much in the way of affordability anywhere, but you suspect they already know that. But you know a few people, can pull in some favors.

“There’s lodgings above the cafe,” you say, pointing to the staircase in the far corner. “It’s where I live, actually! I’ll tell them you’re looking for a place to stay, and we can work something out.” You don’t tell them that “work something out” usually means you picking up extra shifts for free in exchange for someone else getting a discount, because then they might decline your offer, and who knows where they’d end up?

“That is… much appreciated,” Yazoo replies, weighing his words carefully. Loz looks between his brothers and decides on a nod.

It is the words of Kadaj–his first words properly directed to you without a grimace or huff–that surprise you the most.

“Yeah,” he says, and both his brothers look to him with something akin to surprise of their own as he looks up at you, his own mako-green eyes catching your gaze. “Thanks.”

–

It is not quite a surprise that you see the brothers every day. Neither does it shock you that Loz, in particular, seems taken with you; he follows you around the cafe, and you even wrangle him into collecting used dishes when the normal busboy decides to skip out on his shifts.

He doesn’t like the customers–none of the brothers seem to–but he always beams when you thank him for his hard work. It makes your heart pang, just a bit; where were these three before all this, that simple praise makes him look so happy?

It is, perhaps, Kadaj’s turn that genuinely surprises you. For within the days, the weeks, he goes from sneering at you to quietly popping up by your side when you least expect it.

When you’re out for a morning errand, he asks to come along, sometimes not saying a word the entire time–sometimes asking questions about everything he sees, which you happily (if a bit sleepily) answer.

When you’re sitting in the cafe on a rare free hour, reading a book, he (with or without his brothers) slides into the booth and wants to know what you’re reading, and why you’re reading it, and how long you’ve read it for–

When you’re in the back on an overnight shift, doing dishes, he shows himself in the doorway and asks why you’re spending your free time scrubbing other people’s messes.

“It’s not my free time,” you tell him, once. “I’m working.”

He scoffed. “Do you always work all day, then all night?”

You smiled, perhaps a bit of a grimace, given the hot water and occasional wad of tobacco you had to crape off a plate. “Oh, It’s just–I’ve got some extra bills to pay, so I pick up late shifts sometimes.”

And something in his gaze then–did he know about your deal with the owner? Picking up extra shifts when your bleeding heart got the better of you?--made you want to look away.

“You shouldn’t work at all,” he muttered, as he pushed himself from the doorframe and left.

Well.

It was a nice sentiment, but not a realistic one.

–

One day, Kadaj is not downstairs with his brothers in the cafe when you come down in the morning, apron freshly tied. It is only Loz, sitting in the booth, turning an ashtray over and over in his hands with an almost fittingly ashen expression on his face.

“Loz?”

His head jerks up at the sound of your voice, and you swear–it couldn’t be a trick of the light–that there are tears in his eyes.

Instantly, you swoop down into the booth, reaching across–fingers grazing the ashtray and taking it from his fingers. He clenches them, keeping them hovering into the air, until you (bold thing) grip his hands in your own.

He stares down at your hand like it’s a foreign object.

“What’s the matter? Where are your brothers?”

His gaze pulls away from your hands and there’s no mistaking the watery lashline this close up–he has been crying. A pang in your chest makes you squeeze his fingers. Poor dear. Poor Loz.

“Kadaj is–there’s something wrong with him.” His lips pout, and up close, you can see them quiver.

“What’s wrong with him?” You keep your voice soft and slow; like how your teacher used to talk to you, when you fell on the playground and couldn’t articulate what happened through your blubbering lips.

“He’s…” Loz frowns, squeezes his eyes shut. “His head is really warm. And he’s coughing!” He says the next part too loudly, and a few early-morning heads turn towards the booth. “I think he might be…” The word dying does not come out, but it’s there, written in his worry-stricken face.

You fight against the urge for an indulgent smile. Instead, you squeeze Loz’s hands, and he makes the softest noise of surprise. “It sounds like it’s a cold.”

Loz frowns deeper. “A… cold?”

You do smile, now. Not out of pity but that sense of warm upcoming accomplishment: if there’s any type of crisis you’re completely capable of handling, it’s a simple cold. “Yes. Let me get some things together, and we’ll go take care of him, okay?”

Loz pulls one of his hands from your grip, slow and reluctant; but only so that he can wipe away his tears with the back of his hand.

How endearing–if strange–these brothers have come to be in your eyes, you think, as you begin to create a mental list of supplies to bring up to their room.

–

For once, Yazoo does not look perfectly serene and put-together. He looks–well. Frazzled. Hairs out of place, a dull darkness lining underneath his eyes, and you sense a sort of soft fracture in his expression that widens when you step through the open doorway, Loz just behind you.

There are a million things that enter your mind when you enter their rented room–how sparse it looks with so few personal items, for one; how uncomfortable it must be for them to squeeze into the small space, for two–but foremost on your mind is that Kadaj is never going to get better like this.

Curled up on a bed wearing his full leather outfit, shivering, sweat plastered to his forehead. You can see the remnants of where Yazoo has attempted to tend to him, but in all the wrong ways–not that you can blame him, considering how inexperienced and naive these strange silver brothers can be.

Kadaj is so out of it that he doesn’t realize you’re in the room for a few long moments. When he does turn his head, his gaze narrows.

“Who said you could come?” He murmurs, bitterly. “Go away. I’m not well.”

Your lips press down and your hands find themselves moving to your hips. You feel like your mother, in more ways than one.

“That’s why I’m here.” You glance at Loz, at Yazoo, then back at Kadaj. “You’re not well, and we’re going to get you better.” You take a glance around the room–at blankets strewn about, none of them on Kadaj to keep him warm; at half-empty glasses of murky liquid that may or may not have once been milk from downstairs; at trash, bits and bobs, things that make the place cluttered–and your thoughts click into place.

“Loz, Yazoo,” you say, gentle, but firm, as you set your bag down on a thankfully clear side table. “The first thing is to get this place clean. People heal better in clean spaces.” You nod towards the cups, the blankets, everything else strewn about the room. “You two clean that up while I get to work on your brother, okay?”

There’s a brief moment where the two brothers glance at each other, then at Kadaj, sick and sweaty on the bed. He huffs out through his nose and turns away, which must mean something to the two of them, because they both get to work on clearing up the room.

It’s cute, in a way.

It would be cuter if it didn’t leave you with a sense of pity in your stomach; just how did these three grow up, if this is how they lived?

But there would be time to think about that later, when Kadaj was better.

You’ll start with his choice of sick outfit.

“Kadaj,” you say, lowering your voice, taking a step forward. “You need to change into something more comfortable. A loose shirt and trousers.”

He doesn’t look at you, not yet. Instead, he curls in further, and says, low but clear: “No.”

Ah, there’s that stubbornness from when you first met rising forward. Pride, too, you think. Well–what man wanted to be sick and weak in front of someone else? Especially someone he followed around like some sort of strange puppy with increasing frequency.

Your hands go to your hips. A well-practiced gesture your mother used to give you when you were equally stubborn. “Kadaj,” you insist. “You are going to change into something more comfortable. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room. Loz and Yazoo pause, each of them halfway to picking up something strewn about the room, looking to Kadaj. Kadaj, for his part, seems to scrunch. His expression, his body–before he looks to you with an expression almost as unreadable as the ones he gives you in the kitchen on certain evenings.

Mixed in with the urge to roll your eyes–men could be so dramatic–is a sprinkle of uneasiness in your stomach.

“Fine,” Kadaj mumbles, finally, unfurling on the bed and sitting up. You pluck up a discarded sleep shirt and what appears to be sweatpants and hold them out. When Kadaj takes them, you just manage to resist the urge to smile–you don’t want to poke his wounded pride, after all.

As he leaves to get dressed, you finally attend to your supplies. Inside of your bag is a hefty container of freshly made warm soup–your mother’s recipe, of course–and a batch of cold medicine. The sight of it makes you want to hum; it’s nostalgic, these trinkets from the days of being-cared-for.

When you turn, all three brothers are standing in front of the bed. It’s a bit like something out of a story. There’s the brief thought of being a governess to abandoned children, but it is brief; these aren’t children, and you are just helping out three young men who seem ill-equipped to deal with life on their own.

“Let’s get you tucked into bed,” you say, and you watch as Kadaj slowly climbs onto the bed, his face turned to watch you–like an animal, you think, afraid to turn around. All the while Loz and Yazoo stand to the side, looking anxious. For his health? Or waiting to see if he’ll huff about being told what to do? Perhaps, you think, a little bit of both.

And you haven’t even made him take the medicine yet. It’ll be the worst part, you know from experience. The taste is–well. It tastes like medicine. But better the taste of medicine than to be sick. That’s what your mother used to say.

It’s what you say, when you hand Kadaj the spoon, he takes it into his mouth, and promptly chucks it towards the wall.

“Perhaps there’s another medicine we could use,” Yazoo offers. Calm, like always, with a hint of something else underneath. It’s probably not the first time his younger brother has expressed… displeasure at doing something he doesn’t want to do.

“Nope,” you say, cheerfully, retrieving the spoon and doling out another dosage. “This is the best medicine in town.” You sit down on the end of the mattress, and hold the spoon to his mouth. “Here, we’ll do it the way my mom used to.”

You don’t miss the way Kadaj tenses; the way Yazoo and Loz tense too, the creak of their leather a telltale giveaway.

“One spoonful of medicine,” you murmur. “Then you can have as much soup as you want. Okay?” Kadaj eyes you warily, and you can’t help but smile, indulgent, soft. Like baked bread out of the oven. “I promise, the soup tastes much better than the medicine.”

There are a few almost ridiculously tense moments–you’re tempted to shove the spoon into his mouth, for goodness’ sake–before Kadaj opens his lips. You slide the spoon in and tilt it, and he swallows it down, grimacing all the while.

“There,” you say, beaming. “That wasn’t so hard! You’ll just need a dose of this every 2 hours–”

“What?”

Sometimes you can forget how young he seems–no, not young exactly. Green. Like he sprung fully formed out of the ground, all green shoots, and nothing substantial underneath.

“Every two hours,” you continue, ignoring his outburst. “And drink some soup afterwards. It’ll help with the taste and help you feel better.” The mattress creaks when you stand up and retrieve the container of soup, along with a second, medicineless spoon.

“I have to go in for my shift. If it’s too hard to eat, let your brothers feed you, okay?” You glance towards Loz and Yazoo and it’s briefly startling, the way they look at you. Like you’ve done some sort of wondrous thing by simply getting Kadaj to take medicine, by handing him a container of homemade soup.

“Thank you,” Yazoo says, almost slowly.

Loz cracks a smile–and cracks his thanks. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course,” you don’t hesitate. You never have, when it comes to helping others. Especially, no–increasingly, these three–despite the sometimes off-putting greenness to them. Strange, you suppose, how they’ve begun to be woven into your life. “It’s nothing,” you finish, giving a wave as you leave.

But from the way you feel three pairs of eyes on your back–one staring longer, much longer, much harder–you get the distinct feeling that they don’t see it as nothing much at all.

–

You are doting and warm; inviting, like a blazening hearth stumbled on in the middle of some frigid night. A welcome, after being stuck in the dark for oh-so-long.

It’s a strange, blurry emotion. One he had never truly experienced until he met you. He tried to ignore it, at first. This strange sensation–this tug, this pull.

Loz did not try at all, he thinks. Yazoo held his own, but not for long. But for Kadaj, the idea of viewing you as anything but yet another human in the way of him and Mother was abhorrent. Unnatural. Obscene.

At least, it was like that. Until inch by inch, you peeled back the hardened shell, like a knife slicing away an apple. Like the potatoes he sometimes helps you peel in the kitchen. You don’t even know what that gesture is, how significant you should find it.

He likes it, in some ways. That naive core.

But right now, he can’t think about the things he finds appealing in you. He can only see ugly green, a nasty tinge that spreads through his veins, as you smile and dote and coo over a gaggle of children.

“Why is she wasting her time with them?” He murmurs, almost spitting.

They followed you here when you didn’t show up for your morning shift. It was easy enough to track you, all they had to do was find someone who withered easily under a well-placed scowl from Loz, and your destination was revealed.

An orphanage.

It’s sickening, the way you smile at these children. Like they matter to you. Like you would barge into their rooms and make them rest and drink medicine. Things you should reserve for him–and his brothers–alone.

“Perhaps,” Yazoo says, ever practical, “she’s getting paid. Perhaps she needed another job.”

Kadaj doesn’t resist the urge to scoff. “No chance. She wouldn’t accept money for this.”

Behind him, he hears Loz whimper. If he turned, there would be tears in his brother’s eyes, no doubt. The tears are irritating–he can be such a crybaby–but Kadaj would not deny that they were understandable at this exact moment.

It’s a betrayal, a wound. Every smile you give these damned children is stabbing it further in. It’s enough to make him want to dash forward, reveal himself, slash a silver path through the crowd of orphans and demand an explanation from your blood-spattered face.

“Brother,” Loz says, interrupting this fantasy and sounding as weak as the children you’re currently fawning over. “Do… you think she likes them more than us?”

Oh, you are maddening. Loz was perhaps the softest when it came to you. You, who gave him ice cream, who walked him across town like a lost child. You, who are currently making him cry.

It is Yazoo, as usual, who comes to his rescue.

“Of course not, Loz.” He can hear the reassuring smile in Yazoo’s voice, the way he talks Loz down from cries that go beyond sniffling. “She spends far more time with us, does she not?”

Loz hums in affirmation, as you say something–energetic, grin wide–to the children and usher them inside the orphanage.

All three stare at the empty doorway where you used to stand. The emptiness is palpable, creating an endless series of questions that lead to only one answer: you’re giving someone else what you should be giving them.

“Kadaj?” Yazoo doesn’t turn, and he doesn’t need to. Kadaj knows what he’s going to ask before he asks it. “Do we need to teach her a lesson?”

And oh, that thought is tempting. An apple dangling from a tree, half-rotting, desperately wanting to be picked before the last of its flesh went sour.

How easy it would be, to grab that apple. How easy, to teach you this lesson now, he thinks; to keep you from straying from the path you ought to be on.

But Kadaj is nothing, if not someone born to think about the bigger picture. And something in him, something he recognizes ought not to be there at all, is inclined to give you an ounce of mercy. If you behave.

So–

“Not yet,” is what he says, leather gloves creaking while his fists clench, imagining all the sweet things you’re saying to the children inside. Reassurances and treats. “We’ll give her one more chance.”

–

You are a naive thing who is not aware that you have one last pitiful chance, and you squander it just two weeks later.

To you, it is a casual announcement that you’ll be leaving for 2 weeks because you’re housesitting for someone in the sticks. A friend. The one that introduced you to the director of the orphanage.

“And who knows,” you say, a smile on your face, “maybe I’ll even hear back about that assistant director position soon.”

The nail in your coffin, not that you know it.

At least you are smart enough to pick up on the shift in mood, when the three of them look at you like you’ve just admitted you killed their childhood pet. Not that you can imagine any of them having something as mundane as an old barn cat.

“I’ll be back soon?” you try, offering the words slowly, something soothing held out on a platter. “It’s only for a little bit. My friend needs my help–” But you don’t even finish the sentence, because you get the distinct impression that it’s not helping in the slightest.

Yazoo–the most restrained of the three, you know, the most practical–moves forward, his shoulder angling towards you.

“You shouldn’t go. It won’t be safe. It’s better to stay here with us.”

Loz looks at him hopefully–it almost makes you feel bad, but Loz often does–and Kadaj simply stares ahead at you, like he’s been doing since you said you were leaving. There’s something petulant in his stare, but it’s glossy. Like it’s covering something else up. Something you don’t want to peel back and see.

Something that makes a soft thought that’s been there all along, too quiet to hear and easily resisted before, get just a bit louder.

Maybe, just maybe, when you get back–you should think about distancing yourselves from these three. It would be inevitable, anyway, if you get the new job.

But it can wait until you return. Some time away will do you good, anyway. You’ll be able to think more clearly at your friend’s house, out in the sticks, with nothing to worry about except insects getting in through a rip in the window screen at night.

For once, when you leave, you don’t feel their eyes on you.

They’re only looking at each other.

–

Your friend lives in the middle of nowhere. In a small house surrounded by dense forest, all signs of civilization reduced to the dirt road that was cut through the area years ago, connecting the sparsely placed houses with the rest of the world with chunks of dusty gravel.

Your friend lives in the middle of nowhere, with no neighbors in sight or sound. Peace and quiet, is what she said, remarking that you’ll have a chance for some actual alone time. Something you’d never get in the city, that’s for sure.

Your friend lives in the middle of nowhere, and it’s dark outside. There is no sound by the natural buzz of the world, insects, chirping, the hum of the night.

You are alone, in the middle of the woods, with no one around. And yet–

And yet someone is knocking on the door.

A firm knock. Intentional. One that makes your body jerk like a puppet.

Your first thought–some kids playing a prank, knowing your friend wasn’t home–is quickly washed away. She didn’t have neighbors even remotely close nearby, and this was not the haphazard, giddy knock of some teenager being dragged away by friends, lest you catch them in the act.

So who…?

The knocking comes again. Louder. Slower.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Then a more reasonable thought: someone is lost. Their car broke down on this shitty dirt road and this house was the first one within miles.

That thought gets you out of your seat, a cushioned recliner with a worn out cover, and you set down your book to attend to the stranger in need. How funny, that even when you’re meant to be taking a break, you’re bound to help someone out.

But when you open the door, nothing greets you but the night, lit only by the moon ahead and the dim yellow light hanging above your friend’s front door. Insects dash against the glass bulb, hitting it with a desperate ferocity.

Strange–you swore you heard a knocking. But as you go back inside, leaving the breeze and darkness and insects behind, it’s easy enough to wave it away. You’re alone, in a new place, it’s only natural to hear strange sounds.

The house settling. An animal in the woods. Some nocturnal bird, maybe, pecking at the window frame.

By the time you sit down again with your book and a quickly cooling cup of tea, you’ve already put the sound out of your mind, wiped away all traces of who-what-could-be-at-the-door.

It’s easy to get lost in your book now, without life pulling away your mind every few moments. Without the cafe, without the customers, without the familiar faces. Without–and it’s a guilty acknowledgement–three brothers trailing behind.

It is when you have just crossed that threshold of being immersed in your book that–

There is another knock at the door.

Louder, this time.

And oh, how unmistakable in its human origin.

Knock-knock-knock.

Not the wind or some wayward bird, but someone with knuckles, curling them up and rapping them against the door.

It takes you longer to get up from the chair this time. Something tight and low settles in your stomach–dread, taking root as you force yourself up and over to the door.

This time, you don’t open it right away. This time, you lean closer, pressing your eye against the peep hole, to see… nothing. Literally, nothing. Complete darkness, without even the light of the bulb above the door to give you a glimpse of the few feet in front of the house

Something has been taped over the peep hole. And it wasn’t there when you opened the door the first time.

That low dread in your guts begins to strum faster, tingling up and down your arms. You stare at the useless, black peep hole for far too long as you try to decide what to do–what to think.

Someone playing a stupid prank? Maybe. Kids who live out in the boonies and maybe heard from an aunt-uncle-cousin-brother that someone would be housesitting out here, and made the trek for some fun.

Someone trying to rob the place? More likely, you think. Just as easy for a robber to hear from an aunt-uncle-cousin-brother that the normal inhabitant would be gone, replaced by a stupid city girl.

Those options are the only two that really stick in your mind as you peel yourself away from the door and make a pitstop at the kitchen. Your friend was no gourmet cook, but she did have a large, sharp kitchen knife.

Perfect for slicing through hard vegetables. Perfect for–what? Defending yourself? If it was kids playing a prank, well, you wouldn’t dream of it. But on the chance that it was someone with less-than-good intentions… it might be necessary to defend yourself.

It might be necessary to have a weapon.

It just might.

–

A few minutes turn into an hour, and there are no more knocks on the door. No more unusual sounds. Nothing but the breeze and the insects, and your occasional hum as you read your book. Though your mind never gets fully engrossed in it; you’re on the surface of the world, ready to step out at a moment’s notice, if necessary.

But you no longer feel like your guts are ice and the idea that this was either some silly prank or game–”I dare you to knock on the door and run off!”--becomes stronger and stronger. Heck, maybe there wasn’t anything taped to the peep hole after all. Maybe it was just hard to see out of it in the dark. Maybe the light bulb went out.

Who knows. Not you, that’s for certain.

But that lack of knowledge becomes less frightening and more a simple, accepted fact. Someone knocked on the door, or someone didn’t. It was dark, and hard to see. You were overreacting, that’s all.

And as soon as that simpler–sweeter–accepted fact coats over the dread in your guts, you decide you’d like nothing more than to get dressed for bed. The book and tea and lamp light will seem all the cozier when you’re wearing your softest pajama set, certainly.

The knife is left next to the book while you head for the bedroom. It’s a cozy little room, with a warm bed and a quilted blanket that you think, if you remembered correctly, had been passed down in your friend’s family for at least two generations.

Or was that the plaid curtains, currently pulled over the half-open window, billowing ever-so-slightly with the mild night breeze? A nice breeze, inviting enough that you’re debating keeping it open all night, even now, as you slip out of your trousers and stand there in your underwear. Your pajamas are resting right on top of that maybe-antique quilt, and you pick up the soft pajama shirt and pull it over your head. They’re soft, light blue, one of the few things you’d decided to splurge on buying new.

Hmm. Actually… new curtains might be nice in your little room, wouldn’t they? Something to freshen it up, change it a little. Life had begun to feel more stale lately, more suffocating. You can’t quite pinpoint when, but–

A loud engine revs from the other side of the house.

Your entire body jerks and you instinctively jerk back so hard that you slam your elbow against the wall, pain radiating up your arm. The pain takes a backseat to the sudden numbness of the unexpected sound, the way your heart feels like it jumps out of your chest.

Your socked feet pad hard against the floor as you run, almost slipping, back to the front of the house. Your fingers shake as you yank back the curtains of the kitchen window, just in time to see a shape–someone on a motorcycle, the brightness of its headlight breaking through the darkness–riding away.

Instinctively, your eyes dart to the front door. It’s locked–good. That doesn’t make your heart feel any less jumpy. Maybe you should call someone. You can’t afford a cell phone, but your friend had a house phone. But who would come out here in the middle of the night?

Especially over what might be–could be, still could be–some stupid prank. Bored teens on motorcycles who have nothing better to do than scare the shit out of you.

Well. Let them scare you. Your heart begins to thud instead of pitter-pattering like some terrified rabbit, and you breathe in-and-out through your nose to bring down the panic. You’re okay. You’re an adult. And you have a knife, anyway. Should you need to scare someone off.

The house seems less cozy and more achingly empty as you creep back into the bedroom and finish getting dressed, slipping on soft pajama pants that feel less comfortable than they did yesterday.

Habit makes you force yourself to see the bright side. You’ll have a story to tell your friend when she gets back. And a story to banter about with customers at the diner, when you need to make that connection and get extra tips.

What a laugh–you finally get some alone time and someone decides to ruin it by being an asshole, and all you can think about is how to use the story to make more money.

It’s kind of funny, actually. What is less funny is the realization that hits when you go back into the living room and–

The knife is gone.

The knife is gone–it was right on top of your book. You remember setting it down carefully. You remember it cutting through the title of the book. You remember seeing it before you went back into the bedroom–

Well. Wait. Do you remember all that? Had you actually set it down before you went to get changed? Maybe you set it down somewhere and just thought you put it down on the book. Maybe you left it in the bedroom, or–you whirl, looking towards the open-floor kitchen–you set it back on the counter.

Or maybe, you whirl around, you put it by the front door.

Which is open.

Just a crack.

No.

You locked it. Didn’t you? Yes, you checked it, you must have locked it. You’re not aware that your body is trembling until you take those few steps forward towards the door, heart thumping again, listening intently for the sound of someone outside.

Kids. Pranksters. Robbers. Murderers. Whoever, whatever.

But when your sweaty palm grips the door handle and turns it, there is nobody there. Again. Just the night, just the insects. One dives for your face and you gasp, jumping back in the house and locking the door–surely, double checking–with a thunk of the lock.

The mind makes wonderful leaps and bounds when it wants to rationalize something. And that is what your mind does now. You put the knife somewhere else–you’ll find it in a moment; you were mistaken when you thought you locked the door the first time. Even though you looked at it after you heard the motorcycle outside.

A trick of the eye, a trick of the brain. That’s all it was. Some bored teens playing a joke and you’re out here alone, turning it into something much bigger than it needs to be. Your friend did tell you that it’s easy to get paranoid when you’re out here, in the dark, all by yourself.

The house creaks, she told you. Settles in the night, groans when the wind blows. Thoughts mush together, and there’s a brief thought that you ought to call someone, before you hear it.

A motorcycle. Again. This time, it comes from behind the house and you’re aware enough to immediately dash for the back door. There’s a window–shut–and you push aside the curtains. It’s harder to see in the back, with no porch light at all. But you do see wisps of engine smoke, the red lights of the motorcycle dash.

Stupid kids. Stupid, bored, mean kids. A brief flicker of sympathy–they must get lonely out here–is stamped out when the engine revs again and you jerk in surprise.

Well. Better to be bold than let them keep bothering you. With a swift motion, you undo the lock and peel the door back, just enough to take a step out onto the small pad of concrete outside the door.

Your mother always told you to pretend that your father was coming home, should you be caught alone by someone who ought not to be there. So the thought on what to say comes quickly, a half-remembered lesson taught to you on your mother’s knee.

“Hey! You’d better get out of here! My boyfriend is coming back any minute, and he doesn’t mess around!”

The words echo into the night, bouncing off the crickets of insects. The figure on the motorcycle doesn’t move.

“Liar,” someone whispers next to your ear.

You have just enough mental coordination to stagger backwards into the house as you choke on your surprised gasp, pushing the door shut out of pure primal instinct rather than anything resembling a cognitive choice. Likewise, your fingers twist the lock shut, and it’s only after you hear the steady thud of the lock that consciousness returns to you.

There’s someone out there. No. Two people. One on the bike, and the person who spoke. You didn’t see them, didn’t even feel them next to you. Like they were some sort of ghost, only you know it’s not a ghost, because ghosts did not ride motorcycles.

Probably.

But now is not the time for debating the ins-and-outs of supernatural entities, as you head right to the house phone hanging on the wall and dial your work. The numbers twirl with each twist of the round dialer, leading you closer and closer to someone on the other end. The restaurant is open late; whoever took your shift should still be up and about, taking care of the stragglers, scrubbing everything up for the night.

It rings once, twice, and it’s a certainty that you’ll soon hear the blissful sound of someone picking up–when it cuts out.

Fuck, seriously? You hang up the phone and pick it up again. But there’s no dial tone. There’s nothing at all. You try again, pushing every button a dozen times. It’s clear, however, that the phone isn’t working.

The receiver hurts underneath your tightening palm. The phone ought to be working. The phone ought to be able to call for help. But it’s not, and you can’t.

And someone is knocking on the door.

Again.

A polite, firm knock that does not at all match the frantic beating of your heart. It doesn’t stop when you don’t answer, standing frozen by the phone. It just keeps going.

“Go away!” You all but shriek. The knocking pauses–they must hear you through the door–before it resumes. Just as politely. Just as firm.

They aren’t going to go away. The phone is dead. You need–something. Protection. Leaden feet take you into the kitchen, where the big kitchen knife may no longer be, but there’s a smaller one stuck in the knife block that should do in a pinch.

If you had to defend yourself–could you? The most you’d ever done before was kneeing some creep in the balls when you were a teenager, just the way your mom had taught you, way back when. But kneeing a creepy jerk who cornered you in an alleyway is different than dealing with two strangers in the dark, in the night, in the middle of the forest.

When you reach the door, knife gripped in your hand, the knocking stops. Your breath comes out in loud, nasal spurts as you lean in towards the peep hole. Which is stupid, you realize, because it’s covered and–

Only it’s not covered anymore. You can see outside now, the dimly lit front of the house all tinged yellow from the bulb. And it seems impossible, but that’s all you see. The dull grass, the forest ahead, shrouded in darkness. Insects bopping to and fro, heading up towards the light.

There’s no one standing in front of the door. No one could have been standing there, knocking, fist curled and firm. You would have seen them running away, or seen the edge of them; a leg, an arm, as they darted away.

“This is bullshit,” you mutter, and with a brazen sort of bravery rushing through you, you decide to tell these pranksters off once and for all. It’s the only thing you can do, with the phone not working. The door unlocks with a twist of your fingers and you step out into the night air, the hum of insects louder now.

“Hey!” Your voice seems to echo into the trees, where whatever nocturnal animals rest in the branches must flinch at the disturbance. “I mean it! Leave now and we won’t call the police! My boyfriend is–”

But you don’t get a chance to puff up the qualities of your imaginary boyfriend, because something loud and close and awful suddenly comes to life in front of you.

A motorcycle.

Revving its engine at the edge of the clearing where the dirt road connects this quiet little house to the forest trail. The headlight bursts through the darkness, unnaturally white, and with the help of the faded yellow bulb behind you can just make out the figure.

A young man with long silver hair.

It’s Yazoo. Yazoo, sitting on the motorcycle, revving the engine.

There is a brief rush of relief. A brief whirling thought of–Yazoo is here, and so his brothers must be here, and they can help you scare away these robbers or teens or whoever has been messing with you.

It’s a stupid rush, a stupid relief. It fits you well, you think. That the first thing you thought to do was smile and think your worries were over, because the trio of brothers you’d been helping decided to check up on you.

And then common sense hits you in the back of the head, and that relief is gone, replaced only with an ugly dread.

It is Kadaj and his brothers who knocked at the door. Kadaj and his brothers who revved their engines. Who whispered in your ear. Who are scaring you.

But–why?

“What do you want?” You mean to scream it, to put some kind of force behind the question; but the words come out all tangled and choked. Like a pitiful whine.

And then the world goes dark. The headlight turns off at the same time as the porch light shatters, and your body reacts with a jerk that nearly sends you to the ground. You can hardly see, just the dimmest bit thanks to the light bleeding in from the opening door, and you hear the sounds of sets of feet moving in the darkness–

They’re coming for you.

By pure luck, you fumble your way back into the house, slamming the door shut with silver glinting in your line of sight. The sound of the lock is melodic and you take a few steps back, as if they might just walk right through the closed door. Like ghosts in a folk story.

But they don’t.

And then you wonder if you locked the back door after all, and your socked feet slide on the wooden floor as you pound towards the back of the house.

It’s locked–yes, yes, yes–and you think about trying the phone again when you hear it.

A window rattling.

You locked the doors, but what about the windows? They let in the night breeze, pretty curtains billowing. And they might just let in so much more.

It’s a mystery how your fingers manage to work, with so much fear coursing through your body, as you rush from window to window, double checking the latches. Locked, locked, all locked, thank goodness. Your friend must have locked them before she left, and you’re glad for it.

But the sound doesn’t stop, and now you hear the sound of a window shifting and–

The bedroom.

You make it to the bedroom just in time to see a figure clad in black leather, silver hair shimmering like a curtain in front of his face, climbing through the open window. Limbs all tangled, like some creature hauling itself out of a dirty well in the woods.

One of them–it’s Yazoo, you realize, his hair skirting well past his shoulders–is in the house. There’s no time to run, you’ve got to hide. Then find a way to get out of the house and get help. The practical details–how are you going to find help in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, with no shoes on?--don’t matter now.

All that matters is that Yazoo doesn’t see you. So you jerk away from the bedroom, forcing yourself to slide along in your socks, and open the hallway closet as softly as you can. But you don’t shut it–you need to see.

And you do see. You see Yazoo emerging from the bedroom door like he belonged there, and didn’t just crawl in through a window.

Hiding inside the closet, it’s suddenly so easy to see why your boss thought you’d lost your mind when you started connecting with them. He’s–wrong, isn’t he? All three of them are wrong. The way he looks, the way he moves. Like some sort of sinewy animal, mako eyes almost flashing in the lamplight of the house.

He says your name, softly, in the darkness. It makes your stomach clench.

“Where did you get to?” He asks you. You don’t dare answer. Instead, you watch as he dips in and out of view, checking the rooms, the corners, the crannies.

Please don’t check here, you beg the world.

The world must be listening, because instead, he looks towards the back area of the house. The back door.

“Perhaps you went back outside?” He murmurs, and the sound of his feet approaching the back door, the door itself creaking open, gives you the precious moment you need to flee.

There’s no time for plans and proper thoughts. As soon as you realize Yazoo doesn’t step right back into the house, you throw open the closet door and dash for the front of the house. Fumbling fingers manage to undo the lock, and you fling open the front door–

To find Loz standing there, a half-grin on his face, an arm reaching out for you. You slam it shut and it bounces off his hand, catching it in the door as it slowly swings back open from the momentum.

Your brain registers his reaction–”Hey! Ow!”--as nothing but background noise as your own awful, incomprehensible noise of terror rushes from your pounding chest straight out your mouth.

There’s nowhere to run but the back door and you flinch sideways when you see Yazoo standing in the threshold, arms crossed. Instinct takes you to the only room with a lockable door, the bedroom, and you slam it shut behind you, locking it with a swift turn of your wrist.

The window–the breeze is still wafting in, those pretty curtains that did nothing to protect you billowing. The window slams shut with ease and you turn the latch, blocking the only other entrance to the room.

You just–you just have to wait them out. That’s all. The thought is stupid and pathetic and you sit down on the maybe-antique quilt with it, running it through your head until it dissipates into nothingness.

They’re going to get in. They’re going to get in, and then–then what? What do they want? To kill you, surely. Maybe something more. Above all, above even the terror, you just feel incomprehensibly stupid for trusting them. Not just trusting them. Liking them, even. Fuck–

Something slams against the door.

There’s another sound–a huff, a complaint. Loz?

Then that something-what-is-it slams against the door again. And again. And again. And you hear the wood splinter before you see it caving in, see the edge of someone’s shoulder splintering the wood.

Then a leather clad hand busts through the hole, reaching for the lock that did little to keep them at a bay, after all.

You’re lifting the window and pushing yourself through before they can even open the door, and if you had the breath (you don’t) you would surely let out a noise of triumph. They didn’t get you, they won’t. You’ll run–run until your feet bleed, until your lungs pop out–and get help. Someone on the road or someone else out there, cozying up in some middle of nowhere house.

The darkened vision of trees whip by as you dash into the woods, barely able to see in front of you in the darkness. You don’t know how far you run before you finally trip, a wayward limb or stump taking you out. The ground connects hard with your knees and your breath gets knocked out of your chest.

Get up, stupid, you think, just as someone’s gloved hand latches around your ankle.

You scream all the way to the house, digging your nails into the ground as you go; into the grass, at first, then the dirt of the backyard, and then scratching along the wooden floor as you try to claw your way to freedom.

The world goes topsy-turvy as you’re hoisted into the air–it’s Loz holding you, bigger and wider–and set down unceremoniously on one of your friend’s kitchen chairs. There’s a padded cushion on it. It’s red, with a dainty illustration of a flower embroidered in the middle.

The rope wrapped around you, pinning you to the chair, is not so dainty. It’s harsh and unyielding, digging into your skin as you struggle. All struggling does is make your breath come out even more ragged, until you find you can barely breathe at all.

Is this how you die? Tied to a chair, suffocating on your own fear? You can hear the wheeze of your own breath, feel the way your eyes hurt, wide and buggy.

Someone taps your cheek with their gloved fingers. Enough to startle you with a faint sting. Your tear-filled vision makes out Yazoo in front of you, crouched, a look of awful concern on his face.

“Calm down,” he says, in a way you might have admired before. He was always the one to calm down Kadaj, when he was being something of a brat. “Breathe in, through your mouth.” You do. “Now out through your nose.” You do, and he smiles. “Good. Now do it again.”

And you do, and you can breathe, and you don’t feel like you’re going to die choking on air; it doesn’t lessen the knowledge that they’re going to kill you some other way, now. But at least you won’t suffocate to death.

It’s a poor comfort, as your pathetic struggles fade to nothing, and you slump against the rope. You look up towards the three brothers you’ve come to know, each of them staring down at you with expressions you can’t quite measure up.

They’re going to hurt you, before they kill you. That seems like a certainty.

It’s Loz who steps forward first. You expect him to take a swing, to use those muscles of his to break something. Your jaw, maybe. A few fingers.

Instead, he sniffles.

“You don’t really have a boyfriend, do you?” The frown on his face makes you wonder if this is actually a dream. But it’s not. The rope, the pain in your sore feet, the sweat on your neck. Too real for a dream.

Yazoo looks towards you as he speaks, voice soft, edged with a warning. “Of course not, Loz.”

When his gaze deepens, you shake your head.

“I-I don’t. I was just… trying to scare you away.” How stupid that seems, now. A fake boyfriend to scare away these three, who could probably snap your neck with a gesture.

Loz smiles through the beginnings of his tears, and rubs at them with the back of his hand as he nearly chuckles out a response. “I knew it.”

It’s this that does you in–Loz smiling and wiping away his tears like any other day, like you’d told him they were out of strawberry ice cream then found a pint in the back of the freezer. How can they act so casual, with everything they did? With you tied up on the damn kitchen chair in front of them?

You burst out with the plea, tears prickling your eyes again, voice strained and terrified.

“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

Yazoo leans down, ghosting your tears with leather fingers. His expression is calm as ever. It would be soothing, in any other circumstance.

“We aren’t letting you go. There’s no use in getting upset.” It’s spoken so softly, almost sweetly. Bile rises in your throat.

“But what do you want? Why are you doing this?”

Your breath comes out faster again, no matter how much you try to slow it down. They aren’t letting you go; they’re going to hurt you; they’re going to kill you. The thoughts come out on an awful loop until the vision of Yazoo in front of you blurs away, and you hear the sound of a chair scraping.

It’s Kadaj, sitting on another kitchen chair, his arms wrapped around the back. He rests his chin against his hand and it’s like he’s looking at you for the first time. Mako eyes burn into your own and you wonder how they didn’t strike you as so wrong before. Before, you’d thought them pretty. Now you feel them pinning you, looking through you.

Kadaj–was he even human?

“You were going to leave,” Kadaj says finally, voice low and icy. You don’t know what he means, and it must show in your ragged, tear-stained face, because he scoffs. “You were going to leave us. For those orphans.”

Abandonment drips from his voice and your mother would slap you for the way something like pity still sparks inside your chest. Faint and buried down underneath the ropes, harsh and scratching, but still there.

They didn’t want you to leave them. Would they kill you, if you did? If they thought you would?

Words fail you, until they don’t. Until you’re promising stupid things, anything, to make them let you go. To make them not hurt you. To live through this night and then get home and gather anything sentimental and disappear into the world. You’d helped others do it, and you could do it, too.

“I won’t leave,” you offer, voice choking. “I promise. I won’t take the job. They–they didn’t even offer it to me, they probably won’t, I’m awful, I have no experience, they wouldn’t–” Your voice hitches and your lips wobble as you make your promises.

Kadaj stares at your mouth like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, even as you end your pitiful diatribe with the words on loop. “I’ll stay, I promise, I promise, I’ll stay, I promise, I promise, I promise–”

Kadaj pushes the chair back and he and his brothers exchange a look between them. A secret language you’ll never be privy to, these looks; these wordless glances that say more than anything.

Maybe they’ll let you go. Maybe they’ll have their fun–the way Kadaj looked at your mouth did not escape you–and let you go. Or kill you. If they kill you, let it be quick. At least let it be quick.

Kadaj is smiling when he turns back to you.

“You are going to stay with us.” It’s a matter of fact that sits low in your gut as the three of them approach the chair. These three men, now strangers to you, all smiling down in a way that makes you feel sick.

You look at their hands for weapons–the kitchen knife, lost to the wilderness–but see nothing but the leather as Kadaj brings his hand up to your neck and gives it an awful squeeze.

The ocean rushes in your ears as the world goes spotty, then black–

And when you wake up, surrounded by three silver-haired brothers, you’ll be nowhere near this cabin or even the city. You never will be again.

Soft hearts weren’t made for this world, after all.

#yandere #yandere final fantasy #yandere ff7 #kadaj #afterwitch writes #/slaps trunk #this baby can fit so many mother issues in it #I love these fuckers

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ellecdc · 11 months ago

Text

A Man With a Plan.2

prologue // p1 // p2 // p3 // p4 // p5 // p6 // p7 // p8

Remus Lupin x whimsical!reader - Hogwarts Era (no Voldemort) - Soulmate AU

CW: angst, smoking, mention of vomiting, Remus spiralling, Peter being v worried, James being a doting mother hen, Sirius being a cheeky bastard.

Remus didn’t stay in potions that day.

He gave Professor Slughorn a hasty excuse and beelined it from the room, earning him bemused stares from Peter, James, and Sirius. He couldn’t stay there – he couldn’t breathe the air you’d been breathing – it hurt, it burned, it was too much.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” He huffed to himself as he shakily made his way to Gryffindor tower. He held his hand to his chest the whole way, heaving as if he was close to throwing up – he wasn’t fully convinced he that wouldn’t.

As soon as he walked into (stumbled into) his dorm he flung the window open and shoved his head (most of his torso) out of the window – hungry for fresh air. The change in temperature and slight breeze did calm him slightly, but now he could hear Moony with renewed fervor.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. He seemed to be whimpering morosely.

“She’s not yours.” Remus grumbled. That seemed to aggravate Moony somewhat, as well as piss himself off for talking aloud to...well...himself, sort of?

He hated this.

Remus sat half out the window drinking water and chain-smoking until his roommates returned from their final class.

“What the fuck happened to you, Moons?” Sirius asked as he threw his book bag onto his bed before beginning to strip out of his uniform.

“Fucked if I know.” He grumbled, throwing the butt of his cigarette out the window.

“You feelin’ alright?” James asked, brows furrowed as if Remus was a particularly difficult arithmancy problem.

“I think it’s quite clear that I’m not.” He spat as he pulled out another cigarette and lit it with the snap of his fingers.

“Blimey, Moony. Wasn’t the full moon last week?” Sirius asked incredulously.

It was too much, all of it: the nickname, the moon talk, their voices. The hearth in the room surged and then extinguished again; Remus was officially diminished to accidental magic like he was some kind of unruly toddler.

“Shit, Remus. Relax, okay? We’re sorry.” James placated, watching his mate cautiously as Remus took some steadying breaths.

“What’s gotten into you mate?” Sirius asked quietly after Remus appeared to calm himself.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t feel like...myself.” He settled for, trying to drown out Moony’s pathetically forlorn howling in the back of his mind.

“Alright.” James said. “That’s alright.”

Remus wanted to vomit. Is that not what you had just said to him a few hours ago?

“Do you need to go to see Pomfrey?” Peter asked.

“No.” Maybe.

“Alright, well we’ll bring you something up for dinner.” He offered with a smile. Remus felt like he should return the smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to try.

Remus did eventually go to see Madame Pomfrey, though he kept the full extent of his current predicament to himself. He trudged through the halls, hating the fact that Moony seemed to pick up on your scent, signifying you had been down this hall yourself at some point during the day.

Must go. Must go. Must go. Moony begged.

Go to Madame Pomfrey and then to bed. Remus mentally berated the wolf - the wolf growled in discontent. Remus was becoming increasingly worried about what he’d be like near the full when Moony was closer to the forefront of Remus’ control.

Remus claimed nerves and a migraine as the cause of his request for sleeping draught for the night. The matron narrowed her eyes at Remus, clearly aware the boy wasn’t being entirely honest, but acquiesced to his request nonetheless.

Remus supposed he probably should have requested a dreamless sleep potion instead.

His dreams were littered with images of you. Some were lovely – you and him walking hand-in-hand through bookstores and flower shops, sharing milkshakes and ice cream, snuggling up near the fire, as well as some...steamier dreams. But they were always chased away by horrible ones – you being chased by The Wolf, you finding out about him and running away terrified, you being bitten, you being killed. And those were always followed by his friends becoming disgusted with him, abandoning him, him ending up in Azkaban.

They made him sick.

Literally made him sick; he woke up with a start and bodied James on his way to the bathroom to eject last night’s supper out of his system.

“Moons, what’s going on mate?” James asked quietly, clearly having been getting ready for a run before he was bulldozed by his mate, as Remus moved to the sink and readied his toothbrush.

“Please don’t call me that.” Remus moaned.

James seemed to consider him for a few moments before he spoke again.

“Is Moo- is the wolf giving you problems?” He corrected at the glare he was shot by Remus.

Remus sighed and nodded his head.

“Can’t be moon sickness? You’ve got three weeks.”

Remus finished brushing his teeth and rinsed his mouth out before turning to look at James.

“I don’t know. I think...” but he didn’t know how to finish his sentence. How did he explain that Moony has apparently become obsessed with and hyper-fixated on one of James’ best friends and was actively campaigning to have Remus thrown into the psych ward at St. Mungo’s? “When you guys were researching on how to become animagi, you were first doing research on werewolves, right?”

James responded by nodding his head in the positive.

“What’d you find? On werewolves, I mean.” Remus asked.

James grimaced. “Next to nothing, really; we found books and books full of anti-werewolf propaganda before we found anything even remotely helpful.”

“What book was it? The helpful one.”

“There was one line in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them that said werewolves solely target human prey and are less interested in other animals as opposed to ‘true’ wolves.” James said.

Remus sighed and nodded. “Okay, thank you.”

“What’s going on?” James tried again.

Remus just shook his head at this friend. “I don’t know yet, I’ll see what I find.”

“You don’t have to do this alone; you know? You’ve got us here.” James said as he followed Remus out of the bathroom.

“I know Prongs. I’ll let you know if I need anything.” Remus said with a tired smile. He was lucky, really, he knew that. He had wonderful friends – he’d do anything to keep them.

Which just meant keeping Moony away from you.

Unfortunately for Remus, James had been right; the only useful information he could find in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them that a) he didn’t already know or b) wasn't prejudiced or incorrect was the line James had referenced.

“The main difference is in the way they behave; a werewolf is very aggressive in comparison to a true-wolf; they prefer and target human prey, seemingly uninterested in other animals. Though some rumours claim that werewolves will create bonds with animals and other wolves: ‘were’ or ‘true’.”

Remus was ready to give up when he noticed a footnote at the bottom of the page:

(22) From an unknown author’s first-hand account of lycanthropy in Hairy Snout, Human Heart: 1737.

He looked through the works cited section of the text and found the book, which appeared to be an autobiography of an unnamed wizard afflicted with lycanthropy from the 18th century. Remus knew the chances of him finding that book in the Hogwarts library were slim to none. Now I’ll have to wait until the next Hogsmeade weekend to try Tomes & Scrolls.

Remus (unwillingly) learned a lot about you as he (impatiently) awaited for the next Hogsmeade weekend.

You had a single dimple on your left cheek that only ever appeared when you smiled brightly. Granted, since you were generally soft around all of your edges, it didn’t appear too often. But it was almost guaranteed to make at least one appearance during every one of your interactions with James.

He hated the both of you.

You hummed. A lot. Sometimes to the tunes of songs Remus could recognize, sometimes to tunes he was sure you’ve made up. It was always quiet humming, and only ever when you were focused intently on a task. It sounded lovely and was almost always accompanied by your tongue poking out slightly between your lips.

He hated it.

You always had some piece of nature on your person. Either grass from having been sat on the grounds, dirt on your hands from your time in the greenhouses, a flower tucked into a pocket or – God forbid – your hair. It was sort of adorable.

He hated that even more.

You made a soft tingling or jingling sound as you walked and moved on account of the many beaded bracelets decorating your wrists. It wasn’t just the sound of the jewelry – because Sirius was similar with his many pieces of silver jewelry decorating his person – but the sound was distinctly yours. And Remus Moony seemed to be able to pick it up from yards away.

It was awful.

You also smelled heavenly. You were lavender blowing in the sea breeze, eucalyptus in a steamy shower, and the fresh grass you seemed to drag in every time you stepped outside. There was also something about you that smelled so distinctly you that drove him mad. He could pick up your scent anywhere.

And that was the worst part.

You were everywhere.

He’d been actively avoiding you since that fateful day in potions, and he still couldn’t escape you. Even if he couldn’t see you, he could hear you and your damned jingles or gentle giggles at something James said to you. And even if you weren’t there, he could still smell that you had been, and then he’d be stuck with Moony’s incessant whining for the rest of the day that they’d ‘just missed you’.

Remus hated it. He hated you for existing. He hated James for befriending you. But he mostly hated himself.

He hated that he got so angry about this; he hated that part of him blamed you for the horrible crime of having been born and that another part of him blamed James for the equally horrible crime of being kind.

He was the problem - Remus and his damned affliction. He just didn’t understand what Moony’s issue was; Remus (and Moony) had met many people throughout his life – Moony even had his own pack, for god’s sake! – what was so special about you to bring about this nonsense?

You seemed either completely unaware or completely unafflicted by Remus’ sudden coldness to you. There were times he’d stopped speaking midsentence when you’d show up or he would out-and-out walk away. James had clearly been annoyed with him about it, but you were still never anything but kind towards him. He was simultaneously grateful to you for it and peeved you were giving him more reasons to like you.

James - still being slightly miffed with his mate for his abruptness towards you – was more than happy to leave him to search Tomes & Scrolls whilst he and Sirius and Peter went to The Three Broomsticks without him. Sirius shot him a confused look while Peter smiled at him sympathetically as they hobbled off after James.

They didn’t have the book he was looking for, but they were able to order it via owl and advised him they’d have it delivered straight to Hogwarts for him.

Reluctantly resigning to his fate that he’d have to wait even longer to find answers, he exited the shop when he slammed into something with a solid oof.

He, being the lanky, larger-than-he-looks werewolf that he was, was able to shake off the collision with little-to-no effort.

You, on the other hand.

You.

Moony started howling in horror when Remus saw you leaning up onto your elbows from the cold cobblestoned road that Remus himself just knocked you into.

“Oh, shit Y/N, are you alright?” He breathed as he hastily reached out his hand to help you up.

Big mistake.

Moony stopped howling and started nearly singing with joy when your skin met his. Prepared for the burning/cold/pain/joy/fear he experienced last time you made contact with him; he was surprised when he only felt peace wash through his person.

Time seemed to slow as you used his support to stand back up again and offer him a breezy smile.

“I’m terribly sorry about that, Remus. Are you alright?” You asked as if you had just bodied him into the ground.

“I – uh, yes. Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” He asked as he shook his head in confusion.

“Oh, I’m alright. I’m no stranger to spending time on the ground – I’m really quite clumsy you know.” You explained solemnly. He breathed a small laugh at your self-degradation.

“Well, it likely doesn’t help to have a big oaf act as a brick wall when you’re only trying to shop.”

You smiled so sweetly that Remus, the damn sod, couldn’t help but return it. Lo-and-behold, your dimple made an appearance. Moony (and Remus, reluctantly) relished in the fact that he was the one to elicit that wide a smile from you.

“That’s alright Remus. If you hadn’t, I might not have had a chance to apologize to you.”

Remus’ heart went to exit through his feet.

“Apologize? To me?” he asked.

You nodded. “I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

It was weird that Remus could feel his heart crack painfully since it had already exited his body – but it stung anyway.

“You – you’re not... you haven’t done anything, Dove.” He said as he wiped a hand down his face, the pet-name slipping from his lips without his consent. “It’s me. I promise. I’m a freak.”

You offered him a simple smile, though your eyes seemed to ooze sympathy. “I’ve been told I’m quite odd myself.”

Remus chuckled. “Who told you that? Tell them I want to talk.”

You seemed slightly confused but laughed at his response nonetheless.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to figure out how to end this interaction while also mourning the coming loss of it. “Sorry for knocking you over, Y/N.” He offered quietly as he moved to walk away.

“Thank you for helping me up, Remus.” You responded with a smile as you entered Tomes & Scrolls.

Moony whined at his loss of your company.

Remus whined at Moony’s input.

True to the clerk’s word, a package arrived for Remus that week over breakfast in the Great Hall.

“What? Don’t you have enough books already, Moons?” Sirius asked with a smirk as he shovelled another spoon of cereal into his mouth. Remus responded with a (loving) two-fingered salute.

Remus had somewhat relaxed since your last encounter – there was no sense in punishing himself or you for Moony’s erratic behaviour, and he was sure he’d been driving his friends barmy with his mood swings. There was nothing for him to do except wait for more answers. And said answers were just delivered to him via owl.

“What are you reading now?” Peter asked as he tried to peer at Remus’ new book.

“It’s not a novel, Wormy. This is research.” He corrected.

“Gonna find out why you’re such a wanker?” Sirius snarked as he dodged a piece of bacon Remus threw at him.

“Okay, well, don’t waste food.” Peter chided quietly, looking disturbingly close to picking up said bacon from the ground.

“Hanging out with the lot of you seems to have finally done me in, Pads.” Remus snarked back as he vanished the piece of bacon vexing Peter.

James nodded solemnly. “Fair enough, honestly.”

Remus quickly tucked his new book into his bag before moving to stand.

“Where are you going?” Peter asked as he looked at Remus with ill-hidden concern.

“To the library. Gonna do some research.” He answered plainly as he patted his book bag.

“Rem,” James called out to him, causing him to pause his retreat and turn to him. “you don’t have to do this alone, right?” he continued more quietly.

Remus offered him a grateful smile. “I know Prongs, I’ll get back to you with my findings.”

Remus did noy know how he was going to report his findings back to his friends. This can’t have been it, can it? This isn’t what’s plaguing Remus? This can’t be real... There must be more...missing pages...

“...another version of lunar magic I’ve discovered in my travels - though extremely uncommon - is what some have called a ‘mating spark’. Along with the powerful lunar magic that drives the full-moon transformations and the surge of power it provides magical beings (wizards, witches, wix), there appears to be ‘soulmate’ magic involved with lycanthropy. Long been reduced to myth and lore within wizarding society, it appears the magic of soulmates may in fact be leftover knowledge from werewolf folktales. “The initial ‘spark’ is reported to be painful and distressing. After the initial connection is made, the wolf will become fixated on their mate. The lycanthrope may experience longing, feelings of discomfort when apart and heightened senses surrounding their mate. It has been told to me that feelings of devotion towards the wolf’s mate does not go away, regardless of whether the lycanthrope accepts the bond or not.”

“Fuck.” Remus breathed as he dropped the book onto the table with a thud.

Mine. Moony huffed in response, as if wagging his tail singing ‘I told you so’.

This just won’t do.

Continue to chapter three here.

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