#i need to remove the thoughts from my brain somehow

[meguwumibear]

dominant!zayne x submissive!reader

tw for light BDSM, bondage/shibari, sex toys (vibrator), fingering, and some minor angst. mc calls zayne sir like twice. if i've missed something else that needs a tag, just ask! nondescript female reader with a bit of a backstory, just to make her feel more connected to the world.

Additional Disclaimer: Takes place after the events of the main story (which I am not fully caught up on). Reader is NOT the game MC in this fic. In my mind's eye MC decided to romance one of the other characters and Zayne does what he can to move on.

and yes, zayne's harness in the fic is 100% inspired by his harnes in the new trailer

In 2034 the world you as you know it ends. It happens suddenly one mundane spring afternoon. A great, gaping maw opens in the cloudless blue sky above Linkon City, releasing a tidal wave of ferocious monsters unto the earth. Locals come to call the event the Chronorift Catastrophe. The world later discovers that the great, gaping hole in the sky was the appearance of the first ever Deepspace Tunnel which attracted alien beings now colloquially referred to as Wanderers.

Everyone in Linkon City remembers where they were that day. They remember what they were wearing and who they were with. A flashbulb memory, the psychologists call it. A memory that endures. A memory that persists.

Like most survivors, it isn’t just the red rain falling from the sky or the horrible sound of the earth splitting around you that you remember: it’s the actions you took to survive. The people you ran past. The neighbors you didn’t save. The hand you didn’t extend to the woman who tripped over her own two feet running from the creature. The debris you didn’t help remove from the body of the elderly man too weak to push the plank away without aid.

For three weeks you see a therapist. You’re an adult now, still plagued by nightmares of the event. You tell the woman you’re meeting with that you are suffering from memories. She tells you that your body needs to learn that the danger has passed. The problem with that logic? The danger hasn’t. Your body can’t stop secreting stress hormones when you daily lunch breaks are constantly interrupted by Metaflux monsters.

Your past becomes a prison. An inescapable cage. Your therapists asks how you would feel if someone flung open the doors for you. You tell her it would depend on who opened the door and what’s happening outside.

The session before you ghost your shrink, she asks you to practice breathing exercises. She prattles on and on about the importance of nervous system regulation in trauma recovery. Apparently exhaling is supposed to activate the “rest and digest” response—the antidote to the “fight and flight” response that your body is stuck in.  

And that’s all well and good but even twenty years later the Wanders keep manifesting in Linkon City in numbers that the Hunters can’t keep up with. You’d move, maybe, if you had the means, though you did read somewhere once that a scared animal will continue to seek out their home, even if their home is no longer safe.

So you find an alternative way to cope with the stress of the new world.

There’s budding red light district about an hour outside the city. You go sometimes on weekends to decompress. Your favorite haunt is a small BDSM club run by a couple of old widows who lost their husbands to the war. They verify ages at the door and ensure all the drinks at the place stay virgin.

You’re not heavy into the scene or anything—you actually have quite a few hard limits—it’s just…nothing else you’ve tried has helped you to shut off your brain. To shift your focus from the past to the present. To shut out all thoughts of Hunters and Protocores and Wanders.

The doms you’ve had up until this point were perfectly adequate; they listened diligently to what you were open to and respected all of your boundaries. You aren’t sure why you’ve never asked for a more consistent routine with any of them. Something, somehow, was always missing from the encounters.

There are a lot of new faces at the club tonight. Or, rather, there are a lot of faces new to you. The club has many regulars, but you don’t make the hike often enough to have them all committed to memory. Still, you’re certain you’ve never seen the tall, stoic man in a leather harness swarmed by a gaggle of women before. Despite the fact that he clearly has his pick of the litter, your gaze keeps wandering to his solid form. The way his abs flex when he breathes. The way his lips quirk when he talks.

He's halfway across the room but must somehow still feel the heat of your wandering gaze because after a few stolen looks he locks eyes with you. Your whole body flushes as he acknowledges you with a raise of his drink. The tips of your ears burn as he takes a healthy swig of the beverage without breaking the eye contact. It’s you who looks away first.

When you chance a glance back over, he’s excusing himself from the women who flocked to him like a tourist attraction to pick his way towards you. Your heart flutters anxiously as he closes in, and you have to remind yourself not to take a step back once he’s close enough to touch.

“First time?” he asks, voice smooth like ice.

“Ouch,” you reply, gripping your own water glass to ground yourself. “It’s not. Do I really look that unaware.”

His expression doesn’t change but his eyes move to assess you, “What are you drinking?”

Though his tone is relaxed you can’t help but feel as if the question has a correct answer.

“Just water.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Something with electrolytes would be more efficient. If you’re looking for a session tonight, that is.”

“I don’t like the taste,” you tell him, trying to keep the glass in your hand from shaking as desire swells within you.

He frowns, “Without electrolytes, your body will dehydrate, no matter how much water you consume.”

“You a doctor?” you ask.

He hums in what sounds like confirmation before wrapping his hand around yours. “I take the health of the people I play with seriously. This is about much more than sex to me. I like when my partners eat three square meals a day and have an effective exercise regimen implemented.”

You don’t resist when he slips your water from your grasp. You also don’t hesitate to open your mouth when he raises his own perspiring glass to your lips. His fingers don’t even graze you as you swallow down the fruity liquid, yet you can feel your insides come alight as you obey. As your pussy begins to leak it becomes increasing clear to you that you would do just about anything to have this man dominate you tonight.

“Good,” he says once you’ve downed the drink. “Now, do you happen to have a list of what you enjoy and your hard limits on you?”

With shaky hands, you reach wordlessly into your bag to retrieve what the man has asked for. He spends a few moments skimming the contents before simply stating, “I believe we are compatible.”

You follow him to a private room near the back of the club and watch as he begins to gather some equipment for the session. Without turning to look at you he says, “I noticed that you have some experience with light bondage. I prefer to use traditional single ply shibari rope or silk as restraints. These two methods prevent chafing and other potential complications like skin lesions or rashes. Do you have a preference for today’s session?”

“No preference, uh…” you trail off, wondering what the man would like you to refer to him as.

Sensing what’s on your mind, he offers, “I have no preferred titles, but you may assign me one if you like.”

“No preference, Sir,” you say, watching the man for his reaction. He seems unfazed by the moniker and continues to ready himself.

“Do you have any allergies or medical conditions I should be aware of?” he asks.

A lie forms on the tip of your tongue but the truth slips out anyway, “My heart’s a bit weak. Nothing serious. It didn’t develop properly when I was younger. I haven’t had any issues with it before.”

The revelation seems to give the man pause. He turns to you and motions for you to hold out your wrist for him, so you do. His warm fingers slip under your sleeve and find purchase on your pulse point. After a few excoriatingly silent minutes, you attempt to put his mind at ease.

“I’m, uh, a bit more excited than usual at the moment. My resting heart rate is probably higher than normal.”

The pads of his fingers don’t leave your wrist when he asks, “What’s your typical resting heart rate?”

You want to ask what that fucking matters, but sensing that won’t get you any closure to what you want you decide to humor the man. It’s been a while since you’ve been to a doctor. Back when they used to have you track it, the rate could vary depending on what task you were completing. It was higher, usually, when doing something strenuous. When you rested it would drop again.

“Usually around 90 beats per minute.”

His eyes flick to your face as he drops your wrist. “You should see a specialist.”

You roll your eyes impatiently, “Are we fucking or not?”

In response to your outburst, his hands find the hem of your shirt. “Who said I had any intentions of fucking you?” he asks, voice frustratingly emotionless. Your arms raise instinctually as he toys with the fabric, and the takes the opportunity to relieve you of the garment. “As I said before, this is about much more than sex to me.”

He circles behind you and draws you in close to him. It occurs to you suddenly just how much larger than you the man is. He rests his chin on your head as his fingers slowly trace down your sides, leaving a field of goosebumps in their wake. His hands make their way to the button on your pants.

“You aren’t just here for sex. Are you?” he asks, voice low. You feel the words vibrate his chest as he speaks them.

“No,” you whisper, eyes suddenly blurring.

“Good,” he says, undoing your buttons. “Let’s use the traffic light system today. It’s a simply way for me to check in on you and see how you’re doing.”

He lets the words sit in the air for a bit, fingers fiddling with your zipper. The only sound in the room is your own uneven breathing that you fight for control over.

The man pinches the tab of your zipper and shifts so his cheek is pressed against your forehead. “Color,” he asks, breath hot on the shell of your ear.

“Green,” you practically moan.

He slides off your pants with ease once he’s taken care of the zipper. He even helps you to keep your balance as you step out of them, one foot at a time.

“Color?” he asks again, as his fingers settle on the clasp of your bra.

“Green,” you reply, voice steadier now.

He undoes the hook with one hand.

You expect him to remove your panties next, but his fingers instead find the meat of your breasts. One of his arms wraps around you, securing you tightly against him, as you nearly keel over in a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

“Sensitive here,” he observes, cupping one of your breasts in his free hand. He uses a foot to nudge your legs further apart and slip a leg between them. The man isn't lying about getting off on this; his cock is hard as a rock against your ass.

“Fuck,” you whine as his bends you over ever so slightly. Just enough to rub your clothed pussy against his pant leg.

“Wet already,” he informs you, as if you don’t already know. As if you can’t feel the way the cotton material sticks to your lip. “All I did was undress you. That eager to begin?”

“Please,” you groan, desperate for him to take you apart with his slender fingers. “Please, Sir, I want you so fucking bad.”

“On the bed,” he instructs, releasing you, careful not to harm you as his leather harness peels away from your skin.

The rope he ends up choosing for the session is the jute rope. He takes his time winding the instrument around your wrists and pulling them above your head. His movements are practiced and skilled. His hands steady like a surgeon’s. You don’t even realize the effect watching him restrain you is having on you until a firm hand finds its way to your pelvis to stop your squirming.

Once you’ve settled, he retrieves two strands of additional rope.

“Are you familiar with the Spiral Futomomo tie?” he asks. “I understand that you’re still a beginner and tie will force you into a fixed position for an undetermined length of time. I trust you will use your safe word if needed?”

“You can trust me,” you assure him. “I know my limits.”

He must believe your words are sincere because he sets to work binding your ankle to your thigh, checking in periodically to ensure the wrappings aren’t too tight. The man is clearly in no rush and seems to delight in taking breaks between knots to steady your shaking form. You also notice the way his eyes shift to the growing wet spot beneath you as he progresses.

“What do you like about bondage?” he asks as he begins to work on your other leg.

“I don’t know,” you say, attempting to shrug before remembering your pose prevents you from such movement. “I’m never in control of my life anyway. May as well surrender myself to someone I know will take care of me.”

He doesn’t look at you, but you can see the way his eyes lighten. Your response must please him somehow. You decide to push the issue, “You like being in control?”

“I like caretaking,” is his response. “I like giving people what they need.”

“What if I need your fingers inside me?” you dare, feeling bold.

A small smile, but a smile all the same. “Then, you’ll have to patiently wait until I’m finished with the task at hand.”

He double checks all of his bindings once he’s finished securing you, mumbling under his breath about optimal blood flow. It’s cute, the way he seems so set on ensuring this is the best possible experience for you. You can’t remember the last dom you had who was this doting.

When he finally situates himself between your legs, it’s with gloved hands and a vibrator. You jump as the cool leather of the hand covering finds your inner thigh.

“Keep these spread for me,” he says, referring to your legs. Then he’s rubbing the vibrator, still off, up and down your panties with just enough strength for you to truly register the tool.

“You’re soaked,” he observes in that neutral tone of his, though his eyes glistening with awe. You wonder if he even realizes the vibrator isn’t on. His eyes find yours and for the first time all evening he smiles warmly at you. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take excellent care of you.”

Then he turns the vibrator on its lowest setting and your pussy truly begins to drool. He circles the vibrating toy around your clit strategically, watching your response to his ministrations intently. Fire pools in your belly as he slides the vibrator down your cunt and presses the tip of it gently against your opening. The panties you’re still wearing dull some of the vibration, but you can still feel the ungodly amount of slick that slips out of you at the slight penetration.

You do your best to stay still for him as he ups the setting, but your body starts to twitch in pleasure, back beginning to arch, toes threatening to curl. Your breath quickens as well as all the blood in your body seems to pump directly to your swelling clit. The same clit the man is now more firmly rubbing the vibrator against.

“Fuck,” you cry, starting to lose your composure. Your hips buck away from the relentless thrumming of the vibrator. Or maybe towards it. You’re not actually sure. It’s both too much and not enough at the same time. You need more. You need less. You need…

His unoccupied hand presses your hips back against the bed. “Easy,” he coaxes. “Don’t pull against the ropes.”

When you’re unable to obey, too overwhelmed with desire, he switches the vibrator off. The lack of sensation is so abrupt the tears you’ve been holding back finally spill, slipping down your heated cheeks. An animalistic whine you didn’t even know you were capable of escapes you.

“We’re not done,” he assures you, swiping at your tears with his thumbs. You wish suddenly he wasn’t wearing the leather gloves. You yearn to feel him skin to skin. The fabric is warm at least from the heat of his fingers. “You’re just getting a little fussy. I want to make sure everything is alright before we continue.”

He settles back between your spread legs and hooks his pointer finger in the bottom of your panties, pulling it aside to expose your dripping core and swollen lips. “Impressive,” he says, “how simple it was to elicit this response from you.”

He collects some of your spend on his index finger before starting to slide it inside you. It’s met with no resistance. He sinks easily in, straight to the knuckle. When he slips out it’s only to coat a second finger in your slick so he can sink that one in alongside the other. The two digits begin working you in tandem with each other, pumping deliciously against your walls. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for.

“Here,” he states, pressing and holding the tips of his fingers against the sensitive area. You involuntarily clench around them, body begging him to move them once more, but the man—to the devastation of your body—is nothing but the living embodiment of self-control.

You audibly cry out when he pulls his fingers from you. He locks eyes with you as he coyly promises, “Soon. I’d never leave a woman unsatisfied, and any man who would isn’t fit to be a dom.”

He picks the vibrator again and this time, when he touches it to your clit, it’s under your ruined panties. The thrumming sends a bolt of electricity skittering up your arched spine. Fuck, you’re so unbelievably wet. You feel your pussy fluttering around nothing and hiccup out a sob. You’re so empty. You’re so, so empty.

“Need,” you hiccup.

“What?” he asks patiently. “Tell me what you need.”

“Your fingers. I need your fingers. Please.”

He slips the same two from before back inside you.

“So well mannered," he praises. Then he asks, "Here?” as he presses the appendages against that spot once again.

“Yeah,” you agree, though you’re so far gone you would agree to anything he asked of you in this moment. “Yeah. Yeah. There. Right there. Fuck!”

He uses his fingers and the vibrator to bring you right to the brink of an orgasm. It’s so good. He’s so good. He’s touching you everywhere you need to be touched. Pushing all the buttons that need to be pushed. Your time in these rooms has never felt anything like this before, and you doubt it will ever feel anything like this ever again.

“Can I-”

“I don’t remember telling you that you needed my permission.”

Your orgasm ripples through you, strong and steady like a cresting wave. Once he’s certain he’s wrung the last of it out of you, the man withdraws his fingers and switches off the vibrator.

“I’m going to remove my gloves and start undoing your bindings,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” you reply.

It takes a few minutes for him to completely untie you. Once he has, he asks permission to massage your legs and arms to reencouraged blood flow which you readily agree to. He produces a bottle of lotion that smells like eucalyptus from his bag and starts working the muscles of your arm.

“I wish they had showers here,” he offhandedly comments. “I don’t like sending people home without a proper washing.”

“A bath does sound nice,” you agree, sagging into his embrace.

“Promise me you’ll take one when you get home. I don’t want you getting into your bed dirty.”

“I would never make a promise I couldn’t keep, Sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over the room as he continues to provide you with aftercare.

“Zayne,” he eventually says, eyes fixed on the foot he’s been massaging for the past few minutes.

“What?”

“My name. You could use it if you’d like. Sir is fine too, if you’d truly prefer it, but I find names are much more intimate.”

“Oh,” is all you muster. Then you tell him yours.

“Could we move to the sofa while we continue to wind down?” he asks after testing the sound of your name in his mouth. “I like the casual skin to skin contact after a session. I’ll remove my harness but leave my slacks.”

“Fine with me.”

It takes Zayne a moment to remove his harness. Perhaps it’s his first time wearing this particular set of gear. You watch him wrestle with the final clasp through drooping eyelids. His expression softens when he catches you lazily staring at him.

“Admiring the view?” he teases.

“Never had a better one,” you reply easily.

He positions himself behind you when he joins you on the sofa. The two of you lay there comfortable for some time, breath seeming to synchronize in the quiet of the room. The world outside this secluded space slowly begins to creep back into your mind. Back to Metafluxes and Protocores. Back to Wanders and Hunters.

And then you start to cry.

If you weren’t so close to Zayne, you could probably hide it from him, but he notices the change in your mood instantly. He tugs gently at your arm, a wordless plea for you to turn to face him. You allow him to reposition you, curling yourself into his large body, tucking your face into his neck.

He pets at your hair soothingly while you let the worst of it out. When an appropriate amount of time has passed, he asks, “What brought that on?”

“It’s, uh, well it’ll probably ruin the moment if I told you.”

“I’d still like to know if it’s all the same to you. Debriefing is part of the scene after all.”

At first, you’re not sure you want to tell him what triggered the outburst, but considering the dynamic, you figure you owe it to him.

“I was thinking about my ex,” you admit.

Zayne stiffens, his caressing hand on your head stills. “They hurt you?”

“They loved me.”

 Zayne tangibly relaxes at your response, and he resumes petting your hair.

“What happened to them?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.

“They left me.”

The silence that follows your confession is welcome. You think you even dose off. When your eyes open again, Zayne is full dressed, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows as he sanitizes the sex toy you soiled.

Sensing you stir he says, “You’re awake.”

“I am.”

Zayne dries the toy and sets it aside, turning to face you.

“I like to follow up with the people I dom for. You don’t have to give me your number if you’re not comfortable. An email will suffice.”

“You can have my number,” you say, gesturing for him to hand you his phone. “I’d actually appreciate a check in tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

He walks you to the train station once he’s certain the number you’ve given him isn’t a fake.

“Remember to get a full eight hours of sleep tonight,” he tells you. “And please eat a protein-based meal for breakfast. Something with eggs and meat, maybe. A shake if absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, Doctor Zayne,” you joke, offering him a crisp salute as you step onto the train platform. Maybe you're imagining things, but you swear he flinches at your response.

A firm hand on your wrist stops you from fully entering the car. You turn to face him one final time.

“About that,” he says, expression unreadable. “I was serious about you seeing a specialist for your heart.”

[strawberrycowtime]

yes i did this exclusively on post-it notes. what’s it to you.

(to the tune of somethin’ stupid by frank sinatra [but im p sure everyone knows the audio clip by now it’s basically viral])

[muntitled]

Protecting His Investment

Pairings: The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: No one gets to hurt you except him.

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Language, Implied Violence, Age gap, God Complex, Brainwashing, Psychopathy, Murder, Blood, Gore, Codependency, Yandere!Salesman, Stalking, Smut (+18) mdni, Voyeurism, Blood Kink, Sadomasocism, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Choking, Rough Sex, Oral Sex, Blood Play, fingering, Massive Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Sadism, Punishments, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Squirting, Overstimulation

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume.

This can be read as a continuation of this fic but not strictly

“Shouldn't I be blindfolded?"

If it weren't for the silence simmering between you both, in this monotonous taxi drive, he might’ve not heard you at all and perhaps you should have been more careful with your choice of wording but you were feeling a tiny bit reckless this Wednesday afternoon. He hadn't ever offered to personally fetch you from campus, and you felt incredibly juvenile when you spotted him standing there like a dad, in his grown-up suit while his briefcase hung in his hands in front of him. You'd almost convinced yourself that you were imagining things. That somehow your obsession with the man who kidnaps you every Wednesday to fulfill all his messed up fantasies was truly taking a toll on your mental health.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he was real. And he had come to pick you up and you were feeling awfully giddy as he ushered you both into a taxi while a few of your peers stood and stared.

By now he would've blindfolded you. Keeping you completely clueless to the location he brings you to every Wednesday. See, your Salesman had myriad deep rooted issues. Mania. Sociopathy. Sadism. But the issue that irked you the very most was his inability to trust. Before you know it, you're pouting up a storm as you ask him. "Why aren't we using the blindfold today?"

He slowly removes his gaze from the window, where he had been pondering like the old man he is. He quirks up an eyebrow, letting the intensity of his attention wash completely over you.

"Would you like to be blindfolded?" He asks playfully. His eyes are sparkling with amusement and his lips are quirked up like it usually is when he's being sardonic. Still, you remain cautious as you lean forward. You send one quick glance to the taxi driver, wondering if you were being led in some kind of hearse on the road to your death.

"A-Are you going to kill me?" For the first time, cold, white fear ices the warm blood rushing through your veins. Come to think of it, he did seem far chirpier than usual. Perhaps that should have been your first warning. The flags were blood red but you were wearing rose-tinted glasses.

He only snickers before placing a heavy hand on your head, patting it down.

He doesn't answer you for the duration of the taxi drive, causing you to slip more and more into your thoughts of morbidity and despair. Why else wouldn't he blindfold you if not to end your life once you got there? It seemed dreadfully logical and so on-brand for him. He'd get bored of you sooner or later and then he'd dispose of you. There'd be no need to blindfold you any longer while he took you to his place because you'd soon become a corpse and-

"Doll." The voice cuts through the chatter filling your brain. All at once, the car has stopped, and warm air rushes into the interior as he holds the door open for you. "Get out of the nice man's car." He jests politely, quickly prompting you to unbuckle your seatbelt and scramble out of the taxi.

The second you're out he walks ahead of you. The building that comes into focus before you have your brows crinkling.

You quickly catch up to him, gazing up at his monotonous face. "Why are we here? You never come to my house."

He doesn't respond as you both walk into the foyer. He walks briskly and powerfully, like a man on the move while you send a small wave to the security manning the front desk. You both enter an empty elevator and he presses a button without you ever having to tell him which floor.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

He lowers his gaze to you, one eyebrow quirked up.

"You only die when you disappoint me and as of late," he stares directly ahead, "You haven't disappointed me."

The elevator dings and he steps out. You follow him like a puppy without a leash. "In fact I'd say your work ethic as of late has been-" he blows out a long sigh as he makes it your apartment door- recalling all the weeks you two have spent together in vivid kaleidoscopic images. All the pain you let him inflict on you and pleasure he'd offer as a reward.

"-nothing short of stellar. I'm proud of you." He punches in the code to your apartment and you both enter. The curtains are drawn shut because your roommate hates sunlight. You preferred it but there was no communicating with something like her.

He kicks off his shoes at the door.

"What are we doing here?" You ask nervously, "My roommate will be back soon and she isn't very nice."

"We won't be playing at my place today." He says finally meeting your wild and nervous eyes. He seems so lax and so in control. "We'll be playing here."

"B-But my roommate."

"Is that why you were crying?" His gaze keeps you rooted to the floors, unable to move even if you wanted to, "Because of your roommate?"

"Crying? I wasn't crying-"

"Back at the university," he says, casually removing a microscopic piece of lint from his grey blazer, "Your head was beant and you looked up at me with bloodshot eyes." His eyes shine with amusement as he says, "Usually with our sessions, the crying only comes later on." Then he quirks his head and asks, "What happened?" There's a bang somewhere in the apartment and your head snaps forward. Your eyes scan over the adjoining living room and kitchen but he seems unfazed.

"It's stupid-" you shake your head, "Like who even still gets bullied in uni?"

You laugh pitifully, leaning against the nearest wall. He stands tall before you. A brick wall.

"Your roommate's threatening to kick you out of this apartment to move her boyfriend in?" He asks before adding, "Again."

Your head snaps up to him, "H-How-"

In that moment, he turns rather robotically, making his way deeper into your home. It's clean. Thank God.

"You don't realize how chatty you get when you're about to orgasm." He says before stopping right outside your closed bedroom door.

"My roommate- she... decided last night that- well- she would really like her boyfriend to live here instead-"

"Without consulting you first?" He clarifies, staring blankly ahead at the door, listening very attentively.

"Y-Yes without consulting me." You bring your hand to the doorknob, on your way to open it but he stops you with an iron grip around your wrist. You wince.

“Continue talking.” He says and you do.

"This morning they both kinda sprung on me that they'd like to be living here now. She went behind my back and already placed the deposit down our landlord, well," you clear your throat. "I might be homeless soon." You laugh but then swallow very thickly as the gravity of the situation falls onto your shoulders.

"And still you decided to have our sessions today?"

"If you'll have me," you nod.

"Remarkable." He replies. "Well I've never been very fond of my things or my toys getting dirty." He begins mysteriously as he places his hand directly over yours on the doorknob.

"Pardon?"

"I can't have my favorite toy living out on the street. Who knows what kind of animals would try to rape you or drug you or fucking stick their slimey dicks inside you-" he turns the doorknob, clicking your room open.

You're not even sure when this started happening. These 'private sessions' with your Salesman that quickly bled into something much more concerning. Before you knew it, he was seeping into your brain, polluting you with obsession. There had never ever been anyone else involved.

"What the hell did you do?" You ask, slowly entering your room to find two chairs placed directly in front of your bed. As soon as you enter, you hear the blood curdling, muffled screams being ripped from the throat of the two people strapped to those chairs.

"I'm protecting my investment," Says your Salesman as he pushes the door closed behind you.

Your feet feel like lead as you watch them and their panic-stricken eyes. There in front of you, they sit opposite one another, both with a haggard countenance and tears streaming down their cheeks.

At the sight of you, your roommate screams something horrid but it's muffled by the gag placed in her mouth, a gag the shape of a dog bone.

He's there too. The boyfriend. He's not as loud or as frantic as she is but he's significantly startled. His eyes are wild and vacant. The same gag.

"Oh my god-" you begin but he cuts in front of you, making his way to the couple seated across from each other.

"We're all gonna play a game- a quick one," He says, "Can't play for too long because I've been dying to get inside you since I saw those pretty little bloodshot eyes."

"Sir- I"

If you knew his name you might've screamed it in this moment. 'Sir' is your only point of reference to address the manic man in front of you.

This isn't right.

Right?

You're so confused, you barely register than you've thought out loud. It hits you as he slowly shrugs his blazer off.

"What isn't right is them thinking they can rape this apartment from underneath you." He says, folding it and placing it meticulously over your desk.

"I- have neighbors!?" You begin but he has a plan for that too.

"I had your room soundproofed since our first session." You're pushed into even more confusion.

"WHAT!? When did you even-"

"While you were at school-" he says before uncovering a handgun from his briefcase. A handgun and a silencer.

"Point is, Doll, I'm going to need you to play a game for me, ok?"

"DOLL!?" Comes your roommates' mortified and muffled cries.

"I need you to make one tiny decision for me." He says, screwing on the silencer onto the barrel of the revolver. It strikes you then that even when the mask is off, and the worst workings of his personality are on display for all to gaze upon, you still find him breathtakingly attractive.

"If-" tears burn the back of your throat, "If this room is soundproof why-why do you need a silencer?"

"I'm nothing if not a cautious man, you know this." Then his expression turns very grave and very dark as he says. "Don't you?"

“Yes, Sir,” you reply almost automatically. Like your need to respond to him- to please him, greatly overpowered your moral compass. “You're extremely cautious.”

Your roommate releases a shrill noise from the very back of her throat, her eyes pleading with the humanity she desperately tries to find in yours.

“Out of these two, he's my least favourite,” Your Salesman says, standing beside you. Eyes wild as he points his gun to the boyfriend's head.

“But this isn't about me,” he turns to face you, slowly dragging you gaze away from the victims that had once been your tormentors. You look up at him with a broken sob slipping through your lips. “I need you to choose.”

There it is.

His words seem to detonate what little fate you had in his humanity. There is nothing in his eyes except hedonism and violence.

"I'm going to have you to choose very quickly, baby-”

You're already shaking your head as frazzled braids tickle your shoulders. Your eyes find theirs and you immediately say, “I'm not going to do it.”

When you look at him again, you're almost horrified to find the smile that had once been on his face, completely wiped away. His face is a shadow and it strikes you way more than anything ever has. Something in you scolds you. It gnaws at you to make things right.

“Don't do that.” He says darkly. “Don't disappoint me.”

His hands -one still holding a gun- moves to cup both your cheeks. He cranes your neck further back, gazing deeply. “I can't have you living on the street.”

“You don't have to kill anyone-”

His jaw ticks, “Pick.”

“Sir…”

“You're disappointing me.”

All it takes is those three words to have your world crashing to the floor. Tears blur your vision as you raise a trembling finger.

“Him. I pick him.”

It's the first time you realized that you were brimming with codependency

Or stupidity.

Or maybe both

“That's a good girl.” He coos, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The father you never had.

He lets his eyes meet that of the boyfriend who is shaking and writhing in seat.

“What a good fucking girl I have, wouldn't you agree?” He asks the boyfriend yet he only cries and cries and cries. Meanwhile, you're bathing in the warm, milky words of praise.

"I suppose you wouldn't be able to agree to much in a second-"

He raises the gun.

Wait-" but the trigger is already pulled, and the bullet slices through the air and the deed is done.

It's remarkable how fast it travels. The speed of the bullet. Like it's competing with light itself. One moment his head is there and his brain is inside it, functioning like usual and the next moment, it's splattered all across my bedroom wall, coating your stuffed animals and drenching your pink bedding.

“You killed someone…”

“We killed someone, and you did such a good job. Now we're real rich people-”

You shake your head.

“Oh my fucking god we killed someone-”

It's stupid, but the first thought that comes to mind is-

“How- How am I gonna get the stain out!?”

“I'll get you new sheets, Doll, I promise…”

Meanwhile the roommate is crying and screaming her throat hoarse. You watch gravely as vomit soaks her gag.

“That's fucking disgusting.” He says before turning back to you. A spray of blood scatters across the side of his handsome face. He'd just committed murder and yet you still describe him as handsome.

“You're not disgusting at all.” He says, “You're so clean and beautiful.” His large hands rub over your face. “And now this apartment's yours. Ours. Maybe.”

Ours.

That word somehow affects you more than the murder you'd just lay witness to. It has you staring up at him with grateful, love-filled eyes. You're still scared but, you were his. And that was a powerful feeling. You'd never belonged to anyone before. Certainly not any man as handsome or smart as this. This isn't rose-tinted glasses anymore, it's rose-tinted vision.

“We killed someone.” You say. Solidifying the fact that you were a couple.

Your heart rages in its cage when his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head.

“Fuck yes we did,” he moans before smashing his lips down onto yours. Confusion and discomfort wage a terrific and bloody war inside you as he kisses you absolutely dizzy. Your insides are swirling and your stomach is turning at the sight of the blood drenching your walls.

he tips your head up, forcing his tongue in and he moans when you let him. Your tongues touch and coax and he pulls you in close.

“You know how good you looked when I picked you up earlier, Doll? I loved seeing those bloodshot eyes of yours.” He mumbles, “I just hated not being the one to make you cry.”

You sob something awful. The sound escapes you while your lips are still plastered to his.

“But this is all me,” he says proudly, gazing down at your watery eyes as he pins you up against the wall. “This is all me.”

Your roommate sits in a daze. Over his wide shoulder, her eyes stare blankly into yours and you almost find yourself mouthing the words 'I'm sorry'.

Almost. But you never do.

Your brain is too clouded by feelings of fear, regret, pleasure and… satisfaction. In your defense her boyfriend really fucking sucked.

"Take this off." He groans, lowering his large build to the floor to shove your shorts and underwear down. Undressing you almost formally as he lifts your one leg out followed by the other.

Your eyes are still on her.

Every vile word she's said to you. Every occasion she'd bring her equally cruel friends over and they'd gossip about you loud enough for their words to carry through the walls.

You realize very gravely that your care is waning.

That humanity that was still left inside you is thinning.

And he's pressing wet kisses against your legs, worshipping the soft cellulite at your thighs.

A man in a suit at his knees for you and she's forced to watch.

It makes you feel so-

"Fucking beautiful, fuck." He groans.

The more riled up he is, the less care he gives to how crass his language becomes. As if trapped in a daze, with your eyes still on your tormentor -your bully- you hook your fingers into his hair. Parting your legs you lead his mouth to your exposed cunt and he slurps you up for all your worth.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he eats you out with vigor. He flattens his tongue and suctions his mouth against your clit, causing a deep and guttural moan to spill from your lips.

He pulls back, breathing raggedly, "Fuck my face," he commands, before placing both hands on your ass, enough to have your cunt riding his open mouth. It feels so fucking good your eyes are stinging with tears. You let them fall because you'd know he'd appreciate it. He appreciates every tear in your confidence. Every waver in your air-tight judgement. It undoes him completely to see you so fucking pathetic.

He looks up at you while you're riding him. Those morally black eyes are urging you to hump his face and you do.

At the sight of your tears falling his nails dig into your ass and you moan more. All the sounds you're able to make are in intelligible sounds of pleasure. But you force yourself to come to your senses. Just long enough to whisper

"Th-Thank you, Sir,"

He stills. Completely stunned.

You come. It crashes down on you all while your roommate tries to squeeze her crying eyes shut, shaking her head as if trying to delude herself into believing none of this is real.

"You are fucking fire, you know that?" He croaks, slowly rising. You're breathing oh so quickly and it only speeds up at the sight of your arousal casting his jaw.

“I wanna fucking hurt you so bad. I wanna eat you. I wanna fuck you. I wanna do so many unspeakable things to you- you're so perfect.”

He throws one more gaze over his shoulder. His almond eyes scan over the body, then the girl and he groans, furiously undoing his belt.

"How the fuck did I get so lucky?” he says, almost to himself.

"Answer me." He presses his body firmly against yours, until your spine is straight against the wall. "Fucking answer me when I talk to you."

He growls before bringing a hand up to your chin. It's painful the way he grabs you, but you're so used to pain. It lives here now. Between you both.

"I-I- don't know-" you really don't know and he melts at that.

"I'll tell you how, Princess. " he wraps your leg around his waist, "People like me- people we call crazy and evil-” His eyes are so wide, his smile too. -we get nice things. And people like that-" he quirks his head backwards, “The weak? Those people on the streets, they die.” He says, grinding his cock agaisnt your cunt, “And we don't die, yeah?"

"Oh fuck." You're seeing stars when his cock sinks into your cunt. It's hard and raging and he's already doing multiple shallow thrusts to force it deeper. "S-So big-" you can't talk, you hardly ever can when he's like this. Fucking you into an absolute frenzy.

"You gonna squirt for me, Doll?” he grits his teeth, hips stuttering as he ravages you against the wall. "F-Fuck." Some

“She's a really good squirter-” he turns his head to watch your roommate over his shoulder. Her head is slumped forward, she's fainted perhaps.

After weeks of trying to impress him, to show him that you were not the weak little thing he had first kidnapped- you realize it's paid off. He caveman grunts as he fucks you deeper and harder and a cry rips itself from your throat.

“Y-You want me?” You ask with trembling lips.

“Baby,” he breathes directly into your mouth. “I need you.”

"F-Fuck-" your orgasm sneaks up on you and he watches with immense gratification as you come undone on his cock.

“You're making a mess on my cock-” clear liquid streams out of hou, threatinging tk lush his cock out but he fucks you through it.

“Gonna fucking cum inside you, baby. You're gonna take it, aren't you? My good girl's gonna fucking take it,” he throws his head back as his eyes flutter closed and soon he's fucking spurts of warm cum into you.

It fills you completely until the mess is coating your thighs. Through your wave of endless euphoria you see stars, the planets and him in the very centre of it all, guiding you and coaxing you through the bountiful high.

Even when he's done, his cock is still nestled deep inside you, pushing you over the brink of stimulation.

"You're very promising.” He admits, “Always have been.”

© to @muntitled on tumblr; do not repost

[7kh]

༉ ease your mind.

cw — wlw. ambessa x f!reader. ambesscock. that’s it that’s the fic. fingering. slight orgasm denial if you squint. pussy slapping. overstimulation. creampie. ambessa loves her stupid little wife (not outwardly said but. yk). ambessa has a huge cock and it almost kills reader (not clickbait!!!)

you stood at the balcony of your palatial-like room, the cold air of the evening hitting your cheeks as your brows furrowed. ambessa sighed at the sight. you were her prized possession, she cleared the rust from you and made you lustrous; now, you were gradually dulling. she couldn’t let that happen. “your performance reflects your effort, little one. you’ve been dragging your feet all week.”

you internally winced at her words. there was no getting around ambessa, no slick tricks or batting eyelashes could conceal how you really felt. “you’re spending too much time in your head. no more of this self-deprecating prattle; you’re fine.” she said finally.

“right..” you exhaled under your breath.

she huffed. if there was one thing she loved about you, it was your compliance. not that it started that way; you had thorns in your words, much to her chagrin. “you disagree,” she noted.

you were a bit too quick to answer, “i do not,”

“no?” she raised an eyebrow at you. another weird shot in your stomach at the slightly teasing tone in her voice. “it’s… it’s silly.” you gulped. “silly.” that was the word you decided? it surprised her even though it shouldn’t. “humor me.”

your eyes briefly flicked to her face for a moment before you looked back down, sighing defeatedly. damn her. “i.. have been dissatisfied with my performance lately. and i fear you have to.” you muttered, you almost thought she didn’t hear you and would coax you to speak louder. but she understood you just clearly. she just didn’t understand why. “so?” you raised an eyebrow at her, looking up at her, continuing as she didn’t let you get the chance to speak yet. “i would have said something to you if i had any grievances. do you doubt my methods?”

mouth slightly gape, you closed it and swallowed again, looking down at the white cement beneath you, “n..no.” ambessa smirked. “no?” she repeated. “then do not waste your brain on such frivolous matters. or do you need a reminder on who exactly you belong to?”

“i-i..” somehow, you were just now made aware of her very close proximity to you. maybe a little too close if you weren’t busy rubbing your thighs together at the mere idea.

“i think you do.”

—

a violent, shuttering breath came from your chest as ambessa’s thick fingers worked amongst your slit, teasing up and down slowly before she rubbed firm yet calculated circles on your clit. gripping the red silk sheets for dear life, and she barely even started. “isn’t this better, hm? a great difference than whatever nonsense you had in that little head of yours.” you sobbed at her teasing, quickly throwing your head back when she added a thick finger inside you. you already felt so full, what more could she have?

you tried your absolute hardest to not squirm and writhe under her when she added another finger, the lewd squelching of your aroused pussy echoing the sumptuous walls. “absolute submission suits you far better, darling..” she drawled while slyly adding a third finger. you nodded dumbly, agreeing to whatever eloquent words she cooed to you. they made your pussy drool hot, creamy juices that made her stomach churn in satisfaction. you pleaded and gasped, her scarred forearm never faltering when your nails dug into it.

to her truimph of having you exactly where she wanted, she removed her fingers, licking them clean shamelessly. messily. like she was sampling piltover cuisine again. except this time it was from your pretty pussy, which automatically made it 10x better than the diplomatic, ‘progressive’ city.

you whine at the loss, bucking your hips up to desperately chase the feeling again until a harsh slap met your cunt, making you squeak and close your thighs together instinctively. “don’t be greedy,” she growled, her blunt hands grabbing the supple skin of your thighs and spreading them wide open for her. you’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so incredibly aroused right now. “good girls don’t get rewarded if they’re inattentive. behave.” she leaned down to say firmly in your ear. you had no other choice but to nod your head, sniffling in compliance.

“your words, girl.”

“y-yes, ambessa.”

“good,” she smirked, leaning up again, lazily undoing her pants with an unreadable expression on her face. she knew you loved this sight of her, standing tall at the edge of the bed as you anticipated for what’s going to come next. it gave you a grueling feeling in your stomach, yet you chased it. chased her. with a scarred hand, she guided her cock out of the tight and inconvenient confines of her pants, mostly, if not already rock hard. dribbles of precum ran from her slit, making your mouth water at the sight, desperately wanting a taste. but not right now. was she twitching from the cool air of the room, or is she just simply built up and found the chance to finally fuck you? it was probably both.

she didn’t even let you breathe before you felt your knees rub against your chest and pulling you further to the edge of the bed, her slick tip sliding up against your slit, making you shudder. “let me show you how i value your excellence above anything else.” she finally sunk her cock into you, inch by inch, making you cry out. she wasn’t even fully in you yet. “breathe,” she cooed, guiding you through it was the least she could do. she held your legs steady as she sunk even further into you, biting your lip to alleviate the slight uncomfortableness. all of this, for you? the least you could do is just sit there and take it.

but, as soon as the pain faded away, you almost instantly became drunk on her cock, every snap of her hips knocked the wind out of you. your pussy salivated on her, smearing on her stomach and thighs and even on the bed, but she didn’t care. in fact, she encouraged it so much she forced you to look down at the sheer mess you were making. you were embarrassed, but the way you felt her cock twitch and hearing her groan when she saw the way she glided in and out of you made it worth it.

she made you pliable. a moldable, sticky mess, like you were designed by the gods to piece together perfectly like a complicated and difficult puzzle. “please, please please..” you whined, feeling her splitting you open. you were so full of her it was like you could fucking feel her in your throat, her cock kissing and bruising you in places you were unaware of until this evening. she was too big, you finalized— yet you could take it, she knew you could. each pant, moan and whine made that very clear to her.

“just fabulous..” she praised under her breath, appreciating how it earned a squeeze and twitches from your dewy, spongy walls. she knew you were getting close, dangerously so. she never relented her pace, having you babble and slur out nonsense, praise for her fucking you so good, thanking her for fixing your silly self-deprecating problems. she simply smirked and exchanged back filth to your slushed mind, but her smirk would slightly falter as she felt herself growing closer to release as well.

“‘bessa, gonna cum, i’m gonna cum, fuck—!!” you were only met with a nod, a final command as you followed it, like always. sobbing helplessly, a final, brutal slam made you gush everywhere, sinking herself down as you came unbelievably hard, your moans borderline whorish when you felt her cum deep inside you, a few shallow thrusts to ensure no drop escaped.

she barely even broke a sweat, yet you were under her fucked out of your mind, thighs twitching in mock-withdrawal in her hands, face ridden with tears and sweat. you were looked a mess, but you never looked more gorgeous in ambessa’s eyes.

her eyes widened softly as your arms wrapped around her neck and pulled her closer to you, but she made no attempt to pull away. she chuckled at your deprivation, rewarding you with a kiss on the side of your lips. “it seems like i hadn’t fail you this time.” you nodded and let out a meek “no” in response. you were too weak to speak at the moment.

you just wanted to selfishly bask in her embrace just a wee longer, wanting your skin to be hers for just a moment.

© 7KH 2024, all rights reserved — do not claim, modify, copy or translate my content.

[dreadark]

so why is Luka obsessed with Hyuna anyway?

(mostly just trying to get my thoughts on Luka down before blink gone rewires my brain)

every pet human is extremely limited in freedom, but Luka's case is definitely the worst literally even his birth was by Heperu's design... he can't control any aspect of his own life, from his participation of ALNST (twice!) to what he eats on a daily basis

*translations all by whatafruit

humans have no power over segyein, and Luka doesn't even have any power over own his own body so what can he have power over, then?

other humans, of course

most obvious in round 5: Luka would've had an easy win even if he barely tried, but he goes out of his way to provoke Mizi anyway until she finally snaps... and he smiles as he's beaten

because this is his "power." he successfully manipulated Mizi into reacting, proving he has some control over the situation no matter how pointless it is in the grand scheme of things, this is all he can influence, so he makes the absolute most of it and this control is so important to him he doesn't care about his own physical injuries

it's Hyuna talking in this comic, but clearly reflecting Luka's own mentality

while for Hyuna it's likely just her love for singing and performing (whatever happens, they can't take this away from her) for Luka I imagine it's the ability to influence others from the stage (crushing his opponents, but also shaping his fanbase?)

...so back to Luka -> Hyuna

it’s mentioned more than a few times that Hyuna’s a really talented performer, but seeing their respective stat pages really drives it in

(think the “superiority test” Hyuna was put through relates to this also)

Hyuna doesn't seem to have been created in any special way like Luka was… she just has a natural affinity to performing. and that's enough that she’s considered a real rival to Luka—Luka, who was literally made for this, and put through constant hellish training on top (the pain of having your heart stopped...) to mold him into the perfect idol

to Luka… if he can’t dominate Hyuna, he can't even take pride in his own ability (that everything he's forced to go through amounts to something?). and power over other humans is all he has, so he needs to overpower Hyuna (also he likely admires Hyuna’s talents at the same time, which just adds to his twisted feelings)

so since his ability isn't enough... by making someone think of you, only you… that’s another way of having power over someone, isn’t it

“your life is mine” “I told you I only wanted one thing”

whatever exactly happened with Hyunwoo… well that certainly worked. both removing Hyuna's most important person and making Luka someone she can't not think of (oh and he doesn't seem particularly interested in Hyunwoo despite how similar the siblings are in personality? Hyunwoo was even the first to approach Luka, not Hyuna so it's likely because he doesn't have his sister's talents)

but you know how his intimacy(?) value for her is only 70% I figure that's because she escaped, so they could never actually face off onstage... maybe he's disappointed in her "wasting" her ability

what all this amounts to is that she did end up escaping his control, and he never even got to compete against her. so until he can somehow completely overpower her, he'll be obsessed with her

I wonder if this represents his final effort to that... ultimately, he values control over his own well-being, so if he can goad Hyuna into killing him, then doesn't that cement his power over her?

and maybe "saves" him from this hellish life too

kind of a tangent, but I really like how their designs contrast this dynamic Luka looks really angelic and androgynous, so from appearance he seems fragile and like someone to be protected (which even Hyuna seemed to be tricked by when they were younger) and Hyuna obviously looks the stronger one in comparison (very #girlboss (lol...))

but their relationship is one where Luka's trying to control her and Hyuna's trying to escape it... that "beautiful lady" line of ruler of my heart always felt somewhat uncomfortable, and then learning it's actually pitiful (가련한) instead of beautiful is... ...it's a very gendered dynamic, if you get what I mean. despite their surface-level appearances going against what's considered typical

[slttygeto]

tags: japanese is not reader’s first language (or mine so sorry if i made a mistake!), and she has an accent and struggles to pronounce a sentence (it wasn’t warm), established relationship, satoru is whipped.

word count: 0,3k. very short :)

satoru loves you like a breezy summer night. it’s hot for most of the day, yet when open the balcony door at 3am, you sigh in content at the icy air. he loves you like the smell of waffles coming from the kitchen, they’re not burnt or undercooked, they’re crispy and golden and you sprinkle some nuts on top after cutting slices of banana and drizzling some honey. but what satoru is sure of, is that he loves you as if he were there the day you were created.

he admires what you do with adoration, admiration and love. he doesn’t need to give verbal praise for you to know that he is so proud of you.

“so when I went to check my plate in the microwave, it was not–it was not warm—“ you struggle a bit with the pronunciation of the japanese phrase, your accent slipping and you cover your mouth in embarrassment. you were telling your boyfriend about how you should fix the microwave, but somehow managed to struggle so much with a sentence. satoru is quick to remove your hand and join in the laugh, but he pulls you towards his chest carefully and throws his head back.

the heart that once felt empty, unsatisfied was now filled with nothing but love. pure, unconditional love for a person who came into his life on a whim.

“it was not warm,” satoru repeats lowly, the words gliding out of his mouth with so much ease. he is an expert at this, given that it is his native language. he resta his hands on your shoulders as his eyes rake over your face. the slight flush to it is adorable, he thinks.

“it was…not warm,”

“good job,” his voice drops a volume lower, his hands holding your face as his thumbs caress your cheeks. “my smart girl, knows so many languages that her brain gets a little fried sometimes,”

“it does,” as you sigh, you get on your tip toes and peck his lips. but once is never enough for satoru, so he pecks you again. and again and again.

“enough. you have work to do,” your hand pushes softly at his chest, giggling when he starts to kiss under your ear.

“work can wait,”

“what if it’s an emergency?”

“let em die—“

“no!”

based on what i found on google, “it wasn’t warm” translates to “Atatakakunakatta” so i thought why not! if it’s wrong tho, do correct me pls!

note: based on a cute thing @aurelianamu told me abt her and satoru :) this one’s for you best friend!

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

October 17 - Degradation/Dumbification

pairing: Step-Mother!Wanda x sub!Reader

summary: Your step-mother wants her little girl.

content warnings: slight intox

word count: 1.4k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

“Sweetheart,” your stepmother calls, her voice echoing through the nearly-empty house. “Come here, I need your help.”

You sigh, contemplating ignoring her as your show plays on the TV. You set aside your popcorn reluctantly, stealing one last handful before pausing the show and slowly ambling toward the stairs. 

Mentally cursing your dad out for choosing to get a divorce, you climb the steps. Honestly, he couldn’t have chosen a worse time. You’d just arrived home for winter break, your mind mentally exhausted from a long semester, and he’d announced his plans to divorce your stepmother with two suitcases already in hand. 

So yeah, great start to the month that was supposed to be relaxing. You had already started looking at tickets back to your college state, but fuck they were expensive around the holiday season.  

“Darling?” Comes your stepmother's voice again, and you let out an impatient noise as you will your feet to move slightly faster. 

“I’m on my way, chill out, Wanda,” you call out, annoyance coloring your tone. Honestly, it’s like she had a spidey-sense for when you were finally relaxing or something. All you wanted was to watch your show until your brain rotted out of your ears, but you resigned yourself to the fact that you would most likely be helping Wanda with tasks for most of the break. 

Arriving at her bedroom door, you lean against the doorframe and cross your arms. Wanda is rummaging through a box, her back turned toward you. As you look her over, you feel yourself flush at the sight of her. 

Listen, you weren’t ashamed to admit that your stepmother was attractive. You weren’t immune to the allure of her soft, red hair or the way her breasts pushed against you when she hugged you. And fuck, her vanilla perfume drove you absolutely insane. 

There was one time that you’d snuck into her room just to spray her perfume on your pillow. You’d fucked yourself that night, burying your nose in your pillow while thrusting a dildo deep inside you until you’d cum with a whimper of her name. 

Shaking those thoughts away, you pray that your blush isn’t noticeable as you watch Wanda. She seems to be looking for something, bending over the bed as she removes items from the box. You have a pretty good view of her ass from this angle, and you allow yourself to look for about five seconds before you clear your throat. 

“Oh, sweetheart I didn’t see you there,” Wanda says, jumping at the sound. She turns to face you, her green eyes locked on your face as she awkwardly holds up a stuffed animal. 

You recognize it immediately. It was one of your childhood stuffed animals, a brown teddy bear that you’d named Fuzzy. 

“Where,” you step forward, gently taking Fuzzy in your hands as you step into Wanda’s space. “Where did you find him?”

Looking up, you blink. You hadn’t realized how close you were to Wanda, her green eyes soft as she looked at you. Her hand was still outstretched, gently petting the top of Fuzzy’s head, her fingers brushing lightly against yours. 

“I was going through some of the boxes in the basement,” Wanda’s eyes are sad for a moment, and you remember that your dad had lived in this house too with boxes of his own. She seems to shake herself out of it, smiling at you. “I found this one with your name on it and… I don’t know. I wanted to connect with you somehow.”

You immediately feel bad, knowing that you haven’t exactly been the best or easiest person to be around for the past week. You’d gotten so caught up in your own emotions surrounding the divorce and your dad’s apparent disappearance that you’d forgotten that Wanda was also hurting. 

“Well,” you begin, somewhat awkwardly. “This is a good start.”

Wanda smiles brightly at that, her hand moving from the stuffed animal to your shoulder. She rubs it for a moment, the action causing warmth to flood through your body as you fight a blush. 

“I’ll make us some dinner,” Wanda says, her hand removing itself. You hope you’re not imagining the reluctance in the action. “How do you feel about red wine?”

—

You feel… fuzzy. Your head feels like it's been stuffed with warm cotton, your hands petting your stuffed teddy bear softly while you lean against something warm. No, someone warm. 

Turning your head, you feel your eyebrows rise in surprise when you find Wanda’s green eyes mere inches from yours. You mentally shrug, leaning closer into her until you’re practically cuddling her. 

You feel your senses returning, numb and warm, but coherent. You’re on the couch, your arms wrapped around your stuffed animal as you lay practically on top of Wanda. Her arms are gentle around your waist, her warm breaths hitting your cheek as you inhale her vanilla perfume. 

“You’re adorable like this,” she whispers, and you feel yourself sobering up at her words. 

God, one glass of wine and all of a sudden you can’t think? Then again, you could never truly think properly around Wanda. Something about her just made you feel safe and cozy and… small?

You don’t even attempt to speak, simply smiling at her words and nuzzling into her neck. You can feel a flush spreading down your cheeks, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you should feel ashamed for cuddling up to your stepmother while she was in the midst of a divorce with your dad. 

Wanda’s lips press against the top of your head, and you immediately feel your guilt dissipate. Fuck your dad, this felt amazing. You’d been wanting Wanda’s hands on yours for as long as you’ve known her, and who were you to complain now that she was finally… caressing you… and…

Hands move against your waist, moving down further and cupping your ass slightly before moving back up. You almost think you’ve imagined it, until you register the fast beating of Wanda’s heart. You can hear it in her chest, and you feel your own breaths begin to quicken as arousal makes its way through your body. 

Taking a risk, you softly kiss her neck, feeling her breath hitch underneath your lips. You continue, letting the feeling of her soft skin under your lips and the gentle caress of her hands lull you into a fuzzy headspace. 

“Oh, my darling little girl,” Wanda murmurs, and you feel yourself slipping farther and farther and…

You stir, shaking your head in confusion. What was happening?

Wanda rests her hand on the back of your neck, moving your head down towards her chest. You can see her nipple straining through her shirt, and lick your lips before pausing. 

“Go on, baby. Suck Mommy’s nipples,” Wanda murmurs, and you feel a wave of fuzziness overtake you. You were so… warm and…

“My brainless little girl…” Wanda simpers, her voice low and velvety. “Go on, turn your brain off for Mommy, let her take care of you.”

Ah, yes, that sounded perfect.

Her hand pushes your head into her chest, and you feel your brain go blank as you mindlessly begin to suck on her nipple. It's soothing, your tongue swirling around her stiff peak while her hands move down and begin to move your hips. 

“My dumb little toy, so pliant for me,” she whispers, moving your hips to grind against her thigh. 

You feel good. So… fucking… good. Everything is warm and you can feel a pleasant ache between your legs and you’re humping your stepmother’s leg and her breast is in your mouth. Your hand moves up to fondle her over breast, your fingers rolling over her hard nipple as she groans. 

“That’s right… you just want to be Mommy’s dumb little girl, don’t you?” Wanda asks, and you nod eagerly. “You want to be Mommy’s little toy, here for me to play with whenever I want, and however I want, right?”

You nod again, your arousal building at the thought. God, that would be perfect. You wanted to stay like this forever. 

Wanda chuckles, and you realize that you mumbled your thoughts out loud. Her hand moves up to stroke your hair, lulling you deeper into that headspace. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll be my dumb little toy for a very long time.”

It sounds like a promise, and you nod. Yes. That sounded perfect. That’s all you wanted. Wanda smiled at your thoughts, pushing slightly harder with her magic, which had gone unnoticed by you. She felt your mind bend, and gave one last final push. 

Your mind broke completely, pliant and moldable. Perfect, and completely Wanda’s.

[amourisms]

souvenir sent me to heaven, if you’re taking requests i’d love to see a part 2 or another wally one shot. you’re amazing! <3

tease.

summary : who knew wally was so sentimental about his souvenirs?

pairing : wally west x fem!reader

warnings : oral ( f rec ), gag used, fingering, dirty talk, wallys a bit nasty in this one, vibrator ( its him ), edging, begging.

wc : 2k

a/n : been meaning to get around to this for a while hope you enjoy ily

read part one here !

this. this was a golden opportunity, and now all you had to do was wait for wally to get back. you were only snooping around his room to find a mission file but what you uncovered was so much better.

it wasn't long before wally came back zipping all around the place, before finally stopping in his bedroom. if he was shocked to see you, he didn't show it. instead he only asked, "what are you doing in my room?" your hands were placed behind your back holding your little discovery and a shit-eating grin was plastered on your face that you couldn't control. "better question is… what was this doing under your pillow?" you asked teasingly, removing your hands behind your back and waving your panties in front of his face. the same panties he stole from you as a souvenir. your relationship with wally stayed unchanged for the most of it, but ever since the kitchen incident you hadn't stopped thinking about it. about him.

it hadn't been long but neither of you hardly said a word to each other since, and you had just assumed he was indifferent to what happened. but this? this truly was something else, and you'd be damned if you weren't going to act all smug about it. "wallace west, the honourable kid flash," you stretched out the word as you stepped closer, "tell me, what do you do with these?"

his lips were pursed together and his eyes flickered around in thought before he answered, "you want the honest answer or some bullshit one?" you didn't even need to open your mouth as a slight tilt of your head and darkened glare said all he need to know. "well if you reaaally want to know," he stepped closer, "its my favourite souvenir. keep it under my pillow for safekeeping and easy access" he says nonchalantly. you try to hide the shock enveloping your features but ultimately he noticed it faster than you did. "you're horrible," you tell him with a reluctant smile on your face. "horrible? i haven't even told you what i do with them yet." he says feigning hurt.

"i rub them all over my cock," he steps closer, "i think about your hands all over me, the way you said my name, how you looked on your knees" he steps closer, "how fucking heavenly you felt." your breath hitches in your throat, and its only then you realised you've been trapped between him and his bed. his hands find a home on your hips, which made you melt enough for your brain to ditch any remaining self control you had left. he embraces your lips messily, like all his self control had been thrown to the wind as well.

before you can wrap your arms around his neck he pushes you back onto the bed with zero warning. before you can get mad at him, wally climbs on top of you and starts kissing on your neck. somehow, he simultaneously manages to remove your clothes as he continues kissing down your body. his fingers hook under the waistband of your shorts, being sure to leave your underwear on. he speaks through the kisses on your stomach, "might need another souvenir." although the idea soaks his precious souvenir even more you lightly smack his arm in rebuttal to his words, "at this rate, i won't have any panties left to wear."

you can feel his smile on your skin as his hands finally move to remove your underwear. he lifts his head up, only just slightly, so you can see his piercing green eyes as he speaks, "i told you i like easy access." once he finally gets the pair off, he holds them up proudly, "such a gorgeous pair, babe, don't you think we should put them to good use?" and with that he wasted no time in stuffing them in your mouth.

before you could protest, he began to lazily drag his tongue over your cunt eliciting a soft whimper from you. it wasn't long before he began focusing on your clit, overwhelming sensations taking over your entire body. when he added a finger into the mix of it all, inserting it in your hole and gradually adding another, your hand couldn't help but grip onto his hair. your body felt out of your control as your thighs clamped around his face. now it was your turn to trap him in, and just as you didn't mind he didn't either. in fact, he wished he could stay between your legs forever.

you could feel the knot in your stomach tightening, but wally was keeping you on the edge. you tried telling him you needed to come but it all came out as inaudible mumbles. "whats that?" he asked sarcastically as his fingers remained working you up. you groaned and whimpered in response bucking your hips into his hand as further indication to what you wanted. "just tell me what you want," he tells you with a fake softness, "i can't give it to you until you ask." god, you hated wally west. even if your body showed the opposite.

as his fingers worked relentlessly inside you, it only got you more and more frustrated. he watched you in awe as you whined and wriggled underneath him, trying so badly to chase your high. in a fit of annoyance, you ended up ripping out your makeshift gag yourself and with wally's fingers slowing down in reaction you could swear you'd throw him into a wall. if only his hair wasn't so messy and tousled, and his eyes weren't so cunning, and his lips weren't curved into such a calculating smirk, and his face wasn't covered in your own juices. maybe you actually would've. instead you gave up with a sigh of defeat before softly whispering, "please, 'needa cum so bad."

he takes a second before answering, "i'm not sure you do," his tone is conniving as his fingers fasten. he truly was an evil, scheming son of a bitch. that knot in your stomach you were all too familiar with by now revived and you couldn't stop the sea of words that began flowing out, "please please please", "need you", "'want you to make me come, wally." hearing his name come out of mouth, so breathless and desperate, he finally decided to end your torture (and his considering the way his boxers felt impossibly tight and he was now rutting against the bed).

in a singular fluid motion, he had manoeuvred his arms around your thighs to force them apart against your instincts and began lapping at your juices. your hips grinded against his face while he ate you out like you were his favourite meal. you probably were. as his tongue fucked your needy hole, his nose brushed against your clit and it wasn't long before he was able to take you to the edge again. seeing you in this state, wally made every movement quicker and quicker until you could feel him vibrate. the sensation urged a moan to fall from your tongue and it only made the vibrations stronger. between his nose and his tongue, your clit and your hole, the vibrations, it all became too much. a wave crashed down, filling your entire body with ecstasy and relief. wally let you take a minute to come down as he wiped all your essence off his face with the back of his hand and took his shirt off.

you let yourself drink in his figure whilst he grabbed a condom from his bedside table before taking his pants and boxers off. you'd seen him shirtless during training before, but right now? the way his arms looked as he rolled the condom on himself and his abs contracted with every deep breath made you a lot more lustful than you'd like to admit. before he could try anything you managed to swap spots with him before kissing him again. as he kissed you back, you pushed him backwards onto the bed, so he leaned against the headboard whilst you moved your legs to either side of his. with a hand on his shoulder, you used your other to stroke his dick in slow motions. he bit your lip as his own way of telling you to go faster, but you decided to stop entirely only leaving your hand wrapped around the base of his shaft. he pulled away from the kiss only to be met with your alluring smile.

"you're a jerk, you know that?" wally told you as he leaned his head backward and looked at the ceiling accepting his karma. you leaned into his ear, "not as much as you, babe" you whispered before sliding down onto him. the action made his head snap back and his hands grab onto your hips almost immediately. you had a hand flat on his chest and another on his abs as you slowly rocked back and forth to get better adjusted to his size. you thought he stretched you out last time? this position made you feel him deeper than you thought possible.

his grip on your skin got tighter as he began to gently rock your body faster until you decided to outdo his pace on your own. your nails began to dig into his chest. you could've drawn blood but wally couldn't have cared less. in truth, it probably made him even harder and if you weren't so blissed out you most likely would've felt it.

your body moved with unwavering passion, as wally moved a hand to the side of your slack jaw. he placed his thumb in your mouth and you were quick to suck on it with a flurry of muffled whimpers rising from your throat. the entire scene was pure euphoria to wally. your brows furrowed, lips wrapped around his fingers, nails digging into his skin and your body working so desperately to chase your own high. euphoria.

wally removed his finger from between the warmth of your lips and moved that same thumb down to your clit as he kissed you. the synchronicity of his actions made your head drown in pleasure, making you moan into the kiss. "shit, you're gripping me like a vice," he told you breathlessly between kisses, "look so good fucking yourself dumb on my cock." you would've spat a remark back at him, but he was right and there wasn't a thought in your head except for him.

wally let out a guttural groan when you pulsed around him and once again his hands were on your waist as he planted his feet on the bed. he started meeting your movements with hard and fast thrusts. every movement he made had you teetering over the edge, but when your face nestled into the crook of his neck and he whispered in your ear was all the push you needed to send you over the edge. "that's my girl," he spoke in drawn out words as he noted to memorise every movement you made. he watched the rise and fall of your chest and how the hands on his chest had softened as a wave of pure pleasure washed over your body. most importantly, he took note of the way you clenched around him making his movements falter.

it wasn't long before his orgasm followed suit and you could feel him twitch inside you. a groan escaped from his lips as he bought his forehead to rest against yours. the both of you were now a sweaty, exhausted mess and the aroma of sex became noticeable as he helped you up off of him. wally took a minute as he laid beside you before sliding the condom off him and placing it into a bin whilst slipping into his boxers. you noticed he went to collect your clothes and before he could hand them to you, you rolled your eyes, "don't tell me you're taking another souvenir."

"thanks for the reminder" he answered with a growing smirk plastered on his face.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Lack of Focus

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: Matt comforts you when your forgetfulness seems to be ruining your life.

warnings: swearing, weepy reader, period mentions, Matt being adorable, reader's no good very bad day

a/n: this is heavily inspired by my own life last month where my unknown disability gave me such intense brain fog on my period that I thought I’d somehow gotten brain damage.  Thankfully, it’s passed but what the FUCK y’all. That has never happened to me before and it was terrifying. So here is a little emotional hurt/comfort based on that! Also it takes place in the "In All the World" verse, but it can be read as a standalone. As always, please reply/reblog/DM me feedback!

w/c: 3.7k

Elbows planted firmly on your wobbly desk, you tried to ignore the way the large gouge on the left side dug into your exposed skin. You could feel the splintering fiberboard prickling your flesh, but you were too exhausted to adjust your posture. Your body felt heavy, as if you’d been transported to a different planet overnight and hadn’t quite adjusted to the intense gravitational force. Invisible strings attached to every cell that composed you, anchoring your movements to a far away point, making it difficult to even sit up straight.

Lifting your chin from atop your clammy hands, you strained to reach the coffee cup that you’d stupidly left on the far corner of the desktop. The minuscule weight of the mug made your hands shake, your strength sheerly depleted even though it was barely 8:30 in the morning. The watery coffee slid over your tongue, leaving the gritty residue of undissolved powdered creamer behind. You were used to crappy break room coffee, but it tasted especially bitter today, like a poor consolation prize for a contest you hadn’t entered.

In a word, you felt…groggy. Which made no sense, since you’d been sleeping ten or more hours a day the whole week—if you included your frequent naps. Your period-exhaustion and raging brain fog were apparently in cahoots this month.

The heat wasn’t helping either. New York was currently jumping between excessive, brutal sun and pouring rain. Each day felt like a Greek myth, Apollo and his father battling it out in a wretched display of strength, leaving you and the other mere mortals of Long Island to cope with the muggy weather until their spat was over. Walking through the streets felt more like swimming, given there was so much water vapor in the air you practically needed gills to process oxygen every time you stepped out of your apartment. Nearly suffocating on the 15 minute walk from your apartment to work surely wasn't helping your inability to think clearly.

With a massive sigh, you hauled another box of sheet music into your lap, thumbing through the pages of crumpled and coffee-stained paper. The district had been especially aggravating this summer, trying to appease the school board with promises of low budgets and high rates of success. As much as you’d love for that to be your reality, you had yet to decide on a starting piece for either of your choirs, and the fall musical was barely on your radar. Your mind was plodding through quicksand, grappling for steady ground. The last thing you needed was added pressure from a handful of men who refused to understand the importance of the arts, let alone your career.

Fingers rifling over the blurry text of one particular song selection, you paused, considering the technical skills you’d need to rebuild with your students after their summer break. Removing the pages from the box, you set it aside to ponder further, turning your attention back to the endless stacks. Before you could feel too proud, having stepped incrementally closer to actually  accomplishing something today, a shrill buzzing sounded from your desk. 

You jumped at the noise, losing your grip on the heavy box which toppled to the floor, spewing its contents across the grubby tile of your office. “Shit,” You cursed, snatching your phone up to answer it as you bent down to gather up the sea of scattered papers. The former organization system you’d meticulously sorted them into was nothing but a distant memory. Add it to the growing list of “to dos”, you thought miserably.

Swiping absently at the screen of your phone, you crammed it between your ear and your shoulder, trying to uncrumple the ancient cardboard box that had collapsed during the fall as you greeted whoever had disturbed you. “Hello?” Your tone was less than upbeat, and you could hear a small, slightly-miffed scoff across the line as the caller came to that realization as well.

“Hi, sweetheart. Is everything ok?” Your hands froze around fistfuls of paper, embarrassment clawing at your throat as you registered your boyfriend’s voice. 

“Hey, Matty. Yah, I’m fine. Sorry for sounding like..that. It’s been a tough morning.” You explained, messily gathering the papers into your lap as you fell into a criss-cross position on the floor. 

“I can tell,” Matt chuckled sympathetically. “Are you still coming?” 

Forehead scrunching with confusion, your brain valiantly attempted to decipher the question’s meaning before you eloquently asked for clarification.

“Huh?”

Staring at the walls of your office dumbfounded, your posture became less relaxed as Matt explained what he’d meant. “To the coffee shop? You promised to meet the three of us for breakfast.” 

“Oh god.” You absolutely had. Matt had been moping all week about his busy schedule and the resulting lack of time you’d spent together, so you’d readily agreed when he’d suggested coffee. He’d even been sweet enough to schedule it on the one day that you didn’t have any early meetings so you wouldn’t be too rushed after meeting him. “Oh Matt, I’m so sorry.”

“You forgot.” His response was patient, but even over the tinny speaker his hurt was obvious. Your eyes stung as you pictured his face falling, silently conveying your failure to his coworkers. 

“I’m so so sorry, I’ll be there as soon as I can. It’s the little cafe off of 7th and 42nd?” Clambering to your feet, your voice was slightly choked as your throat constricted—your disappointment and frustration squeezing it like a vice. 

“Hey, it’s ok, love. It’s almost 9:00, we have a meeting with a client in 45. If you’re all the way across town—“

“I’ll barely get to see you anyways.” You finished his thought, eyes falling shut as your hopes of not missing another activity were dashed. This wasn’t the first time this week something important had slipped your mind, despite being on your calendar. You’d already had to reschedule a dentist appointment, scramble home fifteen minutes late to meet with a student for a private lesson, and you’d filed the application for a grant three hours too late because you’d misread the instructions. The constant mistakes were quickly spiraling, leaving you to wallow in confusion and despair as your brain fog only grew. “I’m s—“

“Don’t apologize, sweet girl. It happens,” Matt reassured you. He was disappointed, you had no doubt about that, but he wasn’t angry. A wave of gratitude for Matt’s endless compassion crashed into you swiftly, nearly bringing you to your knees. Your tongue felt heavy, cheeks dampening as tears began to fall. “I was just worried something had happened. It slipped your mind?”

“I don’t know what’s up with me, Matt.” You whimpered, dropping heavily into your squeaky desk chair with a shaky exhale. “I know my mind has never been a ‘steel trap’ but..I’m starting to think something might be wrong.”

Your voice broke off on the admission. Bringing a knuckle to your mouth to bite down on, you refused to sob into Matt’s ear over the phone. He didn’t deserve that after you’d stood him up.

“I know. I’m sorry the past few weeks have been so hard. Do you have plans tonight?” Matt asked softly, voice laden with concern. Even through the phone, his voice bundled you up in a comforting warmth, a layer of protection between you and the world. He was eternally patient with you, loving you endlessly despite your recent bout of ditsy-ness.

“Not sure I’d remember if I did,” You chuckled humorlessly.

“That’s ok, sweetheart. Anything on your calendar?” Acknowledging your frustration, Matt tenderly redirected you—trying to keep your mind from wandering without blaming you for it. God, you loved him.  

“Let me check.” You sniffled, drawing the phone away from your temple so you could flick through your schedule. “Not after 4:00.”

“Ok well I should be done here around 6:00. I can come over for dinner, if you’d like.” Your lips formed a tiny smile at Matt’s loving persistence.

“Yes please. Can we meet at yours instead?”

“Of course! You can go straight to my loft after work, if you feel like it. You can use the spare I gave you.”

“Are you sure?” You suddenly felt a bit timid, being handed so much trust after letting everyone down for over a week.

“Absolutely, sweetheart. You know how much I enjoy you being there. Besides, I’ve missed you like crazy.” His voice was a rumble, making you feel far more loved than you thought you deserved at the moment.

“I miss you too, Matt. I wish my stupid brain would’ve remembered coffee so I could’ve seen you earlier.” Your vision shifted as saline flooded your waterline, tears wobbling as they fought to escape.

“I’ll just have to make it up to you tonight.” Matt purred, definitely waggling his eyebrows even though he was not in your line of sight.

Laughing in surprise, you felt heat rush to your face. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one that needs to be making it up to you.”

“Agree to disagree, sweetheart. We’re going to go open the office, but I’ll see you tonight. I love you.” He lingered over the last three words, tone dipping into pure reverence—the exact pitch that made your stomach flutter as he revealed just how much he cared about you.

“I love you too, Matt. Apologize to Foggy and Karen for me? Tell them I owe them at least three bagels a piece.”

“Three? That’s a pretty steep fee, love. I think I can talk ‘em down.”

Shaking your head with a giggle, you bit your lip. “Thank you for looking out for me, Matty. I hope you have a good day.”

“You too, angel. Call me if you need anything, ok? If I can’t talk right then, I’ll call back when I can. But I’m here if you need me.”

“Ok. Thank you.” Listening as the line disconnected, your heart clenched with disappointment as reality set in—you had an entire day of work to get through before you got to see your partner. Gaze dropping to the haphazard stacks of sheet music draped over your knees, you groaned, hefting them into your arms and dumping them on your desk to organize. Hopefully your sluggish mind could handle the repetitive task without too much issue.

Meandering up the stairs at a snail's pace, each bend of your knee took intense concentration. You were ready to keel over and pass out, letting the guilt and frustration and embarrassment that had amassed over the day fade into oblivion as if it had never happened.

After missing your morning coffee date, and ruining a week's worth of office organization, your day had not improved. Your murky brain had managed to sort the piles of sheet music into the correct songs, but it had taken every drop of your energy. In an effort to perk up before your hours of meetings, you'd thrown back a few more cups of coarse break room coffee—which tasted disgustingly similar to pond water as the day progressed. Each forced swallow stung with the reminder that your forgetfulness had cost you a decent latte and a much needed outing with your boyfriend.

Even four cups of the bog water masquerading as your beloved caffeinated drink couldn't solve your boredom when the administration started rambling on about test scores and parent satisfaction. Graph after graph flashed before your eyes, blending into a drab collage hung on the walls of your brain. When you hadn't shown enough enthusiasm for the new district mandates surrounding attendance and compulsory study hall, your principal had chewed you out—scolding you for not being a team player, for putting your own interests ahead of the success of your students. It took every ounce of resolve you could muster not to burst into tears right there at the conference table.

Finally, they'd dismissed you and you'd gathered your things to leave—only to be caught in a downpour on your walk to Matt's. Though your things were protected by the thick fabric of your messenger bag, you hadn't brought any form of poncho or jacket, so you were utterly soaked when you reached his building.

The fates were clearly determined to drag you down. And, given the exhaustion seeping out of your every pore and the harrowing tightness in your abdomen, you were ready to submit to their malevolent will. You wanted to curl up in a ball and hibernate for a week. If nothing would go right, what was the point of squandering your energy day in and day out to achieve mediocrity?

Bottom lip trembling as tears rolled down your cheeks, you stumbled across the landing to Matt's door—sticking your spare key into the lock and wiggling it. The damn thing didn't budge.

”C'mon!“ You muttered, fresh tears beading in the corners of your eyes as you jiggled the key furiously. ”Open you stupid—“ As you pushed at the small piece of brass with your fingers, it slipped from your grip, your hand smacking against the door frame with the residual energy.

A sob escaped you, your frustration boiling over when your psyche was presented with another obstacle. Yanking the key out and dropping it to the floor, you slid down, back against the cool wood, your sopping jeans squelching as they hit the floor. With a heaving breath, you brought your shaking hands up to your face, trying to soothe your frazzled heart before deciding your next move.

Inhale for 7. Out for 11. Just like you told your kids when they got jittery on the night of a big performance. It wouldn't fix your mood, but it could help you get a grip.

Staring down at the offending hunk of metal on the carpet, your brain flickered with realization. It wasn't the right key. Your own apartment key and Matt's were the same color because you'd made copies together, but the bows were shaped differently. The key to your apartment had a rounded head, while the spare to Matt's had a pointed one. He'd suggested the difference in design to help him keep the two separate.

Heat creeping up your neck, you shoved the damn thing back in your pocket, pulling out your lanyard and singling out the correct key in the line up. 

Your legs shook tremendously as you clambered to your feet, barely functioning enough to keep you upright as you hauled yourself into Matt's apartment. With every step into the loft, your soggy flats squished with your weight, surely leaving a trail of sweat and rainwater behind you. Dropping your bag against the wall where it wouldn’t be a tripping-hazard for your boyfriend, you scrubbed at your clammy cheeks with a fist, padding into the bedroom.

It was quiet, beyond the sliding door. The brick walls and insulation muffling the New York ambiance into a gentle hum, barely noticeable over the buzz of the central AC. A soft, manufactured breeze whirled around you, raising the hair along your limbs. Your damp clothes did nothing to protect you from the temperature change, the frigid air sliding right through them, latching on to the thin layer of moisture against your skin.

With numb fingers, you fumbled for the buttons on the back of your top, ripping off your drenched blouse and replacing it with one of Matt's warm hoodies. As soon as you had shoved your arms into the garment, your discomfort began to fade away. It smelled distinctly of Matt, rather than the stale stench of wet cotton you'd been carrying around. Unzipping your pants, you stripped out of those as well, replacing your underwear with a pair of clean boxers. Mental breakdown stalled for now, you lifted the comforter strewn across the familiar mattress and sunk into the silk sheets with a fatigued exhale.

You were out like a light.

Matt’s lips quirked up at the sound of rustling sheets, his fingers still tapping away on his laptop. Momentarily pausing, he tuned in to your vitals, listening carefully as you roused. Your heart rate picked up, an almost imperceptible sigh leaving you as you wriggled about in his bed.

With a pitiful groan, you untangled yourself from a cocoon of his sheets, ambling out of his bedroom on heavy feet. He was pretty sure you thought you were alone–the tiny gasp as you opened his bedroom door confirming his suspicions.

“Matty?” Your lilted voice was dipped in precarious optimism. Baring your teeth with the tiniest smile, you readily accepted his lifted arm as an invitation to snuggle in beside him on the couch. Setting his laptop and headphones aside, Matt engulfed you with his arms, grinning into your hair as you went limp against his chest with a pleased hum.

“Hi, sleepyhead. Did you have a good nap?” You pouted at his teasing comment, grumbling against his chest. He chuckled, cradling the back of your head so he could plant a kiss on your crown. “I'm not judging you, pretty girl. I'm glad you got some rest. Seems like you had a bad day.”

“How did you know?” You mumbled, rubbing at your eyes as Matt adjusted until you lay steadily across his lap.

“You missed breakfast and you hate the school's coffee, your clothes in my hamper are drenched, and I ran into Mrs. Gomez who warned me of an amateur burglar outside my apartment earlier.” There was a soft slap of skin against skin as you dropped your head into your hands with a moan.

“I was hoping I wouldn't have to relive that particular detail.”

“Sweetheart, if you wanted to spend time with me, you could have stopped by the office. No need to commit a petty crime to get my undivided attention.”

“Ma-att” You groaned, jabbing him weakly in the stomach with a knuckle.

“I mean, I'm sure Foggy would agree to take your case, but seriously it would save a lot of paper if you–” He broke off into a genuine laugh when you shoved off the couch, pouting profusely he was sure. Chasing after you with ease, he caught you by an elbow, angling you back towards him so he could gently kiss your lips. “Sorry, sweetheart. But the image of you trying to break in was too adorable to let slide.”

“That's mean, Matt. Kicking your girlfriend when she's down. Bullying.” You glowered, your arms loosening from their tight cross over your chest as he peppered your head with soft kisses.

“Mmm you're right,” Matt murmured, lips brushing over the bridge of your nose. “I'm sorry to bring it up. Do I need to worry about any broken locks or windows?”

He could practically hear your exaggerated eye roll. “I didn't break anything. I have a key.”  You grumbled, not seeing the humor in the experience.

“What happened, angel? Did you leave it at work?” His question was genuine, but his teasing smirk seemed to push you over the edge.

Tears pooled in your eyes as your chin dropped to your chest with embarrassment. “It just took me a few tries to open the door. I did manage to remember the one thing I needed to get into your apartment.”

You didn't mean for the comment to sound so snarky, but you weren't really in the mood to be picked on. Matt's banter usually cheered you up, enticing you into joking right back with him. Today, though? The idea that Matt expected you to have forgotten another important thing was far too realistic to be humorous.

“Hey,” Matt tutted sympathetically, his amused grin morphing into a slight frown while his brow furrowed with concern. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I'm not being oblivious on purpose, Matt. I don't know why I'm like this right now.” You sniffled, hastily wiping away the tracks of moisture forming on your cheeks.

“I know, sweets. I know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to poke fun.” Swaying you from side to side as if he was comforting a fussy infant, Matt stroked your scalp as he shushed you. It would've been easy to see the change in his behavior as offensive, but Matt's small repetitive movements and hushed tone were comforting, so you leaned into what he provided.

“I'm tired, Matt. I'm so tired and I'm trying so hard to remember everything but I..I can't.” Lips quivering, you squeezed your eyes shut as another wave of tears pooled in them.

“I know, love. I know you're trying.” Matt assured you, scooping you into his arms and settling back on the couch. “It's just been a bad week. It'll get better.”

“What if it doesn't? What if this is how I am now?” You worried aloud, the hormones clouding your brain triggering a fresh surge of anxiety.

“Then we'll deal with it.” Matt shrugged, speaking as if this was the only possible outcome.

“I love you.” You whispered, nudging your nose into the hinge of Matt's jaw. His throat rumbled under your cheek as he echoed your declaration.

“I love you too, angel. Always.”

“Even when I'm scatterbrained and overly emotional?” You asked timidly, your own discomfort with your unusual period symptoms skewing your expectations.

“Without a doubt, my love.” Matt craned his head to kiss your hairline, frowning as you shuddered into the touch. ”Still tired?“

You nodded against him with a frustrated sigh. “I don't know why, I feel like all I've done this week is sleep.”

“You had a tough day, sweetheart. That would wear me out too.” Matt reasoned, tugging a knit throw off the back of his couch and tucking it around you securely.

“But I want to spend time with you,” You groused, the edges of your words muzzy as sleep tugged at your consciousness.

“There’s plenty of time for us to spend together, ok? Just rest. I’ll wake you when food gets here.” 

“You ordered food?”

“I did,” Matt murmured. “I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten today, so I ordered Thai and pizza. Whatever we don’t eat tonight, you can take for lunch tomorrow.” 

“Thank you, Matty.” You whispered gratefully.

“Anytime, sweet girl. I love you.” Repositioning so you were sprawled against his chest, the two of you fully horizontal, Matt rubbed circles into your upper back, lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

Taglist: @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @ignore-mp3 @silas-aeiou @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04 @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002

[themareverine]

God Laughs | DoFP!Logan x fem!OC

synopsis: 'I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word." So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, the only thing that would keep any of them alive.

warnings: time travel elements, AU, pre-established relationship, some angst, a big age gap due to time travel, a little angst, unedited, will do later, PG-13. 🌶️🌶️🌶️

a/n: happy thirtieth birthday to me. 🎉🥂i am sorry this is so long, but i'm actually not, and this fic has been taking up space in my brain for like a month and a half. please enjoy.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | TAGLIST🏷️ let me know if you want added!

Time in the ether is both cold, and slow. 

Being alive 200 years leaves Logan nowhere near shortchanged when it comes to dreams. Really the only peace a man who cannot die—a living weapon—finds is sleep, walking in and out of dreams. Digging graves to bury secrets, the horrors of living. Phantoms of his living moments, somehow though, manage to follow him into REM, into the colorful, twisting pictures of dreamstate—they rob him of purest joys. Highest highs. Through their boneless fingers he falls, time and again, even in his sleep—some nights, he doesn’t even rest. Barely breathes. Just wrestles with the things his mind shoves into dark recesses during daylight, vampires bleeding him dry. 

And much like the nightmares that find him as he fitfully sleeps, the ether between time is equally harrowing. A scythe that cuts slow and deep, through certainties and everything humans, once, thought they understood.

Nothing in the world like it, slipping through the sands of a timeglass—lives already lived, time already elapsed. Unable to fully blot from the universe moments already bled, God Himself, Logan is sure, laughs—laughs as he chases moments, daylights. Nights. Stretches of time in the bend of space the Almighty must just chuckle at. No more than a mouse chasing reward, trapped in the grand scheme of an oversized cat. 

He’d jumped through the waters of time before. Drowning in pain, his body fighting to stay alive and knit together when travel would otherwise viscerally rip apart.

Logan supposes it is not far removed from shaking a bottle, a tornado of contents spinning together to form some perfect union of chaos and beauty, bouncing off walls and wholly contained within units of matter. Hurricane on steroids, rushing to find somewhere to land, but in no hurry to do so all at the same damn time.

That is what the ether feels like—a hurried state of asystole, neverending, that somehow doesn’t seem to mind at all. And Logan has never felt more intimate, precise pain than he does here, filtering through time and space—everything hurts. Whitehot fire that laps at his spine, racking every thought, every movement, every cell with the finest, knife-edge agony.

Like a blacksmith’s hammer beating to life creation from the hottest flame he burns, beat into oblivion while slowly knitting together something that resembles signs of life. 

 “Need you to do this, Pryde.”

Kitty had an overwhelming ability, he knew. Taxed her to the point of soul crushing. He’d rocketed through time, balancing in her hands, times before—and some part of him always felt her during the process, guiding and sifting his moments in the past through careful, graceful hands.

Truly gifted, Logan understood this was not a bowl of cherries request—he knew it would shave years off her life, steal heartbeats she’d never get back. Days of recovery, horrors of readjusting back to the present. Not a light lift for either of them—as he was ripped apart only to be stitched back together in a younger, former life, she was there, with nobody to put her back together as strain and pain played her like a drum. 

And as painful as it was, Logan knew Kitty—she would die for things like this, consequences be damned. Young and reckless, she’d skipped through the folds of the time space continuum for less than what he was asking, but one’s own desires were another thing entirely. Couldn’t fault her for that. If he were able to rip open the universe, go back to former days, well—he didn’t know. So many nightmares, so many phantoms.

Logan wasn’t even sure if he was whole, anymore. 

“And you’re sure you wanna do this, Logan?” 

Cigars had never tasted so flat, so sour. Maybe if he rolled it through his fingers harder, it would shapen up. But nothing could change the broil in his gut, the ripple of consequences hanging out on the edge of history. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, this thing God had gifted. To ensure his future, the future of Charles Xavier, had never felt so—so cold. Dead. Excruciating. 

So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. And then the voice of reason, a cherubim amongst thieves. Stealing minutes, ripping away time none of them have. Light in a universe of darkness, his sun. Adonis to his Icharus, Aphrodite to his eternal, cold war—she’d looked as if the world had stopped, and in a way, it was not far off. His world had stopped spinning, their world. Threatened to collapse. 

“Kitty, we have to. We need to–if we don’t, we don’t have this conversation.” 

No other conviction necessary. Decided, on a whim—on the bleeding edge of should we? they’d made a plan. Go back decades, retrace steps already taken. Cool trails already blazed. Forge new irons, cast new stones—do everything to ensure this moment, this moment that cannot be barren, paralyzed. Do what God commissions, what heaven allows.

Follow me, Logan. 

A bed of stone had never felt more like a grave, and the very idea sends an unfamiliar shiver down his spine. Like a seance, candles burn in the darkness—easier for Pryde. But in some twisted way, Logan finds it fitting—fitting, this supernatural undertone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wishes it were light. Prays for morning, for the innocence of blinding daylight streaming through open windows, the fresh bounce of sun on his skin. Something about this being dark, tucked under the earth, feels eerie. Backwards. Graven.

Man was not meant to live in the dirt, but to die there—man was not meant to venture alone. 

I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word.

Pain in his chest had ripped him from the cool ether, snapped him awake in an arctic sweat. Pebbled with goosebumps and twisted in damp sheets, he’d ripped off the layers of blankets with gusto enough to carve canyons.

Rousted from apparent sleeping arrangements, the world swims as he attempts to scrub life back into his face—to feel. 

Parts of him were still sorting themselves out deep in his tissues, Logan could almost count his cells unscrambling. Never would he wish the kinesthetics of memories sorting themselves into brain matter on any man, enemy or otherwise.

One thing was painfully clear from the jump, a branding iron seared into the folds of his brain—her face. Her features. Every moment spent together, every sweet nothing she’d ever said. Honey salve on gaping wounds, he could smell her. Taste her, even in time.

It’s the one memory that doesn’t need sorting, that seems welded into his biology, his very being—her.

Her face, her name, her laugh. More a part of him than he’d ever know, he carries her in the low of his spine, a simmering heat that starves. A man could die, aching for a woman like he burns for her.

Aching in memories that feel foreign in this body, like dreams. But they are more real than he’ll ever confess—more real than sunlight or air, than scripture etched into faraway stones. The song of the world, the prayer of the universe.

Logan had never believed in soulmates—until fate had split him down the middle. He’d never known he was missing part of himself, until he’d tasted her goodness. Her sweetness. Her beauty and strength and insecurity that had fallen through his fingers like butter.

Time is his enemy, and there’s very little room to reminisce. That comes later. Much, much later.

Her presence a grounding rod to the now and here, excitement pistons through him like a locomotive. Logan wasn’t around in this period of her life, decades ago. He’d met her years after—in the blossoming glow of things to come. He can only fathom where she is, what she does in the twilight years of knowing him—of better, safer years.

Often he catches himself, watching her march through the days of their life together, wondering where she’d have gone, who she would’ve become if not for him. What better she’d have done in the world, what good she may have accomplished beyond his tether. 

Never lasts long, though. He mauls the high fantasy of letting her leave. Crushes the beastial part  of him that warns she’s better off without him, navigating life alone. Safer, whole. Selfishness always catapults his justifications, his rationales. She stays, she’s yours, and nobody else gets her. Just the way it is, and he’d worked hard to ensure it. Logan wears enough blood to fill a reservoir—blood she’d helped him spill. Lives he’d taken for her. The cost for her was higher, atmospheric—he’d rob hell to pay it, even today.

And in a way, he isn’t far off. 

Thoughts of her send him buzzing with a little thrill he hasn’t known since boyhood, pulses his brain. Windows in this room are his stage, daylight a rapturous, blinding audience that sparkles with anticipation. He breathes and feels her, somewhere, in this universe.

There’s a presence, an energy— the world is alive with the promise of her, things to come. He doesn’t know how, perhaps it’s cosmic, built into the foundations of God’s creation. Or maybe it’s divine, maybe supernatural. Maybe just biology. Whatever it is, it tastes sweet, pulses through him like a live wire strung tight on five thousand molten-lava volts. 

A groan slips through streaks of daylight crisscrossing the floor through floor-length, heavy curtains. Logan all but springboards from bed, about-facing with the poise and grace of a fighter much younger than himself, heart racing. Somehow he manages self-control—the claws don’t come. Instead, his arm draws back into a fist far quicker than he remembers, almost sending him off balance. His arm—it weighs next to nothing. 

Mind spinning, he remembers. Adamantium—no adamantium. It’s a foreign, blissful feeling. At this point in his lifetime he hadn’t been cursed with steel bones, hadn’t been ripped apart to be stitched back together into whatever atrocity hell had born across the earth. Hadn’t been anyone’s lab animal, a plaything. That would come, he imagines—and briefly, Logan wonders if he’ll remember this feeling. If it will crop up in memories when he returns to his time, when future Logan is put back in time, and this is all but a dream. 

It doesn’t matter—assumptions come to a burning halt when blonde hair flips from beneath the covers of his former grave, his resurrection site. Blonde spirals of curl, muffled from obvious extramarital affairs, spill over milky skin. A hit of perfume hangs out beneath his nose, but it’s seared like a branding iron with the familiar, unmistakable scent of sex. Orgasm rides the air like it’s a jet plane, and very quickly Logan can’t breathe.

Thoughts spin through his brain, a kaleidoscope of horror and shame and confusion, watching his bedmate rise into a stretch not all that far removed from a cat.

He doesn’t remember this. Oh, fuck, not even a little. His future self’s mind pistons for any recollection, any silver cord of remembrance of who she could be, but it comes up blank. Distressingly blank, pitifully void. A blackhole of lust and perverted nothingness, his stomach hollows. Pitches up against his esophagus. And Logan isn’t a man to easily toss his cookies, but—he’s not far off. His dick numbs as she glances over her shoulder. 

“You’re awake,” voice heavily tainted with sleep, his feet suddenly burn with the itch to move. Get the hell outta dodge. Eyes scout the room quickly, picking out pieces of clothing he can only pray belong to this version of himself. “It’s early, if you’re hungry I can make breakfast—” 

Unable to think of anything —get the hell out of here, Logan, “—no!” It’s more of a bark than it is an answer, and he bristles, fingers swiping at the discarded pants hanging out on the floor by his feet. Wrangles into them in time enough to split atoms. Hiking them up his legs, he works the belt, tongue suddenly thicker than winter molasses as it attacks his back molars, trying to raise some moisture in the Sahara his mouth has become. 

He doesn’t miss his bedfellow flinching, though. Her shoulder shifts a little sharply in reaction, and he curses himself. “Girls are sensitive creatures, Logan,” years from now, she’s suddenly so there in his brain matter. Cascaded by the sun, rapturous in white. He can feel her against his ribs, her smile cutting paths through territory unexplored in the dark chambers of him, “Be careful with us, love.” 

Spiraling blonde curl and bare shoulders say everything that clothes don’t have to, and he’d laugh if this wasn’t the most depraved thing he’d ever felt crawling through his gut, clawing like it’s hell. Future him remembers wandering through these mirages of life—mindless fucks, one-night stands that get him off, little more than cold graves of satisfaction. Briefly he wonders what the fuck, what happened to him. Once detached, now he’s tethered to starlight, stars to which he breathes to revolve.

Fingers burning, weightlessness threatens to topple him like Rome, conquering him slowly. 

Shifting her hair in front of her, he feels a twinge of appreciation run him through—but he isn’t surprised. In a different world, he’d move mountains for a girl with curls the color of how he takes the coffee she so faithfully makes; curls that flick and move in private dances for him, God’s perfect design, conceived among the canyons of time. It’s a foreign memory, amputated almost—umbilicated to nothing in this world to give it life, but he knows. He just feels them tangle through his fingers something perfect, in a way that hair never has.

Always a sucker for a girl with curls—they were different. Feral. Wild. 

His canines hit sharply on the plush of his bottom lip as the stranger angles to shift against the sheets, probably to face him. Logan  all but bullrushes the mattress to put a hand on her shoulder, “—sorry,” bumbling like an idiot, he sucks in a breath, “not real hungry, but thanks. ‘S early, go back to sleep—I gotta hit the road,” barely above a constrained whisper, adds a little pressure to his hand to encourage the behavior.

She complies, and he dives for his shirt and what he can only assume is his jacket tangled in the sheets of his side of the bed. 

Surprisingly, she says zilch. Content to let the subject drop, a mercy from God. Thank you God. He’s dressed. Barely registered that punch of hunger a good fuck always leaves behind before he’s out the door, palming his jeans for keys—bingo.

Fingers grazing sunglasses in his pocket, he slips them on the low of his nose. Shakes in his blood tell him he needs a smoke, booze, something for the cold edge peaking through his bones. 

Spinning keys to the punched-out and snowkissed Bronco on his finger, Logan slips out the door, fighting boots onto his feet as he skirts the curb, looking for his ride. 

It takes him a day to find her.

Well, more specifically, twenty-two hours—and finding isn’t the right word for it, either. He knows where she’ll be, she said so herself before he’d slipped into the sands. There’s only one place in the world she’d ever received formal education, property lines of a familiar farm and prairie grass amidst old farmhouses teaching her more than any public education ever could.

He’d been there, her childhood home, more than a dozen times. Been here, tasted this air. Watched the frost kick up on windows, slick up highways that have carried him all over farmland America, almost-Canada. The wilds of this place remain, scattered in and out of industrial complexes and pop up bedroom communities. 

She’d always hated it here, all the snow and cold — people. Made no sense, honestly. She’d loved their home in Alberta, where winter was, in a sense, arguably worse. Had fostered a love for that place unlike anyone he knew, and he was from there. Never complained, though.

Logan had always known, secretly, that she missed the States, its freedoms and culture, a pretty that rivaled none. Faithfully and with duty she’d followed him everywhere, skiptracing across the globe like it was a game of hopscotch and not a fight for life.

While he’d been running all his life, she’d been firmly rooted—but he’d be damned if she didn’t pluck roots to keep after him, to keep them alive. Together they’d rested their heads in some less than Eden hotspots, places phantoms wouldn’t even tread—places purity went to die, holiness turned its face. 

She’d counted it joy, just to scout the lines of living beside him. I’ll love you in every time, Logan.

If the tires on his Bronco could heave, they would. Twenty-two hours and no sleep, Logan could pretty well feel exhaustion lapping up the marrow of his bones, needling away at his eyes. Highway 7 signs, painted with snow and wobbling in straight winds greet him as he guides his Ford off the asphalt, out from between guiding lines that had shifted oh so many times the last day and a half—prophecy not much unlike his life.

And pushing the Bronco along the tree-lined lane, lights shining in the last fingers of fading night, Logan realizes that he’s white-knuckling the steerwheel. Maybe for the first time in his life. 

He’s never been an anxious soul. Never a point to it, anxiety was wasted emotion. But all the same he feels a pit open in the depth of his gut, a fierce burning not unlike a lake flaming with inferno heat rising up his spine. Feeling feverish, his palms pearl with moisture.

A quick glance in the rearview at the darkness hanging out under his eyes punches home the marriage of piglet pink rising beneath his unkempt shave, which is now a handful of days overgrown. Muttering, he guides the wheel with a knee, working fingers through his hair—it’s thick. Dark, darker than future him remembers, styled in a way he hasn’t worn in at least four decades. 

Popping the Ford to a stop in a parking spot overshadowed with packed, plowed snow, he snaps the shift into park. Sits there, in his leather jacket and jeans, staring at the front door of the college complex. A stone Goliath, it towers in the fading darkness, sunlight beginning to stretch the horizon to a new morning. There’s a few cars belonging to the overly ambitious, his eyes scan them. 

Logan remembers the plan, all the details of the debrief—of a dossier that came from her lips, to his ears. Not a stitch of paperwork, no documentation to erase. So unlike the old days.

The most informal of the informal, perched across his lap, topless and smiling as her nails pull sharply at the flesh stretched across his collarbones. Scarlet lines to match fake but not inexpensive nails, he forgets how she manages them in an apocalyptic world. Twilight their only audience, four walls conferenced them as she’d relay detail after sweet detail, his brain pulsing with the weight of her against his chest.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel her again—even in a body that doesn’t even know her. 

His dick twitches with a needy throb that reminds him where he is, where she isn’t. Absently his mind spins, his hand skates across the bench seat of the 70s Bronco, palming for her familiar presence. Void coldness ices over the space, and when the Wolverine opens his eyes, the cab is deceptively empty.

Forty years from now his brain weaves an image of her, flashing like a film reel. Supplants her in this seat next to him, smiling—-as young and beautiful as she was the day he met her, age hardly more than a number even as it joins itself at her hip. 

Hips bucking up off the bench out of habit, with rebellion, his head falls back over the seat. Sinks lower on the bench, knees kissing the dashboard as the heels of his boots dig into the floorboards, anchored to nothingness. Bone grating against bone on his back teeth, the growl he releases is animalistic.

Painful, sharp, it licks up the heat in his blood. He palms at his cock buried in his jeans, suffocating in heat. Her mouth, sucking at his pulse, tongue flicking against his—tasting like lipstick, like chap and sweat. How her hair brushes his shoulder, raises his skin like he doesn’t remember. Her little noises, breathy little moans. Praying his name as he feasts on her presence, consumes her closeness, union almost supernatural, galactic. Otherworldly, divine. 

And it hurts, his starvation for her. Loneliness he doesn’t remember cracks like a whip, canyons open his spine to perform surgeries that’ll leave him a barren, cold wasteland. Oh, fuck.

God, he missed her—hasn’t been gone but two days, and he misses her. An unmovable hunger mountains in the low of his belly, rearing an ugly head Logan knows won’t be turned but only one way.

A way that won’t exist for another decade, ten long years of arctic cold. 

You’re a sick fuck, Logan.

Eyes snap open, pops the latch on the door. Freezing wind chases in and smothers tornado heat kicked up in the cab, amongst the radio buttons and film developing on the windows from his hot breath. Slipping out, Logan bats the door closed behind him. Pockets his keys. Considers the landscape, it’s pretty, then looks to the front door.

Marching after it, his eyes sweep the parking lot—her car. It’s here, sentinelled, standing guard in an otherwise empty lot of asphalt and fading starlight. 

He chuckles, shakes his head. Much to his surprise when he tries the door, heavy doors open. Unlocked. Whisking inside like a silent shadow, Logan breaches the foyer. The first coordinator. Nobody is here, hallways as dark as skeletons in squirreled-away closets, the air stuffy with age and ventilated air.

An old smell creeps up and down the hallway, wraps around him—but it’s quiet. Serene. She said it would be, one of the happiest places of my youth, Lo, and she doesn’t really lie. It bleeds from walls like open arteries. 

Something hangs in the air, a sweet lightness, airlessness that he can breathe, but doesn’t know. When his finger brushes the wall, curiously, the earth doesn’t split open, the air doesn’t move—-it’s just still. Unmoving. Patient, like a lover. Fortressed between thick pines and Midwestern snow, it’s a sleeping giant Logan doesn’t know. When he pauses to listen, to think, he can feel it try to touch him—-that weightlessness, that solace.

He could sleep here a thousand years, felt like he could breathe for the first time in a century. 

Unsure where his feet point, but he knows where to go. Senior year, first class is theatre—-she’ll be in the auditorium.

One by one he ticks off the details in his brain, smoothing his hand over his mouth, trying not to miss his past, his future, whatever the hell it was. But parts of him claw to go back, memories that don’t belong in this body—and very suddenly, Logan wishes for the first time he were older, time wasn’t now. That he survived long enough for the day, ten years from now, that the rest of his life came marching through the doors of a dimly lit bar to rattle steel cages.

Wandering corridors eventually finds him standing outside the door. Metaphorically, crossing this threshold will change his life—it will ensure the future of everyone he’s come to care for, to know. It will ensure them, in a life far from now that feels faraway down and lightyears away.

He opens this door, crosses the place where carpet meets cheap linoleum, and he’d write in stone events that will play out forty years from now. 

And he hesitates, only briefly. Hand hovering over the knob of the double doors, waiting for something to tap him on the shoulder. Opportunity to rip him away, fate to call out behind him, stop, you fool. His blood sings with anticipation, ripping through his ears in a way that blocks out everything but him in the shadows, standing here.

Waiting has never felt so smothering, so earthquake. It’s hard to swallow, but he manages. About to open the door, movement behind makes him flinch. 

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Creeps in this petty pace from day to day—to the last syllable of recorded time—and all our yesterdays have lighted fools—” 

Oh, shit. If that doesn’t fit. 

For the first time in nearly 200 years, Logan’s heart stops functioning.

He forgets to breathe, the familiar weight of suffocation launching his lungs forward, pitching them against his ribs. Every part of him simmers with flames of ice he hadn’t known but only one other time in his life, fingers itching as they rest at his sides, motionless. Paralyzed.

But that twinge of ache, deep in his skeleton, rockets to life between the bones of his hand—-and Logan lifts one, to consider the claws. But there are none, they are still sheathed deep within himself, but they echo. They ring and shake, trembling as the speech continues again, restarts. This time louder, with more life—from the gut, it stirs him in a way that pays homage to curiosity killing cats. 

Carefully he pops open the door, peeks through. Light spills through the opening, warm tones that force him back, squinting as his eyes adjust. Washed in light and emptiness, the room is vast. Pitches down to a floorstage, theatrical seating a quiet giant waiting to throw stones.

Instead, the air is still, motionless among the seats. Only thing moving within the four walls is the body rearranging a rolling podium, collecting things off the floor. Running lines under rushed breath, bare feet so at home center stage that it is almost treacherous. 

He can’t breathe, every cell in his body pistons into an overdrive that sends his head reeling.

It’s her.

He shouldn’t be surprised, forty years in the future she’d told him she’d be here. Was always the first one here, in the auditorium, the only time I can use the stage, Logan, and the truth of it smacks him across the face as if he’s been whipped with a milkstrap.

Castor wheels on the stage are loud, rattle the air as the podium rolls back to reset, and Logan realizes he's standing stupidly in the center aisle, looking lost and enchanted with her—and he is.

Even as he slips into the last row, sitting low in a seat to observe, he aches in a way that only God designed for the most violent, deep love.

Even at distance, the detail of her springs after him like a predator. It overtakes him, powers him into corners of himself that Logan didn’t think to ready. The first thing that he thinks is that she’s young, so young, young in a way that even a decade from now couldn’t know.

You ain’t ready for who you’re going to find, honey, it was a warning, shadowed between kissing him and making love in a way that would imply the world’s end. 

When she told him he wouldn’t be ready for her, he thought she couldn’t be serious.

But she was righter than he is alive, he wasn’t prepared—innocence. Purity. Naivety. It spins around her in a dance he can almost taste, and his memories struggle to assimilate this precious little thing with the woman his heart knows, his body craves.

And Logan thinks it’s wrong, feels absolutely filthy, falling in love with her all over again, in the mere seconds he’d seen her standing there, reading from a frayed and tattered Macbeth.

How she’s the same person, he doesn't know—how she couldn’t be, is another thing entirely. 

Logan realizes she’s been the same height practically forever, and that makes him smile. High heels tossed stage left beside a backpack in the shadows, what he wouldn’t give to see her conquer the world in thrift store heels the color of darkness. Familiar curves pull at denim jeans that take every ounce of his self-will not to notice, full hips on Hollywood display with the same leather belt and buckle she’d be wearing in ten years, when this body first makes eyes at her.

And her style hasn’t changed—high heels and jeans, a tucked-in tank top and left-open buttoned shirt that floats almost ethereally.  

And his head cants to the side, not unlike a curious dog—he could cry, he thinks. Probably.

Brunette curl spills down her back, nearly to her ass, a lazy slipknot hanging limp at the base of her neck. Righteous indignation rises up in him like a wild animal—in a decade, he’ll meet her with cropped hair, curls cut to not-even shoulder length. His stomach knots, solidifies like it’s concrete. Memories spinning—Logan realizes he’s never known her with long, full hair. Hair like this, curls that make him insane, almost threaten to send him up the wall with ferality. 

Insane, sick the way his mind immediately shoots to all the things he wants to do with it, with this little thing pacing downstage and back, humming and reading lines to what she thinks is open air.

Straight to hell with him, thinking about bending her over that stage and fucking her until she weeps. He won’t get the privilege of her taste for at least a decade, if not a few years after.

And that’s enough to gut him completely, punch a low moan from the base of his spine as blood rushes to take up space in his cock. 

Subliminally, he feels for the ring that’s been hanging out on his left hand for twenty years—alarm snaps his gaze to his hand, its absence alarming and unfamiliar. Takes a second for his heart rate to still, realizing it isn’t there—and that’s right. It won’t be for a while.

But it’s become an engrained thing, a usual part of his life—memories relay that he does this often times a day, it’s almost a coping mechanism. Hilarious how it so easily translates to this body, this time when it isn’t even reality. The ring probably isn’t even crafted, he’s missing something that doesn’t exist. 

“Excuse me, what are you doing in here?” 

Klaxon alarms rings through his blood like a warning shot, and Logan for a second considers that he has been shot, a burning hole through the center of him widening to swallow him almost body and soul.

A steel beam drops to replace his spine, and he catapults to his feet like he’s on fire—scrambles out of his chair like an upset cat. Heart pounding, heat flares across his skin like his life depends on it, palms riding up the denim on his thighs as he tries to wick away bubbled moisture.

Swallowing a shallow breath, he watches her gracefully hop off the platform, finding her feet as she tosses the book on the stage. 

Realizing she’s meeting him up the aisle, he steps to greet her halfway.

“This is a closed classroom,” her tone is firm, but not entirely uninviting—memory serves that he’s not unfamiliar with this, and won’t be, in their future together. “I’m running lines, did you need something?”

Her little way of always assuming the best of people—of prying without making it feel like she’s digging. God, she was good—-it’s no surprise to him that she’ll become a journalist, the nosiest person in the world, in but a few short years from this very moment. 

Even up close she glows with a radiance that alarms him. Wearing the makeup she always does, mascara that sets off icy blues like a plague, Logan fights his way out of the depths of her gaze. Claws for purchase at anything he can get his hands on, which at the moment, is a quicksilver smile this body knows. It’s worked well for him, disarming the opposite sex.

He knows he looks good, always has, and Logan has weaponized his sexuality for his betterment since years ago. It’s a toxic thing, one that this very girl will dismantle in about twenty years—-will continue dismantling, claiming, for the next forty. 

Absence of any reply has her taking more conversational territory. Her hand extends, she offers her name.

“I don’t know you,” no room for argument, God she’s still so forward, “are you a student here, or faculty?”

A polite way of asking what his old ass is doing at a college at ass o’clock in the morning, and very suddenly he realizes, off like a shot, he has no alibi. No backstory, no agenda for this moment.

Logan can’t even think past her bludgeoning pheromones and scent, much less the assault of her eyes. Like a wolf she takes him apart, plays with the carcass of his resolve like it’s a plaything. 

Never usually unprepared, he fumbles for words. Arms crossing over her chest, she waits. Stands there for all of a few seconds, before she does that thing that all girls, seemingly, do—she fills up the silence.

“You’re not Graingly’s theater buddy from Pensacola, are you?” The look on her face tells her that not being whoever such a person is probably isn't a good thing, the way her hip cocks and her jaw flicks with the tight of muscle.

She doesn’t wait, not even a second, “You’re not supposed to sub until Friday—I’m his student lecturer, I set that date.” 

Well there it is, his perfect in.

She won’t learn to interrogate and intimidate with silence for a while, and he finds her battle for dominance amusing. It’s even more raw and unpolished in her youth, she’d mastered it already in the years after this.

If he didn’t already know, he’d find it hard not to be curious how she’ll stonewall in the coming years—as she ages, matures. Instead, he just revels in her presence, in the floating feeling taking up space in the empty of his gut. He’d slaughter for a cigar but couldn’t move from his weld right here if the earth split open to consume him. 

Logan’s chuckle is low, off the base of his ribs. Even if it is a little weak, a little breathless and ashamed of the thoughts sounding off like nuclear bombs in the back of his head—their first meeting, in a crummy Canadian bar in May.

The first time he sees her cry, an awful first date ending with an argument, him at her door asking to see her again in the straightline winds of a near tornado. How he asks to marry her, that first look at her on the day he makes her his own. That look on her face when they move in together, when they buy their first house—when they spill first blood together.

Pain raptures him to new worlds when he realizes what she becomes, what he gives her—mutation that traps her in this world, this life for an indefinite future. 

And he can’t shake the reminiscence—their first fuck, her first time, his first time with someone so virginal, so holy and sweet and good. Burning through him like a branding rod dripping with white heat, he struggles to assimilate this young little thing with the woman, ten years in this body’s future, she’ll become.

And as legal as it may be, Logan can’t imagine touching her like he will, someday—she might break, such a fragile little thing. And yet all he can picture is taking her, right here and right now, unraveling the strands of time to hurry the fuck up what is meant for a decade from now. 

She’s still talking.

“Listen, I really think you should—-” agitated. She's pissy, that same edge he will walk well, that same edge he’ll teach her to teeter, to exaggerate.

It’s a beautiful thing, really, watching their life together unfold in his brain—it’s like a movie he never wants to get up from, a picture he creates.

It tastes good, it feels perfect. 

He puts up a hand, offering her an easy smile. Her mouth snaps closed, bingo.  

“I figured,” if you only knew. He extends his hand, “Logan,” and she shakes it, hers fitting in a way that confirms God’s very existence. “'M not a teacher, and sure as hell ain't from Pensacola.”  About three thousand miles north, actually—-a mountain house so pretty, we’re going to spend our honeymoon not leavin’ it. 

But of course, it hangs out in the open wound his heart has become, unsaid. 

That hits home, seems to fit the bill. Her posture loosens, and she crosses one leg over the other. Still does that, forty years from now, and he still finds it adorable.

“Good to meet ya,” and good God if she still drag her ‘o’s’ in that little Midwestern way that ticks up the corner of his mouth, amusingly. “Can I help you with anything?”

Again, always so willing—so naive. He could’ve been here to ruin her entire world and she’d help him do it, patient as a flower. 

“Yeah, actually,” he runs fingers through his facial hair, gestures to her. “Believe it or not, honey, I’m here to see you. Sent, actually.” It’s going to sound so ridiculous. Unbelievable, and at this point, it is.

More sci-fi than reality, no human in this universe is aware that time can be so manipulated. Kitty Pryde, his very vessel, isn’t even alive.

And that hollows him out like a canoe, bloodlets any confident air in his sails to the ground. It cries out unforgivingly, laughs at him. 

God was laughing at him, he was sure.

Her airy snort is dismissive, aggressively derisive. “Yeah, right,” she shakes her head, turns on the ball of her foot, “I don’t know any Logans. You can go, now,” turning back around, she backpedals away from him.

Hand flitting through the air, her chin lifts in an away gesture, “Like I said, closed classroom. Nice meeting you,” moving to the stage, she hauls herself back up, moving to retrieve the text she’d discarded. 

Stalking after her, Logan hauls up on the stage. Comes up on her, grabs her arm. Starting, she whirls around at speed, knocking into him. Fingers clamping around the muscle of her arm, the look on her face is horrified for all of a few seconds, fear skittering in and out of the blues that flash in her eyes like dreams he doesn’t want to rise from.

His hard look into her face is quelling, and she shrinks back. Pages fall from her hands, hitting the floor at their feet with a hard thunk. 

Logan can feel her heart throbbing, her blood singing with heat. Color creeps up her neck as she pulls at his grip, investigative. Eyes holding his gaze, they put up a fight—they disarm him in a way that he should fear, that shouldn’t be so difficult for a man that will endure the unthinkable.

Pain flashes between his ribs like a flare, lighting up his chest. Shuffling her a few steps closer, his other hand moves to loop a finger through a belt hoop, knuckle rubbing against the familiar leather. 

“What are you do—” 

He remembers what she told him to say, “I have a word for you,” it’s assured. Hard. Riddled with a confidence that bleeds out of him like his arteries have been sliced, pumping lifeblood onto the floor at his feet. He’ll beg, if necessary. Grovel at her beautiful feet like it’s worship, and in a way, she’s deserving.

Her eyes snap up from where he’s conjoined them, Logan watches her swallow a handful of shallow, doing-nothing breaths. “Sent to find you, darlin’.” 

Ripping her arm away, her brow mottles with scarlet heat and confusion that isn’t concrete, but instead unsure. She said she’d be confused, uncertain of him when he walked up out of nowhere and called her darlin’, a petname that meant something. The name, the one she conjured up in showers and feel asleep to. Logan knew it was her favorite; she’d told him so their first time, You had me at darlin’, Lo, and you always will.

Poetic justice, really—and maybe, now, this will be why.

He’ll be why she falls in love with that name, with how he says it, how he calls her. 

“I don’t understand,” she tries to make it sound strong. Logan releases her, expecting her to rear away like a upset horse—surprise lands in his gut when she doesn't.

Instead, she faces him. Draws her shoulders back. Lifts her chin and steps up to him, closing daylight. Her head cants slightly, eyes narrowing in that what’s up with you way that is curious, but hesitant.

Unsure rips off of her like heat he can only feel in every cell of his genetic makeup, in a way that regenerative mutation could only ever hope to heal. 

“You may not,” he challenges, it falls off a sigh as he upturns a hand. Offers it, kindly. “But try, honey. A whole lotta world needs you to try.” 

And she does. She tries. Business hours and daylight interrupt them, but she tries—and it’s a bloody fight, making her understand. Challenging every quip, every reasonable logic that she hurls at him like knives.

Moving to the auditorium’s lobby, then to the corridor, then up into the library. And  after an hour, when she really started believing him, he drags her out to his Bronco—where they can be alone. Thrive in the uninterrupted them.

Cranking the heat and turning to rest his back against the door, he accepts her denial. Any question she throws at him for another hour, every rabbit trail of You’re absolutely wrong and this is why.

She pauses to breathe and remember what class she’s blowing off, and oh does he love her. He’s already so in love with her that it hurts, bludgeons that space behind his ribs with the knowledge that soon, when this is over, he may not remember.

Multiple times Logan has had the thought to fuck everything and just run away with her, take her anywhere she wants to go and start their life right now, to explore and give life to memories he doesn’t already know.

No matter how much he rationalizes, that idea doesn’t leave him—the high fantasies of what she’d look like, attached to him at the hip.

Of who they could be, before adamantium, before the X-Men, before—

And questions finally metamorphosize. A standstill, like after a hurricane—her chest is heaving, curls sticky with sweat. Memory recall tells him that his normal for her—she’s argumentative, by nature. Defends what she believes, is not so open. Doesn’t back down from a fight, which is why, in years from now, she’ll be his perfect match. His soulmate.

The one God designed for him, since the foundation of the stars and the bends of time. 

It’s what makes her so her, a Wolverine. In a roundabout way. Another version of the same monster he becomes, but a holier one. If that’s possible—and he reminds himself it is, she becomes it. This young woman, on the cusp of living, will become everything Logan had only ever fantasized, more than he could ever conjure up in wild imaginations and greedy headdreams.

It’s surreal, sitting in this cab of this Bronco, watching windows film up with the heat of their breath. His knee knocks against the steering wheel, adjusting to glance at her milkwhite grip on the door handle. His eyes skate from hers to her grip, and he knocks his head back against the glass of the door’s window, a lazy smile turning up the corner of his mouth. 

“Still don’t believe me, huh?” 

After an eternity of silence, she side-eyes him.

“It’s only a little ridiculous,” exaggerated sarcasm drips like sour honey off her tongue, “I mean—put yourself in my shoes here, Logan.”

His heart flatlines and then resurrects—she’s called him Logan a handful of times, now. It sounds like it never has from anyone else—at points in his life before this, he’d always thought his name sounded so good, at its best coming from a woman he was balls deep in, hearing it chanted like a prayer.

But that’s gone, so anemic that it’s sick—it will only ever sound so orgasmic again if she says it. Nobody else is worthy, all graven images in comparison to the goddess she has become, him at her feet.

“It’s unbelievable.” 

Whatever else she’s said fails to land. He can’t stop hearing his name in her mouth, consonants and syllables so delicious it turns his spine to jelly, stirs up his cock in a way that makes him adjust his leg on the floorboards. Suddenly uncomfortable, sardined into a too-tight space crowded with her and everything he wants, he rolls down the window with a few pumps of his arm. Forces air in, underneath his collar.

Logan swears he’s boiling alive beneath his jacket and shirt, there will be medically evident boils when he’s finished with her. 

The Bronco rocks slightly with her moving to mirror his posture, back against her own door. Her knee knocks against the seatback, other leg bouncing anxiously against the floor.

Picking nervously at the buckle of her belt, Logan has to force himself to look up from the cut of her shirt, the way it pulls taut across her tits with the angle of how she’s sitting.

Aw, hell. Fuck him for being such a filthy, sexual creature. 

Fairly certain he will die if he doesn't have her, he repositions—sits up, leans his arms over the steering wheel to knuckle mindless patterns into the fog hanging out on the windshield. She manages an uneven sigh that may as well rip open the world—Logan cuts her a look from the corner of his eye. 

“You think I’m lyin’,” he sighs. Falls back against the seat. 

“Hell yeah I think you’re lying.”

And if that doesn't make him laugh. 

“You laugh, Logan-whoever-you-are, but—honestly. C’mon,” her hand extends to serve a point, “time travel? This isn’t Star Trek. You don’t just waltz up to someone and tell them that and expect it to be believable,” her hand flits, through the air, through whatever she uses to rationalize the anger creeping up into her words.

“And then, if that isn’t good enough, you tell me this, this Hollywood bullshit that I’m going to meet you in ten years in Canada, somewhere I’m not even ever planning to go—and that kicks off the next forty years and the survival of mutants in the future!”

Her hands fly into the air, as if trying to pull down reason from heaven, “That’s a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.” 

It’s quite the line of reasoning—he can’t fault her for it. Just chuckles, shrugging as he leans forward to pluck sunglasses off his dashboard, slip them along the cut of his collar.

Arms crossed over her tits, her chest rises and falls with nervous breath after breath, eyeballing him with enough force to rip the sun from the canopy of sky. He flicks off the heater, sweat between his shoulder blades sign enough that it’s too warm in here—she’s already damp, sweat raising the makeup on her face. 

“That’s the highlights,” didn’t mention how you’re the love of my life, how I can’t hardly think straight with you sittin’ right there, he cards his fingers through his hair. “Not askin’ you for anything, sweetheart. I’m just telling you—it’s gonna happen, and when it does, you need to remember me, this moment right here, and trust that it works out.”

He lifts a shoulder, hand turning through the air in a so-so way, “It’s like—fuck. It’s kinda like a prophecy, right? I’m telling you what’s gonna happen, and you just gotta wait to see if it does.” 

“Prophecy? You’re mocking me now, right?” 

His sigh is excessive, roughs up the wind in the tissue of his lungs with more froce than he thought possible. Knitting his brow together, his fingers pull at the cartilage in the bridge of his nose.

Stubborn little thing, always, stubbornness was both a strength and a weakness—nevermoreso underestimated in her, right now, by him. 

He nods out the window.

“This is a Bible school, right? Yeah, I know it is—you graduate here, in the spring,” the look on her face implies that he’s backhanded her, hinge of her jaw failing entirely to instead, sit there. Agog.

Rolling his eyes, he holds out a hand, begins counting off his fingers, “I told you, honey. You graduate, you get a job working for some lowlife newspaper editor–you fall in love with mutants, in that sick and twisted ADHD way of yours that you obsess about everything, and—” he stops, mostly to breathe. Halfway to bludgeon everything he wants to tell her to the point of pain, “—just listen. If you’re as high an’ mighty as you say you are—and you are, I know that about you—then you can’t say you don’t at least believe in prophecy, darlin’.”

Knifing a sharp smirk over to her, his brow lifts. “And last I checked, a whole helluva lot of unbelievable stuff happens in God’s history book, sweetheart—but I ain’t the expert.” 

That’s why I have you, in a decade or so. 

There is absolutely no time for his words to land anywhere other than nowhere. 

Her dismissal happens swiftly, like sharp jabs. The laugh bites, more of a bark than anything. Bam.

“Oh, I so get it now.” She absolutely does not, but he tastes the first blood. Pow. “You’re a messenger from God—right. Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” her eyes roll. Angles to pop the latch on the door.

In one go she’s out of the Bronco, letting all the hot air and frustration of the moment out into the arctic wasteland the parking lot has become. Bam bam bam. 

“I don’t say this very often, and pardon my language, but—fuck off, asshole.” 

Shouldering her backpack, staring at him from the cresting daylight that bleeds into the cab from behind her—if Logan didn’t believe in the celestial, he would’ve, exactly now.

Near frantic—and Logan has never, in all his 200 years been frantic—his hand slaps at the door for his own latch, and he rips out of the Bronco like a shot, hustling to stalk after her marching across the parking lot to her car like a soldier with orders.

And he is.  

Not so fast, tiger—that ain’t right, nah. Wolverine, you’re a wolverine.

My Wolverine.

“Honey, listen—” 

He grabs for her arm again, but something whips her about-face of her own volition, stepping up into his chest like a powerhouse of pride, absolution.

Her eyes cut through his armor, what will someday be adamantium bones like knives, hot and thrilling as they grab him by the absolute balls. The ferocity at which her eyes scout through his is wild, sends his blood spinning through his ears. He can’t hear anything but the thrum of his heart and every one of the breaths she sucks into her chest. 

There she is. 

 “I am not your honey, so quiet calling me that,” she bites, and it’s venomous—snapping fangs that sink deep into his veins, slavering at this soul.

And Logan should be upset with her, he should shake some common sense into her. Scream in her face the logic that she so lacks—but he can’t. He can’t move beyond the boundaries her eyes set, deep pools that empty oceans and rival the very stars hanging in the universe.

She could echo jump, and he’d beg her to know how high—and that may make him a fool. A pathetic shadow of the man he was hours ago, laying in someone’s bed, getting all the tit he wanted, without waiting.

“You say all this, this stuff about me—ok. We meet in ten years, sure. I’ll give you that. You’re hardly forgettable,” her eyes narrow, and Logan can’t miss how she shivers—how her lip trembles in the cold air, how snow clings to her lashes and sticks to her hair, carries it away across her features.

“Explain to me how you know everything about my life forty years from now, Logan.” 

Oh, fuck. This entire thing could be wrong, but it feels so right. 

Her eyes skate over him—down, up, and then back to his face. Like she’s summing him up—maybe she is. It would be the first time, but never the last.

Logan weighs the words in his chest, wishing for the first time that his bones were adamantium—that way, they’d cut through what to say. They’d bear the weight of her statement and haul them up the mountain-ing uncertainty he feels rising against the tail of his spine.

He’s never been so out of control, felt so out of his element than he does right now in the ripping wind of Minnesota cold and sunlight. 

She’s lined up the shot for him. All he has to do is take it. 

He does.

“We marry,” barely there, it’s the only thing he thinks to say.  So much more happens, “A lot of shit happens, a lot of it bad, but a’lotta good— takes a while, but eventually I get my head outta my ass and marry you, like I should years before I actually do.” 

“What?” 

Logan isn’t ready for the look of surprise on her face, and she’d told him before that he wouldn’t be.

A series of emotions pass through her eyes that he’s able to earmark, he watches them fall like dominoes—denial. Anger. Disbelief and hurt and really? that knots his guts up like the Sesame gates.

And Logan could watch the revolution of the earth around the sun in her eyes for all eternity, but their clarity is clouded by a mist of tears that rise—-she drops her head away, reaching fingers to swipe at the sting in her eyes.

She goes to turn away, and that may as well rip every organ out of his body. 

His heart leaps up into his throat, he snags her arm. Coming back willfully, he can’t miss how freezing her hand is in his. Logan pulls her close, against his chest, wraps his arms first around her shoulders, then around her waist, fingers gently skimming the rise of her jeans, the leather of her belt.

Her heart against his ribcage pistons like a locomotive, and he fears if it beats any harder, it’ll drive him into an early grave. 

When her head lifts to consider him, she isn’t crying. There’s a whimsical, faraway look on her face. He’s never seen it before, and somewhere deep inside the places you don’t show anyone but God, it terrifies him. Watches her swallow thickly, her tongue fill the pocket of her cheek. How it skips over her bottom lip, accompanies the way her eyes subliminally move back and forth, looking for him in the depths of his.

And Logan can see the thoughts spinning alive in her brain, wheels that have no place to go—that turn, over and over, looking for memories, thinking. Grasping at straws, clawing for the surface. 

Her eyes flick beyond him, back to the Bronco. Taking his hand as if she’d been doing it her entire life, she tugs him behind her, back to this Ford. Logan opens the door to tuck her inside.

Slipping in, she drops her backpack at her feet and shifts in the seat. And before he can bat the door closed, her fingers find the front of his leather jacket. Twisting into the leathers, she pulls him forward until his thighs brush the frame of the truck—until he’s flush against her chest, closer, somehow, than before.

A hairline moment and her lips find his, soft and curious but starving. 

Jumpstarted to life, every organ in his body flings forward against bone, fighting for air as she sucks the very breath from his lungs in the best way he could ever fathom.

He can tell she’s never kissed before. The way she moves, clumsy like a new calf. Can’t breathe. Her teeth knock against his, and despite how hard he tries to urge her tongue forward to meet his, it retreats. All thumbs and clumsy, it would be humorous if lightning bolts weren’t rocketing down his spine, if he wasn’t burning alive. 

And fuck, if it isn’t enough to wake up every part of him he’d been fighting to bury.

Insane, how even so foreign to him she could feel like home, like everything he’s ever been missing. His missing rib, created from dust.

Nothing aside from God’s grace keeps him composed, keeps his mutation leashed to the walls of his prison—God’s grace and how he absolutely is not actively ripping at the leather of the Bronco’s bench, nails buried so far that they ache.

Fingers find her hair, playing through brunette curls he knows will never be this long again—wraps them around his fists, nails gently pulling at her scalp in a way that makes her hiss, arches her forward against him. 

And if she doesn’t mean for that little mewl to be so lascivious, he’ll never know—it punches him low, in his dick, enough that rips a groan from the back of his throat, rattling around his teeth. She breaks first with a wet pop, a string of sticky saliva drawing him back to her in a way that leaves him stunned and breathless.

All traces of the frigid world gone, her skin coats with a sparkling sheen of slick sweat, she almost glistens. Racked with ache that he wouldn’t be able to admit in therapy, he drinks in every one of the shallow breaths she releases, as if it’s the air he needs to live.

It’s not far removed. 

Her eyes hold his captive, enraptured in his attention before they flick down to his mouth, the heave of his chest. Logan is fairly certain that fire laps up the heat in his blood, wolves eating away at the marrow of his bones, hungry in a way that nothing short of her will ever touch.

Her teeth snag her bottom lip, gnawing cautiously, and her fingers curling into his jacket are the only greenlight he requires—his hand at the back of her neck pulls her in for another kiss, a part two he’ll never stop writing, as his other hand slips behind her knee, gently guiding her down to the seat so he can slip in over her. 

It’s worship, how he crawls up her body—an altar that, memories recall, he worships at like it’s religion. She’s a fast learner, picks up the cues like a champ, finally allows him to French her in a way that should be unforgivable.

This him has never done this with her, doesn’t know her like he wants to—but memories. Fuck him, the memories; movies, their own future pornography feeds him just how she’ll react, what she likes.

In his mind, a life he's never lived, he can hear her crying out his name. Sobbing as he splits her wide open, body and soul—stares at her heart, takes everything God had given her. Greedily, he takes—he wants, desires, lusts for everything now, in a time that isn’t right, and can’t be, for the next decade. 

His hand anchored on her hip is enough to arch her back, her head tipping back into the leather of the bench, brow pulled taut into a hard line that makes his head reel. Keening, Logan angles to run his nose along her jaw, tongue lathing at the pulse pounding in her neck like a racehorse, steady like the sun.

And it takes willpower not to touch her the way his body demands, the way he lusts after. Instead his nails bite into the back of the seat, others far too busy playing with the hair he prays she never changes but knows she will. 

“Oh my god,” Logan isn’t sure it’s a prayer to him or heaven itself, but—he won’t complain how it rousts his blood, stirs his cock something good. “It’s—you’re, Logan—-shit,” His smile is wolfish, of the devil.

Perverse and twisted, he sinks his teeth into the words vampirically, rips the lifeblood from them like it’s soulworthy.

“I can’t breathe,” he knows she can’t. He knows, in some deep and faraway downs part of himself that this is all so new—so living color, so all over the place.

Part of him, a more rational Logan, knows that overstimulation stalks.

But he chuckles all the same, brushing aside the collar of her buttoned shirt to suck hard at the soft flesh of her collarbone. Lathes his tongue into its pool, tastes her sweat. Dies, resurrects to taste it again.

“You can and you will,” he prays it into her skin, hopes it takes, “hmmmm—-just feel, darlin’.” And it hurts, the way he absolutely wants. Knows he can, but won’t. Fuck, fuck,  “Fuck, yes—just, honey, just feel.” 

Her hands buried in the front of his shirt pull him back from the haze, from where he’s lost. Kiss him again. Again and again, he drinks at her well like a man who will die, and he will.

Logan will die if he doesn’t have her, if this isn't real and is nothing but a sick and feverish nightmare plagued upon him like the dead firstborn in Egypt. She’s already ripped open his chest and clawed out his heart, balancing it raw in her fingers where it bleeds out all of his will, his absolution. 

There’s a chance he doesn’t remember this.

If he dies from thirst of her, he’ll never know why.

That’s sick. 

Absently, his finger tugs over the waist of her jeans, dips beneath the denim. Grazes the buckle of her belt, investigative. She gasps, breath cut short as her back arches off the seat as his knuckle brushes her sensitive skin—she arches so far that he fears she’ll snap.

But the low of her belly is soft, inviting—inferno. He can feel her womb from here, the kiss of her cervix that memory serves is so good.

Breathless and hard, a light tug at the waist of her jeans makes him groan—all the way from the depths of his soul. It’s so familiar, so easy—he expects her to acquiesce, but it’s demonic. Torturous.

Fuck yes, this is right—

His drifting hand snaps her eyes wide open. She’s propped up on an elbow so quickly that it sends him for all of a heartbeat. Her hand shoves at his shoulder, off, and he falls back on his heels, breathing hard.

Unable to catch his breath, cut his eyes from the swell of tit peeking up over the top of that barely-there tank top she dares to call a piece of clothing. 

“No,” and there it is.

Absolution and righteousness that could strip him of his skin, if she desired.

Embarrassment sets in as she wrangles out from beneath him, to the farthest side of the Bronco that she can get. Unable to breathe, unable to think, her hand shakes as it settles over her stomach, her other propping her head up in the heel of her hand.

“Logan, I—” 

He knows. Doesn’t cure the sigh. Reaching behind him, he pulls the door closed and traps them both in the sex swirling through the Ford, unfilled and thick.

Guilt plants deep stakes into the soil of his soul, and he scrubs his hand down his face—looks out the window. Shifts against the seat, ignores the absolute agony of a hard cock festering low between his legs. 

They sit.

It’s a full silence ready to give birth, until she sweeps her hair up into a high knot, off her neck, twists to sit fully in the seat, fingers slipping through the slots on the steering wheel. He noticed when her breathing levels, when the cardio rhythm in her blood bleeds away into a normal heart rate—but it takes time. A full minute or two.

And he doesn’t know what to say, how to bridge this chasm—how to proceed from here. 

“What happens ten years from now?” She’s quiet, doesn’t look up from her hands for a few heartbeats, until sapphire eyes cut to him with a raised, interested brow. “You coming here to tell me this—does this change what happens to us when I find you, in the future?” 

The question of the ages, indeed.

“Dunno. Might not remember this, might not know you,” leaning across the seat, he moves his hand to take one of her curls, rubbing it gently between his fingers.

His other takes her hand, his thumb skipping over the familiar ring anchored firmly on her right hand—a ring she will gift him in the future, a ring that he will wear through time and space, should it be asked of him.

“Or I might. Not quite sure how the memory’s thing works when I wake up in our future, honey.” It doesn’t answer her question, and he knows that. He doesn’t have answers, never has. “Not sure how it works for you, either.” 

“Wow. You’re so helpful,” she teases.  

He cracks a small smile. “It don’t improve, trust me.” He gently brushes a knuckle over the apple of her cheek, her angling into the touch a little farther. “Still as pretty as you will be the first time I see you, sweetheart,” she said she’d need to hear this, that this alone will spare so much of the pain she has yet to live.

“You remember that, yeah? ‘Member that someone out there wants you, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” 

She slips across the seat to brush shoulders with him, her palm along his cheek guiding him for another kiss—this time, it’s what he expects. Soft, sweet, young. So her, so familiar. He could die a thousand deaths to experience this, over and over.

Softly carding his fingers back through her hair, she breaks firs. Curls a finger beneath his chin to draw his attention to her. He gives it, willingly, up unto the half of his soul and any kingdoms he possesses.

“Are you still in love with me?” Want me, Logan—do you want me? 

He smiles, nods. Presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, her lifeblood. The very pulse that will bring her back to him, that carries him away.

“I’ll love you in every time, sweetheart. Just say the word.” 

taglist: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @eternallyfrustratedwriter@ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals

[matty-bear]

II. New Tattooist, New Romantic Tension 

type: request !

pairing: idk ! LOL (nothing romantic is gonna happen srry guys 💔)

warnings: SFW, fluff

summary: in desperate need for another tattoo, nick texts mez and asks for an appointment. unfortunately for him, she’s not gonna be available for quite a while. to save the boy's despair and cure his needs, Mez suggests Nick to go to you. it took a bit of convincing, but the oldest triplet ends up in the shop with you. who knew that the blooming friendship between the two of you would cause some issues regarding nick’s younger brothers to form ?  

notes: More of a filler chapter srry guys 😖 nothing very exciting happening rn. promise next chapter will be better ! ^^ anywho, hope u enjoy ! happy reading <3 

WC: 3.7K

PT1

'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'

The soft, consistent buzzing sound of the tattoo gun held in your hand collides with the sound of Billie Eilish playing on the speaker behind you. Somehow, the buzzing didn’t clash too much with the music playing, in fact it added another blanket of comfort and easiness to the current tattoo session. 

As you find yourself softly singing along to L’amoure De Ma Vie under your breath, Nick’s voice cutting through the comfortable silence causes you to lift your head up slightly. 

“So.” The brunette starts, his gaze shifting from the poster on the wall across from him to you. “How long have you been doing tattoos?” 

“Well… it’s my this day here but-“ You begin to say, only to be cut off by Nick gasping halfway through your sentence. 

The boy abruptly lifts his head up from the head cushion he’s resting on, his eyes mimicking those of a deer caught in headlights as he stares at you wide-eyed. “WHAT? GIRL…” The male exclaims, the tone of voice going up a few octaves. 

“You didn’t let me finish.” You say with a soft laugh as you lift the tattoo gun off Nick’s calf. You take a moment to get more ink in your device before continuing, “I’ve been doing tattoos for about five years but it’s only my third day working here in the shop.” 

A loud and long ‘ah’ sounds from Nick as he lays his head back down on the small cushion attached to the recliner. Soon after, soft laughter bubbles up his throat and the brunette finds himself clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. 

Curious at the male's sudden outburst, you turn your head to face him, a small giggle of your own slipping from your lips as you take a moment to look at him. “What are you laughing at?” You ask with a laugh. 

Nick allows more laughter to rack through his body for a moment more before he removes his hand from his mouth and replies, “I was so scared.” The male manages to say through choked laughter. “I deadass thought I was gonna get scammed or some shit.” 

“Seriously? How would I scam you? You literally saw my Instagram yourself.” At this point, the tattoo gun in your hand has been momentarily forgotten, the buzzing emitting from it falling on deaf ears and your focus staying solely on the current rather silly conversation at hand. 

“I have no idea.” You join Nick in the laughing fit for a little while longer before you remember why the boy was with you in the shop in the first place. 

Quickly, you immediately shift back into professional mode and take a moment to examine the tattoo, which is very close to being finished, on the brunette's lower leg. With a few wipes to clean off the ink residue sliding off the male’s freshly shaven skin, you get back to work. 

Nick, noticing the sudden switch up in your demeanor, quickly clamps his mouth shut and forces the remaining giggles threatening to escape his lips down his throat. It only took a few deep breaths from the male for him to fully calm down and sink into the wrapped recliner seat, his brain momentarily shutting off as it takes in the soft beats of Billie Eilish. 

~~~~~

 “And….” You sing softly as you gently drag a ink-filled paper towel across Nick’s final tattoo. With a wide, proud smile, you sit up right and stare down at the male's leg for a moment before exclaiming, “We’re done!” 

“Really?” Nick beams, his eyes widening in excitement as he hurriedly attempts to sit up. Seeing how the boy struggles to do so, presumably due to his arms which fell asleep from being immobile for so long, you quickly rush over to where his upper body is.

Slipping your arm behind the brunette’s back and setting your free hand on his bicep, you assist him into a sitting position. Once Nick is comfortably sitting up, he bids you a small ‘thank you’ and stretches his arms out before him.

A small yawn racks through his body for a moment before he quickly bends his leg upwards, his eyes scanning his calf for the new tattoos. When his eyes finally lands on one of them, an excited gasp escapes his lips, followed by his jaw dropping slightly in pure awe. 

“HOLYFUCKTHATSSOCLEAN!” The male exclaims, his words quickly slurring together due to his excitement. “Fuck, where are the other two hold on.” 

A small giggle manages to escape your lips as you turn on your heels to walk over to a cabinet across the room. The moment you open one of the doors, Nick gasping in astonishment yet again sounds through your ears, drawing a soft laugh from you. After scanning the contents stacking the few shelves in the cabinet, you quickly slip a bottle of soap and a clear container off their shelves. 

Once you shut the door gently with a soft thud, you turn back around and approach the recliner where Nick is still sitting. You take a seat back on your chair next to the brunette and use your free hand to pull your rolling tray closer to you. 

You gently set down the container on the cold metal and set the bottle in between your index and middle fingers down on your lap to grab the roll of paper towels with both your hands. You rip a few off the roll rather quickly and set it back down on the tray to pick up the two items you had moments before. 

“Considering how many tattoos you have, I'm guessing you know about the aftercare and such, right?” You ask, batting an eye at the brunette as you flick open the small latch on the clear container. 

“Oh, for sure! I need to not pick at it, no matter how itchy it gets, and keep it cleaned and moisturized until it fully heals.” Nick explains with a firm nod of his head. 

“Good, good.” You mumble as you slip a few adhesive medical-grade sheets out of the container. As you set the small box back on the tray, Nick’s eyebrows furrow in confusion and interest as you begin to flick your pointer finger around the edge of one of the sheets. 

“What’s that?” At the male's question, you momentarily stop your actions and lift your head to lock eyes with him. Now it’s your turn for your eyebrows to furrow in slight confusion. With your head tilted to the side, you ask, “You don’t know what these are?” 

Hesitantly, Nick shakes his head softly. “I’m guessing it’s another wrap of some sort.” 

“Well you’re not very far off.” You take a quick moment to fix your focus back on finding the opening of the sheet before you continue, “It’s clear adhesive medical-grade sheets. They’re a lot better than regular plastic wrap in my opinion since they trap moisture a lot better and prevent little to no bacteria from coming into contact with your tattoo.” 

A hum of understanding sounds from Nick as he gently nods his head. “I'm used to the plastic wrap since Mez usually uses it but I'm very intrigued with these sheets.” 

“Mez likes keeping it old school sometimes. I think she’ll start to use these soon though. Most people in the shop have started to use them.” Nick hums yet again and grows silent to allow you to focus on removing the adhesive sheet from the packaging. 

Once you successfully have it removed, you gently set the sheet back down on the plastic before reaching over to your tray to pick up a single paper towel and the bottle from earlier. You easily flick the cap open with your pointer finger and pour some of the liquid on the thin paper. After shutting it and setting it back down on the tray, you gently grasp Nick’s ankle to draw his leg closer to you. As you move the male’s limb over, the boy quickly scoots over with a sheepish smile. 

Setting down your palm on Nick’s shin, you locate the first tattoo and give it a few wipes to clean the area from any leftover ink or blood. Once that is done, you quickly pick up the adhesive sheet and place it directly over the tattoo. You give the area a few taps to make sure it’s secure before sitting up straight, a small smile immediately gracing your lips as you scan the patched area. 

“Alright, first tattoo is successfully covered! Two more to go.” You state, your smile not faltering as you glance over at Nick. 

“That was it? It usually takes Mez a little bit longer to get it wrapped.” Nick asks, his mouth shaping into a small oval. As the male sits up and leans forwards to examine the covered tat with a surprised expression, you reply, “Well, i’m not covering your entire leg; just the tattoo and some of the skin around it. I’m telling you, this shit is amazing.” 

“It really is.” Nick mumbles as he extends a hand down to graze a finger over the adhesive. You can’t help but giggle softly at the male’s curiosity as you quickly prep your items to cover his next tattoo. The wrapping process didn’t take more than 20 minutes and Nick simply sat back and silently watched as you got to work on cleaning and covering his tattoos. 

Just as you finished placing the last adhesive sheet on Nick’s final tattoo, Lunch by Billie Eilish began to play. The moment the beginning beats of the song spilled from the speaker behind you, a small gasp escaped you as you sat back up. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Nick asks, a look of worry immediately flashing across his face as he hurriedly sits upright. 

“Nothing, nothing.” You quickly reassure the brunette with a small wave of the hand. “I just love this song.” 

“Oh my God…” A laugh of disbelief escapes Nick's lips as he lays back down with a soft thud. “Fucking gave me heart attack.” 

“My bad.” A small giggle manages to slip from you as you send the male a small, apologetic smile. “Anyways, I believe we’re done now. You’re free to go.” 

“Wait, I kinda don’t wanna leave.” Nick mumbles as he brings a hand up to his nape to gently caress the skin there. 

“How come?” You ask the boy as you begin to pry your black gloves off your hands. 

“I had so much fun and you’re so sweet and nice.” At the sound of Nick's voice cracking slightly, you quickly pick your head up and look at him. Immediately, you’re met with the brunette frowning and growing teary eyed. 

“Awh, Nick. Don’t cry!” You quickly wheel yourself over to the male and wrap your arms around his shoulders to bring him into a hug. 

“I’m sorry I really don’t mean to, I promise. I tend to get a little emotional when I'm met with nice people.” Nick mumbles an apology as he sets his chin on your shoulder, a soft sniffle escaping him. 

“Hey, you don’t need to apologize. You’re good, promise. You can cry however much you want. I’m honestly really touched that you think I'm this sweet.” 

“You really are. I swear if we don’t become best friends I'm gonna go insane.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips as you rub comforting circles on Nick’s clothed back. “I don’t think you have to worry about us becoming best friends. Aren’t we friends already?” 

Nick pulls away from your embrace and takes a moment to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his zip up before asking, “Are we?” 

“Of course we are! You’re literally the best and sweetest client I've ever had. Not to mention how you have the best music taste. I kid you not when I play my Melanie playlist during a session, the majority of my clients will ask me to change the music. Do you know how many times I've had to sit in this room for hours listening to country music?” 

“Oh my…” Nick mumbles, a look of both horror and fear spreading across his features. The boy lets out a soft laugh before he says, “I swear if I had to listen to only country music during a tattoo session, I’d pass away in the chair.” 

“I almost did for a few sessions.” You say with a small laugh. “I’m down for listening to any genre of music but country is definitely where I cross the line.” 

“Oh, same here.” Nick agrees with a soft head nod. The brunette goes to open his mouth to add onto the conversation but is quickly cut off by a phone ringing. As you unwillingly flinch at the loud sound piercing your eardrums, Nick quickly digs his hand in the pocket of his pants. After a few seconds, the male pulls the device out and softly taps the screen to turn it on. 

When it lights up, his eyes immediately skim over the notifications filling his home screen. Upon reading a certain message, a small frown begins to form on Nick’s lips. At the sight of the sudden switch in the brunette’s mood, your eyebrows furrow, followed by your head tilting to the side slightly. 

“Everything alright?” You ask the male. After a moment of hesitation, you gently set a hand on Nick’s clothed shoulder, your pointer finger subconsciously caressing the soft fabric of his zip up. 

You manage to catch the male take a quick glance up at you before his eyes shift back down to his device. “Umm…” Nick hums, his voice barely above a whisper as he unlocks his phone and opens up his messages. After opening up a chat, the boy continues, “My brother is telling me to hurry up. Kids apparently starving to death in the car.” 

A soft chuckle slips through your lips as Nick sighs softly and begins typing out a response to the message sent from his brother. 

“Is he waiting outside or something?” You ask. 

“Yeah. Both my brothers are.” Nick replies with a small head nod. “I told them they could leave and pick me up when I'm done.” The boy grumbles under his breath, slight irritation present in his tone. After hitting the send button, the brunette finally lifts his head to look up at you. After heavily exhaling through his nose, the boy continues, “I’m afraid I have to go now.” 

At the sight of Nick’s frown depending, you bring the boy into another quick hug. “Hey, don’t sweat it. Come visit me sometime. The door is always open!” You reassure the boy as you rub comforting circles on his back once more. 

“But you’re so sweet and nice, I wanna stay.” Nick mumbles sadly. 

“I would definitely let you stay a bit longer but I don’t wanna get on your brothers’ bad sides. Also, I do think I have another appointment in 30 minutes and I need to start prepping for that.” 

With a loud, dramatic groan from Nick, the boy pulls away from your embrace. The small frown on his lips stays etched onto his face as he slowly slips off the wrapped recliner. “I suppose I'll go then.” Nick mumbles with a sigh, his shoulders dropping dramatically as he does so. “Thanks for the tats. I really appreciate it. You fucking did amazing.” 

“Of course! Also thanks, Nick. That means a lot.” You say with a small smile. “I'll see you soon hopefully?” 

“Most definitely. You’ll be seeing more of my ass in this shop. You’re never gonna get rid of me.” 

A small chuckle escapes your lips as you gently shake your head. After ensuring that he has all his belongings, Nick shuffles over to you and wraps his arms around your shoulders to pull you into yet another hug. You quickly reciprocate the affection by wrapping your arms loosely around his middle. 

After a moment, the boy pulls away and bids you a small ‘goodbye’ and another ‘thank you’ before exiting your room. After ensuring that the door is closed correctly, Nick spins around on his heels and begins his short walk to the front of the shop. Just as he approaches the front door, a familiar voice cusses him to momentarily stop in his tracks. 

“See you, Nick.” 

With a quick turn of the head, Nick locks eyes with the male, who he recently learned is named Mike thanks to you, who’s standing behind the front desk. The raven haired male has his head propped up on the palm of his left hand as the other is lazily draped on the wooden furniture in front of him. 

A small, sluggish smile decorates his features as he keeps intense eye contact with the brunette in front of him. Speaking of the boy, Nick stays frozen in his spot for a moment longer, his mind desperately searching for a decent response. After what felt like an eternity of staring at Mike, (which was really about six seconds) Nick finally opens his mouth to voice a response. 

“See you. Have a nice day.” 

With that, Nick rips his gaze away from the tattooed male and pushes the door open to rush out of the shop. As Nick seemingly bolts down the sidewalk, he nearly misses the van which is parked not far from the shop. Matt, noticing that his older brother has passed the car, quickly sets his hand on the car horn and pushes the area a few times. At the sound of the honking, Nick jumps and quickly turns around, his eyes wide in slight fear and his heart beating loudly in his ears. 

At the sight of the brunette staring at him and not moving a muscle, Matt sighs heavily and rolls down his window to stick his head out. “Get in the car you idiot!” The boy shouts before he plops back down on his seat. 

“Yeah, Big Yellow! Get in the car!” Chris exclaims, also rolling his window down slightly to poke his head out of the car. 

“I’m not even blonde anymore!” Nick shouts back, throwing his arms in the air in slight irritation. The brunette can faintly make out Chris giggling as he gets back in his seat and rolls his window back up. Nick huffs before his legs begin to bring him over to the van. 

Upon arriving at the side door, the boy pushes the button on the handle and waits for the door to slide open before he hops inside. He quickly pulls the lever on the door down to shut it before seating himself down on the seat, a heavy exhale escaping him as he feels the cold air conditioning inside the car nip at his nose. 

“Sooo,” Chris sings as he turns around in his seat to look back at the older, a wide smile clear as day on his face. “How’d it go? Was y/n nice?” 

“God, she was so fucking nice. I kid you not, I thought I was conversing with a literal angel. Not to mention how fucking pretty she is, holy fuck. The session went so smoothly I've never felt so comfortable and content with someone during a tattoo session.” Nick gushes, a bright smile immediately decorating his features as he sits at the edge of his seat, excitement radiating off him. 

“That’s great, Nick. I’m glad she was nice. Did you cry in front of her because of it?” Matt asks teasingly as his eyes shift up to the rear view mirror. 

Nick’s excited expression immediately falls at Matt’s question, his eyes quickly narrowing as he sends a glare to the younger boy through the mentioned overhead mirror. “No.” The boy replies flatly. 

“You’re a fucking liar. I know you cried in there.” 

“OKAY maybe I did. Leave me alone. She was too sweet and you know how emotional I get when I meet such kind people.”  At the sight of Nick turning his head towards the window with a small pout, Matt laughs softly and looks down, a single hand coming up to his face to rub his eyes. 

“Awh, Nick.” Chris chuckles. 

“I don't wanna hear it. Can we go now? I’m hungry.” Nick asks as he crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze staying fixated on the tattoo shop down the street. 

“We’re not gonna get a tattoo reveal?” Matt questions, a fake hurtful expression spreading across his face as he reaches for the gear shift.  

“I’ll show you guys when we get home. I don’t feel like tossing my leg on the center console like it’s a piece of raw meat and risk pulling something. I already walk fucking crooked as hell, I don’t wanna lose a leg and fuck up my walking even more.” 

Both Matt and Chris immediately dissolve into hysterical laughter at the older’s statement. The younger of the two bends forwards, loud laughter spewing from his lips like honey. Matt on the other hand bends his head down and rubs his eyes with both his hands, his mouth slightly wide as softer laughter falls from his lips. 

“He said raw meat.” Chris says through laughter, tilting his head to look over at Matt. 

“Fucking kid.” Matt giggles. 

“It’s literally not that funny. I seriously don’t understand how I can make you guys laugh that hard.” Nick says, confusion taking over his features as he finally turns his head to send judgemental looks to his two younger brothers. 

“You’re just a funny guy, Nick.” Chris says as he finally sits up right, a few giggles still escaping his lips as he wipes away the fake tears at his eyes. Nick raises an eyebrow at the male and shakes his head with a soft sigh before leaning back against his chair. 

“I think the correct term is silly, Chris.” Matt corrects the younger as he drops one of his hands from his face. 

“Matt…” Nick mumbles in pure disbelief as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t. Just don’t.” 

As Matt raises his hands up in surrender, Chris laughs softly and lands a few hits to his shoulder. 

“That’s fucking terrible.” Chris laughs, his eyes squinting as he doubles over in laughter yet again. A proud smile spreads across Matt’s lips as he pulls the gear shift down to reverse. As the male proceeds to pull out of the parking spot, the car fills with comfortable silence, occasional giggles coming from Chris as he scrolls through his Instagram feed. 

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[finelinevogue]

family will get you through

summary - you go through a life changing operation but you have a strong family to get you through it

warnings: brain tumour, anxiety, self deprecation, swearing, kissing n fluff, hopeful ending, i wrote this 2 years ago so it’s not up to my usual writing standards unfortunately :(

word count: +6.8 k

pairing: husband/dad!harry x reader

Everything was occurring like normal. You were making the kids lunches for school as usual. You were cleaning the breakfast away as usual. Harry was on his last day of tour. Yet, somehow, within 24 hours, your life was going to be turned upside down.

For the worst.

During the hoovering of the carpet you heard your phone ring. After spending 10 seconds to find the bloody thing you finally picked up.

During the hoovering of the carpet you heard your phone ring. After spending 10 seconds to find the bloody thing you finally picked up.

"Hello?" You asked, not recognising the number.

"Hi there. Is this Y/N Styles speaking?" The male voice asked, on the end of the line.

"Yes it is." You answer.

"Hiya Y/N. It's Dr Hughes here." He introduced himself, but it didn't comfort you any more knowing who was on the other side of the phone. Your doctor never calls you unless it's bad news. The last time they called, it was because Sofia might have had suspected appendicitis. She didn't, but still the doctors remained the bearers of bad news.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Dr Hughes?" You asked politely, with a hint of sarcasm dripping in your tone.

"Unfortunately I bring bad news, again, Mrs Styles." He began, making you gulp down your worries unsuccessfully. "The tests that we ran on you, a while back, came back and unfortunately there is a problem." Your heart relaxed slightly that there was nothing wrong with your children or your husband.

"Okay." You urged him to carry on, disliking all the tip-toeing sounds the problem.

"Mrs Styles, there is no easy way of me telling you this." Dr Hughes took a deep breath before announcing the news. "You have a brain tumour, Y/N."

Luckily you were stood by the sofa and were able to collapse on that, when your legs gave way, otherwise you'd have landed on the floor. You covered your hand over you mouth to muffle any noises that threatened to escape, as you were in pure shock.

"It's not an overly large tumour and it will be able to be removed, with quick and efficient surgery, which we can offer, but we needed confirmation that you are willing to go through with this first." Your head was spinning and you couldn't tell up from down for a minute. It took a few calls of your name, from Dr Hughes, to pull you back.

"Um... Sorry. Is there any chance I can come talk to you in person?" You sniffled, but cleared your throat to try and stay strong over the phone.

"I'm free all tomorrow morning, Mrs Styles. Please feel free to drop in at any time." He kindly offered.

"Thank you." You said.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Styles, but if we act quickly you'll be alright. I guarantee it." He assured you and with you final goodbye you hung up the phone.

With him no longer listening to you over the phone you were able to break down in tears. You never thought something like this would be happening to you, but yet here you were. With a brain tumour, no less.

Your cry's were starting to hurt your chest from how heavy they were. You couldn't calm yourself down and all you wanted right now was Harry. Harry... What would he think about all this? Would he leave you? You hated that your brain went straight to that question but that was the hard hitting reality of the situation.

You tapped on Harrys number and called him, hoping he wasn't too busy. He always told you, whenever you needed him, no matter what time, he'll always be there. But would he still want to be there when he finds out his wife has a brain tumour?

After two rings he picks up.

"Hi love, everything okay? You're lucky I was up otherwise I would've been asleep!" The soothing tones of his voice calming you down.

"Shit, H, i'm so sorry." You sobbed loudly down the phone, not being able to bravely hold it in anymore.

"Hey, hey. It's fine Y/N/N. No need to cry over it love." He coos, not fully understanding why you were having a full breakdown over potentially waking him up.

"No. No i-it's not that H." You lean on your knees and cup your hand over your temples to soothe some of the pain, from the headache that was forming.

"Okay then. What's wrong baby? You can tell me, it's alright." His voice slightly trembling, hating the sound of you heavily crying without him there to comfort you.

If you did ever cry like this either Harry was right beside you, hugging you like there's no tomorrow, or you'd get through it by yourself - if he was away. You felt selfish dumping your problems on him when he wasn't right there to comfort you through it. Today was even worse, though. Today was Harrys last concert for the Love on Tour, tour, in L.A. Not only did he have a duty to preform to his adoring fans, he was also thousands of miles away. He wouldn't be able to do anything, other than offer some calming words, but somehow, this time, you didn't see how that was going to be enough.

"I got a call from Dr Hughes." You began and taking a deep breath before continuing, only imagining where Harry's head was at with those words. "H, i'm so sorry. He - uh - he told me I have a brain tumour. He said, with surgery, it can be removed but I need to act quick. I-i'm going to see him tomorrow, but I just needed to tell you."

You expected Harry to cut in at some point, but there was only silence. He was only ever quiet when he was shocked or had nothing left to say, and it terrified you that he was feeling that way.

"Harry?" You trembled out, wondering if he was even still there.

You heard him clear his throat before talking. "Um, yeah okay."

You were taken aback by how little words he was using. You couldn't work out whether you'd rather have had him say nothing at all. Your heart strings started to break a little at the thought that he was, most likely, thinking of different ways to divorce you and so forth. His life was too precious for him to be left with a damaged wife. God knows what you'll be like after surgery, and Harry didn't need to be stuck with looking after you when he should be touring with his adoring fans.

"Sorry, H." You murmured before hanging up, knowing he wouldn't have anything to say back. You regretted not wishing him look for his last concert date tonight, but it wasn't at the forefront of mind right now. You knew he would smash it anyways - he always did.

What if that had been your last goodbye?

You placed your phone on the coffee table and hysterically cried to yourself.

••••

A few hours later and you had called your parents over, after telling them, to pick the kids up from school - seeing as you were too emotionally unstable to be doing so. It made you feel like such a disappointment not being able to be strong enough to pick up your children, but you were worried you wouldn't be able to focus when driving - and you wouldn't put your children in danger.

Your parents had arrived as quickly as they could and spent hours reassuring you that you'd be okay, and that Harry loved you too much to ever say goodbye. You had a hard time believing them though, considering Harry had said all of two words to you - none of which implied that he still loved you and was going to be there for you through it all.

It was times like this when all you wanted, and needed, was your Harry, but unfortunately that just couldn't be the case. If Harry were to leave you, you wouldn't know what to do. You have kids and you always promised Harry that none of your kids would be raised from a broken home - you just couldn't put them through that. Yet, now, it seems inevitable.

After the kids had got back from school and had dinner, which you sat around for but didn't have anything, you and your children had cuddled up to watch some Netflix. Your parents had gone home, telling you that you just needed some time alone with your children. They never questioned what was wrong, but they could tell something was up. It took watching 5 episodes of The Big Bang Theory until your children were all on the verge of sleep, and so you'd shuffled them all along to bed.

"Mummy?" Sofia asked as you turned off her main light and turned on her bed light. You walked over to her single-bed, that was decorated in princesses and flowers, and sat down next to her.

"Yes sweetheart?" You answered. Sofia had been quiet all evening, but you just assumed she had been tired.

"I missed you picking me up today." She told you with her sad eyes. You brushed her hair off her face and behind her ear.

"I know. I missed you too, but mummy had some news today that wasn't very nice and so I didn't want to upset you with me being upset." You told her, not feeling like you had to hide anything from your children.

"Are you going to be okay?" She asked sincerely, with a little wobble of her rosy lips to signify she was worried about you. You hated that your children had to check on you, and yet your husband hadn't, but you also appreciated it greatly.

You thought about how to answer her question, because it was hard to answer. Of course you were going to face complications and re-percussions, later in time, after surgery, but you also would if you didn't have surgery. It was just whether or not something went wrong in surgery, or it actually turned out the surgery was no longer viable. You wanted to tell her so badly that everything would be okay, but you also couldn't lie to her.

"Mummy's going to be just fine." You turn your head to see your gorgeous husband standing in the doorway, looking like he'd been crying due to the red puffy eyes. They were probably similar to yours, however you'd tried to hide yours from your children.

As soon as you made eye contact with Harry the tears fell freely down your face. There was no stopping them either. Emotions were flying all over the place, but the one that stood out the most was relief. You thought you'd have a runaway husband but instead he was right here. He'd flown all the way from L.A. just to see you. You had no idea what was happening with the tour but you couldn't think of anything other than the man stood in the hallway.

"Daddy!" Sofia screamed, like she'd just gained 100 pounds of energy, and jumped out of her bed to run to her dad. Her little legs could only make her run so fast but when she got there Harry was ready to scoop her up in his warm embrace.

"Ohhh I missed you, my love." Harry pressed light kisses all over her face and Sofia started squirming in his grasp, giggling as Harry continued to attack her.

"Did someone say dad is here?" You heard Will day from down the hall, but you'd buried your face in your hands, in disbelief and shock, to truly acknowledge what was going on.

You listened to the sounds of them reuniting and getting bombarded by kisses from Harry, until it got a bit too overwhelming. Harry was actually here and that was something you thought would be a distant dream, and hearing him play with your children was such a joyous thing to hear. You decided that you needed a minute away, and to yourself.

"Excuse me." You announce softly, working your way past the pile of people that were now on the floor. You wanted to laugh at how your children had tackled Harry down to the ground, but your tears prevented you from feeling that way.

You walked to your bedroom, and outside onto the small terrace that was attached to it. It let you have a stunning view of the city in the distant, but you could also had the pleasure of having the rolling hills, and stunning fields of gold, in the foreground. You shut the sliding door over, trying to get the atmosphere as quiet at possible. You rested your elbows on the stone railing and placed your hands on your forehead, before continuing your hardened sobs. Ever since the dreaded phone call this morning, you don't think you've had a second, after it, where there hasn't been a teardrop on your skin.

After 5 minutes, give or take, you heard the sliding doors open. You didn't need to turn and look to see who it was to know who it was - his comforting presence alone telling you.

You turned around quickly to see he had been stood infinitely close behind you, probably apprehensive about touching or comforting you. The way you immediately brought your arms around him, to give him a hug, took him by surprise, but within seconds he was embracing you back and tighter than ever. You buried your face in his chest as the tears continued, but he didn't seem to mind at all.

After a minute or two, hugging in comfortable silence, you tilted your head up and looked from his eyes to his gorgeous lips. He noticed you looking and started to lean himself down slowly, still being wary of how you were feeling towards him. You couldn't take being away from him any longer, and so cupped the back of his neck to bring him down faster.

The feeling of his lips on yours made you feel invincible. You forgot about all yours worries when he was pressed close against you. It was as if nothing else mattered, but only you two. He made you forget that he had been a jerk on the phone. He made you forget that you had a bloody brain tumour. He made you forget every small detail you'd been worrying over for the past 14 hours or so. Even though it only lasted for a minute; he made you forget.

The sound of smacking lips detaching one another allowed you to breathe again. He was good at making you feel breathless and savouring every minute moment he had with you. You both stared in to each others eyes and let them talk to one other. You could tell by his emerald, doe, eyes that he was unimaginably sorry, and he could tell from yours that you forgave him no questions asked.

"I thought you'd left me." You honestly let him know.

"Never, baby. I promised i'd always be there for you, and some fucking tumour, isn't going to change that." You loved that Harry could find the light in a situation like this. It's one of his charming qualities that never ceases to amaze you.

"I have th—"

"Daddy?" You hear from behind you both. You see Sofia standing there, in her cute lilac polka-dot onesie, looking at Harry with adoring eyes. She hasn't seen him in a month or so, and so seeing him, earlier than expected too, has turned her into a little sheep to follow Harry - wanting to spend every spare minute with him.

"Sof." Harry sighed, reluctantly detaching himself from around you. "I told you, sweetheart, that I need to make sure mummy's okay for a bit, alright?" He reminded her, his words filling your heart with so much love and happiness you thought it might burst.

"But daddyyy..." She whines, stomping her foot delicately on the floor.

"No Sof. It's not fair on mummy is it?" He crouched down to her level to caress her soft cheeks.

"H, it's alright. I'm alright. Go and see to her, and the boys too if they want you. I can wait."

Harry stands back up, after seeing how his daughters expression changes to a much more excited one. He walks over to you and cups both your cheeks with his large, veiny, hands.

"You're so annoying, you know that right?" Harry teases you, probably frustrated that your intimate moment, that could've turned into something more intimate, had been interrupted. He gives you a quick kiss on the lips and you pushed him along to go sort out his children.

An hour and a half later you and Harry were sat in the bath together. You were layed back against his chest and his arms, along with yours, were resting on top of your stomach. Your legs were interwoven and your head was back against Harrys shoulder, his cheek to the top of your head. You'd argue that this is more intimate that anything else - to be so desperately close to one another, and yet still hold back from all pleasurable interactions. Sure, the moments leading up to you both needing the bath had been beautiful and raw, sending all kinds of sensations flying through your body, but this was something special.

If you could freeze time, this is where you'd like to be frozen.

"Will you get angry at me if I apologise again?" Harry asked, nodding his cheek further into your hair - which apparently smelt like 'heaven' according to Harry.

"Most likely." You chuckled, knowing that you wouldn't but you'd become irate about it. You'd lost count of the amount of times that Harry had apologised to you this evening, but he said he couldn't ever put a number on how many times he should apologise because it would be too big. He vowed to use the rest of his life to show how he'll love you till the end of your time, and prove he never intended to leave you. You thought he'd proved himself enough over the past few hours he's been back, but you weren't going to stop him from showering you in more love.

"Sorry." Harry buries his head in your shoulder to hide away from your pretend wrath.

You move around in the warm, soapy bath water until you're straddling his legs. The bath water sloshed around as you moved, but luckily you were agile enough to not let any spill overboard. Harry couldn't take his eyes off your mesmerising body, and you had to tilt his chin up for him to lose contact with your chest and gain contact with your orbs.

"You're the worst." You tease him for apologising to you, again, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your chest up against his - hissing at the cold contact against your boobs.

"Don't I know it." He rolls his eyes and gives you a smirk, holding on to your back tighter.

"But I couldn't love you any less." You tell him, kissing his lips quickly but enough to send butterflies through your body.

"Hmm. Well that could be a compliment, depending on how much you love me already?" He asked, pointing out the flaw in your nonsense.

You thought for a minute before answering. "I love you more than you love me." You slyly smirk, knowing how badly he hates comparing your love. He's such a sore loser and finds it bruising to his ego when you say you love him more than he does you. He belly laughs at your statement, not being able to control himself.

"Not only did you just deflate my ego, and boost your narcissism, but it's cute that you actually believe what you said." Harry starts of lightheartedly but you can tell he became more serious towards the end.

"But I—"

"I don't think so Mrs Styles." He brings you even closer, which you thought was impossible.

"I love you H."

"I love you... even more." Harry returns, and you drop your head, giggling, on to his shoulder from giving up with him.

•••••

2 months later and surgery had been successful.

The day of the surgery you'd never felt more nervous for anything. The nerves you felt that day even beat your pre-wedding nerves. It was such an intense and overwhelming feeling, and none of it would have been possible if it weren't for Harry being there for you the whole time. Your children were all superstars too. They continuously showered you in love, and although it was Harry buying the gifts, they treated to you flowers whenever you were down. Whether it was a bunch of roses, a bouquet of different flowers or a single sunflower to plant in the garden, it always managed to cheer you up.

You had surgery a couple of days ago and you were still in and out of sleep, not having spoken a word yet. The morphine dosage that they gave you, along with all the other concoctions of medicine they gave you, had been really strong. The doctor had explained to you, after surgery, how you might not come around, properly, until a few days after surgery. No doubt Harry stayed by your side through all of it.

Lying subconscious in bed allowed you to think a lot. It terrified you as to how you were going to be after surgery and how dependent you were going to have to be on other people for a while. Apparently your legs and arms become really weak, because you brain has been out of action and a small proportion has been attacked by a tumour, and that scared you. You didn't want your children to see you helpless - what kind of example would that set to them? You probably would have to be fed for a small amount of time, and either use crutches or maybe a wheelchair, and you, being the strong and independent woman you are, hated that.

Today was different. You could feel it.

You woke up, from your light slumber, with a heavy presence on your hand. If you hadn't become so accustomed to the feel of Harrys hand you probably wouldn't have known what it was, but you'd recognise that soft, bony, feel anywhere.

You open your eyes slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the light in their own time. You noticed you were in your own private room, something that they had very limited numbers of in hospitals here, and it was no doubt due to Harrys constant nagging and persistency that you were here. Looking to your right you confirmed that it was Harry holding your hand. He was slouched in a chair, facing your direction, sleeping, but holding your hand nevertheless. It took another second to realise Sofia was asleep in his lap, looking like the princess she was. There was another few chairs in the corner of the room and you realised your sons were all sat on them. Thomas and Eric resting their heads on each other and Will sat with his hood pulled up over his face.

It was beyond comforting to know your family was still here and waiting patiently for you.

You softly ran your finger over Harrys hand, trying to cause a disturbance. You'd attempted to voice your actions but nothing came out, due to your throat being so dry. You noticed a cup of water next to your bedside table and decided to help yourself. You turned the best you could, with Harry still holding on to your hand, and then moved your arm to the water. It was hard, really hard, but you managed to do it. You held the plastic cup as firmly as you could, with your trembling fingers, and sat up a bit further to take a sip. You managed a few sips before your fingers gave way and you dropped the plastic cup to the floor, spilling the rest of the water on the floor.

The noise wasn't loud but obviously loud enough to wake people up. Everyone except Harry - whom didn't wake up for anyone. He could sleep through an earthquake if he tried.

"Mum!" "Mummy!" A chorus of your children's voices echoed throughout the room, eventually waking Harry up in the process. Thomas and Eric came over to stand next to your bedside, taking your hand in both of theirs. Will rested on the end of the bed, giving you a soft smile which you returned. Sofia jumped across from Harrys lap on to your bed and engulfed you in a hug.

"Umph." You let out the noise when she jumped on you, still feeling a little sensitive all over your body.

"Hey, hey. Sof. You need to be careful with mummy, alright?" Harry comes and removes her slightly off of you, so you don't have to carry as much weight.

"Sorry mummy." Sofia apologises, going to sit next to you, her little legs dangling off the bed and miles from the floor. You gave her a small smile to signify you were okay and that you didn't need her apology. Harry stood nearby her in case she fell.

"How are you mum?" Will asked. Even though Will acted like he was too cool to get involved, you knew that he did honestly care and his question warmed your heart that he was taking an interest.

"A bit achey, not going to lie. I also find it really hard to move my legs and arms, but that was to be expected." You try and say with a strong and brave voice, but you didn't even convince yourself that it was.

"Will, buddy?" Harry asks, catching Will's attention. "Could you maybe take Sofia and the boys to the vending machine?" He hands over a handful of loose change. "Just get some crisps or chocolate for yourselves, please?"

Will obviously understood that his dad was asking for a couple of minutes alone with you.

"Sure. Cmon Sof." Will cheerily spoke, holding out his hand for her. Harry helped her off the bed, and Thomas and Eric both squeezed your hand to show they were here for you. Once they all left, Sofia rambling on about her favourite chocolate bar, Harry came and sat down by you.

He wrapped both his large hands in your smaller, and frailer, one. He leant down to plant a long-lasting kiss to your forehead, the sparks remaining even after he'd moved away. He then rested his forehead lightly on yours, looking in to your eyes the best he could from this angle. You had a feeling he just wanted to be as close to you as possible. You'd be lying if you said you didn't want the same thing.

"I missed you." Harry whispered against your face, your lips ghosting each other.

"You've been here the whole time, H." You  remind him.

"But it wasn't the same. Not being able to see these beautiful, dreamy, eyes. Not being able to annoy you whenever I want. Not being able to cuddle up next to you in bed every night. Not being able to hear your angelic laugh." He stops to look down at your lips. "And not being able to kiss these pretty things." He nudged his nose against yours.

"Well nothing's stopping you now." You smirk.

Harry lets out a small chuckle before rushing down to meet your lips with his. It was as if it was the first time he was getting to do it. He was so excited and you could feel the happiness radiate off him as his lips moulded against yours. You had to pull away to catch your breath.

"Yeah. Definitely missed that." Harry stated, making you chuckle.

You tried to move your hands up to cup his cheek but it was difficult to raise it past a certain point, your muscles being too weak to allow it. You sadly sighed to yourself and flopped your arm back on the bed beside you, closing your eyes in disappointment.

A second later you feel Harrys hand lifting your arm. You open your eyes to glance at him and he's reading your facial expressions to make sure what he's doing isn't hurting you in any way.

"Together." Harry firmly tells you, finally resting your palm against his cheek. He leans against it and you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Harry makes sure to hold your hand in place so you aren't doing all the hard-work.

"Sorry." You look at him through your sad eyes.

"For what, darling?" Harry looks deep in to your eyes, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

"For all this." Your nod your head down to your body, referring to how you were semi-immobile. "I know it's not what you signed up for, but—"

"But I love you no matter what." Harry finishes your sentence for you, not wanting to hear your criticise yourself any more than you already had. "This isn't your fault, baby. You know that. I know that. Everyone knows that. We're going to get through this. You're not alone. That, I can promise you."

His words brought as tears to your eye but Harry manages to kiss it away, leaving him with salty lips, before it can truly fall.

••••

2 weeks later, you were out of the hospital now and back home. It was been very overwhelming the last couple of weeks.

You still were unable to walk properly without the support of crutches, or a wheelchair and sometimes Harry. It was a blessing in disguise that your children were still at school, because it meant that you were able to have a lot of time to yourself, and with Harry, without constant interruptions or fussing over you.

Your children had been brilliant. They helped around the house when necessary, and every weekend, when they didn't have school, they delivered you breakfast in bed. Sofia made your cards, that had messages inside that were all spelt wrong, and drew family portraits for you. Sometimes you'd end up with a blue face and green hair, but you didn't love it any less.

As for Harry. Well he was just another level of amazing. He cleaned around the house, even when you insisted you could. He was very firm and layed out the ground rules early on. You weren't to move without his assistance and it had to be with good reason. I.e. apparently getting yourself a glass of water isn't good enough. He picked up the kids from school and dropped them off, sometimes you'd come along if your medication hadn't made you too drowsy. He did allow you to help cook dinner, what with stirring the pan, to let you feel like you were doing something, but he didn't want to overwork you.

Harry and yourself were currently out in the park, and it was very amusing.

You were in your comfy clothes, whilst Harry was in his running gear. He was running laps of a swimming-pool-sized pond, whilst you were walking indescribably slow with your crutches to assist you. Every time he jogged past you he would joke about how you were 'catching him up', but that was far from the truth. You'd barely gone around half of the pond, whereas Harry had done four laps of it, so far. You found the whole thing hilarious.

Harry was catching up to you again and you attempted to go a bit faster to make it seem like you were racing him.

"Oh I see. You're trying to get away from me now, huh?" Harry shouts from behind you. You laughed to yourself as you continue to place the crutches out in front of you before moving yourself forwards. "I don't think so.." Harrys voice becoming more apparent now, from obviously being able to move faster than you.

You suddenly feel his arms wrap around yours and he twirls you around in the air.

"Harry!"

"I've got you. I won." He attacks your neck with kisses, probably leaving a mark or two. Acting like this with him makes it look like you were still falling in love with each other, not being married and have four kids already. You wouldn't want it any other way though.

"You only win because you're a sore loser." You tease him as he places you back down on the floor.

"Shut up." He mumbles.

You go down to pick up your crutches, which you'd accidentally let go of, but are stopped by Harry.

"It's alright love i've got them." Harry tells you, knowing how hard it is for you to bend over and multitask by picking something up.

"No. It's okay. I want to try." You shyly tell him, feeling stupid that you're even requesting it. Harry proudly smiles at you before you lean down to pick them up.

Harrys hand ghosts over the small of your back, just on stand-by for support in case you need it. You let out a groan half-way down, not wanting to give up but realising that this was more difficult than anticipated.

"You've got this baby. Keep going." Harry comforted you to carry on, even when he knew you were struggling, because he knows you can do it. The mere thought gives you enough strength to keep going and power through the ache.

With one final push you're able to pick them up and stand back up. Harry slinks his arms around your waist and picks you up so he's carrying you around his torso. Your legs instinctively cross over his back, and your arms find way to his neck.

Without any words Harrys lips press against yours passionately, and you know that he is proud of you.

••••

A year later had come another milestone for you.

You'd successfully managed to drive the kids to school, and back home. Harry had sat in the passenger seat, making sure to help you with the wheel or change of gears, throughout. You were both anxious. You, more about ending up having an accident and Harry more for wanting you to prove to yourself that you could do it. But you did it.

The kids had been over the moon to hear that their mum was driving them to and from school, complaining that their dads jokes were getting too old now. Harry was mildly offended and continued with his jokes as punishment.

You'd forgotten the route and ended up at a pig-farm, upon trying to get to school, but Harry found it funny and it made you relax. Minor-amnesia was a product of the surgery, and it was times when you were trying to drive somewhere that it became an issue. Other times it was actually quite useful. For example when you'd genuinely forgotten someones name, you can blame it on the surgery, or if you were meant to collect something and had forgotten you'd be politely excused.

After having dinner with the kids, which was an Indian takeaway from your favourite, you made sure they all went to bed before spending some time with Harry downstairs. He'd mentioned how he needed to talk to you about some things this evening.

Both of you were snuggled up on the sofa, with you practically lying on top of Harry. Harry had a can of beer in his hand and your glass of water was carefully placed on the floor. You'd been advised not to drink alcohol for a while, just until the migraines settle down.

"H? You alright? You've been very quiet." You asked, as you kept your eyes on the TV where the BBC News was playing. You weren't really watching it, but it was just there to fill the background noise with anything other than silence.

"Um, yeah." He clears his throat. "I've been thinking a lot lately."

"About?" You ask, not exactly being able to read Harrys mind.

"Life. You. Kids. The future.." He answers, but you can sense he his nervous as his heart is beating considerably faster than usual.

"Okay?" You press for him to continue.

"I'm going to give it all up." He just blurts out, catching you if guard and making you stop breathing for a few seconds.

You twist around so you're sat crossed legged over his legs. "W-what do you mean?" You ask, confused over his proposal.

"I mean, I quit. I'm done with that part of my life." He answers as a matter of factly.

You close your eyes and shake your head to try and process what's actually happening right now.

"H? What are you doing?" You ask, flabbergasted. "Music is your life.."

"No, Y/N. You are my life. Those children, sleeping soundly upstairs, are my life. Music is a passion and a relaxation. It is a way to express my emotions when I don't have you around."

"But—"

"I know, I know. I'll miss the touring and meeting all the amazing fans, but leaving you is just something i'm not willing to do anymore."

A few tears slip down your cheeks when you realise what you're doing.

"This is all my fault." You begin to cry, covering your face with your palms to hide yourself from Harry.

"Hey, Y/N/N, no it's not. You hear me? It's not." Harry tugs your hands away from your face so he can see your beautiful face. "Look at me, darling." He tells you more than asks you.

"Sor—" You start.

"Sshh. I don't want to hear it. I mean, you having surgery is part of the reason, but there are so many other things that are bigger than that. Y/N/N, I love you so so much. More than you could ever believe and I just want to spend the rest of my life with you now. Of course i'll continue to write, produce and publish music, but i'm just not up for touring, like I did, anymore. From now on I want to become the family man. I want to be there every day for our children, no matter what. I need them so much more than they could ever need me."

"But money H..?" You sigh, even though your spirit is so happy from Harrys insight into the future.

"That is not for you to worry about, right now, alright? I've been planning this for a while now and I have things in place and such. I just needed to tell you, because your my other half - my better half - and I felt you deserved to be involved."

It went quiet for a little bit as you let everything Harrys told you, so far, sink in. You'd stopped crying, mainly because Harry wasn't giving your tears a chance to run down your face. You started to smile to yourself at a life where 365 days of a year you can wake up next to your husband.

"What you smiling at, gorgeous?" Harry chuckled, caressing your cheek.

"You." You cheese. "And how I get to be with you for the rest of my days."

"I can't wait to start living the rest of my life with you." Harry softly says, kissing your nose briefly.

Rest of your lives. You could get used to that.

[metalomagnetic]

Hi metalo! How are you? Hope your injury is getting better.

I wanted to ask if you had any scenes for Cannis Major, where V sees Sirius making an effort to support or show care to V. Like when Sirius tried to make tea for him when he was pissed off. Or took him to Black Manor and shared his childhood with him and maybe any other time where Sirius is obviously in love and showing it (whether V realises it or not)

Unfortunately, my injury got worse, but now it's slowly getting better again. I don't know what beef life has with me, but I hope it gives me some relief, eventually.

Let me look in my folder of all the deleted Canis Major scenes! I'm pretty sure I wrote something about the tea scene! Please don't mind if it's rough, I struggle to edit properly today.

There it is! Hope you enjoy it, even if it is a bit whimsy.

***

When he enters the house, he hears loud banging from the kitchen; he just managed to get his anger under control, but it's awakening again when he goes to investigate and see the mess- no, the destruction- Sirius managed, and in such a short time, too.

Pots, pans, plates, thrown around everywhere. Even the cutlery drawer is open and ravaged.

It puts Voldemort on edge, that part of his brain that cannot stand disorder.

"What are you doing?"

Sirius kicks a cabinet with his foot, trying to close it. It won't, because he shoved too many things inside it.

"I'm making you tea," he barks. "But your furniture refuses to cooperate."

Voldemort's dark mood vanishes, on the spot. Suddenly, the mess doesn't make him want to strangle Sirius, but amuses him, instead.

He's most amused that Sirius thought a cup of tea would calm Voldemort's anger, as if he's a moody old grandmother only appeased by tea and jam.

Bellatrix is the same; when she notices he is tired, or displeased, she offers him tea. But even she has the good sense not to think of it when Voldemort is in a rage.

Yet the fact that Sirius attempted it, nevertheless, that he wanted to lighten Voldemort's mood...

And it's not because he fears Voldemort's anger, no. This isn't motivated by fear.

"Go on, then. Make tea."

He tries. It only makes Voldemort smile wider. He doesn't know why this makes him smile, this level of incompetence was never something to amuse him, but Sirius- well, everything looks good on Sirius, even failing to boil water.

Sirius is a talented portioneer, but somehow it doesn't translate to the kitchen, even if these skills usually overlap. Perhaps this is the first time he is actually using a stove, because it seems to confuse him greatly.

"Spoiled, rich brat," Voldemort mutters, but it's with fondness, instead of his usual disdain for purebloods raised in luxury, with house elves to serve their every need.

He takes pity on Sirius- and on his kitchen- so he takes over, removing Sirius from the stove before he burns down the house.

When he serves the tea, and he's done cleaning up, Sirius frowns at his cup.

"I don't understand how you make it so good."

He remembers Sirius claiming he isn't a fan of tea, unless it's spiked with alcohol. But that was long ago, when they only just met.

These days, Sirius never refuses when Voldemort offers, even if he only adds a splash of milk to it, and not an ounce of vodka.

"It's made with love," Voldemort drawls, and Sirius rolls his eyes.

He watches Sirius enjoy the beverage. Voldemort doesn't quite taste his own. Hasn't, in a long time, but he still enjoys it because at least it's hot, and it warms him, even if there's only a hint of flavour, like it's the case with everything he eats or drinks.

He finds himself wondering, in case Sirius would have managed brewing it, if Voldemort would have tasted something, then. If he'd have found it better, if some Sirius-like essence would have transferred to the tea, and made Voldemort actually taste it.

[sturniolo-simp4life]

Can u do a Matt smut fic where reader and matt r out and matt gets a good idea to go to the car wash bc the car is dirty. And when y'all in the car wash u fuck (idk if that makes sense)

I love ur writing sm 😭😭💖

Car Wash- Matt Sturniolo 

Paring- y/n and Matt Sturniolo 

Warnings- Smut, semi-public (?), cursing, quickie, p in v, unprotected (don’t please, imagine you're on the pill or smth), female!recieving, slight nipple play, riding, slight fingering.  NOT PROOF READ.

Description- After a long day out, Matt decides to go to a car wash, hoping for something more. 

@lightningsturvn here you are my love!

After a week of recording and editing, Matt took y/n out for a stress reliever day. They went to the beach, walked along the shoreline, and even went swimming.  

Unfortunately for Matt, all he could think of was y/n in that tight little bikini, wanting to rip it off and fuck her brains out.  

Moving on from Matt, there were a lot of seagulls at the beach today.

Seagulls=poop. Poop=Car. Car=Matt’s Car.

“Well, it looks like my car is covered in bird shit.” Mat grumbled as the two of you stepped in, earning a giggle from you. “Babe, its fine. We can just stop at the car wash on the way home.” 

Now obviously, Matt was horny. The beach dress wasn’t doing a good job of covering up your body.

He could see your pecks straining against the thin bikini fabric, and that was enough to turn him on. He could already feel his cock throbbing against his shorts. 

Thats when the idea popped into his head. The car washes around your area were old, making the machines slower.

An average car wash was 5 minutes, but these ones were 10. A perfect opportunity for some relief. 

“Can you do the tropical wash? Please?” you asked Matt, batting your eyelashes. You knew he hated it, but you loved it.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But you’re going to pay me back,” he said with a devious smirk, as his hand made its way to your thigh. 

You found yourself getting flustered by Matt’s words, your face visible red. Flustered enough to make your bikini bottoms wet.

Fuck. His hand was sensually rubbing your thighs as he paid for the wash. 

As soon as drove the car onto the platform, his finger grazed your clit, a small moan escaping your mouth. 

Somehow, both of you ended up in the backseat. 

Matt smashed his lips on yours and slipped his hands down to your waist.

He started leaving wet kisses around your neck a collarbone, removing your beach dress.

He then started kissing down your chest, until he ripped your bikini top off. 

“I’ve been waiting to do that all day.” His tongue made it to one of your pecks, while his hand made its way to the other. “Fuck matt.”

He moved his tongue in fast, circular motions on your hardened peck, while his finger played with the other. “Be a good girl, and let's make this quick, okay.”  

You moaned. “M-Matt.” He looked at you. “Hmm?” 

“I need you.” He smirked at you. “What do you need baby? You have to be more specific.”  

“Your fingers.” You gasped. “I need your fingers.”  

“Okay baby. Wasn’t so hard, was it?” He inserted a finger into your aching hole, then two.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. He slowly started pumping his fingers in and out of you. “F-Fuck Matt. faster.”  

You could feel your orgasm building on you. It must have shown on your face, because he then slipped his fingers out.

You whined. “I was just about to finish,” you pout. 

“Don’t worry. Your about to get something better.” He slipped off his cargo shorts and his boxers, revealing his straining erection.

It looked so hard it must have hurt.  

Even though you’d seen Matt’s dick before, it always surprised you how big he was.

The thought of him filling your aching cunt was enough to make you wet again.

He then sat against one of the doors, his legs on the seats. 

“I want you to ride me baby.” You had done it before, but it wasn’t one of your most experienced positions. “O-okay,” you gulped.  

You got on top of him and aligned yourself. Slowly and steadily, you lowered yourself on him, earning a grunt from him and a hiss from you.

“Fuck,” you mumbled under your breath. It took you a minute to adjust to his size, but when you started moving, the slight pain was replaced with pleasure.

“Oh fuck. Matt,” you moaned, as you bounced up and down. His hands were on your hips, guiding you.

“Oh my god Matt. Oh my god.” You moved slightly faster, making you moan with pleasure.  

You could feel your legs starting to give out, making your movements slow down slightly.

Of course, Matt noticed, because he grabbed your ass and starting thrusting into you.

That was enough to get your momentum up again. You grabbed his shoulders and lowered your head into the crook of his neck. “Fuck Matt, I'm gonna cum.”  

Your moans were turning into breathy whines. “M’gonna cum too. Fuck. Do it with me baby.”

You let out a moan as your orgasm came, Matt still slight thrusting, and finishing after you.

You could see the sweat on his forehead, making his hair stick to it.

“You did so good for me baby,” matt whispered in your ear, then going to kiss you. 

Thankfully, the car wash was slowly ending. “Shit. I forgot about the car wash.” You quickly changed into your clothes, a wave of tiredness slowly crashing upon you. 

Matt was already in the driver's seat, driving up to the air-drying system. “Matt,” you mumbled, your eyes fighting for wake.

“What is it baby?” He turned back to face you. “I’m gonna take a nap,” you said in a drowsy voice. “Can we cuddle when we get home?” 

He smiled at you softly. “Of course we can babe.” He reached his hand out to swipe some hair out of your face.

“Love you,” you mumbled. “Love you too,” was the last thing you heard before you drifted off to sleep. 

[munstysmind]

BIRTHDAY CAKE - CHRIS EVANS

WARNING/S: Implied smut, Chris being adorable… that needs a warning, right??

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE USED IN ANY CAPACITY

Divider by @firefly-graphics

MAIN MASTERLIST

please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag list

A loud crash comes from the kitchen, ripping you from your sleep. As soon as your brain registers its sudden return to consciousness, you groan loudly in protest and rub your eyes before reaching over to get phone from the bedside table and check the time.

It's just after ten.

You let out another groan as you stretch your entire body out before relaxing back into your boyfriend's king-sized bed.

You came back to Boston with him at the start of quarantine. Both of you were out of work with the film, and basically every other nonessential, industry being shut down so there was no real reason you had to stay in LA.

That was three months ago now and honestly, you both love living together. So much so that last week he asked you if you wanted to make it permanent. Of course, you'd said yes. The two of you had just slotted into each other's routines and quirks so seamlessly it was like you'd been living together for years. Your two-year relationship has never been stronger.

You're pulled out of your thoughts by another loud crash.

"Damn it" you hear him say, sounding extremely frustrated.

"What the hell is he doing?" you say to yourself as you get up and throw on his shirt from yesterday before heading out to see what all the commotion was about.

Pressing your lips together, you hold back a laugh as you lean against the door frame and take in the sight in front of you.

The kitchen is a complete disaster. Flour is everywhere. The floor, the counter... Chris.

Lord knows what he's trying to do.

"What happened in here?" you ask, causing him to jump and quickly try to hide what he's doing behind his back.

"I thought you were asleep" he says, brushing away the flour from the front of his shirt.

"I was"

"Fuck... I woke you up, didn't I?"

"Yeah"

"I'm sorry"

"It's OK. What are you doing?"

"Nothing"

"Then why are you trying to hide baking supplies behind you?"

"Well... it's your birthday"

"Go on"

"I'm trying to bake you a birthday cake"

"Chris...

"I don't remember it being this hard when I helped Ma as a kid"

"That's because Mama Evans is an amazing baker and did all the work while simultaneously making you think you were helping"

You make your way over to him and brush the flour he's somehow managed to get in his hair before sitting on the bench opposite him.

"You, my love, are a man of many talents but cooking and baking isn't really one of them" you tell him as you rest your arms on his shoulders and play with the hair at the back of his neck.

"I make a mean pesto egg, everyone loves them" he says, wearing the cute pout you love.

"They are an exception"

"I should have just got a box mix, I know I can't fuck that up"

"You went to all this effort just for me, you have no idea how much that means"

"We're stuck in lockdown and your family's on the other side of the country. I just... I wanted to make your day special"

"You make all my days special" you tell him quietly as a smile spreads across your face. You've never met anyone as loving as him. You don't know what you did to deserve him in your life, but you thank whatever greater power is responsible every single day that he is.

"I wanted today to be extra special. It's not every day that you turn thirty" he says with a shit eating grin that makes you roll your eyes.

"Urghhh, don't remind me"

"Hey, how to you think I feel, I'm the big four zero next year"

"I thought we were talking about me"

"We are, I was just saying"

"I can help, with the cake"

"Nope, it's your day".

"Is that so?"

"Yes"

"So does that mean I get to do whatever I want?"

"Yep"

"Then, I'm going to remove my boyfriend's shirt in the middle of the kitchen so he doesn't make a mess on the way to the bedroom".

"And why am I going to the bedroom exactly?"

"Because it's my birthday and I want my man to eat me out then rail me into the bed until I can't remember my own name"

"Well, in that case" he says with a smirk as he lifts his arms up like a child, making you laugh before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.

You lean forward and kiss his chest as he takes his shirt from you and blindly throws it over his shoulder into the pile of flour on the counter.

He takes your face and kisses you, hard, before sliding his hands down your back to your hips and pulling you close, your chests flush with each other.

You let out a quiet moan as he starts pressing open mouthed kisses up your neck, wrapping your legs around his waist when he sinks his teeth into your skin before tracing it with his tongue to soothe the sting.

He knows exactly what to do to make you come undone in 0.5 seconds.

"Fuck, Chris" you gasp, threading you fingers into his hair as he sucks a bruise onto your flesh. You pull his hair, bringing his face back to yours and kissing him.

He pulls away with a grin, making you whimper and follow him, trying to lock lips again.

With a chuckle he puts his hands under your thighs and lifts you off the bench, throwing yo over his shoulder.

"Chris!" you squeal as he starts heading towards the bedroom, Dodger following right behind him.

"No Bub. Trust me, you don't want to see what I'm about to do" he tells your fur baby, slapping you ass as if to prove a point, making you squeal again.

It's about to be the best birthday ever...

GENERAL TAGLIST: @aussieez @rookiemartin @babeyyemor @secretaryunpaid @pixie88 @chickensarentcheap @dhoruwolfie @themaradwrites @cali-nyc5 @darsynia @diamondoftheball @wewannasaygoodnight @sweetbunnyliddle @kingliam2019 @angelcavill66 @mis-lil-red @rcarbo1 @secretdream2 @identity2212 @fanfics-r-us-official @km-ffluv @dream-beyond-the-fantasy @ktficworld @juliaorplI78 @henry-cavs-tudor @red-write-hand @queenzee27 @kandis-mom

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XVI)

Surprise visitor

TW: strangulation, choking, strangling

Part one // Masterpost // continued from here

~*~*~*~*~*~

The commute home was quiet for the most part, uneventful. Kit wore headphones to silence the world around him and let his mind go blank as he stepped out from the underground into the cool night air. The sky was halfway through its change, streaks of purple and red striking through the slowly darkening blues. Kit’s breath reflected back at him on the air, and he pulled his jacket tighter around him as he walked up the steps to his apartment.

Thoughts of a warm shower and dinner was tantalising as he unlocked his door and stepped in, pocketing his keys. He didn’t get a chance to close the door when his head was slammed again the wall. Kit cursed, clicking his fingers as electricity pulsed around his hand like a glove.

He swung his hand out blindly, hoping he’d hit his attacker. His attacker stepped back, to avoid Kit’s wild swing or because Kit managed to land a blow, Kit didn’t know or care as he stumbled further into his apartment. His eyes searched the darkness futilely, with a click of his fingers his lights came on and he was faced with the familiar dark eyes of Ambrose.

He was dressed in his usual suit, crisp and free of any wrinkles or creases. He wore a white shirt and a red tie today, a five o’clock shadow covering his jaw that somehow made his dark hair and eyes look darker.

Kit’s lip curled back as he threw his hands wide. “What the fuck! How did you even get in here?!”

Ambrose’s lips moved, but Kit couldn’t hear what he said over Bring me the Horizon playing at top volume in his ears. Kit’s anger dissipated as a realisation came over him and he laughed right in Ambrose’s face.

“Hey Rosey, can’t give me commands if I can’t hear you, dickhead.”

Ambrose tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes as Kit stuck his middle finger up at Ambrose. “Get out of my house, or I’ll give you electro-shock therapy free of charge.”

Take off your headphones, Mallory.

The command was like a snake made of ice slithering through his brain, his body reacting before his mind became aware of the order. Ambrose smiled as Kit’s expression turned sour.

Did you forget that I don’t need your ears to make you obey me, Kit? I just need your mind.

“Fucking show off,” Kit muttered, turning his headphones off and discarding them on his couch. He took off his jacket and did the same, deflating as his prospects of a nice quiet evening and a shower dissipated with his guest’s arrival. “I had a long day. Sue me.”

“Still, you forget your manners around me, Kit,” Ambrose said, beginning to remove his tie from his neck. Sensing the direction Ambrose was about to go down, Kit clicked his fingers quickly and was only starting to raise his hands when Ambrose ordered: “don’t move.”

Kit tried with everything in him to fight the order that settled thick over his body like cement, locking his limbs in place. His hands still sparked with electricity as Ambrose undid the knot of his tie, starting towards Kit.

“Listen, Rosey, I know you’re into some kinky shit, but doesn’t it have to be consensual? I get it, I’m a good-looking guy—”

“Stop talking.” Kit’s lips wired shut and all he could do now was glare up at Ambrose as he stopped in front of him. Ambrose smirked down at him. “You’re so much more palatable this way, Kit. You should consider never speaking again.”

You’re such a dick, Kit thought as loudly as possible, pointing it straight into Ambrose’s mind. Ambrose didn’t reply, his smirk staying on his face as he wrapped his tie around Kit’s neck. He looped it, once, twice and pulled it tight until Kit made a noise in the back of his throat, his breath getting slightly more laboured.

Kit glared at him as Ambrose said: “you may speak.”

“You piece of sh—” Ambrose pulled the tie even tighter until it cut off Kit’s words and tied a knot to secure it properly.

Ambrose chuckled as Kit coughed, his breath catching as Ambrose wrapped the loose end of his tie around his palm.

“Now,” Ambrose hummed, pressing a hand to Kit’s shoulder. “On your knees.”

“Are you serious?” Kit barked, his voice coming out harsh and breathy. Kit fought his shaking legs that ached to obey Ambrose’s order, glaring up into two dark eyes.

“As the plague, you need to learn respect, Kit. Which is why, from now on,” Ambrose grabbed Kit’s face with two hands, forcing Kit to look into his eyes that were enthralling and far too intense to look away from. “When you see me, you will fall to your knees.”

This time Kit dropped like an anchor, his knees smacking off the ground was the least of his concern. Ambrose yanked up on the tie and Kit was choking as his airways were cut off from oxygen. Kit wanted to reach up and claw at Ambrose’s arms; to try and relieve the pressure on his throat but his arms were still locked to his sides. His electricity cackled with his panic before weakening to dull sparks and dissipating altogether.

“See? This just feels right,” Ambrose hummed above him. “You would have the women flocking around you if you just shut up for once in your life. You look almost decent when you’re not running your mouth.”

Kit fought his way through a coughing reply. “Fuck… yo—ou—ou—.”

Ambrose yanked the tie harder and Kit airway was cut off completely. Kit gasped, struggling to breathe trying to pull in air through his nose but there was nothing coming. All thoughts left his mind replaced by a blinding, hot panic.

Kit’s desperation was plain on his face, pleading with Ambrose to let him breathe, but one glance at Ambrose’s coal-like eyes and he knew there would be no mercy.

“I can wait until you pass out and we can try this again, or you can submit to me, and we can move on. It’s your choice, dog. Blink twice if you’ve had enough.”

Kit glared up at him, trying desperately to hold out but his face was going purple, and he thought his head was going to explode. Hating himself, Kit blinked twice, and Ambrose stopped pulling on the tie.

“You can move,” Ambrose told him. No sooner had the words left his mouth that Kit fell forward, hands hitting the floor, gasping bucketfuls of air into his scorched lungs. He choked on the air as it overwhelmed his airways, falling further to rest on his forearms and knees, wheezing as he tried to collect himself.

“You-ou-ou,” Kit wheezed, punctuated by short coughs between, “fuck-king ah-arsehole.”

“Oh, stop flirting, Mallory,” Ambrose said waving the comment away.

Kit satisfied at the amount of oxygen he had now pushed himself back up to his knees. One hand on the floor he began to push himself up again, but Ambrose interjected: “ah-ah-ah. Stay on your knees, good dog.”

Kit wiped the tears from his face, sharpening his gaze to a glare. “I hate you.”

“Standing privileges are earned, Kit. Someone has to teach you manners now that your only parental figure is indisposed.”

Kit’s heart thrummed in his chest, a quick flash of anxiety and hurt at the easy comment. “You—” he began but no other words came to him as humiliation crawled hot and red up his neck and flooded his face.

“I?” Ambrose asked with a shit eating grin, sitting down in Kit’s favourite armchair and spreading out as if it were a throne.

Kit looked away from his coal-like eyes and turned his attention to removing Ambrose’s tie. Until Ambrose stopped him again. “Don’t touch your leash, doggie.”

“Quit calling me a dog!” Kit barked, running a shaky hand through his hair because he couldn’t do anything else.

“I’ll call you whatever I like, Mallory. That’s the beauty of being me. If you want to stop me, then stop me. If you want to disobey, then disobey.”

“I can’t,” Kit spat through gritted teeth.

Ambrose spread his hands in a shrug. “Well, that’s not my problem, is it?”

“It’s your orders I’m following!” Kit said hotly, looked away, his anger getting him nowhere. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath. “You know what, forget it. What do you want?”

“I missed you. Can’t an old friend come by and see his favourite pet?”

“Evidently you can do whatever you want,” Kit muttered, sitting back on his heels to alleviate the pressure on his knees.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Ambrose hummed.

An easy silence fell over them, interrupted by Kit’s growling stomach which neither of them commented on. Kit just wanted a shower and food and his bed, to process everything that had happened at work. From his theorising with Tides, to interrupting his meeting Superhero was having with Mr Silver, to his argument with Superhero to put him on the rota for patrols.

“Not now, you’re still recovering.”

“I know myself,” Kit protested. “Put me down on patrols, Superhero. I’m fine! I wouldn’t be back at work if I was still sick!”

Superhero stared at Kit. Kit stared at Superhero imploringly. Superhero sat back with a sigh. “Okay. Fine, but you’re not patrolling the inner city. I’m putting you on residential.”

“But—”

“No buts, it’s residential or nothing.”

Kit pouted like a child, folding his arms across his chest and looking away. “Fine,” he said after a beat. Something was better than nothing.

Ambrose unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, drawing Kit’s attention to him. He had already unbuttoned his suit jacket before he sat down, and Kit scoffed.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

“You really are so accommodating, Mallory.”

Kit glared at him. something strange struck him. “How’d you get into my apartment?”

Ambrose pulled out a key in reply. Kit shot forward, remembered he was on his knees and had to stop himself before he fell forward. “I made a copy of your key.”

“Yeah, I sort of got that,” Kit said, running a hand through his hair with a huff. “How’d you make a copy?”

“I asked you to give me your key and made you forget that I asked,” Ambrose replied as if it was the most casual thing in the world. “It really is easy to get what I want.”

“Must be nice,” Kit muttered.

Ambrose looked at the key, something flashing over his expression as he turned it over between his fingers. “You would think.”

Kit scoffed, crawling over to the kitchen. “Is this the part where you tell me how hard it is to be able to control everything and everyone to your will? Because I’m all out of sympathy for psychopaths today, so come again another day.”

He had only put the kettle on when Ambrose spoke again. “Come here, Kit.”

“Are you serious?” Kit whined, crawling back towards Ambrose. Kit stopped right in front of Ambrose, glaring into his impassive face. Ambrose reached forward and grabbed the end of Kit’s tie, yanking him up.

Kit yelped and shot his hands out, grabbing the red fabric with his hands trying to alleviate the pressure.

“Let go, Kit.”

“Wait, Ambrose, please. I—” I’m sorry didn’t come to his tongue, his pride wrestling with his self-preservation and winning.

Ambrose tilted his head, black eyes dancing with amusement. “You?” He prompted, wrapping the tie around his knuckles once.

Kit pinched his lips into a thin line, halfway between a grimace and a frown. “Look, I’m—”

“You’re a rude, insolent child?” Ambrose supplied, wrapping the tie around his hand again, drawing Kit up closer towards him. Kit was now high on his knees, his face inches from Ambrose’s. “You need to be taught some manners?”

Kit didn’t say anything.

“I think you—”

“Do you not like my rudeness?” Kit rushed out, straining his neck to try and get more air into his lungs. Ambrose’s death grip didn’t make it exactly easy to breathe. Ambrose tilted his head at Kit, a silent motion for him to continue. “You like that I fight back. You like that you’re able to be rough with me and make me submit because I hate you. I fucking despise you when you do it.”

“You are so bold.”

“And you like it!” Kit all but yelled. Kit cried out as the heel of Ambrose’s palm slammed up into his nose. Blood gushed instantly and Kit’s hands went to his nose instead of the tie, which Ambrose used to his advantage, tightening the tie until it cut off Kit’s air supply.

Ambrose got to his feet dragging Kit along the floor behind him until they cleared the couches. Ambrose released Kit in the open space of the living room, to gasp and curse and choke on blood.

“Don’t bleed on my suit, Mallory. Honestly, were you raised in a barn?” Ambrose asked, removing his suit jacket swiftly and undoing his cuffs as Kit pushed himself to his hands and knees. “Oh wait, I almost forgot. You’re from the Rookery, aren’t you? No wonder you have the manners of a swine.”

“Fuh— fuck off, Rosey.”

“Mmm,” Ambrose hummed, something dark in his tone. a dress shoe was flying towards Kit’s cheek, and he was thrown off balance, his shoulder hitting the ground hard. “That was rude, Mallory. Don’t worry. I’ll whip you into a model citizen.”

Another kick to the face and Kit was on his back on the ground. He didn’t have time to move or blink before Ambrose was on top of him, two molten black eyes gleaming down at him. Kit put his hands up, trying to push the villain off of him. Pain, anger and fear blunted his reflexes, leaving him dizzy and weak.

Ambrose didn’t touch him again. Instead, he started to slowly, methodically roll up his sleeves, his weight pinning Kit to the ground, knees straddling Kit’s waist.

“You know, Mallory, you caught me off guard the last time I was here. I mean, your connection to Mentor, how poetic could all this be, hmm? What sort of God hated you so much that he drew me to you, after I disposed of Mentor?”

“Shut up,” Kit hissed, throwing his fist up. Ambrose caught it and punched his nose. Kit cried out, warm blood beginning to gush again as he bucked his hips trying to throw Ambrose off.

“Manners, Kit. Your elder is speaking.” Ambrose chided with a sickening smirk, tucking his sleeve all the way to just below his elbow. “So, I decided to do some digging into you, into your— oh what did you call it? Your tragic backstory, and damn. Talk about pathetic. Not only did your parents not want you, but apparently neither did any of your precious heroes.”

“Shut up!” Kit roared, grabbing Ambrose by the shirt and planting his foot on the floor, bucking his hip and they went rolling until Kit was on top of Ambrose and started to rain down punches.

Ambrose threw his arms up, forearms protecting his face from Kit’s furious onslaught. Kit let out a roar as he punched, switching from his face to punch Ambrose in the stomach. He managed to get one solid hit on Ambrose’s solar plexus and Ambrose gasped, curling up as he gasped.

Kit’s nose curled up, grabbing Ambrose’s shirt and sending a nasty left hook to his jaw. Ambrose saw blood flying across his face, though it wasn’t his. Ambrose grabbed Kit’s tie and yanked him down. Ambrose slammed his forehead into the bridge of Kit’s nose and Kit cried out.

Ambrose used the distraction to flip them again, slamming his palm into Kit’s nose once more. Kit let out a harsh cry, kicking uselessly, struggling to get away, to get Ambrose off of him.

Ambrose laughed as Kit writhed beneath him, hands cupping his stomach where Kit had punched. If Kit could see right now, he would see the crazed look in Ambrose’s eyes, that were always so impassive or subtle. Splatters of blood painting his alabaster skin with bright red freckles that were starting to dry in.

“Fuck, Kit! This is why I just can’t leave you alone. You’re too much fun, you know that? If you were boring, maybe I’d’ve gotten bored by now, but no.” Ambrose leaned down, grabbing Kit by the collar of his shirt, fists twisting into the fabric. “Look at me Kit.”

It was more of a growl than a command, but still Kit obeyed. Tear-filled blue eyes met sparkling onyx and widened in fear. Ambrose looked insane in that moment, and something primal took over.

One of Kit’s blood-stained hands went to Ambrose’s wrist trying to dislodge it from his shirt while the other pushed at his crisp white shirt, trying to push him off.

“Look at you,” Ambrose whispered, cupping Kit’s cheek and digging him thumb into Kit’s cheekbone. “Knuckles beaten raw, nose broken, blood dripping down your lips and chin and still you try to fight me?”

Ambrose let out a boisterous laugh, verging on hysterical. His eyes narrowing as if Kit was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

“What makes you think you’d stand a chance against me? Like are you stupid? Delusional? Is there something wrong up here?” He asked, tapping Kit’s temple with his finger.

“I think…” Kit said, tightening his grip on Ambrose’s wrist. He sucked in a breath through his mouth, feeling the energy rippling in the air and his eyes turned a static red. “That you talk too much.”

Ambrose was thrown off of Kit before he had time to react. His back smacked off the wall with a dull thud before he slid down. Kit’s entire body cackled to life, his lights flashing in the apartment, his TV turning on and off. All the electrical appliances in the kitchen beeped and buzzed, sparks flying.

Kit got to all fours, gasping in laboured breaths through his mouth, his nose too clogged with blood to breathe through as his body thrummed with an uncontrollable energy. Sparks flew from every part of his body, even his blood which was dripping onto the wooden floor beneath him seemed to glow with the eerie red hue.

Ambrose let out a startled, broken laughter, his muscles spasming as he drew his knee to his chest with a wince. “Phew, Kit. You… you’ve got a dark side. You would be a truly, magnificent villain.”

Kit looked over his shoulder like some wild animal, baring his blood-stained teeth at Ambrose. “Make it stop,” Kit growled, his words filled with static. A particularly nasty strike of lightning erupted from his chest and Kit faltered, crying out. “AMBROSE! Make it stop! Please! Argh!”

Kit’s arms shook and faltered as another shockwave of red electricity thronged from him and he hit the ground. Ambrose watched, licking his lips as Kit fell again to the ground. He let out a soft scoff, pushing his back against the wall to get himself standing again. He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and took a deep breath. he said, “Kit, stop using your powers.”

 Another shockwave of energy blasted from Kit, staggering Ambrose and pushing him back against the wall. Ambrose’s eyes narrowed. “Kit… hey. Kit! Shit.”

Kit cried out again as another wave of energy was torn from his body. Ambrose kicked Kit onto his back, grabbing the tie and pulling it taut. Kit gasped, wide eyes on Ambrose’s face, kicking out at his legs. “Ah, fuck. Kit! I’m trying to help you, stop … nng… fighting –”

Another red wave hit Ambrose square in the chest, and he was sent flying back against the wall again. The whites of Ambrose’s eyes disappeared completely, his lips turning a deep crimson red. “Kit. STOP using your powers.”  

Kit’s body went impossibly still. The only movement was aftershocks spasming through his body as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. His eyelids grew heavy when Ambrose stepped into view, his lips a bright red against his marble skin. It faded back to their normal colour, still more vibrant than most. Kit couldn’t really focus on them though, thoughts moving through his brain like sludge, heavy and muddled.

Ambrose crouched down beside him, pushing Kit’s hair off his forehead, almost tenderly. “That’s it, Kit. Just relax. I’ll make us that tea while you get your bearings, hmm?”

Kit didn’t move while he stood; he just rest his worn body while his tormentor left to go make him some tea. He wished in that moment that his electricity would consume him, tear through his veins and kill him swifter than an electric chair or a noose. When he closed his eyes they were still gleaming an unnatural red.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie e @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @tippytappytyping @stefaniesblogs @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump