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pucksandpower · 8 months ago

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My Brother’s Father

Charles Leclerc x Piastri!Reader

Summary: apparently you’re dating your brother’s father and Charles is dating his son’s sister … what a mess!

You toss another shirt into the open suitcase on the bed, humming to yourself as you go through the closet. Charles will be home from training any minute and you want to have your little prank all set up before he arrives.

The front door opens and closes, followed by the familiar sound of Charles’ keys hitting the bowl by the entrance. “Mon amour? You home?” He calls out.

“In here!” You respond, stifling a grin. You pick up the pace, grabbing handfuls of clothing and dropping them haphazardly into the suitcase.

He rushes down the hallway, ready to convince you to join him for a shower. But when he reaches the bedroom door, his heart sinks.

“What … what are you doing?” He asks, horrified.

You glance up, your face the picture of innocence. “Oh, hello darling! I was just packing a few things.”

“Packing? For what? Are you … are you leaving me?” The words crack in his throat.

You sigh theatrically, shaking your head. “I’m afraid I have to, Charles. I can’t be with you anymore.”

“What? Why?” He staggers forward, feeling like he’s been kicked in the gut. “Did I do something wrong? Whatever it is, I’m sorry! We can fix it!”

Shooting him a mischievous look, you bite your lip. “It’s because of Oscar.”

Charles freezes. “Your brother? What does he have to do with us?”

“Well, think about it ...” You abandon the suitcase, sauntering over and trailing a fingertip down his chest. “When you adopted him, that made you his father. Ergo … you’re my brother’s father now.”

Charles gapes at you, completely lost. “I … what? That’s not how it works! I was just joking on Twitter-”

“So you’re saying you don’t see Oscar as your son?” You arch an eyebrow accusingly.

“Well, no, I don’t actually-”

You shake your head, clucking your tongue. “Shameful, Charles. Denying your own child like that.”

“But he’s not really-”

“Poor Oscar,” you lament, throwing a hand against your forehead dramatically. “Rejected by his own father! No wonder he’s been texting me constantly, sobbing about what an awful dad you are.”

Charles scrambles to catch up. “Oscar has not been … we’re not actually related, Y/N!”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” You back away, hands on your hips. “But the fact is, I can’t date my own brother’s father. It’s just … wrong. Morally corrupt.”

“You’re being completely ridiculous!” Charles throws his hands up.

Whirling on him, you jab a finger into his chest. “So you’re calling your son a liar now too? How dare you!”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, at a total loss. You stare at him expectantly, arms folded.

Finally, Charles decides to change tactics. “Fine, okay, let’s say all that is true. For the sake of argument. That still doesn’t mean we have to break up!”

You blink at him innocently. “It doesn’t?”

“No!” He grabs your hands, holding them tightly. “Mon cœur, I love you. We can make this work.”

Pursing your lips, you pretend to consider it. “I don’t know … having a romantic relationship with my brother’s father? It just feels so sordid and taboo.”

Charles groans, rolling his eyes. “You’re making no sense. This is all hypothetical!”

“Is it, though?” You wiggle your fingers free, tapping your chin. “The heart wants what it wants, Charles. And mine wants to avoid a salacious love affair with Oscar’s own dad.”

Throwing up his hands again, Charles growls in frustration. “This is completely insane! We were together before I ever ‘adopted’ Oscar as a joke on Twitter!”

“Were we?” You ask loftily. “Sometimes the lines get so blurred, don’t they? It’s hard to keep track of what came first.”

Charles stares at you wildly for a long beat. Then, abruptly, he lunges forward — sweeping you up into his arms as you squeal in surprise. You flail dramatically as he hauls you over to the bed, tossing you down onto the rumpled sheets with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Charles Leclerc, what do you think you’re … eep!” Your faux outrage melts into peals of laughter as he attacks your sides with wiggling fingers, mercilessly tickling you. “Stop, stop! I give up, I give up!”

But he’s relentless, pinning you to the mattress as his fingers dance expertly over your most ticklish spots. You thrash and giggle helplessly, tears of mirth springing to your eyes.

“Say you’re not breaking up with me!” He demands, grinning wickedly. “Say it, or I’ll never stop!”

“Never!” You gasp out, breathless with laughter. “I’ll never, hahaha, surrender!”

Lunging up, he captures your lips in a heated kiss, stealing your breath away. You melt against him with a contented hum, tangling your fingers in his soft hair as his hands roam over your body possessively. The teasing banter falls away, replaced by the familiar sparks of want and need that always seem to simmer between you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both flushed and panting. Charles gazes down at you with dark, molten eyes. “Are you done being ridiculous now?”

You try for an imperious look, but can’t quite hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “Well … I suppose I could be persuaded to overlook that our family tree is quickly turning into a wreath.”

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, dipping his head to trail scorching kisses along the exposed column of your throat.

Throwing your head back with a breathy sigh, you concede, “Fine, fine. I’m not actually breaking up with you, you lunatic.”

“Thank god.” He raises his head, his expression turning serious as he cups your cheek tenderly. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, okay? I don’t know what I’d do without you, Y/N.”

You cover his hand with yours, turning to press a soft kiss against his palm. “I’m sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to worry you so much. I was just having a bit of fun.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t funny to me.” He tries to look stern, but you can see the fondness sparkling in his warm green eyes. “No more jokes about us splitting up. Or pretending I’m actually related to your brother. Deal?”

Tracing the beloved lines of his face, you murmur, “Deal. I promise to leave Oscar out of our sexy games from now on.”

Charles barks out a surprised laugh. “Our what now?”

You grin unrepentantly. “What? Like you’ve never fantasized about me calling you ‘daddy’ before?”

He flushes bright red, sputtering as you dissolve into giggles once more. Leaning down, he silences you with another heated kiss — and soon, all thoughts of Oscar and Twitter jokes are utterly forgotten.

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ddejavvu · 9 months ago

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Mei! You know how sometimes when you put a bra on that has padding you sometimes have to adjust it a little? I feel like Anakin would see reader do that one time and offer to “help” from then on “to make sure it’s in the proper spot” but really it’s just to touch your boobs.

You're not surprised to feel a large palm pressing against the heft of your breast, and you wish you could say you're disappointed, but you're not. That doesn't mean that you can't act like you are, though.

"Anakin."

"I'm helping!" He insists, his voice thick with sleep but fiery with intensity, "I'm rearranging the foam thing in there."

"The pad?"

"Yeah, the pad. I'm rearranging the pad."

"The pad is in perfect position," You swat his hand away, "Thank you very much."

"Gimme the other one," He demands, palm flat and fingers curling and uncurling, "I'm the bra inspector."

"You're a perv," You accuse, taking advantage of his still-closed eyes to reach over and press his face into the pillow. Perhaps you shouldn't be smothering him so early in the morning, but you're admittedly a little jealous that he gets to sleep in and you have to work.

His reflexes may be slowed by his grogginess but his muscles aren't, and he wrestles your hand away from his face and uses it to yank you back down onto the bed. You go from towering over his sprawled out form to being pinned beneath it, and his victory spoils come in the form of a prompt squeeze to your previously untouched breast.

"Mm-mm. Pad's all wrong." He laments, clicking his tongue sympathetically as he settles his hand over your chest, "It's so bad I think we just need to scrap the whole thing. Take it off?"

"The pad is fine!" You laugh, but Anakin's lithe fingers have already slipped into the gap between layers of fabric to yank the foam pad out of your bra. He's quick to slip it down the front of his pajama pants, grinning smugly at you as he leans back with tousled hair against the headboard of your bed.

"Hey!"

"Take it."

"I have more bras," You huff, stripping off the lopsided bra and digging in your drawers for the others, "I'm gonna be late for work, Anakin!"

You expect a groan of defeat from Anakin but it's cheekiness you hear instead, "They're empty."

"What?"

He's right. There's a distinct lack of form in each piece of fabric laying limp in your drawers.

"Anakin!"

"I'll give them back! Just let me put them in," He grins doggedly, "Deal?"

"Only because I'm late for work," You gripe, glaring at him with all the force you can muster even though you're beginning to flush.

"Liar," His eyes gleam with excitement as he lunges for the drawer beside his bed, withdrawing two foam bra pads from within, "Once I get my hands on you you'll be begging me not to stop."

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker scenario #anakin skywalker oneshot #anakin skywalker one-shot #anakin skywalker one shot #anakin skywalker headcanon #anakin skywalker headcanons #anakin skywalker hcs #anakin skywalker hc #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfic #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker blurb #anakin skywalker drabble #anakin skywalker dialogue #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker smut

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ohnohelpitsagain · 5 months ago

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so idk if we’re getting a bard’s lament this season, but regardless of if we are or not i NEED to talk about my most favorite dynamic ever so i can get this convo back out into the universe before a bard’s lament happens because it makes me unwell.

vex and scanlan are, in many ways, the same. they’re deeply insecure, sad people that put on masks to hide it. they’re good liars. so that’s what they do. they stand in front of each other and they lie. and it’s not hard for them to know the other is lying. i mean vex LITERALLY SEES THROUGH HIS DISGUISE EVENTUALLY LIKE ARE YOU KIDDING?

and like, vex is snippy and she can be a bit of a shit and she says scanlan is just some guy without his magic. but he’s also the person she looks up to. she literally travels across the whole continent by herself to make sure his daughter can get to him and she sends kaylie back to him even though she’s distraught and terrified and alone. she’s the one person who actually gets through to him during a bard’s lament and she gets through to him by telling him to stop viewing his daughter as a sacred object. to fix his relationship with her. AND HE LISTENS. like again she is the ONLY person in that room who gets through to him and it’s because she implores him to fix his relationship with his daughter after he cruelly remarks that they went to the fey realm to “fix her daddy issues.”

and scanlan! he teases her and he deflects his seriousness around her with humor as much as he does to anyone. but he teaches vex how to use the broom and he gives her the hat to wear. and he ensures her success when he turns her into a dragon and directly tells a god that she’s mean and greedy and the most perfect one of all of them.

scanlan is a father with a fractured relationship with his daughter and vex is a daughter desperate for her father’s approval.

scanlan is not vex’s father. but when scanlan comes back she does everything she can to try and make sure he won’t leave again despite the way he hurt her.

vex is not scanlan’s daughter. but he walks her down the aisle and makes sure she can see her brother at her wedding and he’s happy to be like her father for a day.

scanlan is NOT vex’s father and vex is NOT scanlan’s daughter but really, aren’t they made of the same stuff?

#critical role #campaign 1 #cr1 #scanlan shorthalt #vex'ahlia #vex’ahlia de rolo #platonic soulmates #in the most pure sense of the word #i actually can’t express how ill they make me #i will literally never recover #they are the duo of all time #save me weird kinda paternal but deeply emo relatonship #vox machina #the legend of vox machina #tlovm season 3

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raconteur-wanpi · 2 months ago

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Actually, speaking of the whole Sanji & Usopp Meta again (I won't shut up about it ever) and the common complaint of "why wasn't Usopp in WCI?", the more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that it IS because they are foils.

It's kind of a joke I've seen around that "WCI wouldn't have happened if Usopp was there" but I actually genuinely believe that. Do you think Sanji would have the guts to lie out of his teeth (the whole pretending he was a cruel haughty prince this whole time) to drive away his crew during that carriage scene, if the Certified Crew Liar who Lies to Protect Himself and Others was there? To call him out? To immediately recognize that behavior? Do you think Sanji would have it in him to FIGHT LUFFY, if Usopp, who was deeply scarred by his own brawl with Luffy, was there to watch them? When Usopp reminds Sanji of his past self? Would Sanji find the strength or the courage to make Usopp relive Water 7 in that scene? Would Sanji find it that easy to lament about his weakness compared to his powerful siblings during the entirety of the arc if the "guy that survives being the Weak Human in a world of Monsters" was there to remind him it IS possible to survive? Especially when you accept the help of your friends?

Usopp wasn't in WCI cause it would have been over like ten times quicker lmao. Sanji needed to feel isolated and desperate in his solitude for the arc to work, and the best way to do that is to separate him from one of his major foils. And I think it's the same reason his other two parallels, Zoro and Robin, weren't in it either.

#one piece #usopp #sanji #sanuso #god usopp #black leg sanji #whole cake island #one piece meta #talltales #dont get me wrong I'd still would've loved it #but it makes sense #robin especially for the same reasons!!#op meta tag

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nymphomatique · 1 year ago

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your nerd miguel fics are so good i didnt even know id like dom!reader this much

imagine slutty!reader getting ready for another party and she's barely wearing anything, pretty tits n ass spilling out of her clothes. she's leaning forward over the vanity to do her make up, and miguel cand help but get distracted from (her) homework, and just looks at her plump ass peeking from under her flimsy skirt. he begs her to let him rub himself on her and with hesitant hands he grips her hips and dryhumps her like a dog in heat

well, yes!

cw: slight dom!fem reader, sub!miguel yall know the vibes, me indulging in fashion for a moment, dry humping, miguel cums in his undies, this one’s a lil sweet i fear, awkward ending soz, edited AND proofread y’all 🙏🏾 (can’t guarantee no mistakes however)

wc: 1.6k

❤︎ a/n: i’m a dirty liar and forgot to upload this yesterday but!! she’s here and she was a labour of love! everyone who survived the great barbie drought of winter 2023-2024 gets a pin and goodie bag at the door. nevertheless, enjoy!! 💋

“hey, four eyes, this dress or should i wear a skirt instead?”

brown eyes you’ve come to know so well, more than you’d like to admit, flit up to meet yours momentarily until they look at the two articles of clothing hanging on hangers between your manicured fingers. in one hand, a mesh cut out dress with a deep plunging neckline, and a khaki mini skirt in the other.

“um, skirt. y-you looked pretty in it when you bought it, so um- you should wear it,” miguel mumbles, a pink tint sweeping its way lightly across his face. you’re feeling particularly sweet on him today. it’s been hard to keep your eyes off him as of recent, his chiseled jaw, thick lips, and who could ever forget the resplendent pools of brown that takes form of his eyes. eyes that make your face heat up, setting your body ablaze and feeling feverish under the slightest of glances.

he’s classically handsome, that much you won’t deny, as much as it kills you.

you silently take his suggestion in heed, quietly stripping in front of him to change into the skirt he suggested, and pulling on a black long sleeved crop to to match. you silently lament on the memory of the day you bought the skirt, how you had dragged miguel by his shirt alongside you that day to the mall to sit and watch you buy clothes at any and every store, designer or department, and shuck your bags into his strapping arms. you had wandered into miu miu, miguel trailing not too far behind you with your bags from blumarine, versace, cavalli and more comfortable in his hands. he sat patiently in the waiting chairs as you picked up an array of shirts and skirts and accessories, until you were ready to try them on. miguel sat and watched as you said no and turned your nose up at nearly everything until you tried on a khaki skirt, sitting so low on your hips the straps of your red thing peeking above the waistband.

you turned and twirled in the mirror, admiring the skirt on yourself until you turned to miguel himself, walking up to him as he’s sat to ask him, “you like it?” and like it he does, a hefty hand trailing up from your thigh to your hip, tapping your your hip softly. “you know i do, baby,” and you giggle at his answer, twirling for him before walking back the dressing room to change, not before biting your lip and beckoning miguel to follow at your heels with a pink painted acrylic nail. and follow he does, because he’s such a good boy.

you feel roused at the memory of your dressing room quickie in the same skirt you’re wearing now. and you’re sure miguel feels the same, and you don’t miss the opportunity to provoke him at any moment.

you bend over, slow but curt, fixing up your makeup in your large vanity while your ass sits out in direct display, the short fabric of the skirt lifting as you bend. your black thong is made visible as you bend and wiggle you hips. you steal small glances in the mirror to where miguel is on your bed, sitting in a sea of linear calculus books, and sure enough the methods of linear are long forgotten to focus on your exposed backside. you giggle and turn your head to look at him, and his lips purse when he realizes he’s been caught. before he can sputter anything out, you stand and turn to him and ask him, “see something you like, dontcha?”

a silent swallow and a nod is miguel’s response, his growing erection answer enough for you.

“beg me for what you want.”

and there’s a brief fleeting moment after the words leave your lips. an unspoken fervour in the air, perhaps a mix of what hasn’t been said and all that’s left to say about the two of you. you feel hot, your gaze burning through miguel’s clothes, burning his skin all the way across the room. you want him, you want him, you want him. and he’s looking back at you, a subdued but still present lust in his eyes. you see the submission, his compliance. yes, mistress.

his knees hit the floor, and then his rough palms follow suit and he’s crawling towards you until he’s not, and his sat like a good little boy in front of you painted feet, and he does what you ask, he begs for your touch, your taste, your mercy.

“please let me touch you, i need it, please please please. can i have it? can i touch you, mommy? i don’t even have to be inside you, j-just your touch and i can- i can cum. please? oh god please-“ miguel babbles, his hulking form looking up at you from the floor. you feel like the wind has been knocked out of your chest. he just needs your touch. you card a hand through his thick wavy locks, gripping at the nape and pulling his head up to look at you.

“just need my touch, hmm?” you look at him and he nods. whimpers. so fucking pathetic. “i’ll let you hump me like you want. my subservient little puppy needs it, huh?” you coo mockingly. a string of yes’s and thank you’s leave miguel’s lips and you get up and turn around, bending over to brace yourself on your vanity.

you’re fully presented for miguel, and there’s an empty beat of stillness between you both, you make eye contact with him in the mirror and quip, “gonna keep me waiting?” and he knows better than that. he’s up on his feet, unbuckling his belt and shucking his jeans down and off him, standing in his boxers, swollen and full with his erection. he moves behind you, placing his hands on either sides of your hips.

“no ma’am.”

you can’t help but pulse in anticipation. you look at him in the mirror and find that he’s looking at you already and you feel yourself heat up. please don’t make me wait anymore, you think. like he’s read your mind, miguel’s covered erection is pressed up against the gusset of your panties, perfectly slot between your ass cheeks.

and experimental hump sends you bouncing forward a little, your breasts jiggling a bit, a soft sigh of satisfaction leaving you. finally. another hump, miguel’s strong hands pulling your hips back towards his crotch and you gasp a bit and the pleasure. another thrust of hips, and again, and again until it becomes a steady rhythm of soft sighs and low groans. and it goes on from a thrust to a trust and grind, and oh! the meat of miguel’s dick rubs up against your clit and you can’t help but moan.

your moans are joined by miguel’s whimpers, his hips rocking so intensely it has you burning up inside so much that you think you might cum from the stimulation. “s-so good baby, fuck,” miguel let’s out and you keen at his praise. you’re so good, you’re his baby. you push and grind your hips up in time with his, feeling yourself begin to soak through your panties and maybe onto miguel’s dark boxers. you can’t hold yourself together anymore, feeling yourself come apart so you drop your head onto your vanity’s surface, hoping to salvage some semblance of your pride.

the thick hands on your hips move to find purchase within your skirt, grabbing fistfuls of the short fabric before pulling your hips back with a staggering strength. you feel your knees buckle a bit, and your head shoots back up with an accompanying moan.

miguel pulls you down while pushing himself up into you and it feels so fucking good. your palms feel clammy and you feels as if you’re still sanding by the grace of god. every nudge of your clit feels as if it’s short circuiting your motor functions temporarily and you feel so overwhelmed to the pleasure, you can do nothing but succumb to it, and the man granting you it.

“m’gonna cum miguel. so good, so fucking good. wish you were inside me so i can feel you. wish you could feel me cum around you. f-feels so good please don’t stop! i’m gonna- oh!” you’re mumbling and babbling incessantly, canting hips and soft whimpers that turn into heavy groans only further pushing you past your limit through this titillating pleasure.

“fuck, gonna come with you baby. come with me, please mommy i need it,” miguel moans. his hands release your skirt and dig into your hips once more and you’re sure you’ll find salacious marks there in the morning but you don’t care, not when you’re so close.

a particular hard thrust sends you reeling forward, head almost hitting your mirror and you can’t help but give out within your legs. you feel them shake and almost go numb at the pleasure. you’re left helpless, cumming violently and soaking the fabric separating both you and miguel as miguel continues his assault against your poor pussy. he fucks it- humps it?- raw, overstimulating you to the point of pain when finally he finishes with a final thrust, his nails digging into the meat of your curvature. you feel his cum seep through the material of both of your arguments and you moan as it hits the gusset of your thong.

miguel lets go of your hip and you wobble a bit, using your upper body upon your desk to stabilize you. you’re both panting and heaving, taking in the intense and carnal display of lust between the two of you. you’re quiet before you hear miguel pipe up, breathlessly, pulling you from your daze.

“thank you, mistress.”

smug bastard.

#sub miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara drabble #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #miguel atsv #miguel o’hara smut #miguel atsv smut #atsv miguel smut #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara x reader #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #you’ve got mail💌#<nerd!miguel3

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hyper-fixates · 14 days ago

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Visions of a Life

Old Man!Logan x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 5.7k

Tags/warnings: age-gap due to logan’s mutation (reader’s age not specified), established relationship, mutant!reader, not canon-compliant, fluff, domesticity, explicit language, dry humping, brief unprotected sex, angst (and i’m not joking), soft!logan, groping, a few uses of “baby”, mentions & allusions to death (no one dies tho), descriptions of blood (kindly let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: What does an animal do when he’s sick? He goes away to die.

Notes: this was supposed to take a different route, but it just didn’t feel right as i went along…forgive me for being a bit of a LIAR 🙃

The dry Texas heat faded with each kilometre you travelled. The desert slowly turned into rangelands, and the rangelands eventually became the frozen, snow-covered ground of Alberta.

The trip was only a couple days, and the stark change in weather almost made your bones nearly seize and shatter when you stepped out of the truck and were met with the sharp winter wind.

The cold definitely made Logan’s bones ache more than they already do.

Not even his red flannel and jean jacket can offset the negative temperature in the slightest.

“Hm…wow. Cute,” you say in succession, taking a few slow steps toward the quaint cabin.

It’s all dark, smooth wood that stands out amongst the bare, white birch trees and blue spruces that are covered in a light dusting of this morning’s snow.

The second thing you notice is the quiet.

It’s so quiet. No neighbours, no highways—just silence, and the slight rustling of the wind through the tree branches.

You’re deep in the bush, a spot near the south-west border that gives a partial view of the Rockies.

“Grab your bag,” Logan says as he shuts his door, the sound cutting violently through the still air.

It’s almost eerily quiet. No chirping birds, no chittering squirrels, no howling wolves in the distance. Just you and Logan. Isolated.

It’s everything he’s been yearning for since living in Mexico and spending more than enough time working in El Paso.

It’s what he’s been missing desperately ever since living down south—Alberta—his real home. Yet it’s a place that holds no significance to you.

“Yes, sir,” you remark with a lazy, mocking salute of your hand, smirking at how Logan glares at you harmlessly as he walks by you to the cabin.

Logan decided it’s time. Time to come back. Time to be realistic about your future, or lack of, together.

He decided that he’s done fighting himself, and that there’s nothing left for either of you in Mexico even if it’s all you’ve come to know.

He refused to let himself die in the desert and leave you with nothing but sand. There was no comfort there. No semblance of a promise.

The light snow crunches under your steps back to the truck, your breath swirling in small clouds around you. You yank your bag out from the backseat and slam the door as Logan did, hearing the sound echo into the wind before dissipating into nothing.

If you focused heard enough, you could probably hear your heartbeat. That’s how silent it is.

“Creepy,” you mumble to yourself as you follow the imprints of Logan’s footsteps back to the cabin.

You go up the few rickety stairs, stomping your shoes clean on the equally rickety deck, and open the squeaky door.

It’s definitely not a space that’s meant for more than two people.

It’s one level, open concept, and surely not heated by a furnace. The living room is directly to the left—you’re basically already standing in it—and a small kitchen is off to the right. The single bedroom straight ahead is the only room besides the bathroom that’s hidden behind walls and a door.

And that’s it. Simple. Efficient. No walls, no doors, save for the bedroom and bathroom. It’s surprisingly intimate.

“Please tell me there’s heat,” you lament, watching Logan dust off the few surfaces of fixtures and furniture as you toe off your wet shoes.

Logan gives you a look. “There’s a fireplace.” He gestures to the barren, ash-filled pit that sits at the bottom of the chimney in the corner of the room.

Above it, a mantle with a little T.V. “Cable?” You wonder aloud. This place is already more luxurious than what you had in Mexico, but at least in Mexico you didn’t have to worry about freezing to death in your sleep.

Logan limps along to the bedroom with his bag. “Satellite.”

You suck your tongue against your teeth, following Logan to the bedroom. When you step through the doorway, you almost cackle.

“Oh for fucks sake. We are never gonna fucking fit on that, Logan. Oh my God,” you moan in disbelief at the size of the bed. “You’re probably not even gonna fit on it.” Your voice pitches a little in exasperation.

The mattress was maybe a twin. Maybe. It’s propped up on a thin metal frame that creaks and groans as you experimentally lean forward on your hands and bear some weight on it.

“I do.” He tosses both your bags on the outdated armchair in the corner of the room.

Your entire lives are in those bags. You only brought what you needed and what could fit. There wasn’t much to bring along from Mexico besides clothes and the necessary toiletries anyway. Anything else can be found and replaced back in town if needed.

He steps back to the bed next to you. “Relax. There’s always the couch,” he points out. “We don’t have to sleep together.”

You have never slept apart—he knows that—and that’s definitely not going to start now. This time is precious.

You briefly recall the worn couch sitting in the middle of the living room in front of the fireplace: it’s a brown and red plaid pattern, probably from the 80s, and four cushions long.

This cabin was stuck in time just as much as Logan likes to say he is.

“Help me grab some wood to get a fire going,” he says, giving the top of your head a chaste kiss. “It’s supposed to snow again tonight.” He slips past you out the doorway, the warm, lingering touch of his hand on your shoulder sends a shiver through your body.

You saw a decent stack of pre-cut logs piled in the other corner of the living room when you came in, and you wonder who’s been taking care of things here while Logan’s been down south.

The wood looked fresh, but the dust on the coffee table and window ledges suggests no one’s been here for months.

You figure that dust is the least of Logan’s worries right now.

━━━━

The fire crackles and pops softly, the bright light from the T.V. illuminating the dark room as you comfortably watch the Flames game horizontally—on Logan—from the outdated couch.

The warmth from the flickering orange blaze in the chimney blankets you both, almost trying to melt you together like wax.

Logan lies on his back, legs spread to accommodate your body as you lay stomach-to-stomach, using his chest as a pillow while he uses the well-worn armrest as his.

It’s the middle of the second period and the game is tied 2-2. You can feel yourself drifting in and out of sleep even though the analog bird clock hung next to the T.V. shows it’s barely 11 p.m.

You know Logan isn’t asleep because he’s tracing a finger slowly up and down your spine. That’s what’s putting you to sleep, but the obnoxious ads pull you back into consciousness when the game cuts to commercial each time.

Despite the volume of the T.V., you can still hear the rattling in Logan’s lungs with each breath he takes.

The ear that’s pressed against his chest picks it up easily; it’s otherwise undetectable if you aren’t right up against him.

You don’t want to forget that this isn’t, in fact, a fun little vacation that you’ll both return to Mexico from. This is where Logan will spend the rest of his days with you. There is no going back to Mexico, no future anywhere but here within these walls.

Logan will die here. Like he wants to—at home, with you, surrounded by snow.

“Are you tired?” You say quietly. Your eyes aren’t even open as you ask.

A small chuckle makes your head vibrate. “I’m always tired,” he rasps, his voice rumbling deeply in his chest against your ear.

“Want me to put you to sleep?” You offer, thumbing the material of his flannel, eyes still closed.

He shifts, adjusting his neck. “No. I’m fine,” he explains, and you’re curious to see if he will fall asleep as easy as you can make him.

All it takes is a touch of a finger and a whispered command for him to slip into near unbreakable unconsciousness that lasts throughout the night.

You hum. “If you need it, just wake me if I’m asleep,” you reassure.

Almost every night in Mexico you’d knock him out cold, only you didn’t have to use a punch to do so. The press of your finger against his temple was enough. If he was in better health maybe it would take a bit more concentration and demanding, but it’s quick, nearly effortless.

Somnous is all you need to say—sleep. And his body can’t resist the surge of the pseudo-sedative that comes from within you.

━━━━

A chill that you’ve never felt before wakes you. It’s one that can only come with negative temperatures seeping back into the cabin.

Your body tenses and you peel your eyes open. The faint glow of red coals pulsing in front of you quickly tells you that no one made it off the couch last night, that no one slept on that sad excuse of a bed in the next room.

You and Logan are right where you left each other.

Logan breathes steadily under you, that rattling in his lungs still present even in sleep. It never wavers. It will never go away.

You try to carefully peel yourself off of him, stifling a groan as your limbs stretch and twist for the first time in hours. The tightness in your shoulders makes you clench your teeth.

A few pops and cracks release from your joints, and then you’re free from Logan’s warmth. From the looks of it, he seems comfortable, but you know he’s going to complain about his back and neck as soon as he wakes up.

Thankfully, you’ll help him with that, just like his sleep. Just like you do with everything else.

Remedium, you’ll mutter as your fingers trace along his temple. Relief.

You can fix the superficial—a sore neck, a headache—but you can’t fix something that’s as embedded and chronic as what’s killing him.

You’re the cure. The cure for everything except whatever is festering inside him. He says it’s the adamantium, that it’s poisoning him, but you can’t say for sure.

The early morning sun, all pinks and oranges, shines brightly through the large windows around the cabin. Then you see the snow falling.

You tip-toe to the window across from the couch. It’s been snowing since 3 a.m., but you weren’t awake to see it start.

Thick, fluffy snowflakes wisp around in the light wind and you lean closer to the window to get a better look at the scene outside.

You arrived late in the afternoon yesterday, missing the morning snow that blanketed the ground and decorated the trees.

Logan’s seen many winters come and go, and you’ll see just as many after he’s gone. Well, maybe not as many.

A deep groan fills your ears. “Ah—fuck,” Logan growls, pulling himself to sit up from the couch.

You skip excitedly over to him, bending down to cradle his head in your hands and press your thumbs against each temple, your lips meeting the top of his head in a brief kiss.

“Remedium,” you whisper into his hair, and he makes a satisfied sound in response as his body adjusts and fixes itself.

You move down to kiss his forehead, ruffling a hand through his bushy grey hair before pulling away and going back to the window to watch the snow spiral and churn in random shapes and patterns.

A grumbled “thanks” is heard over your footsteps. He’s probably not even fully awake yet.

“Look at the snow. Look,” you say in awe when you hear him shuffling along the creaky floor behind you.

It doesn’t look like anything special to Logan. He’s seen every type of snow, every type of storm Alberta has to throw his way; however, this may be the most mundane snowfall he’s seen that he can remember.

“What about it?” He says. He doesn’t know what’s got you so excitable.

You look at him over your shoulder. “I’ve never seen a snowfall before,” you explain. “The snowflakes are so fat,” you chuckle as he comes to rest a hand on your lower back, peeking through the window over your shoulder at the snow dancing in the wind.

“Mhm, it’s nice.” He still doesn’t get it. “Go get ready. There’s more wood coming in a bit,” he dismisses with a gentle kiss to your cheek, dense beard poking into the plush skin.

He goes to the bedroom. You should follow, but you keep watching the snow.

In the moment, you don’t realize that while this is your first snowfall, it’s probably Logan’s last.

━━━━

The man who brings the firewood is also the one who’s been “looking after” the cabin for Logan.

They’ve known each other for years, decades, and the man has been doing monthly check-in’s despite Logan not even being in the country.

Logan muttered something about cage fighting, explaining how he knows the man and the bar he owns in town.

You make a face, one filled with curiosity and confusion. “Cage fighting?”

“It was a long time ago,” he defends, tossing the last logs onto the now vast pile in the living room. You now understand why the room is as big as it is.

“Still keeping secrets, huh?” You joke, wiping your hands on your sweater.

A new fire burns strong in the chimney, preparing the cabin for the wind storm that’s meant to hit in a few hours.

“It’s not important.” Logan unbuttons his flannel—today it’s a dark red one; truly Canadian—and strips to his white tank-top underneath.

It’s almost jarring to see him in anything other than a white dress shirt and blazer.

He throws the flannel on the back of the couch, overheated from the fire and throwing logs. A vicious cough catches in his throat for an exhale or two before it finds its way out.

“You okay?” You ask calmly, walking up to him and rubbing a hand up and down his bicep. His skin clammy and damp from sweat.

“I’m fine.” Another aggressive cough. “I’m fine,” he emphasizes, mostly to reassure himself.

You both know he’s not okay. That’s why you’re here, after all. But you can’t stop yourself from asking.

━━━━

The wind storm knocked out the power.

The raging fire will probably be your only source of light for the rest of the night and into the morning.

So, without power, there’s not much to do. But, you and Logan sit on the floor with him resting against the front of the couch. You sit between his legs, feeling the heat of him on your back while you watch his arms reach over and around you to set various sized coins on the coffee table to entertain—and educate, as he would say—you.

“That one’s so big,” you point out, reaching for the gold coin.

Logan wants to make a joke so badly, but he settles for a small smile at what little he can see of your perplexed expression from the side, resting his chin on your shoulder every couple minutes and occasionally pressing little kisses to your neck and jaw just to remind himself you’re actually here.

You pick up the gold coin and turn it over in between your fingers, watching it shine in the firelight.

The bird on the face of the coin is unfamiliar, and it’s dated “2000” on the back below the Queen’s face.

“It’s a loon,” Logan clarifies. “One dollar.”

“It’s pretty.”

“We call it a ‘loonie’,” he explains, “and this is a toonie.” He picks up the other large coin, one that’s silver with a gold center.

You take it from him. “A polar bear?” You observe the face of the coin. “There’s polar bears in Canada?” You turn your attention to him, nose almost grazing his.

“You…didn’t know that?”

“Why would I know that?”

Logan chuckles, snaking an arm around your waist. “Well. It’s where most of the population lives,” he defends, his hazel eyes almost looking as confused as yours.

“Good to know,” you mutter, placing the coin back on the table.

He shakes his head. “Quarter, nickel, penny, dime.” Logan identifies the rest of the coins for you, pointing to each from biggest to smallest.

“The dimes are cute.” You push the thin, silver coin around on the table.

His tattered wallet sits on the corner by your arm, and something peeks out from the bill slot that you paid no mind to before.

“You have Canadian bills?” You ask as you pinch the thing between your thumb and forefinger, snatching it before he could answer or stop you.

You unfold the worn thing with ease, holding it with both hands and expecting to see a historic figure or a bold number printed somewhere, but there’s neither.

The paper is a little thicker than a bank note yet it’s almost the same size, but it has Logan with a young girl plastered on it in black and white.

An old photo, folded up and kept in his wallet as a reminder of something, or someone.

“Who’s that?” You question, analyzing the picture with a seizing heart.

Logan doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t move to take the picture from your hands.

It’s him, decades younger, giving the young girl a piggyback. An uncharacteristic smile on his face that you’ve never seen before while the girl peeks her head out beside his for the photo.

“Marie. She was a kid I, uh, helped, I guess.” The deep timbre of his voice is enough to tell you that he’s suddenly forlorn. “One of Charles’ students.”

“You’re so…young,” you consider quietly, eyes filling with adoration and fondness at the boyish Wolverine in your hand.

You never knew what Logan looked like in his younger years, and it never occurred to you to be curious about that. You’ve grown so used to your Logan that nothing before all this mattered much to you.

Still, there was someone else who got to experience the younger, more spirited version of Logan that only exists in pictures now, and you long to have been that lucky someone just to be able to have had more time with him.

But this is your Logan; scarred, aching, dying. This Logan was meant to be yours.

The Logan that stares at you from the wrinkled picture is barely recognizable against the one behind you, yet he’s still somehow the same. It’s like seeing a ghost after saying you don’t believe in them: you don’t really know how to explain it.

“And your hair is…” You squint at the photo, as if that will help you to find the right word to describe the quaffed points peaking from his head.

“Fucking ridiculous?” He finishes.

You laugh. “Well, I was maybe gonna say majestic. Or even sublime,” you correct.

The photo is creased along the edges and down the middle from being continuously opened and refolded, and you wonder how old it is—if it’s older than you.

“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago,” he exhales, stealing the photo from your fingers and folding it back up, making sure to bury it completely back in the wallet this time.

“Where is she now?” You know you shouldn’t ask but the curiosity is clawing at you. What you know of Logan’s past is extremely limited, but there’s a reason for that. You’re hoping he can at least give you this.

Logan’s shoulders grow taut. He debates lying, but he doesn’t. “Dead.”

━━━━

“Logan?”

No answer.

“Logan,” you say more firmly.

No answer.

“James,” you throw at him, watching his head quirk to meet your voice.

“What?” He barks, quickly averting his attention back to whatever holds his attention in his lap.

You hesitate in the bedroom doorway, afraid of what you might see if you take another step, but you already know what it’s going to be. It was only a matter of time before Logan fell back into himself.

Logan sits on the creaky, old bed with his back to you, a tremble in his shoulders that no one else besides you would notice. He hates that you notice.

You lightly tiptoe around the bed and drop into a squat between his legs, resting a hand on his knee.

Three adamantium claws occupy the space between you, blood slowly dripping from his knuckles and staining the wood floor. His eyes stay on the claws, but you keep your gaze on his face anyway.

His fist shakes, either from the pain of pulling his claws out or the atrophying muscles.

“There’s no reason to keep doing that…that’s not what we came here for,” you gently scold, watching him take a shaky breath while you try to control your own.

You came here to escape the pain, even if you’ll inevitably face something far worse down the road.

He does this when he feels helpless. You don’t know what it achieves, but he seems to believe it does something other than marring his skin even more and making his forearm burn with white-hot pain from metal sliding against his aged tendons and ligaments.

“Put them away. Please,” you encourage, squeezing his knee comfortingly.

Logan closes his eyes. He doesn’t nod or say anything as the claws retract back into his skin, albeit at a snails pace. You worry that one day they’ll just get stuck in or out forever.

You can’t influence his body to physically repair itself or heal faster—you can only provide a barrier to the pain while it subsides on its own.

You stand, hand reaching for his temple to whisper the magic word like always, but Logan’s bloodied fingers wrap around your wrist.

His eyes finally meet yours. “No. Leave it,” he dismisses, sliding his hand up into yours and smearing the warm blood between your joined palms and linked fingers.

It’s futile to argue against him, so you let him have this; the pain he hasn’t been able to shake for years, the pain you can’t entirely stifle and fade, the pain he would never wish upon anyone, the pain he will only escape in death.

━━━━

“I can let you go,” you cry softly.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger when he feels your hot tears fall against his bare chest one after the other.

It’s one of those mornings—where everything just hits you out of nowhere. One of those times where reality has set in.

Logan doesn’t say anything because he knows there’s nothing he can say to comfort you. He will die. And nothing can change that.

You lie on him, your cheek to the middle of his chest, unable to stop the silent, persistent tears.

The rickety bed, in fact, holds both of you, and a soft cotton blanket does little to save you from the frigid morning air that has snuck into the cabin yet again.

“I can’t do it,” you whimper quietly, shaking your head against him. “I can’t.”

He wraps both arms around you tightly, squeezing around your shoulders so snuggly that your lips form one of those sad, downturned smiles you make when you’re overwhelmed—happy or sad.

“We don’t really have a choice, baby,” he mutters against your head.

A gentle finger traces along the textured, angry scars over his bicep. There’s one that’s older, almost entirely white from the trauma to the skin. A small, round one sits directly above it—most likely from a bullet—and you know it’s more recent from how raised and pink it is.

It feels wrong to have Logan comforting you over his death when it’s him who will be the one dying, but he hasn’t shown any panic or sadness over it.

He’s ready to die. For some reason, that hurts you more.

Maybe he will make it long enough to see the first flowers of spring; those that are strong enough to brave the Canadian frost.

Maybe, somehow, he will get better. Heal himself from the inside out.

Maybe he won’t end up buried underneath the birch trees.

━━━━

You both barely left the bed today.

You let each other mourn, and Logan didn’t protest. He let you take the time to process what you were feeling. It felt good for him, too.

He reluctantly had to get out of bed to stoke the fire a few times, and now he’s gone to do so again before you call it a night. An early night. You’re worn out. From crying, from feeling, from everything.

The wind has picked up again, howling and whipping harshly against the cabin. It’s supposed to snow in a few hours, but you don’t feel excited for it like you did a few days ago.

“That should burn all night,” Logan says as he comes back in the room.

You shuffle over on the bed for him. You don’t really fit, but you make it work by half-lying on each other. Either your upper body lays on his chest or his upper body has you almost tucked underneath him while he spoons you.

“Thank you,” you murmur with your eyes already closed, ready to forget about today.

The bed frame groans as Logan shuffles in beside you, slipping an arm around your midsection to pull you to tight against him.

Despite the cold, and the fact that you both should definitely be wearing fleece pyjamas or something, you’re both almost entirely bare. It’s just habit. You usually opt to wear one of his tank tops while he just keeps his briefs. It’s familiar. It’s comforting. The skin-to-skin reminds you both that you’re real.

Tonight, however, you chose his white t-shirt. As if that will do you any better. Logan runs fairly hot on his own, so you ultimately trust him to keep you warm either way.

He nestles into you, curling his body around yours. He slots a leg between your own and situates you so that your ass is pressed against his front. You know it doesn’t mean what you think it does, but you can’t help yourself from jokingly wiggling back and forth against him a few times just for fun—just to lighten the solemn mood.

Logan kisses your shoulder, the hand around your midsection squeezing the flesh of your stomach through the shirt affectionately while pushing you tighter against him.

“Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep,” he dismisses. He knows you’re just fucking with him.

You giggle quietly, interlacing your fingers with the ones he has against your stomach and turning to look over your shoulder at him. “Love you.”

His face softens. “Love you.”

You pucker your lips dramatically. He gives you an eager kiss, placing small pecks gently down along your cheek and jaw when you break away to smile.

Logan will never deny you of his attention when you ask for it.

━━━━

Something pushes you out of a heavy sleep. You figure it was maybe the wind or a dream, but you feel it again. Something literally pushes you.

You blink a few times, trying to wake yourself up. Logan’s arm is still thrown around you, but it’s now fallen down over your hip. The weight of it keeps you in place.

Another push.

Logan’s hips shove against your ass. You furrow your brows.

You know he’s sleeping without needing to look or ask, so what the fuck is he doing—

A more delicate thrust rolls against you this time, then you realize. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” you sigh.

“Logan.” You poke his thigh. No response.

“Logan,” you growl, reaching back and pushing a hand against his firm stomach to shake him a bit.

A series of grunts and groans are his response. He pulls back from you a little, hand tightening against your hip.

“Mm. What?” He mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Stop trying to fuck me in your sleep,” you hiss through a breath, repositioning yourself against him.

“I’m not,” he says, nuzzling up to your back and ass again, half-asleep.

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Yes, you are,” you counter.

It’s probably just some sex dream that got him a little too excited. The thought makes you smile.

It has, in fact, been longer than usual since you’ve fucked, the last time being in the truck when you pulled over at a rest stop in Montana, and you wonder if he’s starting to feel the effects of that.

By the time you reached Montana, you were both antsy and restless. The days, and even nights, were naturally spent just sitting in the truck for hours on end with nothing to do—no way to stimulate or tire your bodies.

The final night in the state was the breaking point. You had unburned, pent-up energy and cramping muscles that needed to be worn out if you wanted to survive the last day on the road before you got to the border.

So you pulled over and fucked in the passenger seat.

Logan let you bounce on his cock until the lactic acid in your thighs made you cry out in pain and you physically couldn’t ride him anymore.

He made you drag it out—for both of your sakes. He wanted your hearts to pump hard and your lungs to sting with each inhale. He wanted your bodies to be fucked into a state of relaxation afterwards.

So, he didn’t help you ride him like he usually does. He didn’t help guide you by your hips up and down his cock. He let you do it all by yourself while he licked and sucked over your collarbones and teased your clit with his fingers.

You both came hard, laughing at the fogged-up windows while cleaning yourselves up with those rough, brown napkins everyone has in their glove compartment for some reason.

Then you continued on, satisfied.

All of this has kind of thrown off your sense of normality. Sex went with that. It’s hard to be horny when you’re sad all the time.

You suppose you don’t need to wonder if he’s feeling the effects of no sex because you’re feeling them for him; his hard cock rests in his briefs against your ass, and you debate doing something you know you’re gonna do anyway.

Just like earlier, you circle your ass over him lightly, hopefully just enough for some payback for waking you up. You assume he’ll tell you to knock it off.

“Baby,” he mutters against the back of your neck tiredly, and you can tell he’s in need of a release.

You smirk. “Hm?” You rub harder over him.

He subtly joins in with your movements, rocking in time with you. His cock feels warm and heavy against your ass.

“Good dream?” You ask, a smile evident in your voice.

Logan grabs at the meat of your thigh, measuring his thrusts. “It’s…been a while,” he deflects, but you know that just means he’s in need of an orgasm.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize, swallowing a gasp as he ruts harder.

“Not your fault,” he breathes, too preoccupied with kissing your neck softly. His beard tickles you, grazing against the slope of your neck with each kiss he drags over it.

His broad, warm chest keeps you from drifting off too far. Your cunt pulses and aches from the tease of his cock, undoubtedly soaking your underwear as he rubs along the space that’s just shy of your cunt. This is somehow more erotic than if he was actually fucking himself over your pussy between your thighs.

The bed creaks with his shifting weight, filling the silence in the room as the wind still beats against the cabin.

It’s never mindless, chaotic sex with Logan. Technically, this isn’t even sex.

He always gave you an appropriate fucking. Not too much, not too little. It was always just exactly what you both needed at the time of doing it. This feels no different.

You can feel your underwear sticking to you—it no longer slides with his desperate movements. You’d be content with finishing whatever way Logan wants. These days, you take what you can get.

“Too tired.” For sex, he means. “Just wanna feel you.” He caresses his hand along your thigh appreciatively.

You grab his wandering hand. “That’s okay,” you soothe.

His hips have slowed to a gentle rock, intent on taking a bit of the edge off without wanting to fully commit to chasing an orgasm and needing a clean-up.

Logan isn’t really one to drop everything for sex. Maybe he was like that at some point, but that’s not who he is now.

He’ll gladly blue-ball himself for some sleep. He knows you’re not going anywhere.

You let him feel you up for a bit, and his movements stop altogether after a few gropes to your chest and thighs—purposefully avoiding anything directly below your bellybutton.

He rests behind you tightly, pelvis somehow closer than before. You still throb a little, but the warmth from Logan gradually pulls you back to a state of exhaustion.

━━━━

It’s never been lost on you that you are the only one to have experienced a full, complete relationship with Logan.

You didn’t die, or get killed. You didn’t leave him or grow old. You are the only one to have this moment. The seemingly immortal Wolverine has someone at the end of his life when he thought he never would.

He never expected to be the one to go first. It was always the other way around. That’s how it was always supposed to be.

Yet, there is a spot slowly thawing for him underneath the white birch trees.

here’s the photo reader pulled out of logan’s wallet <3

#wow what a cozy winter fic!!! right gang!!!!#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #logan howlett x you #xmen x reader #xmen smut #old man logan x reader #old man logan smut #logan howlett fanfiction #marvel smut #hugh jackman x reader

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ch3rrybbie · 1 month ago

Note

Homelander is so “please please please” coded except even if it’s him doing the wrongs he’d also be the one begging her LMAOOO (this is a fem reader request<3)

Please,please,please.

Part 2

Homelander x fem!reader

Warnings: stormfront🤢,angst,cheating?,violence,sexual mentions, Homelander is down BAD for reader lolll

Note from author: I love your mind anon hope you enjoy🫣 made reader not a supe as I feel like it’s even better he’s simping for someone he’d otherwise look down on heheh

———

He is pathetic.

You’d been ignoring him which was extremely hard to do considering his sheer influence not to mention his powers. He was the world’s biggest superhero and here he was on his knees for you. Eyes glossy and red and a face as pleading as you’d ever seen.

I mean getting caught having stormfront as his new supe wifey was your last straw. You understood the arrangement and even loved it you could just be together be yourselves you saw the true him and not “the Homelander”.

But this wasn’t what you agreed to.

———

He’d been more erratic than usual, instead of dressing up like a civilian (let’s be real he throws on a vought baseball cap) and going on your usual dates he came up with a “fun idea” to just stay inside. You relented, but after days of fucking and takeouts cabin fever set in. He thought if he could keep you from vought news and your phone you wouldn’t find out. That if he touched you in the right ways you’d melt into his plan.

It was a good thing vought didn’t pay him for thinking.

“Fuck” you muttered as you turned off the plug socket of for the third time, looks like you’d have to go buy a new charger tomorrow. You feel pure muscle wrap around your waist as he hides his head in the crook of your neck.

“what’s wrong baby?” he kisses into your neck and starts caressing your waist.

“Ugh my charger it’s broken, I’ll get a new one tomorrow” you sigh.

He freezes.

Through the mirror that watches you on the wall you see cogs turning in his head, somethings up.

“You don’t need a phone, you have me” he pouts. “Plus this is good for you, all that junk rotting that pretty head”

You huff as he continues,his hands ghost across the your stomach that is taught with anticipation.

“In fact, come back to bed and I’ll clear that pretty little head of yours” he smirks cunningly.

His hand begins to play with the band of your joggers.

You snap out of the haze he’s attempting to throw you in and turn towards him.

“I don’t think it’s my head that needs clearing, tell me what’s going on”.

It’s his turn to throw a tantrum now.

“Y/N you’re being ridiculous what could possibly be wrong?! We’ve been having a lovely week away from the world!” He whines, hands waving around maniacally.

Your eyes narrow as it clicks, “what have you done?” You sigh.

You knew him too well.

He enveloped yet again eyes boring into you, hands clenched around your waist.

“Nothing baby, I just want us to keep having a lovely time in here and not out there with liars and fools who want to tear us apart” he laments.

You quirked a brow unimpressed.

“How about I go get some delicious Vought snacks for us to watch one of my movies with huh?”, he winks.

A great sigh left you and you relented, you’d appease whatever was going on.

Only issue was he made the mistake of leaving the TV remote.

So 10 minutes later and one Vought broadcast, here you were storming out of his apartment at the top of Vought tower.

Deep in self berating you bumped straight into Ashley.

“Oh Y/N lovely to see you where’s Homelander he needs to sign-“

You cut off her fake smile.

“Cut the shit Ashley, you tell that egotistical maniac that if I ever see him again I will fuck him up”

You turn to the elevator cringing, how the hell would you fuck up the worlds strongest supe?!

And how did you not realise all the promos inside the building of him and stormfront???

He flew you up.

You hit the first floor with all you might, tuning out his distant shouts.

———

I’d been days and your apartment was filled with expensive bouquets. His pathetic apology notes piled on your coffee table were marbled with your tears.

You missed him.

You missed late night conversations under the sheets. Feeling safe with him. Fucking him. Him doing anything to make you laugh.

Him.

He’d been at your door almost everyday and didn’t smash through it so bonus points for him, you’d supposed cynically.

You’d even had Billy Butcher and co turn up begging you to join and give them knowledge. The flowers came in handy as you hurled them until all was left was a trajectory of petals in the direction of your door.

———

Your phone rang with an unknown number, fuck it.

“What?” You sighed.

“Y/N it’s Ashley listen he’s coming over” she gasped down the phone.

“That’s not news he does this-“ you sighed.

She cuts you off panicked, “No he’s coming in this time Y/N, he seemed upset you need to leave”.

In all your time with him you’d never been worried about him hurting you no matter what.

You swallowed that sick seed of doubt down and waited for him.

———

The soft thwack of his landing made you leap from your sofa. You sank back down after remembering why he was here.

You longed for him to just sweep you up in his arms and hold you, kiss you, love you as he did so well. You used to love watching him land and stand tall, chest puffed out waiting for you to let him in.

He gently broke the door ignoring the lock that fell to the floor.

His hair was disheveled, eyes bloodshot and watery. He rushed to you clutching your elbows and shrinking in stature.

“Please baby, please please please” he begged.

You huffed turning your head looking anywhere but him a lump lodging in your throat.

He was breaking your heart.

Suddenly his eyes were lined with yours and he somehow halved in stature seeing your hurt.

“I had no choice!” he exclaims, hands dropping from you.

You stand and go to speak yet the words get stuck and dissolve like sour candy.

Hands gliding towards you, he cups your face eyes urging you to speak.

You can’t hold back the tears as sobs wrack your body you could still see so clearly the man you loved.

“Please honey, please let me back in, please tell me what I can do to fix this” he poured these sweet offering upon the altar of your heart and sank to his knees- the deepest of devotees.

He looked up pleadingly, patheticly.

You were his Goddess and sometimes they could be cruel mistresses.

A cold gust of a laugh lit from behind your tears as you sought to push him away.

“Kill her, kill that fucking cunt stormfront” you spat venomously. You weren’t serious but you wanted to hurt him, knowing he’d never do such a thing. To kill a supe for you a mere mortal. As much as his heart was yours, you as all humans were to him were replaceable.

Eyebrows taught mouth hanging open he takes you in, he’d never know you to be this cruel- Godlike.

You could’ve been a supe in that moment, you should’ve been. He starts to grow hard at the thought of you in a supe suit, as powerful as him.

He smiles sickly sweet, rising like a knight in shining armour and licks his lips to yours.

Drawing back he once again grips your face, hard.

Eyes boring into yours he offers a sweet prayer to you.

“Anything” he whispers like an amen.

He is gone as soon as he came.

———

Smutty part 2?🫣😉

Edit: part 2 can be read here

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spookyserenades · 2 months ago

Text

Trouvaille - Drabble #4

Pairing(s); BTS OT7 x Reader (This is a Namkook x Reader centric drabble!)

Genre/Themes; Hybrid!AU, themes of the supernatural and the occult, religious themes, violence, hurt/comfort, horror, romance

Rated; 18+ for swearing, violence/gore, future sexual themes. Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count; 3.4k

Trouvaille Masterlist

Trouvaille playlist

Prompt; Trouvaille Namkook x Reader, snapshot of a random paranormal investigation (Halloween edition!)

Long time no chat! I hope you all like use this little drabble to help through the Trouvaille hiatus :) We've got some ghostbusting shenanigans in this drabble! I love this trio (and missed them so so much!) There's a slight fright factor for this fall season (spooky setting, jumpscares, grabbing) But fluff and some cheekiness there as well. Chat soon and I love and miss you all! <3

“You’re a filthy liar,” Y/N refused to budge from her passenger side seat, even with the expectant looking hybrid flicking her tights-clad kneecap. “This is not a new dive bar. You can go. I’m staying here.”

“The wolf has already driven all the way into the city, Y/N. Might as well see what we can stir up,” Jeongguk, in a recent attempt to cut back on smoking, stuck a toothpick into the corner of his mouth. Y/N wondered if he truly had an oral fixation. “Come on. You’re always going on and on about ‘spooky vibes’ ‘halloween spirit’ ‘doing seasonal activities’, all that shit. Now that I’m taking you up on that, you’re backing down?”

Y/N bit her lip, cornered and effectively silenced. Sensing her defeat, Jeongguk stepped aside, allowing Y/N to slither from her seat and the warmth of Namjoon’s van. She wasn’t planning to traipse around a weathered and dark graveyard days before Halloween– rather, she was in a skirt, heeled boots, and a delicate off-the-shoulder sweater, meant for slinking around a cozy bar. Immediately, the crispness of October evening air had a shudder rolling down her spine, and the haunted-looking cemetery beyond Jeongguk’s leather-clad shoulder wasn’t helping, either.

“Look at you, Bambi. You already have the camera bag,” Y/N muttered, somewhat mourning the loss of getting tipsy with him and Namjoon that evening. Despite the nickname, Jeongguk’s antlers were completely absent, only the two vaguest spots of calcification present over the spots where the bones usually sprouted from visible.

Jeongguk hummed like he hadn’t heard her, double checking the batteries on his flashlight. Y/N, rubbing her arms for warmth, scanned the graveyard. It appeared that they were alone, which Y/N chalked up to people actually celebrating in the new dive bar Y/N was supposed to be at that moment. About to open her mouth to complain, her posture went rigid when a heavy garment, laden with rich scent and crushing warmth, was draped over her caved-in shoulders from behind.

“The least you could have done was tell her to dress to be outside,” Namjoon spoke to Jeongguk through gritted teeth, watching the girl in front of him nearly dissolve into pieces in response to the jacket he offered her.

Y/N promptly maneuvered her limbs into Namjoon’s sherpa and denim jacket, not even feeling badly that the wolf hybrid sacrificed it to her as she let his smell and body heat curl around her. No matter how gruff his voice registered to the ear, Namjoon had an undeniable concern for those he cared about.

“Thanks, Joon,” Namjoon’s jacket was somewhat akin to a safety blanket, drowning Y/N’s figure and making her feel like a cake topper next to the tall wolf hybrid.

Jeongguk had already wandered off on his own, and it was hard to make him out in the darkness since he was both dressed in all black and he had shed his antlers again.

“I swear, I wasn’t in on this. Your outfit isn’t warm enough, and obviously being here is making you uncomfortable,” Namjoon lamented, Y/N snorting at his insistence of his innocence.

“I’ll be fine. Just hold my hand,” Y/N reached for her wolf hybrid, hooking her index and middle fingers around his thumb and shivering at the spark that resulted in the contact.

Namjoon made a noise in the back of his throat. Not moments prior, Y/N clocked the way Namjoon’s ears drooped sideways: he was uneasy, too. Her wolf hybrid was amongst the bravest of her boys, but with the amount of intense horror movies Jeongguk was making her and Namjoon watch that week, Y/N thought his trepidation was quite a natural outcome.

“You suspect I’m going to trip on something, don’t you?” Namjoon grunted resentfully, though he adjusted his grip swiftly so the entirety of Y/N’s hand was completely engulfed by his.

“Watch your step. If she goes down with you, you’ll fucking crush her,” Jeongguk called back, Namjoon’s chest rumbling deeply– while simultaneously squeezing Y/N’s fingers in a vice. “Wait. You have something to record audio with, right?”

“He thinks it’s amateur hour,” Namjoon seethed, jaw pulsing when he waved his Walkman around for the elk hybrid to see.

“Jeongguk, this is too much. It’s cold and damp out here, why can’t we just go to the bar?” Y/N complained, attempting to save her evening of dodging shadows and being smothered by her wolfish security detail. “We can come back during the day, when the sun can warm us…”

“I’ve told you, Y/N, your pouting doesn’t work on me. You’ll be glad we did this, you know,” Jeongguk replied promptly, speaking around the toothpick in his mouth. Y/N scowled at him, watching her elk hybrid bend to his knees to set up a tripod by a crumbling monument.

“What are you even looking for tonight, hmm? The spirit of Sam Adams?” Y/N let Namjoon tug her along with defeat, though her mood brightened when she earned chuckles from both of her hybrids.

“Yeah, I bet you two would love that,” Even under the darkness of night, Y/N could see Jeongguk’s wide eyes rolling back. She was just putting on a show, standing stiffly beside Namjoon with her lip jutting out in a false pout, but by some Samhain miracle, Jeongguk physically seemed to soften in response. “Give me like, an hour of your time. The bar will still be open after.”

“Oh, really?” Y/N cheered, relieved that Jeongguk wouldn’t be conducting a four hour long investigation. “You promise?”

Letting go of Namjoon so the wolf hybrid could place his recording device on a nearby boulder, Y/N gently smacked her chilly palms against Jeongguk’s cheeks and pressed. The action had his lips puckering, the hoop through his lower lip pressed against her thumb, and his eyes as wide and round as they could possibly get. His tapered ears fluttered and stilled, like caught prey, and without his antlers, Jeongguk looked a lot like his least-favorite nickname.

“Leggo ‘e,” Jeongguk attempted to talk with his lips still pursed, one of his inked hands wrapping around her wrist once the shock wore off. Grinning, Y/N released the elk hybrid, who inelegantly rocked backwards– ass landing on the heels of his combat boots. “You gotta stop doing that outta nowhere.”

“But you look so cute when I surprise you… so no, I won’t stop,” Y/N stuck her tongue out at him, his camera sitting in his lap, forgotten. “Okay, you’re on the clock. 58 minutes left and I’m out of here.”

Shivering like he was trying to shake off tension, Jeongguk squared his shoulders and resumed adjusting his camera. Fortunately, the dimness of the evening saved Jeongguk from being caught with reddened cheeks.

“What’s my task tonight?” Y/N straightened up, suddenly paranoid she was standing on a grave.

“Honestly?” Jeongguk cocked his head, expression turning wry again.

“God help me. Yes, honestly.”

“You’re kinda here as bait. Since you’re witchy and all these dead guys weren’t really okay with that,” Jeongguk admitted, Y/N’s jaw hanging loose.

“Oh, spectacular. Did you bring some rope to tie me to a stake and light a match? Maybe you’ll attract the apparition of Cotton Mather!” Y/N growled, pretending to paw through the elk hybrid’s equipment bag for a yard of rope.

“Jeongguk, this is a new low, even for you,” Namjoon interjected, placing a heavy palm on Y/N’s shoulder– protective alpha wolf tendencies. “I’ll stay with you, Y/N. You can do the audio with me.”

“But…” Jeongguk hummed, Namjoon’s fluffy gray ears twitching in agitation. “If she’s alone, she’ll probably get better results herself. Just sayin’.”

“Unfortunately, he’s right. Whatever. I’ll walk around for a bit and just feel things out, okay? And you are so using your money from the last investigation to buy me a basket of fries at the bar after,” Y/N was able to cut Namjoon off before a spat occurred, hoping her carefully constructed “messy” going out updo wasn’t a pigeon’s nest by then.

Muttering, she swiped a recording device from Jeongguk’s bag, marching off in no particular direction to avoid Jeongguk’s smug grin– and Namjoon’s raised hackles. The chunky heels of the boots she was wearing were sinking into the mud and grass as she walked, making sure to stick to the main paths winding through the cemetery.

It was somewhat of a challenge to not be creeped out, Y/N definitely picking up on spiritual energy and the thinning of the veil during Samhain, so entities could more easily communicate with the living. Additionally, the lack of her physically intimidating wolf hybrid posing as a bodyguard glued to her side had her flinching at the slightest of sounds.

The graveyard was large enough that she couldn’t hear Jeongguk or Namjoon asking their usual investigation questions, which wasn’t comforting, either. Swallowing, Y/N switched her recorder on, slowly passing by a tomb with a weeping stone angel affixed to the top. There was a bench beneath an oak tree, looking over the cemetery, where Y/N decided to pause and take a crack at an interview. With Namjoon’s jacket wrapped around her snugly, she relaxed a tad when she could smell his scent.

As always, she started with breaking the ice– not by giving out her name, of course– listening to the static coming through the device sitting in her lap. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to interpret any of the audio until she and Namjoon hooked it up to his production program, so really Y/N was having a one-sided conversation in a field full of the unseen dead. All the while, she kept one eye on her watch, finally switching off the recorder after 40 minutes of repetitive questioning. Though the sherpa-lined denim jacket she was loaned kept her top half warm, her nearly bare legs were chilly and she was ready to drag Jeongguk to the van by one of his Bambi ears.

Oddly enough, beams cutting through fog from two other flashlights were nowhere to be found once Y/N stood from the old bench. Chewing her lip, anxiety began to tighten her chest as she debated whether or not to call out either of their names. On one hand, Jeongguk would be pissed if she interrupted a recording of his, and on the other, Namjoon’s fury would be cold and quiet if he found out she didn’t call for him when she was scared. Neither outcome seemed desirable, and put her in a tight spot. Typical.

Deciding to just meet her two hybrids at the front gates, close to the van and the well-lit street, Y/N picked up the pace and retraced her steps as best she could. Acutely more aware of her surroundings without knowing exactly where her companions were, Y/N was at least grateful she was up-to-date on all of her spiritual protection, so were the missing hybrids. Even still, there was that eerie sensation of being followed nagging at her.

Though every instinct in her was begging to break out into a full sprint, when she heard wet gravel squelching behind her Y/N immediately paused; like a rabbit frozen in the face of a predator. Holding her breath, her mind automatically began to loop protective phrases, the only thing audible being the blood rushing in her ears. Was there a rustling in the nearly-bare trees, or were there whispers coming from behind her? Balling up her fists, Y/N geared up to make a purposeful beeline to the gate– which was almost in sight– however, she only made it about two steps before a yelp from her pierced the quiet night sky.

Wiry, cold fingertips from behind dove into the base of her updo, nimbly grasping the hair stick holding everything together just to yank it free. Two things shocked Y/N the most: first, the weight of her hair falling around her, and the ping of the hair stick clattering to the gravel. All things happening in a matter of nanoseconds, Y/N’s brain processed so slowly that she was defenseless.

As soon as she yelped and her body began to flinch, two strong arms wrapped tightly around her middle, a large body crooking over hers. Utter horror crashed down over her head, and she was positive she was screaming bloody murder as the grip on her waist got stronger.

“Boo,” a pair of warm– not ghostly– lips grazed the shell of her ear, and Y/N choked on air, a breeze rolling by bringing a familiar scent along with it. “Gotcha right before you ate shit on the grass, too.”

Jeongguk’s presence wasn’t instantly recognizable because his leather and musk scent was lacking the usual tobacco edge, since he wasn’t smoking as much. The fear that took over was promptly replaced by astonishment and fury, and Y/N began to fight her way out of Jeongguk’s embrace, his deep chuckle in her ear. In retaliation, she scraped her nails over the tattoos clasped over her sides, his forearms actually overlapping on themselves due to squeezing her so hard, making him laugh louder.

“Let GO, Jeongguk! You scared the piss out of me! Let go!” Y/N’s struggles were futile against the hybrid’s brute strength, so she pretended to go limp so he’d let her go. With a snarl, she realized he was probably giggling at her heart thundering in her chest. “What the fuck? I thought you were a rapist!”

“Do you really think anything could happen to you while we’re here? Please,” Jeongguk scoffed, the sharp point of his nose nudging her earlobe playfully. “Again. Weren’t you the one who encouraged scary pranks this time of year, kiddo?”

“Ugh. Get off,�� Y/N groaned, her cheeks flaming. All of her boys had a magical ability to talk her out of being annoyed with them, and they all knew it. “You owe me two drinks now, the basket of Cajun fries, and I get to smush your face whenever I want, no complaints.”

“Sure…” Jeongguk eased himself off of Y/N slowly, ignoring the red scrapes marring the back of his hands. “I’ll add it to the list of your requests, your highness.”

“Fuckin’ little shit,” Y/N grit her teeth, finding it unfairly devastating how insanely hot he looked, cocky and satisfied, his dark eyes somehow still sparkling at night. “We’re going. I wouldn’t blame Namjoon if he left you here, you know.”

“Thinking about it,” a new voice joined the conversation, though it was low to the ground. Casting a look towards her feet, Y/N watched her wolf hybrid bend and gingerly pluck her forgotten hair pick from the gravel. “I take back my earlier statement. This is the new low, Jeongguk.”

Y/N was about to violently nod in agreement as Namjoon stood, towering over her, but something made her eyes narrow as she glanced up at him. Jeongguk, now an onlooker, tried to school his expression when Y/N gave Namjoon a deliberate once-over, the girl even stepping away to get a full view. The elk hybrid had to bite on his fist in order to be successful.

“Hold it. You said you weren’t in on this!”

“I’m not!” Namjoon’s eyes went wide, Y/N snatching her hair stick from him suspiciously. Blinking rapidly, the wolf hybrid pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, awkwardly shifting the gear bag higher up onto his thick shoulder.

“Joon. Your left ear is droopy, and your tail is stiff. Besides, you keep fiddling with your glasses and your voice is all high like when you’re nervous in public. You knew he was gonna pop out on me like that,” Y/N listed off, ticking each point on a finger pad. To distract her, Namjoon made a quiet, pitiful canine whine, offering the hair stick to her as a peace offering– but Y/N wasn’t easily bought. “Joonie. You’re sweating.”

“S… so?” Namjoon spluttered, forcing himself to look into Y/N’s eyes. Sucking in his cheeks, Namjoon made a last-ditch effort to seem innocent before releasing a ragged sigh. “Aw, come on, sta–”

“March your butt to the driver’s seat before I peel out of here myself,” Y/N cut Namjoon off with (an admittedly adorable) huff, stomping in the direction of the van and not wanting to hear Namjoon’s term of endearment for her while she was still ticked.

Jeongguk, at that point, couldn’t help but snicker wickedly, brushing past Namjoon in triumph. That, and the sight of Y/N storming away, being nearly eaten alive by Namjoon’s coat, was quite the sight.

“Do… Do you still want to go to the bar?” Namjoon asked delicately, once he stumbled into his seat in the van, the equipment bag stuffed hastily behind him. The grunt coming from the booth told Y/N Namjoon might have aimed it too close to Jeongguk’s shin.

“Yes,” Y/N replied haughtily, still feeling the heavy grip Jeongguk had on her. He had been bulking up for the winter… “You guys are mean. I meant to prank each other, not me.”

“That sounds a little unfair, no? Can’t take the heat or something?”

“You guys are pulling fast ones over me constantly, 12 months a year. Can’t take the heat? Please. I’m a champ,” Y/N accused, sticking her tongue out at Jeongguk in the back seat. He just smirked knowingly, which had Y/N’s mind going in the direction his probably was, eliciting a sharp cough from her throat. “Fine. I guess I should be a good sport, I’m the one who started this.”

With that, Y/N began to get a little too warm, so she began to unbutton Namjoon’s jacket to strip it from her. Her ears perked up instantly when Namjoon began to growl softly, sending a spark of excitement through her. The mood developing was starkly different than the one that had just dissipated, one wired and charged, and there was no doubt the two hybrids felt it with a certain heightened intensity.

“Keep it on. It’ll be cold at the bar,” Namjoon requested, the gruff authority making her spine straighten out instinctively. However, petulance won.

“No, there will be a ton of people in there. I don’t want to be hot,” Y/N refused, deciding to ignore the two of them filling the van with their intensity by flicking through her phone. Namjoon didn’t like his protective (possessive?) requests to be denied, and Jeongguk didn’t like to be ignored. Y/N, truthfully, was still aggravated; neither of them apologized for plotting to terrify her.

The bar was only around the block, so she didn’t ice them out for too long. In the five minutes it took for Namjoon to find a parking spot, she could tell he was feeling remorseful due to the sad thumping of his tail against the car door when he hastily opened it for her, his ears sideways. From that position, she was nearly eye-level with him, and he was brave enough to drink in her expression.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“Make it up to me?”

Namjoon perked up just a degree, looking down at her through his eyelashes. Millions of possibilities flooded through the wolf hybrid’s mind, but conscious of the fact that he was blocking half of a sidewalk, he made a decision. With an arm around her waist, Namjoon helped her out of the van, and before she was too stable on her feet, he pressed his lips to the center of her forehead gently. Y/N hummed lightly, too pleasantly surprised to be embarrassed several pairs of eyes were on her.

“‘M sorry we scared you,” Namjoon murmured, his chin resting on the crown of her head, body awkwardly bent. Giggling, she ruffled his starlight hair, Jeongguk interrupting by sliding the side door open. “Let’s go in. I’ll buy you the first drink.”

“Hey, that’s supposed to be me,” Jeongguk spun on the heel of his combat boot, already at the bar’s entrance. The sound of rock music and jovial conversation pulsed from behind the door. “Yeah. Sorry, kiddo.”

“Okay, okay, I forgive you. Hey, let Namjoon go in first. His height parts crowds, we’ll get to the bar faster,” Y/N yanked Jeongguk back by his belt loop, Namjoon shouldering by with reddened ear tips and his dimples creating deep craters in his cheeks.

“After yo–”

Y/N stopped holding the door open when Jeongguk placed a hand on the wall beside her face, reached up to boop her nose, and then leaned in to whisper:

“I’m only sorry I didn’t film your reaction.”

“Oh, you motherfucker!”

Please do not repost or translate my work. Thank you!

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