#look at that line of muscle on his flank

[unintentionalseductress]

Telling The LADS Men to Ditch The Condom

Them reacting to you saying you want them to fuck you raw. Warnings : MDNI, sex, oral, handjob, and general smut These banners are mine, please do not reuse them.

Zayne, as a doctor, preached safe sex. He appreciates the responsibility and nothing is more attractive to him than a woman who is aware of her birth control options and doesn’t mind communicating openly with him about these decisions. After all, having sex was such an intimate act for him that he wouldn’t even think about it until you’d been dating for at least a month. He likes the exclusivity and the closeness of sex, and that includes being held accountable for the choices both of you made in the bedroom. So when you tell him to lose the condom, he blinks, making sure he hasn’t misheard you.

“You…want to do it without a condom?”

His head is between your thighs, kissing and nibbling the soft flesh as he edges his way towards the moist and sensitive folds, and he raises up on his elbows to ensure his ears aren’t being obstructed by your legs.

You nod slowly, blushing as his dark eyes fixated on yours, the flecks of amber in them lightening at the idea. His pupils dilate at your affirmation, and he hoists himself up a little higher, resting on your belly, gently stroking your flanks. “You’re sure about this? There’s no pressure you know.”

“I know. But I feel like we’ve been together long enough to allow ourselves to go one step further. And I’m on the pill. We can monitor the situation later if you want to but honestly Zayne, I think any step I take with you isn’t going to be something I regret.” You say the words candidly, reaching down to stroke his black, silky, locks of hair, heart skipping a beat as he plays with the squish of your belly, nuzzling his face into the softness. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

His eyes flutter closed for a second, the ebony eyelashes resting like fans on his cheekbones before he sighs, the little puff of air sending a shiver across your middle. He crawls up towards your face, capturing your mouth in a tender kiss, tongue sliding across the slit of your lips before entering inside. You cup his face and deepen the kiss, heat gathering in your body. Zayne pulls away only to come to your ear, hot breath tickling you as he speaks.

“I don’t think I’ll regret this either.” He licks the shell of your ear, making you twitch. “But remember, if you change your mind, I’ll stop. No questions asked.”

His words are so sincere and spoken with love, adding fuel to the fire. Zayne, patient and considerate, is looking at you with those sharp eyes as if you’re his last meal on earth. He kisses his way down, pausing briefly to shower some attention over your perked nipples, giving them soft licks and kisses that make you mewl and whine with need. Once he’s back at his original spot between your legs, your arousal has increased a hundredfold, your sex soft and swollen, leaking fluid as he parts your folds.

His tongue darts out, tasting you, licking slow lines from cunt to clit, before slurping the swollen pearl into his mouth, suctioning it with his lips. His middle finger flirts with your entrance, teasing it until it starts sucking in his fingertip, drawing a moan from you as he strokes it along your upper wall.

Zayne knew his anatomy and he never wasted a second in touching you exactly in the spot that made you feel like you were turning into a pile of goo. Never in a hurry, always taking his time, coaxing orgasms from you like a hobby, the breath tearing from your throat, your core spasming from the pleasurable waves that radiate throughout your body. Zayne nudges you through the final vestiges of your orgasm before stroking himself, readying his hardened cock.

He’s done this before but what gets to him as he aligns his tip with your hot entrance is how heightened the sensation is, the absence of latex allowing him to profoundly feel every muscle contract and fully experience how wet and welcoming your body truly was. He grits his teeth, his balls throbbing, desire surging through his veins, almost snapping his self-control.

He inches in slowly, splitting you apart, marveling at how you stretch to fit him, the little noises that leave your throat music to his ears. Once fully sheathed, he looks at you, hair tousled and splayed across the pillow, a flush across your face. He thrusts with care, drawing a moan of longing from you and softly rolls his hips, adjusting himself at an angle he knew you liked.

Every movement brushed his mushroomhead against your gspot, soft sighs filling the air, his lips descending onto yours, his thumb working your clit, gradually bringing up your pleasure to another peak.

“You feel so good darling,” he pants, his thrusts becoming steadily faster, his willpower fading away to primal need. “Taking me so well,” he whispers, capturing your lips in another passionate kiss.

Your body is reeling from the stimulation and with Zayne’s gentle ministrations on your clit you cum with a cry, his hips stuttering as he feels the orgasmic spasms of your core around his cock. He tries to hold on, but it’s too much, his head growing sensitive as your second orgasm sucks him in deeper into your warmth, his balls tightening up and the coil in his belly compressed to a limit until it snaps, and with a grunt, he spills himself into your body.

Afterwards, he holds you tenderly, gently easing out, and cleaning up your messy slit with a warm washcloth, playing with your hair until the both of you fall asleep.

This is a man who’s been taught condoms are the best way to avoid complications. It’s a golden rule that he will not have unprotected sex for both health reasons and to avoid making the person he’s with uncomfortable. You don’t have condoms? He’s running to the pharmacy to get some. He takes these things seriously and understands that it’s simply gentlemanly to be the one to buy condoms. Xavier wants to feel like he can be relied on in situations like this and that you should never feel awkward asking him to make a condom run or any kind of run.

He’s reaching for the box to roll one onto himself when you hold his wrist. Curiously, he looks at you, a sight to behold, a heavenly sight laying on his bed, lips plump and swollen from his kisses, body glistening with sweat from your recent orgasm.

“Ditch the condom Xav,” you murmur, tracing his arm with your fingers, causing goosebumps to bloom on his skin, his usually slow heartbeat picking up a few paces.

“Are you sure angel?” He lays down gathering you in his arms, his erection tickling your belly as he breathes in the perfume of your hair.

“Positive.” You stroke his cheek reassuringly, feeling like you could drown in the depths of his blue eyes, unable to control the little giggle that leaves your throat as he blushes at your confirmation.

“Xavier.” You grasp his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I’ve never been more sure. I know I can trust you, rely on you. And right now, I can’t think of anything I want more than to feel you inside me, no barriers.”

He’s shy, his smile so awkward and his face so pink. This was new to him, and the fact that you’re asking so sweetly is pulling at his heartstrings. After hesitating for another moment he places the condom back on the nightstand.

“All right angel. Since you're sure. But tell me if you feel uncomfortable at all ok?” Xavier rubs his thumbs over your cheekbones in circles, a sweet and tender gesture, carefully laying over you, his chest coming into contact with yours as he tips your face up for a kiss, his hands slipping under you and clasping your shoulder blades to bring your body as close to his as he could.

While his tongue explored your mouth, he raises slightly on his knees and effortlessly finds your moist entrance with his tip savoring each tiny inch that envelopes his cock with aching warmth. He's unable to control the sigh that escapes his lips, lost in your mouth as he feels the wet muscles contract around him, pulling him in. The feeling is inexplicable, the intimacy of skin on skin making him feel heady and light, heart racing in his chest.

His brilliant blue eyes begin to darken at the edges, turning into a darker shade of midnight as he bottoms out, little noises of contentment resounding in your throat as you feel the hot velvet column of his cock fill you, feel the way it pulses as he occupies your pussy.

“Xav… You feel amazing,” you gasp as you pull away from his mouth, his hips coming to lay flush against yours as he thrusts into you, stroking your inner walls and teasing all the right spots inside you. He's hot and flushed, watching your face as it contorts in pleasure, his blush settling across his cheeks and nose like adorable pink freckles. You smile hazily as him and his head dips down to suckle as nipple, his tongue caressing the little bud, turning your moans into sighs of longing.

When his thumb starts to circle your clit you almost cry out from the pleasure of it all, every sensitive spot being hit at the same time with aching perfection. His breath mingles with yours, sweat forming on both your bodies as you rock against each other, creating delicious friction, matching the other rhythm for rhythm, strike against long stroke.

The edges of your vision blur as your climax grows nearer and Xavier’s jaw grows tight, a moan escaping his lips as he tries to hang on, determined not to climaxes before you. His thumb picks up its pace and with a shaky gasp, your orgasm hits, the sweetness of it making you sob as it grips you, feeling your core spasm, and with a final push of triumph, he allows himself to succumb to his own desires, cock twitching and spasming along with your pussy as he cums, coating your walls with his seed.

Tired, he collapses on top of you as gracefully as he can, your hands and soothingly rubbing over his back, kissing his hair, murmuring praise to him as he floats down from his high.

“Angel…you're so wonderful. The best.” his head is on your chest, listening to your heartbeat as he tries to grasp into reality. You can't help but laugh lightly. Xavier always gets pussy drunk and now without the condom it appeared to accelerate to an entirely fucked out state.

His eyes gleam like sapphires as his breathing returns to normal. “Well how am I supposed to be the guy making the condom run now after knowing what it feels like without one?”

You roll your eyes affectionately at him and flick his forehead.

Rafayel isn't unfamiliar with sex and intimate relationships but he doesn't often engage in them. He's quite shy and doesn't tell you what he's thinking. With patience and a little experimentation, Rafayel slowly came out of his shell and learned to feel comfortable enough with you to express his desires and wants. However, he's nervous about how you'll react to him admitting he's been wondering how it would be without a condom so he clams up.

His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are half lidded, whining as he rests between your legs, his back against your chest as you pump his erection with aching perfection.

“Feeling good baby?” You coo at him as he writhes under yourself ministrations at your mercy.

“Yeah… So close… Don't stop… “ he pants, hips desperately thrusting up to meet your strokes, feeling his thigh muscles quiver and his abs growing tighter with each passing second.

“Talk to me Raffy… how good am I making you feel?”

“So good…” His eyes, a lovely shade of lavender gray are starting to turn into smoke as his impending climax builds and rises. His cheeks are flushed and there's sweat on his forehead and chest from the exertion, the gentle crescendo of pleasure building to a steady peak.

He gazes up at you in a haze, those adorably plump lips parted as he gasps for air.

“You're so pretty when you pout you know?” you ask teasingly and as predicted his brow furrows, displeased at your amusement.

“Don't… say things like… that!” the color in his cheeks rises and your own control slips slightly as you lean down to give an admonishing nibble on his lower lip. The extra stimulation is enough to push him over the edge and with a groan he pulses, his cock warm and needy in your palm, spilling his cum into your hand.

Your clean hand plays with his pretty hair as you continue to pump him with care ensuring he rides out every drop of his orgasm, a few more more spurts of viscous fluid leaking from his tip before stopping.

Rafayel relaxes on your lap as you reach over to grab a tissue and wipe off your hand. His eyes linger on your messy hand, sticky with his arousal and he feels his cock twitch despite having just cum.

“I wonder what it would look like slipping out of your pussy instead of your hand,” he says in a quiet pondering voice that has you pausing, a wicked grin forming on your face.

“Raffy… Did you just say you wanted to fuck me without a condom?” You emphasize the word ‘fuck’ on purpose because of how flustered he gets when he hears it and sure enough, he pouts, a noise of embarrassment escaping his lips, rolling onto his side to hide his face.

You quickly discard the used tissue and lay down to face him, pulling his struggling hands away from his face which looks like a setting sun now, adorably flushed, eyes bright and averted.

“Raffy tell me what you want.” You reassuringly pull closer to him, nuzzling his warm neck.

His cheek rests on the top of your head and with a sigh he admits with a hint of bashfulness, “I fantasize about it sometimes. But we don't have to,” he adds quickly.

Your laughter is muffled by his neck as you lean back to look at him. “I think we've been together long enough to discuss doing it raw.” You look at him imploringly.

“Cmon baby. We can ditch the condom today. I kinda want to know what it feels like too.”

His smokey lavender roam over your face, still carrying hints of hesitation in them. “You're sure? You're not just doing this because I want to right?”

“Oh Raffy. There's never been a day where you've made me feel forced to do anything. I'm very sure.” You cup his face between both your hands and gaze at him lovingly.

He laughs awkwardly, smiling shyly and you feel his erection press against your thigh as the both of you draw in for a kiss, Rafayel pulls your knee over his hip, stroking your moist folds with his cock. You whine in pleasure as he holds his cockhead up to your clit and you slide along his length, both of you sighing passionately at the intimate touch. His engorged tip cups the base of your clit so perfectly and you feel your core clench in anticipation.

Rafayel drags his length between your folds one more time before sliding down to your needy hole, groaning as your wet heat circles his tip. You push down on him, feeling the heat of his member, enjoying the way he fills you so wonderfully, his head sitting snug against your gspot.

The thrusts were shallow in this position but it allows you to snuggle into his chest, look deeply into his eyes and kiss him at leisure, each stroke hitting that sweet spot inside you with aching precision. He toys with your clit , pinching and rolling it for your pleasure.

He's amazed at how good you feel, how tight you are around his length, how wet you really are. The condom almost dulled this sensation and it feels like he's woken from a dream and experiencing reality for the first time.

Your orgasm hits sharply, making you cry out and cling to him the combined fondling of your clit and gspot too much for handle. As it starts to settle down you moan in his ear.

“Baby… Give it to me. I want to know what your cum slipping out of my pussy feels like too. Please… Cum for me… Like how I came for you…”

Your voice is whiny and pleading and Rafayel's hips stutter as he reaches his peak, letting out noises of his pleasure into your ear as he cums, and you feel his hot seed fill your eager pussy. As the both of you catch your breath, kissing each other in the afterglow, everything feels right.

Rafayel's erection softens and as it happens you feel the unmistakable feeling of your combined cum sliding out of your pussy, pooling at the crevice of your thigh.

“That's so hot,” you murmur and from Rafayel's expression he's thinking the same thing. He gathers a little bit of your mixed fluids on his finger, fascinatedly tasting it, his eyes intoxicated at the flavor.

“See what happens when you tell me what you want?” you strokes his arm. He nods then gets close to your ear.

“I don't think I want to use a condom ever again.”

Sylus is that guy who loves going in raw but only if he's sure you're into him. And despite the talk of him being the ruthless leader of Onychinus, he's a true gentleman and would never bring the topic of having unprotected sex unless you initiate it. He prides himself on being someone you look to for security amidst the chaos in the N109 zone.

His fingers are knuckle deep into your pussy, wet squelching noises filling the air as his long fingers expertly tease that bundle of nerves inside you while his thumb rubs circles on your clit drawing out a moan of longing from you, your walls clenching around his thick fingers.

“That's it good girl… Give it to me,” his deep voice rumbles in approval as you writhe desperately on his fingers feeling your body tense in anticipation at what was to come.

His lips hover over your collarbone nibbling leisurely and you roll your hips, moaning as your climax washes over you, pussy spasming from the gratification.

He licks his fingers clean, savoring the tang of your arousal before pulling you in for a deep kiss, pulling you snugly against his chest, and pressing kisses to your hair. You taste the musky flavor of your orgasm, transferred from his tongue to yours.

Your hands are already busy with his cock, tickling his thighs and cupping his balls drawing a chuckle from him.

“Easy kitten. We have all night.” His tongue slips between your lips again and gives you a sloppy kiss, a noise of delight leaving you as you stroke the hot velvet of his cock.

“Sylus?” you stroke him in a steady rhythm that has him humming, the noise sounding like a cat purring, his abs contracting in response to your touch.

“Yes doll?” he licks and nibbles down the side of your neck making you shiver. His crimson eyes fixate on you as you hesitate to speak.

“What is it? You know I'll do anything for you right?” He grasps your chin firmly and makes eye contact, feeling flattered when you blush, your nipples perked from your recent orgasm, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, looking divine.

“I was thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Um… How would you feel if… we didn't… Useprotection?” the last few words are said in a rush, and your cheeks grow hot as you make your request. It's not normal for you to feel so shy, after all Sylus was incredibly open to experimentation and exploring kinks with you. But there was something so personal about asking this of him, letting a part of him sit within you so intimately and the vulnerability made you feel exposed.

Sylus rises a contemplative eyebrow, his lips curling into an indulgent smile as he sees how flustered you're getting.

“The kitten has gotten bold,” he says approvingly. “You wish to have all of me? Feel my cock in all it's exposed glory inside your wet little cunt?”

The crudeness of his words sends a rush of arousal straight into your already dripping core. Heat fills your cheeks and you slap his shoulder.

“Don't say it like that!”

“isn't it the truth though?” Sylus rolls you on top of him as he lays back against the pillows, enjoying the view of your soft body. “Don't you want to feel every inch of my veiny cock fill you, rub your sensitive walls and fuck you senseless? All the while your tight little pussy keeps getting wetter for me and you can't do anything except helplessly moan and let me stuff you with my seed?”

His ruby eyes glitter sinfully as he watches you squirm under his gaze. How cute. His fingers idly stroke your sides, your hands full of his cock but momentarily frozen from his teasing.

“Don't feel like you have to stop on account of me sweetie,” he prompts, then can't stop himself from laughing as you hasten to continue with your strokes. “You fluster so easily.”

“Anyone would if spoken to that way!”

“Oh no sweetie. I doubt anyone else would have such an adorable reaction. Why can't you just admit that you want me in you, no barriers, just raw and primal like animals?”

Your nails scratch over his abs, feeling them quiver. “If you don't want to just say so.”

“Don't be that way.” His red eyes narrow, hands tightening around your waist. “You know I want to.” His large hands cup your breasts and squeeze.

“Then why do you keep laughing like it's funny?” you whine as he twists your nipples, and grind his upper thigh.

Sylus's eyes soften slightly before he leans up to kiss a nipple and pull it softly with his lips. “Mhm… Sy…” your nails scratch his scalp as you cradle his head.

He lets go and blows a puff of air over the hardened peak, causing it to perk up more before circling it with his thumb. “I adore you doll. It’s not that I find it funny. I'm very flattered that you want me that way. But if I let my desire for you consume me, you may find yourself pushed to a limit.”

He traces a finger from between your breasts down to your navel. “You may find me… being rough. More than you're used to. Because kitten…” he leans up with you balanced on his body and with a soft tickle of hot breath on your ear that has you jerking slightly in surprise, he says in a feral whisper, “the thought of burying myself in your cunt with no condom on, feeling how you clench and get turned on for me makes me want to eat you alive.”

Blood rushes to your face and Sylus watches with satisfaction. He caresses your cheek. “Ride me kitten.”

His eyes darken as you glance at him under lowered lashes. You crawl over his body on your hands and knees hovering your slick core over his hard length. He sucks in a breath as you lower your hips, teasingly brushing his tip against your wet hole, the sensation of so inviting it takes all his willpower not to slam into you mercilessly. He knew he wouldn't be able to control himself if he was on top, wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking. Putting you in control was the wise choice here.

“Fuck kitten,” he growls, his fingers digging into your hips. “You feel so good. So wet for me.”

Sylus's cock stretches you deliciously as you take him in, feeling his veins and heat pulsate achingly inside you. You whine as you fit him in, you whine each time because he's just so big, and it takes a while to adjust and take him. It never fails to make him smirk but today he's watching intently wondering how he's supposed to last with your pussy gripping him like a glove and enveloping him with your needy heat.

When you finally bottom out, both of you take a collective breath and feeling so full, feeling how he fits inside you. Resting your palms on his chest you start to move, lifting your body up feeling him stroke your inner walls and start to ride him.

You start slow, setting a pace that has him groaning, holding your hips so tightly it hurt but you continue, angling your body until you feel his engorged head brush your gspot. His teeth are gritted as he slips a finger between your legs and finds your hardened clit, stroking it to match your movements.

The texture of his cock has you moaning, his gentle movements on your clit pushing you closer to him edge. Sylus lets out a hiss of air, trying not to disturb your pace but his will is being ripped to shreds.

You were so warm. So tight and wet. And claiming you without a condom in his opinion only solidified further that you were his. Marked, claimed, and rightfully his in the most biblical sense.

Your pace picks up as you ride him, needing more friction pathetic noises leaving your throat as you chase your orgasm. Your thighs quiver and burn from the effort but you're so close that you push through the pain, gasping as Sylus firmly presses into the little bud.

“You're so cute like this, struggling on my cock. Let go for me sweetie… Make a mess all over me.”

His words are a sinful request mingling with the sounds of slapping skin and lewd noises of need. With a loud breath of desire, you cum all over him, eyes squeezing shut at the pleasurable spasms that rock your body.

It's too much for Sylus to handle, and taking advantage of your momentary lack of movements, he thrusts upwards into you, fucking you through your orgasm desperate to cum with you.

The absence of the condom aids him and with a loud bark he feels his balls tightening and his orgasm hits him like a train, holding you tightly as pleasure flows through him, his seed filling into your needy pussy.

Fuck he was addicted. He rolls you onto the bed and holds you close to him.

“You're going to be the death of me kitten.”

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

[avocado-writing]

pairing: logan howlett x afab!reader. 18+, minors dni. fluff; smut (p in v unprotected sex; heavy breeding kink; creampie; oral - reader receiving). canonically bisexual reader. dp+w movie spoilers.

synopsis: you and logan have a pretty happy life… but there’s still something you want.

words: 10k.

notes: part 2 of say you’ll remember me. you don’t have to read it for this part but it is referenced. thank you @eupheme for being my beta, and for the use of the dividers!

Logan wakes to the twinned warmth of the sunrise and you curled around him like a cat. 

You’ve always been attracted to the way he runs hot, a creature of habit in any timeline. A magnet seeking him out even when asleep; you are pretty much a permanent fixture by his side when the weather is a little too chilly. Not that he’s complaining - he loves to sling an arm around you and feel you snuggle into him. Loves to keep you close. 

It’s nice, honestly; Logan has more good days than bad ones now. He never thought he’d get to see that again. Sometimes things get rough, sure, recovery is not a straight line - but you’re there with him on every step of that journey and he’s more thankful for that than he can ever express. You’re a grounding rod keeping the storm of his life in check. 

You intuit that he’s awake, something between you innately connected, and you begin to stir, body brushing up against his. He sleeps naked, usually running too hot to bother with any kind of pyjamas, and you’ve started sleeping shirtless too. Maybe it’s because he makes the bed too warm to stomach wearing one, or maybe it’s just because you like to feel his naked chest up against yours - either way he isn’t complaining. 

You stretch, arching yourself into his flank, blink open your eyes slowly. Smile when you find him looking down at you with soft, hazy, early-morning features. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, voice rocky. You reach up to kiss him, as is the way you usually like to start your day. It doesn’t take long for the chaste peck to become something more: the gentle parting of lips, slipping out the pink tip of your tongue to meet his. His body stirs. He can practically smell the way your blood pumps faster, pooling at the apex of your legs. 

“It’s so early,” you faux-harrumph when you run your hand towards his cock and find it hardening. How can you blame him when you’re so fucking sexy? Logan hums, manoeuvring you both so that he can look down at your sweet face as you lie surrounded in cotton sheets. 

“Then stay right there, baby.”

He kisses a sleepy, loving trail down your clavicle; luxuriating along the plain of your chest, nipping at your soft stomach in a way which beckons a breathy chuckle from you, steeped in the gravelly tones of morning. 

“Mmm, Mr Howlett, you are an incorrigible fiend.”

“Incorrigible, huh? Big word for someone who says they’re so sleepy…” he mutters, smirk ticking up the side of his mouth as his calloused fingers dip under the waistband of your pyjama shorts. 

“Incorrigible. Insatiable, even.”

He drags them down your legs, slowly, taking in the sight of you bathed in the dawn’s roseate light. You move your hips to let him. 

“Hmm. You complaining?”

“Oh, never.”

He grins and gets to work.

Logan loves the tang of you on his tongue. You’re still a little sticky from last night, where he pushed you chest-down into the mattress and fucked you so hard he was slightly worried he’d break the bed frame. He didn’t - but he’s perfectly happy to try again. 

You let out a fluttery little breath, butterfly light, as he starts his work properly. Burying his face in your cunt, letting every sense be drowned in you. He drags his tongue along your needy folds and you groan above him, hooking a leg over his shoulder and sinking your heel into the thick muscles of his back. He could listen to the noises you make for hours, a little symphony just for him. 

“Fuck, Logan,” you sigh, blissful and light-headed. He lets his mouth focus on your clit as he presses a couple of fingers inside. It’s an easy intrusion, your pussy offering up no resistance, a mix of spit and slick aiding him. He starts to crook them in a beckon and the mewl you let out will stay with him for the rest of the day; he smiles against your cunt. 

“That’s it, baby,” you groan. Fuck. He loves your voice when he’s making you come. Would do whatever you tell him to, just point him in a direction and he’ll follow. He is so utterly at your beck and call, a dog at your feet, so happy to obey. Anything for you, anything. 

He speeds up his pace, hand fucking you in a simulation of his cock last night, tongue pressing hard and flat against your folds. You come in a flood all over his mouth, soaking his beard and dripping off his chin. His favourite fucking flavour. All the furniture in the room jolts as you send out a telekinetic wave of force, knocking over a lamp onto the carpet with a dull thud. 

“That damn lamp, we need to move it…” you grumble. Logan kisses your thigh gently. 

“Baby, if the fuckin’ lamp doesn’t fall over, I’m not doing my job right.”

You laugh. There’s a pearlescent sheen of sweat that’s broken out over your body but you’re giddy and joyful. An arm slung over your eyes does nothing to hide the smile on your face, so wide it must hurt your cheeks. Yeah. He’s done good. 

“Let’s go shower,” you say, in a way which he’d never dream of arguing with. You walk naked into the bathroom and pull him under the hot stream of water with you. The room slowly fills up with steam and Logan presses you up against the tiled wall, burying his face in the warm space between your neck and your shoulder as he sheathes himself inside. You drag your nails down his back and he growls in your ear, slowly pumping his hips to bring you over the edge again. 

Ever since that first morning that the two of you were intimate, you’ve been wild for each other; unable to go a day without keeping your hands away. Like teenagers who haven’t understood the concept of pacing themselves. He wants to be drunk on you all the time, always wants your gasps filling his ears, his name dripping from your lips as he makes you come. 

He knows he’s the only man for you… but hey, nothing wrong with proving it too. 

You spend a leisurely forty minutes in the shower with your back against the wall and your legs around his waist, then eventually do what you meant to and clean up. He loves to watch you wash, smell the perfumes of all the soaps you use. You look adorable with suds in your hair. Plus when you ask him to get your back with the loofah it’s just another excuse to touch you and god knows he loves doing that. 

He’s a man content when you finally return to the bedroom. 

Logan watches you pad about and do your morning routine, one he knows like the back of his hand by now. Once again: you’re a creature of habit. Pointing to the radio you use your powers to turn it onto the only channel the two of you ever listen to: an ‘oldies’ station which never plays a song made post ‘89– 

—he remembers a few weeks ago when you were both visiting Wade, chatting about how bad songs are nowadays, and your friend had challenged you: “okay you two geriatric lovebirds, no conferring - when was the last good decade for music?” Without missing a beat you’d both answered “the eighties” and, as Wade groaned at how ‘cringe’ you both were, Logan had fallen in love with you yet again— 

—and you smile and turn it up when Aretha’s I Say A Little Prayer starts playing. Logan watches fondly as you croon out the chorus, using the hairdryer you’re plugging in as a microphone. He loves watching you sing. You don’t always hit all the notes but that’s not really the point - the point is he gets to see you be silly and vulnerable and totally and utterly yourself in these moments, something he knows to hold dear to his heart. 

If you’re singing, you’re happy. 

Fuck, he loves you. 

The two of you get yourselves ready for the day to the music which fills the room, quietly happy in each other’s company. The sound of people getting ready for the day starts up in the hallway; kids coming down for breakfast and squeaking their sneakers on the hardwood, other professors grousing about lesson plans - unfortunately it's time to break the cocoon of solitude the two of you have made for yourselves and face the morning properly. 

“What’re we doing today?”

He squints at the calendar to try and make out your handwriting, attempting to ignore the gaze of the “hot bisexual lumberjack” of the month staring out at him with her barely contained breasts and suggestively placed axe (this had been your birthday present from Wade, and you’d loved it). You tut at him. 

“Logan Howlett, we need to get you some glasses,” you say, pulling on your own and pressing your finger to today’s date, reading out the scribbled ballpoint. “Let’s see… we’re both teaching until five, then looks like there’s a Flames game in the evening you wanna watch. I, however, have been cornered tonight: the girls found out I’ve never seen the Barbie movie so apparently they need to correct that - though I ask you, when I was living in a place literally called the Void, when I would have gotten the damn chance. People weren’t just throwing copies of that thing away. Apparently it’s a great movie.”

‘The girls’. The comfortable nickname you’ve assigned the trio of Laura, Ellie, and Yukio. Logan’s glad Laura has managed to find her people with them - he was secretly worried that, if she took after him too much, she’d be a little too stubborn to make friends at all. Nothing to worry about though. She’s thriving here, and he’s relieved. Happy, even. 

“You’ve not seen Barbie?” Logan asks. You’ve moved to the boudoir now and pause as you apply your face cream, bottle floating in the air centimetres from your neglected skin. 

“Wait, you have seen Barbie?”

He shrugs. Yeah. He doesn’t remember the context, he’d had two full bottles of whiskey by then - but for some reason they’d put it on at the bar he was drowning himself at and he’d sat through the whole thing, leaving a smear of pink on his memory. 

You blink, still gobsmacked. 

“Did you like it?”

Logan considers this for a moment, knowing you’ll call him grumpy if he’s too critical, but also sure you’ll never ever stop teasing him if he praises it. Oh, and god forbid Wade ever finds out…

After a long moment he settles on, “it was alright.”

You shrug, happy with this assessment. 

“Well, good. Guess I’m in for a good evening then.” You stand up with gusto, the indication you’re ready to leave. “Shall we?”

The two of you walk to the door, taking a moment when Logan pulls you into an embrace - your back to his front. You look in the mirror, admiring the couple you see in the reflection, something you do every morning without fail.

“I love you, Logan Howlett,” you say. He drops a kiss to your shoulder. 

“I love you too.”

And with that, the day begins. 

Teaching is a very broad term for what he does. Basically, it’s his job to help the older students with self defence. Every day he goes to get the shit beaten out of him by a load of kids but it’s also the best workout he’s had in over a decade, so he doesn’t mind too much. Keeps him in shape, keeps him sharp. Plus he feels like he’s actually doing something helpful, finally adding to the world rather than just being a burden on it. He spends the first period running battle formations with them, keeping them on their feet and quick to react. Can’t have them getting in danger, not when he’s around.

The class takes a break to get water and he finds himself staring out the window, smiling fondly to himself when he sees you leading a little seminar. After you spent all that time in the wild and then the Void, one of the things they have you teaching is survival skills - you’re a dab hand at getting by just with what you can forage. Looks like you’re going to do some practical exercises as he can see you leading a group of the younger kids towards the forest which surrounds the mansion.

Something happens which makes his heart ache. 

There’s a kid by your side you’re in animated conversation with, probably no more than seven or eight, and they’re looking at you like you hung the stars - just absolutely enchanted with how cool you are. Without thinking they slip their hand into yours for support or guidance or comfort, one of the three anyway, and after a beat you give them a smile. 

In that beat, even from this distance, Logan can see the bittersweet look on your face. The longing. You would wear parenthood well and it’s not fair that you never got a chance to experience it firsthand. It’s a sadness which weaves its way into his guts and stabs him there, an old kind of pain, one he felt for you in his own timeline.

Logan wonders if it’s too late. Are the two of you too old now? Would you both be too hurt if you tried and it didn’t take again? He wants to give you what you want, desperately, but he’ll be damned if he’d ever do anything to upset you; he can’t shake the feeling that’s where that road would lead.

“You okay?”

Laura’s voice makes him jump. She’s a quiet little devil, that’s for certain, definitely not something she got from him - all blades and bluster in his youth. He nods because he doesn’t really want to get into detail about his private life with his pseudo-daughter. 

But unfortunately she’s smart, and his eyes linger, so it's only a matter of her following his gaze to see what’s got him pining. She smiles a small, comforting smile. 

“If there’s a problem you should just talk to them. They’ll listen.”

He harrumphs at the fact a girl less than one-tenth of his age is giving him life advice but also knows that what she says is true. He doesn’t address what she’s said, instead cocking his head at the training mats. 

“C’mon, back to it.”

Laura groans and returns to throwing her classmates across the room.

The thought stays with him for the rest of the day though. After class, when he returns to your shared rooms and starts to get himself set up to watch the game, he finds himself thinking about you with a baby in your arms. A mix of him and you with soft skin and excitement for the world. His eyes, your smile, a perfect combination.

And you’d be so happy. 

Fuck. He’s too old to get broody but here he is, huh.

Logan sits heavily in his recliner, the one nice purchase he’s allowed for himself since getting this job, and opens a root beer. TV remote in his hand he switches on the hockey and settles in for the evening. 

After about twenty minutes his phone goes. He frowns, opening up a text from Laura.

there’s some Pringles in the kitchen can u get them for us please the love of ur life is hungry

Logan sighs and replies, thumbs slow and unfamiliar on a touchscreen. 

all of you have legs. get them yourself

Another message immediately: It’s a picture. You’re busy painting Yukio’s nails bright pink, glasses on the end of your nose and concentration on your face - but half torn between the task at hand and watching the movie you’ve been sequestered for. You look cute. Logan stares for a moment and then saves the photo to his phone. All his albums are just pictures of you at this point. 

Plssssss

is the final text in the chain. Logan definitively puts his phone away. He’s watching the game. He’s not going to get out of this chair to grab a tube of fucking Pringles, he’s not whipped. 

A moment. 

He groans.

Fine.

He gets out of the chair. He’s whipped. 

He heads to the kitchen and gets the requested snack, Hank giving him a knowing and sympathetic smile as they pass in the hallway. He finds you in the lounge, surrounded by girls. Clearly the news of the Barbie watch had gotten out and created a swarm because dozens of eyes look up at him as he lingers in the doorway like a giant awkward dog.

Finally you pull your eyes away from Ryan Gosling’s chest long enough to see why everyone has turned. When you spot him you light up.

“Oh! How did you know I wanted Pringles? Been craving those bad boys recently.”

“Lucky guess,” he replies, stepping carefully between pink dressing gowns and well-thumbed gossip magazines to pass them to you. When he’s within range you drop a kiss on his lips too, prompting an “oooooo” from the gathered crowd. You roll your eyes at them but smile at Logan.

“Thank you baby. What’d I do without you?”

He grumbles something non-committal under his breath and retreats, ignoring the shit-eating grin Laura is flinging his way. Eventually the crowd turns back to the movie. He tries to resist the urge to stand in the doorway with his arms crossed and watch along, the stereotypical father figure who insists he’s not interested, but finds himself lingering for a moment anyway just to see you.

Ellie has her feet slung across your lap, Yukio blows on her freshly-painted nails to dry them. One of the younger girls who’s been delegated to the floor by her older peers rests her head on your knee as she starts to nod off and you play with her hair for a moment - an action which comes readily to you, like it would to a parent.

Logan decides two things. 

One, he’s going to marry you, and he’s certain that every second that he hasn’t been your husband up until now has been wasted. 

And two, he’s going to put a baby in you, like you deserve.

On the way back he passes Hank again, who has an insanely huge sandwich stuffed onto a far-too-small plate - except this time Logan flags him down with a question, one which his colleague has to consider for a moment.

“Oh! Hmm. Yes, I’m pretty sure that it’s in the garage, sometimes the kids like to see if they can get it working again…” when he sees a scowl settle over Logan’s face he’s quick to add, “but none of them have been successful! I think the keys are in the ignition.”

Logan thanks him and heads back to your rooms, a plan forming in his head. 

You get back late. He’s listening to music and reading the paper, the game having finished long ago - the Flames winning of course, there was no other option, go Flames - the weight of the ring he’s swiped from your boudoir burning a hole in his pocket. He hopes you won’t notice - he needs to get your size, after all, and he knows he can’t ask you without rousing suspicion. 

“Hey,” you say, dropping a kiss on his cheek and yourself into his lap. The paper is discarded as his arm automatically comes to perch on your waist, dragged there as if by a magnet. Can’t not touch you for a second.

“Hey. How was the movie?”

“Yeah, pretty good! You know most of those girls hadn’t seen Legally Blonde? We had to remedy that after Barbie, apparently it’s considered a classic now. Fuck, it makes me feel old.” You groan and drop your forehead to his shoulder.

“You’re not that old,” Logan says, and when you come to fix him with a scathing look you find he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Tease,” you sigh, reaching in to kiss him, but stopping when you hear something on the radio. 

“What’s up?”

“Oh. This used to be our song.”

It’s AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long. It feels strange seeing the way your eyes get a bit hazy, a bit distant for a moment. 

“Good choice.”

“Uh-huh. She… you liked it a lot,” you whisper, for a moment lost in a memory he has no way to share with you. It stings you both. But then you’re back in the room with him, smiling as if nothing had happened. 

“We must have had a song, right? In your universe.”

Is this painful? He isn’t sure. But you shared yours with him, so it seems only fair he make it even. 

“Yeah, we sure did.”

You narrow your eyes, purse your lips playfully.

“I betcha I can guess it.”

He hums. 

“Okay. What’s the bet?”

“If I can’t guess I’ll do that thing you like. If I can guess, you do that thing I like.”

Oh, well, when you put it like that…

“Why not?”

You search his face, reading him for any telltale signs. 

“Mmmm, male singer or female? Or both.”

“I didn’t realise you got clues…”

“It’s not a game if I don’t, is it?”

“Fine. A guy.”

You think for a moment. 

“It was Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns n’ Roses.”

Logan widens his eyes, genuinely impressed that you got it so fast…

“Holy shit.”

…But the grin which crosses your face suggests you’re playing a trick. 

“I hear you hum it a lot. It wasn’t a big leap, honestly,” you confess. He chuckles, but pauses for a second as he realises the implication of this discovery. 

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I like that song too.”

You don’t seem saddened by this conversation, so he guesses it’s okay - he’d never wanna hurt you by dredging up the past. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to reminisce about what used to be, while knowing what you have now is so strong and secure. 

Logan pulls back to look at you, attempting to affect seriousness but knowing he could never fool you for a second. 

“So you cheated, huh… doesn’t seem very fair…”

“Hmm, you’re right. I guess I’ll have to forfeit…”

You slide off his thighs and onto your knees in front of him, grinning as you go for his belt… but pausing so that you can use your powers to turn off the radio. 

“Unless you want to come to Brian Johnson’s voice, but it doesn’t do it for me personally.”

He laughs, actually belly laughs, and if the two of you aren’t engaged by the time the week is out he’ll be damned.

He’s able to go to a jeweller’s the next week under the guise of finally going to the city and getting glasses, and buys the perfect ring there and then. It must be fate that they have it in your size, a silver band and pretty stone. The caveat of this is, that for the ruse to work, he does actually also have to go to the opticians.

He comes back with a small pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a chip on his shoulder about the fact they make him see so much better. You seem pleased though, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and kissing the bridge of his nose.

“You look very handsome.”

“Mmmm…” he grumbles. You laugh and kiss him again.

“What are you doing today?”

“Workin’ on something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a secret, can’t tell ya.”

You harrumph.

“A secret, huh…?”

“A surprise, then.”

You sigh dramatically.

“Well, okay. If it’s a surprise I suppose I’ll let it slide. The girls and I were gonna head into town to go shopping anyway so I guess I’ll see you tonight?”

You kiss farewell and when he’s sure you’ve left the manor he heads to the garage. It doesn’t take much searching to find his old Harley, hidden under a dust sheet and waiting patiently for his return. Logan can’t help the smile at the old thing, running his hand along the neglected metal frame and scaring a spider from its perch.

“Sorry I was gone for so long, baby,” he rumbles, then gets to work.

The next few days are tough. He doesn’t want to ruin the surprise, but you’re clever, always investigating without meaning to, noticing when he trips up on an inconsistency. So whenever you try and weasel information out of him he simply refuses to answer. You’re grumpy, sure, but he can think of a few ways to make it up to you.

He’s nervous in a way he hasn’t been for… well, a while. He’s sure you’ll say yes. You’ll say yes, right? You’ve already been married once before – to him – so the odds are in his favour, but still, he gets a churning feeling in his stomach when he looks at the little box. Anxiety. He’s far too fucking old to be anxious like a schoolgirl asking out a crush, he feels goddamn ridiculous…

But.

But.

What will he do if you say no?

Ah, he can’t dwell on it for too long. Logan channels all of his effort into fixing up the bike - even allowing Laura to join in when she crosses her heart not to tell you - and plans ahead. Checks the weather. Picks his favourite shirt. 

Takes the plunge.

That morning Logan asks you to prepare a picnic and then meet him outside the manor. You look up at him from the reflection in your boudoir mirror as Carole King floats from the radio, an eyebrow arched.

“Oh? Why?”

“C’mon, I haven’t cracked yet. You think you’re gonna get me now?”

You pout. You’re cute. He drops a kiss on the top of your head.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

“Well-ll-ll… okay. I’ll trust you. Shall I wear those jeans? The ones which make my ass look great?”

“Baby, all jeans make your ass look great. You have a great ass.”

You grin and scurry over to the wardrobe.

He heads downstairs and brings the Harley round front, fingers tapping nervously on the hand clutch as he waits. For the millionth time he checks his pockets. Yep, ring still there. 

As you leave the front door, basket nestled in the crook of your arm, the smile which crosses your face is the same as if you’re seeing an old friend again.

“Oh my god! I had no idea this thing was still kicking around!”

You run the last few steps and put your hand on her chassis. You genuinely look a bit choked up.

“Fixed her up so I could take you for a ride.”

Your expression is so soft, so loving when you look at him.

“Logan… that’s so sweet.”

Stepping forward to press up against him you pull him in for a kiss, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums against your lips.

“Put a helmet on,” he says, handing one to you as you stow the basket. You fix him with an old-fashioned look as he presents it to you. It’s bright pink and has Barbie written across the side.

“God damn you Logan Howlett…”

“You liked the damn film. Keep hearing you sing that stupid song to yourself.”

You harrumph but don’t deny it, instead fastening the helmet on and climbing up onto the seat behind him.

It feels good when your arms tighten around him for support. Always feels good when your arms are around him, honestly, no matter what the cause. He revs the engine loudly a couple of times making you giggle, then speeds off.

He feels your fingers tighten in his shirt as he drives, weaving between whatever cars happen to dot the road as he goes. He’s not had a bike between his thighs for years now but you never really forget how to ride one. Besides, with you as his cargo, he makes sure to go safe. When he was a younger man he’d have been pushing the Harley to her limits just to get his blood pumping… nowadays he’s happy to take it slower. The longer the ride, the longer you’re pushed up against him, after all.

He’s still such a sucker for your touch.

It’s a nice day, and when he eventually slows down to the old lookout spot he used to take you to, you grin as you see the familiar view.

“It’s been a long time,” you sigh, eyes sparkling in the sun. You smooth your hair down where the helmet has taken its toll and start to lay out the treats you’ve packed onto a gingham blanket: thick-filled sandwiches, a fruit salad, a whole apple pie which Logan has no idea how you smuggled out. Fuck. He is so lucky to have you.

He sits and forces himself to eat, knowing the ring is hidden away in his pocket. You’re happy to take the lead on the conversation as you always are, chatting about your classes in between bites of roast beef, but cock your head to the side when a period of silence goes on for too long.

“Something’s on your mind.”

“What?” he asks, silently cursing himself for being so obvious. You reach out to rest a hand over his.

“Is there something you wanna talk about, Logan? It’s okay if there is. We can face it together, you know. We’re a team.”

As you let that sink in with him you wave your hand to bring out a thermos from the basket. It pours out two cups of coffee, both black, and you float one over to each of you.

He watches this with sharp eyes.

“You didn’t add any creamer,” he says softly. You smile, using your free hand to lift the cup to your lips.

“What can I say? I guess you got to me.”

You’re finally a coffee purist.

Logan blinks, taking in the sincere look on your face. There is only absolute adoration written there. It is a plain and simple fact: you love him more than he thought anyone could ever love him.

After a beat, he pulls his hand away.

He shifts to one knee.

Your eyes go wide.

“Logan…?”

“I gotta… you gotta let me talk. I need to get this out,” he says, slipping his hand in his pocket to grab the ring box. You cover your mouth in shock. “You’ve made me a better man. And more importantly you make me want to be one. I wanna spend the rest of our lives together because I’d be a goddamn idiot not to.” He opens the hinge and the ring shines where it’s seated in velvet. “Will you marry me?”

“Oh shit,” you say, then you do something unexpected. You throw your head back and laugh. 

Of all the reactions he was not expecting that.

Logan’s hands dip a little. What the fuck? Is this a rejection? Did he screw this up, monumentally misread the signs between the two of you? Are you having some sorta episode? What has happened to prompt this?

“Oh, baby, no - don’t be sad! Just… hang on…” you say when you see how his face has fallen. He watches as you root around in the picnic basket. “You won’t believe this…”

You shift to one knee…

…and pull out a ring box of your own.

Logan’s mouth falls open as you present a ring to him. A plain gold band, shiny and new - one you’ve had made specially for him. 

“I got your size from my Logan’s old ring. I’ve had it for days just waiting for the right moment and… I guess you have too.”

This information settles around him like a deep, sudden snowfall. His eyes can’t leave the little box you’ve pulled out. 

A smile creeps over his face.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, echoing your sentiment from earlier, and then suddenly you’re laughing too, head thrown back in utter joy. You throw yourself into his arms and press kisses all over his face: his beard, the end of his nose, all over his cheekbones, and then finally his mouth. He can feel the tears spill over your eyelashes and dampen his face, and holy fuck is he in love with you.

“So is that a ‘yes’?” he asks against your lips. He can feel your grin under his mouth.

“Depends if it’s a ‘yes’ from you.”

“Of course. I want you to make an honest man of me.”

“Then fuck yeah. I’ll marry you, Logan Howlett.”

Another glorious, effervescent peal of laughter falls from you and then you’re kissing him again. Together your hands fumble in order to exchange rings, a difficult task when neither of you will open your eyes and break lips, but eventually he manages to slide his ring on your finger and feels you exchange your own.

It feels good. It feels right.

Logan pushes you back onto the blanket, picnic forgotten for the moment. His mouth turns from sweet to hungry as he uses his body to cage you in. His hands drop to the hem of your shirt and start to pull it up so he can trace the bared line of your chest. 

“Logan, here?” you ask in a way which suggests here is great, actually. 

“Why not? Nobody watching. Just you and me, honey.”

He wins you over easily with that argument and your hands go for the top buttons of his flannel. When you find your fingers aren’t doing a fast enough job you start using telekinesis to undo them from the bottom, too. He drops his grip to your hips and fiddles with your belt and the fly on your jeans, groaning with pleasure at how easily you accommodate him and lift your hips so he can strip you.

“Fuck. You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls. His hand skims your underwear and takes a handful of your ass - god he loves your ass - as you rid him of his shirt so you can run your palms over the thick plain of muscle in his back.

“Look who’s talking,” you breathe against him, biting down on his bottom lip and tugging at it. Electricity shoots through him.

“Harder,” he mutters. You oblige him and sink your teeth in just enough for a little blossom of blood to spill into his mouth.

He’s going to go crazy right here on this blanket, you will drive him to insanity. What bliss. 

He kicks off his jeans and starts grinding his clothed cock against the fabric covering your cunt, like two teenagers so desperate to get off that they don’t even bother to get naked first. His blunt head catches on your clit and you groan at where you can feel him leaking.

“Love it when you fuck me, Logan,” you sigh. He’s not sure if it’s pride or arousal which throbs through him, probably both, but he realises then he has to do now what he should have done a long time ago.

Claws come out, he cuts your underwear off and you squeal in delight. For a moment he considers just sliding inside but if he’s going to do this, it has to be done properly.

So he pushes your legs upwards against your stomach, in a way which he knows your hips will complain about but your pussy will love. Your mouth is a soft little o as you realise you are being manhandled into a mating press. 

“Logan…?” you breathe, a little confused but giddy with pleasure, sucking air in sharply when he rolls his hips to try and slide his cock inside your wet heat. 

“Wanna put a baby in you,” he states, simply, growling it out. Your eyes roll back and you moan at his words, what a pretty sight. 

“But we… oh fuck… I don’t know if we can…”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he manages, pressing his hand to the soft paunch of your stomach under which your womb sits, “let me try.”

Your eyes go wide as your head empties.

“Okay, yeah. Do it. Fuck a baby inside me, Logan.”

What sort of loyal dog would he be if he didn’t follow orders?

His legs trap yours against your body as he starts fucking you in earnest, pressing home inside you with one rough thrust. You mewl and knead at his skin with worshipping hands as he moves. Each undulation of his hips buries himself in you impossibly deeper, so he knows when he spills inside you it’ll be right where it needs to take.

“Fuck…” you hiss, palm cupping his face so he can look down at you, gaze on your gorgeous face. The crease of concentration between your brows as you register how tightly he’s nestled inside you, lips soft and kissable. Your hair blooms like a halo, an angel silhouetted against gingham.

He loves you. Oh, how he loves you.

“Wanna be so full of you, Logan… want to walk around with your baby in me. Show everyone who I belong to.”

He growls but he also knows he belongs to you, too. You have his heart in your ribcage beating alongside your own, a thing he has freely given because you’re the person who most deserves it. He’d never want it to rest with anyone but you.

Logan moves his hips in slow, sensual movements, taking time to luxuriate in the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of your walls. When he presses back inside he sees the way your eyes roll back as he hits that sweet spot, gloriously blissful.

“Gonna take you somewhere nice n’ quiet on our honeymoon and keep you in bed, doll. Fuck you until you’re full. Not gonna stop until we’re sure it’s taken. Watch you get all round with me. Goddamn, can just imagine how you’ll glow.”

You gasp at the filth he’s muttering but the grin on your lips show you’re incredibly enthusiastic about that idea.

“Yeah… want you to fuck me whenever you want, Logan… bend me over and fill me up… I’m yours, only yours…”

Something about the way you sigh that last part flips a feral switch in his brain. His hips speed up and the slap of skin on skin echoes from your hips, and then he’s coming in thick ropes to paint the inside of your pretty pussy. Mark you up as his. You groan at the feeling of warmth blossoming inside you but he knows you haven’t reached your peak yet. Usually he’d make sure you orgasm before him… but he has something a little different in mind right now.

Logan slips out of you and you mewl in the displeasure of being emptied. This doesn’t stop him manoeuvring your ass into his lap, though, keeping your legs spread so he can push three fingers inside your warm and willing entrance. A groan rips itself from your throat as you clamp desperate fingers down on his forearm. Were he a human man you’d leave fingerprints for certain, and for a moment Logan regrets that you can’t — he’d love evidence of this tryst; apart from your growing belly, of course.

“Fuck. Yes, Logan, push it inside me,” you whine. Oh goddamn, he’s so easily broken when you beg. He uses his fingers to gather up his spend as it tries to leak from your fucked-puffy cunt and presses it back into your hole. As he goes he makes sure to crook them inside you, hitting the same spot he was with his cock just moments ago.

All you can do is hang on and choke down air as he fucks you with his hand. He’s an expert at your body, can play it like an instrument; it doesn’t take long to get you where he needs you. He feels your walls twitch and then you’re coming around his knuckles, a filthy mix of his release and your own dripping all the way down to his wrist.

You collapse back onto the blanket, gasping for breath as your wits return. As he slowly pulls his hand away from you, you reach out to grab him and pull him to your mouth, sucking the cocktail of you both from his fingers and running your tongue around him.

He groans.

“Fuck. You’re gonna ruin me.”

“But what a way to go, huh?” your smile is devilish. He can’t help but reach down and kiss it. Your hand tangles in his hair and scratches his scalp affectionately. 

A beat.

“So… we’re trying?”

You don’t need to specify for what. He knows. When Logan pulls back there’s an expression of barely-concealed hope on your face. Makes his heart melt. His fingers move to lock with yours, squeezing gently down on your knuckles.

“Yeah. We’re trying.”

He’s never seen you look so happy. You trace your abdomen with a careful hand. The ring he got you glints on it, the stone reflecting the sunshine. 

“Well, okay then.”

It doesn’t take long for news of your engagement to spread. You tell Laura who puts it in a group chat she has with the other students in the mansion, and from there it has no chance of staying secret. In fact you return after you finish the picnic (and an attempt to tidy yourselves up) to a chorus of ‘congratulations’ from a gathered crowd at the door. Logan pretends to be grumpy but honestly? He wouldn’t trade the look of joy on your face for anything. He shows off his ring alongside yours and people coo with adoration at how cute you both are.

Once he’d have snarled at ‘cute’. Now he just accepts it as you snuggle into his side. 

You go to meet up with Wade and Al a couple of days later to tell them but it turns out word travels fast. The apartment door is thrown open in your faces as Wade pours accusingly. 

“I can’t believe I had to find out about this via social media from a teenage girl! What am I, back in high school? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to deal with puberty again, it wasn’t kind to me,” he says, waving his phone at you to show a cheerful post about the engagement put up by Yukio. Logan doesn’t get a good look, but does see the words “still find love in old age” which makes him bristle.

“Sorry, Wade. But you know, we live in the same house as her,” you say, sounding genuinely quite apologetic. Wade deflates a little at your tone, but keeps the act up anyway.

“Big-ass house. Coulda kept your damn hands in your pockets…” he mutters, but then gives you a sincere hug. When he turns with his arms open to Logan, he sighs and accepts one too. “But really, I’m happy for you two. Just don’t forget about your old perpetually single buddy Deadpool when you’re off bumping uglies as a legally wedded couple…”

“I think I might try and forget you during those times actually, Wade,” you say with a laugh. 

“Hmm. Oh wait, holy shit - can I be your best man? I promise you I scrub up pretty well. Well, apart from the face. Mmm, and the rest of my body. My ass looks great in a suit is what I’m saying,” this is directed at you and you give Wade a sad smile.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I already asked Laura. We kinda trauma bonded in the Void,” you say. Wade’s eyes slide over from you to Logan.

“Oh my god,” he grumbles.

“C’mon, peanut! Isn’t that what best friends are for?”

Logan opens his mouth to snap that they are not best friends but then… he just sort of… closes it. He’s too old to have a best friend. Grown men don’t have best friends. Or at least that’s what he’d have said a scant few months ago. But now…

“Fine,” he sighs. Logan feels you squeeze his hand in joy as Wade lets out a woop which startles Al.

“Yes! I won’t let you down buddy. I’m gonna give you the best dry bachelor party of your life. The strippers will be so hot you won’t even need beer to make them look good!”

“Wade…”

“Joking! Joking…” he says, in a way which suggests he probably wasn’t - though about the quality of the strippers or there being any in the first place, he can’t be sure.

The two of you don’t want a big wedding. You had one in your own timeline and know how stressful it can be. You’re both able to come to the same reasoning: it isn’t the size of the celebration which matters, but that you’ll be married by the end of it. That’s what it’s all leading to after all. Every morning Logan wakes up to the weight of your ring on his finger and he feels complete. He feels grounded. 

He’s happier than he’s been in a long time; maybe ever.

You book a day to go down to city hall and sign the marriage certificates, only in a couple of weeks’ time. The kids all make you cards, shoving them under your door or handing them over during lessons. Soon your room is covered with crayon-scribbled well-wishes and poorly drawn felt-tip depictions of you both. Mostly, it’s you smiling, and Logan snarling with his claws out. You laugh every single time you see one, so he doesn’t mind too much. There are always little love hearts doodled between you anyway. At least the kids know you’re happy together.

Time moves by quickly but maybe that’s just a symptom of being in love. Classes no longer drag on and drain him, instead Logan starts every morning with the vigour of a young man… though the fact that he fills you up every morning before you both head to work might help. It’s strange; you never use protection anyway, but now it feels like there’s a purpose behind the way you fuck. Any position where he gets to see your face as he comes deep inside you will do it for him honestly. He could live in your cries of pleasure, the way you mewl his name, the duty of putting a baby inside you. Before long, those couple of weeks the city hall needed to get your paperwork in order are up, and the day arrives that you’re finally able to go and make things official. 

Logan wakes in bed alone. This is expected. He came home late last night after his bachelor party which, to be fair to Wade, wasn’t so bad. The guy had just organised some friends to play poker late into the night. Due to - what Laura has coined as - his natural ‘resting bitch face’, he cleared everyone out. He’s two hundred and sixty dollars richer so now he can grab you some nice flowers on the way to the wedding. He’d gotten a text saying that you were staying at a hotel in town for the night, the girls had insisted on keeping you separate because it’s tradition. Logan isn’t sure what about this whole situation is exactly traditional, what with all the crossed timelines and long-lost soulmates, but if it makes you all happy he’ll relent.

He showers, missing your body in the steam with him, then walks naked back into the room to grab something nice to wear, fingers fumbling with the radio as he goes. It picks up just as the host is introducing the next song.

“...goes out to Logan from ‘the love of your life’, who is pretty sure you’ll have the radio on by now! Apparently you’re getting married today? Well a big congratulations from everyone here at the station, you two, enjoy this classic tune…”

Chapel of Love by the Dixie Cups starts to spill out from the speakers and Logan chuckles, grabbing his phone and tapping out a message.

Cute.

You text back almost immediately. He can imagine you grinning at your screen as the music plays, waiting for his reaction.

I am. Can’t wait to see you today, baby ♥

Yeah, he can’t wait to see you either.

Seeing as it’s meant to be a relaxed ceremony you’d both decided not to wear anything too formal. Logan pulls out a white dress shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, toeing on the boots he cleaned last night. He looks at himself in the mirror before deciding to roll his sleeves up to his elbow. For some reason you go crazy when you can see his exposed forearms; you say it’s “pure unadulterated sex appeal”. He’s never understood it himself but anything to make you smile. 

Laura grabs a ride with him in the pickup he uses. She’s wearing leggings and a baggy suit blazer but he has to admit, the kid looks pretty cool. Despite his several warnings not to she sits with her feet on the dash playing with her phone, calling him a boring old man for not wanting her to go through the windscreen. 

“Remember I heal like you, dummy. It’s no problem.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you turning up to my wedding covered in glass with your clothes ripped to shit.”

She grumbles and relents, ever the petulant teenager.

He manages to get parking nearby, so someone up above must be smiling down on him, takes the short walk to the city hall - making sure to get a ridiculously large bouquet as he goes. As he takes in the smell of roses he realises it isn’t that he’s feeling nervous per se, but there’s definitely an anticipation running up his spine. Realistically he knows nothing will change when the two of you are married on paper.

But… kinda everything will change.

He spots you talking to Wade on the grey stone steps, and his mouth is pulled into a smile at the cute little dress you’re wearing. You had been going on about how you picked it up at the thrift store - what a bargain! - and now he sees it, he agrees about how it highlights your figure perfectly. You light up when you see him… and Wade’s face falls as he turns.

“What the fuck! I thought this was a wedding?! Now I look like I’m in a competition for most formally dressed dickhead!” he says, gesturing to himself. He’s in a full black tuxedo and is definitely the most suited up person for about five blocks.

“It is a wedding. Not my fault you never asked the dress code,” Logan states. You burst into laughter as Wade pouts, but he seems to be taking the ribbing pretty well. Your hand tangles into Logan’s. He looks at you.

“Hey,” you breathe, taking the flowers and taking a deep breath of their sweet smell. “Thank you, these are lovely.”

“You deserve the best, baby.”

“Aww. You know, look great.”

“So do you.”

“We scrub up pretty well, huh? Great choice on the sleeves, by the way.”

Logan smiles into the kiss he presses to your lips. Laura groans at the public display of affection.

“C’mon, your slot is coming up. You two wanna be late for your own wedding?”

And so you traipse up the stairs to the office where the smiling registrar has you fill out the paperwork to officially be married to each other. When you see Logan’s hands shake a little, you press your own to the small of his back and rub small soothing circles there. Wade and Laura cheer when you have your first kiss as a wedded couple and burst party poppers of confetti over you both. The group of you stand together and get a picture to celebrate the day: Logan’s arm around your waist while yours is secretly perched on his ass, Laura grinning and holding the bouquet for you, Wade laying across the front of you all Breakfast Club-like. 

Logan smiles so hard his face hurts.

It’s nice.

Though the two of you didn’t want a party it’s pretty hard to convince the kids at the manor of anything, so you get back to a banner reading congratulations! It’s held by your youngest students who cheer as the group of you get out of the pick-up. Yukio rushes in to give you a tight hug and you laugh, joyful at the love you’re walking into.

The dining room has been cleared to set up an impromptu celebration space. A metric tonne of pizza has been ordered and Piotr, the rather willing DJ, makes sure nothing pre-1989 is played. 

He’s never really been one for dancing, but when you drag him to the middle of the wooden floor and wrap your arms around his neck Logan can’t help but sway with you to all the cheesy love songs. You press your forehead to his, tips of your noses meeting. You breathe in harmony. You let the same air fill your lungs.

“I love you,” you sigh a dozen times over, dreamily.

“I love you too,” he breathes a dozen times back.

When you throw the bouquet that evening you’re in such a good mood you both forgive Wade for body-checking a kid to grab it out of the air.

Logan thinks about his life and smiles.

He’s got it pretty good.

He takes you on a honeymoon for a week to a little cabin in the woods he rented out. It’s in the wilderness, miles from anyone or anywhere, which means he’s able to do what he wants with you: have you naked the whole time.

The two of you don’t do anything but fuck, and you’re very down for it. Something about married life has you more horny than you’ve ever been before. For the first couple of days you hardly leave the bed, Logan only heading to the kitchen to grab you some food to keep your energy up between sessions, pumping you full of his come until you’re a sticky and sated mess. He feeds you slices of pie as you lay dazed on the mattress, a pillow under your hips to keep his spend from dripping out of you.

“Fuck, Logan, you’re gonna kill me,” you groan as he starts rocking his hardening cock up against you the fifth time that day.

“Nah, baby. You can take it.”

You fall asleep with him buried deep inside of you so that the thing waking you up the next morning is him rolling his hips. It’s a pretty fucking good way to start the day.

Eventually the two of you leave the bedroom and walk around the place. Autumn is coming in properly now, the green of the trees outside turning to reds and oranges. You wrap yourself in a blanket and stand at the huge windows looking out at the vista, your aesthete sensibilities pulling you there. Silhouetted in October’s light, Logan can only be struck by how perfect you are: your body, your heart, your soul. His, all his.

He’s the luckiest goddamn man alive.

He takes you against the windows, your chest pressed up against the cool glass and making you gasp in thrilled pleasure, rubbing loving circles on your clit until he feels you clench around him.

At night the two of you huddle by the wood-burning fireplace, the flames dancing across your bodies as he makes love to you slowly, non-hurriedly, letting you enjoy each other. You push him onto his back and ride him, head thrown back so he can appreciate the long line of your neck which he traces with thick calloused fingers.

Fuck, he’d keep you here forever if he could. A little slice of perfection made for just the two of you. Nobody to bother you or call you away for duties, just your love and all the space it needs.

It’s a shame when the two of you have to return to the manor, but he has a job to do. Kids to teach. A Wade to keep in check. It’s easy to slip back to day-to-day life, though, when he has a wedding ring on his finger and you in his bed.

That is until one day he finds you with your head in the toilet, emptying your guts of the day’s breakfast.

“Logan, I don’t feel so hot,” you groan. He goes into panic mode, worrying you’ve got some sorta bug, practically carrying you to Hank’s lab so the doctor can get a good look at you. When you get there, he doesn’t seem incredibly impressed, but checks you over diligently because he’s a friend. 

“Look, I don’t mean to be crass, but have you taken a pregnancy test?” he asks, bluntly. Your eyes go wide over the glass of water you’re sipping.

“Well, no, but…” you trail off. Logan can see you counting on your fingers, trying to make something add up in your brain.

“Ah. Right. I don’t have one but I do have an ultrasound scanner, it was one of the things Charles foresaw a use for I suppose…”

So Logan stands there as Hank wheels the thing out and has you lay down on a counter - this isn’t the med room after all, there’s no beds in here. Your hand grabs onto his as Hank carefully lifts your shirt and presses the wand to your stomach.

There’s no mistaking the image on the screen. Head, body, arms and legs. The baby’s picture thrums. Hank does not seem surprised.

“Yep, there it is. You’re pretty far along. I’m not an expert, but I’d say three months?”

“Three…!” you look at Logan as if this is his fault. Which, he supposes, it sort of is. “But we’ve only been… uh, trying for a few weeks now.”

Hank shifts uncomfortably. Logan wants to die. He does not want to talk about his sex life with a peer.

“Have you been using birth control?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then I think you have your answer. Nature did what it does best.” He manages a smile. “Congratulations to you both. I’ll uh, let you have a moment alone.”

He practically runs out of the lab. The two of you are left sitting there in silence.

Then slowly, so slowly, your hand comes up to rest on your abdomen. You look down at the point of contact and tears well up in your eyes.

“Logan…”

With one word you summon him, his strong arms wrapping around you and holding you tight, an anchor in this moment of joy. He buries his lips into your hair as you sob, utterly overwhelmed.

“Fuck, we did it, baby,” you manage to choke out. His hand comes to rest on your own and then you switch, covering it with yours so that he can feel the skin of your belly. It’s warm and soft. It feels strange knowing that his child is in there. Strange but right.

He gave you what you deserve. His heart beats a little faster and he realises his vision is blurry, too. Fuck. Look at him, welling up. 

Ah man, he doesn’t care.

The kiss between you is wet and desperate, an act of triumph and elation. As his mouth presses deep into yours he feels you tug at his shirt, pawing at him like an animal.

“Honey, I’m not gonna fuck you in Hank’s lab,” he states. You whine beneath his lips.

“But I wanna celebrate…” you mewl, hitting him with the doe-eyes. He scoffs a laugh and you pout. “Besides the pregnancy hormones are driving me crazy.”

“You just found out.”

“Yeah, weird how quickly they can take effect…”

Logan gently but firmly removes your exploring hands.

“We can do it somewhere our friend and coworker doesn’t spend his whole day. C’mon,” he silences any protestations with another kiss, soft and loving, “we have all the time in the world, baby.”

You run your fingers through his hair, eyes still a little dewy, but smile is undeniable.

“All the time in the world…” you sigh, a promise. 

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk

those of you who liked part 1, too: @inumakisriceingredients @respectmyprivacys-blog @xcalcalcalcalx @moonixlity @justanothermarvelfanaccount @taraa-dactyl @nitimurinvetitumsposts @sseleniaa @diegobrandolover99 @blackcanvaspainting @youngestxhearts @veggie-eggrolls

[kumkaniudaku]

TBT

Summary: A young Terry and Patrice spend a Christmas morning together.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: None. Just some holiday fluff.

Previous: Merry Christmas, Baby

A/N: I love this one so much. I hope you enjoy too.

The coldest Christmas in recent history was no match for the overwhelming heat Terrence felt beneath his thick winter sweater as nervousness crept into his chest. The low purr of his uncle’s Honda slowly disappeared into the bitter afternoon chill, leaving him no other option but to press the doorbell to the Ellis home and pray for entry. 

Weeks of planning, sneaking, and tutorial-watching had gone into this mission. Heavy convincing and a shoddy handshake agreement to throw a couple of dollars his uncle’s way for gas had him snatching a poorly wrapped package from beneath the tree and hopping into Uncle Myron’s front seat before his parents could ask any further questions. 

His hands felt wet and slippery under the warm pecan pie he’d begged his mother to make for reasons he wouldn’t share the night before. His heart raced as he carefully adjusted the pretty orange bow on top of a covered box, suddenly nervous about how it looked. She deserved nothing less than perfection and he’d labored over careful folds and clean lines to deliver her his best. 

Rustling and a voice growing louder as it approached made him stop short before he could press the doorbell again. He quickly pulled at his coat and stood a little taller as her father appeared behind a glass storm door.

“Oh! It’s just you Terry. Thought you might’ve been my sister. Merry Christmas, son. You gettin’ big, boy. You benching ‘bout 250 now huh?” 

Terry smiled bashfully. “Yeah, I am. Tryin’ to bulk up a little before Spring.”

“You doin’ it. Next time I see you, you gon' be bigger than me. What you got there?” 

Terry blinked twice, trying to think through a response as Mr. Ellis stared back at him before finally sputtering out a response. “A-a pie! Sorry. It’s a pie from my mama. She sent me over here to drop it off and say Merry Christmas.”

“And that,” Mr. Ellis asked pointing at the gift adorned in the pretty orange bow.

“A gift for Patrice. Is she home? I know she said she would probably be at the store with her mom, but I can wait. Or I-I cou-”

“Calm down,” Mr. Ellis laughed as he stepped aside with the door pushed open wider than before. “She’s in here helping her mama set the table. Come on. She’ll be happy to see you.”

A deep breath that created a white cloud in front of his face calmed Terry’s nerves as he moved past Patrice’s father into the house. He didn’t need directions past the wall of family photos, down the hallway, and into the living area. In four years, he’d spent entire days lazing around that house. He’d shared Sunday dinners at her kitchen table, taken naps on her bedroom floor, and played video games with her younger brother on the living room couch. This was as much his hang-out spot as his own house in his mind. 

Christmas music crackled and popped from the worn record player on a bookshelf full of Black literature, the object flanked by his two favorite photos of Patrice. He gave the framed memory of her fifth birthday party a glance and a soft smile like he usually did before making his way into the kitchen. 

“Baby Girl and Ros, the Richmond boy brought us a pie this morning,” Leon announced on his way through the living room and out of the back door to return to his turkey frying duties.

“A pie! How sweet!” Terry’s introduction made Patrice whip her head around to get a look at her surprise visitor. He offered her a small wave and smile that she returned as Rosalyn approached to give him a warm hug. “Look at you! Have you gotten taller since the school year started?” 

Rosalyn had watched Terry grow from a boy into a young man. Once lanky, slender arms now carried budding muscles and extra weight. The first fuzz of facial hair carefully shaved per his father’s instructions left light shadows. His voice was deeper and smoother than the once cracking alto of his youth. Changing mannerisms had him looking more sure of himself. His development alongside Patrice’s presented further reminders that the only thing certain in this life was the passage of time. She’d never be prepared but embraced it all the same. 

“A little bit. Think I’m at 6’3” now,” Terry boasted, smiling at the newest adjustments in his measurements.

“Six-three! I know your mama can’t keep a lick of food in the house,” she laughed. “You made your decision on college yet?” 

“Not yet. Still considering trying to walk on at A&T. I feel like I’ll like it there.”

Rosalyn smiled, knowing the reason for his switch from UNC Chapel Hill. “Well, that’s good. You and Patrice work well together. You can keep each other on track.” 

“I keep myself on track, mama. Terry too when his head gets all up in the clouds.” 

“She helped me study one time and now she think she my teacher.” 

“You a one-time lie and you know it.” 

Terry’s infectious toothy grin spread to Patrice from across the room, creating a spark almost tangible enough for Rosalyn to reach out and grab. She noticed the emergence of shy glances and extra physical contact where senseless bickering once lived. Knees that occasionally touched while they watched movies on the couch were now shoulders pressed tightly together in the backseat after school without shame. When they weren’t in the same room, cell phones remained pressed to listening ears as they ran down chats about everything and nothing at the same time. Their trajectory was clear. 

More conversations about hormones, love, and the perils of unprotected sex than Rosalyn could count had been passed down individually and as a pair with no care for their obvious discomfort. Both sets of parents could only pray that their children retained at least some information to use when the inevitable took place.

“So, the pie,” Rosalyn pointed out, cutting through the open display of affection. “What kind is it? Smells good!” 

Terry blinked twice to pull his eyes away from Patrice to look at her mother. “Uh, pecan. My mama’s special recipe.”

“Really! That’s Patrice’s favorite. What a coincidence.” 

Terry’s ears slowly turned red as he tried to laugh off Rosalyn’s observation. She winked at him and pulled the dessert from his hands, careful to return the gift on top before making her way to the food table.

Patrice nervously shifted her weight as she leaned against the counter for her first break of the morning, now hyperaware of how her body looked with a set of blue-green eyes following her every move. 

They’d matched unintentionally. Terry’s red sweater complimented Patrice’s white one with both teenagers sporting black bottoms to top off festive looks. Searching for something, anything to say, Patrice pointed at his head. 

“You decided to stop growing your hair out?” 

Terry ran a hand down the back of his fresh fade. “Yeah. My dad was on me about it. Said I looked like a hoodlum. I don’t even know what that means but I guess I don’t really need the extra cushion for the helmet now anyway.”

“Well, my opinion probably doesn’t matter, but I think it looks nice. I’ll miss the widow's peak, though. It was cute.” 

A twinkle of happiness flashed across Terry’s eyes, making his cheeks rise into a proud smile. The haircut was staying. No doubt about it.

“Thank you,” he spoke quietly, still processing the tingles rolling across his body. “You, um…you want some help? My mama showed me how to set a table. Fork on the left, right?” 

Rosalyn watched the pair watch each other with a knowing smile on her face as Terry took slow steps across the kitchen toward Patrice. He didn’t come there to set the table for a family he didn’t belong to. He came to spend a few minutes of stolen time with the only person worth existing in his small world. 

She stopped him before he could get too far. “That’s sweet of you, baby, but I don’t need too many people in my kitchen. P, you can take him to your room. You know to leave that door open. Don’t have me come back there and I can’t see what y’all are doing.”

Neither Terry nor Patrice needed the reminder but ensured they showed their understanding with head nods and verbal agreement. They’d been down this road plenty of times. Leave the door half open, answer when called, and keep your hands to yourself. The first two were easy. Resisting the desire to touch became more difficult as the days flew by. 

Patrice led the way down the hallway toward her room, making small talk before holding the door open for him to enter. The sunny orange and yellow motif hadn’t changed much since they hung out for the first time. Posters and photos of her favorite artists still lined the wall beside her bed. The sunflower plushie she called Sunny rested in its usual spot at the top of her dresser. His favorite spot in the house, a soft yellow beanbag, was empty and awaiting his arrival. He took a deep breath to inhale the birthday cake candle she kept burning on her nightstand before sliding his shoes and coat off to place them in their designated spot. 

She kissed her teeth as she flopped on the bed. “You gon’ stop havin’ your toes out in here.” 

“I should start charging you. People would pay good money to see these. Even in socks!”

“Oh yeah right. People like who? That Cierra girl in 11th grade?” 

“Here you go,” Terry groaned from his spot on the bean bag. He flipped through a random magazine beside him to avoid eye contact. “I don’t like that girl. We just hang out because Xavier talks to her friend and he be needin’ back up sometimes.”

“No way. She was wearing your jacket.”

“She took my jacket out of Zay’s car to be funny and I got it back as soon as I could find her.”

“Say swear.”  

The ultimate test. Saying swear was their way of ensuring the other was telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 

Terry looked up from the pages of Seventeen Magazine to look Patrice in the eye and confirm his statement. “Swear. She kinda annoying, honestly. Nice girl, but all she ever wants to talk about is reality TV and school drama.” 

“Ooooh. Terry likes a little substance in his conversations, huh,” Patrice laughed, exaggerating her words to mimic their creative writing teacher. “Let me find out you’re out here discussing Of Mice and Men without me. I’m gonna have to put my hands on you.” 

Terry scoffed at her threat. “Yeah, right. Plus, you talk about stuff without me all the time. I heard about you and Robert Mitchell kickin’ it after winter formal.” 

“That’s not what happened!” 

“Let me know what happened then.”

It was Patrice’s turn to explain herself. What started as a night between mixed friend groups turned into Terry sneaking looks at his best friend while she engaged with a guy that he frankly didn’t think was smart enough for her. He’d never share how it made him feel outside of light jabs to be annoying. 

He waited for her to stop chewing her bottom lip and respond. 

“Rob doesn’t like me. He just wanted to see if he could convince me to sneak off with him to the parking lot which I didn’t do. So he left me alone and I rode back with Vicky to spend the night. Nothing to see there, as always.” 

Terry took in her truth with equal parts sadness at the circumstance and anger at the young man bold enough to cause her pain.

“Dang, Treece, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it went like that. Want me to talk to him?” 

Patrice adjusted to sit in front of Terry at the edge of the bed. She kicked her feet as she played with her painted thumbnails. “No. I wasn’t even supposed to tell anybody. Plus, we both know that you don’t talk. Don’t need you getting in trouble because of me. Thanks, though.” 

“You don’t gotta thank me.” He was still gonna have words with Robert when he got the chance, but that was for him to know and Patrice to never find out. Trying to shift the energy, he pretended to use her fuzzy sock-covered feet as a speed bag to get a rise out of her. She rolled her eyes but allowed him to continue. “Wanna see your gift now or should I put it under the tree?”

“I’ll open mine but you gotta open your’s first? Deal?” 

“Deal.”

Terry chuckled as he watched her prance to her closet and back with an excited smile dimpling her cheeks. In her hand, she carried two gifts of differing sizes. They were expertly wrapped in shiny festive paper and a Carolina blue bow so that there was no mistaking who was the lucky recipient. 

She reclaimed her spot on the bed, setting the smaller of the two packages beside her before handing the other to Terry to grasp with two hands. “Okay, do this one first! Hurry!” 

“Alright, alright! Calm down.” Terry made a show of slowly peeling tape and wrapping paper from the large, flat object for no other reason than to watch Patrice squirm impatiently. She tried to rush him along but he wouldn’t give in. 

Their smiles grew in tandem once Terry ended his torture and revealed a framed pristine Francis Edward High School football jersey. 

He used his index finger to trace out the letters stitched to form his last name behind the glass. “How’d you get this?” 

“Coach Robinson let me have it for tutoring his daughter in Spanish. Then my auntie did the letters for free. Look at the pictures!”

Shock at seeing his name printed on a jersey for the first time distracted him from the small collage of photos neatly placed beside it. A picture from his senior night sat next to a photo from his record-setting game as a junior. Another capturing a game-winning touchdown had him reliving the memory in full color. But his favorite, a snapshot of them being crowned homecoming king and queen at midfield, made him smile. 

“Do you like it,” Patrice asked, her eyes wide and expectant as she waited for some indication of his feelings. “You can take all the stuff out if you want. This just seemed better to put on your wall at home.”

“I like it a lot, Treece. Never thought I’d have my own jersey. Especially now that the scholarships aren’t coming.” Terry looked over the gift for a few seconds more before giving her smiling face his full attention. “Thank you. Mean it.” 

She pushed her hair behind her ear and shrugged. “You’re welcome. Mean it.” They sat there, grinning and staring back at one another in silence until Rosalyn called their names for one of her periodic checks. They responded promptly before Patrice attempted to get them back on track. “C’mon. Open the last one!” 

“If I would’ve known we were going all out, I would’ve done more,” Terry spoke, preemptively apologizing for coming up short as he peeled away the crinkling paper. Patrice waved him away. They weren’t in competition. If anything, she’d gone too far in her pursuit of his happiness. 

A final rip of wrapping paper unveiled a small gift box with his name scribbled across it. He carefully lifted the lid and then closed it once he caught a glimpse of its contents. His face began to flush with incoming emotions. 

Nestled inside a plastic key chain was a photo of Terry and his maternal grandmother. His summer had been filled with dread that she may not make it through her sickness to end the year, a fear that was realized before the school year began. He’d all but camped out on her bedroom floor in complete silence, desperately searching for some reprieve from funeral arrangements and repast activities at home. 

For Patrice, it was a no-brainer to use some of her babysitting money to take a photo she’d nabbed from his MySpace profile and turn it into a keepsake. 

Terry stilled himself with a deep breath. “You’re nice when you wanna be.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re my friend and you were sad. It’s the least I could do.”

“Thanks. For real,” he whispered, holding eye contact a little longer before pointing at her gift. “Your turn. It’s only one box but there’s a lot in it. And don’t judge my wrapping skills.” 

“Too late! This bow is super cute though. I’m gonna stick it to Sunny.”

Patrice ripped through messy silver paper, discarding scraps at her feet her that Terry gathered into a small pile to throw away later. She popped the top on a white garment box and then squealed as she pulled a folded sweater from inside. 

Future Aggie. He thought the grey, blue, and yellow sweatshirt would be a fitting gift for someone finally realizing their dream of attending college. Patrice rushed to press the garment against her chest as she looked at herself in the mirror hanging on her closet door. 

She twisted and turned to see all her angles. “I’m wearing this to school on the first day back. Thank you, TJ!” 

Her announcement created a rush of emotions bursting in all directions. Something he’d purchased adorning her body? What a sight. What a feeling. 

The surprises and elated responses continued. A new journal and pens for her to use at her leisure earned him a high five. A bottle of Hollister body mist that she fawned over on one of their many trips to the mall received a wide smile and a few sprays on her new sweater. But her favorite was the gift that cost him nothing but time. 

A CD with “For Patrice” written in thick marker and Terry’s slanted handwriting caught her attention. Try as she might, Patrice couldn’t get him to spill the beans about the disc’s contents, instead pushing her to pop it into her dusty boombox and press play. 

“Uh, this is kinda weird. Recording my own voice for a CD. Feel like I should start rappin’ or something.” Patrice smiled as Terry’s voice flowed through the speaker like a late-night radio host. He listened with his eyes closed, too embarrassed to watch her reaction in real-time. “This is for you, though, Treece. Just in case we never see each other again after high school, I hope these songs are enough to remember me by. If not then all this shit was for no reason and just pretend it never happened. I’m gonna stop talkin’ now. Hope you like it.”

His introduction flowed into a collection of songs that they considered their shared favorites. 

Terry spoke up over J. Cole’s ‘Dollar and a Dream II’. “It’s for when you’re in the car and stuff since you said you hate listening to the radio. I figured you could listen to a little mix of stuff you like instead.” 

“You know I’m gonna bring this everywhere with me now, right? My mama’s car, your car, everywhere! It’s great.”

“That’s like three compliments in a row. You getting soft on me,” he laughed. “I’m wearing you down.” 

“Why can’t you ever just let the nice things happen without saying something? I’m startin’ to think you like makin’ me mad. You sick in the head, TJ.”

Justin Timberlake, T.I., and everything in between told the story of moments spent together, inside jokes, and unspoken feelings that flowed through romantic lyrics. While they listened to track after track as background music to their winding conversation, minutes turned into hours. 

Terry had seen all of Patrice’s other gifts, taken pictures on her brand-new digital camera, taste-tested a few pieces of her aunt’s pound cake, and found time to play a few rounds of the newest Dragon Ball Z game with Junior without the passage of time ever registering in his brain. 

In Junior’s dark, dingy cave he called a bedroom, Patrice and Terry sat next to each other on the floor half paying attention to the television while her brother played video games and half fiddling with the directions and pieces from his newest Lego set. 

Leon knocked twice and poked his head into the room with the family phone in his hand. “Son, your mama’s on the phone. She said she’s been calling your cell phone looking for you.” 

Terry’s eyes widened at the realization that he’d left the small device in his coat pocket across the hall. He scrambled to his feet, limbs flailing and socks twisting as he rushed to grab the phone from Mr. Ellis before the older man stepped away to tend to other business. 

“Ma, I’m sorry!” 

“Terrence James, if you weren’t somewhere that I know for a fact is safe, I would kill you! What goes on between those ears of yours?”

Patrice winced at the non-stop yelling coming from the other end while Terry tried to listen with a poker face. She couldn’t make out all the details of his incoming punishment, but she could tell by the way the call ended that he wouldn’t be enjoying time away from home any time soon. 

Terry hung up and bit his bottom lip as he turned to Patrice. 

“How bad?” 

He shrugged. “Not that bad. She was just worried. I do have to go soon though. My uncle will be here in like 10 minutes.” 

“I mean I didn’t wanna have to be the one to kick you out, but…”

Their loud laughter at Patrice’s joke was enough to get them unceremoniously ousted from Junior’s bedroom with the door shut tight behind them before they could fully re-enter the hallway. Patrice followed Terry back into her room and watched him gather his belongings.

“My cousin Imani is coming later today. I wish y’all could’ve met each other. She’s silly like you.” 

“Yeah,” Terry questioned as he tied his sneakers. “Maybe I could try and come over tomorrow?” 

“That’s okay. You’re already in trouble. I don’t wanna make it worse. Maybe we can all hang out for Spring Break or something.” Terry looked up from his task to smile at Patrice until she mirrored his expression while rolling her eyes. “What are you smiling at?” 

“You.” 

“Why? What did I do?” 

“Just be you.”

Terry wished there was a mistletoe somewhere in the room to aid his cause. If only there were a reason to press his lips to hers as the cherry on top of the scariest confession he’d ever made. Or near confession. He couldn’t tell if his words had made the desired impact until Patrice slowly shook her head. 

She began laughing as she handed over his coat. “You sure you don’t wanna switch your major from math to English since you always talkin’ in riddles?” 

“I know what I be sayin’, you just don’t know,” he laughed to play off his blunder. 

“That completely defeats the purpose of a conversation.”

Patrice waited until he was finished securing the zippers and buttons on his coat before throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. Terry stood stunned for a beat, too caught off guard to reciprocate her affection until a switch flipped in his brain to snap him back into reality. 

He jammed his one hand into his pocket while his free arm snaked around her waist to avoid breaching an unspoken boundary. 

“Thanks for coming here this morning. Gift or not, it was fun to have you around,” she spoke over his shoulder. 

He smiled though she couldn’t see. “I know how much you love Christmas so, of course. It was fun being around. I like being with you.” 

Terry held his breath as Patrice slowly pulled away for a look at his face. Her eyes scanned for some indication that he was telling a joke or simply being annoying but found nothing but sincerity in those intense blue-green eyes she’d learned to read. 

A glimpse at his lips made her subconsciously run her tongue over the bottom of her set. Her heart raced. His hand slowly exited his pocket to find a home on her hip. They leaned forward in sync, both of them closing their eyes for whatever came next. 

“Terrence! Your uncle is outside! Get your stuff, baby!” 

Though she couldn’t possibly know the magic unfolding in her daughter’s bedroom, Rosalyn had successfully thwarted an attempt to further break the third rule. 

The pair repelled like opposite ends of a magnet until they were back at their respective ends of the room. Patrice pretended to take an interest in the purses hanging on the back of her door while Terry quickly gathered his gifts. 

He fumbled with the packages on his way out of the door, timidly inching past Patrice in hopes that she would speak to him one more time. 

“See you later.”

“I guess I should go.” 

Words overlapped in a harsh head-on collision, making them both shrink away in embarrassment. Terry chucked and took the lead. “Ladies first.” 

Patrice adjusted the hood on his coat and smiled. “I was just gonna say Merry Christmas, TJ. I hope you got everything you wanted.” 

“Merry Christmas, Treece. This is probably the best one I’ve ever had. Even if my mama is gonna rip my head off when I get home.”

“She definitely will. I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

Patrice didn’t respond with words. She offered him a sweet smile as her thumb brushed stray cake crumbs from the corner of his mouth. Another holler of his name from the kitchen forced him out of her orbit and back into the cold with Patrice hot on his heels. 

She bid him farewell from the front door, watching until the champagne-colored Honda was out of sight and Terry was just the faint smell of cologne far too adult for him on her sweater and the memory causing goosebumps on her arms. 

When Patrice turned to finally retreat back into her room, Rosalyn stood at the threshold smiling at her daughter.

“You two have fun?”

Patrice put her head down to hide the wide smile spreading across her face as she sped past her mother. “It was okay. Did Auntie Mae make the mac and cheese yet? I’m gonna get some.”

“Make sure you wash those hands, young lady,” she called after Patrice. 

The spice of expensive cologne left a trail of secrets in her wake. Rosalyn inhaled deeply and shook her head. 

They’d need a refresher on the rules before New Year’s Eve.

-----

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[help-itrappedmyself]

Dead on Main part 8

Formatting on my phone is weird 🥲

Masterpost

Jason gets up quickly. He may not have his muscle memory in this body, but he still knows how to fight. Has known all his life. He can adapt to this body’s size and strength if he needs to.

He gets ready to defend himself, searching the alley for what hit him and seeing a… glowing figure approaching him. It looked like a vampire. This town is weird, what the fuck.

“What the fuck?” Jason spits out.

“Really, Daniel. Is that language really necessary?” The vampire asks as he floats towards him.

“Plasmius, leave him alone.” Jazz runs in and plants herself in front of Danny. “Please, can you not do this right now? We're already in the middle of a situation.”

“Well, this all could have been avoided if you had agreed to speak with me earlier.” Plasmius lifts his arm and a shot of what seems like pink energy shoots towards them, he both dive to the side.

Jason, body pumping with adrenaline, rolls and pops back up. And realizes he rolled through the alley wall. His body was glowing green, his feet were floating off of the ground, and he backs his way slowly out of the store he landed in and back out into the alley. He walks through the wall again.

Okay. He wasn't expecting to deal with a weird amount of meta powers today, but he can do this. The surge of power feels almost like the pit madness. Nicer, and more controlled. It's focused somehow, and he knew how to channel his pit rage at it's most uncontrollable. This power wants to be used.

Jason looks over in time to dodge another pink blast. Plaamius stalks toward him, and Jason lifts his fist to fight, feels power surge in them, his hand glow brighter, and when he releases the pent up surge green energy shoots at Plasmius the same way the pink was shit at him.

Alright, floating, glowing, walking through walls, and energy blast things. This is fine.

Plasmius and Jason trade blasts for a few minutes, squaring off in the alley. The blasts leave slight burn marks behind where the hit the surrounding area. Jason is careful to keep the shooting away from Jazz, but she isnt leaving.

She was digging around in her bag, but know she's flanking Plasmius. Like he can sense her, Plasmius goes to attack Jazz. Everything in Danny’s body reacts to that.

Jason flings himself in front of the shit, taking the hit in the chest, but manages to punch Plasmius away from Jazz.

Jason doubles over at the hit, feet hitting the ground for the first time since he went through the wall. That felt different than anything he'd ever felt. It burned where it hit him, but he felt it resonate through his whole body. He wants to help but he’s still realing from the hit.

He sees Jazz facing off with Plasmius and he tries to get up and help, he feels that same response from earlier, everything in Danny reacting to Jazz in danger, but he can't get up and something inside of him aches at that. At having to stay back and watch as Jazz enters the line of fire.

Jazz was holding something behind her back, but she brings it forward. Plaamius turns, it seems like he's trying to run, but whatever she's holding sucks Plasmius into it.

She keeps it pointed away from Jason as she pulls her arms back in and closes the lid.

“Is that a thermos?” Jason asks.

“Yeah.”

Jason nods slowly, taking stock of himself again now that the fight seems to be over. “Right. How do I stop doing… this?” He gestures to all of Danny, still glowing and green.

Jazz winces.

[luvvictoria]

The Firefight (And The Moment It Clicks)

+ pairings. simon "ghost" riley x f!reader

+ tags. romance, heavy (?) angst, slow-burn, action-packed military romance with angst and tension

+ summary. After the firefight, Ghost finds you alive, fulfilling his promise to get you out. But when he says it —“Told you I’d get you out”— it doesn’t feel like just a mission objective. There’s weight behind his words, something deeper, something unspoken. For the first time, you realize it’s not just about survival anymore. There’s something between you and Ghost, something neither of you are ready to name. But it’s there, lingering in the silence, in the way he looks at you, in the way his words settle under your skin like a vow. Something has changed. And there’s no going back.

+ materialist ; prev. part ; next part.

+ a/n. Reblog with your favorite line! It would help me to grow my account !! Thank you in advance. Thank you so much for your support ! It means very much to me! Also if you want to take a little peek at the next chapter here is my ko-fi !!

The first shot cracked through the air like a whip, and then the world erupted.

One second, it was just you and Ghost moving through the forest — the kind of silence that settled deep in your bones, that made every breath feel louder than it should, that set every nerve in your body on edge, waiting. The next, that silence was torn apart, shattered by the staccato burst of gunfire.

Bullets sliced through the air, snapping past your ears, splitting tree bark into splinters. The ground churned with the impact, dirt and leaves exploding upward in violent bursts. The thick, acrid scent of gunpowder and disturbed earth filled your lungs, burning as you sucked in a sharp breath. The weight of your rifle was suddenly too real in your hands, heavy, demanding action.

Instinct took over before thought could catch up. You dropped, rolling hard into cover behind a thick, gnarled tree trunk just as another volley of bullets chewed into the space where you'd been standing. The impact of your landing sent a sharp flare of pain up your leg, but you bit it down, gripping your weapon tighter.

Ghost was right beside you, moving with a kind of ruthless efficiency that was terrifying to witness. He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate—his body flowed like water, smooth, practiced, all muscle memory and precision. His head barely moved as he scanned the battlefield, tracking enemy movement, already calculating the best way out.

But there were too many.

More figures moved through the dense undergrowth, shadows flitting between the trees, their silhouettes barely visible through the haze of dirt and smoke. The enemy had you flanked.

Your breathing was fast but controlled, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. You forced yourself to stay calm, gripping your rifle, checking your ammo with a practiced flick of your fingers. Not much.

You felt the pressure of Ghost's presence next to you—not just in the physical sense, but in the way he took up space, in the way his mind was already turning through a hundred different outcomes, discarding the ones that ended in your bodies left behind in this forest.

“Got any bright ideas, Pilot?” His voice was sharp, but even, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your glove, glancing sideways at him. His skull-painted mask was streaked with dirt, his dark gear blending into the surroundings like a ghost given form. His eyes, the only part of him visible, were locked onto you. Waiting.

A smirk ghosted across your lips, despite the situation. You exhaled sharply, cocking your rifle. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Don’t die.”

A small, almost imperceptible huff of air came from him — something that might’ve been amusement if you didn’t know better.

“Brilliant.”

Then, without another word, he moved.

Ghost shot out from cover, cutting through the battlefield like a blade, swift and deliberate. His rifle came up, and before the enemy could react, three bodies dropped, each shot precise, controlled, final.

You didn’t hesitate.

The second he moved, you were right behind him, covering his blind spots. Your rifle snapped up as another enemy stepped into view, their weapon raising toward Ghost’s exposed side. You squeezed the trigger. One, two, three shots to center mass, and the body crumpled into the undergrowth.

But there were still more.

A burst of gunfire forced you both into cover again, the rapid percussion echoing through the trees. Your breath was coming fast now, your hands damp inside your gloves. The coppery scent of blood mixed with the sharp sting of sweat and earth.

Ghost pressed his back against a tree beside you, his chest rising and falling with each measured breath. His fingers flexed around his rifle before he peered out, tracking movement. His eyes flicked back to you.

“Three more. One moving left, other two holding position,” he muttered.

You nodded, gripping your rifle tighter. “Take the left, I’ll handle the others.”

Ghost didn’t argue. He moved like a shadow, slipping through the undergrowth with deadly intent. You shifted, setting your sights on the two waiting ahead, their figures barely visible through the thick foliage.

You adjusted your grip, exhaled slowly, then pulled the trigger.

The first bullet caught one in the throat, a wet, gurgling sound following as he dropped. The second turned toward you too late. You fired again, the shot striking true, sending him sprawling backward.

A sharp crack to your right. Ghost’s knife buried itself into the last enemy’s neck. A quiet, precise kill.

Silence settled again, thick and heavy. The forest, once filled with gunfire, felt eerily still. The only sounds left were the distant crackling of fire from the wreckage behind you and the ragged rhythm of your own breathing.

You turned, and Ghost was already looking at you.

His chest was rising and falling, his stance still locked in combat mode, but he wasn’t moving anymore. His fingers flexed around his weapon before he slowly lowered it.

There was something unreadable in his gaze.

Not relief. Not exactly. But something close.

He gave you a slow, measured nod. “Not bad.”

You huffed, shaking your head as you reloaded. “Not bad yourself.”

The silence stretched — not uneasy, not forced, but charged. Waiting.

Your pulse hadn’t settled. The adrenaline was still there, still thrumming beneath your skin, keeping you alert, keeping you alive. But there was something else now, something deeper than just the aftershock of battle.

You could feel it in the way he looked at you.

Not just assessing injuries, not just making sure you were still standing.

Something else.

Something unspoken.

And then, in that low, quiet voice of his, he murmured, “Told you I’d get you out.”

The words should’ve been nothing. A simple statement. A confirmation of a promise fulfilled. The kind of thing soldiers said to one another at the end of a mission, when the dust settled and the bullets stopped flying. It should’ve been just another exchange, just another line in the script of survival.

But it wasn’t.

Because there was something in the way he said it.

Something deeper. Something heavier.

The words didn’t just slip from his lips — they carried weight, sinking into your skin, lodging themselves in the space between your ribs. They coiled tight, twisting into something unspoken, something unresolved. They weren’t just an acknowledgment of the present — they felt like a vow, like a promise that stretched further than this moment, further than this fight.

It wasn’t just about today.

It wasn’t just about getting through this firefight, about making it to the next breath, the next battle, the next mission. It was something more.

Your pulse hadn’t settled, not completely. Adrenaline still pulsed beneath your skin, keeping you sharp, keeping you standing. But the moment he spoke, everything inside you shifted — just for a second. Your body was still caught in the aftermath of survival, but your mind, your heart, was snagged on something else entirely.

Him.

You forced yourself to breathe, but it was like trying to inhale around something thick, something pressing against your lungs. The weight of his voice, the depth of it, the way it reached places inside you that you hadn’t let anyone touch — it was all too much, too sudden, and yet... not unwelcome.

You met his gaze, and it was like staring into something you weren’t sure you were ready to understand.

His eyes were unreadable, but they lingered. He held your gaze for a second too long, as if searching for something, as if waiting to see if you felt it too.

And you did.

God, you did.

The forest around you was still, eerily quiet after the chaos, but inside, everything was too loud. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs, the phantom echoes of gunfire still ringing in your ears. You could still taste the gunpowder on the back of your tongue, still feel the heat of combat clinging to your skin. But none of it compared to this — this sudden, heavy awareness of him, of his presence, of the way he looked at you.

Not just assessing. Not just checking for injuries or confirming survival.

Something else.

Something you weren’t sure either of you were ready to name.

You swallowed, hard. The lump in your throat refused to go away.

His words still clung to the air between you, thick and lingering.

Told you I’d get you out.

Like he wasn’t just talking about today.

Like he wasn’t just talking about this one mission, this one moment.

Like he meant all of it. Every mission before this, every fight still ahead.

Like he meant you.

Your fingers tightened around your rifle, desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground you, to keep you from losing your footing in the wake of whatever this was.

Ghost exhaled sharply, almost like he regretted speaking, like he wanted to take it back but knew he couldn’t. Knew he wouldn’t.

Then, as if he hadn’t just knocked the breath from your lungs, as if nothing had changed, he turned away.

And yet, something had shifted.

Something you both felt but neither of you spoke about.

Not yet.

But it was there.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

tag list : @jajouska @hao-ming-8 @pinkpookiebear

[honeekyuu]

squeeze. [sakusa kiyoomi x reader]

two. the devil.

previous. || masterlist. || next.

a/n. this au has me on my knees.

[playlists]. satin black || brews abridged || vibes

warnings: SAKUSA MOTHERFUCKING KIYOOMI.

✗ !!! minors do not interact !!! ✗

✗ !!! ignore timestamps !!! ✗

“Just come on-”

“Dude,” Hinata coughs, waving his hand in front of his face. “I can’t see shit.”

You roll your eyes, dragging him into Satin Black by the wrist. Cigarette smoke clouds your vision and stings at your eyes, but the dark glow of the tattoo shop makes it impossible to see, anyway. You’d started to get used to it over the last few weeks, but it’s still an assault on your senses every time. You blink it away, squinting into the hazy room.

The tattoo artists – the polite-looking one and the angry guard dog one – are standing at one of the mirrors. Akaashi Keiji and Iwaizumi Hajime, based on your interactions on Twitter today. You stop at the counter, watching them and barely noticing when Hinata stumbles into you from behind.

Akaashi’s shirtless in the mirror, a cigarette dangling between his lips and his eyes squinting down at the art on his own body, as though he’s examining intensely for imperfections. His jeans are slung low on his hips – you see that the dark trail of hair under his navel is flanked on both sides by symmetrical hip tattoos, the black ink stark on his pale skin. 

Iwaizumi is behind him, head bent and cigarette shedding ashes onto the floor as he digs a tattoo gun into Akaashi’s spine. He’s wearing an old muscle shirt with cigarette holes in it, tattooed biceps flexing every few seconds as he works and his frown deep with concentration. There’s a large outline on Akaashi’s back, the lines purple and thin and spanning the entirety of his upper back and curling over the tops of his shoulders. Half of it is filled in, pale blues and greens splashed over his left shoulder blade and Iwaizumi’s gun pressing a cyan color into his spine. Akaashi looks to be in absolutely no pain, his gaze empty as he mumbles something plainly to the other artist. Iwaizumi lifts his head and plucks the cigarette from his own mouth, another cloud of smoke filling the room as he stares down at Akaashi’s back and grumbles a response. 

The interaction is entirely inaudible, the grating guitar of “Crazy Bitch” screaming in your ears. Hinata has both ears plugged with his fingers, and he leans in close to yell to you.

“This is that one Buckcherry song you like!”

It catches both tattoo artists’ attention, and you have no idea how they’d heard your friend.

Cyan eyes find yours in the mirror – cyan like the ink being drilled into his back – and Iwaizumi’s angry gaze is whipping around to you and Hinata at the counter, the cigarette flickering with light and then shedding between his fingers.

“The fuck do you know about Buckcherry?” he barks, and you’re amazed you’d caught it. Hinata jumps beside you, and you feel him shuffle closer.

“Nothing! Uh-Sir?”

Iwaizumi finds that funny, it seems. His eyebrows lift, and you hear him snort quietly as he gives Hinata the once-over, but your eyes are trapped by Akaashi’s. 

The polite-looking one, who doesn’t look so polite now that you really look at him. 

He stares back emptily for a moment, and then – when he sees that you won’t break eye contact first – he smirks, the cigarette looking dainty in a smile that dangerous. 

“Suna,” he says quietly, and you wonder if there’s some black magic in the shop that makes hearing possible through the music. “Your favorite customer’s here.”

You only realize that the curtain across the room is closed when it flies open. Suna emerges on a rolling chair, shirtless with black sunglasses sitting on his nose. You wonder wryly if he knows it’s already dark in the shop without them. 

He’s clearly with a client, because he’s got black latex gloves on and a pair of forceps his right hand, but when he sees you, you get the feeling he couldn’t care less.

“I was wondering when I’d see you, sweetheart.” His smile is wicked, and you wonder, not for the first time, if he’s as harmless and stupid as he seems online.

He sets the clamp down and stands from the chair just as the song is changing, and that black magic idea becomes that much more convincing – haunting vocals ring in the shop, layered under a bass-y beat and quick rap, and the way Suna strips his hands of that black latex while smiling at you feels oddly like you’re being lured in by a siren that knows exactly what it’s doing.

His head twitches in Hinata’s direction, and you watch two tattooed fingers lift the glasses off his face as he stares down at your friend with lifted brows.

“You old enough to be in here?” he says with a smirk as he approaches. Hinata only leans toward you again, his arm hooking with yours.

“Is that the piercer?” he asks in a whisper. Suna’s face splits in a shit-eating grin, his double lip piercings spreading under the light when he presses his hips against the counter.

“Yeah. That’s the piercer,” the man says, his voice low and close. And then he flicks his gaze to you, and green eyes pin you to your spot. “Finally gonna let me pierce you, baby?”

You swallow and shake your head, clearing it. “I’m here about-”

“About the music,” he says, head tilted to look down at you. “I know. What’s wrong – you don’t like Saliva? It’s one of his favorites.”

You furrow your brows, frowning up at him. “Who?”

There’s silence, and then Suna’s grin is widening, face twisting into something terrible and manic.

“Oh,” he breathes, excitement making him lean ever closer. “You haven’t met him yet."

Oh.

Suna pulls out his phone and types out a quick message – you watch the black outline of a heart that sits on his thumb fly across the screen, and you remember to steel yourself despite the nerves. You’d come here for a reason.

Suna’s eyes find yours again. “I fixed that for you.”

“Fixed what-”

The door directly across the shop from you is wrenched open, and your gaze goes right over Suna’s shoulder. The man that comes out of that room walks in time with the echoing, ethereal vocals ringing throughout the shop.

Black Docs blend into black jeans, ripped at the knees and following lean legs that go on for miles. A black t-shirt that’s form-fitting and snug around tattooed biceps, every inch of those arms covered an ink, down to fingernails stained with black polish. Septum and industrial piercings glint under the single overhead light as he passes under it, and two ink black moles peek out from under the ink black hair that hangs over two ink black eyes.

Jesus Christ.

He’s in front of you before you can put together that you’ve been staring up into his eyes for too long.

“Can I help you?” His voice isn’t welcoming, it’s deep and rough and irritated. You wonder when the devil made hell so hot.

“Uh-” You swallow, and Hinata’s elbow digs into your side, urging you. “The music-”

The devil sneers, and your brain whispers a quiet ‘thank you’ in response. “You’re really interrupting my piercer for this? He’s with a client.”

You blink. You remember the devil has a name. He’s just a man, and you’d be damned before you fold for him.

I’d rather he fold me in-

“Maybe your piercer should be professional and not forget he has a client, then. He wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

You see Akaashi and Iwaizumi turn over their shoulders to stare. They’d gone back to tattooing Akaashi’s back, but the gun switches off now, Iwaizumi’s eyebrows high on his forehead as he stares in amusement. Akaashi crosses his arms, watching with a quiet, unnerving smirk. 

The devil–Sakusa Kiyoomi– leans down, planting his hands on the counter and leveling you with a glare that makes you shiver. “Is that all you can come up with?”

You drop your gaze, able to match anyone else’s but not his. Not his. 

Your eyes land on his marked fingers, and you notice a piercing on his right hand that slices through his middle finger, between the second and third knuckles. Suna has the same one, now that you’re looking.

“‘s cute,” you mumble, nodding your head toward it. You lift your eyes to Sakusa’s, slapping a disinterested smile on your face. “Boyfriends?”

He stares back evenly, unfazed. “Brothers.”

You need this man like you need air.

“Do you need something,” he starts, voice cutting through every thought flying around your head. “Or are you just here to waste my time?”

The haze of him crashes down over you, and you remind yourself who you’re talking to. 

It works. 

“If my wine glasses start shattering, you can expect a bill from me,” you say, crossing your arms in irritation. He only lifts his brows, looking at you like you’re stupid.

“How about you just move your wine glasses away from the wall?”

You bristle, leaning forward and planting your hands on the counter, too. Hinata’s hand slips from your arm, and he gasps quietly, whispering your name. You don’t hear it, too busy getting in Sakusa’s face.

He looks briefly surprised to see you come so close, and his eyes flick down to your mouth before finding your gaze again. You smile politely, knowing he’ll see it for the insult it is.

“How about you just turn your music down?”

He smiles back, leaning closer, and you swear you can smell his shampoo. 

“How about you just fuck off?”

You blink, eyes going wide. He’d said it with saccharine, but it stings across your skin like a slap to the face. You furrow your brows, hatred burning in you, but he’s sliding his eyes to the man beside you, looking at Hinata for the first time.

He gives the ginger a once-over, and then he slides his gaze back to yours, slow and purposeful and magnifying the whisper he lets out, breath fanning over your mouth.

“And get your little brother out of my fucking shop.”

He’s gone before you’re ready to let him leave, the door to his office slamming so hard that the windows behind you rattle.

You stare at it blankly, listening to Suna’s low whistle and Akaashi’s mocking snicker. Iwaizumi just shakes his head, visible in your periphery, and the tattoo gun starts up again. The song changes. Hinata tugs on your elbow, the words ‘let’s just go back’ said low in your ear.

You’re going to ruin him.

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she put my hand up on her throat and told me // squeeze that shiiii-

squeeze [ghostemane].

[lostintransist]

Secrets are for Grownups | Part 7

Part 1 can be found here. AO3

The knock at the door tensed all your muscles. Your fingers are interlaced and buried between your thighs to keep them from shaking.

The bus had left with your boys twenty minutes ago.

John had sat you in the middle seat below the wall of pictures. Larsen’s smiling face gave you comfort, knowing he would have your back had he lived. John sat to your right and Nyla had claimed the space to your left, flanking you, for everyone’s safety. Nyla patted a hand at your elbow before rising from the couch.

When she opens the door Johnny and Simon greet her with a kiss on the cheek and a nod respectfully to you. John stood and offered them a hug, the love they shared fierce even in the short gesture. They sit where directed. Johnny and Simon are thigh to thigh. Simon’s arm stretches along the breadth of Johnny’s shoulders, thumb stroking the side of his neck. Johnny reciprocated by settling a hand on Simon’s thigh. The prominent black band on his hand draws your gaze.

Only the hum of your really old refrigerator breaks the silence as they stare at you and you at them.

John looks from you to his men and back. With a sigh, he edges to the front of the couch and begins as if he were leading a mission briefing.

“The goal here is to come to an understanding regarding the boys. I have spoken with you all at length about this. The boys know about their fathers,” he nodded to the men before turning his gaze, “and you are willing to allow Simon and John time with them correct?”

The question is directed to you. Nodding, you swallow hard. He turned back to the men on the other couch.

“You would like to meet and develop a relationship with the boys, is that also correct?”

Johnny must tighten his hand on Simon’s thigh because Simon settles his free hand on top of his husband’s.

“We would like an opportunity to meet our boys,” Simon replied evenly.

Rage prickled at the back of your neck. Jace and Mac were not their boys, they were yours. Yours and Larsen’s. Squeezing your fingers tighter and staring at your lap allowed you a moment to breathe past the bile rising up your throat.

“What are you expecting this to look like?” John asks.

Unsure if he who he questioned you look up. Finding his eyes on the men sitting on the opposite couch you turn to look at them as well.

“We aren’t sure yet,” Johnny starts, gaze connecting with yours. “We would like to become a stable and consistent part of their lives. They are our sons.”

“Will you tell us about them?” Simon glances at you before looking down at his hand on Johnny’s. His band is the same dark metal as Johnny’s.

Your breath shudders in and out as everyone looks at you. John sinks back into the couch, eyes watchful. You look to him for something, guidance maybe. At his nod, you turn back to the men and start from the beginning. Nyla settles a hand on your back, soothing in the way it moves back and forth.

“Jace Riley was born first at a healthy seven pounds two ounces. Noah MacTavish followed within five minutes and came in at a decent six pounds five ounces. My late husband, Larsen, helped me pick their first names since I knew what their middle names would be when some genetic testing confirmed different fathers. " You rush on, expecting judgment. Everyone had an opinion on pregnancy. “My midwives were concerned about the vastly different gestational ages and referred me to a specialist. They also sent off the genetics to test for lots of things including for general origin of ancestry. When the information arrived it confirmed that the older baby, Jace, had mostly English DNA, and the smaller one, Noah, had English and Scottish DNA. I delayed submitting their birth certificates for as long as I could to confirm that their personalities and features lined up with what I expected.”

Johnny is fighting back tears, face turned and mouth scrunching and relaxing. Simon coughs into his hand before squeezing Johnny.

Running your tongue across the back of your teeth you allow them a moment.

“If it works for you I would like to invite you over sometime this week to meet them. It will be a low-pressure situation for them and for us. I won’t be making them call you anything but your names until they decide what to call you.” You pull your hands free of your thighs, letting the blood flow back into them. “They like legos if you want to bring a small set to build with them. "

Both men nod in agreement, you assume to both the scheduling and the toys. When they have collected themselves Johnny inches forward on the couch, elbows on his knees.

“Johnny,” Simon growls, as if warning him.

“No Simon. We deserve answers and I don’t want to ask when the boys are here,” he snapped at his husband—pinning you with his ice-fire blue eyes. “Why didn’t tell us when you found out? You still had John’s number. We deserved to be involved, to have a choice.”

“You made your choice, both of you. Anything that happened after you found exaltation is none of your business.” You can’t help but snarl at them, fingernails biting into your palm as you curl and uncurl your fingers.

Unable to remain seated you stand and take to pacing the space between the wall and the window.

John spoke up now.

“Can any of you tell me how this happened? How did I miss all of this going down?”

Despite the years and pain between, you, Simon, and Johnny share a moment of understanding as you all glance at one another.

You reply, feet slowing your frantic pacing.

“It started after your ex-wife asked for a divorce. The night Gaz invited everyone to the bar and you elected to stay back and drink alone in your office.”

John pinked and readjusted in his seat as Nyla raised a brow at him.

“It’s alright dear, we all need a nip from time to time,” she offers him a kind smile.

“Johnny had flirted since I arrived but it really changed that night,” you twist your fingers as you pace.

“She slept with both of us until she had a ‘family emergency’ and was never heard from again,” Johnny glances up at your family photos as he drops his snide comment.

The glare you level on him would melt glass.

“It was a family emergency. I needed my family, emergently. I was in over my head and I was scared.”

“You knew what you were doing, you were grown.”

Simon’s hard words caught you in the neck as you paced. His folly found him in saying it when you were close enough to reach him. Not even God and all the angels would have been able to still your hand. It connected with a resounding crack.

“How old was I?” You shout at him even as John leaps from his seat and hauls you away before Simon can recover enough to return fire.

“You’re only a year younger than me!” Johnny is pushing to his feet now.

A quiet but firm ‘John’ from his mother pauses his standing. Sinking back into the cushion he glares at you.

John has you around the ribs, not wincing as your nails bite into his arm.

“I am five years younger than you. Do you know how old that made me when you both cornered me and dragged me into bed? Twenty-four! My brain hadn’t even finished developing yet.”

You want to, need to, move. John holds you tighter.

“We didn’t drag you to bed, we would never force someone,” Johnny’s glare hardened.

The eye twitch is uncontrollable.

“What about a situation where I was alone in a foreign country with no support system except a boss who was too busy dealing with the single worst divorce I’ve ever seen to actually check in on me? Hmm? He barely ate and certainly didn’t notice two men both older and in positions of power over me pushing their interest. What part of me had any impression other than force John MacTavish? You tell me that! How could I say no? Did you ever once make it clear to me that I had a choice?”

Simon and Johnny both open their mouths to defend themselves. Before they can utter a word you continue, vitriol flying off your tongue like spittle.

“No! You know what you did? You poured your hatred for yourselves down my throat. Choked me with it because you couldn’t admit that you were in love with the other. Do you know what I did in return? I stole the best thing you could ever create and fled the fucking country.” John tightened his grip on you when he felt you shift. “You know nothing of what I suffered under or because of you. You don’t get to sit on my couch and tell me you did nothing wrong. I would have let it go on until my visa ended but no. Both of you had to fuck up and call out for the other while balls deep inside of me. That’s when I ran.”

Wrenching yourself from John’s arms you stalked into the kitchen. Bracing your elbows on the counter you focus on breathing. Them being in your house dredged up a lot of emotions and thoughts you had assumed were gone. If only you could soothe them as easily as you do the boys.

Steps reached your ears.

“John, I just need a second okay?” Your voice cracks on the last word.

“Ah me dearie, I left the boys to chat.”

Whirling you find Nyla looking you over with compassionate eyes.

“I know I shouldn’t have slept with them both at the same time, but I didn’t feel like I had any way to say no,” you crush your arms to your chest, the pain helping keep you present. “I thought I could enjoy the time until I had to go home.”

“I am no here to judge you. My own dear husband had to fight off three other suitors I was sleeping with before I would agree to marry him,” she gave you a wink as you processed that bit of information.

Four men? Mama MacTavish was sleeping with four men at once? Damn. Guess you know where Johnny got his charisma from.

Her face took on a serious cast.

“They will never understand.”

Your eyebrows pulling together is all the response you can manage. Nyla knows what it means though. The pain ratcheting through you is the only thing keeping you from breaking down.

“The boys.” She runs her hands down her front as if smoothing an apron she left in Scotland. “Simon might understand a bit better once he thinks about it, but Johnny won’t. They have never had to balance the scales of safety of their bodies or safety of their souls anywhere that didn’t involve gunfire.”

A distant look comes over her face as Nyla’s memories play across her eyes. A deep breath and the closing of her eyes pull her back to the present.

“We know the constant battle we face as women. Embedded in our bones by our mothers, the need to comply, to capitulate.” She focuses on you now, eyes boring into yours. “I am proud of you for running, child.”

The tears slid down your cheeks without your permission. When you are gathered up in her arms you wonder if the decision to call her might have been a good one for you, and not just the boys, after all.

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

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[kingdom-of-sins]

Armando Aretas x Doctor!Reader

There might be a reason why Armando gets into too many prison fights

The door to the infirmary creaks open, and you glance up from your desk, where you’re sorting through patient files. The sight that greets you is one you’ve become more accustomed to than you’d like: Armando Aretes, flanked by two guards, his shirt smeared with blood and his expression unreadable.

"Doctor," one of the guards says, nodding to you. "He’s been in another fight."

You sigh, pushing back your chair and standing. "Put him on the table," you instruct, your tone professional, though your heart races a little faster every time Armando is brought in. He’s notorious, dangerous, and yet there’s something about him that draws you in despite yourself.

Armando is led to the examination table, and he sits down with a grunt, the guards standing close by. You approach, your eyes quickly assessing the damage. Cuts and bruises mar his face, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding steadily.

"This might sting," you warn, reaching for the antiseptic.

His dark eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the noise of the prison fades away. There’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you shiver, though you try to ignore it, focusing on your task.

He hisses as you dab the antiseptic on his wounds, his muscles tensing under your touch. "You should be more careful," you say softly, though you know it’s pointless. Fights are a part of life here, especially for someone like Armando.

"Careful?" he repeats, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Not much room for that in here, Doc."

You continue to clean his wounds, trying to keep your hands steady. His proximity, the warmth of his skin under your fingertips, makes it difficult. "You know, if you keep this up, you’ll spend more time in my infirmary than in your cell."

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that sends a thrill through you. "Maybe that’s the plan."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "You’re incorrigible."

His gaze sharpens, and he shifts slightly, the movement drawing your attention to the lean, hard lines of his body. "Why do you do it?" he asks suddenly, his voice quieter, more serious. "Why do you work here?"

You pause, meeting his eyes again. "Because someone has to," you reply honestly. "Because everyone deserves care, no matter who they are."

For a moment, something unreadable flickers in his eyes, but he quickly masks it, leaning back slightly as you finish bandaging his hand. "You’re too good for this place," he murmurs, almost to himself.

You look at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. "And you’re too stubborn for your own good," you reply, trying to lighten the mood.

He laughs again, the sound sending a warmth through you. "Touché, Doc."

You step back, your job done, but you find yourself reluctant to leave. "Try to stay out of trouble, Armando," you say, your voice softening despite yourself.

He stands, towering over you, and for a moment, you think he might say something more. But then the guards are leading him away, and you’re left standing there, your heart pounding.

As he disappears through the door, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Armando Aretes is dangerous, not just because of his reputation, but because of the way he makes you feel. And in a place like this, feelings can be a dangerous thing.

But as you return to your desk, you can’t help but think about the look in his eyes, the way he said you were too good for this place. Maybe, just maybe, there’s more to him than meets the eye.

[twola]

I have one simple request, getting back from a successful mission with Arthur , reader and Arthur are all excited and happy about the job and can’t wait to get their hands on each other with reader trying to discreetly suck him off behind a wagon at camp. Or something along those lines, I’m a sucker for keeping that man quiet when others are near. Work your magic girl!

Uh. *checks notes*

Filthy. I hope you like filthy.

Success

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

“Reckon that’s a winning combination,” you laugh, swinging down from your horse and tying its reins to the hitching post. 

Arthur swings down from his horse as well, grunting in agreement, patting his mare’s flank before he follows you deeper into the camp, past the folks cleaning up their dinner, breaking into their first (or fourth) drink of the night—Dutch’s gramophone lilts in the background.

As the two of you walk closer to the table where the contribution box is set out, Arthur opens his satchel to pull out the ill-gotten gains.

“Course, like anyone would believe a pretty little thing like you could rob a man blind.” Arthur places the overflowing jewelry bag into the camp’s money chest, but not before nicking a pair of earrings that he knew would look good on you. 

“Are you being facetious, Mister Morgan?” You smile overly sweetly at him and move quickly ahead of him, walking backward toward your destination of his wagon.

“Reckon I don't have the brains to be so, Miss.”

“What did you tell that man that he was so damn excited about getting in a room with me?” You continue slyly, playing with the ends of your hair in a flirtatious manner.

“Told him ain't nothing ever been sweeter than your mouth on my cock.” Arthur rumbles lowly, his tone teasing.

Oh, it was one of those nights.

You push his shoulder. Once. Twice. You know you could never move the mountain of muscle that he is. But he allows it, letting you push him backward until he smacks against the side of his wagon. He smirks as you press yourself against him and he eagerly meets you as you lean up to kiss him. 

What he doesn’t expect is those warm little hands of yours deftly unfastening his gunbelt and immediately working at his pants.

“What are you doin-” he harshly whispers and immediately shuts up as you wind your hand through his hastily opened buttons and encircle his cock.

“Shit-” he hisses, leaning back against the wagon, watching you draw out his engorged cock from his pants and stroke it gently, teasingly.

“Can you be quiet for me, cowboy? Can you hold yourself together as I suck you off?”

Arthur smashes his hat onto his head to block his vision as you sink to your knees, biting his lower lip.

“Look at me, Arthur Morgan,” you whisper before kissing his shaft, your nose tickled by the wiry curls on his pelvis.

He looks down at you, hand coming off his hat, his other arm braced against his wagon.

Loudly swallowing, he looks around for anyone who would be able to see. The rest of the gang were mulling about- only steps away, 

“Watch me, dearest.” You smile, sickly sweet, before your tongue darts out and licks a warm, wet stripe from base to head.

He whines, whines, trying to keep quiet. Arthur’s breath comes out in hurried pants as you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock. You look up at him again, bright-eyed as you lap at the sensitive skin of his member.

“Fuck, honey, I -” he grits his teeth as you lick again, the tip of your tongue probing against his slit, tasting the first bitter, salty drips of his arousal.

You frown up at him, hand wrapped around his base, and pull away, “You want to be caught? Be quiet.”

His jaw immediately clamps shut as he nods dumbly, following your order. Arthur cannot help but to spread his legs further, his spurs jingling, as his head passes into your mouth. 

“Hah-”  he wheezes, watching you slide your mouth further down his shaft. Each inch of him disappearing into the warm, wet cavern.

“Oh, Jesus-”  he throws his head back against the wagon, his hat falling to the ground, as the very tip of him hits the back of your throat and begins to arch downward as your nose presses against his pelvis. He knows he’s leaking like a dripping faucet, blinking up to the stars, breathing out through his nose loudly like a bull to stud.

Your mouth is perfect - wet and warm and your tongue presses against the underside of his cock insistently. You make a small noise around him and he looks down at you. His entire cock is in your mouth, prodding the back of your throat, and you blink up at him with doe eyes.

He’s a goner, even before you hollow your cheeks and suck.

Arthur barely has enough time for his hands to find your head, holding you still as you groan, and with one half-aborted thrust, he comes, hot and sticky down your throat. You gag a little, and he realizes he’s choking you, and his hands move down to your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

You gasp, coughing a little as his cock leaves your mouth, bobbing slightly in front of your face. For a moment, a pearly string of saliva and spend is suspended between your lower lip and the head of his cock. He grits his teeth again, fighting off the moan that he wants to let loose into the night air.

The string breaks as a large drip of pearly spend escapes his cock, falling to your chin.

You blink away tears as you look up at him, gasping for breath, his spend bright on your skin in the moonlight.

“Oh honey, here-” he’s wincing as he tucks his sensitive cock back into his pants before stooping over to take your shoulders and help you up.

You press your hands against his chest to steady yourself.

Arthur’s hand leaves your shoulder and his thumb wipes slowly across your chin, collecting that last drip of spend.

You grab his wrist, preventing him from moving, as you take his thumb into your mouth, sucking off the last drop of spend from him as he gazes upon you dumbfounded.

You let go of his thumb and suddenly he’s crashing into you, his arms thrown around your body, crushing you to him, his lips insistent against yours, his tongue pressing into your mouth. He kisses you like he needs your love to breathe.

You melt into his embrace, kissing him back with equal fervor. He swings you around to change places, with you leaning against his wagon, the boxes of bullets inside clinging as he pushes you against it.

“Christ alive-” he grits between kisses.

“If I ain’t-” Arthur’s hand paws at your rear and you gasp. “The luckiest man-” Your skirts are drawn up.

“West of the Lanaheechee-” Your bloomers puddle around your boots. You bury your head into his shoulder as you gasp, his fingers zeroing between your legs with a practiced ease.

“Look at my hand, honey.” Arthur teases as you squeeze your eyes shut, your knees shaking as his other arm wraps around your waist, keeping you upright.

You heed him though, looking down between you and grabbing at your skirt, lifting the fabric enough so that you can see his hand cupping the entirety of your cunt, where just the smallest tuft of dark hair is visible where his palm ends. You suck in another breath as his middle finger parts your folds and presses against your opening.

Arthur is looking down at you with a confident hunger as the first part of his finger slides into your cunt. Your eyes squeeze shut as your hands clench at his strong trigger finger pushing behind the first, both sliding into your body.

He crooks those fingers and a cry escapes you. His other hand covers your mouth and he shushes you, lowering his head to yours as he whispers lowly,  “You want to be caught? Be quiet.”

Your eyes widen as you nod your head, but he doesn’t remove his hand from your mouth, instead leaning in and taking your earlobe between his teeth as he starts his ministrations in your cunt again.

His hand muffles your sounds as he begins to thrust those fingers roughly. His tongue traces up the helix of your ear before he harshly whispers into it.

“You may play the whore but ain’t no man ever gonna touch you but me. Ain’t no man ever gonna make you come, right honey?”

You nod vigorously, about to trip over that precipice.

“Good girl, now come for me.” Arthur orders, pressing his thumb hard against that bead of nerves above your cunt and curling his two fingers inside.

Your knees shake as your eyes squeeze shut, moaning into his hand as you obey, a small gush of your arousal coating his fingers and dripping down his knuckles.

Arthur slowly removes his fingers from your body, and your skirts drop as his other hand uncovers your mouth. You pant, leaning heavily against the wagon. He looms over you, and as he also breathes heavily, a smile cracks across his weathered face.

“Reckon any more and we’re really gonna get caught.” He nuzzles his forehead against yours.

You smile, laughing softly, “Any more and neither of us will be able to stand up.”

Arthur snorts as he holds out his hand for you to take and hold on to. “C’mon, let’s show our faces a bit before disappearing again.”

[nimbusclan]

Moon 1

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

As the two cats climb the slope away from everything they’ve ever known, Moonpaw sends a fervent prayer to StarClan as thanks for sparing her brother.

She watches the strong shape of his shoulders as they move under his pelt, carrying him up the mountain, the swish of his tail as it guides her forward, and knows that without him, she’d have lain down in that cave and let the darkness have her. Without her clan – without her brother – she’s nothing.

With only the moonlight and twinkling Silverpelt to guide them forward, the mountain seems ominous and threatening in the dark. Outcroppings of rock throw insidious shadows over them, spires of stone stab high into the sky and curve like the talons of an eagle. Fogpaw lowers his nose to a scraggly shrub that clings stubbornly to the unforgiving landscape and adjusts his course for the border of their territory. Moonpaw slinks after him, head low and ears flattened nervously against her skull.

She scents it before she sees it, the border with their neighboring clan strong with the scents of foreign cats. “We’re here,” Fogpaw murmurs, brushing a comforting tail over Moonpaw’s back before stepping forward, claw-tips straddling the edge of the scent-marks denoting the line between territories as he lifts his head and caterwauls into the night.

After the sound of his announcement fades across the mountainside, he turns to look back at Moonpaw, his cobalt eyes round and unsure. The line of his body is bold, his tail and head held high, but Moonpaw has grown beside him since their nursery days. She knows that he’s nervous, even if he’s not showing it outright. His eyes shine with apprehension.

Just then, a clatter of pebbles alerts the pair of them to movement on the other side of the border. Moonpaw presses herself to Fogpaw’s flank, body tense, as the shadows melt away to reveal three neighboring patrol cats, alerted by Fogpaw’s yowl.

“What is your business at our border so late at night?” The largest of the cats spits, unkindly, flanked by the other two of his clan members. His eyes flit between the two siblings, sizing them up with an unimpressed frown.

“Our home has been destroyed, and our clan with it,” Fogpaw explains. Moonpaw feels unsteady under the wary gaze of the other cats and wants to sink her claws into the rock beneath her pads for a sense of balance, but refrains, not wanting the action to be interpreted as a threat. “We ask that you welcome us into your clan. We’re only apprentices.”

The large cat bursts into laughter, his voice rough and mocking. The two cats beside him snicker, the three of them exchanging amused glances.

“As if we’re going to accept you scrawny rejects into our clan,” the large cat continues to laugh, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight as he grins. “You’re no more than rogues now, if what you say is true. We don’t take in rogues.”

“You better scram, before we make you,” one of the other cats says. His muscles are thick, bulging under his pelt, and Moonpaw hasn’t had nearly enough battle training in the scant few moons she’s been an apprentice to feel ready for a confrontration. Even if she felt as though she could take on this single cat should she need to, they’re outnumbered. “We don’t take kindly to rogues trespassing on our territory.”

Fogpaw scoffs, affronted, and Moonpaw’s fur spikes along her back, a lightning bolt of fear racing down her spine. “We’re not on your territory,” Fogpaw spits, gesturing between each of their groups. “We’re still on our side of the border.”

“You don’t have a clan anymore,” the third cat jeers. “What border?”

Fogpaw bristles, tail lashing furiously, and the other cats get to their paws like they’re ready to make true on their threat to run them off. “Fogpaw,” Moonpaw murmurs, brushing her tail along his side. “Let’s not do this. We should leave.”

Fogpaw spares the other cats one last, angered look, and then turns tail and stalks away, calling for Moonpaw to follow. The mean laughter of the clan cats echoes behind them as they turn the corner and head down a slope that hugs the mountainside, loose pebbles clattering away under their paws as they make their way down.

Rogues. Moonpaw shivers, hastening her step to keep up with Fogpaw’s furious pace. “What are we going to do now, Fogpaw?” Moonpaw asks, anxious. “We don’t have a clan anymore.”

“We are the clan,” Fogpaw reminds her. “We are NimbusClan. And what we’re going to do right now is hunt, because I’m starving and we need to keep our strength up.”

What about the Warrior Code? Moonpaw thinks to herself, padding after Fogpaw as the terrain levels out and they find themselves in a sparsely wooded clearing she’d only passed through a couple times when out with her mentor. Will StarClan punish them if they eat outside of the camp? 

They’re the only two cats left, so StarClan surely will understand their need. There are no other cats to bring fresh-kill back to. Moonpaw settles into a crouch at the base of a tree, tucked between the roots as Fogpaw slinks behind a bush and scents the air for prey. Exhausted, hungry, and grieving, Moonpaw doesn’t have the energy to hunt right now, so she watches her brother flick the tip of his tail as he stalks across the ground, the light of the moon that filters through the sparse trees flickering against his dappled pelt.

Fogpaw works hard to catch them dinner, chasing a squirrel halfway up a tree and just managing to sink his teeth into its tail. It shrieks an alarm call into the quiet of the night, but Fogpaw pulls it from the tree with a hard tug and lands nimbly on the ground, giving it a swift bite to the neck to silence its cries. He drags the fresh-kill over to where Moonpaw crouches and noses it towards her.

When she doesn’t eat immediately, eyeing him with worry, he shrugs and tucks his paws under himself. “You eat first. Everything that’s happened this evening has given me a stomachache.”

Moonpaw drapes her tail sympathetically over her brother and tears the squirrel into equal portions for them, pushing Fogpaw’s share towards him. “You said it yourself, we have to keep our strength up. Eat at least a little.”

He flashes her a small, quick smile and digs in, the two cats pressed side by side as they eat. Disposing of the remains of their meal so as not to attract any scavengers, Moonpaw spots a hollowed out log for them to spend the rest of the night in that shelters them from the mountain winds. It’s nothing at all like her nest back home, the bark hard and cold beneath her pelt, but it’s safe for now and at the very least, she has the comfort of her brother’s warm body pressed up against hers to help lull her to sleep.

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[celtigxr]

The Pink Dread (Master List) - - - - - ch. ii : Familiar Strangers

Chapter Summary: The King and his family greet and welcome their guests of honour in the Throne Room, but someone is a bit late.

Word count: 3217

Sneak Peak: “My brother isn’t very competitive,” Aegon came to his side, the back of his hand hitting Aemond’s shoulder in jest before folding it in front of him. “Though, mayhaps that will change this season, eh, brother?” Aemond had to turn his head to glare at Aegon, “If you are competing, dear brother, mayhaps I will.”  Aegon’s grin never faltered. That infuriating grin that haunts Aemond’s every insecurity was like the smile of a great white shark that approached its prey.  Aegon extended his hand in front of them, “You remember Valeana—"

Warnings: Fatph0bic remarks.

T H E   R E D S

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The Throne Room was just as Val remembered, though smaller. She had memories of towering ceilings, and a throne sitting on a mountain of swords, but perhaps that was a fever dream. The Iron Throne was still intimidating beyond all sense, with its sharp edges threatening to slice anyone who dare sit on it. Then there was the garden of swords that were smelted onto the ground around it. It made King Viserys a lot more frightening than he actually was. 

When the Celtigars entered the Throne Room, it was led by Bartimos, his lady wife on his left, and Clement on his right. The three daughters and Arthor walked behind until they approached dais, where the four of them flanked their sides. The entire family all fell into a deep bow and curtsey before the King and one half of his family. 

“Your Grace, we are filled with humility and privilege at your most honourable invitation,” Lord Bartimos spoke, his voice professional, courteous, as if he was not addressing an old friend. His eyes, however, were filled with nostalgia and conflict. 

“Bartimos Celtigar!” The King sat up from the Throne, mouth in a wide smile, hand extended while his other used his cane to step down closer to the family. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

Valaena turned to watch the exchange between her father and the King. She stood at the far right, after Arthor who stood next to Clement. Her eyes briefly roamed over the room, glancing at the green queen and her Hightower-Targaryen children. Well, two of them. 

The corner of Bartimos’ mouth twitched, his face fighting to remain stoic and regal, but his nature was desperate to be familiar, as he once was with Viserys. There was so much tension in the room, that the rusted swords of the Throne cut through it. Valeana tried to keep her eyes trained onto the King, but she found herself glancing back at the fair-haired prince and princess, and noting that he wasn’t there. 

Then Aegon glanced at her, and she pulled her gaze back onto the King. 

“You look well, your Grace,” Bartimos’s eyes darted down and back up, “You’ve gotten…”

Viserys lifted his chin and eyebrows, the corners of his smile twitching upward, “...fat?”

“I was going to say you’ve gotten your hair back.” 

“Wish I could say the same for you.”

The two men stared at each before breaking into a fit of laughter. The tension was lifted. Shoulders loosened, muscles relaxed, and breath was released from lungs.

After embracing in the way men do, King Viserys went down the line of each Celtigar, beginning with Lady Ursula, and then moving onto Clement, the heir, who Viserys had not seen since he was an infant. 

“Gods, you are a giant,” Viserys clapped his shoulder. “The Blood of Old Valyria runs strong in you, my boy, I can see it. It’s like staring into the face of the Conqueror.”

“My Lady Floris, you have grown into a fine young woman. The spitting image of your beautiful mother.” 

“And do my eyes deceive me, or is this little Shyla? Gods, I remember when you were just a little thing, dancing around my corridors like a butterfly.”

“Ah, you must be Arthor. You were just a babe last time we met, but I’d recognize those large brown eyes anywhere. I always knew you would become a strapping lad – you remind me of your grandsire, Lord Frey. He had a strong jaw like yours.” 

When his lilac eyes landed on Valeana, his features seemed to change. There was some confusion, and then a tinge of pain and regret, but not until after he put the pieces of the puzzle together. Not until he realized who he was staring at.

“Valeana,” he spoke her name as if he was reading an epitaph etched on a tomb. His four-fingered hands reached to cup her cheeks, thumb running just under her eye, “I see your mother in your eyes.” His voice was wistful as his hands moved from her face to her shoulders, “Your presence has made me a very happy man. And–” He looked over his shoulder, to his children, finding that his one-eyed son was still not in attendance. His mouth fell into a firm line as the words were lost into the wind. He turned back to Valeana with a rueful smile, “Well, let’s not get into it now. I am sure you are all tired from your journey– you’ll be staying in your old apartments. I hope you’ll find yourself at home as you all once had in the past.” 

Before the Celtigars were led through the familiar route to Maegor’s Holdfast, there were brief, albeit awkward, greetings with Queen Alicent and her two eldest children. They made no mention of Aemond’s absence, though Val preferred it and would have thanked them for it if it was appropriate. She politely stood between her two brothers, silent, demure and polite. 

The Targaryens, who were once a second family to her, were now strangers in front of her. 

The King, Queen, and the Lord and Lady Celtigar went on up ahead, catching up on years lost, and left the youth to their own devices in the corridor. 

“It is good to see you again, Lady Valaena,” Heleana’s gentle voice reached her ears for the first time in ten years. She had memories of the princess sitting on the floor, examining bugs, or spending hours with Val embroidering. Helaena was not like her brothers or nephews; as children she lived in her own world, preferring the company of insects than to people. Val did not understand why until the day she preferred the company of stray cats and mice over people.

“It is a gift you’re still with us,” The princess added, and her choice of words felt intentional. They held meaning, they held knowing, and Val wondered what exactly she knew about what happened to her when she returned to Claw Isle.

Valeana’s mouth hung open, a complete loss of words for a moment. Licking her bottom lip, which felt dry, she gave the princess a small smile and a nod of her head, “I am glad to have reunited with you, my Princess.”

Aegon’s voice caught their attention; he stood nearby, having given obligatory greetings to each member, though his demeanor was blasé until he got to Shyla. His eyes sparkled with the shameless playfulness that Valeana remembered him for. 

“Lady Shyla Celtigar,” he took the youngest sister’s hand and gave a kiss on her knuckles. Her cheeks bloomed roses, her eyes looked up at him like glittery topaz gems under the light of the sun. “You’ve grown to be the very image of the Maiden. I do not know who to thank more, your mother or your father.”

“Oh Seven Hells,” Val could not help the words from falling from her lips. She knew her sister, she knew how easily her heart sways, and the look Shyla was giving Aegon when he turned to look at Valaena was the same way a hungry cat would look at a fat pigeon.

Aegon regarded her like an old toy he was nostalgic over. Odd, considering he held no love for her, if anything he was the bane of her existence. While Aemond’s cruelty was from betrayal, Aegon’s was more blatant, brazen and frequent. 

He stepped closer to her, hands pulled behind his back, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Little Val. Looking very little indeed.”

Val pursed her lips and lifted her chin in an attempt to level her eyes with his. “And how can I forget you, my Prince.”

“So formal,” he tutted, “We were friends once, remember?”

Val furrowed her brow, “No we weren’t.” 

“Valeana,” Floris hissed, overhearing the conversation. She immediately turned to the prince, “Forgive her impertinence, my Prince. She has forgotten herself after all these years. Her injury forced her into isolation for such a long time– politeness and etiquette are lost to her now.”

“Oh, what a tragedy,” Aegon’s sarcasm wasn’t well disguised.

“You can thank your brother for that,” Val’s tone was dry in her jest. She had forgotten whose company she was in. Her siblings' eyes were on her as if she had just committed treason, but Aegon’s smile reached his eyes before he barked out a laugh. 

“Why don’t you thank him yourself?” His violet gaze looked over Val’s shoulder, and that was when she felt an icepick go down her spine. 

T H E  G R E E N S 

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When Ser Arryk (or Erryk, he can never tell which) had found him, drowning in his cups with a maid on his knee, with clear instruction from his father to meet the family in the Throne Room to greet the Celtigars, Aegon very nearly did the opposite. He thought of fleeing the castle, into the bowels of the Street of Silk, never to be seen until this Royal Conclave farce was over with. He was already betrothed to his sister (as far as he was aware), and should have long ago wedded and bedded her, siring silver-haired and purple-eyed Valyrian children, but King Viserys would not see it happen. With his health improving, his mind became less weak to the influence of Aegon’s mother and grandsire. 

Viserys had his heir, and many grandchildren to inherit the crown and throne. Unlike what his mother wishes, what Otto Hightower alludes to, Aegon will never inherit the crown. He did not wish to… He had no taste for duty. However, if marriage to a noble lady of the realm was the extent of his duty, then all he asks is for her to be nice on the eyes. He supposed Helaena was attractive, but when he looked at her, he did not see anything other than his strange sister. He had no desire for her. 

However, when the King had announced that the Celtigars would be one of two guests of honour at the Keep, Aegon had an unsettling realization that Viserys may have intentions to marry him to one of the Celtigar daughters. A shudder went down his spine at the thought. Perhaps Helaena would be the better option.

He was old enough to remember when they left King’s Landing, his memory far more crystal clear than any of his nephews or siblings who were younger at the time. The Celtigar sisters were not pleasant creatures. The eldest, the Grafton girl, reminded him of one of those preying-something bugs with large eyes that his sister carries in tiny cages. The youngest one had no eyebrows, giving her a massive forehead, and the third… Well, she was fat.

 Aegon remembered her to be so robust that some thresholds were far too narrow for her to go through without her sides brushing each side. He even remembered the sight of her taking a fall down the stone stairs and how he couldn’t look away; it was horrifying, seeing the rolls of her thighs ripple as they flew over her head, flashing what might have been her twat, Aegon wasn’t sure. But it was also hilarious – of all fifteen seconds before he heard the snap. Then it went back to horrifying. 

There was little news of what happened to little Val after that. Last thing he heard was that, despite the Grand Maester righting her leg back into position, she was still incapable of walking, and guards had to bring her around on a litter. Aegon doubted that her inability to move would have done anything for her size – so he fully expected to meet a whale on a settee when he entered the Throne Room. 

Aegon for once in his life, was glad he wasn’t getting lost in the Street of Silk. As he stood on the dias before the Iron Throne, he found himself a little bit excited. His hands were clasped behind his back in an attempt to hide his fidgeting fingers. Floris looked the same as he remembered, only older, more pinched faced, but tall. He was surprised how much Shyla grew into her appearance – eyebrowless and all, she still flowered well. Though Aegon found himself at a loss of words for the fair-haired sister, standing at the end of the line, next to her two brothers. 

Valeana Celtigar was still the shortest of her family, but she was no longer the most horizontal. Perhaps her breaking her leg was the best thing that could have ever happened to her. 

When she caught his eye and immediately looked away, Aegon couldn’t help but grin to himself. 

Oh Aemond, he bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. You fool. You poor, late, one-eyed fool.

“Why don’t you thank him yourself?”

The devil in which they talked about had finally arrived, his gait languid, unrushed like a billow of smoke. He had changed, as per his grandsire’s request when Otto intercepted him, which is why he had not made it on time. Though, truly, he was in no rush and had hoped that he would find them all gone by the time he got there. Yet Aemond caught their guests just as they exited the Throne Room, catching his brother’s eye over the shoulder of a fair-haired lass. 

“Thank me for what?” 

The faces that turned to him were familiar strangers. Clement, he hadn’t met, but knew of, and Aemond suspected the other lordling with the dark hair to be Arthor. He recognized Floris and Shyla immediately, since their most characteristic features had not dissipated with time. The young maid with the head of fair hair before him turned to him like a stone statue trying to move on its own. He did not recognize her at first, he did not regard her initially, not until viperous green eyes met a regal violet one. Aemond faltered, his eye widening from surprise. He immediately tried to cover up by relaxing the muscles in his face. 

Eyes that once looked up at him full of warmth and fondness, ones that would light up a room and a space in his chest whenever he had said something that made her laugh. The last time he saw those eyes, they were wide, glossy with fear and betrayal before they disappeared into the back of her head. 

Now they looked at him with something that set his hot Valyrian blood to ice. 

Indifference. 

“Prince Aemond,” Clement stepped to his sister’s side, then placed his shoulder in between the two. It was the only thing that pulled Aemond’s gaze off of her. When his eye was not on her, he was himself once more. “We didn’t see you in the Throne Room with your family.”

“A keen observation, Lord Clement,” Aemond tilted his chin up at the eldest. He found that he loathed having to look up at someone, least of all a Celtigar. “Nothing gets by you, I see.”

Clement’s tight lipped smile betrayed the boil of his blood, “Glad to see you still can.” 

“Hm,” Original. “Pardon my tardiness. I was in the middle of training when I received word of your house’s arrival.”

“I’ve heard you’re quite the swordsman, Prince Aemond,” Floris approached her step-brother’s side. Her long-fingered hand placed on his forearm, a way to calm those clenching fists. “Will we see you compete in the tourney?” 

Aemond’s eye flickered to her and then back at Clement, “I have thought of it.” 

“My brother isn’t very competitive,” Aegon came to his side, the back of his hand hitting Aemond’s shoulder in jest before folding it in front of him. “Though, mayhaps that will change this season, eh, brother?”

Aemond had to turn his head to glare at Aegon, “If you are competing, dear brother, mayhaps I will.” 

Aegon’s grin never faltered. That infuriating grin that haunts Aemond’s every insecurity was like the smile of a great white shark that approached its prey. 

Aegon extended his hand in front of them, “You remember Valeana— Where’d she go?”

Sometime in the midst of the tense interaction, Valeana Celtigar had slipped away. Aemond had been actively trying to pretend she was a part of the tapestries, lest he get caught in her viper pit of a gaze. Then his brother had to bring up her name; he had to bring up the elephant in the room, the reason why tensions were high and why Clement was trying to spear him with his glare alone. 

But she was not there. 

Even her own siblings were confused by her disappearance.

T H E   R E D S

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“Get away from me, you pig!”

It was a mistake for her to come. She knew this weeks ago, but her arms and legs were chained to duty, and Valeana had no choice but to let her father lead her into a den of dragons. It took all her will power to look at him, to keep her eyes trained to stare right through him, as if he was just another servant that filtered through the halls. If it weren’t for Clement stepping in front of her, she would’ve broken. Her eyes would’ve watered, forced to look away out of shame and fear. 

Valeana had thought her feelings for him were long gone, replaced with resentment and dislike, but she was quickly reminded of how much she used to love him. With her needle and thread, she spent years trying to sew back her heart, and with one look, one reminder of the colour of his eyes made those seams break. 

She heard of how he lost his eye, and at the time she found it truly fortuitous, until she found out what he had gained in exchange. Seeing it in person reminded Valeana of how she had yet to be repaid by the gods for what she lost. Aemond Targaryen did not pay for what he did to her, not truly.

These feelings came rushing back to her in those brief seconds, and Val needed to flee and collect herself. She took advantage of the discourse and the shield of her brother’s broad back, and slowly retreated until she was part of the shadows, where she shared a look with Arthor. Her half brother didn’t say anything when she rounded the corner, didn’t even regard her with concern or reprimand. 

Arthor Celtigar, the forgotten son, was so used to shadows, he had grown accustomed to being a spectator. He never lived in the Red Keep, and held no nostalgia over childhood friends he never had. He was only seven when his sister returned with a lame leg and a cloud of despair over her head. Being bound to Claw Isle while his father and sisters remained at King’s Landing had made him indifferent to his siblings, particularly his sisters. He was raised by a Frey mother, in the mighty shadow of his half-brother, Clement. Eventually, he became one with the shadows, like a spider in the corner that no one sees. 

But Helaena Targaryen saw him, and she saw his sister fly down the corridor like a bat out of a closet. 

He supposed that he would no longer be the only spider on the wall. 

Tag: @queen-of-elves

(if you want to be tagged for new chapters, just reply!)

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[nerdanel01]

Death

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 1.5k+ wc | SFW Possibly as a result of the massive breach in the Veil to the south, the Necropolis is more dangerous than ever. When Agnes is wounded while on patrol, Emmrich is forced to take drastic measures to protect her. EXCERPT: Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins. 

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?”

9:42 Dragon

High heat of summer in the west, the rashvine-in-snow just beginning to bloom—ladybugs and fireflies seeking refuge from the sun in the cool pockets of the flower’s petals. Agnes, plenty cool herself, her skirt soaked through with mud to her waist, sang an invented song under her breath, her tiny hands sculpting the mud around her into taller and taller spires. Maman towering above her, driving into the fertile earth the wooden stakes she had sharpened herself, gently girding the dahlias against them for support. Young, loved, and protected. Still wrapped in the romantic fiction mother had woven to shield her from an uglier truth: that her father had loved her mother; that he was a kind and gentle man, employed in the stable of a neighboring estate. 

“Ma chère,” her mother called her. Agnes looked up. But the noontide sun was directly overhead, silhouetting her mother’s sunhat, obscuring her face in shadow. “You are being called.”

Agnes only felt it when her mother called attention to it: a strange nagging, an unwelcome plucking feeling in the center of her chest. 

“Agnes! Agnes Gallatus!”

Who was shouting after her so rudely, when she was having such fun with her Maman? A childish, resentful pucker on her face, she cast her eyes downwards in the direction of the voice. The mud beneath her had vanished, and Agnes found she was hovering above a narrow, vaulted chamber, flanked on either side by high columns of quartz, carved in the image of skeletons holding the roof aloft. A figure was hunched over on the stone tile below her, a tempest of powerful magic crackling in the air around them. 

‘Emmrich…?’

The moment Agnes recognized him, the plucking feeling in her chest swelled and snapped.

Someone’s hands pressed too firm against her chest. 

Violent gasp of breath. 

Agnes wrenched herself upright, heaving, fighting the oxygen-starved ache in her muscles. Blinking the darkness from her vision, her eyes rolled wildly around the room as she fought for air. When her heart began to beat anew, pounding madly, the last ebb of adrenaline washed over and through her. Something was terribly, terribly wrong—

“Agnes, thank the Maker! No, dear, don’t fight it, relax, lie back down…”

Emmrich’s hand was firm on her shoulder, supporting her as she lowered herself back onto the cold Necropolis floor. His other hand bunched his leather overcoat behind her head, a makeshift cushion to pillow it against the tile. 

But Agnes could not relax. Pain wracked every inch of her body, and she could not shake an overwhelming sense of impending danger and doom. Emmrich’s words were reassuring, but his tone was anything but—she was not sure she had ever heard him sound so uncertain, or so frightened. He looked absolutely wretched, perspiration dripping down his face, his expression lined with grief and determination in equal measure. A phosphorescent flame was fading fast from his eyes, but Agnes caught it, nevertheless.

‘Oh.’

Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins. 

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?” The words came out as a hoarse, thin rattle. An almost spiritual look of relief washed over Emmrich’s face when he heard her voice.

“You are alive now. That is all that matters. Keep breathing, you should begin to feel better in just a few minutes…”

Alive now. Implying quite strongly there had been a period—Agnes could not say how long—that she had not been alive. She struggled through the fog of pain to recall what exactly had happened.

The ride down into the Necropolis in the morning… she remembered that. That was how every day started, now, after all. No more weeks-long research expeditions among the crypts and tombs. Ever since the Breach had opened in the south months ago, the disturbances within the Necropolis had grown too frequent and too great for such a risk. All of the Watchers were now deployed in shifts, with the express and sole purpose of policing the halls. There had always been a risk of encountering demons in the Necropolis, but lately, the peril had multiplied.

And then, it all came back to her in flashes: the pride demon they had found prowling among the tableaus of the dead, and the fight that ensued. The demon’s lightning that had shattered her barrier and struck her square in the chest, stopping her heart. The world growing dark, the demon’s fist raised to strike her down for good. Emmrich’s shout, the glow of his eyes, the crackle of magic tingling in the air as he seized possession of his thrall.

The forceful push of Alfred’s bony hands, flinging her down and out of the way of the pride demon’s strike.

‘Oh, no.’

“Emmrich… I’m so, so sorry.”

Emmrich looked at her quizzically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Agnes.”

“But Alfred…”

She turned her eyes pointedly to the pile of splintered bone and dust just a few feet away: all that remained of the thrall after the pride demon had struck it down, his pitiful, characteristic wailing silenced forever.

“...you had been working on him for years. Emmrich, you must be devastated.”

Emmrich’s face tightened, eyes narrowing, brows knitting together. The muscle in the corner of his jaw gave a little jump. “You cannot be serious,” he said, shaking his head. His gaze had never left her face; he had not so much as glanced at Alfred’s paltry, decimated remains. In fact he looked concerned, as though he was suddenly doubting how thoroughly he had reanimated her, for her to think such an absurd thought. “Agnes, Alfred was a project. A beloved project, to be sure, but a project nonetheless. I can begin again. Begin better, this time.”

Then Emmrich leaned over her, lifting his hands to frame her face. His palms were so warm against her skin, his thumb so gentle as it traced the plains of her cheekbones… his gaze so impossibly tender and wounded. 

“But you… if I lose you, I cannot get you back.” 

There was a terrible crack in his voice, as though he was close to tears. Agnes did not know if she wanted more to embrace him, or to sink through the floor and disappear entirely. She was so moved at how deeply he cared. She was so mortified at how her incompetence (she should have seen the lightning coming, should have reinforced her barrier before it hit) had caused him such pain and fear.

An unsteady exhale shook him. The glow had left Emmrich’s eyes entirely, now, and they were wholly brown, wholly warm, wholly honest with her.

“You are more precious to me than any experiment.” He spoke in a low whisper, as if he was afraid that if he spoke at a greater volume, he would not be able to hold himself together. “I would not trade you for one hundred, one thousand Alfreds.”

And then, Agnes saw it: how much it had taken out of him to restore her; the way it had aged him. For in all the time she had known him, Emmrich’s hair had always been dark: now, it was streaked through with white and grey—not entirely salt and pepper, yet, but markedly lighter than it had been.

He must have noticed she was staring at him. “What is it?”

‘You nearly killed yourself trying to save me.’ “You’ve lost a bit of color.”

“Oh,” Emmrich said, indifferently, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Have I?”

“It looks good,” Agnes told him, forcing a thin smile. “Elegant. Distinguished.”

Emmrich laughed low in disbelief. “You flatter me. I look more like an old man than ever, now, I am sure.” He lifted his other hand from her face and stretched, joints cracking as he did so; Agnes repressed the urge to catch it, to hold it fast against her face. “I certainly feel like an old man after that effort. Agnes, I dearly want to get you back to the other Watchers as soon as possible—you should visit the infirmary, just to be safe—but, forgive me, I need to rest first, just for a moment.”

Slowly, wincing as he did so, Emmrich lowered himself to the filthy floor next to her, a little cloud of dust kicking up when the back of his head came to rest at last on the tile. Emmrich was not quite as draconian in his need for order as Agnes, but he liked to keep things clean; he must have been truly exhausted, then, if he felt the need to lie down in the dirt to recover his strength. His eyes slipped closed, and his breathing slowed. Agnes thought he might drift off to sleep.

“Thank you,” she said, interrupting him before he could. “For saving my life.”

Emmrich’s upper lip gave a small twitch, then his bottom lip began to tremble. Even with his eyes closed, he looked so terribly upset. Without opening them to look at her, his hand quested across the dusty tile floor until it found her own, and closed tightly around it.

“For a moment,” he confessed, “you were entirely beyond my grasp, beyond my ability to reach. I was not sure I would be able to bring you back to me. You have no idea…” his voice trailed off and he squeezed her hand. “How good it feels, now. How reassuring. To feel you, to hear you, warm and breathing next to me.”

At that, Agnes was thankful Emmrich’s eyes were closed. She could not control the emotions raging across her face; could not imagine how deeply they betrayed her, with all Emmrich’s words pirouetting through her head. How he had called her precious, held her face, was still holding her hand. This sweetness, this intimacy–she had always longed for it. Still longed for it. But each breath she took still felt like knives cutting into her lungs; a reminder with each inhale of how close they had come to losing one another for good. 

How lucky she was! To have Emmrich’s love in any capacity. For if there had been any lingering doubt in her mind that he did, indeed, love her, it was now banished. That he did not, perhaps, love her in the way that she truly desired, did not make her cherish that love any less. 

And all she wanted to do, more than hold his hand or touch his face in return, was reassure him. To remain warm, alive, and breathing beside him, for as long as she possibly could. 

“It’s alright now, Emmrich,” Agnes said, and squeezed his hand back. “Rest as long as you need. I’ll keep watch until you’re ready."

---

This piece is Part VI in a series of 11. [ Start from beginning ] [ Read Part VII ] [ Nerdanel's Fic Masterpost ]

[shewasverynice]

Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen 

⚠️ SPOILER HEAVY ⚠️

Major Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death 

Full tags/warnings on Chapter links post

Major Characters: Original Character, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Ieiri Shoko, Yaga Masamichi, Nanami Kento, Haibara Yu, Tsukumo Yuki, Choso

‎‧₊˚✧ Chapter 26 ✧˚₊‧

The first years and second years all slumped against the wall in the tiny bit of shade that was left. The sun was up high, melting everything into soup and making the air feel like you were spinning around in an air fryer. Summer had arrived violently.

"I, Satoru Gojo, being of mostly sound mind…"

"You writing your will?" Shoko mumbled.

"Yeah." He answered.

"In the dirt?" She asked, letting her head tip over to look at it.

"Yeah." He answered again, still lazily drawing the characters in the dirt beside him.

At least until Shoko brought her foot down and messed it all up. He didn't even have the energy to fuss and just let his hand lay flat on the ground. He just closed his eyes and groaned.

"Last year we went to the water park," Suguru mentioned, draping his arm over his eyes for some kind of sweaty relief. It was better than nothing.

"That place is closed for some kind of renovation…" Sarah sighed, just letting her hand still holding he phone land on her chest.

"So… what should we do?" Haibara asked, then jumped as Sarah suddenly stood up.

"We're gonna do a great American tradition!" She said, placing her hands on her hips. "Everyone? Come with me!"

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The grand hall of the castle is an imposing sight. Golden chandeliers hang high above, casting shimmering light across polished stone floors. Massive banners bearing the kingdom's crest line the walls, flanking a throne of carved oak and gilded accents. The King sits with an air of quiet authority, his crown catching the light as he gazes upon the party standing before him. The leader of the group is Areval, the high elf paladin. His tall and commanding frame radiates strength and determination. His gleaming plate mail is adorned with intricate patterns of green and white, reminiscent of forest leaves interwoven with silver streams. His hand rests on the hilt of his longsword, and his piercing emerald eyes meet the King’s without hesitation. Beside him stands Dylan, a wiry rogue cloaked in dark leathers. His face is obscured by a scarf that covers him from his nose to his neck, leaving only sharp, calculating eyes visible. His posture is casual, but his fingers rest close to his belt, ready for trouble. The King’s gaze shifts to Fayette, the cleric. She wears white robes embroidered with golden threads, though her expression of disinterest stands in stark contrast to the holiness of her attire. Her staff is slung casually across her back, and she leans slightly to one side, as though the weight of the world bores her more than it burdens her. Beside her is Edgar, the fighter. Young and brimming with vitality, his grin is broad enough to rival the sun. His muscles strain against the leather straps of his armor, and a massive sword rests easily on his shoulder as though it weighs nothing. His bright eyes dart around the room with an eagerness that borders on impatience. Finally, the King’s gaze falls on Nanami, the wizard. A blonde-haired youth with round glasses perched on his nose, he stands quietly at the back of the group, clutching a weathered tome of spells. His robes are practical, and his demeanor is polite but reserved. The faint scent of parchment and ink seems to follow him, and the way he adjusts his glasses suggests he’s always deep in thought. The King rises slowly from his throne, his voice resonating across the hall. "Adventurers, you stand before me not as knights sworn to my banner, but as champions of courage and skill. The Swamplands to the east have grown foul with the stench of undeath. Corpses rise from the muck, and swarms of insects, creatures of grotesque size, claim all who dare tread there. My people cannot live in fear, and so I turn to you." His words are heavy, but his eyes are hopeful. "The task before you is not for the faint of heart. There will be horrors in those marshes that defy reason. Yet, for your bravery, I promise rewards fitting of legends: gold, land, and titles that will secure your names in history." The King pauses, his expression softening. "But more than that, you will have the gratitude of a kingdom. You shall be remembered not for the spoils you claim, but for the lives you save. Go now with my blessing, and may the gods guide your path. Return to us as heroes." With a final nod, he motions for the party to leave. The heavy wooden doors of the throne room creak open, revealing the vast world beyond. The call to adventure beckons, and the Swamplands await.

"Okay uh… so are we at the swamp yet?" Haibara asked.

"No, Edgar, don't be silly," Satoru said, narrowing his eyes at Haibara, "We're still in the King's throne room of course!"

"I suppose we should be going then?" Suguru asked, "Perhaps we should head over to the stables?"

"Wonderful idea, Dylan!" Satoru said, placing his hand on his chest. "Let us go! The swamp awaits!"

"How is this an American tradition?" Nanami mumbled, glancing at his plate of pancakes that still sat untouched besides his character sheet.

"Okay well, Japan doesn't have like… shitty breakfast chains okay?" Sarah grumbled, looking up from her notes. "There's nowhere here where you can slam an OJ and stab and orc normally. This café didn't mind if we hang out for a few hours in the AC."

The adventurers find themselves at the bustling marketplace near the city gates. Areval, ever the negotiator, steps forward to discuss terms with a merchant who deals in carts and horses. The man, a stout fellow with a heavy apron and a knowing smirk, sizes up the group. He quickly realizes this isn't a casual outing—they’re heading somewhere dangerous. After a bit of haggling, the party secures a sturdy wooden cart, its wheels reinforced with iron bands, and a reliable draft horse named Ember.

Fayette, ever disinterested, barely glances at the arrangement, while Edgar enthusiastically pats the horse on the neck. "Good girl," he says with a wide grin, his hand coming away slightly dusty.

Dylan inspects the cart's underside with a rogue's suspicion, ensuring there are no hidden flaws. Nanami, already seated in the cart, flips through his spellbook, occasionally glancing around as if trying to memorize every detail of their surroundings.

With the cart packed and the reins in Arrival’s steady hands, the group sets out. The road starts wide and smooth, flanked by open fields and the occasional farmhouse. The sun sinks lower, painting the sky with streaks of orange and purple. As the hours pass, the forest looms ahead, its dark canopy beckoning like an ominous gate.

The transition is gradual. The dirt path narrows, and the trees grow closer together. Their thick trunks rise like ancient sentinels, their branches intertwining to create a lattice of shadow. The once-vibrant chatter of birds fades, replaced by the distant creak of swaying boughs. Fayette lets out a long sigh, her staff resting lazily against the side of the cart. “Why do these places always feel cursed?” she mutters, her voice low but audible in the growing quiet.

Edgar, undeterred, flexes his arms. “It’s just trees,” he says with a chuckle. “What’s the worst they can do? Fall on us?”

Dylan’s eyes dart from shadow to shadow, his hand hovering near the hilt of a dagger. “You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, his tone betraying none of the humor Edgar attempts.

The last rays of sunlight disappear behind the treetops, and the forest takes on an entirely different character. The path beneath the wheels becomes uneven, dotted with roots and stones. Ember snorts in mild discomfort, her ears twitching at every faint sound. Nanami, adjusting his glasses, mutters an incantation under his breath, causing a faint orb of light to hover above the cart. It casts a pale glow, illuminating the immediate area but leaving the deeper woods in darkness.

The sounds of night creep in. At first, it’s the chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves. Then come more unnerving noises—the distant hoot of an owl, the snapping of twigs in the underbrush, and a low, guttural croak that none of them can quite place. The shadows seem to move just beyond the light’s reach, and the air grows damp and heavy.

Arrival tightens his grip on the reins. “Stay sharp,” he warns, his voice calm but firm. “This is where the path becomes perilous.”

"How would you know that?" Shoko asked, raising her brow. "Areval doesn't look like a swamp kinda guy."

"He— uhh … he had a wild childhood?" Satoru mumbled, immediately waiting that down on his character sheet.

The cart jolts as one of its wheels catches on a root. Edgar jumps out with a laugh to push it free, his strength making quick work of the obstacle. As he climbs back in, Fayette yawns and leans back, though her staff remains within easy reach.

Dylan’s voice cuts through the night. “Something’s following us.” He’s crouched low, his eyes scanning the dark edges of the trail.

Nanami stiffens, clutching his spellbook tightly. “Are you certain?”

The rogue doesn’t answer immediately, his focus intense. Finally, he nods. “I heard it twice now. Heavy, deliberate steps. It’s keeping its distance for now, but it’s there.”

The group falls silent, the cart’s creaking wheels and the horses' steady hooves the only sounds for a moment. Then, as if on cue, a louder snap echoes through the woods.

Areval pulls the cart to a stop and draws his sword. “We face it here,” he says with authority, his voice cutting through the tension like steel. “Whatever it is, we don’t let it take us by surprise.”

The party dismounts, weapons drawn and ready, as the dense forest around them seems to hold its breath wh—

"Thank you!" Sarah said brightly to the waitress as she dropped off a fresh glass of water.

"Oh man," Satoru groaned with the rest of the group.

"We were really getting into it!" Suguru sighed.

"Keep going!" Haibara urged, "What's out there?!"

The trees part like curtains, and the forest seems to shrink under the weight of the massive figure stepping into the light. A towering blue ogre, his skin shimmering faintly in the magical light from Nanami's orb, emerges from the underbrush. His eyes are unlike any you’ve seen—brilliant golden orbs that gleam with intelligence and menace. He stands nearly twice Edgar’s height, his thick arms crossed over a barrel-like chest. Despite his intimidating presence, he holds his hands up, palms open, in what could almost be called a gesture of peace.

“Stay your weapons, little ones,” he rumbles, his voice deep and resonant, like distant thunder. His lips curl into a smug grin, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. “If it comes to battle, you will not leave this forest alive. I wish to talk.”

The party exchanges glances, hands still resting on their weapons. Dylan shifts his weight slightly, his fingers twitching near the hilt of a dagger. Edgar looks to Arrival, who nods once before stepping forward. His sword remains in hand, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the magical light.

“What do you want?” Arrival demands, his voice calm but commanding. His emerald eyes lock onto the ogre’s golden ones, unflinching.

The ogre uncrosses his arms and gestures lazily toward the group. “You’re heading to the swamp, yes? The cursed marshes where the dead do not stay dead?” He chuckles, a low, gravelly sound. “I need something from there. A wand, wielded by the woman who controls the zombies. Bring it to me, and I will let you pass without… incident.”

Nanami speaks up hesitantly, his voice quiet. “Why do you want it?”

The ogre’s grin widens, but he says nothing for a moment, letting the question hang in the air. Then he chuckles again, the sound more menacing this time. “That’s none of your concern, little wizard. You bring me the wand, or you deal with the consequences of refusal. Those are your choices.”

The party huddles together a short distance away, their voices low but tense. Arrival keeps his eyes on the ogre, his sword at the ready, while the rest of the group deliberates.

“This is clearly a trap,” Fayette says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She leans on her staff, “We go fetch the wand, and then he kills us and takes it. End of story.”

“We could just fight him now,” Edgar suggests, his grin faltering as he glances back at the ogre. “But… he’s really big. And blue. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “We don’t need to decide anything now,” he says, his voice sharp and pragmatic. “We tell him yes, we get to the swamp, and then we figure out if we actually want to give him the wand. Simple.”

“That sounds mean,” Edgar huffed, crossing his arms.

“Why shouldn’t we be mean?” Fayette counters with a raised brow. “He’s a giant ogre who could kill us at any moment. I don’t think he’s worried about our feelings.”

Areval raises a hand, silencing the group. “This isn’t about being mean or nice,” he says firmly. “It’s about survival. If agreeing keeps us alive, then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll deal with the rest when we have the wand.”

Nanami nods reluctantly, clutching his spellbook. “We don’t have much choice, do we?”

With the decision made, the group turns back to face the ogre. Areval steps forward, lowering his sword slightly but keeping it ready.

“We’ll get the wand,” he says evenly. “But no harm comes to us, or the deal is off.”

The ogre’s grin returns, broader than ever. “Good,” he says, his golden eyes gleaming. “You are wise, little ones. I will be watching.”

Without another word, he steps back into the shadows of the forest, his massive form disappearing as quickly as it appeared. The sounds of the night return, though the weight of his presence lingers in the air. The party climbs back into the cart, their thoughts heavy as they press on toward the swamp, the ogre’s words echoing in their minds.

"Serious question," Satoru interrupted, "Is that a thing we could have fought?"

"Why would I tell you that?" Sarah asked with a chuckle, "You still might end up fighting him."

"Because," Satoru said with a grin.

"I'm not stupid," Sarah said, mirroring his grin.

"You could be?" Satoru fluttered his eyelashes.

The swamp looms ahead, shrouded in mist and shadow. As the party approaches, they are greeted by a miasma of odors that nearly makes them gag. The acrid stench of rot mingles with the damp, moldy smell of decaying vegetation. Beneath it all lingers the metallic tang of blood, sharp and coppery, as if the earth itself has been wounded and left to fester. The stagnant air clings to them like a suffocating veil, thick and unyielding.

Nanami wrinkles his nose and pulls his robe tighter around himself. “This is worse than I imagined,” he mutters.

Fayette waves a hand in front of her face, her expression of mild annoyance unchanged. “It’s a swamp,” she says flatly. “What did you expect? Roses?”

The cart halts as they near the edge of the path, and Areval climbs down to secure the horse to a sturdy-looking tree. The horse snorts and shifts nervously, ears flicking in every direction. “Easy, girl,” he murmurs, giving her a reassuring pat. “You’ll be safe here.”

The group gathers their gear and looks ahead. The path is barely distinguishable, a muddy track barely visible beneath the shallow pools of dark water that cover much of the ground. Gnarled, leafless trees rise from the swamp like skeletal fingers, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. The occasional thick root snakes across the path, threatening to trip the unwary.

Areval scowls at the scene before them, his green-and-white plate mail catching faint glints of light from Nanami’s orb. “This is going to be miserable,” he says grimly.

“Especially for you,” Dylan quips, gesturing to the heavy armor. “Bet you’ll sink like a rock in that stuff.”

Areval shrugs, unbothered. “I’d rather sink than be unprotected. Besides,” he adds with a faint smirk, “you’d just pull me out, wouldn’t you?”

Dylan rolls his eyes but says nothing as they set off down the path. The swamp’s stillness presses in around them, unnerving in its intensity. Dylan’s sharp ears pick up nothing—not the croak of frogs, the hum of insects, or the splash of unseen creatures in the water. It is eerily silent, the kind of silence that speaks of unnatural things.

“Too quiet,” Dylan mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. He pauses, tilting his head as if to catch any faint sound. “There’s nothing. No frogs, no birds, not even mosquitoes. Something’s wrong here.”

The party instinctively tightens their formation, weapons at the ready. Each step through the water sends ripples outward, the sound of their splashes the only thing breaking the oppressive silence.

Edgar’s usually cheerful expression is gone, replaced by a wary frown. “Shouldn’t there be… something?” he asks, gripping his sword tightly. “Anything? Even an alligator?”

Nanami nods, his voice low. “The quiet is unnatural. It’s like the swamp is… watching us.”

Fayette, ever unimpressed, sighs. “We’re walking into a cursed swamp ruled by a zombie-controlling witch. What did you expect, a picnic?”

As the group moves deeper into the swamp, the mist thickens, swirling around their legs like ghostly tendrils. The path becomes harder to follow, the mud sucking at their boots with every step. The water grows darker, and strange shapes can be seen beneath its surface—branches, roots, or something else entirely.

Areval pauses, his hand raised to signal the group to stop. His eyes scan the murky landscape, his grip on his sword tightening. “Stay alert,” he says quietly. “Whatever’s out there, it’s waiting for us to make a mistake.”

The silence breaks abruptly, shattered by the sharp cracking of branches and the unmistakable sloshing of water. It comes from all around—close, too close. The swamp feels alive now, the oppressive stillness giving way to chaos as shadows move in the mist. “Positions!” Areval barks, his voice cutting through the confusion. He raises his shield, the polished surface catching faint reflections of the mist and murk. His sword gleams as he draws it, the metal singing in the night. Dylan melts into the shadows near a cluster of gnarled trees, his movements swift and silent. Fayette steps back, gripping her staff tightly, her bored expression replaced by one of grim determination. Edgar lets out a whoop, his grin returning as he unslings his massive greatsword, the blade glinting with anticipation. Nanami fumbles for his spellbook, his round glasses fogged slightly from the damp air, but his eyes are sharp and focused. The first figure emerges from the mist—a shambling corpse, its rotting flesh hanging loosely from its bones. Its hollow eyes glow faintly with a sickly green light, its jaws snapping as it lurches forward. More follow, dragging themselves out of the water and from behind twisted trees, their moans rising into a horrifying chorus. “Here they come!” Edgar shouts, stepping forward with his greatsword raised.

"So, which one do I roll for damage?" Haibara asked, looking over his dice.

"No, first you have to roll to hit," Sarah said with a laugh, "So pick up the d20 and roll it."

"D20?" Haibara asked, only to be handed the twenty sided die from Satoru. One zombie charges at Edgar, its clawed hands outstretched. He swings his blade in a wide arc, cleaving through the creature’s midsection with a wet, sickening thud. The top half of the zombie falls into the water, still twitching as it drags itself forward, but Edgar plants his boot on its skull, driving it into the mud. Areval steps into the fray, his shield raised as a pair of zombies close in on him. One swipes at him with bony claws, but the attack glances off his shield. He counters with a precise thrust of his sword, piercing the creature’s chest. It stumbles but doesn’t fall. With a grimace, Areval pulls his sword free and swings again, this time severing its head. The second zombie claws at his armor, leaving shallow scratches, but he shoves it back with his shield and finishes it with a clean slash. From the shadows, Dylan darts forward, his twin daggers flashing. He plunges one blade into the back of a zombie’s neck, twisting it before pulling it free. The creature collapses into the water, and Dylan vanishes again, moving to his next target. Fayette raises her staff, muttering an incantation under her breath. A pulse of radiant light erupts from her hands, washing over a cluster of zombies. The light burns through their decayed flesh, leaving them smoking and writhing as they fall. Nanami flips through his spellbook frantically, finally settling on a spell. He points at a group of zombies advancing on the party and chants a string of arcane words. A firebolt erupts from his hand, striking one of the creatures and engulfing it in flames. The zombie staggers, its grotesque form lit up like a macabre torch. Despite the party’s efforts, the undead keep coming. The swamp itself seems to be birthing them, more rising from the water and muck with every passing moment. The air is thick with the smell of rot and burned flesh, the sound of splashing water and clashing weapons echoing through the mist. “We’re being overwhelmed!” Nanami shouts, his voice tinged with panic as he casts another spell. “We hold the line!” Areval calls back, cutting down another zombie. “We’ve faced worse than this!” Dylan reappears at his side, wiping blood and ichor from one of his daggers. “Speak for yourself,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the battlefield. “This is starting to feel like a losing game.” Edgar lets out a triumphant laugh as he cleaves through another foe, his sheer strength carving a path through the horde. “This is what I live for!” he roars, though his breaths are coming heavier now. Fayette casts another radiant spell, her voice sharp. “Less talking, more fighting!” The clash of steel and bone echoes through the swamp as the party fights on, their movements growing more frantic with each passing moment. Just as Dylan drives his dagger into the spine of another zombie, everything stops. The undead freeze mid-motion, their bodies locked in grotesque poses. The faint green glow in their eyes flickers but does not fade. An eerie stillness returns to the swamp, oppressive and unnatural.

“What the…” Edgar mutters, stepping back and hefting his greatsword defensively.

“Hold!” Areval commands, his shield raised. His eyes dart over the unmoving horde. “Everyone, back together. Now.”

The party quickly regroups, forming a tight circle with their backs to one another. Weapons at the ready, they scan their surroundings as the zombies stand unnervingly still. Some twitch violently, their heads jerking to the side, but none advance. Instead, a strange rhythmic swaying begins, as though the horde is being pulled by invisible strings.

A low, guttural chuckle breaks the silence, followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps. The wall of zombies directly ahead parts with a sickening squelch, and through the opening steps an ancient woman, her frame hunched and frail. Her face is a maze of wrinkles, so deep and numerous that her eyes are nearly obscured by folds of sagging skin. She wears a tattered purple shawl over a patchwork dress, her gnarled hands clutching the fabric tightly. Her movements are deliberate, almost theatrical, as she pauses to throw one edge of the shawl over her bony shoulder with an air of exaggerated elegance.

“Well, now!” she croaks, her voice sharp and grating, dripping with disdain. “What’s this sorry lot doin’ stompin’ through my swamp like a pack o’ wild hogs? Y’all got no manners, no sense, no purpose! Ain’t nobody teach ya better?”

The party exchanges confused glances, each of them still on edge. Edgar shifts uncomfortably, his grip on his greatsword tightening. “Uh… who—”

“Don’t you ‘uh’ me, boy!” the old woman snaps, jabbing a crooked finger in his direction. “You stand there all big ‘n dumb like a sack o’ bricks, thinkin’ you can just waltz in here uninvited?”

“Ma’am,” Areval begins cautiously, lowering his sword just slightly. “We—”

“Oh, don’t you ‘ma’am’ me neither!” she cuts him off, her voice rising in pitch. “I ain’t no dainty debutante waitin’ for tea and biscuits! You think I’m gonna roll out a welcome mat for a bunch o’ armored buffoons and sneaky cutthroats?”

Dylan opens his mouth to retort, but the woman waves her hand dismissively. “And you—bet you think you’re clever, skulkin’ around like a flea-bitten alley cat. I seen smarter rocks!”

Nanami blinks behind his fogged glasses, raising a hand hesitantly. “Excuse me—”

“Excuse you?!” she interrupts, hobbling a step closer. “I don’t need no excuses from you, string bean! You barely look old enough to be outta your mama’s pantry, let alone throwin’ sparks ‘round my swamp!”

Fayette crosses her arms, unimpressed. “Are you done?” she asks dryly.

The old woman’s lips purse into a thin line, and then she grins—an unsettling, toothless grin. “Well, now, ain’t you a sour one? Got somethin’ crawlin’ up your robes, girl? Or is that just your face?”

The cleric rolls her eyes, but before she can respond, the woman digs into the folds of her dress. From a hidden pocket, she retrieves a set of false teeth, which she promptly jams into her mouth with a loud click. “Now,” she says, her voice suddenly clearer but no less sharp, “let’s try this again. Who the hell are you, and what are you doin’ tramping through my property?”

"Oh, this lady is great," Satoru laughed.

"Yeah? You would've loved my grandma," Sarah giggled.

"She still alive?" He asked, picking up a chip to eat.

"I… think so?" Sarah said slowly, her brows furrowing.

"OH— Well I—I uhh…"

Arrival steps forward cautiously, keeping his tone measured. “We didn’t realize this was your land,” he says, his eyes never leaving hers. “We’ve been sent to investigate the undead presence in this swamp. If you could—”

“Investigate?!” the woman barks, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “I’ll tell ya what’s goin’ on here! Nosy fools like you pokin’ their heads where they don’t belong, stirrin’ up trouble, makin’ my babies restless!” She gestures dramatically to the frozen zombies around her.

“Babies?” Dylan mutters, incredulous.

“Yes, babies!” she snaps, rounding on him. “They don’t need no prissy adventurers comin’ in here with their swords and spells, hackin’ and burnin’ like it’s some kinda sport!”

Edgar looks at the others and whispers, “Is it just me, or is this getting weird?”

“It’s always been weird,” Fayette replies under her breath.

The old woman huffs and glares at the group. “Now, unless y’all got a damn good reason to be here, I suggest you turn yourselves right ‘round and scuttle on outta my swamp before I make you regret it.”

The zombies twitch and sway once more, as if punctuating her words, their glowing eyes fixed on the party.

Areval takes a measured step forward, lowering his sword as he adjusts his stance. His voice carries the steady authority of a paladin accustomed to negotiation. “Madam, the king has sent us to address the growing concerns about the undead in these swamps. Multiple parties before us—”

Before he can finish, the old woman strides forward and slaps her bony hand against the metal of his breastplate with surprising force, producing a sharp clang as her rings strike the plate.

“Enough o’ that,” she snaps, her face twisted into a scowl. “I told the last four groups the same thing I’m tellin’ you: I’ve got permission from God to be here!”

The group collectively freezes, exchanging uncertain glances. Dylan shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as Fayette raises an eyebrow.

“Uh…” Fayette begins cautiously, her tone skeptical. “Which god might you be referring to?”

The old woman turns to her with an exasperated huff, as if the cleric had just asked the world’s dumbest question. “The only real one!” she replies, her voice sharp and final.

Areval’s brow furrows. “Madam, all the gods are real. Their blessings and magic are the source of much of what we—”

“Razzle dazzle!” the old woman interrupts, waving her hand dismissively. Her expression shifts into one of smug certainty, and she grins, revealing her crooked false teeth. “That’s all just fireworks and party tricks. The real magic comes from the big one, the main God. The one who don’t bother with temples and priests ‘cause He’s too busy keepin’ the world turnin’!”

The party stares at her, the silence stretching as their confusion deepens. Nanami adjusts his round glasses and opens his mouth to speak but immediately thinks better of it, his lips snapping shut.

The old woman lets out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes so hard it seems she’s looking into the back of her skull. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! You lot are slower than a three-legged tortoise in molasses. Follow me, and I’ll show ya!”

With a flourish of her shawl, she spins on her heel and begins to shuffle away, the mud squelching beneath her feet as she gestures for the party to follow. The zombies remain frozen, their heads twitching slightly to track the group as the adventurers cautiously fall into step behind the woman.

“I’ve got the proof you’re all too dense to understand,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice brimming with smug superiority. “Maybe seein’ it’ll knock some sense into ya!”

Dylan sidles up next to Fayette, speaking in a low voice. “This is going well.”

Fayette doesn’t even look at him. “Shut up, Dylan.”

Edgar leans toward Areval as they trudge through the muck. “Do you think this ‘big god’ thing has anything to do with the undead?”

Areval shakes his head, his expression grim. “I don’t know. Stay vigilant.”

The old woman cackles ahead of them, clearly enjoying the tension. “Don’t fret, shiny boy! I’ll explain it all nice and slow when we get to my house. You’ll see. You’ll all see.”

The swamp seems darker as they press on, the stench growing worse with every step. The path becomes narrower, flanked by gnarled trees whose twisted branches claw at the air like skeletal fingers. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of water dripping breaks the silence, an ominous rhythm to accompany their uneasy march.

Sarah sat back and closed her notes and the rest of the group sighed with both annoyance and relief.

"Why do you always gotta end these on a cliff hanger?" Satoru asked, chuckling as he ruffled her hair.

She swatted at him and grinned, "Because it's more fun that way and I know you wont skip."

"Pff, I'd never miss one!" Satoru laughed.

"Yeah, thanks for running these for us!" Haibara said happily, "I love it!"

"Glad you all like it." Sarah said with a satisfied smile, packing up her pencils and dice. The group chattered amongst themseves for a moment, when Sarah caught Nanami's eyes on her. She looked up at him and tilted her head.

"So, when can we play again?" Nanami asked quietly, making sure no one else had noticed.

"Whenever you want," Sarah said softly, keeping that secret between the two of them.

Prev Main Next

Taglist: @inthedarkshadows000

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 3

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 3 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

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In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

“You're in a good mood today, Ms. Rosie,” you commented as you wrapped up her unusually large order of flank steaks, happy that something has managed to finally cheer her up after Franklin's untimely demise during the last Extermination.  You'd taken it upon yourself to personally dismember Franklin's body, making every break and slice as precise as possible before packaging up her remains and delivering them to Rosie.  

It had been a spur of the moment decision to separate Franklin's heart separately from the rest of the offal, boxing it up and tying it with a length of silky black ribbon.  You'd carefully passed the box into Rosie's shaking hands; averting your eyes and pretending to not notice her tears as she slipped the sentimental hunk of muscle into the back of her icebox with a guy-wrenching sob.  

“Sure am, sweetie!” Rosie grinned, adjusting the brim on her wide hat until it fell just so .  “An old friend is back in town after seven years and I finally got him to agree to visit!”

“That's wonderful, Ms. Rosie!  I hope you have a great time catching up.”

“It's gonna be a bloodbath,” she cackled in delight. “I'll make him regret up and disappearing on me without so much as a postcard!”

“Oh,” you murmured thoughtfully, still not quite used to the volatile nature of relationships in Hell, especially amongst the more aged population.  “Can I sharpen your knives before you go?”

“That would be fantastic, darling!  Thank you,” Rosie said, reaching into the handbag at her side and slowly pulling out no less than half a dozen ornate looking blades, lining them up carefully on the counter while you prepped a nearby whetstone.  

The large brass bell on the wall rang cheerily, indicating the presence of a salesman at the back door.  

“Fresh Meat handles deliveries!” the man at the sausage stuffer called over his shoulder with a grin, laughing as you threw your hands up into the air with a frustrated groan.

“This is ridiculous!” You hissed in irritation, wiping your hands off angrily on your apron.  “It's been five flipping years of this!  When are we going to hire someone new so I can have a break once in a while?”

“You think Hal is going to pay for a new employee?” The shift manager said, ladling blood into large glass jars.  “He barely even pays us!”

Still grumbling, you throw open the back door, customer service smile in place, and nearly scream at the sight that awaits you.

Angels, dozens of them, being dragged down the alley and thrown into careless piles by the butcher shop stoop. 

“What's the going rate for angel meat?” The man at the front of the line asked, his suit jacket torn to shreds and face splatter with glimmering angel blood.

“I- I don't know,” you whispered in shock, examining the angel closest to you, multiple bites taken out of the visible flesh of their arm.  “But whatever it is, you aren't getting full price for the ones you've been nibbling on.”

It had been days since you'd been able to grab more than a couple hours sleep at a time.  Cuts of angel meat had become an instant delicacy and sinners were flooding into Cannibal Town with loaded wallets, ready to spend any amount that would guarantee them the right to try the smallest morsel; not knowing when or if they'd ever have the opportunity again.

And since you were the only employee Hal trusted to break down the angels without helping yourself to a bite or two, you had been working pretty much nonstop since last week.  

“Have a good rest of your day,” you managed to squeeze out in-between yawns, lazily waving goodbye to the pug-faced demon walking away with his newly acquired angel femur tucked securely under a beefy arm.

“I c’n help whoe’er's next,” you slur, the fist that's propping up your heavy head squishing your cheek and distorting your mouth and any words that tumble out of it.  You closed your eyes, determined to catch a moment of rest while the next customer perused the assortment of angel parts stacked artistically behind the glass display case.  A loud huff startled you awake, your body jolting when you realized you'd drifted off to sleep while the milling customers became increasingly irritated by the indecisive customer at the head of the line.  

“I can offer suggestions if you're having trouble deciding,” you offer, doing your best to focus back onto your patrons and not your all-consuming exhaustion.

“My sincerest apologies for taking so long!” The man sighed, voice crackling as his eyes darted from one cut of angel to another.  “It all looks positively divine!”

“That is the notable selling point,” you agree with a yawn.  “There isn't a bad cut amongst the bunch, but if you're really undecided then I have to recommend grabbing a couple of rib eyes and some salt.

“Oh?” The man asked, nose nearly pressed up against the glass in front of the briskets.

“Mmhmm.  That way, even if you made a mistake, salt makes m'steaks taste great.”

You had been expecting one of the regular responses to your puns, a polite chuckle or pained goan, but your customer did neither.  Instead, much to your great surprise, the bright red man threw his head back and cackled.  

“Rosie said this place had the best angel meat in Cannibal Town, but she failed to mention anything about complimentary comedy show!”

“Well, we have to keep that part on the down-low,” you say conspiratorially, lowering your voice into a fake whisper. “We aren't zoned as an entertainment venue.”

“My lips are sealed!” The man promised, using two black-tipped claws to close an invisible zipper across his saw-toothed grin; his lips nowhere near touching each other, let alone sealed.  “I'd hate for my favorite new shop to be closed down just when I discovered it!”

You rang up his order, every angel steak you had available, and he left with the promise that he would return for a visit soon, the crowd of customers parting in front of him as he made his way towards the exit, hand twirling in the air as he bid you adieu.

Dorcas was beside you in an instant, squealing at such a high pitch that your ears folded back against your head protectively.  

“You were so cool!,” she gushed, tugging at your arm excitedly.  “I can't believe you were able to act so casually around him!”

“Him?  Him who?”

“Alastor!”

“Alastor?” 

“You know, the Radio Demon?” Dorcas asked incredulously.  “One of the top Overlords?”

“The steak guy is an Overlord?” You gasp in horror, desperately grasping your coworker's boney shoulders to keep your legs from buckling beneath you.  “Please, please tell me I didn't crack stupid jokes at an Overlord!”

“You did.  And I think he expects you to do it again.”

“Oh,” you mutter distantly, saliva turning sour in your mouth as your mind reeled with the multitude of painful and bloody ways your overly familiar interaction could have ended.  “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Need me to get your barf bucket?”

“Yes, please.”

[ryanguzmanscowlick]

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

Avoiding writing my paper rn by reading ur blog

Well, lemme give you more to read, then. Quick snippet from a thing still very in the first draft process.

(Very) Short and sweet BuckTommy pwp below the cut

Tommy pulls away from the eager, clumsy heat of Evan's mouth and cradles his chin in his large palm, tracing his square thumb over Evan's lips and pushing a loose curl out of his eyes.

When he brushes his fingers over Evan's naked flank and down over the red, warm skin of his ass, Evan shivers. He's already worked over, already come once on Tommy's fingers. His come is drying tacky on both their chests, but Tommy doesn't mind, too lost in the heavy weight of Evan in his lap and the heat growing between them again.

Tommy digs his clipped nails into Evan's ass cheek and drags white lines of sensitivity over his skin before he rears back and smacks it hard. Evan cries out, so breathy and pretty.

"Face down." Tommy rumbles in Evan's ear and pushes him off his lap to land among the pillows.

Evan fumbles up onto his knees and buries his face between Tommy's starched, white pillows. His knees slip open and his ass titles up easy as anything and Tommy takes a moment to sit back on his calves and admire the view.

Evan's hole is already wet and open, wet with a combination of lube and his own precome gathered on Tommy's fingers while jerking him off and then pushed deep to pet his prostate. Tommy leans in to nip at his abused skin, suck, dig his teeth in to make sure he leaves a perfect mark embedded in Evan's ass. It'll looks so pretty backdropped by red.

Evan's panting above him. Tommy can tell he's trying to slow down his breathing and regain some semblance of composure. That won't do. He presses a soft kiss to dip of Evan's spine and brings his hand down in a whip-quick smack to one cheek.

Evan jolts and cries out, but Tommy doesn't stop. He pitches his voice high enough for Evan to hear over the sweaty smacks ringing through the bedroom and murmurs filthy encouragement into the trembling muscles of Evan's back between each and every stinging slap to his ass, his thick thighs, his hole.

"Such a good boy, Evan."

[cheerycherrycandy-resurrected]

Hunter's Moon (Medieval AU pt. 2)

Chapter 2

Mountain thinks back on his life before the pack and meeting Aether. He and Swiss make plans to clear the air between them.

I'm glad to see several of you were happy to see this back!! I plan to have this finished by the end of the year, then I should have more time to dedicate to writing my thesis Lee's fandom mini bang! That's not to say I won't post any more ficlets in this universe if I have ideas, more just to set your expectations for this not being another 100k monster!!!

Rating: T Content: past discussions of nasty familial expectations Words: 5031

@ashthewaterghoul @bloodfin @cosmicseafoam @everybodyshusband @jazz-bazz @karmicbias @kentuckyfriedsatan @midnight-moth @nefariousghoul @papaslittlesunshine @zombiequeen777 @0-miles-away please message me if anyone wants in/out of the tag list!! I won't be offended, I know notifs can be overwhelming, especially in stressful times <33

Links to full fic: Tumblr | AO3

Read below, or on AO3!

Swiss and the ghoulettes reached the Abbey a short while later, and were soon directed by an officious quintessence ghoul to start unfolding tables to lay food out on. Grumbling slightly at the boring task, they each hefted a piece of hinged furniture up from a pile and began dragging them outside. From Swiss’ position setting up, he had an almost direct line of sight to Mountain. The earth ghoul was sweating slightly, arm muscles flexing as he continued to drag the countless hay-bales around. Swiss desperately tried not to stare – he was supposed to be upset with the earth ghoul after all – but struggled to tear his eyes away.  

However, Sunny chose that moment to let the table she was setting up purposely fall to the ground with a tremendous clatter, making all the ghouls around turn to see where the noise was coming from. All except one. Mountain's eyes remained fixed on the bale in front of him. That confirmed it: he knew Swiss was there, but he was purposefully ignoring him. 

Swiss finally got the latch on his trestle table into place, and with that stomped back towards the Abbey, ignoring the calls from the quintessence ghoul in charge that he wasn't finished here yet. Sunshine gave chase, growling slightly at the ghoul as she passed. Swiss paced aimlessly along the hallways of the Abbey, heading nowhere in particular except for away. 

Mountain could see Swiss in his peripheral vision. He had appeared in the clearing not long ago, flanked by ghoulettes on all sides like a protection detail. The stony faces they wore only worried him further – what could Swiss have possibly said to them? He wished the festival was being held inside; it would be so much easier to continue avoiding Swiss in the maze of hallways and passages of the Abbey. Alas, Cirrus had predicted fine weather a long time ago, and so outside they were.  

Across the wide-open space, Mountain thought he could see Swiss watching him. He didn't dare look up, not even when a table near him collapsed with an almighty crash, but his skin still burned with the intensity of Swiss' gaze. Mountain didn't know if he wanted him to be watching him or not. 

He considered going over and speaking to Swiss – he wouldn't normally think twice about doing so, seeking the multi ghoul out at every opportunity – but his tongue suddenly felt too big for his mouth, like it would choke any words that attempted to pass it. The pack of ghoulettes surrounding him certainly didn't help; a pride of hungry lionesses he was sure would eat him alive if he said something wrong. 

Coward, he thought to himself. For being from a tribe that prided themselves on their bravery, he really wasn't acting like it today. Although he had long since left them, travelling far, far away with no intention of ever returning, the niggling feeling that he was disappointing his ancestors right now gnawed holes in the back of his mind. He couldn't find it in himself to resent them, even having left like he did, still holding a grudging respect for them and their chosen existence. 

Mountain had been travelling for most of his life. Prior to his own nomadic existence, he had grown up constantly on the move around the southern plains. His tribe were small by earth ghoul standards, but large enough that when they moved it was as though a small village were passing through. In addition to the constant movement of the pack, they had a tradition that, when they came of age, the male ghouls were to leave for a few years to hone their skills alone and prove themselves worthy of caring for a mate.  

Having grown up hearing tales from the older ghouls of giant bears fought in forests and big cats fended off in distant desert lands, Mountain had always wondered where he would choose to explore. He had always liked the thought of exploring his namesake; large, rocky mountains full of thick-furred beasts. Living in the southern plains however, where the land was flat for as far as the eye could see, mountains often felt as fictional as some of the beasts rumoured to inhabit them rather than real and tangible landforms. 

As he grew older and approached the age where he would be expected to leave, he began to have his doubts about going at all. Most the other ghouls around his age had already wooed a prospective mate, someone for whom the journey was less about exploration but about demonstrating their worthiness to. Mountain had no ghoulette to court, nor a ghoul for that matter. He had no real desire to either – he was content with his life as it was, with no desire for things to change.  

He held out for many seasons past when he had been expected to leave. Most of his closest packmates had long since left, returned, and settled into raising their kits amongst the clan. Before long, the tribe was beginning to talk: why hadn't he left yet? He may not have had a mate to court, but plenty of other ghouls who left for their trials in the wilderness did not. They encouraged him, spinning tales of the glory he would return to when he returned without a mate patiently waiting – he would have his pick of the tribe, surely. The gossip began to spread like a fire through a dry forest. Could it be that he wasn't leaving because he was afraid? Cowardice was not tolerated amongst the clan: they could not survive the way that they did if it was. 

Eventually, Mountain had left. There was not much else he could do, he reasoned. If he stayed, he would only bring dishonour to his closest family until the whole pack eventually ostracised and then exiled him. As he said a final farewell to his parents, them wishing him luck and promising to have found him the perfect match in a mate by the time he returned, he saw only one clear emotion in their eyes: relief. There was no sadness at his coming absence, or pride for what he would hopefully achieve, only thankfulness that their son would no longer be the black sheep within the tribe.  

He hadn't looked back as he left. Not for days. As he crossed the first hill, just knowing that he was out of view of the clan's camp was enough to quiet his restless mind some and allow him to truly appreciate the beauty of his surroundings. So trapped had he been within the prison of expectations, he hadn't stopped in years to truly recognise what a solo expedition could entail. There was no hum of chatter drowning out the birdsong, no rumble of a hundred footfalls to ward off the larger animals who took an interest in him. All felt calm. 

Despite the sour feeling he had left with, he had never felt closer to his ancestors from the pack. This was what being an earth ghoul meant; the deep connection with nature he could only feel by being truly reliant on his surroundings for survival. This was what his tribe's traditions were founded upon. His progress was slow, but not for any reason besides him lingering at every turn to investigate a new plant or follow an animal's tracks back to its den out of sheer curiosity.  

Slowly, over many months that slowly became years, he headed northeast. Away from the plains and through a densely forested area, he emerged into a lush wilderness of rolling hills. He had found a new purpose to life in travelling the forest and learning its secrets, and before he even realised he was thinking about it, his mind was made up: he was never going back to his clan. They had strayed so far from their roots, and Mountain wanted nothing more than to return to them. The hills and valleys were his home now, the tall trees of the forest were his family. 

That was, at least, until he had met another ghoul. It had been years since Mountain left his clan and many months since he had seen any signs of life outside of what lived and grew in the wilderness. Spotting a small plume of smoke curling upwards in the distance, he had found his feet heading towards it without any conscious effort. 

Beneath a rocky overhang he saw a small, makeshift camp. Just outside of it, likely guarding the camp from the hungry wolves that roamed at night, was the fire that had signalled him closer. A large figure sat hunched beside it, stoking the flames. As Mountain grew closer, he allowed his footsteps to becoming less stealthy, purposely stepping on and snapping a loose branch – he didn’t want to scare the camper, have them react defensively to a perceived attack. The crack of the twig reverberated around them and purple eyes snapped up to meet Mountain’s green. It was a ghoul. 

At the same time as Mountain realised this, he also realised what a foolish situation he had plunged himself into: he had encroached on another ghoul's territory, unannounced, while they were vulnerable and unprepared. This ghoul had every right to defend his patch with all the anger and hellish power he could summon, and Mountain would deserve everything that came his way.  

Panicked, he instantly began backing up. The ghoul by the fire made no move to get up from the floor however, tilting his head with curiosity as though he knew Mountain bore him no ill will. As Mountain continued to pivot between curiosity and the urge to flee, it finally dawned on him that the ghoul did not resemble any other earth ghoul he had seen before, from his clan or any other. The violet eyes were the biggest giveaway, and he realised that this was a quintessence ghoul – that would explain how he knew Mountain's intentions; he could sense them and had probably felt him approaching too.  

Wary that despite his apparent quintessence abilities, the ghoul may interpret too much eye contact as a challenge, Mountain flicked his eyes up from the ground only briefly to examine the expression on his face. To his surprise, he saw a curious, almost bemused, smile. The ghoul seemed to be waiting for him to approach, intrigued by why he was hovering; frozen like a deer poised in an archer's sight. 

“I don't bite,” he said lightly, still sat on the ground and clearly sensing Mountain's wariness of such an apparently fearless creature, “do you?” 

After what was probably too long of a pause, Mountain shook his head dumbly. 

“Good, good. Will you join me?” The quintessence ghoul gestured to the fire, where he appeared to have a large number of mushrooms, tubers and other plants grilling over the flames. A small pile sat next to him, waiting to be skewered and cooked. Mountain took a cautious seat across the fire, the smell of cooking filtering through the smoke. 

“I'm Aether,” the quintessence ghoul smiled as though this were a perfectly normal scenario to meet another ghoul in, rather than the ambush Mountain could have easily twisted it into, “it's been a long time since I met another ghoul, let alone one without a pack.” 

“Mountain.” The earth ghoul grunted back, forcing his tongue which felt alien with disuse to form words. 

“It's a pleasure to meet you Mountain. Mushroom?” Aether held out a stick. The smell made his mouth water. Mountain accepted cautiously, sniffing the mushrooms tentatively and eyeing it closely before biting into them. Even cooked, these were recognisable and safe. As he chewed, his eyes drifted to a second, smaller pile of mushrooms beside those Aether had returned to threading onto sticks. Those were very much not safe, he realised. Although similar in appearance to the others, the telltale shape of the stem and clour of the gills confirmed his first thought. Aether seemed to be avoiding them, yet was that because he knew, or was he simply working through his piles in a methodical order? Worse still, had the ones he fed Mountain been a trap? 

“Those will make you sick.” He croaked out, his mouthful turning to rubber on his tongue. 

“I know,” Aether replied, looking up with a serene smile, “they're not for eating though. I make a tincture out of them, to pull the evil out of wounds.” 

Mountain still looked sceptical. 

“They're bitter; you'd know if I gave you one.” He shrugged at Mountain's face, with his cheeks slowly puffing out as he considered the risks of swallowing. With a gulp, he did. Aether looked delighted, as though he had passed a test of trust neither was aware was transpiring until now. 

That trust had continued as the pair found themselves travelling together in a similarly spontaneous fashion, contrary to the usual routine and planning of both ghouls. Mountain remained wary for weeks to come, yet hadn’t found it in himself to leave. Aether’s campfire was warm, as was his company, and Mountain began to realise that the solitary life he had been living wasn’t as well-suited to him as he had thought.  

The quintessence ghoul was knowledgeable and more than happy to share such knowledge with Mountain. In return, Mountain shared his own experience with the wilderness and the pair had found themselves becoming a team. With one ghoul always available to keep a lookout, their lives became safer and easier, and Mountain found himself able to relax in a way he hadn’t for years. His knowledge of the wild meshed perfectly with Aether’s ability to tap into a deeper layer of nature. They had each other’s backs; a fact that became especially important as winter began to creep in and all the living beings within the forest became increasingly desperate for a meal. It was colder up here than Mountain remembered it being on the plains, and even after several winters he still wasn’t used to waking to find the dew in his hair frozen solid. 

While in these early weeks together Mountain had been outwardly reluctant to follow the quintessence ghoul, the company began to rejuvenate him. What had started as simply an alliance of convenience became a friendship before he realised what was happening. For a while, they would have called themselves companions; never too close, but with an understanding that they relied on each other and their mutual trust. Mountain realised well past the point of no return that they had become their own small pack.  

With that understanding, and the acknowledgement of how much more comfortable his life now was, when Aether had first suggested that they attempt to settle in a human village to prepare for the coming winter Mountain had been somewhat open to the idea. He still wasn’t keen: the thought of denying his nature and hiding behind the glamour that all ghouls had but few enjoyed using filled him with a mild revulsion, but the comfort of having four walls around them when the frost began to develop had won out in the end. With the pair’s talents being perfectly utilised by their new lifestyle, it was mid summer by the time Mountain realised they had long outstayed their proposed single season.  

As such, when they had discovered Dewdrop late into the autumn, their decision had been made: they would stay amongst the humans indefinitely, until such a time came that they all either needed or wanted to move on. They had stayed as they were for long enough that even Mountain had begun to relax his most wild ways, giving in to the creature comforts civilisation provided. 

By the time Swiss, and later Rain, had joined the pack, there was very little of the nomadic earth ghoul left within Mountain. At the time, he hadn’t even cared that he was becoming domesticated as Aether had once jokingly called it when he automatically kicked off his boots before entering the farmhouse. Only once they had been thrust back into the forest, dependent on their skills for survival once again, had he lashed out at the loss of his old skills. 

Thinking of the time between leaving his clan and meeting Aether, Mountain couldn’t help but laugh coldly at how much his life had changed. He had first felt freedom in the forest, unchained from any expectations of pack and utterly reliant on his own instincts. How different things were now. The call of civilisation, of a mate, was one he had shunned for so long that his desperation for it now blindsided him. A small voice in him, the stubborn one that caused him nothing but problems, wanted to resent Swiss for changing his priorities so completely. The rest of him was more rational, and knew that that was entirely out of the multi ghoul’s control. Hell, he hadn’t even known Mountain in his wilder days, only once he had long since fallen into the comfort of life at the farm with a small pack, so the idea that he had changed him in any way was laughable.  

With hindsight as clear as day, he realised that it was his own feelings of inadequacy at something which had once been his forte that had inspired such hostility towards Dew in their early days of travelling north. Recognising his flaws was the first part of addressing them, or so Cirrus had said when he confided in her. And he could clearly recognise that he was taking his anger at himself and his actions that morning out on Swiss – a mistake he was desperate to avoid making twice. He needed to clear the air, before it was too late. 

~~~~~~~ 

Back inside the Abbey, Sunny had followed Swiss until they ended up in a small inner courtyard, surrounded on all sides by tall ivy-clad walls. With a loud huff that was almost verging on being a shriek of frustration, Swiss threw himself onto a bench facing a tiny water feature.  

“How’s everything gone so wrong?” He lamented loudly, more to himself than Sunny. She hummed sympathetically nonetheless.  

“You know, I thought you’d been together a while already,” she mused, more thinking aloud than expecting a reply, “what happened? You looked so happy yesterday.” 

Swiss snorted, whether in derision or to hold back more tears it wasn’t clear. 

“I thought we were happy too. Mount clearly doesn’t want the same thing as me though!” 

He flopped onto his back, landing his head in Sunshine’s lap where she began lightly running deft fingers across his scalp in small, soothing patterns.  

“You don’t know that until you talk to him,” she pointed out, trying hard to inject as much kindness into her usually joking voice as possible, “why don’t you start from the beginning, then we can work out what to do?” 

Swiss did the best he could to explain; going back as far as him first joining the pack all those years ago. He described how Mountain had seemed distant compared to the rest of the pack at first, before Swiss came to realise that he was just naturally quieter than the others. He’d opened up eventually like a slow-blooming flower, the pair becoming friends. Their recent closeness had felt like a distinct development to Swiss though, a notable difference to their usual interactions. He knew how he felt, knew what the familiar tingling in his gut meant for him, but for Mountain? He had no idea what his recent behaviour meant. Was he feeling it too, or was this just a deeper kind of friendship to him, forged through the chaos of their trip north? 

“Oh you are in a pickle!” Sunshine tutted softly, continuing her small scratching motions to keep the ghoul in her lap from getting too worked up again. 

“How did you get Mist?” He asked, turning his head to look at Sunny instead of staring straight up. 

Sunshine giggled.  

“I just asked her, silly!” Her delicate peals of laughter made Swiss smile despite himself.  

“I practice what I preach, you know?” She continued with an exaggerated, sanctimonious nod, finally eliciting a small laugh from Swiss. 

“It sounds like that's what Mountain needs too, you're both too far gone for subtleties at this point.”  

“What am I even going to say though?” Swiss could hear his voice getting whiney, but Sunny seemed to have infinite patience with him. His head was still pounding; that would have to be his excuse. 

Sunshine hummed contemplatively. 

“I don't know, you know him best. You just have to be open with him though, say that you don't know why he's ignoring you, and it hurts. You don't have to put your whole heart on display right away, but you need to be somewhat open if you want things to stop festering between you.” 

She was right, of course, thought Swiss. If he wanted to at least repair their friendship and have Mountain talk to him again, he needed to make a move and do it properly – make his hurt feelings known. 

“Yeah...” he muttered, feeling his confidence and conviction growing as he imagined the conversation. He wasn't going to beg, he had more self-respect left than that, but he wasn't going to let Mountain bury his head in the sand and throw away years of friendship over a drunken mistake and a misunderstanding. 

“You can ask why he left this morning, but you need to listen to him too, let him explain even if you don’t like the answer.” Sunny’s words were firm, but her tone was kind. 

“I know.” Swiss nodded.  

“Don’t look so glum! Everything isn’t lost yet, he might be stressing as much as you are about what to say, y’know?” Shifting him up as best as she could, Sunshine pulled Swiss into a hug and whispered conspiratorially in his ear, as though the walls might be eavesdropping. 

“If you two are even half as bad at communicating with each other as Mist says Dewdrop and Rain were, then of course everything’s a mess right now! “ 

Finally, that drew a small giggle from Swiss. The pair sat in comfortable quiet for a while longer, listening to the gentle bubbling of the water feature behind them and the whistling of the breeze filtering past the stone walls above. The sun passed overhead, the shadows shifting like they were turning their backs on the ghouls. 

“C’mon,” Sunshine sighed eventually, reluctant to move but all too aware that it was already mid-afternoon and they had a busy evening ahead, “let’s go and get ready for the ritual now, then you don’t have to run into Mountain in the Den if you aren’t ready to. 

Although they were prepared to sneak into the Den if necessary, it seemed to be completely empty when they entered. Swiss felt a pang of guilt that they had avoided the majority of their tasks for the day when everyone else was so hard at work, but really they were the ones who would be working later while everyone else was listening to them and having fun. The perks of being in the band, Sunny had quipped. He quickly found the scattered pieces of his uniform and got changed. Unable to resist, he gathered up Mountain’s too and hung it on the front of the wardrobe before leaving to meet Sunshine in the common room.  

When there was nothing left for them to do but wait for night to fall and their guests to arrive, they slowly headed outside. With any luck, they could make themselves look busy enough that no one would impose more work upon them. To Swiss’ relief Mountain was nowhere to be seen, giving him some time to finalise what he would say. While he psyched himself up, Sunny stuck next to him like a living shield; her loud and buoyant attitude keeping Swiss afloat in the tumultuous sea of his thoughts. As the time approached for them to start performing, Mountain was still nowhere to be seen. Swiss supposed that was for the best – what could either of them possibly say in the short time they had left – but the part of him that cared endlessly for the ghoul hoped he would appear soon, before Papa would need to chastise him for his tardiness. 

~~~~~~~

Inside the Abbey, Mountain had also been skulking along the corridors trying to pretend to be busy. He had eventually been released from outdoor work and had no intention of returning until the last possible second. Mountain put off returning to the Den for as long as he could in case he should run into Swiss or any of the ghoulettes that had spent the morning sending him a mix of glances that could have been either concern or anger, he wasn't sure. When he finally entered, with barely a half hour until he was supposed to be onstage with Copia and the others, the Den was completely abandoned. He supposed everyone who wasn't performing tonight was already out enjoying themselves. 

Entering their room, he was surprised to find his uniform already hanging up waiting for him. He scratched his head, certain he had left it on the floor like everything else when they returned last night. Could Swiss really have done that for him? Even such a small gesture made him wonder if all hope wasn't lost. He suddenly regretted hiding away all day; if Swiss really had been wanting to reconcile, Mountain hadn't helped himself. With very little time until they were due to perform, he wouldn't have a chance to clear the air beforehand. He cursed himself for making yet another cowardly decision that hurt not only himself, but Swiss too.  

Mountain shimmied into the black clothes, suddenly feeling so much more exposed in the tight waistcoat than he had the night before, especially compared to the floaty linen he had been wearing all day. The mask felt heavy on his head as he adjusted the straps, restricting his vision and making him feel like a prey animal. He could only hope that Swiss wasn't out for blood. Finally, he stuffed his feet into his polished leather boots. Copia had acquired them specially for the three ghouls in his little band from a cobbler several villages away, and they felt expensive. Yesterday they had made him feel important, but today they felt claustrophobic, squeezing his feet and holding him down like lead weights. 

Walking along the empty corridors towards the party outside felt like walking to his doom. The rational part of him understood that the only things he was really approaching were his pack and the ghoul he loved, but the few difficult conversations that blocked his path felt like insurmountable barriers. As he turned the final corner to the outside and the dim light of the early evening, the gargoyles perched above the door seemed to leer down at him mockingly. Mountain tried to ignore them, took a deep breath and set his shoulders back, summoning the confidence he had felt the night before on stage. 

All that shattered around him however when he broke through the crowd around the edge of the stage and saw Swiss waiting there, talking with Sunshine. Mountain's mouth ran dry and any words he had on his tongue disappeared as he saw Swiss stood there in the flesh, highlighted by the orange glow of the setting sun. Were his tail not glamoured away – for the time being at least, until the humans present had enjoyed enough blackberry wine to convince themselves they were seeing things – he felt it would have been firmly between his legs.  

He stayed frozen to the spot until a piercingly expectant gaze from Sunshine pulled him forward to heed Copia summoning them onto stage. Mountain stumbled up the few makeshift stairs, eyes locked on his feet. Sitting on the crate he used as percussion he felt grounded, less like he would float away at a single glance form Swiss. The multi ghoul seemed to be doing a very effective job of not looking at him either, leaving Mountain no trace of a clue about how he was feeling.  

They had two sets to play this evening; this one now, as the sun set, and another later once night had truly set in. As he tapped out a beat to begin their first song, Mountain felt his movements were stiffer than normal, stilted even. His beat was always rigid, but this felt awkward and forced rather than steadying. If Copia could tell, he gave no reaction from his position at the front of the stage.  

Under the bright light of several enchanted torches and lanterns blazing down on the stage from above, Mountain was finally able to lose himself to the music. It was almost enough to distract him from the fact that Swiss was standing as far away from him as the stage allowed, Sunshine acting as a buffer beside him. The whole set passed in a daze for Mountain. It was over before he realised, Copia chaperoning his ghouls off stage to enthusiastic cheers. As soon as his feet his solid ground again, Mountain felt a tentative hand on his elbow. 

“Are you alright, my ghoul?” Copia asked him, mismatched eyes filled with concern. He must have felt the awkward atmosphere after all, Mountain regretted.  

“Sorry Papa, I'll try and play better next time.”  

“Not at all, my ghoul! We still performed admirably,” Copia squeezed Mountain's arm encouragingly and gave him a knowing smile, “I hope you can sort what is bothering you though, yes?” 

Feeling bolstered by Copia's comments, Mountain gave him a shaky smile back. The man clearly cared so deeply for his ghouls as well as his church. Especially with so many visitors here, Mountain didn't want to let him down with a bad performance. 

“I will, I promise.” 

With a final nod from Copia, Mountain turned and plunged into the crowd in the direction he had last seen his bandmates go. Finally, he thought he had the last shred of courage he needed to talk to Swiss.