#seeing him hitting all the targets is a dream

[shining-glowstick]

Johannes this so damn sexy

[flowersforbucky]

where the lines overlap

logan howlett x reader (dofp!logan x mutant!reader)

word count: 8.7k

summary: no one gets under your skin quite as much as logan howlett - and he knows it, too. sex pollen trope.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, sex pollen so dub con, frenemies to lovers? they aren't enemies but logan and reader don't really get along, reader is a mutant with pyrokinesis, reader is afab, reader is described as being smaller than logan, no use of y/n, wet dream, fuck or die situation, oral, pet names (bub, princess), brief pain kink for logan, unprotected p in v, cream pie

author's note: takes place after the events of days of future past - so everyone's alive, charles is old af, and logan has a pretty streak of silver in his hair. not proofread super well so please ignore any errors.

There's certain things that you like to think about when you're pissed off. It’s a coping mechanism that you learned in therapy at the ripe age of eleven.

Go to your happy place or whatever.

For you, that's the mansion's courtyard after a fresh snowfall, and having the library all to yourself on a rainy day, and the comfort of your bedroom on one of the rare days that you aren’t teaching, or training, or on a mission.

At this point in your life, you’ve forgotten just about everything you were taught in that therapist's office. It's not like you had wanted to be there, but your parents had been worried and scared – and rightfully so. With the unexpected emergence of your pyrokinetic abilities came multiple accidental house fires born out of preteen angst.

So they did the only thing they knew to do at the time – stick you in therapy in hopes you would acquire some anger management techniques.

These days, you have a pretty good handle on your powers. With a lot of time and effort, you learned to control them – and not just control them, but yield them in a beneficial and productive way.

All of that progress comes dangerously close to going out the window anytime you're in close proximity to Logan Howlett.

Maybe all is an exaggeration – but no one else makes your fingertips burn hot with fire that threatens to break through the barrier of your skin quite like him. From his bossiness to his arrogance and attitude, you’ve clashed heads since the first day you met him.

Today is no different.

“Don’t use so much force.”

You curse as the tip of the blade impales the target a whopping three inches from the center. By far your worst throw yet, though this one isn’t entirely your fault.

You snap your head towards the unexpected but familiar voice, pulling your last dagger from the holster secured around your thigh before chucking it in his general direction. It flies past him, bouncing off the wall behind him.

You knew that it wouldn’t actually hit him. And if by some miracle it had, he’d heal in two seconds and then go right back to being a pain in your ass.

A good looking pain in your ass, admittedly. But a pain in your ass nonetheless.

He looks at you with an amused expression. “See? Too much force.”

“I didn’t know that having giant forks for hands made you an expert on throwing knives.”

He exhales a breathy laugh, staring at you for several seconds before turning to pick the dagger up from the ground. He then proceeds to collect the rest of the knives that you had previously thrown from the body of the practice target.

In heavy silence, he struts over to you with the daggers in hand. He turns to face a wooden target board, finding the balance point of the knife before sending it flying through the air.

Bullseye.

“A long time ago, when I first joined this team, Charles made me practice a non-power related method of self-defense, too.” He pauses, lining the second dagger up with the practice dummy. To no surprise, it’s another perfect throw.

“Wanna guess what I chose?”

You snatch the remaining knife out of his hand.

“How to annoy someone by sneaking up on them and giving them unsolicited advice while they are minding their own business?”

You position your feet once again, holding the knife up in preparation to take aim. Your eyes dart back and forth between the blade and the target ahead of you. You hesitate, feeling nervous under his gaze.

Logan moves from standing beside you, to standing behind you. Your breath catches in your throat as his large figure looms over you. If he were to took a step forward, his chest would brush against your back.

He uses the tip of his boot to nudge your heel forward half an inch, adjusting your stance. He takes your right hand in his, and you have to consciously remind yourself to breathe.

A wave of annoyance washes over you that he’s able to fluster you so easily. It makes you as pissed at yourself as it does him. He’s barely touching you – his hand dwarfing yours is the only point of physical contact, but you’d think that he were pinning you up against a wall with his body.

You tell yourself the sudden light-headedness and increased heartrate is because of the newfound closeness, and nothing more. You’re used to being around Logan – the two of you live together and work together. His general presence is nothing new. But the intimacy of your current predicament is.

And maybe the fact that notes of tobacco and bourbon are infiltrating your senses doesn’t help.

“As unsolicited as my advice may be,” he says lowly as he pulls your hand back slightly, “I give it because if there is ever a situation where someone's trying to hurt you, and you’re unable to light them on fire for some reason, I would really hope that you could at least impale them.”

He tightens his hold on your hand, and then snaps both of your wrists forward. Surprisingly, your brain registers to release your grip just in time. When the tip of the blade impales the center of the target perfectly, he drops your hand.

But he doesn’t move from behind you.

“Much better. Now come back upstairs. Charles needs to see all of us in his office.”

••••••

You and Logan are the last people to enter Charles’ office.

Storm, Scott, Jean, Marie, and Bobby have all found places to sit throughout the small room. Logan chooses to lean against the door that clicks shut behind him, while you exhale in relief at the sight of an empty chair on the opposite side of the room, next to Marie.

“Ah, how nice of you two to join us,” Charles greets. “I was starting to think that Logan got lost on his way to retrieve you.”

You force out a laugh, earning a side-eye from Marie as Charles launches back into whatever he had been in the middle of before you two interrupted.

“Everything okay?” Marie murmurs to you. “You looked a little sick when you walked in.”

“Oh, yeah,” you shrug her off without looking at her. You keep your eyes on Charles. “Yeah, I'm just tired. Been training all morning.”

What were you supposed to tell her? That you were thankful to be wearing a tactical suit so that Logan couldn’t see all of the goosebumps that bloomed across your skin when he was practically breathing down your neck less than five minutes ago? Or that the walk back up to Charles’ office was filled with a loaded silence in place of your usual bickering and banter?

Marie might be one of your closest friends, and you trust her, but Logan is something of a fatherly figure to her. There’s no way you’re letting her hear those words come from your mouth.

You try your hardest to focus on all of the information that Charles throws at you. You’re all to leave on a mission early tomorrow morning. When he explains where you’re going and why, chills run down your spine.

Alberta, Canada – more specifically, Alkali Lake. All of your friends seem to tense up at the mere mention of the place.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, fighting the urge to sneak a glance to try to gauge Logan's reaction. You’ve never been to Alkali Lake before, and you’re far from excited about going – you can only imagine how he feels, given his history with the abandoned military base.

After no word of any activity surrounding the base for years, Charles had been made aware that the recent disappearance of a group of young adult humans had been traced back to Alkali Lake – to a modern day subsidiary of the group Weapon X.

The same group responsible for Logan’s skeleton being made from adamantium.

This, of course, is where all of you come in.

After a detailed rundown of the goals for tomorrow – the main one being safe extraction of the humans – Charles dismisses all of you to rest for the remainder of the day.

When everyone stands up, you finally risk glancing at Logan, but he’s already opening the door to Charles’ office and strutting away.

••••••

Thick stubble scratches your innermost thighs as sharp teeth and soft lips alternate between kissing and biting the sensitive flesh between your legs.

His face is covered in your slick from the three orgasms he’s already pulled from you with his tongue. He lays nestled between your legs, pinning you to the mattress beneath you. Your thighs rest across his shoulders, his hands splayed across your belly.

You're putty in his hands.

“I've gotta say, the sounds you make when you cum are way cuter than the sounds I'm used to hearing from you,” Logan muses against your cunt. His voice sends a vibration over your already overstimulated core.

You can only guess that the sounds he’s referring to are annoyed sighs and you telling him to shut the fuck up, but right now, you don't care enough to ask for any clarification.

“Yeah?” You yelp when his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. “Maybe if you spent less time pissing me off you’d get to—”

You're cut off by him plunging the tip of his index finger inside you. You writhe against him, your walls constricting around the digit.

“Less time pissing you off, more time letting you fuck my fingers and face. Got it.”

The slamming of a door somewhere outside of your room causes you to bolt upright in your bed.

You open your eyes to darkness except for the red glow of the numbers on your digital alarm clock that read 12:26 in the morning. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and your skin is clammy with a thin layer of sweat. You throw your covers away from you in an attempt to cool yourself off.

“What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck—”

You whisper the three words to yourself over and over again until your breathing resumes a normal pattern.

You’re alone, of course. In the comfort of your private room, where you had fallen asleep several hours ago. The difference between now and then is an uncomfortable pool of wetness between your legs, soaking your underwear.

You can’t even recall the last time you had such a vivid sex dream. It felt utterly lifelike – you reach down between your legs, trailing your fingers over the skin of your inner thighs where you had felt his beard tickle and tease you.

How the fuck are you supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, when you’re having to work together to rescue humans from Alkali Lake? How are you supposed to come up with smart-ass remarks for his endless taunting and teasing when you’re going to be trying your hardest to not replay the images of his hazel eyes looking up at from between your thighs?

“Get a fucking grip,” you whisper hiss to yourself.

It’s Logan. The same Logan who acted like he was too good to say more than ten words to you the first half a year that you were with the team. The same Logan that tries to get you benched for the dumbest, smallest reasons he can think of. The same Logan that condescendingly calls you kid or princess every chance he gets because he knows it gets under your skin.

You need a glass of water. And some fresh air, and a cold shower—

You start by picking up the pair of sweatpants that you’d discarded before falling asleep a few hours ago. You step back into them, deciding to trek to the kitchen for some ice water. Your mouth feels as dry as cotton.

As you approach the end of the hallway that leads from the team member's bedrooms to the kitchen, you hear the soft shuffling of footsteps and see low lighting that spills from the refrigerator.

As soon as you step into the kitchen, you come to a halt. You recognize the large frame standing in front of the open fridge right away.

Of fucking course it would be him. And of fucking course he wouldn’t be wearing a shirt.

You clear your throat to announce your presence, not quite trusting your voice to speak. He looks at you over his shoulder, a bottle of beer pressed to his lips.

You walk over to the cabinet beside him, keeping your eyes off of him entirely as you get a glass.

“What's got you awake at this hour?” He closes the fridge, leaning back against the edge of the countertop. The only light in the room now comes from the small, dim bulb above the sink.

If he only fucking knew, you think. If he only knew that the real reason you are out of bed right now is because you’d just woken up from an extremely graphic, jarring dream of you riding his face.

You fill the cup up with cold water from the kitchen sink and take a large swig before once again turning to face him.

“Could ask you the same thing,” you answer with a vague gesture to his half-dressed form and beer bottle.

He takes in your appearance, too. His eyes trail from your exposed feet, to your baggy sweatpants, and up to your even baggier t-shirt before settling on your face. You feel particularly vulnerable under his gaze right now. You compare how you look to how he looks – with his stupid abs that look like God himself chiseled them from stone and his sweatpants that hang just a little too comfortably.

You sip on your water just to keep from biting your lip.

“Guess we were both thirsty,” he shrugs as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Guess so,” you hum, and because you don’t want to fall into an awkward silence and it’s the only thing you can think to add, you say, “Nervous about the mission?”

His expression darkens and posture tenses at your question. “I am,” he admits. “And if you knew as much as I do about that place, you’d be nervous, too.”

You huff. Your grip tightens around the glass in your hand at the mere insinuation that he knows your feelings. “Who says that I’m not?”

“If you’re going, you’re not nervous enough.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. You take a deep breath, knowing damn well the direction that this conversation is headed. You’d heard it all from him before – anything to keep you as far away from him as possible.

“Of course I’m going, Logan. Whether you think I’m good at it or not, it’s my job.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re good at your job. It’s about experience—”

You laugh, cutting him off. You can feel the telltale warmth of fire beginning to form beneath the tips of your fingers, your irritation threatening to bubble over.

“Experience?” you exclaim. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve been with this team for three years now? Just because I’m not two hundred years old like you doesn’t mean that I don’t have experience.”

“I’m very aware of how long you’ve been with this team, bub,” he says calmly, which makes you all the more heated.

“For three years you’ve spewed every bullshit reason you can think of to keep me on the sidelines,” you laugh. “I wish you’d fucking admit that you just don’t like me. It’d be a lot more respectable than acting like you’re worried about—”

Logan’s gaze drops to the glass in your hand, making you come to an abrupt pause. You follow his stare, realizing that you’ve managed to melt the glass where your fingertips grip the glass. Water begins to leak out from the holes, spilling onto your sweatpants and the floor below you.

There’s no visible flames emanating from your fingertips. Your anger hadn’t progressed to full on fire, just intense heat, but still. No one else makes you come as close to losing control as him.

No one. And he seems to know it, too. You can tell by the smug look on his face.

You dump what little liquid is left into the sink before chucking the distorted glass into the garbage.

You start to storm past him, to get away from him and go back to your room without another word, when he grabs you by the wrist. You look at him in bewilderment – this is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that he has held your hand in his.

“Didn’t know you were so hot and bothered over me,” he says with an amused smirk.

You rip your hand away from him, an exaggerated look of disgust on your face. Your recent dream pops into your head and you have to remind yourself that he’s not Jean or Charles – he can’t read your mind.

“You're lucky that you've got those handy healing powers,” you spit as you once again begin exiting the kitchen. “If I thought there was a chance of it actually shutting you up, I’d burn more than just Charles’ vintage glassware.”

You hear him say your name, but you’re already speed walking back to your room and playing your list of happy place thoughts on a loop in your head.

The soup that Storm makes when everyone at the school seems to get sick at the same time. One of your younger students picking you a flower. The smell of fresh laundry, the crisp pages of a new book.

Finally, your bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

You would have been better off just enduring the discomfort of a dry throat, you think. You don't know what's worse – not being able to sleep because you're rattled from a wet dream about him, or not being able to sleep because you've once again allowed him to get under your skin.

You crawl back under your covers, hoping that when you close your eyes, you don't see his face again.

••••••

Logan doesn’t make any more appearances in your dreams for the rest of the night, but that doesn’t stop him from being the first thing you think of when you open your eyes in the morning.

And as much as you hate to admit it to yourself, the only thing on your mind the entire flight from New York to Alberta.

From the tension that filled the air when he corrected your knife throwing technique yesterday morning to the warmth of his calloused hand when he grabbed you by the wrist in the kitchen last night, you're fighting a losing battle with no one but yourself.

As far as you can tell, he’s utterly unaffected. The fact that he chose to sit directly in front of you on the jet instead of any of the other empty seats says as much.

Not even ten minutes into the flight, you're staring at the tufts of his hair and his broad shoulders when you have to remind yourself that there's two telepaths occupying this jet with you. Though you trust both Charles and Jean to not read your mind without cause, the mere possibility of either one of them accidentally tuning into your thoughts and seeing a replay of your most recent dream or hearing you think about what it would be like to tug on those stupid fucking tufts of hair that resemble kitten ears is enough to mortify you.

You find yourself grateful that you brought a book and headphones with you to distract yourself for the duration of the trip.

An eerie feeling creeps into your bones as soon as you step onto the hanger of the jet. You can’t deny that the scenery surrounding the military base is beautiful – from the snowcapped mountains to the frost covered lake, it’s picturesque. But then your gaze settles on the large dam, and you remember what lies beneath.

“Can't say that I've missed this place,” Logan grunts, drawing your attention to him. His face is impassive other than his mouth being set in a hard, straight line as he stares out towards the water.

It's rare for Logan to elicit feelings outside of burning irritation (and maybe, possibly, sometimes arousal) from you – but right now, there’s a part of you that wishes the dynamic between the two of you were different.

As much as he infuriates you, you still care about him. You wish you could say that you didn’t, but the fact that you feel the urge to reach out and give his hand a reassuring squeeze makes that pretty hard to deny.

That urge dissipates as quickly as it comes over you. The bitter chill of the mountain wind and your teammates voices pull you back to reality. You awkwardly fiddle with one of the daggers strapped to your thigh instead.

“Jean and Scott, the two of you take the west side of the building,” Charles instructs when the group nears the discreet entrance. “Bobby and Rogue, clear the east wing. Storm and I will be keeping watch outside to make sure that no one tries to escape with the humans.”

“What about us?” you ask with a slight nod towards Logan. The fact that neither of you had been given instructions yet leaves it to be assumed that you’ll be paired up together.

You and Logan working as a pair was nothing out of the ordinary, and although that typically comes with a lot of annoyance, right now you can’t help but feel a little relieved by it.

Even if you are still irritated at him for his behavior and choice of words in the kitchen last night and even if you do think of him between your thighs every time you look at him for more than five seconds, he’s still more familiar with this place than anyone else here.

And no matter how much he makes you want to tear your hair out, there's never a time that you feel unsafe when he's near.

“You and Logan are to inspect the basement,” Charles answers. “I trust that you can refrain from melting any antique personal property until we are back at the mansion, my dear,” he adds with a knowing smirk.

“I was planning on paying you back for that,” you mumble.

“No,” Charles sighs. “You weren't. It was very expensive.”

Logan snorts, earning curious glances from everyone other than you and Charles. He does get a nasty side-eye from you – a silent promise to deliver on last night’s threat to find something to burn other than vintage glassware.

Your teammates split up into their respective groups upon entering the base, leaving you to follow Logan's lead towards the lower levels.

It’s unsettling just how silent it is. The only sounds are that of yours and Logan's boots against the ground. You'd be able to hear a pin drop from across the building.

And it's cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones ache. You instinctively flex your fingers, focusing on the warmth that radiates from the tips.

As the two of you make your way through the dark, seemingly endless basement, checking each room for signs of life, you can't help but think of Logan being here under much different circumstances.

You don't know the full extent of his time here – even he only remembers bits and pieces. But you know enough to know that this can’t be easy for him.

The fact that he's being uncharacteristically quiet only reaffirms that. He makes none of his typical taunts and jabs, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

You find yourself damn near wishing he’d make some snide comment about how you’re walking too loudly and how being partnered up with you feels like babysitting duty – if he did, maybe then you wouldn’t feel this annoying, persistent worry over his mental well-being.

“Logan,” you begin quietly as the two of you approach a large set of hospital style double doors at the end of a corridor. “I know being here can't be easy for you. I'm sorry that you have to be.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, not meeting your eyes as he slowly pushes one of the doors open, peaking into the room before stepping inside and holding the door open for you.

“Just part of the job, bub,” he sighs. “I know what I signed up for.”

You enter, walking past him into the dark room. You shine your flashlight around the cramped space. Right away, you can tell that it’s vacant, as all of the other rooms you’ve checked have been. But it’s different – whereas most of the rooms have been completely empty, this one contains multiple twin sized beds. No frames, no pillows, just plain white sheets on each one.

“I know you do. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and he shines his own flashlight around the room from right behind you.

“It’s okay, princess,” he snorts. “I’m a big boy. You don’t gotta pretend to be worried about me.”

Princess. Your fingertips tingle as soon as the pet name leaves his lips.

“I’m not pretend—”

The sudden, loud clicking of a deadbolt echoes through the room, silencing you. You and Logan stare at each other for a brief moment, startled and confused, before he turns around and pushes on the double doors to no avail.

He slams the full weight of his body against the metal, but it doesn't budge.

“What the fuck,” he growls in between repeated strikes against the doors.

“Logan and I are locked in a room in the basement,” you say as you click on the communication device in your left ear. “The door automatically locked after we came inside. We can’t get it open—”

You’re met with white noise.

“My fucking comm isn’t working.” Panic begins to set in as you yank the device out of your ear to inspect it. There’s a small green light indicating that it is on, but for whatever reason, it isn’t getting signal.

“Scott? Storm? Can anyone hear us?” Logan says as he messes with his own communication device. “Nothing,” he grunts after a moment of silence.

“Professor? Jean? If either of you are listening, now would be a great time to poke around in our brains and let us know.”

Nothing indeed.

“Okay,” Logan says as he backs away from the double doors. “Blast them.”

“Blast them?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “They’re industrial metal doors. They’re like two feet thick. These walls are made out of concrete.” You bang your first against the rock solid wall for emphasis. “What the fuck do you think fire is—”

“I don’t hear you suggesting anything!”

“How about not setting the room we are trapped in on fire? Only one of us has regenerative—”

A loud hissing noise sounds from above, causing you and Logan to both point your flashlights up towards the ceiling. You squint, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Large vents make up well over fifty percent of the ceiling, releasing what appears to be a fog like substance. It quickly transforms the air above you into one large, milky looking cloud.

“Charles! Storm! Scott – we need help. Quickly, we need help. I don’t know what’s going—”

You continue to shout into the communication device while Logan alternates between punching the door with his fists and throwing the full weight of his body against the metal, but all of your efforts are futile. The doors don’t budge, and you hear nothing but static from the comm.

You frantically glance around the room, looking for another escape route. There’s no other doors, and no windows. You’re completely enclosed by the four concrete walls and the impenetrable metal doors.

“Hold your breath!” Logan shouts as the fog descends upon the two of you, but it’s too late. The sickeningly sweet smelling mist encompasses you, making it impossible to see anything other than the thick silver vapor. It infiltrates your nostrils, causing you to gag. You cough, desperately trying to clear your airway of the substance.

It burns – your throat, your nostrils, your eyes and skin. Anywhere that it comes in contact with you feels like pins and needles.

You’re vaguely aware that Logan is somewhere to your left, asking if you’re okay in-between coughs and gags of his own. You can’t catch your breath well enough to answer him.

His hand clasps around the top of your arm. Your vision goes fuzzy and you collapse into him, light-headed from the profuse coughing.

“I think it’s dissipating,” Logan whispers in a strained voice, still supporting you so that you don’t fall to the floor. You risk cracking your eyes open the slightest bit, and realize that he’s right. There’s still a veil of mist surrounding you, but it’s no longer so opaque that you can’t see even two inches in front of your face.

You take deep breaths, making no effort to step away from him as you attempt to regain control of your breathing. Your lungs feel like they are on fire and your throat feels like you haven’t had any water in days.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out as a croak.

“Can you stand?” he asks you. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from his embrace.

As soon as he steps away from you to see if the doors are still locked, the momentary relief that you felt when the fog began to dissipate is replaced with renewed terror. The room, which was previously dark except for the light from your flashlights, suddenly glows a deep red color from the ceiling that now emits crimson fluorescence.

You open your mouth to call out for Charles or Jean again, when a throbbing sensation radiates throughout your gut. You clutch your hands over your abdomen, gasping at the sudden and awkward feeling.

Logan turns his attention away from the doors and back to you as soon as he notices how you’re hunched over. You stumble over to the bed that's closest to you, the world blurring around you in shades of red.

“Something is wrong,” you gasp out. You know you're stating the obvious – something has been wrong since the moment that the doors locked behind you.

He's next to you in two long strides, kneeling beside the bed and looking up at you in concern. The ache in your lower belly seems to worsen with his close proximity. Your skin feels feverish, making you want to peel your tactical suit off of your body.

“Tell me what you're feeling,” he demands. Other than obvious confusion and fear, he appears physically fine. You piece together that whatever that shit was, it’s effecting you much differently than it is him – undoubtedly due to his healing abilities.

You can't form a coherent sentence – all you can focus on is the way that the discomfort in your abdomen travels down to your groin, making you clench your thighs together. You have the inexplicable desire to reach out and pull him to you, as if having him as close as possible to you is the only solution for every uncomfortable thing happening to you.

“You gotta talk to me, bub. Tell me what’s going on,” he says when you don’t answer him. He puts a hand just above your knee and you have to hold back the whimper that threatens to break through your lips. He notices your pained expression and quickly withdraws his hand from your thigh.

“No!” you gasp, grabbing his hand in yours out of desperation to maintain some level of physical contact with him. “I – I don't know how to explain what’s happening. Just – I just need you to keep touching me. Please. Whatever that fog was, it’s making me feel like…”

You trail off, realizing that you must sound every bit as insane as you feel. You don’t know how to begin articulating what’s happening to you, because it makes no sense. When the silver mist first started to rain down from the ceiling, the last thing on your mind was Logan pinning you to one of these mattresses and railing you until you until you see stars. Now, you think that if he so much as stops holding your hand, you'll fucking die.

A look of clarity washes over Logan’s face – with a hint of something else that you can't quite pinpoint, too.

“I think I know what this is,” he murmurs. His stare is locked on one of the daggers strapped to your thigh. He squeezes your hand in his, though you don’t know if it’s to comfort you or himself.

“I’ve heard of this before. Didn’t know it actually exists. I came across it once when preparing a lesson on Alkali Lake—”

“What is it?” you implore.

His eyes finally flicker back up to yours. Images of last night’s dream flash through your mind again. Instead of his hand holding yours, you visualize his slender fingers pumping inside you. You stare at his lips, imaging the feeling of them sucking love bites into the meat of your inner thighs –

“It’s a chemical created for breeding experiments,” he answers after a pregnant pause. “They – Weapon X – wanted super mutants. Some of the subjects were… less than compliant. This made it so that they weren’t able to fight it.”

You let his words sink in. It’s not something you’ve ever heard of, but you don’t doubt that what he’s saying is true. How could you, with the way that your pussy is throbbing at the mere sound of his voice? Under normal circumstances, you might not read too far into that. But right now? On a mission, locked in a creepy basement, unable to get in contact with your teammates?

“Weren’t able to fight it,” you repeat slowly. “You're saying there’s only one way out of this.”

He doesn’t answer – just looks at you with sympathy. With pity.

“No,” you shake your head. You yank your hand from his grasp and move back across the mattress as the gravity of the situation hits you. To distance yourself from him feels like ripping air out of your own lungs, but the alternative is borderline unthinkable.

“I can’t – won’t ask that of you,” you declare. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that laughs at you, as if saying it’s cute that you think you have a choice. The pain and longing grow with each passing second, threatening to consume you from the inside out.

“You’re fine. It would be different if it was both of us. But you shouldn’t have to do this just because you're stuck here with me.”

“Have to? You make it sound like it would be a punishment for me,” he chuckles darkly. He finally rises from where he had been kneeling next to the bed. He stands beside the mattress, looming over you in the maroon lighting.

“Let’s not overcomplicate this, princess,” he murmurs. He grasps your face in his palm and tilts your head to look up at him. His touch is a balm – it feels like running a burn under a cold stream of water.

“I'm gonna take care of you, and then you can go right back to tolerating my existence.” He runs the calloused pad of his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter shut, reveling in the sensation of the singular digit against your flesh.

“Besides, it’s not like you haven’t dreamed about this. Or were you moaning about someone else who just happens to have the same name as me last night?”

Your eyes shoot open at the revelation that not only had you said his name in your sleep, but he’d fucking heard you. And has the nerve to tease you about it at a time like this.

He's smirking down at you. His smugness irritates you often, but right now it’s enough to cause the tips of your fingers to burn hot. You jerk his hand away from your face, causing him to hiss when your fingers wrap around his wrist.

He chortles, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation. The reaction fills you with annoyance – of course he would have a fucking pain kink.

As much as it pisses you off, it also spurs you on. Blame the influence of the chemicals that you’re currently under, but the fact that he can so easily tolerate and even enjoy something that would have anyone else running in the opposite direction does something to you.

You’re past the point of finding it in you to care about consequences. You’re no longer thinking about how you’ll be able to look him in the eye when this is over, or how you’ll pretend like everything is perfectly normal when the two of you are back on the jet with your teammates.

Maybe you can fight this drug, or maybe he’s right and there’s no point in trying. Either way, you’ve decided that you're going to have him before you leave this room.

You drop his hand, bringing yours to the zipper at the neckline of your tactical suit. You slowly tug it downwards, gauging his expression as he watches you expose your chest and stomach.

For once, he’s all out of smart remarks.

A part of you feels a sense of satisfaction and wants to continue taking your time with undressing yourself, just to keep him looking at you like this – but every fiber of your being is screaming at you for more.

You waste no more time with shoving the restrictive Kevlar material down your arms, leaving you in only your bra from the waist up. Logan unfreezes at the sight, crawling onto the bed on his knees. You maneuver yourself so that you’re laying flat against the mattress, pulling him down with you.

He rips the fabric of your bra away from your breast, immediately attaching his mouth to your nipple. He rolls it between his tongue and teeth, causing you to arch your back into his touch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, pinning yourself to the mattress with his body. You mewl at the feeling of your pebbled nipple in his warm mouth.

His other hand attempts to free the opposite breast, but the fabric is too tight and restrictive. He let’s out an annoyed growl, pulling back to unsheathe his claws and snip the material in between your tits, letting them spill free.

“Hey! I loved that bra—”

Your complaint dies in your throat when he slates his lips over yours.

There’s nothing slow or sensual about the way that he kisses you. He slips his tongue past your lips, moving his lips with fervency and urgency – like he needs this as badly as you do.

You buck your hips up into him, desperate for any amount of friction. He grinds down against you, his erection evident even through the thick material of both of your tactical suits.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss to unzip your suit the rest of the way down. He peels it down your thighs, only stopping to discard your boots. When you’re left in only your underwear, he looks at you with a satisfied smirk.

“So, what exactly was I doing in your dream to have you saying my name like that, huh?” he asks as he toys with the waistband of your panties.

You roll your eyes, your patience growing thinner as the ache in your belly grows stronger. He can tease you about that all he wants when you’re back in the safety of the mansion, when you’re no longer under the influence of potentially life threatening chemicals and capable of thinking of a proper comeback.

“Shut up and eat me out.”

His smirk only grows, but he doesn’t tease you any further. He tugs your panties down your legs, tossing them to the floor. He lowers himself onto his stomach, still fully dressed. Under less dire circumstances, you would’ve been eager to get him out of his clothes, too – but right now, your highest priority is feeling his mouth on you.

No wet dream could have prepared you for how euphoric it actually feels for his teeth to nip at the tender flesh of your inner thighs, or the way that his tongue draws lazy circles at your hole before his lips lock around your clit.

You writhe against him, chasing the release that you’ve been desperate for since the second the vapor first came in contact with your skin. He’s more than generous, expertly nursing at your swollen bud as he eases a slender finger inside your cunt.

One finger – that’s all it takes to feel your climax building, the coil in your lower belly tightening. You feel your walls pulse around the digit as your orgasm washes over you. You don’t even try to hold back your cries and praises of pleasure, letting him know how good he’s making you feel.

When he sits back, his lips and beard glisten with your slick in the red glow that encases you both. You push yourself into a sitting position and reach for the zipper of his suit, antsy to shed his clothing now that your physical discomfort had been quelled – at least for the time being.

He helps you, shrugging out of his vest and tugging his undershirt over his head. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but never shirtless for you. You want to dig your nails into the planes of his chest, and run your tongue along the protruding vein that disappears beyond the waistline of his pants –

You undo his belt buckle and pop open the button of his pants before hastily yanking both his pants and boxers down in one movement. His cock springs free, bobbing inches before your face. You start to adjust your position on the bed – to get on your knees and take him in your mouth – when a low chuckle causes you to pause and look up at him.

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts, earning a confused pout from you.

“You don’t want me to suck your dick?” You ask with raised brows.

“S’not about me right now, bub. I said I was gonna take care of you, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Now lay back down for me.”

You aren’t going to argue with that.

You return to your original position on the mattress, pulling him down with you. He hovers above you, using one arm to support himself on the bed. He takes his cock in his free hand, stroking his length a few times before nudging his head through your folds until he’s lubricated in your juices.

“Don’t you worry, though,” he murmurs against your lips. He teases his tip at your hole. “If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I'll let you.”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtfu—”

He sheaths himself inside you, turning the end of your retort into a gasp. He fills you entirely, stilling to allow both of you time to adjust to the sensation. The stretch is damn near blinding, making your eyes roll back into your skull. You glance down between your bodies, halfway expecting to see him jutting out of your stomach.

He fucks you similarly to how he kisses you – like this is saving him as much as it is you. It's rough, and fast, and messy – and you dread the moment that it’s over.

No one has ever filled you as completely and perfectly as him. You don’t think anyone else ever will, again.

Each drag of his cock along your walls has you clenching around him, each time his head rams against your cervix you can’t help but cry his name.

He snakes his hand in between you, reaching down to where his body collides with yours. His thumb massages over your sensitive clit.

You rake your nails down his back and he hisses in approval, snapping his hips into you at a brutal pace.

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess,” he grunts before kissing you again.

You don't have time to overthink the sentiment before your second orgasm is washing over you. Logan cums as soon as he feels your pussy pulsating around him, fucking you until he's spilled every last drop of his warm seed deep inside you. When you're both finished, he stills inside you and rests his sweat-slicked forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

“You think it worked?” he grunts.

As if on cue, you hear the deadbolt unlock from the other side of the room. A second later, Storm’s voice sounds from your communication device that had fallen to the floor at some point.

“I don't feel like there’s a ticking time bomb inside my vagina anymore. So, I’d say yeah, it worked.”

He huffs a laugh, and then pulls out of you with a sigh.

“Logan,” you say, stopping him before he can pull away from you entirely. He stares down at you, waiting for you to continue.

You aren’t even sure what to say. Truthfully, you just weren’t ready for the moment to end and for things to go back to normal between the two of you.

“Thank you,” you spit out after a moment of loaded silence. “For… helping me,” you finish lamely.

“Don’t thank me, bub,” he chuckles. “It’s far from the worst thing that's happened to me in this place.”

••••••

You sleep the entire flight back to New York.

And as soon as you've showered and your head hits the pillow after returning home to the mansion, you sleep for another ten hours. Every time you wake up and think that you're finally well-rested, your body says otherwise and you're asleep again within minutes.

You wish you could say it’s a dreamless sleep, but that would be a lie. You see Logan’s face every time you close your eyes.

But it's different than the last dream you had of him. It isn’t images of his head between your thighs or his fingers slipping in and out of you.

It’s just.. him. His presence. The lingering feeling of his lips on yours, the light flavor of tobacco and menthol.

And the echo of the words he spoke as he teased you with the head of his cock and made you cum around his length.

“Don’t you worry, though. If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I’ll let you.”

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess.”

When you wake, the ache between your thighs for him remains, despite the fact that the effects of the drugs had long since faded.

You know you shouldn’t read too far into words spoken while the two of you were locked in that room. But you can’t help but keep thinking that he wasn’t under the influence of chemical subjugation. Which leaves you questioning if he meant the things he said, or if he was just trying to lighten a scary, impossible situation for both of you.

You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

When you finally gather the courage the knock on his door, the sun has set and everyone has retired to their bedrooms for the evening.

You almost dash back into your own room during the few seconds that it takes him to open his door. He wears sweatpants, a plain black t-shirt, and a surprised expression.

“Hey, bub,” he greets you apprehensively. You don't normally make a habit of stopping by his room for late night chats. “Was starting to worry that you’d fallen into a coma.”

He opens his door wider, motioning with his head for you to come inside.

“Felt like it,” you give a small laugh. “Whatever was in that shit wore me out.” You take a seat on the edge of his bed, nervously wringing your hands together.

“You feeling better now?” he asks as he leans against his dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes trail over the large muscles of his chest and shoulders. The memory of his body caging you to the twin sized mattress in the basement of the bunker flashes through your mind.

You nod, hoping that it’s convincing.

“All things considered,” you shrug. “I just wanted to check in with you. Has Charles… said anything?”

What you're actually trying to ask is if Charles interrogated him about where the two of you were during the mission, why no one was able to contact either of you, and why you have been so exhausted that you've done nothing but sleep for the last day, but you trust that he knows what you mean.

“He hasn’t said anything, but..” he trails off, eyes darting around the room to avoid your gaze. “It’s Charles. Safe to assume he knows and is just being decent by not saying anything.”

“Right,” you murmur.

If he doesn’t already know, it's only a matter of time before you slip up and imagine the feeling of his lips on yours or the sounds of his moans in the middle of a mission debriefing.

“And the humans..? They’re all okay?”

“They are,” he assures you with a soft smile. “They’re all receiving medical attention, and most have been reunited with their loved ones.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “No thanks to us, I guess.”

“No,” he laughs. “I suppose not.”

He pushes himself off the dresser, walking the few feet to where you perch at the edge of the mattress. He sits down beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. He smells of Old Spice deodorant and spearmint toothpaste, and it makes you the room spin around you.

“But everyone’s okay. They’re safe. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. He’s close enough that you can practically feel the heat from his body. You risk looking at his face, your gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

“Yeah,” you finally agree. “You’re right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest. I just wanted to check in with—”

You start to stand up, when he cups your jaw in his hand and pulls your face to his. He’s hesitant in a way that he wasn’t yesterday – he gives you the opportunity to pull away before he sweeps his tongue across your bottom lip, as if asking for permission.

When you don’t give any kind of indication that you want him to stop, he pulls you flush against him and slips his tongue past your lips. You bring your hand to the back of his neck, twining your fingers through his hair.

He takes his time with you. Whereas yesterday’s kisses were filled with urgency and desperation, todays is tender and sensual. Now, you’re allowed the luxury of taking your time.

He lays down against the mattress, pulling you with him. You straddle his stomach, your lips never once breaking contact. His hands grip the globes of your ass, his fingers digging into the meat through your pajama pants.

You grind against the hard planes of his abdomen, earning a throaty growl from him.

He breaks away, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.

“I said something I didn’t entirely mean yesterday,” he whispers, out of breath.

“What?” you ask, sitting upright and looking down at him. “You aren’t going to let me suck your dick?”

“No,” he chuckles. “God, no. I meant that. If you still want to, that is—”

“What is it, then?” you interrupt with a playful nudge to his chest.

“I said you could go back to tolerating my existence. But I hope you wanna do a little bit more than just tolerate me.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning down to press your lips to his once more.

“I could see myself doing a little bit more than just tolerating you.”

oooops i accidentally wrote another fic where logan overhears something that he wasn't supposed to 😅🫠 did not originally plan for that to happen hahaha

check out some of my other logan fics -

by the end of the night

dog tags drabble

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Cupid Walks Right.

Spencer Reid x BAU!reader

Summary: You've been hiding your attraction to your coworker for a long time, until a few pictures of him kissing a celebrity in a pool unleash emotions you can't control.

Words: 1,6k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of crime and arms. spoilers for s1 e18 ("somebody's watching"). hurt+comfort. two idiots in love. lots of jealousy. fluff. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: The reader is simply me every time I watch that episode but with a lot more drama to make it interesting.

One bullet after another hit the paper meters away from you, with each shot more accurate than the previous one. You had lost count of how many cartridges you had already spent because your mind was full of thoughts that only the sound of the shots echoing in the shooting room managed to silence and give you back a little control of the situation.

Memories of one of the last cases still lingered in your mind, and you couldn't understand why. It hadn't even been something relevant enough to stick in your mind that much, it was just a crazy stalker obsessed with a celebrity and more of the same old same old in terms of creating a profile. It was nothing you hadn't seen before, and it had ended well, with a happy ending that included Spencer kissing the victim he was supposed to be protecting.

That was the crux of the issue, the root of your problem.

You saw some photos that captured the moment in vivid detail and wanted to run out and throw up in the nearest trash can. You held back to avoid answering embarrassing questions, blaming your bad feelings on the last thing you ate and insisting that you were just satisfying your curiosity. But as they say, curiosity always kills the cat.

Maybe it was because it was unprofessional and unnecessary, maybe you were in a bad mood and needed to relax, maybe you were upset that the guy with the germ problem had shared saliva with a stranger, maybe you didn't like Lila Archer because of her performances, or maybe you just wanted to be in her shoes and have him kiss you like that. And for heaven's sake, maybe you've had a few inappropriate dreams about it lately.

You were just about to fire again to get the thoughts out of your mind when someone tapped you on the shoulder. You turned around, ready to defend yourself with the gun in your hand.

“Wait, wait, it's me. I'm sorry.” Spencer raised his arms in a sign of peace and took a few steps back. “Just me.”

“What are you doing here? You scared me.” You lowered the gun and placed it on the table, trying to sound less abrupt. “I thought everyone had gone home.”

He approached you again, checking the open shells and the pile of bullets on the ground. He was quite surprised to see how many times you had hit the target with perfect shots, and how you still seemed intent on continuing, even though it was almost two in the morning. It wasn't practice, because you didn't need it, it was something else, and you seemed quite angry about it.

“I spent the hour going through some papers and saw the light on in here. I thought I'd come and have a look.” He explained, trying to follow your gaze, which seemed to elude his. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, perfect.”

You started gathering your things and cleaning up the space you'd been using, planning to leave as soon as possible because of his presence. It had been weeks since you'd been alone with him because you'd managed to avoid seeing him as best you could. You'd even managed to convince Hotch that it was time for him to pair you up with someone else during the cases to experiment. You didn't even know why he'd listened to you, but it had been a great relief.

“You're leaving already?” Spencer asked, and you just nodded. “Can I take you home?”

Usually he drove you home, because your car was still at the mechanic and you refused to buy a new one. You always used the minutes you spent together to talk about something other than cases, they were moments of relaxation that you both appreciated. The big difference was that now you couldn't afford that luxury without feeling strange.

“Don't worry, I'll call a taxi.” You grabbed your jacket from a nearby locker. “I'm fine.” You added, with the intention of heading for the door until he stopped you by the wrist.

“Is everything okay...between us?” He asked as you looked up to meet his eyes. “Are you mad at me?”

“I'm sorry, what?” You said, feigning confusion. You always knew it was only a matter of time before he figured something was off with you. After all, he worked in profiling.

“Are you mad at me?” He asked again, in a lower voice, sounding a little more vulnerable than he'd intended. That instantly made you feel bad, you didn't want to hurt him with your confusion.

“No.”

He let out a sigh at your automatic response. His shoulders slumped a bit, and he felt a wave of relief for a few seconds. But then he looked into your eyes for a moment and hesitated, biting his lower lip.

“So...why are you looking at me like that?” He asked, sounding a little shy and with a hint of apprehension in his voice. “Or not looking at me at all.”

“I'm not doing anything.” You make excuses.

He got the chills when he heard your voice, which came across as cold and distant.

“You're giving me that look.”

You gave a little frown and folded your arms, as if to say you didn't agree.

“What look?"

“You look at me like I've done something wrong, like you're disappointed or angry...I think both. You barely look me in the eye, you walk away every time I want to talk to you, you don't sit near me on the jet or want to work with me anymore. And you've been like this for a week.” He paused for a second, remembering when your strange behavior started. “Ever since the L.A. case.”

The room was suddenly filled with silence and a palpable tension. You had been foolish to think Spencer wouldn't notice your remoteness, given his perceptive nature. But you didn't have a choice. You didn't want to appear jealous when you didn't even have feelings for him, you were just ovulating or something like that.

“Is it because...because of Lila? I heard Morgan say some things, and you haven't treated me the same since.” His wavering voice sounded more and more confident, as if he still had to convince himself of his point of view. “I want to know what you think, please.”

You could only curse Derek for exposing you like that. He was the only one who knew about your strange attraction to Reid because he had caught you looking at him several times and you had confessed it to him once in a bar after several drinks and a ridiculous game of cross questions. Since that night, the jokes and suggestions about making out with Spencer under a tree had begun.

But a beautiful actress did it before you, in her pool, with lots of pictures to prove it.

“I'm not one to tell you what to do, but I think your actions were unprofessional and most of all risky.” You spoke after a few seconds, clearing your throat and trying to contain the burning you felt. “It could have ended badly.”

Come on, you would have done the same thing. You often thought about what it would be like to kiss him in the middle of an investigation, especially when he kept giving important details. So you were a little hypocritical.

“I'm only saying that because I care about you.” You added, noticing how confused he looked.

“I know, I care about you too.” He replied calmly, taking a step toward you to touch your arm. “This has been bothering you?”

You froze at his warm touch and the implications you thought he was making about you, nodding as if hypnotized. Had he realized that you had been jealous all along? That you wanted to go back so he could kiss you and not her? That you wanted him to put his hands on your cheeks and kiss you deeply until you were breathless?

“I think I understand, but don't worry about me. I won't do anything dangerous anymore.”

Oh, he hadn't noticed.

Spencer really thought that you were just concerned about his safety because he was your friend and your partner on cases, that you were just frustrated that you weren't there to back him up in case things went wrong. It didn't even occur to him that it was something much deeper and more heated than that.

“So, all good?” He gave you a small smile that made your heart beat a little faster.

“Sure.” You lied, with a strange lump in your throat at the guarded words. “I just didn't know you liked blondes.” You added in a fake teasing tone.

Despite your clearly suspicious tone, Spencer laughed sheepishly. “Actually, I like your hair color.”

A strange bubbling sensation reached your stomach and made you smile.

“Mine?” You asked, lowering your gaze to the floor.

“Yes, it's like it's perfect for you.” He carefully brushed your hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear, causing the feeling in your stomach to identify itself as butterflies fluttering nonstop.

“You're telling me because I have a gun?” You tried to change the subject with a nervous laugh. “I'm not a celebrity, after all.”

“You don't have to be one to be as pretty as you are. But you could be if you wanted to, and...” He started to talk about statistics and a bunch of data you didn't even know, but strangely enough you didn't listen to him this time because you were stuck on the first sentence.

Spencer really thought you were pretty.

It was only then that you realized something had changed. The only successful shot had been Cupid's arrow to your heart.

Because, damn it, you were totally in love with that man.

[cowboybeepboop]

Crave

"Y/N, is this... what you want?" 

Pairing: Sergei Kravinoff x fem! Reader 

Genre: Smut 

Word count: 4.6k

Summary: You’re close friends with the two brothers from childhood, years of a debilitating crush on Sergei finally builds into something more. 

a/n: i just saw this movie like a couple days ago and all i can think of is needy virgin Sergei 😣 i didn’t proofread what so ever and also i wrote this in barely any time but i hope you all enjoy AND PLEASE IF YOU HAVE ANY KRAVEN REQUESTS SEND THEM MY WAY IM CRAVING THIS MAN

It's been a few successful days in avoiding the two brothers, you do this every year, like clockwork. Whenever Sergei comes back home, you distract yourself and stay away the best you can. It’s not worth the heartbreak to see him leave over and over again. 

Dimitri has been calling you nightly, but each night you can hear the sounds of Sergei in the background. He plagues your thoughts, your dreams, your days. All you can think about is the warmth of his skin under your fingers and the gentleness of his touch. 

You shudder as your eyes shut, warmth pooling in your panties as your mind wanders back to him. "Dimitri.. I've gotta go," you murmur into the phone. "I'm going to get some drinks with my friend here soon." 

Dimitri replies enthusiastically, agreeing with your choice. He wishes you goodnight and hangs up the phone, leaving you with the image of Sergei's intense gaze, the feel of his muscles under your fingertips, and the lingering warmth in your stomach.

You can't shake the thoughts, the images of him constantly swirling in your head, the way his voice changes when he speaks, the touch of his hands. It haunts your dreams, and you can't help but feel an unexplainable intrigue and a growing desire for him.

You quickly get changed, ready for a night of reckless distraction, desperately seeking a way to forget about the complex hunter. You head out, the cool night air hitting your skin, the music getting louder and louder as you approach the club. 

You arrive, and the thumping music and flashing lights engulf you, offering a temporary escape from your thoughts of the man who has been plaguing your mind. Taking in the overwhelming atmosphere of the club, the loud music, the flashing lights, and the sea of bodies, all of it works together to create a sense of chaos and excitement. 

Despite the distraction, you can't shake the sensation of being watched, it lingers even as the bouncer returns your ID. Your mind drifts back to Sergei, and the memory of his intense gaze lingers in your thoughts, almost as if you sense his presence somewhere nearby.

You try to shake off the feeling getting a few shots to distract yourself and calm your wandering mind. As time passes, you've found your target: he's a decent-looking man, with a similar haircut to Sergei, a gentle demeanor, and he has a nice smile. He's good enough for what you need him for.  

The two of you exit the building, the chill midnight air freezing your skin immediately, the man you're with clutches his jacket tighter. Obviously showing a lack of interest in helping you cover your skin. 

Despite being with this man, you still can't entirely shake the feeling of being watched. It lingers, a constant reminder of the man you're trying to forget. Sergei watches from afar, his jaw clenched as he notices your shiver. You whip your head around, looking for the eyes that are following your every move. 

You can't see him, but he's still there, standing in the shadow of a dimly lit alleyway. His eyes follow your every move, observing your interactions with the man beside you. His jaw remains tight, his gaze cold and intense. 

As you whip around, you catch a glimpse of a figure in the darkness, just beyond the reach of the dim street light. It’s subtle, but the feeling of being observed lingers.

Unfortunately, this night will not be filled with any sort of satisfaction as you notice a group of men dressed in dark clothes, weapons hidden in their pockets. "Fuck." you whisper, using your arms to cover your skin the best you can.

The men approach, their intentions unclear, and the tension in the air is palpable. The cold wind bites at your skin, and you can't help but wrap your arms around yourself, your teeth chatter, and goosebumps rise on your skin, yet you can sense another gaze watching you, fixated, observing your every move.

Before you have time to react Sergei approaches from the shadows, giving the group a warning look as he steps closer to you. The men stop in their tracks, their gazes shifting to the imposing figure stepping out of the darkness. 

Their muscles tense, and they exchange hesitant glances as Sergei approaches closer, his presence radiating danger, his piercing eyes fixed on the men in front of you.

His hands are gentle on your shoulder, causing you to jump as you turn to look at him, you immediately relax when you recognize him. Finding comfort in his strong protective arms. 

His touch carries reassurance, his big, sturdy hands gently resting on your shoulder, offering a subtle sense of security. His eyes, no matter how cold they seem, convey a flicker of concern, a flicker of reassurance that speaks more than words. 

The tension lingers, but the warmth of his touch somehow seems to offer a moment of tranquility, a gentle comfort despite the surrounding danger.

Sergei removes his jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders to keep you warm. "I suggest you all disperse, go your separate ways," he warns with narrowed eyes. The men listen, running in different directions, even your date scurries away. 

The men disperse hurriedly, leaving you and Sergei standing alone in the cold, the sounds of the night filling the air around you. You shiver, the cold air seeping through your clothing, but the warmth of his jacket offers some comfort, the fabric soft against your skin. The tension in the air is now replaced by a hushed stillness, save for the faint noise from the club behind you.

"You scared away my date.." you whisper, turning to face him while gripping the coat around you tightly. 

He stands there, the cold air mixing with his breath, his expression cool and composed, but there's a hint of sincerity in his gaze as he looks at you. His voice, low and measured, responds to your words.

"Your choice in company leaves much to be desired." He watches you, studying your shivering form, seeing how you clutch his jacket tightly for warmth.

"I suppose you're right," you move closer to him, craving the warmth of his skin. "But, I did have a plan for how my Friday night would go." Sergei begins to lead you in the direction of your apartment, his hands gentle on your frame.

He walks beside you, his presence towering above you, his movements deliberate and measured. He remains silent as he guides you towards your apartment. 

He glances at you from the corner of his gaze, seeing how you instinctively lean into him, seeking his heat and protection. He can't help but notice the way you grasp his coat, his gaze flickering to your hand gripping the fabric.

Once you reach the building you face him once again, the alcohol mixing with your unwavering horniness as you study his features. "Sergei.." you whisper his name, stomach twisting with desire. 

His eyes meet yours, his icy gaze studying your face as you say his name. His eyes flick between yours, the sound of his name causing a subtle reaction in his expression, a flicker of some unknown emotion.

"Yes, Y/N?" His voice is composed but holds a hint of something unfamiliar, something subtle and hard to discern, perhaps an echo of a memory or a flicker of feelings he thought were long-forgotten.

"Don't say my name like that," you whine, your eyebrows furrowing with frustration. 

His eyebrows raise slightly with curiosity upon hearing your words, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes. He studies the frustration in your expression, his gaze softening ever so slightly.

"How else should I say it?" He asks, his voice quiet but measured, a hint of genuine curiosity in his words. Despite his icy demeanor, there's a hint of gentle protectiveness as he looks at you, trying to figure out why the way he said your name made you react with frustration.

You groan, turning away from him, your body aching for his touch. "Forget it, I should get inside. It's cold." 

He follows you into the building, the door closing behind you both. The sound of the city seems to fade away, replaced by the stillness of the hallway. 

He studies you, noticing your frustrated groan and the way you turn away from him. As you stand there, he can sense your frustration, the unspoken desires still hanging between you two. 

"Is there anything I can do to help?"  He asks, his voice quiet and measured. He watches you, feeling a pang of curiosity as to why you seemed to grow frustrated at the mere sound of his voice.

You unlock the door to your apartment, the neediness in his tone making your panties soaked. "Sergei..." you practically whine his name, frustrated with the lack of awareness he has of how much he's affecting you.

As you unlock the door, his eyes flick to yours, the slight desperation evident in your voice causing his gaze to soften even further, his eyes fixated on you. He follows you inside the door, his eyes trained on your face. 

There's a noticeable pause, a slight shift in the air. He can sense the tension and the subtle emotions hidden beneath your frustration, but he seems unaware of the impact he's having on you.

"Y/N..." He responds gently, his voice carrying a hint of a question, a tinge of hesitance as if he senses something but can't quite tell what.

You squeeze your thighs tightly together, "Don't say it like that.." you gasp, he finally catches on to your behavior. The scent of your arousal fills his nostrils. 

He's still for a moment, the realization seems to dawn on him, a subtle shift in his expression, and his eyes widen a bit as he stands there silently. The air feels heavy with your arousal, the scent filling his senses, the realization hitting him like a sudden wave. 

He stares at you, his eyes tracing the way you squeeze your thighs together, trying to hide the visible effect he's having on you.

"Like what?" He asks quietly, his voice low, as if he knows the answer, but needs your confirmation. His eyes remain fixated on you, taking in every tiny movement, every little sign of your arousal. 

There's a flicker of something in his eyes, a hint of a realization that he may be the cause of your frustration.

"I can't.." you sigh, reaching out to touch his firm abs, "The way you're saying my name.. it turns me on." you press your face into his chest, craving his touch. 

A shiver runs through his body at your words, the touch of your hand against his abs, and the way you press your face to his chest. He seems to tense up for a moment, caught off guard by your words and the way you press against him.

He stands there, still trying to process your admission, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on you as you nuzzle against him, the tension between you almost palpable.

"Sergei.. Say something, anything.." you murmur, pulling away from him reluctantly. 

His breath catches in his throat, and his chest heaves as he stares down at you, the scent of your arousal flooding his senses. He's silent for a moment, still trying to comprehend the effect he has on you, his heart beats a bit faster, and his words seem to get stuck in his throat.

"Y/N..." He murmurs softly, almost hesitantly, his voice carrying a slight tremble as he tries to choose the right words amidst his unexpected arousal.

You take his hand in yours, leading it towards your aching cunt. "Sergei.. please.." 

His eyes widen slightly at the gentle touch of your hand, his breath is sharp as he feels the soft heat of your body. His fingers tense as you lead his hand, a mix of bewilderment and arousal coursing through him. He follows your lead, his touch gentle as he moves as you guide him. 

"Y/N.." He exhales, his voice low and gravelly, his eyes holding a hint of uncertainty as he looks at you, his gaze flickering between your face and his hand as you guide it to where you need it most.

You moan as his fingers brush over the growing wet spot, your body shaking with anticipation. 

He can feel the heat of your arousal through your clothes, a shiver runs through his body, goosebumps rise on his skin, and his eyes hold a mix of surprise and a subtle hunger. His touch lingers for a moment, his fingers just tracing the growing wetness, his voice wavering as he speaks.

He swallows hard, his words still hesitant, a breathless tone to his voice. "I don't know what... I'm doing..."

You guide his hand under the fabric of your panties, silently begging him to please you, to take control. You're too far gone to process the words he murmured, lust clouding your mind. 

He takes a deep breath as his fingers move under the fabric of your panties, the touch sending a bolt of electricity through him, his whole body seems to shudder at the sensation. His eyes hold a mix of uncertainty and a sudden surge of arousal as he tries to understand what he's feeling.

"Y/N, is this... what you want?" He asks, his voice hoarse as he speaks, his other hand gripping your waist, his fingers holding onto you needily despite his uncertainty.

"Yes… Yes please," you whine, fingers pressing into his as you guide his movements against your clit.

His breath catches as you guide his fingers, a low, almost guttural groan escaping him, his fingers press into you, trying to find the right rhythm. His grip on your waist tightens slightly, his body pressed closer to you. 

"Like this?" He asks almost hesitantly, his words coming out in a rush, the tension between you both rising by the second.

You moan desperately, body shuddering as his rough fingers tease your swollen pearl. "Exactly like this.." your breathing becomes uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

He can feel the effect his touch has on you, the sounds that escape you pushing him forward, the feeling of you responding to his touch. His breathing grows heavier, and his hand moves between your thighs, fingers pressing and teasing exactly as you guide him, a surge of arousal coursing through him at your sounds. 

"I want to make you feel good, Y/N," he whispers, his voice low and gravelly, filled with a growing hunger, but still a hint of uncertainty, as if he's not entirely sure of what to do.

Your moans become more needy, using your free hand you pull his face to yours desperately kissing him. Your legs tremble as you cum, your nails digging into his back as your thighs clench around his arm.

The suddenness of your kiss catches him off guard, his lips respond to yours urgently, a mixture of hunger and a subtle hesitancy in his movements. As you moan and tremble, he can feel it in every inch of his body, his own arousal growing at the sound of your pleasure. 

He kisses you back with a mix of need and an undeniable arousal, his strong arm holding you tightly against him. He can sense the tension breaking, your nails gripping tightly to him, your body pressing desperately into his touch, the heat and the taste of your lips driving him wild.

You shudder, leaning forward and pressing a few soft kisses into his neck as all the tension leaves you. "Fuck, Sergei.. so good.." you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you slide your fingers over the marks you left on his back, gently soothing the reddened scratches.

He moans softly as you press kisses against his neck, a low, pleased rumble escaping his chest. He pulls you closer against him, his body pressed flush with yours as he wraps his arms around you. A mix of feelings swirling within him, uncertainty and hunger, his breath coming out in shallow gasps. 

His grip on you tightens slightly, holding you in place as you soothe the scratches you left behind, a subtle shiver running down his spine as your fingers graze over the marks. His heart pounds furiously in his chest, his body responding to every touch and every sound you make.

You slip out of his grasp, leading him to your bedroom as you slide out of your dress, standing in front of him in just your panties and bra. "I need you.." you whisper, eyes full of desire.

He follows you to the bedroom, his eyes scanning your body as you slip out of your dress, his gaze dark and intense as he takes in your form. His heart beats furiously in his chest, the hunger growing inside him, a mix of desire and uncertainty as his eyes roam over you. 

A low, quiet moan escapes him, his voice hoarse and filled with longing as he responds to your words. "I need you too, Y/N, I'm just unsure.. I've never..." He hesitates, his eyes filled with a combination of uncertainty and a growing hunger that he can no longer deny.

"It's all instincts," you murmur, bringing his hands to your breasts. "I can teach you... but just do what feels right." you brush your thumb over his cheekbone.

He swallows hard at your words, his eyes fixed on your form as his hands move to your breasts, a mix of uncertainty and a growing hunger filling him. As his palms cup your chest, he exhales deeply, his breath catching in his throat. He nods in response to your words, his eyes searching for guidance as he looks into yours. 

You reach back and unclasp your bra, freeing your chest to his hungry gaze, sliding out of your underwear and moving to undress him. 

A low growl escapes his throat, his eyes fixed on your chest, his gaze filled with hunger and a growing need. He can feel the anticipation coursing through him, his breath catching as you undress him, his heart beating thunderously in his chest. 

He can't help but respond to your touch, his body is eager for your guidance. As you move to undress him, his eyes linger on you, taking in every little detail as his mind seems to be clouded by arousal, a mix of lust and an unfamiliar sensation he can't quite name.

He slowly lowers himself onto his knees, his gaze dark and lustful as he stares up at you. Sergei presses wet kisses onto your thighs, the scent of your cunt making his eyes roll back as he spreads your legs. 

There's a mix of hunger and anticipation in his eyes as he drops to his knees before you, his gaze intense and dark with a growing desire, his hands caressing your thighs. As his kisses travel along your thighs, his breathing grows heavier, his eyes rolling back as he takes in the scent of your desires. 

He looks up at you, a mix of hunger and a subtle uncertainty in his gaze as he runs his tongue along your inner thigh, his movements gentle as if he's trying to gauge your reaction, to figure out what to do.

Your legs spread wider, giving him room to bury his face into your soaking pussy. He sticks his tongue out, slowly licking up your wetness, and his hands grasp onto your hipbones pulling you closer. 

He can feel the warmth and wetness against his lips, and his tongue flickers over your sensitive flesh, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. His grip on your hipbones tightens, pulling you closer to him, his fingers pressing into your smooth flesh. 

“Fuck..” you moan eyes fluttering shut as you lurch forward, his tongue slips into your pulsing hole, lapping up every liquid. Your hips instinctively begin to move against his mouth, grinding against his stubble. 

His eyes are trained on your face, watching every bit of pleasure wash over you. His mouth moves to your clit, his tongue gently brushing over the sensitive bud causing you to jolt and let out a needy moan. 

“Right there, jus’ like that..” you whine, fingers twisting in his hair as moans fall from your open mouth. He does as you instruct, his lips wrapping around your clit, his tongue teasing it roughly as his hunger grows. 

You let out a gasp, eyes rolling back in your head as you tremble, legs growing weak. Sergei holds your body up his mouth working against you as he chases your orgasm. 

Tears brim your eyes as the pleasure overwhelms you, with a loud moan you finally let go, cum spilling from you as you press onto his face trying to pull him away from your overly sensitive clit. 

He keeps lapping up at the liquids, hungry for more. “Sergei.. no more..” you whine, shaking above him. 

His face is glazed as he stands up, he can taste you on his lips, the hunger in his eyes still evident. He stands before you, his eyes filled with lust and a mix of newfound confidence. He looks you up and down, his eyes lingering on your trembling form as he holds onto you, trying to steady you.

You pull him into another hungry kiss, feeling his hands explore your body as he palms your breasts. His fingers tweaking your nipples as he sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you onto his lap. 

He responds to your kiss with urgency and need, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every curve and contour, tracing over your skin with a kind of hunger and reverence. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you onto his lap, his grip firmer now, his own need and hunger growing more intense. 

He breaks the kiss, his breath heavy as he looks into your eyes, his gaze filled with a mix of desire and a hint of something more, a feeling that he can't quite comprehend.

“You’re so hard..” you murmur, feeling his clothed length pressing into your wet cunt. 

He moans softly at the feeling, his breath catches as you speak, and a low growl escapes him as he responds. "You... do this to me." His voice is low, his hands gripping your hips firmly, guiding you closer to him. "I can't control this... this feeling. I need you..." He admits, the sensations coursing through him overwhelming, his body responding to your proximity to him.

You begin to slowly move your hips against his, shaking as the roughness of the fabric brushes over your overstimulated clit. "Then take me.." you whisper into his ear, kissing and nipping at his neck.

He growls softly, his breath catches in his throat as you move against him, his senses flooding with sensations, his breathing is shallow, and his hands tighten on your hips. His eyes burn with hunger, his body moving in unison with yours. "I don't know if I can be gentle, Y/N," he whispers, his voice hoarse and desperate, "I need you. Now."

With trembling hands, Sergei guides you back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. He can't ignore the need pounding through him, but he's cautious, knowing this is new to him. He carefully positions himself over you, his large hands supporting his weight as he aligns his cock with your entrance. 

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, but the heat in them is unmistakable. "Y/N, are you sure?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. You nod eagerly, your body arching up to meet his. He takes a deep breath, and with one swift, gentle thrust, he enters you, filling you completely. 

His eyes squeeze shut tightly as he feels you stretch around him, his whole body shaking with the effort to hold back his desire. He's so thick, so warm, and the sensation sends a new wave of pleasure through your core. 

"So good," he murmurs against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he starts to move, his hips tentatively pushing in and out. His inexperience is evident in his careful movements, but the need in his touch, the way his body responds to yours, is undeniably erotic. 

You wrap your legs around him, urging him to go deeper, and he responds, his strokes becoming more confident as he finds a rhythm that has you both panting and moaning in sync. Despite his lack of experience, his instincts guide him, and every touch, every stroke feels like it was designed to make you lose control. 

His gentle, yet firm grip on your hips, the way he kisses and nips at your neck, it's all too much, and you can feel another orgasm building, threatening to shatter you apart. "Y/N... I'm... I'm going to... " he stammers, his body tensing as he nears his release. 

With a final, deep thrust, he fills you with his stringy thick cum, his body collapsing on top of yours, his breath hot against your neck. He reaches down to your clit, brushing his forefinger over it desperate to make you cum again. 

A few more strokes cause you to shudder and tremble around his, your pussy clenching around his cock as you cum. “Holy shit.. you’re so good,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his hungrily.

[goldsbitch]

remember that

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. But everyone need assurance that they are still loved sometimes. The first time Lando almost slept on a couch blurb

warning: couple fight, angst

It was bad. This time, it was really fucking bad.

After weeks of snarky comments being swallowed in, the "it's fine" line being burned into Lando's ears almost on a daily basis and growing minutes Y/N had to wait before Lando decided to respond to her texts, shit finally hit the fan.

They hadn't seen each other for two weeks now. Inevitable fight broke out right as he crossed the threshold. Postponed dates and forgotten dinners lined up. They couldn't help themselves and put it all on the table. First it was the fact she didn't smile upon seeing him, then it was a reminder that he promised to bring something from Italy and forgot. It went on and on and on. She sat at the dinning table, while he leaned over at the kitchen counter.

"Lando, sometimes it feels like I'm in a relationship with your assistant and not you! For heaven sake, this week I had to call him, once again, when I could not reach you. Do you know how embarrassing it is?" she half-screamed into her hands.

Lando took a breath so deep an average yoga teacher would be jealous. "How am I suppose to be expected to pick up on a race day. You know that I get super busy and distracted."

"Funny how you never were when we started dating," she murmured bitterly.

He had to turn away, couldn't watch his love giving up on him just because they were not in the honeymoon stage anymore. "Yes, but now I'm winning races! Closer to my dream that I've ever been. It's different now."

"I'm glad I met you back then, because obviously you'd not date me if we met now," she couldn't stop those words that rotted in her coming out.

A beat. Maybe it was time to actually break the rule for once and go to sleep angry, because it was getting out of hand. "You know what, that's probably true and it breaks my heart that once I start doing well, you're suddenly not the supporting girlfriend anymore."

A crushing blow. "Tell me how am I suppose to support you if you don't even answer my phone! We used to talk for hours!

"Maybe understand that I can't!"

"I do! But you can't assume that I'll let you push me away completely!"

Lando thew his hands up in desperation. How could she not see it? "I'm coming here to you whenever I have a slightest chance! And I come what? You constantly dragging me through the mud."

"Oh interesting you mention that. How sad that your assistant had to remind you of my sensitive skin before you having him book me an "apology mud massage" when you cancelled on me few weeks ago," se shot, knowing it would hit the target.

"How do you even know that!" he said, unable to comprehend that he did not even control his paid assistant, not mention his own life anyway.

"Well, I talk a lot to you assistant! And he slips up!" It was a weird friendship between people who both wished they could get a little more info out of Lando.

"That's it. I can't deal with this now," he said, with the intention to sleep on the couch for the first time in their relationship. He didn't even know why he chose that action, walking towards their bedroom and dramatically bringing a pillow and a blanket over to the sofa, but if this is what couples did when the fought, there must have been a reason for it.

It absolutely infuriated her. Sparked up something she hoped she'd never feel. "Oh, sleep tight." she spitted with bitter undertone.

"I will!"

//

They walked around each other in silence, him getting ready to sleep on the couch and her cutting her skincare short this time and spending more time debating whether to close the bedroom door as they usually would or leave it open. Just in case.

He could hear her shifting back and forth. It angered him a little bit, since he was the one playing a cruel joke on his already tired muscles.

Thousand things she wanted to say and only one came to her mind in a form of an actual sentence. There goes nothing. "Do you still feel good about this?"

"What?" he whispered, not expecting her to speak to him again before the next day.

"Nevermind, forget I asked."

"About what!" He hated when she did this. If you didn't catch up at the first moment, she did not give you a second chance.

"Do you still feel good about us, being together?" She cursed herself for asking this. Dangerous questions brought up explosive answers. She wished for a reassurance and a rejection. She snuggled deeper into her blanket and turned around to face the door. As if wishing for him to stand there and coming back to her.

Lando hated her question. In fact, it made him furious again. But it was a peace offering, he had already learned that before. "Even here, lying on the bloody couch, because we're fighting...It's the place I wanna be at."

Anxiety kicked in Y/N. "What, you mean like away from me?"

He laughed lightly. She was always thinking the worst. "No, silly. The exact opposite...We could both be at thousand different places at the moment. But we're not. And for me at least, it's because like---I want to be with you. I hate that we'd drifted apart lately. I'd love to be in bed with you, laughing without a care in the world, like we usually do. But, we can't do that now. And yet, I'd rather be left on the couch if I know you're next door than all alone in my bed." His words hit like small drops of rain after a long draught.

She whispered, choosing her words carefully. "You're my twin flame. You make my soul light up in fire, make me feel like I'm the sun. Do you know what my biggest fear is?"

Lando also tuned into sweeter tone, one that was more familiar from days filled with sunshine. "What, my love?"

"That we're gonna burn out. You and me, ending up like an epic love story. The good ones work because they end in tragedy."

"You're always so poetic," he smiled, proud to think he was her love story.

"There is no other way to describe how you'd changed my life. Flipped it upside down the moment you walked into the same room."

Lando chucked. "Yeah, remember that?"

"How could I not."

"You were not having a good day."

Finally, she spoke loudly again. "So, what? Everything was going to shit and the event we were doing had to be perfect before the 'important people' arrived".

"Such an ego boost to know I was your priority before you even met me," he uttered, happy to push her buttons.

"Oh, and you were so cocky! Just laughing around, like we were some sort of comedy sketch."

"Well, I'm sorry, have you heard yourself when you're upset? The way how your voice goes up seven octaves higher?" he laughed, his breath feeling lighter now.

"Coming from you, that's rich! You were giggling in a tone so high the elderly couldn't hear you!"

"I'm so happy I managed to bag the grumpiest person in the building. And bare in mind there must have been around 500 people there."

"980 if you could in staff as well."

He let out a heavy sigh. "You with your pristine memory."

She paused before responding. "Yes. Wish I didn't have that sometimes."

"Wish I had at least a pinch of that."

Silence fell in both rooms. Heavy breath and wondering eyes. The lack of their touch suddenly being more obvious than before. Playing a contest who will reach out first.

"Lando?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Can you back here, please?" she said, somewhat nervously. Lando took a pause. There was nothing he wished for more. It hurt to fight. But he figured a relationship needed that sometimes. As the poets say, you loose a woman when you forget to cherish her. He liked to think this went both ways. And they both started slacking a bit. He could only affect his own behavior, with the hope that she'd also come to the same understanding.

"I'd like nothing more in the world, my love."

[oceantornadoo]

ch6 the wrong john | masterlist | next

tw: idiots in love acting like idiots, reader is insecure i fear

john price x f!reader, reader is johnny’s twin

--

Your cat likes John better than you and you can’t seem to care.

He coaxes her into the carrier with ease and you watch it like you’re not there, instead floating above your body. John’s hands rummage through your dressers, packing underwear and shirts and pants into the same suitcase you used when you visited base. There’s a joke in there somewhere but you can’t seem to find it, words turning to ash in your mouth. Johnny is missing, so there’s no reason to laugh. All you can do is stand in the corner, holding your cat’s carrier, watching a captain commandeer your apartment like it’s a mission. In five minutes, John has fit your necessities into two bags and has you out the door with a hand on your back. 

“You didn’t tell me her name yet.” You blink and there’s a black car in front of you, John’s hand pushing you into the passenger seat while he puts your stuff in the back and gets into the driver's side. The cat is on your lap, somehow not throwing a fit at her new home.

“Bubbles.” He hums, gunning the engine and turning the car into the familiar path to the airport. “Bubbles?” You glance out of the window, noting the day is as dreary as you feel. “She has a mohawk. Like Jo- my brother. He’s Soap, so I thought Bubbles…” Your throat tightens. Johnny’s missing and you’re sitting here with your cat, making stupid puns he would love.

John squeezes your thigh and returns his hand to the wheel. The loss of it is a shot to the heart. Now, you’re a victim to him. Sadness is not sexy. It’s painful but you try not to think of it too much. Everything is falling apart anyway.

“We’ll find him, sweetheart. Can tell ya more on the plane.” Everything is in slow motion. Bubbles licks your fingers through the mesh of her carrier and you focus on it like your life depends on it. 

“I’m supposed to work tomorrow.” 

“Already called ‘em. Y’r on sabbatical.”

“My plants…”

“Left a note f’ y’r neighbors.”

“How can I pay rent if I’m not working?”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. ‘ve got ya.” 

You nod and close your eyes, wishing everything away like a bad dream. When you wake, you’re on a small military plane. Bubbles is next to you, buckled in. You reach for your phone to take a picture for Johnny, to show him your military cat, but your hand drops when you remember. The heat of John’s stare burns the side of your face, and it takes a few seconds, but you finally gather enough courage to face him. The look in his eyes is haunting. You can’t tell, but John’s been replaying the moment he lost two of his men over and over since it happened. When he closes his eyes, it’s all he sees. Opening his eyes is worse, seeing you in pain and knowing he can’t do anything to immediately fix it.

“Was s’pposed t’ be an easy mission. They got the drop on us. Would’ve been so easy to take all four but they only took Soap an’ Ghost. Ghost’s only family is Soap so we think they’re goin’ to target you next. They’ve got a vendetta against y’r brother. Old wounds an’ all that. You’ll be on base where y’r protected.” He pauses for a second. It’s now dawning on him that you’ll be a few meters away, the fantasy he’s been wanting, but under the worst circumstances. “Questions, sweetheart?” Only one.

“Will you find him?”

“I will. Don’t care what I’ve got to do to do it.”

When you get to base, Kyle is there. He’s looking worse for the wear, a new scar decorating his eyebrow. “You look very chic, Kyle.” He shakes his head, pulling you into a hug. “‘m sorry, angel. We’re gonna find him.” It’s the first time it’s really hit you. Maybe it’s the fact that this is only the second time you’ve met Kyle and he’s already treating you like family on account of your brother. Tears form in your eyes and he tugs you closer, rubbing your back as you cry. You remember you’re still out in the open, standing in front of countless guards, and start taking deep breaths to calm the tears. “It’s ok, let it out.” You nod against him, then pull back to wipe the tears away. Bubbles meows, desparate for attention, and Kyle’s ears perk up at the sound. “‘m goin’ to walk you to your quarters an’ you’re goin’ to tell me when you got a cat.” John’s already ahead of him, your bags in his hands, so you turn to Kyle and hand him the cat carrier. “So it all started with a dumpster…”

There aren’t spare quarters in the task force’s section of base, so you’re staying in Johnny’s. As if that wasn’t already terrible, you’re across the hall from John’s quarters. John’s disappeared, the bags he packed for you neatly set near Johnny’s bed. Kyle brings you to the room, already having bonded with Bubbles, and promises that someone will be by with dinner. Every second is precious to find your brother, so you can’t blame them both for having to leave.

Your idiot twin didn’t even make his bed before he left. You tidy his room, ignoring your shaking hands, then venture out with a bag of his laundry just to give you something to do. A kind lieutenant in the hallway directs you, and you can feel pitying eyes follow you to the laundry room. A civilian staying multiple nights on base is unheard of, but the rest of the soldiers there are used to the task force operating by their own rules. It seems some groups have left, the building feeling emptier and less lively since you last visited. Or maybe they’re just giving you space in this time of half-mourning, this purgatory of doubt. While you wait for Johnny’s clothes, you try to remember the path to John’s office. It takes you a few backtracks, but you finally make it back to where this all started. You raise your hand to knock, but a bit of eavesdropping reveals there’s at least five people in the room. Not wanting intrude, you go back to Johnny’s room and wait. Waiting seems to be the only thing you can do.

Hours later, after a tasteless dinner of mess hall food, you still can’t fall asleep. It’s past midnight and base is quiet. In your state of delirium, you drag yourself out of bed and outside your room, feet tracing an easy path to John’s room. It feels selfish, seeking him out when your twin is probably in some sort of hell, but you can’t prevent your hand from reaching his door. You knock twice, then curse yourself as the logical half of your brain wakes up and asks what the hell you’re doing. It’s too late to turn back. “Come in.”

John’s sitting at a small desk shuffling through papers. He’s got on blue light glasses you’ve never seen before, and the utter attractiveness of them stops your mouth from opening. He still hasn’t looked up yet, making small notes on the papers in front of him. “What is it?” Finally, John’s head tilts up, then straightens when he realizes it’s you. “I’m sorry, I’ll go-” “Don’t. ‘M sorry sweetheart, didn’t realize it was you.” You twist your hands together, feeling awkwardly uninvited. His space is hardly lived in, no personal effects to be found except a blue blanket on his bed.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you?” You nod, taking a step closer to his desk. “Couldn’t sleep.” He nods back, eyes shining with understanding. Rolling out his chair from under his desk, he spreads his legs in invitation. You answer it silently, shuffling towards him until you’re standing in between them. His actions are so at odds with how avoidant he was in the morning, but you’re too tired to care. Rough hands caress the outside of your upper thighs, then move up to your hips and waist. He rubs small circles, similar to how he did during your bathroom confrontation months earlier, and the motion already starts to calm you. John scoots closer to the edge of his chair until his face is flush to your clothed stomach. Instantly, you reach out to pull him in, hands sinking into the strands of his hair until you feel his glasses poke your stomach. His hands settle above your ass, never stopping their circular caresses. The angle is slightly awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, namely being this close to the man that haunts your dreams. The two of you stand in almost-silence, breaths syncing until you can’t tell where his start and yours end.

“Sleepwithme.” You pull back until your hands cradle his face, smoothing over the creases your shirt left on his skin. “What?” He releases his hold on you to take off his glasses, setting them down on his desk. “Sleep with me.” Your heart drops, hands leaving his face. The implication that you two only seek each other out for sex is clear, and you can’t even blame him since that’s how it started. He frowns at you. “I’m not really in the mood for sex, I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow or…” John shakes his head, standing from his desk chair. “I meant jus’ sleep, sweetheart. Can’t blame you f’ jumpin’ to conclusions, I know I’m irresistible.” You roll your eyes, shoving him away. John catches your arm and pulls you into him, tucking your head under his chin like you were made to fit together. You let him hold you, nuzzling into him like you did the first night you meant. “I take this as a yes?” You nod against him. John turns off the light and ushers you into his bed. It’s a bit small for two until he tugs you on top of him, chest to chest. Your legs tangle, your arms flaying about for a better position until he tucks them around his broad shoulders. You can feel his muscles contract with every breath, how his heart beats strong as you shuffle your head up and into the crook of his shoulder. 

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

When you wake in the morning, your core is throbbing, and not in a good way. Your period’s early, a symptom of how deranged your mental state has become, and it would be fine until you remember the man under you. The man who’s seen you naked but not like this, not vulnerable in a way you can’t control. Early morning sun peaks through his curtains, reminding you that you’ve only slept for a couple of hours. The light reveals a small stain of blood on your pajama shorts and John’s boxers, a bit on his chest since he slept shirtless. It’s your worst nightmare.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You whisper-yell. John’s up and moving before you have the chance to take stock of the situation. Always a man with a plan, he peels you off of him, pushing you towards his ensuite bathroom. He murmurs sweet nothings you’re sure are empty platitudes, just him being nice. 

“‘S okay, jus’ some blood, pet.”

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”

“Take a shower, be there in a second.”

In the shower, you want to bang your head against the tiled wall. The shock of your period almost erases the memory of Johnny being missing until it comes back in full force, along with worser cramps. Tears stream down your face, washed away quickly by the shower. Everything is unfair, and your hormones join the party to make it worse. That’s where John finds you, wiping away the puffiness under your eyes as the water turns cold.

“None of that, pet.” There’s still blood on his chest and he notices the same time as you do, shucking off his boxers and joining you under the shower spray. It’s not sexy, the first time you shower with John. You feel stripped raw, maneuvering yourself into the corner so he can have the water. John’s having none of it, tugging you into his arms. 

“John…” You murmur. Satisfied that you’re clean, he reaches around you to turn off the water. He’s so nonchalant that you’re both bare, that your body is bloated and sore in all the wrong ways. 

“What?” He finally replies. Getting out first, he hands you a towel, then grabs another to wrap around his waist. There’s a pair of your underwear on the counter, clean, and you question how he got it without leaving his bedroom. It’s a mystery not worth your time. He hands you a container of pads and tampons. 

“Where’d you get this?”

“My cabinet.”

“...Why do you have these?”

“Jus’ like to be considerate is all.”

His thoughtfulness collides with the fact that he has period products for any menstruating woman in his bedroom. Does this happen often? Do women’s bodies sense how safe and nuturing he is and just let loose?

“Jesus, why aren’t you someone’s boyfriend yet?” You mutter it, mainly to yourself, as you’re sticking a pad on your underwear. John’s head snaps up at you, eyes questioning. “What’re ya talkin’ about?” You ignore him in favor of putting on your underwear, stumbling with wet legs until John catches your shoulder. “That. This. All of this. The fucking period products. You’re like a walking template for husbands. How are you single?” Finally, you’re eye to eye with him, gripping your respective towels. His brow is furrowed, stubble slightly outgrown in a way you’re itching to feel. His eyes, normally blue like the ocean, are stormy. “Didn’t think I was single.” Um.

He walks out of the bathroom and you follow him to his closet where he’s digging for new boxers. “You have a girlfriend? How could you not…oh my god. I’m such an idiot. What, is she waiting for you at home somewhere?” Clothed in new boxers, he finally hits you with the force of his full glare. You almost step back under the cloud of his anger. “There is no girlfriend waiting at home. I thought you were waiting for me. Guess I miscalculated.” The weight of his words drags down your shoulders. You sit in his desk chair, mute as he gathers a clean set of fatigues. It’s only when he’s putting on his belt you finally find your voice.

“You thought we were dating?” He scoffs at your question. “Clearly, we’re not. Guess that one’s on me.” You fumble for something to say. “John, I told you, we can’t.” He shakes his head, and you note how he has to try twice to get his belt through his pant loops. “We can call and fuck and sleep, but we can’t date. Thanks for clearin’ that up, sweetheart.” He’s already lacing his boots and you’re still in his fucking towel, dripping water onto the floor. John approaches you and for a heartstopping second you think he’ll kiss you, but he just reaches around you to grab the paperwork on his desk. “Well, hope you feel better. I’ll be out workin’.” You nod silently, tracking his footsteps to the door. “John.” He stops with a hand on the doorknob. It’s the most vulnerable thing he’s ever done. Your tongue fumbles to find the right words, the right order to say them in, but all you can settle on is a “Thank you.” He shakes his head, not turning back when he replies. “I’ll see you later.” You busy yourself with gathering your bloody clothes, finding a T-shirt of his to wear so you don’t step into the hall naked. Tears threaten to fall but you choke them back, refusing to cry over him.

When that nice lieutenant finds you again, she tells you John’s been deployed, and he won’t come back until he finds your brother.

-

is anyone noticing how he uses different petnames based on the circumstances? no, just me? also i swear this has a happy ending we just have some idiots in love.

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[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture

Here is the post that started this fic. A Batman x Invincible crossover for the usual neglected!batsis!reader, enjoy!

CW: Gore, not explicit beyond mentioning the wound and blood- but yk.

Chapter 1 >>next

It’s weird how easily something can be taken away, in the blink of an eye, the passing of a second- a millisecond. Was it a second? Was it longer? A minute? Time slowed down so much that it was like a dream, a horrible nightmare. “It couldn’t be- it’s not real-” is all you thought as you saw the smoke of the gun, the small sparkle it made as it shot the bullet. Your terrified eyes followed it even as you knew the target, but how could you pull your eyes away?

You couldn’t. Not when it hits your mom, piercing her neck and hitting the ground behind her. You didn’t even notice as the teen who was trying to mug you ran away, just as terrified at what he had done as you. All you could see was your mom in your tiny arms, blood falling from her wound, splashing onto your tear-stained face and seeping into the cracks of your hands as you tried to put pressure on the hole, like in the movies, the movies mama always said you shouldn’t watch.

You never listened to that- maybe it’s why tonight she didn’t listen to you. You told her, begged her not to go through Crime Alley, the shadows warning you to stay on the main road, in the light, “Not through Crime Alley, never through Crime Alley” they whispered. But mama just smiled at you, caressed your worried face, and said it’ll be fine. She should have listened to you.

A warm hand touched your shoulder, squeezing softly. “-Kid?” a gruff voice, despite how soft he was trying to be, almost yelled, concern cutting clean through his blank façade. Your eyes meet his, the officer who brought you to the station, Gordon, that’s what that one policeman called him.

The older man couldn’t blame you, he wouldn’t be able to even if he tried. A kid as young as you, seeing what you saw, having to hold your mom while she died… They cleaned her blood off, out of your hair, from your face, and wrapped you in the softest, warmest blanket they could find, that’s the best they could do, the best he could do.

His lips moved, but you weren’t really listening. Sure, your eyes were on him, your body sitting on the armchair in his office, but your mind wasn’t anywhere near what was going on in the present. “-is that alright with you, hon’?” at his question you could only nod.

“That’s good. You’ll see, Bruce is a great man, he’s already adopted a son, so I’m sure he’d love you the same way. You’re his daughter- he’d be happy to know you-“Gordon started rambling and you stopped listening. He was nervous, clearly not used to dealing with traumatized kids. With time he’ll get better at that, despite his hopes of never having to deal with something like this again.

Bruce. Bruce Wayne, yes. The man you saw on TV, every time with a different woman, if not in an embarrassing situation. Yes, you remember now. They took your blood, ran it through the system. To try and find family, relatives so that you wouldn’t be sent to the overcrowded orphanage. You found it silly at the time- how could they possibly do that?

No matter. The billionaire was found to be a match, and you didn’t know how to feel. You just wanted your mami, that’s all you wanted but they wouldn’t let you see her. How could they not? She was your mami, even if she was mean sometimes, even if she forgot about you sometimes. That man was never in your life- a dad isn’t supposed to not be in your life. A father is supposed to be there to love and nurture, always, Bruce wasn’t.

The sound of Gordon’s office door opening startled you, head moving to look behind you. It wasn’t an officer, and it wasn’t Bruce. The man was too old, too skinny. He had greying hair, slicked back, and a strange mustache too. But mama always said never to say that out loud.

Gordon seemed surprised too. Alfred, Gordon called the old man, said that Bruce was preoccupied with other matters, didn’t have the time to pick you up himself. You felt critiqued under Alfred’s gaze like he was picking you apart, judging eyes catching every imperfection.

Sure, you looked more like your mom, but the policemen said that there was no way the results were wrong. They wouldn’t lie, right? These are childish thoughts, but you’ll learn later in life that everyone lies.

You were losing track of time. Trauma, Gordon called it. It must be something bad if he whispered it the way mama whispered things that you weren’t meant to hear. You don’t remember getting into a car, you don’t remember walking through the front gates of the Wayne Manor, but you remember the tight lip of Alfred as he put you in the car, the way he sat you in your room, the way he took your blood like the cops did, the warm meal.

You haven’t had a meal this good- well. You’ve never had a meal this good. But it wasn’t worth it to you, not when the bedroom was so cold, so dark, so lacking in the coziness of the little apartment you and your mama stayed in. It felt sterile, like a hospital. You didn’t even meet Bruce that night, he was your father, why wasn’t he here, comforting you as you took the pillow and covers and hid yourself against the wall, under the bed, seeking a snug, warm embrace while you cried? Where was your dad when you needed him the most?

Notes: I am surprisingly proud of this first chapter, minimal changes from the first draft, set the mood I wanted. The second chapter is in the making, I'm not quite as happy with that one but I'll get there :)

I haven't decided yet if this will be a slow burn until the Invincible part of the fic so if the next 2 chapters aren't time skips expect it to be a slow burn.

Also the gore warning will probably be a constant considering it's Invincible and my batfam is more like the movies, aka there's blood that's red not black... and joker... I doubt he won't make an appearance.

I'll also make a masterlist for no other reason than I need it to keep track of stuff :)))

[lordprettyflackotara]

decode || ticci toby || part two

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: overstimulation, brief descriptions of blood? moral delima , choking, toby’s a lil rough but it’s okay

Toby did not come back to see you.

It wasn’t anything personal. If anything it was for your own good.

Toby thought he did a good job at attempting to forget you. It had been a few months, the sound of your voice beginning to disappear in his memories. He had protected you by not mentioning you to anyone around him. His continuous obedience made The Operator completely forget about you. This didn’t stop Toby from wondering though. How you were, what did your dreams actually mean, what kind of attachment did the two of you have? He steered clear of the missions revolving around the forest. He opted to take on more complex tasks in the city. These tasks were much more hard for him considering his gruff appearance was far from traditional. He couldn’t explain why he wanted to switch either, Masky and Hoodie figuring he must be sick and unable to feel it.

Toby never really had an opinion on anything, nevertheless a preference when it came to missions. He did what he did when instructed and went on about his day. The Operator didn’t think much about it at all, while Masky and Hoodie came up with their own conspiracy theories. The longer Toby stayed away from the woods, away from you, the better things would be. That was of course, until he was forced to run into the forest for cover.

He zipped through the trees, grunting as he held onto his leg. The bastard that was supposed to be his target had more backup than he had anticipated. Physically Toby couldn’t feel the pain, but the blood gushing out of his leg indicated he wouldn’t be able to escape much more if he kept applying pressure to his right leg by walking. Toby scanned the area, his vision beginning to see multi colored specs from the blood loss. The mansion was no where near here. He dug in his pocket, scrambling to grab the cell phone Ben had custom made for him. The glass was shattered from irresponsible care, his thumb shaking as he tried to power it on. The screen failed to flash to life, causing Toby to panic. He was careless as always, not charging the stupid magical block.

He gripped it in his hand, continuing to limp deeper into the woods. In the distance he could hear yelling, the men seemingly too scared to chase after him in the eerie forest. Toby was becoming light headed, his tattered jeans soaked with crimson as he struggled to carry himself. Without any other option, Toby had one simple thought: he was fucked. He had lost one of his axes in battle, having thrown it at an opponents skull. He was down a weapon and possibly bleeding out. If he was smart he would’ve stopped running, allowing his leg to stay still. At least then he could’ve tied something around it to try to prevent the blood loss. But his well being never came first. As a proxy, your responsibility was to never be found. Dead or not.

Toby had no doubt he had out ran his pursuers, but the risk of being found in the forest by an explorer was too risky. He leaned against a tree, his vision becoming more dazed by the moment. He was tragically dizzy, his hand scraping against the bark of the oak tree before hitting the ground as he sank into unconsciousness.

\/

Slowly blinking his eyes the sun was bright and merciless, causing him to screw his eyes shut before blinking rapidly. He forced himself to sit up, surprised to see himself in a living room. He pushed himself up all of the way, his jeans discarded and leg bandaged. "You look like shit,” You commented. His gaze landed on you, your legs crossed and a cup of tea in your hand. “Cup of tea on the table for you. Chamomile,” You offered. Toby couldn’t believe his eyes, seeing you right in front of him. He felt rather stiff, awkwardly popping his shoulders as he rolled them down his back. He reached over, grabbing the cup of tea with a shaky hand. “How’d you find m-me?” Toby asked. You shrugged, sipping your tea. “You ended up in my neck of the woods,” You replied. If it weren’t for Toby’s shock he would’ve chuckled, all of the forest belonged to The Operator.

“My turn, how’d you get shot in the leg?” You asked, looking at Toby over the rim of your teacup. Toby blinked, realizing his goggles were no longer over his eyes. “Assignment g-g-gone wrong. How do y-you know medical s-shit?” Toby questioned. You tilted your head to the side, setting your cup of tea aside. “What are you? An assassin?” You countered. Toby rolled his eyes, frowning. “W-what are you? A d-doctor?” He quipped. You leaned back in your chair, smoothing down your pajama pants decorated with little dogs. “Well played. How about I ask you something much more important?” You suggested. Toby set down his teacup on your coffee table, noting it was made of glass.

“What happened to your face?”

Your question made Toby’s blood run cold, his eyes widening. He brought his fingertips to his gashed cheek, feeling the breeze of the AC. While knocked out you had taken off his mask. Toby went to spring at you, unable to feel his wounded leg and falling over. He fell onto the floor, grunting in frustration as he glanced down at his leg. You quickly crouched down next to him, cupping his wounded face with your small hand. “Hey, calm down, I just want to help you,” You say softly. Toby pushed himself up, shoving away your helping hand as he forced himself to stand. “Y-you can’t help me. I’m a m-motherfucking p-proxy,” He spat. You stood up as well, your eyebrows furrowed as Toby struggled to stay standing upright. “Is that what this means?” You asked. You grabbed his hand, flipping it over so that his palm was exposed. You had taken off his soiled bandages, revealing the chewed away flesh from him gnawing at his hands. However it also revealed something you found much more concerning, the proxy symbol carved into the palm of his hand. “Y-Yes. It’s also w-why I must leave,” Toby said, pulling his hand away from yours. He tried to reason with himself. Your intentions seemed pure, you saved him when you didn’t have to.

You didn’t understand and truthfully you couldn’t, Toby could never tell you about his life. You could never be apart of anything that involved him. If you did it promised you death, something Toby didn’t want for you. You grabbed his arm as he hobbled over to the dining room, noticing his clothes were cleaned and folded, sitting on the table. Your grasp made him willingly stop, his chocolate eyes meeting yours. “How do you not feel that? Your leg? The bullet broke into eight pieces. I had to extract it myself,” You asked. Toby stopped in his place. He sighed, realizing he might as well answer truthfully since you’d seen all of his secrets. “I-I don’t feel p-pain. Some sort of n-neurological disorder,” He answered honestly. You released his arm, watching him unfold his clothes. Toby felt bad for a brief moment, having you go through all of this effort for nothing in return. “There’s something that keeps drawing us to one another. I know you feel it,” You said. Toby paused for a moment, knowing the tug at his heart strings made your statement true. But he couldn’t risk it. Not only was everyone in his life dangerous, but he himself was a hazard.

“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” Toby argued. You grabbed his shoulder, turning him around to face you. “Yes you do! You’re telling me you get shot and somehow conveniently i’m there? I haven’t seen you in months and you don’t even thank me-” You began rambling, your rant being cut off by Toby’s lips pressing against yours. Teeth clashed with teeth, the kiss hot and heavy as he brought you closer to him. Toby couldn’t think, he refused to think. If he allowed himself to have anymore thoughts revolving you, it would become an infatuation. He’d become obsessed with the fantasies, obsessed with making them a reality. But there was no reality where the two of you could be together. The closest that he could get, was allowing himself to have you just this once. He guided you towards the dining room table, watching you jump up as his lips trailed down your neck. He began sucking harshly at the skin, nipping at it with his teeth. He liked the way you shuddered under the sensation. “I’m g-gonna thank you. T-then we’re d-done,” Toby huffed, feeling his cock growing hard in his boxers.

He grabbed the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. He quickly unclipped your bra, knowing time was running short. The proxies and/or The Operator were definitely looking for him by now. He leaned down, peppering your chest with kisses before tossing the bra aside. He brought himself to your left nipple, taking it in his mouth eagerly. You groaned, his spare hand slithering down to your clothed cunt. “F-fuck-” You whimpered, bucking your hips against his hand. Toby could feel his cock aching, dying to allow himself to fully have you. But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. “I c-can’t fuck you. B-but you’re gonna cum on my face,” He panted, releasing your nipple with a pop. He pushed you to lay back on the table, his hands fiddling with undressing you. Toby lowered himself onto his knees, ignoring the pressure he may have been applying to his wound.

He could feel the bandage soaking with fresh blood, something Toby willingly ignored. It would give him an excuse to stay longer and it wasn’t like he could feel it anyways. Toby grabbed your legs, throwing them over his shoulders. The brunette was nothing if not a determined, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. “S-such a pretty p-p-pussy,” He purred. You could feel your face flush pink, your hand finding his shaggy hair. Toby buried himself into your folds, mimicking what he had seen during porn. He listened to your body cues intently, noting which licks and sucks made you squirm the most. Toby couldn’t imagine anything hotter than making you cum in his face. It was not only a thank you, but also a memory he could look back on for the rest of his existence. His large hands kept your thighs pried open, his slender fingers digging into your plush skin. Toby didn’t really have any grasp of what being too rough was like, considering bruises were beginning to form from his harsh grip.

He lapped and sucked at your clit, making mental notes of what made you moan louder for him. His name sounded like heaven falling off of your tongue. Your unholy noises were shameless, echoing off of the walls. “T-Toby, please use your fingers, or something, please,” You whined, your soft eyes fluttered shut. Toby unsurely brought two of his fingers to your sopping wet entrance, briefly pulling away from your slick. He tried to listen to your body’s cues, your walls immediately clinging to his fingers and pulling them in further. You groaned at the stretch, your body trembling. Toby noted how tight your cunt was, compared to anything he had encountered in previous experiences. He spread his fingers out with a scissoring motion, before experimenting with how to make you feel the best way possible. To Toby it felt awkward, him trying to navigate the best way to ruin you. But you thought he was teasing, purposefully drawing out the experience. It was when he curled his fingers your back arched off of the table.

Bingo.

Toby curled his fingers again, grinning as your body reacted just the way he wanted it to. “You like that huh?” Toby asked mockingly, before reattaching his lips to your clit. He sucked harshly at the bud, finger fucking you as fast as he could. Your moans were incoherent babbles, your heart racing as the knot in your stomach tightened. “Oh my f- shit,” You moaned, your thighs tightening around Toby’s head. You bit your bottom lip, attempting to maintain some kind of composure as Toby devoured your cunt. Your attempt was cut short, your orgasm suddenly crashing over you as you came on Toby’s face. This didn’t stop the brunette, his fingers fucking you through your orgasm. It was only when he was running out of breath he pulled away from your clit. “Cmere,” He grumbled lowly, rising to his feet. His fingers continued to abuse your g spot, your sights dazed as you sat up. With his spare hand he grabbed your throat, squeezing the sides of it tenderly. You whined, the restriction of your airway only making you feel more euphoric. “Y-you like that? You l-like when I treat you like my p-p-personal whore?” Toby asked. He liked seeing how blown your pupils were with lust, your thighs trembling as he overstimulated you.

“It’s too much,” You whimpered, gasping as his grip on your throat tightened. He could feel your walls flutter around his fingers, Toby grinning sadistically as he shoved in a third digit. “T-too much? Cmon w-whore. Give me one m-more,” Toby commanded. You tilted your head back as brought you closer and closer to the edge. You tried to squeeze your thighs shut, Toby’s hand temporarily abandoning your cunt and slapping your thigh. “O-open em bitch,” He growled. You did as instructed with trembling legs, Tory abruptly shoving three fingers back inside of you. You finally met his dark gaze, his eyes filled with something far more sinister than you could understand as he glared down at you. You grabbed onto his wrist as you came again, your body shaking as you released again. Toby was going to continue, his own desires overriding your own, until a ringing from your doorbell made him stop dead in his tracks. He tried to not look as horrified as he felt, the brunette immediately pulling away. You swallowed, trying to get yourself pulled together as Toby scrambled to grab his clothes.

The doorbell rang again, this time causing him to hobble around hopelessly. You grabbed the remainder of his clothes, handing it to him. “Shh, go in the bathroom. It’s probably just a salesman or something,” You whispered. You guided him to your bathroom, shoving him inside. Toby grumbled to himself unhappily as he shoved on his clothes, realizing he left his axe on your dining room table. In the faint distance Toby could hear static, his heart dropping as he realized the fun was over. Without another thought he slipped on his boots and goggles, climbing out of the bathroom window and darting towards the woods.

[qodlysinz]

Behind That Mask

—The Day of the Jackal—

Pairing: Alexander “Jackal” Duggan x Reader

Summary: The Jackal can’t do much without the help of his trusty hacker—who incidentally flirts with him any chance she got. Jackal is displeased.

Tags: second person pov, female pronouns used, depictions of blood, mentions of guns and violence, fighting, swearing, light angst (like very light, blink and you’d miss it), heavy flirting, reader is a hacker and former MI6 agent, italics is dialogue through the comms, reader’s nationality isn’t mentioned so imagine whatever you want

A/N: The Jackal has like no fanfics and this idea came to me in a dream while I was watching the show. It’s very Penelope Garcia and the BAU but a bit more toned down because not everyone is like Miss PG 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ this idea was gonna be an oc initially but I decided the feed the people instead of let it collect dust in my archives like my ocs usually do

You click your pen meticulously as you examine the schematics of the building Jackal was currently in. You toggled one of the buttons, triggering the body heat sensor. A soft chuckle emitted from you as you saw Jackal’s figure carefully stalking through the building.

“People on your six,” you told him, setting the pen aside, “there’s a closet to your left, go in there till they pass.”

“Too many?” He guessed, his voice coming through the comms. You nodded, though he couldn’t see it, “bingo. About five people. Looks like three of them are carrying guns, and you don’t want to get into a gunfight.”

Jackal’s figure slipped into the closet, his breathing heavy as he waited for your command.

“So.” You started, resting your face in your hands as you stared blissfully at the screen. You heard Jackal sigh. “What do you wanna talk about?”

Jackal was quiet for a moment, but you saw his hand come to rub his temples through the screen. You rolled your eyes. “I have a job to do. No time for your incessant need to try and woo me.” He remarked.

“It’s not incessant,” you argued, “it’s called testing how well you handle distractions, J.” You tapped the side of your head with your finger, brows raised suggestively.

“Obviously I handle them well, otherwise I’d drop you.” He muttered under his breath. “Is it clear?”

You waited for a moment, humming, “not yet, they’re chatting, hold on for a bit.” You replied affirmatively. “Are you saying I’m too good to kill? Wow, what a compliment from your stoic self.”

“Didn’t say kill.” Jackal refuted. You nodded, letting out a soft laugh. Your eyes followed the men as they began to walk off. “You’re good to go.”

Jackal crept out of the closet and walked on through the building. “Where’s the target?” He asked.

You searched through the building, humming a quiet tune as you did so, “floor above you, room in the far-right corner.” You nodded.

You weren’t exactly sure what brought you to this. Helping the famed Jackal get his hits through. You hadn’t even seen his face—at least not without the ridiculous disguises. Not even in the three years you’ve been accomplices. He didn’t trust you yet, but that wasn’t much of a problem to you. If you were in his shoes, you wouldn’t even trust your own family.

Jackal always carried a phone with him; not one he needed to dispose of regularly like he used to. You had been kind enough to rig the phone he had to not be able to be used to track him or the people he was calling. Meaning, whenever you got a call from your lovely, emotionally constipated hitman, it wouldn’t even trace to you. Truly amazing handiwork, if you said so yourself.

A loud gunshot was heard through the comms. “Target down.” He spoke gruffly. His tone was always a bit more choked whenever he dropped a target, but he wasn’t the type to get all mushy and come to you of all people about it.

“Quick exit down the fire escape. Pull the fire alarm as you go, the craze will let you get away without any attention drawn.” You said, shifting to your next computer screen as you heard a ping. “The money is being wired to your account as we speak, Mary Poppins.”

Jackal grumbled at that, the fire alarm blaring as you heard the echo of his steps. “I’ll get back to you when I’m in the clear.” He stated. “Remember our protocol.”

“Roger.” You cut contact and stared at the picture. It was a composite drawing of the Jackal, or, at least what they thought he looked like. It could not have been more far off, and it made you chuckle. You pressed a button, clicking your keys as you sent it to his phone with an amused (and sarcastic) ‘wow I finally saw your face!!’

There had been numerous Jackal facial compositions over the years, and somehow they were all utterly terrible and looked nothing like Jackal, even if you hadn’t seen his true face, you knew he looked nothing like that. It was laughable, really.

Though, each time they popped up, you worked your magic and had them destroyed or lost to the web as a meme some Redditor (aka you on an alternative account) came up with for a random thing made with AI. No one took AI seriously. You didn’t want to risk him getting caught. Even if the sketches were shit.

The first time you ever got involved with Jackal was when he had apparently heard of your ‘impressive work’, as he’d say in that smooth voice of his. You were just some nobody working at a tech company, and you were only twenty-nine at the time in a small apartment in New York. The fact Jackal had gone international just to meet you was a bit flattering, but he was very intimidating and sort of reminded you of Batman if he was skinny and lean. Maybe more like Robin, actually. He was wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a surgical mask to hide his face, which had felt like overkill to you, if you were being honest. It was summer, for christ’s sake.

Nonetheless, Jackal was… somewhat kind. He wouldn’t threaten you. He did at some point, and you had burst into tears—he gave up and hasn’t done it since. You’d think you’d be used to that type of shit in New York.

Since then, you and Jackal have been long distance friends… kind of? You lived in Paris now, since it’d be easier for Jackal to get to you without flying a whole ten hours (which was freakishly far, you wondered where he was in his downtime). Leaving New York was for your own benefit too, of course. You had no family there, and your friends were under the impression you got an amazing job opportunity. Unbeknownst to them, that job opportunity was helping an underground sniping legend. Who you happened to have fallen for a few months into said job. His accent is really what did it, honestly.

After a few more weeks from the last job, Jackal had another one, and you were his confidant yet again. Probably your favorite part of it all, if you were honest. Getting to playfully flirt with him was the highlight of your day, even if it ticked him off a little bit.

This job was in Paris, so, to your delight, Jackal would be on site near you to prepare. You had insisted he stay with you, but, of course, he was as untrusting as a cat and outright refused.

And yet, in the late night, he used the very same overkill disguise when you two first met, and showed to your doorstep.

“Jack, what a surprise.” You said with a snort, opening your door wider for him to enter.

“Police were outside the hotels and Airbnb’s nearby.” He replied gruffly. You chuckled, “they’re on high alert because you’ve been taking more hits lately.” You shrug. “Don’t you think it’s annoying that they couldn’t give less of a fuck if it was a random person than if it was a big name? It’s so pathetic.” You mutter, mostly to yourself as you head towards your kitchen. “Oh, no. A corrupt fascist got popped in the head.” You added sarcastically.

“PR.” Was all he said, dropping his bag on your table, hesitantly removing his cap, a subtle glance at you, skeptic. You cracked a glimpse in his direction. “Oh, you’re a redhead. No wonder you’re so freckly!” You laughed.

Jackal scoffed. “I’m not a redhead.” He denied. You rolled your eyes in amusement, “so you’re just an average white man?” You joked.

“What’re the schematics for the opera house?” He changed the subject and tussled his hair, likely having been in his cap for a while. You got the memo—you were playful but not an idiot, you knew when he wanted to talk business—and nodded and went to your computer setup, muttering to yourself as you pulled it up on your screen. “So, this opera singer really pissed your guy off, huh?” You asked Jackal, going to the main auditorium part of the building.

“I don’t really care.” Jackal leaned over the desk, his hand resting in the back of your chair. As you went through the schematics, he perked up, “hey.”

“Hey~!” You grinned cheekily. He shot you a look of impatience. “No, hey, as in look.” He pointed at the screen. “Will you indulge me just this once?” You asked quietly, but followed Jackal’s finger to the top of the auditorium where a large ring that was mostly inhabited by the richest of the rich was set. But just above that, was the perfect vantage point for Jackal to take the shot.

You hummed, “nice eye.” You praised, looking at him with a grin. “Sure you can take it?”

He huffed at that. “‘Course I can.” He retorted, “show me what it looks like on the inside.”

“So full of demands.” You tut, shaking your head, “one day, you know, I will worm my way into your circle.”

He chuckled dryly, “somehow, I highly doubt that.”

“Why’s that?” You rose a brow, spinning your chair to face him fully. He set his hand on the arm of your chair, looking closely at you. “Because I know you were an MI6 agent.”

You blinked, staring at him. “I wiped that from every document you could get your hands on…?”

“You’re not the only one good with computers.”

You scoffed as you shook your head. “You’re such a dick, you know that?” You zoomed into the building, a glower in the direction of Jackal.

“You should consider yourself lucky enough to even know me as you do.” Jackal stated and spun your chair back to face the screen, wordlessly telling you to get back to work. “Oh, believe me, I do. And you should consider yourself lucky to even have me on your side. You’ve never even been in the vicinity of another agent. And you’ve got me to thank.”

He paused for a moment before sighing. “Thank you.” He spoke with an oddity, one you didn’t really pick up on until you spoke.

“You’re welcome.” The smile you fostered dropped, stopping in your tracks as it hit you. He noticed and looked at you, his brows furrowed. A solemn look made its way onto your face as you turned to meet his gaze. “Why can’t I ever tell when you’re being sincere, Jackal?”

“Because I don’t want you to know.” He replied stiffly. You opened your mouth to speak, rubbing your nape as you turned back over to continue your work. “I won’t turn on you, you know. I’m better than that. You don’t need a stupid mask to shield yourself from me.”

“Anyone who knows me is in deliberate danger. Your… assets… are special. You getting hurt would be a waste. And we both know I don’t trust you.”

“But I trust you. I don’t know why, exactly, but I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because you think you can dictate what I can and can’t feel? I don’t know your name, where you live, why you do what you do… but I trust you, because if you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already.” You didn’t turn to talk to him, you just did what you needed to.

Jackal let out a breath, one of disbelief, “like I said, killing you would be a waste. Your assets are useful.”

You clenched your hand around your mouth, jaw clenched. The same song and dance that happened annually at this point, but this time you didn’t reply. You breathed out through your nose. Screw it, this moron needed a reality check, you didn’t care if it rarely ever got through to him. You hoped it would eventually. “Existing is going to get pretty fucking tiring if you pretend to be different people every second of every day. You may be a damn good sniper, but even you have limits, Jackal. Don’t test them, don’t be an ass, and, for fuck’s sake, stop being an idiot!”

He blinked, staring at you. He hesitated, he looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what to say. The words died on his tongue, all he did was just stare and give a slow nod. “Fine.” He muttered. “I’ll let my guard down… slightly.”

“Good.” You huffed.

“Good.” He agreed.

[xoxovanillq]

WORLDS COLLIDE

i. meeting

Luke Castellan x f!reader

Warnings- Trust issues, Kissing, She/Her pronouns.

Word count- 1.5k

“Dude, have you seen the new girl yet?” Chris questions. Luke and him are sitting in their respective bunks in the Hermes cabin, taking the opportunity of an empty cabin to chat.

“No, not yet. Should I see her?” Luke responds, his tone inquisitive.

“Yeah, I mean, she’s like, exactly your type.” Chris replies, laying back in his bunk, turning his head to face Luke.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see her soon.” He replies, laying back in his bunk with a sigh.

You trudged into the Hermes cabin, exhausted, and ready to go to bed. It had been a long day, being the new kid at your age felt weird, especially with kids running around with more knowledge of this stuff than you. Everyone was somewhat nice, which was relieving, but no one  really caught your eye, well, until that night.

You laid in your bunk, looking up a bit to see a tall boy, dark curls falling into his face as he quietly studied you.

“You new?” He asks, his voice deep and rich, causing your heart to pound a small bit faster. The boy was pretty, tall, a little bit unsure of himself, but it was kinda cute.

“Mhm, was it that obvious?” You reply, your exhaustion convened through your voice.

“No, no! Not at all! Listen, uh, I’m Luke.” He says with a small smile, moving closer and extending his hand for you to shake.

“Y/N, and it’s all good.” You say, taking his hand and shaking it. You find yourself lingering in the warmth of his hand, reluctant to let go. When you release his hand, you smile softly, enjoying the small connection the two of you had made.

“Well, I should let you rest, but it was really nice to meet you.” He says, smiling as you nod, he then turns away, walking back to his bunk bed.

Luke’s heart pounded as he laid in bed that night, still thrilled after the excitement of your meeting. Chris had been right, you were his dream girl, perfect, exactly who he had always wanted. He couldn’t wait to see you again, to hear your voice, to see your glowing smile. He felt like a giddy schoolboy with a crush, desperate for your attention.

He dreamed of you that night, of holding your hand, guiding you through life at camp. He hadn't ever fallen for someone like this, so fast, so desperate for attention.

When he woke up that morning, he was still desperately excited to see you, wanting nothing more to see your smile yet again.

“Hey, Y/N, right?” He pipes up, sliding up beside you at the archery grounds. He didn't know why he bothered to check on your name, it had been in his thoughts for hours, ever since you told him.

“Yeah, it’s really good to see you again.” You emphasize the really, realizing that you may be starting to form a crush on the boy you had met only days ago.

“Yeah, yeah, um, you- you too.” God, he needed to get it together. He smiled, his heart warming as you smiled back. He watched you for a few minutes, looking at your aim. “Hey,” he suddenly piped up, “can I help you with your position a bit?”

“Oh, that would be amazing.” He quickly stepped up behind you, hands on yours as he moved your body little by little. His breath was hot on your neck, the smell of toothpaste, his shampoo, sun lotion, and sweat filled your nostrils, his own version of summer in a scent. It made you want to burrow your face into his neck, take in his musk.

“Alright, just aim, and shoot.” His voice brings you out of your dreamy haze. You shake your head a little, then release the arrow. He watches it soar through the air, hitting the target with precision. “Good job.” He praises, his voice light. making your insides heat up with both embarrassment and excitement.

“Thank you, really, you don’t know how much better you’ve made this all for me already.” You say with a light chuckle, all he could think about was how much better you had already made his life, just by existing.

“Hey, um, I know this is really random, but the lake, um, there’s a- a dock on it, and I wanna know if you’d want to go watch the sunset on it? Like, with me?” His heart pounds in his chest as he speaks. He was so scared to be rejected, maybe it was lingering fear, that finally trusting something would backfire on him.

“I- I’d actually love to, um, would it just be us?” You ask timidly, fearing that your feelings would be revealed too much, scaring him off.

“Yeah, if that’s alright with you and all.” He replies, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Dude, you actually scored a date with her? She’s been here for like, 3 days, and all the guys are already on her.” Chris said after Luke had relayed the events of your encounter.

“Yeah, I think she’s into me too, I mean, she checked to see if we’d be alone, so that’s a score.” He says with a light chuckle before taking a bite of his dinner. He looked up to see you chatting excitedly with a few girls you had made friends with. It made him happy to see you happy, especially with your new friends.

“Just keep her close, all the other guys here would pounce on her in a heartbeat.” Chris adds, unknowing of how this seemed to spike Luke’s trust issues. He tried to push the thought away, but it was always there, lingering in the back of his head, even as he got ready to meet you.

There he sat, about 15 minutes before sunset, on the dock, fluffing his curls up while waiting for you. He hadn’t dressed up much, just wearing cargos and a black hoodie considering that it would get chilly as the sun went down. His jaw almost dropped when he saw you walk up. You wore a lace cami, pink with lace trim and a little bow, along with light wash, flared jeans.

“Holy shit, you are making feel really under-dressed. You look stunning.” He commented, eyes fixed on the way your eyes seemed to sparkle, even in the low light, as you took your seat beside him.

“I didn’t know what the dress code was for this, so I figured dressing nice would be the better option.” In all reality, you were hoping he’d give you his hoodie at some point in the night. “You look nice too, I mean, you always do.” You say softly, a blush forming across your face as you did.

“Thanks, thanks, uh, can I- is it okay- is it okay if I hold your hand?” He asks tentatively, the way he stumbles over his words makes your heart flutter a bit.

“Yeah, of course.” Your voice is low and quiet, you reach out to take a hold of his hand, shifting a bit closer to him, shoulder pressed to his. Your head leans a bit, and he nods, as if giving you approval to put it in his shoulder. The two of you sat there for a little while in silence, watching the colors of the sun set over the lake. Rich oranges and cotton candy pinks reflected on the lake’s surface. Luke could feel you shiver slightly, and it gave him an idea.

“Hey, if you’re cold, you can have my hoodie.” He offers, looking into your eyes. God, he loved your eyes, all the different colored specks, he could get lost in them forever.

“Oh, yeah, um, if it isn’t too much trouble.” You respond, almost shyly. He quickly takes his hoodie off, his shirt pulling up a bit, giving you a tantalizing glance at his abs. He hands it to you with a smile, and before you put it on, you reach over to fix his curls, now a bit messy.

Luke couldn’t believe this was happening, I mean, he was laying on the dock, watching the sunset with you, you were wearing his sweatshirt, and he was pretty sure you felt the same way about him. As the sun finally set, the stars coming out to light up the sky, he finally decided to make his move.

“Listen, I might be reading this wrong, but I really like you, and-” You cut him off, your lips finally pressing to his. Luke’s body melted, one hand going to your waist, the other to the back of your head to deepen the kiss. He wanted to be as close to you as possible, to melt into you, to burrow inside your heart and live there forever. He almost panicked when you pulled away, clutching your waist in a desperate attempt to keep you close. You just giggled, settling with your head in his lap.

“I think you’ve got your answer, Castellan.”

[everythingseasoning]

love, forever?

vampire! Suguru Geto x reader x vampire! Satoru Gojo

Tags: Morality, and selfishness vs selflessness themes. // Vampire! Suguru and Satoru, who are vampire hunters that protect humans from evil ones. // Blooming rivalry between Satoru & reader for Suguru’s attention. // AU characters. Satoru is clingier and more emotional than his canon self. Suguru despises the strong (vampires) for hurting the weak (humans). // New vampire lore ;). // Angst. Suguru battling his inner demons, trying to do good despite his vampire nature and urges. // Reader has multiple targets on her back (Naoya appearance!) // Both Suguru and Satoru fall for reader. // Eventual smut in later chapters. //

Chapter Warnings: College party drinking, Reader slaps Satoru, Mentions of blood and feeding, Reader falls in a ditch (LOL), Suggestiveness, MDNI

Chapter Word Count: ~4.3k (it’s worth it!)

NOTE: even if you you saw the teaser already, or any edit of the teaser, please read this chapter, as I’ve edited it a lot, and added in more juicy dialogue & scenes ;)

Ch. 01 | Living Haunted

The drink is nothing short of young and dumb, the blend of tooth-rottingly sweet flavors hitting your taste buds as you stare holes into Suguru’s back. You can see the sculpture of his muscles and beautiful bones through his tight tee, your ex’s sculpted body turned away from you. He’s speaking to a girl you had heard about— the life of all parties, pretty, smart, and fun. You could see that she might be his type. Green jealousy explodes in your chest, along with a poisonous, deep sense of insecurity. The horrible feelings move through your body. Was he moving on already? Did you really mean so little to him? Would she be the one to make him stay?

You take another swig from the plastic blue cup, hoping the painful twisting motion of your heart would be soon dulled. Coca Cola, sherbet, and yakult alcohol would be your poison of the night, you think, swallowing down the concoction as tears prick your eyes. 

“Another one of those people who drinks their troubles away?” 

The voice amidst the bass and booming music causes you to turn, your eyes meeting striking blue ones. Snowy hair rests soft and thick on his head, your heart skipping a beat when you see such a beautiful stranger. 

If you were being honest, you weren’t in the mood to talk to somebody else— not when your heart was still tied right onto Suguru’s. You love Suguru, you really do. The recent past haunts your every waking moment. And even in your dreams, he’s there, chuckling as you braid his hair, the nonfiction book he’s been reading facedown in his lap as your fingers thread his silky locks; He’s watching you with a fond smile as you run ahead of him in the campus garden, jumping amongst the flowers; The warmth and sturdiness of his hands against your face as the two of you kiss— his soft, supple lips meeting yours in that familiar dance and tangle. In your dreams he’s still yours. You both made up. In your dreams, things are warm and right. 

When you wake up in an empty bed, with an aching heart, it just feels cruel. The light slipped away again. You thought you had it. You had your dream come true only to realize it was just that— a fleeting dream. There’s no respite from the memory of all his adoration, thoughtful gestures, all the times you’d stare mesmerized as he sat focused, his eyebrows pinched as he worked… The way he felt when you were wrapped in his embrace, your face buried in his sturdy chest— that feeling of being cared for— 

You missed him bad, with every fiber of your being. 

Suguru is still all you can think about. You’re at this damned college party because, even a month after he’d broken up with you, all you wanted was to be close to him, to see him. It’s pathetic. Knowing he’d be here, knowing you’d be tearing your heart open again, the wound freshly cut back open— and you still came here. How many times had you stalked his social media despite having been removed from his following? 

“Cat got your tongue?” The beautiful stranger breaks you out of your thoughts, forcing a reply. 

“No—” you start to say, raising your voice. It’s just barely audible over the clamor of the party. 

“Really?” He butts in, raising an eyebrow. “‘Cause it seems like there’s some hard evidence against your statement.” His small smile is as unconventional as it is disarming. 

“And you are?” 

“Satoru Gojo, if you haven’t heard about me already. I go here, don’t you know?”

You roll your eyes, scoffing. “And why would I know of you?” 

Satoru just tilts his head ever so slightly, his smile unwavering as he replies, “Your head is under a rock, is what I heard you say.”

Confusion flits across your face before your mouth falls open slightly, a feigned look of offense stretched on your features. You feel like ignoring this pesky person. You glance away for a second, in search of Suguru’s back— the spot he’d been standing in holds a different person, somebody you don’t know, somebody you’re not at all interested in. You frown, scanning the crowd.

Satoru waves a hand in front of your face. You look up at him, annoyed.

“Why are you talking to me?”

“What? Need a reason to talk to a pretty girl?” 

“That’s an overused line,” You shout back, the music so loud you can barely hear yourself. Your attention shifts away from the snowy haired man back to the sea of party goers. You desperately search the throng of buzzing chaos. No sign of Suguru. Just dancing, mingling, kissing, drinking, the typical activities going on under the strobe lights. Fuck.

Suguru, where did you go? Please… Your heart feels like it’s a rock in your stomach. Please don’t tell me you’re fucking her right now in somebody’s bedroom. It’s not my business— but I can’t stand the thought of it—

Satoru chuckles, and you look back at him, unable to hide your expression of pain. You’re about to excuse yourself to find a bathroom to cry in, when he speaks again.

“You’re right. How should I flirt, hm? Wanna coach me? It’ll lift your blues, too,” His smirk would’ve had you folding had you not ever met Suguru. But you did cross paths with the raven-haired man— collided and intertwined, more like— and now nobody compares to him. Nobody would ever be him. 

“Not really. Excuse me,” you begin to say, before turning slightly, about to slip away—

“Suguru is my best friend,” he says. 

You freeze, whipping around now to face Satoru.

“He told me about you— first time he ever told me about anyone, actually. Suguru said you were somebody he actually loved.” Satoru’s cheeky expression has been wiped off, replaced with one of aloof nonchalance and detachment. It’s almost eerie, but your focus isn’t on that.

You’re at a loss for words, eyes caught on Satoru’s, hanging onto everything he says like maybe, just maybe, it means that Suguru wants you back.

“He’s had his fair share of flings and hookups, after all.” Satoru teases, smirking again, bending down to your level.

“I thought I was losing my best friend to a weakling.” His breath is surprisingly chilly against your face. “Turns out you were never the one. Sucks that you couldn’t make him stay.” You feel everything shatter. “Sucks for you, I mean,” Satoru finishes. He leaves out the part where he gloats about being the one Suguru has always admired, and stuck with. 

You’re shocked, mouth hanging open. You’re hurt. You’re aching in confusion about what wasn’t good enough about you. You’re angry and betrayed— all the feelings clash like giant waves crashing against one another inside your heart. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

Satoru grins, shrugging. “It means what it means. But I’m curious,” he says, leaning closer, his pearly teeth glinting red under the strobe lights, “What is it about you that had Suguru caught up on ya?” His lips graze your cheek, his voice in your ear, “I don’t get it.”

You slap him before you can realize what you’re doing. Violence is not the answer, but this time, it sure as hell felt like it. Your fingers sting, your panicked thoughts a running train. Did I just? Oh my god! I didn’t— I fucking did—

“I— I’m sorry—” you stammer quickly, eyes wide in shock at your own actions. Satoru is eerily emotionless, staring down at you with those startling ocean eyes. You shiver despite the heat of the stuffy, overcrowded room. 

“Hm.” 

It’s all he says. You open your mouth to speak again, blinking— 

And he’s gone. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

A swig of the liquor causes the liquid to slosh in the green bottle. 

“Thought you liked shy girls, Suguru?” Satoru pokes, a red handprint on his cheek. He’s kicked back on the couch outside the bathroom, grimacing when the alcohol hits his tongue. He’s spitting it out back into the bottle immediately. 

“I do,” Suguru replies calmly, a streak of lovely bare skin showing amidst the shaving cream on his face. He runs the razor back down, taking off more of the fluffy white foam. 

“Yeesh. Can’t believe we used to drink this shit,” Satoru sticks his tongue on dramatically, tossing the full glass of alcohol across the room. It lands right in the trash bin with a clang. “That’s where it belongs,” he huffs. 

“So?” Satoru prompts, kicking his feet up. “You realize she doesn’t fit your ideal type, right? Why’d you get with her for a whole year, then?”

“She was shy at first,” Suguru says softly, a glint of something like pain in his eyes. He catches Satoru’s gaze on him in the mirror and the glint disappears. Satoru notices, but says nothing, now peeling open a candy from its foil wrapper. 

“And I told you already, Satoru,” Suguru continues, sparing his friend an exasperated glance. “I love—d her.” A blip. A mistake so quickly covered that if it was anyone but Satoru, they’d have missed it.

Blue eyes pierce Suguru. 

“But it wasn’t going to work out. Love isn’t meant for us. You and I… We’re not meant to be with humans,” Suguru murmurs, looking at his face in the mirror. It was myth that vampires didn’t have reflections. They do. But there’s something the myths forgot. Some sort of change is written in a vampire’s eyes. There always has been, and always will be, some sort of difference from a person’s antecedent human form, and their new, evolved one, hidden in their eyes after they turn. Suguru touches his eyebags, dark and heavy. 

That’s not what changed. No. His warm, earthy brown eyes had turned purple the night Satoru turned him. He woke up with them, the day after everything changed. 

Suguru’s tired reflection stares back at him, rich amethyst irises shining like glossy, sharp stars in the mirror. He wishes he didn’t recognize them. Now he’s stuck dealing with people commenting on his “cool contacts,” for the rest of eternity. Suguru exhales deeply, softly, his still, dead heart aching.

“Being undead with a vital thirst for human blood will do that,” Satoru ho-hums, blissfully unaware of the insensitive nature of his obliviousness. 

Suguru is silent, continuing to shave. He grimaces at the knowing that his vampire instincts made him crave you dangerously, the one he loves, more than anything else. It was cursed, his very existence. He was turned into a walking, sentient, functioning monster. The blade knicks his skin. He curses quietly.

“So,” Satoru grunts with chocolate melting on his tongue, grateful that at least his cravings and delight in sweets didn’t change when they turned, “You don’t trust yourself to be around her without hurting her. But you were doing well for a year. What do you say changed?”

Suguru dabs at the blood dripping down his otherwise unmarked face. It would heal, his skin would be perfectly smooth again in a day, not a trace of his mistake, or scar, would remain. All wounds heal within 24 hours for vampires. It’s something Suguru was grateful for, considering his job of being a vampire slayer. 

“My urges got insatiable. Blood bags weren’t enough,” Suguru says curtly. Despite the battle of breaking up with you being long over, Suguru’s mind is a war zone. I couldn’t even look at her… without… needing to taste her blood. His fists clench on the marble sink. It got bad. I almost hurt her.

Satoru stares at his best friend, knowing that in this silence, his mind is a maelstrom. Suguru sees Satoru’s unflinching gaze, but remains quiet. He knows his friend won’t understand. 

But Satoru presses on anyway, nodding, looking bored. 

“Right. You can’t suppress your urges right now. That happened to me too. The second year is the hardest.” Satoru was the one who turned Suguru, after all, on that unwelcomed, fateful night. “It helps when you just feed on multiple pretty girls a night and compel them all to forget— You could’ve had both, you know. Her and human blood from others. You’re so mopey now.” Satoru’s callous remark piques Suguru’s irritation, a flame of anger burning in the raven-haired man’s chest.

“I won’t do that and be in a relationship.” 

“I saw you feeding on that random chick an hour ago. If you and I didn’t always ask for consent before feeding, I’d never have believed she would be okay with that,” Satoru’s eyes gleam playfully. Suguru doesn’t reply, and Satoru deflates. 

“You’re still grumpy. You move around like you’re actually dead, Suguru. You torture yourself by still caring about your ex. She’s nothing special. I don’t get it.” 

Ah. The truth comes out. Suguru’s eyebrows knit, his mouth pressed into a firm line as something dark flickers in his eyes. 

“Satoru, she has a name, and she’s worth something even if you can’t see it. Just shut up.”

“And what worth do you see in her?”

Suguru is silent for a moment. How could he convey the light and warmth that you were in his life? He’d died twice, once literally, once figuratively, and yet— you brought him back. “…She’s… good.”

“And?”

Suguru’s temper flares. “You just don’t get it, so will you just leave it?” He snarls, fangs involuntarily popping out. He curses silently in disgust at what he has become. 

“You’re such a grouch nowadays,” Satoru huffs, before popping another chocolate into his mouth. He gets up, stretching. 

“Well. I need to feed again.” 

“Be safe about it. And I’m not referring to your safety,” Suguru says sternly, his whole head turned to look at Satoru now, some white foam still on the man’s face. 

“Yeah, yeah, mom, I got it.” With that, Satoru pulls his black coat over his lean, muscled body, a wolfish grin on his face as he slips out the apartment door. Did he need the black coat? No. Not at all. Vampires don’t get cold. They’re already icy to the touch. But it helps him blend in, both with humans and the night. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

You’re intoxicated. It’s two AM and you’re stumbling around campus like a fucking idiot. 

Well how about that? Satoru spies you from across the quad, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. 

He slips through the shadows. 

You nearly jump when a tall, dark figure appears before you, looming over you. 

Snowy hair shines in the lamplight, blue eyes flashing like glaciers, staring right at you. You swear they flash red for a second.

“You again?” You slur your words. You aren’t scared. He’s Suguru’s best friend, which means he by extension must be a good guy. Almost as if he hears your thoughts, Satoru grins. His teeth are brilliant, his canines shining ivory and glistening like expensive accessory jewels.

If Satoru was being honest, this was a chance to understand the enemy. The golden goal would be to get Suguru to forget about you and move on, so his best friend could finally look and be alive again, the two of them happily slaying the vampires that hurt humans— and this was the first step in his plan. 

“Hey,” he nearly purrs, slinking around you as you take a step forward— stumbling a bit— 

Cold fingers grip you firmly, holding you upright. Satoru: 1, gravity: 0. 

“You’re fucking making me freeze even more!” You retort, snapping at him as you yank your warm arm away from his cool grasp. You were more than tipsy, but you recalled his rudeness from earlier.

He lets you go and you teeter. “Just trying to help. You sure aren’t shy, huh?” Satoru remarks.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” You spit out, the question giving you both Deja vu.

“It means what it means,” Satoru grins. Deja-fucking-vu. You’re getting fed up now, huffing and mumbling under your alcohol-tinged breath, an insult that Satoru’s super hearing picks up on. He stifles a laugh. You keep walking. 

“Wait,” Satoru calls out. You don’t turn around or slow your snail-like pace. He strides up to you in two quick, lengthy steps. He bends, entering your vision, his teeth sharp and protruding from his close lipped smile. Were they always that long?

“I’m great at reading people. And as much as you want to deny it, your heart is beating faster around me.” He suppresses his urge to poke your ribcage, directly over the beating muscle. 

“Shut up,” you growl. 

“You could make me, you know.”

“There you go again with that cliche flirting,” you snort. 

“And here I am again, asking if you’re offering lessons. Though the better question would be if you’re even qualified to give them,” Satoru grins.

He keeps up with your sluggish pace as you try to make your way back to the dorms.

“What do you want from me? Don’t you think it’s weird to be flirting with your best friend’s ex?” 

You think this will shut him up. That, or he’ll have a lame excuse. But for the first time in this second conversation you’re having with him, his answer changes.

“If I’m being honest,” he speaks in a rich, velvety, low voice, and you almost feel entranced, your feet stopping, your gaze resting on Satoru. “I’m doing this for him. And about what I want?” 

You sway in the chilly night breeze, barely registering anything but the sound of his voice. 

“I want to know you better,” he purrs. You’re breathless as he continues, his voice like a siren in your ear, “If you were sober, would you let me bite you?”

He pulls away, and you’re back to your senses in a second. You feel like slapping him again. You almost do, but your hand misses, causing you to stumble. 

“Too slow!” He cackles as you tumble onto the ground, your dress flying up.

You look absolutely humiliated, livid, and harmless from the ground, eyes narrowed in deep hatred for this weirdo. 

“Need a hand?” Satoru smirks, his tall, silhouetted form outlined in light from the lamp behind him. 

You push off the cold cement, ignoring him, fuming silently as you continue your drunken walk to the dorms. That typical pang of hunger hits Satoru out of the blue, impelling him to leave.

“I have to go now. See you around,” Satoru says, before disappearing, the need to find a sober person he can get consent from to feed on overpowering him. 

Suddenly the night is quiet again, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. You keep walking, not realizing that there are no longer lamps to light the way until you’re surrounded by darkness. You aren’t familiar with this part of campus, squinting to see the road sign to your right. You barely make out the words ‘Under Construction’ written in bold black letters, and you shiver as the cool breeze swings through the area. A snapping twig sounds behind you and your eyes widen, fear running through your intoxicated bloodstream. 

“Hello?” You call out. You hate to admit it, but you regret letting Satoru leave. Nobody answers.

You take another step into the darkness, speeding up your pace. Another snap of a twig, and you’re breaking out into a full blown run now— blood rushes through your ears—

Something catches your foot, and you tumble forward, falling down into a ditch, knocking out.

— — — — — — — — — �� — — — — — — — — —

Satoru sighs contentedly, his eyes crossing as he swallows his last gulp of blood for the night. The woman is staring at the ceiling with a lovestruck look, the pleasure from the toxin in his fangs acting like a drug. He releases his lips from her skin, licking at the two puncture marks on her neck. 

“Fuck…” She mewls, leaning in to kiss Satoru. He lets her kiss him.

“Look at me,” Satoru commands gently, his voice taking on a different tone now— and she’s under his spell in an instant. 

“Forget this entire interaction. Forget that you ever saw me. Forget that I fed on you. Don’t question the slight tenderness in your neck tomorrow morning. Associate it with sleeping weirdly,” he murmurs, and she’s caught on his every word, nodding when he stops talking. 

“Good.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Satoru retraces his steps, walking on the road he last saw you on. His teeth have retracted, going back to a normal length, as they always do after he’s fed. Yeah, he may be selfish, jealous, and dislike you— but he’s not a villain. It’s late, you are intoxicated, and he still wants to make sure you’re okay. 

“She’s probably fast asleep back at her dorm. I’m just wasting my time,” he grumbles in the dark. But he just has this funny feeling, like something happened, and now he’s acting like some lovesick fool that worries and checks in on their lover. 

Blood. Satoru smells it, that familiar, rich, sharp scent that sends a rush of electricity through his body. Because he just fed, his brain doesn’t light up as it usually would, and he realizes that somebody is hurt— and that somebody is probably you. 

Satoru’s legs are a blur as he races towards the source—

He stands over a dirt edge, a hole in the path made by the ongoing construction. You lay in the ditch looking like a broken doll, effectively knocked out. There’s a gash on your arm and knee. 

“Fuck,” Satoru curses, quickly climbing down to get to you. He’s by your side in a flash, checking your pulse. It’s normal. He feels the tension in his body drain. You’re probably just passed out from the combination of alcohol and falling in a ditch. Satoru rolls his eyes, huffing, “Idiot,” as he scoops you up into his arms. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

He didn’t know what to do. Leave you in the hallway of the coed dorm? Drop you off at the 24/hour care station? He figured he should do the latter, and so he went. 

He dings the bell at the front desk, shifting to readjust your relaxed body. Ten seconds go by. During that time, Satoru finds himself staring at your face, a few smears of dirt on your skin. You breathe in and out, because you have to. It’s not like him and Suguru, who breathe to fake their normalness and blend in. They have no need for oxygen. Your lips look so soft. Your chest rising and falling gently, you look totally at peace, and Satoru is mesmerized. He gets lost in the rhythm of your breaths for a moment— the steady beat of your heart bringing about a peace and longing ache in his own lifeless one. He snaps out of his daze, and rings the bell again, huffing impatiently. Another ten seconds go by, and he starts to spam the bell. 

“Where are they?” He grumbles. Satoru slips behind the desk, frowning and pissy, looking into the back room. Nobody is there. 

“Seriously?” 

He can’t just leave you here when the door is unlocked and the place is unattended. Satoru curses under his breath again, looking down at your sleeping face, your body curled against his frame in his arms. 

“Guess Suguru has to confront his demons tonight,” Satoru sighs, not realizing the weight of the statement he’s just uttered.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Sweet, mouth-watering, the scent of a dream— it wafts through the hallway, into his room, and Suguru wakes up with a growling stomach. 

Human blood. One that smells absolutely ravishing. Suguru sits up, alert and awake, wondering if Satoru brought back somebody to share, somebody who wanted to be fed on and possibly fucked by the two of them. The raven-haired man stands up and tears open his door—

Satoru is hunched over a body on the couch. Suguru makes his way over, his fangs protruding, his amethyst eyes glinting with hunger—

Satoru finishes wiping the blood off your arm, the sight of the red cloth in his hand making Suguru freeze when he realizes Satoru brought back a hurt person.

“Satoru–” 

Satoru turns, standing up, and Suguru finally catches a glimpse of who is on their couch. If his heart was beating, it would have skipped a beat. 

Suguru’s eyes are wide, his mouth agape. You?

“Hey,” the snowy-haired vampire says. “Before you get pissed—!”

Suguru is crossing the living room in a flash, shoving Satoru up against the wall. Suguru’s head is ringing, swirling with hunger, anger, fear, grief, and shame. Something as seemingly small as the sight of you did that to him. 

“Did you fucking hurt her? I swear to god, if you so much as touched a hair on her head—” Suguru hisses before Satoru shoves his best friend back, scowling.

“Listen for a second! She was in a ditch when I found her, okay? By the construction site. I may not like this little pest of a weakling, but I didn’t hurt her,” Satoru retorts. Suguru backs off, clenching his fists so hard that it draws red blood of his own. His eyes burn holes into the floorboards. 

Satoru watches, a beat of silence passing before he speaks up, “Hey, Suguru. Just… just take a moment to get a hold of yourself. If you have to take a walk…”

What Satoru didn’t understand was how absolutely feral Suguru was for you, down to a chemical level. Bringing you around was enough to make Suguru’s head pound with a dizzying need to feast on you— but bringing you when you were bleeding? Suguru is feeling white hot need pulse throughout his body.

“She— she’s not supposed to be here—” Suguru manages to say, his voice strained. 

“Why–”

“She can’t be by me!” Suguru roars, looking up from the ground to meet Satoru’s shocked gaze. Suguru’s purple eyes are filled with a storm of anger and pain, and Satoru opens his mouth to apologize—

But Suguru is gone in a blink, the door to their apartment creaking as yellow light from the hallway spills in, falling on your face, painting you in a soft glow. 

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[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (24/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: smut, targcest stuff, the angst, uncomfortable conversations, offensive terms and mild violence ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

He was gentle because of the baby.

Or at least that's what she kept telling herself as he made love to her again slowly and affectionately, looking deep into her eyes. He panted and murmured into her mouth between hot, messy kisses full of their saliva and tongues, his broad hand stroking her hair as he built the familiar tension in her loins with deep, sure thrusts.

It was a sweet torture; he already knew her body intimately and was aware of where to hit so that a thrill of wonderful pleasure ran through her spine each time. All she could do was run her fingers down his naked, sweaty back, stroking his long jaw, babbling and moaning beneath him like a little girl, wanting to take everything he was giving her.

He was gentle because of the baby: because he didn't want her to miscarry.

They had both suffered too much already.

So she absorbed his affection and warmth, dreading the moment when she would awaken as if from a beautiful dream, colliding again with his rougher side.

On the one hand, she also craved that part of him, dark and unpredictable, aggressive and cruel – however, now that he was vulnerable and sweet, coming each time with a loud sigh of relief, she felt with him safer than ever before.

His embrace was full of care, understanding, support.

Everything about his attitude said: I don't want to hurt you.

"I want to fly to Runestone."

Her husband, lying right next to her on the bedding, breathing heavily after their shared exertion, looked at her with shock mixed with disbelief, his eyebrows arched in consternation.

"What?" He asked dryly.

"I want to fly to Runestone." She repeated. "To see my cousin. Gain his support for your cause. To return home."

"King's Landing is your home, as is any place where I am." He hissed impatiently, his pupil narrowed like that of a cat.

He hadn't expected this, and her words came as a blow to him.

He felt threatened and was ready to attack.

He swallowed hard, taken aback as she lifted her hand up, her fingers running gently down his jaw.

"I never asked you for anything. I never expected anything. But if I'm supposed to heal, I have to do it." She said calmly.

"You are healed. And you are with child. I'm not allowing it." He replied coldly, rising from the bed, grabbing impatiently at his tunic that lay on the floor.

She swallowed hard, leaning on her elbow, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

"I will do this with or without your permission, husband."

She saw his hands freeze in half-motion as he fastened the buckles of his tunic, his nostrils twitched, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

She was stepping on the edge of a knife and she knew it, but she couldn't act otherwise.

"As the wife of the Prince Regent, I am a free woman and have the right to visit my relatives. Don't I?" She asked in a trembling voice, clenching her fingers on the fabric of the sheet.

He stood motionless for a moment, staring dully ahead, his chest rising and falling rapidly in loud, raspy breaths.

He was furious and torn internally.

"I am your family now. I thought it was enough for you." He said with some strange kind of regret that made her feel a deep, painful sting in her heart.

"You are the love of my life." She whispered.

She saw that he swallowed hard, hearing these words – they surprised him and he had not expected them at the moment. His eye grew big, like that of a little boy, filled with warm affection and a desire to believe what she said.

"Then why?" He asked. "Why do you want to leave me? Now that…"

Now that we are closer than ever, she finished for him in her mind.

"Your presence saves me during the day. It allows me to breathe. But at night I dream about my father and I won't find peace until I speak to someone who watched him and my mother. I need answers. I can't ask him anymore because I killed him myself."

She felt her body begin to tremble as she said those words aloud – she felt like they were some kind of curse, something that weighed over her like a dark, heavy cloud.

"I want to forgive myself. I want to find peace so that instead of mourning him, I can focus on our child who lives in my womb. And on you." She finished, looking at him hopefully.

She could see that he was hesitating, she could feel it in his clenched hands, in his blank stare, in his bent figure.

"I don't know him. How can I be sure that he will not make you a prisoner? That he will not hand you over to Rhaenyra so that she can threaten me? Force me to bend the knee?" He muttered, finally sharing with her what was truly troubling him.

"But I know him, my husband. He's a proud but good man. Faithful to his family. Faithful to me, just as I have always been faithful to him. He and I are alike. I know that with his support, conquering the Eyrie and striking the final blow against your sister will be easier. But I have to appear there alone to make him believe that I am doing this of my own free will. To make him accept our marriage."

"What right has he to decide whether our marriage is valid in the eyes of the gods or not?" He growled, looking at her with pain mixed with rage.

"You abducted me against his will. You humiliated him in the eyes of his men, his own servants." She muttered, shrugging her shoulders, unable to comprehend how he could not understand this.

"Perhaps he did not protect you well enough. After all, abducting you in the middle of the night was surprisingly easy. No one rushed to your aid, am I wrong? Your cousin did not storm the gates of the Red Keep at the head of his army, demanding that I return you to him." He said coldly, causing an unpleasant shiver to pass through her.

"You sound like you're proud of yourself, and just a few days ago you assured me you regretted it." She reminded him wryly.

She gasped as he turned and moved towards the door like an enraged bear, leaving the chamber with a loud slam of the door.

Why, after all she had done for him, did he not even try to understand her?

She buried her face in her hands, thinking she must have done it.

She needed to know the answers to all the questions she had in her head.

As she rose from her bed after so many weeks of misery, putting on her riding attire again, she felt powerful – a sense that she was taking her destiny into her own hands and decided who she really was gave her strength.

That was what she was missing; the freedom that, after all, had been taken from her by her own husband the day he abducted her from Runestone.

She just wanted to make it right.

To make her cousin forgive him for this insult.

She believed this could determine the fate of their war.

To her disappointment, her husband returned to his chamber very late and did not even look at her when she rose to meet him. Instead of approaching her, he sat down in a chair right by the hearth and froze like that, thoughtful, staring into the flames. He looked like a stone – his face and gaze were completely expressionless – she thought that this sight reminded her of something, and then she understood.

He looked just like he had when she met him.

Is this what she will see when she returns?

The man who had closed his heart to her anew?

"Aemond." She mumbled, approaching him slowly, feeling fearful for some reason.

She realised that he would not forgive her for this.

That there was still that vain and proud part of him that couldn't accept that she wanted to defy his command.

His will.

In his eyes she would be blamed for everything that would be the consequences of her decision.

He didn't even flinch at hearing his name – his body gave the impression that he was comfortably spread out, however, she knew it was only an illusion – she could see by his clenched jaw, by his fingers rubbing against each other in a nervous gesture that he was full of annoyance and embitterment.

"Please, my love. Let us not part in anger. Give me your blessing." She muttered with difficulty, staring at him pleadingly, but he did not look at her.

‘No,’ was his reply.

And although a moment ago she had been completely sure of what she wanted to do and that she would do it at any cost, now she wasn't certain that the price wasn't too high: whether she was able and willing to risk what she had built with him, even for herself.

"Why can't you understand me? Why, even though I always forgive you, you can't sacrifice your pride for me for once? Now, when I need you the most." She cried out in a breaking voice, feeling tear after tear begin to run down her face, making the room around her blurry.

She saw that he swallowed loudly, as if he remembered that he should breathe, but he didn't move even a bit, as if he was a stone statue.

He was punishing her because she wanted to leave him.

Or at least that's what it looked like in his mind.

She pressed her lips together as her hand undid the buckles of her coat – he flinched and raised his hands in a defensive gesture, shocked when she threw the leather material at his face. He only rose when he saw that she wanted to do the same with her boots, but he didn't make a sound – he bent down, avoiding the impact as the object flew over his head, hitting the wall on the other side.

"I'm staying. Are you satisfied? Look. I'm going back to bed where I belong. To fucking and bearing your children as you desire." She exhaled in a voice breaking with rage, hissing through her teeth as if she wanted to bite him.

She tore off her clothes, whooping with her own cry until she was left in just her nightgown, and then threw herself on the bed, snuggling into the cold sheets.

She had lost, and it was a feeling full of disappointment and bitterness; she had lost to her fear that she would lose him, to the fear that when she returned she would find him in the arms of the Witch of Harrenhal, to the fear that without his love her life would again lose meaning.

She could hear him breathing loudly and she could hear him standing exactly where he was, shocked by her outburst, by what had happened, but most of all and beyond all reason by the fact that she had stayed.

Despite everything she had told him.

It seemed to her that an eternity passed before she heard the quiet creaking of the wood beneath his feet, before she felt the weight of his body behind her back on the bed, before his hand touched her arm.

She pulled away from him, furious.

"Now you want to touch me? Now you want to graciously open your mouth? You have no shame." She growled, feeling her heart pounding like mad in her chest, heavy tears of bitterness running down her red, swollen face.

I hate you, she thought.

I hate what you made me do.

"If you wish so much to speak to your cousin: let him come to Harrenhal. Send word to him, and I will receive him with all honours." He whispered in a trembling voice.

He was terrified, for this was not what he had expected.

He had thought that he would be the one to play the victim, the wounded man whose heart had been broken by his beloved woman.

And now everything had turned against him.

She snorted, tightening her lips in exasperation at the thought.

"He is to come here like a dog to my summons? He's a proud man. He won't until he hears from your lips that what you did to me was unworthy." She said dryly.

She heard him swallow hard, tense. He was silent for a long moment, as if fighting with himself.

"I will be the one to send him a letter, then. I will ask his forgiveness. I will let him know that you wish to see him and that no harm will come to him or his men in Harrenhal." He proposed at last, surprising her.

I will ask his forgiveness.

"He will know that this is about the Eyrie and not about me. He won't believe your good intentions. He will think you are trying to use me for your own ends." She muttered, feeling her rage slowly begin to drain out of her.

He was trying to give her something in return.

To find a solution that would satisfy them both.

"What he thinks is not important: what will matter is that he will come here to see you. If, as you say, he is a wise man, he knows that the balance of power does not tip on Lady Arryn's side."

"And what if he refuses? If he remains faithful to her?" She asked in a trembling voice, feeling the question hover over them like a heavy cloud.

Her husband was silent for a long time.

"I will let him leave, for the sake of my affection for you. But when it comes to the battle, you cannot expect him to experience my favour." He said at last.

She turned on her back to look at him – he was lying very close to her body, but he did not try to touch her. His gaze was the same again as it had been when he was desperate – he was looking at her, hoping that what he had said, his efforts to make things right were enough for her to forgive him.

"When will you send word to him?" She asked quietly, playing with her fingers.

"Tomorrow at the very dawn. If you wish, I will let you read what I have written." He whispered, softening with each passing moment.

His fury passed, exactly as hers had.

They both took a step back.

She shook her head.

"I don't need to read it. I trust you to write the right thing." She mumbled.

She heard him swallow hard, twisting in his place.

"Can I touch you?" He asked, and she nodded.

She sighed as his arms embraced her instantly, as his broad hand pressed her face into his chest, as his familiar, soothing scent filled her lungs. She clenched her fingers against the material of his tunic and breathed out loud, feeling relieved.

"Forgive me. I don't know what to do with myself when you enrage me, so I remain silent." He whispered at last, combing his hand through her dark curls.

I know, she thought.

That's just the way you are.

"Forgive me for throwing things at you. I didn't mean to hurt you." She replied, trailing her fingers down his arm.

"I know, my love. I know I'm a difficult person. I'm trying to change. To make you proud of me." He said and leaned in, placing a long, warm kiss on the top of her head.

My love.

"I am proud of you." She said, lifting her head up, meeting his face.

His gaze was gentle – his thumb ran over her soft cheek, sinking into the silky structure of her skin.

"I don't wish to fight you. You are my greatest ally and I need you by my side. You carry our future within you and you cannot put yourself at risk." He whispered.

She nodded with understanding and purred quietly as his full lips placed a wet, tender kiss on her forehead.

"Did you speak honestly then?" He asked suddenly, nuzzling his nose into her face.

"What do you mean?"

"You said I was the love of your life." He said, looking at her uncertainly, as if he feared he would see something in her gaze that would contradict that confession.

"You are." She whispered. "It is a difficult love that requires sacrifices, but I believe you are worth my efforts. That I know you and your heart."

She said, sliding her hand down to the area on his chest where she could clearly feel a strong beat underneath.

"You were the only one who always believed in me. You always helped me when I fell. You could have taken advantage of my weakness, but you didn't." He muttered wearily, clearly moved for some reason. "You are not to me only a vessel to conceive and bear my children. That was the fate that befell my mother and I would not condemn my own wife to the same. If this is how you feel by my side, forgive me, for it means that I am not fulfilling my duties as a husband properly."

She swallowed hard, feeling the tears under her eyelids again, however, this time for a completely different reason; he touched her heart the most at moments like this.

When he opened up at least for a moment.

"No. You are a good husband. No one has ever cared for me the way you do." She whispered, stroking his cheek tenderly.

They embraced each other and fell asleep like that at last, knowing that there was nothing more that could be said.

Indeed, as promised, the next day the first thing he did was to write a letter – she could see that he had thought long and hard about how to put his thoughts into words. They both knew that diplomacy was not his strongest asset, but she wanted him to prove to her and to himself that if he wanted it, he could behave properly.

That day she attended the council with him for the first time since the day her father died.

Although she had not expected it, her return was most warmly welcomed by Criston Cole.

"My Lady. Accept my sincerest condolences." He said before they moved on, completely surprising her.

She knew that the fact that she had chosen her husband over her father was proof to him that he had been mistaken in his judgement – she had never blamed him for thinking she was a spy, as he was, in his own way, trying to protect the royal family.

However, what touched her most was that his words were sincere.

The silent war between them had been resolved.

Although Gwayne Hightower was not thrilled with the idea of bringing Lord of Runestone to Harrenhal for fear that he would divulge information to the enemy about their troop numbers and plans, Ser Criston and her husband unanimously agreed that his support would be worth the risk.

"If the vassals of House Arryn were to turn against their lady, the Eyrie would be left completely defenceless. We would cut Rhaenyra off from her allies in the North and gain another advantage. We know she is trying to lead an army from Winterfell to the south of the Kingdom and is surely waiting for the right opportunity to exact revenge." Cole said, to which her husband nodded.

"We're in a good position and now she's the one who has to worry about how to secure victory. She's desperate and will certainly make mistakes. Let's look for allies in the Vale to further weaken the morale of her supporters. Once her own people lose faith in her, her new dragon riders will also abandon her. This could be our chance."

Her cousin had not replied to her husband's letter, but she knew full well that he would not do so. She felt, however, that he would come to see her, and she waited impatiently for that moment, which came a few days later.

"My Lady. Lord of Runestone has arrived."

For the first time in many months, she felt pure joy – only now, sitting alone in one of the stone chambers, she realised how much she had missed him.

Her husband had allowed her to speak to her relative in private – admittedly there were guards standing at the door, but she was still grateful to him for making a concession to her.

As the door opened, she rose from her chair, smiling broadly. Lord of Runestone stepped inside in full armour, as if ready to be challenged – one of the guards approached him before he had time to cross the threshold of the chamber.

"Your sword and dagger, my lord." He said, extending his hand to him.

Her cousin threw her a protracted, frustrated look and she nodded, encouraging him to do as he was asked. Admittedly reluctantly, he gave the guards his weapons – when he stepped into the room and the door finally closed behind him, she threw herself into his arms.

"Allard!" She called out, embracing him around the waist. Her relative reciprocated the embrace and sighed heavily, as if relieved.

Allard Royce was a stocky, tall man: his dark hair fell in thick curls over his shoulders, his fresh stubble adding to his age, although he was only ten years older than her. He grasped her face in his hands and lifted it so that she looked at him – she smiled even wider, seeing his familiar gaze.

"I have come to free you from this stone prison." He said.

She blinked, feeling a cold discomfort in her stomach, and laughed, shaking her head.

"There is no need for that, cousin. I'm not here against my will." She said, forcing herself to be calm and light in her voice.

Allard furrowed his thick eyebrows in displeasure and regret.

"Has his manipulation gone this far already? Has he succeeded in dragging you to his side?" He asked, lowering his hands, causing another wave of unpleasant feeling to run down her spine.

She swallowed hard and shook her head, feeling the panic rising inside her.

"What he did was undignified and reckless, it's true. But he never hurt me. I agreed to marry him of my own free will." She muttered, playing with her fingers in a nervous impulse.

Why was she convinced that this conversation would turn out very differently?

Her cousin snorted and moved forward, circling the room with a loud clang of his steel armour.

"So why all this farce? This letter? Are you trying to convince me to kneel before the Uzurpator?" He asked coldly, and she shook her head again.

"N-no. I wanted to ask you about my mother. And my father." She mumbled.

"The same one your husband killed?" He sneered, making her heart thump harder in her chest.

No.

I killed him, she thought.

But she felt ashamed to utter those words.

"Yes. My father challenged him." She explained, looking at the old wooden floor beneath her feet. "But before he fell, he told me that my mother added poison to my milk when I was a child. Is that true?"

Allard stopped in half step and threw her a surprised look full of horror. She saw in his expression that her question made him uncomfortable, as he turned his face towards the window.

"I don't know anything about it." He replied.

She swallowed hard, knowing he had lied to her face.

"My father said you were the one who informed him of this."

Her cousin closed his eyes and sighed, as if the conversation was making him very tired.

"That night you got a high fever. There were… rumours spreading around the fortress. I didn't know what to do, so I sent word to him. I hoped he would do the right thing for once. And then he killed Rhea." He said dispassionately, shrugging his shoulders.

"Because she wouldn't let him take me to King's Landing." She said wearily, feeling that this was the moment.

The moment of truth.

She felt a cold shiver run along her body as her relative burst out laughing.

"And you believed him? Then why didn't he take you with him after he murdered her, hm? Who could forbid him from doing so? Do you think King Viserys would not have supported his own brother in this matter even if I had objected?" He scoffed, making her feel the pleasant image she'd been putting together in her head for the past weeks begin to slowly crack.

She wanted to believe that he loved her.

She wanted to believe that if he could, he would have acted differently.

But the truth was that he had never fought for her and perhaps that was why he had grabbed her hand then, deep underwater.

Perhaps it was his apology.

"Do you wish to hear anything more from my lips, Princess Targaryen, or may I return to my duties?" He asked lightly, casting her a look of regret and disappointment.

As if he wanted to tell her that he had raised her differently.

She was supposed to be a Royce, not a Targaryen.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to insult you. I thought this meeting would bring you joy, as it did to me." She muttered.

"Your husband, the self-proclaimed Prince Regent, humiliated me in front of my people. He made you his whore, giving cause for gossip and mockery to the entire Kingdom, and then graciously married you because of your kinship without even asking my opinion, even though I was the one who raised you. He didn't invite me to the nuptial ceremony, he ignored me in every possible way."

"He knew that because of Lady Arryn you would not be able to attend." She mumbled with difficulty, feeling tears of shame burning under her eyelids.

He had made you his whore, giving cause for gossip and mockery to the entire Kingdom.

Was this really how the Realm perceived her?

"Do you think this cold cunt from the high mountains would have stopped me? That I would have chosen her and not you? I raised you. I did." He hissed, slamming his fist into his armour.

"I know. I know, but I swear his words and his apology are sincere." She said pleadingly, but her cousin shook his head.

"This piece of parchment is supposed to be a compensation? He can wipe his ass with it. He's just a little cripple with a big dragon who flies around the Seven Kingdoms thinking he's king. Did he burn his brother by accident too?" He exclaimed, infuriating her for some reason.

"Your words are treason." She said coldly.

Allard closed his mouth, breathing heavily, a challenge in his eyes.

"Cut off my head then. Show me who you really are and what you choose."

"No. Go back to Runestone. My husband was right. It was a mistake." She said dryly, feeling nothing but emptiness in her mind.

Although Allard had always hidden his feelings perfectly, she could see in his gaze that her words had caused him pain. He shook his head in disbelief and moved towards the door without even a word of farewell.

She collapsed onto the chair listening to his footsteps in the distance, only then letting bitter tears of disappointment run down her cheeks.

She imagined that they would throw themselves into each other's arms, that after a few cruel words they would come to an understanding, that she would tell him about the child in her womb, that there was hope for them and their lineage.

To him, however, she had become a stranger.

A Targaryen Princess.

She lowered her gaze as she heard someone's footsteps again, but this time moving closer to the chamber she was in – she knew that her husband had stopped at the threshold of the door and that he was looking at her.

She knew that he had seen how the conversation had gone.

"Hāedar." Was all he said, and that was enough.

She hid her face in her hands, feeling ashamed that she had been so naïve: suddenly her idea of travelling, all by herself, to her family stronghold seemed plainly childish to her.

She cried out loud, feeling humiliated and disappointed, believing that she could have had two families at once, that their bond was more important than politics and war.

She heard him move towards her – he stepped over her and embraced her, cuddling her head into his stomach. He stroked her hair and just looked at her, silent.

She thought he certainly felt a hot satisfaction, but wouldn't admit it out loud.

"You were right." She whispered. "It was a mistake."

"I'm sorry." He replied, though she knew he wasn't.

Perhaps some part of him felt sorry for her, but the other part was pleased that no one could take her away from him anymore.

She couldn't blame him for that.

"Did you find the answers to your questions?" He asked, combing his fingers through her dark curls.

She closed her eyes, thinking that now there was only them.

Their family.

Their bond.

Their destiny.

"Yes."

[grapejuicestyless]

Wishes Do Come True

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summery: It was just a legend, something out in place to make people believe in something that couldn’t be true. But when fate has its way, JJ learns that sometimes, wishes do come true. CONTAINS SEASON 4 SPOILERS!!!

Ryan shot the gun first. He shot it because Ward was charging at him, his teeth bared and his arms spread wide. How fitting that he would go out as a somewhat decent father, a man who took three bullets and threw himself over a cliff to save his daughter and her Pogue best friends.

JJ remembers the feeling of the earth bending beneath his feet as he practically sprinted over to the edge, looking down past his feet to see where the Kook and the henchman lay. JJ thought it was strange, how someone could be so crumpled up, he knew bones weren’t made to bend that way, so seeing the way his body twisted made him a little sick.

He can hear Sarahs soft cries and echoing hiccups clearly, how Kiara seemed to grab onto herself to steady her breathing. He remembers seeing how tightly John B’s arms were woven around Sarah’s body, as if he were afraid she would jump next, as if her body could save his. There was no saving that, as sick as it was.

But what he really remembers, is the softness of her voice calling out for him, the way her voice shook like it was hard to get out. Only then did the sounds of his friends stop ringing in his ears, and through some champagne party effect, he could focus in on just the quietness of her. Only then did he realize as he tried to wrap his arm around thin air that she wasn’t at the ledge.

A stray bullet, it’s a funny thing. The shots fire, four, the last four bullets the man has, and only three reach the sacrificial lamb. The last one reaches one of the seven targets behind it.

Her hands shook over her upper stomach, gripping her skin just below her ribs. Even with a shaky focus, he could see the tint of red beginning to seep past her once light blue nails, now chipped and digging into the cloth of her shirt.

“JJ, I…I don’t…” She stumbled forward, her eyes flickering from his to some distant thing over his shoulder. She could barely focus her vision. He remembers the weight of her head hitting his shoulder as he caught her, the feeling of an extra warmth seeping into his own clothes, something wet and sticky that shouldn’t be drenching the two of them, but was.

“No, no, no. Come on cupcake, come on.” He gritted his teeth, trying to hold her up, but his need to keep her up was wavering at the look of agony on her face. She laid in his lap, his hand holding hers as they both pressed down on the wound, though, it was no use because they had no way home, and the nearest hospital wasn’t for miles. They had no idea where to even begin to search for one in the middle of all the greenery.

JJ rambled in a panic, a habit he’d always done, but she couldn’t make sense of it anymore. Her hearing was fuzzy and her vision came in and out in waves of darkness. She tried to look at her friends, but her eyes wouldn’t tear themselves away from her best friend’s face.

She had just gotten him, their love was still brand new, discovered on an island they were sure they would never find again. It was barely a month since they had shared a kiss under the stars, one both had been dreaming of for years. They went back and forth for what felt like centuries and now none of it mattered, because JJ was holding his love in his arms as she helplessly spat up blood and tried to focus on the blue of his eyes and not the tears on his face.

“It’s gonna be okay, you just gotta fight, you can fight. You fucking…” JJ broke out into a bitter laugh, one he didn’t mean as his palms messily wiped away the blood that trickled down her jaw. Red smeared everywhere, sticking to every crease in his skin. It burned, and so he kept smiling because his laughter, as disingenuous as it was, brought a weak smile to her face. “You saved my life, when I fell off that boat. You kept me alive, and I’m gonna keep you alive, so don’t give up on me.”

The sight of the tears finally spilling from her pretty eyes would forever haunt JJ, because he knew as her chest caved in against his lap, that the pain was too great to make her stay and suffer through, when they both knew she was as good as dead as soon as the gun was fired.

“It doesn’t hurt so bad anymore.” She had told him weakly, the initial throbbing turning into an intense burning, a mix of the powder and the blood that pooled around her, soaking his skin through his pants.

“N-no, come on baby…baby, cupcake, please.” He pleaded. “I love you, please.”

Her ears seemed to clear at his heavy confession, and a sweet smile, the sweet smile he had fallen for back in the third grade, graced her pretty, tired face one last time.

“I love you JJ.” She promised, blinking back the tears. Somehow, she found the strength to lift his hand from her wound and press her bloodied lips to his sticky palm.

He had to watch the way her eyes fluttered shut, one last choked breath that sounded similar to what Pope would later explain as death rattle breathing, escaped her mouth, and that sweet little smile faded into nothing as she laid dead in her best friends arms.

JJ was never quite the same after that. He still loved his friends, he was still reckless and loud and impulsive, but he seemed to do it all for her.

When they won their money finally, he thought of all the things he would’ve bought for her, all the beaches they could’ve surfed across. When he finally found a place to call home, he placed her pillow on her side of his bed, fluffed it up for her and swore some nights he could feel her head resting on his heavy chest.

He thought of how much she would have loved Poguelandia 2.0. It was bittersweet to see the flag because all he could think of was their first kiss under the white flag that waved proudly above them.

He missed their matching P4L stick and pokes, he hated that he had to look at his forever and know it no longer matched with anyone. He hated that everyone else around him had someone to lean on, a lover to come home to, when he knew he would never be able to love again. But most importantly, he hated how young she was. She was only nineteen.

John B told him it wasn’t about the time we had with those we have lost, but what we make of it, but JJ was too angry to care. He didn’t care, it was easy for John B to say when he had lost a best friend, but JJ had lost so much more.

He wore her charm bracelet on his wrist, even though it was tight and caused a lot of noise. He loved the charms on them because they were old and made of clay and they matched his rings and necklace. She made them when they were ten because they were too young for their tattoos.

He swore to never go after treasure again, he couldn’t risk it, but with the promise of a singular wish, JJ followed along like a duckling to Morocco, blood on his shirt and a new father to betray him.

“You know, they say the crown grants a wish.” Kiara broke the silence between them in the heat one day, looking up at the sky to avoid the awkwardness of eye contact. She didn’t have to ask to know he would wish for her back in a heartbeat, but she did anyway because truthfully she liked the way JJ talked about her. It made her feel like her best friend was still alive.

“Yeah?” JJ scoffed with a smirk. “What would you wish for?” He asked, leaning over the unstable ledge, bricks dusty and the cement breaking apart. It wobbled under his forearms.

“I’m not saying I believe it but…I’d wish to go back in time maybe. I’d try not to rush into everything.” She said calmly, her eyes finding JJ’s.

“What about you?” She asked softly, and JJ hummed.

“The thing about wishes is, they don’t come true if you say them.” Kiara laughed breathily at his words.

“Yeah?” She questioned for confirmation.

“Yeah.” He breathed out. “And I really want this one to come true.”

That phrase, “be careful what you wish for,” was made for people like JJ Maybank.

There’s this old game called “Monkeys Paw” that Y/n and JJ both loved when they were younger. One person would make a wish, and the goal of the game was to make that person regret that wish.

They would stay up for hours laughing about it.

If JJ wished for a pizza, the pizza was poisoned. If Y/n wanted a dog, it was rabid. They’d spend hours at a time waking up the neighbors just laughing at how outrageous they could make the faults.

Now that they were older, and now that Y/n was gone, JJ seemed to forget about the rules of the game.

He stumbled back, all air caught in his throat. He lost the crown, and he’d lost his girl, and now, here his biological father was with a knife twisted deep into his abdomen, pulling it out with a sickening crunch.

Kiara pleaded for him to keep fighting, her hands on the wound in a way that reminded him of the way he desperately pressed against Y/n’s all those weeks ago. Her cries were just as desperate, and they were just as fuzzy.

JJ now felt thankful he let her go peacefully, because living through the pain was insufferable, and he knew it would have been cruel to make her fight it any longer.

He cried a little, but he wasn’t sad. No, he was happy, even as Kiara screamed for Pope and John B, begging for help that would do no good because just like his precious Y/n, there was no way home and no help in sight.

He let out a hiccup, and his eyes focused on her brown ones as his vision cleared for a moment, the sting turning into a familiar burn.

“Kie, I never told you my wish.” He smiled, and she shook her head.

“No, Jayj, come on, you gotta fight it. I can’t lose you too.” She pleaded, and it was like he wasn’t even listening as he kept choking out words.

“I already got what I wished for.” He smiled.

All he ever wanted was a home, and though every sacred place he ever had to call that were short lived and destroyed, he had found it in the people who loved him, and the people he loved.

JJ wished for so much more than anyone thought, and he’d gotten all of it.

He had you at one point, and he was eternally grateful for every hug he ever received from your loving arms. He had Pope and John B, who made him laugh like no one else ever could, his ribs sore and his stomach shaking. Kiara and Sarah kept him grounded. He was grateful for how much they cared, how safe he felt around them. He knew he would miss his best friends more than anything else, he would miss them like family, because thats what they were.

The Pogues were his family, and his family was his home.

JJ wished for one last thing with the crown as the darkness took him. He slipped away from his body, his head lulling to the side as Kiara shook him, but he wasn’t there anymore, and he wasn’t afraid because there she was.

Kneeling beside Kiara and she didn’t even know, there she was, her sweet smile and her pretty eyes. She was holding both Kiara’s hand, and his hand, nothing more than wind to them on the ground, but now JJ could see her, and now he could hold her.

“Y/n? Cupcake?” He breathed out with a smile, the luckiest man in the world, even if his toes didn’t physically touch the dirt or the sand anymore.

“Jay…” She smiled back, a sweet sound falling past her lips, and it was simply half of his name.

As his arms wrapped around her tightly, his nose buried into her shoulder. It felt good to know that he would never have to let her go again, and that someday, his friends would have the same pleasure of holding him again too.

JJ’s wish had been a little greedy, because in addition to what he was already granted, he wished to be with Y/n again.

He guess he never really specified how but hey, wishes really do come true.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Black Metal and Bourbon (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of sex & intimacy, dark jokes/dirty jokes, rumors, gossip, past toxic relationship, a shitty Ex, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You slapped the damp rag back into the bar top, the fabric heavy with spilled alcohol and other fluids that you didn’t even want to try and think about. 

“Jesus.” Your muscles ache, neck stiff from having to try and slap a dart from the ceiling where some jackass had been too drunk to attempt and hit the target. The thing was still up there, as you weren’t about to spend your entire night fruitlessly attempting to fix someone else's blurry mistakes. 

You glare over your shoulder, seeing the unconscious form of the man in question being dragged out by his friends presently, his slurring chuckles making him sound like a drowning elephant. Intoxicated yells of goodbye attached to your name make you roll your eyes slowly as they begin being said; you push through the waist-height door to allow you behind the front counter. Your middle finger flips the patrons off before boisterous flirting hits the air.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that—!” Is cut off by the slam of the front doors and you couldn’t be more happy that your boss hadn’t gotten the bolts tightened. 

“Don’t get paid enough…” You grumble, eyes slithering over to the tip jar and seeing the overflow of bills and coins as your fingers wrap the neck of a bottle of Vodka. 

The profit would be split with your coworker even if she’d been gone for more than half a night getting railed by her new boy toy. You can still remember the look she’d given you as she’d walked out during rush hour, her sharp smirk and smug sheen of ‘you won’t say anything, will you?’

Grumbling under your breath, you slip the Vodka back into its slot on the wall racks, while telling yourself you can’t drink on the job; trying to forget the face of the man that had been attached to hers before they’d stumbled to the back alley.  

“Graham Whitaker, you’re such a five-cent sell-out,” you shake your head, sighing heavily into the air that smells like booze and sweat. 

Graham Whitaker—your Ex in every sense. 

You decided to tell your coworker, if she ever showed back up, that the only reason she was getting dicked-down was because it was that man’s plan to try and make you jealous. As if you’d be caught with your pants down over a prick that had cheated on you more times than you could count before you threw his ass out. 

“Not my problem anymore,” your hands move to display themselves in a motion of a settled disagreement before wiping them on your black pants. 

It was late now, of course, with the dart-drunk and his friends being the last patrons that you had to serve. But you’d been in this town a long, long time. 

Sorrel the construction worker came in an hour, Miss Anna-Lee accompanying for her nightly Gin and Tonic before she talked about her late love from the seventies. From there it was three more regulars before closing activities and fighting to get up tomorrow by noon only to do it all over again. 

Over and over and over. 

You lean back on the counter and look across the brown wood and warm overhead lights, behind you, the illumination from the drink rack gives off a dead glow. 

This was your workplace since you'd been of age, and over the years that seemed to drag, here is where you’d stayed. Nothing ever changed in this town—the biggest shock was when you’d broken up with Graham; people hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

This place was like a prison of slow death and abandoned dreams. Safe to say this was not what you had envisioned for yourself.

You scoff, pushing off the back counter and snatching your rag back up before you can spiral once more.

The stains weren’t going to buff themselves out.

Maybe it was chance that the mechanics shop across the street had shut down, too few employees and too many drug busts. Chance, or fate, whichever it was you chose to believe in that still-air Sunday, it was still a shock to you when you looked out the front window as Sorrel called goodnight through his heavy accent. 

‘SOLD’

“Sold?” Sorrel pauses with one foot out of the door, and he chuckles when he sees where you’re looking in shock, your hand holding a dirty glass. 

“Haven’t heard, then? Few newcomers snuck in under our noses—they’ll be running the place; mechanics!” 

“New?” You laugh. “Who in their right mind would come here of all places?” 

Sorrel shakes his head, grumbling as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “You’ll just have to meet ‘em, Doll. Sure you’ll leave a glowing impression.”

“Take that shit outside, you ass. You know I hate the smell.” A smirk graces your dead eyes. 

“Like I said. Glowing.” You glare, but the man slips out of the door quickly and his form passes by the window outside to climb into his truck parked in the street. Two honks from the horn and the older man is off, grizzly-like beard gone just like your boredness. 

New arrivals? 

You blink at the blackened shadows of the street, illuminated by the lights and their tall tree-like bases—the sway of the planted bushes in the boxes outside. Your head tilts at the abyssal building that was once in working order. 

It was a shitshow now, years of abandonment not giving it any helping hand regarding upkeep. The concrete was cracked, the garage door was hanging off of one side, and the front windows had been broken by your Ex’s buddies when they had gotten into a fight like the three-year-olds they were. 

You hum lowly. A hard-chucked set of keys, you recalled. You’d seen it from here easily enough. Hadn't lied to Sheriff Russel when he’d come knocking, and, you suppose, that was why even now the immature posse still tried to scare you by following you home at night to this day.

As if everyone didn’t know where everyone else lived already. 

But back to the current interest for the night. 

“Let’s have a little look-see, then,” you breathe, knowing Miss Anna-Lee would be a good while away like always. You could chance five minutes—it was just across the street after all. 

Shuffling outside, making sure to hold the door until it closes slowly, you step down the single step and stick your hands into your pockets. The night wasn’t hot or cold, simply there like a metaphorical cut on your palm; it wasn’t surprising the more you lived with it, but it still made your skin itch. 

Feet padding, you cross the dead street and take in the long stretch of unkempt grass, stepping onto the broken curb as your shoes crunch broken glass. Long-gone cigarette butts are scattered here and there, the occasional stray bit of metal or trash. Your eyes shift slowly from one brick that makes up the frame to another, the peeling blue color that could use touching up. 

The mural you had painted in middle school had faded a long time ago, just like the great expectations of going into an art career. The eyes of a great gray wolf are only a dark outline that you can’t help but stare at as if a cancer was growing in your brain, hidden behind the reach of green ivy. 

Ripping your eyes away, you ignore the cry of tires from across the town and the pop of an exhaust pipe—the roar of either a car chase by the repeat offender Irene Chaney, or by some stupid kid related to Irene Chaney. 

“She’s gonna wreck one of these days,” you breathe, looking down at your object of intention—the sold sign in all of its red and white glory. 

Your hand snakes out and grabs the cheap plastic, stopping its swaying with a creak and a tilt of your head. 

You just couldn’t understand it—who in their right mind would buy this place? The only thing it would be good as is rubble, at least then some rabbit could make its very dusty home here. 

Sorrel had mentioned multiple people too. 

“Must be up at the B&B then,” your voice carries over the space, the stars twinkling above you as a shadow stands at the end of the cracked driveway. Its hands are in its pockets, tall form bulky with the dark brown leather jacket around its intimidating form. You’re none the wiser, letting the sign drop as you put your hands to your hips. “They better not be fuckin’ dickheads—”

“Mind explainin’ to me why I came to get a drink and now I’m talkin’ to some Bird on my property?” 

You startle, gasp peeling out of your lips as your head swivels as if attached to a string which, in turn, tracks back to the source of a heavy Manchester accent. Grass breaks under your feet, as the gravel of the tone makes you cringe. Your eyes lock on the man who looks like he just came back from a warzone. 

The first thing you noticed was the balaclava and the skeleton detailing, of course, how could you not—the lower half was an inch below those October eyes of the deepest shade of brown you’d ever witnessed. 

Your spine straightens in cautious surprise, hiding the way your hands had clenched as if ready to swing on your Ex if he so happened to be there instead of…this person. 

“Excuse me?” You say, quickly, as if it was forced out instead of a scream. Your face pushes that stern expression back to your face as your throat clears out the hoarseness.

A covered head tilts with its small sliver of pale flesh visible to you—the strong bones of his nose bridge and hidden jawline. The bulk of large muscles and thighs spoke to hard labor, and his booted feet shifted below loose black cargo pants. 

The mask alone caused you a hint of worry in those few seconds of fast study of this phantom’s anatomy. 

He blinks at you slowly, raising the small corner of a dark brow from a respectable distance away.

“Said you’re trespassing, yeah?” Your face gains a sheen of heat, and you glance at your bar behind the stranger, at the bright burn of the lights. 

Taking a stiff breath, your lips pull into a frown as you try to hide your embarrassment.

“Well…a holler would have been just fine.” A fake glare is put on. “What’s with sneaking up on a woman in the middle of the night? Are you some creep or something?”

Those dark eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment you don’t know if you’ve encountered a statue or not because he doesn’t speak for a moment. 

A puff of breath from his nose. 

“You the bartender, then?” You motion to your nametag above your left breast and grunt. His gaze homes in before he simply says, “Good.”

Without another word, the man turns stiffly before he steadily begins making his way back to the bar; crossing the street with a swift check of the road. You watch him saunter off, jaw slackened and your cheeks hot. The span of his shoulder blades levels out as he rolls his shoulders. 

Where did this guy even come from? The answer was simple, the bed and breakfast was only four buildings down and to the left. Guy must have come in for a late-night serenade with a bottle.

A quick glance is thrown back to the rundown property behind you before you growl and hurry after this individual who currently pushes open the faulty doors of your work. Jogging across the asphalt, you catch the thing right before it closes and slip inside with a puff of air and a shoved-down snap of a sarcastic ‘thanks’. 

Yet, the man is already pulling back one of the bar stools and easing into it when you make it behind the counter. You study him yet again. 

“You’re one of the new mechanics?” Brown-Eyes blinks at you. 

Without missing a beat, he goes, “Bourbon—Kentucky.”

“I asked a question,” you cross your arms, not even for a moment looking away as the silence of the bar sneaks in around you and this strange creature. “Least you can do for a lady is answer it when you act like a damn cat and sneak up on her.”

“You were on my property.” This is leveled out through a grunt, and after a moment of staring, you scoff. 

“I was curious about who had bought such a piece of junk. Guess I have my answer.” Your hand grabs the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the amber liquid inside sloshing as you turn back and put it into the wood. There’s a fraction of a dead tease that makes the man seem more human than he looks.

“Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

“I prefer a solar flair.” You comment dryly and set an engraved glass next to the bottle. Something flickers past the mechanic’s eyes, a quirk to the fabric of his balaclava. 

“On The Rocks or Neat?” Your brow raises and you tilt your head. 

“That even a bloody question? Neat.” You snort, splaying your hands before you grab the bottle as he watches you blankly. 

“Sorry, it's kind of my job to ask.” Your hand shifts and you pour a reasonable amount into the glass, knowing exactly when to stop. As you shift the bottle away, you leave it on the bar top and gently push the beverage to him as his gloved fingers take it up. You repress a small smile at the matching bone gloves to go with the detailing on his balaclava.

“Bartenders always have this much attitude?” The glass is kept in front of his person, carefully held in his large grip. 

Moving back, you go to lean on the back counter. This night was quickly taking an interesting turn. “Only if they’re me.” You sigh. “You have a name, then, Brown-Eyes?” 

The individual snorts at the title, but his eyes narrow on you at the same time as if he was held hesitant at the ability for you to make him. He had an air of casual tension around him, like a dog on a thin leash that can only just manage to meet others and stay his fangs. 

Danger, you pinpoint. The man felt like danger. A riptide; surface tension.

Then why was it that you felt more and more intrigued by the second?

“Simon Riley,” he eases, staring with those numb eyes of his before he tips the glass slightly your way. With the thumb on the same hand that holds the bourbon, he hooks it under his face covering and pulls it up until he can connect the glass to his lips and take down a sip as his Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow. 

On the way back, his thumb drags the fabric back to its previous position as if nothing had happened. The image of pale skin and stubble sticks with you, and your eyes shift away quickly without you realizing it as the glass is returned to the counter. 

“Well, Simon Riley,” you mutter, “welcome to nowhere.”

The man hums, eyes looking you over in a single glance before the gaze shifts to the wall behind your head. He says nothing, and the door opens to the next three familiar customers as you move to take their order. As you slip out from behind the barrier, you grumble under your breath before you slip past Simon to the corner booth. 

“For the record, Riley, I do enjoy seein’ that old place getting taken on. Don’t run it into the ground, would you? And if you need a fresh coat of paint, for the love of all things holy, don’t go down to the Schafersons’ place, you come right to me.” 

Walking casually, you greet the three ladies from the downtown library with a smirk and an easy comment about if their husbands knew they were out so late, to which you promptly got cursed out on good faith. Sharing a few chuckles, you get them started on what they need, all the while feeling those brown orbs now following subtly from the side of their sockets, intrigued. 

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of you, and the same could be said about this town as a whole. A woman with such a future trapped behind her eyes, adventure in her blood, why were you here in a place with nothing promised for it except dying businesses and old faces? This was a place where people came to hang up the coat, not try and rip it off of its peg. 

The children born here with ambitions leave, that was the common denominator. Even Simon could see that. But you? Here you were. 

The man peels his eyes away, taking up his glass again and re-hooking his thumb to his mask. Amber liquid seeps into his mouth, pulling the scars on his lips and cheeks as he swallows it down as easily as water. The bourbon pools in his stomach, sending its honied effects to the back of his mind; it would take much more to get drunk, but that wasn’t what Simon was looking for. 

Perhaps he was just out tonight wondering why he’d left the military for a mechanic’s job and come out here—asking anything for a sign that this was the right decision even as his head echoed with the screams and the gunfire. 

And then he’d seen you standing in front of the fuckin’ worst mechanics shop he’d ever seen that he’d signed the property deed for not three hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at the place before buying it—Price was responsible for the official financial actions, and the man had made him swear that it was worth it.

But fuck, he’d just needed a way out of the city. Too loud, too unpredictable in that previous shop of theirs right by the busy street. MacTavish and Garrick had been easy to convince; they’d all served together before and had no family over here either. 

A new start thousands upon thousands of miles away. 

Your head pulls up from where you chat with the librarians, hearing the slam of the door as the draft wafts in from outside—a small breeze has picked up. 

Inside walks in your very ruffled, and very well-pleased, coworker, Celina Bell. 

She brushes down her top and black skirt, blinking around with blown pupils until her eyes lock on you. A poisonous smile meets your eyes as you raise a brow slowly—Lord, if this girl didn’t realize that fucking your Ex over some workplace squabble wasn’t something to be proud of, she was really a lost cause. 

Simon only glances over his shoulder before turning back around and tapping his fingers against his glass absentmindedly. 

“You alright?” You ask out of due diligence, sparing the ladies an apology look for them being interrupted. 

“Better than alright,” Celina chuckles, walking over with a limp in her step. “Just scored Graham Whitaker.” She fake pauses, blinking as if in realization that a child would know was taking the piss. Your face is stuck in the expression of boredom. “Wait…you two were involved for a few years, right? Oh, I’m really sorry—I had no clue.”

“Yeah,” you look her up and down and blink at the disheveledness. “Sure. Quite the score.” A pause, her lips pulling back into that smug smirk that reminds you of a weasel. Yet your next words leave her face devoid of blood. “You know he got Chlamydia from Stacy Green a week ago, right?”

A pin could be heard dropping. Brown eyes are firmly stuck to the scene, unsure what to make of it. The ladies stifle their laughter.

“...W-what?”

“Y’know,” you motion a hand to her lower body, walking past her back to the bar. “STD. Chlamydia. Results in—”

“I know what the fuck an STD is, you bitch.”

“Woah,” you whistle, “language.” Your body returns to the counter as loud stuttering is left behind you, the frantic patting of a pocket to look for a phone before enraged feet rush to the exit. “Need a refill, Riley?”

“It can wait,” Simon utters slowly. The door slams shut.

You chuckle, shrugging. “Alright, suit yourself.” 

The man takes the names you drop and files them away, slotting them into his mental database for when he needs to work with these people. Yet, there’s already a sour impression just off of comments alone. Who better to get your news from than a bartender? 

You know everyone's dirty little secrets.

You diligently serve the drinks to the librarians, placing them down carefully before Simon once more has a re-filled glass of his drink. He moves it slightly up in a cheer and gives you a stare as you wipe your hands with a clean rag.

“Seems you know everything ‘round ‘ere.” His accent is what draws you in, and you find yourself eager to hear more from him. 

“I’m easy to talk to,” you respond, shrugging and leaning on the counter a foot or two away as you both watch the other. A smirk overtakes your features. “And I am the one that gives people the drinks.”

“So, what I’m hearing,” Simon raises a brow. “Is that you get ‘em dunker than a man on his execution date.” 

You click your tongue, tilting your head in a teasing manner while maintaining a serious face. 

“Afraid you’ll spill your secrets, Riley?” 

His eyes flash at you, and his lips flicker into a smirk you can hear in his voice. 

“It’ll take more than two glasses of Bourbon to get me talking, Sunshine.” 

Your face shifts away, but the sudden fight with a smile leaves you nearly breathless. 

Who is this man?

“Why are you here,” your question meets his ears as he takes back the last of his drink, stomach filled for the night and his searching, for the moment, abated. 

The glass meets the bar top. 

He grunts. “Needed a drink.”

Your lips pull in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re terrible at answering questions.”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, shaking your head as a low chuckle makes your insides swirl. 

A stack of bills is placed on the counter, and the man stands, grabbing the hood of his black sweatshirt and pulling it up. His gloved hands go to the pockets of his leather jacket with a roll of his wide shoulders. From under the hood, the white of the painted mask glares out from under the shadows that now shroud him. 

You both sneak a glance at the mechanic's shop—a clear view from the front window. 

“See you around, then?” Your head is tilted at him, blinking. You hum under your breath. “I’m going to keep asking you why you showed up in this town, Riley, and I won’t stop until I get an answer.”

Simon quirks a brow, eyes glinting with interest. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this outside of his boys?

“Look forward to it,” he utters slowly. With a blink and one more dead look, he’s already out the front door and walking back down the street—disappearing like a ghost the same way he had appeared. 

Picking up his cash and counting through it, the librarians across the way snicker, and one calls out, “So, the new mechanic, huh?”

“One more peep and I’m doubling your tab.”

But…you did have to admit, he had been charming…hadn’t he? At least someone here could juggle your attitude.

—

Three days pass with no sighting of Simon Riley, but just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean you weren’t witness to his aftermath. 

The shop across the street was practically fixed up while you were asleep. 

Where there had been overgrown grass, there was now a cut lawn getting watered by the reach of an angry sprinkler. The fast movement of the spray reaches the sidewalk that was, somehow, still there under all that trash hiding away like a criminal. Stray bricks are gone and stacked into a pile as you pause outside the bar, staring wide-eyed with your breath caught in your throat in the late morning air. 

The ivy over your mural was peeled back—that faded wolf’s gaze locking with yours, unyielding to the calls of time as its canid body stool as a silent sentinel. 

But, on the third day, as you’re going on break before the night sets in, you manage to not only see Simon again but meet two of the other men who’d moved here.

You pick up your feet and jog across the street, hopping the curb as you blink, impressed at the open garage with its fixed and oiled bay door. Inside it was still dusty—remnants of what was left behind in the corners and scattered. But it was getting there. Quickly. 

“Didn’t know Simon was goin’ to sign on such a piece of rusted shite—where’s the fuckin’ outlets?” Gritted Scottish. You stick your hands into your pockets and enter the large opening. 

“If I remember,” you speak, finding the two men standing slightly off to the side as the bulkier one with a mohawk carries a series of extension cords. Cobalt and brown eyes dart to you in shock—the second man of darker complexion sharing a glance with the other in swift confusion. “When you manage to find them, they’ll all be burst.” 

Blank stares are sent your way. 

“Kids would come by and watch ‘em spark when they were bored. No one really cared enough to stop them.” A clearing of a throat meets your ears as you study the room more. 

It was small, with only one main garage for all the repairs, but that wasn’t new to you. The motorcycles were, though. 

Five in total all parked and resting next to one another near the back wall, all in varying shades of black and gray. Your lips twitch at the sight, imagining your late-night acquaintance riding one of them—you dare say that it fit him quite well, and you weren’t that surprised at all by this.

Biker mechanics. It fits the script. 

“Who’s this then?” The Scot asks you, raising a brow as a friendly smirk pulls his mouth up. “Can’t remember bookin’ any repairs today, Ma’am, might have to wait a few more days before we get it all up and runnin’.”

“I can see. No, I work just across the street,” you spare a friendly smile. 

“So you’re the bartender? The bartender.” The second man speaks, grinning kindly as he searches through a toolbox on a small table. He hums, looking playful. “So that’s why Ghost was gone so long.” 

Ghost…? Did they mean Simon?

The skeletal accents suddenly make far more sense.

“Johnny MacTavish,” A hand is leveled out ahead of you, and you take it casually with a muttering of your own name. “Soap’s just fine as well.” 

Your brow quirks, but you only share an amused nod.

The other individual stands and makes his way over, tall and leaner as to where Soap’s more blatant strength is. 

“Kyle Garrick—Gaz. Pleasure.” 

“Just came over to introduce myself,” your hand shifts back into your pockets as you motion with your head back to the bar. “I’m on my break.” 

“Ah,” Soap’s hands move the cables he holds as he loops them into a more storable shape vertically around his elbow and palm. “Last one to meet then is Price—man’s in town gettin’ lunch for us,” he grunts under his breath. “Hopefully a damn set of zip-ties, too.”

“Zip-ties, Mate?” Gaz breathes a chuckle with a fix of the backward ball cap on his head. “C-4 would bloody help more. At least then we can have a clean starting point.” 

“I think we’re fresh out of C-4, unfortunately,” you huff a laugh, motioning around as the men smirk at you, Johnny snorting a chuckle. “You guys have done a pretty good job so far. I can’t remember when it looked this nice in here.”

“Well, we’re honored, Bonnie,” Soap tilts his head as he ties off the cord with one of the ends. “Makin’ me blush.”

“If Simon had just looked at the place before buying it, we might have been able to open sooner.” Gaz huffs, thinning his lips as he glances over the broken window and the peeling paint—the door to the main lobby that has a punched dent in it. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Well then it can only get better,” you breathe, shrugging. 

Gaz huffs affectionately. “Not wrong there, then.”

You lean forward, tilting your head. “You’ll find I rarely am.”

“Second time you’ve snuck on,” a Manchester accent scares you once more, head snapping to the side as the light spills in from the garage opening. “This a pattern, Sunshine?”

Simon’s brows are raised as those October eyes lock with yours. Gaz and Soap share a look, smirking before the Scot peels off to find a place to store his belongings. 

“Where have you been?” Gaz asks as you glare at the masked man for once again coming up behind you. 

A bag is presented, leaning off three fingers as a glance gets thrown past you. 

“Down the street. Needed these made.” The bag is tossed and Kyle catches it easily. 

You watch as the crinkly plastic is opened and the dark fabric of four black pairs of overalls is produced, each embroidered with their respective names. 

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Johnny pipes up, brows furrowed. 

“Looks like you got fuckin’ mugged in ‘em.” Simon slides his attention back to you as Johnny curses with a glint of amusement in his blues. 

“Aren’t open yet.” Your face peels back to a stiff annoyance. 

“I can see that, Riley.” You motion to the other men. “I was being polite.”

He grunts while walking past, muttering through a brief smirk, “Doubt that.” 

Your jaw slackens, but you only growl and hold your tongue as you glance the mechanic over. He still had his leather jacket, but a loose shirt took the place of a hoodie. 

“You ready to answer my question?” Simon locks those eyes with yours from over his shoulder before sliding up to the black form of one of the motorcycles. 

Visible to the naked eye, you take in the lack of fairings around the frame—eyeing the pure black metal of the entire engine from any angle that you might move to you’d still be able to see. It was nice. Perfect, even; damn expensive too. While the thought was enticing, you can’t imagine Simon riding it—he seemed more rugged, more…classy. 

“Negative.” You roll your eyes, but Soap speaks before you can retort. 

“Finally takin’ out the CB1000R, Ghost? ‘Bout time.” The brute throws a blank look at the Scot as Gaz utters to you a few feet away before a casual ‘no’ is leveled out through the space.

“He got it months ago,” Kyle’s eyes crinkle. “Can’t seem to take it out for a ride yet. No one knows what he’s waiting on.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” your words confide. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a fucking fortune—no use collecting dust is what I say.” You hum, shifting back to Simon who taps the seat of the CB1000R before moving past it to an older cruiser with dents and dirt along the sides. This was more him you thought. Rugged and more dated than the first; something you use on long rides to nowhere.

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a special occasion,” you guess.

“Better get on with it.” Gaz moves away with a shrug and a huff. 

Your lips pull in a small smile, and you watch Simon pull keys from his jacket and insert them as he moves to straddle the larger body of the cruiser, easing into it slowly. Staring, you think about how far that bike could take you—what you could see with it on the open road of possibilities and whipping air. Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere. 

Eyes shifting away from the motorcycle, they widen as they softly meet Simon’s own—locked for a moment in a staring contest. His lids barely pull down, studying something. You clear your throat and exhale.

Sensing your company was most likely a hindrance at this point, you turn to leave as the engine flares—you wave easily behind your back with a call of well-wishes.

“Come have a drink one time, boys, yeah? I need stories that come from strangers for once.” A ruckus of ‘affirmatives’ and ‘will do, Ma’ams’ sparks up from Johnny and Kyle as you exit to the roar of the motorcycle behind you, your feet kicking a stray rock into the grass before you make it to the curb. 

Before you can cross, a steel body blocks your path. 

“I’ll be needing a drink later tonight, then.” Simon watches from atop his seat, one booted foot to the ground to steady himself as he comes to a slow halt. His fingers curl the handles, twitching.

“Let me guess,” you tilt your head, smirking, “Bourbon?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he draws numbly, October browns as dead as mulch. As dead as dirt.

“And do you have a heart, Simon Riley?” You question, blinking at him as your mind tells you to walk away. Your brain doesn’t need a repeat of Graham—you already had enough problems on your plate right now besides some attraction to this stranger. This push and pull made your heart jerk, even when you know it shouldn’t.

You’d only just met him.

The man hums, thighs shifting on the black metal frame. He says the easiest answer he can. 

“A cold one.” 

Pushing on the ground, he takes off down the road back into the main town for whatever errand he was on this time. Your eyes follow until the figure is no more than a memory of the smell of oil and the metallic tinge of caution.

—

You hated the smell of cigarette smoke. 

Like a pregnant woman’s aversion to the scent of meat, you grew nauseous at the very hint of cheap tobacco and paper on the air—loathed the burn of it. It had to do with your Ex, of course. The man had been a habitual chain smoker, lighting up one after the other until you had to leave his house entirely to puke on the front lawn. If you thought about it hard enough, you could still taste the ash on your tongue from when he kissed you after lighting up. 

But that was only one of the reasons you’d never moved in with him despite being together for years—the cheating was the other problem. 

Girl after girl, broken promise after broken promise, you’d still held onto him as if he deserved it. Hell, all that Graham Whitaker deserved were the copious amounts of STDs he probably had after sleeping with as many women as he could to try and get back at you. You didn’t have ample reason to ban him from the bar—him or his loud-mouth friends, you should say—so the problem, like a bad rash, persisted. Cars following you after work and all. 

But, the here, the now.

Simon had, in fact, come in for that drink that night—just as he had for the last week up until the grand opening of the boys’ shop. You’d both spoken throughout these encounters and formed some sarcastic and sly-looked bond that the other locals couldn’t understand. You had even learned about his military service. 

The both of you were just…different, people said. No one else really argued with it. 

You finally met John Price before the party that you’d heard from Simon that Soap and Gaz had been eager to host for the town—‘come meet the bastards that bought that old shitty building and see how they fixed it up all by themselves. You should come and give us your money.’

It was there that a proposal was offered. 

“Simon says you told him to come to you about paint.” John was late thirties, keeping a well-trimmed beard with a mustache that was the same shade of brunette as his head of hair. Tall, as well as built, he had found you as you were closing up the bar early for the town-wide party, Celina having already slipped out. 

You were dressed in a long skirt and a nice shirt for the occasion. 

“John Price, I’d imagine,” you comment, stuffing your keys into your pocket as your purse hangs from your shoulder. A throaty grunt tells you all you need to know as you move down the step. “Yeah, I did say that. Do you need some?” You look over his shoulder to the still peeling color on the outside of the bricks as the men are dragging out folding chairs and long tables. There was the clatter of laughter and loud calls. 

John’s blue eyes shift behind him, and he raises a brow slowly. 

“Thinkin’ we’d just hire you,” a side-eye. “If you’d be interested.” 

That was a surprise. 

You begin walking across the street, the man beside you and awaiting your answer. 

“Hire me?” Your voice asks, but you aren’t against the idea. “How do you know I’ll be any good at it,” you chuckle in question. 

“Simon says he found your initials next to the mural—the wolf.” Your feet pause, stuttering for a second before you catch yourself. The blood on your face stops its circulation in shock. “Not a bad piece, then.” John grunts. “...Think you can do a skull and wings?” 

So, you sat with your sketchbook in front of the wall, a portable camping chair below your bare feet as your legs folded under you. Your slip-on sneakers rest in the green grass, kicked off with a sigh. Blinking, the chatter and mumble from the party surround you in a sheen of community and calmness. You can pinpoint every voice, every story being re-told as if new news when it goes in one ear and out the other like a breeze on the wind. 

Humming under your breath as the sun is low in the sky, you hear the silent feet still from over your shoulder. A smirk flickers your lips.

“Snooping, Riley?” 

“My building.” He grumbles, “Seein’ what you plan to do to it.”

You snort, looking over your shoulder and smiling. “If I recall, you’re the one who took up my offer and told Price about it.” 

Simon was dressed in cargos and a compression shirt pushed up to his elbows, the swell of his forearms on full display along with the scars and…tattoos. You blink at them, the swirl of black skulls and guns; barbed wire and dog tags—the dark images that fit him as his motorcycles did on his left limb. Brown eyes flicker from yours to the painted wolf.

“Good at that,” the man says, balaclava shifting. 

Your expression slowly shifts to something far softer than you can remember it ever being; inside of your chest, your heart tightens. 

“Thank you.” 

He levels you, the corners of his eyes easing out of the numb nothingness to show something akin to shielded affection. Molten sunlight on the side of his face, making the color of his irises glow amber. Simon nods to your sketchbook, clearing his throat. 

“I able to see it, then, or is it some secret?” You huff.

“Come here,” your hand motions, palm brushing away eraser shavings as your fingers get stained with graphite. The shadow comes closer, leaning over you as the scent of oil pools in your gut. You blink at the side visage, swiftly looking back down to your sketchbook as a slight wind ruffles your skirt. 

“Price was talking about a skull with wings beside it—later on he made mention of a sword through the top.” While you explain the concept, you inadvertently study the tattoos on the flesh beside you, one scarred hand coming out to lightly grab the armrest of your chair as Simon leans even closer. 

As your face begins burning, breath caught in your throat, he blinks down at the image as he looms, head tilting. 

Simon breathes, chest rising and falling as his eyes go far off. You know the symbol means something, though you also have a good guess that it’s related to this group’s time in the service. 

He hums, and you see his lips open, the rough grate of his vocal cords as he begins to form words for you. 

“It’s—”

Your name is loudly called from across the way, both Simon’s and your heads snapping back as you both realize exactly how close you two have become. The stealing of the other’s warmth like wraiths of hidden longing ceases when you wrench your attention to the man you wished would leave you alone. 

Graham raises the dark bottle of a cheap beer from the dollar store in your direction, walking over. Now, your Ex wasn’t anything spectacular, but even you had to admit it was the best you could do around here if you didn’t want to date men only five years from the grave. Graham was tall, strong, and heavy-willed like a bear. In the day hours, he worked as a farmhand down the way. 

Your body tenses, eyes going tight. Simon sees.

“Who’s this,” he asks slowly, fingers twitching. 

“Ex,” you mutter, grimacing. “He’s going to make a scene.”

Already gazes had started drifting over, conversations lapsing into mute silence as orbs shifted to three different individuals all stuck in the same storm. 

Simon grunts, standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, legs shifting below him and thighs trading weight. His moving leaves half of you kept firmly behind him and your eyes study his stance as you notice that fact. You blink, and feel something stir in your ribcage, blooming like a flower. 

“Hey, Bartender!” Graham takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as his fingers fumble over the neck of the bottle. “Though I’d seen you over here missing all the action. Nothing’s changed I see.” 

Your face pulls in with disgust.

“Graham, you’re drunk. Go home.” It was true—his words were slurring, his limbs loose with drink. He smirks at you, taking a drag of his cancer stick and puffing it directly at you. Your hand snaps to your nose to try and cover the horrendous smell.

“Nah,” he breathes. “I’m here with Celina, see’s a pretty nice lookin’ broad don’t you think? Not as good of a fuck as you, but, hey, I take what I get.” His expression shifts to hidden anger and Simon takes a heavy step forward before he can finish the rest of his sentence, hands shifting to grasp his biceps harder. Those browns simmer with low ferality—a warning.

The air gets heavy.

“Pretty good little lie you spread about me gettin’ that shit from Stacy.”

“That was a lie?” You drawl lazily and watch your Ex’s eyes flash with rage. But he should know you don’t take shit from him anymore. “Oh,” your fingers tighten over your flesh and make you sound stuffy. “Maybe I heard wrong, you’re right. You don’t have Chlamydia.” You glare. “It was Gonorrhea, wasn’t it?”

“Bitch!” Graham barks, moving forward, but before anyone can realize it, Simon already has him shoved back with a stone-like push to your Ex’s chest.

“Not smart, Mate.” The former soldier utters, arms falling back to his sides. The party by this point had entirely halted in sharp gasps and bated breath. 

Graham’s beer bottle shatters as it hits the ground, the grass not able to absorb the way it slams down to dirt. Your wide eyes stay stuck on Simon’s figure, who’s now entirely hiding your view of your Ex—the wide expansive back that shows the writhe of his shoulder blades and how his spine shifts under the tight shirt. 

Your hand lowers from your face.

“What the fuck?!” Graham spits. “You made me drop my fucking drunk, man!”

“Be thankful that was all, yeah?” Simon’s dead voice is a cold chill on a winter evening. Any sane person would turn and leave immediately. “Cut your losses.”

No one breaths for a long minute, and you can see the other new mechanics inching closer from the sides. All of the locals are deep into the scene, fingers to their lips in surprise. There’s going to be talk tomorrow—the bar will be busy. 

“Graham,” you try to sway the pig-headed man once more from behind Simon. “Go home.”

“So this is what I get,” your Ex spits, head trying to peek over the larger man’s frame to look at you. Simon’s hands clench into tight fists. “I’m with you for years and this is how you treat me? I gave you everything!”

“Those are years that I never want to think about again,” you say with a stiff finality. “And it’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever see me worrying about where you are or who you fuck.” 

Knowing that the situation is over and done with, Simon takes a single step forward and leans into the man. 

“You heard ‘er,” he levels, unblinking. “Scatter.” Simon’s accent made it sound more like a threat, but maybe it was. 

Graham growls and takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring Simon down. 

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” But all he does is turn sharply on his heel and stomp away, crossing the street to his truck before he opens and closes the door with a violent slam. From across the way, Celina gasps and calls his name, but the engine has already started and Graham is down the road with a roar from the exhaust. 

Everyone is watching you and Simon, and the staring peels back your skin until Simon grumbles and grabs your arm. 

Blinking in shock, he only gives you a moment to steady yourself and slip on your shoes before he drags you inside the garage. You huff and look up at him as you close your sketchbook–trying to not look at those tattoos again. Your finger wanted to trace them—to study the ink down to the layer of skin where it ended and became red flesh and weeping veins. How far up his left arm did they go? Did they only stay at his forearm, or up to his shoulder?

Inside he lets you go, head slightly tilted to the outside as the sounds of hushed whispering pick back up; hurried and filled with electricity. Simon grunts, blinking. 

A heated silence encompasses the two of you, and as your eyes lock, neither can speak for a moment. 

“Sorry about that,” you glance at your feet. “Should have guessed he’d show up and do something.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon crosses his arms again, boots righting themselves. “That’s not your fault that some bastard can’t act right, yeah? Forget about it, it’s all nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have to be involved—”

“Bloody cut it out, would you?” Simon glares, brows pulling in. “I said it’s nothing.”

He was very passionate about this, it seemed.

You sigh, shaking your head before a tiny chuckle makes the mechanic blink in confusion. “Suppose I can call you my guard dog now, huh?”

“Piss off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand while your eyes narrow down. Simon's own crinkle along the edges, lowering his hands to push them into his pockets. 

A second leads into another, but neither of you has any particular interest in re-joining the others, even if Soap is smugly passing looks and Price smirks into his drink. Gaz fixes his hat while he tips back a beer bottle, hiding a glint of amusement. 

Simon’s voice lowers, seeming to hover closer. 

“You alright, then?” You nod, face heating up as you stare at his shadow-tainted visage and how the face-covering obscured him from your eager eyes. 

“I’m used to his drama. I have no problem giving it back.” Simon hums, October browns glinting like Halloween lights. 

“Seems so.” He pauses, and pushes out a joking, “Not surprised, Sunshine.”

“Good, Brown-Eyes,” you lean back on your heels and smirk. “I’d be offended if you were, with all we’ve been talking to one another.” 

“Getting familiar, Bartender?”

“Of course, Mechanic. Haven’t you heard?” He tilts his head, prodding you on as his eyes soften that candle-like smidge. “I keep everyone’s secrets—and you still have to tell me yours.”

Simon chuffs a low chuckle, and the fabric of his mask pulls as he shakes his skull. “Maybe one day, yeah? Need to stick ‘round to know ‘em.”

Then perhaps this town was worth wasting away in.  

—

“Bastard won’t cause any problems, will he?”

“No, no, he’s too much of a coward to try and get back at anyone. He won’t do anything.”

TAGS:

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[tfgalore]

SwapCorp: Theo

Most people didn’t believe in swaps. Theo was among the many who thought that SwapCorp, a new company claiming to be able to transfer people’s consciousness across bodies, was a complete hoax. But that didn’t stop him from hearing about it daily. Even as he finished up his pull-ups at the gym, the TV that sat in the corner was blaring out some news about it. They were mainly criticisms of the companies shadier transactions and an investigation into where exactly SwapCorp got the young, youthful hunks it seemed to specialise in. There were even reports of criminals using the bodies to get a fresh start.

Theo shrugged it off though. That will never happen to me, he thought to himself, happy to keep pumping iron. Little did Theo know, SwapCorp’s nefarious intentions was going to hit a lot closer to home than he thought.

The hunk had forgotten all about SwapCorp on his walk home. A silent midnight, with nobody around. The perfect spot for a kidnapping. It was faster than Theo could realise. There was rush of footsteps behind him, and a sudden sting in his neck before he could even turn.

“Hey! What the hell?” Theo whipped around to see a thick, burly figure standing in front of him. He couldn’t make out the man’s face though. Like the rest of his world, the man’s face swirled into a mix of colours. The fast acting drugs already coursed through Theo, knocking the jock unconscious within seconds.

“Target acquired. Preparing for transport.” The words echoed through Theo’s head, seconds before he passed out.

The next time Theo awoke, the damage had already been done. His bones ached. His muscles felt pathetically weak. It took all of his strength to even sit up. His palms spread out across the soft sheets he laid in, and that’s when Theo got his first shock. The back of his hands were wrinkled, the skin looked more like aged parchment compared to the usual veiny and toned hands he sported.

“What the-“ Theo croaked on a voice he didn’t recognize. It was grained and higher pitched, nothing like the sultry, treble tone that he’d used to seduce plenty of girls in the past. His first instinct was to shoot out of bed and find out what was going on, yet everything ached again as he tried to move. His knees felt like they were on the verge of giving out.

Theo’s eyes darted across the room, looking for clues. He seemed to be in a bedroom. An old, well furnished room that reminded him of his past childhood home even. Theo’s eyes brushed across the mirror. And then they shot back. Where he expected to see himself in bed, there was a 50 year old male looking back. He wore the same shocked expression Theo was making.

“Who are you?” Theo yelled. The man yelled too. That’s when it hit Theo. The man in the mirror was him! Somehow, he had aged 30+ years. Gone was his youthful and stunning features, worn away by age. He looked too different to be himself though, Theo recognised. He brought trembling hand up to his head. There were signs of balding, his hair was a snow-white instead of his usual coiffed and rugged black.

This has to be a dream! There was no way that could be him! Theo’s mind raced with rationalisations. Maybe he’d worked too hard at the gym and caused himself to pass out. Resulting in this crazy fever dream…

“Ah, good, you’re awake.” The voice snapped Theo out of his stupor. A man in a business suit walked in. And right on his heels, Theo entered next! Or at least, Theo’s body did. It was a mindfuck for the jock to see his own cocky smirk staring back at him. Whoever it was, was wearing a sleeveless tanktop, and was grinning from ear to ear.

“What’s going on here!? Where the fuck am I?!” Theo yelled, which came out in a course and croaky tone. Even his vocal cords sounded aged.

“Mr Stone, please take it easy. You need rest after the procedure, especially in your current state and age.” The man donning the suit put up his hands placatingly.

“I’ll take it easy when you explain what is happening! How am I in someone else’s body! And who’s in mine!?” Theo could feel his breath wheezing. Not only was he old, this body he was in was wildly unfit!

“Your body has been paid for by Mr Woods, here. Thanks to a large donation and help getting the authorities off our back, Mr Woods is currently the sole proprietor of one Theo Stone.” The man explained.

Theo was stunned. Some proprietor!? This wasn’t some piece of estate or a patent they were talking about! This was his damn body! And yet, he wasn’t even in it. The man continued before Theo could speak. “There is no chance for you to bring this up to the cops. After all, who is to believe you when Mr Theo Stone himself will be denying these accusations.” The man gestured to “Theo” who had been quiet until then. “You will be given help adjusting to your new life, and we urge you to accept these changes.”

Theo wanted to scream, kick and punch. But his frail body wouldn’t let him. Instead, he sat in disbelief, watching as his former body, now held by a pervy old man, began to flex. The real Mr Woods seemed perfectly content with his renewed youth. Watching Theo’s muscles ripple and flex in the mirror at his command brought a wide grin to his face.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take great care of this body. Promise.” Woods said with yet another smirk…

————————————————————————

It had been five months since the swap. Mr Woods had grown perfectly accustomed to his new life as Theo. In fact, plenty of people in his life saw the changes. In their eyes, the previously homophobic jock had taken a full 180. From having a different girl in his bed each night, Theo was now hooking up with hunks and twinks left and right. Every gay bar in the city knew his name. “Take it off Theo” they called him, thanks to his proclivity to strip off and flex for fun in the clubs and bars. Of course, the managers never did mind. It was just more good business for them when the hunk pulled in desperate and horny guys.

Even at the gym, Theo got plenty of action. His clothes got tighter and tighter over the weeks, his bubble butt on full display under the 5 inch shorts he’d switched to in place of the usual grey sweatpants he used to wear. Hunks seemed to love it, plenty of them pulling Theo aside in the locker room to give his bubble butt a few swats before giving him a raunchy fuck in the locker room.

Theo loved it all of course. And to make matters worse, he’d dropped out of college. He wasn’t going to waste his second chance at life on something he’d already gone through once before. Instead, the new Theo decided modelling was his calling. After all, with a body like his, recruiters were practically lined up for him.

That was the only morsel of his old life that Theo got. Now left alone in an old age home affiliated with SwapCorp, the real Theo could only watch his old body through the pics and vids posted on his Instagram and his modelling gigs. Each time, he’d sigh as he felt his heart break at what he’d lost. Nobody had listened to his deranged ranting about forcibly being swapped. After all, most people believed it was SwapCorp was a hoax…

[dreamdragonkadia]

Hi! I just discovered you recently. Your writing is amazing!! Since you mentioned you’re in the mood to write something holiday themed, can I please request a playful snowball fight with Xaden? I’d love to know how Xaden would react to the reader throwing a snowball at him 😊

Oh! Thank you so much!! You are way too sweet! <33 I’m so glad you’ve decided to join me on this absolute simp journey. x.riorson x reader

The first snow of the season had finally blanketed Basgiath, turning the fortress grounds into a pristine, white wonderland. It wasn’t long before the gentle snowfall transformed into a full-on storm, layering every building and pathway in inches of snow. And, naturally, the dragons were having none of it.

Drama queens.

A soft, offended rumble echoed in the back of your mind, the kind that clearly said, I heard that. But your dragon didn’t refute the thought, and really, all of this was her fault in the first place.

With most classes canceled for the day, and a suspicious lack of supervision, the second and third years were left to their own devices. A dangerous concept, honestly. For you, it meant wandering the snow-covered grounds with Xaden, who—by some miracle—had agreed to the idea without too much grumbling. Though now, judging by his crossed arms and narrowed gaze, he was probably regretting it.

You couldn’t help it. The quiet crunch of snow beneath your boots, the icy air that bit at your cheeks, and the sheer novelty of it all had made the childish idea too tempting.

"Do it," your dragon urged, as if she was the angel on your shoulder and not the devil she so clearly was.

Your hands acted on instinct. A perfect handful of snow was quickly scooped up, packed into a rough ball, and hurled at the unsuspecting target in front of you. Xaden didn’t even see it coming.

The snow hit him squarely between his shoulder blades, exploding into a fine spray of icy powder. He froze—like some wild animal sensing danger—and then turned, slowly, with the kind of deliberate menace only Xaden Riorson could pull off.

The sight of him made you pause. His expression was nothing short of scandalized, like you’d just committed an unforgivable crime. “Did you just—”

“Hit you with a snowball?” you finished for him, struggling not to laugh. “Yeah. I did.”

For a beat, all he did was stare. You expected witty words, maybe a pointed glare or a what the hell is wrong with you muttered under his breath. But no.

“Big mistake,” he said, in that low, gravelly voice of his.

Your stomach dropped. “Wait—Xaden—”

Too late. He was already moving, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You barely had time to scramble backwards before his hand shot down, scooping up a massive pile of snow. The way he packed it—quick, efficient, like this was a life-or-death mission—told you one thing: you were in trouble.

"I’m blaming you for this," you shot at your dragon, who only huffed in amusement.

And then Xaden launched his retaliation.

The snowball hit you square in the chest, knocking the breath from your lungs in a burst of laughter and surprise. “Xaden!”

“You started it,” he called, already preparing another one.

What followed was a full-on snowball war. You were half-sprinting, half-tripping through the deep snow, yelping when he got you and shrieking with triumph every time you managed to hit him back. By the end of it, you were both soaked, shivering, and grinning like idiots.

Xaden with his dark hair dusted with snow and his cheeks flushed from the cold, looked over at you with an expression that was far too smug for your liking. “Satisfied?”

“Not until you admit I won,” you shot back, brushing snow off your flight jacket.

He snorted. “In your dreams.”

You rolled your eyes, a teasing retort already on your tongue, but when you glanced up, the words died in your throat. He was looking at you—really looking at you—his dark eyes soft in a way that made your heart stumble. The smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, something dangerous.

“Xaden?” you murmured, barely above a whisper.

“Hmm?” He stepped closer, so close you could see the faint flakes of snow caught in his lashes.

The playful energy between you shifted, turning into something else entirely—warmth in the middle of the cold. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, and that was all it took.

His hand cupped your cheek, cold fingertips a contrast to the heat of his touch, and he kissed you. The world faded away—Basgiath, the snow, the chiming of the bells—leaving only him. His lips were warm and sure, the kiss slow and lingering, like he had all the time in the world.

When he pulled back, you were breathless, cheeks flushed for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold. He studied you for a moment, that ever-present smirk returning. “Still think you won?”

“Absolutely,” you replied, grinning as you pulled him back in for another kiss.

"You’re welcome," your dragon purred smugly, and for once, you didn’t argue.