#take me back to when i managed to watch all of the untamed in like a week instead of now when i cant even finish a 12 episode show i really

[schrodingers-hoarding-problem]

new years resolution is to finally get around to watching word of honor and completing it in a reasonable amount of time

[sceletaflores]

SINK IN ME WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

ೃ⁀➷ pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 7.0k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, feral nasty unhinged logan yes god, logan only slightly losing his humanity but like it’s a lot less sad than it sounds, maybe some toxic relationship dynamics but who cares it’s porn, predator/prey dynamics, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, HEAVY scent kink (like don’t make me say it…but beware of some very subtle armpit stuff), pain kink, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, blood, so much come and come talk, creampie, squirting, this is just gross, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat's note: hi…hi y’all…so here’s the winner of the poll and i need everyone to just hear me out for a second! walk with me! this is probably the most unhinged thing i’ve ever written, like omg those tags. this upsetting depravity was inspired by this post by @stupidfuckingwindow and this post by @monimccoythings which both altered the chemical balances of my brain so fiercely i blacked out for a while and when i came to this was in front of me. merry christmas and happy holidays! take this not at all christmas themed fic as my present to you my precious angels. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you notice a strange shift in logan...

There’s something off with Logan.

The changes were subtle, but you’ve been with him long enough now to pick up on them. And while he's always had a raw, untamed edge to him, a sort of wildness simmering just beneath the surface, this feels different.

It started with the way he would go quiet for longer than usual, like his mind was too far away for you to reach—lost to somewhere distant.

Logan has always been quiet, but this was a different kind of silence. Conversations that used to flow with ease now hang in the air, unfinished. All of his responses reduced to nothing but low grunts and clipped words.

And he was more territorial over you, so much more.

His hand has started to linger at the small of your back or the curve of your waist for a lot longer when you’re in public, his strong grip firm enough to remind you—and anyone nearby—that you’re his.

He would fume at even the slightest hint of someone else's interest in you, a low warning growl escaping his throat to anyone who spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t just the physical closeness, though. It was also in the way Logan has started to watch you—his sharp gaze a never ending constant. An all imposing, heavily looming shadow.

There were even times late at night when you thought he was asleep, that you’d find him staring at you in the dark.

Not the usual, protective gaze he’d have when he thought you were vulnerable, but something deeper, more intense. His breathing would be slow, measured, but there was this energy, this tension that hummed between the two of you.

The nights he did manage to sleep, he’d hold you close to him, his grip iron-tight, his face buried in your hair. If you tried to shift away, even for a second, he’d stir, his arms pulling you back with a quiet, possessive growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

There were bite marks on your neck when you'd wake up, small enough to pass off as nothing—at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself, but each one felt like a brand. They were deeper, more deliberate.

Then there was the scent—his scent.

You swear it’s gotten stronger, more potent. It clings to you like a second skin, lingering in your clothes, your sheets, even your hair. An intoxicating blend of leather and pine and musk that makes your head spin.

Each time you left the house without him, he’d pin you to the mattress and rub himself all over you before begrudgingly let you walk out the door. His hands or his face running along the delicate skin of your neck, of your stomach, of your wrists.

Everywhere.

He was claiming you in ways—new ways—that left you both exhilarated and confused.

There were other things too, smaller but no less odd things that were starting to add up.

More and more of your clothes have slowly started to go missing over the past few weeks. Each morning when you open any of your dresser drawers, it seems like there are less and less filling them.

Shirts, shorts, socks, bras, panties. All things you’ve found shoved under his side of the mattress or tucked under his pillow. The most memorable hiding place was the front pocket of his leather jacket, your favorite pair of panties haphazardly stuffed inside.

You haven’t said anything about it yet, unsure if you should be concerned or amused.

It isn’t like he’s truly hurting anyone.

He’s just acting…strange.

A part of you can’t help but be drawn to it—the new intensity, the new rawness. There was something undeniably magnetic about the way he clings to you, like you're his anchor in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet.

You’ve seen Logan at his worst—bloody, broken, and lost. But this? It’s never been like this before.

Whatever it is, it has its claws in him deep, and by extension, you.

You just got home from a run, barely walking through the door and kicking your shoes off when a call of your name rings out from the bedroom.

Logan’s tone stops you in your tracks—low and rough, like gravel crunching underfoot.

Your reaction is nearly instant, breath hitching in your chest, heart skipping a beat as a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature outside starts to pulse through you steadily.

It’s like you’ve become reprogrammed to respond to him this way, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up as his deep, familiar voice rolls over the sweaty expanse of your skin.

You drop your bag at your feet and slowly make your way to the bedroom, a bead of sweat trailing down your temple as you push the door open.

All the curtains are closed, the only light in the room a yellow glow that shines from your bedside lamp. 

Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, but there’s nothing casual about his posture.

His gaze is locked on you, dark and intense, tracking every step you take, like a lion stalking a gazelle as it drinks from a watering hole.

“Didn’t tell me where you were going.” His eyes gleam as the lamp’s rays reflect off of them, his pupils dilated so he can see you better in the darkness that shrouds your room.

You swallow hard, trying to be as nonchalant as you can as your feet carry you to your dresser. “I went for a run,” you reply, your voice a little too steady, a little too casual.

You tug open the top drawer, rifling around for a clean shirt with a little more focus than necessary to distract yourself from the way his eyes burn a hole into your back.

“You didn’t tell me,” Logan repeats, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I don’t like it when I don’t know where my girl is.”

There’s a sharp edge to his words, but it’s not anger—it’s something far more primal.

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze.

"I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you." 

You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

“Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward.

The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus.

You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long."

Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a deep, gravelly purr. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.”

His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake.

You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry.

"Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out." 

Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat." 

His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it.

Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest.

He stops in front of you, so close that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you.

“There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser. 

Your hold on the wood tightens, your knuckles turning white with the strength of your grip.

It’s almost chemical, the way you can feel your body start to give in to him. The thought fills you with as much arousal as it does unease, a heady combination that churns in your stomach.

You muster up enough will to breathlessly nod in agreement, a quiet submission.

Logan’s lips quirk into the faintest smirk, his heavy gaze dipping to the curve of your neck, lingering on the rapid flutter of your pulse. “That’s my good girl.”

Any words you might say get caught in your throat as you stare up at Logan, wide eyed and steadily leaking wetness into the gusset of your panties. 

His nostrils flare, and a knowing sound rumbles from somewhere dark and low in his chest as his eyes flutter shut on a deep inhale.

Your thighs clench together instinctively, the overwhelming need to be filled wracking through your body like thunder.

When Logan opens his eyes again, there’s no trace of anything but pure animal need. The muscles in his jaw working furiously under his skin in time with the strain of his forearms still caging you in place.

“Yeah…” he trails off slowly, tone both condescending and soothing all at once. “I know you’re not all that scared, honey.”

He leans in, tearing a small whimper from your throat at the way his beard scrapes against your cheek as he crowds you.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, hot and enticing as they brush against your skin when he speaks again. “I can smell how fuckin��� wet you are.”

Logan’s words send a sharp jolt through you, a broken moan falling from your parted lips as your cheeks heat up so fiercely it’s as if you’ve been slapped.

Your body moves without thinking, pressing up into his hard, unyielding frame like you can’t help it—and maybe you can’t.

“L–Logan…” Your voice trembles, a weak thing that dissolves in your throat as he noses along the skin of your neck.

His hands come down to rest on your waist, palms rough and possessive and warm and a perfect fit where they lay over your curves, anchoring you in place.

“Shhh.” His lips trail down your jaw, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “You don’t gotta say a thing, princess. I know what you need.”

Logan’s hands slip lower, cupping the backs of your thighs with ease before hoisting you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing. The sharp edge of the wood digs into your legs, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the discomfort.

Your hands go to his shoulders without much of a second thought, nails digging into corded muscle as you try to keep your balance. 

Logan’s hands stay on your thighs, his grip strong enough for you to feel the power behind them without hurting you.

He noses along your sweaty skin like a hot-tempered hound, desperately inhaling greedy lungfuls of your scent wherever he can get it.

Behind your ear, in the crook of your neck, along your collarbone, the exposed swell of your breasts, dangerously close to your underarm.

He groans against your shoulder, a full body shiver jolting his frame. “Smell so fuckin’ good darlin’, drives me goddamn crazy.”

You can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His mouth finally finds yours, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

Logan's tongue slides against yours, a messy, desperate kiss that has you moaning into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

It’s filthy, fueled by nothing but raw need and desperation. Spit drips from your chin to trail down the length of your throat until it gathers in the valley of your breasts. Whether it’s his or yours, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a perfect mix of the both of you, lewd and messy in the way it claims your skin.

Logan breaks the kiss with a low moan, his chest heaving the same as yours as you both inhale harsh lungfuls of air.

His lips are red and raw, swollen in a way that your own must mirror. A string of saliva keeps you connected, drooping thinner and thinner in the space between you until it breaks under the weight of gravity.

Logan doesn’t give you long to catch your breath. His lips trail down your jaw and latch onto the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth scraping against skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. 

Your head falls back against the wall as his mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of your sports bra down with his teeth.

The way he’s acting—like a man crazed, like he needs you more than he needs air—has you dizzy with need. But there's a part of you that’s still trying to hold onto some semblance of control, to hold onto something familiar in the chaos.

It’s only then that you realize this may be a bad idea. 

Whatever this is, is clearly an accumulation of all the things you’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks.

Maybe indulging Logan will only make things worse, like giving in to him when he’s in such a state could be the tipping point to a much deeper and all consuming issue buried somewhere inside of him.

It can’t possibly be healthy for him to act like this, and it can’t be healthy for you to bask in it as much as you are.

“W–wait.” Your thighs slip shut, hands coming up to push at Logan’s shoulders weakly.

There’s no real force behind your ministrations and you keep your neck bared to him all the while, but he stops anyway, rearing back with a displeased noise. 

His face hovers inches from yours, and for a moment, you swear he looks almost pained—his brows furrowing, jaw tightening as though reigning himself in is a Herculean effort.

His hands remain on your thighs, trembling slightly as he keeps himself rooted in place, clearly fighting every instinct roaring through him to just take what he wants.

“You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, a stark contrast to the restraint in his expression. His thumbs stroke idly against your skin, his touch soothing even as his words drip with pure, feral confidence. “I can smell the way your pussy’s achin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re shakin’ for me.”

You are—your whole body feels like it’s on the verge of unraveling under his touch, your resolve crumbling faster than you’d like to admit.

Everything you were going to say gets clogged in your brain on the way out, leaving you silent as you hold his gaze.

You don’t even have the capability to feel embarrassed at the way you blanch, lost in the way his scent attacks your senses, in the rough drag of his palms over your bare thighs, in the way your lips still tingle from his kiss.

Logan sighs, long and all suffering as his hands come to rest on both of your shut knees. The impatient raise of his brow paired with the dissatisfied curl of his lips is enough to shake you to the core.

“Now, you gonna show it to me?” His fingers drum along your knee, his patience thinning. “Or am I gonna have to make you.”

And it may sound like one, but you know it’s not a question. 

It’s a choice.

Your mind races, hands clenching and unclenching on Logan’s shoulders as you weigh your options. His own hands squeeze your knees, just hard enough to let you feel it in your bones.

You spread your legs.

Logan doesn’t waste a second, dropping to his knees in front of you with a satisfied rumble and a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider. Wide enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in the best way. 

Your head dips, chin falling to your chest as you watch the way Logan takes up the space between your legs. Your shorts are soaked, fabric so drenched that it’s melded to the shape of your cunt, your puffy folds on display for his greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet room. His hands find your waistband, and the dull sound of fabric ripping rings out.

The sturdy cotton tears like tissue paper in his hands, the scraps of your shorts falling carelessly to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the light blue panties you slipped on before your run. 

The way he gazes at the space between your thighs is feral, unrestrained, like he’s a man starving for his next meal—and you’re it.

“Look at that…” Logan mutters, almost to himself as he runs his knuckle along the wet cotton of your panties. His touch is featherlight, barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough.

Your breath hitches, a sharp intake of air at the teasing touch, and your hips instinctively cant forward, silently begging for more. 

Logan's eyes flick up to yours, a dark smirk curling his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and how much you're already falling apart.

“Eager fuckin’ thing,” he drawls, voice rough with arousal. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You want me to give your pussy some kisses, baby?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words never make it out. Logan’s lips press against the damp fabric, placing a kiss right over where your covered clit throbs with need.

Your head falls back to rest on the wall behind you, a shocked moan bursting from your lips.

“Logan.” His name is pulled from your mouth like a plea, but he doesn’t let up, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the soaked barrier of your underwear.

“Hmm?” He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Thought you wanted me to stop?”

The taunt is maddening, the rasp of his voice and the teasing flicks of his tongue combining to unravel you piece by piece. 

You shake your head furiously, thighs trembling where they rest on his broad shoulders. “N-no—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Logan chuckles darkly, his hands sliding up your thighs to hook his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties. 

“That’s more like it,” he taunts. With a single, sharp tug, the ruined fabric joins the scraps of your shorts on the floor.

Logan groans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick with your juices and flushed with arousal. His mouth waters, his tongue running along the sharp points of his canines in anticipation.

You’re already so ready for him.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he growls, leaning in to drag his nose along the slick seam of your folds. The deep inhale he takes is obscene, sending a ripple of anticipation through your entire body. “Know that you taste even better.”

Logan licks a broad stripe through your folds, groaning like the taste of you is enough to satisfy him completely. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you spread and utterly at his mercy as he begins to work in earnest.

He alternates between laving the tip of his tongue over your clit and dipping down to fuck into you, his beard scraping along the skin of your thighs in a way that’s almost too much. Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud as your vision blurs.

“God, Logan.” You squirm on the vanity, but he holds you steady, growling low and deep into your core like your moaning only spurs him on.

“That’s it,” he mutters between licks, his words unmistakably smug. “Make those pretty little sounds for me, baby.”

Logan circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, alternating between firm, deliberate strokes and light, teasing flicks that leave you gasping for air.

You cry out, fingers tangling in his thick, unruly hair as he repeats the motions, your thighs starting to tremble on either side of his head.

Every time your hips buck against him, he growls, the vibrations of it sinking into your skin and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice muffled against your dripping core but no less commanding. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place with an unrelenting grip. “You’re not in charge, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling as you fight the urge to grind against his face. But it’s impossible to stay still when he’s licking into you like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with an intensity that has your vision going hazy.

“I know, you're just so damn needy, aren’t you, baby?” He drawls , pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal. “You love this, hmm? Lettin’ me take care of you?”

You can only nod, words failing you as his fingers replace his mouth, sliding through your spit soaked cunt.

“You’re so goddamn pretty down here.” Logan mutters, almost to himself, spreading your puffy, abused folds obscenely wide. 

He teases your entrance, fingertips dipping into your warm heat only to retract a second later. You whine, high and embarrassing as your hips twitch with want.

Logan watches your face closely, his expression equal parts smug and adoring as he finally sinks one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head lolling back he adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that has your toes curling. He pumps them slowly at first, each deliberate thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Takin’ me so well,” Logan murmurs, his thumb brushes over your clit, drawing tight circles that make your thighs tremble. “So tight and wet for me. You’re makin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

Your moans grow louder, unrestrained, as he picks up the pace, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that has your skin burning hotter and hotter.

Logan’s mouth returns to you with renewed fervor, tongue and lips working in perfect tandem as he drags you closer to the edge. 

He shakes his head back and forth like an animal, his nose rubbing up against your clit deliciously as buries his tongue as deep in your cunt as it’ll go. The coarse hair of his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your inner thighs red and raw.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you. 

“Logan—” Your voice cracks, your head falling back against the wall as the spring of pleasure inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. “I’m—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Good,” he growls, pumping his fingers in time with the flicks of his tongue. “I can feel you squeezin’ me. I want you to come for me, baby. Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You’re powerless to resist.

You cry out, thighs clamping shut on either side of his head as you come on his tongue. Your body shakes so violently you knock a few things off the vanity, the distant sound of glass shattering hardly registers. 

Logan growls, low and dragged from the back of his throat in such a way that makes it reverberate in the space between your legs. His own arms come up, grip strong and encouraging as he forces your legs around his head even tighter than before.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and pumping his fingers to drag you through the aftershocks like a man obsessed. 

When you finally come back to yourself, panting and trembling, Logan’s holding your shaking thighs apart, his mouth still pressed to you in soft, languid strokes.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, voice rough and gravelly as he presses a final kiss to your oversensitive clit. 

Logan’s hands slide up to your hips, gripping tight as he rises to his feet, towering over you with that same dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. 

His lips are even redder than before, swollen and slick with your juices. His beard is damp and shining in the low light, and the smug, satisfied smirk on his face sends another pulse of heat through your already spent body.

“Good girl,” he purrs, not even bothering to wipe his mouth before leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and possession. 

You can taste yourself on his tongue, the salt and musk mingling with the raw hunger. It’s filthy and intoxicating, and it leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

But Logan’s far from finished.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting you off the dresser with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you to the bed and tosses you on it with little preamble.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to have you bouncing on it once, twice, three times before Logan is crawling up to blanket your body with his. 

The heavy weight of his metal laced bones sink you into the soft plushness, keeping you stuck beneath him with nowhere to go.

Which you know is exactly where he wants you.

He slots his hips between yours, dragging the straining jut of his cock along your sensitive cunt. You can feel the warmth of him even through the thick material of his sweats, a scalding plane of heat that makes your cunt ache with need. 

You can feel the damp patch where his clothed tip nudges against your clit, and you know from that alone he’s already soaked through the cotton with pre-come. His cock leaking like a faucet in the harsh confines of his bottoms while he ate you out.

“Feel that?” Logan asks, voice hoarse as he buries his head in your neck. “That’s all ‘cause of you, baby. Got me drippin’ like I busted a damn pipe.”

The sharp intake of air you suck in at his words does nearly nothing to help your breathlessness, your desperation bleeding through as your frantic hands push at the waistband of his bottoms. “Off. Off.”

Logan huffs a rough laugh against your neck, his warm breath skating across your skin as his lips ghost over your pulse. “So fuckin’ bossy.”

He doesn’t move to help you, not right away, savoring the way your hands fumble and tug, your frustration bubbling over in breathy little gasps.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, the rough timbre of his voice a stark contrast to the gentleness of his lips pressing along your jaw. “Look at you, so damn needy. Can’t even wait for me to get my cock out.”

You only tug harder, patience nonexistent as your fingers curl into the waistband. “Please, Logan. Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Logan finally gives in, sitting back just enough to push them over his hips, freeing his cock.

It springs free, slapping against his stomach heavy and slick with pre-come, the ruddy tip glistening in the low light.

The sight alone has you clenching around nothing, a devastatingly desperate noise falls from your lips as the ache between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable throb.

He makes quick work of ripping his shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it behind him before he’s back on you.

This time, when he bullies his hips in between yours, there's nothing separating you.

You feel every inch of his cock as it grinds along the seam of your cunt. The velvety skin is almost scalding as it drags against your own, the drool of pre-come only adding more to your own wetness.

Logan presses you into the mattress harder, rutting against your cunt almost desperately as he noses along your damp, overheated skin.

His mouth is everywhere. Sucking marks where the junction of your neck meets your shoulder, lapping up the sweat that pools in the valley of your breasts, licking a filthy stripe across the side of your face that has your cheeks burning.

He buries his nose in the sweaty skin of your underarm, whining and panting like a surly dog all over again. Each breath is hot and wet against you, and it only seems to make him hungrier, greedier. His cock blurts even more pre-come onto your skin with every inhale he takes.

It should gross you out. 

It should be utterly mortifying, but the sight of Logan like this only leaves you thrumming with want. 

His desperation, the raw, unfiltered way he takes you in—like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of you—has your pulse racing and your mind spinning out of control. 

You feel his nose press harder against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over you as he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates right through you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “You smell so goddamn good. Can’t help it. Can’t fuckin’—” His hips jerk, the weight of his cock sliding slickly against your cunt, bumping up against your clit in a way that makes you shiver. 

“Logan,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction, the relief, the unbearable stretch you know only he can give you. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I need you—need you so bad.”

He smirks, his lips curling against your skin as he nips at the curve of your jaw. “Need me, huh?” he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. “Need my cock inside you, stretchin’ you open? Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“So bad.” Your hips tilt up instinctively, desperate for him to push inside. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, the blunt pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Need you so bad it hurts. Please—please don’t make me wait.”

Logan growls, a feral sound. “Such a good girl when you beg for me.” he snarls, big hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise so he can flip you on your front, gently manhandling you until you're on all fours. “Gonna fill you up, princess.”

His hands knead the soft flesh of your ass as he lines himself up behind you. The weight of his cock presses against your entrance, slick and ready, and for a moment, he just stays there, teasing.

Your arms shake beneath you, elbows locked as you force yourself to stay still, patient.

The head of his cock nudges against you, spreading your slickness, and your body trembles in anticipation. He sinks himself into you in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

The stretch is instant, the burn delicious as he pushes inside, inch by inch, filling you in one fluid, devastating stroke. A choked gasp spills from your lips as he bottoms out, his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck.” Logan stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he lets you adjust, but the restraint is fleeting. 

His hands glide up your back, palms rough and grounding as they map every curve, every quiver of your body. He starts grinding his hips in slow circles, pressing every inch of his cock along your velvety walls. 

Your head drops between your arms, brows pinched together as you take in greedy lungfuls of air. You’ll never get used to this, the way Logan fills you so perfectly, no matter how many times it’s been.

“Come on, baby.” Logan leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips fever hot. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you could hardly wait. Now’s your chance, fuck me.”

It takes a few long seconds for his words to cunt through the molasses clouding your mind, the small thrust of his hips hinting at what he wants you to do.

You let out a pitiful whimper, hands digging into your bed’s puffy comforter as you start rocking your hips. 

You start slow, letting yourself build up a nice, steady rhythm as Logan purrs words of encouragement from behind you. His hands never leave your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your skin as you start to pick up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encourages darkly, giving the rippling muscle of your ass a sharp swat. “Find the fuckin’ spot, baby. Write your name on this cock, tell everyone who it belongs to.”

You cry out at the sting of his palm, bouncing yourself on his length impossibly faster. Your arms burn under the strain of your movements, but you can’t stop chasing the high of pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, a lewd slap slap slap as you fuck yourself on Logan’s cock like he’s a replacement for the cheap suction cup dildo collecting dust in a box hidden away in your closet—like he’s nothing but a expertly shaped lump of silicon molded solely for your pleasure.

You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, and in nearly no time at all. The telltale coil buried deep in your belly winding tighter and tighter as you work yourself on Logan’s cock hard enough that the cheap frame of your bed thumps against the wall.

It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone already, so fuck drunk that the too loud moans falling from your lips hardly phase you.

It's like there's nothing but the feel of Logan inside you, bumping against that spot inside you that has stars shining behind your closed eyes. 

“Close already?” Logan taunts from behind you, voice just the tiniest but breathless, but the way his cock pulses and jerks where it’s sheathed in your cunt lets you know he’s right there with you. “I know you are, honey. I can feel how she’s squeezin’ me, so damn tight.”

His hands dig into your hips, not even waiting for a response as he starts thrusting in time with your bounces. He pounds into you, hips snapping against your ass hard enough to sting.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too baby,” he bites out, the rhythm of his hips getting sloppier. “Gonna come so fuckin’ hard, fill you up so good. Shit–”

Logan pulls out enough that only the thick tip of his cock stays sheathed in the warmth of your cunt, his body falling to hunch over yours as he pumps his come into you with a feral growl.

You whine at the feeling of his release filling you, painting your insides with spurt after spurt of thick come. It’s so much, it’s always so much. A rush of warmth that floods your insides each time without fail.

And just like that, the feeling alone has you coming.

Your back arches as your cunt gushes over the tip of his cock, drenching his thighs and the rest of his shaft in your essence. You think you may scream, but it’s hard to tell over the white noise rushing through your ears.

Your arms finally buckle under you as Logan helps you ride out the last few tremors of your orgasm with a few slow rocks of his hips, and your spent body collapses onto the mattress.

Logan’s low noises of pleasure barely register as your chest heaves almost violently, your lungs desperately trying to get as much air as they possibly can.

But you barely have time to catch your breath before Logan plants his knees back firmly on the mattress and starts thrusting, again. 

“Logan!” Your hands scramble for purchase on the mussed sheets of your bed, the overstimulation making your legs kick out frantically.

“You thought we were done?” Logan asks, his tone equal parts amused and mocking. “You popped twice already, baby. S’only fair that you let me catch up.”

With no warning, he takes you in his arms, pulling his cock out just long enough to flip you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders before plunging back inside your fucked open cunt with a filthy squelch. 

He feels even bigger like this, yet your body swallows his cock like it’s nothing. The spongy warmth of your walls melding to the shape of him like it’s what you were made for. 

The coarse hair of his happy trail drags across your clit each time he thrusts, adding to the blistering feeling where the knife's edge of too much too much too much meets not nearly enough.

His come stuffed in your trembling cunt only makes it all the more filthy, his cock plunging inside you and coming back out slick and wet on every thrust. 

Your lips fall open on a broken moan, eyes screwing shut as you work your cunt around him, feeling the way his release gets fucked deeper and deeper inside you.

Logan notices, of course he does.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your own as he leans down enough to whisper into your slack mouth. “You like havin’ someone come in your pussy, baby?”

You moan into his mouth unabashedly, loudly. Both of your eyes burning as tears threaten to fall down the flushed skin of your cheeks, your throat going dry and scratchy in the best way possible. 

“Shit–” Your hands claw at the rippling muscles of his back desperately, nails digging into his skin hard enough that you feel the unmistakable slickness of his blood coating the tips of your fingers.

The pain spurs him on, his head tips down on a low groan and his eyes squeezing together for a split second before he’s spewing filth again.

“You want some more?” Logan asks, tone going dark like he already knows the answer as his hips speed up impossible faster. “You want me to come again?”

You don’t respond, you can’t respond. You can barely make a coherent thought. 

All you can manage are whiny moans that fall from your slack lips, broken little uh uh uh’s that get punched out with each new thrust. Your nails rake down his back mercilessly, leaving behind deep red welts that heal as you go.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He turns his head to nip at the skin over the delicate bone of your ankle where it bounces near his head, sharp teeth digging in enough to have you whining pitifully. “You love havin’ a messy fuckin’ pussy, don’t you? Love being stuffed so full of my come you can’t even hold it all, huh?”

His words hit you like a physical blow, lighting up your body from the inside out. Your thighs shake where they’re wrapped around his hips, ankles locking over his lower back so he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.

His come mixes with your juices to coat his cock, completely drenched all slick and shiny in the dull light of your bedroom. It drips down almost leisurely compared to the near feral snap of his hips, trailing all the way down his length to his heavy balls. 

“Yes.” He groans, reverent. “Give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock again, feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t ever get enough—”

You’ve never heard him like this, so high of pleasure that his speech slurs and his words all meld together into one filthy stream of ramblings that has you sinking your nails even deeper into his back and coming on his cock with a loud wail.

Your cunt convulses around him, shaking with the force of your release, milking him. 

“Fuck, princess.” Logan pitches forward, his sweaty torso covering yours as he keeps fucking into your shaking body, desperately chasing his own release.

Finally, with a muted roar of your name, he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck and comes for you.

You cry out at the sharp sting of his teeth bearing down hard enough to draw blood, your vision whiting out with the pleasure of being claimed in every way imaginable.

Logan’s hips only stop when he’s drained of every last drop, his body shaking where it lays over yours. He laps at the broken skin of your neck, a soft gesture that isn’t quite an apology for making you bleed—because you know that he isn’t sorry whatsoever—but it’s nice nonetheless.

Your arms come up to circle around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion hits you all at once. You get lost in the steady rhythm of Logan catching his breath, in the way his heart pounds against his ribcage where his chest is pressed to your own, in the way his fingers twitch and flex on your hips.

The last thing you hear as you drift off, his come starting to leak down your thighs in thick streams of white, is a hushed whisper of “I got you, baby. I’m right here, I’m always right here.”

It puts you at ease, all the worry you felt over the last few weeks slipping from your mind like grains of sand through your fingers.

Maybe, this new side of Logan isn’t so bad after all.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[nerdy-novelist017]

Trouble (Eric Draven x Rebel!Reader)

Bill Skarsgard, covered in blood and acting feral as he violently kills people to avenge the woman he loves?? Yeah, that really did a number on me….but I couldn’t help but fall in love with Eric’s quiet character in the first act so pls enjoy my ramblings! 💕

Eric Draven Masterlist

Word Count- 1.5k+

Summary- Eric's carefully guarded solitude is disrupted by a bold newcomer who seems to be trouble incarnate.

“I wanna get in trouble.”

A voice, sudden and electric, broke Eric from his reverie as a figure’s shadow fell across the intricate lines and shadows of his drawing. He glanced up hesitantly, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight behind you. His eyes were met with the sight of you – a tempestuous spirit with wild, untamed hair that cascaded around your face like a mane, defying the order and discipline of this facility. There was a glint in your eyes, mischievous and daring, that seemed to challenge the very atmosphere around you. You loomed above him, a figure of restless energy, waiting for a response that he was unprepared to give. 

“What?” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper, a stark contrast to the boldness of your intrusion. 

You grinned cheekily, and with an audacity that left him momentarily stunned, you stepped up onto the picnic bench he was perched at, planting yourself so that you were sitting on the table as if it was your own personal stage. Your feet, clad in worn, oversized sneakers rested casually on the seat in a silent declaration of your disregard for rules. “Don’t you?”

Eric blinked at you, his brows furrowed as he hastily pulled his papers closer, as if to shield them from your encroaching presence. “No.”

“No?” you parroted, a suggestive playfulness tone to your voice. “But this place is so boring.” 

He glanced around the yard, taking in the stark reality of the rehab facility, his eyes lingering on the chain link fence with its towering barbed wire glinting menacingly in the afternoon sun. “It’s supposed to be,” he said with cold detachment. “And you’re not supposed to be fraternizing with me.”

You followed his gaze, casting a sly look to the guards who stood at the back door, and a smirk danced on your lips. “Uh oh, I wonder what the consequences for that will be.”

Eric wanted to roll his eyes at your attitude. This was how all the newbies were when they came in: brash, defiant and convinced they could outwit the system. They came in with fire in their eyes only for it to be extinguished within days by the crushing reality of their situation. Nobody stayed trouble for long. He watched as their bravado withered, soon to be replaced by resignation. And the ones like you – those who pushed the boundaries with reckless abandon – often found themselves confined to solitary confinement, their spirits slowly eroded by the wright of their own demons. 

“You think I could seduce one of these guards to sneak us in some contraband?” you asked, raising your brow in a conspiratorial way as you nodded toward a pair of male guards standing near the backdoor, idly chatting and sharing a cigarette. 

Eric’s gaze traveled over you, from the oversized, ugly pink sweatshirt that swamped your frame to the untamed hair that framed your face like a wild halo. You spoke of “us” as if any semblance of companionship existed between you too. There wasn’t. It was just him and his solitary existence. He had no need for friends, no desire for connections – especially not from someone like you. 

“No,” he said finally as he returned to his sketch, hoping his blatant disinterest would be enough to drive you away. “You need to get off the table.”

He could feel your eyes on him, your gaze almost too intense. When you tilted your head, studying him in amused disbelief, he knew what was coming. Another newbie thinking they could crack him open like some sort of nut, put together the broken pieces like a puzzle. He kept his attention on the drawing, hoping you’d take the hint and leave him alone. 

“C’mon, you don’t look like someone who’s this much of a stick in the mud.” Your voice was playful, teasing but Eric could sense the challenge beneath it. His silence seemed to fuel you, as if his resistance was exactly what you were hoping for. “What’s your name anyway?”

He hesitated, hating how you were forcing him to interact with you like some needy puppy. “Eric,” he muttered, keeping his gaze locked on the drawing.

“Eric,” you tasted his name on your lips quietly. It grated on him, the way you spoke as if you already knew him, already had him all figured out. “You’re an artist, huh? I bet you’re all dark and broody, right? The strong, silent type?”

His jaw tightened, his pencil pressing a little too hard against the paper. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him, but he could feel your words digging right under his skin. Dark and brooding? Strong and silent? You didn’t know anything about him, didnt understand the darkness that lingered in the corners of his mind, the weight of the silence he carried, yet here you were, already trying to pin him down with labels. And typically, Eric didn’t care what anyone else here labeled him with, but your unnervingly amicable voice was something he wasn’t used to. It was almost laughable, except it wasn’t. It was annoying. 

Your words struck a nerve. He remained quiet, instead choosing to focus on the shading in the corner of his page, tried to drown out the sound of your voice, but he knew his silence was betraying him. The tension in his jaw, the way his grip on the pencil tightened – it all gave him away, and he could almost feel you noticing it, filing it away for later. God, why couldn’t you just leave him alone? 

Then you leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper for only his ears to hear. “You know, I think you want to get into trouble. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours before he could stop himself, his heart racing at the sudden intensity in your eyes. And there was something in your gaze that unsettled him. Annoyance flared up first, hot and defensive. But beneath that, he felt a flicker of . . . curiosity. And he hated that too – hated that you were getting under his skin. What the hell did you even know about him? What gave you the right to pry into his life, his thoughts.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he retorted, his voice sharper than he intended, the words escaping in a rush of defensiveness. 

You shrugged, unbothered by his tone, a playful smile tugging on your lips. “Maybe not yet, but I’m good at figuring people out. And I think you’re bored out of your mind here, just like me. You’re dying for something – anything – to happen.”

Eric shook his head, forcing himself to look back down at his sketch. “You’re wrong.” 

Even to his own ears, the denial sounded weak, and that only served to deepen his irritation. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, stretching your arms overhead, and Eric resisted the urge to glance up. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’m always up for a little fun.”

“Fun,” he echoed, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered to respond, but something about your persistence was unraveling him bit by bit. “That's what got us in here in the first place. 

You paused, and for a second, Eric thought maybe he had finally shut you up. He looked up and caught a flicker of something else in your expression, something serious that made his chest tighten with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. But just like that, it was gone, replaced by that infuriating grin. 

“Maybe,” you said, your voice softer, thoughtful in a way that made him uneasy. “But maybe that’s what will get us out of here too.”

Eric watched as you slid off the table, landing lightly on the ground. For a moment, he thought you might actually leave him alone, and the relief that washed over him was sweet. But then you turned back, hands stuffed into the pocket of that oversized sweatshirt, your grin still in place – though it didn’t seem to reach your eyes quite the same as before. 

“See you around, Eric,” you said before sauntering off, as if you didn’t just turn his whole world upside down in a matter of a few minutes. 

He stared after you, watching as you kicked at the feet of another unsuspecting patient who grumbled at you as you passed. His mind raced, his drawing forgotten, the lines and shadows now blurring together in an indistinct mess. He hated how you so easily managed to disrupt his carefully-constructed isolation, how you made him think about things he thought he’d buried a long time ago. He wanted to believe you were just another reckless newbie, just another faceless patient in a sea of addicts who would burn out soon enough. But something in the pit of his gut told him you were different – something he couldn’t shake. 

In the silence that followed your departure, Eric was left to grapple with the realization that the trouble you brought was not just a disruption, but a catalyst for change, a challenge to his solitude. And now as he returned to his meaningless drawing, he wondered briefly if perhaps your indelible, chaotic presence was exactly what he needed to rewrite his own story in the hell hole. 

And that scared him more than he’d like to admit.

Tagging some of you who seemed interested!

@apolloanddaphnis @one-of-thewalkingdead @m00npjm @maimai-0603 @redwitchbitch1 @at-midnight @fandom-fanatix @spoiled-bat13 @alinahdee @mrsalwayswrite

[girl-next-door-writes]

And Everything Changed

Characters: Eddie Munson x reader

Summary: Eddie Munson’s D&D game takes a surprising turn when a new player arrives, leading to unexpected romance and vulnerability.

Word Count: 1527 words

Prompt: ‘Now Kiss her.’

A/N: This is for @caplanbuckybarnes Disney Celebration

Eddie Munson sat in the dimly lit room, drumming his fingers on the table, waiting for the Hellfire Club members to arrive. This was their big campaign night, the night when their characters would either emerge victorious or face unspeakable doom. But there was a problem—Gareth had dropped out last minute, flu. A replacement was required, and fast.

When Dustin suggested the idea earlier in the caffeteria, Eddie had balked.

"Are you sure about this?" Eddie asked, his fingers still tapping a restless rhythm. "She's never played DnD before."

"Trust me, Eddie. She’s cool. Plus, she's into fantasy stuff," Dustin replied, already confident that this would work out.

Eddie sighed and ran a hand through his untamable hair. It wasn’t that he doubted your ability to grasp the game—it was something else. You’d been hanging out with them more lately, joining their lunch tables and occasional after-school hangouts. And as much as Eddie tried to play it cool, there was something about you that made his pulse race and his thoughts jumble. You were... different. And maybe that’s what scared him.

"Alright, fine. Bring her in. But if she can't handle the pressure, it's on you," Eddie said, pretending to be casual, even though a small part of him was excited at the thought of spending the evening with you.

When you walked into the session that evening, Eddie’s breath hitched. You looked a little out of place, unsure of what you were stepping into, but still radiating confidence. Dustin had given you a brief rundown of what you were getting yourself into, but nothing could have prepared you for the theatrical spectacle that was Eddie Munson running a Dungeons & Dragons campaign.

"Welcome to the Hellfire Club," Eddie said, his voice deep and theatrical as he gestured to the table. "I hope you're ready for the most intense adventure of your life."

You smiled, a little shy but intrigued. "Thanks. I hope I don’t mess up too much."

"Nah, you'll be fine," Dustin chimed in. "Eddie's a good teacher."

Eddie shot Dustin a glare, as if to say 'don't oversell me,' but then he turned back to you and gave you one of his trademark devilish grins. "Alright, sit down, newbie. Let’s get started."

As the game kicked off, Eddie watched you carefully. You were picking things up quickly, asking questions when needed but mostly diving into the story with surprising enthusiasm. The room was buzzing with energy as everyone got lost in the game, but Eddie couldn’t help but be distracted by you.

It wasn’t just your character’s quick thinking or the way you seemed to take to the fantasy world so easily—it was you. The way your eyes lit up when something exciting happened in the game. The way you leaned forward when your character was in danger. And how, when you laughed at one of his ridiculous voices, it felt like a little victory.

As the campaign progressed, something shifted. The game wasn’t just a game anymore—it became a stage for something bigger. Every glance between your character and Eddie’s NPCs seemed to carry more weight. Every time your characters interacted, it felt like the two of you were playing out something just beneath the surface, something neither of you had the courage to confront directly.

And then it happened.

The group had just survived a major battle. Your character, an inexperienced mage, had managed to cast a spell that turned the tide in their favor, saving everyone from certain doom. Eddie, as the dungeon master, described the aftermath in vivid detail.

"The smoke clears, and all that’s left are the charred remains of your enemies. But as the dust settles, you realize something—your companion, Sir Andor," he said, referring to the noble knight NPC he’d been playing, "is badly wounded. He falls to the ground, bleeding."

You looked at Eddie, your brow furrowing. "I rush over to him. Can I do anything?"

Eddie leaned forward, the intensity of the moment pulling everyone in. "Sir Andor looks up at you, his breaths shallow. 'I fear... this is the end...,'" he said, dropping his voice low to play the character.

"No," you whispered, your voice filled with genuine emotion. "It can’t be the end."

The rest of the group was watching in silence, completely wrapped up in the drama unfolding between your character and Eddie’s. Even Dustin, who usually cracked jokes during the game, was unusually quiet.

"I want to... try to heal him," you said, almost hesitant.

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t sure if it was the game or if it was you, sitting right there, your eyes locked with his. For a moment, it felt like everything else fell away.

"Roll for it," Eddie said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The dice clattered across the table. It was a high roll—just enough to succeed.

Eddie cleared his throat, slipping back into character. "Sir Andor looks at you, his eyes softening. 'You... you saved me,' he says, his voice filled with gratitude. He reaches out and touches your hand."

The room was thick with tension, everyone waiting for what would happen next. Your character had saved him, but the moment felt bigger than the game.

Dustin, sensing something in the air, leaned forward with a mischievous grin and whispered, "Now kiss her."

The table erupted in laughter, breaking the tension. But Eddie, instead of laughing it off, looked at you. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. His heart was racing, and the playful comment had hit a little too close to home.

You looked back at him, a small smile playing on your lips. "Well, Sir Andor?" you teased, breaking the silence.

Eddie chuckled, but there was something different in his laugh now—something real. "I think Sir Andor... owes you more than just a kiss."

The rest of the game played out smoothly, but the dynamic between you and Eddie had changed. What had started as a game had turned into something far more personal. By the end of the night, as the other players packed up their things and said their goodbyes, you lingered behind, waiting for Eddie.

"I had fun tonight," you said softly, your voice carrying more meaning than just the game.

"Yeah? Even though you got thrown into the deep end?" Eddie asked, trying to sound casual, but his nerves were betraying him.

You shrugged. "I think I did alright. Plus, I had a good teacher."

Eddie smiled, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes now. He wasn’t sure if it was the game, the way you’d thrown yourself into the character, or the fact that you’d stayed after everyone else had left—but something had shifted. He wasn’t just crushing on you from a distance anymore. There was a real connection here, something deeper.

"I, uh..." Eddie started, his voice faltering. He wasn’t sure how to say what was on his mind, so he just blurted it out. "I’ve kinda liked you for a while, you know."

Your eyes widened slightly, but instead of pulling away, you stepped closer to him. "I know," you said quietly.

Eddie blinked, surprised. "You do?"

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I’ve noticed. And... I kinda like you too."

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat, the world around him fading into the background. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to feeling this vulnerable, this exposed. But at the same time, it felt right.

"I, uh... I don’t know how to do this," Eddie admitted, his voice softer now. "I’m not exactly the guy who gets the girl, you know?"

You reached out and took his hand, your touch grounding him. "You don’t have to be perfect, Eddie. I don’t want perfect. I just want someone who sees me, who’s willing to stick around even when things get messy."

Eddie looked at you, his heart swelling with something he hadn’t felt in a long time—hope. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you said, stepping even closer. "I want someone who can love the parts of me that aren’t always easy."

Eddie swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was like you were speaking the words he’d always longed to hear but had never dared to hope for.

For a moment, there was nothing but the two of you, standing there in the dimly lit room, the echoes of your words hanging in the air. And then, without thinking, Eddie leaned in and kissed you—not in the way Sir Andor would have kissed your character in the game, but in a way that was real and raw, like it was the first time he’d ever truly let himself feel this way.

When he pulled back, his heart was pounding, and he could barely catch his breath. "So... does this mean you’re coming back to Hellfire next week?" he asked with a teasing grin.

You laughed softly, still holding his hand. "Yeah. I think I’ll stick around."

And just like that, everything changed for Eddie Munson.

[familiarscars]

Drive You Insane | Noah Sebastian 01

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Noah Sebastian X psychiatrist!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. A mysterious new patient arrives at the Grimshade sanatorium and you have been tasked with taking care of his case.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). disturbing environment, violence, unconventional treatments, manipulation, questionable relationships, explicit sex and profanity.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

Grimshade Sanatorium, an isolated island of Blackridge in southern Canada.

It had been six long hours by plane from your city, three hours by boat, and now an hour and a half crammed into a private car with closed windows, traveling along a bumpy road that bordered a cliff as it climbed the hill. Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest at any moment, and your hands were sweating so much that they alternated between hot and cold.

You adjusted your glasses on the bridge of your nose after checking the map for the eighth time, dividing your attention between the aged paper in your fingers and the fog outside that made it impossible to figure out where you were. From what you could decipher, Grimshade Sanatorium was at the top of a hill, while the rest of the island was shrouded in dark, untamed vegetation. There was a single small town miles away from your lodging, and reaching it seemed daunting given the path ahead.

At that moment, you hoped you wouldn’t need anything from it anytime soon.

When you chose psychiatry as your specialization, you never imagined how difficult it would be to find a job in the field, especially as a newly graduated professional. It was tough for reputable clinics to give you a vote of confidence, given your youth and limited experience beyond mandatory internships and extracurricular activities in college.

Everything changed when a letter from Grimshade Sanatorium arrived—a glimmer of hope. You had applied to so many places you’d forgotten about that one. They sent a notice on vintage paper, resembling a direct invitation from Hogwarts, which you found amusing yet intriguing due to the details.

They were looking for a psychiatrist for the ward housing inmates awaiting their final sentences—many of them serving their time as residents. It wasn’t exactly what you had envisioned, especially after researching Grimshade and discovering it functioned like a maximum-security prison for the most dangerous, mentally unstable criminals.

“This is where the road ends for cars, I’m afraid. You’ll have to continue on foot,” the driver said over his shoulder, turning to look at you in the back seat.

Your slightly wide-eyed gaze shifted between the dark dirt road ahead and his drooping eyes beneath his cap. You didn’t want to let on that you felt a faint shiver running up your spine.

“I don’t know how to get there alone,” you said, trying to mask the panic in your voice. “Okay, I have a map, but what are the chances it won’t confuse me? Is there somewhere I can get Wi-Fi or better cell service to use GPS?”

Rebert—that’s how he introduced himself—merely furrowed his brows and shook his head briefly, as if the words that had left your lips were absurd.

“With all due respect, miss, but a cellphone on Blackridge Island is the most useless device you could own. There’s no signal tower; we barely manage to watch TV or get news from the outside world,” he chuckled.

“What do you mean?” you asked, frowning as you adjusted yourself in the seat. “How do people communicate here?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Probably through letters and carrier pigeons, like a century ago.

“I need to ask one more thing. If I need to go into town, how can I call a taxi or get transportation?”

“When you get to this very intersection, you’ll see cars like mine heading toward the town. Since you’re a Grimshade employee, you’ll have unrestricted access with your ID badge. Just pay attention to the schedules and days of the week; town visits are limited to avoid coinciding with the arrival of new inmates.”

“They seem very strict about security,” you said, flexing your lips in mild surprise.

“Given the abominable creatures they house there, perhaps their measures aren’t strict enough. Strict is how I chain my dog to a post to keep him from running away. Those killers shouldn’t even have the privilege of eating and sleeping in that place,” Rebert said with a tone of contempt that left you slightly uncomfortable.

You hated when people spoke about patients that way, no matter who they were. But your beliefs and values didn’t matter much now.

“Well...” You cleared your throat, grabbing your coat and bag from the seat beside you, slinging it over your shoulder. “Thanks for the ride and the tips, Rebert.”

“Not at all, miss.”

You hauled your suitcase out of the trunk, grunting at its weight, and dragged it toward the narrower stone path. In the distance, you heard Rebert’s car pulling away, its tires crunching against the gravel. Ahead, you could make out the mansion after a steep climb, with old tree branches and dry leaves forming an archway over the path.

The journey was silent, with nothing but the sounds of nature—the raspy chirping of birds—accompanied by the soft rush of water from the cracked concrete fountain decorating the front of the sanatorium as you crossed its gates. You walked slowly around it, grimacing as you noted the general state of neglect on the facade.

The circular driveway around the fountain had cracked and darkened tiles, and the mansion’s paint was as old as the building itself, appearing white under layers of creeping vines and cracks that altered its color. You couldn’t help wrinkling your nose at the sight, the chirping of birds replaced by the distant clang of heavy metal and muffled screams as you approached.

“You must be the new doctor!” A cheerful male voice addressed you from behind, startling you as you turned fully. “I’m Travis Rune, head psychiatrist of the custody ward. I’ve been assigned to welcome you to Grimshade!”

For a moment, you considered refusing the hand he extended toward you. He could’ve arrived a little earlier and helped you carry your heavy suitcase up the hill. On the other hand, the blond man with perfectly aligned hair and broad shoulders seemed far too pleasant to snub.

“Thank you! Have you been here long, Dr. Rune?” you asked, prompting a smile as Travis gestured with his chin for you to follow him inside.

“Please, call me Travis. We’re colleagues now.” He smiled, looking at you over his square glasses, winking one strikingly blue eye.

“That’s precisely why I prefer to keep things formal,” you said without intending to sound rude, though the words slipped out as you continued assessing the mansion’s interior.

A grand staircase led to the second floor, where nurses bustled about, and various patients were being moved from one place to another—some restrained, others not. Passing by a woman banging her head against the staircase railing, Travis led you upstairs, signaling to another staff member to take care of your suitcase.

“We’ve divided Grimshade into wings and levels. You’ll identify them by the bracelets on each patient’s wrist,” he explained as you moved down the corridor, ignoring the shouting coming from one of the consulting rooms. “Level One: green bracelet. Elderly patients abandoned by their families in our asylum. Their needs are managed by the nursing staff, so you won’t have contact with them.”

You absorbed the information, looking from side to side, thinking that abandoning a family member in a place like this was the ultimate proof of someone’s character.

"Level two: yellow wristbands. Patients of random age groups with mild mental disorders also abandoned by their families, or severe cases requiring institutionalization. They are monitored by the mental health team and have a monthly consultation with me for medication adjustments."

"So, they pay to be here?" Perhaps it was a naïve question, but you needed to know.

"Their families pay an annual fee and cover the costs of keeping them here. Unless it's a custody patient, we don’t treat anyone for free, if that’s what you’re wondering."

If they had so many patients and all of them paid to be here, why keep the sanatorium in the state of an ancient asylum? You wondered as you walked past a leak dripping water from the ceiling onto your hair.

"Understood, Dr. Rune."

He seemed quite young.

Okay, he was definitely good-looking and had a pleasant way of speaking. The age gap between you and him couldn’t have been more than two years. He was definitely the kind of guy you might have had a crush on in university, without the slightest reciprocation given the countless other, more interesting options he probably had. Not that you were particularly extroverted or social, especially when it came to interacting with men.

Locking yourself up at home with your face buried in books might not have been the best idea after all.

"Last but not least, level three: red wristbands. Custody patients awaiting trial or serving sentences at the sanatorium. We use treatment to extract information that can assist authorities and contribute to investigations."

He pointed toward a consultation room where a man in a dress shirt was speaking to a girl with her head down.

"Because these are highly dangerous criminals who can’t coexist with other patients, we keep them in a separate wing, which we call the Hidden."

Dr. Rune turned the next corner, and you followed him. As you passed through the doors and descended the stairs leading to the outside, the cold hit your face, and it was impossible not to cross your arms, trying to pull your sleeves further down.

You thought the scenery couldn’t get any worse, but with each step, it became darker. As you passed through gates and two guards, it felt like stepping into a TV prison show, walking along a corridor of iron cells.

A strong stench burned your nostrils, and the screams of patients mixed with the sound of something hitting the iron were enough to make your ears ring.

"This place is the reason you’re here. Our last professional resigned, and we urgently needed to fill the position before the next evaluation cycle started," Travis shrugged as he walked.

Your confidence dropped by a few percentage points upon realizing that your hiring was out of sheer desperation. Fine, you’d deal with that later.

"They resigned?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, dodging a stream of urine aimed in your direction by a patient. "Not exactly motivating to hear that on the first day."

"It’s a tough ward; it’s not for everyone." He smiled, and you hesitated immediately. "Besides the patient files you’ll handle, you’ll need to prepare for a new detainee arriving soon."

"A new detainee?" For the first time, your question sounded genuinely intrigued.

"He’s being tried for a brutal murder. There’s little information about the case, like his motivation or even confirmation that he did it. He hasn’t spoken a word since it happened, and the judge concluded he’s not mentally sound." Travis rolled his eyes. "They dump any trash here, and it’s up to us to sort through it. Along the way, we see if we can help at all."

He was definitely fed up with this job.

"So, let me guess... you think I can make him talk?" you asked, playing with a hint of innocence as you watched Travis stop in the corridor.

"I don’t think someone as inexperienced as you can go that far, no offense." He spoke with a touch of sarcasm. "We just want you to follow protocol with him, and I’ll handle the rest."

Something prickled at the back of your neck at the way he dismissed your years of study as absolutely nothing just because your resume wasn’t as extensive as his. Your hands curled into fists, your fingers pressing into your palms, and you took a deep breath before responding.

"Of course, Dr. Rune."

The tour of the Hidden was over, and you were exhausted. Travis left you at the door of your small room with its jammed window and dusty ceiling fan. Before leaving, he emphasized the importance of being well-rested to receive the new patient the next day. After your shower, you wanted to call your mother and let her know you had arrived safely on the island after hours of travel, but without any signal, no matter where you moved in the room, this mission was impossible. Tossing the phone onto your pillow, you promised yourself you’d give her an update as soon as you had a break and could visit the town.

With a tired sigh, you sat at the desk next to the bed, drying your hair with a towel while flipping through patient files. You weren’t sleepy yet, and without the entertainment of the internet, all you could do was work.

Patient File 1: Ash A., 39 years old - Admission: June 2019 Preliminary Diagnosis: Severe psychopathy; dissociative disorder.

History: Ash was admitted after being declared legally insane during the trial for a series of brutal murders. He worked as a taxidermist, and his obsession with preserving "human perfection" led him to conduct grotesque experiments on his victims, all meticulously chosen. He claimed he was "saving" their souls by preserving them in an "immortal" form. During initial sessions, he displayed a complete lack of remorse and a disturbingly detailed recounting of his actions. Current State: Apathetic during interactions, except when discussing his “art.” Shows no signs of rehabilitation or acknowledgment of the atrocities committed.

You raised your eyebrows and jotted down notes in your notebook before moving to the next file.

Patient File 2: Mariene G., 27 years old - Admission: October 2021 Preliminary Diagnosis: Schizoaffective disorder with violent tendencies.

History: Mariene was found in a state of shock next to the body of her older brother, stabbed 23 times. Apparently, she believed he was a demonic entity trying to steal her soul. According to family testimony, Mariene began exhibiting paranoid behavior months earlier, hearing voices instructing her to protect herself "at all costs." In one interview, she stated she "had no choice" and that "his eyes burned like embers."

Current State: Alternates between periods of lucidity and paranoia. Aggressive during confrontations, requiring constant supervision.

“Mariene is a pretty name…” you murmured, assessing the photo of the woman with blonde eyebrows.

Patient File 3: Brady P., 52 years old - Admission Date: January 2020

Preliminary Diagnosis: Antisocial personality disorder; extreme persecution mania.

History: Brady was a former financial executive who believed he was being pursued by a "secret society" responsible for monitoring his every move and manipulating his life. This paranoia culminated in a public attack at a shopping mall, where Brady set fire to three stores and stabbed two security guards, claiming they were "infiltrators." He maintains that each act was a measure of self-preservation against an invisible enemy.

Current State: Rarely sleeps, claiming that "they will find him" if he closes his eyes. Displays consistent delusions despite intensive medication.

With the third file finished, you exhaled sharply, letting your lips vibrate, imagining what could have driven the previous psychiatrist to resign, leaving this position open for you.

Patient File 4: Noah S., 24 years old - Admission Date: February 2024

Preliminary Diagnosis: Psychogenic catatonia associated with borderline personality disorder and severe dissociative episodes.

History: Noah was found at dawn in a grove near the university campus, kneeling beneath a large tree. Above him hung the mutilated body of his ex-girlfriend, Rachel E., 23 years old, suspended by her ankles and bearing signs of extreme violence: deep cuts marked her skin, symbols carved into her torso, and her frozen expression suggested a slow and painful death.

Noah was covered in blood, both his own and Rachel’s. When approached by police, he remained motionless, staring blankly at her hanging body. Initial investigations revealed the two had been seen together the night before at a rival fraternity party where, according to witnesses, a heated argument occurred. The circumstances of the crime raised questions of premeditation and symbolic rituals, but Noah never provided an explanation. From the moment of his capture, Noah had not spoken a single word. Extensive psychiatric evaluations concluded that his muteness and apathy were not conscious choices but the result of a profound dissociative state combined with severe trauma. During the trial, his inert posture and lack of defense led to an insanity plea and his transfer to Grimshade Sanitarium.

Current State: Noah remains in complete silence, minimally interacting with his surroundings. Nurses’ reports mention he is often found staring into space for hours, particularly near windows or trees. His only movements thus far have been sudden bursts of rage when provoked.

Closing the file, the feeling lingered — a deep chill seemed to originate from the center of your chest, raising the hair on your arms. Noah’s face in the photograph seemed almost alive, his intense, furrowed gaze carrying something impossible to name. For a moment, you wondered what it would be like to stand face-to-face with someone harboring such silence and horror within.

But your curiosity wouldn’t have to last long — you would meet him tomorrow.

The day began with an unusual restlessness. The hot water from the shower didn’t dissipate the cold that seemed to settle in your nape, and Noah’s face from the photograph lingered like a shadow, even with your eyes closed. It was as though the intensity of his gaze was imprinted on your mind, and more than once, you caught yourself trying to divert your thoughts — unsuccessfully — while instinctively clutching your thighs.

The tattoos — intricate and dark — covering his neck and peeking from the collar of his shirt didn’t help, drawing attention to themselves. Something about that man disturbed you more than any other patient you had encountered, and the feeling only grew as you prepared, choosing an outfit that projected professionalism, though a hint of nervousness threatened to show.

Descending to reception, you found Dr. Rune waiting with a calm smile and a hot coffee. You thanked him, holding the cup with both hands, trying to savor the warmth as a fleeting comfort. Walking together toward the outside, he explained some logistical details, but his words soon faded as a growing noise filled the corridor.

Crossing the main entrance doors, you stopped abruptly, startled by the scene unfolding before you. Journalists crowded like a compact swarm, camera flashes firing in rapid succession, and visibly overwhelmed security guards struggling to contain the horde. It was a chaotic visual and auditory assault, intensifying with each passing second.

“I should’ve warned you,” Travis murmured beside you, noting your expression. “Not only is his case infamous, but Noah comes from a very influential family. The owners of Blackridge, basically. They have fortune, power... and apparently no hurry to help their precious son.”

“They’re not trying to prove his innocence?” you asked innocently.

“All signs point to them wanting to stay out of the case due to the exposure. We’re in the isolated area, but Blackridge’s noble district is so conservative it’s believed that land still exists in a time capsule that hasn’t evolved.”

“That sounds... complicated.”

“Just another piece of gossip about a random patient.”

The information landed heavily, given Travis’s mocking tone, and you tried to ignore him.

“They won’t back off anytime soon,” Rune commented, his eyes scanning the commotion with a weary expression. “Be prepared — this will complicate things inside as well. Friends of mine at the penitentiary said this guy has an ego to match.”

The chaos ahead seemed to swell with the arrival of the convoy. You barely had time to process everything — the blinding flashes, the cacophony of voices shouting questions — when the door of the central car opened. Two guards stepped out first, taking rigid positions, before pulling Noah out.

He emerged with a surprising posture. There was no resistance in his movements, but neither was there submission. With his chin raised, his face remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on an undefined point on the horizon, avoiding the cameras with a determination that seemed almost practiced. The tattoos, now more visible, climbed along the side of his neck and hinted beneath the collar of his gray shirt, creating an almost hypnotic contrast against his pale skin.

Noah seemed unperturbed, untouchable, as though the swarm of journalists and flashes were nothing more than a breeze around him. But then, something shifted. His firm steps faltered for an instant, almost imperceptibly, and he stopped abruptly.

That’s when you realized: he was looking directly at you.

The air around you seemed to freeze under the weight of his gaze, as overwhelming as in the photograph, but now there was something more — an intensity that seemed to pierce through you, as if examining something far beyond what others could see. His eyes were a blend of ice and fire, fixed on you with such deliberate focus that your stomach involuntarily tightened.

The moment lasted only seconds but felt like an eternity. One of the guards touched Noah’s shoulder impatiently, and he resumed walking as if nothing had happened. Yet, the impact of that brief exchange lingered.

“He usually doesn’t react to anything,” Travis remarked beside you, his voice low but tinged with curiosity. “That was... strange.”

Strange.

The word felt insufficient to describe what you had just experienced. As Noah was led inside, you remained frozen, trying to understand why that fleeting instant made your skin tingle, as though something inevitable was about to happen.

You were in the asylum’s forest, each step swallowed by the oppressive silence, broken only by the crunch of dry leaves beneath your feet. The air was dense, almost suffocating, and you knew you weren’t alone. Something—or someone—was behind you.

Your breaths were shallow and quick, every fiber of your being urging you to run, yet your legs felt rooted to the ground. Then, you heard it.

A whisper, far too close, as though it came from inside your mind:

“Run.”

The word was a command, and you obeyed without hesitation. Your body lunged forward, crashing through trees and brush with an urgency that felt primal. But the ground seemed to fight against you, each step more laborious than the last. Heat built between your thighs—confusing, strange—mixing with the adrenaline surging down your spine.

When the sound of footsteps behind you intensified, the adrenaline peaked. You could no longer think, only run, but you knew it was futile. He was too close.

Suddenly, something yanked your hair with brutal force, jerking you backward. A scream tore from your lips as your back collided with the rough surface of a tree. The pain of bark scraping against your exposed skin was eclipsed by his presence—a towering, menacing shadow.

His face was obscured, hidden in darkness, but the patterns on his neck were unmistakable. You recognized the intricate lines of tattoos that had haunted your thoughts all day. The broad shoulders and the strength with which he gripped your jaw confirmed your deepest fear.

It was Noah.

He tilted his head, studying you with a terrifying calm. The sound of his breathing was heavy, almost animalistic. Before you could react, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you between the tree and his overwhelming presence.

The heat pulsing between your thighs became unbearable, tangled in terror and tension. You tried to speak, but the words lodged in your throat as he gripped your neck with a possessive firmness, his fingers digging into your skin.

And then, like a violent wave, you woke up.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, breaths coming in ragged gasps, and cold sweat drenched your skin. The darkness of your room was suffocating, though not as much as the weight of that dream. It wasn’t merely fear—it was something deeply visceral, almost tangible, making your skin crawl and your entire body rebel against what you had just experienced.

That man was going to drive you insane.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Hi lovely, to celebrate the new year! I was wondering if you could please do a fluff/smut with Cirden.

Does not have to be hardcore smut only a taste!! thank you so much 4 taking the time out of your day and writing we all appreciate your work.

A/N: took it in me to get this done before January ended!! putting this man in the spicy is so bittersweet b/c it feels so wrong (but so right). And thank you for your kindness!! Lord knows I've been needing some grace. Thank you for being so sweet I'm glad people actually see my stuff <33

CW: NSFW/SMUT, public(?) doing the dirty in the woods, hunting, elf X reader, established marriage

WC:2.8k

Gender Neutral Reader X Male Elf husband

"Raagghh. I haven't caught ANYTHING..." One of your arrows lands in the dirt, it's blade skinning against the ground before it fell flat. You couldn't even manage to stab a lizard that blundered past you, it's skittering body running as your arrow slumped.

"Don't get discouraged," Cirdan mumbled with unmoving lips, focused on the prey only a few meters in front of him. "It's only your first time with a bow and arrow."

He still managed to whisk away your heart in his crouched battle stance as you curled on the forest floor, his arrow flying as it released with a snap. The harsh squeak of a cottontail broke the silence of the ancient trees, a fatal jump being it's last movement before it succumbed to the ground in a helpless flop. Your husband moved forward without you to slice it's throat. You looked away in shame; he had been hunting for your dinners ever since your joint movement into the cottage currently a mile away; he had cut the heads off deer and ducks while you sat back and covered your eyes. You couldn't even shoot down a bird, not only from your poor aim but your heart lurched everytime you saw its feathered breast beat with life, its beak release a hymn of song. Every now and again you could garner the courage to help him defeather or clean the bones of his latest catch but when seeing their heads or lifeless eyes, it made your insides churn.

It was dispiriting, knowing you couldn't provide in the way he had learned to do since he was a child. But by Gods and Goddesses, did he not look fine holding that bow and pulling back its string, showing the strength in his chest and the unwavering focus in his grey-blue eyes. You memorialized the image in your head, toes scrunching deep in your sewn leather boots (created by cirdan and his many talents) with your knees pushed together, gaze focused on the ground.

"Whats wrong?"

You looked up from your place in the dirt and dead leaves, your spouse like a pretty ice mountain that you had to strain upwards to see. He placed three dead bunnies by their ears into the sack that was once on his back; if he were alone, he would've just carried them by hand back to the cottage.

"Nothing, I was just... thinking. It's beautiful out here."

You looked up at the canopy of trees, dappled light speckling between the small empty holes that neither branch nor bushy leaves covered to block the evening sun.

Cirdan bent down, placing his sack on the ground as a warm hand came to cover the top of your head. A calloused palm pushed your hair back, patting you with deadweight.

You couldn't see the rest of him with his gigantic arm in the way, his voice like an omniscient invisible God of the forest. 

"Don't worry if you can't hunt...I'll do enough for the both of us," His palm slid to your cheek in a messy fashion, attempting to be heedful of how firm his touch was, too used to handling his bow with untamed strength for the day. His hand was a pillow on your cheek as he pressed his thumb against your temple. "It's my job to take care of you."

He spoke as if mostly to himself, thin silver lashes disguising his eyes while he watches your lips with a small, almost unnoticeable quiver. But he didn't waver as you stared back, gaze running from his deep pupils to his strong nose bridge, down to his dripping jugular.

It was tension inside you and it was unbearable. It took choking yourself back to not scream "just kiss me, dammit!"

But elves weren't the hasty type,(especially your aloof husband), and you didn't know what Cirdan would think if you came forward so hungrily. Would he think you were just some lust-crazed old bat that replaced the careful spouse he once knew?

"Come, let's go back; the wind is picking up. I won't let you catch a cold."

The forest was all but blowing, a leaf tumbling every now and again but practically silent. And yet, who were you to argue with the seasoned elf who had survived in forests like this?

You took the outstretched hand cirdan put in front of you, allowing him to practically lift you to your feet as your bow held limply in your other hand with defeat. Alas, another day with no progress in conquering your woodland fear.

You let Cirdan lead you, following him past old oaks and emptied burrows, unable to keep your wide eyes off of him. It was nice, to distract your disappointed mind from your empty game sack to the hauntingly beautiful portrait of the manly elf before you.

"What is it?" Cirdan stopped, looking at you with those long locks covering his scarred eye, the other staring with a darkened brow.

"Nothing!" You'd repeat, looking away with your antsy feet bouncing, hoping he'd somehow read the growing need inside of you. And this carried on a countless too many times before you saw the clearing that led to the desire path back home.

What were you to say? That you wanted him here and now? That you wished he'd just smile and hold you and tell you to take off your hunting clothes and everything underneath as soon as you got back home? Yeah, right. As if the stoic beast that you married would be so forward, as hopeful and desiring as you.

You sneaked glances, learning better than before when aiming to witness the veins in his forearm that traveled to the hand interlocked with yours, the pants that fit his slightly toned ass just right. Gods, were you really so sinful? But, was it so wrong to want your husband, to think of him panting above you and his beautiful thighs encasing you with heartache and hunger?

Cirdan stopped again. You were about to tell him now this time you really weren't looking but he didn't face you, instead dropping his bag along with an unused set of arrows accompanying his bow.

"I think... I understand."

You tilted your head at him, maybe at a poor attempt to get him to look at your cute side.

"I'm supposed to do more than...be a a simple protector."

You would've pressed for more information, if it weren't for the oddly timed shove towards a nearby tree. Cirdan took the bag from your hands faster than you could ask "what the hell are ya doing," his sharp face only mere inches away and angled as if he was about to kiss you.

But maybe, that was just your imagination, your mind centered only on his smoothened pinkish lips.

"Is this what you wanted...?"

The elf brute inched down, nudging your nose with a deep exhale. His hands engulfed yours, holding them down at your sides as he pressed his lips snuggly to your cupids bow.

The sheer power of his face pushed your skull against the tree; along with it a warm, humid hand came from behind to press along the curve of your back. His pointer finger inched, massaging into your tailbone as the elf's thigh quickly entrapped you between he and the old oak.

That hand moved down to the waist of your hunting trousers, digging beneath them to reach more savory skin.

You almost jumped at the slight clutch of your left ass cheek, your husbands eyes shut as he rubbed his forehead against you.

Lost words were grumbled under his breath with a gentle rasp, his other hand leaving your fingers as they braced against the bark of the tree behind you.

"Cirdan-- wha," you tried to figure out what you were feeling, what the right thing to do would be. Which was, to tell him that this was not the right place, nor the right time. But that gentle nudge of his tented crotch against your leg made any thoughts of lucidity drift.

"Want you..." He spoke, barely above a hum. "Isn't this, what you needed? Looking at me, at my..."

"Don't finish that sentence," you warned, unable to meet his gaze as he softly squinted open his eyes. "Maybe so but--! Right here?? Right now? In the woods?! Even I'm not desperate enough to make us do it...here."

"No creatures come to the edge of the woods... too smart for that. We're too far away for any hunters to venture close enough." You could see even he wasn't one to normally suggest this idea; but if anyone knew this forest, it was him. "Besides, said I want to take care of you.. did you not think I'd follow through on that..?"

"But, wait, I mean-" you nearly whined, hardly able to contain yourself with the hand massaging your backside, the fat of his buldge grinding into your quadricep. He was almost as bad as the rabbits he so skillfully caught, their known libidinous currently rivaling his own.

It was still atleast a 15 minute walk back to the cottage when following the path directly back. Could you make it that long? If not, could you bare the anxiety of having him bend you over in the woods completely out in the open?

"I didn't know you were so... pent up." You choked. "I mean, you're not just doing this for me, right?"

Who were you kidding? He was practically rubbing on you like a fox in heat.

"Please don't make me beg." He looked at you directly, finding your lost-at-sea eyes that had been rapidly searching for any creature or holy figure nearby witnessing you and your husbands' immoralities. He wasn't whining nor desperate but rather asking you, to please, not make him put himself even lower at your mercy-- if that was even possible.

His directness caught you off guard; sure, you had been on the edge of ripping your clothes off and throwing yourself at him but-- to have him beat you to the punch?

You couldn't help yourself when he leaned in, his soft locks brushing against your shoulder as the tip of his pink tongue swiped your lower lip, his confidence having grown since the first time you made love to him in the dark.

You opened your mouth greedily, nearly starvingly so as you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. How could you say no, when he asked you so genuinely, when your groin ached to be caressed by him?

With the confession of your open mouth and the lewd noises of your labored breaths, Cirdan moved quicker than with the normal diligent pace he tended to do everything with. In a split second your leg was wrapped around his hip, his large hand rubbing gently at the front zipper of your trousers, reaching in deep between your legs to get a good cup full o' you. 

You couldn't just ignore the cries of his loins as he lunged forward, desperate for your affection. You undid the two buttons holding the elf's own wood-colored slacks up. They drooped only slightly to show the clean grey of his happy trail, your palm digging in to reach for the stiff piece that craved a special touch.

It slid out so easily, his tip warm against your wrist. You couldn't help but watch him leak just a bit, slightly hard as a thin vein pulsed under your thumb.

"Gods please...I said t'not make me beg." He muffled in your ear, taken aback uncharacteristically as you stroked with the intent to milk him for all he had.

It was so cute and fat, the small grey-white hairs of the front of his cock leading down to his crowned jewels, making you appreciate the differences between humans and elves. His pointed ears twitched upward as he practically foamed at the mouth against your neck. A gentle palm came to push your shoulder against the tree with simplicity.

Without unzipping, cirdan shifted to pull your pants and undergarments down to your knees; in a matter of two seconds he managed to strip you half naked. Your hand was pulled away from the elf, interlocked instead with his fingers as your bare thigh was hoisted further up against his naked hip.

His chest pressed up against you as he slowed to get inside, looking at you with glazed over, hooded eyes. He didn't look away, he couldn't. There was something about the sweat at the corner of your brow, your slightly ajar lips that kept him going, entering inside of you with raw cock and raw determination, awaiting to see that expression of nearful ecstasy that would wash away all the neediness you had been experiencing.

You didn't know how he could do it, stare at you so intently without any break away while you sweated under his gaze. If he wasn't currently bottoming out inside of you right now, you would've felt like you were under interrogation. You both huffed simultaneously once your hole swallowed up the entirety of him, your right leg limp over his thigh as he pressed you up further against the tree.

"Feel okay?" Cirdan panted, and you could see he was barely keeping himself at bay. What a gentleman, controlling himself from fucking you blind-- not that you would've minded the latter, of course.

You responded in turn by grinding down on him, rolling your hips forward to have that needy, hungry and achingly thirsty spot become just a little farther quenched.

It was difficult to not throw your head back and scream, feeling so warm and full as you gripped the back strands of the elfs hair.

With the time you had spent with him you realized Cirdan wasn't much of a grunter, preferring unconsciously to huff and pant and wordlessly suck through his teeth when he was inside of you. If you were lucky, you'd get to see him furrow his brows in exasperation, frowning as if he was concentrating hard on something important and not just from rocking into you. The challenging part about being his first lover however, was that he was still learning not to finish in the first few seconds of plunging inside.

"Ill.. n'take care of yo..u" he muttered, lifting your hips as your bare ass scraped against the bark of the tree. "Take care so good..."

You would've laughed at his drunken fervor if you didn't find it so endearing, the urge to stick your tongue into his heated cavern of a mouth washing over you like a wave.

Cirdan accepted the kiss greatfully, placing a hand behind your head to grace your thump against the tree. You could hear the branches shake, a stray dead leaf falling on the top of your head as he rutted forward, your own pelvic floor pushing against his thrusts. The elf's nose smushed against the side of your own, lips practically consuming one another as his lashes brushed your cheek. Sweat formed on your back dripping to your legs, but you didn't care. It felt too good, your senses only focusing on where he was caressing or what would be next, the cold breeze reminding you that you were still outside.

That fear remained in the back of your mind, your eyes occasionally opening and scanning the forest that you could see beyond Cirdan. But there was nothing, nothing but the trees and dead fallen logs blocking pathways.

Your kisses drifted away as you saw a hunched over deer, somewhat 10 paces away with its head burrowed in a bush.

Cirdan slowed, the deep drilling inside of you now merely a thick discomfort of occasional thrusts. He could feel you were getting lost in your worry, your grip on his shoulders loosening.

"Ma’sal’shiral," he grabbed your chin, turning you away from the fear of the forest. "Going to make you feel love unlike any creature has known;" he kissed you with wet lips, giving you breath and teeth. "So please, don't turn from me."

The horrible ache in his eyes, the twitch inside of you-- for how torturous it was for yourself, it was just as bad for him. You would've apologized, turned the mood even further south into sourness if he hadn't begun rocking again, holding your back to keep your sensitive skin away from the tree. He huffed into your cheek, pressing hard up against you as he cherished everything he could touch. The deer that once took over your thoughts was now pushed to the edge, your eyes half-shut now that all you could feel was the depth of your husband, his precum mixing with the heat of your hole. The crude sound of skin on skin, the slight slap of elf balls hitting your ass-- it nearly sent your mind into overdrive.

And even with the pain of tree bark rubbing against your skin, the stench of petrichor and sweat in your nose, you wouldn't trade this moment for anything.

This might even be better than the bed... Okay, maybe not. But that didn't matter with Cirdan so far inside of you he huffed with inclination, tempting to keep his orgasm at bay.

[cevansbrat0007]

Indecent Exposure Pt. III: Poolside Promises

Summary: You convince Ari to finally let you have a little fun this summer. But at what cost? Check out Part One!

Warnings: Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Dad's Best Friend Themes, Older Men/Younger Women Themes, Brief Allusion to Oral Sex, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Please heed all warnings. Part of my Indecent Exposure Series. If you'd like to be added to the tag list, please let me know.

Almost Two Weeks After Your Father's Departure...

You glide through the water effortlessly, seeking a brief relief from the summer heat. While the news had promised you and everyone else that today’s weather would be one for the books, the warnings still hadn’t been enough to prepare you for the heat that assailed you the moment you’d stepped out the back door. 

However, it’s not until you allow your head to break through the surface that you realize you were no longer alone. You had company. And he was also staring at you.

Again. It was something he had a habit of doing.

“Can I help you?” It’s a flatly delivered question. 

The man only shrugs, dragging a hand through his shaggy, chestnut brown locks. Frankly, he looked so much like his brother you were almost surprised that you’d never really noticed just how many similarities they actually shared.

Same striking blue eyes. Same massive build. Same chiseled jaw that looked great with or without a beard. But where Steve always possessed an aura or control, Ari emanated something a little more raw and untamed. 

You found found that it sometimes did funny things to those annoying butterflies that had seemingly taken up residence in your belly these days.

“Did you need something?” You try as you continue to tread water in the middle of the pool.

“Nothing you're quite prepared to give, sweet Clover.” Ari responds cryptically, his head cocking to the side as he continues to survey you. 

“Then why the hell do you keep staring at me?”

That was another thing you’d recently come to learn about Ari over the last couple of days. He didn’t seem to care whenever you decided to take a spicy tone with him – a fact you’d discovered when you’d found him sitting in your father’s study just the other morning.

You’d been so happy until that moment, especially since you’d previously been granted three days free of Bucky, Steve, and Andy. Your time alone had been glorious, even if it had proved to be short lived. 

You watch the older man closely, fascinated by the increasingly pronounced tick in his jaw. Hell, if he was allowed to stare then so would you. However, the question was, who would blink first?

Turns out, that award belonged to Ari. 

Humming a tune under his breath, he proceeds to grab a lawn chair before pulling it closer to the edge of the pool. Neither one of you says a word as he takes a seat, his sinewy muscles bunching and flexing beneath the thin fabric of his light gray t-shirt. 

“Just came out here to check on you.” He reaches up to scratch at his beard. “See how you were managing in this heat.”

“I’m managing by planning to spend all afternoon in the pool, like any other sane person would.”

“Ya know, I’m pretty sure Bucky and the boys made it clear that they don’t appreciate your little penchant for snark.” He muses, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  

Probably. You inwardly concede. It definitely hasn't been winning you any favors. Which is why you often preferred to play the part of a mute. Whenever they allowed you to, that is.

“Doesn’t seem to bother you.” You respond honestly before closing your eyes and flipping your body so that you can float on your back, giving Ari a glimpse of your peaches and cream-colored bikini.

“That’s cuz’ not too much bothers me. I don’t allow it.” 

“Hmm…” You spread your arms, silently wishing you could simply float away from this conversation entirely. “Maybe you should talk to the others about that. Seems like I find a new way to piss them off every time I open my mouth.” 

“Nah.” Ari shrugs away your words as he continues to appear unbothered by the heat. “Something tells me they don’t quite know just what to do with a pretty little thing like you.” 

“Oh. And you do?” Well, you could safely say that you hadn’t been expecting that answer. 

“I’d certainly like to think so.” 

His statement hangs in the air as you both fall silent. While you weren’t quite sure what your would-be caretaker was talking about, it was definitely enough to make you think. And it’s at that moment that you decide to change tactics. Instead of floating here annoyed, perhaps it was time to use Ari’s seemingly indulgent personality to your benefit. 

A friend of yours was throwing a party tonight. And you wanted to go. 

When you’d previously brought it up to Bucky and Steve, they’d both hemmed and hawed over the subject – asking you all kinds of questions and refusing to give you anything more than a non-committal “we’ll have to see” or "we'll have to sit down and talk about it". And when you’d tried to play the ultimate trump card by calling your father, he’d sided with them. 

“I’m not there, pumpkin.” Your Dad had said while you’d been holed-up pouting in your room. “I asked your Uncles to watch over you, which means I’m gonna have to defer to them in situations like this one."

And, as luck would have it, you hadn’t been able to get your answer before they’d just up and disappeared on you like the overbearing assholes they were proving themselves to be.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I trust the judgment of anyone who’s crazy enough to sit out here in this heat and roast – not when there’s a perfectly good pool, like, right in front of them.”

“Not sure that pool of yours is big enough for the both of us.” Ari mutters, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. Although you get the feeling he’s talking more to himself than you. 

“It’s plenty big.” You eagerly reassure him, adjusting your position so that you can float closer to where your pseudo-guardian is sitting. “See? There’s aaall this space.”

For a second Ari appears unsure. And the closer you get, there’s no denying the fact that he was finally showing signs of feeling the heat. It’s hard to miss the thin line of sweat dotting along his brow.

“C’mon…” You urge, playfully splashing him. “Don’t be such a hard ass, Uncle Ari.” You decide to tack on the last bit for his benefit, all the while trying hard to keep the edge out of your tone. But if he notices, he thankfully doesn’t comment.

“Fine. Melt.” You heave an exasperated sigh when he still doesn’t move. Climbing onto a nearby pool raft, you turn your attention back to your companion. “Jesus, you guys are always so serious, like all of the time. I mean, what’s wrong with having a little fun?”

“Alright.” That’s all you get before he reaches to pull his shirt over his head, revealing the sculpted body hiding beneath.

You scarcely have the chance to appreciate the sight before you’re treated to the sound of a splash. You let out a squeal as water goes splashing everywhere, rewetting your already rapidly drying body. Seconds later, Ari’s head breaks through the water.

“Happy now, princess?” He disappears again, only to reappear closer to where you’re currently lounging. 

“Depends.” 

“On?” He asks, seemingly content to tread water alongside you. You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t at least admit that the man was kind of attractive.

Or, as your friends had put it, sexy as hell. Yeah, you weren’t quite sure how you felt about that one.

“Well…” You hedge, giggling when he splashes you to encourage you to hurry up.

“Out with it, Clover. A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.” Or fucked. He silently adds.

“There’s this party I kinda wanted to go to tonight. All my friends will be there and I haven't really had the chance to celebrate my birthday with them yet.” You finish, your teeth going to worry your bottom lip. 

Ari studies you for a moment as he tries to figure out the best way to respond. “What did Uncle Steve and the others say?” He already knew that you'd asked them, and he wanted to make it clear that he’s not one to be so easily manipulated. “I’m assuming you asked them first.”

“They said “maybe”. Well, two of them did anyway. But then they left without ever giving me a real answer.” 

“I see.” He offers you a cheeky grin while pausing to swat at a wayward fly. “Maybe we should call them. See if they’ve finally made up their minds–.” 

“No!” You shoot straight up on your perch, accidently flipping the raft and sending you tumbling back into the icy cool water. You come up sputtering and coughing, and while you can’t quite tell, you’re also fairly certain that Ari is laughing at you.

“You all good?”

“Yeah.” You gag, hating the taste of chlorine. 

Ari nods before moving to retrieve your float. He’s even kind enough to hold it still long enough for you to climb back on it again. Only once he’s satisfied that you’re secure does he seem interested in continuing the conversation. 

“So…it sounds like you really wanna go to this party. Don’t you, Clover?” 

“Yes.” You breathe, refusing to say anything more than that just in case he was actually considering it. You’re so desperate that you don’t even balk when he begins swimming towards the edge of the pool, dragging you along with him. He doesn’t speak again until he’s reached his destination. 

“Tell me, will there be any drinking at this party?”

“Wha–no!”

“Now’s not the time to lie to me, princess. Will people be drinking at this party?” He reaches up to cup your chin, his brilliant blue eyes boring into yours as if he's attempting to unravel all of your secrets.

One by one.

“I swear! Grace’s parents would positively kill her if they found out she threw that kind of party.”

Ari quietly mulls over your answer before deeming it to be honest enough for his liking. “How about boys?”

Fuck. While you couldn’t be honest, you also didn’t want to lie. Not when you were this close to getting what you wanted. Which was freedom. 

“Her little brother will be there. He’s a couple grades below us. But it's not like she can kick him out or anything.”

“Just her little brother, huh?” You could tell he was feeling more than a little skeptical. However, you’re surprised when he seemingly lets it slide. Releasing his grip on your chin, he gives you a little push, content to let you float away. 

“I swear. We can’t do anything too crazy with him around – he’d rat us out sooo fast.”

Please believe me. Please believe me. Please believe me. 

Holding your breath, you watch as he climbs out of the water. He makes a beeline for your towel, patting himself dry to the best of his ability before draping it over his shoulder. 

“Okay, sweetheart. I might be willing to make an executive decision on this one, provided you’re willing to do something for me in return. Something that’ll keep at least some of the heat off of me when it comes to dealing with Steve and the boys.”

What you didn't know was that they had already discussed your desire to attend this party – him, Bucky, Andy, and Steve – and they'd decided that the answer was "no". But since you'd gone the last couple days without throwing a tantrum, Ari felt inclined to give you what you wanted. It also helped that he found your bratty ways to be rather endearing.

So long as you weren't outrightly disrespectful.

“Anything.” The word flies out of your mouth before you can catch it. And just like that, that damn tick in his jaw is back.

“The only way I feel comfortable enough letting you go is if you promise to text me every 30 minutes. Doesn’t have to be long. Just a message to let me and the other guys know you’re okay.”

What the hell?

You open your mouth to protest before deciding you’re better off not. Right now, you’d take the win and try to renegotiate the rest later. 

“Take it or leave it, princess.” 

“I’ll take it!” You reply, albeit probably a little too enthusiastically. “Thank you so much!”

Ari doesn’t even crack a smile. Instead that damned tick of his only seems to grow even more pronounced. “Alright.” With that, he turns and begins striding towards the door. “I’ll, uh…I’ll get you another towel.” He pauses once he reaches his destination, turning to face you once more. 

“And Clover?”

“Yeah?” You call back, feeling happier than you have in almost two whole weeks. 

“Don’t make me regret this." Ari rumbles, allowing you to get a good, long look at his muscled, hair covered chest. "I'd hate for my kindness to come back and bite me in the ass. It would be a shame to start the summer off on such a bad note.”

“I…”

His words leave you so speechless that you can only watch as Ari proceeds to waltz through the sliding door, leaving you outside all alone once more. But not before reiterating his promise to bring you another towel so that you can get ready for lunch.

“Well, fuck…” Is all you can muster before rolling yourself off your float and into the cooling expanse of the water. You swim down to the bottom, touching the floor with both hands as you work to center yourself. 

You hold your breath for as long as you’re able before the need for oxygen forces you to resurface. As you greedily gulp air into your burning lungs you tell yourself not to give a fuck about Ari and his bullshit. Instead, you decide to focus on the most important aspect of tonight, namely…

Just what in the hell were you going to wear?

END

Official Tag List

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[jamminvroomvroom]

truly anything that involves lando and thigh riding would be 😵‍💫 that idea lives in my mind rent free 24/7

YES! yes yes yes YES

minors DNI! smut, 18+!! i’m not gonna lie i got a bit carried away and this is just… filth.

(literally wrote this and then it evaporated before my eyes lmao, hopefully the 2.0 is as good as the og 💀) wrote this in 10 mins so i hope you enjoy!

“yeah, baby, just like that.” lando groaned, eyes fixed on where you were sat on his thigh, grinding backwards and forwards.

watching him take his second place position on the podium at silverstone has awoken something in you, something wild and untameable, and the only solution was to drag him into his drivers room, push him back onto the sofa and straddle his spread thighs. you fiddled with the zipper of his race suit, his eyes darkening when he asked what had gotten into you. it only took one roll of your hips against his race suit clad thigh and a whimper to fall from your lips for him to be as far gone as you were.

your underwear was pulled to the side in seconds, his huge, strong hands forcing you down on him, pawing at you as you ground against him.

“come on sweetheart, i know exactly what you want. messy little slut.” he teased, eyes flitting between yours and the sopping wet patch growing on his thigh. you could see how hard he was, how much he must have craved your touch.

you didn’t know how long it had been, your body slick with sweat by now, your body aching and sensitive. when he groaned, guttural and deep, at the sight of you glistening, you lost it, the vibration from his chest and the sound of pure sex slipping from his lips.

“do you like watching me out there? is that what makes this little pussy so fucking wet? is that why you had to misbehave and take what you wanted?” and just like that, you came.

you tried to ride out your high, gradually slowing your hips, but it seemed as though lando had other ideas.

“no way, i’m not done with you yet.” he held you down on him, bouncing his leg, the sensation making your eyes roll back. “you couldn’t wait for it, took exactly what you wanted. so now, you will take what i fucking give you.”

you cried out at his words, your body going limp against him, but all he did was tweak your nipple through your shirt.

“do you understand, baby?” he whispered into your ear. you wouldn’t even focus on his words, earning another pinch to your nipple. “i said, do you understand?” you nodded weakly, trying to sit back up to continue. “use your words.” he growled, your jaw held in his hand.

“yes, lando. please, please, please.” you babbled, an absolute fucking state, utterly at his mercy. it was blissful.

you were shaking, whimpering, tears streaming down your face by the time he let you get off his thigh. he’d managed to get you out of your shirt, your chest covered in love bites. you’d lost count of the amount of times you’d cum, your hair sticking to you, his fingerprints branded into your hips. just as you tried to fix yourself up, he stopped you, flipping you onto your front, your ass in the air for him.

“you think we’re done? oh, darling, not even close. you couldn’t wait for it, so now we’re gonna show this entire fucking team what happens when i get on the podium.”

lando smiled wickedly, and all you saw was white.

[divine-misfortune]

Mushy May, day 6. "You're blushing"

Rating: M

Pairing: Swiss/Dewdrop

Words: 1,155

Summary: A morning like any other, and Swiss just really loves Dew.

Contains: Nothing explicit - just Dew getting sorta turned on. Swiss being gross and lovely dovey.

As always 1000 smooches to @forlorn-crows for all of this <333

Pay no attention to what date anything is posted on anymore

Behind him the bathroom door creaked. Nudged open by a bleary eyed, disheveled multi ghoul. None of his locs remained contained within the elastic Swiss had drawn them into the night before, all in varying states of untamed with minds of their own. He shuffled his way towards the shower, mouth falling open to reveal oversized fangs as he yawned, idly scratching at his bare stomach. 

Dew watched the way he moved, practically on autopilot in the still foggy edges of the mirror. Still yet to even acknowledge his existence in the room at all, likely because his eyes were barely open enough to see what was in front of him, and Dew didn't have the heart - or the balls to break him from his sleepy stupor. Swiss was, for all intents and purposes, a bear in the morning. Waking him was treacherous. But also he looked kinda cute when he was tired like this. A dangerous teddy bear. 

His eyebrows raised minutely as he caught a glimpse of the deep red welts raked down Swiss’ back when Swiss bent at the waist to fuss with the old stubborn faucet. He winced sympathetically and glanced down at his hand, mentally noting to file down his claws at some point lest he maul another poor unsuspecting victim. Swiss hardly seemed bothered by the battle scars as he braced his hands on his lower back to stretch. Dew tipped his head, morning routine momentarily forgotten when Swiss let out a low half purr-half groan of satisfaction. The sound itself was innocent in nature but still managed to kickstart something hot in his gut but the sway of his tail and the second full bodied yawn of the morning did something far worse to Dew. Warmth deep in the confines of his ribs and an unwilling curl to his lips, Dew exhaled fondly. Endeared and amused by the sheer act of being him. 

The small space grew warmer as the shower began to heat up, trickling water white noise as Swiss puttered back and forth aimlessly gathering his things with a practiced ease. 

Dew remembered a time where Swiss shifted uncomfortably at the prospect of moving some of his things into Dew's bathroom - afraid of intruding, of taking up space in places he claimed weren't his but Dew had laughed at his initial nervousness. Places that weren't his, as if he didn't wake up in Dew's bed most mornings, as if his sheets didn't carry the rich smokey scent of the multi ghoul even in his absence. That bed was Swiss’ as much as it was his. Arguing his point with Dew was a waste of breath, he'd already emptied out the drawer for his things long before the conversation happened. Now Swiss rummaged through the bathroom like it had always been his. 

“Hey cinder…” 

Swiss sagged against him abruptly and Dew braced himself against the counter to keep himself upright, only hissing a little when Swiss laughed. His voice was low and rusted, husked by sleep but tinged sweet. Perching his chin on his shoulder he fixed him a smile in their reflection, lazy but entirely genuine, before slotting himself properly against his back. He'd finally blinked the sleep from his eyes despite his lids sitting heavy, rings of gold peeking out from under dark lashes.

“Hey yourself,” he hummed and continued working his fingers through the ends of his damp hair. “Didn't think you'd be up for a bit - don't tell me I somehow managed to wake you.” 

“Oh nothin’ wakes me darling.” Strong arms snuck around his narrow waist and Swiss turned to tuck his face into his hair. Dew bit his lip, admiring the way his embrace just seemed to envelop him. Sure, he was small but Swiss always managed to make him feel it and it made his stomach do flips. “You smell good.” 

“You're gonna tangle my hair again,” Dew hissed half heartedly and he opted to hold him tighter. A subtle reminder that the multi ghoul could keep him however he liked. Part of Dew hoped he did just that.  

“Oh don't be such a priss, that's Rain's job” he snorted and pressed a chaste kiss to his bare shoulder. Careful to avoid the sore imprints of teeth leading down his neck like a true gentleman. “Just wanna hold my baby a little, can't really deny me that now can you?”

Dumbfounded, Dew once again paused in the motion. Fingers still tangled in his hair, he knit his brow. The action of embracing him, the pet name - not to mention the casual ‘my’ prefixed to it, he felt hit brain skitter to a halt. Swiss laughed again, not necessarily at him though. An amused exhale too close to his skin that makes him shudder. 

“Your baby?” He repeats with reluctance, heart rate picking up speed with each suspicious syllable. The smile he's met with is too much teeth, like Swiss might just eat him alive but not to revel in his agony. Like he might devour him to savor him in entirety, an act of reverence as opposed to violence. 

“My baby.” 

An involuntarily whine rose in his throat, eyes flitting away as to not watch the pink color his cheeks. Swiss was certainly watching.

“What's wrong?” He squeezed his middle and nosed lightly against his pulsepoint, likely feeling the way it stuttered. 

“You're being weird” Dew's voice went soft as little kisses were pressed to the hinge of his jaw. The heat in his belly was undeniable now but he still tried to distract himself, washing his hands in icy water. 

“And you're cute when you're all bashful like this, sweetheart.” Another kiss followed by a playful nip, the faintest catch of teeth against already bruised skin. Dew's eyes nearly fluttered. “You like it, know you do, love when I'm sweet on you like this.” 

Mouth opening to protest, Dew’s brain struggled to provide the words and he was left standing there stammering while Swiss continued to lightly bite and kiss along the column of his throat. He was turning to putty, dick beginning to twitch with interest. Every sappy, tooth-rotting whisper close to his ear aided it in fattening up much to his humiliation. The fire ghoul screwed his eyes shut when Swiss hummed curiously, mortified when his palm pressed to the front of his boxers. Dew whined again, distress and need mixed into one desperate sound. 

“You're blushing, beautiful…Prettiest shade of pink, wonder if it will be just as red when I get my hands on it.” 

“Fucking hells, you're gonna kill me,” he warbled and grabbed his wrist, unsure if he wanted to add to the pressure against him or pull him away. 

“Just love you baby, let me love you.”

Dew swallowed and cracked an eye open to take in the sight of them. He almost wanted to commit it to memory. 

“Y-Yeah, okay…Love you too.” 

[morningsharksworld]

Hairbrush

DBZ Raditz x Reader FLUFF

A/N: GOD THE HYPERFIXATION IS GETTING WORSE anyway another fluff DBZ fic because I absolutely DO NOT like raditz and DO NOT want to brush his hair at all.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Raditz sat on the edge of your bed, his muscular frame sinking slightly into the mattress. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest and his scowl was practically etched into his face. Yet, despite his apparent reluctance, he didn’t move away as you approached with a brush in hand.

“Are you done? Hurry up and get this over with” he grumbled, his deep voice tinged with irritation. His tail flicked behind him in subtle agitation, betraying his discomfort.

You couldn’t help but smile at his stubbornness. “Alright, alright, just sit still” you replied, climbing onto the bed behind him. His long, wild mane of hair spilled down his back, untamed and defiant—much like its owner.

Raditz was a warrior, through and through. His pride as a Saiyan was practically a part of his DNA, and moments like this intimate, vulnerable moment were…few and far between. But somehow, you’d managed to crack through that gruff exterior, just enough to convince him to let you do this.

Your fingers gently combed through the thick strands, searching for the most tangled spots. “You know, your hair’s really not as bad as you think” you commented, trying to lighten the mood. “If you’d just take care of it every once in a while, it wouldn’t take me half an hour to get through it.”

Raditz scoffed, though his shoulders relaxed slightly under your touch. “Saiyans don’t waste time on trivial things like grooming” he said, though the faintest hint of color dusted his cheeks. “We have better things to do… like fighting.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, I’m sure. Heaven forbid you take a break from punching things to look after yourself.”

He didn’t respond, but you could feel the heat radiating from him. Whether it was from embarrassment or something else, you weren’t sure. You worked quietly for a while, the brush gliding through his hair with increasing ease as you tamed the wild tangles. Every now and then, your fingers would graze the back of his neck and you’d feel him tense, only to relax again moments later.

“You’re the only person I’d let do this” he muttered suddenly, his voice barely audible. It caught you off guard and you paused mid-stroke, the brush hovering in midair.

“What was that?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your voice.

He growled, his tail flicking again. “Don’t make me repeat myself” he said, but there was no real bite to his words. If anything they sounded… soft.

Your heart swelled a little at the admission. Raditz was many things—brash, arrogant, sometimes downright insufferable. But underneath all of that, he was loyal. You knew he trusted you in a way he trusted no one else, and moments like this proved it.

You resumed brushing, taking extra care now to be gentle. “I’ll take that as a compliment” you said with a small smile.

He huffed, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch upward just slightly. When you finally finished, his hair was smooth and shining, cascading down his back like a dark waterfall. You set the brush aside and leaned back to admire your work. “There, all done. You look… surprisingly good” you said, half-joking.

Raditz turned his head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He grunted, clearly unimpressed, but there was no mistaking the faint flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “I suppose it’s… acceptable” he said gruffly.

You laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’re welcome, you big softie.”

He snorted, but there was no malice in it. “You’re lucky I tolerate you” he said, standing up and ruffling his hair slightly, as if to reclaim some of his rugged image.

“Yeah, yeah” you replied, watching him head toward the door. Just before he left, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Thanks” he said quietly.

But instead of leaving, he hesitated, his hand resting on the doorframe. He turned back to you, his expression conflicted. You raised an eyebrow, curious.

“What is it?” you asked softly.

He walked back toward you, his steps deliberate. Before you could say another word, he reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek. His dark eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the right words.

“You mean more to me than I let on” he admitted, his voice low and sincere. “I’m not good at this… at saying things. But you should know.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt your heart race at his confession. “Raditz…” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned down slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you closed the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a gentle, tender kiss. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, holding you close as if afraid you’d disappear.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed. “You’re insufferable” he muttered, though there was no heat behind the words. Instead, his tail curled around your waist, holding you in place.

You laughed softly, your hands resting against his chest. “And you’re impossible” you replied, your voice filled with warmth.

For once, Raditz didn’t argue. Instead, he held you close, a rare and genuine smile gracing his lips. In that moment, the walls he kept so carefully constructed around himself seemed to crumble, leaving only the man who trusted you and maybe, just maybe, loved you.

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (24/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~4k

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11-20 | ch. 21 - i wouldn't marry me either | ch. 22 - burn all the files, desert all your past lives | ch. 23 - i've still got love for you | ch. 24 - and the girl in your bed has a fine pedigree

It's quite brief and not the focus of this chapter, but just a note that there's some brief discussion of disordered eating/skipped meals.

Read on AO3 or you can find the twenty-fourth chapter below the readmore.

Cassian found me while I was on another one of my aimless walks through Velaris. Though honestly, they weren't completely aimless anymore—the city was full of public art, and I'd taken to walking by as much of it as I could.

Statues were easier to face than paintings. The largest concert hall had several on its roof—lullabies given physical form in the stone, marble creatures from fae bedtime stories, and lithe bodies of hewn dancers. Several streets over, water sprayed from sculpted copper river nymphs at the center of a fountain where children swam during the summer. And in a quieter square, a black granite memorial honored the warriors Amarantha had killed in an attempt to break a then-captive Rhys during the War.

Murals covered so many buildings, even outside the Rainbow. The soaring, multi-story portraits were far beyond the scope of anything I ever imagined painting myself; they didn't remind me of the thorny emotions surrounding my own art. I could let myself just appreciate the colors and shapes.

The mountains and pine forests of the Night Court were all brutal, untamed beauty. But Velaris had been made beautiful by the artists who'd called it home for thousands of years. It was a waste not to appreciate it, even if I could only manage to paint half-hidden decorations in the townhouse myself.

I'd been crossing one of the footbridges that spanned the Sidra when the shadow of a massive wingspan fell over me. Stopping to lean against the railing, I watched as Cassian dropped smoothly into place at my side.

There was a slight gust of wind as he pulled his wings in tight. "Rhys said you have orders for me."

I stilled. There was a deferential note in Cassian's voice that I'd only ever heard when he was speaking with Rhys—not as brothers, but as High Lord and his general.

I was aware, of course, that courts had a hierarchy and that I existed somewhere in it. Amren ranked above Mor who ranked above Cassian and Azriel—that much had been explained to me early on. I'd never thought much about it beyond that.

But if Cassian was taking orders from me, then Rhys was making it clear that he would not interfere in matters involving my father and sisters. My choice—it was always my choice with him.

"He told you about Nesta?" I said.

An expression I couldn't read flashed across Cassian's face. His wings twitched. "Is that her name?"

"Cauldron, what the hell did he say about her?" Whatever had passed between Rhys and Nesta clearly hadn't been friendly, but…I hadn't thought it was bad enough that Cassian would look so stricken at the mere mention of my sister.

"Nothing, other than that he'd met her. It's your business to handle."

"Nesta can see through glamours."

Realization dawned on his face. "Ah, fuck."

I laughed, partly just because it was a relief to hear Cassian stop speaking to me like I was someone with authority. Being his brother's mate—and his friend—was much more comfortable, familiar territory.

"Would you be able to talk to her about the sentries and ease her mind? She knows they answer to you."

"Of course."

For someone known as the Lord of Bloodshed, Cassian was remarkably reassuring to be around. I'd experienced that firsthand when I'd found him perched on the roof of the townhouse on my first day in Velaris. And there was nothing I could imagine intimidating him.

Well, almost nothing.

"Thank you. Nesta is…." I stopped short as I tried to find the words, eventually settling on, "She's her own creature."

Cassian knocked a wing against my shoulder. "I'm sure. There's no way anyone could have grown up with you and not come out of it unscathed."

I scowled. He barked a laugh, then added, "You're headed to the House of Wind soon, right?"

"Yes."

The world turned on its head as Cassian hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. There was no chance to wiggle out of his arms before we shot into the sky. I went limp, afraid I'd end up plummeting to the ground if I moved the wrong way.

"What the hell was that for?" I grumbled, resigned to my fate for the next few minutes.

"React faster next time if you want me to hold you more comfortably."

Bastard. But he was right—I still had quite a lot of training to do before being grabbed and winnowed unexpectedly wasn't such a concern when I stepped outside Velaris's wards. The practice was good for me, even if he was being an ass about it.

"Fine. Don't drop me on my head when we get to the House of Wind, then."

"Tuck your chin and roll. If you crack your skull open on the floor, we'll do remedial drills once it heals."

Learning to fall safely had been one of the first things he taught me, so I contented myself with a glare at the back of Cassian's head. "You're worse than Az."

His long hair whipped in the wind, smacking my face as he tipped his head back and barked a laugh that echoed against the townhouses below. I gritted my teeth and wished he'd fly faster.

But before long, we did make it up there, and my training was good enough that I earned a pat on my thankfully uninjured head. Cassian left for some sort of business with a promise that he'd be in the mortal lands as soon as Nesta gave me a date and time.

Brushing my bangs back into place, I retrieved a book from where I'd left it in Mor's office the other day. Now that I could read, she'd given me an open invitation to see any diplomatic correspondence that mentioned me and give input on her responses. I'd forgotten to bring my book back home when we'd finished working through the latest round of letters.

There had been more talk of me than I would have thought. Helion himself—not an underling—had asked about what would be required to ensure a human was comfortable during our eventual visit. There had been blandly polite inquiries about my health from the Autumn Court, though according to Mor, those were Beron's or Eris's attempts at fishing for information about me because I'd been the one to whip Lucien Under the Mountain. Even amid a discussion about fish imports, Cresseida, a Summer Court princess, had written that she was relieved to hear Rhysand was treating me well, though she'd left it unclear whether she meant as an emissary or as a…lover.

"They don't know that I'm immortal, so I don't see why any of them care," I'd told Mor, speaking freely behind the privacy wards that she'd casted to protect her workspace. "As far as they're concerned, I'll be dead in the blink of an eye."

"Why wouldn't they care about the fate of Feyre Cursebreaker, Savior of Prythian, a true living legend?" she'd said, brown eyes twinkling.

I knew Mor didn't mean it like that, but I still squirmed in my seat. It sounded too much like the faeries who occasionally stopped me when I was out in the city and thanked me for going Under the Mountain. They spoke about me as if I'd been a selfless hero, but in truth, I'd only been thinking of Rhys. Everyone else just…happened to also benefit.

"Because I'm not that interesting." And because I mostly just wanted to be left alone.

Mor shrugged. "Immortality gets dull after a century or two."

I wondered if I'd ever be able to speak about being alive for so long with the same nonchalance. It was easy to forget just how old my new family was. They were all ancient, even if none of them looked a day over thirty.

"It must if I'm what passes for interesting around here."

Rolling her eyes, Mor swept her golden hair off her shoulders, twisted it deftly around a finger, then secured it to the back of her head with a spare pen. "It won't kill you to be a little less modest. You're allowed to be proud of yourself."

I wasn't sure exactly when I'd forgotten that, but I had. And I was grateful for the reminder.

Today, however, Mor's office was empty. She was back at the Court of Nightmares, but I wanted company, so once I'd grabbed the book off of her rosewood desk, I made my way to the library downstairs.

Several heads whipped in my direction when I entered, gems on their foreheads glittering. I froze. Evelyn, the priestess who'd taught me to read, waved me over to the table where she was sitting with several others.

I'd studied with them before. Roslin, who sat next to her, was a historian, and she'd been kind enough to make me a list of books about Night Court history that were appropriate for someone who knew nothing about the subject. Many of them were children's books. But still, Roslin, Evelyn, and the others didn't mind answering my occasional questions about what I read, and ever since I'd helped with the aftermath of the attack on Cesere, I'd always been welcomed to work alongside them.

No one had ever been crass enough to voice the silent, shared understanding aloud—that I might not have sworn an oath to the Mother and donned a hood, but I was still like them. Another female who'd been through an ordeal and found solace afterward in quiet study here.

But today…when I didn't move, Evelyn merely waved her webbed hand more frantically. Confused, I slid into the seat between her and Roslin.

"We have news for you," Roslin said. Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

"You do?" I said.

"Ianthe returned to the Spring Court."

I blinked. "Who is that?"

"The worst," another priestess at the table, Deirdre, said without looking up from the yellowed pages of the hefty tome she was reading. Roslin brought a hand to her mouth to hide a giggle.

Evelyn rolled her coal-black eyes. "The youngest High Priestess in three centuries. Her father sent her family to Vallahan—that's on the Continent—when Amarantha took over. Apparently, now she's back."

I was only vaguely aware of what the High Priestesses did. There were twelve of them, apparently, and Rhys had conferred with some of them regarding temple security after the attacks. They were as powerful and well-connected as nobility, but I didn't understand the intricacies of it.

Maybe I should have asked Mor for more detail when she'd explained all this to me a while back. "Is that a bad thing?" I said.

The look Roslin gave me was….sympathetic. "Clotho mentioned the news came in a letter with other updates this morning. We thought you should hear it first, considering your history with Spring."

It seemed as if she'd done me the courtesy of making sure I wasn't blindsided by something important and possibly upsetting. I just wasn't sure what. But still, I appreciated the gesture, even if I didn't quite understand.

"Thank you," I said, though the words came out as a question.

Deirdre flipped to the next page of her book. "Ianthe is unofficially banned from the Night Court because she tried baby-trapping the High Lord."

My immediate, instinctual rage was so strong that my vision went white for a moment. If anyone said something, I didn't hear it over the roaring in my head. My breathing nearly went ragged.

If any other female even considered bearing my mate's offspring, I'd feed her her own intestines.

A gentle hand on my arm snapped me out of it. I took a breath, hoping my reaction wasn't too insane. And before Rhys could hear anything, I clamped down harder on my mental shields. We'd never discussed the possibility of children, but this certainly wasn't how I wanted to broach the subject.

But perhaps I didn't have as much self-control as I would have liked, because the words that slipped out of my mouth were, "She can live if it means she's making Tamlin miserable."

Roslin laughed. "No wonder Rhysand loves you so much."

The tight feeling in my chest loosened. She'd said the only thing that could have made me feel better when the feral instincts of the mating bond were riding me hard—a casual observation that Rhys loved me. Not that he cared about me as merely as an interesting human playing or a useful emissary doing his bidding.

Knowing that an outsider had noticed was…comforting.

But still, I was curious. The Spring Court had been quiet since our return—no signs of interest in either a misguided attempt at saving me from the wicked Night Court or killing me in revenge for a perceived betrayal. Azriel's spies had reported that Tamlin still kept the boarders with Summer and Autumn sealed shut. We knew very little.

"Do you think Ianthe wants to be Lady of Spring?" I asked.

Deirdre's face darkened, and the scars criss-crossing her cheeks, a reminder of whatever she'd survived before coming to the library, seemed to deepen. "Despite our vows to serve the Mother, some of the sisters are more interested in serving their own ends."

Rhys had said I was the only one he'd ever sent after the ring tucked under my tunic, but there must have been plenty of others who'd wanted it, as dangerous as being Lady of Night could be. It worried me that one of them had now set her sights on my kidnapper.

Maybe it was for the best that Night had no diplomatic relations with Spring—I wouldn't have face Ianthe at some dull courtly function.

And perhaps it was all the talk of sisters, but I couldn't help but think that Nesta would know precisely how to politely eviscerate her if that ever changed.

I'd gone quiet, and the conversation had petered out. We returned to our books, and I flipped to the page I'd marked because there had been a word I didn't recognize and needed to ask about.

"By the way," I said, "What does def— defenes—"

Unable to pronounce it, I gave up and pointed to the word as Evelyn peered over my shoulder. "Defenestrate. It means to throw someone out a window," she said.

"Does that really happen enough that there's a word for it?"

"It was a favored method of execution in the Court of Nightmares a few millennia ago," Roslin said. Her smile turned into something a bit ghoulish as she rested her chin on a fist. "Isn't history just fascinating?"

I laughed, not sure I agreed, but enjoying myself all the same. This was certainly better than Tamlin's war-camp limericks fashioned out of the list of words I didn't know.

It was a good way to pass an afternoon. And it hadn't been a waste, exactly, but by the time when priestesses left for their evening prayers and Rhys had slipped into my mind to let me know he might be late for dinner, I had to admit to myself that I was procrastinating. I still needed to send that letter to Nesta.

It wasn't the wording that I hesitated on. Nesta would feel more comfortable if she knew what Cassian looked like ahead of time—to be sure that the meeting wasn't more faerie trickery. So I intended to enclose a sketch.

I'd set myself up on the roof of the townhouse, paper and pencil in hand, and wrote the letter. That much had been easy enough. But when it came time to draw…I froze.

After the painting I'd done all over the townhouse, I'd thought I could manage it. But this was different. Those designs had been impersonal—flowers, birds, flames, that sort of thing. A portrait, however, was a statement by the artist about the subject.

I couldn't hide. But I also needed to get this done, and all I could do was sit and stare at the empty paper. I'd faced actual danger much more fearlessly, but somehow….a blank page left me paralyzed.

That was how Rhys found me when he landed some time later. Before he could say hello or ask how my day had been, I said, "Could you help me with something?"

He went preternaturally still. Better than anyone, Rhys knew how difficult I found it to ask for things, especially help. I might as well have just declared a crisis.

"Whatever you need," he said, violet eyes roving over me as if he were looking for injuries.

"I'm sending a sketch of Cassian to Nesta so she knows who to look for when he meets with her. Since you're a daemati, could you help me…er…hold a picture of him in my mind while I draw? It'll be more accurate that way."

I actually didn't need that—I knew perfectly well what Cassian looked like. But I couldn't do this alone, and it felt a little pathetic to admit that I wanted the comfort of Rhys's mind curling around mine.

He understood anyway. With a wave of his hand, the chair I was sitting in became a bench wide enough for us both. He sat, draping his wings over the back, and pulled me against his side.

He hadn't even touched my mind, but I'd already relaxed just from having him near. Getting closer to Rhys always felt like straightening out something that had just been askew.

Mate.

A talon rapped politely against my shields, and I let him in. The picture formed, sharper than I would have been able to manage with just my own mind's eye—Cassian, with his rough-hewn features, shoulder-length hair, and easy smile. Not so obtrusive that I couldn't concentrate on anything else, but clear and easily reachable. A perfect, helpful reference.

Rhys's mind encircled mine just as surely as his arms did. For anyone else, that might have been terrifying, but I was held—not fenced in. Cradled. Rhys was there with me, every step of the way. Even the darkness settled around my shoulders.

I managed it. The sketch was hardly my best work, but it didn't have to be. It was accurate enough, and I folded the paper and let it disappear before I had too much of a chance to nitpick my own creation. Rhys, who must have known I didn't want an audience, kept his face buried in my hair and scented me instead of peeking over my shoulder.

Once the letter was gone, I swung my legs to the side, crossing my thighs over his and letting my head fall against his chest as his hand rubbed soothing circles on my back. I could hear his heartbeat through the fine embroidered fabric of his jacket, slow and steady. We sat like that for a while, until the first few stars appeared in the sky.

"You haven't eaten anything, have you?" Rhys said eventually.

Right. Dinner. I'd told myself I'd eat once I'd sent the letter, then gotten so caught up in not being able to sketch that I'd forgotten about food entirely. But now that I thought about it…I was starving.

"No, but I need to," I said, standing up.

Rhys was looking at me curiously, with an expression I couldn't quite name. He'd once told me he could feel my hunger pangs through the bond, but I wasn't quite sure if that was what this was about.

"You could have told me sooner that this was a bad day," he said gently.

"It wasn't. Not until I tried to draw. And then…" It had felt like everything came crashing down.

"Come," he said, taking my hand. "Let's not let an empty stomach make it worse."

Cerridwen had long since left for the day, and the meal she'd left us had gone cold. Rhys set about heating it up again, shooing me away from the oven when I tried to help.

Instead, he reached into a pocket dimension and pulled out a wine bottle. "You can open this and pour if you really feel the need to make yourself useful."

"There's a cellar downstairs," I said, hopping down from my perch on the countertop to take the bottle.

There was wine down there, and whatever magic protected the townhouse had kept the bottles pristine—not a single speck of dust had touched them during his fifty years away. Because I'd refused to snoop, I hadn't known they were even there until Mor had insisted on opening one that first dinner after we'd returned.

Rhys flashed me a wicked smile. "The good wine is downstairs, where Cassian can steal it and think he's put one over on me. But I don't tell him about the best bottles, and they stay where he can't get to them."

I couldn't help but feel a warm rush of affection. Even in something as small as this, Rhys couldn't help but be a sneaky, conniving bastard—who also trusted that I'd keep his secrets.

We sat down, and it was hardly the first time we'd eaten a meal together. I was still acutely aware this was the sort of evening I'd dreamed about Under the Mountain—idle chitchat about how our days had been, enough food, weather mild enough to leave the windows open and let the salt-tinged night breeze inside. Everything we'd fought for, really.

We'd just been finishing up when Nesta's response arrived, the note appearing out of thin air next to my plate. Rhys hovered in the doorway, far enough to make it obvious he wasn't trying to read it, but concern for me evident on his face.

Nesta had given me a date and time, then written, Send an accurate portrait, not cover art from a cheap romance novel. No one actually looks like that.

I hadn't embellished anything. The sketch might not have been my best work, but it was true to life. And if it had truly been bad, Nesta would have said something far more scathing.

With a small smile, I picked up the pen that had appeared and wrote, I haven't been able to read long enough to take inspiration from novels. You can trust it's a good likeness.

I thought that would be the end of it. But the dishes were in the sink, and I was halfway up the stairs and intent on drawing a bath when the paper appeared again.

Was Rhysand angry? An illiterate wife would have difficulties running his household.

I was tempted to scoff or roll my eyes, but those words had a certain weight to them when they came from the woman who'd nearly married Tomas Mandray. Instead, I considered what to say while I brought the note to my room.

There's not much of a household to run. The palace is for business only. Rhys and I are the only ones in the townhouse where we reside. He wasn't angry, though. Just concerned and horrified on my behalf.

Her last note of the evening arrived as I stepped into my bedroom. Your husband is quite strange, but send him my regards. Please ensure General Cassian arrives on time for our meeting. Goodnight.

No pen accompanied the note; Nesta clearly intended the conversation to end there. I tried to let it go, though I wished I'd asked about Elain and my father while I'd still had the chance. But still, it was one of the most civil conversations I'd had with Nesta in recent memory.

Perhaps it was easier to be kind when we weren't looking each other in the face.

Though we could now sometimes manage without it, out of an abundance of caution, Rhys and I took the sleeping draught that night. We'd taken to knocking it back together, then kissing goodnight.

We weren't quite fine yet, but we were getting closer.

[negrowhat]

Character breakdown: Wei Wuxian 🙏🏽

Oh fun!!!!!!!!

Wei Wuxian from The Untamed

How I feel about this character

I am a card-carrying member of the Wei Wuxian Protection Squad. He's such a selfless hero that it becomes a major character flaw. He would literally give his everything if it meant to save someone he believes is worth saving. But I'm sure he's aware of how sacrificial he is and he is just ok with it. I love that he is so intelligent and cunning. He's knowledgeable without it being his whole personality. He's kind, funny, and charming but such a magnet for bad shit. I think he's a spectacular character who has so much to offer but also thinks so little of himself at times. I would love to be one of the people in his corner fighting with him and for him because he was really treated like crap by damn near everyone around him.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Wangji of course because that's his husband. I love that Wangji makes it his mission to protect and take care of Wuxian because Wuxian takes care of and protects everyone else. I love that Wangji took that time apart from Wuxian to grow and learn from his mistakes. He would do anything to take care of Wuxian.

But also maybe MianMian. I think he would've been cute af with MianMian and she was one of the few people who actually believed in his innocence the entire series. She was kind and smart and pretty and brave. She stood on business.

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Wen Ning and Wen Qing, please he fits so well with them and they definitely took care of Wuxian like a sibling. They were loyal to each other til the end. Nie Huaisang, specifically when they were teenagers, they both seemed to crave mischief and I love watching them bond over how boring their training was. Huaisang was always down for some shenanigans with his bestie Wuxian. Also he did resurrect Wuxian.

My unpopular opinion about this character

I think he should've let all those assholes die up on his mountain. They literally went up that mountain to kill him over some "he-said-she-said" bullshit. He had every single right to be as petty as he wanted to be. He should've escorted those kids, Wen Ning, and Wangji right down that hill and left the rest of those ungrateful jerks up there with the killer zombie puppets. I wish that Wuxian had learned to be a bit more selfish, his heroics were inspiring but also so damn infuriating. He had his husband STRESSED out.

Also idk if it is unpopular on not but Wuxian in his full blown Yiling Laozu era was my favorite Wuxian. That dark energy turned him into such a cutthroat savage. He was absolutely unhinged and badass and I LOVED it.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

I know they had to cut out a bunch of crap in the series but I wish they had managed to fit in the part in the novel when Wuxian was present at whatever that luncheon Uncle Lan Qiren put on. The little extra excerpt when they was only serving like bitter medicinal type soup and Wangji ate it all for him and then they went back to the jingshi where I think Wangji cooked him a meal. Also NO ONE WHO DIDN'T READ THE NOVEL DOESN'T KNOW THAT WANGJI IS A GOOD COOK!

GIVE ME A CHARACTER and I’ll break their ass down

[theoryofthemultiverse]

Fluff

Blooming flowers

Pairing: Douma x (!pregnant) reader

Synopsis:

You and Douma have been married and living together in his Eternal Paradise Cult for years now, building a happy life together. A perfect life, only one thing seemed to be missing, children! So after giving your lover 2 baby girls already, you’re now expecting your third addition to the family.

A/N: Got immediately inspired by a request, and it was so cute, I simply had to write something about it, so enjoy!

Also, (Y/D/N) = Your daughter’s name, you can just choose which name you want to insert in the story, most of the time I left it up to you all which daughter's name to put in.

🪷

“Mom, Dad!” (Y/D/N) barged in through the door, followed by her younger sister. It was now in the middle of the summer, the sun being there for the majority of the day only added to the little girls being as energized as they could be.

Douma given that he was a demon, didn’t need sleep, what his little girls apparently inherited from him. So he instantly rose from the bed, hearing them and their tiny feet hitting the floors tiles as they came running towards him. He instantly scooped them up into his arms as you slowly rise from the pillows. You were now 2 and a half months in your pregnancy, and it was at these times especially that you could thank god for your energized lover that had the ability to keep up with your little girls while your belly grew and made things more difficult for you.

You watched in awe as the two children sat in his lap together, and he played with them, tickling (Y/D/N) in the process. Seeing them like that, you must admit you could watch them the whole day, but it doesn’t take long until (Y/D/N) climbs over her dads legs towards you and puts her hands on your belly gently.

„Mom Good morning! How are you doing?“ her sister joins in, still being held by Douma:“And how is our little sibling doing?“ (Y/D/N) adds excitedly:“Do you think we’re going to get a brother or another sister?“, “Well either way we will love them, … and put them into cute clothes!”

Douma now picks them both up again and stands up from the bed:“You little demons, would you mind giving your mom a break? Carrying a child is quite hard work, let’s make her day a bit easier, hm? Do you two want to help me make breakfast?“ Both cheer in union, and he puts them back on the floor. (Y/D/N) sprints out of the bedroom:“The last one to arrive in the kitchen is a slow turtle.“ Her sister runs after her: “That is not fair, you had a head start!”

Both girls run out into the hallway now and Douma turns around to you to give you another kiss to your lips before sprinting after them and of course arriving in the kitchen first. Your girls are both human, they got that from you and while Douma could turn you all in the blink of a moment, you both thought it was better for now to just leave it as is. You wanted your children to be able to see and play in the sun. Also, it would have been way harder for you to keep them out of the sun, compared to simply telling them that their father had a skin disease. So it would hurt him a lot when he is going out while daytime.

Douma agreed on the fact that you two could maybe tell your girls when they were older, but for now, he also simply enjoyed watching them play in the garden running after his maids and to you. All while he was sitting in the safety of his dark room watching through the open window in the shade of the house.

Yet that of course doesn’t mean they didn’t get anything from their dad’s genes, quite the contrary. Your eldest daughter had his eyes, a beautiful rainbow that you admired again every time you looked at her. Your younger daughter on the other hand had his untamable hair. Blonde strands of it going into every direction one could think of, making it a challenge to put into place. Luckily, your husband had quite a few tricks up his sleeve so he managed very well, and soon taught all the maids how to do your daughter's hair.

Smiling at the thought, you decide to get up now and follow your loves into the kitchen. Normally the maids gladly prepared breakfast which only was you and the kids eating since your husband didn't need anything himself besides a glass of blood occasionally, telling the girls (should they manage to get a glimpse of it) that it was strawberry juice. Yet, Douma enjoyed preparing the food with his two little ones, especially if they all made it for you.

A beautiful scent filled the air, and you stepped into the kitchen to see the three of them cooking your favorite dish. You make an exaggerated gesture of smelling the air as you come into the room and say:"Mhhh, you guys made my favorite?"

(Y/D/N) turns around to look at you and sits you down on the table:"We did, Dad still helped us a lot but today me and (Y/D/N) already did so much by ourselves!"

You smile in pride as you see how much your two girls grow up and as Douma comes to the table with the food and (Y/D/N), you take them both in your arms and cuddle them close to you. "My girls, I am so proud of you." They giggle and cuddle you back while Douma watches the three, or more like four of you, smiling to himself, thinking that he is so lucky to have you all. Before everyone sits down at the table and enjoys breakfast.

After you are all done, Douma orders the maids in to take care of the dishes while you go to take the children outside to play a bit. Having Douma follow soon after, sitting down in his room to watch you play with the children. There is a small pond in the garden where you splash both of your daughters with the water playfully. A part of you is sad that Douma cannot come out as well to play with you and your daughters. But on the other hand, it doesn't take you long to get tired from the playing as well. So you return to your beloved sitting in the room awaiting you with open arms as you make your way back to him. Putting your shoes on the balcony, you step towards the cushions he sits on and immediately sink into his embrace.

"I really wished you could come outside and play too." Douma smiles at you like he always does, as you close your eyes and enjoy his presence. "Don't worry about me darling, I am fine with watching you all when the weather is nice, after all, I still have rainy days with them too, don't I?"

You smile at his positivity, somehow that is always enough to make you feel better in any situation. Yes, sometimes he can be a bit bad with dealing with negative emotions in the process, but that was something you were willing to accept.

He didn't wait for your response and curiously asked:"Do you think we're getting another girl, or a boy to love?" You chuckle:"You know, I have no idea about that." "But what about womanly intuition?" You smile and think playfully now. "I heard that if it is a boy, then your partner is around you all the time 24 hours a day." Douma pouts:"What is that supposed to mean, I also was around you 24 hours a day with the girls!" he looks shocked, and you laugh, brushing over his hair. "I am just kidding, you are and were, so that doesn't have anything to do with the gender … but I am not sure, I feel like this time it is a boy." His eyes light up. "Oh, that would be so amazing! Don't get me wrong. I love our girls, but when they get older, you 3 are for sure going to have your girl topics and leave me out. And then what am I supposed to do? I want someone to have boy topics with then." You can't help but laugh at his cuteness, and you can understand him to some point. You were quite glad you already had your two girls.

"Did you think about any names yet?" he looks at you curiously, awaiting your ideas. Nodding your head, you reply:"What do you think about (Y/S/N)?"

Douma puts his hand to his chin to hold it in thought:"Yes, I like that name a lot too. If we really get a boy, then we can gladly take it!" You think about asking him 'what about a girl name?' but you smile over it and decide to leave him in the dream of it becoming a boy for today.

Just as you feel safe in his arms and are ready to fall asleep at any moment, you can hear two pair of feet running at you two. You blink open an eye to look what your little ones came up with, you see them in front of you. Smiling and hiding their hands behind their backs.

Douma looks at them with his usual smile:"Are you two hiding something?" (Y/D/N) looks at her sister and says:"Well since you cannot come out together with us and Mom is getting tired, we thought we would simply bring you something from outside!

They both reveal what's in their hands, and you are met with 5 flower crowns. Douma's eyes light up:"Oh girls, they are amazing, is one for me?" They chuckle:"Of course, Dad!" He bends his head down so (Y/D/N) can put the crown on him. They then continue to hand the crowns out:"One is for you. One is for mom. Two are for us, and the last one..." They put the crown on your belly. "Is for our baby sibling!"

You and Douma are sincerely so touched at this sweet, considerate gesture, and open your arms for the girls to cuddle in as you add:"You two will be two amazing older sisters soon." They cheer and thank you both as one cuddles towards you and the other falls asleep on Douma's lap, as he brushes through her hair. Sitting here like this, you simply feel perfect and happy you have your sweet family around you.

No matter what happens, you wouldn't trade them for the world.

[slicznymartwy]

and all at once i knew

part i (request)

read it all on ao3

billy lenz x gn!reader - billy watches you kill. he could have hurt you but he doesn't because he loves you. warning: includes minor character death(s), brief suicide/self harm mention, obsessive behavior

Billy’s a stray. He’s a kicked dog. He’s going to bite and hump anything that moves. He’s been abandoned at the park, or maybe he just ran away and forgot how to get home. But you own him now. He caught your scent, and he loves you. He’s your good doggy and he’s so terrible he should be put down for what he’s done. 

He’s so loyal to you. You’re so nice to him. You rub his scalp and give him food and water. You don’t beat him. You only make him feel so so so good. He loves you so much. He could bite you. He has, but you forgive him. He loves you. He doesn’t mean it when he draws blood. He’s so lonely and cold, and you let him sleep at the foot of your bed.

You plan in the dark. Sometimes, you face each other; other times, you hold him from behind, arms wrapped around his waist. You hold hands and let your legs touch under the covers. You fix his hair when it gets messy, and he brushes an eyelash off your cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

“We’ll do it one by one, while they’re asleep,” you tell him one night, tracing the line of his nose. His eyes are closed, relishing in your touch. 

“Tie them up so they can’t fight. Stupid sluts,” he whispers a week later. He entwines your fingers together, staring at them. You think he likes seeing how close he can get to you. He watches how your body wraps around his with reverence and worship.

“We could set the house on fire. They’ll never know it was us,” you giggle, laying on top of him. His hands are on your hips, and his touch is so warm that it makes you want to take your sweater off. 

“I’ll cut off their heads if they talk to you again. I’ll saw them off and kick them like footballs,” he says darkly, drying your tears with his palm. He’s so angry you think he might kill them right then. 

When Susan left, no one thought to ask you where she went. They knew how she treated you. They all watched her mock you, and they laughed along like it didn’t make them complicit. They cried and wrung their hands while the police questioned them, and you tell Billy about it at night.

“Tonight,” he hisses, holding you down on the bed. He pins your wrists down against the mattress and he sits on top of you. Sometimes, you realize what he is. Rabid, feral, untamed. He can be mollified with fresh food and pets along his back, but he’s wild, even when he manages to speak clearly. “I’m going to kill them tonight. They’re all going to die.”

“Wait, please. One more day,” you say, trying not to look afraid. “Just hold me. Please.”

He does, but you wonder if you let him go too far. You gave him too much lead, and now you won’t get him to heel again.

Like Billy entering your bedroom in the dead of night, some changes happen so quietly you don’t realize what’s happened until it’s too late. You wake up one ordinary day, and your sisters are nice.

Maybe you’re just easier to be around, with how happy Billy makes you. Maybe they felt guilty and wanted to make amends. Maybe Susan had your sisters under an evil spell that made them act like complete cunts to you and, by killing her, you freed your housemates from her mind control. 

They laugh with you, they invite you to eat lunch with them. They still get teary eyed when they think about your missing sister, but they don’t say anything when you don’t cry. They know, and they’re sorry, and it feels good to hold that over them. 

“Billy,” you murmur at night. He moans low and quiet at the back of his throat, and the sound vibrates against your chest. You brush you hand through his hair gently. “I don’t think we should hurt them anymore.”

Billy doesn’t respond. He’s so still, you wonder if he’s asleep. 

“They’re not so mean anymore. It’s better now,” you explain. “I think they’re sorry.”

Still, Billy doesn’t respond. You pick your head up to look at him, but he’s already staring at you. His eyes are hauntingly empty of emotion. You try to smile, as placating as you can. 

“I’m sorry, Billy,” you whisper.

He turns his face towards your chest, pressing his nose against your bare sternum. He groans, but it sounds like a growl. 

“So stupid,” he mutters, sounding far away. “Stupid Bambi. Stupid slut.”

“That’s not nice,” you whisper quietly. You can feel his lips against the swell of your breast, and he kisses you like a lover. 

“Stupid. Can’t see what Billy sees. Stupid disgusting lying whores,” he says against your chest.

“I’m not stupid,” you defend yourself meekly. “Stop being mean.”

“Billy can help. Billy will help his Bambi,” he promises.

“I don’t want your help anymore, Billy,” you say, pushing at him. He doesn’t budge.

“Need Billy. Bambi needs Billy,” he mutters. You wonder if he’s even listening to you, if he’s ever listened at all.

“No, I don’t,” you say, trying instead to stand up. Billy effortlessly keeps you down. “Stop it.”

“Stop it,” he says, matching your tone. “Stop it, Billy.”

You sob out of frustration, trying to squirm out of his hold. He doesn’t let you go.

“I hate you,” you say, looking into his dark eyes. “I wish I didn’t know you.”

Billy freezes at your words. The room falls quiet. He stares at you like you’re food. 

“Something’s wrong with you,” you say, voice shaking. 

“I love you,” he finally manages to whisper.

“Leave me alone. I don’t need you,” you say, turning your face from him. You can still feel his eyes on you, they burn through you like the sun through a magnifying glass.

When you don’t say anything else, Billy stands. He stares at you from the side of the bed, and you pull your sheets up to hide your bare chest. It feels strange, hiding from someone that you’ve already shown everything. 

Billy leaves without shutting your door.

The next night, you lock it. You can hear him on the other side, twisting the knob. He rattles the door, wanting it open. Your pillow is so wet you have to turn it over to go to sleep. Your bed is so cold without him.

In the morning, the house is quiet. No one’s in the kitchen. There’s no line for the bathroom. No sounds are coming from any bedroom. There’s nobody in the house. You find some eventually, a pile of five girls in the bathtub. The tile is wet with their dark blood, so are their pajamas. You scream when you see them. Clare is on top, staring at you accusingly.

Sobbing, you fall onto your ass and kick your legs to get away. You feel like a kid again, throwing a tantrum when faced with consequences. You did this, you tell yourself, you asked for this. 

When he appears by your side, you hug him without a second thought. He cradles you in his arms on the bathroom floor and he lets you weep.

“I love you,” he whispers against the crown of your head. “I love you. I love you.”

You sob. You keep your eyes screwed shut. You can’t look at them, laying like logs for a fire. You fist your hand in Billy’s sweater, remembering what it was like to hold the knife for Susan. 

“Billy won’t leave Bambi,” he promises. It feels like a death sentence and a wedding. You’re the only two living souls in the house, and maybe the entire world. You love him because of it, but you wish you didn't.

“I need to clean before it stains,” you say, sniffling as you pull away from his chest. There’s so much blood. You wonder if there’s more in their beds, but you don’t want to know. Maybe it’ll be easier to burn it all to the ground with you and him still inside.

You find the bucket and gloves under the sink and turn on the faucet. Through the mirror, you see Billy rise and walk towards the tub. The water burns your hand and fogs the glass until you can’t see him anymore.

© slicznymartwy 2023, please do not repost or copy.

a/n: reblogs and replies are really appreciated

[penguinmerchant]

Fanbinding of "Live from New York"

Live From New York by Varnes

Another mostly successful binding! This one is a binding of the most hilarious thing I've ever read, "Live From New York" by Varnes on AO3. Now, I'm gonna put a disclaimer here--I'm not really into MDZS. I've tried watching the Untamed, I've watched the anime, I've tried reading the books, and I've never really clicked with any of it. Basically I know enough about the characters to not be totally confused when I read fanfic and that's it. Which I am super glad about because I am not lying when I say this is the funniest thing I've ever read in my goddamn life.

Process info and more pics under the cut.

So this guy is 87,000 words, give or take a few, which is what I have discovered is the absolute maximum that my guillotine can cut. Good to know if I ever want to do something longer, because it will have to be broken up. And because of some sort of miracle (or maybe it was this thing from Amazon) I managed to cut this thing totally straight. Which if you've read my other posts is a huge first for me. I think the problem was that the text block was just moving around too much when the blade was pressed down, but that little magnetic bastard is tough and it kept everything exactly where it was supposed to be.

The endpapers, a bunny and moon motif that is PERFECT for this book. See, I know enough about Lan Wanji to know that he has bunnies! Anyway, these were silk screened chiyogami paper from etsy and they're beautiful. They're thicker than normal paper and almost like a very thin fabric, but they took to glue super well and I'm so so happy with how they went down (and how cute they are!)

My chapter headings:

And page breaks:

This thing took forever to typeset, but I think it was worth it. And the title page, which also took forever because my printer never wanted to line up correctly:

Anyway, except for a stray piece of HTV making it to the front cover, the exceptionally skinny text on the back cover that went kind of wonky and making the boards just a hair too short this thing came out really well. Also, I don't want to declare that I have solved all of my HTV problems but I'm pretty sure I have solved all of my HTV problems. I got this little sucker after watching someone effortlessly stick down their HTV with it and it worked like a freaking charm. I don't know if it's because it's tiny so you can put more pressure down on it or because it's crazy hot or what (it did scorch the HTV just a little) but everything stuck down great on the first try and I even peeled everything up while it was still hot. I love it. I 100% recommend it for anyone who is having trouble with getting their HTV to stick.

Anyway, I do have plans to make another colorway of this book. I've got a bright pink bookcloth and some turquoise and purple HTV that are just begging to be put to use, and once I can find some suitably good endpapers I'm gonna start on that one. Let me know what you guys think and if you want any more info, please ask!

Also go read the fic because it's hilarious okay bye!

[silkmoon777]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 2

"Every hiss and yell is echoed by the cries of Tuk. She calls to her sister in heart-breaking anguish, who begs her to remain calm. Nobody is calm."

Synopsis: An experiment to improve the Avatars as a child who managed to escape lab confinements and seek refuge among the Ometikayan clan, you are a nobody. You have no family name, no natural ties to the land of Pandora, yet the Sully's took you in. Life could not be the same without them, so when they are forced to leave to protect the clan, fate settles in, and you find yourself journeying alongside them in search of the foreign lands and ways of the Metkayina Clan. Threats of the sky people grow closer every day. Not only is everything you know tested by their advances but by the relationship you have with Jake Sully's oldest son. ...Neteyam.

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, mild violence, crude language

Word count: 4,757

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

In fleeting moments, amidst the chaos that has been a year dictated by intergalactic war, I find peace among nature. Pandora’s landscapes never cease to amaze me despite never knowing anything else. Today is one of those fleeting moments. Jake, Neytiri and Neteyam have left on a routine scouting mission, leaving Me, Kiri, Lo’ak Spider and Tuk to entertain ourselves. Not much is expected at High Camp today, so instead of the usual supply gathering and children watching, we take off into the floating islands.

The five of us scale a network of interlocking roots connecting the islands. Whispy clouds snake over the green landscape below, ascending between the suspended masses of rock. Shadows from the larger islands above cast abstract shadows over the forest. In the distance, swarms of birds and untamed Ikrans alike weave through trees and dangling roots, carefree in their nature.

Spider leaps over a lap in the root path, careful not to slip on the lush plant life. Being human, he is incapable of the many athletic feats we Na’vi can achieve, but Spider is an enigma for his species. Growing up alongside us has taught him better agility and reflexes than humanity could teach him. Their dependence on machinery had doomed them. Spider was not like them. As he makes the jump, he cuts off Lo’ak, who laughs, impressed.

“Go, monkey boy, go!” Kiri calls.

“Guy’s wait up!” Tuktirey whines.

I’m unsure of where we are heading. It is not unusual for us to explore the forests of Pandora, but usually, we are exploring together. This time, Lo’ak has enticed us with a vague proposition. You have to see this, at least once. Just once. I was both intrigued and off-put by his persuasions, but upon the other’s interest, I decided to join anyway. Knowing Lo’ak, someone had to be there to ease the blame if he did something stupid, and being the oldest out of us five, who better than me?

After finding our way to the ground, Lo’ak leads us through a dizzying maze of trees and plants. Following his lead, we cross a fallen tree across a small river cutting through the rich soil, only wide enough to allow single file. Fluffy mosses carpet the bark, indicating it had fallen a long time ago. Tuk comes to a stop in front of me. She pants as she crouches down beside a large plant in the height of its bloom. Blue tendrils sprout unfurling pink petals. With a giggle, she runs her small fingers through the tendrils, which come to life and adhere to her skin. I give her a light tickle on her back and whisper for her to continue, though it’s not before Lo’ak notices the distraction.

“Tuk! Keep up!” her big brother urges, throwing his arms wide in exasperation.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay.”

“Bro, why’d you bring her anyway?” Spider questions.

Lo’ak, with a shrug of his shoulders, comes to a stop. “She’s such a crybaby. She’s all, ‘I’m telling. You’re not supposed to go to the battlefield, I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me come.’” 

“The battlefield?” I repeat in disbelief. “Lo’ak.”

Lo’ak gives me a deadpan stare as if to seem unbothered, but the way his ears twitch downwards gives him away to his guilt. “Yeah, so?”

“So? Your dad would skin us, and I don’t feel like testing him now of all times.” I sigh.

“Oh, come on, what happened to the unbothered you?” Lo’ak counters. “Neteyam is rubbing off on you too much.”

I purse my lips. The jab is lighthearted, but sometimes I wonder the same. In my youth, I was reckless. In fact, sometimes Lo’ak is so alike me, I wonder if I’m looking at a walking catalogue of my past mistakes. On the day that the sky people returned, my mindset sobered. I had become so comfortable in my life without them, too comfortable that, upon their return, an anxiety I did not know I had buried deep down resurged. I’ve spent every day since living on edge. My influence is not great in our clan, but if even the smallest thing I can do helps towards defeating them, Eywa knew I would do it tenfold. 

But she also knew that I missed being carefree.

At my silence, Lo’ak’s tone loses the hard, defensive edge. “You’re not going to turn around, are you?”

“And miss out on seeing the battlefield when I’m this close?”

A smile that is not short of relieved pricks at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I like to hear.”

It only takes two more minutes of weaving through the jungle before Lo’ak comes to a halt, turning to face us with a proud grin. With a flourish of his arms, he points to the canopy above. Spider whistles in morbid amazement.

Suspended by the embrace of gnarled vines is an old hovercraft. The glass of the front windshield is caved in, the remaining jagged edges coated in grime and fallen leaves. Old designs are overshadowed by the flora that attempts to reclaim the hunk of metal. Rays of pale sunlight shine between the four turbine rotors on either side. From the base of the tree that the vines hang from are great, protruding roots. The arched formation allows us to reach the vines and climb. Lo’ak takes the lead and scales a rather thick one and hangs from the rail. As he does so, Kiri dismisses herself, more interested in the plant life than the ghosts of Pandora’s past.

“Are there any dead bodies up there?” Tuk asks.

Lo’ak peers into the craft, leaning out to say, “Just one skeleton in the pilot seat. The rest must have been cleared out a long time ago by the animals.”

I climb up the vine and tentatively place one foot inside the haul. The rusted metal groans in protest but holds. Satisfied, I swoop through the frame, but not without warning the other two to be careful.

Inside the metal frame of the craft are worn seats charred from an engine fire years ago. Equipment and leaves are scattered throughout and glass sprinkles the floor where windows have smashed. Lo’ak has found himself in the cockpit, sitting in the empty seat and pressing the unresponsive buttons. The array of electronics is confusing to him but makes some sense to me. In my days living with the human scientists, they taught me how to operate machinery—on a smaller scale, obviously. But there were many times when I found myself in the hauls of these things, pestering the co-pilots on its inner workings. 

The human’s ability to guide and command the craft mesmerised me. Hours of my childhood were spent inspecting the way their small fingers glided across the panels and eased the yoke, memorising the use of each one. Over the years, that information has faded, but some of it was still there.

“I haven’t been in one of these things since I was a kid…” I murmur.

Lo’ak is initially confused, then… “I didn’t mean to—”

I shake my head, cutting him off. “No, it’s fine. I had happier memories when flying.”

“Did you fly one?” Tuk asks as she peers around my leg, examining the yellowed bones of the past pilot. 

“I wish. No, but the controls make sense to me. If it still worked, first…” I reach over the pile of bones and flip a switch on the overhead controls. Unsurprisingly, the craft isn’t responsive. “…fuel cock is on. Then the ignition is turned off aaaand the throttle needs to be at about a half…” The throttle, which is found between the seats, is a trouble to move. My fingers then glide across the control panel, picking out the buttons and switches I can remember. As I do so, I mumble beneath my breath the order of startup. “Then the propeller speed lever is set forward, supercharge witched to auto… now ignition foes on—oh, wait, the carburettor air intake filter is closed before that.”

As I ramble, the three watch with interest. Most notable is Lo’ak, who watches my every move carefully as if I’m meant to instruct him. Spider seems indifferent and Tuk is half interested in the view from the shattered windshield than aircraft nonsense despite being the one to ask.

I end my display by releasing the booster-coil button and screwing down the primer pump. “And now you have a running Aerospatiale SA-2 Samson.”

“Impressive,” Lo’ak says. “You reckon you could fly one?”

I just shrug. “I could keep it airborne longer than you could.”

He makes a face as if the very reasonable answer is a challenge. Tuk brushes past me to examine the unintelligible jumble of controls.

“Hey, what does this—”

As Tuk reaches for an enticing red button, my drops and I pull her away without a second thought. “Maybe not that one, huh?”

She frowns. “Why?”

“It’s the release for the cluster bombs.”

“But it can’t do anything—the thing can’t even start.”

“I know, it’s just…” I shake my head. “After years of being unexploded the detonators and charge deteriorate and they get more sensitive. There’s no research on how our environment speeds or slows the process, so we need to be extremely careful. In fact, I think we’re done here.”

Lo’ak rolls his eyes and jumps to his feet. The craft sways. “Come on, Gi, don’t be boring.”

“She has a point,” Spider counters. I give him a look of thanks before turning back to Lo’ak with a ‘see?’.

“I’m bored anyway. Can we find something else?” Tuk asks.

Exasperated, Lo’aks only answer is to shoo her towards the exit, which we climb down one by one. Beyond the thick canopy, the brightness of the blue sky has dimmed into a haze. Midday is nearing; so is the eclipse. I chew at my lower lip in restlessness. There’s no time to find something else because we’re always supposed to be home by eclipse. Even leaving now would be cutting it short.

Our one problem is that Kiri is nowhere to be found. I’m not worried that she’s gone far, but the tightly packed plant life makes it exceptionally hard to find things. Spider and Lo’ak have clashing ideas of where she went and decide to split up. Spider and I go one way while the other two go their own. I hum softly as I follow the human boy through outstretched branches and leaves. Lively tendrils from those explosions of pink flowers suction to my legs, arms and tail as I push through, enticing me to sink into the fertile soils and lush foliage. No wonder Kiri would rather waste her time connecting with life rather than dwelling on the spoils of the past. 

“Kiri?” Spider calls out, his voice slightly muffled from the oxygen mask. He pushes past a ridiculously huge leaf that hangs down from a spindly tree. He calls her name once more, stops, comes to attention, and then advances with purpose. He’s found her.

Laying in the confinements of a quiet clearing is Kiri, curled up on the grass. The pink-tipped, leafy fingers sprouting from the ground sway around her unnaturally—there’s no breeze this deep in the forest. Instead, the grass sways in ripples around her, as if she was the source of a breeze. Woodsprites drift around her, shimmery and iridescent in the fading sun. The sight would, on some occasions, be strange—the seeds were far from the Tree of Souls. Kiri, however, seems to attract them as if she were the tree herself.

Spider drops to her side and shakes at her shoulder, repeating her name. When she doesn’t wake at first, I step forward and stroke her hair from her face in worry. With an exceptionally strong shake, Kiri is finally pulled from her deep sleep. She brings herself up with heavy breathes. You’d think she just ran a marathon.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She lowers her gaze. “I was doing that…thing again, wasn’t I?”

Spider gently brushes away a sprite that drifts before him. “Yeah, you were.”

“Kiri?”

“Kiri!”

Lo’ak and Tuk’s distant voices reach the clearing. Soon after, they become visible. They both usher us over hurridly and we are quick to comply. The dimming sun sets me on edge the closer it reaches the obscuring planet. Our pace is rushed as we make our way back to High Camp. Although, we don’t reach the ascent to the flying mountains before Lo’ak comes to a sudden stop.

“What is it?” Kiri asks.

Wordless, he leaps down from the snaking roots and onto the forest floor, coming to a crouch to examine something in the soil. Spider follows suit. Nervous at the time that is being wasted, Tuk starts to pace, reciting how much trouble we’d face coming home after the eclipse.

“It’s way too big for a human,” Lo’ak murmurs to Spider.

The comment piques my interest. Pressed into the damp is a large footprint, as Lo’ak said, too big to be human. Not only that but there are no markings of the four or five toes from the Na’vi and Avatar. Instead, the imprint is shaped to resemble the sole of a shoe. Native Na’vi didn’t wear shoes. Those who did were Avatars, and even then, most of the Avatars we knew had adopted the lifestyle down to the clothes.

“Avatars?” Spider voices the shared thought.

Lo’ak purses his lips and surveys the surrounding bush. “Maybe. But they’re for sure not ours.”

Then, wordlessly and in sync as if their ideas were telepathically shared, Spider and Lo’ak rise, carefully creeping forward. Each footstep falls in tandem. Us three girls stand to follow. Kiri tilts her head in confusion.

“What are you doing?” She asks, only to be shushed by her brother.

“We’re tracking.”

Silently, we follow the two off the root path and into a thick underbrush. The ease I’d felt on this day off has vanished, replaced by a heavy, sickening feeling in my stomach. Every sense has suddenly heightened; the smallest rustle of a leaf in the wind has my ears perking up and swivelling in its direction. I find myself with my hands hovering at my sides tensely as if ready to fight. But fight what, I’m not sure. All I know is that instinct is there.

Ahead, the boys slow at a break in the thick foliage, stopping short of a dense fern. The five of us peer through the leaves and at a clearing beyond, greenery illuminated by the blinding, but still dying, sunlight. Swallowed by the roots of a budding tree is a train car looking piece of modified metal. Beneath rust and moss and fungi, the shapes of windows and a door are briefly visible. I can’t get a good enough look, my vision obscured by a towering blue figure sporting human clothing and human weapons.

An Avatar. One unlike those I knew.

It was undoubtably a male. His closely cropped, dark hair fades into the long braided queue protruding from the base of his skull—a trait of the Avatars, unlike the queues from the top of a Na’vi’s skull. His clothes are that of human military; a tactical vest over a khaki tank top, camo trousers tucked into combat boots and a black throat mic. In his hands was a hefty gun at the ready. A second was strapped to his thigh. No doubt his person was riddled with weapons. 

As the Avatar approaches the cart, three more follow; two males and a female. Tattoos, human clothes and human weapons are adorned by the Avatars. None of them are our own…instead belong to the sky people who reinvaded Pandora a year ago.

“We are never supposed to come here,” Kiri whispers to her brother. “Dad is going to ground you.”

Lo’ak shushes her. “Can you stop?”

“For life.”

Lo’ak ignores her, instead nudging at Spider. “Bro, we’ve got to check this out.”

Despite my appaled look and hissed, “Absolutely not,” the two breeze past me as if I was nothing but a thought. I hang back with bated breath and a racing mind as the two advance, bows in hand. Being the oldest here, every mistake they make will fall on my shoulders. Just being her is enough to earn me a piece of Jake’s mind. You should know better. I can already hear the scolding echoing in the distance as if the future was calling to me. A warning. And yet here I am, frozen and afraid to cause a scene as Spider and Lo’ak close in on the Avatars. Kiri gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. There is nothing we can do.

Up ahead, the two linger behind the overgrowth of a fallen tree. They lean in, sharing whispers I cannot hear as one of the skinhead Avatar enters the metal shed. The female leans through a broken window to watch. After a few minutes, he exits and motions to another Avatar sporting a pair of sun visors. The deepness of his voice reaches my ears and hints at an accent similar to Jake’s, but his words are incomprehensible.

Relief relaxes the tension in my shoulders when Spider and Lo’ak retreat back to the bush, silent and unnoticed. Lo’ak’s hand hovers over his throat mic. There’s a second of hesitation as he shares a look with his human friend, and after a long, regretful sigh, he presses the mic.

“Devil Dog, Devil Dog, this is Eagle Eye, over.” There’s a faint hum from his earpiece as someone responds. “I’ve got eyes on some guys. They look like Avatars, but they’re in full camo and carrying ARs. There’s six of them. Over.”

There’s a second of pause as he listens to the response. He scrunches his face as he prepares to answer.

“Um… We’re at the old shack.” Another pause. “Me, Spider, Kiri, Gi…and…and Tuk.”

Spider grimaces. So do I. Now we’re all in trouble.

“Yes, Sir, we’re moving out.”

Lo’ak rises as he gives his final answer. The rest of us follow, taking no time to retreat as quickly and quietly as possible. Once enough brush is passed, we rise from our crouches and move at a faster pace through the forest. Tuk races a few steps ahead.

“You’re going to be in so much trouble,” Kiri says snidely.

“Shh, Kiri, stop.”

I shoot the both of them a look. “If anyone’s getting in trouble here, it’s me! I’m supposed to be responsible for you lot, and I let one thing slide, just one—”

“Guys,” Tuk interjects, swivelling to walk backwards. “Come on, it’s almost eclipse.”

I’m only half paying attention to what she’s saying, frowning as that uneasy feeling returns in full swing. It has lingered since discovering the enemy Avatars, but now my fight or flight senses are screaming at me. My gaze wanders ahead of Tuk in sudden fear. A shadow of blue catches my attention, visible and then not within a second, but enough to confirm my fear.

But it’s not in time to warn Tuk.

From behind the trunk of an ancient tree, an Avatar springs from hiding. Tuk is tackled into her grip. She screams and everything erupts into chaos.

The four of us snap into offence and from a line, Lo’ak and Spider drawing back armed bows with snarls and me brandishing my obsidian blade. If it were just us four against one Avatar, I would have no reluctance to launch forward and sever her head from her neck. When four more Avatars emerge from hiding armed to the teeth with alien weapons, I instead remain still, knowing better. Lo’ak and Spider share my concern. That doesn’t stop us from raising our weapons.

Loaded ARs are trained at our heads. In broken Na’vi, the Avatars shout at us to lower our weapons. For a moment we are all at a standstill, screaming at each other with weapons drawn. But we are at a disadvantage. The humans possess adult Avatar bodies, tall and packed with muscle, brandishing automatic weapons that would riddle us with bullets before a single arrow could land. The fight is unfair. With Tuk in their hold, it’s not a fight worth attempting.

“Put it down, or I’ll shoot you!” One of the males yells at me

With a toothy snarl to mask my fear, I slowly lower the blade, drop it to the ground, and then raise my palms in submission. Lo’ak is next to heed their words and urges Spider to do the same. The second his bow meets the grass, the Avatars are moving, launching at us with vice-like grips void of any kindness. A substantially large male takes my wrists in his hands. I cry out as his knee slams into the back of my thigh, forcing me to the ground and switching both wrists to one hand so he can grab my queue. Pain seers through my skull as he squeezes. Every hiss and yell is echoed by the cries of Tuk. She calls to her sister in heart-breaking anguish, who begs her to remain calm.

Nobody is calm.

“Nobody fight back,” I remind the others at the sight of Spider’s exceptional struggle. “Do as they say.”

The Avatar holding me gives my wrists an unnecessary shake, taking the rest of my body with the movement. I slam into his back. “Shut up and don’t move!”

With a proud and purposeful stride, the skinhead slowly makes his way through the circle of captives. His gun remains at the ready. “What have we here?”

Another Avatar comes behind me, taking one of my hands from his companion’s hold. He stretches out my arm with unnecessary strength and spreads my fingers. He then reaches for Kiri with his free arm to do the same. 

“Hey, Colonel, look,” he says in their language, “check it out. Four fingers. We got half-breeds.”

With nothing more than a thoughtful nod, the Colonel makes his way towards Lo’ak. “Show me your fingers.”

Slowly, Lo’ak brings his hands forward, uncurling his clenched fists to wave taunting middle fingers in his face. The Colonel only smiles.

“You’re his, aren’t you?” Jake’s. There’s no mistaking who he means. Lo’ak snarls, causing his grin to widen. “Oh, you’re his, alright.” The male holding Lo’ak steps back, allowing his Colonel to grab Lo’ak’s queue. He’s forced to stand beneath the pressure, groaning in pain. “Where is he?”

“Sorry, I don’t speak English…” Lo’ak says slowly in Na’vi despite knowing their language. “To assholes.”

He snarls and shakes Lo’ak, replying in butchered Na’vi. “Where is your father?”

A gut-churning cry of pain is urged from Lo’ak as the stranger Avatar clenches his queue harder. His knees buckle slightly beneath him. Kiri’s lip quivers at the sight. Tuk cries harder. Despite the look of pain etched into his face, he does not yield to the stranger. Brave. Stubbornly brave. It irks to Colonel, evidently so in the quiver of his upper lip into a short-lived snarl.

“Really? You want to play it this way?”

He unsheaths a blade and everything is thrown into chaos.

“Stop!” I blurt out. “Enough! We have done nothing for you to attack us like this! Do you not have any courtesy?!”

The Colonel’s head swivels so fast in my direction you would think it would fly right off. His grip loosens on Lo’ak and the blade lowers. “What.”

I scowl. “You heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you alright. I hear you perfectly.” His attention is entirely divided. It’s enough to have him stepping away from Lo’ak and in my direction. “You speak English very well.”

“It’s my first language,” I murmur.

He hums in some sort of agreement. “I can hear it in your accent. Impressive. Why don’t you tell me, instead…”

Knife still drawn, the Colonel approached me with interest glinting in his otherwise emotionless eyes. There’s something incredibly offputing about this Avatar. I’ve seen many before, but none of them carry themselves like he does. Otherworldy is the first word to come to mind, and of course, he is from another world, but it’s not admirable or captivating. It’s terrifying. 

“Where is your father?”

I simply shrug. “Who knows? I never met him.”

He snarls. “Don’t play games with me, girl.”

“I’m not lying!” My voice rises when his knife nears. “I was a lab experiment!”

His knife lowers. Thankfully, he believes me. “Project Hawk, huh? I didn’t know anyone survived that fiasco. Fine then, you’re no use to me.”

Without a second thought, the Colonel seizes me, spinning my body so that my back is pressed to his armoured torso. A muscular arm locks around my neck. Any more morsels of strength and my windpipe would begin to close. My breathing hardens and I beg in protest as another Avatar takes my two wrists and binds them crudely with strange electric cuffs. The hard edges rub my skin raw. Satisfied with my immobilisation, I’m spun to face the Sully’s. Tuk wails and the others watch with wide, horrified eyes as a knife is held at the ready against my stomach. A noise escapes me in fear.

“Don’t fight back,” Kiri begs quietly. “We just need some time.”

“Don’t hurt her!” Spider demands.

The Colonel walks me towards Spider in order to address him. “What’s you’re name, kid?”

I share a look with Spider. He’s uncertain. I simply nod. Buy time. I mouth the words. The vague movement of my lips registers, and without further instructions, Spider speaks.

“Spider,” he answers breathlessly. “Soccoro.”

I feel the Colonel’s breath pause. “Miles?”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“Well, I’ll be damned…” he murmurs. “I figured they sent you back to Earth.”

“Can’t put babies in cryo, dipshit.”

There’s a moment of silence as the two stare each other down. It’s less challenging and more…unsure. The Colonel knows who Spider is and from the confusion beneath a fogged oxygen mask, the familiarity is not mutual. Rightfully so; I’ve never seen these Avatars in my life.

“What are we doin’, boss?”

The question from Spider’s captor is only answered by a silent, emotionless glance as the Colonel is pulled from his far-away stare. Instead, he reaches for his throat mic, speaking codenames to someone none of us can see. He waits patiently for a callback. The conversation that entails is not surprising, but my heart sinks nonetheless.

“We are standing by for extract, over. Be advised, we’re bringing in high value prisoners.”

The Sully’s and I share worried looks. Our time was being cut extremely short, and with our help also on the way, there was no telling who was going to get here first—the sky people or Jake. 

The Colonel and the rest of his Avatars promptly bind the others with handcuffs and drag us carelessly through the jungle and back to the battlefield. It’s swarming with more Avatars than I was aware of. Upon direct orders, our feet are swept from beneath us, knees forced into the dewy grass. No amount of pleading even amounts to a more comfortable position. My knees quickly begin to ache. 

Fear settles in the longer we wait. The more I try talking to the Colonel, the less impressed he is with my fluid understanding and ability to speak English. Cold steel presses against the soft flesh of my stomach at my endless rambling.

“You shut it,” he hisses. “You’re English just made this a hell of a lot easier, and it would be a real shame if I had to reward your usefulness with a knife in your throat.”

“My throat?” I scoff. “You’re full of shit, you know.”

He hums. “Fine, you call my bluff. I need your throat. But your fingers? You could do with losing one. Call it a favour, perhaps, to help you blend in with the savages.”

I don’t talk after that. 

As the sun finally disappears behind the distant planet, the Colonel watches something on a tablet given to him by his comrade. It was a file extracted from the old mech body suit used to fight Jake many years ago. From the sounds of the Sully’s familiar voices and the cracking shatter of glass followed by dying wails, it’s the video file documenting Spider’s dad, Miles Quartich’s, last moments. The Colonel doesn’t speak as he watches the violence. Once the video finishes, the sun has entirely disappeared.