#the old ones were so low res and dark

[coweye]

The Honda Odyssey

Logan Howlett x Reader | smut | 6k words Summary: The car fight reimagined and it only needed to be like 10% more erotic than the original.

I got carried away. I just love Wolvie so much. I'm so happy Logan is getting the adoration he deserves. Long live the Wolverine renaissance.

Warning: smut, p in v, ass play, foul language.

If you had to pinpoint a moment when your life became the shit show it had steadily developed into, you’d say it was the moment you auditioned for X-Force.

In your tenure as besties with Wade Wilson, it's fair to say things hadn’t gone smoothly. The man was a conduit to all things fucked up, but you adored his loose morals and quick mouth. The idiot in red had weaselled his way into your heart and became something of a brother to you and more recently a roommate.

Now, if you’d have told your younger self you’d be in your late twenty’s sharing an apartment with a burn victim who regularly staples a toupee to his fucking head and a coke-head, blind, old African American woman, you’d have laughed in their fucking face.

So, you’d like to think that as these things go you are pretty damn well adjusted but traversing the multiverse was a bit of a stretch, even for you.

One moment you’re at Wade’s surprise party, the next your ass has been zapped to the TVA and you’ve been given a sacred mission; to accompany Marvel Jesus (Wade) and protect the sacred timeline.

Naturally you’re fucking mind blown, you’re a low-level mutant, fuck, you couldn’t even join the X-Men.  Your particular set of skills were a dime a dozen and your flagrant disregard of rules had made you a ‘poor candidate’.

No, the mutant powers you had been graced with weren’t extraordinary by any means. You were basically an off-brand Captain America, just without the gorgeous cheekbones, patriotism and righteous need to do good.

In layman terms, you are strong as shit and have an accelerated healing factor. Not quite the same level as Wade’s mind you. You have, give or take, an inconvenient five-minute turnaround on the more fatally debilitating wounds.

To say you were unqualified was an understatement and to say you were reluctant was a simple fact. A fact you repeated, loudly to anyone that would listen as you were bathed in rich black leather.

“I think maybe you meant to grab negasonic teenage whatchacallit… she’s great, super powerful!” You continue. “Did you mean to get Domino or Colossus or maybe one of the X-Men? “

“No Miss Y/L/N. We have not got the wrong person for the job.” The man you later find out is called Paradox, calls out as you re-enter the operation headquarters. “Mr Wilson requested your presence; he wanted your assistance on his mission.”

“Y/N/N… ten out of ten, baby girl, I one hundred percent would bang. I’m talking raw dog, Barry White on a rug, let’s go all fuckin’ night.”  Wade hollers in his own brand-new suit and even you must admit, you look fucking amazing. “Sweet angel, we’ve just gotta’ come up with a superhero name for you!”

You are enrobed in rich thick black and teal leather, your first ever hero suit and it’s a fucking good one. It doesn’t cling, but instead pulls you in securing your flesh and extenuating curves, ones you hadn’t entirely realised you had. The bottom half your face is concealed with a mask, carefully crafted to follow the contours of your nose and cheekbones.

You’d barely recognised the mysterious figure in the mirror.

“Right?! Tailor was pretty handsy though!”

“Oh yeah, ha! - that man is indeed a predator.” Wade says with a chuckle and a fond sigh.

It shames to you to say but that’s when you stopped fighting this whole thing. You looked the part of a hero; you thought that maybe the TVA knew what they were doing. That they had seen something in you and knew that you had a good heart under all the darkness that lingered on the surface.

Wrong.

You were just a demand Wade had made. He wanted his number one disciple at his side whilst he carried out his sacred mission. You were part of an attempt at appeasing him whilst they destroyed your timeline.

Little more than a pawn to be used whilst they manipulated him into a false sense of security.

Thus, you were thrown into a series of events far beyond your control when Wade being Wade decided you were hunting down a Wolverine to stabilise the timeline, only to be once again fucking zapped into some place they called the void by that little English shitbird named Paradox. It’s entirely accurate to say that you were a little less sturdy than your compadres.

Unfortunately for you, the fall from such a height into the void was fatal. When you finally awake in the desolate wasteland to the sounds of blades clashing it is disorientating to say the least.

Forcing yourself to your feet you lower your mask and gasp in the sweet strangely stale oxygen as you stretch out your newly healed spine with a groan. It was impossible to tell how long you were out as you take in the scene before you; Wade and the Wolverine are engaged in a heated battle. From the looks of it, Logan is winning this fight despite being the human equivalent of a knife block with Wade’s katanas protruding from his chest.

For a moment you pause, perhaps its head trauma that hasn’t healed (He’s fucking Deadpool, he can look after himself for two minutes) and appreciate his form, the Wolverine the two of you had kidnapped was gorgeous. Tch, as if there was any other kind.

Sure, you were biased you’d always been somewhat of a fangirl, but the Wolverine was objectively breath-taking.

You’d indulged in comics whilst growing up but when you found out he was real and looked the way he did, hell, Wolverine was your sexual awakening. He was the first man to make you feel that tingle in your lower stomach. Yes, you may have been thirteen years old, a ball of puppy fat and social anxiety but you’d been waiting for him ever since. 

You’re snapped out of your reverie when Wade loses baby knife in Logan’s shoulder blade, finally you spring into action. In good time as well as you’re not sure if even Deadpool can survive decapitation.

In the singularly most stupid act of your life you throw yourself in front of your friend’s body. “Wait, Wait! Please!”  

Wade has paused behind you, you can feel him weighing up the situation, pausing for a moment to see what you’re going to pull out of the bag.

“The TVA they can fix it, whatever you did, whatever made you the worst Logan, they can fix it! – They have the power to end universes, but they also have the power to fix yours! Help us get back there and we can fix both of our worlds! I promise, they can fix it.” You plead, it’s not quite a lie exactly, more of an Educated Wish than anything.

Okay it is a lie, but you’re sure that the TVA can most likely, probably, maybe fix his world.

Logan’s eyes lock with yours in that moment you can see that he wants to kill you both and be done with it, but that hope won’t let him. You feel a smidgen of guilt for the deceit, but frankly you’ve done worse for less. Your world was on the line it wasn’t the time to pull your punches.

Fast forward four exhausting hours, two periods of unconsciousness and one flaying to find yourself sat opposite Wade gagging down cold spoonful’s of Spam in some dusty ass diner.

You were no better than a man as you watched the Wolverine.

Those arms, those thighs, the way he had beheaded Sabretooth without even breaking a fucking sweat. You wanted him to wrap those instruments of death he called hands around your throat and fuck you dirty until the sun came up.

It had been a long exhausting day and you had been soaking wet for most of it.

Shit, could he smell that? Does that count as sexual harassment? You’d have to ask Wade.

Logan, however, was utterly dismissive of your advances in the face of what was undoubtedly utterly horrific past trauma. Something you were trying to be understanding about, but self-pity in a man, it just turned you on. I said you had some surface layers of darkness.

Unable to help yourself you gaze at him as he opens a bottle of rubbing alcohol. You are utterly entranced, watching the thick chords in his throat bob as he takes a swig.

That tanned skin where his jaw ends and neck begins, slick with sweat and dirt. You’d love to sink your canines into the strip below his ear. He must feel your stare on him as he looks up and catches your eyes dark with lust already surveying his person.

It should embarrass you, that every time he peers your way, he catches you gaping at him like a lovesick puppy, but there’s something about Logan you can’t quite put your finger on. The man heats your blood like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, maybe it’s that torch you’ve carried for him since girlhood, maybe it’s the thick thighs you’d kill to ride – who can say for sure?

In what you assume is against his better judgement, he comes to perch on the booth beside you. His broad shoulders cast an imposing figure as he gets close enough that if you were to move your hand a couple of inches to the right, you’d finally be able to touch that yellow fabric that plagued your tween dreams.

You’re burning up at the thought of him, unable to stop yourself you part your legs slightly to ease some of the pressure. Logans nose twitches, his head swivels your way and his eyes catch your own.  

Welp - at least you have your answer about him smelling your arousal.

Deciding that you were most likely verging on sexual harassment charges you decided to focus back in on the task at hand, gagging once again at another spoonful of spam.

“Be a good girl and swallow, Y/N/N, you know the rules!” Wade jokes, your chortle was your only response. What could you say? He always hit your funny bone despite the ocean that was raging in your panties.

Logan stares at Wade for a long moment before turning to your way and addressing you for maybe only the fourth time today?

“What are you doing with this fucking clown? You his sidekick? Following him round to laugh at his stupid fucking jokes whilst he gets kids killed?”

“Why I have never.” Wade is faux outraged at his words, clutching his imaginary pearls as the Wolverine throws around accusations that aren’t entirely untrue.

The Wolverine’s expression remains stern as his eyes track your face. They seem to be evaluating your character and from the flare in his nose and crease in his brow you can guess he finds you lacking. You’re embarrassed to admit how much that deflates you, so you do what you do best; you deflect.

 “I could follow you around and laugh at your jokes instead, if you like?” When you speak your voice has a sultry edge to it and there’s no mistaking your intentions.

Logan seems to think on your proposition for a second or two, before he huffs grabs his rubbing alcohol and unopened can of Spam and heads over to sit at the bar.

“Holy hot ham and cheese on rye, Y/N, you fucking slut.” Wade berates you though his voice is as light as it’s always been as he boots your shin under the table. “Trying to your holes filled by Wolvie during a world saving mission, Marvel H Christ, stay on fucking task!”

You swear you hear Logan mutter a Jesus Christ from the bar.

Though as Wade continues irritating the hero hunched against bar, you can’t help the realisation that he didn’t say no.

“You’re uh… well regarded in our world.” Wade complements, being real doesn’t come easy to him. You appreciate the effort.

“Well, I’m not shit in mine.”

“I tried to join the X-Men because of you.” You speak up finally joining their conversation. Wolverine’s back goes rigid, but he doesn’t respond. You’re not sure if he’s waiting for you to continue or hoping you’ll stop. “You made a difference to this world, made me think I could do the same. I just never quite make the cut.”

Logan doesn’t seem to have a response.

It seems your words have an effect as you catch him watching you more often. When Wade makes his jokes, he looks to you for validation of his withering looks.

You’re probably more distracted by this revelation than you should be when the three of you come across a real nasty variant of Colossus seeking out Wade for… you want to say… revenge?

The not-so-gentle-anymore-giant flips the Honda and tosses both Wade and Logan through the treeline as they advance on him as if they were little more than toys his mother had asked him to pick up.

One by one your bullets ricochet from his metal skin as he comes towards you. You aren’t built for this fight; you are completely and utterly outmatched.

All you’re doing at this point is buying yourself some time for your backup to pull themselves from the rubble, however during a particularly spirited cartwheel the metal oaf finally gets his hands on you. Colossus’ metal palm is cold on your throat, and you could swear you hear your neck snapping before you feel it.  

With a gasp you return to life to find a slightly dishevelled Logan standing above you. By the grace of god, his sleeves have been worn away in the fight, his arms, oh sweet lord, his arms are on full display.

“Thought you were a goner.” He offers you a hand when you simply stare mutely his way. Locking your fingers around his wrist he pulls you to your feet. You don’t release your hold on him and neither does he.

“Don’t throw the party just yet, eh?” You joke weakly, for a second you could swear there’s a slight raise of the corner of his mouth, imperceptible, if you didn’t know what you were looking for. In the past few hours you had become an expert on Wolverine’s face.  

Your mouth is dry as you take in his thick sweat laden biceps.

“Where’s Wade?” You query whilst rolling your aching neck as you haven’t heard his voice in a record thirty seconds, Logan suddenly remembers himself and drops your hand.

“’fraid Metal man took your clown, was pissed with him and can’t say I blame the guy.”

“Shit.” You sigh rubbing your temples as you kneel to pick up the dismembered arm of your best friend. “Well – fuck. That’ll take him a few hours at least to grow back – He’ll be so sad about his suit.”

You peel the fabric from the limb and tuck it under the breast plate of your own suit. Wade will want his glove back when it grows back.

“He say where he was taking him?”

“Oh yeah, that along with his plan for world domination...” Logan huffs as if your mere presence annoys him.

“Thought you didn’t like sarcasm.”

“I like sarcasm just fine, Bub. It’s you I don’t like.” You can’t help but smile his way at the comment made at your expense, his brows crease. “You’re a strange one.”

“Can you do your sniffy thing?”  Its impressive, you thought he’d reached the limit with his scathing looks towards Wade, yet he somehow manages to pull a deeper frown out the vault especially for you.

“Sniffy thing?” His words are spoken with such derision, it turns you on a little. You realise that perhaps you are in fact a deeply troubled individual.

“Oh, sorry.” You pretend to clear a frog in your throat. “Please, oh, please, beautiful, handsome Wolverine, please can you locate my bestest pal with your heightened sense of smell?” His face doesn’t break despite your hands clasped in front of your chin.

“You’re just as fucking annoying as that moron.” He huffs “Get in the fucking car, we’ll follow his trail.”

“You can smell him from the car?”

“The blood, Jesus Fucking Christ, there’s a trail of blood.”

“Ah.” Is all you reply as you find your seat in the passenger side and start your own one on one team up with Wolverine. Its not exactly the way you imagined it, but beggars certainly can’t be choosers.

After a few moments of sullen silence, you decide that there’s no time like the present to form a long-lasting bond.

“What’s your world like?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Okay... What’s the first thing you’re gonna’ do if they can save your world? I bet its something boring as fuck, like team-“

“What did you just say?”

“I bet you’re gonna do something boring like-“

“No before that.”

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna’ do if they save your world?” You question, his sudden interest in your words takes you by surprise as he has been vacant from your conversation.

The breaks suddenly shriek as the car comes to a stop.

“What do you mean if?”

“I…”

“You said they could fix my world. Undo it all, is what you fucking said.”

“I mean I think they can!”

“You fucking liar.” The edge to The Wolverine’s voice is terrifying. The realisation trickles down your spine, Logan has been nice to you all this time, you’re finally meeting The Wolverine.

“I didn’t lie!” For some reason you’re ashamed of your deceit, you’ve murdered countless people and still, you’ve felt less remorse. Logan’s eyes pin you in your seat as disgust clouds his face. It hurts more than you can fathom. “Not exactly, I think they can fix your world! – I needed your help and if you killed Wade there was no hope for my universe!”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about your universe!” He spits your way; his hands are gripping the wheel in what seems like an effort to keep his cool.

“I know, but I do!” You cry back at him. “You know how to save the world, you’re the fucking Wolverine! I know how to kill people, but this hero shit, this isn’t me!”

“Ha! No shit.” There is pure hate in the man’s eyes as he stares back at you.

“Please, you’re Logan. Whether you’re the worst one or not - You’re still better than me.”

“Get out of the fucking car.” The words come from between clenched teeth and are filled with warning.

“No – fuck you.”  Your rage breaks the banks to meet Logan’s. Perhaps it’s the guilt, maybe it’s the fear for Wade but something within you snaps at his constant bad temper. “It was an educated guess and a fucking reasonable one at that, get the fuck over yourself you big bird wannabe geriatric fucker! “

He slams his palms on the steering wheel, his nose flares and his teeth clamp together.  “Fuck me? Fuck you – you sad pathetic excuse for a side-kick. No wonder the X-Men wouldn’t take you, and they’ll take fuckin’ anyone. You are a ridiculous, immature, moron who spends her days following around a fucking clown to avoid facing the reality that you are no one. I have never met a sadder, more attention starved asshole in my entire life. You were right about one thing, you’re no fucking hero.”

Its shameful the way your stomach drops, and your eyes involuntarily begin to tear. To hear your hero say the words you’ve thought about yourself whilst laying awake at night. It’s a knife to the gut.

“Nothing to fucking say, huh, Angel?” The use of Wade’s nickname for you is like sandpaper on your skin, it rubs you the wrong fucking way.

“I am going to hurt you now.” Your voice is barely a broken whisper.

“You’re going to hurt – “His faux chortle is cut short by a swift punch to his face. You’re worried you may have been overzealous with your swing when his nose begins bleeding. The Wolverine is stunned for only a moment before he grabs the back of your neck and proceeds with smashing your face into the dashboard and those concerns are quickly put to bed.

The old fucker is strong, but you don’t think he’ll kill you, yet another educated wish.

“Not so tough now…” He shouts as the radio channels change with your skull. Pulling a knife from your leg strap you embed it in his thigh and pull the lever to recline your seat whilst he’s distracted, luckily, you’re not there when he swings for retribution.

Though one of his fucking steak knives catches your upper arm slicing through the leather. Warm blood trickles down your arm, staining the beige interior of the poor Honda. 

Your legs are your strongest asset, so when he attempts to restrain you with the seatbelt, you are presented with your window of opportunity. You wrap them around his neck as you pivot your hips slamming the Wolverine headfirst into the metal of the door. Once, twice, three times - on the fourth he lands a fist to your gut, luckily, he has retracted his claws.

If he was willing to kill you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

You’re winded struggling to catch your breath from the gut punch, but you manage pull the knife from his thigh that is nestled between your legs and thrust it into his neck, you aim for the spot you’d fantasied about kissing before he’d torn your character apart piece by piece, now you just want to bathe in his fucking blood.

It was the pain that instantaneously made his claws extend. He’s quick to move them, though he slices through the sides of your suit as he buries them in the chair behind you. Your ribs are a bloodied mess though you don’t care, in a few hours they’ll be good as new.

Logan has seized the opportunity and has your arms pinned to your sides, his blood has cooled a little more than yours, he doesn’t seem to want to murder you over an argument.

Perhaps he’s more well-adjusted than yourself, that thought alone should concern you, except it just enrages you further.

“You stupid fuckin-“The Wolverine starts admonishing you, before you swing your head forward and headbutt him.

Yes.

You really do that.

You headbutt the man with the adamantium fucking skeleton– at full strength. Its sheer dumb luck you don’t crack your own skull in the process– maybe Logan was right, you are fucking dumb.

“Fucking fuck!” You cry grabbing your forehead and writhing. Noone wins with a headbutt, except Logan apparently.

“Fucking stop that.” Your writhing has pushed your core against his crotch, and he is already packing quite the heat at what feels like half-mast. He grabs your hips to stop your movement, but it only seems to push you closer. “Stop fucking moving.”

The constant arousal you’ve felt since meeting him returns in double time, Logan’s nostrils flare and his eyes darken. It’s debased and you’re ashamed that you want him, you haven’t stopped wanting him, despite the awful fucking words that left his mouth minutes ago.

“Like … a little pain Wolvie?”

Its relief you feel, you think, when instead of answering or punching you in the face, he closes the gap.

The Wolverine’s claws retract, and he grabs at your chin. Logan’s mouth utterly devours your own, your front tooth clashes with his own as you push yourself upwards, you pull your knife out of his neck, catching his grunt of pain on your tongue as you begin licking your way down his thick throat.

The vein you’d spotted hours ago is throbbing freshly healed, you sink your canines into the flesh and its as good as you’d fucking imagine. His groan is utterly beast-like as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

The Wolverine’s throat tastes like salt and iron. Thick, tangy and warm on your tongue as you soothe the bite. It drives Logan wild, thrusting his hardened member against your warmth. One of his gloved hands rises to lock on the back of your neck to pull you into yet another earth-shattering kiss.  His sharp hot tongue slides against your own, exploring the expanses of your mouth like its his to claim.

You bite at him again then, your teeth catching his bottom lip sharply.  Logan groans into your mouth before you use every ounce of your enhanced strength to throw him backwards against the dashboard.

He is taken utterly by surprise as his head slams into the windscreen cracking the glass with a grunt. When he looks your way Logan’s eyes are blackened with desire, he is utterly wild.

Slowly as if afraid to make any sudden moves, you unzip your combat boots, your eyes never leaving his. One boot and then the next.

You thank the TVA’s tailor for making your suit a two piece as you shuffle backwards into the backseat, pushing the thick leather down your legs all whilst maintaining eye contact with the beast leaning against the dashboard.

“You sure you want this Darlin’?”

“Darlin’?” You question mockingly, your voice lowering to imitate his own, as you wantonly spread your legs, your bare leg resting next to the headrest. Only a pair of black cotton panties separate him from your most intimate parts and his eyes are locked on your clothed core. “a second ago it was ‘Pathetic Moron’ to you.”

Your head tilts in question as his eyes lock back on your own, you think perhaps for a moment something akin to regret passes over his face, but you’ve never been entirely comfortable with feelings, so you drop your hand into the waistband of your panties, you’ve barely circled your opening with your pointer finger before he’s on you.

“That’s my job, you fucking Moron.” He plunges two bare thick fingers into your heat. Gasping you throw your head back against the headrest, it’s a tight fit and its been a while but the slight burn eases some of the aching in your core.  “You’re fuckin’ soaking wet, you like it huh, bub? Making me bleed?”

Your grab his jaw, your nails digging into his flesh. “I’d like to bathe in-” He scissors his fingers finding that spot inside you and you let out an embarrassing noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “-Your fucking blood… you mean motherfucker.”

You’re an absolute goner when he starts rubbing your clit, after a day of foreplay your body seizes, and you grab at the nape of his neck trying to find something to anchor you down. But as fast as the build was you come tumbling down just as quickly, when he cruelly withdraws his hands.

“No! - Wha- what the fuck?!” You’re almost crying as your torn from the precipice.

Logan flips you over onto your stomach before you can complain any further, your face down on the filthy upholstery as he pulls your panties from your hips. You can’t see him from this angle, though you can feel his warm hands tracing the globes of your ass.

You force your knees further apart, pushing your bare soaking pussy against the tight bulge of his yellow suit. If you had enough of your facilities about you, you’d be embarrassed that you’re currently rubbing your cunt against The Wolverine like a bitch in heat after he’d chewed you out only minutes ago.

Logan’s hand dip between your thighs, his fingers swirl along your hole, dragging your wetness along to your aching clit.

“You think I’d make it that easy?” He asks as he continues the journey back and forth. On the second pass he dips his finger inside of you for a fraction of a second before resuming its path. “What do you want, darlin’?”

You weren’t going to beg, in fact you bit your tongue to stop the traitorous words from forming, this man had already made you abandon most of your self-respect, he wasn’t having this.

“Logan…” At your breathy words the man leans forward, pressing his fabric covered cock into your ass as he folds his body over yours. One hand comes down next to your shoulder, the other explore your tits as he rocks himself into your throbbing core. It’s the perfect storm as he nuzzles into your exposed throat but somehow you manage your words. “Fuck me or don’t, I’m not begging, bub.”

He exhales through his nose in what you guess is equal parts amusement and annoyance, but you’re far beyond caring. He places a bite on the spot where your throat meets your shoulder as his body pulls back. Momentarily his hands leave your hips to deal with his own pants. You hear the clank of his belt hitting the car floor moments before you feel the head of his cock, running along your folds.

The head of his cock is thick, and it feels hot to the touch as he runs it along your slick. All of a sudden Logan pushes forward and sheathes himself inside of you with a single thrust.

You try your best to hold in your incoherent moans but to little avail as he pulls back before slamming full force back into you. If you were a human woman, your pelvis would’ve shattered from the force of his hips against your ass, instead you gather your strength and push back, allowing him deeper. The both of you moan in unison at the depth he reaches.

You grab onto the foam of the seat, ripping through the fabric with your bare hands desperate for an anchor as Logan unforgivingly pounds into you from behind, once again he folds his body over yours, wrapping a palm around your clawed fingers.

“.” He grunts something incoherent into your ear as he picks up the pace, slamming into you repeatedly, slowly picking up his pace. Your core is positively aching as you throb around him, pulling him deeper within you.  If you were expecting any further explanation, you’re sorely disappointed.

The wolverine pulls back, gripping at your hips keeping you still as he resumes his powerful strokes.  Logan’s hand dips to your clit, rubbing quick circles sending you barrelling back towards your orgasm. As you begin to clench around him, he pulls your body upwards, his head brushing against the top of the car as he holds you against him his fingers never leaving your clit.

“Come on my cock, Angel.” Unable to stop yourself you clench around him, hearing him talk like that does something primal to you.

You fucking loved Logan’s mouth, you bet he ate pussy like a champion if he played the clit this fucking well.

You stopped fighting it and threw yourself from the cliff, shattering in his thick muscle veined arms as he held you up against him, his cock still viciously plundering your depths.

“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispers against your neck whispers peppering it with bites.

Logan gives you a few moments to come down from your high before he resumes his punishing pace, you think perhaps you’ve reached your limit of pleasure, that the threshold can’t possibly be topped until he whispers into your ear in that gruff voice.

“What was it Wilson said? Filling all your holes?” The Wolverine asks, his eyes meet yours over your shoulder meaningfully, asking permission as he offers you his thumb. You merely moan your approval and wantonly draw his finger into your mouth, soaking the pad in saliva.  

Logan yanks your head into a vicious kiss. It’s a messy one, filled to the brim with need. The hand not currently locked on your neck holding your face to his, travels down your back, through the valley of your bodies. The pad of his pinky runs appreciatively over the globe of your ass, before his hand dips into the crease.

Logan’s thumb runs teasingly against the tight ring of muscle, it’s a foreign experience which makes you startle slightly.

“Anyone ever fucked you here?” He asks as he bites down your neck, delicately pushing you forward until your head rests on the backseat. You shake your head as your eyes close, his cock is buried balls deep within you as he plays with your asshole.

When his thumb finally breaches your tight hole just past the nail, he begins his thrusts once more. His cock fills your pussy from behind and suddenly you feel so fucking full, Its far too much for you.

“Fuck… Logan.” You gasp almost on the verge of tears as pounds you into the back seat. It seems the ass play has gotten to him more than expected, as his pace has increases.

“Where?” He asks breathless from the exertion as he pulls his thumbs from your ass and takes a handful of the meat on your hips.

“Inside…. Please … Logan.” You practically beg though you’ll never admit it, his rhythm becomes stunted as his hips slam into the back of your thighs.

“Give me something tight to come in, Darlin’.” Moaning at his words you’re eager to obey as you reach your hand between your own legs and rub mercilessly at your clit. The unforgiving pounding, the grunting and the fingers currently bruising your hips and the burning of your now vacant ass send you sailing over the edge.

You clamp down on him like a vice, groaning unable to hold back your whimpers anymore as he finally bites your neck and pumps his seed deep inside you as far as it can go. Logan grunts like a beast as he pulses deep inside of you.

Logan collapses beside you. Dents in the interior of the van you don’t even remember making have appeared from where a stray elbow or knee has hit the metal in the throes of passion.

The Wolverine tucks his cock back in his suit. Ever the gentleman, he uses your black panties to wipe away the cum dripping from your thighs, you haven’t got the heart to tell him that when you’re commando redressed in your suit that you can still feel him dripping from you, your pussy uncomfortably slick against the leather.

After dressing, the two of you sit in contemplative silence. Neither one of you has the emotional complexity to discuss what happened and neither one of you will accept fault for your argument that led to it, so, silence reigns.

The tension is sliced in two as Logan leans forward and pushes an errant lock of hair behind your ear in an act so goddamn endearing, you melt. You still wouldn’t apologise for lying, because you didn’t lie but you can meet him a quarter of the way.

“I’m sorry for calling you geriatric.” You whisper catching his eyes, a small spark of humour leaps into them, you’ve seen more emotions from your hero in the past half an hour than you knew he was capable of.

“I shouldn’t have-“ Logan’s heartfelt apology is cut off by the lead of this goddamn story.

“Well, well, well.  Would you look at this, My best friends, Ha! I get fucking kidnapped, an arm ripped off and you’re nowhere to be found? I thought don’t worry Wade, they won’t leave you, Y/N/N will come around that corner any second."

Wade has appeared through the passenger side window; he looks a little worse for wear and has a child’s arm growing from his stump, its kind of gross to look at.

"What if Colossus had had his way with me? What then Y/N? I expect this from Wolvie, but not from you! No, no heroic rescue for old Deadpool. I have to save myself because you fuckers are too busy playing hide the adamantium bone!  Thanks for nothing guys. Now the car has old man sex stank to it, as if this hunk of shit Honda could get any worse!”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Between Dreams and Sugar

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: Your screams will haunt his dreams until the day he dies.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Torture, gore, angst, violence & death, suggestive joke, fluff, happy ending, rescue fic but who rescues who...>:)

A/N: Guys, I have a confession - I don't think I can write Ghost properly lmfao. This is horrifically mid.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There was so much blood coating your body that you had forgotten where the wounds were and weren’t. It flowed from you like viscus water—a homogeneous mixture of congealed shades of red like rubies except for the simple fact that this was not beautiful; it was not desired or sought after. 

 On the ground, soaking in indistinguishable pools of crimson, ripples are sent out when your limp foot twitches mutely in its clutch. That was all you could do now. Twitch. Writhe. They didn’t even bother tying you to the chair anymore—just let you slouch half out of it like a school kid who had gotten too drunk the night before. 

Hell, you wished you were drunk. 

“Sergeant.” 

You wished you could feel your fingers. You wished you could move your neck up from its bend position as if it was a wilting flower; hair stuck to your skin. Blood dribbles out of your mouth. Drip…drop…drip…drop. 

You’d bitten your tongue open in a vain attempt to stop yourself from screaming, hadn’t you? You…you can’t quite remember.

“Sergeant!” Groaning long and low, the violent chills that wrack your form only serve to make yourself bleed out faster, tension forcing precious life fluid out from burst veins and slashed ankles. 

Cuts far span your legs and shoulders. Your back is nothing more than a painting of burns coated with sweat and infection; puss sticking you to the backrest of the chair like yellow-colored adhesive. Your clothes are the opposite idea of modesty. Tattered, torn by blades to create harm. Fuck, could you even breathe properly anymore?

Lungs only create a wheeze—you’re not getting enough oxygen to function. 

A dark growl bounces off the walls.

Ghost struggles against his binds, uniform also in a state of disarray with very obviously broken ribs and bruised chest. Splotches of yellow-white mounds signal blunt trauma over the pale skin that’s already laced with old scars. 

They’d all but anchored him to his chair—and even then the red marks that blister are a signal of the brutality of the large man as he peels back his skin to try and struggle himself out. 

You whine, the loftiness stuck in your brain addictive; to pull back that curtain was as much of a struggle as staying awake. That harsh Manchester accent was something to draw closer to, though, professionalism a key to the lock on your failing consciousness. The reminder of companionship.

“G…” Your vocal cords fizzle, “Ghost…” 

“Open your eyes.” Every word was enunciated, deep and guttural.

Parting your lips, more blood drowns your lap in thick globs, and soon your battered throat vibrates with coughs that make you see stars, mild panic the moment you realize that you can’t breathe. 

Jerking forward, you gasp, eyes snapping open as your neck bends ahead in desperation. Mucus and other bodily fluids spray over your lap, tinged scarlet, but the blockage in your throat is dispelled as your broken ribs quiver in agony. 

Whimpering like a kicked dog, you wonder how long it’ll take for Ghost to realize getting you to focus on him was pointless. If this all continued, you’d be dead within the day. 

But you entertain him.

Head slowly balking back as your jaw hangs loose, you rest it on the wooden frame behind you as softly as you’re able with a most likely concussed brain and a fractured skull. Only one eye opens, and even then it’s half-glued to your cheek with dried blood. 

Ghost’s balaclava had been ripped off. It felt wrong to see him in the open like this. Exposed. It was quite obvious he disliked it just as much as you did. 

Blue eyes blazed at you; blonde hair going this way and that as crimson fell down the swell of his Adam’s Apple from a very broken nose. That gaze was unrelenting, and even with your blurry vision, you knew it would be unwise to look away. 

His stubbled jaw sets as a heart can be seen skipping beats in his breast. You were totally out of it, enough so that you missed the way his lungs slightly released when you had pulled yourself back to the present. 

The gulping sigh.

“That’s it, Sergeant.” You cough once more, wet and haggard, and your head falls back to your chest before you have to force it back up on shaking muscles. It was getting harder. “Easy does it, then…Thought I lost you.”

“C–can’t,” the useless feet flicker over the ground, sloshing through fluid in unstable jumps as you slur out, “Hurts, Ghost.”  

A slow and dark inhalation meets your ears before a sudden grunt of a struggling body; jerking arms as the chair squeals with old nails being torn out. 

“I know, Birdie, I know.” His tone is lesser now as he bites back a curse as the blisters on his arms pop, the rope burns turning a vile color as his muscles strain, “But you keep those pretty little eyes on me, yeah?” 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Black Operations were dangerous, yeah, but never had the Lieutenant been so down in the gutter as he was right now. Mainly because of you, no, entirely because of you. He could withstand months of torture—mental and physical—with no problem. He’d done it countless times before. 

But never had he been forced to watch someone hurt you instead of him.

They would come in every day, these pitiful excuses for German drug runners, and would make him watch as they ripped open your skin with blunt knives and other tools coated in rust. Questions would be asked—questions that Ghost knew he could not answer even if it was you who would get punished. 

Every time you would flinch when the door to this concrete basement opened, it was harder to keep his tongue from wagging. He was watching you die; letting it happen. 

Fuck, it made him sick.

Ghost violently reems a shoulder up and down, not caring about the long stripes of now oozing blood on his forearms or the pain that the action brings bone-deep. There was so much scarlet flowing from you. Too much.

What he knows for certain is that he can’t let you die here. He’d never forgive himself for that.

How is she still conscious? The question was utterly genuine as Ghost’s dead eyes narrowed dangerously, sparking with urgency at the uneven risings and fallings from your chest. 

“Fucking hell,” the Lieutenant growls, each word punctuated by a desperate attempt to free himself. He had to get you out of this. You were his responsibility; his team. 

His…Ghost pants, sweat dripping down his arms.

You didn’t abandon him, how could he do the same to you? When questioned you hadn't given up his true name, hadn’t blabbered to save your own skin so you could avoid a horrible amount of pain. Pain that Ghost knew well. 

Pain that was never supposed to be known to you.

Your screams would haunt his nightmares until the day he died. 

“Ghost,” blue eyes freeze, snapping away from the sight of the bone around his wrists becoming visible through a thin coverage of remaining flesh. He pauses like a guard dog. Your optic was glinting, flicking with failing consciousness. The movement of your chest sputtered as the man clenched his teeth together. “You’re hurtin’ yourself.” 

“‘Bout to do even more damage, yeah?” he gets back to it, working enough blood into the rope to make it slick; dripping. “If it’ll get me out of these bastard things.” 

The weak smirk on your face gives his brows a deep furrow, sweat glistening on his forehead.

A part of him hated you. Hated you for the way you had this effect on him. He shouldn’t care if you lived or died—that wasn’t his cross to carry. 

But you’d made him soft these last few months. Soft, and weak, and disgustingly concerned for your safety. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Ghost. 

“Gonna b…bleed out, y’know.” Your tongue slips, mind so loose that anything that comes to the front slips out like water from a slip-and-slide. Fingers twitching, your limp body grows so cold that you shiver. 

“Negative.” Ghost barks, slipping one hand partially under the restraint and his flesh, acting as a zipper, starts to go with it. He hisses under his breath, body hot and spilling. Mutilating himself. “Shut your damn gob.” Blood splatters to the floor, “I’m gettin’ us out of ‘ere.”

“Tell me a joke.” Blue eyes flicker, blonde lashes slipping over pale cheeks. 

You feel another wave of pain shutter through you—one that makes you whimper as quietly as a soft breeze on a summer day. 

“Joke?” Ghost hisses, glaring over at you without heat. “The fuck are you on about?” A wobbling eyebrow raise is all he gets. 

He grunts feral-like, evocative of a bear that hadn’t gotten his supper. Your lid droops and panic spikes.

“How long can a fish breakdance for?” Ghost slips a hand free, snarling in the back of his mouth as the entirety of his left hand is left ripped open, the fissures itchy and welling. Wasting no time, the limb goes to assist the other, pulling with ripped-off fingernails at the tight knot. A side-eye is sent your way.

Only you weren't moving. Lips snap in a moment of obvious concern, not only by the tone but by the way the man jerks forward in the chair—no matter if one arm and both of his legs were still restrained.

“Love!” The door handle rattles with screeching chains, but Ghost is occupied with raging at you. Ordering you to stay awake with terrifying eyes. It was as though for the first time in a long time there was true fear in his throat. True hatred. 

Chucking voices heat veins that he had long since thought were cold, and the Lieutenant composes himself with a sharp pause. He leans back slowly into the chair; jaw so tight his molars almost crack in the back of his mouth like candy. Your face is tilted downward, and Ghost memorizes the make of it, trails his gaze slowly over every slash and cut that mars you. Feet slap off the concrete as multiple people enter the room, but it was like a switch had flipped internally, walls going up.

The mask was still there, even if all that physically remained of it was the black paint in his sockets.

He’d return every mark, from a bruise to an open wound, tenfold. But you needed to wake up first. You…you needed to.

You had to be okay.

Three men encircle the two of you, faces hidden and obviously enjoying a bit of their own product.

“Look at this, Lutz, the man got a hand out of the binding.” Blue eyes travel to stare dead-on into a pair of blown pupils; mind gone. 

The second man goes to grip your hair, forcing your head up in inspection. Ghost’s vision immediately travels over, biceps going tense like a dog with its hackles raised and vision going red. 

“Don’t worry about that. It’s one hand, what can the Bastard do?”

“Oh,” another laughs, though his body is wound tight, “careful with the woman, Alric—the beast looks like he’s about to snap at you.”  

The three share sly looks. Alric, the one with your hair in his grip, shakes your head back and forth, blood flying around in the air as your limp body jerks. Ghost lunges, but he only makes it as far as the chair allows him before he’s shoved back by a hand on his chest. 

Moving quicker than an animal, bone snaps, and an agony-laced scream echoes off the walls not a millisecond later. 

Ghost had gripped that hand and twisted, making the wrist joint completely flip on itself. Blank blue eyes watch with glints of sadistic glee as the man wails, grabbing onto himself and falling back onto his ass.

The one holding you instantly releases your hair and rushes to his friend. 

“Holy fuck!” Everyone divulges into frantic German curses, Ghost making out a command to leave and go see a doctor.

“Cheers. Good luck with that, ya’ Bastard.” Grumbling under his breath, the Lieutenant realized he was probably enjoying this more than he should, but always his attention shifts back to you. How you hang limb, battered face covered by your hair, and loss of blood steadily leaving your hands curling into the palms—

Ghost’s eyes widen slightly as the two still try and calm down their companion. Your hand. It wasn’t curled because of onset rigor mortis. You were holding a blade. 

The Brit’s large chest swells with pride; jaw going somewhat slackened as he stares at you. So you were faking it….Fucking hell, Sweetheart. 

Slowly, his vision peels to the empty sheath on Lutz’s belt. It wasn’t a big knife—nothing more than a three-inch blade on the end. But you were still conscious enough to hear these goons show up before he had; had used sleight of hand that anyone else in your situation would have just given up on. 

It was hard to hold back a low chuckle, but he managed. Fuck, you were something else.

The two unmaimed men shove the third out the door, shouting down the hallway as his sobs and sniffling nose reverberate even as he’s out of sight. 

Grunting, the Brit shifts his hips, lips pulling in a snarl at the bouncing electrical wire that goes up his ribs. Many were broken; along with his nose and a dislocated shoulder, but he knows he can deal with it. Getting you out and to the Evac point was his top priority—his wounds weren’t over-the-top life-threatening unless they went too long without treatment. 

You on the other hand. 

Lids narrow on the way the knife-holding hand shakes with exertion when simply applying pressure. If this was going to happen, it had to happen now.

“That was a nice little show,” Alric growls, standing in the middle of the two in the chairs and keeping a considerable distance farther from Ghost than you. Blue eyes blink blankly, emotions swiftly wiped away. “One-handed? I’m impressed.” 

Ghost raises a single blonde eyebrow, “More where that came from.” 

Alric smiles.

“Emil—get the gun.” Legs slowly tense, but other than that there’s no outward display of nervousness. 

Seconds later a barrel is level with Ghost’s forehead, the chilled metal pressing deep into his blood-coated skin. He doesn’t balk back, he doesn’t even flinch, just watches with a dim flicker in his optics that remains even after he blinks. Like a cat’s slitted pupils. 

It would be no use shoving the gun out of this man’s hands—he would fire before the Lieutenant was able to steal the weapon for himself. 

“I’m getting sick of this game, Soldier. We’ve been through this day after day.” Alric swipes at his nose, white powder stuck under his nostrils. Ghost can’t stop the small tick of his mouth. “Tell me who you are,” the gun swivels, and the Brit’s heart seizes up. It points at your abdomen. “Or the girl gets a nice new stomach.” 

Lips thin into a small line as hidden fury swells. 

“Alric…” Emil seems nervous, his feet shifting and hands twitching. The aura Ghost was emitting was like a dark cloud around the room; sheer size and indistinguishable emotions rose to drown out all else when a threat to the beast’s bird was brought into the picture. There had been multiple times throughout the days when the men had been scared to touch you at all for fear of the look that had been leveled their way. Those eyes…fuck it was like a demon was stuck in flesh. In blue so close to gray the color was more like the concrete of a prison cell. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Tell me.” Alric growls as Emil gets closer to you. Ghost stays silent, unblinking as his fingers curl into fists. His knuckles crack from the force. “Tell me!”

Emil bushes your shoulder and you lunge. Bringing the blade into his chest, your form brings the both of you to the floor in a splash of scarlet and twin screams of pain. 

The Blonde’s heart seizes at the sound in an aggressive bounce.

Alric whips around, eyes widened and gun loose in his grip. Ghost wastes no time, trusting your judgment, and shoves himself forward. A shot goes off as the Lieutenant rams his shoulder into the man, but the bullet bites into the far wall instead of your back as you dig your knife into Emil’s throat; wrestling for life. 

The chair still attached to Ghost was a problem, but his body weight was used to his advantage. Sinew bunched as a growl exits his lips, Alric and him slamming to the floor in a flurry of rabid intentions and the likeness of wolves caught in a trap. Ghost’s eyesight goes red, remembering every cut and beating you went through for him in the reflection of Alric’s eyes. That pathetic drug runner had made you bleed. 

His bird doesn’t bleed.

Teeth and nails are tools kept for animals, and now that the gun was too far from grip and you were limp beside the gargling body of Emil, Ghost decided that being a bit insane might do him well at the moment. 

He had to get you out of here. And in no world was this man going to get away to live one day more.

“Please, don’t,” Alric begs, clawing at his behemoth build, “I’m not—I wasn’t—!” 

Blood-stained teeth snap into the thin flesh of a visible neck as dead blue eyes keep you in sight like a dog does the moon.

—

You don’t recall anything after slashing one man’s neck and even that is a blur of flashing colors; instances of one waxing expression waning into another. Trapped between bouts of failing consciousness and pain that could rival someone getting their bones snapped one by one. 

But you know the feeling of moss on your cheek. The shadow that sits above you and the fingers that prod at your back, pressing cooling salves of Silverweed into the burns and cuts. Your eyes weakly flicker, a low moan stuck in your throat. 

Every limb is a cinder block.

“Stop your moving.” The command was stiff but quiet, and the pressure on your spine increased. Flinching, the sensation of tight bindings all along your body became apparent to you, slowly but surely. 

“That…hell?” You cough, throat bare and dry. Sweat drips down your temple. 

Blinking rapidly, you try to focus on the cold wind whipping past your bare skin, the trees in the distance of what appeared to be a glade. The sound of a running stream makes your ears perk.

A canteen was suddenly shoved to your lips and you grunt in surprise, water slicking your closed lips.

“Drink.” You don’t argue, peeling back your lips and letting the liquid drip into your mouth, most falling to the moss under you and getting re-adsorbed into the earth. “...There’s a girl.” 

The metal container disappears just as quickly as it showed up, and you lick at the corner of your lips, cheeks burning at the comment.

Ghost kneels above you, bar a shirt, and you narrow your lids to focus on the black and blue splotches completely covering him. He still doesn’t have a mask, and you glance over the blonde stubble; the scars, and the aggressive set of his eyebrows. The blood had been washed away, and you wondered if the stream in the background of this place was still stained with crimson and the telltale black of eye paint.

“Simon,” whispering seemed appropriate, though you don’t know why. Your voice was better now but still, your body refused to listen to your instructions. Every plea to move your arms or legs was denied, sharp needles poking into your flesh that made you shake. “What…?” 

Blue eyes blink down at you, something hidden in the depths. A finger curls to flick a stray hair from your face slowly. Skin brushes skin.

“Snagged what I could before I ran off. Wasn’t much.” That harsh voice, the gravel in it. You frown weakly, your lids heavy. “Bandages. Extra shirt. Blanket I used to stop the bleeding.”

He won’t tell you he was begging you to wake up when he’d been stuffing old fabric into your open wounds. 

Coughs wrack your frame, whole body jerks that overtake what little peace there was to be found. A hand tilts your head back to the ground, patient as the other grabs your hair, peeling the strands away as a flood of vomit escapes your mouth. 

Eyes burning and face hot, you sputter as a thumb runs deep circles over your scalp. 

“Easy…” Ghost whispers, tattoos like obsidian in the darkness of the world around the two. Late afternoon and this was the first time you’d woken up since he’d been carrying you. A nail was taken out of his heart. 

Seeing your eyes flicker, even filled with the tears as they were, was a blessing he’d thank whatever God that was out there for. “Easy, Sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, shaking more than a leaf. “Fuck it hurts, Simon.” 

He shifts you slightly away from the bile, the familiar words burning his lungs. 

“Evac point is four miles.” It felt like a death sentence to you, your eyes going buggy at the thought. “I’m carrying you there.” 

“Bullshit,” you pant, wheezing. “Your arms are destroyed.” 

Ghost blinks before scowling, sending a glance to his limbs. They’re both raw and skinned, just like his fingers; red with burst blisters the size of rocks. One hurts far more than the other.

“They’re nothing.” 

“Nothing pretty to look at,” blue eyes narrow on you in annoyance, but the dry-humored Brit doesn't miss a beat.

“Seems you’re in good spirits, Sergeant. Fancy walking on your own?” Your lips flick, delirious and high off of whatever pain meds that Ghost had found when he had been carrying you out of the basement of that house. 

Try as he might, the feeling of your dead weight was worse than he ever could have imagined. So, outwardly, he stayed numb but knew that every little look from you was as beautiful as a sunrise. 

“Want me to try?” Palms begin to shift, a hand pressing deep into the moss that bends and yields to your form. 

Ghost snaps forward.

“Fucking Bastard!” He puts weight on the back of your shoulder as you hiccup dull chuckles, “Quit it! Else I’ll leave you here to annoy the damn plants.”

The threat was empty, and your eyes softened as they spread their fatigued gaze over the span of the Brit’s visible skin, glee leaking out. Ghost sighs, shaking his head sharply at you, agitation stuck in his skull as it always was.

So beastly, this man, but his hold on you was about as gentle as you could imagine. 

Your attraction to him was anything but one-sided. You knew his emotions as well as your own; it was quite obvious to everyone but him. The long looks, the concerned glances. His touch freely given.

He had given you his name and, to you, that was about as close to a proposal as a ring was. You’d kissed; you’d shared beds and shared skin. You knew when he was being horrible to himself deep in the confines of his head.

“Simon,” you whisper, and a blue gaze stays stubbornly away, glaring at your burns with venom. A tired smile peels your lips. “Simon.” 

A huff is all you get, a bush of skin as breath wafts over your bare back. Your hand goes to touch his knee, brushing softly over the torn fabric. The flinch would not be noticeable to anyone but you. Brows pull slightly tighter. 

“I had a dream about you, y’know.” Speaking hurt, but the attention that is finally brought your way was worth it. Birds chirp in the distance.

“What’s that?” 

“Hm,” you lightly nod, cheek ruffling moss as you take down slow inhalations. Staring into each other’s eyes you for a moment forget the agony under your skin. “You were trapped by a giant fish underwater.” 

A Blonde eyebrow raises, slow smirk unable to be hidden. It was impossible not to be entirely taken by you. How you speak, how you breathe. Even like this, you had placed a spell of black magic over him, binding the darkness that made up Simon Riley—Ghost—to your every action and whim.

“That right, Sweetheart? What happened, then?”

Chuckling, Ghost’s hold goes to your neck, massaging the skin so delicately that you lose your train of thought for a moment as shivers erupt, “I had to save you.”  

Lips press to your scalp, a bent nose digging despite the shifting cartilage as lion limbs shake with a want to drag you to him. Such a rabid beast that devotes himself to your life.

“You tend to do a lot of the savin’, Love.” It’s muttered into your hair, softly, lowly. Compliments are rare—Ghost prefers actions above all else—but they’re treasured. 

You know what he means.

“Yeah, I love you, too, you brute.” Deep chuckles dance in your ear, and you both stay there for a while, simply breathing in each other as the sky bleeds into the earth. So content, your heart had slowed, the salve in your wounds and the bandages compressing the areas with the most problems and forcing them to be numb. 

When you had nearly fallen asleep, Ghost had peeled back to look down at you; eyes malleable as they slipped over your battered body. 

“Hm,” he hums, reaching to his side and grabbing for the shirt he had stolen. After a few minutes of quiet curses and apologetic kisses, the large piece of fabric was over your top. The Lieutenant had begrudgingly admitted that the scraps of pants you had on now would have to do until you got proper attention. 

“Giving the squirrels a show, then, Simon?” The man rolls his eyes deeply at the sarcastic comment, rubbing up and down your legs to keep circulation going as he readies to move you.

“They better keep quiet ‘bout it,” Ghost grumbles, running a hand through his hair, “Else I’ll have to rip a few tails.”

“So violent,” You wince when your shoulder is gripped, neck limp as your upper half was rotated. Gnashing your teeth, the Lieutenant shushes you comfortably, raising your body to rest in the crook of his large arm. Muscles tense and loosen, your cheek now resting on your Lover’s pec. You hear him hiss silently at the pressure on his broken ribs as guilt hits you. “Not the squirrels’ fault.” 

“It is if they keep looking at ya. Only I get to see you like that.” Your pain-laced laugh is cut off when you’re lifted, large hands under your knees helping equalize your body. 

A strained whine exits your lips, straining to get air as you pant and clench your eyes shut. Ghost wasn’t doing much better—gritting his teeth and tilting his head back. 

Feet stumble before righting themselves, lids opening as lashes flutter over bloodless cheeks to stare down at you. 

The word seems to stop.

“...Tell me you’re alright.” You heard that for what it was—Tell me to keep going, because if you don’t then I won’t be able to. 

Blinking up at him, your nose slots under his chin as you feel him shake with exertion, lips pressing deep into his raging pulse. You swallow down saliva as his grip on you tightens, pressing you closer; giving you his body heat.

“I’m okay, Simon. Not…not lost yet.” 

“Good.” He lets his eyes close for a moment, taking you in as he lets his nose be coated in your scent, the flesh under his fingertips. Ghost knows some of your wounds reopen, and, thus, his bare feet start off into the woods. His men would still be at the Evac point waiting for them. Price would have given the order. “...I’ll be needing you ‘round. Might lose my head otherwise, eh?”

“You do seem to have a few loose screws when I’m not near.” 

“That was an exaggeration,” Simon grumbles. 

You scoff, trying not to puke at his limping steps. The word swirls, but the man carrying you stays ever clear. “No,” you whisper, “No, it wasn’t.”

Scared lips pull up, but the birds respond for him. 

Less than ten percent out from the Evac point is when you drop a tidbit of a thought to the man.

“Y’know what I want, Ghost?” The large Brit side-steps a downed tree, sweat dripping down his chin to splatter to your skin.

“What is it?” He pants, sparing you a glance as his eyebrows are constantly furrowed in concentration. Your talking made it easier to push on.

“A fucking cake. A big one.” Blue eyes blink and his feet nearly stumble to a stop before he forces on. A gasp of a chuckle makes your heart skip a beat as voices start up from the next tree line.

“Keep talking to me, Love, and I’ll buy you the whole bloody bakery.” Soldiers burst from the bushes, and Ghost calls out identification as everyone gapes. Guns immediately lower.

Medics rush forward, but still on high alert, the Lieutenant snaps at them, bringing you closer into his hold as he pushes onward. 

“Where’s the fucking heli?!” Everyone stops and points. Huffing, Ghost shoves forward. 

“The whole bakery?” You slur, giggling and feeling the kiss on your head. 

“Every bastard pastry’ll be yours. Count on it.” 

—

“Simon, you promised.” Your wheel-chair bound form pouts as the man in question deadpans from behind you, leaning on the handles. His balaclava can only hide so much.

The air is sweet with the scent of desserts and bread. 

“Birdie, you can’t eat all ‘O that, you’ll explode like you took a .308 round to the head.” The woman behind the counter pales, pulling at the collar of her shirt with her smile becoming strained.

“Is that a challenge?” You glance over your shoulder, smirking wide. 

“No,” Simon blanky states, the skin over his nose bridge and under-eye completely black and blue. 

“I think that was a challenge.” 

“It wasn’t.”

The customers grind their palms into their eye sockets, some tuning around in line and leaving entirely.

“Simon,” you intertwine your hands and lean to show him, eyes wide and pleading. “Please.” Drawing out the word, you smile with everything you can. 

The both of you connect in a battle of wills—you with that infectious innocent and sly nature, and Simon with a tight glare and tired eyes. A blatant will to please you in every aspect and a need to see you happy at all times. This goes on for a full minute before a loud sigh echoes off the walls, shoulders deflating. A hidden kiss is pressed firmly to your head.

You giggle loudly at the authoritative order.

“One of everything.”

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @neelehksttr, @shoe1412,@jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet​, @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @nanialis, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @emerald-valkyrie, @michirulol, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @bespectacledhuman, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @astronaunt2009, @shmaptin, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce,

[asumofwords]

Midpoint - Michael Gavey x Reader

Synopsis: The semester break came along quicker than you thought it would, and you decided to stay on campus for the break to get ahead in your studies. What will happen when you go head-to-head with a certain ill-tempered maths student in a war of pettiness?

Warnings: This fic is 18+, readers discretion is advised. Arguing, pettiness, name calling, low blows, tension, degradation, ripped stockings, finger fucking, rough fucking, fucking in public, p in v, creampie, cum eating.

Word Count: 8.7k

Notes: Hello my angels, Happy New Year, heres to all the filth that will continue to come from the cesspool that is my mind. Thank you all for your patience, I have been so excited to write for Michael, and so I hope you enjoy this as much as I have writing it !! heheh ;) <3

Part 2

There was a soft amber glow that cast over the library, the dark wood warming with the golden light that peaked through the windows, patches of wooden floors illuminated in some spots with coloured lights from stained glass windows.

For the most part, the library was empty bar three other students who had stayed behind for the break, getting ahead on their work for the next semester.

You were one of them, and with the sheer size of the library, you wouldn’t have known there were others inside if you had not seen them when walking down the endless isles of books in search for the ‘British Working Class Movements’ for your history course. 

It didn’t take long for you to find it, and by the time you settled into a secluded corner down the back, the sun had already begun to set. You flicked on one of the green and gold table lamps and began to read, periodically taking notes on a page as you went.

It wasn’t that you needed to study ahead, it simply gave you something to do whilst the break droned on, few students having stayed behind making it lonely, but a bit more bearable than making the long trip home.

You loved the library, the stained wood, smell of old books lining the walls, and the quiet of the place was a nice haven to get away from the usual hustle and bustle of college. Everyone always seemed to be in a rush to either their next class or their next party, and although you weren’t a loner per se, you didn’t always feel like being in the constant lights and sounds that came with socialising. And so the library was the one place, besides your dorm, where you could have a nice piece of solitude.

Settling over the page, you gained a steady rhythm. Read about one movement, then write anecdotes as you went, taking the time to pause, re-read, and really absorb the information as much as you could. It was fascinating, and you enjoyed learning as much as you did.

By the third hour of continuous reading and note taking, your hand began to cramp, and so you decided it was time for a short break. You stood up from the desk, stretching your arms above your head, a small sigh escaping your lips as your back cracked and muscles pulled. You twisted your upper body to each side, softly grunting as you felt your back click again and again, sighing loudly as a particular pop took away an ache that had settled between your shoulders. You continued on with your languid stretches, trying to get some of the stiffness out of your body from being hunched over the desk for so long. 

You wondered how much more time you should spend writing notes, or whether you could go back to your dorm and laze about on the bed. Luckily for you, you didn’t have a roommate, and were able to make the space feel much like your own. You didn’t have too much furniture, the room not allowing for it, just your essentials and a few trinkets here and there that you had collected. Your real pride and joy however, was a Peace Lily that you had saved from sure death. Now, it sat proudly on your study desk, growing dark green leaves and flowering its soft white flowers.

The idea of going back to your dorm seemed tempting, after all, you didn’t really have to be studying, and you had just recently bought the new Harry Potter book and wished to read some more of it, make a nice cup of tea, sink into your sheets and get lost into a fantasy world.

A soft jangling came from between one of the large book shelves, and soon a man peeked through. His icy blue eyes caught yours and you watched as he assessed you from where he stood, albeit awkwardly, gaze dragging up and down your body.

He was tall and lean, with sandy blonde hair that sat messily atop his head. He had a sharp aquiline nose, and lips that pulled up naturally in its corners.

You recognised him from somewhere, but where you couldn't be sure.

Perhaps he was in the same classes as you?

He continued to stare at you, shirt tucked into his pants, small carabiner attached with a USB dangling from a belt loop, his tongue pushed into his cheek.

“You right?” You asked, shifting on your feet, wondering if he needed something from you.

His lips pursed as he looked at you from down his nose, “Are you?”

You furrowed your brows, “Huh?” 

“You've been moaning in the back of the library like a tart.” 

You bristled, “I beg your pardon?”

Who the fuck-

“Some of us are trying to study.” His arms were stiff by his sides, and before you had the chance to reply, he spun on his heel, shoes squeaking loudly in the aisles as he marched away.

“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, feeling angry and also slightly embarrassed about the encounter.

Had you been making a lot of noise? 

You didn’t think so, especially since the library was essentially empty anyway. You had even chosen the furthest corner of the floor as well, tucked away behind rows of books and out of sight. 

You sat back down at the desk and tried to continue writing notes, but instead, you found yourself feeling far too self conscious, and wondered if you were even breathing too loudly. But before you got too self critical, you remembered that the library was practically empty, and you had specifically chosen a spot the furthest away from the other three students.

If your stretching and little sighs had disturbed him, he was either hanging around your area, or had the hearing of a bat. 

So after about an hours more of study attempts and a half a page more of notes, you decided to call it a night, packing away your belongings before taking the book with you, not bothering to check it out. 

As soon as you got back to your dorm, you headed straight to bed, not feeling in the mood to make a cup of tea or even open your new book, no longer looking forward to enjoying yourself and settling in. Instead you laid on your back staring at the ceiling, stewing about how the man in the library had spoken to you, and vowing that if you saw him again, you'd give him a piece of your mind. 

And by your luck, you did see him again. 

The very next day.

You got to the library around midday, deciding that you weren’t going to do a late night of studying, deciding to have a relaxing night in to pamper yourself, maybe even watch a movie in the common rooms if the tv free, or do as you had intended the night before; a cup of tea and your book, and maybe even some ‘me’ time.

The library, despite all its windows and the suns rays peeping through, was cold, and as soon as you stepped foot into it a chill ran over you. You walked through the endless rows of books, not seeing a soul as you climbed the stairs to the second floor, dust settled into the crooks and corners of the staircases and bannisters, the smell almost overwhelming, until finally, you saw him. 

He was sat in the centre of the room at one of the large study desks, multiple books opened around him as he furiously wrote down notes and equations. His head didn’t lift at the sound of your footsteps, too busy in his own little world studying for God knows what, so much so, that it was a wonder that you had even managed to disturb him the day prior, which now only seemed to fuel your anger.

You were never one to back down.

You walked straight to him, toes almost kicking the leg of the table as you looked down at his neat writing, his hand flying across the page in rapid succession, no calculator in sight despite the lengthiness of the equations.

It was impressive, you noted begrudgingly, the way he worked so swiftly, and just was you were about to gain his attention, he spoke to you, hand not once slowing as he worked. 

“What do you want?” 

It wasn’t rude, just as it wasn’t polite. If anything, it was abrasive, like the rough cobblestones outside, and not once did he look up at you.

It caught you off guard.

Your mouth opened and shut as you tried to think of something to say.

Was it really worth being hot headed and saying something the day after?

Would he even remember?

Or would you be embarrassing yourself further?

Ultimately you gave up, deciding that there was no point to saying anything anymore, sighing in resignation as you walked around the length of the table continuing to yours. 

You got about three steps away before he spoke again.

“Remember that you’re in the library this time.”

You spun, staring daggers into the back of his head, hand gripping the strap of your bag, “What the fuck is your problem?” Your chest heaved in anger, waiting for him to turn around or answer you, but he didn’t.

The sandy haired man continued his endless equations, leaving you standing behind him as though you had spoken to a ghost. It was maddening, the rush of your blood loud in your ears drowning out the steady scratch of his pencil.

How dare he?

He was just like all the others, like every other man on campus who felt they could speak however they like at any woman as though you were beneath them. 

You stood there for what felt like minutes, but was mere seconds.

Realising that you weren’t to get an answer from him, you continued on your way to your secluded little table, stomping through the aisles, your footsteps echoing loudly in the space on the wooden floor.

When you got to the table, you all but threw your bag down, the heavy textbook slamming onto the wooden surface, making a large bang.

Never in your life had you been so agitated, ripping the chair away from the desk, letting the legs scrape on the mahogany floor. 

One after the other, you yanked your books out of your bag, your notebook and pens, throwing them onto the table without a care. You could feel the heat of your anger creeping up your neck and into your face, and despite your attempts to calm yourself by studying, you ended up just re-reading the same paragraph over and over again, not once absorbing it. 

By the time you decided to give up, the sun had begun to set, and so you hastily scrambled to shove your things back into your bag, not even bothering to tuck your chair in softly, throwing it against the desk and storming out the way you came.

He was still in his regular spot when you stalked past him, his head turned down as he read through his notes, multiple empty chocolate wrappersw spread across the table. 

“Fucking asshole.” You muttered as you walked past him, not bothering to spare him a second glance as you huffed and stormed away, hoping to find some peace in your dorm. 

When you got to your dorm, you were so hungry that you began to feel sick. Realising that in your anger you had forgotten to eat, you wandered down to the pub not far from campus and got a cheap little meal, eating quietly in the corner, a telly playing a soccer game on the screen in the back. 

There weren't many patrons that night, but you could hear the pool table being used in the distance, the loud clacking of the balls being sunk, drowning out the soft sound of the telly. The pub stunk of stale beer and cigarettes, ring stains on all the wooden surfaces from sweating glasses.

It was still early when you finished, and so you made the decision to check out the commons and see if a tv was free.

The night air was cold as you walked back to your dorm, your teeth chattering in your skull as you sped walked, wrapping your arms around yourself to get back into the warmth of the old building. Lights illuminated the old stone walls in a yellow light, casting shadows on the cobblestones and bare trees around you.

It would have been spooky if you weren’t used to it by now, and could understand how first years would become spooked at night alone, walking through the courtyards.

As you made your way towards the common room in your building, you couldn’t help but think about the man in the library. His sandy hair, blue eyes, sharp features and sharper mouth. Who needed a heater when you had this man to fire you up? You could almost hear his grating tone as he mocked you, his glasses shining in the library as he looked down his nose at you.

He made you feel small, unwanted. But you had worked hard to get into Oxford, and you, whether he liked it or not, had earned your place. 

It wasn’t unlike the men you already knew in STEM to be somewhat assholes, especially towards women or any degrees they deemed ‘unfit’ or ‘unworthy’. You had heard many scoffs and sneers at the Arts students, or English Literature kids, especially if it was women, from the STEM boys who seemed to hoard together like a bunch of flies. Or better yet, like a Rat King, unable to break the connection between each other despite how much they fought it.

It was, to follow the pun, a rat race.

The hall was dark as you walked to the commons, but from the window of the door, you saw the tale tell sign of the telly being on. You wondered momentarily if it was anyone you knew that had stayed back, perhaps one of the girls.

Maybe you could settle down with them and watch whatever mind melting soap opera was on, and lull yourself into a stupor. 

The prospect of talking to someone almost dissolved your sour mood, and by the time you opened the door, peering into the flickering light illuminated room, a small smile had begun to pull at your lips.

But that smile was short lived as your eyes met a pair of pale blue ones.

You watched as his lips pulled down in recognition of you, his head turning to look back at the telly. Your heart began to race in your chest again, the door clicking shut behind you, the soft sound of Doctor Who’s theme song filling the room, the screen reflecting off of his rectangular lenses. 

It didn’t help that the small drinks you had at the pub seemed to ignite your previous disdain for the man, as well as dampening your, for a lack of a better word, cognition.

In that moment, you were at a loss of what to do. You wanted to watch tv, but the idea of being anywhere near him infuriated you. Yet, at the same time, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction by leaving, indicating to him that you had given up, and that he had won.

“You going to stand there all night?” He teased cruelly, eyes not once turning back to you, locked on David Tenant as he ran through an abandoned warehouse.

You bristled, teeth grinding down against each other as you stormed past him, “Fuck you.” You dropped down onto the cushion on the other end of the couch. 

From the corner of your eye, you could see his lips purse slightly, obviously hearing you.

No matter how much you tried, you could not get comfortable on the couch, and it wasn’t because the couch had a natural groove from the many people who sat in it, or the obvious stains on the covers and arms, some recognisable, others dubious, nor the permeating cigarette smell that emanated from deep within the foam, but rather because he sat all too comfortable beside you, watching a show you wished you could watch alone.

You shifted against the arm again for the umpteenth, huffing softly in the room. Your ass had fallen asleep because you sat ramrod straight and refused to relax, tucking your legs beneath you not leaning back. No matter what you did, you could not settle, body gearing up for a fight.

When you shifted again, it seemed to pull his attention away from David Tenants doctor.

“You gonna keep huffing in the corner like a baby?”

Your already fragile thread of patience snapped.

“What the fuck is your problem? Have I done something to you? I don’t even know who you are.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say to him. The man sneered, leaning towards you on the couch, “My problem is vapid little cunts like you. Getting by on mummy and daddy’s money whilst the rest of us have to work to stay here. You just party and fuck each other like rats.” His cold eyes razed up and down your body, watching as your face morphed from anger to offence, and then, to rage.

You shot up from your seat, moving to stand over him as he looked up at you, face barely containing his hatred. 

“I don’t have ‘mummy’s and daddy’s money’, I’m here because I worked hard to be here.” You hissed, hands clenched into fists at your sides, “You know nothing about me.” 

“I know you’re friends with Felix Catton and every other vapid, useless cunt that hangs off of his every breath.” His voice lowered, hatred simmering behind his light illuminated glasses.

Your brows furrowed, “Felix and I have a class together. Assigned seating. We walk there together. If-” You straightened, looking down at him before it hit you.

A laugh of disbelief flew from your lips, and soon enough the cocksure anger melted away from his sharp features, replaced by confusion.

“Wow.” You huffed, a bitter laugh filling the air, “You’re jealous.” His eyes narrowed on you, “You’re jealous of Felix.” You watched as his mouth snapped open, “Maybe if you weren’t so-“

“-I’m not fucking jealous of those nobodies.”

Snorting, you shook your head, “Nobodies… Yet people know their name. I don’t even know who you are.”

You waited for him to give you his name, to finally tell you who this infuriating man was, the credits of Doctor Who playing in the background as you stared at each other. Your chest heaved, but all you felt looking down at him was irritation.

“Your anger is misdirected." You growled, "I thought you would be smarter than that.”

The man's jaw ticked, “I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

“I don’t.”

You turned away, suddenly drained from the whole interaction. You didn’t bother to turn back and look at him, or even say another word. You wanted to go to bed, no, needed to go to bed and get away from the man on the couch before you tore your hair out.

As you opened the common room door, his voice called out to you.

“Y/n L/n.” 

The way he said your name sent goosebumps rising on your skin, each syllable pronounced slowly, as though he was savouring your name on the tip of his tongue. Your hand paused on the door as you pushed it open, looking back at him. 

“And who are you?”

Before he could answer, you left, slamming the door shut behind you. You marched straight back to your room, hands in such tight fists that your nails left half crescent moons in the flesh of your palms.

You lay awake most of the evening staring at the ceiling with the interaction on your mind.

He knew you by name, even thought you were friends with Felix, and whilst you weren’t not friendly with him, you wouldn’t say you were closely acquainted. You drank at the same parties sometimes or saw him down at the pub, but the only one-on-one time you had with him was in class. 

Whoever this man was, and whoever he thought you were, he was wrong. And now he was going to regret it.

You knew he would be there, in fact you betted on it, getting up extra early to go to the library to do the one thing you planned on doing that day.

Piss him off.

If there was one thing that men hate the most in the world, it was not being in control, and that was doubled if it was with a woman.

You sat at the table he always did, spreading your textbooks and papers, pens, notes, snacks, water bottle, and even IPod Nano on its surface. You had brought extra things with you today in your bag to spread across the table, some things not even needed to study, but used to take up more space and soil his little territory.

The sun had barely even risen by the time you laid it all out, but you knew it would all be worth it.

And it was, because not even fifteen minutes later, he arrived to the sight of you at his desk, humming as you looked at your notes.

His feet stopped not too far from your (his) table, watching as you met his gaze, devoid of emotion. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling, watching as he clenched his teeth in irritation.

He was almost shaking with anger.

Got you.

You kept the image of innocence, looking back down at your notes as you tapped your pen against the tables surface loudly. You could see his fists clenching in your periphery at his side, his pale green button up shirt with long beige pants shifting side to side as he stood angrily watching you.

“What are you doing?” The blonde’s voice cut through the quiet of the library, irritation evident in his tone.

You didn’t bother to look up, pen still clicking rhythmically against the table, “Hm?”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Placing the pen on your page delicately, you looked up, “Pardon?”

The mans cheeks flushed an angry red as he stared down at you, lips pulling into a tight line, “Whatever you think-“

“-I’m sorry,” You interrupted him, leaning forward to look up into his eyes sweetly, “Do I know you?”

The man leant forward and sneered, “Gavey.”

“Gavey?” You titled your head, biting your lip softly in thought.

Why did that name sound so familiar?

“Yes.” He grit through his teeth, looking down at your spread notes and gear.

Then it came to you.

“Gavey! Michael Gavey!” You beamed up at him, leaning slightly forward on the desk.

Now you knew why he was so familiar.

“You’re the maths genius.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Anyone who had heard about Michael Gavey knew about his stellar intellect when it came to maths, and unfortunately for him, they also knew about his little antisocial outbursts, “You yelled at Oliver on O week.”

You watched with delight as the anger fell momentarily from his face, and embarrassment replaced it. You leant further forward, putting both elbows on the table as you rested your chin on your hands, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Is it true then? You can do any sum just in your head?”

If it was true, he needed to be studied by a team of scientists.

And maybe a behavioural therapist.

Michael stood taller, proud to have been recognised for this part of him as he watched you bat your eyelashes at him. His shoulders rolled back, eyes glimmering with determination behind his glasses.

Men were so easy.

You just stroke their ego a little and their guard comes down immediately.

“Ask me.” His voice was soft, confident, waiting on bated breath to show off his born skill.

You smiled, “Alright. Seven-hundred-and-eighty-nine multiplied by six-hundred-and-fifty-four.”

Without missing a beat, “Five-hundred-and-sixteen-thousand-and-six.”

“Divided by twelve.”

“Forty-three-thousand point five.”

“Times nine.”

“Three-hundred-and-eighty-seven-thousand-and-four point five.”

You leant back in your chair watching him. It was impressive, and if he wasn’t such a prick, you would have openly praised him. But you didn’t have it in you in that moment to give him anything but a lengthy stare, using the time to get a good look at his face without the sneer.

He was handsome, a long face framed nicely by his ‘devil may care’ hair. You wondered if he even bothered to brush it in the morning. The longer you looked at him the more you could see how his sharp features and soft lips would in fact get him the attention he so desperately craved, if only he wasn’t as insufferable as he was. In fact, the more you thought about it, if things had been different, perhaps you would have pursued him, maybe even asked him out for a drink.

Instead, he had made an enemy for himself, and being petty at this point was a hobby for you that you took great time and pleasure in doing, especially if it was for assholes who made the first move unwarranted. 

“Hm.” You tapped your pen against the table, “How do I know it’s correct and you're not just making it up?”

This seemed to anger Gavey.

“I’m not making it up. I do the sums,” He narrowed his eyes, “In my head.”

“I don’t have a calculator to confirm this. For all I know, you could be lying.”

The anger was back, “I’m not lying. I’m never wrong.”

“Sure.”

“I’m a genius.”

“Uh huh.”

Then came the vitriol, his shoulders tensed in rage, “What would you know anything about maths? You’re a History and Philosophy major.” Michael scoffed, seeming to think that his disdain for your degree would upset you in the slightest.

You sighed loudly, pulling the earphones from your Ipod to begin putting them in your ears. You looked at him pointedly, putting a sad little smile onto your lips. 

Show time.

“It’s a shame, you know.” You said sadly.

“What?” Michael responded, over-eagerly.

The earphones sat in your ears and you scrolled down to a song you wanted, letting the music begin to play loudly just to piss him off, the noise turned up high enough for him to hear the lyrics. You didn't show it, but it was too loud, and most certainly hurt your ears, yet it was worth it to see his nose scrunch up.

“That you’re a snob.” Your voice rose over the music in your ears, unable to hear anything but the loud bass line that bounced in your head, “You’re actually cute when you’re not sneering at me.” You let your eyes drop back to your page, ignoring his presence as you strummed the pen loudly against the wood of the desk, unable to hear if he responded, but also not bothered to hear him. You had ended the conversation just the way you wanted.

And it would drive him nuts.

What you hadn’t seen was his mouth opening and shutting multiple times as a blush spread across his cheeks. He stood idly by, utterly unable to produce a single word or sound bar clearing his throat. Michael disappeared from your periphery as he left to sit at the table at the end, dropping into his seat to begin his studies.

But it proved to be fruitless, because as he attempted to settle into the endless stream of equations, all he could hear behind him was the tinny sound of your music blasting from your earphones and the steady grating tap of your pen.

He tried, in vein, for over an hour to focus, before giving up and storming out of the library. It was only then when you lifted your head, smiling at his retreating figure in triumph. 

I win.

Not a word had been written on your page, and not a thing had been absorbed in your head. You lowered the volume of your music, a ringing settling into your ears, before packing up your things to go back to your dorm, deciding that a job well done was deserving of some respite, and in your good mood you would actually read your book.

You spent the rest of your day and better part of your evening reading, lounging, and snacking on some chips as you snuggled into your sheets. 

Being the creature of habit that you were, you ended your triumphant day going to the pub to have another cheap meal and a drink or two, spending a considerable amount of the evening chatting up another student who had also stayed behind during the break.

He was cute, and funny, and although he hinted more than once that he would like to continue your evening back in either one of your dorms, you didn’t have the energy to entertain a potentially dull night of barely there pleasure. 

He smiled too wide and had too much confidence to really know what he was doing, and you felt immediately that he would be the type to get his and leave you high and dry. So you parted, promising emptily to get another pint together soon enough, though you knew it wasn’t your stellar verbal company that he wanted.

Sinking into bed that evening was an easy and pleasurable experience. You crawled into your sheets, smile on your face and victory on your tongue. Your tit-for-tat was successful, and now you could finally just focus on your work, and not the sandy haired Michael Gavey who seemed to invade your every thought. 

-

The sun trickled through the curtains by your bed, a warm stream of light hitting your face. You woke with a stretch, body slowly waking up with the day.

You didn’t have much planned after yesterdays success, and didn’t have a want to do much at all, but there was only so much lounging in bed one could do over the many weeks of break, so you decided to go back to the library, at least for an hour to make up for yesterdays losses (despite the personal win). 

You looked around your room and settled on a skirt and some tights with a turtle neck sweater, unable to find anything else as a pile of dirty clothes had slowly accumulated in the corner. You made a note to yourself to take it to the laundromat later with some coins and your book. 

The walk to the library was the same monotonous one as it always was. The same stone walls, the same dark wooden detailing and floor, the occasional beautiful stained glass window, and the ever strange silence of an empty college. There was a light layer of frost on the grass outside, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it would snow. The trees were bare except for a handful of orange and brown leaves, hanging on for dear life, or perhaps, holding on with dead fingers.

Rigor mortus of the petiole.

The steps creaked beneath your feet as you made your way up to your usual spot, the library cold as it always was, causing you to wish you had brought a warmer jacket with you. When you got to the landing, you expected to see him, sandy hair, glasses slipping down his sharp nose, hunched over the same textbook as he wrote out his equations with dizzying speed, but the tables were empty, and the aisles were barren, and all that was in the library was you.

Briefly you wondered for a moment if something has happened to him. Had he gotten sick? Too ill to crawl out of bed, laying in his sheets with a fever and no one to comfort him?

You frowned at the thought. 

Why did you care?

His ego was likely too bruised to show his face, and was hidden in another alcove or other smaller library somewhere else, or perhaps even in his room.

Maybe he even had friends, and decided to spend the day with them, likely another student in STEM. 

You could have sworn you saw him and Oliver Quick in the pub one night together.

You walked past his empty table and continued down the end to where your little nook was, grazing your fingers along the spines of the books as you went. Each ridge another spine, each spine another thousand upon thousand of words that had been read, dissected, and rewritten by many a student. You liked to think about how many hands had touched the pages, how many eyes had skimmed the words, how many bags, beds, tables, couches, cars or trains they had been in over the years, and how many times you had read them, or held them in the same spot.

You emerged from the isles to your nook.

It was not what you had expected that morning.

Certainly not what you had expected any morning come to think of it, but even so, your steps halted and your heart began to quicken, anger slowing creeping up your neck, heating your face.

He was sat at your table.

Your table.

His glasses had slid down almost to the tip of his nose, a long slender finger daintily pushing them back up to the bridge, lips pouted in their natural pout as his hand flew about his notes, writing equation after equation in a speed that would intimidate even Einstein. Michaels hair was disheveled, as though he had run his hand through it multiple times, as he contemplated the pros and cons of sitting there. 

He must have landed on the pros.

“What are you doing.” You bit out, an irritating sense of dejavu seeping into your bones.

Michael didn’t look up at you, your feet almost pushing through the floor, anger rooting you in place.

“Hm?” Came his noncommittal reply.

It set you off.

“You’re in my seat.” You hissed, swiftly stepping towards him.

The light from the window beside him cast shadows across half his face as he looked up at you, he sucked his teeth loudly, “Your seat?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” His head dipped back down to his notes, his blue eyes looking up at you from under his lashes as his hand continued to write, “This is a public library. It’s a public seat.”

You stormed forward dumping your bag atop his hand, his pencil scraping across his notes on the paper, “You know exactly what I mean.”

His jaw ticked, steely blue eyes flicking to where you dumped your heavy bag atop his notes and own text book.

“I’m sorry, I’m not tutoring on break.” His tone all too demeaning as he over pronounced each word.

Your hands slammed down onto the desk as you leant forward towards his face, “I don’t need a tutor and you know it, you miserable little cunt.” Anger boiled inside of you, building and building, ready to burst. 

Michael bristled, “Who the f-“

“-Oh, fuck you, Michael. You’re a miserable piece of shit, thinking you’re above everybody else, sneering at anyone who dares to be happy. I’ve seen you, always sulking about in the shadows because no one can stand to be around you.”

The silence was almost deafening.

Oh God.

That was a low blow.

You had taken it too far.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling very guilty, “Michael,” You started, “That was-“

A pale hand lifted in front of your face, the man standing almost near silently in front of you. He went from below you, to towering above in a split second, his sheer size double your own. He stared down his sharp nose at you with a look of contempt, the rage behind his eyes flickering with barely held restraint.

“Do you want to know what I think?” His voice was low, lower than you had ever heard it go, emotion almost drained entirely from it except an icy edge which sent the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

You stayed silent, watching as he stepped away from the desk, chair scraping on the wood to come towards you slowly, your heart beating like a drum behind your ribs.

Though you could step back, his eyes kept you glued to where you were, head craned up to look at him as he came closer, the tension in his jaw growing with every passing second.

It was unnerving, and everything within told you to run, but something made you stay.

Call it guilt.

Or intrigue.

His hand dropped to his side, slow, calculated steps coming closer, each one as silent as the next as his cheek twitched whilst looking you over.

“I think,” He began, a foot away from you, voice low, “That you’re just desperate enough to accept the scraps that they give you, because you fear if you don’t,” Another step, taking him toe-to-toe with you, “That you’ll be a nobody like me.”

Your mouth became dry, lips slightly parted as a tinge of hurt spread through your chest.

You shook your head faintly, “I don’t think you’re a nobody.”

A brow lifted, “You called me a nobody.”

“I was wrong.”

“Wrong because it was hurtful? Or wrong because you have more in common with me than you do with them.”

You shook your head, “Why is it always about them?”

“It is always,” He sneered, “About them. I have watched you take what little you can get from them like a beggar. Talking to Felix in the hallways, doing his homework for him, smiling at him like a dolt.”

Your eyes widened in surprise.

“I’ve seen you.” His shoe bumped against yours as he leant forward, “You’re nothing to them. How long was it before they even learnt your name?”

“Stop it.” You whispered, feeling tears prickle in your eyes.

Michaels head tilted, “Why? It’s the truth.”

“It’s not.”

The sandy haired man clicked his tongue at you, head tilting, “You and I both know that’s not the truth, is it? What did Farleigh call you again?”

A lone tear fell down your cheek, leaving a wet track in its path. Your lip wobbled as you tried to keep your composure.

You didn’t know how he knew.

You didn’t know how he could have known what Farleigh had said to you that night, drinking in the pub together.

You hadn’t even meant to join them, but their table grew bigger and bigger until it swallowed your own and soon enough they were buying you shots. It was never a regular thing, you were never quite in the circle, but not quite out of it either. More-so lingering in the nothingness of neither here nor there. 

Michael looked at you pityingly, not in a way where he held empathy for you because of it, but in a way where he pitied you for being the way you were. It was demeaning. Cold. 

Detached.

“Parvenu.” His lips pronounced each syllable slowly, darkly, and it made you ache.

Another tear fell as you took a sharp intake of breath, sniffling roughly. 

Shame built inside of you. 

It was humiliating to relive that moment, let alone with Michael. And now that you knew he had witnessed or heard it, you wondered who else may have been there to hear Farleigh’s degrading comment and snort of a laugh followed. The way he would raise his brows at you the rest of the night as if to say ‘See? You don’t belong here, and we can all see it’, ‘We let you here because we can’.

“I don’t understand-“

Michael interrupted you, "-You let them walk all over you, and for what? Parties and accolades?” The corners of his lips turned downwards, “They don’t even respect you. Do they know that you’ve stayed behind on break alone? Do you think they’ll think of you in their mansions? Do you think Felix would ever-“

“-You talk about them as if they’re irredeemable, but they’ve been far nicer to me than you have.” Another tear fell, and your stomach tied itself in knots. 

The anger seemed to simmer in his eyes, “They don’t deserve you.”

Your brows pulled down in confusion, “What?”

“You let them use you, chasing after their fleeting affections. It’s pathetic.”

Anger began to simmer inside of you, “Pathetic? You know what’s pathetic?” You leaned up on your toes, “The fact that you have so clearly been watching me, and everything that I do, and not once have you tried to be my friend. Do you know what’s pathetic?” Your voice began to rise, heat inside of you rising with it, “Your anger and hatred of them clearly stems from jealously and embarrassment because they would never talk to-“

Your eyes widened in shock, his lips crashing against yours as he yanked you forward, hand at the back of your head pulling you in tightly. You were so in shock, you didn’t know what to do, standing stiffly in his arms as the other circled your waist and pulled you against him. 

It only took a second for your brain to come to with what was happening, your eyes sliding shut as you kissed him back roughly, all teeth and vitriol as you bit the soft flesh of his lips roughly. He hissed, pulling you closer, your feet stumbling against his as he backed you towards the wall of books beside the desk. 

Your spine hit the shelf roughly as he shoved you back, both of you panting before you grabbed his shirt angrily, yanking him back towards you. You were so furious, so almost feral that you needed this more than you would have thought.

There was something about him, something about him that made you want to pull your hair out and also sit on his face to silence him. 

His kisses weren’t skilled, but they were filled with passion as his teeth clashed against yours, a fight for dominance ensuing as you let a hand slide up into his hair and pull. A grunt came from deep within his chest as you yanked at the roots cruelly, hoping it would hurt him. Heat built in your gut rapidly, the need for him growing stronger with each passing second. 

The hand on your waist slid down further, pulling up your skirt as his fingers pressed against your clothed core. You gasped into his mouth, hips thrusting forward from the pressure. With the other hand disappearing from the back of your head, it met the other between your legs, hooking into the gusset of your tights before you heard a loud rip, cold air immediately hitting your core. 

You gasped loudly, Michael taking advantage as he slid his tongue into your mouth, flicking it upwards against the back of your teeth. He tasted faintly like chocolate, and it was a taste that you didn’t mind at all. His fingers immediately sought out your centre, sliding impatiently between your folds to gather the wetness from your entrance. 

His movements were sloppy, yet focused, drawing it up to your clit as he rubbed fierce circles into it that bordered on painful. You nipped his bottom lip harshly again, yanking his head back and away from you to look at his face as two long digits circled your entrance. 

The pupils of his eyes were enlarged, almost swallowing the blue of his iris whole. His cheeks were flushed a dusty pink, and lips a deep red after your bites. The glasses upon his face were slightly skewed and lightly fogged, the hair atop his head sticking up in different directions from your rough handling. You didn’t even get to observe him for longer before he roughly shoved the two fingers inside.

“Fuck.” You hissed, back arching towards him, shoulders roughly pushing into the bookshelf.

A mean smirk pulled on his lips as he crooked his fingers against the front of your walls, quickly thrusting his hand in and out with dizzying speed. Your breath caught in your throat, brows pulled down as you looked at him, low whine falling from your lips.

“So wet already.” Michael teased, thumb lightly brushing your pearl, a spark of intense pleasure shooting up you. 

You pulled his head back towards you, moaning into his mouth as he continued to fuck you with his fingers, the sound of your arousal loud in the both of your ears. Michael pulled up one of your legs, hooking it around his hip, the cold metal of his carabiner pressing sharply into your inner thigh. Pleasure began to wind tightly in your gut, his long fingers reaching parts of you, your own couldn’t. 

Panting against his mouth, your hand flew behind you to grip one of the wooden shelves, elbow bumping against the spines of the books.

His pace never once faltered, all those hours of quick equations all day boosting his hand strength and stamina. You were surprised that he even knew what he was doing, but the questions floated aimlessly in the back of your mind, not quite sticking.

Your nails dug into the wood of the shelf, hand falling from his hair to his shoulder as your head fell backwards against the shelf, your peak barreling towards you.

“S’close. Please.” You whined, rolling your hips into his hand.

A mean laugh broke your peace, his fingers pulling out of you sharply, preventing you from reaching your release. Your eyes flew open, brows furrowed in frustration as you looked at him, smug smirk on his lips as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, sucking on the arousal soaked digits. 

You moaned weakly looking at him as he did it, hips rolling towards him in an attempt to get him to touch you again. Michael lips pouted at you as he pulled his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop.

“Touch me.” You breathed, pulling him towards you with your leg, the zipper of his cargo pants pressing against you sharply. You sighed, rubbing your centre against his pants, a wet patch no doubt beginning to stain the front of them. 

“So desperate.” He cooed at you, your core clenching at his words as your eyes fluttered.

The hand that had been inside of you quickly made its way to the front of his pants, the other joining as he hastily undid his belt, not pulling it through the loops, followed by his button and zipper. Michael hastily reached into his pants and pulled out his hardened length, the tip pink and weeping, veins crawling up the sides.

You swallowed thickly as you looked down. 

Oh shit. 

Michael was very well endowed.

You didn’t know what shocked you more, the fact that he had such a sizeable cock, or how he thrust it up into you without warning. The stretch was bordering painful and you cried out loudly, Michaels hand slapping across your mouth to stifle the sound. 

“Quiet.” He hissed, pushing in to the hilt, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix. Your eyes screwed shut as you whined into his palm, your walls struggling to accommodate him as he slowly pulled out, each vein and ridge catching on your inner walls deliciously.

The slow heat inside of you began to build once more. 

Michael thrust into you sharply, your head banging against the back of the shelves as he kept his hand against your mouth, the other holding your hip against him. He set a brutal pace, fucking into your slick walls without abandon as he chased his own pleasure, punching the air out of your chest. 

“Fuck.” He hissed, forehead pressing against your own as he looked down to where you were joined, the leg you stood on stretched on your tippy toe to meet his height as he fucked you, “Your cunt is fucking tight.” 

“Mmm.” You moaned, eyes slipping shut as the coil within your gut began to wind rapidly, each brutal thrust stretching you wide against him with painful pleasure. 

“You gonna cum?” He panted, his eyes shutting behind his glasses that slid down his nose, “Can feel you squeezing my cock. Fuck.”

You nodded desperately beneath his hand, eyes opening to meet his steely gaze as he pulled his head back to watch you, the book shelf creaking as he fucked you against it.

You were so close, so fucking close. 

“Go on.” He commanded, “Cum on my cock like a little slut.”

Your core clenched around him, blinding white pleasure coursing through you as you came, his hand falling from your mouth as you moaned loudly, the noise echoing in the library.

“Shit, fuck. I’m gonna-“ Michael’s thrusts stuttered as a long moan burst from his lips, the warmth of his cum filling you.

You whined, hands gripping his hair as you crashed your lips against his, kissing him lazily as you both panted, his cock throbbing inside of you as your walls squeezed every last drop from him. 

Michael pushed as deep as he could go, the warmth of his cum beginning to leak around the base and down your thighs as you pulsed around him. Your mind was blank, fuzzy warmth spreading through your limbs in a soporific manner. He broke away from the kiss, breathing heavily as he looked down at you, glasses slightly foggy.

You searched his eyes and his face before a smile cracked on your lips. Michael mirrored it with a lopsided grin, huffing as he breathed out deeply.

Feeling a burst of confidence, you let a hand brush between your legs, swiping some of his cum that had dripped onto your thigh up to your mouth. You licked it off your finger slowly, opening your mouth to let him see the mess on your tongue before swallowing.

Michael’s adams apple bobbed, his cock twitching inside of you, “Fucking hell.”

You huffed another laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again, sliding your tongue into his mouth so he could taste himself as well as you on his tongue. He hummed loudly, dropping your leg to cradle your head in his hands. 

When you broke away once more, you couldn’t help but notice the glaringly obvious. 

Michael Gavey just fucked you in the library.

His tongue wet his lips as he looked at you, “Was that good?” A beat, “For you?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, “You?”

“Yeah.”

Silence began to stretch between the two of you before you shifted your hips, Gavey took the hint and slowly slid from your walls, causing you to whimper from the overstimulation. He tucked himself into his pants as you righted yourself, looking down at the gaping hole in the gusset of your tights.

“Well this will be an interesting walk home.” You mused, a hum of a laugh tickling the back of your throat.

Michael snorted, “Made quite the mess.”

“You did.”

Michael smirked, “It wasn’t all me now. I can’t take all the blame.”

You let your skirt drop, smoothing it down as you stepped away from the bookcase, looking back up at him.

“I suppose not. There was effort on both ends here.”

“There was.”

You nibbled at your lip, the unspoken words just at the tip of your tongue, “Michael-“

“-27. We’re in the same block.” His eyes searched yours.

Room 27? Why-

“Did you want to get a drink?” Michael blurted, shifting on his feet awkwardly as though you hadn't just fought and angrily fucked against a bookshelf. 

You looked at him closely. There was no sign of insincerity in his eyes.

He was offering an olive branch. 

You let a smile wash over your face, enjoying how his own came to match it.

“Sure."

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to any tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! <3

Taglist: @magnificentdelusionr @twglitching @fan-goddess @mydemimonde @itsshizyne @4v1d-m3t4l-3nj0y3r @liv-cole @lcecgg @sepherinaspoppies @marihoneywk @trashy-panda777 @bellaisasleep

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

You know, it would be interesting for me to read the gloomy Disney characters. By the type that the Reader accidentally enters the Disney world. Or is already in this world. For example, a man! The Evil Queen× reader. Just imagine that the mirror says that the most beautiful is the reader and the man!The evil Queen was interested.. Well, or dark! A man!A Disney princess who believes in love and believes that the reader is his true love and that the reader should belong only to him.

Sorry for the bad English

Don't apologize

You're perf, babes

Yandere!Genderbent!Evil King x GN!Reader x Yandere!Genderbent!Snow White

CW: Death, obsessive behavior

"Magic mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" The vain king asked his enchanted mirror as he often did whenever his pride was wounded. King Hadewig was the envy of men and women. Cold and beautiful, his features were cut like an ethereal ice sculpture. Intelligent, talented, and ruthless, most everyone either wanted to bed him or be him. However, his power was not guaranteed for long.

Hadewig was King only by responsibility, and not by actual title. His title was, legally, Prince Consort. He married his, now deceased, wife when he was a young bachelor, and she was the only eligible bachelorette of suitable status as a widow. Being so much older than him, it was an "unfortunate", but not "unsurprising" passing of the crown when the Queen died and left her son in Hadewig's care.

The only reason the child wasn't immediately crowned king was because of Hadewig's charm and influence, convincing the court that the young Prince Snow was too irresponsible to rule the country. But it was difficult to continue that lie going, even with Hadewig purposely keeping Snow ignorant of his future kingly duties by treating him as a servant, for now the boy was twenty years of age, and truly should have not only been coronated years ago, but also wed off to the available princess of the neighboring kingdom, a woman as old as Hadewig.

But his potential loss of power wasn't the reason for his low self esteem that day.

"You are, my king. There is one who approaches, but does not yet share with you what makes you fair."

The king slumped in his seat in an uncouth like manner. "Then why does my hunter not look at me like a man?"

King Hadewig's personal hunter, an immensely talented killer that didn't just slaughter animals for the king. And the only person who simply looked at the king. Nothing Hadewig did could change the professional look on (Reader's) face during their meetings. No matter how charismatic he was with his words, how stylish his clothing was, nor the love potions he attempted to spike (Reader's) drinks with, they were seemingly immune to every one of his attempts. In their most recent meeting, the one that left Hadewig depressed, he had offered his hunter a glass of wine, which they turned down, stating that the last drink they had received from the king did not agree with them.

"I can not tell you that, my lord. I only can report what I see, so unless your hunter speaks their secrets out loud while I spy, I am blind to their feelings for you."

Hadewig groaned, upset and broken hearted.

"Show me my hunter, again."

The face in the mirror melted, dissolving into an image of (Reader) leaving the castle. Their strong frame sent shivers down the icy man's spine. His first and only marriage was one of political importance, with no love or warmth between the husband and wife. But in the presence of his Mx. Hunter, the king was set ablaze. The intense feeling of heat was dowsed when he witnessed the bastard he hated most in the world approach his hunter.

At the steps of the castle, Snow had been timidly watching the triumphant hunter from afar, gathering the courage to approach them. He had never known shame, never feeling any sort of embarrassment about the state of his dress, but in the presence of the person who always smelled faintly of iron, he was reduced to two inches tall.

Stepping lightly like a mouse, the short adult snuck up behind (Reader), still debating whether or not he was actually going to announce his presence.

His decision was made for him, however, being noticed by (Reader) almost immediately.

"Good afternoon, your highness." They said, turning sharply on their heel to face him.

The hunter was the only person to address the prince by his royal status.

"Ah- how did you know it was me?" He asked incredulously. A pink blush warmed his entire head, wrapping around the back of his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

"Because I could hear you." (Reader) offered a kind smile to the shy, younger man. They felt sympathy towards him, with the way his cold step father treated him. With what they had done to him.

Snow was impressed by how cool (Reader) was. And a small part of him wished to impress them as well. He tried to straighten out his worn out rags. "What brings you to the castle today?"

"To gift the king a wolf pelt. And also," (Reader) reached into their pouch, pulling out a pressed flower, "to gift you this."

The prince sucked in his gasp, wide eyed and lips pressed tight.

"I apologize for not finding something better for your highness."

"No!" He panicked, grabbing the flower with both hands. "It's beautiful!"

He hadn't received a gift since the passing of his mother.

"Happy Birthday, your highness." (Reader) bowed, then turned swiftly, leaving the young man hyperventilating and sweating.

Only the king and his mirror heard Snow whisper long after (Reader) left: "I love you."

Three days later, and the king was losing his mind over the interaction. Snow was visibly taller, standing straighter as he worked, singing as he cleaned the castle grounds, and it was bothering him.

Hadewig kicked over his chair in frustration. "Magic mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

"The one you fear is getting stronger, the confidence has warmed his winter, and people shall notice his spring awakening. The prince now glows more brightly than you, whose anger has etched lines of hatred into his ice like face."

King Hadewig released a scream, losing his control before quickly sharpening back up, running his hands through his messed hair.

He left his study, storming over towards a frightened servant.

"Send for my hunter."

Before (Reader), the king was disheveled, worrying (Reader) something awful.

"I can not stand for this disrespect any longer." His gaze read cold and cruel as it pierced the hunter's. "You understand that you are mine, correct?"

(Reader) thought about the flower and felt a wave of anxiety. "Yes, your highness."

"You understand that you belong to me?"

"Yes, your highness."

He sighed ever so slightly, before retrieving a wooden box from his desk. "I have another assignment for you.

Kill my son."

Nausea threatened to erupt from the seasoned murderer. "My lord?"

"Take him deep into the woods, and bring me back his heart." He held out the box. It was a test, as though (Reader) hadn't proved their loyalty to the mad man enough.

The empty box was heavy in (Reader's) hands.

"As you wish, your highness."

Prince Snow spun in the field of flowers as he searched for the most beautiful flowers for the hunter. It was the best day of his life! His father had given him a colorful outfit that fit him and the hunter had asked him out on a date! Well, they didn't call it a date, but what else could it have been?

He wove a crown for (Reader) while imaging their wedding day, becoming King and Royal Consort and having a real crown placed on their head.

(Reader), however, was weighing their options, not truly paying attention to the prince, and trying to ignore his childlike excitement.

What would the king do, if he was made a fool?

"Oh, hunter!" Snow ran over, holding out the delicate crown. "I made this for you! May I?"

And that was all it took, for (Reader) to spare his life.

They bent down, feeling the weight of the crown on their scalp. It smelled nice. Before Snow could retreat, (Reader) wrapped their arms around his thin waist. They had killed so many people before, but this was only the second time they felt unbearable guilt.

The first was after they took the life of the Queen.

"(Reader)?" Snow stuttered out, feeling weak in their strong arms.

"You must run, your highness." (Reader) whispered into his ear.

"What?"

"The king has ordered me to kill you. So please, run. Far away, into the woods." They released the prince, and it was only then that he noticed the heavy bags under their tired eyes.

"Why? I don't understand-"

"Leave. It won't be long before that witch discovers my lie."

Snow fell to his knees, holding onto the edge of (Reader's) shirt for dear life, falling apart in front of them. "Please, no! Come with me! If he would kill me, what would he do to you for sparing me? Please, run away with me!"

(Reader) bent down to release his fingers from their hem, planting a kiss on his forehead as they did so. "I hope when I meet you again you will have found a name more worthy of such a warm and kind person. For as of this moment, Prince Snow is dead."

Excitement threatened to crack the King's cool demeanor as he observed the bloody heart in his hands. (Reader) was distant, but that didn't matter to Hadewig, for now there was no competition for his hunter's affection. They would soon be his, even if he had to use force to make it so.

"Excellent work, my faithful hunter." He offered a practiced smile, unnerving (Reader) who prayed that the pig heart made a convincing decoy. At least until they could escape and hide out in the mountains, far away from the King's eyes.

(Reader) gave a deep bow. Then they left, calmly getting on their horse, and leaving, not taking a single glance behind them as they sped off, emergency bag already packed on their steed.

Back in Hadewig's room, he caressed the box affectionately, thinking about his lovely hunter. The stress had certainly caused a frown line, just as the mirror said, but he was working at reversing the damage.

"Magic Mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" He dreamily asked, slightly nervous that the rage had permanently ruined his perfect face.

"Hiding deep within the woods, tending a wounded heart, the fairest in the land hides. Prince Snow still lives."

The king scoffed. "I have his heart right here, mirror."

"No, within that box lies the heart of a pig."

The box fell from Hadewig's hands. "A pig..?" His face scrunched up painfully. "(Reader) would never betray- they belong to me! ME! Guards! Where is my hunter?!"

"The hunter is flying towards the mountains, away from the woods they released the prince into."

Hadewig collapsed at his desk, screaming in agony while pawing at his chest. "No! It's all his fault! Find me that little bastard- I'll kill him myself!"

The seven dwarven women listened to the young man recall his tale of woe, his eyes full of tears but a smile still on his lips. "So, if you please, could I stay here? Just until my love returns for me."

Happy sighed dramatically, blushing and twirling her beard. "That (Reader) is so brave~"

Grumpy smacked the back of her head. "That double crosser may have saved the prince, but that doesn't mean they won't double double cross him!"

Bashful stomped a foot. "It's true love! They would never!"

"Well, they never confessed their feelings," Doc said while cleaning her glasses, "they could have saved Snow out of the goodness of their heart."

Snow smiled, trying to calm the fragments of his heart. "I have to believe, to hope, that (Reader) loves me as I love them. To risk death for me.. but, they said we would meet again. And I trust them."

It was painful, knowing that his father wanted him dead, but what was worse was hearing that (Reader) had put their life in danger for him. Despite all the pain and punishment Snow had endured, he never held it against his step father, but now..

A dark, bitter seed had been planted.

And throughout the night as the household slept, Prince Snow could feel it grow, threatening to burst forth from his chest. The dwarven women were so kind to him. So inviting, and trusting.

He wondered what else they would do for him.

The dark haired man knew that the apple was poison from the moment it was placed in his hands. What kind of elderly man would be this far out away from any sort of town, especially if they were traveling to sell produce? He didn't know who the old man was, but knew that he must have been in cahoots with the king.

"Oh, I don't have any money." Snow said quite sadly, placing his head in his hand.

"For such a lovely young man? Free of charge."

"Are you sure?"

The old man was certainly no real beggar. Nothing made sense. It was cruel, what Snow thought to do, especially if he was wrong, but in case he was right.. Snow whispered to a bird before smiling brightly at the stranger, taking the apple in both hands.

"Of course, please take it!"

Snow bit into the fruit, but did not swallow, hiding the chunk in his hand. After a few seconds of pretending to chew, he collapsed, holding his breath.

The king almost immediately dropped his disguise, snarling. His once similarly raven hair had a stripe of grey.

In a voice barely louder than a huff, he said "It serves you right, you filthy bastard. I would have let you live, if you had simply left my (Reader) alone."

He exhaled. There was no movement from the floor.

"Are you dead yet? Can you still hear me? I hope you can." The king smiled. "I hope you can hear me from beyond the grave as I finally get my happily ever after."

But as he celebrated the dwarves rushed home from work, and a small bird was rallying forces to find the hunter and lead them to Snow's body.

As he monologued to what Hadewig assumed was his son's corpse, the women returned from the mines, righteously horrified and armed with pickaxes.

Hadewig heard a woman shout "Grumpy, don't!" before a pick connected with his lower back, piercing his organs from behind.

The pain was excruciating, sending fire up his body as blood poured out of him. He imagined (Reader's) face, finally smiling for him as they cradled him in their arms, accepting his love. Hadewig wanted that to be the last thing he saw before he died.

Instead, he witnessed Snow, smiling up at him from the floor.

(Reader) arrived just a moment too late, having been closer than they had expected due to how deep into the woods Snow had traveled. They witnessed the sobbing dwarves sitting at the door, too upset to enter their own home where the young prince they tried to rescue lie dead.

The hunter pushed passed them, not wasting a second to grab the young man. He was still warm, but wasn't breathing.

Snow kept his eyes closed as he felt the worst pain he had ever known.

(Reader's) hands slammed into Prince Snow's chest. A rib cracked under their strength, but Snow refused to show it.

Then their lips pressed against his.

His nose was held shut as (Reader) forced air into his throat, trying to get him to wake up. They continued the repetitions a medicine man had taught them while blowing air into his lungs.

"God damnit, Snow, wake up!"

They leaned in, and felt him breath against their mouth. His large brown eyes fluttered open, and his face reddened.

His lips curled into a weak grin. "You came back for me.."

Guilt washed over (Reader), hugging him tightly to their chest. "I'm sorry I left, Prince Snow."

Warm hands ran through (Reader's) hair. "Please.. Call me Theros."

The regret and pain kept (Reader) still, allowing the recently "revived" prince to pull them in for a kiss.

After all that (Reader) put him through, a kiss was the least they could do.

But for the born again man, it was just the beginning.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Is there any way I could request more of Danny's Grill? I keep re reading it and it's so great!

Danny's mansion amazed Tim, which said a lot given that he had lived in the Drake and Wayne Manors. It seemed almost like a castle, with its four floors and a few towers (four at each corner of the fenced-off stone. Danny had his property enclosed. )

Everything screamed old money and was well taken care of. He also was surprised to find that the whole place had a lot of natural light.

The drive out of Gotham got them away from the dark cloudy skies to wide blue, and the mansion had plenty of strategically placed windows that caught the sun to light up the rooms.

It was likely that way since the place was obviously built before electricity. Even the air felt lighter, sweater, and caused ease to rest in his bones. Tim found himself strolling through the place, oddly at peace with the silence.

He had taken a dip in Danny's pool, adoring how it was designed to resemble a natural river, complete with a waterfall. It was still a pool, with the proper level of chlorine and tile floor, but there were rocks and multiple plants all around that really sold it to him.

The waterfall was made from unevenly stacked rocks as if carved out of a cliffside. He enjoyed sitting near it, flouting in in the rippling water and listening to the falling water.

Tim found a makeshift bench from the stacked rocks right under the waterfall, where he could comfortably sit down and have the water reach his shoulders. He found himself in that same spot often over the week since he came to stay with Danny.

He was in a fluffy red bathrobe- and nothing else- having just finished a shower to wash off the pool's chlorine. His bare feet patted against the tile floor as Tim once more appreciated the artistic white and gold wallpaper.

He loved that it had leaf-like designs that weren't all over but small enough to give the place a pop of color.

He was still thinking of a destination, wandering about the large building while waiting for Danny to return.

Danny has also been a gracious host. After the first night, he had made him some food and offered him a room across from his, just as large as the master room. It was a lovely white with gold trimming, matching the rest of the mansion but left room to decorate the walls to his hearts content.

Tim hasn't, but Danny seemed rather insistent that he could if he would like to. That Tim had the option open to him. Danny, he came to find, was all about giving people choices.

What did they want to eat? Whatever Tim was in the mood for.

What should they do? If Tim was okay with being around people, they would go out and take pictures. If he was having an overwhelmed day, then Tim could find his own little corner to sit.

Was it okay if Danny gave him friendly hugs or pats? Only if he asked Tim before going in for a hug.

Could Tim walk around in nothing but a bathrobe? Of course! If it made him feel better, Danny could even avoid the entire west side of the mansion so he wouldn't have to see him if he thought like clothes were a bother.

It was enjoyable but also baffling.

Tim has never met someone who gave him as much attention as Danny did but also respected all his boundaries. He enjoyed talking about them, setting them, and even seemed to glow whenever Tim carefully tested the waters, by placing some that would have upset his past friends and family.

Another thing that needed to be clarified about Danny was that he plainly didn't make any sense at all. Tim had always assumed Danny was middle class- maybe high middle- since he ran his own food truck and all but it was obvious by his house that he didn't need it.

Danny's family- from what Tim had been able to uncover- had always been low, middle class up until Danny had been fifteen. Then their luck turned when a rich distant relative by the name of Pariah Dark willed Danny all his fortunes.

Who was Pariah Dark? What happened to him? Why was Danny the only one he left his money to and not all of the Fentons? Why did this property sit for years without any record of usage yet still look brand new?

There was also the question of whether Danny was human.

Tim is sharp when finding small details that lead to clues that lead to answers.

It's both a curse and a blessing.

In this case, he noticed little things about Danny; his tendency to not notice the cold weather, his slight winces when loud noises were near, his graceful steps that were sometimes a tad bit off of gravity, his eyes seemed to change color- blue and green- and the way he would stare into shadows, gaze following something that Tim could not see.

Tim could have assumed Danny had some mental issues- who didn't at this point?- but he felt that wasn't the real reason or not all of it.

He couldn't explain it, but Danny felt like more. Especially when he returns from Gotham because the air feels aware of his arrival. Like it got excited that Danny was back.

Was the mansion sentient like the House of Mystery? Or was it an extension of Danny himself?

Tim had accompanied Danny on a few of his food truck runs. Mostly as a chasier but Danny had beamed when he asked if he could join him three days into his stay.

He did to observe how Danny interacted with the people of Gotham. Just like the air gane a certain something, whenever Danny sold his ware and the people thanked him, he seemed to puff up in strength.

Not the pride in his work kind of puff up but an actual burst of energy as if though he had taken an energy drink. This was doubly so when he gave the street kids free meals. Helping them seemed almost like a drug to Danny.

It begged the question of whether it was, in a sense, a drug. Because Tim could see all the tiny hints that helping people seemed to do much more for his friend. He had dilated pupils, a droopy smile, and random bursts of energy, and he even got a bit snappy when he went too long helping.

Tim could even claim that it was as if Danny was making Deals, and he did not dismiss his hypothesis because Tim had already dealt with aliens, demons, and gods as Red Robin.

Fae or other magical creatures wouldn't be as far-fetched as he once thought.

Did that mean Danny Fenton was never fully human or that something had happened to him that changed him?

There were many questions. Not enough answers.

Yet despite all of that, Tim couldn't find it in himself to think Danny was dangerous. If anything he could only safely conclude Danny lived and breath to protect others.

Tim, the sole attention to his protective tendencies due to proxy, was all but wrapped in a blanket of affection and respect. It could drive a guy to do something silly, like hang up his cowl, resign from WE and live the rest of his life as a pampered prince awaiting for his King.

How odd.

Tim never wanted to do any of those things, but he felt he would if Danny asked. The best part? He knew Danny would never ask that of him which made him want to stay even more.

It's too bad all good things have an end. Tim thinks wistfully. He would much rather spend his days here, but his family was anxious about the lack of check-in.

Tim didn't want them to find out about Danny and had chosen to send a delayed message from the Nest, letting them know he was undercover, infiltrating a possible new magical court. The Bats knew not to risk his cover but they also wanted some proof he was doing alright.

He had asked Danny if he could go to Gotham for a quick trip, and despit the saddness in his blue eyes, Danny always let him. He even gave him the keys to a his car, walking him to the gate with a promise the gates were always opoen to Tim.

Tim would use those visits to catch up on WE work and deposit information packages at Bat checkpoints. He would also pick up coded folders from other family members who wanted to keep him in the loop should their cases overlap.

It's been three weeks since he came here; in that time, Jason had cracked down on pimps and working people. The family was helping him, as Jason was attempting to fulfill a favor that someone had cashed in and was struggling to find the working boy his contact was worried about.

Apparently, the guy was regularly getting roughed up and was underage to boot. Tim hopes Jason finds the jerks hurting him. He would love to help but he had to figure out Danny Fenton first.

The air brighten, snapping Tim out of his thoughts.

Danny was home.

He turned towards the main gate, scurrying to make it to the front door before Danny could finish driving up the drive way and park his car under neeath the shadow parking spots.

His heart fluttered as he barely slide into the main hall way and the wood of the door swung open. Danny steps in, still wearing his black t-shirt and jeans that he favored when working his truck.

"Welcome home!" Tim tells him, watching Danny's whole face break into a wide grin. It was like dawn breaking over the horizion and it made him feel all sorts of warm.

Danny was definitely beautiful enough to be otherworldly.

"I'm home, Alvin." Danny pauses and then gestures to his robe, his smile turning warm and fond. "Another late swim?"

"I like the water. It helps my bones," He says, shrugging his shoulders.

Danny hums. "I could ask a friend of mine to install a hot watered pool for you."

Tim considers it. He wants to say no but he just knows the mansion will rat him out. Danny seemed to always know when a lie is spoken here. Another check in the Fae theory.

"If....if it's not a bother, that would be nice." He says suddenly overcome with shyness. The feeling vanishes at the utter delight and green eyes of Danny.

"It's never a bother! The east wing has a smaller pool that rarely gets used. I'll make some calls and have it turn into an artificially hot spring for you." Danny chirps. "It would help me relax too. You would not belive the fight I had with Robin today."

Tim stills. "You fought Robin?"

"Not physically." Danny corrected but still shook his head sadly. "We disagreed on the case he's helping Red Hood with."

"What case?" Are Damian and Jason working together on the working boy's case? Or was it something else? And more importantly did he try Danny's food?!

He may come back for more if he did, and Tim's personal cheat truck was no longer his own!

"I'm not sure of the details, but they are trying to map out all the working girl's corners. He was upset when I told him I would not release that information to a child." Danny sighs. "I know he's Robin, but I could sense how uncomfortable it made him feel, you know? It made my core ache, but Robin took it as me not wanting to respect him as a hero. It was a whole thing."

Tim has so many questions he feels like he might just burst. It's only years of training that had him clamping down on all but one. "You're helping the Bats catch prostitutes?"

Danny's eyes widen "No! No! Not the employees themselves, just their sick pimps. I would never rat them out."

Tim nods once. "Okay."

"I mean it, Alvin. I would never"

And the blue eyes have flickered to green again. Interesting.

But he can't help but relax smiling at Danny. "I know. Thank you for helping them though."

Danny's face flushes, and then he hastily looks away. Coughing into his fist, he mutters, "Are you hungry? I still have some leftover Pizza from today's menu."

"Starved. Want to watch a moive while we eat?"

"Yeah, sounds good-are you-I mean, will you be-um" Danny fumbles over his words gesturing at him. Tim tilts his head in confusion, wondering why he sounds so nervous, until Danny finally blurts. "Is that all you're going to wear?"

"Yeah. It's soft." He says playing with the robe's sleeves and Danny swallows.

"Alright. Okay. I um I'll get the pizza. Will you go pick the moive and get it ready?"

Tim beams, twisting on his heel to do just that and catching the reflection of Danny clutching his chest and screaming silently into a closed fist in a nearby wall mirror. His face is redder than before, and the house ripples with excitement, glee, warmth, and happiness.

Interesting indeed.

[mousy-nona]

Because I'm a sucker for seeing Vox lose it over RadioApple, and also them dancing, maybe a thing where RadioAaple both a little tipsy, dance in Lucifer's room late at night. Vox sees them on his drone and freaks because 1) Alastor is letting himself be unguarded with a person 2) Alastor is dancing and 3) Alastor has, in fact, made nice with the King like Vox was afraid of. Very nice by the looks of it.

“Do you ever think you may have a problem?”

That was Velvette, who was using her best “let’s not piss off the crazy man” voice. 

“No.”

“Not even a little one?”

“No.”

Valentino and Velvette exchanged telling looks, which Vox promptly ignored. He had more important things to worry about, like keeping this stupid drone in the air. Maneuvering the machine itself was easy, but getting around the electromagnetic force field Alastor had set up around the hotel’s perimeter was a whole lot trickier. Vox had been flying in circles for hours, trying to find a weak spot in Alastor’s defenses. 

(He knew it’d been hours because Velvette had started shooting worried glances at him around hour two, Valentino had showed up around hour five, and they’d started a game of rock-paper-scissors to figure out who was going to do a wellness check on him around hour six.)

“Ah-ha!” Vox screamed, jabbing both fists in the air when the force field flexed and glitched, creating a half second window of opportunity. He urged the drone forward, barely zipping past before the shield re-formed. “Boo-yah! Who’s your daddy?” 

Valentino smirked and took in a long drag of his pipe. “Vox, baby, not outside the bedroom.” 

Vox’s metal heart – the same one he always denied having – started beating faster as the camera zoomed closer and closer to the hotel. He zipped to Alastor’s radio tower first, then his room, frowning slightly when all he found was a half-eaten deer, a cooling cup of coffee, and a discarded coat.

From behind him, Velvette clapped her hands with an annoyed huff of relief. “Oh, well, looks like the asshole is out. Too bad, so sad. Can we please get back to something actually fucking important?” 

But Vox shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s 11 o’clock. Alastor usually finishes his business before seven so he can have dinner at eight, or else he gets too hungry to do–” He trailed off when he saw the look on both their faces. They were both staring at him as if he was a terminal patient, come down with an incurable case of Alastor-itis. 

He sighed and re-focused on the screen. “It just doesn’t make sense, okay?”

The library. The lobby. The kitchen. Alastor was nowhere to be found.

Then Vox had a horrible thought. He remembered the rumors flying around town, the wild laughs of excitement and the curses emanating from the hotel recently. He remembered Alastor’s most recent broadcast (“Folks, when living with an annoying roommate, always remember to assert your dominance wherever possible”). And most of all, he remembered Alastor’s smug face as he strolled down the street, humming merrily to himself as he twirled an unfamiliar white top hat on his staff. 

He remembered the strange apple that had appeared on the top right of the hotel, just down the hall from Alastor. 

His heart in his throat, he slowly moved the drone higher, then higher still. Don’t be there, don’t be there, don’t be there –

Velvette and Vox went quiet at the scene that appeared on the screen. Alastor was there all right, but he wasn’t alone. As if he’d suddenly downloaded a virus, Vox could only process what he was seeing in chunks.

He saw the record player first, oddly enough. An old-timey song was playing, static crackling and popping as a low sweet croon, somehow both deep and high, filled the room. 25%.

The room was dark, but a few candles and duck-shaped lamps were gleamed with a heavenly light, washing the pair slowly revolving in the center of the room in a seductive golden glow. 50%. 

The king of hell was there. The expression on his face was…tender. His head was tucked into Alastor’s narrow chest, one hand on Alastor’s shoulder and the other clasped in Alastor’s hand. His eyes were sparkling, almost overfilled with a nameless emotion that Vox knew all too well. Alastor’s hand was curled around his waist protectively (possessively). 75%. 

And finally, Vox saw Alastor. Really saw him, as if for the first time, because this wasn’t his Alastor. His Alastor was always one step ahead, always untouchable, cold, cruel, and capable of truly unspeakable acts of violence with an effortless charm that made his blood boil with envy and need at the same time. 

But the Alastor in front of him…his coat was off. For the first time in fifty years, Vox saw Alastor’s bare skin, his shirt rolled up to his elbows as he allowed another living soul to see him undressed. Unguarded. His eyes, always so alert and aware, were closed. 

Worst of all was his smile. It looked soft. Gentle – or whatever passed for gentle with Alastor. As Vox watched, Lucifer’s lips moved. The words were too soft for the drone to pick up, but whatever it was, Alastor laughed. Not in a mocking or teasing way, but an actual, genuine laugh, as if Alastor was a real boy with a real heart.

100%.

Suddenly, Alastor’s eyes flew open, and he stared at Vox through the screen. The wicked smirk that curled his lips was the last thing the drone ever saw as it glitched, red shaking and warping the feed until it went completely dead, and the three of them were left staring at a black screen. 

Silence reigned. Then – “Well, I’ll be. Looks like the deer found himself a doe.”

Velvette shot Valentino a warning look, then took a hesitant step forward. “Vox – “ Velvette started, but Vox started cackling. Wild, out of control, utterly insane laughs ripped from his wires as his monitor-face went haywire. 

“I am going to kill that motherfucker!”

[threezzyo]

໒‧₊˚ your little secret ∘︴fushiguro t.

∾you were always a good girl, as a governor's daughter, but little did anyone know... it's only natural to have a crush on your bodyguard. 6'1", the biggest muscles you've ever seen, scars begging to be licked. months of seducing him leads to something you wanted, something secret between the two of you. daddy doesn't have to know that his daughter is hooking up with her bodyguard behind the scenes.

∾older!bodyguard! toji fushiguro x fem!brat!reader. modern au. word count- 3.4k ∾NSFW! MDNI! age gap, (17 years) reader is a senior in high school (19, early birthday). dark-ish content! brat taming. no use of y/n. toji is a bit harsh... kinda 'used' as a toy. (mentions of using as a sleeve) usage of brat, slut, minx, good girl (for reader) and daddy, oldie, mister (for toji). promiscuous reader. finger sucking. car sex. smoking. oral (m recieving) riding! pussyjob kind of. slight exhibitionism (in a parking lot where literally anyone can see them......) biting. lots of teasing lorddd. just filthy, depraved, NASTYY smut.

∾indi's notes: i am sorry for being so iffy with posting and i will also stick to a theme now lol 😜 divider creds to @/cafekitsune

you were nineteen and hopelessly in love with your 36 year old bodyguard.

you had a student council meeting today, and was the last one to leave. toji fushiguro, your bodyguard (more like chauffeur) was waiting against the brick wall of your fancy pants school, cigarette in hand. he seemed to be texting someone, his mood irate.

“oh, y’er finally here.” he says in that rough voice you absolutely love. "took you long enough, brat.”

he pretends not to notice your skirt hitched up with your ass practically hanging out, or the two unbuttoned buttons on your thin white blouse that doesn’t do much to hide the lacy black bra you decided to wear.

it became a routine, before he picked you up, you’d unbutton your blouse a tiny bit and hike up your pleated skirt in the girls bathroom. maybe slather on some lip tint.

“i’m not a brat. and i told you i’d come out late.” you retort, skipping down the parking lot.

“unlock the car, oldie!” you yell, already reaching the expensive car he drives you around in. it’s yours, the porsche 911 carrera cabriolet, but why not let the handsome man drive it for you?

“tch.” he mumbles to himself, unlocking the car. "what a minx."

you were already nice and comfortable in the passenger seat when he got there, curled up on the fancy leather, your skirt riding up to your mid thighs. you were scrolling through whatever social media was popular, your headphones plugged into your ears.

what a typical high school girl.

he knows it’s wrong. he’s nearly twice your age, and you just turned nineteen, just a baby. and just because you’re the governors daughter doesn’t mean you were all prissy and proper, or sweet and innocent, you were quite the opposite.

even if your father paid a pretty penny to keep you out of trouble, a little extra cash from you was enough to keep him quiet. a man does what he has to do.

and unfortunately, your hedonistic lifestyle was gonna get your sweet father in trouble- and even worse, toji’s job at risk if he didn’t keep you under control.

“brat.” he leans over and snatches your headphones from the wire.

“toji!” you exclaim, irritated. “give them back, oldie!”

he rolls his eyes, throwing them in the backseat. “get them later. now shut y’er trap and listen to me.”

you grumble, falling back onto the seat. "i'm listening."

he takes a breath. "you know the election coming up, right?"

you furrow your brows. toji doesn't seem to be the political type. "yeah. papa's running for re-election."

his voice is low. "you need to keep a low profile. your father can't have anything tarnishing his reputation. especially his brazen brat. so, imma need you to follow my rules." his hand grips the steering wheel as he parks in an empty business lot.

"hey! i am not a brat!" you ripostes.

"oi. if your dad goes down, so do you, princess. i'd listen to me if i were you." he says, leaning in closer.

you scoff, crossing your arms. "fine. what?"

by crossing your arms, you slightly push up your lace clad bosom, easily seen through the sheer material of your white blouse.

his eyes flicker down.

like you didn't notice.

he rolls his eyes, looking back into the empty concrete lot. "y'er not going to go out for any party. y'er definitely not talking to any stranger. or any boys, for that matter. and you gonna have to start wearing something more..."

you grin. "more what?"

"more prudish." he grits, his eyes blazen. "can't have you prancin' around like that."

despite his tone, there's a hint of arousal in his voice, and he can feel the blood rushing right where he didn't want it to be. he clears his throat and tries again, "just follow those rules while i'm around, okay? it will make things easier for y'er daddy."

you roll your eyes, pulling your skirt down a bit and buttoning your blouse again. “just send me to a damn convent, then.”

toji grits his teeth at the girl's defiance. why does she have to be such a brat? and why did his dick twitch at the sight of her fixing her clothes? "don't be so stupid, girl. i'm just looking out for your safety, and if you don't cooperate, there will be consequences."

“consequences? like what?” you ask, your eyes wide and curious.

"like... being punished," he murmurs, barely audible. "if you disobey me or disrespect me in any way, i won't hesitate to discipline you."

you didn't realize how close toji had gotten to you, feeling his minty tobacco breath hit the side of your face.

there was an opening. and you took it.

"i wouldn't mind being punished.” you say with a sultry smile, giggling.

fuck.

she's right there, forbidden fruit, so very tempting.

he really shouldn’t, but he did.

"you wouldn't?" he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. "well, you better be prepared for anything then." he grins.

he swiftly unbuckled your seatbelt. "get in the backseat. you wanna act like a slut, i'll treat you like one."

you're pushed into the back of your car, toji following you. without warning, he pulls you into his lap, so that you're straddling him. "toji!" you squeal, eyes wide open as you drink in the lecherous look in his eyes.

"toji-" you're abruptly cut off by his palm.

"didn't tell you to talk, now, did i?" his shit-eating grin was so infuriating, but also so enchanting. "you gotta listen to me, sweet girl. i don't want a single word out that damn mouth."

you narrow your eyes, but comply anyways.

"good girl." he smirks, sticking two fingers in your mouth. "suck."

you looked absolutely bewildered. “to-“

“suck.”

he sticks his two fingers in your mouth, going down your throat and causing you to gag.

that look in his eyes, it was so lewd. it just made you more turned on.

your tongue swirls around his digits. you look like you’re pouting by how your bottom lip sticks out, lips latched on his fingers.

he could hear your sinfully wet sounds as you suck on his fingers, soft whines escaping your lips.

he slides his fingers out of your mouth, a little wet pop! sound.

“do the same with my cock.” he demands, pushing you to the floor of the car.

you’re on your knees, silently thanking the gods for this opportunity. a true blessing in disguise.

“gladly, toji.” you grin, your head resting on his knee. your fingers ghost over the tent in his grey sweatpants, eyes never leaving his.

he looks like a mess, his pants practically bursting at the seams.

“i don’t have all day, sweetheart.” he warns, pulling at your hair. “no time for y’er dilly dallying.”

you sigh, wanting to tease him more. he spreads his legs a bit further, and you pull down his sweatpants, before palming the bulge in his boxers.

“damn, daddy.” you giggle, tracing the wet spot. “all of this for me?”

“jesus, girl, you can’t even follow orders?” he groans, grabbing at your wrists and forcefully makes you pull down his boxers. his dick sprung up, nearly hitting your nose. angry, veiny, girthy. the others you've hooked up with pales in comparison to the older man.

you've never been nervous. it was big, too big. "toji, that.. that's not gonna fit." you mumble meekly, staring at it.

"fuck, girl, i know you've taken dick before. don't tell me you're tappin' out so early." he leers. "use your hands if it's too much." he gets comfortable in the leather seat, yanking you closer to the tower he calls his dick.

"daddy. you're so mean." you whine, your breath hitting his tip. "its so hot." he isn't having your shit. he just grips your hair tighter, forcing your mouth open with his other hand. he only pushes your head down so that your lips clamp on his tip.

"urgh- to-" the wind is nearly knocked out of you as he shoves his fat dick further down your throat. it's so messy, tears prick your eyes and your saliva mixed with his pre-cum trickles down his cock, dripping down his balls. now was the absolute worse time to have a gag reflex, stomach heaving as you struggle to open your jaw to fit all of him.

"ahf, to-.." your moans are muffled by his cock, whimpers and whines reaching his ears as you find the energy to bob your head up and down.

"fuuck. good girl." his grip on your hair loosens, allowing you to catch your breath as your mouth unlatches from his dick.

"shit, oldie, what the fuck?!" you whine, coughing into your school blazer.

"just giving ya a break." he's kinda nice at times, wiping away your smeared mascara. "but i'm not nice all the time. you're sucking me off, girl."

you shoot him a glare. "just.. don't shove it directly down my throat."

he chuckles, caressing your cheek. "hurry on, sweet girl."

you whimper, but you abide grudgingly. your sloppy mouth takes him so well, he lets out a low groan of satisfaction at the way your teary eyes make eye contact with him.

"fuck, yes, sweetheart." his calloused hands guide your head up and down as the slick collects and drips down his base. "such a good fucking girl, yes, mmh.." he's merely using you as a cocksleeve now, your tongue swirling around his tip. your nails make half moon indents on his muscular thighs, your staggered breaths hitting his trimmed pubes. your obscene sounds play like music to the older man, your teary, coy eyes glassy as he fucks your throat.

you lick the vein on underside of his cock, bobbing your head up and down, giving yourself a break by also licking the skin on his balls.

using your nimble fingers, you toy with the base of his cock.

“ah, to-ji, please…!” you croak, as his hips piston once more into your awaiting mouth, cum brimming in the back of your throat. you have no choice but to swallow.

the way your teary countenance and cum-dripping lips look to him is delectable. he laughs, throwing his head back as he comfortingly pulls your hair back.

“good girl.” he grins as he sees you wipe the cum off your lips. “you’re getting better by the second.” his expression was so pestiferous- he enjoyed seeing you cough, he enjoyed how you cleared your throat since it was so hoarse. he liked seeing you fix your messy lip gloss, liked seeing you sniffle as you rest your temple on his knee, looking up at him like a darling little kitten. begging for more.

you had never felt so needy before. blowjobs were something you just gave to get a feel for how big a guy was. and if it wasn't to your standards, you left disappointed but he at least got something out of it.

"sweet girl." his fingers toyed with your hair, as if to apologize and comfort you for the rough treatment.

"toji." you whimper, bottom lip sticking out. "please.. i want it so badly."

"ask nicely." he demands, stroking a strand away from your face.

"...please can you fuck me?" you repeat.

"again. use my name."

you groan. he's really making you work for it. "fuck. fuck me, mister, please!" you shift uncomfortably, finally sitting back up on the seat. "toji, pleasee." you whine, straddling his lap again, hovering over his semi-hard cock, while kissing his cheek. "need you so badly."

he chuckles, hands sliding to grip your hips, letting you kiss down his neck. "ah, little minx. can't say no to such a sweet request, can i now?" he drawls, calloused hands sliding down your skirt to squeeze the meat of your ass.

"ah... 'es, toji.." you murmur, kissing his lips. it was your first with him. his lips were chapped in contrast to yours. you tasted like your berry lip oil and his cum at the same time, and he tasted like cigarettes. your head was tilted, your manicure digging into his shoulder as you ravished his lips.

"you taste good, sweetheart." he purrs, guiding you as he maneuvers your thong off of your body. "i'll be taking this, by the way." he whispers, placing a kiss on your neck, stuffing your panties into the pocket of his grey sweatpants.

"t-toji!" you peep, eyes wide in bewilderment. "g-give them back-"

"nah." he sits you down on his lap completely, the base of his now rock hard cock teasing your aching, sopping slit. "ride me, girl. wanna see you try."

your face was even more flustered, if that was even possible. "whatever you say, daddy." you feign your confidence, adjusting your position.

he slides off your white blouse, unlatching your bra. "pretty little tits. wonder who else saw these, hmm?" he teases, tongue teasing your peaks.

"ah- toji! fuck! n...not so sudden!" you instinctively arch your back, nails sinking into his chest covered by his compression shirt. he simply wraps his arms around your waist even tighter, virtually feasting on your perky breasts. "toji! fuck, not there..!" you squeak, noticing the salacious string of of love bites dissipated on your neck, collarbone, and under breasts.

"mm.. nah. i like marking up my girl." he mutters, taking in your nipple in between his teeth.

"ow!" you yelp, tugging on his hair instinctively. "that hurt."

"oh, 'm sorry, baby. won't happen again." his sleazy grin says otherwise.

"toji, ah... need more." you whimper, rocking your hips against his cock, wetting the base with your arousal. "want you in me so bad."

his eyes were dark hearing your pleas, his fingers gripping the meat of your ass. "damn, nasty girl, begging for it? might just give you what you want if you promise to be good."

"please, daddy." you groan, lifting your hips up to hover over his dick.

"so impatient..." he sighs, pressing a butterfly kiss to the back of your ear. "go ahead."

you perk up at his allowance, gently swirling the tip around your dripping arousal, flicking your clit with it. "ah.. fuck!" you cry in excitement, sinking onto his cock, so fast, and you didn't even do that much foreplay to be this wet.

"shit, y’er such a slut." toji groans, feeling you engulf him, you feel amazing. "juust like that, baby, good girl." he presses a wet kiss to your nipple. "ride me, i want to find out how quickly you can cum.”

"t-toji, shit." you croak, feeling the slightly uncomfortable stretch. "wait, please, one second..."

"poor baby." he croons in your ear, stroking your hair softly as you bury your head in his chest, trying to adjust. "too big for you?"

"mhm." your sweet voice comes out muffled, relishing his scent. "can we wait?" you mumble. “let me get used to you?”

he barks. “this ain’t for your comfort, darling. you need ta be taught a lesson here.” his eyes flash with a dangerous spark. “y’er lucky i like you a lil’ bit, letting you ride me and all.”

you whimper, feeling more relaxed after slowly rocking your hips. “ngh- it’s so deep, daddy-“ you groan, finally finding the strength to bounce on his dick. “shittt.” you cry, feebly moving faster to chase your high.

“such a good little slut, hm?” toji chuckles, kneading your ass. “tight pussy for such a loose girl. doin’ daddy so well."

“fuck, fuck, yes!!” you cry. “ah.. ngh- daddy, so good, mmh..”

your mind was hazy, focused on riding him with all the determination you got. you lifted your hips and then sank down on him again, moaning his name over and over again. "t-too good, daddy...!" you whine, chasing your high with all your might, legs cramping.

you felt toji's hands twitch at the side of your hips, granting you some leeway by meeting your thrusts halfway, legs spreading a bit further apart. god, how could he have resisted your temptations for so long? he was so infatuated with the way you cried out his name, kohl smeared around your eyes. the lewd cherry on top was the way your tits bounced in his face, as he fucked you senseless.

"harder, daddy, please...!" you claw at his shoulders, nearly ripping the slutty compression shirt.

and harder he went, his hips slamming into your ass, feeling the slick from your wet cunt stain the expensive leather. you felt the car lurch forward. he made the car bounce over and over again, every time he pounded into your perfect pussy.

"you like it, baby?" he asks you, lips latched to your breasts. "dirty girl- hah- likes my cock rough?"

"yes, yes, -ahh- dont stop, please!" your back arches like cat, relieving your leg cramp by your impending orgasm. the bastard made it so much better worse by thumbing your swollen clit, your legs freezing, rendering you helpless.

"you're so sexy like this." he chuckles, seeing you're letting him throw you around like a doll. "taking me like such a good girl, seemed you learned your lesson, hm?" toji pinches your nipple with his other hand, slowing down when you spray all over his thighs with a scream of his name, soaking his grey sweatpants. "fuck, oh my god. " you cry, your orgasm lasting a lifetime, clenching onto him. he relished in the obscene squelch, toji's coil in his stomach was gonna snap soon. the sound of your moans fills the small space of the car, and toji can feel the vibrations of your pleasure echoing through the metal frame.

"daddy-" you choke, "cum in me. p-lease." you whimper, desperate for him, all of him.

"dirty, dirty girl." he sneers, roughly grabbing at your waist to hit into you deeper. "want to be a mom at 19? slut." he groans, when you pick up the slack, slamming your ass down.

"mhh- 'm on the pill, just- ah! please..!" you gasp, when you feel him thrust once more, a harsh smack on your ass ringing.

"take- it." he grunts, feeling his vision blur as he empties his load into your awaiting, perfect pussy. you feel so much of it, so much it's trailing down your thighs.

"ah..! toji." you whisper, eyes wide.

"don't give me that look, you wanted it." he snaps, placing a chaste kiss on your lips. "good girl." he adds, his tone slightly softer.

you don't say anything in return, opting to melt in his arms, feeling his cock soften inside you. "mmm."

he presses a kiss to your temple, "clean yourself up, brat."

you whine. "why am i back to brat?"

he rolls his eyes. "jesus fucking christ. clean up, princess. i need a smoke." he pulls out reluctantly, shamelessly grinning when he sees his cum drip down your thighs. you let him go, lending him a jacket to hide the wet spot you made on his pants.

he's standing outside, leaning on the dashboard as he's texting someone- your father, probably- taking a puff of his cigarette.

you dress again, fixing your skirt and retrieving your bra. you get out of the car, quiet footsteps approaching him, hugging him.

toji is startled when you suddenly appear beside him, wrapping your arms around his waist and looking up at him with that sickly sweet pout. he can feel her breath tickling his neck, and he takes another drag from his cigarette before looking down at you with a mixture of surprise and amusement. "princess," he says dryly, "what are you doing?"

he takes your silence as a hint to return your affection.

he puts an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and sharing some of his warmth as you two stand together under the setting sun. "we gotta go home soon, princess."

"don't wanna." you murmur.

"aw. c'mon, princess. y'er daddy's asking where we are." he shuts off his phone, putting it in his pocket.

"mm. okay. lets go home." you sigh.

toji takes one last drag from his cigarette before throwing it away and putting it out with his foot. Then he wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer to him and kissing you deeply on the lips. "parting gift?" he smirks.

you laugh. "whatever, daddy."

"let's go home now, sweet girl." he rolls his eyes, laughing as you pepper kisses over his face. "and remember..." he adds on, his voice a smooth murmur. "our little secret." he holds out his pinky.

"your little secret." you whisper, twisting pinkies into a small promise, unfolding for better or worse?

hii i was so lazy writing this (took me a whole damn month) (more like two) but i had to get this out i lobe bodyguard!toji so so so muchhhhh 🙁🙁 (not enough to not be lazy)

reminder that fiction is not reality and don't base off sexual relations w/ smut or p-rn. things are exaggerated and they are fantasies. just an fyi because i gen feel so icky when i write darker content (smut) and how it could impact people who read it... just make sure that there's always consent, you're vocal about boundaries, and you feel safe.

reblogs appreciated i love u guys 🤩

༝༚༝༚ indy

- cross posted on ao3- miniminari (linked if i actually posted it LMAO)

[qqueenofhades]

so I've been watching a lot of videos abt food that's uniquely Hong Kong and y'know with all the changes happening there I had a thought like hm is this preservation and documentation of cultural foods that are at risk of being lost?

and then I thought gosh this sounds familiar likkke everywhere we see violent colonization occur not only are lives and freedom lost but also language culture food

and then I wanted to ask you as a historian: has this always been the case? have people always had low key anxiety about culture "loss" or did they think of it a diff way? is this framing of colonization and cultural loss a recent one?

I'm realizing this is a big question and we are all le tired from les recent events, so pls view this as a no pressure ask, I just uh figured you're the only historian I have real access to haha

This is an important question that I don't currently have the mental wherewithal to answer in great depth, but I think it's important to speak to briefly. And I'll put it this way: yes, human beings have always felt that their culture, their way of life, their present existence, their friends and family, and the forces at work against them are tenuous, uncontrollable, and prone to sudden and violent destruction. I'd say it's one of the key themes of being human. I'll cite the famous example of the 8th-century Old English elegy The Ruin of the Empire, known usually as The Ruin:

This is what many of us would consider the dark and distant past, wherein an unknown person in Anglo-Saxon England is observing the ruins of the Roman Empire in Britain and reflecting on how fragile and frightening the present day feels, as if all the glory has faded into the past, as if things will not be "great" anymore, and the present is just moving inexorably toward darkness:

Bright were the castle buildings, many the bathing-halls, high the abundance of gables, great the noise of the multitude, many a meadhall full of festivity, until Fate the mighty changed that. Far and wide the slain perished, days of pestilence came, death took all the brave men away; their places of war became deserted places, the city decayed. The rebuilders perished, the armies to earth.

And yet... that was the 8th century. That was a very long time ago. A lot of history has happened since then, and despite everything, it's still here. People have always looked at the danger and fragility of their present situation and yearned for the perceived stability of the past. Indeed, the reason we have the myth of the "Dark Ages" is largely thanks to the 14th-century Italian humanist Petrarch, who looked at the (also objectively very, very crappy) 14th century, which is similar to now in a lot of ways, and built the shining myth of the Greco-Roman era as a bygone golden age that society needed to reinstate if it was going to save itself from self-inflicted destruction. This in turn gave rise to the Renaissance, which was intensely a cultural project to reclaim and re-instate a seemingly "better" past in the face of present-day chaos and uncertainty. This included a strict reifying of gender roles (etc. etc. Was There a Renaissance For Women?) and turn toward "purer" social ideals.

Anyway: these concepts have been shaped and articulated differently in various historical periods. But yes, the basic feeling that we are losing ourselves somehow, that the past was better and more stable, that the present challenges can be solved by insular reactionary politics, and so forth, is a very, very common human experience. For better or worse: both tangible and intangible artifacts have always been lost, destroyed, subject to violent sociopolitical conquest attempts, written out of history, and used for oppressive political and cultural processes. Part of the reason the right wing is doing so well worldwide right now is because they are tapping into a very, very old "put the strongman in charge and everything will go back to how [good] it used to be" mythology that is also as old as dirt and time, and which humans just keep doing when things feel existentially scary. This "weaponized nostalgia" is even more of an issue in the age of rampant disinformation, AI, and fake-news bubbles which can totally create what is accepted as reality, very often to the benefit of illiberal, right-wing, authoritarian forces. That is very hard to deal with and overcome, and I don't think we're anywhere near doing it.

That, therefore, is the bad news. The good (as it were) news is that at least these cultural processes and human instincts are not new, and indeed have continued for a long, long time. And even when these old things are destroyed, new ones emerge as well. So yeah.

[5xlwriter]

Feedist Kinktober: Magic Mirror

Intended to be part of a series of one-shots in response to @fatguarddog’s Feedist Kinktober 2024 prompts, but I loved the prompt and it became a much bigger story than I expected. The prompt was Magic Mirror.

I had mixed feelings about Theo moving in with me. We’d met several years ago through a friend of a friend, and he and his boyfriend Luca were invited to a lot of the same parties as me. I never really clicked with Luca… He was incredibly good looking and obsessively sculpted his body at the gym, giving him the look of an Adonis. But he knew he was gorgeous and used it as an excuse to treat people poorly.

Theo was different. He was smart, funny and exceptionally kind. For the most part, I was super excited for the memories we’d make together, and it would be great to save some money by splitting rent. But on the other hand, Theo was… kind of needy. He had criminally low self-esteem, and needed constant reassurance from his friends — especially now that Luca had dumped him. That was the reason he was now living in my spare room.

He’d moved in several weeks ago, and it was largely going well. I loved our daily movie nights and it was nice to share meals with someone. Theo was just as much of a neat freak as me, so it really didn’t feel like a burden having him around. If anything, the apartment was cleaner than ever… But his constant self-doubt was really driving me insane.

“Are you sure the food tastes OK?”, he’d ask after cooking our dinner. “We can turn this movie off if you’re not enjoying it,” he’d apologise just ten minutes into a film. Worst of all was the daily routine of having to reassure him that he looked good before he left the house. “Does my hair look weird?” he’d ask, fretting in the mirror as he adjusted his perfectly coiffed dark hair. “Is this zit noticeable?” he’d press, drawing my attention to a perfectly clear patch of skin. And most infuriating of all: “Do these pants make me look fat?”

Theo was thin as a rail. He was just one of those guys who were blessed with a superhuman metabolism as well as the self-discipline to be really careful about what he ate. Here he was, pushing 30, with not an ounce of fat on his frame. I envied him - I was fit myself, but I had to work really hard in the gym for it. My work as a personal trainer helped with that.

I was being harsh. Theo was a great roommate and an even better friend. I just wished he liked what he saw when he looked in the mirror.

And that’s exactly what I told the old lady behind the counter at Miss Mabel’s Curios & Antiques, a dusty little store downtown that I’d passed by a billion times. I wasn’t sure why I was here - I’d been ranting to a friend about my predicament with Theo, and she’d said that Miss Mabel would know what to do. At my whit’s end, I trusted her recommendation.

“Oh, that’s easy my boy,” she said in a creaky little voice as she jumped down from her stool. She was a small lady, wearing what looked like at least ten cardigans and her messy grey hair tied in a bun atop her head. She had a warm and eccentric charm about her; not quite like a grandma, but moreso like a distant elderly aunt who you saw at the occasional family function.

She tottered off down one of the store’s aisles, before looking back over her shoulder expectantly. “Well, come on then!” she beckoned, and I quickly followed her. We soon stopped in front of a large rectangular object, as tall as I was and concealed under a dust sheet which Miss Mabel promptly whipped off.

It was a mirror - and an old one at that. The glass was in reasonably good condition but the frame - decorated with intricate carvings of daffodils - was in a sorry state, with chunks of wood missing and deep scars across the surface. What on earth did Miss Mabel think I could achieve with this?

“Don’t be so dense, dearie,” she teased, tapping me on the forehead. “This is a magic mirror. Give it to your friend, it’ll sort him right out.”

I had more than a few reservations, most of them related to the small fact that I didn’t believe in magic mirrors - or any kind of magic, actually. And yet, Miss Mabel seemed very certain and there was no hint of trickery in her kind eyes. Plus, when I noticed the £10 price tag on the mirror, it dissolved any concerns I had that this could be a con. That was an absolute steal, even if the mirror had seen better days. I paid her the money and headed for the door, before Miss Mabel called after me.

“Just a wee warning, dearie,” she said hesitantly. “Magic, especially old magic like that, can be unpredictable. Keep an eye on your friend, hm?”

I nodded, and made my way home.

Theo was delighted with the mirror, which I thought was an odd response to something that looked like I’d rescued it from a dump. He might have been unsure at first, raising an eyebrow when I revealed its new location hung in our hallway, but as soon as he looked into it I watched his face change. There was a light in his eyes as they lingered longer than normal on his reflection, and I saw his mouth curl into a smile. That never happened. Maybe the mirror really was magic… In any case, it seemed to do the trick, and I went to bed that evening quietly confident that Theo was going to be a little softer on himself.

When I woke up the following morning, it was to the smell of bacon. Weird, I thought. We usually just had toast for breakfast, or maybe a smoothie. But I certainly wasn’t going to complain! God, Theo was the best roommate I’d ever had…

As I walked out into the hallway, Theo was looking at himself in the mirror and flexing his non-existent muscles. I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, heading through to the kitchen. The bacon was looking very dark in the pan, much crispier than I liked it, and none of the bread for our sandwiches had been buttered.

“Theo, this bacon is looking very done,” I called out to him. He didn’t answer. “Theo?” I called again.

“Ugh, what?” he snapped back in a tone I’d never heard him use before, though he quickly seemed to catch his rude behaviour. “Oh, um, I’m sorry,” he said, scrambling for words but not taking his eyes off his reflection. “Would you mind finishing off breakfast for me?” He asked. “I’m kinda busy.”

He was acting strange, but I tried my best not to overthink it and did as I was asked, slathering some butter on the four slices of bread and transferring the bacon into two sandwiches.

“It’s ready,” I said, and headed to the fridge. That’s weird, I thought. There was no milk left to make our coffees, even though I’d bought some yesterday. And why had Theo put the empty carton back in the fridge? I poured us two glasses of orange juice instead.

At that moment, Theo walked into the kitchen without saying a word, and then left again with the bacon sandwiches. Both of them. And when I gave chase to confront him about it, expecting to find him sat in the living room, I was stopped dead in my tracks. He was stood in the hallway, stuffing the sandwiches into his mouth with eyes fixed on the mirror, like he was watching TV.

I heard Miss Mabel’s warning in my head. Keep an eye on your friend… Something was wrong.

Later that day, I’d rushed over to Miss Mabel’s shop to get her advice - but when I arrived, the lights were off and the door was locked. That’s when I noticed the sign, handwritten in spidery penmanship: “ON VACATION! SIX WEEKS IN EGYPT! SEE YOU SOON DEARIES. MMx”. There was a little drawing of some pyramids in the bottom corner. Fuck.

I didn’t want to mess with the mirror, since I figured if it really was magic then I had no clue how it might affect Theo. Just a glance had changed his behaviour dramatically, who knew what else it could do? And so I reasoned that the best thing to do would be to wait for Miss Mabel to return, and in the meantime to follow her advice and keep an eye on him. After all, he wasn’t exactly a danger or in any pain - he was just acting… different. Little did I know, he’d soon be looking different too…

***

It had started after a few days. The novelty of the mirror seemed to have worn off for Theo, and he no longer spent all day in front of it like he did that first day. But he was still acting differently, and I’d still catch him checking himself out in it multiple times a day. This particular evening, we were sat in front of the TV while Theo ate dinner. Since buying the mirror, Theo only prepared food for himself, but I’d planned to heat up my leftovers from yesterday so that we could eat together. I was feeling distant from him and thought it would be a good chance to chat. Except, when I opened the fridge, I found they were gone, no doubt eaten by my strange new roommate. So I reluctantly ordered a pizza, and sat with Theo as I waited for it to arrive.

Theo didn’t appear to be in the mood for a chat, his eyes glued to the TV while he shovelled heaping forkfuls of creamy pasta into his mouth, chewing loudly. It was like someone else had taken over his body. Most weird of all was his choice of programming - usually, we might watch a documentary together, or catch up on one of our regular dramas. And he’d always ask what I wanted to watch. But today we were watching a home shopping network, with a musclebound (and very attractive) jock demonstrating some workout equipment.

“Oh come on Theo,” I teased, trying to make conversation. “He’s hot, sure, but surely there’s something else we can watch?”

Theo looked at me with a look of utter incomprehension, even pausing his feeding frenzy to process what I’d just said. I felt like I’d offended him. He shoved another fork in his mouth and finally spoke as he chewed.

“That man ain’t hot,” he said, spraying me with flecks of cream before swallowing. “He’s got nothing on me. And look at all the exercise he’s gotta do just to have those puny muscles. Mine are twice as big and are all natural.”

Now it was my turn to look confused. Surely Theo was joking? He had no muscle whatsoever… He was practically a skeleton. Except… Now that I looked at him, I mean really looked at him, that wasn’t quite true…

He was… Not “bigger”, per se… he certainly didn’t look like he’d gained any muscle. But he was… softer, somehow. It was almost imperceptible, a thin coating over his whole body, a slight puffiness… But now that I’d noticed it, there was no denying it. For a moment, I reasoned that it was natural for someone so thin to put on a couple of pounds, considering how much Theo had been stuffing his face these last few days. But then, as he finished his huge bowl of pasta and made his way over to the mirror for his routine post-meal quality time with his reflection, curiosity got the better of me and I peeked into the hallway to watch.

He stood tall and proud, flexing non-existent muscles as though he were a world-champion body builder. And then, most alarmingly of all, I saw him grow.

It happened so slowly I couldn’t even be sure it was really happening, but as I fixed my eyes on his form there was no denying it. His arms were thickening and filling out his sleeves a little more, while the slight softness at his waist began to press against his shirt. Within a few minutes he looked to be about 5lbs heavier - not a big deal for most people, but certainly noticeable on Theo’s lithe frame. My mouth was wide open in shock. This just wasn’t possible. It had to be my eyes playing tricks on me, my imagination getting the better of me… I was just stressed out by Theo’s personality transplant… I…

The doorbell rang, and Theo ignored it, too preoccupied with his reflection. “That’ll be my pizza,” I said, getting to my feet. No sooner had I said it, Theo eagerly answered the door and brought in the pizza, setting it down in before me on the coffee table. I felt an odd sense of relief - this was the kind of attentive behaviour I was used to from Theo. Maybe the magic was wearing off… Maybe my old roommate wasn’t gone after all.

I went to the kitchen to get some drinks (water for me, a glass of milk for Theo) and returned to the living room, where I found Theo already halfway through devouring my pizza.

***

It had been a week since I brought home the mirror, and I was pretty adjusted now to Theo’s newfound greed and selfishness. I found it difficult to get angry with him when I discovered the fridge cleared out or a stack of dirty dishes in the sink - I was the one who had brought the mirror into our home; I was the one who’d meddled because I couldn’t deal with Theo needing a little extra encouragement.

When I got home from work each day, I would typically find Theo in one of two places: sat on the couch stuffing his face, or flexing and pouting in the dreaded mirror. This time, it was the latter.

God, he’d really blown up now. It was all happening so quickly and every time I saw him he looked to be bigger than the time before. I had accepted the impossible fact that the mirror was piling the pounds onto my friend; even now, as I watched him admiring himself, I watched in real time as Theo’s new soft underbelly slowly inched out the bottom of his shirt. He’d always dressed in oversized clothing, but now everything he owned was starting to get very snug on his oversized body.

“My god, I’m gorgeous,” he said aloud. “Luca doesn’t know what he’s missing.” he said, kissing his own soft bicep. “I haven’t been to the gym all week and my guns are looking better than ever!”

I smiled politely, but I was worried. Miss Mabel was still out of town for another five weeks, and I guessed that Theo must have already stacked on about 50lbs. You didn’t need to be a maths genius to figure out that he risked ending up over 400lbs by the time she was able to help us break the spell. If she was able to help us. Theo still stood a chance of working this off now, but if things got that far… he’d be changed forever.

“Theo, can we talk?” I asked. He huffed a little, clearly annoyed to be pulled away from the mirror, but reluctantly followed me into the living room.

***

It had been two weeks since my conversation with Theo, and things were still intensely frosty between us. I’d asked him if he was OK, and he’d insisted he was never better. I’d asked him if he’d noticed any changes in his behaviour, and he’d said he’d just realised that he needed to put himself first. I’d asked him if he’d noticed any changes in his body, and he agreed that yes, he’d been growing lately - that his muscles were inexplicably growing. He couldn’t explain it, he said, but he was happy with the results.

I gently tried to explain that it didn’t look that way to me, that I thought he might have been bulking with how much he’d been eating, but with the right cut he’d be looking awesome in no time… That sent him into a rage. We had a huge argument. He’d screamed at me - was I fucking blind? Did I not see how perfect his body was? I was just jealous - and then he stormed out, softer ass bouncing behind him in too-tight shorts. Since then, we hadn’t really spoken, and things were getting so much worse…

He was really big now. Like, he was a certified fat guy, a fully fledged 300 pounder - or maybe more? It was difficult to tell. Every time I saw him, I had to do a double take: firstly, because my brain wasn’t quite catching up with his skyrocketing weight and was failing to register this figure as my roommate. And secondly, because he’d outgrown all his clothes and taken to wandering the apartment in just a pair of boxer briefs. They were so tight on him that the elastic waistbands had all developed wide holes.

His choice of dress meant that all his fresh fat was on full display, a constant reminder of what I’d brought upon him by bringing home the mirror. His face was round and bloated, making his eyes look beady and piggish above two puffed-out cheeks. Beneath it was a thick ring of fat, a double chin that was exaggerated when he looked down at his phone. His shoulders had become strikingly broad, though not with the muscle he was still convinced he possessed; they rounded out and sloped like big hills, bunching up behind his neck in another wedge of fat that gave him the look of a hunchbacked office worker. Further down, two plump tits hung from his chest, pooling under his armpits and gathering in thick rolls on his back. They were so distracting; jiggling wildly with every slight movement he made, it was impossible to look away. And beneath them sat the main event: a big, soft belly that had started to hang down over his crotch like a flabby apron. Whilst not as jiggly as his tits (perhaps because it was always full of food), it still looked soft and plush, wobbling as he waddled around the apartment. He’d even started to walk like a fat guy, I noticed, swinging his fat arms side to side to offset his sudden weight gain.

I felt terrible. And as I watched him posing yet again in the mirror, having just demolished a family-sized tray of pasta as a snack between meals, I felt even more terrible. The mirror would be working its sinister magic on him and turning all that food into fat. Sure enough, as if to prove a point, I heard a ripping sound and noticed one of the holes in his underwear growing beneath his widening hips. I had to do something.

***

I resolved to get rid of the mirror. I’d known all along it was the right thing to do, but I was scared of Theo’s reaction. He was so volatile. Part of me was also scared of how it might affect him - had he and the mirror formed some kind of magic bond? What would happen if that was severed? But as my friend’s weight inched closer to 400lbs with each day, I knew I had to do something. But the issue was now pressing, as I was due to leave on a trip I’d booked myself months ago. I was going to be gone for two weeks, and while I certainly wasn’t in the mood to go now, I’d already paid a lot of money and it wasn’t exactly like I could wave a wand and stop all this. What good could I possibly do here? In fact, Theo seemed to resent me the more I tried to help. But I could still hear Miss Mabel’s warning that I ought to keep an eye on him, ringing around my head. I reasoned that if I could get the mirror out of the way and then disappear myself for a couple of weeks, maybe that would at least slow whatever was happening to my friend.

And so, when Theo was out getting food, I made my move, carefully taking the mirror off the wall and making my way to the door. Before I could reach it, it opened of its own accord… and there in the doorway was Theo. Fuck. He was so big now that it was impossible not to be intimidated by him, even if he did look ridiculous squeezed into clothes that he was 150lbs too big for. He was visibly uncomfortable, all the fabric digging into his fat, which burst unflatteringly out of every opening. His belly was barely covered by the material, making it look like he was wearing a crop top, and several inches of his ass crack were visible, not able to be contained by the sweatpants that were painted onto his thick, gelatinous thighs. I couldn’t believe he’d left the house like this, but I suppose it was better that than parading around in his underwear. Anyone who saw him must have thought he was totally unaware of his weight, or that he had suddenly ballooned overnight. They would have had no idea how close to the truth they were…

“What the fuck are you doing with that?” he snarled, snatching the mirror off me with one meaty, fat-fingered hand while the other shoved the remaining half of a burger into his mouth. He seemed to swallow it in one gulp. A thick blob of ketchup dripped onto his stretched and strained t-shirt.

I was still frozen, unable to say or do anything. He barged past me, making his way to his bedroom. He re-emerged a few seconds later, no longer carrying the mirror. It would seem he would be keeping it in there from now on. “Don’t touch my shit,” he warned in a terrifyingly severe tone and then tipped a container of fries into his mouth, dropping the empty packet on the floor. I nodded emphatically.

Without hesitation, he tried to peel off his t-shirt but found himself met with great difficulty. He squirmed and writhed his fat body, trying to manoeuvre himself out of the fabric, but it was simply too tight. I had no idea how he’d even got it on… perhaps he’d grown in the time since? Without warning, he let out a yell of frustration and then tore the entire thing off him in one furious motion. “And another thing,” he spat, turning his broad back to me and making his way back into his room. “Stop washing my clothes, I’m sick of you fucking shrinking everything.”

***

The two weeks away had been a complete waste. I was barely able to relax or take in any of the culture, constantly worried about my friend back home. In truth, I wanted to disconnect from Theo. I’d tried to help him change course and he was treating me so terribly… It was hard to care about him. But I couldn’t shake the guilt - it was me that had caused this, and I owed it to Theo to make it right. Besides, this wasn’t really Theo who was acting this way. It had to be something or someone else… Perhaps he was possessed, or hypnotised, or… It couldn’t have changed him, could it? And certainly not so dramatically? But then I remembered the giant, flabby ass that he was no doubt sat on back home, stuffing his fat face, and I knew that it could… I just hoped there was some kind of counter-magic that Miss Mabel could use to undo all this, to make it like it never happened. It was magic after all, right? I’d learned that anything was possible…

After pausing a while outside the apartment door, unsure of the reception I’d receive from my roommate upon my return, I finally pushed it open. One thing I was sure of was the condition I’d find Theo in. I had no doubt in my mind that he would be weighing in another 100lbs heavier than when I’d left, and I’d braced myself for the sight of him. I assumed he’d be sat in the living room, shovelling food into his growing gut - and this suspicion was supported by the volume of fast food wrappers strewn through the hallway. It was disgusting, looking and smelling like a back alley in the city. I couldn’t believe this was my home. But when I peered into the living room, I found nothing there other than more mess. The TV was off and Theo was nowhere to be seen. Hmm… strange… I glanced to where the mirror used to hang, and then to his bedroom. Perhaps he was holed up in there, checking himself out?

Morbid curiosity got the better of me, and I cautiously approached the door, knocking gingerly and calling out his name. “Theo?”

He didn’t respond, but I could hear strange noises coming from within. It sounded like laboured, heavy breathing. Was Theo fucking someone? Or getting himself off? I listened closer - no, it wasn’t that, the breathing was so erratic, gasping for air… He sounded like he was in trouble. I became alarmed. “Theo, are you OK?”

I flung the door open and my world ground to a halt. Theo was not OK.

Theo’s room was a complete pig sty, piled high with empty pizza boxes and food containers. It stank of sweat and grease and god knows what else, the stench so thick in the air I had to cover my nose. He’d propped up the mirror at the end of his bed, presumably so he could lay in it and admire himself… And the consequences of that decision were enormous.

Literally enormous. Theo was totally unrecognisable, his pale pink flesh filling the entire double bed. He was the fattest man I’d ever seen - perhaps the fattest man that had ever been? His facial features were buried under fat; just two beady eyes and a pair of puckered, sauce-stained lips. If I wasn’t aware of all that had passed in the last few weeks, I would never be able to identify this person as Theo. He was completely transformed. His whole body was splattered with various sauces that he had clearly dribbled on mid-feast… which made sense. He was clearly too big to move and showering would have been impossible.

The blob of a man that lay gasping for air in Theo’s bed was almost as wide as he was tall. It’s difficult to describe any part of him in detail, as all his body parts sort of squished together and melded into one another, fat jostling for space. His tits were each bigger than my head, and there were bits of food wedged in his deep cleavage. His arms were so pumped full of fat that I think they were bigger than my waist. I couldn’t see much of his legs as they were covered by his gargantuan belly, rolling and rocking like jelly with each pained breath, but even his feet were swollen with fat, threatening to be swallowed up into his legs. Fuck, I thought to myself. How could someone have fat toes?

I wanted to say something but my brain was completely fried. What the fuck do you say to a whale who was thin as a beanpole little more than a month ago? Theo looked like a fucking sideshow attraction. Fortunately, he spoke first.

“Dude, thank god — you’re here—“ he wheezed. What? Was he actually happy to see me? Maybe the magic had worn off! My hopes were short lived... “Nobody— wants— to deliver— my food,” he confessed. “Bunch of— fucking— assholes…”

I could see why minimum wage delivery drivers would want to avoid this cesspit. Something told me the new Theo was not a generous tipper. But this was my fault after all, and I couldn’t let him starve. Reluctantly I agreed to go pick him something up - if nothing else it would give me time to think over what to do next. I watched him with pity as he placed the pickup order on his phone, his fat sausage fingers mashing things he didn’t mean to press. He didn’t seem to be removing any of those items from his basket, though…

Soon enough I was back at the apartment with ten paper bags full to the brim with junk. They were as fit to burst as he was, and after handing them over I sat on the edge of the bed (squeezing myself onto the only unoccupied corner I could find) and buried my head in my hands. What was I going to do?

He made short work of the meal and half an hour later he was burping, rubbing his giant gut, and admiring himself in the mirror. “Fuck— I’m so— sexy,” he moaned. “Why— did I ever— settle— for Luca? I’m so— out— of his— league… Gotta find— me someone— as hot— I am…”

I snapped. “Theo, how the fuck are you gonna do that?! You’re as big as a fucking house! You can’t even get out of bed!” I wanted to smack him out of his delusional daydream. But it wasn’t fair to take my frustration out on him, and I tried to calm myself. This wasn’t his fault.

“Yes I— fucking— can,” he gasped. “I’m just— resting— so my— muscles— can grow…”

There was silence between us for a moment. I had no idea what to say, and Theo was too distracted by caressing his own lard in the mirror for a conversation. But as he groped himself, his moaning got louder and more… sensual… I was no longer certain that it was just a symptom of discomfort from his overindulgence. He seemed to be enjoying himself…

“Please— man—“ he begged, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Help— me— out— here… I— know— you— can’t— resist— me…”

Fortunately, I didn’t have time to take him up on his perverted offer. There was an almighty crash, and the room seemed to lift up into the air as I felt myself fall downwards. It took me a few seconds to realise what had happened: the cursed mirror had fattened Theo up so big that the bed could no longer support him, and now he and I sat on the floor, surrounded by its broken pieces. His whole body was wobbling from the impact and he looked like a giant, melted marshmallow. I was surprised he didn’t fall straight through the floor and into the apartment below.

I spotted something shiny by my hand, and on closer examination I saw it was a shard of glass. The mirror. I noticed it had fallen over face-down, and when I nervously lifted its side to inspect the damage I saw that the whole thing was shattered. Oh god, I worried to myself. How was Theo going to react?

“What— just— happened—,” Theo grunted to himself as I got to my feet and stood the mirror up. He seemed lost and confused, a softness in his voice that I recognised from before all this mess began. His eyes seemed to adjust to the room, taking in his surroundings as though he’d just woken up from a dream. “What’s— going— on—,” he gasped, shaking his head in confusion (though the fat in his neck limited his movement). Still, his cheeks jiggled as he did so. “Am— I— sick..? I— can’t— breathe…” I barely registered what he was saying, too worried about his response to finding out the mirror was broken.

“Theo,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I’m really sorry… I’ll buy you a new one right away, but… Ugh. I don’t know how to say this, but…” I gulped. “Your mirror is broken.”

I turned the mirror around to face him, so he could see the damage for himself. For a moment he didn’t really react at all, furrowing his brow in confusion. He didn’t seem at all sure why he should care about a broken mirror, despite the fact he’d done little else for the past five weeks than stare in it and feed himself. But as he looked harder, as he really focussed his eyes on the mountain of flesh looking back at him, something seemed to click in his mind… A moment of world-shattering realisation...

He recognised himself, and his eyes went wide in horror. He screamed.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

NOBODY'S SON, NOBODY'S DAUGHTER (VI)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VII

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 7.0k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, creepy men, talks of death, weapons, toxic modeling standards, food issues, dead animals, talks about gore, symptoms & descriptions of dissociation, scars and mentions of intense medical procedures, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you. 

Nikto stands in the bathroom connected to the library—at the very end of that train car-like set-up of your loft rooms. His fingers move to the straps of his Kevlar, peeling them off as the loud tearing sounds echo in his ears. 

He can hear you stumbling about in your room, too. Getting ready for bed. Blinking, Nikto grunts as he thinks over your comment from when you first showed him around. He hadn’t been able to get it out of his head since you’d said it. 

Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you.

The man’s vest is taken off, hitting the floor in a heap. Next follows the clips of his thigh holster, and the belt buckle in the loops of his pants. Each joins the pile with a slap of material. 

“Brain damage,” Nikto grunts. 

It wasn’t something he should be worrying about—in fact, it was at the very bottom of the long list of things that even mattered. First was your safety, then the identity of this pathetic individual who was infatuated with you. But it stuck with him nonetheless. 

He’d never had to look after someone with this affliction before. The stumbling; the shakiness. But he’d gone through worse. Yet, at the same time, it was far larger than just his assignment. In his own way, Nikto was…appreciative that you seemed to at least listen to him most of the time. And you were easy to talk to. 

There was a sort of kinship there, as well. In broken things. Maybe that was why he felt himself growing to you.

Striped down to nothing but his mask, the Russian glimpses himself in the mirror and stills. He was always struck by it. 

How something could be so brutally ugly.

Scars ran so tightly over his skin that it was indented like a fissure in the earth. Pieces boldly sliced away and chunks missing. The muscled bulge of his stomach was cut up—thighs with such horrors as cigarette burns and the remnants of tattoos that were carved away like hog’s flesh. That’s what he was, Nikto knew. A hog tied to the ceiling and ready to be butchered. 

He looked at himself now like he was through the lens of a movie, like the ones he would watch as a child—it was far away from him, the edges blurred as his reflection shifted; another being entirely. 

A hand comes up—his hand—and it presses into the material of his mask, large fingers shifting over black coloring as the pale blue of his eyes stares back. None of it felt real. Nikto’s head tilts, but he does not feel the bones in his neck move, only the acknowledgment that they had to have. 

The dark ink of the tattoo over his back peaks itself into existence, the starting of obsidian over his shoulders. Nikto shifts his top half as if seeing it for the first time, unblinking eyes taking in the visage of a snarling bear locking gazes with him. At the side of his left shoulder, the sigil of his old unit burnt his skin. 

“New,” he utters, voice tiny and hoarse. “Gotten after.”

He already knew that…why was he repeating it like he had forgotten sitting in that tattoo shop’s chair? Nikto’s eyes clenched shut, hand coming back up to his masked head and pressing over it. 

He was not beautiful, and no one would ever call him such. He didn’t want them to because it would always be a lie.

With a low growl, his fingers grip his mask and rip it off of his head. 

The thing slaps against the marble of the counter, hitting with a hard clack of the coated synthetic fiber, sliding over the top until it hits the toothbrush cup and causes it to fall on its side. 

Nikto can only stare at the person in the reflection as the sounds swirl in his ears—a world away. 

There’s so little of him left that he recognizes that it scares him. 

Grinding his jaw, Nikto’s pale eyes slip down the length of the damage. His dark hair is cut close to his head, strong bones in his nose and brow above the deep sockets of his eyes—the glare of black and blue bags gives way to his lack of sleep. The wideness of his cheeks leads to a sharp chin; a square face overall. 

But the marks. 

The hyperpigmentation.

Half of a Glasgow Smile peels the flesh back like a tear in paper, and a line is sliced staring at his right ear and curving in a half-circle down to his jaw. Into his hairline, three ragged cuts that had been very badly cauterized to stop him from bleeding out, the hair never able to grow back properly. His neck is the same—a red scar the size of his forearm wrapping from behind and crossing it, little slivers breaking out like a tributary. 

He still wasn’t sure how he survived that one, but then again he hadn’t in the long run.

Nikto’s heart had stopped after all.

There’s a knocking at the door, and the man flinches violently—head twitching to the side. 

“Nikto?” Your voice is muffled by the wooden barrier, and the Russian’s breath is ragged before he blinks away the distance in his expression. “...Are you alright in there?” 

He clears his throat, feet shifting over the plush purple rug you had on the floor as his fingers twitch with tight nerves. But your voice distracts him, fractured brain slowly coming back into focus. 

“We are fine,” his voice is harder than he intends. More snappy. 

Nikto’s eyes find your shadow under the bottom of the door, your feet moving and re-setting as they usually do. He sees you pause. 

“Alright,” your voice calls. “If you need anything, just ask me.”

He watches you stand there for a few seconds longer before your shadow moves back and disappears. Torn ears twitch to your receding weight, eyes beady like a feral dog’s. 

Nikto’s bare body is frozen until he finds himself moving to turn on the water to the hottest setting, stepping into the stream with a hiss and a snap of teeth at the burn. He only turns it hotter. Thinking. Wondering. 

Brain damage.

—

“I can never see color,” you say into the air bluntly, watching the man tie his shoes. He freezes. “Just thought you should know.”

Your eyes see Nikto blink, a silent moment passing between you two before he looks up slowly, brows pulled in and lids crinkled. 

“...Что?” 

Something swirls in his vision, a deep intrigue and another that’s harder to name. Hidden. Kept under lock.

“I can never see color,” your voice reiterates, trying to put on a show that the only reason you were saying this was because you wanted to—a sign of trust. 

In reality, it was a stepping point. 

A small test even if you felt your face heating—growing hotter by the second. “Same accident that caused my brain damage.” You smile softly, motioning a hand to your head. “Even if I find my soulmate, I won’t be able to tell. Weird, huh?”

It was two hours after your phone call with Yaromir and Galina, and there wasn’t much to dwell on from the two. You’d talked about DNA, Sergi, and why no one was taking your claims seriously. 

All they chose to tell you was that they needed more to build a case off of. Galina was still trying to get DNA samples, and without that or a large break that gave you any idea about who could do this, you were in the dark. All they had was a partial fingerprint on one of the plastic bags. 

Excuses were all you got by the very frustrating end, and your hope had dwindled on every pause over the line, your phone on the coffee table and Nikto watching silently as he placed breakfast in front of you with a firm hand. He’d been quiet today, even more so than usual. You’d even given him more tea last night, though the cup was once more washed and set back by morning. 

And he was stiff too. Tense. 

Today, you made a firm decision to go back to AMA—not because of your shift. You had no intention of staying in that building even if you knew you should; this was a quick visit. You needed to discuss a large gap in your schedule with the CEO, one that had only shown up in the small hours of this morning. 

You really hoped the explanation wasn’t because you were being fried.  

Nikto is still, watching every beat of your pulse and how your fingers play with themselves in front of you. His chest is frozen, eyes unblinking as the paleness of them is similar to a knife’s edge. In your internal fight, you hadn't noticed how long he’d just been watching you…dead to the world of the living. His gaze was so intense once you did realize, that you cleared your throat softly as an awkward uncomfortableness built on your expression. 

Perhaps today wasn't the best time to test your theory.

The man’s fingers twitch, he stands up to his full height, and then moves into the elevator without a single sound. 

Your heart gets stuck in your throat, blinking as you make a confused noise. 

“Nikto?” You turn after him. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Calling, your feet shift over the rug of your entrance, seeing the void of white as he stands with his hands behind his back and his covered face diligently forward. No words. “I thought we were past the whole lack of speaking thing?”

A chill moves up your spine slowly, and it’s enough to hide away the reason you’d mentioned your affliction in the first place. He was…so stiff again. Enough so that you partially wondered how this person could be the same that had cooked you dinner last night and barked his feral laugh into the chilled air. 

What had changed in one night?

Nikto’s eyes were more of a void than the blackness of his Kevlar. 

Apprehensiveness growing, you move and grasp at your jacket with a twist to your lips, slipping it on softly. No sentences being spoken, you shift into the elevator and stay to the far left of him, taking out your keys from your purse and slipping them into the metal. 

With a jolt, the thing begins moving slowly. 

“Y’know,” you awkwardly laugh. “It would be nice if you responded. I just told you something important to me. I mean,” your anxiety makes you backtrack with a very fake laugh, eyes glancing to the side. He hadn’t moved; was just staring at the space ahead of him. “It’s obviously none of your business,” you wave a small hand, being sly in your word choice. “But I want to be transparent with you about everything going on, especially with how I don’t know if you see color or not. It’s a disadvantage on my part and I—”

“I see color.” Is the monotone, dead response.

I know that. 

“Oh. Good,” you try to smile shakily, hand jerking as it hangs at your side with a low simmer of a pounding pulse. A shimmer of excitement runs through your spine. “That’s good, Nikto, I’m glad that you do. So, if you don’t mind me asking, who’s your s—”

A low growl. “I do not want to.” 

Tension overtakes the small area and your wide eyes stare unabashedly in shock. All eagerness utterly ceases to exist. 

“Excuse me?” You push out your utter confusion, shoulders moving higher.

Surely he didn’t mean he doesn’t want the gift of seeing color. 

No one would ever say something like that. Ever. Even those who’ve gone through Soulmate Psychosis have never stated they didn't want to see the shades and hues of the leaves—the sky or the earth. How the clouds looked when the sun was getting low. Purples and blues, colors you’d only ever be able to try and understand knowing that it would be impossible.

And what did this mean for you? You’d been banking off a confession, but this wasn’t the kind you’d expected.

“It is useless to me,” Nikto avoids your gaze. “Неуместный.”

“I have to disagree,” you stutter, slightly shifting your body to tilt his way. The crafted plan in your head is thrown to the wind. “Nikto, we’re talking about color here. Soulmates. The…the person you’re supposed to be destined to be with—how can you say that? Don’t you remember how the world looked when it was all black and white?”

A low snarl echoes, pale eyes jerking your way as a head snaps. 

“Достаточно!” You suck in a fast breath as the elevator dings, both of you arriving at the ground floor, doors rolling back to the open lobby. “We do not need you speaking to us on such things.” Nikto moves forward, your nose almost bumping into his chestpiece as the scent of rotten wood infects you. Your body takes down a swift breath, head snapping up to watch. “You know nothing!” His face is right above yours, looming, nearly bending your spine over. “Spoiled girl with pretty face—thinks she knows what she wants, yes?” The Russian scoffs, speaking low as your hands clench at the assumption. “Keep this to yourself.”

He turns and stalks away with a hostile grunt, leaving you blankly staring at where his face used to be, the image of his Kevlar mask burning in the back of your mind. A knife of hurt gradually takes place between your ribs, breeding until your lungs are ruthless in its clutch. 

This wasn’t what you had expected.

Nikto glares at Isaak, who had watched with wide eyes and a loose jaw, and not moments later, the doorman quickly averts his gaze to stare at nothing on his desk. The Russian’s pulse is roaring inside of his breast, mind troubled. 

Brain damage. Can’t see color. 

Halfway to the parked car, Nikto’s mind returns to him and he slams his fast feet to a stop. Blinking, as if something in him had changed at that moment, a second of confusion leaked into his hidden expression as he said nothing. Waiting. 

At the small, hesitant movement of shaky feet coming closer, his shoulders slowly tense. 

You come up behind Nikto and shift past, taking the car door in your hand and opening it. Moving inside, you close the barrier to the chilled outside morning with a definitive slam. Darkness, for a moment, enshrouds you. 

Face unyielding and pulled with guilt, you get a small queasiness in your stomach as the seconds pass in the vehicle. 

Maybe you’d been too forward, but Nikto’s response had been…well, explosive. And his comments about color? Who in their right mind would say that? 

“That makes no sense,” you whisper, hand coming up and rubbing at the scar on the back of your head. The one you dreamed would disappear in the small hours of the night as a teenager, remembering the beep of hospital machines and the plastic taste of the tube shoved down your throat. 

Doesn’t want to see color? Your mouth sucks down a shaky breath. I’d trade anything for only three seconds.

The world outside of the windows is gray as Nikto pops the driver's side door open, bending low with a grunt before sitting into the seat. He doesn’t apologize as he shoves the keys into the ignition—starting the engine. The car rumbles to life. 

Maybe you’d been too forward.

“You think?” You whisper to yourself under your breath, tearing your eyes away from the Russian man, grabbing and clicking in your seatbelt. 

Socially, you had grace—were used to carrying it to those horrible parties and events. But talking about more personal matters was another thing entirely from work-life. From designer clothes and when they came out, shoes, and makeup. Sex and alcohol. Everyone at AMA speaks with vanity, and you were included. You knew you were beautiful, you’d been told and retold with every pluck from your eyebrows and spread of lipstick over your mouth; ruthless petting like a cat or a doll—there was never any doubt about that. 

You could speak beauty, but you can’t speak about real love. Call you hopeless, but that was really all you ever wanted. 

Love. Romance. Care and concern. It was addictive to you in every sense—and you just kept coming back for a hit of what you couldn’t have. You’d warned yourself after Yefim, but it hadn’t even taken a month before you had found another man to fixate on; the body of the previous stuck still in your nightmares.

But there was that sliver of something in your gut every time you stared at Nikto; something that didn’t add up. You weren’t deterred—weren’t put off. There was something deeper there that you just had to get to the bottom of first. 

There had to be something he wasn’t telling you about why he can see color.

“If I upset you,” you ease out, tongue like lead and your eyes stuck outside the moving vehicle. Your hands tighten over your seatbelt in small intervals, for a moment mute of what to say. “I’m sorry, Nikto. I was just curious, I won’t pry into your personal matters again; you have my word. Just like talking about your mask.” 

“Good,” Nikto’s hands flex over the wheel. It’s all he says, and even then it’s curt. 

Small-like, you mutter, “Also…thanks for breakfast.”

It had been a small and incredibly healthy—buckwheat porridge. You’d eaten the entire thing with fruit on top and never even glanced at the yogurt in your fridge. The man’s eyes had been sneaking glances the entire time you had brought the spoon back to your mouth, but you weren’t sure if it was to make sure you were liking it, or if you were eating in general. 

It was his job to hover, though. 

Nikto doesn’t respond to your thanks, but his shoulders slightly loosen a bit, eyes blinking from the view of the mirror. 

With a sigh, you keep your mouth shut and sit in silence for the rest of the ride, pulling at loose threads from your jacket pocket. Your fingers tap something firm from the inside, and you pause, blinking down at the dark fabric. 

Your brows furrow, but whatever’s inside will have to wait, because Nikto pulls up to the sidewalk and parks the car with a huff. Like before, he opens your door when he’s outside. 

“Your investigators will come for any package,” he explains as you shuffle and stand, fixing the collar of your coat and glancing his way. It’s like he hadn’t just snapped at you minutes ago—that numb sheet was over his head once more. “You will not take them.”

There seems to be a moment where he waits for confirmation, raising a brow into the cold air that you can only partially see. 

You clear your throat and look away down the street. 

“Sure,” you say. 

…Had he really called me spoiled?

Nikto glares at you, jaw clenching under his mask. He looks you up and down quickly without moving his head, skin tight and scars pulling. Your words in the elevator had… aggravated him, even if he can’t pinpoint why. 

You were messing with his head—and that is an already very broken thing. Yet…your questions weren’t pointless. He knew you’d ask them sooner or later, like a fox to a trap, it was only a matter of time. 

He should have expected this, and while cruelty is his nature, he can’t be that to you. The Russian had snapped too violently in the lobby, and it wasn’t your fault. Even with moments of relative calm, he knew that to be fact. But Nikto was a brooding creature—he picked only between missions and guns to be his avatars. Emotions were a loser’s game, and he would not lose at anything so long as he was living. Nikto was a bloody victor holding the remnants of a fresh kill. Nikto was as much a bear as the one printed on his back.

Pale eyes close, a low snarl stuck in the back of his throat. 

You blink at the arm that gets held out to you. 

“Grab it,” the man doesn’t give away anything; his eyes are ahead and his voice is low like your ability to understand his sudden change.

Every five minutes this Russian was switching between anger and relative tolerance of you. Your brows lightly rise on your forehead, wrinkles forming on your flesh.

Your quivering hand raises and slots itself through his left arm softly, head tilting. 

“As much as I appreciate it,” you speak as he helps you up the curb with a firm pull, side-eyeing you. “I can manage. I’ll ask if I can’t.” A tentative smile. “Last-minute mascara is most of what I trust you with besides the food.”

“There will be less of the former in our future.” He grunts as you shut the door behind you. “We have no plans to do such things.”

“You said that about cooking,” you tease, falling back into seamless flirting, trying to get the man who had cooked you supper back into his skin. “I didn’t know you’d be such an attentive roommate.”

Those light orbs stay pinned to you for a long moment, twisting in like a knife with only a glint in the circles of his blackened pupils. 

There’s a click of the car locking, and the Russian is all but dragging you forward. Chuckling under your breath, you follow as well as you’re able through the front, feet only stumbling for a moment before you can lean your weight to the side and rely on Nikto to keep you straight. It helps, you admit, though he’s a bit more stiff than Aly.  

Your hand rests on his bicep, fingers moving to spread over the hard material and sensing the sinews of his flesh writhe at the action. Nikto huffs under his breath, rolling his shoulders to dispel tension.

Your scent is wafting into his nose like he’d put his head into a tank of ambrosia—your perfume addling his senses, shaming him like a venomous snake being held by a dove.

By an angel. 

“Останови это.” 

You blink and turn to him, humming. “What was that, Nikto?”

The man is tense again, eyes snapping about as he pushes at the front door to AMA, your own nerves becoming apparent, yet, having your distraction here to pull you away from that. 

“Nothing,” he monotones. “Where are we going.”

“Upstairs,” you sigh, walking past the front desk as the women look on in confusion when you don’t stop by. They hadn’t expected you to come in, apparently. It was your job. As you pass pictures and paintings in the hallways, you slowly begin to speak. 

“What color is that one,” your finger points to the frame on the far left. It was a dark shade that moved into a lighter one—Ombré.

Nikto’s feet slow, his attention moving from ahead of you to the side for a fast flash. Gruffly, and feeling his chest tighten at the sensation of you freely touching him above the corrupted flesh, he responds in a clipped fashion. “Blue and Green.”

You hum lowly. “Light blue?”

“Нет. Light green to dark blue.” 

“Oh.” You tilt your head at it as you pass, peeking over your shoulder.  It wasn’t like you could really understand that, but…a small smile pulled at your lips as you turned back forward.

Nikto blinks at it from the corner of his vision, narrowing his eyelids momentarily like a wolf. 

“... We do not understand the fascination with it,” he grumbles. “Color.”

“I don’t want to upset you,” your head shakes. “We don’t have to talk about it—”

“I do not like losing my temper at pointless discussion.” You’re interrupted, and you feel your lips part not at the behavior, but the tone at which he takes. A strange firmness that bleeds into conviction. “It was an…error in my judgments.”

It’s only when you steer him lightly to the right hallway to the elevator that your lips move into a smirk, leaning into him even more. Nikto’s eyes flash with surprise, darting down. 

“Was that an apology, Big Guy?”

“No,” he scowls under his mask, but his body is gaining heat to it. “An observation of character.”

“I think you just apologized to me and don’t know how to admit it,” you move your face close to his just as he had to you in the penthouse, nose brushing the canvas of the lower half of his face covering. You hear his breath hitch, his large frame going still and yet not pulling away. Your matching feet continue to move. 

He seems to lean closer, even, or was that just a trick of the light? 

Your lips release a chuckle, your face begins to burn and your veins pump oxytocin that Aly would be intrigued to learn about. 

You pull back after a bit too much staring into his eyes, saying breathlessly, “I’m more flattered that you think I’m pretty, Nikto.”

His large sigh is all you hear, hand releasing his arm for a moment to push the elevator’s button to the top floor of the building, chuckling under your breath. 

Nikto grumbles but responds with nothing more than a twitch of his fingers when your heat leaves him, motioning his arm again when you come back over. The sudden lapse in your pressured fingers made his spine straighten.

Kliment Fedorov’s office floor is large—very large. It takes up the entire top of the building and his influence seeps down to the very bottom like blackened oil. You’d been here before, as well as seen it from video calls, and while you could have talked to your manager about the gap in your schedule, the fact was that the man was quitting on you. 

Dead birds in plastic bags were a bit too much.

It left you only able to go to the top for any clarification until a new manager could be hired. 

“When we’re in there,” you comment to Nikto, hand going back to touch him. The Russian blinks slowly, fighting how his body wants to sag. “It’s probably best if you don’t speak, okay?” 

Pale eyes narrow, head tilting to the side.

You sigh at the movement, placating him with an explanation. “It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, but Mr. Fedorov is,” your voice trails off. “He’s very lofty if you get what I mean.”

“Lofty?” Nikto prompts as the elevator continues to move upwards. He seems confused by the word in English. 

Your free hand raises and gestures vaguely before you twist your lips and end on a simple, “Arrogant.” 

“Ah, да,” the large man utters. “I am not a stranger to such, yes?” 

It’s strange how the two of you can just slip past the small arguments that pop up—or, more of the one-sided breaking points and the prodding comments. His words didn’t bother you, and that was different; if your mother had snapped like that, it would be a different story entirely even if you, ultimately, would have let it pass like the rest. 

“Do you really think I’m spoiled?” 

But you did tend to linger on things. 

Before there’s an answer from Nikto, who grunts under his breath, the main door opens with a small ding. Sharing a glance, you shake your head with a quirk of your lips and walk out with a tiny pull at his arm. 

You lean and whisper, “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

Nikto doesn’t like how his heart constricts like there’s a vice around it—eyes snapping back. He holds back a flinch.

From there it’s checking in with the secretary and being waved in by her hand, already talking to someone else on the phone and typing away on her computer. You hum under your breath, and Nikto feels your hand jerk. He glances over as the doors get closer, calmed down at least for now. 

“You are worried.”

“Only a little,” you mutter, brushing down your jacket, feeling that bulge of something in the pocket. 

“Do not be.” The masked man looks forward after studying the layout of the floor—where the emergency exit was and the most efficient places to take cover. 

Easy for you to say, you huff. Nikto had a very stiff way of comforting people. 

And then you’re knocking on the door, and a voice is telling you both to enter.

—

“Lovely Seraph!” The CEO’s bald head is as shiny as you remember it, and those fly-like eyes are beady enough to make it seem like they move through you instead of at you. “Welcome, come, sit!” 

A hand is waved from behind a large mahogany desk, a round face nodding quickly as you smile although it’s not entirely real.

“Mr. Fedorov,” your voice is light and airy—a fake tone of elegance. It comes easily. “It’s so good to see you again. I hope everything is well?”

“Ah,” he laughs, Nikto helping to guide you along even if the room is sparsely decorated beyond potted plants and a large rug. “It is going well, my dear. Very well.” 

Eyes slip down your body, past your modest clothes. Something moves behind Fedorov’s expression, shifting. Nikto is a firm brick beside you, only letting you leave when the chair is in front of you. You slide him a thankful glance and slip away, grasping the side of the seat and moving into it with little trouble. 

“My dear, I hadn’t expected to see you in last year’s collection.” You blink, eyes darting down to stare at the shirt you wear—it isn’t anything fancy or eye-catching. But it was expensive. 

“Oh,” stuttering a moment, you try to play off a suddenly tight laugh. “M-my apologies, Sir. It must have slipped my mind this morning—”

“I will send the newest to you, don’t fret,” Fedorov smirks. “We can’t have one of our best ladies wearing rags.” 

A spike of anger levels itself at your throat like a knife, and Nikto, who had moved like a shadow to stand at the far wall with his hands behind his back, feels his pupils constrict. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you clear your throat lightly, looking to your guard quickly. “I don’t need any more presents, Sir, I promise.”

“Nonsense.” Kliment dismisses you, splaying his hands from where they rest on the desk. “You’ll enjoy them. Very nice collection this year. My gift to you for your success here.” You shrivel in at his next comment. “Your last photoshoot was…just exquisite, my Dear. Those white tones look heavenly on you.” 

Swallowing down saliva slowly, you shift your thighs and let your arms circle your waist, feeling naked as gray eyes move your frame. 

But you can’t say anything. 

“Thank you, Sir,” you push out tinily. Nikto’s temper flares from across the room, eyes sparking up in a deep display of rage. He goes to take a step forward, not even knowing what he’s going to do, but, as if sensing this, your eyes snap over and you level him with a mute command. 

Nikto’s boots still, the heel only half raised. 

You twitch your head in a fraction of a shake, and he’s settling back to the wall with a glare and a hard clench to his hands. A growl is trapped in his esophagus, and you’re surprised that Kliment hasn’t gone up in flames because of it. 

“Of course!” Fedorov laughs. “I personally arranged your schedule. I know what’s best, hm?” 

“I was here to ask about that, actually,” you try to move the subject on, feeling dirty as Nikto silently fumes. “The gap starting in two days? I’m sorry, but I wasn’t sure what that meant and I wanted to come in personally and ask.”

Fedorov’s expression sours, scowling. “Those investigators. Messing with my work—won’t let you come in, Seraph, see. Horrible people think we can’t put up with silly little boxes and mail.”

You shakily take an inhalation and chuckle, lips twisting down and eyes dead still. 

Silly little boxes. What would he do if he got a box full of dead birds or a bomb? Then again, he never would—he’d have someone else open it for him.

The CEO continues with his hand moving to grab papers from his side, sliding them to you slowly as you look down at the material with curious eyes, seeing shiny gray signatures and large looping words. The realization is as rapid as a knife to the neck.

Party invitations.

Your heart drops, bones like steel inside of your flesh. The room is suddenly far too small.

Not this again. Fuck no, not this. 

“I took the liberty of confirming your attendance since you can no longer be here all the time—you’ll be doing,” fly-eyes glint. “... crowdfunding, if you will. You remember what to do. You used to be our best seller for investments.” 

“Sir…I,” you fight the bile in your throat, the world swirling. Not again. I tried so hard to get out of it. Fedorov doesn’t care.

“It will also get you out of the main city spotlight!” He smiles. “I’ve emailed you the bookings and hotels—clothes to be sent.” Arrogant lines on his face. “The dresses.”

Fedorov smiles as you stare blankly, lips slightly parted; your fingers curl in to try and stop the shaking. 

“But!” You flinch at the loud exclamation, and this time, Nikto does take a step forward, hand brushing his Beretta without your knowledge. “That’s all I have for you today. The two days you have to yourself to pack and get ready, yes?”

What could you say to this?

You can’t say you won’t do it—you’d be out of a job and out of a stable income. Your mother would only say it was your fault, and that would be the extent of her help; with the stalker…you had to admit being away was the best, but doing parties again…

It made you want to shrivel up and die.

“If that’s what you think is best, Sir.” Fedorov shakes his head, chuckling and sending a layered smile that peels his skin. 

“I do. I know what the company needs—and what it needs is you, my lovely Seraph. Our angel from the heavens,” he smirks vilely. “Sending us down precious money instead of bread. You’ll do well away from the building for a while. Let things cool down, you see.” 

And thus it’s settled with a meaningful look and a passage of papers, your quivering hands taking them up, not missing this time, and trying not to strangle them in your palm. 

“Thank you, Sir,” you whisper, not at all thankful. Your mind already runs to times and dates—small talk and comments about your ailments. The explosion and the stalker are going to be hot topics. You would be mobbed. 

But that was exactly what the man wanted. 

“Quickly now, go home,” Fedorov motions. “Be safe—remember to limit your food, Seraph.” A glance is sent to your stomach. “Have you been following your diet?”

“We need to leave,” Nikto speaks up in a sharp bark. “Сейчас.” 

You see the CEO look over quickly as if forgetting someone else was here when looking at you. His face moves into a hard sneer at the sight of the large man. 

“And who is this?” 

“Nikto,” you explain quickly. “He’s my—”

“Yes, Girl, I know who he is.” Kliment’s voice is low. “Keep him on a tighter leash. Dismissed.” 

You nearly stumble when getting out of the chair. 

A hand grabs at the small of your back, pushing you forward quickly, though not unkindly. Nikto’s face is rigid under his mask, lines hard and eyes narrowed. Over his shoulder, he throws a heated glance at the man at the desk, but all he does is smirk like a crocodile. If he were any lesser, he’d have no problem getting into Kliment’s face—Nikto knew the man would pose no challenge to him, he couldn’t even shine a light. 

“Nikto,” you utter, putting a hand to his side. 

The Russian re-focuses, attention returning. 

Your feet skid, shoes slipping at the force he guides you along until you’re back out the door and walking back to the secretary. “Slow down.”

Immediately, Nikto’s hands leave you, and you come to a swift stop with a deep breath in your mouth. Hands out, you shake them for a moment and try to calm your heart. 

“Thank you,” you say under your breath, hand moving to rub the back of your skull. “You, uh,” trying to lighten the suffocating air, you blink at his chest. “But I told you not to speak.”

“What was that?” He growls. “You let people speak like that to you?” 

“It’s not that serious.” It wasn’t anything he could change. “He’s arrogant, I told you.”

“He’s—”

“Why do you care,” you stare at him, suddenly defensive. “It’s my job—just like yours, I can’t lose it.”

Pale eyes sizzle. “That is different.”

You laugh despite yourself. “It’s really not.” Shaking your head, you brush past him slowly, gaining back your senses. “Even if I want it to be, this is all I’ve got going for me.”

Shadows walk beside you, keeping a close eye as the secretary doesn’t look up from her work as you both pass. “It is causing you to be stalked, Whelp. It is not sane to stay.”

You’re silent at that, taking Nikto’s tactic of steel lips and a dead stare ahead. 

Beauty was all you had. He could never understand that.

“We have two days.” Uttering in the elevator, you sigh. “Even if I don’t like it—it’ll get us away from AMA. That’s the most important part, and one that even I can’t argue with.”

You don’t want to go to the parties. Not even an ounce of you was eager for it. For what was expected. 

Nikto’s hands go to grasp the top of his vest’s collar, hanging as he thinks. The Russian can’t snap at you for that, it was true. Getting away was good, but it meant he had to memorize more floor plans and re-learn routines. No matter, he could adapt if it came to that. 

He hums to himself, blinking. 

“Very well. That I agree with.” Nikto pauses. “But I do not like that man. Like…” he snarls, “bald snake.”

A shocked snort exits you, your hand coming up to cover your mouth. Silence settles for a bit between you two as you process everything. Your teeth bite at your lip, leaning toward him delicately.

“...I was thinking frog.”

Nikto’s eyes spark, looking down at you from behind the black smudge of his sockets. 

“That is better.” He comments. “Да. Frog.” You both lock eyes and you feel your lips pull in a small smile, your face losing a sliver of that fear that moves in your DNA as of late. The truth comes out as vulnerability.

“...Do you think it’ll work?” Your question makes him stare, head tilting. 

“What?”

“Leaving.” The elevator nears the ground floor. “Do you think it’ll stop him?”

Nikto had said he would never lie to you. 

“I do not know,” he speaks slowly, feet shuffling as his shoulders roll. “Do you?”

“I don’t know if I need to worry about the stalker more,” you chuff without any amusement, “or the parties I have to go to.”

Curiosity moves in his pale orbs, swirling at your confession to him. Nikto stores it for later, humming as the door opens and he moves—sticking out an arm that you easily loop with your own. 

He walks slower, now, lips open as he hesitates for a moment. As your face is far away, expression open to the world, the Russian eases out, “I do not think you are spoiled, yes? I should not have said such things about your character. Do not apologize to me for it.” 

“Everyone loves apologies, Nikto,” you joke even as your heart swells—heat coming up your neck. “It’s human nature to believe you’re not in the wrong. There’s no need to—”

“I do not like when you apologize. So do not.” He walks you forward. “Stand your ground. Speak freely.” 

“That usually hurts people’s feelings,” you state in an utterance. 

It’s a good while before Nikto answers you, and when he does you glance over to find his eyes already looking at you—but the makeup is wrong, it isn’t as dead as they always seem to be. 

They were nearly soft if that was even possible. Hidden behind a half-lidded layer of darkness. You blink, feet almost stumbling as you lean into his arm. 

Tell me, your mind begs this beast. This monster who never shows a sliver of his face—who holds scars more numerous than you can even imagine. You don’t even know why you want him, and that scares you. Tell me I’m yours. 

“Then those people are not worthy if they can not handle the truth,” Nikto grumbles, shifting his head away. 

The connection is broken.

You focus on the way you hold his arm as you both walk past the front desk, taking the weight and heat of it in little by little until you have to hold back a shiver. Even stretching your fingers, you couldn’t grab around the entire thing—much like it would be fruitless to try with his thighs. Even his waist would be difficult. 

So consumed in the thoughts of Nikto, slowly taking you over, you both walk past the front desk swiftly. 

Only when you see the flash of a square object do you begin to slow—Nikto was having none of it.

“Do not.” His arm shifts out of yours, and you startle before his limb loops your waist, nearly stapling you to his side. 

“I didn’t even move to it,” you huff, looking up at him, frown over your lips. 

“You were thinking it,” he grumbles, pale eyes sliding like water over your face. “Stay.”

“Woof, woof,” you sarcastically utter. 

You can feel the tension in him—in you. 

And then you push open the front door, and the box is left on the counter without another glance.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

[ragnarokhound]

Hi wife. Staring at the green dot on your profile like my boy Gatsby and sending increasingly ridiculous asks in the hope of winning your heart.

not to bring up chapell roan, but have we considered the lyric “You could kiss a hundred boys in bars” for recently broken up jaytim?

I’m thinking Tim freaks out about love and affection™️ and totally ghosts Jason after their first kiss/near death experience. Jason runs into him at a club a few weeks later and sees that Tim is potentially kissing boys that ARE NOT JASON — cue angsty drama, maybe another near death experience where they save each other, and jason figuring out Tim ghosted because he’s a big chicken. Then (important for plot and character development) they have dirty dirty sex

Hi wife. You're yearning for something you already hold. Now come inside off the dock, the only thing you'll catch is your death of cold out here 💖 (I swear one of these days I'll find you dramatically floating face down in the swimming pool and it's gonna give me a goddamn heart attack /affectionate)

I'm so glad you know exactly what I like because a) good luck babe plays in my head 24/7 it was absolutely in the rotation when I was writing Secretary fic so how dare you and b) this is so up my alley for jaytim like you don't even know skdjfjks

In fact it's so up my alley that I'm gonna have to slap my response to this one under a cut cause it spiralled out of control:

Idk if you've noticed but I am deeply obsessed with Tim figuring out his own feelings re: Jason first and having a mcfreaking meltdown about them lmao.

Between the two of them, imo, he is much more of an anxious overthinker who will think he's making the most tactically sound decision because he really has thought it through with all the information he has access to -- but he always fails to give full weight to considering the best case scenario when it's something he wants. When it's something he feels selfish about. And boy, does he consider Jason Todd a best case scenario.

And mmmm I am so very here for jealous! and possessive!Jason. Especially when Jason didn't realize what he was feeling until after he's already acted on it. It is the bread and butter. Bonus points if he's not even trying to show it to Tim. Tim isn't the problem.

For instance: Tim's in the club, looking to see if he's just horny and needs to get it out of his system, come on, I cannot muck up the good thing I have just because I want some fuck-- and his prospective dance partners just start to dry up.

Because the big guy who looks like he's done time and a half keeps glaring daggers, keeps shoving his old partners off the dancefloor or knocking into them when they've come back with drinks for the cute twink they were totally gonna score with. Not anymore.

Jason thinks he's doing it because he's looking out for Tim. Because anyone with eyes can tell they just want Tim for one thing, and he deserves so much better than that.

When Tim realizes what's going on, he's already been grinding on this hot buff guy who came up behind him for two songs in a row. Tall, dark and silent keeps stopping Tim from turning around, and he doesn't slip a hand any lower despite all of Tim's silent offerings. Weird, but the anonymous gentleman act is kinda hot, so--

And then he glances at the round, silvered mirror in the corner. He clocks the white streak in the head of black hair dipped low over his, the gun callouses running rough over his bare stomach. He stiffens up in Jason's arms just long enough that he knows Jason knows he's been made. He drags him off to the bathrooms ("come on, handsome") and the second the doors shut and they're alone, he whirls on him.

They argue. Tim is embarrassed and it's coming out as anger, Jason is annoyed (and still processing the revelation he'd been having on the dancefloor, the one where Tim was lithe and warm in his arms, his long fingers twining through what hair he could reach at Jason's nape, where he smelled like sweat and musk and Tim and Jason found himself wanting to know if the gleaming patch of skin in the bare crook of his neck would taste the same--)

Jason is annoyed and has no explanation that will satisfy Tim. He wants to know why Tim ghosted him when the last mission they worked ended in bloody, near-disaster, and the case it was tied to still hasn't fully wrapped. He gets taking a few days off to recover, but it's been longer than that. Way longer, with no contact, no explanation, no 'I got shot so I'm gonna need a week or maybe three'. Wasn't Tim going to finish the job? He told Jason he would help. Did he lie?

It yanks the rug out from under Tim. Makes him feel small, and selfish. He promises Jason he'll come back to the case, he just had some things to figure out. But that's done now.

Jason loses the thread on his irritation as Tim deflates, hates the hunched, defensive hug he's giving himself, looking vulnerable and tired in his scanty clubbing fit under the cold LEDs flickering above the bathroom sink. He catches sight of the fresh pink scar, the one he'd just felt out under his palms not ten minutes ago with something bordering on relief. (And hunger.)

He wants to reach out, "Tim--?"

But Tim brushes past him, fleeing out the door and disappearing through the crowd before Jason can stop him.

-

Everything is fine. Totally 100% fine and dandy--

--is what they both are telling themselves.

Tim is doing his best to stifle his feelings, stomps down on them ruthlessly every time he catches them flaring up, and is counting the seconds until this is finally over and he can get to work dousing the massive fucking torch he's been holding in peace.

Tim comes back to help Jason with the rest of the case, but he's palpably distant, brittle when they banter-- and Jason hates it. He still remembers how Tim felt against him, how he'd melted into Jason, silently begging to be touched. For Jason to touch him.

It's been quietly rearranging some things in Jason's head. He's replayed their argument in the bathroom over and over. He thinks about Tim, about the timing of his disappearance--

(About the bullet he'd dug out of Tim's body, silver and red, and the desperate flow of his blood over Jason's wrists. About the night spent monitoring Tim's condition in a rundown safehouse, feeding him ice chips and brushing the hair out of his eyes, brushing off every bullshit attempt he made to tell Jason he was fine.)

--about figuring things out and avoiding Jason's eyes. And Jason wonders.

They have one last big bust to make, after days of stewing in their own unresolved tension. It goes down textbook; easy. In and out.

Except, at the last minute, during extraction, Jason gets shot. And Tim freaks.

He puts their plane on autopilot the moment they're clear (maybe a few moments before they're clear, actually) and dashes to where Jason is groaning just inside the bay doors. He's tight-lipped and grim-faced; his hands are fast and efficient, but shaking.

"Tim," Jason tries to say, but he gets shushed with a glare.

"Don't talk," Tim clips out. He undoes straps and disarms panels Jason thought were secret, and then he pulls out a pair of medical scissors.

"Tim--" Jason tries again, more urgently, but Tim doesn't even glance at him, just cuts through Jason's undershirt to expose--

"Oh," he breathes.

"Yeah. I'm okay," Jason sighs.

The crunched up bullet is caught in Jason's last layer of kevlar. The round they'd fired on him had been dramatically big, but Jason gets in firefights basically 24/7. He's padded to hell and back, even more than your average Bat. He'll have a wicked bruise and his rib might be sore for a week, but that's about it.

That's it.

Tim is still for an achingly long ten seconds, breathing shallow as he stares at Jason's armor. The proof that it's effective. And then he collapses.

He sits back heavily, elbows on his bent knees as he rubs his pale face. Jason watches as he visibly tries to pull himself back together, but relief keeps shaking him apart. Jason sits up.

Tim startles, tries to stand; Jason doesn't let him.

"Come here," he entreats, tugging Tim closer, firmly by the knees, to sit between Jason's legs with his thighs around Jason's waist, trembling under Jason's hands. "Don't go."

Tim twists his fists in Jason's jacket collar, eyes squeezing shut as Jason tips their foreheads together. Like he can't stand it. Caught in fight or flight-- but flight has been denied him.

"I know," Jason murmurs. "But don't go this time. Don't."

Tim drags in gasping breaths, and Jason runs soothing palms over his thighs, his waist, his arm, his neck. He thinks he understands. This feeling is too big. And if Tim is feeling half of what Jason feels, he gets why he'd want to run from it.

"Don't," he begs against Tim's mouth anyway. He kisses Tim until he moans into Jason, until he's sunk his fingers into Jason's hair; until he's sure he'll stay.

--AND THEN THEY HAVE DIRTY DIRTY SEX ON THE FLOOR OF THE PLANE AMEN

[marifilue]

Part 3: Glimpse Of The Past

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n, you have regenerative healing ability, skilled with guns and rifles, reader in her 50s but because of her ability looked like in her mid 20s. Logan is from the first X-Men movie era.

Warnings: Explicit Language, slight PTSD Mentioned.

WC: 5.570

<- Part 2

Two weeks had passed, and nothing much had changed between you and Logan. You’d shared a handful of interactions, each one short and tense, just enough to remind you how much he got on your nerves. He was stubborn, quick-tempered, too much like you in all the wrong ways and it was infuriating.

Logan was settling into his new role, slipping into the position of history professor with a certain ease that only came from experience, a literal, first-hand experience. His lectures were magnetic, filled with anecdotes that felt too vivid, too personal. The students were enamored, hanging onto every word, captivated by the way he made history feel alive.

Still, you could feel the invisible wall he’d built around himself, his guard firmly in place. It made sense, you'd do the same in a new environment. Though it irked you at times. You still doesn't know much about him, not that he'd be interested to talk when the whole team held out a dinner occasionally and share some fun fact about his life for the past century. Everytime the table chats comes up with questions get asked, he'd quickly dismissed them. You remember one time Ororo was joking and teased Logan about his love life which he just shortly respond "Nothin much, it's boring." As far as you acknowledge, he's just old as fuck.

On a quiet Saturday morning, autumn breeze outside with the mansion still cloaked in early light, you found some refuge in the garage, preparing your gear and checking over your rifle before zipping it into your dark green bag as you planned a solo hunt. The stillness was just beginning to sink in when the faint sound of footsteps snapped you out of it. Glancing up, you saw Logan leaning casually against the doorframe, watching you with that same half-amused smirk.

“You goin’ somewhere?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence like a rock tossed into still water. You barely looked up, focusing on adjusting your scope. “Going hunting,” you replied tersely. Logan raised an eyebrow, his interest obviously piqued. “Hunting?” he repeated, amusement thick in his tone. “Out here?” Your patience was already wearing thin. “Yeah, out in the woods. It’s a quiet spot, about an hour away.”

He crossed his arms, clearly not dissuaded. “That so? Sounds like a perfect way to kill some time. I’ll come.” You stiffened, giving him a hard look. “Look, it’s a solo trip. Don’t need any company.”

A spark of defiance flickered in his eyes, and that irritating smirk just deepened. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. Just saying I’m bored. Got nothing better to do, so I’ll come along. Unless you’re afraid I’ll out-hunt you.” You clenched your jaw, the challenge hanging between you like a dare. He had no idea what he was getting into, but if dragging him along was the only way to shut him up, fine. You rolled your eyes. “Fine, whatever. But you’re bringing your own bike.”

A slight chuckle escaped him as he pushed himself off the doorframe, clearly pleased with his victory. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

With engines roaring, you hit the open road. The wind was cool against your face as the trees blurred by, and with every mile, you felt the tension of the mansion fading. Logan’s bike kept steady behind yours, the low rumble matching your own, and by the time you reached the forest clearing, you’d almost forgotten you had a company behind.

••••••

The spot was perfect: a quiet, open stretch beneath towering pines, with a lake gleaming in the early morning light just a few yards away. You slid off your bike and shrugged your rifle strap over your shoulder, taking in the familiar scent of pine and fresh earth. Logan dismounted, his eyes scanning the area with a skeptical look, as though it weren’t quite wild enough for him.

Reaching into your pack, you pulled out a second rifle and handed it to him. “Here. Pre-charged pneumatic rifle. Same as mine.”

Logan took the rifle in his hands, looking it over like it was a toy. He raised an eyebrow, chuckling as he examined it. “An air rifle? What, are we going after rabbits?” He scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You sure you don’t want to give me a slingshot while you’re at it?”

You felt the heat rise in your chest, your grip tightening around your own rifle. “It’s called PCP, Logan,” you shot back, voice edged with irritation. “These aren’t toys, and they’re not some cheap replacement for a ‘real’ weapon. Just because it’s not your style doesn’t mean it’s useless.”

Logan chuckled, clearly unimpressed. “Right. Just don’t expect me to take down anything serious with this thing.” You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “You’d be surprised what I can take down with this thing. But hey, if you’d rather just watch, go ahead.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, something sparking in his eyes as if he was finally beginning to understand that this wasn’t a joke to you. Without another word, you turned and started toward the trees, steps purposeful, daring him to follow if he thought he could keep up.

The morning wore on, and Logan followed you through the dense trees, rifle in your hand but with no real intention of using it. Logan moved with the instinctive grace of a predator, completely at ease, his senses sharp, picking up on every rustle and movement around him. It wasn’t long before he spotted a squirrel perched high in the branches, his eyes narrowing as he took aim. A split second later, his rifle went off, and the small animal dropped to the forest floor. Logan glanced back at you, a smug satisfaction evident in his expression.

“See? Not bad for a ‘toy,’” he muttered, half-teasing. You managed a tight smile, adjusting the rifle in your hands, though it felt heavier than usual. As he scoped out his next target, you followed, keeping your expression neutral. Another squirrel appeared on a nearby branch, and Logan gestured for you to take the shot. You lifted your rifle, sighting down the barrel, but at the last moment, you let the bullet go wide, the squirrel darting up the tree and vanishing.

Logan gave a low chuckle, and his eyes gleamed with that knowing look. “Missed, huh?” he said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Didn’t seem like your usual aim.”

You kept your gaze on the ground, shrugging slightly. “Guess I’m a little rusty.” But Logan’s scrutiny didn’t ease up, and he’d clearly seen through you.

Logan’s eyes were sharp as he watched you line up another shot, this time at a squirrel nestled on a higher branch. You steadied your aim, but when you squeezed the trigger, it was with just enough force to send the shot wide, the squirrel scurrying off into the trees. Logan’s low chuckle made you glance over, and you saw that familiar, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t miss that one by accident, did you?” he remarked, amusement glinting in his eyes. "I told you I'm just a bit rusty." You said again.

“You didn't squeeze the trigger, you flick em with your finger way too harsh. Tryna scare it off, maybe?” Logan teased which caught you off guard, you raised an eyebrow, studying his expression. “You sound just like my old man.” You told him, recollecting lost memories since you haven't heard those words in ages. Stop pulling the trigger, you need to squeeze it. Your father used to scream those combination of words every. Single. Time. A rifle is in your hand. Stop pulling it, just squeeze. "You two used to hunt together?" Logan voice a bit softer, suddenly brings you back from the pit and let the lost memories to float away once again.

You ignored his rhetorical question as your curiosity mingling with surprise. “Most people wouldn’t notice something so small about a trigger pull.” Logan shrugged, glancing down at his own rifle. “Been around long enough to pick up a thing or two,” he said. “One of my many lives, I was in the military, then special forces. Spent a lot of time with weapons—and people who didn’t always want to shoot straight.”

You nodded, absorbing the new bit of information, of course he'd been in the military at some point, though part of you wondered just how many “lives” he’d actually lived. Logan turned back to the forest, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible softness in his gaze now, as if he understood more than he was letting on.

“So, why come out hunting if you don’t actually want to kill anythin'?” he asked, watching you intently. The question hung in the cool morning air, and you felt a knot tighten in your chest. With a deep breath, you straightened, memories uncoiling in your mind.

“My father used to take me hunting when I was a kid,” you started slowly, eyes tracing the bark of a nearby tree. “Every weekend, he’d drag me out there, make me practice my aim. I hated it, the thought of killing something that didn’t even know I was there.” You paused, voice tightening, but pushed through. “Eventually, he stopped caring if I didn’t shot anything. I’d just aim for the fruit stems, watching them drop." You scoffs recalling another details "I'd bring home a bag full of persimmons, my mum loved them.” You smile sheepishly, remembering the sweet memories you used to have with your family. Even if it's for a really short time.

Logan’s expression softened just a bit, as if he were picking up on the edges of something deeper. When you fell quiet, his gaze never left you, and he waited in that steady, quiet way of his.

“It was… before he sold me to the military,” you added in a clipped tone, almost an afterthought. The words surprised even you, slipping out with a bitterness that had dulled over the years but still lingered. After your words hung in the air, Logan's face shifted, his usual hard expression momentarily cracking. He blinked, caught off guard, brows pulling together as he absorbed what you'd said. His mouth opened as if to speak, but for a beat, he just looked at you, his eyes carrying an unexpected softness.

Finally, his voice came low and careful, the rough edge softened. “I’m… sorry,” he murmured, like he almost couldn’t believe he was saying it.

You gave a short, almost dismissive shrug, lips quirking into a half-smile. “I’m not,” you replied, the words wry but surprisingly honest. Logan’s gaze lingered, his respect for you deepening as he caught the steel beneath your half-joking tone. Without another word, he nodded, the forest around you both settling into a silence that felt almost like understanding.

“You’re a strange one,” he finally said, his voice gruff but softer than usual. He glanced down at the rifle in his hand. “But I get it.”

You didn’t say anything, but you felt a small, unexpected weight lift from your shoulders. Logan turned, heading further into the trees, but he didn’t ask you to take another shot. Instead, he led the way, rifle lowered, the two of you moving together walked in silence for a while, curiosity gnawed at you until you finally asked, “So… how long did you serve?”

Logan glanced at you, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. He gave a short laugh, looking off as if doing the math in his head. “Since the Civil War,” he replied simply.

You stopped in your tracks, caught off guard, blinking as you took in his words. “The Civil War?” You’d guessed he might have been in World War I, but this was something else entirely.

Logan chuckled at your reaction, his lips quirking as he kept walking, and you scrambled to catch up. “What about after that?” you pressed, genuinely curious. “I mean… until when?”

He raised an eyebrow, thoughtful, and then shrugged. “After Vietnam around the 80s,” he answered. “Finally called it quits after a while.” Your mind raced as you did the math. “So that’s….. like more than a hundred and twenty years in the military?” You shook your head, a little awe mixed with something close to disbelief.

Logan just grunted, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but then he looked back at you. “What about ya? How long?”

“Twenty,” you replied with a half-smile. “Not even a quarter of your time.” The two of you shared a look, something unspoken but deeply felt passing between you, an understanding of battles fought, the weight of service, and the scars it left behind. Logan’s gaze softened a bit more, his voice quiet but steady. “Guess we both know a thing or two about how it changes you.”

You nodded, feeling a connection that went beyond words. As you walked further into the woods together, a quiet understanding settled between you, each of you carrying the weight of those years but somehow feeling just a little lighter with someone who understood.

As you and Logan trekked further into the woods, a flash of orange against the dense green foliage caught your eye. You stopped in your tracks, looking up at a tall persimmon tree, the branches laden with ripe fruit, a few of them dangling low within sight but just out of reach. It was like a piece of your past had somehow woven itself into this moment, in the middle of the quiet forest with Logan by your side.

Without explaining, you turned to Logan. “Hold still for a second,” you murmured, unslinging your rifle. He raised an eyebrow but complied, watching curiously as you stepped up behind him. Hoisting the rifle up, you positioned it on his shoulder, trying to steady the barrel.

Logan tensed as he felt the weight of your rifle settle. “So, twenty years in the military, and this is what they teach you on rifle safety procedure, huh?” he muttered, his usual sarcasm laced with a flicker of amusement.

You smirked, squinting down the scope as you zeroed in on a particularly plump persimmon. “Cry me a river, Logan. It’s not like if I accidentally blow off an ear, it wouldn’t grow back.”

Logan huffed, shaking his head slightly but careful not to disrupt your aim. “Real professional,” he grumbled. “I didn’t live over a century just to become someone’s human bipod.”

You stifled a laugh, your gaze still fixed on the fruit, the tiniest stem all that kept it hanging. “Do me a favor and shut up. Hold your damn breath my rifle's trembling." You said firmly with slight irritation in your voice.

Logan’s muttered complaints quieted, though his annoyance was clear as he held his breath, his whole frame going rigid beneath the weight of your rifle. “Unbelievable,” he managed to whisper, voice muffled as he exhaled in controlled bursts.

With a steady hand and laser focus, you squeezed the trigger just as your father had taught you. The shot rang out, clean and precise, and with a satisfying snap, the persimmon detached and fell gracefully into the forest floor. Stepping back with a triumphant grin, you patted Logan on the shoulder as if he’d actually contributed.

Logan exhaled, glancing between you and the fallen persimmon. “You really went through all that trouble for one fruit?” You shrugged, retrieving the persimmon and wiping it clean on your sleeve. “Not just any fruit,” you replied, studying it with a small, nostalgic smile before taking a bite. “It’s a piece of home.”

Logan watched you for a beat, his usual snark softened, something like understanding flickering in his gaze. But of course, he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction without one last jab.

“Next time, maybe just ask for a ladder,” he muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” you replied, biting back a grin as you stashed the persimmon for later.

Logan’s gaze settled on another branch of ripe persimmons hanging just out of reach, and you saw the challenge spark in his eyes. Without a word, he raised his rifle and took aim at the slim stem of a fruit, clearly bent on proving himself.

“Careful,” you warned, munching on your own persimmon. “It’s not that easy without something to steady your aim.” But he only smirked, cocky as ever. “Shut up"

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, I’d give you three chances with that,” you shot back, a teasing glint in your eyes.

Logan rolled his eyes, muttering "I don't need three bullets." something under his breath as he braced the rifle, using only his left arm for support. He took his first shot, and the bullet whizzed by the stem, barely brushing it. A slight frown replaced his smirk as he reloaded, now more focused.

“Still sure you don’t need three?” you taunted, crossing your arms as you watched. He grunted in response, taking aim again. The second shot missed by a hair, and he huffed in frustration, your expression already broadcasting an I told you so.

“Huh. Not exactly fair,” he muttered, a faint grumble in his tone. “You had my shoulder as a bipod, and it’s not like I can use yours.” His eyes flicked to your height as if to emphasize the point, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth.

Raising an eyebrow, you smirked back. “Have you ever thought about just asking for help?” Before you could second-guess the impulse, you stepped in front of him, lifting your right arm and offering it up. “Here, use this.”

Logan’s smirk faltered as he looked down at you, clearly caught off guard but game enough to try. He gave a short nod, settling his rifle on your palm with arm raised above your head, though he quickly realized it wasn’t quite steady. Without a word, he reached out, his calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist to gently adjust the height. The touch was firm, grounding, but the warmth of his hand sent a jolt through you, making your heart skip a beat. You hadn't fully thought this through, and now, standing this close to him, you became acutely aware of every detail. The roughness of his hand against your skin, and the subtle brush of his fingers as he guided your arm into position.

He adjusted your arm a little higher, bringing it closer to his shoulder, his focus entirely on the rifle. But for you, every second of contact felt charged. The way his hand lingered, steadying you, almost made you forget why you’d offered in the first place.

“Hold it there,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl. You nodded, words catching in your throat, as he finally let go, his hand slipping from your wrist, leaving your skin tingling where his fingers had been.

For a moment, you were hyper-aware of the closeness between you, his face inches from yours. Your heart picked up its pace as you took in every detail—the rugged lines, the odd yet charming mutton chops, and the hint of green that softened his hazel eyes. How could a man this old look so… timeless?

With steady focus, Logan finally pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, sharp and clean, hitting the branch dead-on. You turned your head just in time to see the cluster of persimmons break loose, tumbling to the ground with satisfying thuds.

Before you could react, Logan lowered the rifle from your raised arm, his smirk unmistakably triumphant. He looked at you, eyes twinkling with that signature cocky satisfaction, and held your gaze a moment longer than expected. The intensity in his eyes made you catch your breath, an almost silent exchange passing between you, his smirk softening just slightly as if savoring the moment.

But before he could notice the warmth spreading across your face, you quickly turned away, breaking the spell. Without missing a beat, you strode toward the fallen persimmons, dropping to your knees and reaching for them, your heart still pounding.

“See?” you said, grinning as you picked up the fruit, keeping your focus on them. “I don’t make the rules. Everybody needs a bipod.” Logan gave a low chuckle behind you, clearly amused, but you kept gathering the persimmons, not quite ready to face him again. The weight of that brief look stayed with you, lingering just like the warmth of his hand on your wrist.

As you pocketed the last of the fallen persimmons, you began walking deeper into the woods, Logan by your side. The familiar path led you to a small, serene lake you’d often visited. You knew these woods by heart, every hidden trail and shaded grove. The early morning sun cast a warm glow over the still water, and without a word, you both sat down on the soft grass by the lake’s edge.

The peaceful quiet settled around you as you leaned back, savoring one of the persimmons Logan had shot down. You glanced at him thoughtfully. “So, why did they call you Wolverine?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Someone invented that name for me,” he replied shortly, brushing it off. "Why do they call you Hollow?” he asked, his voice low, almost as if he were reluctant to break the peace of the early hour.

You looked down at the half-eaten persimmon in your hands, a slight smile tugging at your lips. “I invented that name myself. Better than what they used to call me. Fire and Flesh,” you replied, your tone casual, though the weight of those words still lingered. His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. “Who called you that?”

“Jarheads,” you replied, using the old slang for Marines, which Logan seemed to understand. His face softened, a flash of recognition in his expression. “Semper fi,” he murmured, the famous Latin phrase among Marines meaning always faithful, familiar in his voice.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes a bit, though with a soft smile. “Oorah,” you replied weakly, echoing the battle cry you’d once shouted alongside fellow Marines. It had been years since anyone had greeted you with Semper fi and it stirred something within you, a sense of camaraderie, a reminder of a time long past.

But as you sat there, looking out over the lake, you felt an unexpected calm wash over you. The overwhelming weight you’d carried for so long felt lighter in this quiet moment. Sitting by the lake, eating persimmons with your new friend from work, far removed from the chaos of life, gave you a sense of peace you hadn’t known you needed.

As you pocketed the last of the fallen persimmons, you rose and dusted off your hands. The quiet of the lake had been soothing, but the early morning sun was beginning to creep higher, casting golden beams through the trees. “We should probably head back,” you said, glancing up at the sky. “It’s almost nine.” Logan gave a nod, and together, you began the walk back through the woods.

After a few minutes of silence, you broke it with a question that had been lingering. “Does it hurt…when your claws come out?” Logan’s eyes flicked toward you, then back to the trail. “Every time.”

There was something in his tone—a resigned acceptance that pulled at you. Logan then returned the question, his gaze shifting to you thoughtfully. “How did they…manage to push your mutations?”

You took a breath, the memories flooding back with an uncomfortable vividness. As you walked, you found yourself speaking, the words coming out slowly, almost reluctantly. “I was human. For 27 years, I think. Feels like a lifetime ago.” You paused, watching the path ahead. “They injected me with something. Then left me in an incubator for days, where the oxygen pressure would drop so low I’d pass out. Over and over again.”

Logan’s face hardened, but he didn’t say anything. Somehow, an apology felt empty, too small for what you’d endured. Instead, he shared his own story, his voice low. “My, uh…claws. They were bones naturally.” The admission caught you off guard, and you looked at him, silently urging him to continue.

“They coated them in metal,” he explained, his tone blunt. “Adamantium. Through injections.” You winced at the thought. “That’s…sick.” There was a beat of silence, so you added lightly, hoping to soften the mood, “Do you like them better now, though? You know, because they’re metal and unbreakable? I can’t even picture you with bone claws. Kinda gross, actually.” Logan shot you a sidelong glance, half-amused. “You’re a terrible person, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you replied with a smirk. “But, come on, do you?” He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Yeah, it’s better with adamantium.” You couldn’t help but grin, triumphant. “Knew it.”

The two of you kept walking, your conversation mingling with the crunch of leaves underfoot, the forest around you somehow feeling a little less heavy. The bond between you, shaped by shared scars and dark humor, felt surprisingly natural, like the start of a new kind of camaraderie.

As you both finally made it back to where your bikes were parked, the morning's warmth faded into a colder silence. You knelt, carefully unzipping your bag and placing your rifle down, adjusting everything with meticulous care, you're always taught PCP rifle is so fragile, the stock is carved with polished woods and not some metal. Just as you were reaching back, Logan called out casually, “Hey, here you go,” and tossed the rifle he had borrowed straight in your direction.

In that split second, you hadn’t been looking, and before you could react, the rifle fell to the ground with a harsh thud.

A bolt of panic and fury surged through you as you stared at it, horrified. You reached down, fingers trembling as you inspected the rifle. This wasn’t just any rifle. It was a gift from your late mentor Mr Santiago who had taught you everything about shooting since you're fourteen years old, who had trusted you with his prized possession. The wood of the stock had cracked upon impact, a delicate fracture spider-webbing across the finish.

“You dumbfuck,” you said, your voice icy and trembling with anger. “Couldn’t you just handed me the rifle like a normal person!?” Logan looked taken aback, his brow furrowing. “Whoa, relax,” he muttered, straddling his bike. “The rifle’s fine.”

You knelt by the rifle, running a finger over the crack. It was irreparable, and your hands tightened with suppressed rage. “You cracked the fucking stock,” you spat, not even looking at him. He shrugged, still unconcerned. “Alright, sorry, that’s on me. Look, I can get it fixed or just replace it.”

“Replace it?” You turned on him, anger boiling over. “Unlike you, Logan, I actually take care of things. People trusted me and this rifle was a gift. My mentor gave this to me before he died. I’ve kept it safe for years, not a single scratch. Here you go holding it for one fucking hour and you manage to crack it. You're unbelievable, I can't believe I trusted you with it.” Your voice trembled with the weight of disappointment and resentment.

Logan went quiet, his face darkening, but he didn’t say anything. For a moment, he looked like he was going to respond, but the words died in his throat as he looked away, feeling the sting of what he’d done. Without another word, you packed your bag, zipped it tightly, and got on your bike.

Without looking back, you started up the engine and took off, the roar of the bike carrying your frustration as you sped down the trail, the tires kicking up dust behind you. You left Logan behind in the dust, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror, a mix of guilt and regret plain on his face. He sat in silence, the gravity of his small but thoughtless mistake settling over him.

••••••

As you arrived back at the X-Mansion, the grand building loomed before you, a familiar yet comforting sight amidst the turmoil of your thoughts. You parked your bike and headed toward the mansion's entrance, not even glancing behind to check if Logan had caught up. He was still somewhere on the trail, and that suited you just fine.

Entering the mansion, you were greeted by Ororo’s calm voice as she crossed the hall. “Good morning. Professor Xavier needs to see the team after breakfast,” she informed you, her usual serene expression in place, though her keen eyes picked up on your tension. You nodded, offering a faint smile, and continued upstairs without another word.

Once in your room, you carefully laid the damaged rifle on your bed, the fracture in the stock glaring up at you. Sitting down beside it, you ran your fingers along the crack, feeling a pang of frustration and sadness twist in your chest. Mr. Santiago’s face came to mind, and the disappointment in yourself for letting this happen stung. Fixing it wouldn’t be easy—it might not even be possible—and the thought weighed on you.

But you needed to gather yourself; there was a team meeting, and breakfast first. With a sigh, you stood, tearing your gaze away from the broken rifle, and exited your room, leaving the door cracked open. You resolved to focus on one thing at a time: breakfast, the meeting, and then dealing with this mess.

As you made your way downstairs, the usual chatter in the dining area barely registered as you sat down, grabbing a cup of coffee and some toast, lost in your thoughts.

•••••••

Gathered around in Professor Xavier’s office, the team waited, exchanging curious glances. Scott, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, tapped his foot impatiently. “Where’s Logan?” he muttered.

Ororo stood near the window, arms folded. “He’ll be here,” she said, though a hint of curiosity flickered in her gaze. Jean, seated beside the professor’s desk, looked thoughtful, sensing the tension in the room.

Just as Scott opened his mouth to comment again, Logan entered, his gaze immediately locking with yours. You quickly averted your eyes, refocusing on Professor Xavier, who was already watching you both with a knowing look. Logan took his place, leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable but quietly remorseful.

Charles cleared his throat, signaling the start of the meeting. A hologram flickered to life above the table, displaying an image of a stern-looking man with a white lab coat and cold, calculating eyes. “This is Dr. Emrys Killebrew,” Charles began. “A former geneticist known for his experimentation on mutants and humans alike, pushing the limits of ethical science. Over the decades, his work has created…unintended consequences. He has targeted individuals he believed showed potential to develop powers, experimenting on them without regard for their lives.”

Your heart sank, a feeling of dread creeping over you. Professor’s gaze softened as he addressed you specifically, “Hollow, I believe you’re already aware of some of his projects, though you may not know the extent.”

You nodded, but then froze as Charles continued, “He’s the one responsible for the injections that changed you. Dr. Killebrew obtained Wolverine's genetic material in the late '70s…and used it in his experiments on you... when you were still human.”

Stunned, you tore your gaze from Charles and glanced at Logan, whose expression had gone dark with a mixture of guilt and confusion. His eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, as though he was processing the news for the first time himself. For a heartbeat, the two of you were frozen in a silent exchange before you turned your head back to Charles as the memories of those experiments came back vividly, the painful injections, the endless tests, the way they broke you down. The odds that Logan’s DNA had been a part of it all felt surreal.

A solemn silence settled in the room, broken by Ororo’s gentle voice. “Professor…is he still conducting these experiments?”

“Yes,” Charles replied gravely, flicking to another image of a heavily guarded facility. “We’ve located another of his labs. Intelligence suggests he’s holding a group of young mutants there—twelve in total. They’re being kept under heavy surveillance and sedation, and they are in immediate danger. I need you all to work together tonight to bring them home.”

Scott stepped forward, his tone resolute. “We’ll get them out, Professor. Whatever it takes.” His gaze traveled over the team, determination in his eyes. Jean nodded, her expression fierce. “If Killebrew’s behind this, we can’t let him keep experimenting on innocent kids. He’s not getting away this time.”

Hank, adjusting his glasses, looked thoughtful. “It will be essential to understand the facility’s layout and any possible security measures. If this location mirrors any of his previous labs, it’s likely rigged with traps for mutants specifically.”

Logan spoke up, his voice tense. “I’ll handle any of those traps. This guy’s work is…personal.” He looked toward you again, softer, a silent apology in his eyes. “More than most of you might realize.” Ororo placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Then we move quickly. Every second counts if those children are suffering.”

Charles nodded approvingly, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Thank you. Prepare to leave after sunset. Coordinate together to ensure the safest extraction possible. We bring them back to safety tonight.”

Part 4 ->

An: It gets even longer through every new chapters, the ideas is buzzing in my mind. Thank you guys for interacting, I'll see you next chapter<3

[moonlightndaydreams]

F*ck Boys Jilix - Version 2

When I think of fuck boy's Felix and Jisung… I picture them like in the following TikTok’s…

Here and Here

… fun, flirty, persuasive, attractive. It honestly stirs up my inner 18 year old when I’d go out to clubs.

↠↠↠ a/n: an alternate version to this V1. just because it's fun to think about.

↠↠↠↠↠↠ this is a re-upload from my blog @daydreams-after-dark

CW: unprotected p in v sex, oral sex, sex toys, threesome, cumming inside.

Your two housemates Jisung and Felix go out every weekend to pick up girls to bring back to the apartment.

It’s usually your chance to stay home, have some special "alone time" with your vibrator. They get back so late and they’re so preoccupied with their latest conquest you could be painting the living room walls and they wouldn’t know. So they'd never know what you're doing to yourself when they return.

So.. as usual when they’re out doing what fuck boys do, you settle on your bed in just your oversized tee. You tend to your own needs. Touch yourself, finger fuck yourself, use your dildo.

What you don’t realise is that Ji and Lix, for whatever reason, come home early (and alone) one night.

And they hear your whimpers. They wonder who you have in your room.

Of course they sneak up to the door, it’s ajar, and they see you fucking yourself slow and deep with your dildo.

Jisung and Felix are mesmerised as they watch your hips rock against the toy. They subconsciously lick their lips when they see your arousal coating it each time you withdraw it from your cunt.

Jisung whimpers. Fuck! He looks at Felix who is biting his lip hungrily.

Your eyes spring open and you lift your head to see the two men staring at your pussy.

“A-are you just going to stand there?” You pant. “I know you know how to fuck a girl good…”

Jisung and Felix look at each other.

“I hear how you make them scream…while I’m here… using a fucking…toy.” You’re actually pretty close to coming. Especially having your friend's eyes on you.

Felix and Jisung exchange a knowing look, and saunter into your bedroom.

“Fuck, baby. Your pussy is so wet.” Says Jisung, not only from the visual, but also how loud the wet noises were coming from you.

“Let’s take this shirt of, yeah? That way we can take care of you properly.”

“You always…always…take care of random girls.” You pant.

“We’re so sorry, baby. Me and Lixi are here now.” Jisung coos as he nestles alongside your now naked body.

Felix lies on the other side of you, and starts to caress your body. He sucks on your nipple as his hands roam your stomach. “What do you think about when you touch yourself.” He whispers.

Should you tell them the truth? That you think about being one of their hookups? One of their conquests?

“Hmph.” Jisung chuckles low. “I bet our pretty baby listens to us fuck girls and imagine it’s her pussy we’re tearing up?”

Your silence followed by a hard swallow gives you way.

Jisung winks at you. “Knew it.” He whispers as his hand reaches down to grasp the dildo.

You draw in a sharp breath and then a long moan when he takes over and starts fucking you with your toy.

Felix releases your nipple with a pop. “Does our good girl imagine sucking our cocks?”

“Yes!” You cry. “Wanna taste your cocks.”

Jisung pulls the dildo from your aching cunt and tosses it to the side, and you whimper in protest.

“Shh… you’ll be filled again soon enough, sweetheart.”

They pull you off the bed to kneel on the floor and stand side by side in front of you. You watch wide eyed as they peel their clothes off and the three of you are completely naked.

They are likes pair of fucking gods. Toned, slender, strong. The sight of their very hard, and surprisingly large cocks has your poor dripping, empty, cunt clenching.

“Is our pretty girl just going to look, or is she going to open up wide?” Felix says softly. “You say you want us. Show us. Show us just how much you have been thinking about our cocks.’

They step towards you and you reach out to take hold of them. You start with Felix, taking him in as far as possible, gagging a little with your overzealous enthusiasm, while you jerk off Jisung with you other hand.

Then you swap, eventually alternating between them several times.

“Baby, you mouth. Fuck it feels perfect.”

“Look how much she can take in.”

“Someone needs to fuck me.” You moan. “Please… fill me up. Make me your slut.”

The two men groan at your filthy request, moving you back on the bed.

Jisung lays on his back while you kneel between his legs and take him deep into your throat. You want to fucking choke on his delicious cock.

“Pop your arse up for me love… that’s it.” Growls Felix, digging his fingers into your hips and guiding the tip of his cock against your entrance.

“Ready?” It isn’t a question for you, but between Jisung and Felix.

Jisung tangles his fingers into the hair on the back of your head and lifts your head until just the tip is inside your mouth. Then, as Felix pushes inside of you, Jisung pushes your head down over his cock.

They fuck you like this. Every withdrawal from Felix, Jisung releases your head up. Every thrust into your cunt is mirrored with your head being pushed down all the way to the base.

They fuck you until you come all over Felix’s cock and then Felix comes all over your back. Then they swap, getting hard again quickly.

“Baby, you feel so fucking perfect. Can I come inside you?” Jisung moans.

“Yes… please…” you pop of Felix momentarily.

“Oh fuck!” You cry as you come again, then feel Jisung spill inside you. Felix follows, coating the back of your throat.

The three of you lay in a tangle of sweaty limbs while you catch your breath.

“I don't think I want to go out on weekend anymore.” Declares Jisung.

You and Felix nod in agreement.

-------

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itsseohannbin @weareapackofstrays @xxkissesforchanniexx @starr-lvst @queenmea604 @queen-in-the-shadows @bethanysnow @newhope8 @chuuchuu1224 @vanillacupcakefrosting @3rachasdomesticbanana @fun-fanfics @palindrome969 @wolfennracha @rhonnie23 @jisunglyricist @strayywayy @yaorzu-blog @armystay89 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @everythingboutkpop @jiminssluttyminx @felixleftchickennugget @minho4cat

[hexed-padlock]

“A New Type of Vampire”

AU/Headcanon where Tav was part of the party that killed Strahd.

Pairing: Hinted Astarion x Tav but mostly gen. Party & Tav

Warnings: PTSD, flashbacks

Notes: A few people are mentioned, old party members of Tav: Alfvin (human wizard), Rägen (human rogue), and an unnamed Paladin.

Summary: After defeating the Orthon, Raphael upholds his end of the deal and reveals the information behind Astarion’s scars. The tale that’s unraveled reminds Tav of the mists.

————————

Yurgir put up much more of a fight than expected. Even with Karlach’s warnings, they had still been caught off guard with the Orthon’s fondness for explosives. One moment, Tav was clearing out a group of merregons, and the next they suddenly found themselves flung off an overhang with a defeaning boom. Shadowheart had to patch them up with a hasty Healing Word but couldn’t do much more as she was preoccupied with several more merregon.

Now, hours later, they were hurt and still so very sore from the whole ordeal. Shadowheart took the second most hits, while Gale was mildly scuffed up. Astarion, the bastard, somehow avoided getting hit until the end when an unexpected explosion sent him flying straight into the growling displacer beast. Needless to say, they were all happy to have that fight over with.

Tav sighed and dropped onto their bedroll with a low thud. Huntress, they’ve just about had it with fiends.

As if to spite them, the scent of sulfur began to waft through the old, stuffy air of Shar’s Gauntlet. Tav barely had a moment to clamber to their feet before a low orange glow signaled the arrival of Raphael. The rest of the party grabs their weapons as the cambion appears in a flash of brimstone and fire.

“Splendid! I should thank you for making quick work of Yurgir.” The devil was all smiles, fanged and hungry. He briefly mentioned his plans of re-educating Yurgir, which had Tav almost concerned for a moment, before swiftly turning to Astarion.

Raphael actually upholds his end of the deal and Astarion listens with rapt attention as the devil unveils what he learned. A contract, a ritual—between the Archdevil Mephistopheles and the vampire lord Cazador Szarr. Through this rite, Cazador would gain untold power and become a new type of vampire—The Vampire Ascendant. An evolution of sorts that will allow Cazador to gain untold levels of power, backed by an Archdevil of the Hells.

A dark power, a deal, and an all-powerful vampire lord, Raphael summarized.

Tav feels their hands go numb as a low ringing fills their ears. A pit forms in their stomach as a familiar fanged smile flashes through their mind.

The cambion continues speaking, Astarion giving him his full attention. Tav finds their eyes drifting over to Astarion’s and- Oh, gods. A familiar dread slowly crawl ls up their spine, the ringing growing ever louder, as Astarion’s eyes fill with fear… and hunger. Cold grips their insides and a soft caress of a familiar fog wraps around their limbs, clouds their eyes.

In an instant, Tav feels the mists around them- they wander aimlessly but there’s no way out. It’s blinding, disorienting—suffocating. A thick fog spans out in every direction, blanketing the Valley in an eternal gloom. They hear the distant howls of wolves, the eerie childish laughter, and the whispers. He was always watching, Tav knew. No matter where they went, it was never safe. It felt like a nightmare, and maybe it was—for what reality would allow such terror to exist alongside the living? All those souls lost in the pursuit of a monster’s hunger for power. Van Richten, Esmeralda-

Scenes flash through the mists, feeling all too real.

They hear The Huntress calling for them. They feel the Blood Spear echoing the land’s old magic, digging into Tav’s soul, empowering, hungering, thirsting-

They turn sharply in the mist and find a raven-haired human looking back at them, gripping onto a black dagger and clad in dark leathers. A friend. They were safe. Rägen. She was was as deaf as a rogue could be and as paranoid as a bat. Her heart was in the right place once you earn her trust. They’ve handled countless monsters together, having to rely on strangers, now family. Tav blinks and- They see her body, trapped within the amber- cold, cold, cold and alone-

“(Tav)?” … Alfvin? Alfvin. Their wizard, a brilliant arcane scholar and diabolist. A sharp mind and a trusted ally. Sharp brown eyes and black veins along the sclera, a scar running over the bridge of his nose, the familiar smell of sulfur and ash- His body hung from the gallows, the mists caressing a limp cat at his feet.

Raphael vanishes in another swirl of hellfire, descending once more into Avernus.

“Well, that was definitely something.”

Astarion’s lips feel dry as he processes the information Raphael provided. The Rite of Profane Ascension. A ritual that guarantees his death, but also untold potential. Power, freedom. He could keep himself safe, could keep Tav safe.

He expects some wry comment from Tav, but silence is all that greets him. He expected a quip or two about Raphael, maybe a seething comment about the ritual and infernal contracts- not silence.

He turns and finds the party all staring at a very much catatonic Tav. Their eyes are wide and empty, distant. They see something not there and their body shakes with subtle tremors as the air swiftly begins to cool. He flinches because it doesn’t make sense. Tav is bright and shining, someone laughs at danger and taunts fate itself. But this Tav was silent, staring but not seeing.

Astarion wants to reach out, to comfort, but the look on Tav’s face has him glued to the ground. A fear, horror, but of what?

It doesn’t take long for someone to approach Tav. Gale, sweet Gale, calls to Tav and shakes their shoulder.

—————

Someone shakes their shoulder and Tav flinches back, the tadpole responding and lashing out, overwhelmed with the sudden onslaught of memories.

Flashes of manic, chanting voices calling out. “He is the ancient, he is the land.”

A land cloaked in an eternal mist

trapped. trapped- no way out.

empty husks of people walking the streets

ravens crying out in warning

a flash- Blood red eyes, long raven hair

flames eating at a burning windmill. Ye Old Bonegrinder.

the stench of death and a lich’s grin

shadowed entities glinting within the amber that traps them

and a single man, sitting atop a throne, fangs glinting in the candlelight of Castle Ravenloft.

———

The party is flooded with flashes of memories- vivid, horrifying memories. A single name echoes above it all. Strahd.

The tadpoles grip onto the name and a final memory flashes. Strahd, astride his nightmare, plunges a black longsword through their- Tav’s- back. It’s a pain unlike any other. Shadows overwhelm them, darkness taking and taking. The Blood Spear’s tries desperately to stave off the dread plane’s magic as it takes and takes and takes.

A blinding light fills the room and Tav glances back to see a blade of radiant light pierced through Strahd’s middle. Behind him, their bloodied paladin, a Banite sent to conquer but one who’d chosen to instead save, smiles weakly.

Tav whispers, a voice unfamiliar to the party but still overwhelmingly Tav’s, “We’re free.”

They’re wretched from the visions as Tav seizes on the ground, clutching their middle the same way they had in the vision- the memory.

They blink up at the others, eyes wide, as they weakly mutter, “I can explain.”

“What in the Hells was that?!” Astarion screeches. He feels the horrible, pained cries. Sees the horror wrought by a single vampire’s will. Thousands of people, of souls, trapped in a demi-plane because of a single man’s selfish wish. He could practically taste Tav’s own fear, constant, all-consuming, as Strahd played with his new toys. Monsters clawed from the shadows as the dark gods laughed.

The whole party is shaken from the whispers in their heads.

Gale weakly pipes up. “I believe we saw some… interesting memories.” Definitely interesting. Dark magic unlike anything he’s ever seen should count as interesting.

Lae’zel hisses back, “Obviously.”

Shadowheart is silent as the memory quickly passes, echoes of a familiar shadow magic fading as the images vanish.

Wyll shudders as, for a moment, his limbs are frozen. He’s the Blade of Frontiers. He’s slain devils and monsters alike, but the power of a dread lord in his own plane was nothing like he’s experienced.

Karlach surges forward to hug Tav and moves to grab the rest of the party. There’s complaints and a lot of squirming, but they all settle into the hug.

Tav, suddenly surrounded by warmth, sobs. They’re safe.

They’ll explain another time, Tav thinks as they relax into the warmth of their party.

They all understood pain, they all shared their stories, and Tav supported them all with no judgement. They’ll wait. For now, it was time to return the favor.

(Bonus:

(Astarion very pointedly tries not to stare as the memory of sweet, darling Tav killing Strahd fills his mind. Seems like the gods finally answered his prayers.

The slayer of Strahd himself, now fighting to protect him and the rest of Faerün. His heart races at the thought and yep he’s definitely in love now.)

————————-

Hello! Sorry for taking a while to post the next reveal fic. I’m not sure how I feel about this one but it’s a scenario I had drafted up already. I tried my best bur writing really isn’t my strong suit lol.

Next fic is gonna be a lot sillier.

If anyone has some reveal ideas or prompts they have, feel free to reach out!

Tag list:

@writingmysanity @furblrwurblr

[deluxewhump]

Carlo’s Letters: Suzerain (unsent)

(from a collection of letters in Carlo’s handwriting. This one has no addressee or formal greeting, but the intended recipient is easily inferred)

CW: slave/pet whump, at times ambiguous master/pet relationship, Carlo is 20 writing this but referencing a time he was a minor (17), hand feeding, mention of violence and acid burning in the context of a movie, sexually charged looks in public from men, overall a reflective and tame piece)

April

Someone mentioned the tax season deadline and it brought up a memory I have of you, in that funny, mostly unrelated way memories have of coming up. Years ago, I think I was seventeen, we were trying to re-enter the country after a short trip. Something had gone wrong with our tickets. They were flagged, and we had to visit the consulate before flying.

The girl at the counter had hair the color of fake buttercups in a ponytail tied with a navy ribbon. She looked like an old-timey stewardess I’d seen in magazine illustrations. She said you had to pay a new fee to bring back a pet. No, not a new pet, just any pet. A one-time re-entry fee for those traveling internationally with their pets. You checked the time on your watch and asked when this came about. I got a chill from the subdued, civil curiosity you possess that makes people more nervous than a raised voice. The girl winced when she said last week, like she’d been getting pushback on it since then.

I glanced from her face to yours. The set of your mouth is easier to read than your eyes sometimes, especially when you’re talking to strangers. My eyes drifted down the pressed lines of your sleeve, the neat black lines of the coat folded over your arm. She turned her screen toward you, the policy pulled up and ready. I noticed the official US seal on the top, that sharp eyed, pitiless eagle and borders of navy blue. Knowing this was about me made me lightheaded, and I ran my pinky along the scratchy fabric of your coat like I could tether myself to you that way, focusing on the friction of fabric and skin. I took a deep breath slowly, so no one would notice.

You read her screen and hummed in amusement. The girl laughed nervously with you, unsure if you were about to give her a hard time. But you just paid the fee for my re-entry, and we went back to the taxi and rode to the airport. It was four thousand dollars. My stomach churned at the number.

The security checkpoint was busy. I stayed close to you amidst the throngs of people winding through the stanchions. They had dogs out today, and made us walk past them two by two. An agent with a belt full of gear and black boots made eye contact with me. His eyes were a transparent blue. I looked at the dog instead, its tail wagging softly and his head bent low, sniffing for contraband, thrilled to serve its master.

With two hours until our flight we sat in a dimly lit restaurant booth, all dark wood and polished brass rails at the bar that gave the impression we had stepped out of the sterile, white halls of the airport into another decade. The wall behind the bartender was mirrored. I watched us in the reflection as you ordered two waters and a caprese salad. I said I wasn’t hungry, though when the server brought your penne primavera it smelled so good I had a brief pang of regret.

I drank the water you ordered for me, imagining it cooling me from the inside out and bringing back my equilibrium. How many Italian dinners would four thousand dollars buy? Why did you have to pay such a jaw-dropping fee to bring your own property back into your own home country?

You ate at a pace slower than leisurely and ordered dessert, which was unlike you. I realized it was for me when you scooped the first bite of chocolate mousse cake on a fresh fork and put it in front of my mouth. I must’ve looked miserable because you pulled it away.

“What?” you said gently.

“Why was it so much?”

“Why was what so much, angel?” There was no warning in your tone. Only patience.

“To bring me back?”

You sighed through your nose, finished your demitasse of espresso. “That was a King’s ransom, wasn't it? Just a clever way to drum up some extra revenue. They know most of us won't leave our pets at a consulate over four grand. Well. Some will."

"Can you get it back?"

"I need you to stop wringing your hands over a luxury tax, Carlo." You sounded amused now, which was better than annoyed but not a distant land to it, either. "What did you bring to read on the plane?"

"The Idiot?"

"That won't help,” you said.

I didn't know what you meant by that, but I was alright with being in the dark, or the butt of a joke, if gave you a moment of genuine pleasure. "...It just seems unfair," I shrugged.

You lowered your voice. “It’s got nothing to do with you, sweetheart. It’s no matter. I’d have paid whatever I needed to. It’s a mosquito bite.”

I dropped my eyes. You’d gone out of your way to reassure me, and it had made my face warm. Back then, if I could have changed anything about myself, it would have been the way I blush so easily, making every emotion visible and ten times more humiliating. You offered the fork again and I leaned forward to take the bite of rich, sweet cake. It was good. I was hungry. I wanted another bite. But I’d sit there with my mouth watering for another five minutes while you took a phone call rather than reach for something I hadn’t been handed.

My attention slid off to a woman who’d dropped her purse in her rush to her terminal. Her phone skittered all the way to the drinking fountain by the wall like a rock skipped on water. It seemed to me the real world was inside the restaurant, its fresh bread smells and dark polished wood, and the ant-like rush outside in the airport was an illusion, a large TV screen.

You scooped another bite onto the fork and fed it to me with your cellphone to your ear, looking at me absently as you did. “I thought that’s what you said,” you said to whoever was on the other line. “I agree. They need to vet these guys. The new software makes it a step by step process.” You fed me yet another bite. My teeth hurt from the sweetness, but I took it. Chewed, swallowed. “There shouldn’t be any more mistakes like that. They need to be held responsible.”

You weren’t talking to me, or about me, but your matter-of-fact, stern tone made my spine tingle anyway.

I noticed a broad-shouldered black man with a close, well oiled beard watching my master hand feed me. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, had only a carry on briefcase with him. His watch and cufflinks looked expensive. His leather shoes gleamed. He saw me return his gaze and looked away with profound disinterest.

Strange men in public often had that reaction. Either that, or they would smile at me. It was almost always men. Women sometimes looked, but I couldn’t read their intent as easily. The men who grinned and leered always felt like a violation. I knew most would be a hot breath on my neck and the smell of some grotesque cologne, but at least they were displaying interest. I knew they could not actually touch me. Being an object of envy or desire still made me feel safe in those days, even if I knew the desire was destructive.

If strangers with a penchant for youngish boys would look at me with such open interest in an airport, a cafe, a crowded street, then I must possess something that has value to my master, even though he doesn’t use me in that way. Beauty alone must be enough for him, and that must be the essence of his attachment to me. It was my currency and I knew it.

Once (not with you) I saw a movie in which pets often had their faces burned with acid either as a last-ditch kind of punishment or a form of vandalism by their master’s enemies. I had bad dreams about it for months afterward. I don’t think I had ever imagined violence with any kind of permanence or real malice behind it until that moment. Why would I have?

Men like this one, who looked away as if even curiosity about me was beneath them were harder to be sure of than ones who stared. Were they too polite for that? Were they abolitionists who imagined I’d like to be free of this man I was with? Or did they find me, my submission, my mouth on the proffered fork of man who was so clearly my master repulsive? Was it hate or indifference?

I don't receive those looks anymore. I don't look like a pet. I don't sit like one at the side man who looks like no relation to me, and like he'd own a pet. Max thinks I'm oblivious to the way girls look at me sometimes. I probably am. Sometimes when I look in the mirror I still imagine myself though your eyes. I don't cut my hair too short or let it grow too long. I wear things you taught me to like. I don't have to do any of this. Someone else might shave his head, wear things he knows you'd dislike.

Do I still not possess an ounce of rebellion when it comes to you? I'm like that dog at the airport. I don't understand emancipation or retirement. I am waiting for you to tell me to come home, or else give me permission to become someone else.

You're in prison. I imagine you like some incarcerated mob guy in the thirties, with your own dinner menu and LL Bean slippers and guys who respect a gun runner nodding at you in the yard and calling you boss. What's it really like?

If I send this, will you write me back? Would you write to Max instead, telling him to keep a better eye on my mental state because I'm writing to you in prison? That would be worse than no reply, I think. A hand-slap and a reprimand.

The possibility might keep me from sending it.

Not Yours,

Carlo Svenson

[jealousjersey]

๋࣭⭑🍒⚝”charmer” ๋࣭⭑🍒⚝

pairing // best friend!clapton x fem reader

mentions // sneaking inside, sniffing panties, clapton lil weirdo dude, best friends to lovers, unprotected p in v (birth control mentioned, wrap it!) taking each others virginity’s, fem reader with breasts and vag, they say i love you in this one, porn with plot, horny jersey rambling blah blah blah you get fucked in this one. lottts of dialog

tags // clapton davis x reader

wc // 2k+

authors note // going back to the old layout bc i miss it. also ive been flopping lately…pls jhutch fandom dont die on me im sooooo back

a party is across the street, you weren't invited so why would you go? the neighborhood you live in is definitely not quiet, and it's not like you didn't hear clapton open your window

"What's up?" you say to him. he tosses his skateboard on your carpet and takes his sunglasses off, laying them on your desk

"ditched the party, cops were called and i wasn't getting involved in that tonight. he says, sitting comfortably on your bed. he's always been a bit invasive but who cares. at this point what's yours is his.

he notices a pair of lacy black panties on your floor, decorated by a dark red bow on the seam.

"well what do we have here, ms 'im a virgin. who would've known you owned this pretty thing" he teases you, which he knows works because your cheeks are bright red.

"shut up...don't look at my underwear" you say, attempting to snatch them from his hands but he dodges and twirls then in his fingers. "they're dirty put them down, i just took them off"

"yeah? were you expecting anyone special? someone to...take these off of you?" he teases you once more, knowing he's getting under your skin

you reach for his hand again, desperately trying to grab them. he stands up from the bed and moves away. he looks you in the eyes and brings them up to his nose, deeply inhaling the scent of you. his eyes roll back and you can hear his exhale, shaky and...sexy?

"damn you smell good..." he mumbles, climbing on the bed beside you. you are in shock but also incredibly turned on by him.

"barging up in my room through my window, then sniffing my dirty panties. you're just full of surprises; aren't you clapton?" you scoff teasingly.

"what can I say, I'm a charmer" he hummed and smirked, throwing his hands up in the air. He paused for a moment and looked over in thought.

"speaking of charming, have you been with anyone?"

you pretend to think back, knowing youre a absolute virgin. "not that i can think of." you joke like the dork you are.

"oh haha very funny, smartass" he said while sarcastically laughing, before turning more to his side to look at you more directly. He put one arm on the other "so seriously now, who's the last person vou've been with?"

"nobody. is it not obvious the only action i get is from that stupid wand you bought me as a gag gift?" you say, cheeks turning red. why did you bring that up?

"oh... the hitachi wand? you still use it?" he said and raised a brow, a smirk growing on his face again. he chuckled and shifted in his spot to face you more. crossing one of his legs and tilting his head slightly

"yes i still use it. you bought it for a reason, correct?" you look at him with a slight grin, having an idea as to where this is going.

“Mhm, I did. Just surprised that you still use it”

he hummed in response, still looking at you. he paused for a moment before speaking again

“…when was the last time you used it?”

“last night, actually.” you mutter, just loud enough so he can hear but quiet enough that it shows your embarrassment by this conversation.

his smirk grew slightly wider, moving in just a little closer to you

“oh really now?” he said in a low tone, shifting from his spot once again, this time laying on his side and resting his head and one of his arm “whatdya you think about?” he says seductively

“…you, i thought about you” you confess in a whisper. he let out a slight, quiet chuckle. scooting a little closer to you, his teasing smirk remaining on his face. looking over you as he spoke with a sultry tone that can’t help but make your stomach flutter

“oh yeah? what was I doing in your thoughts?” you can’t help but let out a soft groan, closing your knees together as you feel yourself growing wetter. he places his hand on your thigh, looking up at you, silently asking for your consent. he’d never do anything you weren’t comfortable with and you knew that. you nod and place your hand on top of his.

“everything…thought about you fucking me…fingering me…eating me out. all of it” you say breathlessly as the thoughts come back to you. He bit the inside of his cheek as his smirk stayed on his face. Moving his body just a little bit closer to you, he let out a quiet hum

“So you just dream about me… taking my time on you. Making you feel good, huh?” you bite your lip to conceal a moan, his voice enough to make you cum on the spot

“yes. made me feel so good…” you whimper. He couldn’t help but to shiver at the sweet sound of your whimper, moving closer once again. He was practically just mere inches away from you now. He’s hand began to reach around, slowly going up and down your arm before moving to caress your cheek

“Did you moan my name?” he asked curiously, a smirk still planted on his face

“yeah, moaned your name so fuckin’ loud” you gasp as his thumb slides your panties to the side.

He had a feeling you did, but hearing you say it yourself made him feel something. It made the smirk on his face grow wider as he caressed your cheek once more

“I bet I could make you moan my name once more” he said, his other hand slowly going down your waist, his thumb circling around just above your clit. enough to make you turned on but not enough to give you what you needed.

“yeah?” you whimper

he hummed in response as left hand continued trailing down your waist and onto your hip. he gently gripped it as he slowly circled his right thumb along the edge of your cunt, feeling you drip for him.

“mhm, I can. I know what to do to make you scream my name. just like you did in your little dream”

“i’m giving you the green light, make me yours, clapton.” you let out a deep breath and smile with half lidded eyes.

he was waiting for that exact sentence, his smirk growing once again as he removed his thumb and suddenly grabbed onto you and pulled you on top of him. you could feel that he was already a little hard. his hands gripping your hips as his eyes look up at you from underneath, a dark look in them

“you want me so badly.. don’t you. That’s why you dream about me, baby”

“want you more than anything. fuck me like you’re famished and i’m your last meal.” you say in a sexy voice, low and raspy.

He watched you carefully as you spoke. you feel him grow painfully hard under you. The words that came out of you only making his smirk grow wider. He gripped your hips a little tighter, gently grinding them into his own as a slightly low grumble escaped his throat

“God darling, I’m starved. You have no idea how badly I want to devour you, savor you.”

you moan softly and slip your panties down, spreading your legs for him.

*He watched with hungry eyes as you slipped your underwear down. He could feel how wet you were already, he bit his lip as he watched you spread your legs. He gently gripped your hips, holding them in place as he lifted his own hips and grinded against you. Letting out a quiet, shaky shaky breath

“you have no idea how badly i need you.”

“show me how bad you need me” you moan softly, rubbing your swollen clit against his leg to gain some friction.

“With pleasure, darling”

He mumbled under his breath as his hands slowly trail up from your hips to your waist, his grip on you becoming a little tighter than before. He moved his body a little, the tip of his cock aching to be let out of his pants. he starts to slip out of his jeans and throws them on the floor. he takes his hot dick out of its prison and gently starts to massage his tip, letting out spurts of precum as he maintains eye contact.

“before we do anything, you know i’m a virgin, right?” you say embarrassed by your lack of experience.

“so am i, we’ll figure it out together” he mumbles, still relieving the red painfully hard bulge in his hand.

you lay down on your back and take your shirt off, revealing your breasts which you always caught him staring at. why wouldn’t he? they’re perfect.

he groans at the sight of you; spread out and all for him.

he leans down and kisses you gently, then becoming more passionate and more confident. he bites your lower lip softly begging for entrance. you grant him access to your mouth, moaning at the taste of him. his tongue explores your mouth as he lines himself up with you, stopping the kiss to ask

“are you completely sure about this? once this happens we can’t go back to being just friends. i need to know you want this as much as i do”

you think about it, making sure this is exactly what you want.

“yes, yes clapton. this is what i want. i want you. i love you.” you say, looking directly into his dark brown eyes.

“i love you too” he says softly as his tip reaches your cunt

“are you ready?” he asks shakily, nervous for this. he’s finally loosing his virginity to you, something that has only happened in the deepest parts of his mind.

“yes, make me yours” you say softly and stare into his eyes.

he places a hand beside your pillow and uses his other hand to guide himself into you.

you feel the bittersweet pain of his dick entering you, stretching your tight cunt out for the first time. as he pushes in deeper you let out short moans of pleasure, until he hits that spot

your cherry pops as he goes deeper, you whine in pleasure and pain and he stops after feeling the tear

“everything okay?” he asks, worried.

you smile at his expression and nod

“everything’s okay, just a little burn. keep going, please.”

at your request he continues, slowly pushing back into you and hitting your soft spot with a thrust. you moan loudly and grip the sheets.

“yeah? feel good?” he moans and maintains his movements, in and out, in and out.

“yeah…feels so good. don’t stop” you moan, feeling each ridge of him that you soak in your wetness. the burn is becoming a lot more bearable. his length rams into your gspot once more and you shake under him.

his eyes roll back in his head, making the sexist face you’ve ever seen before. and to know you’re the one making him feel this good makes you moan in satisfaction.

“been…dreaming bout this..so long” he grunts as he deeply thrusts into you, his arms shaking beside your head from the pure adrenaline that comes from fucking your best friend.

“yeah? dreamt about it?” you moan, under him squirming and writhing as your legs begin to shake.

“fuck…yeah. everywhere…here…in a park…locker room…everywhere. wanna take you everywhere. make you mine everywhere” he groans, taking a hand up to lean your face up towards his. he looks into your half lidded eyes and brushes his thumb along your cheeks, feeling the heat which covers your skin in a pink hue.

“so fuckin pretty” he groans as he stares into your eyes with his deep brown ones, having been covered with lust for quite a bit now

he pulls out ever so slightly and then rams into you with force, making you scream his name

“clapton! fuck you feel so good” you moan

“tell me how bad you want my dick, how has you need me” he grunts and thrusts his hips into you, hitting your gspot beautifully each beat.

“need you…need your dick…want it so bad, fuck!” you moan out, tears of pleasure running down your face messing up your mascara to the point where it’s dripping down your flushed face

“so good for me…god this pussy was made for me to destroy” he takes his thumb and rubs your clit as his dick pumps in and out of your leaking cunt

“clapton i’m so close…” you gasp and moan

“wait a few minutes longer, yeah? can you do that for me? of course you can…such a good little thing for me” he pumps into you, circling your swollen bud with his calloused thumb causing the bubbling building up in your lower stomach. so close to release…so close.

the squelching noise of both parts filling up the room deliciously and making it so incredibly hard not to cum right then and now. you feel his hips stutter against yours. finally, time for you to cum.“fuck…baby let it all out..cum all over my cock” he groans and looks at you, sweat covering his forehead.

“cum inside me…i’m on birth control” you say, staring into his eyes. he groans, his hips stutter with pleasure and purpose. he shoots his white liquid deep inside of you, filling you up with his cum. you moan and your legs begin to shake, feeling your release cover him. you ride out the high and your hips buck forward. his stray hairs tickle your sensitive clit which causes you to moan loudly again

“oh fuck, clapton that…oh god” you say, starting to feel the aftershock. you’re sweaty and your makeup is ruined. clapton pulls out of you and leans his head against your neck, biting the lobe of your ear and whispering softly

“aren’t i a charmer?” he kisses your neck softly.

you let out a breath that you desperately held, panting and looking up to him

“yes, yes you are.”

๋࣭⭑🍒⚝ ๋࣭⭑🍒⚝ ๋࣭⭑🍒⚝ ๋࣭⭑🍒⚝ ๋࣭⭑🍒⚝ ๋࣭⭑🍒

tags // @qhutcherson