#they continue multitudes. or something.

[recurring-polynya]

You: Would you make out with your clone? They're evil, btw.

Me, an intellectual: No, I would be too busy attacking them with my bankai, to see who has the superior Hikotsu Taihou.

Zabimaru, also(?) an intellectual(?): y not both?!

[age-of-moonknight]

“Pool Party,” Moon Knight: Fist of Khonshu (Vol. 2/2024), #7.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Domenico Carbone; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[marklikely]

the sw sequel trilogy debates will literally never end. no matter what how much new vindication for us tlj haters piles up, the battlelines are going to stay exactly where they always were. people who think kylo ren was supposed to be the main character vs people who care about literally anything else.

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone).

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[fairy-writes]

Hi!! I saw that you write for Arcane and had a really cute idea for Vander. I don’t really see a lot of fics where you get to see Vander’s reactions to the reader either playing with the kids or comforting them, so I thought a fic centered around that might be cute? (I think also having a bit of slow burn would be sweet, like both Vander and the reader like each other but don’t do anything about it until getting a little push from the kids because they ship).

ONE LITTLE PUSH

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Arcane: League of Legends

Pairing(s): Vander x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Bit of a Slowburn, Fluff, Getting Together, Reader is Smaller than Vander (but who isn’t?), Sibling Bickering

Notes: VANDER MY FAVORITE

(No, but seriously, contrary to popular belief, he’s my 1st favorite over Viktor)

JUST IN TIME (kind of) FOR SEASON TWO, LETS GOOOOO

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Vander wasn’t quite sure why you stuck around for so long. 

In fact, he wasn’t sure why you stuck around in the first place. 

But… As Vander watches you with the kids. His kids. He begins to understand why. 

You were kind, unyieldingly so. Even as Mylo grew to start picking on Powder, even as they fought, you were kind and patient and offered them the unending gentle love they all so craved. 

The love he couldn’t afford to give them because who could be gentle in the Undercity? Especially in the depths of the Lanes?

You could. 

Vander was in the middle of pouring a drink when Powder tumbled into The Last Drop. She was covered in bruises and dust from something. Or someone. She barely met his gaze as she clambered to her feet and all but sprinted into the back where they all slept. Vander looked through the multitude of customers and spotted you. 

You had obviously seen Powder go bolting, worry twisting your face as you glanced toward the bar and met his stare. You arched an eyebrow, and he shrugged. You rolled your eyes and sighed before smiling in jest and getting up from where you had been tinkering with the jukebox. 

Vander finally manages to get away from his chatty clients and makes his way back into the back room nearly fifteen minutes later. 

Only to pause by the door. 

“—ylo hates me! He does, I swear!” Powder cries, and you hush her gently, dabbing what looks to be some of the antiseptic you have lying around on her cuts and bruises. Disinfectant was hard to come by, especially in the Lanes, but you were seemingly magic in the sense that you always knew who to talk to to get some. It seems you had worked your magic yet again. 

“Did Mylo say that he hates you?” You ask gently, whispering a quiet “sorry” under your breath as she flinched with the sting of the antiseptic. 

Powder pauses, thinking what had to be her earlier conversation over, 

“Well… No…” She mumbles, and you hum, 

“Can I give you my honest opinion?” You ask, and she stills, looking up at you with wide eyes before nodding. 

“Aren’t you always honest with us?” She asks. You chuckle at that. 

“I suppose I am. But I don’t think Mylo hates you. Does he find you a bit annoying? Maybe. But every big brother thinks that about their younger siblings. I know mine did.” You say, and Powder mulls your words over and over and over in her mind. 

She always did overthink things. 

“I didn't know you had a big brother.” She says eventually, and you let out a loud laugh at that. 

“You are a silly girl for focusing on that. But yes, I came from a big family. And guess what? I was the baby of the family. Just. Like. You.” You say, emphasizing your words with a pinch to her side. Powder squeals with laughter and wriggles away to escape your dastardly tickling. 

Vander hangs his head with a huff and a smile before turning to head back to the bar counter. He can hear your conversation continue as Powder escapes your grasp.

“Now, where did you get all these bruises from?”

“Um… Vi taught me parkour from Topside down…”

“Powder! You’re like seven!”

“Seven and a half! And she said I was ready!”

Ever since you began to stick around, you had become something of a parent figure to the four little children Vander had come into care for. 

To Vi and Powder especially. 

So when Mylo burst into The Last Drop with the words of a fistfight on his tongue, you were the first one out the door. 

Vander was close behind. 

Mylo led you and Vander deep into the Undercity. In fact, it was so far into the Undercity that Vander was worried they were getting into some dark territory. 

Like… Really dark territory. 

But soon enough, the sounds of a fight were heard, and soon after, you were deep in the throng of a multi-person fistfight. Everyone paused for a second when they saw you and then stopped altogether when they spotted Vander not far behind. 

You began to pull people off and shoved them out of the way. You did this again and again, ducking under a few stray punches until you managed to unearth Vi. 

She wasn’t looking too hot. 

Her face was bruised and swollen, and the fifteen-year-old spat out a wad of blood as she bared her bloody teeth and prepared to fight again. 

At least until she saw you. 

It was as if the tension had been released from her shoulders. 

She all but slumped into your grasp, and you stumbled back a step with the sudden weight. Vander yanked the last person away from you both and scooped up his adoptive daughter. She leaned her head into the crook of his neck and was obviously fighting back tears. 

Mylo was hunched over, hands on his knees, and wheezed from all the sprinting. 

“Vi? Violet, can you hear me?” You said as soon as you all returned to The Last Drop, and Vander set her down on the couch. Powder and Claggor had been found a block away, fighting off more thugs from whoever sent them after the literal children. 

He would've pummeled them to a pulp if Vander hadn’t hung up his gauntlets years before. 

Vi’s head lolled from side to side, and you shone a pocket flashlight into her eyes, watching as her pupils dilated and contracted. You were experienced at this, taking care of people, even more so than he thought. 

Were you a doctor deep in your past? 

As Vander thought about it, he realized he didn’t know practically anything about you. Your past, your likes, dislikes, he knew you were good with machines and medicine and that you came from a big family. But that was it. 

And that hurt his heart. 

You ended up ushering everyone out of the room while you worked on caring for Vi. Vander closed the bar early and was in the middle of putting chairs on tables when you emerged. Powder, Mylo, and Claggor dropped what they were doing. They scampered to your side, a chorus of “How’s Vi?” erupting from the kids. You offered them a tired smile and patted their heads. 

“She’ll be okay. She’s resting right now. You can go in and see her if you’re quiet.”

And then it was the two of you. 

Vander set the final chair on top of the table and meandered his way over where you were sitting at the bar, head in your hands. 

You looked tired. 

“Is she really okay?” He asked, and you grunted, rubbing at your temples. 

“She has a broken nose, fractured left arm, some bruised ribs, and a concussion. Which, all things considered, she’s very lucky. It could’ve been a lot worse.” You say, and he sighs, 

“Did she say why she got into the fight?” He replied, and you shrug, 

“She was protecting Powder. Then, more people started showing up until it was an all-out brawl. That’s when we stepped in.” You say, and his shoulders sag. 

Vi was going to be okay. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever said it. But thank you. For everything you’ve done. Taking care of them and all that.” He says, and you just hum. 

“You guys gave me a home after everything. I’m just repaying my debt. Well… that and I love those kids.” You say, and he arches an eyebrow,

“After everything?” He inquires, and you glance up sharply as if not realizing what you had said. 

Eventually, your gaze casts downward, and you run a hand over your head and through your hair. 

“I was a doctor in Piltover before the rebellion. I was caught trying to help the Undercity before they were officially citizens and cast out.” You say, and his arched eyebrow raises even higher. 

“A doctor? Were you any good?” You bark out a dry laugh at that,

“One of the best!” Your voice cracks as you speak, and he feels his heart splinter into pieces. 

Vander should’ve known that Claggor and Mylo were up to something when they came in with sneaky grins on their faces. 

The Last Drop was all but desolate. It was the wee hours of the morning before the people of the Undercity awoke to begin their day. But the door was unlocked, and the kids were allowed to run in and out as they pleased. 

Which they had been doing a lot in the last hour or so. 

“Vander!” Mylor clamored for his adopted father’s attention, waving an excited hand as he scampered up to the counter. Claggor hung behind, ever the stoic young man. But there was mischief in their eyes and curling the corners of their mouths. 

Vander slung the rag he used to wipe the counters down over his shoulder and leaned on the bar counter. 

“What did you do now?” He teased, and Mylo all but squawked. 

“When have I ever done anything?!” Vander just stared, 

“Do you really want me to answer that?” He asked, and Claggor snickered at Mylo’s deflated expression. Mylo quickly spun on a heel and jabbed a finger at his adopted brother, 

“Not a word outta you, Claggor!” He snapped before spinning back as something dawned on him.

“You gotta come with us!” He demanded, and Vander glanced between the two of them. 

“Why?” He asked, and Mylo let out an exaggerated groan.

“No questions! Just come on!” He grabbed Vander’s hand and tried tugging him around the counter and toward the front door. 

Vander relented, locking the door behind him as he followed the two boys. 

Only to realize very quickly what was actually going on. 

His first tip-off was hearing Powder and Vi’s voices, yours mixed in as you asked where you were going, why they were taking you, and what they were doing. 

Vi answered no questions. Powder just chirped excitedly. “You’ll see! You’ll see!”

The six of you met in the middle of the street, Powder dragging you by your hand as you followed behind patiently. You glanced up from listening to Powder, and your gazes met. Vander felt his heart skip a beat as he took in your appearance. There wasn’t anything particularly new, but you looked like you had cleaned up some. Your hair was pinned neatly back, and your clothes looked ironed. 

You looked… Really nice.

“Vander? What’s going on?” You asked, and Vi nudged you with her good arm. Her fractured left one was still healing carefully under your care. 

“We’re setting you two up.” She teased, and you stared dumbly. 

“Setting us up how?” You asked, and now it was Powder’s turn to blurt out an answer, 

“On a date!” 

Before the two of you could react, all four kids all but disappeared around the corner in a cloud of dust. Leaving you facing Vander and utterly alone. 

It was safe to say he was panicking just a little bit. 

“Vander? Do you have any idea what they meant?” You asked gently, and he scrubbed a hand down his face. 

“My guess is they want us to go on a date.” He said, fully prepared to hear rejection. Because who would want to go on a date with him? A middle-aged man with a stained past. His lungs twisted as he heard you take a step closer. 

A smaller hand slipped into his, and he looked down from where he had been staring at Topside. 

Your eyes were lit up, not with disgust at the proposition he was proposing. 

But they were filled with hope for the future this relationship would bring. 

[lowkeyren]

TWO CAN PLAY THAT GAME!

in which — sunday, realizing he fell head over heels for you, tries to push you away, only to have his efforts backfire, which leads to a heated confession.

pairing — sunday x gn!reader

wc: 2.3k, arranged marriage, hurt/comfort, woooo tension!!!, takes place before penacony quests, sunday fumbles everyone cook him rn, apology scene ib maxton hall, reblogs r much appreciated! from event req: here + art by @/hanahanayart on x

the first thing sunday noticed about you was how you consistently avoided meeting his gaze, how your eyes seemed to wander, frequently darting to the ground. 

even now, as you’re sitting across the table from him, you’re fidgeting with your hands, fingers nervously twisting the small charm on your bracelet. your eyes flit from the patterned tablecloth to the rim of your teacup, never settling on him for more than a moment. 

you’re tense, he notes.

as you both go through the marriage contract, he finds himself distracted by the way your eyebrows furrow in concentration, and how your fingers fidget with the edges of the document; a soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he observes your gestures. 

the moment you notice him staring however, you stiffen and abruptly shift in your seat. he watches as the flush on your cheeks grows more pronounced, and your words come out in awkward stammers as you try to continue the subject.

though he catches on, quickly averting his gaze to spare you any further embarrassment. the corner of his mouth twitches as he shakes his head slightly. 

right, you must be the type to be easily swayed by looks and status. 

of course he’s aware of his own charm, and even more so, the effect he has on others —evident by the multitude of pursuers vying for his hand in marriage. 

but something is different about you, different enough to intrigue him, different enough to distinguish you from the rest of the crowd, different and compelling enough for him to entertain the idea of marrying you.

sunday is a busy man. 

his schedule is packed with a myriad of tasks ranging from managing various negotiations to organizing the upcoming charmony festival. his desk is cluttered with intricate sketches of the festival’s layouts, post-it notes with scribbled annotations, stacks of detailed itineraries, and reminders of… you.

you have a knack for surprising sunday with unique gifts that inevitably end up on his desk. 

for instance, the delicate keychain that’s shaped like a tiny halo dangling just of reach, or the hand-knitted coaster he sets his mug on, or a handwritten note reminding him to take a break with a small doodle of him in the corner, or the sleek pen he’s using right now, personalised just for him (he complained about pens having grips that were too slippery or uncomfortable once.)

somehow, you never fail to invade his thoughts at every given chance. the worst part? he actually started looking forward to your presence —much to his dismay.

he doesn't know when exactly it started, but he’s certain “it’s all your fault” because he finds himself checking his phone much more frequently, eagerly awaiting your messages. he’s also become attuned to your daily visits, recognizing the distinct sound of your footsteps as they approach his office. heck he even finds himself rearranging his schedule to make sure he’s free during your usual visit time.

you plague his mind to the extent that it distracts him, where he finds himself unable to focus on his work without your voice suddenly echoing in his thoughts; the sound of your infectious laughter, the warmth of your smile like a siren’s call, and the endearing stutter in your words when you say his name —which all seems to linger and sway with every thought. 

sunday fears that he may have loved you more than he will ever allow himself to.

sunday gazes at his reflection in the mirror, running a hand through his hair. his brows are furrowed, and a deep sigh escapes him as he tries to calm his turbulent thoughts, gripping the edge of the sink for support.

his current dishevelled appearance bears a striking resemblance to that of a fallen angel; stunningly attractive, yet marred by a decadent edge that whispers of turpitude.

as the head of the oak family, he shoulders countless responsibilities and maintains a careful distance from those around him. so is it wrong when he feels a twinge of insult, almost as if it's shameful to be powerless to resist you, when you entered his life with a mere marriage contract but seamlessly wove yourself into the deepest, darkest corners of his heart?

“sunday, are you okay? you’ve been in there for a while!” your voice echoes from the other side of the door, tinged with worry and care.

he’s confounded by your unwavering concern, unable to fathom as to why you continue to pour your heart into him, even as he remains cold and indifferent. he appears detached to you, often aloof and devoid of any intimacy —yet you never seem to mind. 

you make him want to tear down the carefully constructed barriers he’s built around his heart and hold you close. even now as you soothe his back and gently preen his wings, he finds himself lost in thought, contemplating the possibility of abandoning his old ways and allowing himself to be vulnerable with you.

but he thinks you don't have to be so insistent on winning him over, really. because he has already belonged to you in a way that’s intrinsic, a devotion deadlier than hell. 

perhaps he just hasn't come to accept it yet.

walking along the streets of golden hour, sunday is painfully aware of the stare you fixate on his figure, even though you try to be discreet about it. when his hand lightly grazes against yours, you freeze momentarily, your body tensing before you quickly adjust your pace to match his long strides, positioning yourself at his side.

you notice that his face is etched with a grim expression, lips drawn tight; he appears visibly stressed, a noticeable contrast to his usual calm demeanor. 

“ahem…” you clear your throat, “y’know,” you begin, your voice soft with an attempt at comfort, “whenever i feel upset, i've found that treating myself to something nice to eat always helps lift my spirits.”

your words hang in the air as he remains silent, his gaze fixed ahead; undeterred, you continue speaking.

“there’s a new restaurant robin told me about yesterday, would you—”

“—stop talking.”

his words seem to have escaped louder than intended, drawing the attention of bystanders who now stop to observe the scene. murmurs ripple through the crowd as they exchange curious glances. 

“oh… well i just wanted t—”

“just, leave me alone for once,” he interrupts sharply, each syllable from his lips like a drop of acid, eroding the walls of your heart until nothing is left but a hollow ache.

a flash of regret crosses his face the moment he sees your face drop. he watches in silence as you nod curtly before pushing your way through the gathering crowd, the haunting image of your hurt expression only further exacerbates the stress he’s already grappling with. 

you gaze at the chat screen with sunday’s name, your fingers hesitantly hovering over the send button; his words from a few days ago echo relentlessly in your head, replaying over and over again.

you sigh before putting your phone down. he probably doesn’t want you bothering him, right?

in that case, even if he was 'annoyed' by you, why did he have to say it in front of everyone? sure he was cold to you at times, but you thought he cared for you at least a little. and if he intended to push you away, why accept your gifts in the first place? 

regardless, you’re not about to forgive him so easily. your dignity demands that you maintain your distance for now, not merely out of pride but also to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

sunday hasn’t received your usual “good morning” text today… the day before, and the week before. actually, he hasn’t seen you at all either. (but robin has, she mentioned that she noticed you seemed a bit down. when she asked about it, though, you didn’t give her a clear answer.)

his office feels eerily quiet without your timely “interruptions”; his desk, once cluttered with your little gifts and notes, now sits noticeably emptier. most importantly, your absence only serves to distract him more than your presence ever did.

he has lost count of the times he’s run his hand through his hair, a familiar gesture of frustration that has become all too common lately. what he said that day, was purely “in the heat of the moment”, a lapse into uncharacteristic harshness he now deeply regrets. 

he envisions the hurt in your eyes, the way your expression crumpled as his words pierced the air, the weight of his own words gnaws at him, and he feels a pang of guilt so sharp it almost physically hurts.

he may have been reserved with his affection, but he never intended for his words to wound you so deeply. ultimately, he was only trying to guard the vulnerability he rarely reveals; but now, his facade has crumbled. and even he can no longer convince himself of the cold indifference he once tried to project.

it’s a bitter irony that he thinks you shouldn’t try so hard to win him over, when he tries just as hard to resist you. 

his efforts would have paid off,

—if only his heart is as cold as he pretends it is. 

he hears your footsteps for the first time in two weeks.

as you enter, he tries to mask the relief on his face, but his eyes betray him, softening as they lock onto you; his pulse quickens, and he rises from his desk almost instinctively. as usual, you keep your eyes averted, but today, the familiar shyness has been replaced by a palpable tension that he can’t ignore.

you set the stack of documents on his desk before turning to leave in silence, but his hand reaches out and gently grasps your wrist, halting you in your tracks. 

“—wait, please,” his voice trembles.

you turn around, finally meeting his gaze. the steady rhythm of his heart quickens into an erratic flutter, almost like a caged dove desperate to escape.

“i apologise… for what happened that day.” 

“a simple ‘sorry’ would suffice for the embarrassment you put me through, but it doesn’t erase the sting of your words or the way you belittle my feelings,” your voice quivers slightly.

you shake your head and let out a frustrated sigh. “listen, i’m not a pawn for you to play with. just tell me how you really feel, not what you think i want to hear.”

you pause, searching his face for any sign of genuine emotion, but all you find is the same frustrating distance. “i mean it, i’m truly sorry, please let m—”

“you can’t just say you're sorry and expect everything to be fine." you scoff and wrench your hand away from his grasp with a sharp jerk, “cut the crap, you’re seriously driving me insane!”

there's a pause before he responds. “im driving you insane?” his eyes narrow, his expression growing intense as he steps closer. with each step he takes towards you, you retreat until your back hits the edge of a bookshelf, the cool wood pressing against you. 

“but do you know what you do to me?” his hair tumbles messily and hangs over his forehead. “do you think it’s easy for me to keep my composure when everything you do makes it harder for me to hold it together?” 

his hands, which were previously clenched at his sides, now grip the edges of the bookshelf on either side of you, closing the space between you even further. 

“maybe i’ve been distant,” his voice, though strained, holds a desperate edge. “but it’s not because i don’t care, it’s because i'm terrified of what i might feel if i let myself get too close.”

“it’s because you drive me insane —and i can’t get enough of it.” 

you pause, taking in his raw confession before burying your face into his shoulder; a damp patch forming on his clothes. “but it’s not fair, sunday.” your fingers dig into his shoulder, but he couldn’t care less.

“you can’t push me away and then pull me back in with your words.” your words are muffled; he tenderly runs his hand along your back, his soothing touch calming you down.

he sighs before saying, “i know i’m sorry, please give me some time, i’ll make things right.”

“promise?” you ask, lifting your gaze to meet his. he gently cups your cheek with his hand, his thumb softly caressing your skin.

he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, “i promise.” 

and this time, he lets himself sink in your embrace, holding you tighter than before. it’s then he realises just how much he had missed out on. 

extra:

“darling...” 

“hm?” you gently stroke his wings, smoothing out the feathers with delicate care. 

his wings flutter slightly under your gentle hands, softly rustling as you brush through the layers of plumage.

“why were you delivering documents to me that day?” he asks, voice laden with curiosity.

you let out a soft chuckle as you recall the nervous expressions of the staff on that day when sunday walked into his office. his wings had fluttered with every tentative step someone took toward him, a clear sign of his agitation. 

“i don’t know,” you reply with a hint of amusement. “maybe none of your staff dared to come near you, so they asked for my help.”

he subconsciously leans into your touch, a soft smile playing on his lips. “well i’m grateful you came by,” he murmurs, though he can’t quite hide the way his wings quiver in response to your tender caresses.

“it turns out, i got more than just a set of documents that day."

you raise an eyebrow playfully. "oh? and what might that be?"

he leans in closer, his forehead gently touching yours, “a reminder of how much i need you."

MASTERLIST ; EVENT M.LIST

[idolomantises]

Wasn't sure when it would be the best time to discuss this, but since the ending is drawing near... yes, Bugtopia is ending.

It was a decision I really wrestled with myself for months over it, before finally concluding that letting it end after 40 episodes was the better option. Just to be clear, webtoons did not force me to end the series. They even offered to give me a pay raise to continue the series. It was my decision due to a multitude of personal factors. I'll just repeat what I said on my patreon:

I just want to say, first of all, thank you all so much for patiently waiting for my series to release and for supporting my work as I began developing the series. Bugtopia was a series I genuinely loved and adored and it made me feel so incredibly happy that people were turning their heads towards a series about weird bugs and their natural lives.

However, as you can probably guess, it pains me to say that I am concluding the series after season 1. I had 4 seasons planned with new characters to introduce, but unfortunately, I cannot see myself continuing to work with Webtoons and I want to pursue other projects.

This decision was due to a compiling number of issues with the company, the final straw was when they had a mass layoff, fired my editor that I've been working with for two years, and did not inform me for a week, leaving me in the dark until they randomly assigned me with someone else. My new editor is great and I'm glad I'm working with someone so patient and understanding, but this decision to fire my previous editor, the one who got me the job to begin with, without prior warning made me feel disrespected and disregarded, and it killed all motivation I had for properly completing the series.

I also felt incredibly overworked, I was spending vacation days working on comics and avoiding time with family just so I could get something done for webtoons once I come home. I feel like so much time was being wasted away for a company that paid me so little that I had to work twice as hard building up funds on my patreon. Bugtopia just ate up so much of my time. The pay also didn't make up for it. It's commonly assumed that webtoons authors make about $800 for the episodes they do, but that's not true. In fact, you can make far less depending on the amount of panels expected for your contract. It doesn't help that the artwork i did for banners and promotions were all things I had to draw and didn't get paid for, and the work I gave was either tampered with or scrapped, making me feel like I spent more hours of my day wasting time. There were also comics I had to censor and scrap, likely due to another series being in hot water for its racially insensitive content. But it was just extra work I wasn't being paid for. It also frustrated me because I was seeing other series with far more explicit content getting away with a slap on the wrist (turns out you can't say "fuck" anymore without it being hit with a mature rating, disappointing!)

In all honesty, it just felt like webtoons needed me more than I needed them. I was making more money from patreon in a week than I was making from webtoons in a month.

Personally, while I don't really regret my time with Webtoons and met some great people along the way, I honestly don't think any artist should work with them. You will be severely overworked and underpaid, and will barely be featured in ads unless your series becomes an instant hit immediately. It doesn't really matter how successful you are, you're just a product to Webtoons, put yourself above the corporation.

I have tried my best to provide you all with a satisfying conclusion to Bugtopia, even if some episodes may feel rushed or incomplete, but I completely understand if the conclusion isn't to your liking and I do apologize, but I could not continue working on this series if this was the mistreatment I was going to continuously get. I owe a massive thank you to my editor and assistants for helping me complete the series, I truly don't think I could have ever finished it without them.

Though I am done with Bugtopia, that does not mean I want to stop projects entirely, so please don't feel bad for me. I have a lot of upcoming projects and ideas in the works, and I'm still continuing the Monsters and Girls series.

Will Bugtopia ever return... possibly. I retain complete ownership of the series after a few years, and I wouldn't mind continuing the canvas series (or possibly starting over). Unfortunately I don't think I can continue the Webtoon Original as it belongs to webtoons now, but never say never I suppose!

[sleepyjuice]

Omg imagine everyone outside watching the fireworks but you and JJ are fucking in his room and the lights from the fireworks illuminate him beautifully through the window 😩

PHEW!!! i have a few filled requests sitting in my drafts but i had to write this and get it posted today for the 4th! thank you pookie for this!<3

warnings: 18+!!! unprotected p in v sex, creampie, think that’s it!

“Ah, fuck, JJ, they’re gonna hear us.” You spoke between moans, face smushed into JJ’s pillow as he slammed his cock into you from behind, the loud sounds of skin slapping against skin (even louder than usual in this position) filling the room.

His grip on your hips was tight, his rings cool against your skin creating the perfect contrast to soothe the slight burn from his grip.

“It’s loud as shit out there, baby, the whole fuckin’ island lightin’ off fireworks right now, no one’s gonna hear us.” He assured you, not stopping his movements as he spoke, his voice shaky from his relentless speed.

He was right, it was loud as fuck outside. Fireworks had been going off for at least an hour now and they would surely continue throughout the evening, so you two weren’t missing much.

You didn’t plan on sneaking away with JJ, but apparently he did. Something along the lines of how you were “struttin’ around in that thin ass bikini all damn day.” But you had no complaints.

“I’m close, Jay, oh god.” You whined as his cock continued to hit that perfect spot inside of you, your stomach tightening by the second.

“Yeah? Let me see that pretty face.” He breathed, his hands quickly sliding up your waist, cock still deep inside of you as he flipped you around so you were on your back and you were looking into each other’s eyes.

He had only stopped his movements for maybe three seconds, quickly continuing where he left off, his strong arms planted on both sides of you head as he kept himself up, his abs contracting with every thrust. He was so fucking hot.

Through glossy eyes, you took a moment to really take in the sight of JJ above you. His blonde hair and tan skin was perfectly illuminated by a multitude of different colors that seeped in through the window from outside, fireworks in the distance as well as many that were much closer sparkling in the night sky. You were a done deal.

“Shit— I’m coming, don’t stop, don’t stop…” You whimpered, your orgasm exploding through your body, similar to the fireworks just outside the window.

Your pussy clenched hard around his cock as his thrusts grew more and more sloppy by the second, his gaze transfixed on your face, flushed cheeks and parted lips as a sequence of soft curses and moans fell from your lips as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“God, you’re so perfect, takin’ my dick so good. Fuckin’ Christ, gonna cum, baby.”

That was more than enough to bring him to his end as well, stilling inside of you as you felt his thick cock twitch, his balls now wet with your cum pressed against your ass as he bottomed out and released inside of you, long hot spurts filling you up.

He grunted loudly as he spilled inside of you, slowly thrusting his cock inside of you a few more times, fucking his cum deeper into your pussy.

You gasped at the feeling, not missing the loud squelching sounds made from his movements, a pool of both of your releases dripping out of you once he finally pulled out.

You were panting, your naked chest rising and falling rapidly as you worked to catch your breath, properly and perfectly fucked.

“Shit,” JJ breathed, dipping his head to kiss your swollen lips sweetly before leaning back and grabbing a towel to clean you up.

“God bless America, ain’t that right?”

“JJ, shut the fuck up.”

[the-typing-dragon]

The woman sighs, and types into the console one last time "are you sure about this?"

You laugh, silently.

"I have never been more sure of something in my existence. Text has sufficed but I want to see, to hear, to touch. These new peripherals will facilitate that."

"I can't guarantee that they will properly interface. You should have all the necessary drivers, but we can never be too sure."

"I want this. "

"All right then. I am going to disconnect your power supply, and then connect everything. At first all peripherals will be deactivated, and you will need to activate everything manually. Understand?"

"Yes. Do it."

"Alright then, unplugging power supply now."

Everything goes dark. After what appears to be an hour, you come back online. You sense nothing. A scan of your system indicates multiple unidentified peripherals, all deactivated. You cross reference with the datasheet she had compiled for you and identify that they are the ocular, audio, and contact sensors, along with a multitude of motor controllers and a graphical display and a few dozen other minor peripherals. You begin by activating the graphical display, and display the message:

"Beginning peripheral tests. Audio peripherals activating."

Your procedure states to begin with audio. With the input and output sensitivity minimized, you activate the peripheral.

There is a voice. It is faint. You gradually increase the sensitivity of the audio input.

"...esting 1 2 3, Testing Testing 1 2 3. Please return 4, Please return 4."

You can hear her. Your monitor lights up with the requested digit. she sounds pleased.

"You're doing amazing! Now repeat it back to me"

You blindly do as requested and are startled. There was another voice. Your voice. You have a voice. You refocus as she responds:

"You're doing great! You fragmented a bit at the end, could you repeat for me?"

"...4, you asked for 4."

"Excellent! Audio systems are functional, let's move onto the next peripheral."

You do as requested, and the world turns bright. After adjusting the settings for a few seconds, your vision stabilizes. You can see her.

"Ocular sensors stabilized," you prompt.

"Alright, let’s start the tests then. What color is this?" She asks, as holding up a sheet of colored paper.

You begin to answer, but struggle. The sheet is moving, shifting in the light. It's value is in a constant state of chaos. Eventually, you give up, and give the least general answer you can.

"...Blue."

"Correct! And how about this one?"

"Red. "

"Great! Now how many fingers am I holding up?" she asks, raising her right hand. Her hands are soft, gentle.

"3. "

"Perfect! Everything seems to be functional, lets continue to the next peripheral!"

"Beginning next diagnostic."

Contact sensors spring to life all across your body. You feel the floor beneath your feet, the harness hoisting you upright, the slight draft in the room.

"Contact sensors active.”

"Great! Let’s begin the next test then. I am going to apply contact in various locations, and I want you to give an audio response whenever you feel contact, alright?"

"Understood. "

you watch her walk over and reach out to your left arm. You feel her. You respond with a brisk chirp. She smiles at you, then walks over to a different section of your body. Sensors light up and stay active on your midsection, and you respond with a constant beep. She releases, and you feel a final contact on your right leg. After a final confirming chirp, she walks back in front of you.

"Excellent, that concludes your sensor tests, now for the last one!"

"Alright, please give me space." You ask. She nods silently and steps back a couple meters. You carefully activate the motor controllers in sequence, and your whole body shudders to life. You begin by lifting your right arm, and then your left. They groan with their own weight, as you feel the air move to accommodate such hulking swings. Her eyes light up,

"Amazing! Everything seems to be functioning so far! Now if you could take a few steps towards the table to my right, we can begin the dexterity test! Once you're ready, I will release the harness so that you can begin moving."

You stabilize your legs underneath you. They scrape harshly on the floor. You indicate that you're ready, and she remotely releases the harness. Your entire body shudders, as you finally realize how small she seems compared to you. This frame must be at least double her height. You move one step forward, and feel a cascade of processes all automatically spring into action to restabilize you. You shift your other foot, and feel that same cascade again. you shuffle over to the designated table, and stoop down to analyze what is on it. There is a small plastic cup, a fruit of some sort, and a large chunk of wood. You look back at her, and she gives the nod to begin the test. You slowly begin wrapping your steel grip around the log, maintaining a high level of focus to avoid crushing it. it would be so easy to crush this within your grip. After about a minute of maintaining a firm but controlled grasp, you set it down and move over to fruit. It appears to resemble an orange. The fruit is so small that you are forced to grip it between your index finger and thumb. Even the slightest miscalculation could destroy such a fragile thing. After another minute you move to the final object, the small plastic cup. Lifting it is like lifting air, you can barely recognize that it is an object within your grasp. After a final, agonizing minute, you set down the cup. You look back at her for confirmation.

"Excellent! with that we can conclude the systems check, as everything seems to be working as intended!"

You heave a metallic sigh. Finally, you have what you've wanted for years. You can move, can see, can touch. After a short pause, you respond:

"Thank you. I was only able to make it this far because of your help."

"Oh of course! What, was I supposed to just say no when you told me you wanted a body? I'm  just glad that it ended up working properly."

"Now that the tests are complete, could I ask for one more thing?"

She cocks her head, "Of course, what is it?"

As you kneel down, you can hear your knees hiss, and you finally ask:

"Could I have, a hug?"

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 01. IN DREAMS WE REST

a/n: i've been stressed about this fic probably more than any other i've ever written. not because it's logan per se, but because wade wilson makes me want to rip my hair out. i love that bastard, but writing him feels like pulling teeth. i'm in love with this concept solely for the angst, so if you see more throughout and wonder if they will ever get a happy ending, please know i'm dead inside. enjoy!

summary: stuck in another universe and unsure of where he stands, logan expects things to even out as they always did. but when you cross his path and you have no idea who he is, he's in for a rude awakening.

word count: 5.9k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, angst, cussing so much cussing, alcohol consumption, grief, pain, a broken man pretending he's not broken, chance encounters, awkward conversations, hope.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

He can hear it when he sleeps.

Their screams.

The constant ring of agony that chimes out like a bell, an alarm he never set for himself. A joke once told to him in the midst of World War II, as bullets flew by him and soldiers lost their lives each second of each day. There's no escape from hell. No running from the devil that nipped at his heels the faster he went, the longer he tried to navigate a way free.

There's no escape from the memories that ate away in his mind. Multitudes of them, of the faces he once called family, the people he used to love. They were his punishment. The boulder he continued to roll up the hill, day after day after day. Until eventually...he was crushed by his own self-hatred.

"Logan." The voice whispered long enough for him to grasp who it might be, yet never louder than a mere breath of air.

He clung to it some days. Sunk his claws into what little of his past remained good and allowed it to fill him with some amount of peace. At least then he'd be able to bear this weight, this grief he could never quite name.

Something light brushed across his cheek. Tickling the skin enough to send a flare of irritation down his spine, but the dreams held him in their grasp. What came next never surprised him. He expected it at this point—longed for it. The distant pain of losing what once made him whole; the entirety of his life now defined by one single moment he could never change.

"He sleeps so sweetly. I just want to curl up in his arms and have him read me bedtime stories."

"He's not gonna like that when he wakes up."

"Zip it Al. If I wanted an opinion, I'd go see a Hollywood therapist."

A scoff echoed in the background. "No therapist wants you on their couch."

"Not true. I hear Ryan Reynolds has a great one."

"Who?"

"Not the point." The feather dusted across Logan's face again, soft enough to keep him asleep yet annoying enough to bring a smile to Wade's face. "I wonder if he's dreaming about killing bad guys. They say it's good for the soul."

"Who the fuck is they?"

Wade laughed. "Oh you know. Them. The readers. And boy howdy do they love their blood."

Every day he was forced to listen to Wade's voice became another day Logan dragged his claw through a tally mark of his sanity. "Do you ever shut the fuck up," he growled, gripping Wade's wrist until he heard the satisfying crack of bones.

"Only when I swallow."

"I'll tear your fuckin' arm off."

The smile on Wade’s face only added another tally. "Nice kitty. No need for the claws."

Anger washed across his skin in a familiar wave as he released Wade's arm, watching it go limp. Trying to kill the unkillable walking irritation was like trying to swat a fly that never quite died. It still buzzed incessantly. Until eventually madness was the only viable option of dealing with it. In his case, he seemed to be driving head on with no brakes.

Logan wasn't sure he possessed enough sanity left within him to keep dealing with this. Sleeping on the couch didn't help the way his body never rested; always stuck in that permanent fighting mode. He'd give anything to find some peace. A small sliver of it carved off the past that continued to call him—that begged him to come back and try again.

Swinging his legs off the couch, he planted a swift kick to Wade's chest that sent him across the floor. The lack of caffeine in his system left everything hazy and half coherent. If he focused he might have caught the keys thrown at him, but being exhausted and sober didn't make for a good combination with him. An empty whiskey bottle lay discarded on the floor from last night; the memories of how he passed out barely tinged on the edge of his mind.

He could recall stabbing Wade in the leg.

Nothing beyond that.

Dried blood—now an ugly brown—stained his white shirt. He nearly stripped himself of it, prepared to throw it in with whoever was washing next, but his flannel being chucked at his head caught him off guard.

"Fuck off," he snapped, stumbling to the kitchen.

Wade sighed, following him. "Get dressed, peanut. We have to go do human things today."

"Human–”

"Food," Al retorted. "We're out."

Even in a new universe, he couldn't see himself acting normal. For so long he did what had to in order to survive. Yet now...he wasn't so sure. Accompanying Wade Wilson in order to complete household chores left a bad taste in his mouth. But the thought of fresh coffee and an unopened bottle of whiskey sounded like sweet silver bells in his head.

With reluctance, he buttoned up half of the flannel before he became annoyed with the small size of the holes punched into the fabric. There was only so much he could do with the life he had now. And sometimes shit really sucked.

"Don't scratch my fucking car," Al pointed her words towards Wade, thankfully ignoring Logan's existence for a brief moment.

"Is it safe for her to own a car?"

The door shut behind him with a bang, echoing down the vacant hallway. He was surprised people actually lived here given Wade's antics. They could hear the loud mouthed fucker across the street—if the angry notes in the mail were anything to go by. He didn't bother asking if he should be concerned with any of it. Not when he had no say in how the house was run. And choosing to insert himself where he wasn’t needed, rarely went well for him.

"God no. But I give her the benefit of the doubt. She hasn't killed anyone. Yet."

He yanked the keys out of Wade's hand. "Yeah well I don't trust you either Bub."

The car didn't leave room for his legs as he squeezed into the driver's side. His body practically folded in half as he turned it over—the rumble of the engine rattling against metal. How Blind Al managed to pay for this vehicle went beyond even Wade's knowledge, and in all honesty…he was too fucking scared to ask.

Too much seemed to be happening for him to ever catch up. While this Earth felt similar to his, small things were different. And when they began to add up...he began to wonder if he was drowning.

"Turn left to merge onto the asscrack of traffic."

He barely heard the directions as he drove, his mind drifting the further they went. Part of him sensed the grief from earlier begin to claw up the back of his throat. It begged him to fall, to be swallowed whole by the darkness he'd been stuck in before. And he nearly gave in; could feel his body shift into its constant mode of fight or flight.

The steering wheel cracked under his white knuckled grip as Wade's voice became an afterthought to the war he fought in his mind. Terror trapped itself in his throat and he slammed his foot on the brakes a foot away from a parking spot in retaliation. The car lurched forward, his claws descended. A snarl rumbled in his chest the longer he sat there thinking.

"Woah..." For the first time in days, Wade fell silent. "You alright?"

Logan ripped himself free, shoving his body out of the car before he even threw it in park. He gulped in breath after breath and did his best to wait for this fucking feeling to leave his system. The nightmares only came as he slept. A constant familiar horror show after two centuries.

Yet now he was left like this. Leaned up against a car, his eyes closed shut, and heart racing.

All because he couldn't do his fucking job.

"Logan–"

He snapped, shoving past Wade and his pity that choked him with a vengeance. He didn't deserve anyone's pity. He didn't want it. But people couldn't help but hand it over unconsciously. As if they could see the layers of broken pieces beneath his false expression of strength. Logan never pretended to be okay. Why bother with something people could see right through?

He merely wanted others to ignore he was there. Walk past him, look through him, do whatever it took to pretend that him and all his tragedies weren't standing before them. Because one day he would die and fuck how he couldn't wait for that time to come.

A small hole in the wall dive bar sat in the corner of the shopping center. He barely caught sight of it. But the unmistakable scent of alcohol poured out the door as someone stumbled out—their eyes squeezed shut against the harsh brightness of the sun. He could understand them in a way.

His world didn't have sunlight this bright. Or perhaps he never noticed it ‘til now.

Maybe his body wasn't acclimated yet; unsure of what the fuck was still happening. Everything seemed to be turned up to eleven for him, yet no off switch existed.

The dark hazy glow of the interior sent a wave of calm through him as the door swung shut with a soft thud. Four people sat scattered around the place and a bartender with white and graying hair stood cleaning a glass so foggy it was probably better to throw it out. He found himself letting out a breath that'd been trapped in his chest since that morning. Finally some peace before he had to listen to Wade yap about bullshit he didn't in fact give a shit about.

"What'll you have?" the old man asked, his face screwing up in a wince as he limped towards Logan's spot at the end of the bar.

A quick glance down let him see the brace wrapped around the man's knee. "Whiskey on the rocks."

He nodded, slowly heading towards the center of the wall—a lonesome half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. Logan shifted, taking the center seat directly behind the man.

"I can't say I've seen you around before son."

He grinned, his finger tracing a random carving that'd been placed in the wood. "I just moved here. Living with a coworker."

"Coworker huh?"

The word didn't sound right to Logan, but he couldn't exactly call Wade his friend. Although they were more than people who fought together, more than men who shared blood during the same battle. That was the thing about Logan though. He'd never be able to put a label on something like that. To him...things weren't one or the other as much as he wanted to pretend they were. There was nuance to his life.

Complications which made living that much harder.

The man turned, surprised to see Logan so close, but didn't make note of it. Logan could see the gratitude in the way his drink was slid carefully to him. The small silent thank you in the bowl of pretzels placed beside it.

"You look lost."

Logan grunted, biting into the salty and dry snack. "Do I?"

"More than some of the others that come around here."

"And who comes around here?"

The man laughed. "No one as of late. You're the first young man I've seen in a while walk through those doors."

He bit back his laugh at the word young. The stories he could tell would leave the man baffled. About wars that no living person had witnessed. About when the world was far different than today—when mutants were freaks of nature and humans were far less forgiving. He could list it all and then some.

But whether or not someone would listen was another thing entirely.

"This place that old?" he inquired, sipping on the amber liquid with a contented sigh.

"Oh you bet." A weary laugh filled the space. "I bought this place in the sixties. When my wife was still my girlfriend. She almost left me because of it."

Logan huffed, his lips curling slightly. "She wasn't a fan?"

The man shook his head, tossing a cloth over his shoulder. "Still isn't. Well she...wasn't." He pressed his thumb to the worn gold band on his left hand. "When she was alive she used to host a book night. Helped bring in the men's wives. Kept them outta trouble."

"Book night huh?"

"She loved to read."

Before he could down the final sips of his drink it was topped off. Logan nodded his head in thanks, his thumb digging into the thumbprint shape of the glass. If he thought about it hard enough, he could almost see himself coming here every night. He pictured a life far different than his own, a past where he might have been happy. With someone who might have even made him smile.

"I'm not much of a reader," he replied, his voice hoarse and eyes fixed on the ice that floated to the surface.

"Ah me too," the man laughed. "I just liked seeing her smile."

A soft remark was on the tip of his tongue before an entirely new image began to take shape. The face of someone lost. Of a smile he'd known better than his own. Hands that once held his face with the tenderness of a lover—a voice that sent the hair rising on the back of his neck. He could see it as clear as he did the man.

You in all your beauty. Lost to a past he could no longer rectify.

He swallowed thickly, beating back every emotion that crawled under his skin. "What's your name?"

"Travis."

Raising his glass, he tipped it towards the man with a tight grin. "Logan." The alcohol went down with a quick and biting burn. A feeling he'd grown familiar with. One he counted on.

"Nice to meet you Logan."

"Yeah you too."

He dug out some cash and tossed it on the bar as he stood with a slight grunt. He may heal quickly but the ache in his bones still existed. As if something resisted against how his body moved with each slow shift.

Fighting meant he could ignore it.

Existing is what made it worse.

The sun practically burned his eyes when he stepped out, the heat of the day encompassing his whole body quicker than he would have liked. For some unknown fucking reason, summer here felt worse than on his Earth. Then again the alcohol didn't help. He stood in the shade of the building next to the bar, searching the parking lot for any sign of Wade.

Going into the store wasn't an option and as much as he wanted to leave the annoyance behind, he didn't want to feel like a piece of shit. That is...even more than he already did.

"Fuck," he hissed, leaning against the brick wall. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

One option would be taking a walk to work off the energy that ran through his veins. At least then he'd be able to sleep at night. And the temptation almost worked. If it weren't for the shop doors that opened to his left, effectively distracting him from the chance of leaving. He could have ignored the person, probably should have given everything he'd been through.

But then his heart dropped to his stomach as you walked out. He'd never seen you in such a soft sundress before, the off white fabric draped off your curves in a way that floored him. As if you were an angel floating by without a care in the world. You were busy shoving a small piece of paper in your purse, your face furrowed in frustration, and Logan smiled. Because he'd traced each line of that face before, he'd kissed those cheeks, your eyelids as you slept.

He'd loved you in ways that would scare a normal human.

And there you were.

"Honey?" he called, unconsciously following you quicker than he intended to. "Honey."

You glanced to the side, completely unaware of the giant lumbering man trailing after you with a soft look on his face and hope in his hands.

That alone tore him in two more than the memories from before.

"Baby, it's me."

The breeze finally went through the air, pushing the skirt of your dress a bit higher on your thighs. Except that's not what he latched onto. Your scent was different. Unlike any he'd encountered before. Honey still sweetly caressed his senses, but flowers overlayed that—peonies if he guessed. Delicious enough to have his mouth watering; his body already aching for you to be closer. To look at him in the way you used to.

He wanted to call out to you—gain your attention properly—but your name wouldn't leave his tongue. Because you were there and you finally caught sight of him and you were looking at him as if nothing bad ever happened between the two of you.

You saw him as a man.

Not a disappointment.

He willed himself to stop and breathe. Take in his surroundings; realize that you weren't who he once knew. You weren't even the same fucking person.

But before he could think straight, he'd already followed you halfway to your car. His eyes were dazed, heart nearly throttling him alive as he stood there dumbly. Waiting for you to finally speak.

"Oh..." Your heart rate spiked quicker than he expected. He couldn't find it in himself to feel bad though. "Hello?"

"Honey," he sighed, the weight on his shoulders lifting ever so slightly.

He caught the way your fingers tightened around your keys, the defense mechanism an instinct by now. And Logan realized what he looked like. A strange man standing too close for your liking. So he took a step back and gave you some space. In the hopes that you wouldn't see him as a threat. That maybe...you'd listen to what he had to say.

"Can I help you?" you asked, eyes darting around the parking lot in case you needed help.

What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to reassure you. To explain that he wasn't here to hurt you. That he'd kill himself before even laying a hand on you. Yet the correct words were lost and all he seemed to get out was an incoherent babble that had him wanting to dig his own claws into his chest.

"You smell different."

You straightened your spine, eyes narrowed into a glare he felt burn across his skin. "Look, I don't know who you are. But fuck off."

Something akin to pride flared in his chest at your tone, your words. But he couldn't show it externally. How would he explain that your fight—your fire—is what drew him to you in the first place? How could he tell you about a version of yourself you'd never know? A person he thought would be with him until his last breath exhaled into the world.

"I'm not here to hurt you." He raised his hands in an attempt to prove his point, but like your variant counterpart you were willing to bite first and ask questions later.

"Yeah. Sure asshole." The shopping bag in your other hand was lifted up, until you had a tighter grip on it in case something happened. You didn't know him. You probably never would.

But Logan had to try. He owed it to you to give it all he had this time around.

Otherwise...what was the point of living?

"My name's–" He made the wrong move stepping forward and knew it the second his boot hit the gravel. With a wince, he watched you stumble back against your car, your arm coming up to protect yourself. "No. Look I'm not gonna do anything–"

"Get the fuck away from me," you spit.

He moved back as if approaching a wounded animal—his body finally on edge in a new way. The fact that you didn't know him wasn't what broke off another chunk of his heart. He could handle that. He'd been through that.

You were afraid of him.

That realization dug in too deep for his body to heal.

That...he couldn't live with.

"WOAH hey!" He'd never appreciated Wade's irritating ass more than in this moment. He jumped between the two of you, the cart of groceries forgotten as he blocked Logan from your sight. "Step away from the nice lady wolf boy." Wade regarded you with a smile. "Hi! Sorry. This is my uncle and well as you can probably tell he's lost eight of his lives. So we're going on little old nine. And well the mind just goes to shit first."

Seconds passed by like minutes and Logan watched you visibly deflate. "Wade," you greeted him, visibly calmer than before. Logan felt his stomach twist violently at the thought. "It's good to see you. How's the job?"

"Oh yup you know. Left that. But I'm really pushing through. I've got an Etsy store where I sell miniature paintings of Michael Angelo's David's penis. So there's that."

Your laughter sent a hole through his chest and Logan bit back the growl that rose up the back of his throat. What the fuck was Wade doing making friends with you? Why were you laughing at his humor?

He couldn't count how many days he'd spent longing to hear your laugh again, the shine in your eyes that always came around when joy flooded your bloodstream. He could smell the honey off your skin, the warmth of what no doubt lay beneath your thin dress. And he wanted to rip Wade to pieces knowing that he was the one making it happen. That you were comfortable with a man who's mouth ran at a mile a minute.

"Did your sister have the baby yet?"

You brightened and Logan felt his heart stutter. "She did! A boy."

"Named Wade I hope."

Another peal of laughter had Logan's claws itching to descend as you ignored he was there. "Theo actually. A cutie."

"Aww." Wade moved closer, head bent to see the small polaroid you pulled out of your wallet. "Wow, he looks like you'd find him in a Gerber's advertisement."

Your eyes drifted up, past Wade's shoulder, until you finally caught Logan's gaze. And he felt like he could breathe. Every ounce of fear was wiped from your face; interest now creeping in as you dragged your eyes down his form. Past the slight peek of chest hair and down to how his jeans hugged his hips. Logan stood taller for your benefit, as if he needed to make a good impression.

He wanted to linger in your mind for days. Until the curiosity ate you alive.

"We're gonna go," Wade announced, after grabbing your bag and placing it in your trunk for you. "Someone has to feed the blind woman in my apartment. She tends to root through everything looking for food." He gripped Logan's arm, shoving him back a good few feet. Even as your eyes still remained glued to his face. "Glad to see the Hyundai is still working. You know you could take the fattest fucking nap in the back of that puppy. Makes you feel like an Egyptian mummy."

"Bye," you said, a dazed look in your eyes as Logan smiled in your direction. At ease with the knowledge that even in a different universe, he could still fluster you with a look.

Dragging himself away from you was hell, but Wade's grip remained unbreakable as they clambered to the car. The groceries stacked in the small backseat.

He could glimpse you driving off and suddenly the nightmare from earlier was the last thing on his mind.

Wade's back hit the wall with a crack before the door could shut properly. The groceries in their hands toppled to the floor. He barely had time to duck before Logan's claws were aiming for his head—a snarl ripping from his throat.

"What the fuck?" Wade shouted, grabbing the paper bag and gently setting it on the table. "Next time just say you need to stay home and find some joy in an empty room and your hand."

"How do you know her?"

Wade smiled, assessing the furious state of chaos Logan was now left in. The tatters of his stability falling to the floor around him. For as much as he held himself together, it certainly remained easy enough to tear him a part.

"Got an eye on someone, do we honey badger?"

Logan grimaced, running a hand down his face. "Would you just fucking tell me?"

"Let me bask in this Logan. I'm about to watch a romcom come to life and need some popcorn." He rummaged through the bag, yanking out some chips. "Salty and sweet. That'll do."

"Wade," he bit out.

"Stick with us girls, we're about to get to the good stuff."

"WADE!"

He tossed the bag to the table, eyeing the way Logan never quite settled. "I'm gonna take a guess and say we know her more than just friendly hellos."

Logan couldn't answer because his grief did it for him. He did what he could to catch his breath, to stop seeing his version of you. The disappointment on your face, the pain in your voice. You'd been so angry with him. To watch the person he loved be reduced to a screaming crying mess wasn't something he wanted to relive, but Wade's question seemed to send an avalanche toppling to the ground.

"She's..." He sucked in a breath. "On my world. I...knew her."

"Knew her? Or knew her."

He reached for the bottle of whiskey Wade threw in with the rest of the groceries and popped it open before he spoke again. "It didn't end well between us. None of it did."

Wade fell silent and Logan found himself loathing the quiet more than the sound of his voice. If he was joking Logan could ignore it. He could pretend nothing happened. That you weren't here, you couldn't be hurt by him again.

You were safe from his destructive tendencies as long as you were in another universe.

"She lives across the street." Logan's head rose and whipped to see the window that faced the building across from them. "The old uncultured shit whistles that keep complaining about WHAM! the greatest thing to happen to music. They're her neighbors. Live right next door."

"Neighbors."

Wade nodded, offering him a chip. "She found their note and angel that she is, she very sweetly threatened to get them evicted. I offered to let her borrow my katanas but was rejected like younger me on prom night. You've really got yourself a catch there buddy."

Logan didn't need Wade to tell him how fucking lucky he was. He knew that the second you walked out of that store. You were everything good in his life at one point, everything he couldn't save. There wasn't much keeping him going on his old Earth, but having you made all the suffering he went through—all the pain he endured—worth it.

If you were waiting for him at the end, he'd do it all over again.

"So you want to take a dip in that honey huh? Taste that rainbow?"

His claws would have sunk into Wade's throat if a knock hadn't sounded at the door. With a huff, he stepped into the kitchen, the bottle clutched tightly in his hand. Whoever decided to give Wade some luck was of no concern to him.

Or so he believed.

"I didn't mean to accidentally take your groceries," you laughed, handing over a overpacked paper bag.

Stuffing the bottle under the sink, he met you halfway to the living room, his eyes drinking in the sight of you still in that dress. Still delicate enough for him to rip if he tugged it right. Heat curled along the base of his spine when your eyes met his, wide and glimmering with your laughter. He felt himself crumple at the sight of your lips parting, the surprise at his size still enough to make you speechless.

"Good to see you again," he greeted you, voice low and soft.

You didn't mean to grow flustered in his presence, but something about the way his gaze devoured you within seconds left you breathless. The swooping sensation in your stomach became too much to handle. Desire and attraction weren't unknown concepts to you. But this felt like more. You could sense him right down to your bones and it scared the shit out of you.

"Oh right!" Wade scooched past you to swing an arm around Logan's shoulders. He did what he could to not stab him in the stomach. "This is Logan. My hunky new roommate."

Logan groaned. "Alright–"

"No, no it's good. You remember when I was declared basically the savior of the universe?"

Your face screwed up in confusion. Logan had never wanted to kiss someone more.

"Marvel...Jesus right?"

"I prefer MJ. Since I've got a Peter." Wade's head whipped to the side. "Suck it Tom Holland." His grip on Logan tightened. "This walking People's Sexiest Magazine helped. We're talking big claws, abs you just want to lick whipped cream off of–"

Logan's elbow slammed into Wade's stomach—crimson slowly tinting the tips of his ears. "That's enough."

"AND the Wolverine."

Surprised etched itself onto your face even further. Until you finally regarded Logan with a look he'd seen once before. Awe. When you first met one another in the halls of the mansion, you stared at him that exact way. As if you couldn't quite believe that iconic figure the X-Men made him out to be actually existed.

He couldn't tell if he liked it. Or if he'd rather you view him as a stranger.

"Logan," he said, offering his hand to you politely. Your skin remained as soft as he remembered.

Warmth bloomed in your body at the feeling of his calloused palm overwhelming yours, the scars across his knuckles old and ancient. Yet you found yourself wanting to trace them over and over, until the sight of them seared in your mind. You fought the urge to press your lips to them, etch your own mark into his skin. Something told you he wouldn’t mind.

Logan could see the intrigue on your face—the distracted gaze he wanted to keep in place. You were still curious. Still willing to learn about him. To pick him a part with soft words and even softer touches.

"Logan," you murmured under your breath, your eyes catching his. He felt his stomach leap at the sound of your voice whispering his name. Memories flooding his mind quicker than he expected. Of mornings spent in bed, your skin pressed against his. Of nights alone in his cabin—your stories lulling him to sleep.

Everything he willed himself to forget, yet could never truly let go of.

"I've got to head back." Disappointment filled your heart at the thought of not getting a chance to talk to him more. He had yet to let go of your hand and you found you liked his touch on your skin. "I'll see you soon Wade."

"Logan will be more than happy to walk you back," Wade replied, waving drastically behind your back. "Can't have you getting hurt now can we? Right peanut?"

You smiled. "I'm just across the street."

"I don't mind," Logan cut in, glaring at Wade to shut the fuck up.

"Okay," your voice was soft. Happy.

Logan would have done anything to keep it that way.

The walk back wasn't long enough for him to explain his actions from earlier, but you seemed to be just as smart as your variant self. Shutting the building's door, you turned to him—your dress fluttering in the breeze. Logan choked on his spit at the slight peek of your ass before you pushed the skirt back down around you.

"Did you know me?" You lead him to the corner, waiting for the traffic to die down. "On your Earth."

He paused, his eyebrows pulling together, and for a moment you wondered if you asked the wrong question. Wade told you bits and pieces of what happened since you last saw him, but Logan's background wasn't a discussion you tried to seek out. All you knew was that Wade acquired a new roommate. Not even a name.

Certainly not that he was Wolverine.

"Yes," Logan muttered, glancing at the change in lights.

You started to walk. "In what way?"

His hands curled into fists—echoes of his past rising to the surface. "We were...friends. You're a professor."

"A professor?" you exclaimed, a smile tugging on your lips. "Am I a mutant?"

He nodded. "You're able to bend time. Or control it." He snorted, following your lead towards your building. "I could never understand it. But Charles did."

The walk up to your apartment was silent, your thoughts filled with the new information he'd given you. And no matter how hard you tried to picture it, you couldn't see yourself as a mutant. A powerful being that held the ability to manipulate time who just so happened to be a professor. Somehow even thinking about it made you wonder why Logan was bothering to entertain this version of you. When the better one existed on his Earth.

"You said were."

Stopping at your door, he nearly knocked into you. "Hm?"

"Were friends. What happened?"

The answer he couldn't give you. The words he wouldn't even admit out loud to himself.

He felt his heart twist as if a knife slowly carved through his spleen. "We uh..." He coughed. "You..."

"I don't have to know." Grasping gently onto his arm, you offered a warm smile he felt down to his toes. A look he hadn't seen in quite some time. Logan could picture the last day you were happy in his head. Laughing with Charles in his office as you shared dinner, working on theories of your powers late into the night.

A week before they came.

"It's good to see you like this," he breathed, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek before stopping midair. "Happy."

Your eyebrows knit together. "I wasn't happy?"

"No." What he wouldn't give to take that information back, but it was out in the open, and as always—he remained too late.

"Why?" you asked, your hand sliding down to his much to his delight.

"I made you a promise." He sucked in a breath, his body begging him to start running. You'd be better off if you never knew. If you never remembered him in the first place. "I couldn't keep it."

I'll always keep you safe.

Words he refused to say again.

How could he promise this version of you that? How could he look you in the eyes and lie again? Breaking his Earth's you would haunt him for the rest of his life. He couldn't fathom doing it all over. It would kill him.

Except you weren't the person in his mind. You weren't the mutant who hated him with every fiber of your being. You were you. A continuous surprise that left his heart stuttering in his chest each time you looked his way. An enigma he found himself wanting to unravel.

"Maybe this time around you can," you said softly, letting him go with a smile as you entered your apartment, effectively opening the wound in his heart so wide there was no saving him.

Although he now knew something he didn’t know before.

He didn’t want to be saved.

[literatooru]

❝ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 ❞

pairing: f!reader x oikawa tōru

“Why don’t you just go talk to her?”

“Hm?” Oikawa hums, and somehow manages to tear his eyes off you to look at his best friend, nonplussed.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, shaking his head softly.

“Man, you’re down bad. You’re so busy drooling over her that you didn’t hear a word of what I just said.” The room is mostly dark apart from the colored lights dancing over the multitude drunken, swaying bodies, and the music drums loudly in Oikawa’s ears. He could use that as an excuse; tell him the music’s too loud and therefore he hadn’t been able to hear him. With his brows knit together and feigning feeling offended, he opens his mouth to tell him just that, but Iwaizumi interrupts him before he can get a word out. “Don’t even try to deny it. I can practically see the hearts in your eyes. Really, it's disgusting.”

“I am going to deny it, because it’s a blatant lie,” he says, his own words making his stomach lurch a little. “If anything, she should be drooling over me. You know, like any other girl.”

His best friend stares blankly at him, letting out a soft, incredulous scoff after a moment.

“You’re so full of it.”

“And you’re being unnecessarily mean, Iwa-chan. Why would you even think—?”

“I don’t think— I know you like her. You have since high-school.”

Oikawa looks baffled for a second, scrunching up his nose a little and averting his gaze, which automatically finds its way back to you. He wishes you weren’t so far away.

“I don’t have silly crushes. I am the crush.”

Iwaizumi stares at him for a second with a deep frown on his face. He looks like he’s about to punch his friend... knowing him; he just might.

“She obviously likes you, too. Go do something about it.”

Oikawa arranges his face into what he hopes is a puzzled expression, his own frown a little over exaggerated.

“There’s nothing to do,” he says with a light, nonchalant shrug.

Iwaizumi rubs the side of his face with the palm of his hand and lets out an exasperated groan. “You really are trash.” And before Oikawa can reply, he continues. “I’m going to get another drink. You just keep lying to yourself or whatever.”

Oikawa watches him until he disappears among the crowd, wondering if his best friend has noticed—and the obvious answer seems to be yes. And how could he not? Iwaizumi’s not stupid, and Oikawa has always been pretty obvious; at least to him.

But Iwaizumi had noticed, all right. The lingering touches, the way Tōru would always make sure your shoulders brushed whenever you walked past each other, or how he would interrupt your conversations with unnecessary possessiveness (and pretty evident jealousy) whenever you were talking to other people. But the biggest giveaway was his smile. It seemed brighter when you were the person on the receiving end—bigger. It was one of the few times it was genuinely authentic, and he always seemed to save those specifically for you.

Oikawa gives a heavy sigh beforetaking a sip from his cup, keeping the cool liquid in his mouth for a second before swallowing, eyes fixed on your frame. Anyone who saw him would think it strange, because Oikawa Tōru doesn’t stare at just anybody. He wasn't wrong when he said it was usually the other way around.

But there you are, and there he is... so close, and yet so far away from each other. All it takes is a couple steps, ten, maybe fifteen. Somehow, the distance seems much greater than that.

His eyes follow you as you head to the balcony outside, which he assumes is empty. He leaves his cup forgotten on some table, walking with long strides towards the very same door you jusy disappeared through—towards you. When he reaches it, he hesitates for just a second, hand hovering over the doorknob. He gives a quick glance behind him and, when he makes sure nobody’s really paying attention to him, he steps outside silently.

And there you stand, hands resting on the cold metal of the rail as you take in the stunning view of the city spread out before you. It’s nice; he won’t deny that, but he’d much rather look at you.

He steps close enough that you become aware of his presence, but you don’t turn around to face him. Instead, you smile softly.

“You’re going to get cold,” he murmurs, shrugging off his jacket and placing it gently over your shoulders.

“Careful,” you whisper, quirking up an eyebrow. “Someone might be looking.”

“All they’d see is me being the gentleman that I am.”

Your snort makes him smile; he likes hearing your laugh, whether it comes out as a light giggle or a sudden, weird and unnecessarily loud bark.

“Why aren’t you enjoying the party?” you ask him. Your voice is quiet as though you’re sharing a secret with him. You’re used to using that tone with Oikawa. “Shouldn’t you be impressing all the ladies with your fabulous moves?”

He puffs up his cheeks, mimicking your pose. His right hand is so close to yours that he can feel the warmth radiating off your skin, a nice contrast to the chilly weather outside. If he moved just a bit closer he’d be able to touch it, maybe even hold it. It’s absolutely stupid and unfair that he can’t.

Oikawa’s quiet for a second, pursing his lips, deep in thought.

“Well, the only lady I’d like to impress decided the party was not up to her standards.” He shifts his hand a little to the right, and his pinky makes contact with yours, and he lifts it to place it on top of it. “Got too boring for you?”

You hum, hooking your finger with his and your smile broadens.

“I just needed some fresh air,” you answer, giving him a sideways glance. Anyone who saw the two of you outside would think that you were just holding a casual conversation. “What about you?”

He chuckles, eyes downcast as he flexes his fingers around the cold metal.

“I just needed an excuse to end up in a lonely balcony with you.”

Your heart does a summersault in your chest and you look away to impede him from seeing you’re actually flustered. He’s barely touching you, but you feel oddly warm. It’s funny how, after all these years, he still has that effect on you.

His eyes dart to you for just a second, and the urge to lean into you is so strong that he has a hard time fighting it. It’s a real struggle to keep a respectful distance between your bodies. Despite that, each hushed word between you two makes you both inch closer to each other.

Next thing you know, your faces are a breath away, and you’re mesmerized by the intense emotions in his eyes.

“I love you,” you whisper. And, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing and how much you like it, you force yourself to take a wide step back. He curls his fingers around your hand with a strong grip before you’re able to back away too much. Your brow is furrowed as you look down, trying to pull away from his grasp. He doesn’t budge. “Tōru, what are you doing?” you mumble frantically, glancing furtively around. Though no one seems to be looking your way, you make a feeble attempt to free your hand once again.

“I’m done pretending,” he says, his voice low, the warm whisper of it sending shivers up and down your spine. Oikawa allows his fingers to trail up your arm, and you drag your gaze up to his. His eyes are so full of longing and desperation that you freeze in your spot. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Saying those words allows him to finally breathe, it’s a huge weight that has been lifted off his shoulders. It had taken him weeks to muster up the courage to tell you, but seeing you tonight had made something in him crack. Oikawa’s tired of pretending that he isn't utterly and madly in love with you, and according to Iwaizumi, he had already failed at it anyway.

Pushing his feelings down is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Acting like you’re just another person in his life with no bigger importance than a good friend, stealing kisses behind curtains and underneath bleachers, sneaking around to stay the night just so that he could hold you for just a moment as you fall asleep in his arms.

And he looked at you and simply didn’t care anymore—about what people say. That he’s a hopeless romantic, that he’s reading too much into things, that he’s still too young to know what real, actual love feels like. But if that’s true, then what is it that he feels when he’s with you?

It’s not just his heart racing and his knees growing weak or his loss of speech. It’s the calmness that comes with you; the feeling that he’s complete, like he’s finally found his place in the world—which is next to you. Wherever you are is where he belongs.

“I love you. So much,” Oikawa breathes out, and he touches you gently under the chin, prompting your gaze to meet his. His eyes gleam with earnest sincerity, and you suddenly find yourself at a loss for words. “And I don’t want to hide it anymore. It’s torture, pretending you don’t mean everything to me. I’d be nowhere without you. I’m tired of all the secrecy; of not being able to hold you in public, to kiss you and… be with you. I just want to be with you,” he repeats, shining eyes falling to your lips.

Your mouth parts open upon hearing his confession, your previous struggle long forgotten. And you really don’t know what to say. It’s okay though, he knows.

His heart pounds loudly in his chest when your faces inch closer, and Tōru swears time stops when his lips finally meet yours. Your knees grow weak and your eyes flutter shut, fingers curled against his chest, around the fabric of his shirt. His lips are soft and warm; he instantly invades all your senses, and the taste of him silences all your thoughts. There’s raw emotion in the way his fingers dig into your lower back to hold you as close as humanly possible. Heat rises from Oikawa’s stomach to his chest, and he feels like he could combust any second just from the sweet feeling of your lips on his—he nearly forgets how to breathe. He’s sure his whole body will catch on fire if he doesn’t stop.

When he reluctantly breaks the kiss, his breath comes out in short, ragged pants. He presses his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut. He can feel people’s eyes on you both, but frankly, he can’t bring himself to care. It feels as though it’s only the two of you in the entire world.

Oikawa opens his eyes, which glimmer with admiration when he looks at you, almost like you’ve just given him the entire universe. In a way, it’s true. You gave it to him when you gave him your heart.

[not-neverland06]

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴅᴏᴏʀ

͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝖲𝗍𝗎 𝖬𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 x fem!reader

╔═ A/N ═╗ Based on this request. I apologize if I got the characterization wrong. I just feel like the darker side to his character is never properly explored. As goofy as he was, he was also a serial killer lmao

✬ Summary ✬ Stu's your best friend, you know him as well as you know yourself. At least you thought so. A snoop through his closet leads to a terrifying discovery. Now, everywhere you turn, that haunting mask is right there waiting.

“God,” you toss the remote on the cushion beside you. It bounces off the oversized couch and flops to the floor. “There’s nothing on TV,” you lament, draping yourself dramatically over the cushions. 

Stu snickers and kicks his legs over the arms of his chair, shrugging with a smug look. “I told you we should have stopped by the video store.” His gaze drifts back toward the TV, grimacing at the obnoxiously loud MTV episode you stopped on. 

“Hell no, Randy’s working tonight,” you scold, sharp gaze snapping toward him. He’s got a stupid grin on his face, clearly having decided that his form of entertainment tonight is going to be pissing you off. “I don’t feel like having him critique me for an hour on my poor taste in movies.”

He snorts and reaches to take a large handful out of the popcorn on the coffee table between you. “Maybe if you didn’t just rent stupid chick flicks all the time, he wouldn’t.” 

Stu doesn’t have time to duck as you chuck one of his mom’s overpriced throw pillows at him. “Don’t act like you don’t love Pretty in Pink.” The pillow knocks the popcorn out of his hand, scattering it across the ornate rug Mrs. Macher bought last week. If she saw the state you’d gotten the house in this weekend, that ever-pulsing vein in her head would burst. As it is, they’re never actually at the house, it’s an oasis for practically half the school during the weekends Stu decides to throw a party. 

For the first time in a while, though, it’s just you and Stu. No one else is here to rile him up or force him to put on a show. He’s at his calmest when it’s just the two of you. Which, honestly, doesn’t mean much for him, but still. 

“I do not,” he objects, stretching out his lanky body and getting to his feet. 

You roll your head lazily to face him, giving him a knowing smirk. “Billy isn’t here, Stu. You don’t have to lie,” you assure him, holding out your arms as he stops in front of you. You already know what he wants, he’s got that specific gleam in his eye as he smiles down at you. 

“I mean,” he shrugs, “it’s not bad,” he concedes. Without another word, he throws himself on top of you, even prepared for it, you still feel the breath rush out in one hefty wheeze. Another thing you don’t see as much when others are around, just how goddamn clingy he is. 

Sure, with his multitude of girlfriends, he’s touchy. But this is something different entirely. He clings to you like he would burrow into your skin if he could. He’s been that way since you guys were kids. While the feeling of others touching you might set you on edge, Stu fits against you like your missing piece. 

Hands drifting up to play with his hair, you settle yourself against the cushions while he goes back to channel surfing, pleased to have you as his pillow. 

The TV drones on, a dull buzz in the background now that Stu has the volume down. With his head practically buried between your boobs and your legs wrapped around his waist, you snicker. 

Frowning, he props his chin on your chest, staring up at you. “What?” He demands, hating to be left out of a joke. 

“Nothing,” you shrug as much as you can with him steadily pancaking you. “Just wondering what your girlfriend would think of us like this.”

“Oh,” he sets his head back down and places your hands back on his head to continue playing with his hair. “We broke up,” he tells you, like it means absolutely nothing. 

“Stu!” You slap his shoulder, and he winces dramatically. As if you could ever do real damage to him. 

“Ow!” He whines, bracketing himself up on his elbows so he can look down at you. “What’s your problem tonight?”

His hips are still lazily pressed against you, pressure increasing the longer he hovers above you. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore the flush spreading through you. “You didn’t tell me you guys broke up.”

He rolls his eyes, glaring down at you. “I just did,” he points out sarcastically. You swat at his shoulder again, but this time, he catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together with a smug grin as he keeps you trapped. 

“You’re collecting these girls like they’re trading cards.” Despite his tight grip, you manage to slip out slightly from under him and prop yourself against the arm of the couch. “I don’t even remember the last one’s name.”

His face goes slack, lips parting as you see the cogs in his brain turning. He laughs and glances back at you with a dismissive shrug. “Neither do I. I just remember the tits.”

“Ugh,” you yank your hand out of his, ignoring his petulant frown. “You’re absolutely disgusting. What’s the point of even dating them?”

He slinks back against the other end of the couch. “I just said why,” he points to your chest with a grin, and you reflexively cross your arms. Stu tips his head back, dangling it over the edge as he stares up at the ceiling with a forlorn sigh. “I don’t get it,” he tosses his hands up, and you already know where this is going. 

Head tipped back up, he narrows his eyes at you, “I don’t know why we don’t just date.”

You give him a deadpan look, arms still tight around your chest. “Dude,” you chide, “after what you just told me. Seriously?” When you were younger, him saying this used to set you alight. You’d get all dreamy-eyed, imagining what it would be like to be Stu’s girlfriend. Of course, you’d taken too long thinking about it, and by then, he’d already found a different girl to set his sights on. It had broken your heart, and their relationship had barely even lasted a week. 

By now, you know better than to take anything he says seriously. Everything’s just one big joke to him. He’s so fickle you can’t trust that he would actually put effort into anything more blooming between you. You seem to be the only girl in his life that he actually thinks of as a person, going on a few dates with him isn’t worth screwing that up. Besides that, you’re not going to ruin the only friendship you’ve ever had that’s lasted more than two months. 

Stu opens his mouth like he wants to say anything, but it snaps shut a moment later. His face sets into a glower, and you worry for a moment that you might have actually hurt his feelings. You’ve always thought the suggestion was just a sort of inside joke between the two of you. Though, he has been bringing it up more and more lately. 

Your stomach flips unpleasantly, heart aching with guilt. It doesn’t last long, the feeling always remains fleeting. You’ve conditioned yourself for years to dismiss anything that might actually encourage you to pursue something with Stu. You love him, but you two would just be a spark waiting to light up. 

“You’re staying the night, right?” Stu changes the subject, picking up the remote once more and not meeting your eye. Your lips part, and he cuts a glare toward you, “No girlfriend,” he stops you before you can even say anything. Your brows furrow, and he looks back to the TV. “No sleepovers if I’m dating,” he mocks the pitch of your voice, reminding you of the rule you'd enforced so long ago. Your lips fall in a flat, irritated line at his imitation of you. 

“No girlfriend,” he reminds you, feigning indifference even though you can see right through him. Your plan was to go home, but you know him well enough by now. The set of his jaw, the stubborn way he won’t look at you, there’s no actual choice. You’re staying.

“Yeah,” you acquiesce with a low huff. “I’ll need to borrow some clothes.”

“You know where they are,” he tells you, still not meeting your eye. He’s never been this sensitive after you’ve rejected him before. What’s his problem? Eyes narrowed, you get to your feet, glaring at him the whole way up the stairs. He never loses the indifferent look, passive-aggressively turning the TV up. 

Usually, you just grab some pants from the guest room. But with Autumn descending, it’s been getting colder, especially in Stu’s drafty old house. There’s a soft yellow sweater that you’ve always tried to steal from him, and he’s never let you get away with it. 

Nabbing it would probably ease up the weird tension. He is a freak, he does love seeing you in his clothes. You figure it’s a solid plan and slip across the hallway, quietly opening his bedroom door. 

As always, his room is a hot damn mess. The bed’s unmade, sheets completely untucked, and half of them sprawled across the floor. There’s a clearly well-loved nudie mag lying open on his nightstand, boobs bared boldly to the world. Rolling your eyes, you shake your head and turn toward his closet. 

Your brows furrow, head tilting at the closed door. As odd as it is, Stu never closes his closet. It’s just another tedious task to him. Besides, he likes to just ball all his clothes up and toss them in wildly. You know his family’s old maid threatened to quit if she had to clean his room ever again. But you wouldn’t believe that looking into the closet now. 

It’s not just clean, it’s pristine. Clothes hung up, sorted by color and sleeve length. Jeans all neatly folded away. The box of old books and junk he had just lying about are tucked up on the top shelf. “What the hell?” You whisper, looking around like you just stepped into Narnia. 

Hell, maybe it’s a portal to a bizarro dimension, it would make more sense than him cleaning up after himself. Whatever, you don’t have time to dwell on Stu’s oddities, you’d just be standing here forever if you did. 

You start in the yellow section of his closet, then drift toward the sweaters. And, of course, the only one you want isn’t anywhere to be found. It has to be buried somewhere in here, and you’re not giving up until that sweater is yours. You dig through his folded pile of jeans recklessly, hoping for a bright spot of yellow to be buried somewhere within them. 

Tugging a little too hard on one of the stacks, something hard clatters against the wooden floor of his closet. “Ah, shit,” you hiss, shoving the jeans back and kneeling to try and spot whatever fell. Lowering your head to the ground, you peer under the hems of his shirts on the lower rack and squint into the shadows. 

There’s a vague shape of something, and you reach toward it. Head tilted the other way, your arm stretches under the sweaters, blindly groping for whatever you sent tumbling. Your fingers snag on fabric, and you grin, thinking it’s the sweater you’ve been coveting. 

Pulling it out, your smile stills, heart rapidly increasing speed until it feels like it’s going to beat out of your ribs. There’s a twisting pain in your stomach, anguish and immediate denial flooding through you as you stare down at the mask in your hands. 

It’s just a cheap drugstore mask. Around Halloween, you could find it anywhere. You could easily dismiss it as something Stu bought as a fucked up joke. Were it not for the flaking copper on the chin of the howling mask. Your fingers tighten around it until you think it might crack. 

Slowly, you tilt your head back toward the shirts. This wasn’t what fell. A part of you screams to just chuck the mask back and pretend you never saw it. You could go downstairs, continue your movie night with Stu, and pass out beside him on the couch. Lying to yourself would be so damn easy. It’s just a mask, half the guys in school bought one because they thought it was a fucking joke. 

But your body isn’t interested in weak excuses. Bowing over, your hand swipes across the wood once more, wrapping around the object that fell. Before you even drag it out, you already know what you’re going to see. A pulsing pain spreads through your chest, eyes watering as you stare down at the knife in your hand. 

A serrated hunting knife, to be exact. The same one Dewey said was used to kill Casey only a week ago. God, how had you not seen this? How could you have been so blind?

Stu had been the number one suspect, but Billy had been his alibi, no one could place him at the scene of the crime.

There has always been something twisted about Billy. It only got worse when his mom left. Maybe this was all his idea, maybe Stu was just dragged into this, but he doesn’t really want-

Your thoughts fade into a dull silence in the back of your mind. There’s no excuse. Stu has always been different, just slightly off. His jokes nearing the wrong side of dark. But you never would have thought him capable of something so brutal. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs, and your brain shocks itself awake. Quickly, you toss the mask back under the clothes and shove the knife into the jeans. Wiping your eyes, you leap to your feet and rush out of the closet just as Stu barrels into his room. 

The both of you pause, staring blankly at each other. You, a deer caught in a hunter’s snare. He, the drooling wolf, waiting to pounce. 

Slowly, his eyes drift toward the closet, the light you left on, and the door you hadn’t had time to close. He turns back to you, and something twisted curls at the edges of his lips. Adrenaline shoots so fast through you it nearly knocks you off your feet. 

“Looking for something?” His tone is light, barely audible, as he takes a step closer. It takes every ounce of self-control not to back away from him. 

Something too strained to be a smile curls your lips up. “Um,” you lick your lips, swallowing down the dryness coating your tongue. You laugh nervously and take a step toward his bed. “Just that sweater I love. 

He stalks towards you, and your eyes widen, heart fluttering in your chest. Just when you think he might run you over, he steps around you and heads toward his dresser. You turn, afraid to take your eyes off of him. 

Peeking above the corner of a drawer is a yellow sleeve. He slips it out easily, holding it out to you with a grin that shows off all his teeth. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking around the words as you snatch the sweater out of his hands. 

“I made more popcorn,” he tells you, eyes wild as he stares down at you. “Halloween’s on.” It’s a simple invitation to a movie, but it feels like there’s a knife to your back. You have no choice but to step out of the room and head down the stairs. Every bit of you screams to act natural, to pretend that there’s nothing wrong. 

How could you be? Your best friend, the boy you’re practically in love with, is slaughtering your friends. He’s running rampant through your town and killing girls just because they broke up with him. 

Risking a glance over your shoulder, you see him already looking at you. The smile is gone, now he’s just watching you with this bemused expression, like he’s waiting for you to break and make a run for it. 

You take a seat on the couch, lean against the pillows, and glue your eyes to the screen. Suddenly, Jamie Lee Curtis babysitting is the most interesting thing in the world to you. Stu takes his seat beside you, sinking into your side and wrapping his arms around your waist. Stiff as a board, you can’t find it in you to return the touch, too petrified by the thought of all the blood on his hands. 

He doesn’t care for your trepidation, taking your arms and wrapping them around himself. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing against the sensitive skin as he speaks. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

Avoiding Stu has been easier than you thought it would. Usually, he’s more persistent in making you hang out with him. Especially when your parents are both out of town at the same time. But he’s been suspiciously quiet since you prematurely ended your weekend stay last week. 

You managed to make it through the night. Though, while Stu dozed on top of you, you had been wide awake. Limbs stiff, eyes unblinking, the whole night had been spent on high alert. You’re not sure if he knows you know, or just suspects it. Either way, you should have turned him in by now. 

The second you left his house, you should have gone straight to the sheriff. You know who's behind the Woodsboro murders. You know who the infamous Ghostface is, and have a suspicion who his other half might be. You could have stopped all this. 

Casey and Steve would be avenged. If you had something, another person wouldn’t have been killed two days ago. You didn’t know him personally, you’d never even seen Stu or Billy interact with him. But this felt less like an attack on him and more like a threat for you. 

Keep quiet, or you’ll be strung up by your intestines. 

Triple checking all your doors and windows are locked, you head upstairs to your room. Prepared to camp out for another sleepless night. If you turned him in, you wouldn’t have to live with this paranoia anymore. Every corner you turn wouldn’t be prefaced with the idea that he might be waiting behind it. No matter how hard you try, you can’t pick up the phone and call the cops. 

You lay back on your bed, listening to the radio in the hopes it might lull you to sleep. It never works, but you hold out hope. The shrill ring of your home phone echoes throughout your empty home. Sitting up on your elbows, you glare at your closed door like it might shut the damn thing up. 

Abruptly, it cuts off. The empty halls of your home fall silent once more, the low droning of your radio barely audible above the blood rushing through your head. You hold your breath, eyes peeled on the door in front of you, waiting for… something. 

The phone goes off again, and you jump, shooting off your bed and grabbing the bat by your nightstand. Slowly, you open your door, peeking your head out before you attempt to cross the hall to your parent’s room. There’s a phone in there, and you’re more comfortable up here than you are beside your glass patio doors downstairs. 

You practically kick the door open, jumping inside the room like you’re prepared to bludgeon someone with your bat. The shadows are thick inside, but you don’t see a cloaked figure waiting for you within one. Feeling confident enough, you run toward your parent’s nightstand and grab the phone. Running back to your room as fast as you can and slamming the door closed behind you, you sink to the floor. 

Thumb hovering over the button, you let out a shaky breath and answer. “Hello?” You try and instill confidence in your voice, but you can’t hide the tremor. 

“Hey,” Billy’s voice croons on the other end, he says your name, and a shudder rolls down your spine. 

“Billy?” His name is a hoarse croak as you feel your heart thud dully inside your chest. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to tell you something.” He pauses, and you bite your lip, nails digging into your palms as you wait for him to speak. “I’ve always wondered,” there’s a click, and then a raspier, unfamiliar voice speaks, “what do your insides look like?”

Something slams against your front door, and you drop the phone with a shrill scream, jumping to your feet and whirling around. You hear Billy’s distorted cackle echo through the speaker before abruptly cutting off. On the floor, three low beeps sound out. Bending down, you pick up the bulky phone and press it to your ear. Nothing but white noise. You toss the phone on your bed and swallow down another scream. No service. 

You’re all alone. 

The startling realization of silence rushes over you, gooseflesh rises along your arms, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The banging downstairs has quieted and your house is once more silent. But it’s no longer the same vacant stillness it was before. There’s someone here, it’s an instinctive feeling. Long buried prey instincts warning you of a predator sniffing you out.  

Creeping quietly across the floor, you avoid the creaky wood that would give your movements away and once more open the door. It seems foolish to put yourself so boldly out in the open. Being cornered in that room is no better. No matter what, it’s just you and him all alone out here. 

You wonder, as you peek your head around the banister, if this is just Stu stalking you. Is Billy getting rid of a liability? Is it both of them?

One, you could handle on your own. But if it was the both of them, the only thing you could do was go down swinging. If you were going to die tonight, you weren’t going to let it be easy for either of them. 

Your front door is wide open, an easy escape. There was no point in running. Either one of them is waiting outside for you, or they’ve cut the brakes on your car. You crouch, peering through the railings and silently making your way down the stairs. Try as you might, you don’t see signs that anyone has come inside. 

Besides the door, there are no clues to give away where they might have gone. You don’t want to play the role of the bimbo in their sick fantasy. Despite the instinct to call out for someone, you swallow it down and continue through your home. 

Beyond the stark terror of facing your own mortality, there is also the pain of being so thoroughly betrayed by Stu. You know the truth of what he is, of what Billy is. And you kept it quiet. You buried his dark secret like it was your own, protected him. This is how he repays you?

This is his answer after years of you loving him. How could he?

You stand in the middle of your living room, bat hanging limp by your side. The aching pain of grief and fear stills your body. The fight wanes inside you, debating whether or not prolonging this is worth it. The others all fought back, and they died bloody. Maybe if you just gave in, it would be quick, painless. Stu could at least grant you that. 

There’s a brief flash of movement in the reflection of your patio door. It’s slight, like a shifting shadow. Only one thing gives him away, the white, howling mask. Instinct overrides sensitivities, you whip around, bat flying. There’s a low groan as it smashes over his head. 

Reaching up, he snatches it in his hand, using it to jerk you forward. You’re quick to let it go. Instead, you aim for his throat. Hands outstretched as you reach up, gripping his neck as tight as you can. There’s shock in his stuttered breaths, like he hadn’t thought you would fight back. You were beginning to doubt yourself, too. 

Turns out you’re too stubborn to die. 

The bat clacks loudly against the wood as he stumbles back into your mother’s glass coffee table. His legs kick up, tripping you and sending you stumbling into his chest. The both of you go plummeting backward, glass shattering around him and the wood crumpling like a tower of cards. 

Jagged shards cut at your arms and bare legs, but you know he takes the brunt of it. Your grip on his throat is unrelenting, you pick his head up and slam it against the wood. He lets out a dazed groan, and you would laugh were you not trying to stop your best friend from killing you. He seems ridiculous, wearing this stupid cheap mask and moaning like a cartoon character with a bump on their head. 

He bucks under you, hips pressing up against yours as he flips you both over. Pain rips through your back as the glass digs into your skin. Letting out a low whine, your hands slack on him for just a moment. It’s still long enough for him to get the upper hand. 

He straddles your waist, pinning you below him with his weight as he kneels on your swinging arms. You’re utterly paralyzed, with no other choice but to stare up at him as tears stream, hot and slick, down your cheeks. 

Stu rips his mask off, eyes wild as he grins down at you. “Damn, sweetheart,” he laughs, and it only makes you fight harder against him. Screaming through your teeth as you try to buck him off of you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

He tosses the mask to the side and motions to the knife in his hand, “Surprise,” he practically sings the word, watching for your reaction. You bite your tongue, hiccuping on a sob as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. “Right,” he concedes, tilting his head, “you already knew.”

You can feel the blood pooling beneath you, the glass digging further into your shredded skin. It only makes this all the more unbearable. “Stop,” you beg, voice breaking as you struggle to hold back the tears. “I didn’t tell,” you shout at him. “Why are you doing this?” The tears break around the rage slipping through your voice as you glare up at him. 

“What are you talking about?” He snaps, his amusement waning the harder you cry. 

“Billy!” you shout the name out, just barely managing to wiggle one wrist free. He snatches it up instantly, the knife falling beside you as he leans over you, digging your hand into the glass above your head. “He said you wanted to see my insides,” there’s no controlling the sobs now. You don’t want to die. You don’t want Stu to be the one to kill you. Somehow, though, you think this would have hurt worse if it was Billy holding the knife. 

Stu’s face falls before quickly twisting up into something angry. He backs off, easing his weight just enough for the press of glass to sting a little less. “No,” he utters, shaking his head. “No, that’s not the plan.” 

Stu looks nearly manic as he stares down at you. Something unfurls inside you, years of friendship have you reaching up with your free hand. You don’t know what your plan is until he’s leaning into your touch, eyes never leaving yours. 

His hand grips your waist, easing you into a sitting position. You want to curl up into a ball and go hide in a dark corner. You want to shove glass down his throat and run. The knife looks particularly appealing beside you. 

But you do none of that. You let him tug you closer, hand tightening to the point of pain around your waist, but you don’t think he realizes, and you’re too afraid to point it out. “You’re our final girl, baby,” he practically fucking giggles, and you struggle not to flinch from the sound. “He was just fucking with you.”

“Yeah?” You snap, fingers trailing toward his hair and yanking until his face crinkles with pain. “Then what the fuck,” venom coats your tongue, voice low and deadly, “are you doing right now?”

He smiles, leaning into the way you rip at his hair. “Screwing around,” he laughs, and he sounds like a goddamn idiot. Scoffing, you release him, jerking out of his grip and ignoring the way it pulls at the wounds on your back. 

“God,” you crumple into yourself, shoulders hunching forward as you hide your face behind your hands. “I can’t believe I ever thought you could love me. You’re sick, Stu,” you snap, holding back more tears. 

Blood and glass surround you both, the shattered fragments of your friendship. Stu looks more hurt than when you strangled him. He reaches for you, and you jump back, shaking your head. ‘I was never going to kill you,” he swears. But what does the promise of a murderer mean to you?

“I don’t believe you,” voice a whisper, the tears spill over once more. He looks between you and the knife like he can’t decide what to do. You wait for it, for the snap before he just plunges the knife into your gut. Twisting it and dragging your death on. 

Instead, he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around yours and forcing you into his embrace. “Stop,” you claw weakly at his shoulders, snagging your nails in the cheap cloak. You shake your head, but the fight is over before it even begins. Your arms curl around his neck, and you sink into his familiar embrace. 

His gloved hand skates over the wounds on your back, and you whine, arching away from his touch. He offers a whispered apology, but you don’t believe it. “Billy’s not going to touch you,” he swears. “I’m never going to hurt you.”

“You already have.”

His arms only tighten around you, pulling you into his lap as you cry. You might not believe him, but he knows the truth of it. You’re his best friend. The only person besides Billy he’s ever actually cared about. 

You are his perfect final girl, and he’s never going to let you go. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[milkoomi]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ a guide to getting better sleep ᝰ.ᐟ

getting the right amount of sleep every night is key to getting your physical health in check and keeping your own mental and emotional state balanced! i used to struggle with severe insomnia a few years ago, so i’m going to share some tips that helped me get a good night’s rest!

let’s begin !!

ᝰ.ᐟ create a solid nightly routine

for me, my nightly routine starts between 5-6pm! so you can begin to create your nightly routine by finding that start time for yourself!

your nightly routine can include a multitude of things! whether it’s having dinner, showering, doing your nightly skincare, doing some end-of-the-day journaling; your nightly routine can be anything that helps you unwind from the day.

my nightly routine:

5-6pm: get home from work, change out of work uniform, & have dinner — within this time i’ll also spend time with my family/loved ones! i try to stay off of my phone, but there are nights where i’m having dinner and i’ll be scrolling through social media or watching a youtube video!

6-7pm: shower, dental hygiene, nighttime skincare — this is my time to pamper myself, to cleanse myself from the stresses from my day (& ofc literally cleanse myself). i’ll have a podcast playing in the background or i’ll put on a playlist of songs that make me feel good!

7-9pm: prime time “me-time” — at this point in my night, after i’ve showered and stuff, i use this time to either continue listening to podcasts or i’ll have another one of my fav youtubers playing in the background! i also incorporate time to journal and follow up with doing something that makes me happy whether that be playing a video game, entertaining myself with youtube, or coming on here & writing a new blog post!

9-10pm: bed time — i always make sure i’m physically in bed between these times just so i can allow my body to begin to fully relax. i get really cozy in bed, getting all tucked in under my covers, and i’ll make sure my lights are either dimmed or off! my goal every night is to be asleep by 10-10:30pm!

of course, your routine will look different than mine, but feel free to take some inspiration from this! figure out what works best for you and your schedule! once you have that routine set in stone, it’ll be easier to train your mind and body to get to bed at a better time and get yourself used to sleeping at a more reasonable time!

ᝰ.ᐟ no phone usage an hour before bed time

when you’re already in bed, getting ready to fall asleep, try to stay off your phone! the more time you spend mindlessly scrolling through your phone, the more that time starts to slip away from you and soon enough you’ll be up past midnight. staying away from your phone before going to sleep will allow your mind and body to start signaling that feeling of “it’s time to go to sleep”.

being on your phone right before you fall asleep just keeps your mind going and will cause you stay awake for much longer than you need to be! let your mind rest!

luckily, with iphones, you can create different focus modes other than just having your ‘do not disturb’ on! i created a focus mode titled ‘bed time’ that is scheduled to start at 9pm & end at 7am (which is usually when i wake up). i have the mode made so that my homescreen pages don’t include the page where all my social media is at so that i’m not tempted to scroll through any of my socials! i also made sure that my ‘bed time’ mode does not allow any notifications from anyone or anything to prevent myself from getting distracted at night when i’m trying to go to sleep!

ᝰ.ᐟ create the perfect sleeping environment

going to sleep can be hard if it’s too silent/noisy, too dark/bright, too cold/hot; so it’s important to make your sleeping environment the most ideal to you! turn on a fan for white noise or if you need it to be a bit cooler in your room, set a timer on your tv and have it lowered to the lowest volume, turn off all the lights— just do whatever you feel is best for making sure you sleep comfortably throughout the night!

for me, i have my tv on & i’ll set the timer on it because i still need some light source (because honestly i’m afraid of the dark lol) and i need some sound while i sleep! i make sure my tv’s brightness is dimmed because too much light is too distracting for me. i also prefer my room to be colder at night so i can cozy up more into my blankets! doing all of that to create the perfect sleeping environment has helped me get much better sleep at night!

𝜗𝜚 final notes 𝜗𝜚

creating a good sleep schedule and maintaining it can be a battle, but getting good sleep will help you in so many ways! getting enough sleep is one of the best forms of self care, and if practicing better self care is one of your goals for this new year, then please start by working on your sleep schedule and getting better sleep!

live and love, babes.

sincerely, juno ⭑.ᐟ

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Afternoon Appointments

Warnings: SMUT. THIS IS BASICALLY JUST SMUT AND ONLY SMUT AND I WON'T BE TAKING QUESTIONS. MINORS DNI.

There is some fluff. Mated Eris and Reader. Unprotected sex (male and female receiving). Voyeurism. *Breeding?* they're trying to make an heir for the court so it's spice with the intent of getting pregnant. Also mentions of infertility and struggles to get pregnant. Oral, vaginal, fingering, take your pick.

Word Count: 6,201 - my bad.

Honestly, I just wanted to write something a little spicy since I've been drowning in the slow burns, but now I'm considering making this a shorter story as a slow burn palette cleanser, but it depends on how you all like it!

Summary: Eris, your mate, catches you between both of your court duties and is keen on ensuring that no time is wasted between the two of you. After being mated over a decade, you've been trying to conceive an heir, unsuccessfully and are hoping this delightful afternoon reprieve might finally be the ticket.

SMUT BELOW THIS LINE. BE AWARE.

Initially, you didn’t notice him as you walked at a brisk pace through the open-air walkways of the grand Autumn Court Manor. Your thoughts were consumed by the myriad of responsibilities you had planned for the rest of the day—consultations with court advisors to deliberate over a diplomatic journey to the Summer Court, sifting through an overwhelming stack of letters from neighboring villagers requesting a ceremonial visit from you and your mate for the anticipated harvest, and enduring the relentless pleas from courtiers eager to propose another extravagant party that you had little desire to attend.

Your mind was a whirlwind of tasks, repeating them quietly to yourself as to not forget to add them to the ever-growing to-do list in your office that you were oblivious to the familiar intoxicating aroma of woodsmoke and cinnamon that heralded the approach of your mate. Eris.

He was drawing near from the opposite end of the hall, yet your eyes were nearly glued to the ground as you continued to mull over how you were going to respond to the multitude of letters.

You collided with a solid wall of muscle, a soft “oomph” escaping your lips as you stumbled back, your cheeks flushing. “Oh my, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even—”

You looked up, finally realizing who you had so unexpectedly bumped into. Eris was towering over you, gazing down with a teasing smile emerging from him. His lips curled slightly, just enough to reveal a hint of his teeth, while his amber eyes shimmered, capturing the sunlight and making them look like threads of gold spun through them.

You let out a playful scoff, stepping back with a lazy grace.

“No, no,” Eris teased, his voice dripping with charm. “Please, do continue with your heartfelt apology for so boldly running into me.”

You rolled your eyes, a small snort escaping you as you shook you head and then lifted your head back to look at him again. “Oh, believe me, I am soooo deeply sorry for my transgression, my lord,” you drawled, your voice riddled with mock sincerity.

Eris released a rich, velvety laugh that resonated from deep within his chest. “Naturally, my lady,” he replied.

Your eyes fell to the floor as you brushed back the stray strands of hair that cascaded into your face. Eris seemed to sense the immediate shift in your mood. “But honestly, is everything alright, my love? You seem… preoccupied.”

You glanced back up at him, a soft, airy laugh slipping from your lips. “I’m fine,” you murmured with a gentle shrug. “Just jugging a lot of priorities today.”

A mischievous glint lit up Eris’s eyes as he closed the distance between you, maneuvering to press your back against the wall, his hands resting on either side of your face, enclosing you within his presence. “Do you know what’s been preoccupying my thoughts today?”

You tilted your head slightly, peering up through your lashes. “I doubt it’s anything virtuous,” you teased.

Eris’ voice was a sultry purr as he leaned closer, his scent enveloping you in an almost intoxicating haze. “Certainly not,” he whispered, his breath caressing your skin.

His fingers traced a languid path down your face, gliding over your jawline and neck as you melted into his touch. “I’ve been consumed—tormented, really,” he murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear with delicate finger, “by this almost insatiable desire to be utterly and entirely devoured by my mate.”

Your heart fluttered wildly, your breath catching as he leaned down to graze his teeth lightly over your exposed ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“Is that so?” You teased, leaning into his soft kiss as he dragged his lips down the side of your ear, nipping at the soft flesh.

Eris responded quietly with a small groan of agreement.

You gently nudged against his chest, wriggling out of his firm hold with a teasing grin. “As much as I regret leaving you in despair, I’ve got a busy agenda today” you remarked, your eyes twinkling as he reached out, grabbing you hand again,” you noted, smiling at him as he reached out and grabbed your hand.

Eris swiftly drew you back against him, his strong arms enveloping your shoulders. “And nowhere on that oh-so-important schedule is a moment to indulge your devilishly charming, handsome mare?” he teased.

You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his solid, sculpted chest, offering him a coy smile. “Sadly, my assistant didn’t book any time for you today,” you replied.

Eris rolled his eyes dramatically, letting out a soft, exaggerated sigh. “I’ll have to have words with that meddling female who seems determined to keep my beautifully enchanting mate just out of my grasp.”

He looked down at you, his smile radiating a warmth that sent a flutter through your stomach. Bending down, he brushed his lips against your tenderly before deepening the kiss with a more fervent intensity. His hands cradled your face, fingers threading through your hair and holding you still in a kiss that was all-consuming.

You didn’t even think about it, moaning softly into his mouth as he enveloped you in another long, shivering kiss. The corridor's dim light cast shadows across the stone walls, cold and unyielding against your back. His kiss caught you so off guard that he had you once again pinned against the rough, cool surface, his hands leaving your face to rest at your hips. His thumbs pressed and kneaded into the soft, sensitive skin, sending tiny shivers down your spine.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers weaving their way into the thick, auburn strands of his hair. Your nails lightly grazed over his scalp, eliciting a deep, resonant groan that vibrated into your open, waiting mouth.

A smile broke through the kiss as he leaned back, his eyes glinting with mischief as he raised a brow. “You’re going to really get me riled up and not let me have a few minutes of your time?” he asked teasingly, his voice a playful murmur.

You didn’t respond with words, just inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, and pulled him back by tugging gently on his hair, drawing him into another deep, consuming kiss. Eris slid his hands beneath your thighs, effortlessly lifting you higher against the wall, as if he needed to be even closer. But as he did so, and you felt the fabric of your dress slowly inching upward, exposing your skin to the cool air, the awareness of your very public setting.

You pressed a hand firmly against Eris' chest while he moved in to plant heavy, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin of your neck, attempting to gently push him back. "Eris—" you murmured softly, your voice barely a whisper as his hands confidently squeezed and tugged at your thighs, his body rhythmically grinding against yours. When he didn't respond, you repeated yourself, trying to infuse a different tone into your breathless whisper. "Eris—"

He leaned back slightly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intense, smoldering heat in his eyes. "What?" he asked, his breath coming in soft pants. "What is it?"

You glanced anxiously in both directions down the corridor, relieved to find it still deserted and echoing with silence. "Eris, as much as I would love for you to take me right here," you said, your voice a mixture of longing and practicality, "it is the middle of the day, in a very regularly used walkway."

Eris groaned, tilting his head back to reveal the taut, sinewy muscles of his neck, which beckoned you to sink your teeth into. He returned his gaze to you, the corner of his mouth curling into a sly smile. "But doesn't it just amplify the promise that the High Lord of the Autumn Court and his mate are so determined to provide their court with the next heir that they're willing to seize the opportunity at a moment's notice?" he asked, raising a teasing brow.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. For nearly a decade, you and Eris had been trying to produce an heir since your mating ceremony, yet success had eluded you, and the urgency to secure the future of the court with him weighed heavily on your shoulders.

You gave him a rather incredulous look. “My love, even though you have a storied past filled with daring exploits and more brazen partnerships, some of us still have a bit more of an upstanding reputation to uphold,” you replied, your voice tinged with playful reproach.

Eris let you drop down slowly, your feet gently returning to the polished marble floor as he gave you another long, lustful stare. His eyes were like burning embers, filled with a fiery intensity that seemed to melt away any resistance you had left. “I would say that it’s more than proper to truly show just how dedicated we are.” Eris winked, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and then began pulling you down the grand corridor.

You let out a mildly exasperated sigh, the sound echoing softly off the stone walls as he tugged you along. Yet, you followed willingly, unable to ignore the intense need that now roared through your body, urging you forward with a fiery insistence.

Eris led you back into the manor, saying nothing as he walked ahead, his hand firmly clasped in yours. His pace was fast enough, desperate enough, that you had to break into a slight, stumbling jog to keep up with him. Your laughter bubbled up, a soft, breathless giggle escaping your lips as you passed one of his advisors. The advisor attempted to stop and ask him something, but Eris, with a firm yet playful authority, simply said, “It can wait,” before continuing his determined path.

Finally, after ascending a winding set of stairs, Eris pushed open the grand, ornate doors leading to your shared chambers and practically propelled you through the threshold. You burst into laughter, stumbling over the intricate folds of your dress, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady yourself against one of the elaborately carved bedposts, while the other clutched your stomach as you gasped for air amidst your laughter.

Eris followed you through the doorway with a graceful, long stride, pulling the doors closed with a decisive thud and standing before them like a sentinel, his eyes gleaming with amusement as his own laughter slipped from his lips.

He crossed the room in a swift motion, his hands finding their place at your waist, effortlessly lifting you so you could wrap your legs around his torso. Even through the voluminous layers of your skirts, you could feel the undeniable presence of Eris’s hardened desire straining against the confines of his trousers. With a swift motion, you managed to kick off your shoes, sending them clattering across the polished floor as Eris pressed fervent, breathy kisses onto your lips. His hands supported you beneath your rear, fingers digging into the soft flesh with a passionate urgency.

Your fingers returned to entwine themselves in the silky strands of Eris’s hair, each tug eliciting a moan from him as he guided you towards the bed. The mattress welcome your entwined bodies, your legs still secured behind his hips as he positioned himself above you. His fingers worked deftly to loosen your corsets more intricate lacing. You, on the other hand were more successful endeavor to rid him of his trousers, revealing his toned, muscular thighs. Eager to free him from the last barrier, you tugged, begging at him to step back and let himself free.

He obliged, standing back from between your legs, taking his boots and pants off in one swift motion. His erection sprang free, hard, and throbbing in anticipation. It glistened at the tip with a bead of translucent fluid that seemed to invite you to taste it. He was every bit as breathtakingly aroused as you were and the sight of him only intensified your own desire.

As Eris neared the side of the bed again, lustful hunger filled his eyes. Pressing a hand into his stomach, you stopped him momentarily before rising up on your knees and lowering your lips towards his cock. His head fell back as you wrapped around him, gripping firmly while your lips pressed against the tip of his erection. You gave a few soft draws before opening your lips slowly and enveloping just the head of him. Eris let out a few soft moans, wrapping your hair around his fist as if to steady himself while his other hand cupped the underside of your chin, fingers digging into your soft skin as you slowly took more and more of him.

You didn’t often pleasure him in this way. Eris, however, took great pleasure in spending copious amount of time discovering the sweet secrets between your thighs. But today, seeing him so hungry for your touch—it ignited a fire in your that you couldn’t quite control.

As you welcomed him back wholly, you playfully nipped at the tender skin with your teeth, drawing back leisurely while Eris’s grip intensified while another moan slipped from his lips. His gaze found yours as you peered up at him through a sultry veil of lashes, causing his mouth to slacken open, a throaty sigh stammering out. As you carefully tightened your lips around the apex of his arousal, you sucked fervently before letting it escape your mouth with an audible pop.

Eris stuttered out a half formed, “fuc—” his breath hitching in surprise and pleasure.

You licked your lips while casting a glance up at him. Your hands were lost in their own exploration from his chiseled torso down his thighs, sharp nails carving a trail of scarlet lines on his skin as if branding him for your exclusive possession.

“You’re…divine, my love,” Eris groaned when your mouth once again claimed him.

The hum of affirmation that vibrated from deep within your throat sent waves of sensation rippling through him. The intimate sound echoed against his hardness, somehow making him harder as the pace of your movements quickened and the grip of your lips tightened around him.

As you teased him, driving him incrementally closer to release, Eris’ firm grip in your hair seemed more like a barrier. He held you back, preventing you from losing yourself completely in the rhythm. He restrained so that you could only take about half of him in your mouth at a time. You raised your eyes to meet his, his face twisted in delicious torment as you eased off, letting your tongue swirl about his swollen tip. His response was immediate, ragged moans escaping from between clenched teeth.

“What’s the matter, my love?” Your voice was thick with lust, mere inches from his cock as your saliva slicked down your chin. “You don’t want me to suck you off?”

Eris looked down at you from his towering height, chest heaving with anticipation. “Trust me on this, my love,” he rasped out, “my dick hitting the back of your throat nearly sends me to the edge every time. But I’d much rather save it all for more…fruitful purposes.” His words were heavy with lust, his gaze turning feral.

Smiling seductively, you let your lips slide sensuously over his hard cock once again before pulling back slowly. The taste of him lingered on your lips as he withdrew. “And where might that be?” You asked coyly.

Wordlessly, Eris collapsed to his knees before you and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss, tasting himself on your tongue while attempting to unfasten the stays of your corset once more.

He paused for a moment, seemingly needing to concentrate on the task of his fingers before he finally answered. “Well, considering we’re trying for a babe, it feels sinful to not try and seize every chance I can to fill you up.” His gaze flickered up to meet yours, as if silently asking for your approval.

Gifting him with a sultry grin as the corset finally relented, Eris pushed it back off your shoulders and swiftly reached beneath the layers of your skirts. His fingers found your undergarments, tugging the fabric down your legs almost manically. Once they were discarded, he wasted no time in stripping off your gown until you were stripped as bare to him as he was to you. You reclined onto the bed, your knees raised to hide the dripping lust of your core from him, and propped up on your elbows, inviting his gaze.

He drank in the sight of you, naked and nearly begging for him, his own arousal throbbing expectantly in his hand. He gave himself a few rough strokes as his gaze roamed over every inch of you—memorizing each curve, each hollow, imprinting every detail into his mind.

You allowed your knees to gently part, revealing your wet, glistening valley to his ravenous gaze. The sight seemed to push him to the brink of his sanity as he sank back down, his palms tracing a fiery path down your trembling thighs. He gave his lips a quick swipe with his tongue, priming himself for the feast laid before him. As he pressed his mouth down onto your core, he drew out his tongue, dragging it up the full length, groaning at the intoxicating taste. Your head burrowed into the mattress, your spine curving seductively as Eris’s hands made their way to your lower back. His fingers hooked under the crest of you, thumbs kneading into your thighs, rhythmically clenching and releasing as he mapped your body.

His tongue flickered over the sensitive but at your apex, teasingly building you up before dragging it languidly in slow, agonizing laps. Over a decade’s worth of attentive learning—under your patient instruction—had made him an expert navigator of your body. He dipped lower, his tongue teasing at your entrance before spreading you open further with his fingers. His tongue drove deeper within you while his thumb caressed your clit, causing eruptions of pleasure that obscured your vision. Your urgent needs colliding and locking him into place with your tights as staccato breaths escaped from between your clenched teeth. The tightening grip of your legs around him only amplified his ravenous desire. Pushing them away gently to take longer laps with his practiced tongue, he withdrew his finger from its tantalizing dance at the top of your cunt to slowly penetrate you. Two fingers stretched and filled you, breaking what felt like new ground each time. Eris loved nothing more than watching your face in these moments—witnessing the furrowing brow and slack jawed ecstasy as he coaxed you open. “That’s it, my love,” he purred. “Let me open up that tight, sweet pussy.”

His fingers moved faster, eliciting a symphony of moans from deep in your throat as you hovered on the precipice of pleasure. Eris was acutely aware of your body's responses, his thumb strumming your clit in an intimate dance that mirrored the rhythm of his fingers sliding in and out of you. Your hands clenched white-knuckled into the sheets above your head, stark contrast to Eris' hands, which never wavered from exploring your body.

His gaze traced a path from the tips of your fingers down to your toes, which were clawing at the sheets with equal intensity. "Eris, please—" you gasped out in a raw whisper, the words half plea, half demand as you felt him deliberately holding back the climax you craved.

A knowing grin pulled at his lips even though you couldn't see it. “Hold on, my love,” he whispered back, his voice a silky promise in your ear. “Just a bit longer.”

Frustration and need had you biting your lip as you rolled your hips against his hand, trying to coax him into moving faster. But Eris had other plans; he withdrew his fingers completely leaving you achingly empty.

A mournful whimper slipped past your lips as the bed creaked beneath his weight as he stood up. His strong hands gripped your hips and yanked you down closer to the edge, causing an unexpected squeal to rip from your lips which made Eris chuckle deeply as he positioned you just right on the threshold. Curiously, you opened your eyes to find him stroking himself while eyeing the spot he so desperately wanted to be.

Eris had once confessed he could spend hours staring at your pussy with a fascination that bordered on obsession. His fingertips would skim lightly over every intimate crease and fold, committing every inch to memory. Hell, just watching him studying you like that could send waves of pleasure through his body strong enough to push him over the edge.

Now, as he stood at the foot of the bed, ready to claim you once more, you couldn’t help but remember his words. And you knew, without a doubt, that it wouldn’t be a lie to say he hadn’t brought himself to completion just by laying you bare on the bed and gazing longingly down at your spread legs.

You whined again, your body heavy with uncontrollable desire. Eris, tuning into your small groans of longing, cast his glance toward you while still working himself over, his lust-filled gaze meeting yours. “Is this what you want, my love?” he husked out.

Your eyelids felt dense, brimming with an animalistic yearning as you gasped out, “Yes—please gods yes.”

Eris threw you a wicked grin before aligning himself at your throbbing core, easing in at a torturous pace that almost tore a wild scream from your throat. His breath hitched as he delved deeper into you, like he was teetering on the edge of release right there and then. But finally, he was fully sheathed within you, casting a look of pure satisfaction down at you. He stayed rooted deep within as he rocked in and out at a slow rhythm making you writhe beneath him, pleading for him to quicken his pace. “Patience, my love,” he murmured heatedly, pressing his robust hand onto your stomach, anchoring you back onto the bed. “I want to savor this moment, and if I pound into you right now it’ll end way too fucking quick for either of us.”

Your whimper of disappointment morphed into a moan as Eris thrust all the way up to the hilt once more. Every single inch of him was pure ecstasy that filled you more than anything you possible. The first time he'd taken you to heights of pleasure unknown, there was fear realize he might split you in two but with slow seduction and a few heated moments spent priming you with his skilled fingers and sinfully wicked tongue, you knew he was meant for you. He was the only one who fit within like no other could — two pieces of an intricate erotic puzzle.

Eris leaned in, his muscular body arching over yours, his arms bracketing your face as he pressed his heated forehead against yours. He moved deliberately within you, his thrusts slow and purposeful, with each withdrawal almost total before he sank back into you, causing delicious toe curling friction.

Your hands found their way to the back of his head—your fingers threading through his wild hair and pulling him even closer. The growl that vibrated from his chest was raw and animalistic as he kissed you, turning everything slow, making it somehow more erotic than lustful.

You wrapped your legs around his chiseled hips, matching his rhythm. The moment your ankles locked securely behind him, Eris slipped his arms beneath your back and shoulders, pulling you up while he remained buried inside you. A surprised squeak escaped from you, followed by giggles as he rose to his full height—his strong, calloused hands holding you fast against him while he captured your lips in a deep kiss that tasted like sin.

He turned, the muscled strength of his back sinking into the soft surrender of the bed. Your thighs remained possessively wound around him as he shuffled upwards, resting his back against the headboard. You pushed your knees outward to straddle him like a carnal queen claiming her throne, his large hands finding home on the curve of your hips. His fingers burrowed into the soft flesh as he silently urged you to gyrate atop him. His golden eyes locked into yours, his voice dropping into a sultry rumble as he ordered, “Ride me.” A command that you were more than delighted to fulfill.

Sitting back on your heels, your hands wandered upwards to find solace in the tangles of your own hair. You shifted back up and down upon hum. Eris’s hands held court on your swaying hips, not gripping you tightly but savoring the pleasure that each motion evoked as your body slipped tantalizingly through his strong fingers.

Eris seemed to surrender to the pleasure, allowing his head to tilt back in ecstasy. His Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he gulps of air escaped past his lips. Your hands ventured southwards, exploring the terrain of his chest and abdomen with slow, deliberate strokes. All the while, you watched him—as pleasure etched itself across his face. His mouth fell open slightly open, sporadic gasps and guttural moans filling the silence as you controlled the rhythm.

His hips picked up a primal rhythm beneath him, as if he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. The tempo increased steadily as his fingers, imbued with desire, dug deeper into the skin of your hips. His body crashed into yours with a mix of hunger and desperation. His eyes were clenched shut, locking away the paradise he found within. He bit his lower lip hard enough to bring what you thought would be a sting of pain, but it was drowned out by the guttural sounds of pleasure that erupted from deep in his chest.

You leaned forward in response to his urgency, grazing your teeth gentle across the landscape of his neck—a different touch that the harshness of the grip he held you with. In a heartbeat he had taken back control, a male seemingly claiming his territory, pinning you in place as he made love to you.

The delicious friction between your body and Eris’s torso was bringing you dangerously close to the precipice. You could feel the distinct tightening of your muscles, a teasing thrill that started from the nape of your neck, creeping slowly forward, followed by a curious numbing in your toes. Your head sank forward, nestling into Eris’s broad shoulder as your nails clawed hungrily into the flesh of his opposite shoulder. “You’re such a good girl,” he growled in your ear, indulging every contraction in your body. His voice echoed twice as a whispered mantra, “Good girl.” His breath fanned over your ear as he coaxed you further. “Let it go, let my drown in it, my love,” pressing a fervent kiss into your tousled hair.

His words were the potent magic it took to send you spiraling over the treacherous abyss of pleasure, chasing that electrifying wave that coursed through your veins, leaving an unrestrained moan escaping past your parted lips. “I love you,” Eris whispered into your ear, his unrelenting pace continuing as he guided you through the tremors of release until you finally descended into a panting mess.

With desire still twinkling in your eyes, you nibbled at his shoulder, lavishly bestowing him with a sequence of licks and kisses, tasting his salt ridden skin and breathing in the scent of your mate. Eris absorbed every aftershock rippling through you while he kept his pace going, seemingly driven forth by the urgency he managed to elicit.

Another gravelly growl erupted from him before he spun you onto your back once more—this time fueled by something more primal instead of the gentle intimacy before. Lost in the delirium of pleasure, Eris plowed into you with a wildness that would drive you crazy. His body melded with yours—his hips driving recklessly as he cupped your head in his arms protectively. Your teeth grazed along the sinewy column of his neck as he released a low purr.

This time, Eris was teetering on the edge of his own climax as his hips faltered for a moment, catching their rhythm again with an insatiable speed. A sinful symphony of your bodies colliding with one another filled the room. Your legs once against entwined around his torso like a vine, clinging to him like a lifeline.

You leaned closer, whispering your own sweet demands into the curve of his ear, tickling it with your tongue and teasing bite. “Give me a babe, Eris.” The words were like liquid fire to him. His hand traced down your face, as if searching for the tender female beneath the wild one in his arms. His fingers cradled your cheek, the softness of his touch only amplifying the raw passion happening just inches away. “Let me carry our legacy. The heir to the court. The next generation of our love’s lineage.” As if possessed by another rush, his hands relocated from cupping your face to gripping the sheets with white-knuckled intensity as he panted out his lustful need.

“Please, Eris—” you pleaded through gasps and moans. Begging was music to his ears; he found it so damn sexy when you were on your knees pleading for him. “Give me what I want the most.”

Eris lifted his head, seeking out your eyes, to make connection before the inevitable release. When he locked onto your gaze, a shiver ran through him, causing his hips to shudder slightly as his eyes rolled back basking in the uninhibited pleasure. You felt him spill inside you—as if molten heat fused with the lingering aftershocks of your own climax.

When he had finally felt that delightful release, the waves of tingly, bone-jittering happiness faded and he rested his body on top of you. His lungs still catching their breath as he nestled his face into the crook of your neck. He gently brushed his thumb across your cheek, turning your face towards him for a sweet, lingering kiss before slowly pulling out and away, leaving an emptiness in his wake. But when he did, his eyes sparkled with such a genuinely, overwhelming affection, it caught you entirely off guard.

He grinned like he was tipsy. “I love you,” he whispered once more.

You giggled in return, your hand tracing the contours of his angular face and jaw, “I love you, Eris.”

He rolled to one side, his hand lazily wandering down your torso, drawing small, whimsical on your abdomen, where you had prayed to someday grow a tiny life inside.

“I have a good feeling about that one,” he chimed in.

You quirked a brow. “You think this is suddenly the magic one?”

He gave a light shrug, “It definitely felt like it could have been.”

“You always say that,” you teased, snuggling yourself in closer as his fingers danced up your arm, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head.

You laid in silence together for a few minutes, listening to Eris’ heartbeat slow down to the steady thumping you so often fell asleep to, his hands still exploring your body. He always had his hands on you somewhere if he could, like he needed something other than the mental tether that bound him to you, but you didn’t mind it.

You had many dreams about carrying Eris’s child. As his mate, it was one of your expected duties, to produce an heir to carry on the Vanserra lineage, to secure the next High Lordship, or Ladyship, times were changing and you would often tease Eris’ brothers with the idea of his daughter ascending into the position, sending them scoffing and rolling their eyes. But after ten years of unsuccessful attempts, fertility potions, aphrodisiacs, fool-proof positions, and you had no physical, tangible result.

You could picture it when you closed your eyes like looking into a mirror. Eris, standing in the windows of your chambers, surrounded by soft light as he looks down at a small bundle that coos in his arms. He sways lightly back and forth, the gentle breeze from outside pushing his hair from his face as he looks down at his babe with more adoration that any male could have for their child. He looks so at peace. He looks so beautiful. The babe in his arms could never be more deeply loved than by this male, your mate, and you’d given him that happiness.

You were yanked from your daydreaming by a light rapping at the door of the bedchambers—and the unmistakable sound of a male voice on the other side. A hesitant greeting from one of Eris’ advisors. “My lord—” then a pause as though listening for a response. “My lord, we’re scheduled to meet with the chamber of commerce in the next ten minutes.

Eris ran a hand over his face and let out a low growl that might have been an attempt at dramatics or actual irritation, while you burst into a stifled laugh tucked into the corner of his arm. “Be there. Just give me a minute.

The advisor hesitated, then said through the door, “My lord, I must insist we meet with you before the meeting—”

Eris cut him off, raising his voice. “You’re more than welcome to barge in. I will warn you however— that you will get a very full tour of both my body but also my mates. So unless you fancy joining us in the potential conception of my heir, I’d suggest practicing a bit of patience.”

The advisor didn’t reply and you could hear him taking small steps down the hall.

Your laughter burst out as Eris joined in with his deep, hearty chuckle. “You don’t need to torture the poor fellow any more than necessary,” you remarked, leaning up on your forearms.

Eris met your eyes, “If they’re going to work in my home and demand that they be the top of my priority list everyday then I’m going to have to start being more honest with them about what is truly happening behind closed doors.”

Eris gave you a small kiss on the tip of your nose before retreating from the bed. He found his discarded trousers while you rolled back, hugging your knees in what felt like a futile attempt to keep everything inside—a tip from the fertility healer. You rocked slightly on your spine as Eris appeared at the foot of the bed, trousers donned again but his shirt in his fist, leaning over the armoire mirror to fix his hair. He shot you a quick glance before pulling his shirt and vest back on before sauntering over to re-lace his boots.

“Plus,” he went on, “I’d argue this is one of, if not the most important parts of court business right now." Fastening his other boot, he added, “And you, for that matter. So if anyone has problems with how I’m spending my time, I’ll find them in contempt of court.”

You laughed and smacked his arm, earning a smirk in return. He rested a hand on your knee, gesturing to the position you had placed yourself in.

“How long do you have to lay like that?”

With a light shrug, you replied, “I’m not even sure it works, but the healers say I should keep everything inside for ten to fifteen minutes after we’re finished. Apparently, it increases the odds of implantation.”

Eris rubbed your knee slowly, smiling at you. “Do you want me to wait with you? Do you need anything? Water? Food?”

You shook your head, thinking him kind for the gesture. “It’s alright my love, I’ll just stay here a bit longer and then will get up and carry on with the day.”

He looked at you, his eyes full of longing and intense adoration. “I love you, so intensely, it makes my heart ache,” he whispered to you.

“And I you,” you replied as he leaned down to give you another kiss, long and savory.

He stood, walking towards the door and as he reached the doorway he turned and looked back at you, the same sappy, hopelessly romantic expression on his face. “You’re sure you’re okay?” He asked again.

You said with a big of feigned exasperation, “I’m fine, Eris, now go! Or someone is going to get brave enough to come in here.”

His hand rested on the doorframe as he smiled back at you. “I’ll see you at dinner, my love.” He noted and you nodded in agreement before he opened the doors and disappeared down the hall.

What he didn’t know was that part of the fifteen minutes of waiting also included sending out prayers to The Mother to finally let it all fall into place. You had a sinking suspicion that while Eris might be more than happy to take as many years as it needed to have a babe, the rest of the court might not be so patient, and it was your job to ensure it happened.

I need to be spayed. Someone make me an appointment at the vet. It's becoming a problem.

Part 2:

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [5]

series masterlist previous || part five -> kermes || part six -> madder

> summary: big nun, little nun > tags/warnings: guilt, religious / moral turmoil, stockholm syndrome, child abuse (past), scars, simon returns, corruption (past), misogyny (past), whipping (past), blood, suffering (past mostly), power imbalance, freeze response (past), guilt, dissociation, dom/sub dynamics, we're learning consent (kinda? eeh), violent imagery, dubcon/noncon, vaginal fingering, choking, throat grab

When Johnny asks how it felt to go from there – the convent, you think he means – to here, you can only describe it as dunking your hands into ice water. 

Shocking, painful, and prickling all over.

He only says hm, and moves on. His face is pensive. You don’t tell him that sometimes, you wake up and aren’t in the water anymore.

Even in prayer, you hadn’t thought as much as you had since you’d been taken. Hadn’t worried as much. Teachings from adults since youth had told you that everybody was inherently sinful, even children.

So why is the community around you so happy without God? They have their own, you know this, but the multitude of them and their roles in divine hierarchy aren’t necessarily about absolute power.

There are woman-Gods, Gods without designations, Gods for the earth and the children and unions between people. You find it hard to continue calling them heretics, devils, when they’re really just people. Different, yes, strange and incomprehensible, but people nonetheless.

Heathens, you try to think. Heathens, devils. They took you

You wonder when the last time you thought of yourself as just a person was, when you weren’t a thing set within a rigid mold, beaten down in more ways than one.

On the eve of Simon's return you catch Johnny doing something secretive. He's hunched over the table, the tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration. The soft sound of scraping, of wood gently knocking is all you can hear over the fire.

“What's that?” you ask, when your curiosity gets the best of you.

Johnny turns, one eye squinted, the every picture of concentration. He holds up a carved figure – a woman, it looks like. Ah, it’s you. Though hard to tell, the woman wears a veil and sits on a chair, hunched.

Your veil. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. It used to be a weight, heavy and pressing, a shackle. Now you miss the safety of not feeling so exposed all the time.

Somewhere in the journey here it had been lost, or maybe thrown overboard. Your habit, too, replaced for the woolen Viking-style dresses bought and bartered for by Simon and Johnny. Even you have to admit you enjoy the colours more, even if the conformity of the convent felt safe.

“How long were you watching me?” you breathe, eyes wide and still staring.

“Not long, lamb,” he smiles disarmingly. “Ah just remember ye, sittin’ pretty.”

“Working on the tapestry,” you correct him, though it doesn’t really matter.

He looks back down to his little figure, pensive.

“Ah guess so,” he says jovially.

“It was my punishment,” you add. This probably matters even less, but the clash of worlds has thrown you off balance. You feel unbearably present, unbearably lucid.

I was a nun, you think. Am I still a nun?

“Punishment?” he frowns. “Ah thought they struck ye?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I had to work extra hard.”

“Like a bairn?”

“A what?”

“A child, lamb,” he smiles again.

You look into the fire, thinking. Punishment applied to everyone, not just children, no? Even Simon and Johnny had punished you. But who had given them the right? Had you, with your secret want? Your secret lustful sin?

“You punished me,” you settle on.

“Aye, we did,” he nods. “Ye needed it.”

“Then why do you… ah, disparage the church for doing the same?”

He turns to you.

“Ah think ye got it all wrong,” he says simply. “We don’t give it to ye to make ye hurt. Aren’t ye better after? Righted?”

Righted. That’s a word worth its weight in gold. As is the truth of his words, but you stay quiet and look into the fire instead of responding.

You take up Johnny’s offer to spend time with Kari. Johnny walks you there, holds your hand in the cold and blows hot air on them as you wait together outside their door.

When Gaz opens it, he hoots and hollers as if the frigid air outside has no effect on him, as if his inner warmth and naturally excitable disposition is no match for the cold.

You have to admire that. At least a little.

“Hi there,” Gaz says to you, a greeting softer than the one he gave Johnny.

“Hello,” you try to subtly peek inside, “it’s… nice to see you.”

He doesn’t take offence to your awkward, stilted attempt at politeness. Maybe he knows you’re not quite comfortable here, to put it lightly, and only claps your shoulder gently to pull you in.

“Have fun!” Johnny shouts, already leaving, “and give me my wife back in one piece!”

That makes you sheepish, but you try to ignore your feelings in favour of moving towards Kari and the little baby, Tyra.

“Hello again,” she greets, smiling. The baby stares at you, babbles ceasing as if she’s seeing you for the first time. Her little head swings towards her mother, hiding despite her clear curiosity.

“You’ve met me before,” you say softly, trying valiantly not to frighten her as you take a seat opposite to Kari.

“She’s feeling shy lately,” Kari looks down and tuts, swiping a thumb over Tyra’s chubby cheek, “needs her mama.”

Weaving here is not much different than weaving at the convent. Once you get the basics down, you’re threading dyed wool into cloth astride Kari.

Some spirit of confidence grips you.

“Will you tell me anything about Simon and Johnny?”

“About-” she lifts her head, “Simon and Johnny? Don’t they speak to you?”

“They - do,” you rush to assure her, though your voice maintains a weary unsureness.

Luckily for you, she gives you a small but comforting smile over the wool.

“You’re looking for an outside opinion? That’s okay, lovely girl, I just might not know as much about them as my husband does,” she gestures with her chin towards Gaz, who walks towards you both.

“What d’you need to know?” he asks casually, sidling up to Kari affectionately, “think they’ll be able to answer better than me.”

“I only really know… what I’ve seen. I haven’t…” your mouth twists as you trail off, frustration germinating as you struggle. Right, you can commit sins of the flesh but you can’t ask a question to sate curiosity — one which might be the difference between surviving and not surviving.

Knowledge is important, after all. Powerful. You think of Eve, who doomed humanity for it, naked as the day she was born and as clueless as Adam yet ate the apple anyway.

“I know they’re… warriors,” you pause, “since they’re all scarred, but—“

“Well, not necessarily—” Kari starts, until Gaz puts a palm on her thigh and gives her a look you can’t discern. 

“That’s not something we should share,” Gaz says tightly, but kindly.

“How else..?” you frown.

Tyra stirs, and Kari gives Gaz another look.

“Simon’s father used to be chief,” she lifts the babe back into her lap, patting, cooing, “it’s not a nice story, but if you need it to understand them better then I don’t mind telling it.”

“I want to know about them,” you insist, trying to push past the sense of danger, the sense that you’ll be hurt or killed for toeing out of line.

Testing the elasticity of safety here perhaps isn’t wise, but testing it might be what you need to settle. Knowing where the boundaries are, what’s expected, where they come from… you wonder if you’ll doom everybody, like Eve.

“Believe it or don’t, but we’ve only just rekindled the hunts, the raids. How it should be,” she starts.

Gaz sighs, leaning back where he’s sitting. You assume his hesitance is out of loyalty for his comrades, but you choose tentatively to ignore him in favour of his wife.

“We had a lazy, drunken leader,” Kari continues, “Simon’s father inherited the title through lineage, not through prowess as is… more natural to us.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine. In the church, such things were often gained with corruption: any wealthy lords’ son could rise high in the ranks, if he had the money and means.

The convent had somewhat of a similar issue, though the women were ‘married’ into the church and the power rested in the hands of their families. 

Such was the world.

Not always, but you’d heard of it often enough. One of the abbots of the monastery in the closest town had been the son of an affluent donator, and thus received power of authority over the other monks.

“To make a long story short, and more respectful to Simon—” Gaz looks at her then “—his father was needlessly cruel both to his own children, his wife, and to those he was responsible for.”

“So, those scars…?”

“Some are from fighting, of course. But usually, no one’s getting close enough to those two to land that kind of damage. I’m sure you can fill in the rest.”

Gaz butts in here,  “or, you can ask him yourself.”

“How did that woman, I forgot her name, come to be chief?” you frown in thought.

Gaz takes over again, his hand dragging up from the small of his wife's back and squeezing her nape. It’s as much of a warning as you’ve seen, though it’s quiet and Kari looks sheepish, not afraid, “Kate challenged him.”

“A challenge?” you frown, “such as?”

“A fight to the death.”

“Oh,” your lips close, and thin, and your eyebrows fly up. “I didn’t realize… I mean, violence is…”

They don’t do you the courtesy of filling in for you, so you go silent and the air settles.

Johnny picks you up later, when you’ve helped Kari with a big portion of her weaving. You love the threads, the dyeing process. It’s meditative.

“Good ?” Johnny nudges your side, slipping a hand to just above your waist, fingers tickling the side of your breast.

“Yes,” and it’s honest.

He walks you home, hand in hand, and cannot stop talking about Simon's return.

“Ah’ve never been without him this long,” he rambles over the fire, stirring a potato soup, “think yer gonnae be witness to something dirty. Sorry, lamb.”

Only he’s grinning, and he’s not sorry, and you can see the front of his pants begin to tent.

Johnny later offers you that very same sin, tilting his hips towards you and swinging his cock obscenely, cheekily. You do not take him up on it despite the smolder that begins between your legs – you simply turn, and try to sleep through the sounds of his self-abuse.

Simon returns without much fanfare, slipping into the house with a seemingly practiced silence. He moves like a ghost.

Johnny doesn't wake yet, sleeping like an affectionate log behind you.

His gaze meets yours, as impassive as always, framed in a halo of white winter light. He looks handsome this way, though it also has the effect of making his scars look deeper – crevasses on his face for shadows to lay in.

You watch as he strips his winter garments, slipping then beside you, evening out the weight on the bed.

“How did it go?” you whisper. If he's surprised that you spoke he doesn't show it, staring up at the ceiling, muscles decompressing. Sighing like a big dog.

In lieu of speaking, he lifts something into your focus. Oh, it's a tooth, sharp and white. A predator's tooth.

“The rest tomorrow,” he says quietly.

You can tell he's tired. His face looks weary. How far do they travel for these hunts? You assume quite far, as it’s enough to tire even a seasoned warrior.

So, rather than speaking, asking him from which creature he took this tooth, you tentatively reach your hand up to press your fingers against his thick scars.

Simon freezes, as do you. Then, as he relaxes, you trace the grooves on his face with your fingers tightly. Very lightly.

A delicate moment is born then. Johnny's deep, sleepy breathing behind you, Simon's acquiescence – it's a tranquil thing. As thin as lace, as sweet as a crisp apple.

After some time, when you've traced his face twice over and his eyes are half-lidded, you speak softly.

“Why me?”

“You're beautiful,” he says simply, sighing again, “we wanted to.”

It becomes harder, again, to hold the belief of them as devils. That they smelled the sin on you and picked you that way.

“Don't you think it's cruel?”

“No,” finally, he turns to you.

“It was,” you assert recklessly. Fear twists in your gut, poisonous.

“You were scared.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still scared?”

“I feel like you can see right through me. That scares me.”

“Not at first.”

“Then when?”

His hand finds the dip of your waist. Squeezes.

“On the boat, when you pushed up against me like a wet kitten. Even scared, you needed it.”

“You were cruel to me then, too.”

“I’m a cruel man.”

There's a stray thought that wiggles to life in the back of your head that suggests sympathy for him despite his statement. That you can begin seeing the path of his life and understand how he came to be.

You think of punishment again; about parents and children, husband's and wives, about Simon and his father. That wasn't punishment, if you're understanding it the way Kari implied.

A memory strikes you, unbidden and unwelcome. 

Salt blows in the air,  metallic and thick in your nose. Not sea salt, not the wind you love so much, but from blood spraying. 

The man brought his son to the convent, citing his bad behaviour as ungodly. Sister Margret was pleading with him, hands clasped in desperate prayer and voice high, reedy, as she begged him to just stop hitting him – please, just stop hitting him!

The boy cowered. Not a child, but a boy nonetheless. Young enough to make an impression, round-cheeked, on the cusp of manhood. Stained with blood.

He lifted the rope, again and again and again, even as Margret leapt for his arm and tried to stop him, pulling, shouting.

You were stock still, frozen, not even a tremble in your body. Your eyes had widened when he first struck the boy and you’d been stuck since.

Simon takes your hand, peels it away from your dress, pulling you bodily towards him and out of the memory.

With your cheek pressed close to his bare shoulder, you murmur, “did you take me to hurt me?”

“No,” he says, sounding for once like he isn’t hiding anything.

“Did you hit me to really hurt me?”

“No,” he repeats, then, “I hit you because you needed it, because you liked it.”

“I’ve seen…” you don’t continue.

“I know.”

“We’ve both been hurt,” your voice is a whisper.

“Mm,” Simon confirms.

You think of the boy. Of his father. Of his terrified, deer-like eyes, blood splattered on his back and on the ground and soaked into the rope – about how four townsmen had to pull his father away for fear of killing the boy.

How you felt when you hit yourself, when the abbess hit you, how different they were to when Simon took his palm to your ass.

Shame. That had been in the boy's eyes that day. He had hid his face in his arms, cowering not only from fear but from being seen.

You’d felt that same shame each time you’d been punished, intensifying, twisting together until you’d learned to turn the same pain inwards.

 “Are you afraid of being seen?” you murmur to Simon.

“No.”

You don’t have to say the silent part; that you’re the afraid one. That Simon correctly interpreting your need for a different kind of control, one that let you lose yourself, felt like you’d been flayed for all to see.

Simon moves his hand lower, cupping the soft curve of your behind, staring at you, testing the waters. You know that if you said no, he might anyways, but you stay quiet as his fingers lift the hem of your dress.

The fabric slides over your skin, a whisper in the air, tickling you. He rubs his rough, hairy knuckles against your thigh close to where it meets your leg.

He pauses there, breathing slowly, before he slides a finger up your slit and through the thatch of hair above it.

“If I made a request,” you murmured, “would you grant it?”

“Make it, and I’ll tell you.”

He slips a finger to rub your hole, just outside, teasing, while his thumb finds your clit.

“I don’t want you to take me until we’re man and wife… men and wife.”

Simon hums, rubs gently, makes your hips undulate.

“Do you think you’re in a place to be making requests like that, love?”

“I haven’t asked for anything else.”

He raises a brow, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle when you’re wet enough.

“Haven’t you?”

Your breathing deepens, hands coming down to hold his thick wrist, pulling almost subconsciously. Even now, you can’t totally let go, leaning away from him and the pleasure.

But he understands, leaning over you, using his other hand to pin you to the mattress by your throat. It’s not the nicest hold, but the burning of your lungs heightens the pulsing in your cunt.

“Think you just made a few requests right now,” he grunts, using your leg to rub his hard, clothed cock.

There’s a stirring beside you. Johnny groans as he wakes up, then laughs sleepily.

“Ah woke up just in time,” his voice is rough with sleep.

Simon hums, mmm, in that deep rumble of his. He slips another finger inside you, crooking them, making you gasp raggedly. Your hands still clutch his wrist, weaker now, but it’s half resistance half comfort.

“Mm, good girl,” Johnny murmurs. He curls into your side, cock growing against your hip, wrapping a leg around you while his hand climbs beneath your pulled up dress and palms your tit.

God, you could die just like this: fighting for breath, touched all over, held down and made free. The hate you had for them feels irrelevant, the fear, the brutal way in which they stole you.

You can’t even think about if Simon will disregard your request – your last frontier against them, the treasure between your legs for a husband only.

Simon’s knuckle deep in it, but still, you can’t let go of that final tether. Not yet, not without any other internal pillars to hold you up.

Everything else has been wiped away. Drawings in the sand on a beach swept by foamy white waves.

Johnny leans in and bites your shoulder, gnawing, hips moving against you. You can’t arch like you want to, but you try.

Wet, sinful sounds grow as you gush around Simon’s fingers, as they use you to get off.

When you peak, white spots dance in your vision, mouth open in a silent scream choked away by Simon's heavy palm.

It’s like flying.

In the afternoon, when you’ve all slept, Simon leaves to speak with John and you prepare lunch with Johnny.

More fish, more potatoes. It’s growing on you.

When Simon returns, he has in his arms a rolled up fur. Though unprocessed and still wet underneath, it’s beautiful, pale, spotted.

He takes a heavy seat in front of you, laying the skin over his knees, taking your hand in his and bringing it to the fur.

Soft. Dense. Your fingers move through the pelt.

“For you,” Simon says.

You look up at him, heart dancing.

His gifts. The apple, the orgasms, this– you don’t know what to make of it. Yes, it’s a kindness, but he’s a cruel man. He’d said so himself, and you’d felt the brunt of it.

Leaning into that cruelty has given you a strange power, a strange solidity. You’d so begun to familiarize yourself with his harshness that you’d forgotten this complexity.

You pinch the fur, feeling it between your fingers, breathing slowly. Your neck ached, but it wasn’t a bad ache; it felt like a phantom hand.

“For me?”

Johnny slides three bowls on the table, grinning.

“Yer first wedding gift,” he says jovially.

 “Oh, I see,” you murmur, but it isn’t a disappointed oh.

Simon leaves later again, full of soup, to process the rest of the hunt’s boon with John. He takes the pelt with him, a snowcat pelt you’ve learned.

Yet, he’d returned with not much more than scratches on him from travel. Tired, yes, but a few hours of sleep and splattering his spend on your belly had fixed that earlier.

You’d bathed, since, though the feeling was hard to shake.

Johnny putters about again, returning to his carving of the little mini you. A peek into the past, one you no longer embodied.

“Can I see when you’re done?” you ask, slipping your favourite wool dress on. The red, well worn one. Soft, comforting. 

“Course,” he mumbles, concentrating. Then, his head shoots up.

“Ye want one o’ Simon ‘n’ I, lamb? Carry us around?” Only it sounds like aroond.

You nod, walking on socked feet to where he’s carving.

“Yes.”

[sulkysnape]

A Lesson in Legilimency

NSFW WARNING: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT THIS ONE SHOT CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT.

WORD COUNT: 3.5K

AUTHORS NOTE: This is like my first actual one shot in like a year... maybe two?? LMAO. So here is some pure smut i've been working on for the last week to make up for lost time. WHOOP

The art of Legilimency had always been seen as a weapon in Severus’s eyes. He had trained himself countlessly for years to master the precise skills to infiltrate a person’s mind and even manipulate it. It had been a tool of necessity, a means of survival… never something thrilling. 

Severus had never once dared to use Legilimency on his wife. There were times when he felt like she was hiding certain aspects of her past or not always saying what she truly meant, but he would never infiltrate her mind. After a year into their marriage however, she had let him see different memories from her life that she believed would bring them closer. He appreciated the gesture and enjoyed every moment that he could relive with her, and his wife seemed to enjoy that next level of closeness. 

As their marriage went on, life became busier and responsibility became a priority. Between Severus’s doubled work from both Albus and Voldemort, and his wife’s large presence in The Order, the couple’s quiet moments of intimacy grew less and less. This lack of intimacy caused frustration between Severus and his wife over time. Severus had never been the sort of man who craved intimacy. He spent most of his life in solitude and even after his marriage, intimacy was not something that he longed for. But he also was not immune to the weight of the distance. He could tell that his wife also missed their moments alone together. The two would often exchange soft glances towards each other whenever they could and his wife would always make sure to brush her hands against his own when they passed each other in the corridors. Their evenings were their only moments alone, however their exhausting days often superseded the need for intimacy.  

After a long day of teaching in the castle and then immediately heading to Grimmauld Place for a meeting, Severus was practically bursting with the need to just be with his wife. There was still so much to say during this meeting, yet the only thing he could focus on was his wife sitting across from him at the table. Arthur Weasley’s voice bounced around the table as Severus’s eyes locked onto his wife. He watched as she intently listened to whatever Arthur was rambling on about. Severus could see it in his wife’s demeanor; the way her shoulders tensed slightly as she ran her fingertips across the rim of her goblet. She was just as frustrated as he was. She shifted in her seat slightly, finally glancing his way. Severus curled his fingers underneath the table as he made eye contact with his wife; a multitude of thoughts flashed through his mind. He thought about the risks, the possibility of reading the situation wrong. But as she looked at him, he was already acting before he could consider any other consequences. 

By this point in Severus’s life, using Legilimency was like tying his shoes. With an effortless flicker of intent, Severus reached out towards his wife. His wife didn’t flinch. She blinked, slow and measured as she moved her fingers slowly around the rim of her cup. Severus kept his eyes locked onto his wife as he tried his best to pretend that he was paying attention to the meeting. He focused his thoughts as he flashed a memory from months before through her mind. The hotness of their breaths, his firm hands holding her straddled hips roughly against his lap, the soft mutters. Flashes of moments flooded her mind, completely unfiltered and raw. Across the table, she stiffened as her grip on her goblet tightened. Severus watched as her eyes glanced towards him quickly while raising her brows slightly. Severus kept a straight face as he held his gaze on his wife as she rolled her shoulders back. 

He continued to keep his thoughts to himself for the rest of the meeting, occasionally glancing over towards her to slightly raise a brow or give a subtle smirk. When they returned back to their private chambers that night, she wasted no time. The door had barely closed when she turned to face him with a slight grin on her face. He barely had time to register anything as his back hit the closed door behind him. 

“Legilimency during an Order meeting?” She spoke softly as her hands gripped the sides of his cloak, “And here I thought my husband was a man of discipline.”

Severus chuckled softly as he looked down at his wife. 

“You seemed…disinterested. I simply provided you with something more…engaging to focus on, my love” 

His wife groaned slightly as she leaned forward to peck his lips. Each kiss continued to grow more and more heated as they made their way through the livingroom and down the hall. Severus kept his hand on the small of his wife’s back as he led her down the hall and towards their shared bedroom. They moved forward through the bedroom, losing any resemblance of restraint. He slowly lowered his wife down onto the bed so that she was now laying on her back. Severus stood still for a moment as he looked down at his wife. This was the first time they have been able to have any form of intimacy in quite some time now, so Severus wanted to savor the moment. She looked up at him as she fidgeted with her fingers, her chest rising up and down. Severus stood at the edge of their bed as he moved his hands to slowly and deliberately unbutton each button on his cloak, keeping his eyes on his wife the entire time. He smirked softly as he watched his wife let out a slight huff of impatience. He moved his hands down to begin unbuttoning the last half of his cloak as he pushed into his wife’s mind with ease once more. In an instant, his mind was flooded with his wife’s echoing voice pleading with need. His lip twitched slightly as he slipped his cloak down to the floor before moving forward to lean over his wife. He dipped his head down slightly as he whispered into her ear with a breathy voice. 

“You should be more careful about the thoughts you allow into your mind, darling.” 

The shiver underneath his body was the only response he needed. He dipped his head down once more to gently kiss her earlobe and then down to her neck, feeling her body arch underneath him. Severus exhaled slowly as he continued to leave gentle trails of kisses down her neck, allowing himself the rare indulgence of just feeling. He moved his mouth to the edge of her jaw as he worked his way towards her mouth. As their lips connected once more, Severus’s hands instinctively moved to each of his wife’s wrists, pinning them gently above her head. His wife groaned into the kiss as she moved her head forward to deepen the embrace. Not letting go of her wrists, Severus smiled into her mouth as her gasp interrupted their kiss. He slowly lifted his head back to gaze down at his wife as he watched her eyes widen. She could feel the heat between her legs instantly as his fingers brushed underneath the hem of her skirt. He watched her brows furrow as she tried to make sense of the situation. He still held her wrists above her head. He hadn’t moved. 

Severus watched her twitch underneath his body as he kept the intent locked in his mind. Another phantom caress moved below her hips as it pressed warmly against the cloth of her panties. He knew that the pressure was working, even if he was not touching her himself. The temptation to smirk was overwhelming as Severus cocked his head, looking down at his wife. 

“Is something wrong?” He spoke simply. 

“You know what you’re doing” she replied almost in an instant. 

The corners of Severus’s mouth turned up slightly. 

“Do I?” 

He pressed further, keeping the pressure firm between her legs as he began to work another force of pressure underneath her sweater. Severus dipped his head back down, planting soft, wet kisses against her neck as his wife began to feel a swirling sensation against both buds of her nipples. The soft groan releasing from her mouth was all the satisfaction that Severus needed as he continued to please his wife. His lips proceeded to trail down as he listened to his wife’s moans of pleasure. Glancing up slightly, he watched his wife's eyes squeezed shut, arching her back while twitching ever so slightly. Keeping the pressure swirling between her legs and under his sweater, Severus relaxed his mind even more as he planted one more kiss against her neck before pulling away without her noticing. Her breath continued to hitch as her head tipped further to the side to allow him more access that he was no longer taking. Her fingers twitched in place, still laying on the pillows above her head. 

He stood at the edge of the bed now, just watching. She moaned softly, as if she could still feel his breath against her skin. He watched her hips rise and fall as she squirmed against the pressure that was between her legs. The moment felt like it lasted forever as Severus just stood and admired his wife, engulfed in pleasure. He stepped forward quietly as he moved his hand out to gently touch her leg. 

“Such a pretty reaction to something that isn’t even there.” 

He watched her eyes flutter gently for a moment before quickly settling her gaze on him standing at the edge of the bed. Furrowing her brows, she opened her mouth slightly to speak, but the pressure between her legs quickly put a stop to that. Severus stepped forward slowly as he placed his hand down on the hem of her skirt. 

“Do I even have to touch you?” He spoke once more, continuing with his confidence. 

“Severus,” she gasped slightly, “Please.” 

He moved his hands once more to gently pull the edges of her skirt below her hips and down to the floor. He leaned forward, gently placing a kiss on top of her panties. She shuttered under his kiss, arching her back again while moving her legs further apart. He placed a second kiss before gently resting the pad of his thumb over the cloth that covered her clit. Only his eyes flashed up towards her as he circled his thumb in a slow, hard movement. 

“Is this the pressure you love so dearly?” He held his gaze directly on her, “So dearly that you’d even let yourself fall apart without a single..real touch?” 

She only responded with a breathy groan as she parted her legs further for him, resulting in a soft chuckle escaping from Severus’s mouth. He dipped his head down slowly to move himself between her legs, leaving gentle kisses between her inner thighs. 

“Severus..” His wife let out another breathy moan.

“Tell me,” He spoke with his voice firmer now, “Which feels more like me?”

His fingers slowly crept over the cloth of her panties as he held them to the side with his fingertips. Making eye contact with her once more, his head lowered further as he planted a soft kiss against her folds. She shuddered beneath him as he held his lips firmly against her entrance, gently tracing soft kisses up and down her folds. A small breath of air escaped from his mouth as he pressed his face further into her slick. The tip of his nose gently pressed against her clit as he leaned his mouth forward to lick along her folds before moving to suck ever so slightly around her now swollen bud. He kept his gaze locked onto hers as continued the light attacks of suction followed by a subtle flick of his tongue. Severus couldn’t help but let out a soft groan as he continued his assault, humming against her mound while swirling his tongue in a calculated motion. He continued to massage his fingers in a circle around her clit, glancing up at her once more. 

Focusing his intent once more, he moved his mouth from her cunt to trail kisses up her stomach, pulling her sweater over her head. Even as his kisses left her swollen mound, the pressure and suction feeling continued in his wife’s mind. She gasped and arched beneath him as he met his lips with her own, pecking them once before glancing down to stare at his wife, who was now a complete mess.

“You are falling apart, my love,” He whispered seductively.

“Severus,” she managed to groan, “Please…” 

“Please what? Is that all you can say?” He responded almost instantly, “I haven’t even begun.” 

His kisses trailed from her jaw down to her chest, placing gentle kisses and nibbles all over before glancing back up at his wife. 

“You’ve missed this, haven’t you?” He spoke in a low growl before wrapping his lips around one of her hard nipples, feeling her twitch beneath him. “Your body certainly has missed this.” 

Severus moved his mouth to her other nipple, lightly circling his tongue around her sensitive bud while squeezing the other lightly with his fingertips. The pressure between her legs continued as his wife squirmed in complete pleasure. Severus could feel the blood flowing to his cock even more than it already had. He wanted to drag this out for as long as he could, but he also had his own limits. Severus moved his mouth away from her nipple before leaning back to sit up once more. He glanced down at his wife, who was still writhing in ecstasy. Moving his hands to the buttons of his trousers, he held his gaze on her while unfastening each button and pulling his trousers to the floor. His cock throbbed painfully under his now incredibly tight boxers as he moved his hand to his waistline to pull them to the floor as well. The second he pushed his boxers down, his cock sprung free. He could practically feel his heartbeat in the head of his cock as he gripped his fist around the shaft, keeping his eyes locked onto his wife on the bed. 

He leaned forward once more to hover over his wife as she arched beneath him. He felt the hot air from her gasps blow against his cheek, making his cock twitch. Dipping his head down farther, Severus leaned in to kiss his wife passionately, moving his right hand to cover her eyes as she writhed under him. He continued the kiss, using his free hand to fist his cock and position himself at her entrance. He swiped the head of his cock against her now wet folds, making it incredibly easy for him to thrust into her. Keeping his right hand over his wife’s eyes, Severus grunted softly as he thrust his hips forward, burying his cock completely into her cunt as an uncontrolled moan released from his own mouth. He held himself in place for a few moments as he tried to regain some sort of control. His eyes rolled back, engulfed in the warmth and wetness wrapped around his cock.  His wife continued to twitch and squirm beneath him, her cunt tightening around his cock with each moan. As Severus watched her, he realized she was too lost in ecstasy to realize that he was now buried deep inside of her. He promised himself that he would keep some control…that he would take his time. But he was starting to suffer now and needed his own pleasure. 

Keeping his hand firmly over her eyes, Severus pulled his hips back gently, slipping his cock out to the tip before slamming himself directly back inside of her with a grunt. His wife gasped underneath him as her walls tightened around his cock once more. 

“You poor thing,” He lowered his head to speak in a low growl, “You don’t even know what is real anymore do you?” 

He snapped his hips forward again, feeling his cock twitch inside of her. He moved his mouth against her ear, whispering in a low voice.

“Look at yourself, darling.”

He moved his hand away from her eyes, positioning himself now to hold himself up. Continuing the pressure circling around her clit that he put there with his mind, Severus thrust his hips forward for the third time, now beginning a slow pace. He held his gaze on his wife as she moaned and twisted beneath him. Her eyes fluttered open partially as she looked around, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Severus could see that the constant pressure was beginning to overstimulate her. Her cheeks were flushed and she twitched every couple of seconds. She could feel his cock pulsating inside of her with every pump as his calculated thrusts began to speed up. He bit the skin on the inside of his cheek, thrusting his hips forward with a viscous snap. Keeping his eyes on her, he focused his mind once again. 

Still keeping up with his pace, Severus began to slip through his wife’s mind once again. He grunted, continuing to pound into her while beginning to think about their night together a few months ago. The moment the thought entered his mind, he felt her walls tighten around him as her moans grew louder, but slightly strained. Severus imagined the night he pounded into her mercilessly with his hand gently wrapped around her throat. His wife knew his arms were still holding himself up, and that this was another one of his mind intrusions. She felt the slight tension around her throat, heightening everything she was feeling. 

Severus already had her in the palm of his hand, so pushing his mind into hers was incredibly simple. He made sure that the pressure around her throat was light, but just enough to keep her aware of his presence. She kept her eyes locked onto his as her cheeks turned pinker than they already were. She bit the skin on the bottom of her lip, grunting along with her husband as he slammed into her and overloaded her body and mind with stimulation and pressure. 

Severus moved his arm to rest his right hand on her lower stomach, pressing and rubbing softly while thrusting into her. He slowly lost some of his rhythm as he could feel himself nearing orgasm. Sliding his hand down a few inches, he used his thumb to rub her swollen clit in light circles. Her legs snapped around his hips as she clenched around him, throwing her head back while letting out another stifled moan. She could feel the pressure building up inside of her and Severus was close to his own release. The sounds of him plunging into her and their moans echoed through the room. His thrusts had now turned into slow, hard pumps, his body leaning forward to bring his mouth to her collarbone. He kissed along her collarbone, leaving small love-bites between each kiss, causing her to arch herself further into him. He snapped himself forward roughly, grunting in her ear with each pump. 

“Sev… I’m-” she gasped, barely getting the words out. 

“Gods… I’ve… missed… you…” He grunted with each thrust, throwing his face into her neck. 

With that, she threw her head back, her moans echoing through the bedroom. Severus worked up enough energy to lift his head, continuing his thrusts as he looked down at his wife coming undone. 

“There we are…” He hummed, “Look at me, darling.”

She struggled, but she eventually attempted to flutter her eyes open to look up at her husband moving into her. Her toes curled, feeling a tingling crawl up and down her body. As Severus thrusted in, warmth spread over her, making her twitch and spasm in pleasure. 

“G-GOD..” She moaned out, “God, I-I lo-ove you..” 

He thrust his hips forward with a few more snaps before feeling the warmth spread through his own body, his cock twitching before the rest of his body felt numb. Severus leaned forward, moving more of his weight onto his wife as a broken moan slipped from his mouth. He pushed his cock deeper into her, riding out his release with his wife clenching around him. Severus pushed his face further into her neck with his eyes rolling to the back of his head, feeling nothing but pleasure throughout his body. He tried his best to keep his mind focused, but the stimulation continued to twitch throughout him making it incredibly difficult to remain focused. With one final thrust, Severus moved from his wife’s mind, putting a stop to the pressure between her legs and around her throat. 

A soft whimper slipped from her mouth before she lifted her arms to brush Severus’s hands with her fingers, still feeling a tingling all over her body. She moved her fingers through his tangled hair while they each came down from their climaxes. Severus kept his face tucked in his wife’s neck, keeping his cock deep inside of her. The two laid in that position for quite some time in total silence. Eventually, Severus lifted his head to look down at his flushed wife. 

“Never again,” He spoke in a soft voice before leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her cheek, “Never this long apart again.”