#and i'm itching to write something short and sweet

[amethyst-noir]

Choices taken from this post.

[imaginedisish]

The Promise (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Short and sweet...or rather...incredibly spicy. Here's the *Logan catches you...touching yourself* fic. Couldn't think of a song until the end of writing this one. Went with "The Promise" by When in Rome. Also, if I'm messing up with the tag list I am so sorry. Anyway, ENJOY!

Summary: You want to relax after a long day, so you decide to let off some steam alone in your room. But, you're not as alone as you think. Logan can hear you loud and clear...and he's happy to help.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!! SMUT!!! Masturbation (f!), oral (f!receiving), fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), porn with NO PLOT, softdom!Logan, cocky!Logan, Logan is def not respecting personal space here, friends to lovers, feelings, afab!reader/fem!reader, cursing, prob some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 2,588 this is the dirtiest thing I've ever written

Finally. You’re in your room. Alone. Today had been exhausting. It was drill after drill, class after class, until your eyes stung and your muscles were beyond sore. But now, all there is to worry about is the mattress at your back and the blankets you’ve pulled up to your chin… 

…Save for that itch, that ache growing between your legs. You had been able to ignore it before, when Logan had you pinned to the wall during one of your drills in the danger room. He caged you in, arms above your head. Gotcha, princess, he whispered, and walked away. You tried to brush off the way your heart fluttered in your chest, tried to shove down the ache that was building in your belly. Logan was your friend—nothing more.

But now that you’re finally alone, it’s too much. You let your hand trail down your body, pushing past the waistband of your shorts and inside your panties. You close your eyes and think of Logan as your fingertips brush your clit. You picture him standing at the edge of your bed, climbing on top of you. 

“F-fuck,” you stutter, working your clit, drawing tight circles, imagining it’s Logan’s hand instead—exploring your folds, spreading your slick, dipping his fingers into your entrance. You whisper his name as you think of him crawling down your body and settling in between your thighs, burying his face into your cunt. 

You imagine what his tongue feels like, lapping at you, flicking your clit. “Logan,” you moan, louder this time, thinking no one can hear you. 

Logan walks down the hall. He can hear your voice, soft and small through the slight crack in your door. You must’ve forgotten to close it all the way. It almost sounds like you’re singing, and his heart squeezes in his chest at the thought.

But then he hears his name. 

“Logan.” It’s a whisper, a faint call. He thinks maybe you can hear him down the hall—that maybe you need help, maybe something’s wrong. He steps towards your room, furrowing his brows as he listens carefully, using his heightened senses. 

“Logan,” you moan again. And he hears it all this time—hears your breathy whines, your legs pushing against the mattress. And fuck, he can smell you. Wet. Aching. His cock hardens at the thought of you getting off to him, his erection straining against his jeans. He walks closer to your door, his steps tentative and quiet. 

Your door is almost closed—the latch just touching the frame. The light from your room casts a thin line across the darkened hallway. It’s warm and glowy, and Logan can feel it pulling him in—can feel it begging him to push the door open and head inside. He holds himself back, resigning himself to listening to your soft murmurs and drunken mumbles. 

But then you’re calling his name again. 

“Logan,” you whimper, your circles quickening, your walls fluttering around nothing. You imagine him fucking into you, spreading you out and stretching you open. You wish he’d come in here and touch you, take you, make you feel good. 

Logan’s cock throbs, his jeans suddenly far too tight. He can tell you’re getting closer, your breathing becoming short and frantic. He knows he shouldn’t, but he pushes the door open just a touch more. You’re in the center of the bed, eyes shut tight, head thrown back, hand underneath the blanket and stuffed inside your panties. 

“N-need you,” you stutter. You need him to really touch you—need to feel his body against yours. Need to—

You suddenly hear your door shut, and your eyes fly open. 

Logan is at the edge of your bed, his hands pressing into the mattress, white-knuckling the sheets as he looks up at you under half-lidded eyes. 

“How long were you—” “I heard everything, pretty girl,” Logan growls, his shoulders tight, his brows furrowed. He’s holding back, restraining himself. “Heard you calling my name.” “I-I…” You trail off, heat spreading across your chest. You don’t know what to say, or how to get yourself out of this. 

“You what, princess?” Logan teases, climbing onto the mattress. “You want me that bad?” He slowly pulls the covers down, revealing your bare thighs. “Want me so bad you’re thinking about me when you touch yourself? Saying my name even when I’m not around?”

He tugs the blanket down farther, your legs on full display for him. “Logan,” you choke, catching your breath. “I didn’t mean to—”

But he’s crawling up your body, grabbing your legs, and tugging you down the mattress. “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he soothes, his big hands pushing apart your legs, his palms splaying on the inside of your thighs. “I want you too.” His hands trail up to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking inside. “You want me to take care of you?”

You swallow harshly. “Y-yes,” you stammer. “Please.”

He strips your shorts and panties from your legs, casting them to the floor. “What were you thinking about when you were touching yourself, hm?” He asks, settling in between your thighs. He brings an arm up and over your hips, gluing your lower half to the mattress. 

“You,” you mumble. 

Logan cocks his head to the side and smirks. “I know that pretty girl,” he husks, his free hand sliding towards your core. “But what were you thinking about?” His thumb finally finds your clit and strokes lightly. 

“Th-that,” you moan as he draws tight circles around the bud. 

“Just this?” He asks teasingly, holding you down as you squirm involuntarily underneath him. 

“More…” You trail off, your eyes fluttering closed as Logan’s circles become faster. 

“Eyes on me, pretty girl,” Logan demands, his touch slipping away. Your eyes flutter back open, and Logan’s thumb finds your clit again. “Now tell me what you want.”

You swallow harshly, waves of pleasure rippling through your body. You need more, and you’ll take anything he’s willing to give you. “W-want your tongue,” you finally choke out. 

“Yeah?” Logan teases, bringing his face down to your heat. “This what you wanted?” He licks a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. “That feel good?” He’s lapping at you, his tongue dragging through your slit, flicking your bud and drawing tight circles. 

“Yes,” you pant, struggling to keep your eyes open. His face is buried inside your cunt, eating you out like a starved man. The sight is unseemly: his disheveled hair, the way he’s swallowing you whole. “Feels so good, Logan.”

He smirks against you. “Such a good pussy,” he mutters, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. “Tastes so fucking good.” His fingers trail up your inner thigh, climbing higher, finding your folds. 

“Please,” you beg, his gaze meeting yours. 

“Please what, princess?” He asks, looking deeply into your eyes as he sucks on your clit again, rougher this time. Your eyes flutter shut. “Thought I told you to keep those pretty eyes open,” he commands, and you listen. 

“W-want your fingers,” you moan, forcing your eyes to stay open as Logan mercilessly flicks your clit with his tongue. 

And then he’s thrusting two long fingers deep inside you. You curse under your breath as he stretches you out. “So wet,” Logan growls against your core, pulling out only to shove his fingers back in—somehow deeper this time. “So beautiful like this, always so beautiful.”

Your walls flutter around him, his words weakening your resolve. He pumps in and out of you, his fingers scissoring deep inside. He takes your clit back between his lips and sucks long and hard, his teeth grazing your bud as he latches on and lets go. It’s overwhelming—the way he fucks into you, the way he laps at you, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“Lo,” you whine, clenching down on his fingers as he sinks deeper inside you. His pumps become faster, his fingers shoving in and out again and again. 

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he soothes, the flick of his tongue goading you along. “Could smell how much you needed me from the hallway,” he says between laps. “Know you’re getting close for me, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you whimper, his words driving you closer to the edge. It’s all too much. Him, suddenly being here, with you. Devouring you. Wanting you. Needing you. Yes, that’s it. Need. His face buried between your legs; his nose pressed just above your clit. His fingers dragging along your walls. He’s consuming you. Dying to be inside you—to be as close as he can possibly get. 

“That’s it, darlin’. Let go.”

And then you’re coming undone, pleasure wracking through your body, fire lighting down your spine. Everything is dizzying and warm, white-hot heat flooding your vision, stars dancing before your eyes. 

“Fuck,” Logan grunts against you, lapping up your juices. “So fucking good. Did so good for me.” His fingers slow inside you and gently pull out, but his tongue is still working at you. He pushes through your folds, savoring the taste of you. 

“Lo,” you groan, squirming underneath him. “Need you now.” 

“You have me,” he mutters against you, the vibrations of his voice wracking your already overstimulated clit. 

“But…” you trail off, the tension building back up between your legs. “N-need you. Please.” 

He licks one more long stripe through your folds and looks up at you. “Say it,” he demands, your release glistening on his chin. “Tell me exactly what you need.” He climbs up your body. “Go on,” he teases, hiking your shirt up your stomach, pushing it over your tits. He smirks when he sees that you have no bra on—your breasts bare before him. His hands trail up to your chest, massaging gently, pinching your nipples. 

You curse under your breath, instinctually spreading your legs. “Need you to fuck me,” you whisper, and Logan grins. 

His touch disappears from your body, his hands finding the hem of his beater as he sits back on his knees. He tugs his shirt up and over his head, throwing it to the floor. He’s perfect, his muscles flexing and contracting as he moves. “Need my cock, pretty girl?” He chides, working at his belt next, tossing it to the side. 

“Yes,” you pant, watching as he undoes his button and his zipper, yanking his jeans and boxers down his legs. His erection springs free, and he’s so much bigger than you had anticipated. You bite your lips nervously at the sight. 

Logan lowers himself down over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand comes down to stroke your hip comfortingly. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart,” Logan soothes, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand leaves your hip and wraps around the base of his cock, guiding himself to your entrance. 

You shiver as his tip slides through your folds. He’s so close, his breath fanning across your face. He teases your slit, spreading your slick, nudging against your clit, and slides back down to your entrance.

 His lips finally find yours, swallowing your moans as he shoves himself deep inside you, down to the hilt with one thrust. “Fuck,” he grunts, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. “Tight little pussy.” He slides out and plunges back in, drawing circles around your bud. “So fucking warm, so perfect,” he whispers against your lips, pressing another kiss as he sets his pace. 

He starts out slow, his hips rhythmically rocking against yours. He’s filling you up, splitting you open with every pump. You curse under your breath as his cock drags along your walls. “Feels so good, Lo,” you moan. 

His thumb strokes your clit as he fucks into you, faster now. He’s hitting that sweet spot deep inside with every thrust. “Is this what you were thinking about when you were getting yourself off, pretty girl?” Logan grunts, slamming into you. “Thinking about me fucking you just like this?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your muscles contracting around him. “Always thinking about you.”

Logan smiles against your lips, his eyes dark with lust as he pumps in and out. “Bet you wanted me to hear you,” he huffs, his thumb pressing harder against your clit, his circles becoming rapid and frantic. “Bet you left that door open on purpose.”

You whine a yes as he pounds into you, his lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, biting your pulse point and kissing away the sting his teeth leave behind. You can feel yourself getting closer, already fucked out beyond all thought. All you can think about is Logan and the way he’s stuffing himself inside you, pushing deeper and deeper. 

“Needed you too, beautiful,” Logan whispers at the shell of your ear, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing against the walls of your room. “Needed you this whole time.” 

You wrap your legs around his waist, giving him more leverage to sink deeper inside you. Your arms find purchase around his back, your nails digging into his bare skin. Logan pinches your clit roughly in between his tight, rapid circles, and you moan his name.

“I know, darlin’,” he soothes, his hips bucking, his cock twitching inside you. “Can feel you squeezing me, know you’re already close.”

“Just feels so good,” you moan as he drills into you relentlessly. “Don’t want you to stop.” 

Logan chuckles darkly, flicking your clit. “Don’t think I can, pretty girl.” He twitches inside you again, and you know he’s close too. He throbs against your walls, pulling out and thrusting all the way back in. 

“Such a good fucking girl,” he praises. He’s still stretching you out with every pump, splitting you open. “Wanna feel you come on my cock, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?” 

“Y-yes,” you stutter, your walls fluttering around him. You can feel yourself slipping, letting go as he slams into you. 

“That’s it, I’ve got you,” he coos, circling your clit. “Come on my cock, just like that.”

Logan thrusts into you again, bottoming out, and the tension snaps. Everything is bliss and searing pleasure. Hazy and blurred. It’s all too much, your eyes welling up as your orgasm rips through you. You blink back your tears. Logan kisses your forehead, his pace faltering as you come undone around him. 

“Wanted you this whole time,” he groans, his hips stuttering. “So fucking beautiful,” he husks. “So perfect.” You pull him closer as he comes inside you, filling you up and painting your walls. Logan moans your name, looking deep into your eyes as he finishes. 

His hips stall inside you, his thumb stroking your clit gently, riding out your orgasms, letting you down easy from your high. 

He notices the single tear sliding down your cheek and brings his hand up from your clit to wipe it away. “You okay?” He asks, concern painted across his face. He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, his arm wrapping around your back to pull you into his chest.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering closed. “M’perfect,” you mumble, burying your face into the center of Logan’s chest. He rolls you onto your side, tugging you closer, his cock still half-hard inside you. “Can you stay with me?” You ask, your voice small and quiet, nervous that he might say no. 

“Not going anywhere, pretty girl,” Logan reassures, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I promise.” 

tags: @thatonegirlwiththebeanie367 @xlocalxpunkx @cervvsq @white-wolf-buckaroo @just-a-nightdreamer @wildfloweroutlaw @starfleetteddybear @prettyseaveins @silversprings-mp3 @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @wittyjasontodd @ilysmdovie12 @theasiaabattoir @movhoney @fanfic-writing-barbie @manipulatour @pedrohoe04 @derbygracie @honeyfewr @cosmiccandydreamer

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.  

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.  

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.” 

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.  

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.  

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.  

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”   

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?” 

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”  

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.” 

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter.  “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.” 

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.   

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.” 

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours. 

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.  

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.  

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.  

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.  

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.” 

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.  

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”  

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

[frantic-fiction]

Hi!! I love your astarion stories so much, you are such a talented writer!

I have a bit of a weird request for an 18+.

I've heard theories that if a vampire like astarion drinks enough human blood that there's a slight chance he's able to get someone pregnant 👀 ...

I'm wondering if you could do a smut like something along the lines of astarion having a huge breeding kink, so he and Tav are experimenting with him drinking maybe more than he should of her but it's worth it if they have a chance at having a kid or something? Basically just asking for a smut about astarion having a breeding kink🥺

thank you so much for all you do!! Once again like I said you are so talented, and if you do decide to do something with this I'd love to be in the tag list.

Okay first off, this comment is everything thank you. You are just too nice I can't 🥰....and well I had so much fun writing this so I hope you like it lovely!

I Want 18+

Warnings: SMUT MDNI, Breeding kink, fingering, dry humping, slight daddy kink if you squint, Astarion being lovesick, slight dom/sub maybe? idk

Word Count: 2.5k of pure filth

Mastarlist

It started with a chapter in an obnoxiously repetitive book about vampires and their spawns. You had gifted it to him with a poorly concealed giggle on your lips. 

Most of the content was either incorrect or exaggerated, and Astarion couldn't help but chuckle at the foolishness of it all. He was ready to throw the damned thing into the fireplace when his eye drifted over a passage.

Dhampirs: Creatures born from the union of a human and a vampire. The conception is incredibly rare, but the likelihood increases if the vampire indulges in a significant amount of the human's blood prior to sex. 

Now, it can't seem to leave Astarion's mind. The idea of you being pregnant, being able to watch your stomach swell with his child, witnessing your breast grow and your hips fill out. How sensitive would you get as your pregnancy progresses? Would you crave him more than you do now? These thoughts alone have him throbbing in his trousers.

However, what sealed Astarion's fate was seeing you with Gale's newborn baby girl. The way love filled your heart the moment your eyes landed on that little girl sleeping soundly in the wizard's arms. How delicate you cradle the young one's head as soon as she's in your grasp, softly cooing down at the little bundle, stroking the smooth pink skin of her cheek. 

And when you turned to him with that sweet smile that never fails to make Astarion weak in the knees, asking if he wishes to hold baby Dekarios. How could he say no? 

Astarion never cared for fatherhood, but the moment that baby girl was in his arms, opening her eyes with that dopey, toothless smile, he was done for. And when she grabbed his pointer finger with her tiny hand, gripping it lightly with all her strength. Astarion knew he wouldn't stop trying until you were carrying his child.

* 

You were finishing up the dishes, hips swaying to a tune only you could hear. The summer heat had you in shorts that fell just below the swell of your rear and a sheer top that revealed your lack of a bra. It's been a week since the visit to the Dekarios, and Astarion can no longer hold back the desires that burn deep in his body. 

Astarion approaches silently, a predator stalking his prey. You rub your nose on your shoulder, trying to scratch an itch while your hands are covered in suds, groaning in annoyance when that fails to help. 

Gods, you're adorable. 

You're so carefree and relaxed, looking so soft, warm, and delicate. All open to his wandering hands and his greedy mouth. Astarion can already feel himself stiffen just from the knowledge of what he has in store for you.

A startled scream leaves your lips as Astarion's cold arms snake around your waist and pulls you against his hard chest. It does make him feel bad for a moment, but the delicate sigh that follows as he kisses up your jaw is enough to make up for it. 

"Hello, my love." Astarion hums against your skin. His nimble fingers trail over your stomach, teasing the valley of your breast, taking careful movements to ghost his thumb over your sensitive nipple. A gasp leaves your sinful mouth, and you arch your back.

"H-hey," you breathe, and when Astarion grinds his tented pants against your backsides, you let out the most delicious whimper. "What are you up to, Star?" 

His only response is a breathy laugh as he turns you around and pulls you into a kiss. Signing into his mouth, you hook your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. It's messy, with soapy hands and mingling tongues, but it leaves you breathless. Astarion teases your bottom lip with his teeth before pulling away to bite your jaw playfully, relishing the surprised yelp you give him. 

Astarion quickly lifts you onto the countertop, where he can nestle between your plush thighs. Your wandering hands move up to tangle into his curls and give a tug. Astarion obliges your silent request and resumes the kiss, licking deeply into your mouth. He's lost in the subtle floral scent of your shampoo and the taste of your lips.

You pull him away with your chest, heaving in deep pants. "Astarion, what are you--" He smirks when you trail off into a breathy moan as his teeth nibble at your ear.

"Darling, do you remember that book you gifted me?" Astarion's hands trail down your side, and you part your legs more for his reaching fingers.

"Y-yes, the one you scoffed at and threw in the corner?" Still having the sense of mind to tease him, he chuckles when your quip spills into a moan when the pad of his thumb presses against your covered clit. 

Astarion is pleased with the dampening fabric of your shorts. Your responsiveness never ceases to leave him aching with need. He begins to move his finger lightly back and forth against the fabric. It's not enough to give you what you want, but it has you whining for more.

"Well, I must admit the poor excuse for educational text did have some interesting information." Astarion moves his thumb a bit rougher against your clit.

"What -fuck- what interesting information are we talking about?" 

Astarion doesn't respond immediately, slipping his hand under the band of your shorts. He swipes his deft fingers through your dripping folds and begins to tease your entrance while he continues to rub tight circles against your sensitive bud. You gasp and drop your head to his shoulder, rolling your hips into his palm. Astarion cups the back of your neck with his spare hand and tilts your head back. You meet his heated gaze with lidded eyes and mouth agape. 

"Dhampirs." Astarion purrs, plunging two of his fingers into your dripping core, curling up just enough to have you gasping his name. 

Your fingernails dig into his forearm, clinging for anything to ground you. Astarion waits for you to react, loving the way you roll your hips in time with his fingers, desperate for all that he gives you. It seems you're lost in your pleasure or not quite catching on to what he's implying because you're looking at him, clearly not following his words. 

"Half-vampires, my sweet."

You clench around his fingers, letting out a soft whimper that would have gone unheard without his heightened hearing. He smirks, picking up the pace. Astarion grabs your chin, guiding you to look at him.

"Does that excite you, darling?" 

"Gods, shit," You breathe. "Please, don't stop."

"You would look so beautiful carrying our child. Hells, imagine." 

Astarion trails his fangs over the skin of your neck, sucking on the pinprick from the previous night. His hips are now rutting against your leg and the edge of the counter, only enough to ease the ache in his groin. Astarion can feel you getting close just by the little jolts of your hips and the tight squeeze of your cunt. 

"Do you want my child, love?" Astarion hums against your skin. "Do you want me to fill you to the brim with my seed, fuck you until you're a dripping mess? Until there's a little one growing in your womb."

"Please! Fuck, I'm going t-" 

"Come for me, my sweet girl."

You cry out his name, and just as your orgasm rakes through your body, Astarion sinks his teeth into your neck and begins his feed. You're lost to the pleasure, your walls spasming around his fingers. He helps you ride out your release, never unlatching from your neck.

 Astarion takes large, greedy gulps of your blood, far more than his usual fill. The book said a significant amount of blood was needed, leaving much to be interpreted. Astarion only stopped when you nudged him on the shoulder. 

When he pulls away, you wipe the small trickle of blood that dribbles down Astarion's chin. Delicately he grabs your hand and sucks your thumb into his mouth, licking it clean.

"Astarion, let's go to our room. I think we have some things to explore," you say with a tempting smile.

Astarion is carrying you out of the kitchen and down the hall without another word, his lips locked onto yours. 

You're giggling against Astarion's mouth as he kicks the door open and tosses you carelessly on the bed. You bounce on the mattress and watch the vampire hastily tear at the buttons of his shirt. 

Tossing the fabric away, Astarion looks at you and unbuckles his trousers. The sight alone nearly has him cumming in his pants. There you are, lounging with that devious gaze, biting your lip and groping your breast like the tease you are.

"Fuck, sweetheart," Astarion breathe, practically ripping the rest of his clothes from his body. "Take your clothes off for me."

You do as you're told and quickly strip until you're bare and spread out like a feast just for him. Astarion now kneels naked at the foot of the bed and grabs your ankle, giving a gentle kiss to your calf. 

"I've thought about nothing else but getting you pregnant since I read that foolish book," Astarion says, kissing his way up your leg. "Watching your stomach grow round with our child," He kisses and licks the soft flesh of your abdomen. 

"Astarion," you sigh.

"To get the pleasure of taking care of you. Rubbing your swollen feet, and massage your aching back, even fetching every one of the disgusting cravings your pregnancy gives you."

"Says the blood drinker." You scoff, glaring down at Astarion between the valley of your breasts. 

Astarion ignores you and bites at your chest playfully. "You would make such a lovely mother, darling. Please, love, let me make you a mother." 

Astarion's words are laced with a tone of desperation. He might have been embarrassed if not for the need that consumes him: a need to see you nod at him with your beautiful smile, a need to hear you say you want this just as much as him, that you want to start a family with him, however unlikely it might be.

And then you nod your head and frantically pull him up into a kiss, and Astarion feels like he's alive once again.

"Gods, yes." You mumble, slinging your legs around him and pulling him down against your body.

Astarion licks into your mouth, kissing you like a man starved. You're just as desperate, grinding up against him, seeking friction, and letting out little whines against his mouth. Wandering hands trails down his back and between your two bodies, and Astarion lets out a pathetic moan when you grip his leaking cock, giving him a few teasing pumps. 

"You're going to be such a good daddy, Astarion." You whisper sinfully in his ears as he fucks your hand. "Going to take good care of me and our little one."

"Hells, you wicked thing." Astarion grunts. 

You run your thumb over the head, giving him a playful squeeze. Hot, open-mouth kisses are littered across his chest and up his neck until your mouth is right against his ear. Your warm breath floats over his skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Astarion love, I need you to put a baby into me." 

Astarion nods, seemingly breathless, as you line him up at your weeping cunt. He presses in, and the room fills with debauched moans. You grab his neck, slamming your mouths back together, tongues back into their messy dance. Saliva coats each other's lips, but neither can get enough. Astarion grunts deep in his chest when you scratch your nails over his scalp.

"Oh my love, I'm going to fuck you until you're leaking with my cum. Filled to the brim until you can't take anymore." Astarion grabs your legs and pulls them over his shoulders, and you cry at the change in angle. "Then tomorrow I'll do the same, and the day after. Until we know for sure our baby is growing in your womb."

"Yes, Star. Wanna baby." You slur against him, pressing warm kisses wherever your lips can touch. 

Astarion was fucking you as if this was his life goal. As if nothing else matters but the delicious feeling of his cock thrusting against your walls, pressing deep against your cervix. Seeing all of you with your cheek flushed and your chest rising and falling with rapid pants of breath, knees against your chest. Your eyes lidded, gazed over in pleasure, and your hair a mess against the white of the pillow. It was the sexiest display Astarion has ever had the pleasure to see.

"You're so beautiful. Gods, I love you." 

"Love you," You try to say but choke on a moan. Your hands wander down his back and across his chest, seeming not to know where you want to touch.

Astarion is close but determined to feel you come around him before finding his release. Thankfully, he won't need to wait long because you're on the edge. So close. He can tell just by the way your gummy walls spasm around his cock, and the way your hips are jutting up against each of his thrusts.

"I know you're close, darling. Can you come for me? I want to feel you squeeze me while I fill you."

And with those sinful words, it was almost like you were waiting for his permission because as soon as they left his mouth, you were falling over the precipice. You clench down on him, a pleasured sob breaking free of your throat. The feeling of you alone was enough to tip him over, and he quickly found his release spilling his seed deep into your abused cunt.

The room stills, the scent of sweat and sex clings to the air. Astarion lets your legs fall to the side and maneuvers both of your bodies so that he's lying on his back and you're resting on top of him, head on his chest. Astarion rubs your back and kisses your hairline as you catch your breath. You trace lines across his skin, lost in thought at what had happened.

"So should I expect a little vampling running around soon?" you ask, looking up at him.

Astarion huffs a small laugh through his nose and kisses your forehead. "Human and Vampire reproduction is unlikely but not impossible," Astarion explains without the rush of arousal clogging both of your minds. "But I think we've done many remarkable things together, wouldn't you agree, my love."

You smile brightly and kiss his chest. "Yes, we do have a knack for doing the impossible. And I'm very, very eager to keep trying." 

Taglist

@heartfully10 @ayselluna @marina-and-the-memes @anixson @canonicalchaoticneutral @toadsbitch @meulinkitten-blog @ambr4armr @lotusandcrystals @venussakura @synapticjive @skittleabyss @asterordinary @lariatbunny @whispering-depths @butchboi-chihuahua-slumlord @darkest-part-of-the-forest @queenofcarrotflowers-s @sessils @d20bunny@cherifrog@ophelia-ophelian @bgthree @darlingxdragon @mothynyx @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf @babyqnn @mmendez0124 @kokoyu-art @lilah-asteria

Want to be added to the taglist? DM me please!

[minustwofingers]

love is a laserquest p.1

masterlist

pairing: rockstar!ellie williams x reader

request: @thatgiraffefromtlou so kindly included me on a post about writing something inspired by these beautiful edits :) thank you !

summary: after a serious of unfortunate events, columbia grad y/n y/l/n finds herself using her hard-earned journalism degree interviewing vapid stars and writing articles that she's convinced are rotting her mind. ellie williams has just dropped the album of the year and it's all anyone is talking about, but all she wants is to be off the press train. a certain interview with a certain interviewer might change this.

warnings: no cws, but i will say that i don't know anything about this career path so i apologize if i'm totally butchering it!

a/n: see ? see? i promise i haven't forgotten about you guys/this blog/this request. this is admittedly a short installment, but you've all been so good about waiting and i had a little itch to write tonight. hopefully more of this will be posted soon. i hope you enjoy!

tags :) @intrnetdoll @dazedshoon @lovecaraya @pctcr @sariyaflowr @loser-keiji @prettyplant0 @666findgod @sawaagyapong @rystarkov @buzzybuzzsposts @addisonnie @galacticstxrdust @elliesbabygirl​ @pinkazelma @ariianelle @lu002 @blairfox04 @sparkleswonderland @elliesflower @muthafuckingstargirl @elliewilliamsissubermommyoml @eviestevie-14 @quicksilversg1rl @guacala @crtcrp @overtrred28

wc: 1.8k

enjoy!

“Hi. I’m Y/N.” 

You sit and extend your hand, smiling as diplomatically as you can manage to the girl sitting across from you. 

She ignores you.

“I said hi,” you repeat.

One painted eyebrow arches the slightest, but she doesn’t look your way. 

You grit your teeth. A question list that you’ve meticulously prepared is memorized and tucked away in your mind, but now you’re just furious that you spent so much time preparing for an interview with someone who wouldn’t even look you in the eye. 

While you wait for the camera crew to get ready, you sit and observe the room—movie posters behind both you and Lina, bright lights that are already making you sweat shone down from above, and a homey oak wood coffee table between you two to give the air of casualness. 

God, you hate this. All you want to do is go home. 

“Ready?” a cameraman says from the side. 

You send a game smile his way. “Ready.”

“We’re rolling.”

“Hi!” said the girl across from you, suddenly laser-focusing her attention on you with so much bubbly energy that it made you feel like you’d gotten whiplash. “It’s so good to meet you. I’m so glad that we were able to do this.”

“Me too,” you respond, saccharine sweet. “You have no idea how excited we are to have you, Lina! It seems like all anyone wants to talk about nowadays is your role in Ontario.”

The interview’s length is oppressive and mind-numbing. By the time you ask your last question and Lina sends you her last dazzling smile, you’re already on the brink of offing yourself on the camera for all to see.

“And cut,” said someone over your shoulder.

You relax, letting out a long breath. That was the last one for the day. You got to go home now.

But since you were a normal human being, you give Lina one last try to redeem herself.

“It was great having you,” you say in a way that you hope reads as genuine. “Thank you for coming in.” 

Lina doesn’t respond—she’s already back on her phone, intent on ignoring you. 

The drive home is awful and long and full of LA traffic. It was something you’d never quite forgive your younger self for—not advocating for yourself sooner. If you had, maybe you would’ve already been taking the subway alongside all the other New Yorkers, surrounded by serious people wearing serious clothes and carrying serious things around in their briefcase.

Instead you got the quirkiness of Southern California, all arid air full of cigarette smoke and lost aspirations. When you first came to LA, naive and blithely optimistic about your prospects as a journalist, you thought that living near Hollywood would be exciting, all the energy and dreams like firecrackers to the social scene. 

Then you got off the plane and realized it’d all been a lie. There’s no hope in a place like Hollywood. It’s the most hopeless place in the world, knowing that all your servers and Uber drivers and retail employees are all working 3 other jobs to make up their rent as they chase a dream that will never happen. 

Because no one ever makes it big. Well—no one really. One year into your life at PopNow! has made you interact with more people who have, you suppose, “made it big”, and each interaction is dependably more absurd than the last. Like Lina. God, you hate Lina. 

You reach your apartment right when the sun is kissing the horizon, the royal purple of the night descending upon the sky. That was another thing you missed—the stars. You’d missed them when you were at Columbia, but that was when you knew you went back home to the midwestern countryside. Now you’re stuck in the light-polluted hell of California, and there’s no way to know when you’re going to get out. 

You should have turned the job down, you think to yourself as you get ready for bed. The face wash you rub into your skin obediently forms into silky little bubbles. You should have just done whatever you’d had to do to stay in New York, even if it meant being unemployed and living in a broom closet with 3 other people. 

But you’re a writer. And you’re getting published, and that’s all that matters.

Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

~

The assignment is in your inbox when you wake up the next morning at a prompt 5:30am. As you go about your normal routine, you let the words in the message sink in.

Alyssa’s in the hospital. Emergency appendectomy. 

Alyssa’s the most senior writer at PopNow!, regularly netting the juiciest recorded interviews. 

…interview today that needs to be completed…

You angrily beat your legs back into scissor kicks as you run through the motions of your favorite apartment-friendly pilates routine. Today was supposed to be your day off.

…musician Ellie Williams…

…2pm…

…great opportunity…

You have no fucking clue who Ellie Williams is. She’s never been mentioned on NPR or the New York Times, the only two news sources you bother to follow, so she can’t be that relevant. Or at least not relevant enough to warrant you losing your one day off. But that’s what it’s like to be working in showbiz. Your days don’t belong to you anymore. 

By the time that you’re in the studio, hands folded and question list memorized, you feel like you know all you need to know about Ellie. 

She’s got everything you need to be a world-wide sensation. Humble, small-town beginnings? Check. Sympathetic backstory that makes even the most hardened viewer’s heart soften? Check. Conveniently conventionally attractive features, well-placed tattoos, and a certain swagger that seems so natural it has to be somehow hard-coded into her genes? Check, check, and check.

You’ve interviewed hundreds of Ellie Williams. You’re ready for this. 

Jan from production sets out glasses of water on the table in front of you, one for you and another poised in front of the empty chair.

“You ready?” she asks, not unkindly. “Don’t be nervous. I know that this might be a bigger one than you’re used to, but there’s a reason why Stephen asked you to fill in for Alyssa. You’ve got this, honey.”

“Thank you,” you say. The smile you send her back is tense, because as much as you hate to admit it, you are nervous. It’s ridiculous how something you don’t even care about for an industry you think is bullshit is capable of getting under your skin, but you’d done very few recorded interviews. When you imagined what kind of hard-hitting journalism you’d be doing back when you were at Columbia, it was nothing like this. 

You sit and wait, bouncing your leg and hoping the rest of you looks at ease. The set is as corny and soulless as always, one tall houseplant shoved half-heartedly between the two blue cushioned chairs like an afterthought. There’s a stack of magazines on the coffee table between you two, as if you’d crack open People mid-shot.

You hate your job so much. You always feel so bad thinking this way—there are people out there who would probably actually kill for the chance to be rubbing elbows with the celebrities you did on a regular basis—but whenever you start feeling too guilty, you think of how you ended up here, your dream internship getting whisked away by fucking nepo baby Becca, and then you let yourself be angry again. 

A door slams shut, and suddenly you’re all business again. 

The first thing you notice about Ellie Williams is that she’s actually very tiny, especially in comparison to the burly camera man that she squeezes by to make her way on set. She’s looking a little preppier than she does on stage, donning a pair of wide-legged black trousers, chunky black docs, and a haphazardly buttoned forest green shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough for you to see the entirety of her arm tattoo. 

“Hi.” You rise from your chair to offer a hand, feel the pressure of her fingers gently gripping yours. “I’m Y/N.”

Ellie blinks. “Uh, hi. I’m Ellie.” 

“Is everything alright?” 

“I thought Alyssa was going to be interviewing me,” says Ellie. She drops into the chair opposite of you, crossing a leg over the other thigh.

“Emergency appendectomy,” you supply.

The way Ellie reacts makes you regret this immediately. 

“Oh,” she says, cringing. “Shit—oh, can I swear in here?”

“We’re not rolling yet,” you say gently. 

“That’s, uh, really too bad,” she says. Her tattooed hand reaches up to scrub the back of her neck. “I’m so sorry.”

Now it’s your turn to blink and stare at her blankly. “Um, thanks? I don’t really know her.”

“Right, right.” Ellie lets out a long sigh that you take as an offense. The interview hasn’t even started, and the languid way she reclines back in the chair reads as already bored with you. “So, do we just go ahead and…”

“Yes,” you say, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Uh, yeah, we’re ready.”

Brilliant start.

The interview begins in earnest, and for once in your life, you’re actually rattled by this girl, by the way she tilts her head at your questions, tongue running over the flat of her front teeth. She has freckles sprinkled across her nose that didn’t show up in any of the photos you’ve seen of her on stage. The ones where she’s awash in blue light, guitar slung over her shoulder and hair sticking to her forehead. It’s disquieting, honestly, how she could just spring a surprise like that on you. 

By some miracle, you manage to get through your list of questions without forgetting anything, but sometimes you stutter on your delivery and have to fight to keep yourself from grimacing. Nothing that she tells you is ground-breaking, nothing you don’t already know. In other interviews, you’re normally able to slip into a sort of conspiratorial voice, prying out information and digging a little deeper than your interviewees intend. But with Ellie, you’re paralyzed, stuck straight to the script that had been sent over to Ellie’s publicist for approval. 

Not like you’d get away with anything when it came to Ellie, either. She has bags under her eyes that you can see concealer creasing in. It’ll wash out post-production under the bright studio lights, but up close it’s obvious that she’s not interested in entertaining any bullshit. 

When it’s over, you’re sure your face is on fire with how hot your cheeks feel. Ellie looks just as nonplussed as ever. 

“It was nice to meet you,” you squeak out. 

She takes her time answering you, busy with draining the glass of water Jan had set out in front of you both and, once it’s empty, fiddling with the buttons on her sleeves. 

“Likewise,” she says, and then before you can think to say anything else, she’s gone. 

[hmserebusadjacent]

Playing with his hair

The moment I made my post about Emmrich's hair in the new trailer, I just knew I had to write a story where Rook plays with Emmrich's hair. And here we are.

Emmrich x Trans Male Rook (Established relationship, musings on a shared life together, a self promise of a future love confession).

Word count: 1,481

AO3

It had all started with an accidental brush of Rook’s fingers. He had been innocently enough trying to even out a crease at the collar of Emmrich’s shirt when his fingers had brushed the short hairs at the back of the mage's neck.

Emmrich might have been embarrassed by the noise of delight he let out if all of his nerves weren’t tingling at once.

“Darling?”, Rook questioned, not concern in his voice but curiosity instead as he abandoned his pursuit and came to stand in front of his lover instead. Emmrich knew his smile must have looked triumphant and perhaps a little manic because Rook’s answering smile was extremely fond.

They knew each other very well at this stage, even with only knowing each other for a few months. In that time Rook had tried to get know Emmrich more than some of his colleagues had in ten plus years. It was a truly special relationship they had. With every moment, Rook proved that Emmrich’s very being, his very spirit even, had never scared him and never would.

His beauty had truly never scared the rogue, and it never would.

“I'm alright, my sweet. It's just…”

The mage paused for a moment to compose his words and Rook just waited patiently, taking hold of one of his lover’s hands as something to do more than anything else.

“You touching my hair was…electrifying. I wasn’t expecting it.”

Rook’s smile turned truly soft, and he took a step forward into Emmrich’s space.

“When was the last time someone played with your hair?”

Hmmm. The truth was, Emmrich couldn't remember the last time someone had played with his hair. Maybe his mother or his sisters had done it, but those days were long ago now.

Not being intimate with anyone before Rook hadn’t given Emmrich the opportunity to ask for or to receive such an intimate experience.

“I don't know.”

Then Emmrich decided to be brave, his own smile feeling shy as he felt his cheeks blush.

“Would you play with my hair?”

Rook’s grin was instant and delightful, making the mage feel so, so safe all over again. His lover had always been kind and gentle, and he knew he would be now too.

He adored him too much for anything else, and that was wondrous. To see Rook’s adoration always plain to see in his gaze, always present in every touch and every word.

Emmrich Volkarin had never felt more treasured in his entire life.

“Of course I can, Emmie. I always want to make you feel good.”

“You always do”, Emmrich assured, walking over to the chair that Rook motioned for him to sit in as Rook followed along behind. The very prospect of having his hair played with was now making his fingers itch to play with Rook's hair too. To sink his hands into autumn curls, to feel the way his lover's hair sprung and twined around his fingers. To release that heavenly scent of lavender and chamomile soap.

As the pair of them passed the floor length mirror that Rook seemed to be using more and more nowadays, Emmrich paused, mind swirling with an idea.

Then he grinned at Rook, holding up a hand, asking him to wait.

Shuffling a chair over took little time at all, and watching his lover's brain catch up with Emmrich's idea via his blue gaze brightening was brilliant.

“That's a nice idea”, Rook commented as Emmrich settled himself in the chair, crossing his legs at the knee.

“I always want to see you.”

Then Emmrich looked up and saw Rook in the reflection, saw himself in the reflection, and his very soul cried out with joy at how right they looked together.

Elf and human. Young and old. Grizzled but kind and optimistic and kind.

Emmrich didn't really believe in fate, but Rook made him want to believe that fate had destined to bring them together. Like the Hero of Ferelden and his former assassin. Like the Champion of Kirkwall and his beloved. Like the Inquisitor and his most treasured magister.

Would the history books talk of him and Rook with such romance, he wondered. More specifically, would Varric talk about them so romantically?

The necromancer really hoped so. More than that, he hoped they all lived to see the book published.

“Emmie? You've gone into your own mind again, haven't you?”, Rook prompted, gently squeezing his lover's shoulders and bringing Emmrich back into the present. He adored that Rook let him have those moments where he just got stuck looking at Rook himself, lost in his adoration for him.

“Sorry, I uhm…”

Being honest was always best.

Raising his hands to put them over his lover's hands, Emmrich smiled at Rook's reflection.

“I was thinking that if fate does exist, I'm glad that it brought us together. Like something out of a fairytale.”

Rook's smile properly crinkled, his eyes closing a little and revealing his laughter lines. Spirits, he was beautiful.

“The best fairytale of them all, my darling. Finding you was one of my greatest treasures of them all.”

Coming from a man who had seen so much, seen so many beautiful places but had shared his very first relationship with Emmrich, those words meant the absolute world.

“I adore you, Rook”, Emmrich whispered, turning his head to press a kiss to his lover's left hand.

“I adore you, Emmie”, Rook whispered back, leaning further round the necromancer to steal his lips for a very tender kiss. One that spoke of soft mornings, and passionate evenings. One that spoke of many years to come in their relationship and so many joys along the way.

A kiss that spoke of love too.

Emmrich would have to tell Rook that he loved him soon. There would be no hiding it soon enough.

But for now, Emmrich Volkarin was content.

Very, very content.

When the kiss ended, things could only get better from there.

Indeed, the first gentle pass of Rook's fingers through his hair, from the base of his neck to the crown of his head, was so soothing that it had Emmrich bowing his head and sighing happily.

Rook may as well have been a mage for the sheer amount of tingles he managed to produce across the necromancer's scalp. His touch was so soft, so light, brushing aside salt peppered hair easily and deftly. Emmrich tried to keep his eyes open, to keep a watchful eye on their reflections but the sensations were enough to have him slumping slightly in the chair.

“It's alright, Emmie. Just relax”, Rook encouraged, and that was all it took for the mage to close his eyes and enjoy the sensations.

Clever fingers smoothed through his hair in different directions with each swipe, making a mess of his usually neat hair but Emmrich didn't care in the slightest. He adored that Rook didn't just focus on the longer hairs near his crown, but also ran his thumbs through his sideburns and the short hairs at his nape. Feeling the pads of his fingers run round his hairline was also wonderful, Rook tracing the signs of age that he wasn't present to witness. Rook was almost tracing through time with his actions, running through events that had shaped Emmrich and how time had shaped him too.

It humbled Emmrich in the moment to think that he would be with Rook when Rook himself started to go grey. There were a few grey hairs now on his lover’s head that Emmrich thought were very distinguished looking, but the prospect of seeing Rook go fully grey was the best kind of promise. Of years to come and shared experiences, of both of them taking care of each other through thick and thin.

Emmrich Volkarin once thought he would spend the rest of his life alone. But now, knowing that he would be with Rook for a good long time to come, Emmrich couldn’t imagine ever feeling lonely again.

And that thought was what had Emmrich blearily opening his eyes and smiling dopily at his lover’s reflection, taking in all of his glory.

“If you play anymore, I fear I may actually fall asleep”, Emmrich admitted sheepishly, watching as Rook smiled and nodded, his final act being to sweep the mage’s hair back into place.

“Thank you, my sweet. You make this old man feel very treasured, safe and content.”

There was that glorious crinkly smile again, one that Emmrich hoped mirrored the love that he stored inside of him for Rook.

“I’m glad.”

For a moment Rook seemed to consider something, his gaze lingering on Emmrich’s hands. Then he was grinning, his eyes bright and shining.

“Could you play with my hair?”

As Emmrich nodded and beamed a smile at his lover, he knew that his future had never looked brighter and more full of love.

[bloodlessbelmounte]

Eternity Will Bring You Near - Chapter 3

Masterlist

Summary:

Wade understood that Logan was from a world where Alpha, Beta and Omega were everyday terms, not exclusive to red-pilled incel fuckheads who kept inventing new performative male genders. Wade would’ve been classified as a Beta. Logan, however, was an Alpha - Wade’s read enough fanfiction and yaoi manga to know what that means. Though it doesn’t explain why Logan keeps sniffing him.

Pairing: Alpha!Worst Wolverine/Deadpool Genre: A/B/O, Smut, Domestic-ish Warnings: A/B/O Dynamics, Scent kink, Praise kink, Biting, Blow Job, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Orgasm Denial, Feral-ish Logan. Let me know if there's any I missed.

Beginning Note: Sorry for the delay folks, when I started writing this chapter I got ill, then just as I recovered the school holidays ended and it was time for me to go back to work AND THEN I got a fucking migraine that lasted FOUR DAYS! I've altered Logan's dialogue so he has a more defined voice. As like last chapter, I'm sorry for any mistakes, I'll no doubt find them over the next week or so. Again I didn't want to subject my partner to my smut writing.

Cross posted to AO3

Logan sat on his bed, tossing a little spherical gadget from one hand to the other in consideration. Wade had somehow strong armed Hank into making the zone isolation device. He shuddered at the thought of what kind of blackmail the merc had on Beast. It had been finished in time for the patchwork family to move into a rather spacious four bed apartment. And it had come in handy a few times already as Wade was making full use of having privacy and an en-suite. Though despite all their… activities Wade had still been apprehensive about going all the way. Logan wasn’t surprised he was intimidated so they took things at his pace. He wished that he had all the time in the world to break Wade in, however, he could feel the restless itch under his skin.

Rut was approaching.

He had completely lost track of it. Of course, he had no suppressants to deal with it because, as he’s come to know through living with the merc, Wade’s executive dysfunction was atrocious. He had no one but himself to blame for leaving the task up to the ADHD asshole. Which left him in his current predicament – how to deal with it. He didn’t want Wade to feel obligated to help him. It wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park for the man. So what did that leave him with? Shut himself in the spare room with this device and try to wait it out with herculean restraint? Didn’t seem feasible with how Wade’s sweet scent had been a lot stronger lately, less of an undercurrent and more of the main note. It was like he was perpetually horny or something. Should Logan find a cabin in the woods somewhere so he’s away from temptation? Who knew what trouble Wade would land himself in with his absence. Either way, booking the time off work on such short notice was going to be a nightmare.

Logan stood with a growl, features set in a scowl, and placed the device back in it’s stand on top of Wade’s bedside table. It’s not on his due to the amount of desk lamps that had been victim to his nightmares (and sometimes orgasms, folks. Peanut has claws when he’s very happy too but you already knew that). There wouldn’t be a replacement for the gadget so it remained on Wade’s side. He had about three days to get this shit figured out if his usual cycle was to be accounted for. Jesus, he was going to have to discuss it with Wade, wasn’t he? He needed a smoke.

He left the bedroom and made his way to the fire escape outside the hallway window. He wasn’t allowed to smoke inside the apartment building so he had set up a little smoking area out there. Fuck walking up to the roof every time he needed a cig. Which was more frequent since Wade replaced all the alcohol in their home with Dr Pepper, a drink that seemed to be his new addiction after he cut out cocaine for “our darling daughters’ sakes”. Althea had also been cut off as collateral, the poor woman was experiencing withdrawal the likes he’d never seen before. He picked a cigar from the box which was situated on the window ledge, lit it and took a drag.

Laura was currently attending evening classes at one of the local high-schools as the girl didn’t exactly get a formal education. The older mutant had wanted to send her to Westchester as a day student but Wade adamantly disagreed. He wouldn’t open up as to why but Laura had also agreed not going was for the best. The two of them shared conversations in Spanish which frustrated Logan to no end because they knew he didn’t understand the language. Those two knew something he didn’t and the scent of unease from them whenever it was bought up really perturbed him.

Wade should be home any minute now. As improbable as it seemed to Logan, the merc could in fact hold down a nine-to-five job as much as he seemed to loathe the dealership. Speak of the devil, the jangling of keys being slid into the lock alerted Logan to his… partner’s(?) return. He could smell Wade’s sweetness over the cigar smoke despite the distance. Something had got the man going it seemed. A bloodied Wade strutted through into the apartment, his clothes all askew but a triumphant smile on his face. At least the blood didn’t smell like his. So whatever happened, Wade hadn’t been the one to get hurt. The older mutant couldn’t help the fond quirk of his lips at that realisation. When he spotted Logan out through the window, he sauntered over and ambled through. Wade took the cigar from between his lips and gave him a quick peck, taking a drag before placing it right where it belonged.

“How was your shift at the workshop?” Wade asked, leaning against the side rail.

“Still have clients confusing me with Howlett,” Logan grunted in response, “Doesn’t help that I’m still not used to being called James-”

“Or that your name badge on those cute oversized overalls of yours says Logan,” Wade interrupted with a teasing grin.

Logan rolled his eyes and waved his hand from Wade’s head downwards, “What’s with the blood?”

“Came across some fuckheads trying to kidnap some boy. No older than elementary school age I’d wager. Lucky for him, I always have Baby Knife on me. Unlucky for them though. One has his organs spilling in some alleyway now dying slowly, the others had a much quicker end.” Wade unsheathed Baby Knife from God knows where and started stabbing and slicing at thin air as he spoke. He seemed… happy. Excited even. Logan hadn’t seen so much life in Wade (outside the bedroom) since he resumed work. It looked good on him. “I think I might quit the dealership and go back to mercenary work. For the right price and only those who are deserving, of course.”

“Anything to get y’to stop wearing that God awful toupee,” Logan taunted, reaching to pluck the staples out of Wade’s scalp to remove the affront to his eyes. “How soon can y’quit?”

“It’s a hair system you insensitive cunt. Because the author is British I can get away with saying that. And its courtesy to give two weeks notice, but when have I ever cared about corporate bureaucracy bullshit. I can quit tomorrow.” Wade shrugged.

“Good… good. There’s, uh, something I need to talk to y’about-”

“If you’re breaking up with me you could have told me before I kissed you.”

“What? No. I’m not breaking up with y’moron. I’m going to be going into Rut soon. Usually lasts about a week, was thinking of shutting myself away for that time. I need y’to be on y’best behaviour.”

Wade cocked his head to the side, would-be-brows furrowed and a tinge of bitter bewilderment wafting over, “Wouldn’t… wouldn’t you want me to join you?”

Logan heaved a sigh, took his cigar in one hand and rubbed his face with the other, “Yes I would like y’to join me. But I know y’not mentally ready for what that entails and I don’t want y’to feel pressured.”

“But I’ve been getting specialist training from a Wolvie who has exceedingly talented fingers. I’m ready.” Wade waggled his brows at the older man.

“Ready for a week straight of getting y’ass railed?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. Actually do. That’ll really get me in the mood.”

“There’d be little to no breaks except for food, water and bathroom.” Logan warned.

“Honey Badger, for my mug to resemble a shaved ballsack I had to be tortured – while terminally ill – for a month straight. Got pressure washed while buck naked; used as a punching bag by a big buff bitch with super strength, electrocuted, held under some sort of oily shit repeatedly, sealed in an ice bath until my lips turned purple and the coup de gras: locked in an oxygen deprivation tank over the course of two days where I was bought to the point of suffocation again and again but never given the sweet reprieve of unconsciousness.” Wade mimed out his experiences, seemingly not noticing Logan’s very concerned look. “If that didn’t prepare me for a week of fucking a sexy Alpha, then that fight in the Odyssey certainly did.”

Wade’s ability to casually trauma dump as a joke would never cease taking Logan by surprise. Sure, he had heard some people deal with it through humour but to that extent? No that didn’t seem normal.

“It’ll be intense but Jesus fuck, I’m not going to torture y’, Wilson.”

“Oh, last name that means you’re serious. Look I was just trying to say I can take anything you give me.” Wade bought his hand up to rest on Logan’s bicep, squeezing gently to try and comfort.

Logan growled, “Are y’sure it’s what you want?”

“Yes! How many ways can I say it? The author is running out! Give Belmounte (read: Belmont) a break and just accept my company already. I’m ready to graduate to the danger cucumber.”

Logan couldn’t help but laugh at Wade’s ridiculous euphemism, slouching back against the rails and blowing smoke, “Fine, I need to get a few things sorted out first but we’ll be heading off in three days.”

“Heading off? But we have the Sound Bubble-inator.” He made a round shape with his hands.

“My instincts will be running wild. I’d rather not risk anyone getting caught in the cross fire.”

Wade’s mouth dropped into an ‘O’ as he nodded. In a rare case, the younger man opted to not continue that path of conversation. Instead he chose to prattle on about his day at work and how he was very close to convincing Peter to just give them a Honda Odyssey. They passed the cigar between them, Logan grunting every now and again at points to show he was still listening. Once the cigar was finished, the remains were stubbed out and flicked off into the trash below.

They climbed back into the apartment. Logan got started on making dinner while Wade joined Althea on the sofa who had been listening to the radio. Sure, Wade had the ability to cook, in fact he was a pretty good one but Logan’s instincts were nagging him to provide and show off desirable skills. Something that he hadn’t experienced in a while, not since… The alcohol and suppressants had done their job in numbing him and now he was sans both.

Alright alright alright, my turn! We’ve spent one-thousand-and-sixty-three words on Logan’s introspection. I’m trying not to be offended by the fact you started without me. I’ll put that down to poor decision making due to your illness. Time to give the people what they paid for in souls as well as blood and virgin sacrifices – me.

Wade, I know asking you not to be sassy is a lot for you, but please my brain is barely functioning. Let me write.

Ah, my bad. Take your time. Let those meds fuel you.

Thank you.

That evening, Wade sent Peter a text:

[Yo Sugar Bear, I’m gonna be quitting tomorrow. Think you could swing me that Honda as a leaving prezzie?]

[Going back to the suit? Always knew you would.]

Oh you should have seen the look on his manager’s face when he handed them a used napkin with ‘I QUIT’ scribbled in Neon Pink crayon with unicorns doodled around it. He had skipped out of that office as they shouted for him to come back. Peter had almost handed his notice in too but Wade had argued he needed the steady income if he was going to sustain a relationship with his wife and B-15. Yeah, a lot of people forgot Peter was married in the second Deadpool film. And that he was a bee keeper. Shame on you for forgetting. Anyway, Wade left DriveMax in a brand new second-hand Honda Odyssey that day. Just in time for Logan’s little get away he was planning.

The following days were a hectic blur of making sure everything would be okay in their absence. A large scale shop was done to make sure Laura, Blind Al and Mary Puppins would have enough food and the basics of other household necessities. Vanessa had agreed to check in on the girls in the evenings. A walking schedule was devised for Mary as well as a shit duty rota. And the packing! My God, trying to get a moment away from Logan so he could pack some secret surprises into his Hello Kitty duffle bag was an unexpected challenge.

The afternoon before Logan’s rut was predicted to start, the older man had corralled Wade out the door with a hurried farewells to the apartment’s other occupants. Apparently they would be driving through the afternoon and into the late evening to whatever location Logan had planned; who had called his boss that morning claiming a family emergency and that he would be out of town for just over a week whilst things get sorted. Small businesses like independent mechanic workshops can be hit or miss about things like sickness and emergencies, luckily for them – this one was a hit. And so into the Honda they went, with Logan driving of course, on a journey to some mysterious place where they hopefully won’t be disturbed. RIP to whatever poor soul stumbled upon them if Logan had decided on camping.

Eight hours.

Eight fucking hours of being sat in that car.

Obviously there were pit-stops to piss and eat but by Marvel Jesus, Wade could not stand long car journeys. You saw how he was in the Void. Imagine that but worse. He couldn’t keep still for the life of him. However, Logan had seemingly planned for this as he took the first traffic light as an opportunity to reach over and open the passenger glove compartment and hand Wade a Nintendo Switch. So the old dog did know about modern tech. Though arguably some might not consider the Switch to be ‘modern’ as it was now eight years old. Outdated in today’s world of extreme consumerism. Anyway, he must have stashed it in there the night before, which would explain why Wade had not been able to find it. But with it being just a Switch and not an OLED (God he hated half step releases, they reeked of money grabbing) the battery only lasted about four hours before it died. That was why he was ever so glad for smartphones and their doom scrolling time sinks.

Another hour and a half later, he was genuinely surprised when Canadian boarder patrol asked for their passports. Wade had turned to Logan in shock, jaw hanging open and eyes wide.

“Your taking us back to the motherland?” Wade squealed. Fucking squealed like a girl excited to receive flowers on prom night.

The fucker just gave him a crocked smile and handed their Canadian passports over to the officer who had been staring at the merc. Which didn’t go unnoticed by the pair.

“Do you often stare at injured veterans?” Wade reprimanded, glaring at the officer who quickly looked over their passports and handed them back.

“S-sorry, sir. W-welcome back,” the man stuttered with a salute before stepping back to let them through.

“Asshole,” Logan muttered, as he drove by. His hand reached for Wade’s thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. It remained for the rest of the journey unless Logan had to change gears.

It would be another two and a half hours until Logan pulled up in front of a lone rustic looking log cabin surrounded by golden woodland that occupied one of the shorelines of Lac Chapleau in Quebec. It was dark outside, almost pitch black. Stepping out of the car, the autumn chill greeted him as Wade stretched and joints popped in satisfying release from being cooped up for so long. Mid back stretch, he was distracted by the sheer beauty of the sky as his spine bowed backwards. How long had it been since he had last seen the stars? Had he ever even seen the glory of the Milky Way before? Like iridescent glitter and metallic purple watercolour on black card framing the full moon. Or Van Gogh’s Starry Night. This must have been what the skies looked like back then. Wade turned to look out onto the calm waters of the lake, a mirror reflecting the star-field above.

Putting those Poetry modules you did in uni to good use I see.

Well, Prose Poetry was my highest marked piece and I was the only one in my class who tackled it after the lecturer said it was hard.

Finally! Some confidence from you.

“Y’okay, Bub? You’ve been staring at the lake all quiet while I’ve unloaded the car.” Logan asked, concern lacing his voice as he place a hand on Wade’s shoulder.

“I was considering skinny dipping in it with you. But that’s too much like the lead up to Edward and Bella’s first sexy time in Breaking Dawn part one.” The merc’s nose scrunched up in distaste. No way was he ever going to replicate that dumpster fire.

Logan turned Wade to face him, scowling utterly confused, “The fuck are y’on about?”

“You know, the Twilight Saga? Team Edward vs Team Jacob? The pentalogy of sparkly vampire films? Teenage girls fantasising about Robert Pattinson and his airbrushed abs that caused him body dysmorphia?” Logan stared at him, still scowling but eyes blank. Not even a hint of recognition in those caramel pools of his. “Come on, it started off as a book series dreamt up by a sexually repressed mormon woman and was really popular in the late naughties early tens.”

“Never heard of it. If it was that popular the girls would have told me about it.” Logan deadpanned.

Oh. Yeah. He would have been at the mansion then. So if Kitty, Rogue or Jubilee didn’t watch it then-

“Holy shit! Your universe doesn’t have Twilight! Maybe that’s where your timeline started to go tits up. Either Stephanie Meyer got the dicking down of her life before she could have wet vampire dreams about Henry Cavil or she was hit by a bus.”

Logan rolled his eyes and walked past Wade towards the lake, shrugging off his leather jacket and pulling his t-shirt over his head. When he realised the younger man wasn’t following him, he glanced over his shoulder at him.

“We doing this or what, Princess?”

Wade was quick to follow suit, stripping off as he jogged after Logan, stumbling when he tried to hurriedly fling off his shoes and shuck his bottoms. Logan, on the other hand, was in no such rush by the looks of it. He took his time to remove the layers that covered his lower half to create a tantalising trail to the water’s edge, where he stood waiting for his companion in all his naked glory, haloed by moonlight. God what a sight. Wade swore he would never get used to it. Sure he had been down bad for Logan’s rippling cumgutter abs but this, with his hard angles mellowed out into soft curves – nourished and flourishing like well maintained garden – nothing could compare. These past few months had certainly been kind to the older mutant and Wade was certainly appreciating the view as his cock twitched in interest.

Wade blinked a couple times and shook his head, now was not the time to get distracted. Stupid unmedicated ADHD. Once he joined Logan, they waded (hehe) into the lake. Wade yelped at the initial caress of nippy freshwater, the brisk autumn night air doing nothing to help him acclimate and everything to send his balls rocketing upwards into himself. Logan chuckled and dragged Wade further into the water with a playful smile until they were chest deep.

Wade shuddered as his body heat was leached out, teeth chattering. “O-o-okay, thi-this wwwwasn’t my f-f-finest idea.”

Logan – that furry fuck – seemed utterly unbothered by the water’s lack of warmth. Probably a part of his mutation.

He drew Wade into him, wrapping his arms around the other’s slim waist as they faced each other, “What’s the matter Darlin’, water too cold? A little hypothermia won’t kill y’.”

Wade plastered himself to Logan, trying to absorb his warmth and eliminate any space that would prevent that, “I-it’d k-k-kill the mmmmood.”

Logan hummed in agreement which Wade felt vibrate in his chest, nuzzling a textured scarred cheek with his nose, “We can’t have that now, can we?”

Not waiting for a response, comparably fervid lips captured Wade’s frigid ones. The was no urgency behind it as Logan’s hands travelled, caressing and coaxing warmth wherever they lingered. Wade’s fingers weaved and tangled into Logan’s hair, which had also grown out a bit to create extra fluffy tufts he loved to tug. Especially in these situations. Hands on his thighs lifted him, making him squeal and wrap his legs around Logan to settle on his hips. He could feel Lil Logan already at half mast against his ass. Ever the tease, Wade ground against him. Logan growled in response and nipped at his lower lip, his hands travelled upwards to cup and squeeze Wade’s rump. Wade laved at the seam of Logan’s mouth, seeking and gaining entry with a breathy whine.

And then they were moving, the inky waters receding as Logan sauntered out from it’s depths. Wade broke away, panting for breath. His hands flew to Logan’s shoulders, nails biting into the skin there and he clung to him. Moans spilled from his lips as every stride caused his cock to rub deliciously against the other man’s stomach and Logan’s now fully hardened member to thrust into the cleft of his ass. He buried his face in Logan’s neck, mouth watering at the scent of pine trees, cigars, sandalwood and something musky that was distinctly him. Maybe it was sharing a room or just how much time Wade spent trying to be as close as possible to the older mutant but it had become unmistakable – Wade could smell him. And he liked it. It gave him the warm fuzzies. Fuck, it made him feel safe. Like Logan was home. Wade mouthed at Logan’s throat, tongue catching the sweat forming there, he felt Logan’s grip on him tighten and his pleased rumble.

The door clicked open and slammed shut behind them, wet feet padding against hardwood floors until Logan reached his destination. He sat at the foot of the bed, hands coming to rest at Wade’s hips. Wade unwrapped his legs from around the Alpha to comfortably cage him between them instead.

“Lean back for me, Princess. Let me get a good look at y’.” Logan murmured into his ear, an involuntary shiver ran down Wade’s spine.

Wade immediately braced himself on Logan’s thighs, back arching slighting to put his chest on display like he had done many times before now to the point it was almost instinctual. Heat spread up his neck and into his cheeks. Wade bit back any self depreciating comments and the need to hide himself, already knowing that doing so would have him over Logan’s lap with stinging ass cheeks and a denied release. And as much as Wade loved those moments, he did not have the patience for it at that moment.

“That’s my good boy.” Logan purred appreciatively, eyes roving over the offering before him.

Pre leaked from Wade’s tip like a broken faucet at the praise. One of Logan’s hands traced a path up from his hip to his chest to thumb over a hardened nipple. Wade jolted at the sensation because somehow Logan had actually trained his nipples into being more sensitive and he swore they had gotten a little bigger too. That fucker must’ve had some sort of healing factor override cheat code or something. Wade hadn’t realised his eyes had fallen shut until a sudden heat enveloped his other nipple and he keened at Logan’s tongue flicking over the nub. And when those fangs scraped over the delicate skin there, Wade rutted desperately against him.

“Fuck. Logan. Need you. Hurry the fuck up.” Wade moaned wantonly.

The Alpha grumbled but acquiesced to the demand with a tap to Wade’s thigh. Wade shuffled off him and watched as Logan got up and unzipped a backpack to search through it. Once he had located what he wanted – lube – he returned to the bed but settled closer to the headboard.

“C’mere, Bubba.”

Wade crawled up the bed and sat on his knees beside Logan who sat back slightly reclined, “How do you want me?”

Logan gave him a crooked grin and manhandled the slightly taller man into position over him, scarred cock level with his face, “Right here.”

Without waiting for Wade’s response, Logan lapped up the trail of precum that was still leaking from Wade’s tip.

“Oh fuck!” Wade cried out, bucking forward and grasping onto the headboard. “Give a gal some warning, Honey Badger.”

Logan chortled and continued to lave at Wade’s dick, tracing scars and veins alike as it twitched under his attentions. Logan’s tongue had a roughness to it that most people probably wouldn’t like. But Wade wasn’t most people and that wet muscle had a way of catching on places that had him gasping and whimpering like a bitch. The only warning Logan gave him before swallowing his length was a lap at his slit, then his tongue flattened and he was taking him down to the base. The wooden bed frame protested under Wade’s grip as he fought the urge to thrust into the inviting heat. Logan hummed in approval as he set to work bobbing his head and Wade cussed, moaning and shuddering, as the sensation went right through him.

A slick finger circled Wade’s rim before slowly pushing in and began thrusting. Wade stiffened, torn between trying to stay still, rutting into the heavenly wet warmth of Logan’s mouth or grinding back into the finger working him open. Make that fingers as a second one soon joined the first and started scissoring him open. This bit always stung slightly but Wade was a sucker for a bit of pain with his pleasure. As if sensing his thoughts, Logan lightly bit down on the cock in his mouth, fangs digging in and drawing droplets of blood that made Wade mewl while Logan groan beneath him. It wasn’t much longer till he was loose enough for a third finger to slip in. Wade hissed at the intrusion which melted into a moan when Logan struck his prostate with targetted precision.

“Holy shit, there! Right there!”

Logan smiled around his cock, never once missing the sensitive bundle once he had found it. And with that, Wade’s restraint crumbled, his hips rocking back onto the Alpha’s thick fingers and forwards into his throat. Logan choked around him at the unexpected motion. The sudden tightening had Wade right on the precipice of climax, heat roiling low in his stomach. Once. Twice. Thr- Wade choked back a sob as the hand on his hip swiftly gripped his cock like a vice, the heat of Logan’s mouth removed in favour of sucking marks into the diverts of his abs.

“Not yet. Y’d been doing so well. Y’ll cum on my cock like a good little Omega.” Logan growled out, voice low and rough, “I want y’to ride me while I can still be nice.”

Someone call a plumber because as if his cock couldn’t get any wetter, Wade swore to god he felt his hole become slicker around Logan’s fingers like he was an actual Omega. But that wasn’t possible so it was probably just his imagination.

“Fuck- Sure. Yeah. Get comfy then. Gonna rock your world, old man.”

Logan pulled his fingers out to swat his ass. Again, Wade clambered off him to let him reposition. When he was led down and settled, Wade grabbed the lube, squirting a liberal amount into his hand. He threw his leg over Logan and reached his lubed hand beneath him to spread it onto Logan’s neglected dick. It twitched in his grip as Logan groaned at the contact. Wade gave him a few quick pumps to watch him squirm and make sure he was all slicked up then lined him up with his hole. He knew he had it right when he felt the bulbous tip catch his rim. Slowly, Wade sunk down onto Logan’s length, breath catching in his throat at the burning stretch. No amount of fingering could ever have truly prepared him for just how thick Logan was. Beneath him, Logan had gone rigid, jaw clenched tight and white-knuckling the sheets as it was his turn to show restraint, to let Wade set the pace. His pupils were blown wide, eyes never leaving from where they were connected. Low grunts and groans escaping him with every shallow thrust Wade made to work his way down.

“Logan, please I need- please you have to-” Wade whined, desperately needing something to take the edge of.

Logan understood what Wade was trying to say. He spat into his hand and wrapped it around Wade’s cock, thumbing at the slit to spread the precum there. Wade moaned softly and Logan seemed to take that as the okay to do two things. First, to start stroking Wade’s cock in time with his rocking. Second, to bend his knees so his feet were flat on the bed so he could better angle his hips. Wade choked out a cry as Logan’s cock rubbed against his prostate.

“Jesus! H-how are you s-so good at finding the on switch?”

Logan huffed out a laugh, “When you been around for two hundred years, you learn a thing or two.”

The duel sensations were pleasurably distracting enough that Wade was able to take in more and more with each roll of his hips. And when his ass became flush with Logan’s thighs he stilled. Fuck he was so full. Taking a moment to catch his breathe and get used to the feeling of an actual dick being inside him. He could feel Logan warm and twitching. Very different from the solid, cold, unyielding silicone of a strap. Logan’s hand fell away from Wade’s cock to fist the sheets again.

“Fuck, Princess, y’re so fucking tight.” Logan grunted.

“Am I tight or is your monster cock just stretching me to capacity?” Wade giggled.

Logan’s hands flew up to Wade’s waist, gripping it tightly as he bucked up beneath him punching a breathy ah from him.

“Fuckin’ hell. Don’t- Don’t laugh when I’m in y’.”

Wade leant forwards, bracing his hands on Logan’s pecs to experimentally roll his hips again. Both men groaned at the sensation. Didn’t burn any more, just a tolerable sting. Easily ignored if Logan’s cock kept abusing his prostate like that. With that in mind, Wade began to bounce on the cock impaling him in earnest. Wanton mewls and keening whines tumbled from Wade’s lips, each cant of his hips sending ripples of bliss up his spine and into his cock that slapped against his stomach with every motion. Logan looked tortured beneath him, still trying not to move, his eyes squeezed shut and his head kicked back, exposing a rather appetising vein in his neck.

The problem of being a first time dick rider was the lack of endurance. You see, riding uses different leg muscles to ploughing, or at the very least uses them differently. Wade’s thighs were already throbbing and sore from exertion. But he couldn’t throw in the towel yet. He switched between bouncing, rolling and swivelling his hips, drawing a symphony of groans, grunts and growls from the man beneath him. Felt his nails break the skin where he clutched at him. How much longer would it take for his resolve to break?

“Not much of an hahAlpha are ya? Just laying there mhm taking what I give you,” Wade taunted, chest heaving.

Logan’s eyes snapped open, glaring at the man currently literally and metaphorically riding his dick. He snarled as he batted Wade’s arms off him, sending him tumbling into him. He hastily rolled them over, pinning Wade beneath him and hooking one of his legs over his shoulder. Thank fuck this was a Queen size bed.

“Y’asked for it y’fuckin brat,” Logan warned.

He pulled out until just the tip remained then thrust back into the hilt, Wade arched his back trying to meet him thrust for thrust. God it was so worth teasing him and he was thankful for his flexibility as it meant he could pull Logan down into a heated kiss whilst being bent in half. Each of Logan’s ruts was met with a buck from Wade, falling into a rhythm that had them panting into each others mouths. A particularly hard thrust had Wade clawing at his back, heat pooling low in his gut yet again. He tried to reach between them to jerk himself off but his hand was slapped away.

“PleasePleasePlease let me hah cum. Need to cum. Fuck!” Wade begged.

Logan smirked down at him not stopping or slowing, “What did I say?” he demanded.

“To- hng to be a good Omega and c- ah cum on your cock,” Wade responded weakly, yelping when Logan tweaked one of his nipples.

“So what are y’gonna do?”

“B-be good and ah cum on my Alpha’s-”

Logan’s eyes glazed over, nostrils flaring as he suddenly bore down on him, sinking his teeth into the meat of Wade’s neck. Wade screamed as he came, pain and pleasure dancing through his veins to creating an intoxicatingly raw delirium. Tears running unbidden as his body writhed. Logan clamped down harder, growling as he seemed to enter a frenzy, setting a brutal pace that would’ve been sure to break anyone else. Oversensitivity was fast making itself known to Wade, his hole clenching around Logan’s cock with each pass of his prostate.

“C’mon Pean-uh-t, cum inside me. Knock me up with ah whole litter of Wolvies.”

That did it. Logan stilled above him, cock buried deep and shooting into him in spurts. Every now and then Logan would go to pull out only to push back in, more warmth covering his insides. How much could he fucking cum? And Christ on a bike, this was without knotting. Eventually, Logan released him from between his jaws and let his leg slide off his shoulder. Wade idly played with his hair as he waited for the Alpha to calm down.

“So, my Honey Badger has a thing for breeding ey? I’ll keep that in mind.”

Logan heaved a sigh and finally rolled off him, “You stay here, I’m gonna grab our clothes then get something to clean you up with.”

He made his way off the bed and towards the door.

“I thought you said there’d be no breaks.”

Logan shot him a grin, “Oh we’re just getting started, Princess. The real fun begins tomorrow.”

Finally! We arrived at PoundTown via the penetration express! I’d like to thank everyone who made this possible: The virgins who were sacrificed, the souls that were sold, Satan, my mum-

And I’m feeling better. Only took me like nearly twenty days to write this between illness and being back at work T^T

There, there dear author. You’re nearly done with this chapter.

What do you mean “nearly done”? I’m done here. Nothing more to add to this one.

Oh hell no. You can’t write about Peanut being in rut and not even show us the actual rut!

Fine. You actually made a good point there. Time skip.

Day three of Logan’s rut was interesting. See Wade thought it’d be a waste to be in such a scenic location and not fuck outdoors and under the stars. There was just one problem: a Peanut in rut was a nonverbal Peanut reduced to growling, grunting and purring. Yes, purring. So he couldn’t exactly discuss the idea with the other mutant. Which left him one option. As Logan lay sated on blood and cum stained sheets, Wade grabbed his duffle bag slunk off into the bathroom. Buried near the bottom was the little surprise he put together. Lingerie he had made to resemble his suit – complete with an altered mask which had an accessible mouth hole. Even some stylish chunky heeled boots. He slid the garments on as quickly as possible, he only had a limited amount of time before Logan would try to pin him down again, which was something he was counting on. ‘Geared’ up, Wade mentally went over his plan.

This was going to be fun.

Wade crept out of the bathroom and towards one of the windows, praying to all that was holy that he would successfully get his head start. He held his breathe as he pushed up a window, willing it to remain silent. But the window was a traitorous thing, squeaking in protest as it reached the top to alert Logan’s super hearing. Logan, who was now sat up, hackles raised and on guard for a possible intruder. Seeing that it was only Wade, the somewhat feral Alpha paused, head cocking to the side as he assessed the other man and his choice of clothing. Wade shot him a playful grin and a wave before diving out the window and high tailing it into the surrounding woodland. He dodged and weaved between trees, leapt over roots, logs and shrubbery alike. He had to get as far as possible before-

A roar came from the cabin he had left behind inciting birds to take flight and any other animals in the area to flee. Was that a moose he could see galloping away? Wade’s heart pounded in his chest, he could hear the crackling of dead leaves under foot and sounds of Logan giving chase. His danger boner was raging at the thought of being hunted like prey. He could just make out an ideal clearing for what the Brits called dogging when he was tackled into a tree. There, caging him in, was a naked annoyed growly Logan with fangs bared. Fuck that’s hot. But Wade was here to get fucked, not disembowelled. To placate him, Wade tilted his head to the side exposing the length of his neck.

“Just wanted some fresh air, Wolvie. Not trying to leave. Don’t worry.”

Logan leaned in and nosed at the offered flesh, breathing in deeply before giving a low rumbling purr. His hands landed on scarred thighs, hoisting them up around his waist then travelled back up them to pull Wade’s panties to the side. Wade’s breathe hitched as Logan’s cock slid home inside him, still stretched and full of cum from their previous romp. But it seemed all was not forgiven as Logan tightly gripped his hips and with a snikt released his claws into the poor tree behind them, barely missing Wade himself. If Wade had been caged in before, now he was imprisoned with no escape.

The merc slung his arms around Logan’s neck and let his head fall back against the tree trunk. Logan fucked up into him at a dizzying pace, drawing curses and moans that were cut short as the Alpha took full advantage of the mouth hole to seal his mouth shut with his own. The bark dug into his back, pricking his skin and creating welts across its length as Logan used what little leeway he had to pull Wade down to meet his thrusts. Wade’s legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his ass to encourage him impossibly closer. Logan angled his hips in just the way Wade was quickly learning to love, the way that had him hammering his on switch till he was a drooling teary mess.

Wade might not have been a natural bottom when this relationship started, but he sure as hell was now.

Oh you cock/clit tease! You’re ending the chapter there?!

Unlike you, I’m not a fictional character and I need to sleep since I have work in the morning.

[userlando]

Currently thinking about how THICK landos neck is omg it’s just perfection the things I want to do to it

Imagine giving bsf lando a massage after a little shunt on the track and he’s letting out the unholiest of sounds which have you literally squirming and trying not to whimper and keep your cool yourself

Maybe one evening you’re just a bit sad and down and he pulls you onto his lap to reassure and snuggle you and wow your face just slots right into his neck and you’re just nuzzling into him whilst you get it together with lots of supportive whispers and back tickles encouraging you

One night you guys are hitting the club as a big group and pair off to do shots as a funny challenge or something which max f thinks is a brill idea, someone puts salt on his neck for you to lick off and the lime is in his mouth. With all the alcohol in his system he’s loosened up with way less filter, ending up panting and groaning as you lick his neck and then into his mouth and the EYE contact you guys have as he then has to lick the salt off your chest because EVERYONE knows that you guys are crazy about eachother but the two of you so they’re doing everything they can short of pushing you guys into eachother

Continuing with bsf or maybe even fwb lando imagine being in his lap for something like doing his brows or an innocent reason but all of a sudden there’s a massive shift and one of you finally has the guts to make a move. You’re gripping his neck to steady yourself because wow that first kiss makes you feel dizzy and can’t help yourself when you pull back for air he’s rambling that he hopes that was ok and there’s no expectation blah blah blah blah but you just can’t stop looking at his neck and you just HAVE to kiss it suck it bite it squeeze it (bop it lol) and he is squirming and almost gets too much when you find his sweet spot and he’s gripping your hips and whimpering about how good it feels and how sensitive he is there and to please not stop omg maybe cums in his pants(I love that piece you wrote with that happening omg truly my fav concept)

This man’s neck and hands are literally on my brain 24/7 I really can’t cope hope it’s ok that I’m sharing so others may now suffer lol. I can’t decide what kind of kisser I think he’d be in general?

Also I hope you’re having a great week and doing well or that things are getting better for you! I literally think re-reading most of your fics everyday will cure my covid lol just when I think I’m done for the day keep coming back for more because your writing just scratches that itch in my brain and is the best distraction

-🌻

help. MEEEEEEEEEEE. what is this!!! i'm bawling my eyes out!!

you can't tell me he's not a good kisser because that man would rock your world. he'd be all slow and deep, really tasting you and rendering you into a whimpering mess. he's the kinda man who'd gently hold your jaw/throat and kiss you so deeply that you can't help but want more. and he'll absolutely give you more and then some 😭 lord have mercy on me

thank you for re-reading my work, it warms my heart like you couldn't believe!! i hope you're feeling better now, but i'll send all my energy and love your way 🤍

[ymaohoh]

Masterlist

So I've fallen right into the deep end of the HellCheer fandom. Ride or die. I'm in love with Chrissy Cunningham and Eddie Munson. The fans are fucking talented too, alright? I've been binging fics and the artwork but there's certain troupes/ideas/prompts that keep rattling away in my brainbox. I'm going to note them here for if (or when) I maybe write something for the two...but (public service announcement) if anyone knows a fic out there which can scratch these little itches please link me up.

Updated: 18.04.24

My Completed Fics

Chrissy starts dating. Eddie's not thrilled - Dating Chrissy - oneshot

Eddie wants to buy something nice for Chrissy. Candles are romantic, right? He ventures on a quest to the mall - Yankee Candle Baby - oneshot.

Chrissy is such a Brat with Eddie and Jason watches it (while hiding). Jason's POV - Chrissy Cunningham is a Brat - oneshot - mature

What if Chrissy ran from Eddie after her vision? What if it pushed them apart? They later share a joint and things get much much worse. My take on 'Chrissy lives' but it takes a little while for them to get back on the same page - Chrissy Runs Away - Chapter 3/3.

Eddie and Chrissy have unprotected sex against a brick wall after his gig because they can't wait - “We could always just…do it anyway?" - oneshot - mature

Eddie and Chrissy die but they're summoned again for the final fight Ft. time travel and angst - my hope for season 5 - Howl - oneshot

Gender Swap AU where Ellie Munson saves Chris Cunningham - a play on 'Chrissy Lives' - Rule 63' - oneshot

Ongoing

Vecna keeps Chrissy in hell - 'and she's a bride of the fucking devil' - 2/2 chapters.

My Mess of Drabbles

Eddie dies and Chrissy is waiting for him - end of passion play, crumbling away - short drabble only

Chrissy the Vampire Slayer AU

Labyrinth AU

X-Files AU

Pirates AU

Stardust AU

Jason joins the good side AU

Photocheer moodboard (Chrissy x Jonathan)

Headcannon Prompts

Max's relationship with Hellcheer

Dustin's relationship with Hellcheer

Chrissy and Wayne Munson's (beautiful) relationship

Chrissy and The Party headcanons

Favourite Fanfictions Masterlist

Need a new fic? Not sure where to start? Check out these INCREDIBLE Hellcheer fanfictions

In need of/ Prompts

Chrissy gets her first tattoo. A cliche at this point no? I'm torn between her getting this done without Eddie knowing as a surprise, or if I want him right there holding her hand.

Eddy eyeing her up in the school cafeteria or class. Basically Eddy simping over Chrissy.

Anything with Eddie and Chrissy reuniting after death / or in the upside-down (manifesting the second).

Chrissy and Eddie getting high together. Maybe a dash of 'will I remember any of this tomorrow?' as they confess their feelings and frustrations.

Eddie loves Chrissy in a sundress. The more feminine, girly, and flouncy the better. He wants to get his hands under it.

He also loves her in a Hellfire top. Anything really that marks her subtly as his.

Other character POV's watching them flirt. Sweet sweet music to my...eyes?

He loves it when she wears one of his rings. She has plenty of her own jewelry (and it's all real gold/expensive/fit for a princess) but it doesn't mean anything really. Her eyes light up at his rings, though.

Together they create a D&D character for her to practice with. They discuss what type she's most likely to be (Eddie's a bard right?). I'm feeling Chrissy might also have that bard energy (she's THE hype girl, right?) or a healer? They definitely get distracted though and don't actually finish it.

He is a rambler. He talks when he's nervous - and Chrissy finds it easy to keep up.

Chrissy tells the jocks to leave the Hellfire club alone in the school corridor. She gets annoyed when she hears them referring to the kids as 'freaks'. Eddie adores the fire and nerve he sees in her eyes because it only really ever comes out when she's in protective mode (bonus points 1) if she tells Jason to fuck off 2) she walks away with the Hellfire club after).

Chrissy is the only one who gets him to study (and pass). He knows he has a reason to now, you know? They've got plans and he isn't wasting time.

Eddie has doubts about Chrissy really truly loving him - she's way out of his league, after all, so she makes sure to create visual reminders. She takes their photo together and tacks it up in her locker for all to see.

Eddie loves fucking Chrissy in her cheerleading uniform. She loves fucking him when he's backstage. They will want to mark their place in each other's bizarre worlds.

Eddie worries about his future with Chrissy (what's his dumbass supposed to do while she excels at college?) but he likes the way his last name suits her.

Eddie is ONLY soft for Chrissy. A scene where he's trying to be big and scary for the club and she unknowingly fractures this image by doing something oh so achingly cute. Maybe she giggles or squee's during a D&D session? It takes him ages to drag himself back into his DM role.

I'll be adding to this , fo' sure.

Is there an official name for this dynamic? Unpopular baddass x sunshine princess?

All aboard the ship. Ahoy ahoy.

[renren-006]

No More Secrets | Bruce Wayne x fem reader

plot: The reader already knows he's Batman, but maybe Bruce already knows that you know?

word count: 749

a/n: hey! I know a ton of you enjoyed my other Bruce story but here is a second one to add to the list! hope you enjoy it!

taglist: @rosecentury

You knew Bruce was Batman before he ever told you. After he had almost thrown himself off a building to save your life, you knew. You watched him fake smiles at events, and when he sweet talked the people in Wayne tower, you could see the man in the mask. At every event you saw him itching to get back out to the streets, you felt it when he would excuse the two of you early from parties just to drop you off at your apartment with a kiss and leave into the night. It angered you, how he never told you, so much so that you blew up at him after one of his parties. 

It was another social gathering put on by some wealthy business owner in Gotham, someone you knew you would have to write about for the paper the next morning so you tried to get a few words out of him. You could feel Bruce's impatience as it got closer and closer to 9 o’clock.  When it was at the hour he came up to you, as you were talking to a few of his business partners about their lives and stories.

“I'm so sorry but It's getting late and my lovely girlfriend here has to be up early for work tomorrow” he said, kissing your head as he whisked you away from the businessman. Burice wasn't a jealous type, and you knew that because he would defend you with his mask if anyone ever tried anything. As you were walking away from the party you could feel the slight tugs from him to keep you moving and once you were in the car, not a word left your mouth. 20 minutes later you were on the other side of town way faster than the law allowed and you stepped out of the car with a slam of the door. 

“What's wrong?” Bruce asked over the hood of the car. 

“Nothing. Goodnight Bruce”

“You've been short with me all night, something must be wrong?” He said walking towards you on the street. A light drizzle had started to fall from the sky, dotting his jacket. 

“I can't do this Bruce…” you said, looking away from him. 

“Can't do what sweetheart?” he said, pulling your face to look at him again. You raised your hand over his eyes. 

“I can't date you, and know that there's another side to you that you won't tell me about” you told him as the drizzling rain became harder. You let your hand fall down and he was looking at you with surprise. “I'm not an idiot, Bruce Wayne. You think I don't put together that the man I loved was Batman, savior of Gotham?”

“I did, I just…I didn't think it would be this hard to tell you”

“Why would it be hard to tell me, if you knew I had already figured it out?” You asked. 

“Because what if you left? Or what if I told you the truth for certainty and you would be in more danger because of it?”

“Bruce! You can't protect me from everything” you told him, annoyed his answer was always putting your life above his or the relationship you both had together. 

“I have to”

“No. All you have to do is make sure I can protect myself when your not there”

“What?”

“Just…Bruce just train me to know how to defend myself so if something happens like the roof again, i'll be able to at least fight till you get there”

“I can do that sweetheart” he told you. “Why don't I stay with you tonight?”

“And give up prowling the city”

“For you? Always. I should put you first before the city, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be out in this weather anyways” Bruce said with a chuckle. Knowing that these storms that blow through Gotham never let up till the next day.

“It's alright. Tell me the truth next time when you want to leave”“What if the reason I want to leave has nothing to do with defending the city?” “Then I guess the city can't wait for the night. Right Batman?” You asked as you swished your hips into your apartment building. Bruce smiled, locking the car and heading up to your apartment. Whether you watched a movie and paid attention was anyone's guess, but the rain didn't let up for the entire night. You trapped the Batman in your apartment and blamed it on the weather.

[alrightbuckaroo]

Writing Patterns - thanks for the tags @lemonlyman-dotcom, @carlos-in-glasses, @bonheur-cafe and @reyesstrand <3 <3 <3

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns! CIG, I'm stealing your bit.

something to give each other

Leather saturates the air.

perfect for: if you want to read messy, loving, sometimes kinky, gay sex that's inspired by a very sexy gay album.

goodnights and goodbyes

“How does this thing still fit?” TK asks himself as he takes in the way his high school letterman jacket hugs him just right.

perfect for: if you want to a somewhat short read that deals with leaving the past in the past, attempts at humor, and a testament to their soulmateism (@welcometololaland said it herself!)

love can pull you out of yesterday

It’s February 19th, 2021.

perfect for: scratching that science fanfiction itch. you're going to love doing the same thing over, and over, and over again.

tender eyes that shine

Carlos is eight years old.

perfect for: getting inside the mind of one carlos tomás reyes. you'll love this if you love introspection and angst.

you, me, and the lizard makes three

“I’m not going to make it through the night,” Carlos laments over the phone.

perfect for: wanting to read fluff, soft carlos reyes, lou ii and overall good, warm feelings.

my world deeply stained by the color of you

Austin, Texas is a placed that's been robbed of color.

perfect for: if you want a short little read that highlights different snapshots of tarlos' love; includes moments of that murky, gray haze.

the moment my heart fell

Carlos' fingers are interlocked with TK's; they hold onto one another as if that's what their hands are made for.

perfect for: if you want a short read with a bit of a twist

it was love at first sight

"It was love at first sight."

perfect for: if you want a short, sweet, loving little read

29 Going on 30

“We should have him arrested for attempted vehicular manslaughter,” Carlos says as they walk up front door of Extra Space Storage.

perfect for: wanting to read a story that feels like cotton candy! sweet, sugary and filled with so, so much fun; and of course, the tiniest bit of angst. it is me after all.

summer slipped us underneath her tongue

“I will never forgive you for leaving me to go party it up in Paris for the summer.” Nancy’s audio goes in and out, the connection fighting as hard as it can but losing the fight nonetheless.

perfect for: getting your heart ripped out.

Patterns: I think I've said when I did this game over a year ago, but it's cool to see that I still write with the intent of throwing the reader into the middle of chaos. Barring my beloved, tender eyes that shine, I really tried to make the first line capture your attention.

No pressure tagging: @heartstringsduet, @honeybee-taskforce, @americansrequiems, @sanjuwrites, @fifthrideroftheapocalypse

@freneticfloetry, @lightningboltreader, @literateowl, @your-catfish-friend, @ironheartwriter

@orchidscript, @paperstorm, @captain-gillian, @nancys-braids, @never-blooms

@basilsunrise, @butchreyes, @mikibwrites, @welcometololaland and @rmd-writes!

Here's an open tag as well for anyone who wants to share <3

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌. 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐄𝐳𝐫𝐚

pairing: joel miller x f!reader x ezra (prospect)

genre: smut, filth filth filth, minors dni

word count: 2.9k

summary: Joel’s frustrations run deep; to him you were a twisted source of purity, touching you forced him to think, forced him to feel. But not Ezra, with him he could do anything. A scary, yet also exhilarating feeling. Or alternatively: You wake up to Joel and Ezra having sex

warnings: mlm, anal sex, handjob (from reader to ezra), consensual somnophilia, joel being emotionally unavailable but what's new, polyamorous relationship, anal fingering, spit as lube (pls do not try this at home use lube if you have it), mild choking, ez having a praise kink, a bit of feels at the end

a/n: Okay so I feel like some explanations are due-- This oneshot going to be part of the Dark Hearted People series that isn't out yet. (here's a short little drabble i wrote about it if you wanna see) It's coming, and outlines are being made but I got this horny oneshot idea and wanted nothing more than to write it. All the context that you need is given within the fic, but all I'm trying to say more is to come. Way more.

Also, I would like to thank @pedrito-friskito as always who read through this and cheered me on. And a thank you to @write-and-buried who allowed me to scream at her about this and screamed back at me. Love you both 💜💜💜

AO3 |Masterlist | Playlist

It’s a silent night. 

The darkness enveloped him like a cloak, suffocating and heavy. The silence was deafening, a piercing screech that seemed to slice through his very being. He could hear nothing but the faint rustling of the trees, a constant reminder of the desolate wilderness that surrounded him. Joel straightens his back, a crack echoing in the silence. He can hear snores coming from inside the tent. His fingers twitch impatiently against the rifle he holds. An itch, a burning sensation, crawled up his neck, a physical manifestation of his unease.

You’re a silent sleeper. That much he knows. It’s Ezra who’s the loud one. It’s the same when he’s awake, not granting Joel a minute of peace. 

They’ve been on the road for a while now. The tracks of the group they were following disappearing more and more into the wind every passing day. He’s on the everlasting road of questioning what the hell he’s doing here. With these people. You, he can rationalize. He’s known you since Boston. You were reliable, had a joke or two in you that made him crack a smile. 

But the other one? Meeting him was nothing other than a fluke. A mishap. One blind step. That’s all it took for Ezra to sink his tendrils into them both. 

His eyes dart to his watch, a reflexive action. The heaviness that weighs over him is immediate. He doesn't even need to look to tell the time so he hates that he still does. Every time he looks, he hopes that it would have fixed itself miraculously. 

The state of the sky, the position of the stars, all tell him what he already knows. It's Ezra's turn to keep watch. Joel still isn’t sure why you trust Ezra the way that you do—hell, he’s not even sure why you trust him. 

Joel’s knees protest as he stands up, the rifle dangling from his shoulder. 

The inside of the tent is warm, both yours and Ezra’s scent filling the small space. Your sweetness mixes with his earthiness and iron. Joel shouldn’t be able to tell the difference. His heart shouldn’t start beating faster the more he breathes in. His tongue touches his bottom lip, something warm and heavy rolls in his stomach.

He’s halfway inside when his movements still, eyes dropping to Ezra who’s sleeping closer to the entrance. He’s sleeping in a fetal position, knees nearly touching his chest with his hands tucked underneath his head. Ezra’s soft snores are more audible inside. Joel can see the way his chest rises and falls. For a fleeting moment, Joel's mind plays tricks on him and he imagines that moonlight pours from above, illuminating Ezra's sleeping form in a soft glow. 

But there’s not. 

Joel steps inside, the flap fluttering closed behind him. He falls to his knees, watching. The back of Ezra’s shirt is rolled up, showcasing the dimples of his lower back. Even with only a patch of skin, Joel can see the scars. It’s easy to forget that the other man is actually a couple years younger than him.

He’s supposed to wake Ezra up but finds himself nestling closer instead. Joel lays down on his side, softly placing his arm on top of the other’s waist. That’s the only contact he allows himself. His scent is stronger at this distance. His arm raises with Ezra’s body every time he breathes in. Then out. Again, in… and out. A pleasant repeat of motion. 

What you said to him before the night echoes in his mind. You’re not even giving him a chance, you’d said with your hands cradling his face. It’s been a confusing month. The three of you entangled in each other both emotionally and physically. 

During all of those times, Joel never touched Ezra with love. He’d touched him with need, anger, grief. Never love. He just couldn’t. Ezra never said anything. He allowed Joel to take him rough, fuck him deep. The sounds the other made indicated to Joel that he enjoyed it, his moans stifled yet loud. 

The skin above his stomach grows tight, tingling. He feels a devastating tug at his own loins, a pressing reminder of what he needs. His cock twitches, wanting to be buried in that heat once more. Joel’s frustrations run deep; to him you were a twisted source of purity, touching you forced him to think, forced him to feel. But not Ezra, with him he could do anything. A scary, yet also exhilarating feeling. 

Joel cheats his hand under Ezra’s shirt. He traces the pads of his fingers up his abdomen, feeling every puckered scar that decorates his tanned skin. The other man shudders against him, instinctively pushing back to him until there’s no room to breathe. Joel hisses between clenched teeth. He drags his fingers over a nipple, traces the other, and continues to move up. Ezra’s chest heaves, pulse-quickening under Joel’s touch. 

He’s positive that Ezra’s awake now. But that doesn’t stop him from curling calloused fingers around the other man’s throat, squeezing, a warning to stay quiet. Without looking he knows Ezra’s smiling. He hates that crooked smile, the soft hints of amusement he gets in his eyes. 

The image is so vivid that Joel squeezes harder. Ezra’s ass presses firm against him, his cock throbs, hips stuttering forward. 

“Restless night?” Ezra asks, voice heavy with sleep. 

“Just need you to take me,” he grunts, grinding himself into the other. “Don’t talk, I don’t wanna wake her up,” 

“I’ll try but I make no promises. If she rouses from sleep that’s on you,” 

Joel’s hand slides up from Ezra’s throat to his mouth, silencing him. His lips feel soft against the roughness of his palm. His eyes move to you briefly, you’re still sleeping, your back turned. He drags his nose down the column of Ezra’s neck, taking deep breaths, he slips his other hand down Ezra’s sweatpants. Noticing how hard the other is already, he scoffs. Ezra was probably awake since Joel let himself inside. 

Joel’s strokes are rough and hard. The friction makes Ezra tremble, nostrils flaring, moans seeping into the heat of Joel’s palm. He swipes his thumb over the slit, making Ezra jolt. 

“Fuckin’ stay still,” he growls into the other’s skin. Ezra can only nod, shaking as Joel continues to drag his hand over the thick length. Ezra thrusts into his fist, teeth nipping the inside of the hand that covers his mouth. 

His own arousal hard and aching between his legs, Joel pulls back his hand and spits on his fingers. Ezra’s breath hitches at the wet sound, which makes Joel’s cock drip, precome smearing into the fabric of his boxers. One hand still above Ezra’s mouth, he grips the other’s waist and pins Ezra against him, rolling his hips again and again. 

Taking the hint, Ezra pushes down his sweatpants with shaky hands, kicking them down so they bunch around his ankles. With two wet fingers, Joel traces the rim of his quivering hole. He slips them inside, a tight fit, a bit dry. He pulls them out and spits again, Ezra’s groans vibrate against Joel’s skin. Sinking his fingers again, Joel moves them with shallow thrusts. 

“Fuck, so damn tight,” Joel rasps. Ezra’s whimpers become louder, his eyes nervously fixated on your sleeping figure. “You ready to take me?” 

Joel doesn’t wait for an answer and pulls out his fingers, but Ezra nods anyway. They both know what this is. They both know why Joel asks that. He asks it every time. A weak attempt to peel himself away from feeling any kind of remorse for using someone else for his own relief. 

Ezra doesn’t seem to care though. With a curled spine he grinds himself and feels Joel’s shaft, precome sticks to his skin, the movements wetting the other’s cock. His own length aches painfully, heavy between his legs. Ezra watches you, eyes falling to your ass. He wants to grab a fistful of the tender flesh, pull you close, and fuck you as Joel buries his grief into him—

You start to stir, making both men freeze. The fat head of Joel’s cock is notched at his entrance, throbbing as Ezra’s insides threaten to swallow him whole. Joel’s fingers bite into Ezra’s cheeks. Both of them watch you with wide eyes, heads swimming in half arousal and half anxiety. You slowly turn and tuck your hands under your head, closed eyes facing Ezra’s wide ones. 

Joel snaps his hips forward, sinking into the other man’s heat completely. An unwilling groan vibrates in his throat and he stifles it by biting the inside of his cheek. Joel, with his hand firm over Ezra’s mouth, pumps in quick, deep strokes until he feels his legs start to shake. He swears Ezra is trying to suffocate him, suck him dry with how tight he is. The other flutters around him, clenching and releasing his cock as he tries to desperately accommodate his size. 

Tears gather in Ezra’s eyes, he blinks them away, and breathes heavily from his nose. Joel is not a small man by any means, clenching on the thickness. He stretches him wide, the pain mixes with the pleasure, a harmonizing symphony that short-circuits his brain. Joel pushes and pulls, guiding Ezra at his pace. Your sleeping face is blurred to him, the corner of his vision fading to black like a vignette. Joel’s hand slides down to Ezra’s chest, fingers spreading over his heated skin. 

Ezra’s mouth drops open to a gape almost immediately, heavy pants, and silent moans growing loud. Joel’s pacing is fast, cock hitting deep as he rocks his hips forward. He drags his lips down to Ezra’s shoulder, biting into his skin. His sprawled fingers close over Ezra’s nipple, giving it a sharp pinch that makes him hiss. 

Joel’s eyes are glued to you, your eyelids starting to flutter. But he can’t possibly care when the lust fills the cracks of his soul, a faux sense of peace makes his heart swell. He doesn’t care that Ezra’s moans become louder, he doesn’t care when the other wraps his fingers around his cock and starts to despertly fist himself. 

Joel only focuses on himself, his aching cock and need. His skin grows taut over his muscles, movements becoming strained and uncoordinated. He drills into him, balls tight with his fingers imprinting on the other’s skin. 

“S-Shit— Joel,” Ezra gasps, brows pinched together and eyes rolling back. “H-Harder—” 

They both know you are bound to wake up soon.

You feel warmth between your legs. Your dreams coat your skin with a heat that makes it tingle. You hear moans, wet sounds echoing in the tent. You swipe your tongue over your bottom lip. The inside of your mouth is like sandpaper. Is it morning already? 

Your eyes flutter open and Ezra’s face slowly comes into view. He’s groaning and you think it’s because he’s in pain, but when your vision clears up you see reality as it is. 

Your face burns when you see his expression in its full glory; mouth wide open, eyes glazed over with pleasure, brows furrowed as he rocks back and forth. First, you think he’s touching himself, but then there’s a flash in the dark, Joel catching your eyes over Ezra’s shoulder, staring directly at you. There’s something ravenous in his eyes, something that you can only describe as animalistic. He thrusts into Ezra hard when he catches your gaze, knocking the air out from Ezra’s lungs and making him moan right into your face. 

It’s a wanton sound. A choked-out voice that goes straight to your cunt, arousal pools between the plush of your thighs, you’re already wet. Neither of them seems bothered by you. In fact, they seem to be stirred on by it. Joel holds your gaze, only fucking into Ezra harder. The younger man’s eyes are squeezed tight, his cock bobs heavy and dark between his thighs. 

Your pussy pounds between your legs. Your gaze drops to Ezra’s length. It looks delectable. The head a warm flush of red, precum glistening at the tip, begging to be touched. A whine pulls you away from the sight, and you see that Ezra’s eyes are now open—barely, that is. You can see tears filling his lashline, dark eyes observing you between narrowed lids. 

“Little bird,” he moans, wets his lips, and swallows. “Touch me, please,” 

Your eyes move to Joel, he’s not staring at you anymore. With every thrust, you feel Ezra jolt. The urge to touch yourself rather than Ezra is much greater as Joel begins to pepper the other man’s skin with open-mouthed kisses, you see a bit of tongue poking between chapped lips. You’re not sure why, but you feel jealous almost. Joel’s lips are a form of blessing, something he did as a reward, be it done consciously or not.

With little hesitation, you wrap your fingers around Ezra’s shaft. The man’s head falls back, his hips stuttering in an almost manic way. Coming closer, you close your lips around his trembling adam’s apple, kissing a path that goes all the way to his parted lips. You slip a tongue. Groaning into his mouth, you swipe your palm over the head and smear precome down his length. Every time Joel rocks into him, he buries himself further into your fist. 

It’s so intimate seeing Ezra like this. Pleasure is good on everyone, and to be witnessing it in its full glory makes you want to string him along the edge as long as you can. Sweat coats his face and you feel a tremor in his thighs. He’s completely powerless. You suck on his tongue, lick yourself into his mouth, and nip at his bottom lip. The sounds he makes are unfiltered, debouched. 

You stroke him faster, harder. Wet noises echo from your palm, a sticky mess between your bodies. You’re breathing jaggedly into eachother’s mouths, you squeeze the base of his cock and he gasps. 

“Are you gonna come for us?” you ask into his mouth, a heavy drop of precum slides down your knuckles, making you smile. “Such a good man,” 

Ezra’s reaction to your words is visceral. With a newfound eagerness, he molds his lips into yours, again and again, he sucks the air from your lungs. You press your legs together, hips rocking in a weak attempt for friction. 

Suddenly Ezra’s entire body seizes and he parts from you with a sharp gasp. You don’t need to look to see but you do so anyway. His cock throbs and twitches in your palm, he spills over your fingers, come seeping into the fabric of your shirt. You continue to stroke his oversensitive shaft, your gaze finding Joel’s. 

Joel fucks himself deeper into Ezra, pushing all three of you closer together. You lean towards him, and he licks the seam of your lips before indulging in you fully. Ezra continues to sway back and forth with Joel’s thrusts, you continue to glide your hand over his cock, short pants, and hisses falling from Ezra’s lips. 

Joel’s hips stutter, spilling into the younger man as he flicks his tongue over yours, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth. You let out a sharp hiss when he sinks his teeth, he doesn’t draw blood but the sensitive flesh throbs like he has. Joel feels the warm drip of his own release trickling down, the sensation making him thrust deeper.

You’re aching for them both. A hunger crackling over your skin and warming your neck. Joel doesn’t pull out, soft growls trembles in his chest, hands moving down and squeezing Ezra’s hip. The latter is on the verge of blacking out, his breathing uneven, eyes glossed over. 

Bur despite it all, Ezra manages to move closer to you. He nuzzles your chest, teeth tiredly nipping the swell of your breasts. 

“That was quite the way to wake up,” you murmur, your need to comfort Ezra pushing you to cord your fingers within his short hair, damp with sweat. 

Neither of them answer. Ezra smiles into your skin while Joel averts his gaze, finally pulling out and uncaringly cleaning the mess he made with the first thing he found. 

The minutes later Ezra pulls himself together, leaving the tent with wobbly legs and exhaustion in his eyes. Joel shows his true colors then, pulling you close and laying his chin over your head. He cups your ass with both hands, kneading the muscle. 

“Do you want me to?” he asks, guiding your hips into a sloppy roll. He’s still soft. 

You shake your head, “No. I just want us to rest,” 

Joel nods but continues to touch you. You didn’t lie. The thing the most of you need is rest—but you allow him to do as he pleases. You say nothing when he pushes a hand beneath the band of your panties, sliding two fingers up the wet seam of your slit. A satisfied sight leaves your lips. 

Joel has a habit of thinking he’s unreadable, but over the months you can say that you know him fairly well. What he can take from Ezra, he can’t from you. You know that. Ezra knows that. Joel is the only one who isn’t aware just how abundantly you two know him. Not that it matters. 

You just want him to let go. Allow himself to feel without remorse. 

A dream that will probably never come true. 

[courtofmatchups]

You're out here doing the lords work, and I need to thank you for scratching the itch in my brain lol. Good fortune for you and your loved ones, may the lines you encounter always be short, and may you have endless creativity. Hell yeah, brother.

Could I ask for a Tokyo Debunker matchup? I'm willing to do a trade, too, if you're interested! I've only written for a few characters between Obey Me and tkdb, but I'd def love to repay the kindness.

So, hi. I'm Birds, or Birdy. She/her, bisexual/maybe ace? gray-ace? one of those, at least.

Appearance: 5'9, pale, super wavy dark blonde/light brown hair, and hazel eyes. I have a deceptively cute round face and big glasses. i've been told that I give off a naturally sweet and impish impression because of that. I'm also fairly slim, but there's definitely a layer of chicken nugget insulation for warmth and comfort.

MBTI/Zodiac: INFP and Gemini

About me: I tend to spend most of my time in my head, and I can easily come off as ditzy or standoffish. I have inattentive ADHD and I'm really introverted, so typically I try not to speak up unless I have something worth saying. I keep a few close friends and tend to unload all of my thoughts from the day on them (and as quiet as I am, I talk a mile a minute when I'm excited or explaining something interesting.) Multiple people have told me (to my face c':) that they were shocked by how intelligent I actually am. And yeah, maybe math and spelling aren't my thing, but for the most part, my silly goose hat is a choice. I have trouble speaking my thoughts out loud, so I'm a big fan of burying my negative emotions as deep as possible until i'm a walking shell of a person, self-sabotaging, and using swear words or memes to express myself. But what I lack in, like, everything else, I make up for by being as good of a friend as possible. I love making the people I care about laugh just as much as I love messing with them and I'm willing to make myself look like a fool to make them smile.

Hobbies: Writing, reading, sewing, and then whatever little hobbies I pick up and then forget about in a week. A fun fact about me is that I once spent over 8 hours on the phone my best friend doing nothing but discussing our oc's.

Likes: spooky/whimsical things, fairy lights, making my loved ones laugh and/or roll their eyes, small, comfortable nooks to hide in, music (any genre, it's just gotta match the vibes), dating sims, fandom history (putting together a legit presentation on the history of zines in fan studies rn), and holding hands c:

Dislikes: Loud places, bright lights, speaking to people without being able to prepare myself, not having headphones somewhere on me, people who go out of their way to be mean, objectively dumb opinions being said confidently, and any perceived wrong done to my loved ones

Qualities I look for: Patience and physical affection. I'm a forgetful mess and I'm mean enough to myself without someone else getting frustrated with me, and casual affection like hugs and hand holding give me something to ground myself with. They'd need to see me as a partner and best friend rather than Conventionally Attractive Girl, too. My Manic Pixie has been Dream Girl'ed more than enough.

Thank you again!

It seems to me you've captured the heart of...

Haku Kusanagi!

I could see a few others being potential matches, Like Alan or Haru, but I feel like Haku would be the best match for you. Hear me out: I feel like he'd be initially drawn in by your silly and whimsical nature. Haku likes being around sharp and witty people. He's pretty easygoing and will tease you, but he doesn't go out of his way to be mean. He does tease you about being in the clouds at times, but he does like that dreamy side of you. He's not too picky about appearances when it comes to partners, so even more reason he's a great match for you.

As for your tendency to yap about anything that interests you, you can bet that he would like to see you get so animated about the things you like, but you might need to slow it down so he could understand what you're talking about. He will tell you though.

Haku doesn't really have a set preference for hobbies, he just enjoys making memories with his partner, so any hobby either of you choose to do would be a fun and stimulating experience.

Haku is also pretty emotionally intelligent, so he'll be able to help walk you through the emotions you're feeling. He's a patient man, and will understand if you mess up for one reason or another. He'll also help if that happens. And don't worry about physical affection, he will shower you with that in the event you're feeling down and cannot articulate your feelings in a way other than "I need a hug right now."

All in all, I see a happy relationship between the two of you

[tears0fsatan]

                ♰          ・        𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇!

✦ ⊹ ˚˖ warnings... dead dove do not eat, gn!reader, spoilers for lesson 35 whoops, brief stalking mention, scent kink, established relationship, obsession, body horror, unhealthy attachment to a corpse

 :¨·.·¨ ♥︎  a.n... I'M FINALLY WRITING SOMETJIMG FOR MY NUMBER ONE BABYGIRL CAN I GET A WAHOOO??!???!! BONUS BECAUSE SHES WEIRD!! AND A LITTLE UNSETTLING!!! (this turned out sadder and more romantic than i thought lol oops) srry that this is so latebtw i've been doing uh teenager stuff lol <3

 #﹏𖣠ㅤHEART SHAPED HICKIES MASTERLISTㅤ. . . ㅤ !! ( ☠️ )

from the very moment she had caught a whiff of your scent in her lair, thirteen was hooked. it didn't take a genius or a powerful existence to sniff out the stench of other living beings that had trespassed her den. amongst the familiar smell of demons and that pesky sorcerer, yours had stuck out like a sore thumb, so much so that all thoughts regarding your illegal trespassing flew out her mind.

perhaps it was because she was a reaper, but she could practically taste the life that seeped into your scent. for someone who was neither dead nor alive, hell was it addictive.

she just had to seek you out, there was no way someone brimming with so much life could escape her grasp now that she had her sights on you. whenever she wasn't busy watching the life candles or coming up with new fun trap ideas, she couldn't resist the temptation to follow and watch your every move. after all, when would another human who smelt so good and wasn't a sham of a sorcerer come down to devildom and pique her interest like you did? she needed to have you, needed to trap you somewhere where only she could see you, where only she could be with you.

there were nights she found herself craving you and your scent, despite her plan still in the works. there moments where the thought of leaving all her work behind, to sneak in your room and take you away with her and live out the rest of your lives together (or more so, your life..). an itch to steal the clothing she saw you wore often made her feel restless, but she was nothing if not patient and told herself she'd wait until she was closer to you.

eventually, the two of you were bound to run into one another at RAD, but that moment didn't come nearly soon enough. so, the reaper took matters into her own hands. she waited for the moment you weren't surrounded by those clingy demons to make her move, making it seem as though it was completely coincidental and not carefully thought out on her part. gosh, you were so much cuter in person, she had fantasised the moment she could finally talk to you dozens of times and you went beyond all her expectations.

this was perfect; without realising, you were slowly playing into her trap. the reaper made sure to play up a facade, one that would keep you curious about her and have you coming back to find out more. she played the role of a trickster until you tied the strings of your heart around her marionette controller all on your own accord, swept away by the sweet words and barrage of attention from such a pretty, powerful being. she had you in the palm of her hand and you were more than alright with it.

there was an ornate fear that constricted thirteens heart, or at least a reaper's equivalent of one, something she feared for more than anything else in all three realms. as a reaper, she was far too aware of how short human lifespans were and how much shorter it would be around her and it terrified her. now that she had you in her grasp, she couldn't afford to lose you. there were unspoken lengths she was willing to go in order to keep you next to her, even if it meant breaking the laws of the three realms.

while humans were satisfied with a life together until death parted them, for a reaper, even death wouldn't be enough to part ways. being surrounded by death, the very being that watched over every human from the second their flame lit to the moment their light blew out, it was hard to form an attachment when such lives were fickle and could go out at any given moment. thirteen knew that, she knew that one gust of wind could easily put an end to you and everything you had lived for and so she wanted to cherish what short time she had left with you.

the day you died, many souls died with you. the reaper lost all control and threw a rage, at the other living beings who wouldn't understand her pain and at the world for making her kind so detrimental to human life. it was unfair, unfair how you had just started out your life and now you were gone, unable to spend many more of your firsts with thirteen. she didn't even have the chance to show you just how much she loved you.

not a day went by where thirteen didn't take care of your body, washing your body with extra care and dressing you in your favourite clothes, keeping your appearance the same as it was the day you died. even as your flesh began to turn all sorts of hues, she still thought you looked as beautiful as the day she lost you.

your body, now lifeless and cold, a mere shell of the human you once were, could no longer support the weight of your head and slumped forward onto thirteen's shoulder whenever she would pick you up. the reaper held onto every inch of your being left, afraid that if she let even a hair shed, your entire existence would cease to exist, as if you had never been here in the first place.

your eyes were always something she adored, something that left her speechless and the first time she got to see them up close and in person, she was left in awe. by now, she's stared at you long enough to determine that yes, stars do swim in your eyes, and never missed the opportunity to go stargazing. even after your eyes became blurry after your death, they never lost that sparkle that she fell in love with in the first place.

how could she resist pulling you into her arms and dance along to inaudible music when you looked so beautiful? even though your skin was icy to the touch and your joints refused to move from the rigor mortis, she still enjoyed holding you close and swaying to an unknown rhythm. especially on nights when the moonlight would peer into her lair and cast a shadow on your features that just ever so slightly make you appear alive, she would dance until the sun took the moons place and brought her back to reality.

nevertheless, until the moment she reaped her last soul, she would continue to love you and keep you by her side, no matter the cost.

© 2023 TEARS0FSATAN. please don’t translate, modify, repost or plagiarise my works anywhere.

[actuallycassidyiambusy]

What are some of your all time favorite tropes to use when you write or draw your ships or and ocs?

I really love the size difference one you went with for Bluffy🥰 it's my favorite! Your art made me a Bluffy fan btw. It's gorgeous.

I have quite a few that I enjoy.

My top five favorites are

Size difference. Probably my biggest weakness when it comes to pairings. It could be done a number of ways. Tall bottom/short top, short bottom/tall top, switches with size difference, etc. I try not to lean into bl tropes too much, but it doesn't mean I don't dabble lol. I have a variety of ships with a size difference going both ways and even ocs with it. It really just depends on the character.

Age difference. I don't ship anything with children. I just can't. But a noticeable age difference between two adults is just 🤌🏻

Feminine bottoms who aren't helpless. I see the trope a lot where the bottom is feminine and can't defend themselves for shit. It's not that I don't mind it, I just see it a little too much. I like when the bottom is super pretty, but can also kill you 🫠 which is a major thing that happens with my oc, Talon. I also like tough bottoms who become whiny and pathetic when their top is around.

Puppy dog top/vicious bottom and vice versa. Those kind of pairings are loved by a lot of people, including me.

Demon/angel or a god, demon/priest. To me it doesn't matter who tops or who bottoms in this trope, it's the evil corrupting the good or even the good influencing the evil for me. I even like a little mixture of both.

Some honorable mentions:

Dom/sub. This one has a very wide range. Both could be doms, both could be subs. The top could dom or the bottom could dom. They could switch and mix up their dynamic. I really like power bottoms with doms bc that's basically what my husband and I are and it's what I see with Buggy and Luffy.

Mpreg. I LOVE me some mpreg because it's just so damn sweet. Idc how it happens, trans men, some unknown force, etc. Idc. I will read it or draw it a hundred times over.

Murderer or kidnapper/victim and hunter/prey. People know me. I like the dark stuff. Something about a character being hunted down just UGH. Toxic tropes in fiction just scratch an itch, ya know?

The size difference between Buggy and Luffy is already pretty apparent in the show. Luffy's head reaches Buggy's chest. However, my version just took it a little further because it's my all time favorite. I put them in a lot of categories because they're both bold and they just fit.

To me, Buggy is not a bottom. He just isn't. People can try to tell me all day that he is, but I can't be swayed. That man is a top 100% It's just his personality. People can babygirl him all they want, he's still a top lmao. Now, I'm not opposed to him being a sub sometimes. Give Luffy the reins every now and then, because that's Luffy's personality. Buggy still has that pathetic side to him where he would definitely cave and allow Luffy to take control of what happens in the bedroom, office, bow of the ship or wherever they decide they want each other.

Also, thank you for liking my art🖤

[chumpovodir]

Fun fact: do you want to know what pushed me to consider Hectorcard (although still more in a platonic sense)? NFCV.

No really :P I found a very specific plot that NFCV fans used to write about after S2 dropped, which is basically "Hector runs away from Carmilla and goes back to Dracula's castle, where he finds a lonely a grieving Alucard. They bond over their trauma and relationship with Dracula"

(there is a post-S3 variant where Trephacard rescue Hector after becoming Lenore's slave, or generally having the two bonding over the trauma of having being raped and deceived, but I'm not too fond of this idea because it's a little too delicate)

And the idea was actually good! I do think those two characters share enough parallels even in that universe. So ofc it got me to think, what about game Hectorcard? What about that short window of time where both of them were sick of Dracula? How would their personalities mash, are they really so similar? (answer: yes but actually no, Alucard is far more curt and cagey than Hector who is a little more polite and emotional) Would they grow from strangers to brothers? What kept them apart in the end?

(and I'm not even considering what ifs? where Alucard doesn't go to sleep or wakes up after CoD)

also yes the reason i'm working on this awkward smut fic is because it's an excellent character study: Alucard is inexperienced and generally unenthused, Hector is too used to serve others (which unnerves Alucard for reasons you can understand), but the important thing is that they both trust each other with the most vulnerable parts of themselves, which is so so so important after Dracula (and Isaac, in Hector's case) made clear that he sees them as children whose voices don't matter.

They could be sweet together :3

👀‼ (this. gave me such intense brain worms i think i went on a few too many tangents, that i felt the need to edit it down to something a bit more cohesive and concise lmao. it's still pretty long so i'm putting it under a cut)

ooh yes, i'm familiar with both variants of post-S2 and post-S3 scenarios, having read my share of NFCV Hectorcard fics in my search for their game counterpart pairings lmao

there was one i really liked, the title escapes me atm, but notably it was on the shorter side, where it's Alucard who goes to rescue Hector from his imprisonment and in the end, to save Hector's life from a fatal injury, he turns him and they get to spend eternity together (what can i say, i'm a sucker for a scenario where they can both end up healed, happy, and loved that doesn't feel cheap or forced).

yeah, the idea of both of them trauma bonding over everything they went through really is a good one, but. definitely not handled very well, or at least not in a satisfying way imo. mostly due to how rushed their relationship usually ends up, considering in this universe they're complete strangers, but, also, bc of the nature of their trauma, i find it tends to dip into alot of whump/caretaker tropes, which, while not bad on its own, doesn't really scratch that itch for me to explore where their respective characters are similar and diverge since they're both so different from their game versions.

and also, yes, bc N!Alucard is sassy and rude, but N!Hector is generally more polite and woobie, they get pigeonholed in a very predictable top/bottom dynamic which is. something i already didn't enjoy in the early fandom days of the games lmao

but there's potential! just like there's potential in their game counterparts which is made so much more interesting by the fact they didn't get together

(there's a secondary theme that kind of threads those types of fics together that i wish were explored more: the idea of N!Alucard and N!Hector learning about the other in their respective absences - N!Hector while he was under N!Drac's employ, only being able to piece together N!Alucard's existence through a forgotten portrait here or there, stumbling upon his childhood bedroom in his early days of learning the layout of his new home. N!Alucard after the Styrian invasion who no doubt discovers N!Hector's menagerie of undead pets left behind then eventually his forging lab, maybe even his personal quarters. what kind of first impression would they have of each other based on these limited clues vs. when they eventually meet face to face? it really is such a shame their storylines were kept completely separate in the show :/)

i know you headcanon Alucard as aroace and therefore he wouldn't be too keen on being intimate to begin with, but i do love the idea of it being a moment of vulnerability for him where he has to keep his desire in check lest his vampiric nature take over and he end up inadvertently hurting Hector - some kind of internal struggle to match Hector's own apprehensiveness that he would feel the need to slow down and go full service top mode because hey, this is Dracula's beloved son he's fucking, better make it good (vs when he's with Isaac and they're both rough and wild with each other)

goshhhh i love speculating about this ship now it's just. the idea of Alucard having at least one positive, intimate relationship he will cherish for life, and for Hector this will be just have to be another face he will miss, another happy memory relegated to the past once he finally leaves, and after everything that is yet to come...it's the doomed relationship aspect of it all, the tragedy being that it was brought on by circumstances completely outside their control rather than anything to do with them as individuals. in another universe, in another life, maybe they could've been happy together, in any type of relationship. if only :')

anyway def looking forward to your take on their relationship whenever you get finished with that piece. i have no doubts it will surely rip my heart out~