#drinking whiskey from a flask

[adriatique-139]

Something so... anarchist-y about laying in your dark room and hearins sirens in the backround.

[writingwisterias]

Patience is key

ID!Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Slight Homewrecker Leon, Oral (M receiving), Cheating (not Leon or Reader), Drinking, Penis in Vagina Sex, slight Overstimulation, unprotected sex, aftercare

Felt inspired by @biohazard-4ever post the other day! Click Here. It was only meant to be a drabble and then it turned into a whole oneshot! Hope you enjoy

He knew it was wrong as he watched you argue with him. The evidence of your partner cheating, that he so lovingly collected for you, slapped against the desk as you practically threw it there. He watched as his co-worker stumbled to find the correct words, as he desperately ran through every pathetic excuse he could possibly come up with to keep that ring on your finger. But it was too late. Leon bit his lip to hide the smirk as he heard the metal clatter against the mahogany desk. You stormed off ignoring the looks of his other Co workers, tears escaping your pretty eyes no matter how hard you tried to keep it together.

He didn't need to follow you, he knew where you would end up. Where he knew you craved to be despite your relationship. Leon never missed your cautious touches or lingering looks when you spoke with him; bandaged his wounds. In the past months he found himself lingering towards the medic bay, using his hangovers as excuses to get your soft fingers to caress his forehead as you applied the soothing cream. It was in these moments he felt the tension, the need that rolled off your body. The only evidence he needed to know that dickhead wasn't satisfying you.

Perhaps it was too soon to lean into him, to follow the tug against your soul that called for Leon to be the right person. Maybe it's because in a time period you felt so fragile and broken he made you feel loved. Handing out the small sections of affection you craved with your partner. Leon was cunning, you knew his plans when the only solution to the problem he would offer was for you to separate; to call off the wedding you had excitedly been planning. Yet you didn't stop him, you actually listened to his promises of a better future; without even realizing it was one he wanted to give you. Leon's arm welcomed you, his scent suffocating you further. You didn't want to cry, you couldn't cry; it was done. Your relationship you were building for years over in a flash - perhaps it was over before you shouted at him in the workplace, when he decided to cheat and chose that woman he knew you were jealous of instead. Perhaps it was over when you looked into Leon's eyes and he took the flask back. The whiskey warmed your system against the cold, his body making you feel fuzzy.

Leon didn't have to follow you out because you would end up back to him again. Looking up at him with your pretty tearful eyes as you begged him for comfort. So he could sooth your forehead from those deadly thoughts of worthlessness that would begin to claim your mind now he had admitted it. He finally let his smirk free when his phone chimed;

Usual spot?'

You didn't need his reply to know he would show up, you wiped your eyes with your sleeves ignoring the makeup that stained your jumper. You were to look like a mess right now as you sat at the bench. Your fingers craving something to hold onto as you felt like you were drowning, praying for the world to give you a happy ending for once. Leon's aftershave filled your nose as he sat down, the musky scent overpowering the saltiness of the pier. He was highlighted by the setting sun, giving his skin a warm orange glow as he looked at you. His confidence was dangerous, his smirk just as deadly when he looked at you. Leon was always a secret desire, a curse that you didn't meet before you wasted your time with the idiot that claimed to love you. His hip flask was cold against your hand as he pulled it from his jacket, handing it over as a silent invitation. He already knew what happened, he had swooped in over your rants and fear of your partner's infidelity when you accidentally let it slip when you tended to him again. So he began to help to the point of handing you the evidence.

There was no reason for you to reject him now; you were technically a free woman. Leon was waiting for your move, to tell him yes or no with your body language. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" His voice rumbled throughout your body from where you were laying against his side. The chill of the bench now bit against the fabric that covered your legs. "Please" you meekly responded. You allowed him to lead you away, to follow him towards his bike. You wrapped your arms around him, tugging your body close to his as you trusted him to take you away; to follow him in a new life.

His apartment wasn't anything new, you had shared many moments on the couch you were now perched upon, wrapped in the jumper he always preserved for you in the wardrobe. The glasses clinked on the coasters as he set them down, the whiskey bottle soon after as he filled the glasses with the amber liquid. The TV was quiet in the background of the room, the reality TV show providing entertainment neither of you were interested in. Leon's fingers itched to touch you, to tangle them in your hair as he tugged you close to his body. He was so close to succeeding his goal, to having you instead of that petty excuse of a man. You tried to focus on the TV and not the shift in his thighs or the way his fingers clenched against them. His jeans were tight around his crotch his bulge prominent and he wasn't even hard. You wanted to tease him, to be the reason his jeans became uncomfortably hard but it was too soon wasn't it? Would it make you just as bad as your partner? You were sure he would just go crawling on her arms now he had the freedom to do so. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad that you did the same.

Leon could feel your gaze, the intensity of it as he turned to meet. His eyes darkened as he peered at the lust that now glazed over your own. It was instinct that he leaned in capturing your lips with his in a clash of passion. He didn't care he was so eager to help you dump your ex, practically feeling giddy when he took those photos when he caught him in the act. All of it was worth it for you. To taste the hint of whiskey on your lips, to smell his aftershave and wash powder faintly on his hoodie that swamped you. His touch was needy, sliding under the item of clothing touching the skin of your waist. He towered over you, sinking you back into the fabric of the sofa. Leon's hips thrusted against you; the jeans providing friction to his actions. You could feel his need already, the bulge now prominent with the exact thing you craved.

His fingers paused at the clasp of your bra silently waiting for your permission. You knew if you didn't want this he would move, forget this happened and wait but he didn't have to do that because he caught the small nod of your head. A low chuckle leaving his lips as the smirk finally leaked onto his face. His body was too inviting, made you feel too special as he freed your tits from the bra. His finger instantly rolls over your pebbled nipples causing small whines to leave your lips. He swallowed them, drowning in the small heaves your body gave off as you lifted your chest towards his fingers with each breath. His stubble tickled your neck as he sucked on the skin there. You finally tugged on the strands of his hair bringing him close to you. His nose dug against the pulse point of your neck as his teeth nibbled leaving small marks. Claiming you as his finally.

Your hands reach to pull your pants and underwear away, attempting to shimmy the fabric away a difficult task with how he was pressed against you. Leon pulled back helping you, admiring how desperate you were to be treated right. He began to work on his own trousers, his cock springing free from his restraints. You admired it as he took off his shirt, you wanted to taste the beads of pre cum that dribbled from his tip. Leon sighed when he felt your kitten licks, his thrusted forward forcing his cock to enter the warmth of your mouth accidentally. He wanted to apologize until he heard your moan. The sound vibrates around his length like the expensive flesh light he has tucked away in his bedside table.

You were forgiving, taking his length as best you could whilst you ground yourself against the couch. You knew you looked pathetic, like some horny dog beneath him yet when you looked at him beneath your lashes he looked at you lovingly. Like he enjoyed how much you were pleasuring yourself instead of looking at you like you were providing a service or taking too long. His hand stroked the soft strands of your hair as he urged you to take more of him smiling as he felt you gag around him. "I don't want to do it like this princess, as nice as it feels" he whispered, almost pleading. You released him a line of dribble and pre cum following you.

You reached your hands at the hem of the jumper, ready to display your breasts for you but he stopped you. His hands pulling yours away pinning them above your head. "Don't you want to see them?" You whispered, confusion pinching at your brows. His hair fell over his face as he shook his head, "And miss the chance of fucking you in this jumper? The jumper I keep just for you to wear one-day as a proud display of being mine?"

His words sent heat to pool in your lower stomach, your clit throbbing with need and desperation of friction...pleasure. And who was Leon to deny you? To prevent you from feeling what a real man's love is, what a genuine orgasm is. So he began to work, one hand slithering down as he distracted you with a heated kiss. You gasped against his lips as he began to circle your clit, occasionally brushing over the sensitive nerve. He smiled as your hips followed his movements desperately trying to chase the pleasure that flooded your system. His mouth released yours allowing you whines and quick pants fill the room. He could feel his cock twitching the more the thought about your fold welcoming him. He slid his hand between your folds groaning at the arousal that had begun to leak against his couch.

He pulled his hand away, swallowing your whine with another kiss as he pushed himself into your warmth. He let out a deep groan as he bottomed out, feeling you clench around him. Leon was larger than your ex, stretching you more than he ever did. His balls thumbed against your ass as he began to move. His hands finally pulled away from your wrists, his thighs shimming under yours. His hands gripped at yours almost bruising the flesh as he started to move. You watched his eyes close as his mouth parted. For some reason you never expected him to be so vocal but the sounds were welcome.

You felt bad comparing him to your ex, comparing how much better he touched you, how possessive he was over you. You could feel the dull throb of the marks that littered your neck, your body covered in a light sheen of sweat from the heat his jumper was trapping. His thrusts quickened as he focused on drawing an orgasm out of you, his eyes pinning you in place as he watched your face contort in pleasure. He loved this. So thankful he did what he did to get it, it was his little secret gathering the evidence, pointing him in the direction of a coworker he knew the pathetic man wouldn't be able to resist.

He knew you were the one, no matter how persistent he was to treat you right before he formed his plan you rejected him and now you were here. Panting beautifully getting lost in the pleasure his cock was giving you. Your walls clenched tightly around him signalling you were close. So he worked faster. His pace was unforgiving, your toes curled against his waist as you wrapped your legs around him. Your nails scraped the skin on his forearms. "Please....please...leon- so close" you panted, chest heaving. He smirked angling his hips higher at the request. His fingers toying with the ball of nerves. Finally you broke, becoming limp in his arms as your orgasm shattered through you.

He followed through, working towards his own as he felt you gush around him. It didn't take long as the balls tightened. "Where?" He groaned trying to hold back waiting for your reply. You blinked at him smiling as you tried to process his words. "Princess...please..where?" He grunted. His fingers tapped your cheek bringing your attention back to him. "Inside..." You stuttered. You smiled as you felt his warmth flood through you. His load shooting so deep inside you, filling you with his essence. Leon's hips shuddered, his head falling against your shoulder as he savoured the feeling.

When he pulled his softened cock out he immediately began to find a cloth or tissue. You watched his naked form roam around his house. You admired him, appreciate his aftercare was to take care of you as you laid dazed on his couch before even dressing himself. Your form highlighted from the TV lights. His touch was soft and gentle as he cleaned you. Pulling on your underwear before his own. When he returned to the couch, sinking into the soft cushions he pulled you into his arms, enjoying how this felt as he draped a throw over the two of you. He kissed the crown of your head watching you as your eyes fluttered close. In this moment he promised not to mess up this chance, to finally have someone to care for, to live for. Even if he did do unconventional methods to obtain you, but that was his little secret.

[lydiimae]

Jealousy

A.N: OMG I am finally starting this blog. I am so so excited. This is a Benedict Bridgerton fic ofc. The true loml. I'm still debating if I will write only Bridgerton orrrrrr others? I dunno... but for now, here is a lovely, smutty, cutie, Ben fic hehe <3

Warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, vaginal sex, drinking, dirty talk, heavy praise, talk of public heavy petting ;)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Minors DNI!! 18+

He sighs from beside Eloise, shifting on the picnic blanket for what has to be the millionth time. "Brother, you worry too much about that woman." She mutters with an amused glint in her eye, taking a bite of one of the strawberry tarts the family maids had made for the occasion.

A family picnic was not a rarity during the social season, especially for the Bridgerton's. What was a rarity is that Benedict had invited a woman along, an incredibly important woman at that. Y/N L/N, a daughter of an influential Viscount. The woman he found himself to be head over heels in love with.

"I am not worried. I am merely observing so our brother does not make a fool of himself in front of her." He replies with a huff, taking a sip from his flask before tucking it back into his pocket.

You were merely speaking with his brother. His happily married older brother. He has no reason to be jealous, really, but something in him still tugs painfully at the sight of you speaking to another man. It is only when Kate comes to steal her husband away that you scootch back over to him, a bright smile on your face.

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You move back over to Benedict and look up at his cute pouty expression, smiling at the warmth that blooms in your chest as a result.

You wished to get to know his family before the inevitable happens. Marriage. You know, as well as he does, that you were both going to tie the knot as soon as it was acceptable to do so. You also know that he would scoop you up and marry you tomorrow if he had his way.

At the very first ball of the season, Lady Danbury insisted that she had someone for you to meet. Someone who enjoyed painting just as much as you did. So, she took your arm and led you away from your father to the Bridgerton family. You were confused, at first, when the already happily married Viscount, Anthony, turned to greet you. And then, as if the sea was parting, he appeared. A crooked grin on his face as he moved to see you. Benedict Bridgerton, although he is a second son, stole your heart as soon as you saw him.

From then on you waited with bated breath for every dance you would share, dreamt of him in your bedroom when you got home, and thought of nothing but him in between. You shared stolen glances at every event and even snuck off to any hidden corner or garden you could find for breathless kisses and entirely impolite words that sent your mind into a whirlwind you could not explain.

Soon enough, he started inviting you on promanades and even sooner he wished for you to dine with his family. Get to know his life outside of the stuffy ballroom, to which you found yourself falling even deeper in love than you could've ever imagined.

"You're pouting, Ben." You hum, taking a sip of your lemonade with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Indeed. Perhaps if you were not so caught up with my brother I would not have a reason to pout, hm?" He returns, moving to take another sip from his flask.

He was jealous? Of his married brother? You sigh and move your hand over his, shaking your head slightly. You hand him a glass of lemonade. If he truly is jealous, the last thing he needs is whiskey.

"If you truly wish to hear what we were talking about, I shall tell you." You return as he takes a sip of the lemonade you gave him. He moves his hand over yours, just out of sight of his family. A possessive gesture that makes your heart flutter.

"Yes, in fact, do enlighten me." He grumbles with a sigh. "His wife, Benedict. He was talking about his lovely wife, which if you have forgotten, happens to be my dear friend." You sigh, running your thumb over his knuckles.

He looks over at you, his green eyes sweeping down to your lips, then your chest, before finally looking back up. "I care not of what you were speaking about, I should like you to speak with me when it is I who invited you." He practically growls, the tone of his voice making the place between your legs heat up and dampen instantly. A feeling that only happened with him, something he had explained as both desire and arousal.

"You know that I-" You begin, but are cut off by him pulling you to your feet. The glasses of lemonade are now completely forgotten. "Mother, I should like to promenade with Lady Y/N." He fibs.

What he would really like to do is rip the skirt of your dress open, spread your legs wide, and plunge his cock so deep inside of your soaked cunt that you forget everything else. He wants to paint your insides with his seed right here, in front of the whole ton, so that every man can get a glimpse of who you truly belong to.

"Of course, dear. We shall not keep you." Violet replies with a smile before delving back into conversation with Eloise, who also looks up with a confused expression but quickly rolls her eyes and continues to speak to her mother.

You shoot him a questioning look to which he just raises an eyebrow and offers his arm. You take it and he begins to lead you away from the picnic canopies that many families have set up to dine under.

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"Where are we going?" You question after a moment, realizing that you are not following the path around the lake but rather the path to the carriages.

He stops and tugs you behind a tree, pushing you up against the trunk. The bark bites into the little exposed skin the back of your dress grants you and your cunt flutters when you see his expression.

Desire is different for men, he taught you. You can see it in the way his trousers tighten at the front and in the way his eyes haze over. His hands move to your waist and he bends down, pressing kisses all the way up your neck until he reaches your ear.

"Agree to marry me and I shall show you." He whispers, biting the soft flesh beneath your ear causing you to shiver and whine. He grins and licks over the tender skin, soothing the sting.

"You already know very well that I would say yes to any proposal you give me." You breathe, leaning your head back as your eyes flutter shut. His hand skates over your stomach, running up the smooth fabric of your dress until he meets your breast. He cups one and swipes his thumb over your hardened nipple through the fabric.

He pulls away, swiping the saliva off his bottom lip with his thumb before picking you up. You squeal and he chuckles, paying the driver of his carriage off before tucking you inside. He closes the door and the curtains on the window, darkness enclosing the both of you.

"Benedict." You whisper as he lays you back on the velvety bench. "Hush, my love. I shall not do anything before asking I swear it." The title makes your heart almost burst out of your chest. He dips down once more, pressing his lips to yours briefly.

You pull him back down before he gets very far, chasing one of those open-mouthed kisses he gave you at the last ball. He groans, his tongue swiping over yours. He grins over your lips at the sound that escapes, moving his hands to yours where they rest on his chest before breaking the kiss.

"Ben please." You whine, wanting him to continue so desperately. He only smiles, taking off your gloves. "You must have patience, my sweet girl. I am going to ravish you in due time." He assures, pressing soft kisses from your palm all the way up to your shoulder as he takes off his gloves as well.

He reaches your neck, to which he takes a deep breath. Taking in your scent of lavender and citrus, making him groan as it always does. "Do you remember when I taught you to ride my thigh?" He whispers, running his tongue down to your collarbone, nipping the skin.

The memory makes you flood your underwear. You remember well, how could you not? He had lead you to the garden at one of Lady Danbury's balls and sat you down on his lap on the edge of the fountain. He hiked up your skirt and led your hips back and forth until something inside of you snapped so hard you saw stars and stained his trousers. That is where he taught you about his arousal, about yours.

"Yes." You breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as one of his hands moves under your skirt. His slender fingers skating teasingly up your thigh. "Good girl." He praises. He cups your cunt without warning and you cry out, your hips canting.

"Fuck. You are absolutely drenched." He whispers, relishing in the moans he draws from your body just from keeping a hand over your cunt. "And I told you about sex, do you remember that darling?" He murmurs, watching your eyes flutter.

He slowly pushes your skirt up so he can slide off your panties. He tucks them into his pocket, smiling to himself. "Yesss." You moan as the air hits your bare sex. "You told me it happens when we get married." You whisper between whines as his hand comes back, his fingers curling into your pubic hair.

"Such a good listener. So good for me." He praises, sliding two of his fingers along your drenched slit before finding your clit with expert touch. He rubs a slow circle on your button and you moan loudly, throwing your head back. "Now, when a man has honor he waits to take a woman's innocence. But my honor disappeared when I saw you with my brother," You try and protest but he pinches your clit and you cry out before you can get so much as a whisper out.

"So I will take you now. In this damn carriage." He growls, moving his free hand to your hips to hold you down. You whine when his fingers move down. "Fuck you are perfect," He breathes. "I'm going to slide one of my fingers inside now, darling, alright?" He murmurs, the switch from possessive to sweet sending your mind reeling. So overwhelmed, so mindless Just how he likes you.

You nod tentatively, your heart rate spiking which he picks up on. He shifts so he is over you, and kisses the crown of your head. "I'll go slow, hm? Nice and slow. All you need to do is pat my arm twice and I'll stop." He assures, calming your heart. You nod and nuzzle his neck.

He slowly plunges a long finger into your weeping cunt and you whine at the invasion. "Good girl, fuck you are so tight." You gasp and writhe as he curls his finger, the feeling sending a shock straight to your clit. He slowly adds another finger and you moan loudly, your eyes rolling back.

"Ben... so good. Feels...." You cry out when his fingers curl into a spot that sends waves of pleasure through you. He grins and begins to rock his fingers, drawing heavenly noises from your soaked cunt. The carriage filled with the sound of your moans and the squelching of your pussy.

He licks a stripe up your neck, beginning to suck as he rocks his fingers. You curl a hand in his thick curls and tug, your hips desperately trying to move against the palm of his hand.

He kisses your jaw, and then your chin, before finally capturing your lips. His tongue immediately sliding past your swollen lips and tangling with yours. You moan into his mouth as his thumb presses down on your swollen clit, moving clockwise as he rocks his fingers into your body.

He breaks the kiss and pulls out his fingers, much to your dismay, before unbuttoning his trousers. "Benedict... why did you stop? It felt so very nice..." You whine, grinding on nothing to try and gain some sort of feeling.

He groans at the sight, bending down and pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek. "My harlot of a fiancee. So needy for something she does not even know the half of." He praises as he slowly frees his cock, the sight along with his filthy words making you gasp.

He pulls back and strokes himself with the help of your delicious wetness, before looking back at your sweet face. All flushed and wide-eyed. He moves his free hand to your chin, running his thumb over your bottom lip.

"It will not fit, Benny." You whisper, suddenly frightened. His eyes soften and he moves down pressing a swift kiss to your lips. "It will, my love. We will go slow, I promise. Remember what I told you, two pats on my arm and we will stop." He hums, peppering your face with kisses which causes you to giggle and calm a bit. "Perhaps one pat for apprehension, hm?" He murmurs with a smile, pulling back. You nod.

"Good girl." He hums. He leans in and runs his length through your soaked folds drawing moans from the both of you. "Fuck. God, I love you." He grunts and you smile, draping your arms over your eyes to cover your blush. "I love you too, Benedict." You whisper back.

He slowly pushes into your body, throwing his head back at how tight your pretty pussy is. You cry out at the invasion, your hands shooting down to grasp at the edges of the carriage bench. The feeling is a strange mix of pain and something different. A tart taste on your tongue paired with a tingly feeling in your already hot womb. "Fucking hell." He groans before tucking his face in the crook of your neck, stopping halfway so you can adjust.

You whine and wrap your arms around his neck after a moment. "P-Please..... more. I need more, Benedict." You gasp after the pain subsides. God, he almost comes right there. He wants you like this all the time, mindless for his cock. Begging him to fuck you.

"Good fucking girl, Y/N." He grunts before bottoming out inside of you. You moan and toss your head back into the seat cushion and he groans at the feeling. "You feel so good, my love. So ripe, so wet. God, so very tight just for me." He praises.

He begins to move slowly, the slap of thighs meeting thighs filling the carriage. The feeling is so foreign but fuck you never want it to stop. Moans and whines slip past your lips before you can even begin to try and stop them, and you cry out as he speeds up. The noises he is drawing from your body would embarrass you if you didn't adore the way he feels inside of you to the point that you can think of nothing else. You wish to be like this as much as you can, full to the brim with his cock.

"Benedict." You moan and he stalls, gritting his teeth. "Never ever stop moaning my name, you vixen. God, I am a lucky man. The luckiest man in the world." He praises you as he begins to slam into you.

You grip his coat so hard you are surprised the velvety fabric hasn't torn. You cry out when his thumb finds your clit, the feeling sending you up to the clouds. "Come for me, my love." He grunts from above you with a slight slap on your thigh. That sends you over, your vision going white as you scream his name.

He thrusts a few more times before pulling out and pumping himself. He releases with a groan onto your stocking-covered thigh before collapsing on top of you.

After a moment he lifts his head to look at you, brushing your fallen hair out of your face. You smile, almost drunkenly, as you look at him. "That was heavenly." You whisper and he smirks, pressing a kiss to your lips.

"Just wait until we are married. I cannot wait to fill you with my seed and see you plump with my child." He murmurs. resting his head back on your shoulder. Your hand absentmindedly finds his hair, running through his messy curls.

"We have to go back." You whisper to which he shakes his head. "Not yet. I paid off the driver. We have as much time to rest as we wish, dearest." He hums, his eyes closed. You grin and close yours as well, slowly dozing off with him.

You are the luckiest woman in the world.

[bvtbxtch]

Never Have I Ever // Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Since the party you were planning to attend got rained out, you and your best friend would have a party for two at his house. But, what happens when inhibitions are lost and lines crossed during a drinking game?

wc: ~4k

Author's note: Forewarning, there is minimal proof reading on this little one shot! I had a stroke of inspiration and used the results of a poll I held to morph the type of fic I was going to post! Thank you if you voted!

Warnings: My blog is 18+ so MDNI!! inebriated intercourse, p in v sex, oral (f receiving, face riding), handjobs, slight overstimulation, unprotected sex (wrap it up), moaning, slight talk of Robin's sexuality and reader kissing a girl once, use of gendered language like girl and nicknames like dolly, no use of Y/N, only minorly proofed.

Masterlist

“You didn’t answer the question!” Eddie prodded. 

-

Your plans to attend a bush party at Lover’s Lake was thwarted by an aggressive thunderstorm. You and your best friend decided to reserve the party for the two of you, a pizza, joint, and the flask of whiskey you were planning to tote to the lake. You lazed against Eddie’s side on the ratty futon under the modest awning attached to the Munson trailer. The joint paired well with listening to the rain pat on the tin roof, thunder sparsely underscoring your conversations. Your half baked idea of playing party games with the two of you would soon be your downfall.

“Let’s play never have I ever first” you propose. Eddie rolls his eyes and scoffs at you. You throw a pointed look at him.

“What are you, twelve?”

“It’s a party! We said we have to play party games!” you whined.

“How are we gonna play this when I know, like, everything about you?” Eddie poked into your side. The few puffs of the joint you were both sharing already made you more giggly than normal. You squirmed away from Eddie’s body and sat facing him.

“Never have I ever…” Eddie watched your face twist into an adorable grimace. “Fuck, this might be harder than I thought.” Suddenly, your eyes lit up. “Oh! Okay, never have I ever drunk called an ex.” As close as you were, you and Eddie never talked about sex or girlfriends. Of course you were around for any of the girls he introduced you to, but you also knew that Eddie had a less than stellar reputation. the ' freak of hawkins high’ rarely had dates or serious girlfriends, but from his dealing and working at the Hideout, you only assumed there had been some escapades. A pang of jealousy hit your heart while you thought about someone else in Eddie’s bed, but you were curious. Did he have more experience than you? Was he curious about what you’d done? Were you willing to tell him? You tried to be nonchalant while you waited for Eddie’s response, but the questions kept swirling in your mind. 

Eddie’s cheeks blushed as he put the beer can up to his mouth and took a swig. Your eyebrows raised in curious surprise. 

“Who?” You blurted, almost desperate to know. 

“That’s not part of the game, sweetheart.” Eddie quipped. A lopsided grin spreading from behind his can of beer. You rolled your eyes and sat back, waiting for Eddie’s question.

“Never have I ever… kissed someone of the same sex” You rolled your eyes as you swigged hastily at your beer. Eddie’s eyes doubled in size.

“Wait, what? Seriously?” He let out an impressed chuckle. You frowned at him and crossed your arms. He looked at you expectantly. 

“It was fucking Heather Holloway in like softmore year and it was out of curiosity, you creep.” Eddie shook his head satisfyingly at you. 

“I knew you were a freak.” He kicked at your crossed legs. You bit your lip in frustration. Fine, if Eddie wanted to get personal, you could get personal.

“Never have I ever been rejected by someone I really liked” your eyes bore into Eddie’s and you saw the rambunctious glint in his eyes dull. He lost eye contact with you as he took a sad sip of his beer. You instantly felt bad. Your hands and gaze fell to your lap. 

“I thought you knew about this…” Eddie peeped. You violently shook your head. Eddie opened his mouth and shut it again, unsure of if he really wanted to tell you. He doubted it, but the looming anxiety that you would judge him, or use this as ammunition against him later. He fought the feelings and words came out like vomit. 

“Carol Perkins. I… I asked her out when I was a junior and she was a senior. I thought I had seen her looking at me. Billy Hargrove, who I mistook as one of the outcasts - you know Hargrove - actively anti King Steve and the institution. He told me he overheard Carol talking about wanting to go out with me. So, I asked her…” Eddie took a sharp inhale “She laughed in my face and the next day I found a dead racoon in my locker. The basketball had stolen my stash and I was out a hellfire shirt and my month’s rent…” he still had the ability to let out a dry chuckle. “But that’s the day that I said fuck it all and started doing shit just for me, so I guess in a way I should thank them. If all of that shit didn’t happen I don’t think we would have started hanging out.” He flashes you a sad smile and you don’t know if it's the joint or the beer, but all you want to do is crawl into Eddie’s lap and kiss the frown off his face. 

“Anyways” Eddie cleared his throat “My turn..” Eddie’s face formed into a mischievous grin. “Never have I ever thought about sleeping with someone in our friend group.” Your face paled and you felt your stomach sink to your ass. Since senior year, you had formed fast friendships with your small circle. You thought of Eddie, Steve, Robin, Nancy and Jonathan as family rather than friends. They were there for you more than your parents were. You did everything together. Thinking of one of them in a romantic way, more than friendship, that would be insane wouldn’t it? You felt your stomach tighten in anxiety and you raised the warming can of beer to your lips. The pats of rain seemed deafening. Your gaze flicked between Eddie’s surprised face and the gloomy parking lot. 

“Okay, you can’t withhold this information from me,” Eddie said, all too excited to pick your brain. He needed to know if you had thought about him too. Fuck he thought to himself, I knew she had the hots for Harrington. Who doesn’t? His heart sank preemptively. You violently shook your head at him, followed by as many nopes as the air in your lungs could muster.

“Come on, sweetheart. You’re killing me!” Eddie repositioned so he was sitting on his heels, right up and facing you, his eyes pleading. You crossed your arms, you weren’t budging. 

“What if I ask a name and you drink if it's that person? Will you answer me?” Eddie begged. 

“Never have I ever sold drugs,” your voice was pointed, hoping to get him to drink and take the hint.

“You didn’t answer the question.” Eddie prodded. “Will you drink if I say a name?” He took the joint from the ashtray and put it to your lips “Come onnnnnnnn! It’s just us, I’m not gonna say anything.” you rolled your eyes as you took the joint from Eddie and took a large inhale. He smiled at you wickedly.

“Okay, is it Byers?” you took another drag of the joint. Eddie eyed the hand holding your beer, watching for any twitches or inklings of your hand moving.

“Wheeler?” you scoffed and shook your head.

“Assuming Buckley is out of the question then… But does she know that you’ve swung both ways? She might be into it” You scoffed and hit Eddie on the shoulder while he snickered at you with a small ‘I’m kidding’

“So, then it’s obvious!” Eddie’s smile widened and your heart faltered.

“You are so in love with Steve Harrington!” Eddie closed his eyes and made fake kissy noises at you. To his surprise, he opened his eyes to see your cheeks furiously red, but the beer had not left your lap. Eddie looks at you confused.

“But that’s everyo-”

“You forgot one person, Munson.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. You wanted the universe to swallow you whole. 

“Wait, me?” Eddie seemed genuinely shocked. Your eyes locked and you brought the beer up to your lips, tilted your head all the way back and finished the remainder of what was in the can. You felt your body shaking. You threw the can to the ground and looked at Eddie. Desperate for him to say something.

“Your turn.” You flashed the boy a confused look. That’s all he wanted to say. You sat frozen and overwhelmed, unsure of what to say.

“Ask me the same question I just asked you” Eddie demanded. His voice was low and grovely.

“Never have I ever thought about sleep-” You couldn’t finish the question before Eddie’s lips were on his can of beer, following your suit and finishing the rest in a large chug. Your mouth opened in awe. Before you could say anything, Eddie threw his can to the ground and lunged to you, his hands finding your fiery cheeks and lips connecting with yours. His mouth felt searing on yours, like he was welding himself to you. Your breath was instantly robbed from your lungs. You couldn’t help but fall back on the futon, Eddie’s body trapping you underneath him. You kiss him back, feverishly, worried that if Eddie moved his lips too far away from yours that he would disappear and you would never get to kiss him again.

Eddie pulled his mouth from yours and you whined in protest. Your whimper dissolved in your throat as the mophead’s soft lips made purchase with the pulse point where your ear and jaw met. You felt Eddie’s smile pressed against you as you squirmed under his touch. In a swift movement, Eddie pulled himself back against the futon and pulled you on top of him, more than happy to meet your lips again when you straddled on top of him.

“I can’t even tell you how long I have wanted to do that” Eddie panted between kisses. You moaned at his words, granting him access to discover your mouth with his tongue. His hands ghosted down the sides of your torso to your hips and you bucked at his soft touch. He hissed at the friction of your denim clad core grinding against him.

“Eddie, I…” the boy shushed you, his eyes looked up to you, impossibly dark and pleading.

“Can I take you inside, please?” Eddie groveled. You obliged him with a nod and a smile. You squealed as Eddie stood up with you in his arms and he swung the front door open. The door closed with a slam and Eddie had you pressed against the cold door, the shock eliciting a sharp hiss from you that made a knot form in Eddie’s core.

His mouth found yours again, but his kiss was frantic, a gnash of tongue and teeth that led you panting, barely able to keep up. Eddie needed to show you how bad he wanted you. Your arms migrated around his neck and hands raked through his curls at the nape of his neck. His rumbly groan into your kiss swollen lips sent sparks through your veins. Eddie mouthed at the sides of your lips and trailed down your neck to your collarbone. He sucked an indigo bruise into your skin. You sighed in pain, and then in pleasure as Eddie licked over the offended skin. He traced sloppy kisses across the old v neck t-shirt you were wearing. Eddie pulled away and looked at you and thought he could cum right there. You already looked so fucked out: skin a rosy flush, freckles on display and chest heaving with need. You leaned forward at him, desperate to feel his lips back on yours. 

“You’re perfect” Eddie whispered before reattaching his lips to yours. He swung you from the door and clumsily led you down the hallway to his room, only disconnecting from you to take short breaths. You both collapsed into the metalhead’s unmade bed. His room always felt like home to you. You had watched countless movies, read books, laughed and cried in this room. This felt like an extension of your own home; but now there was an unfamiliar threshold that you had crossed. 

Eddie pulled at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for you to remove it. You obliged him and took it off, putting your bralette on display. You felt self conscious about your underwear choice, but Eddie looked at you like you hung the moon. He sent you a wicked smile that reminded you of your friend Eddie, not this interesting stranger sat in front of you.

“So, doll. You said you had dreams about us” He cooed as he prowled towards you. You backed yourself up until you were leaning against his wall, nipples threatening to poke through the thin fabric that concealed your decency. You nodded at him, already too kiss drunk and desperate to respond. 

“Tell me what we did in your dream? What do you want me to do to you, princess?” Eddie’s growl went straight to your core and the tension you felt in your abdomen tightened impossibly.

“Everything, Eddie. Give me everything” you breathed. 

“Well, I can’t do that with these on” Eddie tisked as he played with the metal button on your jeans. “Can I take those off you, doll? I think they’d look better on the floor anyways” You whimpered a yes as Eddie expertly slid your jeans down your thighs. Eddie felt his mouth water as he drank new parts of your body in. He studied the moles and freckles that he saw leading up your thighs, just in case you changed your mind and you never wanted to do this again.

His large hands trailed up and down your bare sides and an eruption of goosebumps formed on your skin.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

Eddie pushed a greedy kiss onto your lips before pushing himself down on the bed. His pupils dilated as he leveled himself with your clothed core. 

“Eddie,” you pleaded, grabbing at the shoulders of his shirt.

“You feeling singled out, doll?” Eddie cooed as he pulled his shirt off. You had seen Eddie shirtless, plenty of times. But now, you noticed the small details. How his pecks subtly popped, dark black ink scrawled on his ribs. His skin was so pale you could see faint purple outlines of veins kissing his skin. You sat up to meet his torso, peppering it with kisses and small nibbles, feeling Eddie tensing in pleasure and hearing his soft moans as you kissed lower and lower. You grabbed for Eddie’s belt, but he grabbed your wrist in protest.

“I want to make this about you right now, doll” you pouted at his declaration. “Trust me, I’ll give you your chance to take my cock, but right now I just really need to see you - to taste you. Is that okay?” He was stern, but his eyes were soft, searching for any hesitation in your glowing eyes. You bit your lip in an anxiously excited smile. Eddie pushed you back into his pillows and he lowered himself back down to your heat. Your breathing had picked up and he hadn’t even touched you yet. Eddie set his hand on your pussy and you gasped in euphoria. Eddie’s smile put both of his dimples on display. He looked up with you in pride. He loved that he was able to make you feel this good already - fuck, he had barely touched you. With a small ‘fuck’ under his breath, he pressed the pad of his thumb into the crease where your clit rested, throbbing eagerly in anticipation. Eddie could feel how wet you were already and he couldn’t help but buck his hips into his mattress as you writhed at his touch. Eddie wished he could capture every sweet sound you were making so he could listen to you forever. He teased you by swirling tight, slow circles around your clit. He laughed when you gave him a flustered huff. You needed more, or else you might explode.

You were indulged as Eddie pulled your underwear down to reveal your waiting pussy. God, you had made a mess for him already. You wanted to cross your legs, to hide from him, but Eddie let out a pornographic moan as he spread your legs wider. You looked down to him, his brown eyes blown out, waiting for any protest before continuing. You sent him a lovestruck smile and he swiped his tongue against your slick core. Your eyes rolled back and Eddie hummed into you.

“So sweet, doll. So fucking sweet”

Eddie explored all of you with his tongue; reaching places you had never felt pleasure before. You could feel a rutting at the bottom of the bed, underscored by Eddie’s soft grunts. Whatever cool you had was fading fast; with Eddie’s assault on you, along with him chasing his own pleasure, the knot in your core was threatening to snap. You sang a chorus of pleases and yesses to the head of curls between your legs. You snaked your hand into his curls and tugged, frantically trying anything to ground yourself. Eddie groaned and pulled away from you, an almost evil smirk on his face. 

“I want you to fuck my face doll. Show me just how you like it. Use me, please.” Eddie panted at you. He stuck his tongue back onto your quivering core and you instinctively bucked your hips. Eddie’s hand grabbed the wrist that was in his hair as an encouragement to use him as leverage. He happily stuck his tongue out flat to give you the most surface to play with.

You had never made the sounds you made on Eddie’s tongue; moans were borderline screams as your whole bloodstream flushed with lava. 

“Good girl, dolly. Cum for me, please. Make yourself cum.” Eddie’s praises drove you over the edge and you felt a hot white rush flood your body. Your legs shook and your grip on Eddie’s hair loosened. Eddie continued to guide your hips in a small circular motion to guide you through your orgasm, happily lapping up all the essence you’d give him.

“Eddie, please, I need you” you had little strength in you to beg, but if you didn’t feel Eddie inside you, you thought you might die. 

“You want that, honey? You want me to fuck you?”

“Eddie, I literally haven’t wanted anything more” You knew you would chide yourself later for the desperation, but Eddie didn’t care. He fumbled with his belt as you sat yourself up. Eddie looked at you quizzically when he peeled off his jeans.

“I want to ride you please, Eddie. If… if that’s okay.” Eddie’s smile could be contested only by the cheshire cat.

“Is that what you think about? Riding me?” Eddie almost giggled in glee - you saw another flash of the boy you were so proud to call your best friend; willing to tease, but looked at you like a piece of art. You coyly shook your head. Eddie sat himself against the wall and pulled his boxers down, exposing his painfully hard cock. 

You hadn’t seen many in your life, and hardly knew what an exceptional cock was, but Eddie’s was the best you had ever seen. Length and Girth equally impressive, and a manicured bundle of hair set at the base. His upper thighs were decorated with more tattoos that you hadn’t seen before. You drank the metalhead’s body in before leaning in to touch him. It was Eddie’s turn to blush. He could tell from the shimmer in your eyes that you thought he was beautiful. 

You tentatively wrapped your hand around the base of his cock and Eddie let go a long hiss while tipping his head back. He was so close already and it took all of his strength to ground himself. He bit his bottom lip until he swore he tasted blood. He couldn’t stand to watch you pump him, in fear of finishing way too quickly. He focused on his breath while you traced his length deliciously slowly. 

“Honey, please,” Eddie whimpered. “I need you on top of me or else I’m not gonna make it.” Eddie let out a breathy chuckle. You swung your leg over his body and lined your entrance up with his weeping cock. He grabbed his base and guided his head through your slick folds - wet enough to lubricate his entrance. You looked to Eddie for permission to sink onto him and both of your chests wracked out loud moans as you fully sheathed him inside you. You stilled, getting used to the stretch; you leaned into Eddie’s pale torso, showering kisses across his chest and neck. His large hands captured your cheeks and he pulled you into a kiss.

Something was different. Your kisses were desperate, explorative before. But you felt Eddie’s desire and longing for you. He told you with every move of his mouth how much you meant to him, how beautiful he thought you were and how much he wanted to spend all of his time with you. Your heart squeezed and you thought it may explode. Eddie pulled his mouth away from yours and steadied his hands on your hips in a tight grip. You watched Eddie concentrate while he looked at his dick sinking out of your cunt and disappearing into you again. Your heart flipped looking at his concentration. Eddie's brows were furrowed and his tongue poked out of his bottom lip - like it did most times he was deep in concentration. There was a sheen of sweat that formed on his forehead, making some of his rogue curls stick to his skin. He looked unreal, one of the most beautiful things you had seen in your life. Eddie bucked into you at an increasing pace, hitting spots that you could only wish your own fingers could reach. The boy’s pink lips parted in ecstasy as he began to fuck up into you harder.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna.. I-”

You planted your hands on Eddie's chest and grinded down on his hips, stilling his thrusts. His eyes flew open at you and he dug small crescent shapes into your sides. He choked out a pornographic sob as you rolled your hips. The slick of your own wetness added extra friction to Eddie’s abdomen, hurdling you closer to another orgasm. You grabbed Eddie’s chin, desperate to watch him unravel for you.

“Cum for me Eddie, I need to feel you” you tried to sound forceful and dominating, but with your own finish impending, you could barely get the words out. Tears pricked Eddie’s cheeks as waves of pleasure wracked his body. You could feel him twitching inside of you and it made your legs begin to shake. Suddenly, Eddie’s grip hardened and allowed him to fuck up into you, sending aftershocks through his own body and throwing you over the edge yet again. 

You screamed out in pure pleasure, no other place for all the energy in your body to get out. You shook around Eddie as his face distorted in pleasure and overstimulation. You collapsed onto his chest, breathing matching Eddie’s hard pants. He pulled you over to his side with praises.

You both quieted and sat in contemplative silence. The only sound was the pounding rain continuing its barrage on Hawkins.

“Well?” Eddie finally broke the silence “Was it as good as you imagined it would be?” You rolled your eyes as he poked at your side. 

“I’m never telling you anything ever again, Munson,” you joked. He took a dramatic breath and pretended to be offended.

“Well I never! You’re supposed to tell your boyfriend everything!” 

“Boyfriend eh?” You blushed.

“Well, I feel at this point it’s only natural.” Eddie joked. He kissed you softly, carefully, as if your lips were rose petals. “And, I know we’re past playing never have I ever, but when I thought about you, it always ended up with you being my girlfriend.” Eddie shot you a nervous smile. His cheeks grew red. 

“Well, I did say give me everything, didn’t I?”

Taglist: @eddies-acousticguitar @mmunson86 @sadbitchfangirl @hideoutside @anxiousobserver @ali-r3n @brinleighsstuff @filth-fiction-archive @vintagehellfire @kirstinjayjay @poofyloofy @sluggzillaa @aol19 @keikoraven @emxxblog @adrenalineeerevolver @crybabyddl @lovemegood @cherry-pop3547 @cozmiccass @leelei1980 @trixyvixx @skylar-ish-meh @harrysgothicbitch @thehuntresswolf @girlwiththerubyslippers @blueberry-lemon @duncanhillscoffeecups @comeonatmebruh @them-cute-boys @cowboylikemunson @veemoon @v1per1ne If you would like to be added to my taglist, please consider following and filling out this form

[motorsportbarbie13]

Zip Me Up?

In which you're getting ready for a night out but you need your boyfriend's help. Or do you?

Warnings: none unless you hate tooth achingly sweet fluff Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

When you heard the front door snick close, your eyes fall straight to your phone. 6:45. Shit. You were going to be late and you weren’t even dressed yet. In your defense, you had spent a few extra hours at the salon that day with Carmen who kept talking you into more and more treatments. ‘It’s a reward for getting through your first F1 season as a WAG!’ she had joked while Lily nodded along in agreement on your other side, which lead to you adding a facial on to the end of your massage Lando had booked for you today. 

You were regretting it now because that door closing signaled that your boyfriend was home and you were still sat in front of vanity mirror in the skimpy black lingerie that was supposed to be a surprise for Lando after the FIA awards tonight. You knew he was still salty about losing the championship to Max by 20 points and the bits of lace and silk were supposed to help get his mind off things. 

While the season had ended well, with Lando picking up a total of seven wins and McLaren securing their first constructors championship on ages, the sting of losing out to Max in the end was just a bit too much for your boyfriend to handle. You had known him for years, your brother racing the same circuits as Lando as a child, so you knew how competitive he was and how badly it hurt him to come up just short. While your brother had left the sport after he turned 16, he had joined the McLaren racing team as first an engineer before being promoted to strategist. 

You had run into Lando at the McLaren Technical Center one afternoon two years back while visiting your brother, a spark that had been present when you both were younger igniting again with one single look. The rest, as they say, was history. It had been a whirlwind really, the timing of it all simply perfect. 

“Babe, you almost ready? The car is going to be here in fifteen.” Lando calls from what sounds like the kitchen. He had just popped out to get bottle of whiskey to put in his flask, insisting that being half way drunk was the only way he was going to survive the awards dinner. 

In the kitchen, Lando sets the bottle of whiskey down before opening the silver flask you had gotten him for his birthday in November. Engraved on the side was his monogram and a tiny little F1 car under it. 

“Almost ready! Be out in five!” You shout back and Lando can’t help but chuckle. Five minutes in your time was actually closer to 15 so he knew he had time for a drink. 

Lando busies himself in the kitchen while he waits, knowing he’s going to tease you about taking so long to get ready while not meaning a word of his banter. You scurry about the bedroom, for once glad he hasn’t come looking for you so you can get ready quickly without being distracted. It was Lando’s constant state: Distraction. His curls distracted you. His smile distracted you. The way he said your name distracted you. Everything about your boyfriend caused you to be utterly distracted and while you wouldn’t have it any other way, sometimes a girl just needs 10 minutes alone to focus and get her makeup on. 

Minutes pass and the house is quiet, save for the clink of some ice in a glass as Lando enjoys a quick drink before you leave for the night. 

“Lan?” You call and God does that do something to him. The nickname you have for him is his favorite word. Not because he likes being called Lan, although he doesn’t mind. No, he loved it because of the way his name fell off your lips like sweet slow drips of honey, sugary coated and thick. 

He makes his way down the hall, knowing exactly where to find you: your dressing room. It had been your only demand when you moved in with him 3 months ago. If he got a gaming room, you deserved a dressing room. And Lando, not being one to ever say no to you, had immediately had his workout room converted to the dressing room of your dreams. 

He stops once he reaches the doorway, pausing to lean against the frame to take you in. Your hair was done in loose curls, the shiny locks tumbling down over your shoulders made him forget his last name. Your black dress, shimmering under the dim lights you only used after your makeup was finished, was a long column of silk that made Lando’s throat go dry. 

When you see him standing there, practically eating you alive with the feral look on his face, a slow grin spreads across your face. “Hi baby.” You coo before gathering your hair up in one hand while spinning around. “Can you zip my dress up for me?”

Truth be told, you could have probably done it yourself but you also wanted to give Lando a sneak at what was under your dress right when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Teasing him with little glimpses of skin was one of your favorite past times. Lando knew that you could have done it yourself too, but he appreciated being needed and would never pass up the opportunity to run his fingers up your bare skin.

“Of course.” He says, crossing the room in a few strides to come stand behind you. Your perfume, a sweet and spicy dream of a fragrance, settled across his skin where it would linger all night, a constant reminder that you were his now. When you had waltzed into the MTC visiting your brother two years ago, he hadn’t recognized you at first. The moment he heard your voice though? He had known he was a goner. 

His fingers deftly maneuver the zipper up towards the top of the gown, the pads of his fingers leaving a smattering of goosebumps in their wake. When his job is done and your dress is secure, Lando dips his head to drop an open mouthed kiss in the crook of your neck, a place you can often find him kissing. When he starts to drag his tongue from his favorite spot up the column of your neck, you can’t help the sigh that falls from your lips on a whisper. Here it was, the distraction. 

“You look exquisite tonight.” He murmurs when his mouth reaches your ear, breath dusting along the shell of your ear. 

“Thank you.” Your voice is embarrassingly breathy but Lando’s fingers digging into your hips says he’s not embarrassed one bit. He didn’t say a word about the lace that was for him, but you know he saw it. “Sorry I’m running behind. Carmen, Lily, and I took longer at the salon today than I anticipated.” 

Lando spins you around, shaking his head when your gaze meets his. “It’s fine, we’re not really all that late. I’m glad you’re getting along with the other girls.” 

You nodded, the corner of your mouth ticking up at the thought of your friends, also girlfriends of F1 drivers, who had really taken you under your wing this season. Being in the public eye like the WAGs tended to be was not for the faint of heart and there had been several times this season where only the girls were able to understand your struggle to adjust to life with Lando. 

The two of you stand there for a moment, taking in the sight of each other. You were able to travel to most of the races so you didn’t often go too long without seeing Lando, but there was something settling about it now being winter break, all work suspended for the time being while everyone decompressed after a hard season. You had made it through, relationship stronger than ever, and the silent conversation that happens while you two reflect on how everything has changed so quickly has your heart fluttering in your chest. 

Lando’s the first to break the spell, forced to drop his attention to his phone that was buzzing quietly. “That’s the car.” He says, sounding almost sad that the two of you will have to leave the comfort of your private cocoon tonight and put on your public faces for the evening. 

Moments later, Lando is helping you into your jacket before twining his fingers with your own. More kisses are dropped on your cheeks and neck as you both scuttle towards the door, the hired car likely double parked in front of your building. You knew Lando would have rather stayed home tonight, not wanting to have to share you or your attention with anyone but you also knew tonight would serve as a good closing chapter on your first year together and for that, you were forever grateful. 

[froggiewrites]

give me any more crumbs of vampire law and I'll start a revolution in your name. and if you do something for vampire sanji.......... then I'll just have to give you my first newborn

Anon, this request has been turning over in my head since you sent it. The reason it took me so long is genuinely because I got so excited I had too many ideas! There's so many different ways someone can react to undeath, and all of them are so fun to explore. I hope you enjoy this, I had an absolute blast writing it.

A Human's Touch

Pairing: Vampire!Sanji x Hunter!Reader

NSFW

Summary: You've never hesitated in your path before, but your latest quarry attracts you far more than you want to admit. Warnings: AFAB!Reader (gender neutral pronouns used), Mild Angst, Blood Drinking, Biting, Oral (Reader Receiving), Vaginal Sex Word Count: 4.8k

Your quarry tonight appears to be in his early twenties. He’s handsome. Most of them are, really, but there’s something different about him. He’s not just attractive in the way most monsters are, in that dangerous and sharp way that pulls you in. When he smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges, he’s almost…cute. Approachable.

It almost makes him look alive.

You clench your teeth, reminding yourself again and again that he isn’t human. It’s the ones that can pass as normal that are the most dangerous. The ones you feel sorry for, the ones some naive part of you wants to save. There is no saving these monsters. What you do is the closest thing they’ll get to absolution, to peace. It’s not natural for the dead to walk among the living.

You make your way to the bar next to him, flagging down the bartender. You know very well how to play the part of an easy victim: the vacant eyes, the wide smile. This time you act as if you’re already a few drinks in, having taken a quick swig of whiskey from your flask in the parking lot to ensure you smell right. Vampires have an excellent sense of it, you’ve learned, and you don’t want to risk tipping him off.

You feel a tap on your shoulder, and you know you’ve got him.

His smile is like the sun. “I’ve never seen you around here before, angel. What’s your name?”

You open your mouth to tell him the one that matches the fake ID you just flashed at the bartender, the one your car is registered to, the one you’ve been living under recently, but instead you make possibly the biggest misstep you’ve ever made on a hunt. You tell him your real name.

His eyes soften a bit at the sound of your voice, something in them growing fond. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the creature fell in love with you at first sight. How sad that would be. “It’s a beautiful name. It fits you.” You’ve heard that same empty compliment a thousand times from things like him, wearing the faces of beautiful men and women who thought they could reel you in. It shouldn’t move you. But your heart, the wretched traitor, it skips a beat anyway. It believes he means it.

“Thank you,” you murmur, cheeks warming despite yourself. “Do I get to know yours?”

“Sanji. It’s a pleasure.” He reaches for your hand, bringing your fingers to his lips. The brush of them against your skin is so gentle you can almost forget the sharp canines behind them. “Do you have company tonight?”

You lean forward a little, purposefully flashing a bit of skin to draw his eyes to your neck and chest. It works flawlessly. “I don’t know, Sanji. Do I?”

He grins. “You can have anything you want from me, sweetheart.”

He’s going to regret that.

It’s a quick ride back to his place. You generally prefer not to follow vampires back to their lairs (it’s bad for one’s health, generally, to fight a monster on their own turf), but the carpet in your motel room is white, and you don’t want to have to spend hours scrubbing your own blood out of it. You’re hoping that he’ll feel more comfortable in his own home, relaxed enough to make mistakes, to underestimate you as they usually do. You rely on it. Even the strongest human is nothing compared to the weakest monster.

“Make yourself at home,” he offers, after holding the door open for you. A small measure of politeness you aren’t used to. Usually they don’t show that kind of grace to their prey.

“Thank you.” You give him what you’re sure is a heart-stopping smile, one that’s well practiced. He reacts accordingly, smiling back widely, a bit of red coming to his cheeks. You stop short for a moment, entranced by the sight. You didn’t know they could blush. You don’t know a lot about them other than how to kill them. Before you know it, you’re leaning forward slightly, hand reaching for his cheek, desperate to know if they’ll be warm beneath your fingertips. You come to your senses about halfway, hand hanging limply in the air as you both stare at it. It’s your turn to blush as you wretch it back to you. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright.” This smile is gentler, kinder. “I’m not one to deny the warm touch of another, or the connection it brings. You don’t have to hold back with me, dear.” You don’t miss the depth of sadness in his eyes, the longing. He wants what he can’t have, what his kind can never provide him. There’s no such connection amongst the dead, amongst predators like them. They aren’t family, aren’t friends. They can’t even really be allies. They’re competition. The most a vampire can be to another is an intrusion on the other’s hunting grounds.

For some reason, you take his hand in yours, leading him back with you. His eyelashes flutter for a moment when you make contact, as though he’s savoring the feeling. His hands are ice, but instead of the normal revulsion the feeling brings you, you feel sorry for him. How awful it must be, cursed to an eternity without the warmth you once took for granted. A foolish thought, but you’re having many of those tonight. The greatest mercy you can give him doesn’t require the pity that’s clouding your mind, or the warmth that spreads in your belly at the sight of him unbuttoning his shirt.

He’s sculpted perfectly, of course. As if you needed another reason to be distracted. You take a deep breath, focusing as best you can. You slide the stake out of your boot (thank god he didn’t ask you to take them off earlier) and pounce as quickly as you can, praying your aim is true. Before you feel the wood plunging into his chest, you feel a hand on your wrist, grip firm but not bruising. Your back is against the bed, your stake is somewhere out of your reach, and there is a vampire on top of you, tying your hands to the headboard with his tie.

When he looks down at you, he has the gall to look genuinely hurt. “I was hoping you would give up on that.”

You can’t help but laugh in his face. “What? You expected me to let you go around preying on the innocent because…why exactly? Because you’re handsome and kind of sad? That’s par for the course, Sanji.” You ignore the fact that you’re still calling him his name now that you’ve dropped your innocent act, that you’re still acknowledging him as a man instead of a monster. It’s better for your pride not to think too much about that.

“Because there’s a connection here, but I guess I should have known you wouldn’t admit it. Prideful things, hunters. Some of you are worse than things like me.” He finishes his knot, taking a moment to admire his handiwork, before he looks down at you. His eyes linger on your neck for just a moment, and you know he’s thinking of how you’ll taste, of the feeling of the life draining out of you. For some reason, he pulls away, standing up and brushing himself off. He picks up your stake with two fingers, holding it away from him and looking at it with a crinkled nose (which is adorable, though you’d die before admitting it). “Did you carve this yourself? It’s nice craftsmanship, though it’s sad to think of such beautiful hands doing such rough work.”

“Worse than thinking about them being used to kill?”

He hums. “No, I guess not.” He drops your stake into the trashcan near the door. You hear the quiet thunk of it hitting the bottom, and you know there’s no way in hell you’re ever getting that back. A bummer. You’d spent weeks carving that. “It’s still a shame, though.”

“What, that I wasn’t an easy kill?” You tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck, taunting him. He doesn’t fall for the bait, instead turning away from you with a sigh.

“That the world’s made you into a killer.” He walks toward the window for a moment, closing his eyes to bask in the moonlight. “It shouldn’t be your job to keep monsters in check.”

You tell yourself this is a ploy, that he’s just saying what you want to hear, but something about him seems so horribly genuine. He sounds truly disappointed with the world for taking away your freedom, for placing this burden on you. No one’s ever empathized with your plight like this before. “Well, a lot of things that shouldn’t be are. The world’s not a great place. Someone has to try to make it better.”

His lips quirk up into a soft smile at that. “It’s admirable that you want to do that. You remind me of someone.” For a moment he’s lost in a memory, one that might be centuries old. To the man he used to be, to the people who used to love him. Then it’s gone, grief weighing down his shoulders once again. “But I still think the world is worse off when good people sacrifice themselves and their happiness to try to offset the evils they fight.”

“Well, I won’t have to sacrifice my happiness forever. Maybe I’ll retire.” It’s a lie, of course. The only retirement you’ll get is a set of fangs to the throat, a quick end to the misery.

He chuckles. “You’re a bad liar, too. You really are like him.” He shakes his head, dismissing the nostalgia, instead focusing on the task at hand. “How can I convince you to let me live?”

You purse your lips. “You aren’t living. That’s a large part of the problem.”

He sighs. “How can I convince you to let me keep existing?”

None of them have ever asked you before. “If I say no, will you kill me?”

He looks horrified at the thought. “What? No!”

You blink. “What?”

“Why would I kill you?”

“You’re a vampire, and I’m trying to slay you. This always ends with one of us dead. What, are you new to this?”

“No, I–God. If I can’t convince you to let me go, I’ll just…leave. Go somewhere you can’t find me. And then call someone to come and let you out in a few hours.”

“Call who?”

“I don’t know, the cops?”

“And they find me with several fake IDs and a shotgun in the back of my car? I’ll get arrested.”

He closes his eyes in thought. “Do you have any friends?”

No, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I’m not giving a vampire my friends’ numbers.”

“Do you have your phone on you?” He slides a hand into your pocket, pulling out your phone as you weakly try to wiggle away. He turns it toward you as you try to look away. You aren’t fast enough, and you can hear the telltale sound of it unlocking. Fuck.

He goes through it for a moment, a frown settling on his handsome face. “You…don’t have any contacts?”

“That’s not true!”

“I don’t know who Guns (Legal) and Guns (Less Legal) are, but I imagine they’re not exactly close friends. You really have given up your life for this, haven’t you?” The look in his eyes isn’t pity. It’s far worse. It’s mourning, plain and simple. Grieving the life you could have lived, and the fact that you’ve chosen not to live it of your own free will.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say weakly. “I chose this.”

“I know.”

You maintain eye contact a moment before he looks away, standing and walking away from you. “I could untie you now.”

“I’d kill you.” You don’t know if that’s true anymore.

“Maybe I’d let you.” He places your phone on the dresser before opening the bathroom to look for something. You can see shards of glass on the floor, hear the crunch of them beneath his dress shoes. “But maybe you won’t. Maybe we can just have a conversation, two people who know things no one should have to.”

You bite your tongue at his referral to himself as a person. He’s far more human than any other vampire you’ve met. Maybe even more than some of the humans, if you’re being honest. You’re not particularly prone to honesty these days. “A conversation, huh?”

“Just a peaceful little talk.” He looms over you, reaching towards your wrists. You can see what he grabbed in the bathroom: a bottle of lotion, just in case you had chafed your wrists struggling against the restraint. A small, thoughtful thing. You think he must have been kind in life. “I’ll answer any question you have, and hopefully you’ll be open to answering some of mine.”

You could use this as a way to get information, but you don’t want him to think you’re going to turn it against him. You should, but something in you stops you from leaping off the bed and rushing for your weapon, instead allowing him to gently apply the lotion to your skin. You give him a wry grin. “Alright then. How do you style your hair so perfectly if you can’t see yourself in the mirror?”

He sighs humorlessly, eyes focused on his task. "That's a myth, my dear. As many things people like you think you know are."

"If it's a myth, why do you try to avoid them so badly?" You look pointedly to the mirror above the dresser he's covered with a blanket, not to mention the broken shards that remain of the ones in the bathroom. He looks you in the eye now, and your breath is taken away by a self loathing deeper and more violent than any hate you've ever known. For a moment, the gentle and mild mannered man is gone, replaced with something far closer to the tortured soul you’ve come to expect on your hunts.

"When I was alive, I hated monsters. I was made by one, and I was convinced I would become one someday." He laughs, a soft, empty sound. "I made a friend promise me...promise me if he ever saw me start to walk that path, he'd kill me."

He stands up, beginning to pace in a path he has clearly worn into the carpet beneath his feet. "When I woke up after the change, I knew right away what I was. What I could do. Who I could hurt. And do you want to know what I did?" He stops in front of you, eyes wide and frantic. "I ran. I ran as far as my feet could take me, then a little further than that. All of my talk, my spirit, everything I promised...it was all nothing. Empty words. Because in the end, I was just too scared to die."

You pity him. God, you’re weak. None of your quarries have ever broken down by this, admitted to fear. You thought they were incapable of that sort of animal weakness. Your voice is soft when you speak next, gentle. “It’s only natural to be afraid. It’s only–” You cut yourself off, voice catching.

“Only human?” He finishes for you, his words dripping with bitterness. “I tried telling myself that, but I think I can finally be honest. I’m just a coward.”

“I don’t think a coward would untie one of the only people in the world that could kill him, Sanji. I don’t think a coward would spare me when killing me would be so much easier.”

He cringes. “I don’t–Killing people isn’t easy. And it shouldn’t be.”

You pause. “You–you don’t kill people?” A vampire pacifist. Now you’ve really seen everything.

“I don’t murder. I’ve defended myself, sure, but I try not to hurt anyone.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Maybe it’s just something else I’m scared of.”

“I don’t think that’s it. I think a lot more things like you kill out of fear than spare people for it. Maybe you’re just…a good guy.” An insane thing to say, and an even more insane thing to believe. But you do, really. When you look into his eyes they aren’t the empty black pits you’ve seen in so many other bloodsuckers. When you look into his eyes, you truly think you see his soul. You have no idea how he kept it after the horrible, gruesome fate he’s been forced into, but it’s there. You half expect there to be a beating heart beneath his chest.

He looks up at you, shock evident. “Do you really mean that?”

“Somehow, yes.” You shift forward a bit, leaning toward him, taking the sight of him in. The shining blue eyes, his blond hair reflecting the moonlight from the window and the shitty too-bright fluorescents of his apartment, the pallor of his skin. He almost looks like an angel, cast out from heaven. Forced to wade among the muck and grime of humanity, a world he was never meant for.

“I want to be,” he mutters.

“Good?”

“A guy. Human. Not...” He can’t even bring himself to say it, gritting his teeth when he tries to force out the word before giving up. “You know.”

You can feel your eyes soften as you look at him. “I really wish I could help you with that.” And you mean it, really. You wish you could save him.

“Maybe you could.”

“Hm?” Your eyes flick up, and you see something shining in his eyes that you don’t quite recognize.

“You could help me feel alive again, even if only for a while.” He approaches you slowly, no threat in his stance. “Make me feel like my heart’s beating again.”

“And how would I do that, exactly?” This is the strangest way you’ve ever been hit on.

“Just…feel something. Touch me, please. Treat me like anything other than a monster.” He’s in front of you now, kneeling, his eyes pleading.

“What?”

“I’d prefer you love me, but I’ll take anything. Hate, fear, whatever you’ll offer. Please, I just need something.” He’s on his hands and knees in front of you, eyes wet and glossy. “I can’t be alone anymore. I can’t take this.”

There are tears streaking down his face. You've never seen a monster cry before. Something inside you, something soft and weak that you thought you had buried, whispers that you still haven't. That the thing on his knees in front of you, begging for you, is only a man, bearing his tender parts to you and begging for you to be gentle with them. You don’t know if you’re capable of being gentle anymore.

Your hands move on their own, resting on his cheeks, your thumbs brushing at the tear tracks making their way down his face. He sniffles quietly, as though he still needs to breathe. You almost laugh at the absurdity at it all. You’ve killed dozens of monsters, saw yourself as a hero, a defender of humanity, and all it took to take you down is one pathetic man on his knees. You won’t be angry with him later when his teeth brush your throat, when they tear through your skin and take everything you have. You’re letting it happen, here and now, and you can’t be angry with him for acting within his nature. “I…I can help you. Just for a little bit.”

He looks at you like you’re his salvation. “Thank you, angel. You have no idea what this means to something like me.”

“Someone,” you correct softly, instinctively. You can’t take the word back once you say it, not when you see the look on his face. His hand rises to cover yours, cradling you closer, savoring the feeling.

He inhales, taking in the scent of you, before diving in. His lips brush against yours, softer than they have any right to be. They’re a bit cold, as you’re sure all of him must be, but you can’t bring yourself to mind. He’s slow as he rises, overtaking you and pinning you down. Giving you ample opportunity to run, to come to your senses. You don’t.

The first thrust of his hips makes you gasp, which allows him to slide his tongue into your mouth. He savors the taste of you, exploring every inch as he ruts into you, the friction from the fabric between you making your movements sloppier as you get distracted. Your hands are everywhere: in his hair, running down his chest, grabbing at his ass. Every inch of him is perfect, almost frustratingly so. Some part of you is hoping to find some flaw, something to break the illusion that he’s just a lonely man, but you find nothing. Even the brush of his fangs against your lips doesn’t do anything to stop the lust clouding your mind. Instead of revulsion, the feeling of him nicking your bottom lip to suck on is disturbingly hot. You can’t even tell if you’re actually bleeding; even just the idea of him taking something from you, savoring you, makes you clench around nothing.

You grow so lightheaded your vision almost blacks out before he pulls back. “Sorry,” he pants. “Forgot you need air.”

That traitorous part of you thinks that would have been a nice way to go, all things considered. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he’s not at all trying to hide how he stares at your tits under your shirt. “Is it a little hot in here?” You coyly reach your hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, watching his eyes follow your movements. You can see his pupils grow wider, his gaze grow hungrier, with every single inch.

He tries to speak, you think, but the only sound that leaves him is a ravenous growl. His hands reach for your waistband, removing your pants and underwear in a single smooth motion. You tense, preparing yourself for him to plunge in instantly, but instead you feel his nose brush against your skin, his beautiful clear eyes staring up at you in permission. You close yours, overwhelmed by it all. His teeth graze against your thigh. You can feel him smile when you make a small squeak of surprise, can feel his cold breath quicken. His voice is thick with excitement when he speaks. “Will you give in to me?”

You should say no. You should run from here as fast as your legs can carry you. But he looks so pathetic, so desperate, and really, he needs this, doesn’t he? Why shouldn’t you help him? “Yes,” you murmur, breathy and strained. “Yes, take me, Sanji.”

And so he does. You expect the bite first, but Sanji is determined to give you your pleasure before he takes his. His tongue is against you before you’re ready, and you can feel him shiver with excitement when your thighs close in surprise around his head. His nose brushes your clit, causing you to squeeze harder, and this time he openly moans against you. His tongue explores you eagerly, ceaselessly, and you can feel him respond to every little twitch and quiver you make. He listens for every little moan, every hitch of your breath, every single noise leading him closer to finding exactly how to make you climax. His fingers grab at your ass, pulling you closer, practically drowning himself in you.

As he continues, his fingers find your clit, working in tandem with his tongue to bring you over the edge. The pressure keeps building, every muscle in your body growing tense, your thighs threatening to crush his skull, before finally the dam bursts, and you let out a screaming moan that you’re sure the neighbors can hear. He works you through it, tongue continuing to lap greedily at you, savoring every taste. Only once your thighs have relaxed and your back has once again hit the bed does he pull away, gathering your remaining slick with his fingers and popping them into his mouth. His eyes practically roll into the back of his head as he deeply inhales, overwhelmed by the pure essence of you.

“Darling,” he whispers, voice thick with want, “You’re the most delicious meal I’ve ever had.” With that, his teeth plunge into your thigh, the act as gentle as such violence can be. You only feel the sting for a moment before you’re overtaken by a rush of euphoria. The post-orgasmic bliss is nothing compared to this. Every part of you relaxes, even parts you didn’t think could. It feels as though your muscles are unwinding themselves, as though the fibers that make you up are unraveling and falling to pieces in Sanji’s hands. Your body isn’t you anymore, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset over it. This is the kind of peace you’ve been searching for for years, the kind your purpose and drive never gave you. This is the kind of joy that makes you unafraid to die.

You whimper when his teeth leave you, your hands reaching for him, trying to pull him back to you. Surely he needs to drink a little more, even if just for a second. Just another moment of bliss is all you need.

He doesn’t follow your guidance, instead rising to kiss you softly. There’s less heat now, the flames having calmed to a gentle and loving warmth that envelops you from the inside out. “Thank you, angel,” he murmurs. “Let me give you your final reward.”

He nuzzles into your neck, his teeth not grazing you for even a moment. You don’t know when he shed his pants and shirt, but you come back to yourself for just long enough to admire his fully naked and vulnerable form as he’s lining himself up with your entrance. He’s beautiful, every inch of him, with a few inches in particular catching your current attention. You don’t even have time to imagine how lovely the stretch will feel before he slowly and carefully pushes forward, inserting just the tip before stopping.

You immediately whine, clawing at his shoulders, begging wordlessly for him to keep moving. He tuts softly, kissing your cheeks, and you realize you’ve been crying. “Patience, love.”

You have none, uttering a sound that’s close enough to a childish no! for him to get the message. He chuckles, clearly endeared by your vulnerable state, before slowly sliding the rest of the way in, inch by delicious inch. When he’s fully sheathed, he takes a shuddering breath, pressing himself deeper into your neck and taking a long inhale. His hands wander before settling against your back, pulling you toward him possessively. “This is what I need,” he whispers against your skin. “You. You make me feel alive. You make me feel human. You make me feel connected.”

He snaps his hips far faster than you were expecting, stealing your breath away. He quickly corrects himself, setting a slow and steady pace, but you’ve already seen how his self control is slipping.

“Need you,” he murmurs. “Not just now. Not just tonight. Please, stay. Please.”

You don’t know what to say, so instead of answering you simply pull him closer, moaning into his ear as he steadily brings you both to the edge. You lose yourself in the feeling, in him. The slapping of skin echoes through the room, along with his quiet grunts and your increasing cries. As the tension in your body grows almost unbearable, you can feel his hips starting to stutter, his pace starting to falter. With one final, beautiful push, you both come undone as he collapses on top of you, the feeling of you clenching around him proving to be too much. He pulls you impossibly closer, even though there’s no real distance to be crossed. Every bit of your skin is touching his, and you can feel his weight pressing you into the mattress. You aren’t going anywhere. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

“Please,” he quietly pleads again, voice breaking. “Please stay.”

“I will,” you whisper back. His arms tighten around you again, as if you’ll slip through his fingertips if he loses his grip for a moment. Maybe you will. Maybe you’ll grab your stake from his trash and drive off into the sunset, accepting your one and only failed mission, running back to the life that lets you run away. But maybe tonight you’ll stay in the first gentle embrace you’ve felt in years, lured in by the irrational feeling of safety it brings you. The gentle circles he rubs on your back and the feeling of his ear pressed against your chest, listening to your heart, almost make you feel alive.

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @tochillwithamockingjay

[gor3-hound]

don't hold your breath(nobody's home)

ft. leon kennedy x fem!reader

cw: 18+ content, dead dove, uncle-niece incest, non-con, loss of virginity, very minor blood description, forced alcohol consumption, alcoholism from leon ofc, reader gets slapped, age gap, guilt, one threat, fingering, p in v, non-consensual creampie, crying, idk leon feels entitled cause his brother sucks, reader hinted at having nice tits idk

a/n: sorry if this sucks ass... my motivation for writing has been non-existent w real life stuff n all the drama so... i feel like this is awful but here we are. title from razzmatazz by idkhbtfm... not proofread i'm sorry </3

word count: 1.9k words

Leon knew he had a drinking problem. He just hadn't realised it had gotten this bad. He couldn't even get his dick up with viagra anymore. He frowns as he looks down at the brunette he was planning to fuck, tempted to try and just push it in soft.

He ends up just kicking her out to drown his sorrows. He wasn't dealing with this shit tonight, not when he was seeing his asshole brother tomorrow. Pretty wife, perfect kids. His job pays better than Leon's ever will, and he didn't need to undergo years of trauma. Lucky bastard.

Leon does what he does best that night and drinks enough whiskey so he can pass out without worrying about the nightmares coming to ruin his night. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He hasn't seen you in a good six years. You were still playing with dolls and shit when he last visited. Makes him feel stupid when he brings you a plushie as a gift. Clearly he forgot how time worked, cause he still expected you to be thirteen. You still hug him and say thank you, sweet as ever. When his brother said he'd be watching the house and looking after you, he didn't expect to see you so... grown. Too old to need a babysitter, really. Even if your parents are gonna be gone for a week.

He gulps as his hands settle on your hips, trying to prevent you from pressing against his hardening cock. Down boy. At least his dick still works. It just took his college-aged niece to get it up. Doesn't help that you've got your tits smooshed against his chest.

Therapy was gonna be a doozy this week.

He could only pray that this doesn't turn into anything. The last thing he needed was his dick being the thing that got him thrown into prison for doing something stupid to you, no matter how cute that body of yours is. That's a new one, he thinks, mentally slapping himself for even thinking about touching you like that. He'd never do it, of course. That's sick, and he knows it. He's just so frustrated. And you're hot. A total babe. Somehow, you managed to get a better rack than your mom. Must be the Kennedy genes coming in. Leon's got tits for days.

He knew he had a drinking problem, but he never thought he'd lose himself this much. He never thought about hurting anyone. He's not a bad guy. It's just that every time he tried to be with someone, he just couldn't get his body to react the way he wanted. That's what the oxytocin was for, he thought, already thinking about taking a swig of whiskey from the flask in his pocket. If only that fucking stuff worked on him. The part of his brain that controlled his cock seemed to be permanently on vacation, and his wires clearly got crossed somewhere if he wants to fuck his own blood.

Whatever. He could get through a week alone with his niece without any trouble. He's faced worse monsters than the ones making themselves present in his mind right now. He'd keep his distance, and all would be okay.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That didn't work. Of course it didn't. You were just as clingy with him as you were when you were a kid, following him around like a lost puppy. He's convinced he's clutching the glass of whiskey in his hand hard enough to shatter it as you curl up against his side. His cock is throbbing, and he seriously hopes you don't notice how the fabric of his jeans is getting a little strained.

You really need to stop with those tits. He's gonna lose it if they brush his arm one more time. He's not sure what it is about you, particularly, that has him acting like a teenage virgin again, but his self-control is wavering by the second. He hasn't paid a single second of attention to the movie he was meant to be watching to keep his mind off of you.

Fuck this.

He takes a swig of whiskey that drains half the liquid in his cup in one gulp. Liquid courage and all that. Maybe he'd drunk a little too much while he was here, ‘cause his brain clearly isn't working right. Not when he's pinning you to the couch, kissing your neck despite your protests.

“Leon… Leon, what're you doing?” You force out, small hands pressing at his chest as if you'd be able to knock him off. Cute. He'd fought creatures six times your size. You didn't stand a chance. 

He starts undressing you, and you start writhing and crying, hitting his chest with clenched fists. He swallows the lump that builds in his throat, wiping the tears that fall down your cheeks.

“Shh… it's okay, I'm… I'm gonna take care ‘f you.” He murmurs, his voice slightly slurred from how much he'd drunk. You cry even harder when he presses a finger into you, making the guilt rise up faster in him. That's not fair. He's being nice. God didn't bless him with much, but at least he gave him a fat cock. You should feel lucky he's prepping you. Not making him feel bad.

“Hey.” He warns, shoving another finger in just to shut you up. You finch when he scissors you open. Poor thing. “That's enough. One more complaint for you, and I'll just force myself in.”

Shit. Now he really does feel like a monster. He's not drunk enough to handle the pure terror on your face at his words. He fumbles on the coffee table with his free hand as he lazily pumps into you with the other. Glass? No. Bottle.

Maybe you need some, too. Get you nice and pliant so you'll take his dick without bitching. Not a bad idea. He twists the cap off with his teeth, gulping some of the liquid down himself. He takes another mouthful before leaning down to kiss you, spitting the liquid into the back of your throat. He keeps your mouth on yours even as you try to jerk away, making sure you swallow it.

You really are adorable as you start coughing and spluttering. Such a sweet thing, you probably hadn't even drunk before. He lifts the bottle to your mouth, pouring some more into your mouth before setting it down, covering your mouth. “Swallow.”

He starts thumbing at your clit as he fingers you, relishing in the ways your whimpers turn into soft moans, your hips bucking against his hand. He manages to coax an orgasm out of you with a few more touches, a big smile spreading across his face.

“There we go, sweetie. See, that wasn't so bad, was it?” He coos, unbuttoning his jeans. The sound of the zipper has your eyes widening in horror, and he tuts softly. “What're you giving me that look for? It's your turn to take care of me now.”

There goes the begging and pleading again. It has his brows pinching together as a frown tugs at his lips. You really are his brother's kid. So goddamn ungrateful. He just took care of you, and now you just want him to… what? Fist his dick in the guest room?

He smacks you so hard your head snaps to the side, your breaths coming out in short gasps. You look better like that, tears stinging your eyes but your body completely limp. He can see the fight draining out of your eyes.

“I was gonna be nice.” He mumbles, brows furrowing as he lines his tip up with your entrance, forcing himself inside in one thrust. He groans loudly, shuddering as your tight heat envelops him. His eyes look down, locked onto your cunt as he fucks into you with long strokes. He freezes when he notices blood. He's not sure if he's happy or disgusted that he's your first. No wonder you put up such a fight.

You keep weakly begging him to stop, but your pussy is gushing all over him. It's not his fault he can't stop – you're giving him the hottest look he's ever seen, and your puffy cunt is so fucking greedy for his cock, sucking him back in everytime he starts to pull out.

“S-sorry… I'm so sorry…” He grunts, picking up the pace of his thrusts, groaning at the sound of your punched out moans as he drives into you with as much force as he can muster. You almost sound like you're enjoying it, but you're still fucking crying and he can't take it. His heart hurts.

“Baby, please…” He whispers, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see the betrayal on your face. His arms tremble as he holds himself up, sloppily fucking into you. “I'm sorry… just stop cryin’, please…”

Every time his hips smack the fat of your ass, you're moaning out a ‘please’. With his eyes shut, he can pretend you're begging for more. That you like this. That is, until you start saying ‘stop’. He winces, but the movement of his hips doesn't falter.

“Fuck, baby… please stop begging.” He pleads, throwing his head back as his tip kisses your cervix. He whimpers as it makes you tighten around him, angling his thrusts to hit that spot each time he fully sheaths himself inside of you.

“I-I can't stop…you feel so… fuck. So fucking good. M'so close.” He groans. He can't even find the strength to pull out anymore. He buries himself balls deep in your cunt, grinding himself into your tight heat.

“L-Leon… please.” You say weakly, chest heaving with heavy breaths as panic sets in, your hands pushing at his chest. “Y-you gotta pull out, you can't… you can't.”

“What?” He breathes out, cracking his eyes open to look at you again. He looks genuinely confused. Why would he ever pull out when you felt so good? He can't bring himself to. “Baby, no. I'm cumming inside of you. Can't pull out now.”

That seems to bring your fight back. You start struggling under him again, punching him with all your strength. Luckily, that's not a lot. Especially when you're sluggish from your first time drinking and getting fucked. It's Leon's lucky day.

“Shit, baby. Don't look at me like that.” Or do. He's gonna cum if you keep staring up at him with that wide-eyed expression. “No need to be so scared, princess. I just… shit. Can't help myself.”

Doesn't take longer than a minute after that for him to finish. He buries his face in your neck, whining as he cums. His cock kicks inside of you, the warmth of his release filling every inch of you. You start sobbing all over again, slumping weakly against the couch.

He lies on top of you, his weight pressing you down into the couch. He pets your hair like you're a doll, his fingers carding through your hair.

“I'm sorry, baby. Forgive me. I'll be so good. Do whatever you want. Didn't mean it.” He murmurs, kissing your cheek over and over as if he's trying to get you to relax. He keeps it up until you fall asleep, wrapping you up in his arms.

When you wake up in the morning, you're fully dressed in your bed. You almost think it's a dream until you feel the dull throbbing between your legs.

[thealtoduck]

Dally

Jason Todd x Male Reader

Warnings: Smut, anal sex, bottom!Reader, top!Jason, rough sex, unprotected sex, blowjob, fingering, doggy style, porn with plot, size kink, you and Jason are both kinda tipsy, Jason is aftercare king, you and Jason are unkowingly filmed, angst ending…

N/n = Nickname

The Socialite and The Vigilante | Masterlist

Summary: You and Jason get tipsy at an event and go back to your place…

(A/n: No. 1 Hoe Anthem)

——

One of the mayoral candidates, Mr Stone, had invited the Gotham Elite for what he called ”a celebration of Gotham’s greatest”. But from what you’d heard his campaign was running low on funds and he wanted to sweet talk all the people with deep pockets.

Whatever the reason may be you were now stuck there amongst the crowd of ”Gotham’s greatest”. You’d preferred to not go but according to your mother it’d be improper to ditch such an event and in her own words ”You have to go cause I don’t want to, I can’t stand that man”.

So you sacrificed yourself to spend the evening at the party… plus Jason had been forced to go along with his family and you promised you’d keep him company.

You watched as Jason entered in the company of his family, he was dressed in a black suit, giving him a dark and luxurious look. He and his family were greeted by Mr Stone.

While Bruce spoke to Mr Stone, Jason looked around the crowd of black suits and evening dresses until his eyes met yours and a soft smile appeared on his face. Once Mr Stone left them to enjoy the party Jason made his way to you.

You were stood in a corner looking at nice sculpture when Jason approached you. ”No tie?” he asked noticing you substituted a tie with a thin sliver chain necklace. ”Never been the biggest fan of ties, Jay, you know that” you stated in a your more upper class tone that tended to come out at these types of events.

”Well, you look great” Jason said grazing his hand against yours slightly. ”You too” you said adjusting his hair slightly. ”I’ll go get us some drinks” Jason said, soon coming back with two glasses of champagne, handing you one.

He then lowered his hand in his pocket bringing out a hip flask, pouring some of the contents in his own glass before offering ”Whiskey?”. Making you let out a small laugh before holding your glass out to him, saying ”If you insist”.

You and Jason mostly kept to yourselves through the party. You listened to Mr Stone’s speech talking about how good his campaign was going but made sure to add that it does take it’s toll on him, his workers and his family. But most of all to his wallet, he had joked making light polite laughs sound out in the room.

You and Jason found a table to relax at, sipping your drinks. The event was quite the bore, the music was dull, the decorations were plain, even the champagne on it’s own felt tasteless. You were lucky Jason had brought the flask.

Soon you and Jason were joined by Mr Stone himself. ”Mr Todd, Mr St. Cloud, enjoying yourselves?” he asked, you put on a polite smile and said ”Of course, it’s quite the event you’ve put together, Mr Stone”.

”Thank you, what a shame your mother couldn’t come” Mr Stone said. ”Yeah, she really wanted to but she wasn’t feeling well, but she wishes you luck with the mayoral campaign” you lied, your mother had said nothing of the sort, you were just being polite.

”You boys are old enough to vote now, right?” Mr Stone mentioned, you and Jason shared a look, you’d both been waiting for the topic to come up. ”Yes, we are” Jason answered and you nodded. ”Well, I hope this party has helped convince you who to vote for” he suggested followed by a lighthearted chuckle.

You did your best to not roll your eyes and said with a smile ”Of course, Mr Stone, you have our support”. ”You bet, Mr Stone” Jason said in a fake cheery tone. Mr Stone then said goodbye leaving you and Jason, your expression immediately turned to disgust as Mr Stone was out of sight.

”I hate him” Jason stated, followed by you saying ”Me too”. ”Let’s get some more champagne and then get out of here” you told him, he nodded in agreement and the two of you went to the drink table. Jason emptied the last of his whiskey in to your glasses and you drank.

Once you’d both finished 2 more glasses each you made your way towards the exit, you called your chauffeur to pick the two of you up. As soon as the two of you came out on sidewalk Jason loosened his tie and you took off your suit jacket.

Soon a familiar car pulled up in front of you and you and Jason climbed in the backseat. ”You wanna come back to my place or do you need a ride elsewhere?” you offered him, Jason smiled. ”Think I’ll join you” he said placing a hand on your thigh.

You leaned in against Jason’s shoulder, as the chauffeur started driving towards your apartment building.

Luckily for you the traffic was good enough for you to be home in a short while, you and Jason stepped out of the car and you thanked your chauffeur before making your way up to your apartment on the top floor.

As you stood in the elevator, Jason’s hand once more grazed against yours, this time your fingers intertwined. When you reached the top floor, you stepped out of the elavator to your door and you unlocked it.

You and Jason entered the penthouse, taking of your shoes. You threw your suit jacket aside and led the way towards the stairs, closely followed by Jason.

You started unbuttoning your shirt as you entered your bedroom, turning to Jason who looked curious where this was going. You threw your button up aside and stepped closer to him, you unbuttoned his suit jacket and pushed it off his shoulders letting it drop to the floor.

You then pushed your lips to Jason’s, while he snaked his arms around your waist as you started to hungrily make out. You then started unbuttoning Jason’s shirt revealing his athletic chest. You started lowering yourself to your knees as you placed kisses down his abs.

Until you were on your knees in front of him, you undid Jason’s belt and pulled down his pants letting them fall to his ankles. Jason had grown hard, his bulge noticable in his tight white briefs. You pulled down his underwear setting his big legth free.

His hard dick pointed to your face. When Jason looked down the sight gave him a sense of satisfaction, you half naked ready to suck his cock. You started taking Jason’s member in to your mouth, teasing the tip with your tongue.

Jason let out a small breath as you started taking more of him in to your warm mouth. You soon started moving your head back and forth on his cock. Jason’s mouth hung open as you went down on him.

”Fuck, you’re perfect” he said holding the sides of your head, using every bit of restraint to not start thrusting in to you. You worked your tougue on his dick, licking up and down his shaft.

When Jason looked down the sight alone could make him spill his load. You with his thick cock stuffed in your mouth, shining with your saliva on it. Before you could make him cum he pulled out of your mouth.

”Your turn, rich boy” Jason said teasingly, you raised an amused eye brow at him.

He then helped you up from the floor. He let his unbuttoned shirt fall to the floor and stepped out of his pants and underwear that were pooled around his ankles. He then undid your belt before pushing you backwards on to your bed.

You spread your arm out on the silk white sheets feeling as if you were laying down on a cloud. Jason then started pulling your pants down your legs. You seductively pulled off your own white briefs before throwing them at Jason, hitting him in the chest.

Now you were left wearing nothing but your silver necklace and a pair of white socks. Jason took a moment to take in the pornographic sight in front of him and then climbed on to the bed and your naked bodies tangled together as you made out lustfully.

Jason’s hand trailed all the way down your back to your butt. He didn’t waste any time bringing his finger between your cheeks and pushing it inside you making you moan while your mouth was pressed to his.

He used his fingers to work you loose and open so you’d be ready to take all off him. Once he was done he pulled out a bottle of lube from you nightstand pouring a generous amount on his huge shaft.

You positioned yourself face down - ass up wanting Jason to take you like a bitch. Jason stood on his knees in front of your awaiting hole as he rubbed the lube along his length. He teased your hole with the thick tip of his cock as you whined in to the sheets impatiently.

And who was Jason to say no to a slut in need of filling.

He started working his in to your tightness as you gasped at the intrusion. He pushed himself deeper and deeper into your warmth feeling you clench around his cock. ”That’s nice” he whispered at the feeling of you tightly around his manhood.

Jason wasn’t a small man, he was hung like a horse. You let out heavy breaths as Jason slowly sunk himself in to you, streching you out even further than he’d done with his fingers. He said praises to you, watching you beneath him as his cock entered you inch by inch.

Once he had sheathed himself inside you he waited for you to adjust to the size of him. You gripped the soft sheets of the bed as you were streched out to accept Jason’s hung cock. ”Fuck” you swore.

Soon you were ready to take all of him. Jason started moving slowly as pushed himself in and out of your tightness. His hands were placed on the globes of your ass squeezing them softly in his strong hands.

You were starting to get the feeling of bliss everytime Jason was fully stuffed inside you, making you moan as he worked your ass perfectly. ”Harder Jay” you said wanting him to take you to ecstasy.

”That’s all I needed to hear, baby” Jason said with an audible smirk as he willfully obliged and sped up his thrusts, rolling his hips like a machine. He put a hand on your back pressing you in to the matress as he took you. The sound of his thrusts starting to sound out through out the room.

You gripped the sheets as Jason thrust deeper in to you, his dick jabbing at your prostate making you let out a delighted scream of pleasure. ”That’s right, N/n, scream for everybody to hear me fucking you” he said cockily.

Jason hadn’t realised until now how much he had been longing to fuck you again after your first one night stand during the party at Wayne Manor.

Jason moved his hand to your hips pulling you to meet his harsh thruts into you. Beads of sweat started forming on his forehead. He wanted you to feel all the pleasures sex could bring.

Jason made you feel as if you were seeing all the stars in the heaven, as his hung cock was shoved deep in your heat. ”So- ugh! Big!” you said through your loud moans. A cocky smile spread on Jason’s lips. He was fucking you so good you could barely talk.

As Jason roughly pounded himself deeply in to you felt yourself getting close to orgasm. ”Jay, I’m gonna cum” you whined as Jason showed no sign of slowing down his rolling thrusts.

Your shot your load and it splashed on to the silk sheets below as Jason continued plowing his cock in to you. ”You’re so fucking good around my cock” Jason said through his rapid breaths as he fully lost control and fucked you like there was no tommorow.

”I’m gonna cum” he soon told you.

”Fill me, Jay” you begged and that was all it took for Jason to plant himself deep in you ass and let his cock explode inside you, filling you with his warm sticky seed. He breathed heavily as he let all of his orgasm spill inside you.

Once he was done he slowly pulled out of you leaving your hole gaping from his cock. His seed soon started pouring out of you, running from your used warmth down your legs. Jason looked proudly at the mess he had made of you before he walked to the bathroom.

Coming back with a wet towel and started cleaning his seed off of your body. Once he was done he threw the towel aside on the floor. You turned around and laid down on your back. Jason sat down by your side and stroked your thigh, asking sweetly ”Can I get you anything? N/n”.

”Could you get my night shirt from the closet?” you asked and Jason immediately stood up looking through your closet until he brought out a glossy white silk night shirt. ”Why is everything you own white silk?” he questioned amused as he helped you put it on.

”Why not?” you simply asked back. You took off your necklace putting it on your bedside table. You and Jason both laid down side by side on your bed. Jason was on his back and you laid your head resting against his pec.

”You were amazing” Jason said placing a kiss on your head. ”You too” you said stroking his abs lovingly.

You both soon drifted off too sleep…

——

2 days later…

You sat with your laptop on your couch checking your emails. Some adds, some social stuff, nothing too intresting. You took a sip of your coffee and as you swallowed a new mail appeared on the screen.

The sender was not listed.

You opened the mail and read ”We have something you might not want to reach the media, Mr St. Cloud” which was all it said. Then you noticed there was a video attached to the mail. You pressed the file and it loaded until a video started playing.

Your eyes widend the video showed a boy getting plowed roughly by another guy, but you soon realised this was your bedroom. ”Harder, Jay” your voice came from the video making you gasp in shock. Then came Jason’s voice ”That’s all I needed to hear, baby”.

Someone had hidden a camera in your room filming you and Jason that night. You slammed your laptop shut and rushed upstairs in to your room. Judging by the angle of the video the video had been taken from your bedside table.

You were confused you only had your alarm clock and a bottle of water on the table… Then you noticed it, on the side of the alarm clock was a black spot - no, not a spot a small round camera lens.

You picked up the alarm clock taking a closer look at it to it to make sure. Definetely a lens. Enraged you threw the alarm clock in to the ground making it smash on impact. You stormed out of the room bringing out your phone knowing who you needed to call.

”Hey St. Cloud” Jason answered, a flirty tone in his voice.

You could only find one phrase to tell him ”Jay… we’re completely fucked”.

[legendofmorons]

Written in the stars (forever on loop) Chapter four - Do I wanna know?

Previous / Masterlist / Next

Pairing: Pre poly!chain x reader, platonic Wind & reader

Rating: T

Summary: Feelings keep building up within the group, and you are unknowingly at the heart of many of them. Between Legend's rather atrocious attitude problem, Sky running himself ragged to play normal, and the others in varying states between there's a lot left to desire. Thankfully, Legend gets a reality check, and you come to a decision about how to move forward.

Warnings: cursing, arguments, grief, drinking (nothing too bad, but there's a flask and the description of burning whiskey), faerie magic

Other: I promise it's a good dream segment this time. If I missed anything, please let me know.

-------

"Your reflexes need work." Legend huffs from the sidelines as your wooden sword is ripped from your grasp yet again.

You just sigh heavily.

He always has something to say, it's rarely helpful when directed to you.

"You're improving. Don't listen to him." Wind says quickly.

"Your form is shit and you're going to get hurt." Legend scoffs.

"They're improving!" Wind snaps.

You pick up your wooden practice sword and sigh. "Unless you're going to come help teach me, please stop."

Legend's just crosses his arms.

"I can try." Wild offers.

You turn, looking at Wild quickly.

The cook isn't anywhere near as confrontational as Legend, but he isn't usually so quick to offer his company.

He nods. "Yeah. It's good to mix it up so you don't box yourself into one style."

"Is that a thing?" You frown.

Wind shrugs, "I don't know."

"It's a thing." Warriors says, "And frankly, after five days of only learning from Wind, you need the change."

The captain sounds polite and distant, eyes full of that strange grief that isn't for you but you seem to stir up. Okay, fun.

"If you say so." You shrug.

Wind hums, but hands his practice sword to Wild.

"Are you sure?" You ask Wild.

He just nods, falling into a stance you have been working on copying.

Once you fall into position, sword drawn, Wild rushes you.

You dodge to the left, swinging around just in time to catch his blade on your own.

You brace your sword with your other hand, pushing against his strength.

He's stronger, though.

In the blink of an eye, he pulls his sword away and smashes the hilt into your side.

The wooden hilt connects in the space between your ribs and hip bone, a jolt of pain shooting up your spine.

You grunt.

Wild slips to the side.

You are moving on instinct, driven by the pain.

You swing around and feign left before rolling right and ripping Wild's feet out from under him. It's so fast that you don't think it just happens.

Wild falls, and as soon as he's almost down, you are swinging yourself up and over him.

You straddle his stomach, wooden sword held to his throat as you pant.

"Where did that come from?!" Wind gasps, rushing over. "That was so cool!"

"I- don't know." You frown.

Wild stares up at you with wide eyes, breathing slowly.

You get off of him and offer a smile while holding your hand out. "Sorry about that. I don't know what happened."

Wild takes your hand. He pulls himself up, and he's giving you some strange look.

"That was amazing." Wind breathes, the sentiment the same as the first time. "Are you sure you aren't a hero?"

You laugh, "I'm definitely not. I don't know where that came from. One second, I was in pain, and then I had my sword to Wild's throat."

"I told you you were improving!"

"A one-off doesn’t count. Legend says with a roll of his eyes.

You glance over, and you see the man looking... far more haunted than his tone of voice seems appropriate for. He looks like he's seeing a ghost.

What is going on with these boys?

"Legend." Wild says with a look before he turns back to you, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was a good take down."

"Thanks." You say, trying not to preen under the praise of a man who can barely interact with you.

Wild just offers a shaky smile. "Do you want to go again?"

"I mean, sure. But are you sure?"

Wild nods. "Yeah. I- You need training. I'd hate to see you get hurt because you can't fight."

"Oh. Well... Me too?"

He smiles a little less shaky. He looks like he's fighting some sort of inner demon.

Do you have a magic power that just messes with the head of every man named Link that's over eighteen?

Wind is grinning, " You just kick ass again, okay?"

"We'll see." You smile.

"You'll do great." Wild says in what is only a little bit of a straining voice.

You both fall into a fighting stance again, eyeing each other.

Wild attacks first, swinging at you in a wide arc that has you step back.

You catch the next swing, knocking it aside.

It's a worn dance.

Block.

Duck.

Swing.

Side step.

Block.

Wild gets your thigh with a stab of the sword. Skin is sure to bruise and a dull throbbing blooms.

You dodge the next blow as all you can focus on is keeping your sword and the throbbing in your leg.

"He's going to win." Legend informs you with a bored voice.

("He's going win!" Some calls from behind you in horror. "Honeybee, get down!")

You groan as the memory - or whatever that was - distracts you enough to have the hilt of Wild's wooden sword slam into your side again.

You swat at Wild with your sword halfheartedly while your brain works over time.

You see it - an opening.

Ducking under Wind's arm, you pop up, headbutting his chin and sweeping his legs out from behind him with your sword.

You don't know what's happening until Wild is on his back and you have a foot on his chest. Your sword once again at his throat.

"What the fuck?" You whisper.

Wind is grinning, pulling you to the side and into a hug. "That was amazing! Holy shit!"

You laugh, dropping the wooden sword and letting Wind pull you. You hug him back. "I don't know how I did that!"

"Who cares!" The teen laughs.

"So what- two lucky take downs aren't special." Legend scoffs.

"Oh shut up." Wind says. "They did awesome!"

You snort. "It wasn't that great."

"It was some great improvement." Wild offers as he stands. "I don't know where it came from... but good job."

"Thanks. Sorry about that... I don't think I was supposed to headbutt you."

"It's a good tactic. Real fights don't have rules." Wind huffs.

"Still bad form." You smile weakly.

"You wouldn't stand a chance if you actually fought." Legend says.

"Legend." Wild hisses.

You can't say what makes you do it, but you want to challenge Legend. You want to make him at least respect you!

"Then come take a turn." You challenge Legend with crossed arms.

"When I win, you go back to learning with Wind."

"Obviously, he's a good teacher." You smile.

"Hell yeah!" Wind grins up at you.

Legend rolls his eyes but stands up all the same, brushing his tunic off in a bored manner.

Wild offers you a weak smile.

You take up the wooden sword.

"At your leisure." You say with only a little spite. The appropriate amount of spite, if you will.

Legend scoffs, circling around the area with you.

He rushes you, slicing the wooden blade through the air towards your side.

You step back.

You dodge every swing and stab he gives you. Most of the dodges are messy, but they count.

Swing.

Dodge.

Parry.

Duck.

Side step.

There-

An opening.

("When you see an opening strike first and strike hard, dove. Mercy gets you killed." A man says as he patches you up with a tenderness that you miss.)

You let his sword hit your side, swinging around with the momentum.

You step wide and get behind him faster than you thought you could move. You've got your sword across Legend's throat and your arm across his torso, holding him to you.

"Were you holding back on us?" Wind gasps.

"No." You breathe out, stepping away and letting your sword fall from him.

"You sure you aren't a hero?" Wild manages.

"I'm not. I've never fought before I just - I don't know. Maybe all those humans being built different tropes are right."

"Hu-main?" Wind asks, mangling the word.

"Human. That's what I am. It's why my ears are round."

"Oh. Neat!" Wind grins

"Why don't you fight Wind like that?" Legend demands as he spins to glare at you, crossing his arms for good measure.

Pleasant.

"I told you, I don't know where it came from. With Wild, I got hurt, and then I had him on his back."

"Oh?"

"With you... there was just an opening. I don't know."

"So what, Wind hasn't hurt you?" Legend rolls his eyes.

"Maybe I just don't think of him as a threat to my life." You suggest, only half joking.

"I- You think I'm a threat?" Wild asks with a weak voice and wide eyes.

You sigh. "I mean ... you're dangerous, but I'm not scared you're going to hurt me. If you wanted me dead, I would be."

You give a little shrug. It seems fair. You've slept around them all. If they wanted you gone, they've had ample chance to off you.

"That's - wow." Wind frowns.

You shrug again. "It makes sense. Besides, I think maybe it's just that you came in and I haven't fought you before."

You don't want to discuss the dreams. You don't want to examine the almost memories you keep having of voices you can't name.

You don't want to think about the feeling of that spear-

Breathe.

"Maybe." Wild says. "I need to go collect things for dinner. Legend, can you help?"

Legend looks at Wild before nodding stiffly. "Sure."

You and Wind watch the duo leave.

Wind has you run through a few more sparring sessions against him, your abilities are much less impressive.

You try, and whatever it is that cause you to beat Wild and Legend seems to have made you better and moving quickly. But it is still a strange circumstance.

Wind just takes it in stride, realizing you truly aren't holding back.

Wind is able to coach you through better dodging and speeding up, though.

It's worth it. You aren't amazing, but you're better than you were yesterday.

---------

Legend follows Wild into the trees with no fight. His head is whirling, and his heart is racing.

Watching you fight Wild was... painful.

Watching someone with the face of his treasure... the face of his angel... Watching you fight against his soul brother is wrong.

Watching you pull out that first move that Legend himself once taught his treasure was... bizarre.

The way you dropped down and swept feet out from under the champion was a move that Legend spent weeks working to perfect with his treasure.

"Do we believe they aren't a fighter still?" Legend huffs.

Wild turns, face a mess of grief. "They looked as surprised as we were."

"I don't trust them." Legend says. "Someone just waltzing in and being so much like - ... It doesn’t add up."

Wild sighs, looking up at him with an exhaustion that goes soul deep. "I get it, but I think it's all true."

"It just seems convenient."

"It does. But have you seen our luck? Why wouldn't some doppelganger get dragged in?" Wild laughs shakily.

Legend rolls his eyes. "Even the goddesses aren't that cruel."

"Legend. Please."

"What? I'm just saying-"

"Enough!" Wild snaps, "Okay?! Whatever is happening, you need to stop!"

"What?"

"You're being a dick!"

"I am not!" Legend hisses

"You are! You're taking your grief out on someone who you don't know. You're pissy with everyone."

"You take that back."

"No. I may not be handling things well, but I'm not glaring and talking shit to an innocent person."

Legend turns a dirty look to Wild. "You can't say it doesn't hurt."

"Of course it hurts!" Wild hisses. "It hurts every day."

Legend crosses his arms. "You don't even remember them, you don't -"

"Shut the fuck up." Wild snaps.

"No, you -"

"I lost them twice, you asshole. You don't get to hold monopoly on losing them!" Wild snaps, jamming a finger against Legend's chest.

Legend pushes the champion's hand away with what is almost a growl. "Don't."

"Then stop acting like you're the only one who lost them!"

"I'm not-"

"You really are."

"What am I supposed to do?!"

"Maybe just don't be a raging ass!" Wild snarls.

"I'm doing my best-"

"Bullshit." Wild snarls, "You're isolating them! No one calls you on your shit but Time! If you would pay attention, you'd notice that Hyrule and Sky are two seconds for nervous breakdowns!"

"That's not-!"

"You're allowed to be upset, Legend. No one expects you to magically be fine. But we do expect you to pull your head far enough out of your ass to help take care of the others."

"I am! I stay up with Hyrule-"

"He just wants you to tell him he's good enough!" Wild hisses. "You are his Idol! He needs you to stop glaring at some unlucky person and start empathizing!"

"I can't just turn my emotions off!"

"Don't! But spend less time being a dick to our new member and maybe focus on your other relationships!" Wild all but screams.

The champion rarely gets like this, but sometimes it's unavoidable.

Legend flinches, looking away quickly. He wants to defend himself more. He wants to hurt Wild back.

There's a voice in his head that sounds unbearably like his treasure that tells him it isn't worth it. He... isn't in the business of arguing with that voice. Not after... last time.

"Are you done?" Legend asks lowly, clenching his fists in an effort to hold his tounge.

"I doubt anything else I say would matter." Wild scoffs as he turns away.

Legend just sighs heavily. He will go check in with Hyrule later but right now he wants to scream. "I'm going for some air."

Wild waves him off, "Have fun."

The champion doesn’t sound like he means it, but then again Legend doesn’t care.

Not right now. Not when his temper is barely contained.

Legend takes to the right, walking without care until he's finally far enough away to let his anger lose.

-------

Sky finds himself helping you with gathering firewood, trying to make sure he isn't letting any of his messy feelings spill onto you. Being near you is both great and horrible. But that seems to be the way life is for him these days.

You are picking up branches from the ground.

"So... What's your world like?" You ask as you glance over your shoulder.

Sky offers a soft smile. "It's nice, mostly peaceful in the sky and we're settling the surface too."

"That makes sense. Do you like the surface?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. Yes, he lives the surface he feels right there.

No he doesn't like the surface because he was there when his Sunshine passed and he wasn't there for them.

Yes he loves it because there's less memories there to hurt.

He hates it because there's less of them.

"It... has it's pros and cons." Sky decides.

He imagines that's a safe enough answer. Much easier to say at least.

You nod, "That makes sense, most things do."

He can't argue with that.

"So... what was knight school like?"

"Busy." He says.

You laugh a little. "I bet it was."

"Do you have a knight academy?"

"I think the closest thing is military school. It's not always ideal."

"Oh. Like the army?"

"That's a branch of it."

"How strange." Sky muses.

"Do you have anyone waiting for you back home?" You ask.

Sky freezes, the implication of the question hurts.

He doesn’t have anyone waiting for him in the way of romantic partners. His Sunshine is dead and he failed them.

Here you are though, with their face and voice, asking him.

"Not- not anymore." Sky chokes out.

"Oh. I'm sorry." You say, voice going sift and sympathetic in a sweet sound that makes Sky want to scream.

He knows it isn't your fault. He does!

But Hylia, you hurt him sometimes.

"It's really not your fault." Sky says.

"Okay." You say. "I'm still sorry, loss and grief don't have some convenient timeline like people pretend."

Sky flinches, hearing the apology in your voice - in his lost lover's voice - is too much. You don't seem to be malicious, honest empathy weaves your voice instead and that hurts even more.

"Well... Thank you." He says.

"I know we haven't known each other long, but if you want to talk I'll listen." You offer a soft smile, more of a tug of your lips than anything.

He swallows thickly. "Thank you. That is a very kind offer."

"I mean it. I know people say that without meaning it sometimes... But I do."

"I-" Sky has to swallow hard again. "I believe you."

"Okay." You say.

Sky let's silence wash over the both of you. Something guiltily reliving blooms when you don't press the topic. The weight that settles in his chest is heavy. Your earnest care causes pain.

But it's very kind of you to say and mean such things. He wishes...

Sky wishes you looked different or had a different voice, he knows if you didn't drag up all the pain and grief he tries to squash down you would be one of his favorite people.

It doesn’t matter, though. You look and sound the way you do. You bring up all the painful memories without even knowing that they exist.

--------

Twilight sits at the fire with Hyrule and Warriors, trying his best to ignore you on the other side of camp where you are giving Epona lots of attention. He can't stand he's mad about it, his girl deserves all the best. He just... can't stand looking at you right now.

"Did you see them take Wild down?" Hyrule asks, kicking a rock gently.

"I did. Perhaps they have some sort of repressed muscle memory?" Warriors suggests.

"They did see that lizafos." Twilight muses.

"Don't remind me." Warriors groans, setting his face in his hands.

"Seemed like you was seeing a different time there." Twilight sighs.

Warriors lets out a shaking laugh. "I was."

"Do you... want to talk about it?" Hyrule offers.

Warriors looks over at them, face in a far away expression. He looks ready to break.

"When I lost my dove, it was to an ambush where they pushed me out of the way." He breathes out, staring intently at the fire.

"Oh... Wars..." Hyrule frowns. "I'm sorry."

"They saw the beast before I did... watching (Y/n) spot the beast and then shove Wind behind them was... It made me remember." The captain croaks miserably, eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Warriors..." Twilight breathes out.

"Why do they have to be so alike?" Warriors chokes.

"I don't know." Hyrule sighs.

"Ya know somethin'?" Twilight asks, drawl thickening like the block in his heart.

"What?" Warriors asks.

"When me an' Wild went lookin' for 'em after that, they saw Epona an' called out 'sweetheart' with such joy i' threw me fer a loop." The rancher admits, glancing over to you and Epona.

You're in the middle of feeding her apple slices and cooing. You've got this soft look on your face too.

"We're such messes." Hyrule laughs shakily.

"Right? Golden Three, I feel like such a prick. Here's someone so much like my dove it hurts and I can't be normal around them."

"Non o' us are." Twilight sighs. "It'sa righ' miracle Sky is able ta be there fo' em."

"He cries every night." Hyrule snorts, "He's running himself ragged for it."

"We all are." Warriors sighs, pulling a flash from the pack beside him.

"Wars." Hyrule frowns.

"Don't." The captain says before taking a hearty swig.

"Ya willin' ta share?" Twilight asks.

Warriors chuckles, low and dark, "Why not?"

Twilight accepts the flask and takes a swig, letting the burning whiskey rush his throat and stomach. He knows drinking isn't the best choice but a swig or two tonight with his brothers feels okay.

The rancher passes the flask back. "Thank ya."

Warriors takes another swig himself. "Sure."

"Do you think... they'd be friends with each other? They're so similar." Hyrule frowns at the fire.

"Maybe." Warriors sighs.

Twilight leans towards the fire. "I don' know... sometimes in th' righ' ligh' I could swea' they're our (Y/n) and not some doppelgange'."

"I hope not. I couldn't lose them again." Hyrule says weakly.

"Don't go down that road." Warriors says, "You'll get your hopes up."

"Yeah." Twilight laughs lowly. "Yeah, I will."

"We'll get through this." Hyrule says with a certainty Twilight would kill for.

The fae dosen’t promise. He almost never does, but it feels like one anyway.

"If we sti' togetha'." Twilight smiles weakly.

"No man left behind." Warriors echoes distantly.

Twilight thinks that sounds nice.

-------

You stand alone in the middle of a field of grass while lazy summer breezes billow past you.

All that you need to do is wait here for Link. All you want to do is see him, hold him, kiss him, and tell him how wonderful he is.

After all he's done for the world, Link deserves a break.

Someone calls your name from behind.

You turn, eyes landing on your lover.

Link stands there, brown curls shining in the light. Freckles dot his skin. He's beautiful.

"Link!" You smile.

He smiles back as he makes his way to you. "Hello, love."

Link wraps his arms about your torso, smiling up at you adoringly.

You press a kiss to his cheek. "You're late."

He flushes a little, ears drooping down a tick. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I believe I was promised a date, fairy boy."

"I believe you were." He smiles sweetly at you.

The expression is one only for you, melting your heart in ways you aren't ready to examine. His eyes are warm like a spring day, pools of green you'll never forget.

You smile back.

Link holds his hand out to you, palm up. "Shall we?"

You take his hand with a laugh. "We're not going on an adventure for the fate of the world, are we?"

"No, I promise we aren't." He says easily, squeezing your hand gently.

The fae magic that makes promises so dangerous settles into your being. To have a faerie trust one enough to make promises so easily is... flattering.

Heady even.

It's a testament to his trust in you that he makes them so freely to you. He accepts them from you far less than he makes them, but that is more his weariness than his trust levels.

"What are we doing then, Link?"

He hums once, then giggles. "That's a surprise, my love."

"Of course it is." You say.

He does so love his surprises.

Link tugs you along gently, flashing you a love sick smile.

The two of you go through the clearing and towards a path in the forest. Sunlight filters through foliage like gold freckles on nature.

He leads you to a babbling brook where there's a blanket and a picnic basket.

"A picnic?" You smile.

"With all your favorites."

"This is amazing, thank you!"

"It's nothing, honeybee." Link waves off.

"It's amazing!" You grin, squeezing his hand lightly.

He smiles right back, pulling your joined hands to his face and pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. "I'm glad you like it."

You sit on the blanket with him, eating and laughing and talking as time passes by like warm molasses. There's nothing to worry about here at his side.

You pass your afternoon together with the kind of love that's like a fireplace on a Sunday night in winter. There's nothing but security, trust, and respect.

"You're amazing." Link tells you as he glances over, the words a stark change in topic.

"You're even more amazing, Link. You're the hero!"

"I'm a traveler."

"You're a hero, Link."

"Maybe." He says softer.

You smile, deciding on words that will weigh heavy with the half faerie. "You're my hero, Link."

You press as much intention as you can into his name, knowing the magic true names hold and pressing your love into the word.

He gives a shy smile as his frame shudders on instinct due to both your claim of ownership on him and the use of his true name with magic that tastes achingly of you. "I will be yours, as long as you will be mine."

You smile, pressing a kiss to his lips. "I will be yours, I already am."

Link pulls you back in gently before kissing you again. "I love you, honeybee."

"I love you too."

"I can't wait to grow old together." He admits.

"Me neither." You grin. "Shall I promise you?"

"You don't have to." He says quickly. "You can't guarantee things like that."

"Promising it means I'll have very little choice otherwise."

"But if you break it... I don't know what would happen."

"I won't do it if you don't want me to, but I want to." You say.

Link falls quiet, searching your gaze as if it holds all the answers of the universe before he lets out a nervous giggle. "Only if you are certain."

You smile, "I am."

"Then I won't stop you."

You smile, taking both of his hands gently. "I promise to grow old with you, Link."

The magic that binds such things as contracts settles into your being. The magic is Link's, so to your, it feels lovely. It's like a sunbeam across a lake, wild and warm and comforting all at once.

He presses a kiss to your lips gently. "I promise I will love you for the rest of our lives."

The magic of a second rather heavy promise settles into your being as well. The weight and truth behind it is dizzying and perhaps addictive.

You wouldn't have it any other way, though. Right here, side by side with the man you love, there's nothing you want to change -

You wake up slower, dying embers meeting your gaze as you take in the night around you. The dream leaves your head fuzzy and warm, a sense of loss you shouldn't feel sinks into your heart.

You don't know these men. Less than a week ago, you would have checked anyone who told you they were real and sentient into rehab or something. Circumstances have changed and you're trying to ignore everything the whole 'video games characters are real and I played through what would be a very traumatizing experience for them like it was a toy' thing along with all the implications behind it. Sometimes it's easier to ignore than others.

You groan lowly.

This isn't sustainable. You can't keep living like this. The guilt about the video game thing and the general lack of fighting is not setting you up for success.

The weird dreams that feel like half baked memories are driving you up the wall.

Maybe some space would help.

That's not a bad idea. Space could be very good. It would get you away from the strange air the chain has going on and let you try to sort through your own feelings.

Maybe you could stay at the next town?

You would be leaving Wind, Sky, and Epona behind but they don't need you. You're sure the group would be much calmer if you left, and you would be able to deal with everything you have in your mind.

Besides, you aren't made for adventure like this. You know you're slowing the group down by a lot.

This would be for the best.

That settles it. You are staying in the next town.

You sigh and sit up, looking over to see Time doing a perimeter check while Four pokes at the embers with a stick.

The smallest hero looks heartsick, something that tugs at your heart.

"Are you okay?" You stage whisper.

Four's ears twitch before his gaze slides to you. "I'm fine. What are you doing awake?"

"Weird dreams." You say.

"I'm sorry."

You shake your head. "Don't be."

"Okay." He says. "You should try to get more sleep."

"Probably... I actually want to talk to Time first, though."

"Oh. Is - something wrong?" Four asks with a stilting and straining stumble over his words. He has drawn brows and a far away look.

"Not really. I'm just going to stay at the next town, and I figure he should know since he seems to be the leader."

"Oh." He says, falling silent as he looks you over.

You suppose there isn't much to say to that.

Minutes pass by with the heavy silence before Time comes back over and sits by Four.

He stares into the embers as if searching for something. It makes guilt well in your throat at the thought of interrupting this.

You know it's important to tell him as soon as you can, so he can plan around it. He deserves that much, they all do.

"Time." You say.

His gaze snaps to you. The heavy and cold sensation it leaves on you is nothing new by now. He doesn’t seem to mean it to be cruel, but he is undeniably intimidating and reserved.

"Yes?" He asks.

"I've decided I'm going to stay at the next town." You inform, loud enough to he heard but quiet enough not to wake others.

His ears twitch up, then down. He looks your face over but nods. "Very well. May I ask why?"

You can't imagine why he cares. He has his hands so full with everything else. You won't keep it from him, though.

"I'm not a hero, or a fighter, or someone else who's good at this lifestyle." You say, acknowledging the obvious, "I'm slowing you all down. I also have a lot I need to sort out in my head, and adventuring is not productive in that."

Time gives a soft hum, "It is safer for you in a town than with us."

"It is."

"You aren't slowing us down as much as you might think." Four offers.

You snort, "I am, but thank you."

"Does anyone else know?" Time asks.

"No, I just decided. I'll tell Wind and Sky in the morning."

"Okay." Time says. "Is there anything you need us to do?"

"No."

He nods.

Time doesn’t ask about what you need to deal with in your head. Neither does Four. There's the same heavy silence between you three that you can't escape with most of the group.

You swear you see regret flit across Time and Four's faces, but it's gone so fast you must be imagining things.

You lay back down, "Good night."

Four and Time both bid you good night.

You drift back to sleep to the knowledge that you finally have a real plan to go off of beyond 'don't die or upset the heavily armed men'.

Now you just have to tell everyone else.

-------

Next

Tag list: @danyzta @vrsin @silver-the-pendejo @tulip-does-stuff @justanotherweeb666 @yourlocaltreesimp @blueberrysungie @victoryssong23

[cup1drul3z]

★ — All That's Left Between Us

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7 : ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ

ꜰᴀʀᴍʜᴀɴᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 7.3ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Southern sevika, childhood bestfriends, Ex's to lovers, homophobia mentioned, internal hatred, cowboy sevika, farm owners daughter reader, size difference, breeding kink, fingering, dry humping

A/N : getting closer to the end folks

Summary : As summer camp begins, the spark between you and Sevika finally ignites, burning hotter than either of you planned. But something in the woods has your nerves fraying—quiet, watchful, and wrong. Between rising heat and creeping dread, the season is off to a wild start.

“I don’t hear sirens,” Caitlyn said, glancing back toward the trail, her voice a strained whisper.

Carol pressed harder on her radio. “How far out are they? ETA?”

A pause.

Static.

Then: “Minimum forty minutes. Maybe longer. No direct road access.”

Carol’s face paled, and when she looked up, everyone knew before she said it.

“They won’t be here in time,” she said softly, her voice brittle.

The group went silent.

Except for Jinx, who was still on the phone, pacing a few feet away.

Then—“Oh my god,” she gasped, slapping her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror as Betty’s voice crackled through the speaker. “They’re not going to make it. We have to—”

Carol turned, cutting her off. “We need to push it through.”

Push it through.

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

You blinked rapidly, still trying to breathe, still drowning in pain and confusion. “What?” you croaked, your voice thready and small. “What—what does that mean?”

Sevika’s jaw clenched.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

You saw it in her eyes.

Vi flinched and stepped forward. “Jesus, Carol, do you even know what you’re saying—”

Carol looked around at the stunned counselors, her expression hardened now. “Does anyone know where the arteries are? We can’t just yank it out blind. If that barb catches—”

“I don’t want to die,” you sobbed, suddenly louder, your voice cracking apart as you tried to sit up again, gripping Vi’s wrist like a lifeline. “Please—Sevika, I don’t—”

“Shhh, hey—baby—breathe,” Sevika said, kneeling again fast, one hand on your cheek. She looked at you—just you. Then she pulled a flask from her back pocket.

She unscrewed it and held it out.

“Drink this.”

You stared at it through tears, confused.

Everyone else did too.

“Jesus Christ, Sevika,” Vi snapped. “You think she wants a drink right now?!”

“It’s not for fun,” Sevika bit out, eyes flashing. “It’s for the pain. You think I’m doing this sober?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You took it.

Hands shaking, tears streaming down your face, you tilted it back and took a chug. It burned like fire down your throat—whiskey, harsh and fast. Your stomach twisted, but the warmth came just after, dulling the edges. A little.

Sevika took it back, poured some straight over the wound.

You screamed.

But she didn’t stop. She poured it over her hands too, soaking them, tossing the flask aside as Vi helped you sit upright with a grimace.

The world spun.

Caitlyn turned away, looking sick. One of the boys nearby actually gagged.

And then—a click.

A phone.

Followed by another.

Teenagers in the crowd, campers with their phones out, recording.

“Oh, hell no—” Jinx snarled, storming over.

She grabbed one kid’s phone and launched it into the lake. The splash was loud. Another phone sailed right after it. “You think this is the right time?!” she screamed, face red, fists clenched.

The campers muttered apologies, terrified now, backing away.

You sobbed again, your hand grabbing Sevika’s wrist like a lifeline. “Please don’t let me die,” you whispered.

And Sevika—eyes burning, hands steady—leaned in close, pressing her forehead to yours.

“You’re not dying,” she growled. “You hear me? You’re not. I’m gonna get this out, and then I’m carrying you out of these woods myself.”

Her hand went to the arrow.

Everyone held their breath.

And Sevika whispered, just for you—

“Hold on, sweetheart.”

You were shaking uncontrollably.

Your skin was cold, clammy, your shirt soaked with lakewater, sweat, and blood. The fire in your knee pulsed with every second, growing louder than your own heartbeat. The whiskey dulled the edge—but only just. Every nerve screamed.

Sevika hovered close, her hands wet with liquor, stained red.

Carol was kneeling beside her now, voice low, tight. “You can’t twist it. You’ll tear a vessel. You have to push until the barb clears the muscle, then pull back through.”

Vi was behind you, holding your upper body steady. Caitlyn had your other arm, whispering something you couldn’t make out.

The world was slipping sideways. Fuzzy around the edges.

“I can’t—I can’t do this,” you whimpered, tears hot on your cheeks. “Sevika—please, don’t—”

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but steady, her hands bracing gently around your thigh. “I know, baby. I know. I’ve got you. Just stay with me.”

You looked into her eyes—dark, focused, scared—and nodded.

Your grip tightened around Vi’s hand.

“Ready?” Sevika asked Carol, not taking her eyes off you.

Carol hesitated. “You’re the only one who’s done field trauma before. We follow your lead.”

“On three,” Sevika said, her voice lower now. She pressed her hand to your thigh to stabilize it.

You whimpered again.

“One…”

Your breath hitched. You clamped your eyes shut.

“Two…”

You tensed.

“Three—”

You screamed.

The world turned white with pain.

Your body convulsed as Sevika pressed forward, forcing the arrow through your already shredded knee. You could feel it ripping, feel every awful inch of metal slicing muscle and sinew. It was the worst pain you'd ever known. Worse than falling. Worse than fear.

Worse than anything.

Another scream tore out of you—hoarse, cracking.

“Almost there, baby, almost—” Sevika hissed through clenched teeth.

And then she pulled.

The arrow came free.

Blood poured down your leg in a fresh wave, dark and fast.

Everything tilted.

Your scream turned into a choked sob, then nothing but ragged, gasping breaths. Your vision tunneled.

Too much.

Too much.

You heard your name.

Sevika’s voice.

“Sweetheart—hey—look at me. You with me?”

But you couldn’t.

Everything was falling away now, like a tide pulling back.

The last thing you saw was her face—her eyes wide, shining, mouth moving with words you couldn’t hear.

Then black.

Everything blurred.

The scream you let out when the arrow was pulled had barely finished echoing before Sevika was cradling you against her chest, her palm braced over the bleeding wound, whispering your name over and over like a prayer she couldn’t stop saying.

Then—

Lights.

Sirens.

A swarm of blue and red tearing through the treeline.

First responders poured in from the trail, EMTs with bags and stretchers and calm voices that didn’t match the panic in Sevika’s chest.

“She’s fading—she’s losing too much—watch the leg—”

Someone took you from her arms.

She didn’t want to let go.

But she had to.

You were unconscious, your body limp, head lolling toward her shoulder until the paramedic straightened you on the stretcher. Your hair was matted with sweat and lakewater, cheeks flushed and streaked with dirt and blood.

“Wait—” Sevika stood, staggering toward them. “I—let me ride with her—”

But the EMTs were already lifting the stretcher. One of them shook his head briskly. “Family only.”

“She is family!” Harold’s voice barked from behind her.

She whipped around, startled to find Betty and Harold there—breathless, eyes wide, both of them looking like they’d aged ten years in the last twenty minutes.

“I’m riding with her,” Harold said, already climbing in.

Betty touched Sevika’s arm gently. “We’ve got her, baby. We’ll get her there. Just get her bag. Please.”

Sevika nodded numbly, her throat too tight to speak.

The ambulance doors slammed shut. The engine growled.

And then you were gone.

The sirens wailed into the dark, fading up the road. The only thing left behind was the blood-stained grass and a gaping silence that filled Sevika’s ears like pressure underwater.

She stood there, hands still red, arms still shaking.

And then—

She turned.

Ran was near the mess hall, surrounded by a few remaining counselors and cops scribbling in little notepads. She was crying, sitting in the dirt with her knees up, saying something to an officer who looked more like he wanted a nap than a report.

Sevika moved without thinking.

Someone called her name. It didn’t register.

By the time Ran saw her coming, it was too late.

“You—” Sevika snarled, and then her fist collided with Ran’s face so hard her head snapped back.

Ran screamed.

The counselors scattered.

Sevika grabbed her by the collar and dragged her to her feet, only to slam her right back down again. Her fists didn’t stop—another to the jaw, the cheek, the ribs. Ran curled in on herself, sobbing, crying out, trying to shield her face.

“You hunted her!” Sevika shouted, voice cracking. “She begged you! And you let them shoot her—”

“Stop—please—I didn’t mean to—!”

“You don’t get to cry!” Sevika roared, blood spattered across her arms now—hers and Ran’s.

The cops were there.

But they didn’t rush in.

Not right away.

They exchanged glances—muted, knowing.

One of them shrugged.

The other nodded slowly.

They gave her time.

Vi was yelling in the background. Jinx was watching silently, her jaw clenched, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

When the cops did move in, they didn’t shout.

One officer finally stepped forward, gently catching Sevika’s arm. “Alright. That’s enough.”

Sevika shook him off, chest heaving, sweat glistening across her back and shoulders. Her hair clung to her face, stuck there by blood and rage and grief.

“She could’ve died.” Her voice cracked. “She still might.”

“I know,” the officer said quietly. “And this’ll be in the report. But we’ve got it now.”

Ran lay curled on the ground, face bloodied, snot and tears smeared across her cheeks, whimpering.

“Mercy—please—” she sobbed.

Sevika stared down at her.

Then turned and walked away.

Not because she was done.

But because she had to get to you.

The mud squelched beneath your bare feet, warm and thick from the afternoon sun. Your hands were already caked with it, your overalls stained beyond saving, and Sevika—taller, scrappier, with one knee scraped open—was poking at a little garter snake with a stick like she was daring it to strike.

“Bet if I poke it one more time, it’s gonna hiss like that old guy who lives by the gas station,” she muttered, squinting at it with intense focus.

“Don’t!” one of the other kids shrieked from the edge of the pond. “You’re gonna get bit!”

The group had scattered at the first sight of the snake, leaving you and Sevika alone in the mud. You hadn’t moved an inch.

You just giggled.

“That old guy already does hiss,” you said, brushing a streak of mud off your cheek with the back of your wrist. “You’re gonna get cursed if you keep bothering it.”

Sevika glanced up at you, smirking.

“If I do, I’ll come back and haunt you first.”

You made a face at her, sticking out your tongue. Sevika laughed—loud, full, and proud of herself. She looked completely alive in that moment, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed. Not many people got to see her like that.

That laugh still echoed in your ears as you heard someone call your name from the edge of the field.

“Lovebug!”

You turned.

Your mom stood near the gravel path, one arm cradling a brown paper farm bag against her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She was smiling, soft and wide, her apron still tied around her waist.

“C’mon now, dinner’s not gonna make itself,” she called.

“Coming!” you chirped, already scampering up the slope barefoot, your overalls sticking to your legs. You paused just once—halfway to her—and turned around.

Sevika was still standing in the mud, stick now dropped, watching you go.

You grinned.

A wide, innocent smile. A little too wide. The kind of smile that meant you wanted her to chase you but were too shy to ask.

Then you turned and ran.

Your mom chuckled as you reached her, looping her arm over your muddy shoulders despite the mess.

“Having fun out there, swamp creature?” she teased, glancing down at the state of your clothes.

“She was poking a snake!” you said proudly.

Your mom made a face. “Well, remind me not to check your pockets before laundry this week.”

You giggled, burying your face against her side for just a second as you walked. The crinkle of the paper bag, the smell of fresh basil and ripe tomatoes—your mom always brought something from the garden with her.

After a moment, she looked down at you sideways.

“So… you’ve got that Sevika girl all to yourself, huh?”

You blinked. “What?”

“She’s a rough one, that one,” she mused playfully. “But I see the way you smile at her.”

You bit your lip, grinning.

And didn’t say a word.

Just looked down at your feet, still muddy, still squishing with every step.

Your mom bumped your hip gently.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

You peeked up at her, heart warm, smile lingering as the two of you walked toward the porch together, the golden evening sun casting long shadows behind you—yours, your mom’s… and far behind, still by the mud puddle, Sevika watching until you were gone.

The fan in your room clicked every few seconds—an uneven, rhythmic tick that had once been comforting, but tonight it only made the silence heavier.

Until it wasn’t silent anymore.

The sound came first like a distant grumble. Muffled voices just beneath the floorboards. Then sharper. Louder. A familiar cadence of words that didn’t want to be heard but couldn’t be held in.

Your parents were fighting again.

You laid still in bed, eyes wide, staring up at the pale glow of moonlight shifting through your curtains. The warm summer air barely moved. The fan pushed hot air across your face, and still, you stayed quiet—like being still might make it stop.

But it didn’t.

“I’m worried about her, Maggie!” Harold’s voice rose from the kitchen below, barely softened by the old floorboards. “You’ve been drinking more every week, and it’s not just at night anymore!”

“It’s nothing. I’m allowed a glass of wine at dinner, Harold—”

“That wasn’t wine,” he snapped. “That was half a bottle of whiskey. And now you can’t even stand up straight when you're cooking!”

Your brows furrowed.

You stared at the ceiling, heart in your throat.

“You think I don’t know what stress feels like?” Harold continued, voice raw now. “I work twelve hours a day, and I still come home and see her. She’s not blind, Mags. She sees you like this. She hears us.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping across the floor.

You sat up slowly, wrapping your arms around your knees.

Your room felt smaller than usual. Like the walls were pressing in, like the fan was too loud, like your heartbeat had crawled into your throat.

You needed to breathe.

Quietly, you swung your legs out of bed, feet landing softly on the wood floor. You tiptoed to the window and pushed it open with both hands, the frame sticking slightly before creaking up. Warm air rushed in—fresh and sweet and full of distant cricket song.

The edge of the roof was just below your windowsill.

You’d done it before.

You climbed out, knees scraping against the shingles, your hands holding tight as you eased yourself down to sit on the slanted rooftop. Your pajama shorts stuck slightly to your skin from the heat, your curls falling around your face as you settled into your usual hiding spot.

The roof wasn’t high.

But it was far enough to feel away.

You could still hear them inside—Harold’s voice still thick with worry, your mother’s now quieter, distant. The hum of it all buzzed through the open window behind you.

You didn’t want to listen anymore.

Instead, you looked out.

The stars above were soft and blurred, the summer sky smeared with pale blue and silver. In the distance, the barn light was still on. 

You leaned your cheek against your arm, blinking slowly, breathing through the heaviness that sat on your chest like a rock.

You didn’t know exactly what it was, but something felt off.

Wrong.

Like the air in the house had changed and wouldn’t go back to normal again.

Like your mom’s hugs weren’t as warm, and her eyes didn’t look at you the same way every morning.

Like this summer might be the last one that looked the way it used to.

It didn’t feel like a real day.

Not with how blue the sky was. Not with how sharp the air felt in your lungs. Not with how your black dress itched at your collarbone and your shoes didn’t fit quite right, like your body had grown since the last time anyone noticed.

You were eleven.

And you were standing in front of your mother’s casket.

The wood was too polished. The flowers too bright. Everything smelled like lilies and wet grass and the cologne your father always wore on Sundays. But he wasn’t wearing it now. Now he just stood stiffly beside you, his face blank, his hands trembling faintly at his sides.

You couldn’t look at him.

Couldn’t look at anyone.

Except her.

The casket was closed.

You hated that.

You hated not seeing her face. Even if it was cold. Even if it wasn’t really her anymore. You hated how final it was. How small the box looked from where you stood, and how everyone kept saying she’s in a better place like you were too young to hear the word drunk.

Your stomach twisted.

You didn’t cry. You hadn’t cried since the night the sheriff came to the door and your father screamed like he’d been shot. The tears dried out somewhere between the hospital and the hallway and the moment someone said accident in a tone that didn’t sound surprised.

Beside you, Sevika stood in stiff, too-big clothes. Her button-down was wrinkled and her tie was crooked and her hands were shoved deep in her pockets. She hadn’t spoken much all morning, but she hadn’t left your side once.

You didn’t ask her to. She just… knew.

A gust of wind rustled the trees behind you, and somewhere off to the side—too close—you heard them.

The kids.

Whispering like they thought you couldn’t hear.

“...I heard she was drunk again—”

“Didn’t she, like, crash into a ditch or something?”

“My mom said it wasn’t the first time she got in trouble—”

You winced, shoulders tensing. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Sevika turned her head sharply, eyes narrowing. “Shut your mouths.”

The three boys flinched.

One of them laughed nervously—only to go quiet when Sevika took a step toward them. They scattered. Not another word.

She didn’t look back at you right away.

But when she did, her face softened just a little.

Her voice was low. “They don’t know anything.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at the casket, eyes burning, heart stuck between too heavy and too empty.

She gently bumped her shoulder against yours.

“I brought gum,” she muttered. “Don’t tell your dad.”

You sniffed.

Let out a watery, pitiful laugh.

Sevika slowly reached over and took your hand. Hers was bigger. Rougher. But warm. And when she squeezed, you squeezed back.

Behind you, people murmured and shifted.

Harold hadn’t spoken since that morning.

You weren’t sure he’d spoken at all since the funeral home called.

He stood frozen, staring at the grave like if he looked long enough, she’d climb back out and shake the dirt from her shoulders and come home to cook dinner.

But no one was coming home.

Your home was just… quiet now.

The porch light still flickered, and the mail still came, and the dog still barked at nothing—but it wasn’t the same.

Nothing was.

You leaned your head lightly against Sevika’s arm.

“I miss her,” you said, so quiet it nearly disappeared.

Sevika didn’t say I know. She didn’t say me too. She didn’t say anything at all.

She just stayed.

Right there.

With you.

Until they lowered the casket into the ground and the sky stopped pretending it was just another afternoon.

The sun was high, making everything hum—cicadas in the trees, the gentle roll of wind through the grass, the tinny clatter of metal as you tightened the bolt on the rusted gate latch.

You were kneeling in the dirt, sweat on your brow and grease smudged on your cheek, brow furrowed in concentration. The gate had been dragging for months. You’d studied the hinge for maybe five minutes before muttering something about torque and rotational force and marching off to grab the right wrench.

Sevika watched you with her usual arms-crossed patience, crouched nearby in an oil-stained tank top, her fingers idly spinning a stray washer. She wasn’t entirely sure what “counterclockwise tension correction” meant—but she liked the way you said it. Like you couldn’t help but be smart. Like you didn’t even know how impressive it was to rattle off mechanics and equations like poetry.

“You know,” she muttered as you leaned in with the wrench, “if the whole college thing doesn’t work out, you could always become a sexy mechanic.”

You snorted, blowing a curl out of your face. “What, and take your job?”

Sevika grinned. “Please. I’m here for the heavy lifting and good looks. You’re the one keeping this farm from collapsing.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing just a little.

The moment settled warm and easy around you both. The smell of cut grass, the clang of metal, the soft sounds of animals in the distance—familiar and safe. It was one of those days that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Then the screen door creaked open, and a voice called from the porch:

“Y/N! Something came for you in the mail!”

You turned, blinking up at the house.

Betty stood in the doorway with a wide sunhat and her apron still on, one hand holding an envelope high like it was on fire. She’d been dating your dad for about a year now, and while she wasn’t your mom, she wasn’t trying to be. She just… showed up. Cooked dinner. Asked how your tests went. Let you help her make blackberry jam and never complained when you left books everywhere.

Your eyes widened. “Be right back!” you called to Sevika, passing her the wrench as you stood.

She took it without a word, watching as you wiped your hands on your shorts and jogged toward the porch. Her gaze lingered on you longer than necessary. Long enough to feel the absence of you when the screen door slammed shut behind you.

Sevika stood slowly, brushing dirt from her knees.

She squinted up at the porch, wondering—idly, nervously—what kind of letter could make your face light up like that.

The screen door slapped shut behind you as you stepped into the house, bare feet brushing across the cool kitchen tiles. The scent of peach cobbler hung faint in the air, sweet and warm, mingling with the subtle detergent of Betty’s apron as she turned toward you, still holding the envelope like it might bite her.

“It came priority,” she said, offering it out. “From California.”

Your heart stuttered.

You took the envelope slowly, fingers brushing over your name typed clean across the front. Your handwriting hadn’t looked like that in the application. This was official. Crisp. Real.

University of Calisphere, Office of Admissions.

For a second, everything in your chest went still.

Betty was watching you now, expression softening. “Is it one of the ones you applied to?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything more. Just gave your arm a small squeeze and went back to the porch, letting the door swing closed behind her, leaving you alone in the quiet hum of the house.

You stared at the letter a moment longer, then moved to the table.

The chair creaked softly as you sat.

It wasn’t supposed to come this early. You weren’t even technically a senior yet. You’d applied through that early entry gifted program they let juniors into—the one for “exceptional candidates.” You hadn’t expected much. California had always felt like a dream wrapped in a thousand miles of distance and ocean.

But the envelope was thick.

And your hands were shaking as you tore it open.

You skimmed the first line.

Then again.

We are thrilled to offer you admission to the University of Calisphere as an early entrant under full scholarship, beginning fall semester...

The room didn’t move, but your blood did. Rushing, dizzy. You pressed your palm to the letter like that might keep the words from floating off the page.

Full ride.

California.

It had happened.

It was supposed to feel good. Huge. Like everything you'd worked for was finally being seen.

But all you felt was cold.

And then guilty.

Because Sevika didn’t know.

She hadn’t even known you’d applied.

You’d written the essays late at night with the light of your laptop low and your door shut tight. You’d saved the drafts under vague names, cleared your browser history after each submission, and told yourself you’d explain it all later—if it turned into anything. If it mattered.

Now it mattered.

You glanced toward the window.

Outside, Sevika was crouched by the gate again, messing with the latch you’d half-fixed. Her dark hair fell into her eyes, sweat glinting off the strong line of her arms as she worked, tongue poking just slightly out in focus. She was wearing one of your old scrunchies on her wrist, probably stolen from your nightstand.

She didn’t know the world was about to split open.

You swallowed hard and folded the letter in half like it would take up less space that way.

It didn’t.

You stood, legs unsteady, and pressed it against your chest for a second—just breathing. Then you tucked it in the side pocket of your notebook and made your way back outside, the door creaking like it didn’t want to keep this secret either.

Sevika looked up as you stepped onto the porch.

“Good news?” she asked, wiping her hands on her jeans.

You smiled—small, a little too careful. “Yeah. Just something from school.”

She nodded, reaching for the wrench again.

“Hey,” she added, eyes flicking toward you. “You okay?”

You hesitated.

“Yeah,” you lied, too quickly. “Just hot.”

She snorted. “Told you not to wear black.”

And just like that, the moment passed. The world spun forward again.

But that letter burned against your side like it had teeth.

You didn’t know how to tell her that something had just changed.

And that part of you already knew you might not be able to stay.

It started small.

Like always.

A missed call. A weird silence. A comment that sounded fine on the surface but felt off underneath.

You’d been distant. And Sevika had noticed.

You’d told yourself you were going to sit her down. Explain everything. Let her know it wasn’t about leaving her—that it was about your future, your work, everything you’d worked for.

But you waited too long.

And now it was too late.

“Just tell me why you didn’t say anything!” Sevika barked, arms out, pacing across the dirt by the barn. The sky was bruised with late-afternoon clouds, heavy and grey, and the scent of rain clung to the air like a warning.

You stood with your back to the fence, heart pounding, jaw tight.

“I was going to!” you snapped. “I just—I needed to figure it out first, okay?”

“Figure it out without me?” she turned on you, voice sharp. “You were gonna what—just disappear in the fall? Leave a note on the kitchen table and pretend like this didn’t matter?”

Your throat burned. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

You stared at her.

She looked so angry. So hurt. But underneath all of it was something worse: fear.

You saw it in the way her fingers curled into fists. The way her voice cracked when she added, “You didn’t even think about what it would do to me.”

“I did, Sevika,” you said, softer now, but still angry. “I think about you all the time. But this is my future. My chance. You think I’m supposed to just throw it away because you don’t want to be left behind?”

That hit.

Hard.

She flinched. Then scoffed and turned away, running both hands down her face.

“You’re just like her,” she muttered.

You froze.

“…What?”

“I didn’t mean—” she started, backing up, but you stepped forward.

“No. No, what the fuck did you just say?”

“It slipped—”

“Say it.” Your voice shook now. “Go ahead. Finish it. Say what you meant.”

Sevika’s jaw clenched.

You waited.

The silence stretched too long.

Your hands were shaking. You pressed them into your sides like that might help.

She opened her mouth, but whatever apology she was trying to form was already too late.

Tears stung your eyes as your voice broke. “You selfish asshole.”

Her breath hitched.

“You think I don’t know what this looks like? You think I don’t know what it feels like? Leaving this place? Leaving you? You think that’s easy for me?”

She said nothing.

You stepped back, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Fuck you.”

Then you turned and walked away.

She didn’t follow.

Didn’t say another word.

Just stood there, fists clenched, as the clouds finally opened and rain started to fall—soft at first, then heavy, like the sky had finally heard you.

The sirens wailed like distant thunder as the ambulance tore down the old highway, rattling with every bump in the road.

You were cold. Wet. Laid out on the stretcher, limbs heavy with exhaustion and shock. Your skin clung to the damp camp t-shirt they'd cut halfway off your shoulder, and your teeth chattered with each jolt of the vehicle. The arrow wound had been wrapped tightly, blood already seeping through the makeshift padding. The medic leaned over you again, shining a penlight into your eyes with calm, clinical urgency.

“She’s tachy,” he muttered, checking the pulse at your wrist. “Keep her elevated—watch for signs of shock.”

Voices echoed all around, muffled by the roaring in your ears. The cabin lights flickered above. Something warm pressed to your other side.

Harold.

His face was pale, jaw clenched like it might crack. He hadn’t stopped holding your hand since they’d loaded you in.

“I’ve got you, baby girl,” he whispered, thumb brushing your knuckles, though you could barely feel it. “You’re okay. Just hang in there. You’re okay.”

Betty was beside him, her hand on your ankle, her other trembling over her mouth. Her eyes were red. Glossy. She kept glancing at your face like she was afraid you might disappear.

You blinked, eyes drifting toward the corner.

And there—there she was.

Your breath caught.

Your mother sat at the edge of the bench, her hands folded neatly in her lap, looking as calm as a summer morning. Not a ghost. Not a blur.

She was just there.

“Mama?” you croaked.

No one else seemed to notice.

Not Harold. Not Betty. Not the medic adjusting your IV. But she was real to you. Real enough to make your throat burn and your chest ache.

Her dress was soft blue. The one she wore to church. Her hair was pinned up, and her eyes were warm. So warm. She reached out and touched your knee, just above the bandage.

“I’m right here, lovebug,” she whispered, voice a balm against the chaos. “It’s not your fault. You did everything right.”

Your chin quivered. Tears pooled hot in your eyes.

“I’m scared…”

“I know,” she said gently. “But you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Her hand drifted up to brush the hair from your forehead.

“I miss you,” you breathed.

But her image was already fading, bleeding into the flashing lights and red haze of the ambulance ceiling.

The cold returned.

The noise returned.

The pain returned.

And suddenly, the world shifted again.

You woke up to sharp lights and hands pressing down on you.

Everything was noise.

“BP’s dropping—elevate her leg—let’s move—”

You cried out—whether from fear or pain, you didn’t know.

“I want Sevika—where’s—where is she—”

No one heard you.

The words spilled from your lips like water down a drain, ignored as the doctors shouted over each other. One of them pushed something into your IV line and the colors around the edges of your vision began to melt.

You reached up weakly—grasping for something. Someone.

But the world went dark again.

Sevika wasn’t supposed to be there.

No one had let her in.

Not really.

But she had sprinted in through the emergency bay doors soaked in lake water, shirt half-buttoned and knees still stained with mud from where she’d knelt beside you. One of the paramedics had barely looked up before Sevika was flashing Harold’s name and pointing toward the arriving ambulance like it was life or death.

Because it was.

Somehow—by sheer force of will or maybe dumb luck—she slipped past the nurse’s desk and into the trauma bay the moment they rolled you in.

Everything was white and loud. Nurses shouting, gloves snapping, machines screaming. They were already cutting away what was left of your camp shirt, lifting your legs onto the narrow bed, barking orders like time itself was collapsing. You were pale—too pale. Lips blue-tinged, eyes half-closed, blood soaked through your makeshift bandage and pooling on the gurney.

Sevika’s breath caught in her throat.

She stood frozen just inside the doorway, fists clenched at her sides, unable to move. Unwilling to blink.

You didn’t look like you were breathing.

“BP’s crashing!”

“Push one of epi—get the pads ready—”

A doctor shoved past her. She barely noticed.

Betty and Harold burst into the room a moment later, security trying to keep them near the corner. Betty sobbed into Harold’s chest as he just gripped her, his face locked in quiet, helpless terror.

And then—

The worst sound.

A long, high-pitched flatline.

The world stopped.

The monitor went dead. Just a single tone that cut the room in half.

Sevika’s knees buckled slightly.

“No,” she whispered, like the word itself could stop it.

“No no no no—”

The team moved faster now, barking medical jargon as they pulled out paddles. One nurse counted down. Someone else grabbed more adrenaline.

“She’s coding—”

The line stayed flat.

Betty was sobbing openly now. Harold’s hand covered his mouth. The room felt like it was being buried alive.

Sevika’s hands gripped the edge of a metal tray as the back of her throat burned. She wasn’t breathing either. She couldn’t. Not until—

Beep.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Then another.

Beep. Beep.

The pitch dropped into rhythm.

A heartbeat.

Faint.

Flickering.

But there.

She was there.

The whole room froze for a beat, then roared into motion again—but Sevika couldn’t hear it. Her vision blurred. Her breath finally rushed out of her lungs in a ragged exhale, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

She was shaking.

You were alive.

The first thing you felt was weight.

Not pain. Not panic.

Just… weight.

A dull ache pressed behind your eyes and in your chest, your body heavy like it had been soaked through and wrung out. Every muscle ached. Your mouth was dry. Your head foggy.

You blinked slowly.

White ceiling tiles. A buzzing light overhead. The sterile smell of antiseptic.

Hospital.

Your heart jumped a little in your chest, monitors responding with a beep, and you turned your head—just barely, just enough—to see her.

Sevika.

Curled in an impossible position in the corner chair. One boot kicked off. Her arm draped across her stomach. The other hand still wrapped gently around yours, her fingers tensed like she never really let go. Her face was slack in sleep, but the creases in her brow said she hadn’t done much of it.

You blinked again.

And your lips moved without sound.

“Sev…”

Her eyes opened instantly. Like she’d never been asleep at all. Like she’d been waiting for that one word.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice low and raw.

You tried to sit up, winced, and gave up halfway.

“Hey yourself,” you croaked, blinking against the dryness in your eyes. “You look like shit.”

That earned a soft laugh. Her fingers squeezed yours.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

Your throat thickened. “I thought—” Your voice broke. “I saw my mom.”

Sevika’s jaw clenched for half a second before she moved in closer, sitting at the edge of your bed. “I know. Betty told me.”

You stared up at the ceiling, silent. “Am I okay?”

“You’re alive.” Her thumb brushed against the back of your hand. “And that’s what matters.”

You nodded slowly, but your lip trembled anyway.

“I thought I was gonna die.”

Sevika leaned in, pressing her forehead to your temple like she could protect you just by touch.

“You didn’t,” she whispered. “You didn’t. I’ve got you.”

For a moment, you just lay there—your hand in hers, your breathing shallow, eyes closed. Her touch was so steady. So grounding.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured.

“For what?”

“For leaving. For college. For the fight. For…” You swallowed. “For everything.”

Sevika leaned back just enough to look at you, her eyes glassy but unwavering.

“baby,” she said. “You’re so smart..even though its a little annoying sometimes but your so unbelievably smart i-”

She didn’t finish it.

But she didn’t need to.

You squeezed her hand, and this time, it was you who pulled her in.

Your lips brushed hers gently—tired and trembling—but real.

Alive.

The house smelled like rosemary and garlic, something buttery and warm simmering on the stove.

You gripped the stair rail tightly as you came down, each step sending a small ache through your leg, a firm reminder of what was still healing. The gauze had been replaced with a tight wrap, and the stitches were out, but the pain still lingered. It always did in the morning. And when it rained. And when you moved too fast. But today, you just needed to move.

Betty’s head popped around the corner the second your foot hit the hardwood.

“Oh, honey—” she gasped, quickly wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “The doctor said you shouldn’t be on your feet like that!”

“I know,” you said, voice scratchy from sleep. “I just—needed some air. I’ll go back in a minute.”

Betty gave you a disapproving but deeply sympathetic look, then backed toward the kitchen. “Lunch will be done soon. Please don’t push yourself.”

You offered a weak smile and nodded, already making your way past the kitchen to the back door.

The screen creaked as you eased it open.

Outside, the late morning sun had just begun warming the dew off the grass. The breeze smelled like cut hay and honeysuckle, sweet and sharp in your nose. You leaned against the doorframe as you took it all in—the sweeping view of the pasture, the fence line still half-repaired from the last storm, and the lone figure near the tractor in the distance.

Sevika.

She had her sleeves rolled up, arms slick with sweat and streaked with dirt. Her tank clung to her in the heat, and her hair was tied back into a low bun under her cap. You watched as she lifted something heavy from the trailer bed, her body bending with it, then tossed it to the side like it weighed nothing.

There was something about her like that—brutal and beautiful. Quietly steady. Even after everything.

Your eyes stayed on her.

You hadn’t been back out there since the hospital. Not really. The fields felt far away now, like another life.

But seeing her out there made you ache.

Not from the wound.

From the weight of missing her.

She must’ve felt your stare, because her head turned toward the porch. Even from a distance, you saw her pause—wiping her hands on her jeans, eyes scanning until they landed on you. Her shoulders relaxed the second they did.

She raised one hand in a wave.

You smiled and lifted your hand back, slow and small.

Then she started walking—long, sure strides across the golden grass, dust rising around her boots.

You didn’t move.

You just stayed there in the doorway, leaning your weight against the frame like it might hold the parts of you that still felt like they might fall apart.

When she got close enough, her voice was low and familiar.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she said, lips twitching.

You looked up at her with a half-smirk. “Yeah, well… guess I’m not so good at that.”

She stepped closer, reaching out to brush a piece of hair behind your ear. Her touch was warm from the sun.

“Missed you this morning,” she said.

“Missed you too,” you whispered.

The silence stretched between you. Comfortable. Real.

“You look good,” she said after a moment, eyes traveling gently over your face, your frame, your healing leg.

You huffed a breath and leaned your forehead to hers. “I look like I lost a bar fight with a medieval weapon.”

“You won,” she murmured. “You’re still here.”

Your throat tightened.

And even though the pain was still there, and your leg still ached, and the nightmares still came sometimes when you closed your eyes—standing here in the doorway, her hand in yours, her sweat and dirt and steadiness—it felt like maybe things could start to feel whole again.

Even if slowly.

Even if not all at once.

Sevika didn’t say anything when she helped you down the last step. She just held onto your waist like it was second nature—like there’d never been any distance at all. You leaned into her, careful with your leg, until you were both seated on the porch swing.

The chains creaked with your weight. The breeze was soft. You could hear the stove timer going off faintly inside, but neither of you moved.

For a long time, you just sat there.

Watching the wind roll over the grass like waves on a golden sea.

“I hate hospitals,” you said eventually, voice quiet.

Sevika nodded, her forearm resting along the back of the swing, close enough that your shoulders touched. “Yeah. Me too.”

You looked down at your lap, fingers curling in your shirt. “I kept waking up thinking I was still there. Every time I closed my eyes, it was like…” You trailed off. “I kept seeing that lake. The arrow. The look on Ran’s face.”

Sevika’s jaw clenched, but she stayed still.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you whispered.

She shifted toward you slowly, her hand brushing your thigh. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Not like that. Not out there. Not alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.” You turned to look at her. “You came for me.”

“Too late.”

“No.” You reached for her hand, fingers wrapping tight. “Right on time.”

She didn’t look at you right away. Her thumb grazed your knuckles, slow and thoughtful, like she was scared you’d break again if she held you wrong.

“I shouldn’t have let you go back then,” she said. “When you left for California. I should’ve fought harder.”

You leaned your head on her shoulder. “I should’ve told you I was applying. I was scared you’d hate me.”

“I could never hate you.”

You smiled softly. “You did once. Or at least pretended to.”

Her sigh stirred your hair. “I was angry. Hurt. I was seventeen and didn’t know how to deal with it. You were the only good thing I had, and I didn’t know how to let go without tearing everything down on the way out.”

You nodded slowly. “You said something about my mom. In the fight.”

Sevika went still.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” you said. “But I remember.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about that day,” she whispered. “What I said. How I let you walk away with that being the last thing between us.”

“It wasn’t,” you said, pulling her hand closer to your chest. “It doesn’t have to be.”

A long silence followed. You watched the trees sway, the barn door creak in the distance.

“I missed you every day,” you added, barely audible.

Sevika turned her head just enough to press a kiss into your hair. “I never stopped loving you.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

You just leaned into her warmth and held her hand like it was the only thing anchoring you to this earth.

And in that moment, it almost was.

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[avengerstowerarchives]

some protector | haymitch abernathy x reader

word count. 9.9k 

pairing. haymitch abernathy x fem!reader 

summary. overwhelmed by the feeling of caring for someone and fearful that snow will notice, haymitch drives you away. in the years that follow, haymitch still finds himself looking out for you. based on “some protector” by role model.

warnings. sotr spoilers. normal haymitch trauma stuff? mild violence. references to sa within the context of capitol prostitution/slavery (like with finnick and the other victors). mentions of vomiting? 

notes: jumps between present and past–might get kind of confusing, sorry! flashbacks are in italics. if haymitch seems ooc it’s probably because i wrote this when i was sad and didn’t have access to any source material.

part two. | read on ao3. 

—--------------------------

At least he didn’t throw rocks this time. Alone aside from a cluster of empty beer bottles, Haymitch leaned back against his couch and smiled wryly to himself. Getting you to leave without having to resort to violence had been a victory—he knew you’d be more stubborn than the Everdeens. 

His mind briefly returned to Asterid Everdeen and a stone hurled in drunken desperation, and he ignored the shame rising in his throat. It was far from his finest moment, but it was a necessary one. 

Shaking his head, he cracked open another beer, hoping a fourth drink would be enough to help him forget what it felt like to have company.

Every time you came around, curtains stayed open to let the light in and the kitchen smelled like fresh bread, but the alcohol stopped working. Haymitch felt something he hadn’t felt in years—protective. He finally had something worth taking. 

Then the nightmares intensified, and he saw faces he spent a decade too drunk to process—Ampert, Maysilee, Wyatt, and Louella—his sweetheart. But somehow, Lenore Dove and her ballad stopped coming around. 

On his worst nights, all he could see was you: your trembling hand at the District 3 reaping as you volunteered for a weeping twelve year old, your sunshine yellow dress in the Capitol parade, and you and the male District 1 tribute balancing on a thick tree branch, two of your knives attempting to push back a sword. 

In Haymitch’s dreams, you didn’t win that fight. As it had been every year prior, his flask was his lifeline through the 59th Hunger Games. But years afterward, he dreamt of your arena in technicolor anyway. 

And when he dreamt of flames, instead of his Ma and Sid, he saw your third-floor Capitol apartment, too far gone for the firefighters to reach. So Haymitch kept drinking. 

You’d chided him for his alcohol dependency, but he upped the intake—whiskey, wine, vodka, rum, even Teddy Branson’s moonshine again—anything he could get his hands on. Still the nightmares kept coming. 

He mustered up his gruffest facade to drive you away, but you still appeared on his doorstep bearing fruit for the disgusting protein smoothies Effie wanted him to drink and an insistence that his twelfth-floor windows had the best view. You deflected his sharp insults with quick retorts and freshly baked muffins.

But the meadow was the final straw. The night after the 65th Reaping, Haymitch woke up with a drenched brow and his heart thundering in his chest. He blinked away visions of crimson gumdrops and coughed up blood staining blades of grass. Visions of you. Not Lenore Dove, you. It felt like betrayal. 

Haymitch couldn’t let you hang around after that. 

The next time you let yourself into his house—today—he ensured it would be the last. Instead of hurling insults, he resorted to bluntness. He didn’t shout. He didn’t drag you out the door or chase you with a bottle in hand. 

He told you point blank that you weren’t wanted, calling you a bother and admitting that he’d finally had enough. He was lying through his teeth, but his grave expression caught you so off guard that you didn’t think to question it. 

You left his Capitol suite living room with eyes sad enough to make a grown man cry, but all he felt was relief. I’m sorry, Lenore Dove. She’s gone now. 

Though the apology eased his mind a bit, he still couldn’t shake the foreign feeling of guilt. It was like a pebble in his boot—too small to be significant, but still inconvenient enough that it couldn’t be totally ignored. 

Haymitch shook his head again to clear his mind. The condensation on the neck of the bottle dampened his fingers as he tightened his grip. The sensation reminded him of your tears, but he told himself he’d much rather see tears on your cheek than blood on your temple. 

Haymitch glanced at the empty beer case on his coffee table. Should’ve gotten more than a five pack. 

| (Am I guilty? Am I sorry?)

  (Do I miss you at the party?) 

  Yes I am, and I always will

A trio of Capitol women with varying shades of neon green hair shrieked with laughter at the sound of crashing glass. Haymitch barely batted an eye as the horde of Capitol elites jeered at the 65th victor, some teenaged boy from District 4 sitting in an ornamental fish tank. 

Haymitch hadn’t bothered to learn tribute names during the games–he’d learn the winner’s from the victory propaganda. There wasn’t a point in learning the rest anyway. 

“Finnick! Over here!” A man clothed in polar bear fur rapped on the glass of the tank, grinning wildly. “I sponsored you in the games—I sent the steak!” 

“They always—” Haymitch glanced to his left to make a jab at the Capitol elite when he realized the stool beside him was empty. His mouth drew into a grim line before he threw back the contents of his glass and signaled the bartender for another. 

In his defense, you used to stay glued to his side at functions like this since you were the Games’ newest victor. Swapping sarcastic comments with you had become a reflex. Even before you began inviting yourself into his house, you crashed a multitude of his parties. 

On the night the two of you meet, Haymitch finds a spot in the darkest corner of the room before loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top buttons of his dress shirt. 

Once he feels like he can breathe again, he takes a large sip of the brandy in his glass. 

“Heard you know your alcohol. Which one’s the strongest?” Without warning, you appear by his elbow, stumbling into the cocktail table he stands behind. 

If Haymitch wasn’t wasted, he would’ve startled at your voice yelling in his ear to overcome the music blaring overhead. The alcohol makes him immovably apathetic. 

Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll just go away. He did not want the Capitol’s newest darling following him like a lost puppy. Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll leave him in peace. 

The impracticality of your heels have you gripping the edge of the tabletop to prevent it from tipping over. Your stylist had dressed you in an obnoxiously voluminous green tulle dress that was meant to make you look like a forest fairy, or whatever Elodie had called it. The sheer material doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Your tiara slides slightly as you tilt your head, waiting for his response. 

He simply grabs his glass and takes a long sip, rescuing it from the wobbling table. 

Your eyes narrow, accepting the challenge. You needed this advice. Your mentor warned you about what Snow did with the Capitol’s favorites, and you knew only drinking would get you through it. 

Leaning in closer, you raise your voice slightly and force him to acknowledge you. “Just give me a drink to order and I’ll leave you to brood in peace.” 

Haymitch wonders what he possibly could’ve done to make himself look approachable. Was he losing his edge at twenty-five? “Didn’t your parents teach you about ‘stranger danger’?” 

“Bold of you to assume they lived long enough to teach me.” 

Haymitch doesn’t dignify your quip with platitudes, nor does he spare a glance at your ridiculous ensemble. He returns to ignoring you. You kind of respect that. 

Shrugging, you explain, “Look, Beetee refuses to come to these things, but he said you’d be the best drinking partner of the lot.” 

The mention of Ampert’s father has Haymitch’s shoulders stiffening. You notice how his fingers twitch around his glass, but don’t pry. “Come on, Abernathy. Just say a couple words and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Boy, were you stubborn. “Did it ever occur to you that Beetee might’ve been making a joke?” 

“Do you really think Beetee would make a joke?” 

Haymitch sighs, “Meeks, get the kid a vodka soda. And you—get out of my face.” 

“You ordered me a pop? Seriously?” You ignore Haymitch’s demand that you leave him alone and wrinkle your nose at the drink set before you. He gives you a pointed look, and you raise the glass to your lips, downing half the glass in one go.

Big mistake. 

Haymitch watches, slightly amused at your naïveté as you lean over, coughing violently. “You’ve never drank before, have you? That should teach you to stop bothering me.” 

You send him a nasty look in response, and in a miraculous moment of kindness, he orders you a glass of water. The hit on your pride is immense, but at least you didn’t throw up all over his shoes. “Just you wait, Twelve—I’ll be able to drink you under the table in no time.” 

After that first night, you ran into him at enough parties that you made good on that promise. By the next time you saw him, you could handle your high heels and your alcohol. 

At a sponsor’s party celebrating the 62nd Games, you maintain your tradition of joining Haymitch in the corner. 

“Hey, Twelve.” Once again, you materialize out of nowhere, this time with a whole bottle of bourbon. You know the nickname bothers him–an obnoxious reminder that he is the lone victor of the twelfth district. You use it anyway. 

When he doesn’t respond, you say simply, “Haven’t seen you since the last one.”

Haymitch sighs. “What do you want, Princess?” 

You hardly bat an eye at his biting tone. Somehow his rudeness makes the Capitol’s nickname for you slightly more bearable. 

“Still as charming as ever.” You uncork the bottle before pouring a generous amount into your glass. When you twist it toward him, he accepts your offer grudgingly. “I brought my own drink. Tophir never gives out anything strong enough—he’s stingy.” 

Haymitch raises his glass to you mockingly before taking a sip, but says nothing. Once again, he wonders what in the world you could’ve possibly seen to make you want to talk to him. Finally, he asks, “Did Mags send you over here to bother me?” 

“I’ve noticed that people tend to steer clear of you, and I wanted to use those bad vibes for good.” You roll your eyes before adding, “I love Mags, but not enough to do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“I doubt anything you do comes from the goodness of your heart.” An image of you volunteering at your reaping pops into his brain. 

To his annoyance, you shrug it off. “Like anyone else here is different. Well, maybe Mags.”

 You finish off your glass and reach for the bottle. Haymitch grabs it before you can, refilling his cup and setting the bottle back down on the table. 

Eyes narrowing, you shoot him a look, though there isn’t any fire behind it. “You couldn’t even pour me one?” 

“Property tax, Princess.” 

“Your company is not worth that much.” 

Haymitch shakes his head. “You’re the one that came over here.” 

Suddenly, a hand rests on the small of your back before trailing up to the back of your neck, cutting off your response. You shudder as one of your regular clients whispers in your ear, “I paid Snow for the rest of the evening, Princess.” 

 He catches you so off guard that you flinch before you can stop yourself. You hope he’ll dismiss your shaking as excitement. The corseted blue dress Elodie tied you into earlier feels suffocating, and you take a slow breath. 

Haymitch remains expressionless, but he feels disgust bubbling in his stomach as he examines the man behind you. The Capitol man’s designer blue suit and slicked back hair reek of arrogance. 

For the first time in ten years, alcohol fails to make Haymitch numb. The worst part of it all is your expression. Immediately, you fix your face and any trace of discomfort is gone, replaced by a forced smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“At least let her stick around till the bourbon’s done,” Haymitch slurs, attempting to play the alcoholic card. 

The other man eyes him warily, tightening his grip on you. You understand what Haymitch is trying to do, and deep down you both know it isn’t going to work. 

Unflinching, you bare your teeth into a forced smile that the man behind you doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s fine, Twelve, I’ll leave the rest of it here with you.” 

It doesn’t matter that Haymitch can’t find words to respond with because then you’re gone. You avoid his gaze, and he looks away as you let the man lead you up the stairs. 

Haynitch downs the rest of the bourbon straight from the bottle, not bothering to pour it into his glass. 

The next morning, you find a brand new bottle waiting outside of your door. No note is tied to its neck, but you know who sent it. Miraculously, your lips crack into a half smile. Maybe Haymitch Abernathy has a heart after all. 

The neon-haired women scream again and more glass shatters, snapping Haymitch out of his reverie. He tore his gaze away from the empty seat beside him before grabbing a full bottle of bourbon by the neck and retreating to his apartment. 

None of the other guests noticed except for one. After watching him slip out of the room, you stepped out of your hiding place and stood near Finnick, who had been moved from the oversized fishbowl into a gilded fishnet. 

The whole affair has you feeling nauseous, but you push aside your panic to slip your hand between the gaps and give his fingers a comforting squeeze. The fourteen year-old shoots you a brief half smile, but you can feel that he’s shaking. 

There’s nothing you can do except comfort him in the morning. Your mouth sets into a grim line. 

Haymitch had the right idea with the bourbon. 

| (Am I dragging this forever? 

   Am I thinking 'bout September?) 

Haymitch kept leaving bourbon on your doorstep on what he knew to be your worst nights, but after he kicked you out of his life, the amount of bourbon on his shelves never returned to normal. He never minded drinking for two…or five. 

His drinking habits remained the same, but his house had certainly changed. Takeout boxes increased, as did piles of dirty clothes. The curtains stayed drawn, the kitchen cabinets sat empty, and he set a personal record for the most alcohol bottles ever accumulated in his living room with every passing day.

All the while, Haymitch pretended he didn’t notice, and his biweekly trips to town to restock his alcohol cabinet increased. 

Victor’s Village had never felt so isolated, despite the fact that he’d been the only resident for fifteen years. Well…for the most part. 

After the 63rd Games, Haymitch spends exactly one relatively peaceful week in solitude before he jolts awake to the sound of a fist pounding on his front door. 

Wiping sleep out of his eyes, Haymitch takes his sweet time getting to the door. If the Peacekeepers want to see him this early in the morning, he plans to make them wait. Haymitch pulls on a shirt slowly, scowling as the knocking grows louder and the throbbing in his skull increases accordingly. 

When he whips open the door, instead of standing face to face with a district peacekeeper, he’s met with the sight of you grinning in a zip-up hoodie and sweats and surrounded by a multitude of paper bags. You lift your chin as a greeting, adjusting the duffle bag on your shoulder and waiting for him to let you in. “Haymitch.” 

“What’re you doing here, Kid? And why so early?” His anger falters slightly at the initial surprise, but it returns at the sight of the slowly rising sun. 

You don’t appreciate being called a kid, but you let it slide. After seeing your interaction with the man at Tophir’s party, Haymitch decided to never call you “Princess” again, and you quietly returned the favor by tossing the nickname “Twelve.”

“Mags sent me. ‘M here out of the goodness of my heart and all that.” You slip past him into the house before he can stop you. 

Haymitch’s neutral but sleepy expression hides his mental calculations. After concluding that sending you away will be more difficult than scaring off the people of Twelve, he crosses his arms and waits for you to explain yourself. 

You slide your sunglasses onto the top of your head and set down several grocery bags before assessing the damage. You note the remnants of sleep in his eyes and the half-conscious scowl on his face. This might just be the most sober you’ve ever seen him. 

Dirty dishes are spread out on the table and overflow in the kitchen sink while empty bottles surround his couch like a barricade. The kitchen looks unused, and there’s even a cobweb growing in one corner of the ceiling.

“Seriously, Abernathy, how can you live like this? You got back from the Capitol last Tuesday!” 

“Mags sent you to babysit? At sunrise?” Haymitch ignores your questions, too shocked to do anything about your unwelcome entrance. You are one of the first people to see the inside of the house since he moved in thirteen years ago. 

“Well, the sunrise part was my fault–I’m an early riser.” You begin emptying the grocery bags, placing ingredients in the refrigerator and cabinets. “I’m supposed to make sure you don’t swallow your tongue or something like that.” 

Haymitch runs a hand over his face. Now he definitely needs a drink. He pushes past you to retrieve a bottle of vodka.

“At seven in the morning? Seriously?” Your left eyebrow rises in disbelief. Shaking your head with a slight grin, you roll up your sleeves and turn on the sink before lathering soap with a sponge. “Mags is right, you really do need an intervention.” 

“Hey!” Haymitch snaps. “You’re in my house at this godforsaken hour and I didn’t tell you to come in, so shut up and get out.” 

Shouting doesn’t scare you anymore. Instead of running out the door, you smile more widely and the glint in your eyes has Haymitch internally bracing himself. “You’re horrifically hungover, aren’t you?” 

His frown deepens as he reaches for a glass of water. He did not like your tone. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll try to speak more quietly,” You promise, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. Just as he takes a sip from his glass, you bang two pots together, the clang loud enough to fill the room. “Oops.” 

Haymitch scowls, letting out a curse as he lifts his free hand to clutch his head. “Get out of my house!” 

You ignore him and continue scrubbing the dishes. Little does he know that your dispatcher wasn’t Mags at all–it was Effie. The escort admitted she was at her wits end trying to make him presentable during the games, but recently she had begun to worry about his drinking problem and what it meant for his odds of survival. 

She didn’t find your quip that “at least Haymitch is consistent” very amusing. Instead of laughing, she insisted that you might have a better chance at helping him than she did. The bourbon had to count for something, after all. 

Between your growing curiosity about Haymitch’s life outside of the Capitol and Effie’s promise that she would get you out of your night work so that you could watch Haymitch in District 12, you found yourself with an offer you couldn’t refuse. 

While you begin scrubbing a grimy cast-iron skillet, Haymitch’s thudding footsteps leave the room. 

“Keep drinking water!” You call over your shoulder. You start humming quietly while you do the dishes. 

Once you’re finished, you step into the living room and round up his collection of empty bottles. 

Unsurprisingly, Haymitch is nowhere to be found. 

“It’s honestly not as bad as I thought it would be,” You declare loudly. You’re met with silence. A backhanded “compliment” isn’t enough to provoke him this morning. Unbothered, you pull back the curtains for some natural light and get to work cleaning the windows. 

Later, over eggs and toast, Haymitch grudgingly engages you in conversation. He’d hoped that if he ignored you long enough, you’d leave, but he should’ve known by now that you were too persistent for that. 

He scowls, “Did your folks in Three finally have enough? How’d Mags get you here?” 

“Free vacation.” You pointedly ignore his question about your family. 

“Twelve is no vacation, Sweetheart.” The scoff slips out of him so quickly that he doesn’t process the nickname till after he’s said it. 

“This is an intervention, not a proposal, Abernathy.” You dismiss the moment flippantly, and he’s grateful. 

His slip of the tongue has him ready to kick you out of the house again, but before he can usher you out the door, you’re on your feet, venturing further into his house in search of laundry. 

He barks your name from the kitchen. You hear the scrape of his chair as he pushes it away from the table, followed by the slam of his glass as he downs more vodka before following you. “What’re you doing now? Don’t go upstairs!” 

You stop at the base of the staircase, hanging onto the railing as you lean back to look at him. “I’m threatening to do your laundry so that you feel insulted enough to do it yourself. Mags said it might work.” 

That was actually all you, but it was worth a shot.

Haymitch huffs, “You wouldn’t. No vacation is worth that.” 

“Watch me. Anything’s a vacation compared to the Capitol.” As usual, your biting sarcasm reveals a bit of truth. 

Haymitch runs a hand over his face, sighing again. He has a feeling he’ll be doing that a lot. If you’re going to insist on staying Twelve, he’s going to make you pick another house to stay in. Preferably as far away as possible.

Half a bottle of scotch later, Haymitch attempts to bargain, suggesting that you stay in Twelve but lie to Mags and leave him alone.  

His suggestion falls on obstinate ears. You clutch imaginary pearls. “I can’t believe you would cross that line, Abernathy. Mags is an angel, and anyone who lies to her is going to hell.” 

Haymitch can’t tell if you’re serious, but none of it really matters because you’re still here and he has no idea how to get rid of you. He can’t afford to make too much of a scene, and he doesn’t have the energy to bury a body. “Fine. If you’re staying in Twelve, just keep out of my hair.” 

“Are you sure? You look like you might need help wash—” 

“Watch it, Kid.” He cuts you off, shooting you a nasty glare before lifting his glass. 

You smirk, but don’t finish making the jab. “I’m going to take a look at the garden. If I’ll be stuck here babysitting you, I might as well get a new hobby.” 

Haymitch makes no move to stop you, letting out his hundredth sigh of the day as he swirls the liquid in his glass. 

You seem to think that he’s all bark and no bite, and it’s not like he can carry out a threat of violence because you’re a victor for crying out loud. Your handlers have every inch of your body insured. 

You’re stubborn, and Haymitch decides he isn’t sober enough to deal with you right now. Hopefully you’ll grow bored in a couple of days and you’ll leave on your own accord (you don’t). 

Even so, he realizes your position as one of the Capitol’s most prized victors should keep you relatively safe. And it’s not like he cares about you anyway. That’s as safe as you can get. 

One morning in mid-September, Haymitch jolted awake at the crack of dawn. He’d forgotten to close his curtains all the way after falling asleep on the couch, and the early morning sunlight shined through the window enough to disturb his sleep. 

As he watched the sky turn from a dark charcoal to a mix of hazy pink and fiery orange, he found himself half-expecting a knock on his front door. Once he processed the thought, he pulled himself to his feet to retrieve his first beer of the day. 

Muttering to himself, he blamed it on a lack of alcohol rather than the loneliness that had arrived in your absence. 

| (Am I wrecking reputation while you're making reservations?) 

When you suddenly found yourself freed from the responsibility of looking out for Haymitch, you resolved to dedicate all of your energy to your mentees. 

It didn’t take long for you to realize that the most efficient and profitable way to do that was to take advantage of the networking opportunities Snow unintentionally but literally dropped into your lap. 

If the Capitol was going to auction off your body every night, you might as well take some of the profits. So you did. 

Haymitch first witnessed your tactics during the 66th Hunger Games. You’d done your best to fulfill your promise to never bother him again, but the thought of you still left a tightness in his chest. 

At one of the Capitol viewing parties, he caught a glimpse of you from afar, cozying up to a man in a gold suit. Haymitch immediately recognized the heterochromatic blue and brown eyes and cobalt blue hair. 

The sponsor whose wallet you were trying to service is Hyraclis Roman, one of Panem’s wealthiest businessmen. 

Businessman was a generous title, Haymitch thought, because all Hyraclis did was moderate one of the Capitol’s largest betting systems during the Games. He took a steep cut off the wagers and made enough to live less than a mile from Snow’s mansion. Worst of all, Hyraclis Roman used his profits to buy a night with the victors—the children—he bet on, and everyone knew it. 

You hated Hyraclis Roman, so when Haymitch noticed your legs draped across the gambler’s lap and the possessive hand on your leg, he thought he might’ve finally drank his max and gone to hell. 

Haymitch grabbed hold of the vodka bottle on the table to his right before taking a long drink. 

When you threw your head back in a laugh before resting your hand on Hyraclis’ chest and leaning forward slightly, Haymitch’s jaw clenched.

In response, Hyraclis grinned eagerly at you with dark eyes and moved his palm a bit higher. Haymitch shuddered with disgust, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the two of you. 

Though Hyraclis did his best to monopolize your attention, you could feel Haymitch’s eyes on you, and your cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and frustration. 

While you’d prefer for Hyraclis to never have his hands on you at all, Snow made that an impossibility.

If these men were going to put their hands on you regardless of your consent, you were going to take as much of their money as you could. 

You knew that if you could only explain it to Haymitch, he would understand. But you couldn’t, so you sat there and pretended you didn’t see him staring with a bottle of vodka.

Haymitch felt ready to bash Hyraclis over the head with it given the opportunity, but you mistook the blond’s protectivenesss for judgment. 

Naturally, Hyraclis interpreted the red tinge on your cheeks as excitement. When he leaned forward and pressed a long kiss on your neck, your stomach lurched and you turned away from Haymitch. 

Later, you leave the party with Hyraclis’ hand pawing your waist and consider telling Snow that you’ll never do this sort of thing again. 

But when you wake up the next day and Hyraclis writes you a hefty check for you to use for your tributes, you force yourself to be pleasant. 

After a month full of nights like that one, the District 3 male tribute wins the 66th Hunger Games, and somehow you find the strength to endure Snow’s exploitation. From then on, you appeal to the affections of more clients, and Haymitch watches. 

| Yes I am, and I always will

When the male from District 8, Kross, thrust his javelin into the heart of your tribute during the 69th games, you screamed. 

The sound was enough to jolt Haymitch into a state miraculously close to sobriety, and his gaze immediately shifted away from the footage on the flatscreens. 

After ten years as a mentor by the age of twenty-eight, the losses shouldn’t have caught you off guard anymore. Everyone in the room knew that, which is why you’d earned disgusted looks from the sponsors. 

Sure, the kindest mentors like Mags cared for their tributes and equipped them for survival as well as they could, but the seasoned veterans learned how to guard their hearts early into their lifelong sentence. Snow labeled emotional outbursts from mentors as inappropriate behavior. Capitol citizens could cheer and weep; Mentors could not.

Scandalized gasps filled the room as you crumpled to your knees, and a horrified whisper observed that your mascara was running. The lack of decorum wouldn’t do you well in the next support raising cycle.

Your fellow District 3 mentor and District 3 escort froze, unsure what to do, but definitely unwilling to compromise their positions.  

As you stared at the screen, you forgot everything Beetee and Mags had ever told you about shielding your emotions. You were too distraught to realize how this would nullify your flirtation with the sponsors, much less how it might provoke Snow. 

This wasn’t the first time one of your tributes had made it to the top five and been killed, but this kill was particularly brutal. This year’s reaping sent your former classmate’s daughter into the arena—an eighteen year old girl named Tesla, who had been one year away from escaping the reaping forever. She was the same age you’d been when you won your Games.  

Instead of letting one thrust of his spear be enough, Kross wrenched his javelin out of Tesla’s chest before going in for another strike. And another, and another, and another. He used so much force that you could hear it. 

You pressed your palm to your mouth to quiet your screams, cringing at the feeling of bile rising up in your throat. 

Though it had been years since you had spoken more than three words to Haymitch, he found himself crouching by your side as the other mentors looked on, their faces a mix of stoicism and pity. 

Kross’ mentor, Cecilia, sent you an apologetic look that you couldn’t see, and Finnick’s eyes shone with relief at Haymitch’s unexpected display of empathy. 

After Finnick won his Games, you made him vow to never get into trouble on your behalf, but at eighteen, the resilience hadn’t been crushed out of him yet. If Haymitch hadn’t moved when he did, Finnick’s brotherly instincts would have moved him to your side. 

The room filled with loud whispers, but Haymitch cast aside any worries about what they might be saying. His main concern was to get their attention off of you so that Snow would have less to punish you for. 

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the screen, so he grabbed your elbow and pulled you to your feet. “Come on, (Y/n). You gotta move.” He spoke quietly enough that only you could hear. 

He assumed you wouldn’t accept his help, but your body reverted to the old habit of treating him like someone safe, and you weren’t present enough to remember that you avoided him now. 

All of the eyes in the room were on the two of you as he guided you out of the spotlight with an arm around your shoulders, pressing you to his side to hold you up and shield you from view. To the rest of the room, this uncharacteristic softness is almost more scandalous than your screaming. 

Once the two of you made it toward the back of the room, Effie appeared on your other side, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as she whispered words of encouragement. 

If you hadn’t been on the verge of a breakdown, you would’ve acknowledged her kindness. Effie prioritized propriety, and emerging from the crowd to comfort a hysterical woman was the opposite of that. 

You gagged, “I’m going to throw up.” 

To Effie’s credit, she didn’t flee. Her brows furrowed in concern, and she began ushering you to the nearest bathroom. 

Without loosening his grip on your arm, Haymitch used his free hand to reach for a bucket of champagne on a nearby table, shooting its patrons a forced smile before dumping its contents onto the floor and handing you the bucket.

Just in time. Though your hands were shaking, you were grateful to have something physical to ground you. Unable to shove down the nausea anymore, you raised the ice bucket closer to your face. 

In normal circumstances, you would’ve scolded Haymitch for making a pointless mess for an Avox to clean. Now, you’re too occupied with making sure you don’t throw up on the carpet.

Since the footage had shifted to a different tribute, the attention had been diverted from you. But even if it hadn’t, sickness was more normal than weeping. Viewing parties were no stranger to vomiting caused by alcohol or gluttony. 

Once you made it to the bathroom, you heaved the contents of your stomach into the toilet, shoulders shaking as you gripped the porcelain. You felt fingers lightly brushing your scalp as they gathered up your hair and held it away from your face. You wanted to think it was Effie, but the hands were calloused and free of acrylic extensions. 

The situation felt horribly reminiscent of others from years past. 

“When will you admit that you have a problem?” You wonder aloud as you kneel beside Haymitch, who is currently emptying his stomach in Caesar Flickerman’s guest bathroom. 

Over the last week, Haymitch’s alcohol intake had increased drastically, which was especially alarming when you considered the large number that was his typical average.

You and Effie chalked it up to Haymitch’s characteristic lack of self-preservation, and he didn’t correct you. In truth, his nightmares had gotten worse, but there was no way he was going to tell you that—especially when those dreams featured a certain District 3 victor during the 59th Games.

“Haymitch, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. Effie’s losing her mind.” You resist the urge to smack him on the back of the head. 

Haymitch grunts in response, and you pause your berating to brush his hair out of his face with your fingers and lift it out of the way. He tries to shrug you off, and you chide him. “Don’t be difficult, Abernathy, you know I’ve seen you look worse. This is only partly emasculation–I’m mostly doing Effie a favor.” 

If Haymitch hadn’t been throwing up his dinner of bourbon and scotch, he might’ve let out a grudging laugh. 

When your hand begins to rub his back soothingly, he told himself that he was too drunk to tell you off, even though most of the alcohol in his body had been ejected in the last five minutes.

A few seconds later, he has a moment of respite. After taking a small sip from the bottle of water you offer him, he rasps, “Don’t you have someone else to bother, Kid?”

“Effie booked me for the night to keep you from choking on your vomit.” Despite your flippant tone, you hold his hair back with surprising gentleness. “You know she can’t handle this kind of stuff.” 

Effie really couldn’t handle that kind of stuff, Haymitch scowled. He willed her to come back soon so he could take his hands out of your hair and distance himself again as quickly as possible. 

As usual, Effie didn’t adhere to his will. Her whereabouts remained unknown, and he redirected his attention to you as you stopped retching and began to hyperventilate.

“It’s alright, Kid. Breathe.” Haymitch’s voice broke through your panic, his tone soft. He gingerly turned you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders in an attempt to ground you. 

You struggled to follow his instructions, inhaling a sharp breath through your nose and gasping an exhale through your mouth. 

“Come on, Sweetheart, you can do it.” He dismissed the use of the nickname as a byproduct of the alcohol again. 

While he slowed his breathing for you, you closed your eyes, trying to match his pattern of a four second inhale followed by a four second exhale. 

“It’s called box breathing,” Haymitch overhears you whisper softly to the fourteen-year-old girl who is the 62nd Hunger Games’s female District 12 tribute. 

Though there were no direct rules against mentors speaking to tributes from different districts, the nature of your interaction pushed against unspoken rules. 

If Snow’s in a bad enough mood, it’s something you can be punished for. Haymitch knows that would be his fault. 

A week earlier, you had lost it on his front porch, demanding to know why he never even tried to give his tributes some advice and railing that he never even offered them basic empathy. 

You even accused him of being just as heartless toward the weak as the rest of Panem. 

Haymitch hadn’t been able to come up with a response, so he remained silent and kept his face as unreadable and emotionless as ever. That night he dreamt of Wellie and the Doves. 

Once the two of you are back in the Capitol, though, Haymitch regrets not telling you off. Though your efforts to help the child are subtle, Haymitch knows that Snow will see the small act of unity as a threat. 

Haymitch tells all of his tributes to steer clear of you after that.

By the time you had your breathing under control, you were too tired to think about Kross or Tesla, much less sit up straight. You slump back against his shoulder, too drained to move. Surprisingly, he doesn’t push you off. 

The two of you sat on the tile floor, the room silent aside from your uneven breathing. Despite himself, Haymitch didn’t want to leave until you felt well enough to curse him out and push him away yourself. 

After what felt like years, Effie reappeared with a glass of water, and once you had taken a small sip, you finally spoke. “Thanks, Effie. Should’ve had more bourbon this morning.” 

You didn’t say anything after that, not even about what had happened after the 65th Reaping. 

| Yes I am, and I always will

  Be some protector

Though Haymitch’s actions at the 69th Games were an indisputable contradiction to the words he used to get you out of his life, neither of you addressed it afterwards, nor did you attempt to revive your friendship.

Haymitch would die before he let Snow use you to hurt him, even as a platonic bond. 

Meanwhile, your motivation for maintaining your distance stemmed more from self-preservation. Your pride prevented you from showing up on his doorstep again, chalking up his actions at the viewing party as an anomaly. 

You reasoned that although Haymitch Abernathy had a heart, he only acted on it every decade or so, and he had just reached his quota. 

The next six games passed with the two of you as acquaintances. When you happened to make eye contact with him at parties, you simply nodded in acknowledgement and kept walking. 

You learned how to barricade your heart during the games. You continued to buy your own bottles of bourbon after rough clients, and Effie replaced you as the person trying to reign in Haymitch’s drinking habits. She proved to be far less successful than you were. 

Haymitch avoided watching you leave parties with horrid Capitol elites, he never acted on the “intrusive” thoughts that dared him to show up at your doorstep, and he never attempted to make contact.  

He didn’t seek you out after the failed rebellion of Johanna’s games, though he secretly wondered what your reaction might’ve been like behind closed doors. 

Likewise, you didn’t knock on his door after Katniss and Peeta left the arena together, despite the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from studying Haymitch’s expression at the viewing parties. You watched him charm partygoers and round up sponsors, which Mags confirmed was something he’d never done before. 

The relief on his face when the Gamemakers called off the games after the Nightlock stunt had something lightening in your chest, grateful despite yourself that something had finally gone right for Haymitch Abernathy. 

Still, you wondered to yourself if things might have turned out differently if he had fought this hard for his tributes in the years past. You couldn’t work up the courage to ask him yourself.

You don’t bridge the gap, and neither does he. 

Until the third Quarter Quell. 

After Snow announces his vision with a sneer, Haymitch hurls his full glass of rum at the television. True terror pierces his heart at the thought of returning to the arena. Although his rage boils over as his mind goes to Peeta and Katniss, the first face he pictures is yours. 

Peeta and Katniss make respective visits, each begging him to save the other, and he comes to a realization that completely knocks the wind out of him. 

If Wiress’ name is drawn, you’ll volunteer in her place, just as you’d replaced a child in your first games. Beetee will certainly try to stop you, but Haymitch knows it would be futile. 

Haymitch’s plan to volunteer in Peeta’s place won’t work in your situation either. Wiress’ mind is too fractured for her to volunteer in your place. Even if it weren’t, Haymitch knows you would never allow her to go back into an arena.

He runs his hands over his face roughly, dread washing over him when he realizes that there’s no solution. 

Since you and Wiress are the only remaining female victors from District 3, there are no other options. 

Haymitch fumbles in the dark for a full glass of beer. You’re doomed, and he knows it. 

After reflecting on Peeta and Katniss, Haymitch figures out what he has to do. When Peeta’s name is called, Haymitch will volunteer in his place and do everything he can to protect Katniss. And you.

 This is his only solution, so he doesn’t stop to consider what would happen if Effie reads off his name first. 

Meanwhile, when you hear the news, you find yourself praying that Haymitch doesn’t end up in the arena. If the involuntary alcohol detox doesn’t kill him, you’re sure Snow’s mutts will rip out his throat. 

You don’t want to guess who might win the Third Quarter Quell, but something in your gut tells you it won’t be Haymitch.

You hardly stop to think about yourself; sending Wiress into the arena isn’t an option. You crack open a bottle of bourbon and try to distract yourself from the anxiety rising within you. 

You manage to suppress the urge to weep until your mind goes to the rest of your friends, especially Beetee and the victors of District 4. You know that Finnick’s odds are high, but the knowledge that either Mags or Annie will be his partner in the arena has you sobbing till you can’t breathe. 

You jump at the sound of your telephone ringing—no one uses that number anymore. If anyone needs to send you a message, they’ll use their communicuff. 

You grasp the neck of the receiver and twist the cord around your finger. “Hello?” Despite your best efforts, your voice sounds watery. You breathe in shakily before asking quietly, “Hello? Who’s there?” 

You hear a sharp inhale, before the other end of the line clicks. Is this some kind of sick prank? Was it Snow? 

Back in District Twelve, Haymitch slams the telephone receiver back onto its base and tears a trembling hand through his hair. 

He has no idea what had possessed him to call you, but hearing the fear in your voice only worsens the sharp pain in his chest. 

On the day of the Reaping, Haymitch stands stone-faced between Effie and Peeta. While tears fall down Katniss’ face when Effie reads off her name, Haymitch braces himself for Peeta’s name to be called. 

Effie steps lightly toward the glass bowl in her gigantic heels and monarch butterfly dress, and Haymitch wonders frustratedly if she could possibly go any slower. 

When she unfolds the paper, Effie’s eyes flutter with shock. Anyone who didn’t know her well would’ve missed it, but Haymitch notices. That can’t be good. 

There is a nearly imperceptible tremor in her voice as she breathes, “Haymitch Abernathy.”

No. Haymitch’s jaw clenches. His name being called hadn’t been an option—Peeta couldn’t be the one going back into the arena. 

Katniss’ head whips toward them. Do something, her eyes plead. 

Peeta’s chin tilts upward, avoiding Haymitch’s pointed gaze and Katniss’ wide eyes. “I volunteer as tribute.” 

Katniss fails to mask her face when her heart drops. 

Haymitch grabs the seventeen year old boy’s arm and attempts to pull him back. “I can’t let you do that.” 

“You can’t stop me.”

Haymitch sees your face in his mind. To him, this is about so much more than just the star-crossed lovers of District 12. “Peeta—“

Peeta’s brows draw together as he wrenches his arm out of Haymitch’s grip. “You can’t stop me.” 

The words hit like a death sentence. 

Haymitch feels more helpless than he’s felt since the 2nd Quarter Quell. Desperately, he hopes there will be some kind of miracle in District 3.

Once they’re on the train, Haymitch storms around like a madman. After the tablet in his hands is unable to pull up the District 3 Reaping, he hurls it across the train car. “Effie, turn on the TV!”

Peeta and Katniss snap out of their mournful stupor, exchanging a look at Haymitch’s hyper-irritability. This seems like more than just a side effect of being weaned from alcoholism. 

Peeta wonders briefly if he’s the cause, but when Effie follows Haymitch’s instructions with pitying eyes, he senses there’s something bigger he’s missing. 

Effie fast-forwards through a highlight reel of the Reaping broadcast, and Haymitch snaps at her when she passes District 3. 

Instead of chastising him, Effie rewinds the clip and rests her hands in her lap. She twists the ring on her pointer finger distractedly, her posture uncharacteristically tense. 

Effie can usually poker-face her way through a crisis, but not this time. 

As he sits on the edge of the couch, Haymitch grips a glass half-full of brandy, his knuckles turning white. 

Peeta wonders where he got it, but Katniss shrugs it off. They’d spent weeks attempting to get Haymitch to sober up during training, but the last thing they needed now was to deal with detox symptoms. 

Onscreen, the District 3 escort makes his usual quip about ladies going first, and Haymitch feels a wave of anticipatory nausea. 

It feels like years before a slip of paper is selected and a name is called. “Wiress Wright.” 

Before Wiress can move, your hand is already up. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Wiress moves toward you to protest, but Beetee grabs her arm to keep her from stepping forward. He gives you a grim nod that you return with a forced smile. 

The camera pans to you, and you keep your head raised, staring directly at it with a look of quiet defiance. You don’t shed a single tear, and if Haymitch hadn’t been so sick to his stomach he might’ve felt a twinge of pride. 

He can’t watch after that. He thunders to his feet, chucking his glass at the carpet before stomping off to his quarters. He finds it dissatisfying that the cup shatters so easily. 

Stricken with fear on your behalf, all of the color leaves Effie’s face. She wordlessly turns off the television and lets him go. 

In the distance, a door slams and more crashing follows. Peeta leaps to his feet, starting to follow when Effie stops him. “Peeta, just leave him be.”

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Peeta shrugs off the hand on his shoulder. 

“Peeta.” He freezes at the firmness in Effie’s tone. She refuses to leave any room for an argument. “He’ll wear himself out eventually, but there’s no use in trying to reason with him now.” 

The look in her eyes tells him that she speaks from plenty of experience. 

“What’s special about the District 3 tribute? Why does he care?” Katniss speaks up in a flat tone, but she levels Effie with a piercing gaze. She asks not because she’s worried about Haymitch, but because she knows this unknown variable matters. 

If Haymitch has a conflict of interest, it might be the tipping point for Peeta’s odds of survival. 

“She’s an old friend.” Effie says carefully, not wanting to spill open the can of worms, but unable to fully dismiss it all.

“I didn’t think Haymitch had friends.” The words could’ve been a joke, but coming from Katniss, there isn’t an ounce of humor in them.

Effie sighs, shaking her head disappointedly. “He doesn’t.”

Another crash comes from Haymitch’s room. 

 “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t finish destroying his things and start going after my perfumes.” Effie avoids Peeta’s searching gaze, and he and Katniss are left alone. 

| Some protector

That night, after Peeta and Katniss have gone to bed on the Distinct 12 floor of Victors Tower, Haymitch grabs a bottle of bourbon and slips away.  

Against his better judgment, he steps into the sleek elevator and hits the button labeled with the number three. 

He grips the metal railing till his fingers are sore while the elevator makes the nine floor descent. 

He takes a deep breath before hitting the buzzer outside of the District 3 tributes’ apartment. 

Beetee opens the door, unsurprised to see the disheveled blond wearing a horrifically wrinkled shirt with slumped shoulders and dark shadows under his eyes. 

Gruffly, Haymitch says, “I need to see her.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Beetee remembers the months that followed your final return from District 12. You hadn’t been that withdrawn since your first night with a Capitol client, and it killed Beetee when you refused to explain what had happened. 

Beetee may not be able to spare you from the Games, but he resolves to do his best to shield you from this. “I can’t let you do that.” 

For a moment, Haymitch’s liquid courage falters, and his thoughtless audacity is replaced by some semblance of shame. 

As Beetee starts to shut the door, the weight of the bourbon in Haymitch’s left hand reminds him of his original purpose. “I need to see her, Beetee. We don’t have much time, I can’t—“ 

“It’s okay, Bee, I’ll handle it.” Suddenly you’re in the doorway instead, and Beetee leaves the two of you alone with one last frown sent toward Haymitch. 

“What do you want, Abernathy?” Your voice is tired, but not friendly. This is the first time you’ve really looked at him since he held you against his chest in the sponsors’ penthouse bathroom. 

He doesn’t answer for a minute, distracted by his need to see how you’re carrying on. He notices your hair is let down and unkept, while the bags of sleep under your eyes give away the state of your sleep schedule.  Your pupils are rimmed red, and your shoulders slump. You’re already so different from the bold persona he’d seen on TV the day before. 

“Haymitch.” When you say his name, it’s a warning instead of a question. 

Instead of answering, he drops the bottle of bourbon and pulls you into his arms, all in one motion. One arm wraps tightly around your upper back while the other winds around your waist. 

You freeze, and even though he fully expects you to push him away he holds you more tightly. 

You don’t have the energy to fight him, and you let your forehead drop onto his shoulder. Something in his chest tightens as you practically go limp in his arms. 

The hand he rested on your shoulder slides up to cradle the back of your head, and he rests his chin on the top of your head despite his better judgment. 

Later, he plans to blame it on alcoholism. Now, he forgets about future consequences and focuses solely on you.

You sniff pitifully in response and he stiffens in surprise when your arms wrap around him to return the hug. He softens when he feels your tears dampening his shirt. “I’m so scared.” 

The brevity of your confession and the smallness of your voice reminds him of your surroundings. He gently guides you into your apartment and closes the door behind him. 

He doesn’t miss the fact that he left the bourbon behind, but he’s shocked to realize that he truly couldn’t care less right now. 

Once the apartment door is shut, it’s like the floodgates are opened. Your soft crying turns into sobs, and he holds you up, whispering what he hopes are comforting words into your hair. 

Blanching, Haymitch realizes that you really have carved out a soft spot for yourself in his heart, and he has no idea what to do with that knowledge. He doesn’t even know how to comfort people anymore. 

He doesn’t get picked as a shoulder to cry on, and he certainly doesn’t have any recent experience with being on the receiving end of that either. 

The last time he’d cried in front of anyone was when Burdock led him to Lenore Dove’s grave, and that really didn’t count. 

Haymitch’s pulse is racing, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s terrified for you or of you.  

Once your weeping has eased a bit, you pull back, cringing. “Sorry, your shirt is covered in tears and snot.” 

Vulnerability is a death sentence in the Capitol, but aren’t you bound for death anyway? You do your best to shake off that thought. 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, and his heart twinges when he realizes it’s damp with your tears. Gruffly, he remarks, “Just try not to do it again.” 

You can tell that he’s joking with you, in his strange Haymitch way. You shoot him a watery smile. “You think you can go get the bourbon you left in the hallway?” 

He scoffs, “Of course you noticed that.” 

The room settles into a more familiar rhythm after that. Alcohol and banter—that’s something you and Haymitch feel better equipped to handle. 

Once you’ve each had a glass, neither of you acknowledge that you’d spent the last fifteen minutes clinging to one another like it was normal even though you hadn’t hugged once during your fourteen years of complicated acquaintanceship. 

By the time you two finish the bottle, the clock tells you that it’s two in the morning. 

Your styling team will arrive in three hours, and you both know that it would be best if they don’t catch Haymitch here. 

“You should get some rest,” He says gruffly, trying to muster the strength to get up and walk out the door. 

You tilt your head thoughtfully, “I think I only slept through one full night before my first Games.” 

Haymitch’s jaw sets and he fights to keep his fury toward Snow and concern for you from getting all tangled up. “(Y/n), I need you to team up with Katniss and Peeta. We need you to take care of yourself, or you guys won’t have a shot.” 

“You know I’ll protect your kids with my life.” You stare at your empty glass, fighting the urge to disassociate. You intend to remain light, but your words sound more like a surrender.

“No.” That isn’t what he wants. 

Your head shoots up at the forcefulness of his voice, and your eyes meet as you watch him silently. 

 “Not with your life. I—we can’t let Snow have that victory. He watches you with your tributes, and you know he’s seen what you’ve done for the other victors.” 

Even if Snow hadn’t punished you for your small acts of kindness, it was common knowledge that he knew every move that the victors made. 

You hadn’t been dragged off for torturing after coaching Finnick through his first panic attack or helping Cashmere recuperate from a cosmetic surgery, but you should’ve known that Snow would respond eventually. 

Haymitch is floored by a sudden realization. Had your name even been in the bowl at the reaping? Snow might have orchestrated it all, knowing that you would always volunteer for Wiress and making it impossible for her to do the same for you. 

“Haymitch—“ You start to argue, but he cuts you off. 

“He can’t do anything when you’re out here because your clients…like you too much, but once you’re in there? Snow’s gonna do everything he can to get you, (Y/n), because you haven’t let him win. You’re still good.” After saying it out loud, he realizes it’s true. He needs another bottle of something. 

Meanwhile, you’re shaking your head bitterly. Is that really how he sees you? You scoff, “You do realize that I’ve killed a lot of people, right? I also raise two new killers every year.” 

Haymitch is taken aback. Did you really see yourself that way? You, a woman who had been pulled into two Hunger Games but never reaped?

His fingers curl and uncurl from the fists he’s subconsciously made at his sides. Between gritted teeth, he spits out,“That blood is on Snow’s hands, not yours.” 

You raised an eyebrow, “You seriously expect me to think you believe a single thing you’re saying? After who knows how many bottles of that?” You gesture toward the empty bottle dismissively. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be drinking yourself to death.” 

 Your lack of understanding triggers a sharp defensiveness in Haymitch.

The bourbon no longer warms Haymitch’s system, and the buzz is gone. There’s only numbness in its wake. He wants the ache to stop, and reflexively, meanness slips out. “You’re nagging now? I forgot how much I hated having you around.” 

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that for much longer.” You throw back the retort in a flat voice. It’s the morning in Haymitch’s apartment all over again. You’re not even hurt anymore, just tired. You blink, as if to ward off tears, but you realize you haven’t got any left. “You should go before someone else sees you.” 

Haymitch pales, immediately regretful. He reaches out a hand, but you’re already pulling away. “(Y/n)—”

Suddenly, Beetee is there. “You heard her, Haymitch.” 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”Haymitch doesn’t stop the nickname this time, desperate for reconciliation. 

You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Abernathy.” 

“(Y/n), I—” Before Haymitch can try again, Beetee ushers him toward the door, disappointment and anger rolling off of the older man in waves. Haymitch turns to look back at you, but you’ve already disappeared into your room. 

Beetee sends Haymitch into the hallway without another word. The apartment door shuts softly behind him. 

Once he’s in the elevator, Haymitch slams his hand against the wall. Back in the District 12 apartment, he cracks open a beer, on the verge of officially ending his semi-sobriety. 

As he watches the sunrise come up through the window, he scowls. Seventy-five long years of the sun rising on a reaping. And this one had been yours. 

Setting the beer down, he recalls a conversation with Plutarch and fatal affairs discussed in code. Haymitch decides that even if you can’t stand to look at him, he’ll do anything to keep you alive. 

A 75th reaping. If they get this right, yours will be the last. 

| Be some protector to ya

[acotarxreader]

BatBite

Azriel x Reader

Synopsis: Azriel relies on liquid courage to finally act on his feelings for you but the next day, only one of you remembers and its the one marked with lovebites

Warnings: Fluff, kissing, biting hehe

A/N: Gentle fluff, gearing up to write smut again. Let me know what you think of this one and if you have any requests those are open too!

More Irish flare in this, with fadas removed for your own ease of pronunciation but Greim is a word for Bite and Brú for Crush. I kinda like the idea of using Irish words for non-canon passing by characters hehe.

------------------------------------

“Az, you’re going to take my arm out of my socket!” you laughed loudly over the growing crowd of the annual House of Wind Starfall party. Azriel pulled you up the staircase towards your room, using his wings to offset his drunken imbalance. The party was growing in chaos and as much fun as dancing until you dropped was, watching a tipsy Azriel navigate his environment was more fun. That along with ensuring he didn’t try to drink and fly led you to here, inside your bedroom as he slipped off his jacket and took another drink from a flask.

“Are you okay Az?” you chuckled while watching the Spymaster struggle out of his sleeves. 

“Shh shhhh Shhh-hh-hhh” English escaped the drunken Illyrian. You took slight release in his lack of composure as often when he had it you both would have pointless arguments despite your deep-rooted enjoyment of one another's company. 

He slid slightly in his shoeless state while approaching you, gaining more laughter from you. Azriel stretched a hand outwards to you and you took hold of him, thinking it was so he could regain balance. Azriel pulled you into him, your chests bouncing back off one another at the speed. You felt your breath hitch at the sudden close and intimate proximity between you both. 

“Umm Az-” your small laugh was cut off as Azriel ran his whole palm down your face, almost pawing you before he coordinated himself enough to isolate a single finger against your lips.

“Shh shhh Y-N shhh” You couldn't stop the laughter escaping you only to have it almost immediately silenced with the sudden taste of whiskey meeting your lips. Azriel wrapped his hands around your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss you had both wanted for centuries. He moved you back without separating from you until your back hit the bedroom door, your head gently knocking off the oak.

“Wait Az, a moment ago we were fighting, practically at one another's throats-” a smirk grew on Azriels face at your words before he tilted your head back again and attached himself to your neck with agonisingly sweet pressure, a small whimper leaving you at the sudden addictive sensation. You felt your skin be taken between his lips before Azriel bit down sweetly, quickly turning to harshly, your head responding by angling further to give him more access. Azriels warm, scarred hands reached the bottom of your silk slip dress before traipsing up your legs to your sides beneath the fabric. You fought against the moans rising in your throat as he marked you hungrily. 

“Wait Az, you are so so drunk right now” Your hands ran down his arms, pushing him gently allowing you to slip from his grip. Azriel gently swayed side to side without your body to support his weight.   

“YN, I ha-ve wanted this for foooreever, I jus-t needed some liq-uid courage to finally be br-ave enough to ac-t on it, is that sooooo baaad?” The slur of words with the scent of the caramel brown liquor reminded you just how drunk he was as you pushed away your own burning desire. The sound of shattering glass had your head snapping to the door again, the party growing out of control. You kissed Azriels cheek gently before dipping back into the hallway. 

Azriel stood in your empty bedroom on his shaky legs, he slowly retreated backwards until the backs of his legs hit the bed, sending him flying back onto the silk, wings splayed out, deep inebriated sleep taking hold. 

**********************

“Oh Gods! Please someone turn down the sun!” Azriel groaned as you whipped the curtains open with a wave of your hand, the Spring day leaking light in. Azriel pulled the silk sheets you had covered him with back over his face trying to heal his retinas back to health. 

“Morning Starshine” you half sang, sitting under the sheets in the bed alongside him, a cup of tea in hand. Azriel groaned, lowering the sheets below eye level to look up at you through his lashes. He quickly whipped the sheets up to look down at his fully clothed body. 

“Don’t worry Az, nothing happened. I helped with the cleanup when people finally left and I just wanted to sleep in my bed, apparently, you had the same idea” you grinned at your near-death hungover friend. 

“So do you remember anything at all from last night Az?” 

“I remember whiskey ehhh bourbon ehh at one point I think me and Cass ate a whole sheet of cake ehhh oh! Cass then vomited said cake all over my shoes which explains where they've gone and then ehhh more whiskey” he rubbed his eyes again trying to pull more memories to his mind and failing. Azriel shimmied up the bed to lean into your side before taking your cup of tea from your hands, gaining an eye roll from you. 

“Just the important stuff so” You smiled down at him before throwing your legs over the side of your bed, Azriel slumping into the space you left. You moved across your room, disappearing behind your changing screen momentarily and returning in your training gear. 

“Don’t make me look bad YN, take a day off” Azriel beamed at you, trying to push the thoughts of you changing mere metres from him from his mind. 

“I got a lot to think through, punching things helps me” you laughed, pulling your white ribbon from your vanity and braiding the fabric into your hair. 

“Woah YN! Someone used you as their dinner last night” Azriel laughed while gesturing to the obvious marbling covering your neck, your cheeks soon matching their maroon in embarrassment. Azriel raised an eyebrow at the sudden uncomfortable mood shift, you too often talked and fought about your conquests together, the bashfulness about the situation was new. You began to untangle the braid, covering the marks again, tying the ribbon around your waist, Azriels eyes glued to the movement. 

“I gotta go warm up”

“Ah come on YN, kiss and tell! I won’t tell anyone”

“You know I don’t believe you”

“Well, that's because Cass isn't just anyone to me” he laughed, raising his body from the bed to close the gap between you. 

“Do I know them?” 

“Az” you laughed, pushing him back, his hands going up in peace. 

“If I guess, will you tell me?” you shook your head to him as he groaned, running the end of the ribbon on your waist through his fingers. You watched the movement, maybe you wanted to tell him? Or maybe you wanted him to remember on his own accord. 

“Fine Az, you get three guesses and I get off doing sprints for a month” he hummed in thought at this before agreeing. His mind went through the faces of last night, hundreds of Fae crossed his mind all of which would enrage him if you were to allow them to kiss you like that. He felt a bit of rage bubble underneath his skin as he thought of someone else's hands all over you. 

“Az, I have to get downstairs” your humoured voice interrupted his thoughts, forcing him to push back the jealousy he felt. 

“Hmm Cass? Wait, not him. He and Nesta have been gearing up lately and I think she’d skin you alive-” you raised your eyebrow to him “-but you’d win the fight” you rolled your eyes at his quick save, slipping the ribbon from his fingers and moving to sit and slip on your boots. Azriel wandered around the room, tapping his finger on his lips while thinking. You thought of those lips all over you last night, struggling to keep hold of the moan you wanted to release at the thought. 

“Was it Greim from Ritas?” you shook your head, tying your boots up on the edge of your bed. 

“Was it Bru from Feyre’s gallery”, you shook your head again.

“Ehhh oh YN no no no please-” he dropped to his knees theatrically, taking his hands in yours “-Please please YN YLN, don’t say it was Eris, I saw you two speaking earlier in the night” You found yourself laughing at the outlandish idea but his slightly desperate eyes had you reassuring him by shaking your head. Azriel launched himself from the ground to push you flush into the bed as he supported his weight with an arm above your head, you both laughing as he spoke.

“Oh Gods just tell me” 

“Fine Az, you did this” 

“Me? I don’t remem-” The smile slowly fell from your face at Azriels words as his grin disappeared, and his eyes widened as he collapsed beside you and stared at the ceiling. The flashbacks came back to him like lightning across his eyes.

“I am so so sorry for putting you in that position YN” 

“Don’t be sorry” You rolled to your side to face him, Azriel doing the same, the comfortable silence returning between you both.

“I can’t believe I went through with it” You raised your eyebrow at his quiet confession as he closed his eyes, ready to release his secret. 

“Well you see- Gods this is so embarrassing - I wanted to kiss you for…a very long time now and Cass was sick of me whining about it and he convinced me to act on my feelings finally but I just couldn’t act on them especially when I saw you in your dress - wow I mean seriously….anyways sorry I just thought I’d find my courage at the bottom of a whiskey jug…and a sheet cake and apparently I did” he reopened his eyes at your silence to find you smirking hard at him. He rolled back onto his back with a groan of embarrassment. 

“You need whiskey to kiss me?” you sat up from the bed and for a moment Azriel thought he had fully spooked you. He watched you lean across him to your bedside table, removing a small pocket-sized bottle of whiskey from the drawer, tossing it to him playfully as he laughed with you. You lay down again next to him, tucking your hands under your cheek to face him on your side. 

“Do-do you regret doing it now that you remember?

“I only regret our first kiss was one I remember in a blur” You took a brief moment with his words before smirking, pushing up off the bed and throwing a leg over his lap to straddle him. Azriels hand reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear before you lowered to meet his lips. Warmth filled you both with the feeling of gentleness and care filling you both, Azriels hands were placed lovingly on either side of your head. A soft hand traced the marks he had left on your neck. 

“Now, that was our first kiss Az”

“Our first kiss”

“I can’t believe you thought I would kiss Eris” You sat up on his lap, hitting him gently in the chest. 

“Pass me the whiskey, I need to erase the thought from my mind” he chuckled, sitting up with you, hands around your waist to prevent you from falling back. He moved to kiss your neck again only to have you stop him. 

“My turn” your wicked smirk matched his as you connected to your neck, the hangover long melted away

-----------------------------------------------------

Tag list @lilah-asteria

[grimdarling69]

Another Deaged Dan and Ellie or otherwise known as Crack pt8

John Constantine was unsurprisingly quite used to being tied up. Ever since Batman called him in to inspect that interdimensional portal that reeked of the Infinate Realms, he's been inning around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to stop the end of the world. The portal was just about the worst constructed thing ever. It was running on ectoplasm and soda. From the notes and scribbles he found in the lab. Luthor was going to create a that would have been much safer but ran out of time. So they recreated 'the Fenton portal' he has no idea what that is.

Even Batman, much to his displeasure, has no clue. He's the fucking Batman, the greatest detective in the world and he has no goddamned clue what the fuck that means. Whatever the fuck or whoever the fuck Fenton is he will be torturing them somehow.

God, he needs a drink. He tries to reach his flask in his coat but can't. Because he's fucking tied up in a random ghosts lair.

"Beware! I am the Box Ghost!" Fucking kill him now. How the fuck did this loser capture him. He tricked fucking Satan so many times snd this rectangular obsessed ghost captures him? He's never living this down. He just hopes Zee won't find him before he gets out of here.

Purple smoke seeps in from the ghosts door to his lair. To late.

"Huh?" The stupid ghost questions the smoke and flies toward it.

"Beware!" He yelled and threw his hands up. Obviously, trying to appear scary but only achieving in making himself look like a total dork. God, what an idiot he was. Hurry up, Zee. He's not bloody drunk enough to play damsel in distress.

The smoke turned tangible and wrapped up the befuddled ghost and drags him to the floor. He tries to go intangible, but the purplish ribbons keep top strong a grip on him. He resorts to wiggling around on the floor like a worm. The door is roughly kicked open, and Zatanna struts in.

"Need a hand, john?" She sarcastically asked him. He sighed.

"Just put me out of my misery, please Zee."

"No can do." She uses her magician wand to cut the rope magically and dropped him to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Curse you my knight in shining fishnets.

"Hope you don't mind i brought some company." She said like she'd really care if he did.

"Oh great." He picked himself off the floor, massaging his irritated skin. His head was still spinning from being tied upside down for so long. He stumbled and was caught by a pair of strong arms. He looked up and saw four batears and two frowns.

"Aw batsy, you do love me.. fuck I don't feel good..." He then immediately threw up the measly crackers and some whiskey he had in his jacket for some reason when he was captured by those fuckers last week.

He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed his flask, and took a big swing of the empty flask.

"God fucking damnit!" He cursed and fumbled around for a cigarette finding absolutely nothing. Worst day ever. Or night or whatever the fuck time it is.

"Constantine. What the hell are you doing?" Batman gravelly voice interrogated him. What a tool. He finally takes a glance around his now less spinning surroundings. Zatanna really brought the cavalry in, didn't she?

Red Hood, Red Robin, Signal and Flash younger stood on one side of the room. Wonderwoman, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, the older Flash, and Cyborg were on the other.

"What in the bloody hell is this?"

"Nightwing and Robin. Have you found anything?" Diana asked calmly like this was any other day. And they weren't in one of the most dangerous places in the multiverse.

"Yeah, they're trapped in the Far Frozen."

"How are you so sure?"

"Ghosts are stealing food and human items across the earth. Mostly from high magic and death rate areas. Where natural portals are more common." He took a cigarette from Red hoods outstretched hand, ignoring the glare from the others around them. Also ignoring the shove Red Robin gave to his brother and lit the tip with a quick spell. Inhaling and blowing out the smoke is an experienced dance.

"We already know that. We've all tried tracking them and nothing works." Zatanna stated crossing her arms and peering over the brim of her hat questioningly.

"I've got a source. Did some bounty hunting for the resident ghost of a dead warden, he wanted some ghosts locked back up in his prison." He pointed at the still wiggling ghost "This one here was the first one I locked up a week ago after I left those demons in the dust and he got a lucky revenge shot in."

"How do you the warden is trustworthy?" The older Flash questioned. He looked nervous like he was waiting for something.

Another shoe to drop was just what he needed.

"Because i got it verified by the Lord of all time. He told me to hurry that'll I'll need to be 'Beware of poisonous thorns '. I'm guessing he just means they're guarded by a nature ghost or something. Weird for the antartic, but they are ghosts, so nothing really has to make bloody sense around here." Taking another drag from his, smoke, and he takes a mental stock of the few things they'd need to make it there.

"We need to go now. How do we get there?" Batman grabbed his arm and started pulling him toward the door.

"Slow your roll, luv. Do you want to die? We've got a lot of things to do if you want even a chance to survive that bloody place. Forget even making it there."

"Like what?" The older Flash asked suddenly standing with Batman and wonder woman.

"Like getting some bloody jackets."

----------

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm clock beeps loudly in his ear. He smacks it without thinking. So early.....getting up and walking to the bathroom swiping his phone on the way. Doing his business and brushing his teeth.

He scroll through his phone. Bruce wanted to talk, Jason was mad at him, Tim was pissed at a case, Babs missed seeing him. He walks out the bedroom after pulling on some random shorts. He yawns loudly and open the cabinets grabbing cereal.

He eats the cereal slowly while responding to messages. Looks like the internet isn't working very well nothings going through...weird with a waynephone but not impossible it wasn't as bat-grade as his other tech anyway. He'll fix it later. His sons bedroom door opens.

"Richard? Where are we?"

"Richard? Since when do you call your old man by his first name? Not very proper of you baby wing." He joked ruffling his hair. Damians face was rippled with confusion.

"Your not my...father...oh my ancients...fuck-" He looked around the room for another second then turned back around and ran into his room slamming the door closed.

"Damian..!" He tried the door, but he immediately heard the lock turn. He knocked on the wood, hoping Damian would respond.

"What's going on? Are you okay?" He tried to talk to him through the door. He stuck his ear to the door and could hear rustling noises and swears and something Diseree?

He grabbed his lockpicks from their usual places. He picked the lock methodically.

"Diseree! Fix this now! Or I'll put you down!"

"Ughhhh I'm only granting your wish!" A echoey voice unbound by a physical plane.

A genie(?) Flew up through the floor she wore blue robes and with a bored expression snapped her opaque fingers and everything went dark.

------------

Everything hurt. Before he could even wake up he was aware of immense pain. His chest hurt and his eyes were to heavy to even attempt at moving. They felt heavier than his fortress key. He vaguely recognized the bed he was laying on to be his recovery cot with the solar panels in the watchtower med bay. He tried to think of what led to this but he couldn't think of anything. It hurt to think god his head was pounding like he went through a skyscraper all the way from the top to the basement and further.

"Clark? Can you hear me?" Lois? What was she doing here? He tried to open his eyes but they must have been glued shut.

"Stay still, dad..." Jon? Jon...and him...were fighting but over what? Something to do with Robin, maybe. He can't remember, and it hurts to try to sift through his shattered memory.

"Go back to sleep dad. We'll be here when you wake up." Kon, he remembers telling him something but what was it? Be prepared? No he says that all the time it's something different...its gotta be something new...God if only the lights weren't so bright maybe he could open his eyes. Speak. Ask him. I know it's important, what did I tell you?

He tries to open his mouth, and all he hears is beeping and unfamiliar voices. He thinks he can hear Lois tell him to calm down? He is calm. in fact, he feels too calm, like the calm before the storm. Ugh, if only that obnoxious beeping and shouting would stop. This time, he welcomes the embrace of darkness. Anything to escape that horrid shrieking.

------------------

"And why should I help you?" The large green and pink alien looking woman leered at Constantine. This was a bad idea, a terrible one, actually. Why did you listen to Batman, Wally? He should have just zoomed around this dimension instead of almost killing them by begging for help from dead aliens! Why would Dora the Explorer or whatever her name is want to help us?

"Because I've brought you your cousin, Diana of Themyscira?" Constantine told the amused tall as fuck lady. She was huuuuge-not in a rude way of course. Gid he's an idiot atleast he's to scared to speak. He's the Flash, faced of million of scarier foes but something about her just makes every hair on his body stand in fear. She kinda reminds him of Wonder Woman.

Wait, did he just say cousin-wait? Is he trying to sacrifice her to this random alien?? By telling her she's its cousin?? Is he telling the truth she is kinda of wearing armor like Wonder Woman, but still...

"Greeting cousin, I've heard many stories of your great cleverness." WW said to her. He guesses he was telling the truth if she's going with it.

"And of my great naivety and stupidity? You have been poisoned by spending all your time with these mortals if you think false flattery will endear me to you. What will you give me if I help and don't say your soul. I know who you are, John Constantine, and your reputation precedes you even here." She spoke with an even tone, but he could feel the power in her words as she toyed with the small box in her lap. Running her fingers across its lid and body. Tracing the beautiful woodwork.

"A favor. If you know of my reputation, you must know of my skills." Constantine quickly controlled himself and attempted to convince her again.

"I suppose it would be nice to hold a favor from such a skilled magician..." She appeared deep in thought, and from his position to the side, he could see Constantine's eye twitching from being called a magician. This was pretty fucking funny actually. He just hopes Constantine controls himself.

"You wanted a way to the Far Frozen, why? Does it have anything to do with the rumored lockdown over there?" Shit she wasn't convinced this was less funny....

"There's a lockdown...? That wasn't-"

"Calm yourself, magician. I have been invited for diplomatic reason recently and j suppose I could invite a few of you but not all of course. Tell me why you need to go there and ill put us on the list?" She praticaly purred the last part she knew she won.

"We-"

"Are looking for my sons." Batman interupted WW and what the hell was he thinking? Giving information to people we have no clue about! He was Batman he'd kick people out of the Justice League for that and now he's doing this!

"Your littlest one is in great pain. Burdened and heavy, how will you relieve that?" She pondered aloud her voice seemed to echo against the marble.

"He is my son. I will do anything to help him-them." Batman answered truthfully with full conviction.

The woman hummed thoughtfully. "He told me that would be your answer but can you keep your word. Can you accept that the son you lost will not be the son gained?"

"I thought The Lord of Time was the riddle fanatic?" Constsntine joked and the woman turned to him ever amused. "Well i enjoy some from time to time." She chuckled at her own joke and turned away toward her maze the one they came through. It wasn't a difficult one at all hardly newsworthy but he had a guess she had something to do with the skill level.

"A friend of mine has a beautiful ship. He would be delighted to escort mortals across the Realms."

"There are no large enough ectoplasmic pools for a ship large enough to hold our party. Mortals need more space than ghosts. We cannot simply hibernate like your kind." Zatanna answered this time he was wondering when she'd show back up. She had left in a flurry of magical nonsense for something but he didn't really understand her explanation.

"Ah but his ship does not sail the water but the sky." She reached into a pouch secured onto her leg below her fancy Greek skirt , which probably had a fancy special name, she pulled out a white whistle. It had runes and symbols all over it and they glowed a bright neon green. She blew into it but no sound came from it.

"Sounds broken-" He manged to whisper to Vic right next him. Victor glanced at him about to speak but a sudden loud crashing over head. He crashed to the floor while the gaint alien Greek ghost laughed at all of them. He looked up to the sky the large pirate ship with skeletons hanging out the side of it peering them. What the....

"Amen Auntie Dora! You called?" A young boy dressed in pirate gear complete with a skeleton parrot on his shoulder.

"It's 'ahoy' ugh why do even I try?" The pirate groaned loudly.

This is going to be one interesting voyage...

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Why do Humans Like to Drink Alcohol?

Primates have been eating fruit for at least 24 million years.

Most primates, including chimpanzees, orangutans, and gibbons, are primarily frugivorous—fruit is the mainstay of their diet.

The ripest fruits, which are greatly preferred, contain high amounts of two ingredients: sugar and ethanol.

The “ethanol plumes” emitted by fruit might provide cues to its ripeness.

Primates, including humans, have been consuming low levels of ethanol for millions of years through ripe fruit.

Modern humans, however, live in a world that is far removed from this low level of ethanol consumption.

The ethanol levels in fruit are typically only 0.6 percent (Dudley, 2002).

Based on a reasonable set of assumptions, eating ripe fruit might yield a blood ethanol level of only 0.01 percent, far lower than the typical legal definition of drunk, which is typically 0.08 percent.

Our distant ancestors did not have the kegs of beer, bottles of wine, or flasks of whiskey that currently contain high concentrations of alcohol.

According to the frugivory by-product hypothesis, the human penchant for drinking alcohol is not an adaptation but rather is a by-product of adaptive fondness for ripe fruit (Dudley, 2002; Singh, 1985).

Alcohol not only has a distinct taste but it also has a unique odor and is often associated with the color and fragrance of ripe fruits. . . . Utilizing the odor and taste of alcohol enables the animal to predict the caloric value of a food. (Singh, 1985, p. 273)

That is, all humans have adaptations that favor the consumption of ripe fruit, but these can go awry in the modern world of artificial drinks with high alcohol content.

Indeed, alcoholism in the modern world is likely a maladaptive by-product of the overindulgence of these frugivorous adaptations.

The next time you reach for a drink, perhaps you will think of your primate ancestors having their version of a party—sitting around a tree eating ripe fruit.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Cocktails ⚜ Wine-tasting Writing Resources PDFs

[anythinggoesbutme]

First Glint

Chapter one of the White Rose & Coal Dust series

Peacekeeper!Coriolanus Snow x Everdeen!Reader

Previous Chapters: Click Here

Warnings: Power imbalance, class tension, mild language, canon-typical dystopian themes, foreshadowing of emotional manipulation, underlying political commentary, references to poverty/starvation, stalking behavior (mildly but intentional), mentions of death, slow burn, subtle manipulation.

Synopsis: Before he was President Snow, he was a Peacekeeper sent to District 12—where a coal-dusted girl with defiance in her spine caught his eye and changed everything.

Word Count: 2,984

The train sliced through the barren winter of the Seam like a silver scalpel, gleaming under the pale, ash-laden sky. It was a Capitol model, of course—smooth, sleek, and designed for power. Just like everything Coriolanus Snow had ever touched.

He sat alone in the last compartment, a luxury even higher-ranking Peacekeepers rarely received, though no one questioned it when he boarded. They didn’t question his spotless white uniform, pressed crisp against his tall frame. They didn’t question the way he carried himself—like he already owned every inch of Panem.

Because one day, he would.

His gloved hand tapped against the side of a polished flask, untouched. The flask was more for show than need—a gift from a superior officer, embossed with a mocking rose and filled with expensive Capitol whiskey he had no intention of drinking. He didn’t trust anything he hadn’t prepared himself. Not anymore.

Snow’s blue eyes narrowed as they caught the faint outline of coal smoke rising in the distance. District 12.

He had read the files. Of all the districts, it was the poorest. Starved, broken, irrelevant—except for the black lungs it produced to fuel the nation’s endless fire. Most Capitol citizens couldn’t find it on a map if you paid them, and that suited him fine. He preferred forgotten places. It was easier to make an impression when no one saw you coming.

The train screeched into the station like it was protesting its arrival, steam hissing against the tracks. Snow stood without hurry, adjusting the gleaming belt around his waist. Everything about him was regulation: the leather gloves, the knee-high boots, the neatly combed blond hair. But nothing about him was ordinary.

As he stepped onto the platform, the cold bit through his uniform like it had teeth.

District 12 looked exactly like he imagined.

Bleak. Smoky. Smelling of soot and desperation.

The buildings—if you could call them that—leaned like old men waiting to die. Children darted between crumbling brick and wooden doorframes, their cheeks hollow from hunger, their eyes too old for their age. Women stood in lines that led to nowhere. Men shouldered the weight of invisible shackles, heading toward the mines with heads bowed.

Snow’s nose wrinkled behind a polite smile.

They called this a district, but it was a graveyard. And he had come to be its warden.

“Peacekeeper Snow,” a gruff voice greeted, interrupting his assessment.

Snow turned to see a man in standard uniform approach—older, with grizzled stubble and a gut that suggested more time at a desk than in the field. Commander Brant, if memory served.

“Sir,” Snow replied, offering a crisp salute.

Brant’s eyes flicked over him, skeptical but amused. “We don’t get many Capitol boys out here. Let alone ones with… pedigree.”

Snow’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not here for comfort, Commander.”

Brant snorted. “You’ll be lucky to find a dry cot, let alone comfort. Welcome to hell.”

He said it like a joke, but the bitterness was real. Snow heard it, and logged it.

Brant led him away from the station, boots crunching through a mix of snow and soot. They passed the Hob, the black market disguised as an abandoned warehouse, and the Seam, where the poverty was so thick it clung to the walls like rot.

“We’ve had trouble,” Brant said, more as a warning than a statement. “Miners organizing. Kids stealing. A couple of families we think are running old rebel bloodlines.”

Snow raised an eyebrow. “You’ve allowed that to continue?”

Brant shrugged. “We’ve kept the peace. Barely.”

Snow didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The disgust was in his silence.

Brant stopped at the base barracks—a squat, concrete building that looked more like a bunker than a home. “This is where you’ll be housed. We rotate shifts, but if you want more patrols, more control—well. Be my guest.”

“I intend to,” Snow said smoothly.

Inside, the air was warmer but no more welcoming. Other Peacekeepers loitered, playing cards, cleaning weapons, some glancing up at Snow’s arrival. None of them greeted him. Not with words.

But they noticed. They always noticed him.

Snow moved into the room assigned to him—a corner cell of sorts with a narrow bed, a metal desk, and a single window that overlooked the heart of the district. Or what was left of it.

He didn’t unpack. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he sat at the desk and opened a fresh file. He began to read.

District 12 wasn’t just coal and hunger and hopelessness. It was fractured. Fragile. And if there was one thing Coriolanus Snow understood, it was how to control something once it broke.

That’s what they didn’t understand in the Capitol. That’s what they’d forgotten.

Power wasn’t about extravagance. It was about proximity. Visibility. Presence.

Let the rebels think they had privacy. Let the poor believe their voices weren’t heard. He would hear them all. He would remember their names, their faces, their patterns.

He would build his empire one chokehold at a time, and District 12 would be the beginning.

Snow reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single white rose. Perfect. Untouched.

He placed it on the desk beside the file.

The room was quiet.

But in the silence, he heard it all.

District 12 was not known for its surprises.

Coriolanus Snow had walked the same bleak path from the barracks to the town square each morning for nearly a week. His boots left no lasting print in the soot-laced snow. His presence, however, did.

Every day, eyes followed him—some curious, some resentful, some just afraid. That was fine. Fear, after all, was fertile ground. Easier to plant control than resistance. And District 12 was already wilting.

He knew the patterns now: which families sent their children to the fence line for kindling, which miners coughed the worst, which houses traded stolen bread behind boarded-up windows. The district was a wound, and he’d memorized its every scab.

And then, on a morning of no particular note, he saw her.

She was standing near the edge of the square, her arms folded beneath a faded shawl, a basket hanging from one wrist. Coal dust streaked her cheek, as if she’d wiped her face mid-chore and forgotten to check for the smear. Her coat was threadbare, her boots cracked at the seams, and her hair—

Her hair was the color of rich soil after rain. Not Capitol-slicked or curled, but long and thick and braided simply down her back. Practical. Plain.

And yet something about her pulled him to stillness.

She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t begging for anything. She just stood there—like she belonged to this place, but didn’t bow to it.

And then she looked up.

Their eyes didn’t meet. She didn’t notice him. But he noticed her.

And that was enough.

Snow didn’t speak to her. He didn’t alter his pace. He didn’t twitch a muscle, not even a flicker of recognition across his polished expression. He simply walked past.

But from that moment on, his route changed.

He began walking by the square twice a day instead of once. Sometimes at dusk, sometimes just after the miners were released from the shifts. He’d pause near the bakery, pretending to inspect security. He added patrols by the Hob. He claimed interest in the fence line watch and the ration queue organization—all of which passed near the places she moved.

She had a routine. He made it his.

It was almost disappointing, how easy it was to find out more.

Her name wasn’t in any formal registry—not in a district like this. But she was known. Referred to in murmurs. Everdeen. The Everdeen girl.

She lived on the edge of the Seam, in a house that should’ve collapsed five winters ago. She walked to the market with her older brother sometimes, carrying goods wrapped in cloth. Her father had been killed by a group of Peacekeepers over rumors of him planning a rebellion. She sang, occasionally, though never in front of Peacekeepers. She bartered better than any man twice her age. She never stole. She didn’t need to. People gave her more than she asked for.

And the more he learned, the more he looked.

At first, it was observation. Tactical. Strategic.

But Snow had always been honest with himself, even when it was unflattering.

After the fourth day, he started watching her for reasons he didn’t put in reports.

It wasn’t just her face, though that was lovely enough in its quiet way—sharp eyes, the curve of her mouth always looking like it was mid-thought. No, it was the contrast. The contradiction.

She looked like she belonged to nothing but herself.

And yet she was entirely his district. All coal smoke and hard-won breath. A survivor, he thought, and not by accident.

Snow never followed her past the square. That would have been obvious. Sloppy.

But he’d linger near wherever she’d been. He’d stand in places she passed just to breathe the air she left behind. He told himself it was about power—knowing what mattered to this district. Who mattered.

Still, he kept a list.

Her name, in his private log. A note beside it: Seam blood. Connected. Sharp. Valuable.

And another beneath it, scrawled after a long pause: Pretty.

The word looked foreign on his Capitol-script page.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

He told himself he wasn’t here for attachments.

He told himself she wouldn’t mean anything.

But Coriolanus Snow was a man who didn’t believe in coincidence. And her presence here—now, while he was beginning the first move of his long campaign—felt like something just short of fate.

One evening, after the sun had sunk low and the mines released their ghosts back into the district, he found himself walking toward the square again.

He had no reason to. No duty. No excuse.

She wasn’t there.

But her brother was.

Tall, rough around the edges, carrying a bag of coal and something sharper in his expression. The protective kind of man, Snow thought, who believed his fists were stronger than the world’s leash.

Snow stood still. Observed.

When the brother glanced in his direction, their eyes locked.

It was brief.

But it was enough to tell him that the Everdeens—both of them—had teeth.

He returned to the barracks that night colder than when he left.

He lay in bed, staring at the low ceiling, and wondered if she had ever seen the Capitol. If she would hate it. If she would survive it.

If she would survive him.

Snow wasn’t one to act on impulse. He wasn’t ruled by want. He ruled it.

But he felt something shifting. Quietly. Under his skin. Like a slow, inevitable thaw.

She didn’t know him yet.

But she would.

The rain fell like it had every evening for the past three days—relentless, unyielding, drenching everything in its path. The sky, a swollen bruise, hung low above the district, and the wind swept through the streets, chasing people indoors like mice seeking shelter from a hawk’s eye.

Coriolanus Snow stood under the awning of a poorly-kept building near the town square, his figure leaning against the rotting wood, sharp eyes scanning the deserted street. The only people still braving the storm were the ones too poor or too stubborn to heed the weather’s warning. He didn’t mind the rain. The wetness made the dirt on his boots easier to wipe off, the slant of the storm left him feeling shielded, as though the world might not see him if he didn’t want to be seen. His thoughts were a little clearer in the rain—fewer distractions, fewer voices from the district to interrupt his focus.

He could hear the distant clatter of the Hob—a place filled with all the district’s stolen dreams—and the occasional murmur of a miner trudging through the mud, on their way home after another soul-sucking day in the pits. But despite the usual sounds, his focus had already shifted.

There, emerging from the fog of the downpour, was her.

She was just a shadow at first—a dark figure darting from one awning to another, her steps quick and purposeful as though the rain were a nuisance rather than a comfort. He recognized her immediately, of course—he had spent weeks learning the shape of her, memorizing the way she carried herself, the set of her jaw, the purposeful strides she took when she was certain no one was watching her.

Her hair—wild and unruly in the wet—curled in a way that made her look younger, more delicate than she really was. He noted the way it clung to the back of her neck, a few strands falling damply over her shoulders, the color now richer, more vibrant than it had ever appeared in the dry heat of the day. The effect was oddly disarming, like something precious—and as she passed just beneath his awning, for a brief moment, he caught the scent of the earth clinging to her clothes.

For a second, he almost wanted to smile.

But he didn’t.

She wasn’t looking his way. Of course she wasn’t. It had been weeks since he’d started keeping track of her movements—weeks spent calculating her routine, learning the length of her days and the hours she spent in town, how often she lingered outside the bakery, her stops at the market, her brief exchanges with the miners who frequented the square.

There was no reason for her to notice him. Not yet. But still, he had watched her long enough to know that she’d caught sight of him before. Those moments when she looked up, and their gazes met—however fleeting—he had been certain. She knew who he was, even if she wasn’t brave enough to speak his name. But that was a feeling he could foster. She was the sort who despised Peacekeepers, and he was their representative in this district. His arrival had been unwelcome, and the animosity she felt was practically instinctual.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

The same instinct that led her to avoid him, that same coldness he’d come to expect from these districts, only fed his curiosity.

She stopped abruptly, a few feet away, ducking into a small shop to shelter from the rain. He hesitated. There was no need to approach her. He had no real business with her—at least, not yet. But it was hard to shake the feeling that if he didn’t act now, if he didn’t make some kind of move, she’d slip away and be just another ghost in this dying district.

With a soft exhale, Snow pushed himself off the doorframe and made his way toward the shop where she’d entered, making sure his footsteps were quiet in the wet mud.

He waited for a moment under the eaves, watching the shop as the door swung open slightly, just enough for him to see her reflection in the glass, the shadow of her face framed by a pale lamp within. She didn’t notice him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew he was out there, watching.

Minutes passed, and when the door opened fully, she stepped back out into the rain.

Snow was already in motion before she could walk past him. He stood in her way just as she took the first step out from the shop’s awning.

The rain fell heavier now, a sheet of cold slicing down between them. When Coriolanus reached her, the girl’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing with mistrust, fury rippling in her gaze. The girl had fire in her—he could feel it even at this distance, burning in the depths of her stare. He hadn’t expected anything less, but it intrigued him, nonetheless.

“Miss,” he said, slow and low, as if she were a wild thing that might bolt at the wrong move. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable.

He didn’t move.

“I wasn’t startled,” she said finally, her voice flat, as if dismissing him entirely.

“Then I’m lucky,” he replied, voice smooth but carrying just enough warmth. “I would’ve hated to be mistaken for a threat.”

Her eyes flickered toward his, full of disdain. She looked at him like he already was a threat, and maybe he was—just by virtue of who he was and what he represented.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, broken only by the persistent drumming of rain against rusted gutters. The atmosphere hung between them like a palpable tension, his every breath carefully measured as he assessed her, the girl who hadn’t yet run but hadn’t given in, either.

After a beat, she shifted, seemingly weighing the risk of staying against the discomfort of speaking. Her fingers flexed against the fabric of her coat, as though preparing for something—anything. “Is there a reason you’re standing here?” she asked, her voice as biting as the cold wind.

“Yes,” he said, without missing a beat. “You.”

She blinked, startled by his directness. Once. Twice. “What?”

He let a small smile curl at the edge of his mouth—slow and deliberate, just enough to be disarming, though he could feel the storm still raging behind her eyes. “Forgive me. That sounded worse than I meant.”

“I doubt that,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut.

He chuckled, genuinely. It was rare for him to laugh like that, but there was something about her that drew it out of him. “And you have teeth.”

“Sharp ones,” she replied, her tone deadly serious.

He believed her. But that only made him more intrigued.

“I’m Coriolanus Snow,” he said, testing the waters, hoping for some crack in her walls.

She didn’t blink, but her jaw tightened. “I don’t care.”

“Not even a little?” he asked, leaning in slightly, trying to bait her. He wanted to see her crack—just a little.

She didn’t respond right away. Her eyes flicked away, scanning the wet street beyond them, as if she might find an escape route.

“I don’t like Peacekeepers,” she said, her words cold and final.

Coriolanus held her gaze, unflinching. “I’m not like the others.”

She scoffed, the sound like gravel scraping against metal. “They all say that.”

“Fair,” he admitted, his tone light despite her venom. But then, he saw it—just the slightest shift in her eyes. Maybe it was the smallest trace of curiosity, maybe confusion. But he’d seen that look before in others. It meant he had her attention, if only for a moment.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice suspicious, but almost weary.

“Nothing,” he said, his words steady. “Except maybe your name.”

She paused. He could almost feel her deliberation—whether to deny him, to walk away with the last of her pride intact, or to give him something, even if it was just a name. “Y/N,” she said, her voice barely above the storm.

It felt like a rush of heat inside him, though he could never explain why. He shouldn’t feel that way—he had no right to. But hearing her name, in this quiet moment between the two of them, felt like theft. Like something he shouldn’t have.

He held her gaze a beat longer before speaking again. “I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”

“I don’t care that you do,” she snapped, the words biting like a lash. But there was something in her voice, a crack in the ice, as if his mentioning her father had touched a deeper place.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant,” she cut him off, her tone harsh and unforgiving. There it was again—the bitterness, the wound that would never heal. He could hear it in her voice, feel it in the air between them. She would never forget.

More silence. Longer this time. She shifted again, her eyes looking away first, searching the rain for something—anything—to break the tension between them.

“I need to get home,” she muttered, almost to herself.

“Let me walk you,” he said before he could stop himself. It was an offer, not a request.

“No,” she said, her voice firm, refusing him instantly.

“I insist,” he pressed, even though he knew it was futile. She wouldn’t go with him. Not yet. But he needed her to understand—he wasn’t leaving without some kind of answer, no matter how small.

“I don’t care,” she replied, her words heavy with finality.

The wind picked up, sending sheets of rain sideways, soaking them both in an instant. She cursed softly, pulling her coat tighter around her. In that moment, something inside him shifted, something unexpected, and he shrugged off his coat. It was a gesture—an offer, perhaps more than he’d intended, but one he couldn’t quite stop himself from making.

“I’m not taking anything from a Peacekeeper,” she said, her voice resolute, eyes fixed on his coat like it was poison.

“It’s not a Peacekeeper’s coat,” he said with a shrug, his voice low, attempting to make the offer sound casual, though he was painfully aware of the weight of it. “It’s mine.”

She stared at him, long and hard, the rain still pouring, her body frozen in indecision. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away, shoulders squared and determined, the wet fabric of her coat clinging to her as she faded into the downpour.

He didn’t follow this time. Not immediately. But he would.

Oh, he would.

————————————————————————

Author’s Notes: this story has been an idea in my head for over a year so i’m really excited to finally share it with the world!! i would love to know what you guys think so far xx

[the-queen-of-hell-666]

Logan's Girl

Kinktober 2024 - Day 13

Pairing: Professor!Logan Howlett (Logan) x Virgin!Mutant!Fem!Reader

Kink: Virginity Kink

Word Count: 2000+

Summary: You developed a crush on your history teacher, Logan. You thought it was one-sided.

Warnings: explicit language, age gap (logan is 200+, reader is in her early 20s), explicit sexual content (unprotected vaginal sex, vaginal sex, loss of virginity, oral sex (m! receiving), deepthroating, creampie, slight d/s dynamics), teacher/student relationship, soft!Logan, slight!perv!Logan

a/n: Here's day 13! I had just watched Miller's girl and wanted a better ending. Hope you enjoy!

Banners by @vase-of-lilies

You were a student at the X Mansion and your favorite class was Mutant History with Professor Howlett. You spent each class watching him teach and drooling over how handsome he was in his jeans and flannel. His muscles strained against the fabric as he moved and drew on the chalkboard. He was fairly new to teaching but he was a natural leader and he was good at commanding a class room. He made sure to pay attention to each and every student but he paid you special attention, making you feel special and your crush grew with each minute of attention he gave you. 

It was the beginning of summer and the Mansion had a tradition of a bonfire every year to celebrate the start of summer. Students sat on one side of the bonfire and the teachers sat on the other. There were drinks and snacks, and you had snuck in a flask of vodka to spike your punch with. You decided to call it a night earlier than the other students and you stopped by the kitchen to grab some water and some aspirin. You jumped as you flicked the light on and Logan was sitting at the counter with a bottle of whiskey. 

“P-professor Howlett?” You stuttered as his hazel eyes landed on you, and you had to avoid his gaze because of the intensity of it. He was in a pair of jeans and a white beater and his hair looked ruffled, he was so handsome. “Shouldn’t you be out at the bonfire?” You asked as you grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. 

“I’ve told you to call me Logan.” He sighed, then shook his head with a grunt. “Not really my thing. Crowds are too much.” He hummed and sipped his glass of whiskey and you nodded softly. 

“Sorry.” You mumbled before looking over at him, “I understand that. If I’m not focused my mutation makes me hear everyone’s thoughts. I feel their feelings, everything. It just drains me.” You sighed as you sipped your bottle of water. “So that’s why I stopped drinking and came inside. My focus was slipping.” 

Logan gave you a soft look that surprised you and he nodded, “Maybe you shouldn’t smuggle in vodka.” He teased and sipped his whiskey. 

Your eyes widened in surprise, “How did you-” 

He smirked a bit, “Could smell it on your breath.” 

You huffed a laugh and sat on the counter next to his chair and your legs dangled over the edge. “Cheater.” You teased and he scoffed and set his glass back down. 

“Like you’ve never used your powers on me.” He started as his eyes locked onto yours, making you blush under his gaze. “I know you read my mind in class, even though Xavier forbids powers in the classroom.” 

You blush harder, “Sometimes I can’t help it.” You said innocently and batted your lashes. 

He scoffed softly, “Please, you could control it the minute you walked into this school. You’re just nosey sometimes.” He smirked and stood up and caged you in between his arms as his hands planted on the marble beside you. “Naughty girl.” He hummed, making you blush under his intense gaze. 

You spread your thighs so he could fit himself in between them as his hands moved to your bare thighs under your skirt. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” You whispered as his hands squeezed your skin gently. 

“Come on, darlin’. I don’t need powers to read your mind. I can see the way you look at me during class. You’re practically drooling over me.” He smirked and your eyes flickered down to his lips then back up to his eyes. “Just like that.” He hummed and leaned down and captured your lips in his. 

You gasped at the sudden kiss but melted into his lips. Your hands tangled in his hair and pulled him closer to you as his mouth devoured yours. Your body arched into his hold as his hands moved up your skirt and to grasp your bare hips in his strong hands. He gripped and massaged the flesh of your hips and pulled you against him harder, making you wrap your legs around his hips. You pulled away to look up at him with pleading eyes and puffy lips. 

“Take me to bed, Logan.” You whispered as you rested your forehead against his. 

He smirked and scooped you up in his arms and carried you to his room in the teacher’s quarters. He kicked his door open and carried you inside with his lips attached to your neck. You moaned softly as he nipped on your flesh. He pressed you against the door to close it and his lips moved down your neck and to your exposed cleavage. You heard the tell-tale ‘shink’ of his claws coming out and he cut your dress off of your body, leaving you in your dark blue lace bra and panties. His claws retracted and the back of his knuckles teased over your breasts and down your body. His fingers teased your nipples making you gasp and arch into his warm touch. 

“Lo, please. Want more.” You whined as he reached behind you and undid your bra before tossing it away. Your nipples immediately peaked in the cool air of the room and he leaned down, keeping his eyes on you, and sucked your nipple into his warm mouth. Your back arched off the wall and you soaked your panties as he grazed his sharper than normal canines across your sensitive buds. He pulled away to move to your other nipple and took his time laving his tongue over your other bud. 

He suddenly pulled away and carried you to his bed and gently tossed you onto the duvet cover. He shucked off his tank top then moved his hands to his pants but you stopped him with gentle hands. You sat at the foot of the bed and undid his pants, taking out his girthy and long cock. You practically drooled at the sight of his weeping cock, and you slid down onto your knees in front of him. 

“You don’t have to do that, darlin’.” He said even though his hindmind wanted to bury his cock in your throat till you passed out. 

You stroked him slowly in your palm, “I want to. Even though…” You drew out avoiding his eyes, but he cupped your chin and pulled your head up gently to have you look him in the eyes. 

“Even though, what?” He asked softly, caressing your cheek softly. 

“Even though I’m a virgin.” You mumbled quietly as your eyes locked on his. 

He groaned your name softly as he closed his eyes, feeling his cock pulse in your hand. “Fuck, you’re a wet dream.” He grunted, “I’ll walk you through it. Now, open your mouth for me.” He smirked as he looked down at you. 

You parted your lips at his command and stuck your tongue out, and he gently tapped the tip of his cock against your tongue. His salty taste covered your taste buds as you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock. You moaned softly at his taste and you gently sucked on his tip as his taste invaded all of your senses. You slowly stroked him with one hand as your mouth took him further and he groaned softly as the warm heat of your mouth engulfed him. His hands gently pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail and slowly guided your head back and forth on his cock. He grunted softly as he pushed further into your mouth and slowly into your throat. 

Your throat contracted and swallowed around him as his cock invaded your throat. “Breathe through your nose, baby.” He instructed as he felt you start to gag around him trying to get air. His other hand petted your throat gently as he thrust deeper into your throat. You whined around his girth as his thrusts slowly got faster. He cupped your throat and caressed it gently. “Good girl. You’re such a quick learner.” He smirked before groaning as you swallowed around his cock wanting to make him feel good. His hand in your hair grew tighter making a delicious sting spread over your scalp and your thighs clench. He could feel his orgasm growing near as you took him deeper in your throat. 

He pulled you off him because he didn’t want to cum in your throat. He wanted to cum inside your virgin cunt. You looked up at him with a questioning look, “D-did I do something wrong?” You asked with a hoarse voice from having him pound into your throat. 

He shook his head quickly and pulled you up to cup your face, “Not at all, darlin’. Just don’t want to finish in your mouth.” He chuckled softly and you gave him a grin. “You were such a good girl.” He whispered and kissed you passionately as he scooped you up in his arms. He climbed onto the bed with you in his arms and laid you down on the pillows at the head of the bed. 

You cupped his face and pulled him down for another kiss as his hands went down to rip your panties from your body. You gasped at his strength and you pulled him close to press his chest against yours. “Logan, I want you to be my first time.” You whispered as you cupped his cheek softly, and his eyes were filled with lust as he looked down at you. 

“I’ll be gentle.” He whispered and kissed your forehead. 

“I trust you.” You whispered and he rested his forehead against yours and he reached down and lined his cock up to your weeping hole. He teased your slit with the tip of his cock before slowly sliding inside of your virgin cunt. You gasped at the slight pain of him pushing inside of your cunt, but it quickly turned to pleasure as his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit. 

He grunted your name as he bottomed out in your wanting cunt, “You’re so tight, babygirl.” He moaned as he nuzzled into your neck, sucking and nipping on the skin there. “Perfect girl.” He whispered against your skin and his hands squeezed your hips tight. 

You moaned and whined as your nails dug into the skin of Logan’s back as he slowly started moving in and out of your pulsing cunt. “T-too much, Lo.” You whined as your nails left deep scratches in the skin of his shoulders, that quickly healed before you added more to his skin. 

Logan groaned louder as his thrusts sped up and he pulled your thighs up and around his hips and you squeezed his waist tight, keeping him pressed against you, keeping him buried in your cunt, “You’re so tight, sweetheart. M’not gonna last much longer.” He grunted as he angled his hips up so that his tip was rubbing against your sweet spot with each thrust. 

You felt the knot in your belly grow taut with each thrust of his cock. “L-logan! M’gonna cum. M’so close.” You whined and you tugged him flush against your chest as he pounded in and out of your cunt. 

He gripped you flush against his chest panting into your neck as you two reached your peaks. Your thighs shook around him as you came crying out his name and his hands left your hips to grip the sheets as his claws came out and dug into the duvet. You held onto him tightly as you two rode out your highs together and he dropped his head against your shoulder, as he came down from his high. You ran your fingers through his hair as you panted and came down with him. His claws retracted and he gently rolled off of you and laid beside you and wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

He let out a heavy sigh, “I’ve never had my claws come out while sex.” He chuckled and rubbed your back softly and you smiled softly as you took in his sweaty chest and pink cheeks. 

“So not bad for my first time, huh?” You smirked as you rubbed his chest gently. 

He chuckled softly and kissed your lips softly, “Not bad at all.” He hummed and kissed you again.